Next morning the surgeon on his round told Dick he would be going home in two or three days. It was then he said: ‘I have to tell you that, consequent on your injuries, your walking will almost certainly be hampered. That is, you may, though not necessarily, need a stick. One leg will be shorter than the other …’
‘For ever?’
‘Ah, permanently, of course. You have been a very fortunate young man. To have survived at all and with comparatively so little damage.’
Permanently. For ever. A cripple, he thought, I am a cripple.
He cried when Nurse Ackroyd was dressing his shoulder. She told him, ‘They don’t know it all. And using a cane, or a walking stick – I shouldn’t wonder if you won’t look even more distinguished.’
Her compliment warmed him, even though he guessed she spoke like that to all of them. He said now, impulsively, ‘You know, when I first saw you – when I was just coming round – I thought you were a princess.’
‘Well I never,’ she said, throwing back her head and laughing. ‘You’ve a good line in compliments, have you birdmen.’ She rumpled his now unbandaged hair. ‘Princess, indeed.’
5
Christmas of 1919, the second since the Armistice but the first since the Peace. The war was truly over and everyone seemed keen to celebrate. But apart from a family outing to see Mary Pickford in Daddy Long Legs, the Graingers had not had many parties, so Maria felt quite excited about the fancy dress dance to be given by the Carstairs family (all ages over twelve invited, although older persons need not dress up).
She was to go as Lady Teazle. Ida explained that she was a character from an eighteenth-century comedy. The outfit could easily be hired. When it arrived – pale blue tiered crinoline, white wig, beauty spot – Maria said: ‘It might as well be Marie Antoinette, why don’t I go as Marie Antoinette?’
Dick left just after Christmas to stay with an RFC friend in Devon. A pity to miss the party, everyone said, since the Carstairs girl, Nancy, was known to be very taken with him and frequently asked him up to tea.
Jenny was Spring, in a grey and silver-green outfit with a three-pointed cap. Her slant eyes made her look like an elf. She pirouetted in front of the glass, gloating over Maria. She said childishly, ‘You won’t be able to move in your outfit.’
Ida was Britannia. With sceptre and helmet she appeared even larger. She had been training for teaching all this year and planned to go to London for more training in January. Jenny, restless, would have liked to join her. She talked incessantly of going to live there as soon as possible. But Uncle Eric wanted her to stay at school. This winter she had sat her Matriculation, there was talk of her doing her Higher Certificate. ‘Two more years,’ she said with disgust.
Maria had also sat her Matriculation, and left school. Her future wasn’t sorted yet but it didn’t matter. Lately she had felt a general tranquillity. Like her adopted country, she was at peace. She had at last settled in.
Now there was no fighting, she didn’t have to worry about Rocco and Gaetano. But since the last letter which said they were out of the army and home again in Monteleone, she’d heard nothing. She wondered if they would go back to the States, where they would surely be welcome since they had fought on the right side? Perhaps they had already left – although Rocco’s letter had hinted at vague ideas for making money in Monteleone. He’d complained too about older men in the village who had done well while he and his friends had been fighting. The Old Brigade, he called them. Profiteers.
Her own future? Uncle Eric never actually said anything. Aunt Maimie (oh, that dreadful Black Book) muttered occasionally, ‘We shall have to do something for you.’ Aunt Dulcie said, ‘You’ll soon be meeting – young men.’ Ida was the most direct: ‘You’re so grown-up looking and bonny. It’d not surprise me if you were married soonest of us all.’
Marry? But whom, when, where – and would it be all right? If she were to end up like Aunt Maimie, or as bad, Aunt Dulcie or Miss Dennison, who hadn’t married at all. If she’d stayed in Monteleone, mightn’t she perhaps be married already?
But she lived here now, in Yorkshire, in Middlesbrough and Thackton. This family, and most especially Uncle Eric, was her family now. Rocco and the others were faint voices. She heard them clearly only when Rocco wrote.
How did she get on with the Graingers these days? She could manage Jenny better now she was more used to the jealousy. Jenny felt superior because she was certain that, after leaving school, she’d be allowed to go to London and to work in an office. She flung her ambitions at her father who said goodhumouredly, ‘We shall see what we shall see.’ Jenny answered cheekily, ‘When shall we see it?’ and then: ‘I want to live in a little flat. I shall, with Aunt Dulcie. Aunt Dulcie would love London, wouldn’t you, Aunt Dulcie? We could live in Chelsea or Mayfair or somewhere. We’d be so happy together. Wouldn’t we, wouldn’t we, Aunt Dulcie?’
Peter was another matter. She preferred it when he was away at school, at Rossall. Next autumn he would go to Durham University. He had grown up as handsome as promised: thick black hair, brooding poetic face – beside him, dear Dick seemed peaky, anxious. In looks he was set to rival even the memory of James. But he didn’t see it like that, complaining, ‘All Dad thinks of is James. None of us are any good. Not Dick, not me. It was all on James …’
In November Uncle Eric and Dick had been up to London for the Motor Show, the first since the war. Uncle Eric bought a new motor, a twenty-five horse-power Crossley Touring Car. Peter was jealous. If it hadn’t been for school, he would have been the one to go. ‘Dad knows Dick prefers horses to horse-power.’
A poetic face and mouth, except that what came out was scarcely poetry. She wished she could like him. All last summer he’d been unkind to her. He hated her to play the pianola:
‘I hate to see your legs go up and down, up and down. They’re disgusting.’
‘Don’t look, then.’
‘Shan’t.’ Another time he said: ‘A fellow at school asked me if you smelled, he said he’d been in Italy and they all smelled.’
‘You smell,’ she answered coldly, but her mood as she went out, slamming the door, was heated. In her mind she kicked him, tugging his thick hair, pulling it out in handfuls. Later that same day as she was going up the stairs, she felt a hand on her stocking. When she tried to move she couldn’t. Peter was half-kneeling on the tread behind. Suddenly he had hold of her legs tightly. If she hadn’t leaned forward, struggling, trying to kick out, he would have had her over and into his arms.
‘What are you doing? What a silly joke –’
‘It’s not a joke. It’s ever so serious. Sorry for what I said about your legs. They’re ripping – I like ‘em.’
‘Let go –’ She kicked out. He lost his balance, then just in time recovered it. He was so angry his sulks were almost tears: ‘Blasted little … legs like bits of macaroni, uncooked macaroni …’ He pushed on past her and up into his bedroom.
Uncle Eric was away for the party. Aunt Maimie didn’t wish to attend. Aunt Dulcie would go with them but not in fancy dress. She wore a jade-green and gold brocade frock and looked very elegant.
The Carstairs had also lost their eldest son, at Arras in 1917. Molly who’d married in 1915 was a war widow living at home again. Pip, about to go up to Oxford in 1914, had fought through the war and was now at University. Nancy, the daughter said to be sweet on Dick, was twenty. The youngest son, Thomas, was twelve. Sybil at fifteen was the nearest to Maria’s age: Maria liked what she had seen of Sybil.
Lady Teazle. Marie Antoinette. Without doubt it altered her: olive skin against the white wig, the realistic beauty spot, tight-fitting waist of the tiered dress – so unlike the everyday Maria. Ida as Britannia, holding her awkward sceptre, looked like – Ida. Jenny, pixie-like, jumped up and down. They were on the upstairs landing, waiting for Aunt Dulcie who was to accompany them. Peter, who hadn’t wanted to go and now had a heavy cold as an excuse, came out of his room in a dressing-gown, handkerchi
ef held to his nose. ‘Don’t make a din coming back, waking me up,’ he said.
On the way Jenny was restless, complaining that her Spring costume was uncomfortable. Aunt Dulcie told her she was a lucky girl: ‘Your father could easily have put his foot down. Grown-up dancing at fourteen …’ Jenny, crestfallen, grew quiet, as she did always when Aunt Dulcie scolded her.
The Carstairs house: large, imposing, the lamps outside showing up the white of the Palladian columns. Inside the party had begun. ‘I knew we’d be late,’ Jenny said, ‘it was fussing over Maria’s stays. She’s too fat anyway.’ Maria didn’t bother to answer. Mr Carstairs was not to be seen. Mrs Carstairs, a large, solid, round-faced woman in puce and black lace, clasped Aunt Dulcie’s hand. She congratulated the girls on their outfits, her eyes wandering over the hall. A party of what looked like zoo animals were just entering. Through an open door a small band could be heard, playing a toe-tapping tune. Mrs Carstairs told Aunt Dulcie: ‘The young keep asking for negro music.’
Sybil, leaning over the rails of the landing, wrapped in a blue dressing-gown, her thick dark hair in a pigtail, called out in a croaky voice, ‘Hallo, everyone!’ Mrs Carstairs explained that Sybil had a nasty sore throat.
There was a minstrels’ gallery in the room where the dancing was. Some of the older people were sitting up there. Aunt Dulcie joined them. Maria ‘lost’ both Ida and Jenny as soon as possible. She wandered about, bumping her hooped skirt into people. A glass of hot punch was pressed into her hand. A voice said:
‘Who are you – if one’s allowed to ask?’
‘Maria Verzotto.’
‘Never heard of her, I am ignorant. Historical?’
She said stupidly, ‘Marie Antoinette, I mean. Tonight I’m Marie Antoinette –’
‘Of course. I should have guessed. You look pretty like her – Well, pretty, anyway … But before I ask you to dance – who am I?’
Wig not unlike hers, tailed coat, ruffles of lace … She couldn’t guess. Then she saw beneath the lightly floured face, the Carstairs son. Pip.
‘Waltz with me,’ he said, taking her hand. He towered above her. ‘And have a guess as we spin round.’ The band played Destiny, as if there’d never been a war.
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I’m the Scarlet Pimpernel. My task could well be to rescue you. Would you like that?’
Ida waltzed by in the arms of Mr Carstairs.
‘I’m not very good at the foppish bit,’ Pip said. ‘I’m not sure I’d convince.’
He talked. How he talked. Maria didn’t need to say a word. He told her: ‘It’s really been a year for fancy dress. Oxford’s been full of them. I had the idea for this one early last term –’
‘You’re studying there?’
‘For my sins, yes. No, thank God rather – just to have survived is pretty marvellous. Now part of me only wants to enjoy myself. To learn of course, but to have a good time.’
‘When the fun’s over, what’ll you do?’
‘Oh, the family business. Naturally. I’m heir to it.’ He broke off. ‘The Graingers lost their eldest too, didn’t they? Frightful, that.’ He repeated it several times, nervously: ‘Frightful.’
Maria said, to change the subject: ‘A waltz is wrong, isn’t it, for us? We ought to be doing a minuet.’
‘Even a waltz is too staid for me. The real me under this wig … I’m trying to encourage the shimmy shake this evening, but the Mater’s not being very helpful.’ As Destiny ended, he asked, ‘Do you have the next dances booked?’
Not yet, she told him. He immediately booked two more for later, ‘I’d really like to go on dancing with you now but noblesse oblige. Host and all that. I’m going to introduce Mr Lowe to you. He always likes the same girls that I do.’
Mr Lowe was Friar Tuck, and jolly with it. His own hair was balding naturally in the form of a tonsure. Maria envied him: her head beneath the wig felt hot and scratchy. He told her he had been in for an Army heavyweight. ‘The war, that ghastly show – should have been fought in the boxing ring.’ His face shone with enthusiasm. ‘The Carpentier fight last month. Now that was something – over in seventy-five seconds. Unbelievable. Carpentier, so quick on his feet, taking the offensive, getting Beckett’s face with a left-hander, then a few body blows while they’re in a clinch – and finish him off with a right hook to the jaw. Wonderful.’
Back with Pip again. ‘I’ll tell you a secret,’ he said, ‘except perhaps you know. Dick – it’s a pity he’s not here tonight. My sister Nancy …’
He pointed out a small wan figure dressed as a Quaker girl, sitting up in the gallery. ‘I must get Bertie Lowe to dance with her.’
The evening whirled by. She could only call herself a success. In the next half-hour her card was completely filled up. She noticed that Ida sat out a lot, sometimes with Nancy Carstairs. Jenny seemed to be eating and drinking most of the time together with two boys dressed as the Princes in the Tower.
At one o’clock they were collected with the motor even though the invitation said, ‘Carriages two a.m.’ On the way home, Aunt Dulcie said, foolishly perhaps, ‘Marie Antoinette was quite the Belle of the Ball.’ An overtired, overfed Jenny said angrily, ‘I wanted to be Good Queen Bess only you wouldn’t let me – I just got Spring.’
‘Hush, hush, dear,’ Ida said.
Maria crept along the corridor to her room. She was still undressing, pulling at the tight laces, wishing she hadn’t refused Ida’s offer of help, when she heard the creak of floorboards outside. A knock at the door. She thought: I hope Jenny hasn’t come to be nasty.
‘If it’s Ida, come in –’
But it was Peter, handkerchief in hand. He looked angry. He said, ‘I thought you were never coming back. And the din you all made. After I’d asked you, too.’
She had pulled a wool wrap from the door hook to cover herself. ‘Did we wake you? I’m sorry. And when you’re ill.’ She said it politely, without looking at him.
Silence. She went on, ‘Is that what you came to say? Because if …’ She folded down the corner of the sheets.
Then as she turned round, ‘No,’ he said, ‘I came to show you this.’ His dressing-gown was open. The handkerchief was wrapped round – yes, it was … She saw it pointing upwards, circled at the base by the white cotton.
‘Look at it. Go on, look at it.’
‘Peter – I don’t – Get out of here –’
‘Go on, look under the hanky.’ With his free hand he grasped hers and placed it over the handkerchief, trapping it.
‘Something’s wrong. You’re sick. You shouldn’t be doing that, you shouldn’t be in here at all.’
‘Rubbish,’ he said, holding her hand tighter. His voice was hoarse but very deep, as it had been for a long time now. ‘Daft rubbish – you know all about it, don’t you? You know what you want. I know what you want –’
‘I don’t,’ she said angrily. ‘Let go!’
He had placed his foot on hers. ‘This hanky’s wet. You know why it’s wet, don’t you?’
‘Let me go. My foot hurts –’
‘Foot hurts, foot hurts. There’s more than your foot’ll hurt if you don’t behave –’
‘What have I done wrong?’ she said, breaking away. Hurrying towards the bed, as if it represented safety.
But how could it? She should have made for the door. He was talking at her again now, stopping once to cough heavily. ‘Don’t think you can just –’ he began.
She made for the door. But he was quicker. Darting from side to side to block her.
‘Don’t tease,’ he said, ‘don’t dare tease me –’
‘You’re teasing,’ she said, pushing her face at him, ‘Let me out of my own room. Or get out. I don’t like what you’re doing. I don’t like you.’
Fateful words.
‘Don’t like me, eh? But you’re going to want me. Any girl who sees this – what I showed you – she’d want it –’
‘Let me out! Or get out –’
He lun
ged forward, wrapping her in his arms, so tight she could hardly breathe. He said, ‘I’m a big boy, I’m grown up-more grown up than Dick. I look older, I am older, really. Maria, M, M, M, Maria, you know when I’m rude it’s because I want you. I’m always watching – waiting for my chance. Then I’m rude and horrid. I know I’m rude and horrid. I don’t mean to be. I only want – you. Now. I thought I’d never get through the evening. I did it twice before midnight. Just thinking, and waiting.’
His voice was urgent in her ear. She couldn’t move. She was trapped in the linen chest. Outside the Golden Lion prowled, seeking whom he might devour. Trapped. Trapped. And deathly afraid. The waters rose on the deck of the Lusitania. She would never escape.
He pulled open her wrap. He had hold of her still, her arm pinned down. He tore at her underslip, crumpling the cotton, wrenching aside the knickers. ‘Let go, let go, let me in, I know what to do, let me do it –’
As he forced himself into her, she dug her fingers into the bedcover. Tearing at it. On and on the pain. His face, evening stubble, pressed now into her collar-bone.
The waters rose on the deck of the Lusitania. Sacru miu Gesù. Help me, help me …
Then she was suddenly someone else. The animal who submitted. Patient, pained, mounted animal. A few more moments and he lay heavily, flaccid, across her body. Her ribs, crushed as she tried to breathe. He pulled himself up on his elbows, then fully upright, standing by the bed. His dark face shone with sweat. He said: ‘Well, that’s it. I hope you enjoyed it.’ When she didn’t answer:
‘Girls like you, peasants, because that’s what you are, they like that sort of thing. You kept showing me your legs going upstairs, I don’t know how I’m supposed to not give you what you want.’
He was fastening his dressing-gown cord: ‘You don’t tell anyone, anybody, do you hear? I’ll deny it anyway if there’s any trouble, which there won’t be. I know what I’m doing. Clissold at school, his dad used to live in Paris, he told me …’
At the door, he said, ‘You don’t think I’m going to pay you, do you, you don’t expect to be paid?’
The Golden Lion Page 9
