They used gas now—the Germans used gas, and Freddie had heard accounts of the terrible injuries the mustard gas caused. But even so, he found that his idea of the war was an insubstantial one, unfixed and imprecise, cloudy and shifting—a gaseous thing indeed. Freddie told himself there was a reason for this: It was because he was a coward.
A double coward. He was a coward not to defy his mother and fight; he was a coward about Constance. He was the one person who knew what was wrong with her, after all; he knew it was not simply the incident in the park, as the rest of his family claimed. Constance’s illness, her visible wasting away—these things were caused by her father. It was her father, and in particular her father’s journals. Constance was dying of the past, Freddie believed, and he was too much of a coward to say so.
Such thoughts were familiar to Freddie now; indeed, they went around and around in his head every day, a nasty tangled web of thoughts, which made his head ache and his stomach feel queasy. The journals, and Constance, and the things they had done, which were like the things Shawcross wrote about—Freddie could see that now. And his mother. That, too, for Freddie now found he could not bear to touch his mother, avoided even speaking to her, and shied away from her most casual embrace.
These were the things that made him ill; these were the things that made Constance ill. Not just the war, not just the incident in the park, although they, perhaps, contributed. No. The past, he told himself again as the motorcar reached the brow of a hill and swooped downward. The past had poisoned them, and Constance—he was sure of this—had come to a decision. Since she could not force the past out of her system, since there was no emetic for a poison of this kind, Constance was willing herself to die.
She would persevere, and within a few weeks she would succeed. After all, he had never doubted her willpower.
“Was it Floss? Was it the incident in the park?”
Acland had stopped the car, somewhere, anywhere, by the side of the road. He and Freddie were now walking. Along a farm track, along the side of a shallow valley. Freddie looked out upon the beauty of England in late spring: green fields, sheep with newborn lambs in the distance, a farm couched in the hills, with woodsmoke rising, the pale thread of a river below. He hesitated.
“It
seemed
to begin then,” Freddie replied cautiously.
“Possibly, but I’d have said earlier. Several months earlier. It grew worse then, that’s all.”
“She did weep, Acland. Maud was right about that. I never saw her weep before.”
“Yes. She wept,” Acland said, and came to a halt. He leaned against a stile, his eyes fixed on the river and the fields below. Freddie, kicking at some nettles first, then leaning also against the stile, saw not the fields but the open expanse of Hyde Park, some two months before.
Tea: they had been to Maud’s for tea, in the smart house Stern had bought her, which overlooked Hyde Park and the Serpentine. His mother had been there, and Jane Conyngham, Steenie, Acland, and Constance herself.
Constance had brought Floss with her. It had been a fine day, one of the first fine days of the year, and everyone had seemed in good spirits. Gwen read aloud her recent letter from Boy; Maud regaled them with the latest scandals. Floss begged for tidbits in such a pretty and charming way that no one could refuse him.
Freddie, feeding the little dog with morsels of cake, felt for the first time in weeks an extraordinary well-being, a new, bounding optimism. When Maud proposed they should stroll in the park, Freddie took his mother’s arm.
The first time he had done so for several weeks. His mother glanced up at him, saying nothing, but she smiled, and Freddie, who knew he made her happy, that it was simple to make her happy, felt happy too. He loved his mother; no matter what had happened in the past, he loved her. He was out of the labyrinth.
They made a circuit in the park; they stopped to admire a group of riders who cantered along the sand track close to the Serpentine; they watched the rowboats, and the children playing.
“How far away the war seems on such a day!” Maud said, and Constance, who was playing some foolish game with Steenie, let Floss off the lead.
They paused then, near the water, to watch Floss race back and forth. He dug a hole; he rolled in the grass. Steenie climbed a tree and tore his jacket. Then they decided to turn back, and it was then, just as they had almost reached the park gates, that the accident happened.
The horses and riders they had watched earlier were making a second circuit of the park, still only at a canter, but it was enough.
Floss had trailed behind, sniffing at trees. As the horses drew level he looked up, saw Constance on the far side of the sand track, and with a bark and a whisk of the tail, ran to join her.
Freddie doubted that the riders even saw him. One second he was still running toward Constance; the next, he was tangled in the horses’ hooves. They tossed him up into the air, a small bundle of fur. Black, white, tan—it was as if he performed with delight a clever somersault, of his own volition. His new trick, and Floss had had many tricks. He was dead, his neck broken (Acland later said) before he hit the ground.
“She carried him all the way home,” Freddie said now, leaning against the gate. “She wouldn’t let him go. Do you remember? And she did cry. She made those awful choking noises. She sat with him on her knees, and she stroked him.”
He looked away. He could see the moment quite clearly: Constance, in a scarlet frock, clutching Floss tight, and the consternation because no one could persuade her to relinquish him.
“Constance, come with me,” Acland had said finally, as evening approached and the light began to fade. “We’ll go out into the garden and we’ll bury him there.”
Constance had seemed to accept this. Freddie and Steenie went with them, and at the end of the garden, beneath a lilac just coming into bud, Acland and Freddie dug a grave.
“I don’t want him to lie on the bare earth,” Constance said when they had finished. “I don’t want the earth to go in his eyes.”
She looked, and sounded, like a sleepwalker. She laid Floss down very gently; she stroked him. She began to pull up tufts of grass. Freddie, finding this unbearable, would have stopped her, but Acland took his arm.
“Leave her,” he said.
Constance filled the grave with grass. She picked Floss up and laid him upon the grass. Then, to Freddie’s horror, she slumped down full-length. She lifted Floss’s head; she stroked his muzzle; she began to make the most terrible high, keening noise in her throat.
“Please, Floss. Don’t die. Don’t die. Please breathe. I know you can breathe. Lick my hand—oh, Floss, please lick my hand. I love you so much.
Please,
Floss—”
“Constance. Come with me. I’m going to take you inside.”
Acland knelt down. He put his arm around Constance’s waist. He tried to lift her, but Constance fought him off.
“No. No. Don’t move me. I won’t go. I have to hold him—”
Acland lifted her bodily in his arms. For a moment Constance fought him. She struggled, eel-like, her hair flying out, her face streaked with tears and mud. Acland tightened his grip. His gentleness astonished Freddie. Then, quite suddenly, Constance became still. She went rigid in Acland’s arms; he carried her into the house.
There, she was put to bed by Gwen. She remained in bed the next day, and the day after that. She had remained in that bed ever since, taking some water but eating almost nothing. First she set about starving herself, and then—as if intent on punishing herself more—she ceased speaking.
The last time Freddie had heard her voice had been a week before. Then, clasping her thin wrist, Freddie had become very agitated; it was the first occasion on which he had realized that Constance actually might not get better.
“Constance, I’m going to burn those journals,” he burst out. “I’m going to burn them. They did this. It wasn’t just Floss, was it? It’s them. I hate them. Oh, please, Connie—stop this. Was it my fault? Was it what we did? Please, Connie—I want you to be better.”
“I should like that too,” Constance had said. She almost smiled—a ghost of a smile, a ghost of a joke. Then she turned her face away, and the next time Freddie came to see her, she said nothing.
By then he had discovered that Constance’s desk was locked, and he did not have the nerve or the resolve to force the lock or touch the notebooks.
“Does she talk to you?” he said now, turning back to Acland. “Does she? She never says a word to me. I think she maybe can’t talk anymore. I’m not even sure she can see. Acland—she’s dying.”
“I know that.”
Acland turned to look down at Freddie. Freddie looked at his brother’s hair, that helmet of bright gold; he looked at his brother’s eyes, the right greener than the left. It was not easy to lie to Acland.
The compulsion to speak was strong, but even so he hesitated. Acland reached across and touched his arm.
“Tell me,” he said.
“I don’t know where to begin.”
“Begin at the beginning,” Acland said, and turned away once more. The perfect confessor, he looked out across the fields.
“Well,” Freddie said, “it began—it really began—a long time ago. I went upstairs to my room …”
“At Winterscombe?”
“Yes. At Winterscombe. And Arthur had laid my evening shirt out on my bed. There was a sweet on it. No, not a sweet—one of those
petits fours
things Mama orders. It was a little apple made of marzipan, and—”
“When was this?”
“It was the night of the comet. It was the night Shawcross died.”
“Ah,
then.
The night of the accident.”
Something in the way Acland said this brought Freddie up short.
“Why do you say it like that? You mean you think it wasn’t an accident?”
“Never mind that. It doesn’t matter. Here, have a cigarette.” He lit one for them both, cupping his hand to protect the flame. Then, seeing that Freddie, once begun, wished to continue, he turned away once more.
“A marzipan apple,” he said. “Go on.”
“On and on and on.”
“Until she was ill?”
“No. It stopped before that. After she showed me the journals the first time. It stopped then. It was the journals that did it. I’m sure of that. They got into her system—like germs. Then they got into mine. Do you understand?”
“Yes. I understand.”
Freddie had talked for a long time. The sky grew first mauve, then gray; the fields beyond were now indistinct, the sheep scarcely visible. Dusk hid the expression on Acland’s features. He stood still, quiet, although Freddie could sense a gathering tension in his brother’s body. Freddie watched the end of Acland’s cigarette glow; then, with an impatient gesture, Acland tossed it down. A red glow of a stub in the damp grass. Acland ground it underfoot.
“Let’s go back.” He took Freddie’s arm.
“Now? I don’t want to go back. I can’t bear it there. Acland, couldn’t we stay down here—till later? We could find a place to have a drink. Something.”
“No. We’re going back. Come on. Hurry.”
Acland led the way back down the path. Freddie stumbled to keep up with him. His leather-soled shoes slid on damp grass; mud squelched.
“Stay away from her.”
They had reached the car. Acland stopped, one hand on the door. He turned back to his brother.
“Freddie, stay away from her. I won’t tell you to forget this—obviously you can’t forget something like this. But—try to move away from it. Try not to let it touch you.”
“It’s not just Constance. It’s not just that horrible father of hers—and the foul things he wrote. It’s everything.” Freddie slumped against the car. “The war. Mama. That doctor she made me see—I think he lied, Acland.”
“Why should he do that?”
“I think Mama persuaded him. She’s terrified I’ll join up.”
“I’m sure you’re wrong.”
“Maybe. Maybe. But I feel so useless. So utterly useless. Boy’s fighting. You have important work—”
“Important work? You couldn’t be more wrong.”
“It is. It is. Why sound so bitter? Even Stern said it was vital—I heard him. And what do I do? Nothing. I stay at home. I go out with Steenie’s friends—and they’re all younger than me. Even they do things. They paint. They write. They take photographs. That’s better than nothing. It’s better than being like me. Useless. Of no use—to anybody.”
Freddie’s voice cracked. He blew his nose loudly and made a great business of refolding his handkerchief. Acland put his arm around his shoulders. He bent his face closer. Freddie looked at his brother’s pale skin, at his green eyes. They did not appear stern, though he thought Acland was angry.
“Find something. There must be something you could find to do—something that would make you feel useful. Freddie, you don’t have to fight. Not everyone has to fight.” He paused, then opened the door. “I’ll talk to Jane Conyngham. Go and see her at Guy’s. She’ll be able to help. They need people at the hospital—porters, auxiliaries, drivers—”
“Drivers?”
“Ambulance drivers. Now, get in.”
Freddie climbed into the car. Acland cranked the engine, then sat beside him. He opened the throttle. The car trembled, then roared. Acland swung it in a tight circle. When they were facing toward London once more, he accelerated. The body of the car shuddered; it gathered pace.
Freddie had thought they drove fast on the way out; on the way back they drove faster still. A corner swerved toward them, and then another one. The camber tilted; the car ate the road. Freddie peered ahead through the gathering darkness; hedges pressed closer. He suggested Acland might slow down, but the slipstream caught his words and rushed them over his shoulder.
He gripped his seat with his hands and braced his feet on the floor. The tires whined. A bend rose up to block them. Freddie closed his eyes. He had a clear sensation: He was going to die. If not at this bend, then the next, or the one after that. Sudden impact.
He did not open his eyes again until they reached the suburbs and Acland slowed. Up Park Lane; the tires screamed as they turned into the mews. Acland was already out of the car and making for the house before Freddie decided it was safe to let go of the seat.