No Angel (Spoils of Time 01) (22 page)

Of all these, the late arrival had been the most serious; his nickname was Baba, and one of the more unpleasant forms of teasing he had to endure was having a small towel tied round his parts each night. ‘Baba’s nappy’ was removed each morning to exclamations and mockery about the smell, the size of his penis, the shape of his testicles – indeed a second nickname ‘skew balls’ had been added to the first. He was so frightened of actually wetting the nappy that he woke constantly through the night and was becoming exhausted; He was also dreadfully homesick, missed his mother and father more than he would have believed, and Barty, of course and Nanny. And even, unthinkably, the twins.

Jago had gone: after four days’ leave, during which LM clung to her self-control with a courage and determination which had only failed her on the final morning. He dressed in his uniform, picked up his bag and bent to kiss her while she lay in bed watching him. Until then she had managed to be quite cheerful for him, listening to his stories of basic training with genuine admiration, encouraged by the sense of camaraderie that clearly existed, amused by a letter which had been issued to every enlisted soldier by Lord Kitchener.

‘You’ll be glad about this Meg,’ he said, as he showed it to her. After a preamble about courage, energy and patience, the pamphlet informed the men solemnly that they must guard against excesses, ‘particularly temptations both in wine and women’, urging them to remember that while they should treat all women with courtesy, they ‘should avoid intimacy’.

‘That gave us a few laughs in the barrack room, I can tell you.’ LM felt sure it had, and marvelled at the stupidity and complacency of an officer class that could talk to the men as if they were virgins going off on a foreign holiday.

And so the four days had passed in some sort of happiness, but on that last morning she cracked; felt and heard grief and loss sweeping through her on a great, noisy tide, flung herself out of bed and into his arms, crying and calling his name, begging him to stay just a little longer, telling him she could not bear it, that she would die herself if he was killed. Afterwards she was ashamed of her lack of courage; if he could face the miseries of war, then she could surely face the worst that she would be called upon to bear, loneliness and anxiety and even terror. He had been clearly baffled, unable to cope with her misery; almost embarrassed, he had pulled away from her, said he had to go, that he would be late and court-martialled before he began.

‘I love you Meg,’ he said, ‘remember that. Remember it always. That’s the only certainty I can offer you.’

And then he was gone, walking down the street to Swiss Cottage railway station and thence to Victoria and the boat train to Calais. She knew a lot of the wives and sweethearts would be at Charing Cross, waving their flags and smiling bravely; he had forbidden that, had said he wanted to remember her lying in bed, their bed, smiling at him, that was all he asked of her. And she had failed him even in that, failed him already.

LM turned her head into the pillow and wept for two hours.

Oliver, too, was afraid. Courage was not one of his gifts; he was afraid of physical pain, of any kind of public humiliation, of conflict, and, most of all, of having to witness the pain of others. The days when Celia had borne Giles and the twins, he had been in an agony of wretchedness, dreading that he might be asked to see or even hear something that would illustrate what she was going through. She was so brave, in every way; almost nothing frightened her, and if it did, she gritted her teeth and confronted it. She was like Jack, whose courage was formidable. Oliver had fought his lack of courage as best he could, had struggled to master public speaking, had learned to ride for Celia’s sake, had even once, but only once, hunted (lying awake all night before and imagining fearsome fences, broken limbs, social disgrace after falling from a bolting horse). He submitted himself to the dentist’s drill, in order to inspire courage in his own children, and from time to time and most terrifyingly of all, confronted and even opposed Celia.

But all these things were nothing, nothing at all compared to the horror, the bowel-melting terror, of going out to the battlefields of France. And horror there would be, he knew; he had read in the papers reports of the first big battles of Ypres and Mons, and knew that despite the triumphs, the assertion that the Germans had been routed, the appalling casualty lists told a different story. There had been heavy casualties and very little gained. He would, he knew, have to see and face things that he could scarcely begin to contemplate: death, and worse than death, mutilation, continuous pain. Moreover, he would have to inflict those things himself, would have to give orders to shoot, to kill, to destroy. He would have to conceal his terror while living with it constantly, day after day, find courage, or simulate it – somehow.

Conversations with his father-in-law, veteran of both the Boer war and the Sudan with Kitchener, did not help.

‘Nothing like it,’ he said sorrow fully to Oliver, as they sat on the terrace behind Ashingham one golden October day, ‘nothing like battle. Something takes you over, some extra force, gives you the strength, the taste to do things. I couldn’t kill in cold blood; find it difficult to shoot my own horses when the time comes. But out there, my God, with the noise and the earth shaking with the guns, and your men all mobilised, obeying orders, and some enemy soldier in front of you, staring you in the face, and it’s him or you, it’s bloody wonderful. Can’t really describe it. You’ll find out. That young brother of yours, fine chap, he knows what it’s like. We were talking about it the other day. He’s gone hasn’t he? Lucky young bounder. Wish I was going with you both.’

Oliver was leaving to do his basic army training at Colchester at the beginning of November. He had been told that it was unlikely he would go out to the front before Christmas, and that he would begin his army career as a lieutenant. The week before he left for Colchester he gave a dinner for all the staff at Lyttons; he took a private room in the Savoy Hotel, and after a lavish meal which showed very few signs of any shortages whatsoever, he stood up and made a brief speech. He said that heading Lyttons for the past ten years had been the glory of his life, and that he hoped and prayed for many more.

‘I see my service for king and country as a brief interval between publishing cycles.’

Everyone laughed.

‘But the firm must go on. And for the foreseeable future, it will be a different place. Very. Richard Douglas and William Dean have already enlisted, James Sharpe will be following them shortly. So Lyttons will be largely in the hands of women. Now I know this not an entirely satisfactory situation—’ more laughter, which Celia and LM struggled politely to join in – ‘because for some of you, the only satisfactory arrangement would be if there were no men in the house at all. That, ladies and gentelmen, is a situation I will personally never welcome. I shall be back, we shall all be back and examining closely – and critically – what has been done in our absence.’ More laughter still. ‘But I would ask those of you who remain, very seriously and from the bottom of my heart, to place your trust and your allegiance in my wife, and my sister. They are charged with the safety and the future of Lyttons and I know that with your help, they will assure it. Please be upstanding and drink a toast to them: Lady Celia Lytton and Miss Margaret Lytton.’

The staff rose obediently to their feet, raised their glasses, dutifully said, ‘Lady Celia, Miss Lytton.’ A few were subdued, but most of them were flushed, excited, clearly caught up with the drama of the moment. A bit like battle Oliver thought suddenly, smiling at Celia whose dark eyes looked dangerously brilliant and at LM, whose thin, drawn pallor had momentarily been replaced by a rosy, flush. If only battle possessed such safe excitement, granted such easy victory...

‘That was very charmingly done,’ said Celia, collapsing on to their bed, holding out her arms to him. ‘Thank you my darling. I know your saying that will be the greatest help. And LM felt it too, I know.’

‘She doesn’t look well,’ said Oliver, ‘I worry about her.’

‘Me too. I think her – her friend being at the front is destroying her. She so clearly loves him very much.’

‘What’s she told you about him? About their plans for the future – if—’ he stopped.

‘Of course they have a future. We all do,’ said Celia firmly, ‘but the answer is nothing. Nothing at all. And I would never ask. But she misses him dreadfully. It’s quite clear. And is afraid for him, every moment of the day.’

‘Is he in France?’

‘Yes. Yes he is. As you will be, so very soon. Oh, darling Oliver, I simply can’t imagine how I am going to bear all this.’

‘You will bear it,’ he said smiling at her gently, crossing over to her, taking her face in his hands, ‘as I will. Because we have to. Because there is no choice.’

She looked at him. ‘You’re very frightened, aren’t you?’

A long silence: then reluctantly, ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘yes I am. To my shame.’

‘You shouldn’t be ashamed of it,’ she said, ‘of being frightened. Or of admitting it. To me I mean. If it helps. I don’t think any the less of you. More in fact.’

‘Why?’ he asked, his voice very low.

‘Because, my darling, the more frightened you are, the braver you are. I think you’re wonderful. I love you so much.’

‘I love you too,’ he said, ‘more than ever before, more than I would ever have believed possible.’

Somewhere in France. October 19th.

Dearest Meg,

That’s all I am allowed to tell you; all our letters are censored, so don’t expect detailed war reports. Not that you’d want them, but still . . . I love you too, Meg. I think of you all the time and it is such a help, knowing you’re there, knowing you’re safe. It really isn’t too bad out here, and you must try not to worry. The journey here was really good. We came by train from Le Havre, in cattle trucks, and every station we passed through was ready with coffee or wine and bread and people shouted ‘
Vive l’Angleterre
.’ You know what they say about fortune favouring the brave. We are all very brave here! We have to be: there isn’t any choice. They’re a good group of lads, I’m with. It’s very good to be with others you know from the old days. It helps with the homesickness. The news from the front, for we are not there yet, is good. Our side is winning. Taking territory, winning battles and we’ll win the war. That’s for sure, definite. Take care of yourself, Meg. Don’t work too hard. I’ll be home very soon. For Christmas with a bit of luck.

All my love,

Jago

My dear Kitty,

Just to let you know all is pretty fine here and I’m enjoying it no end. We’re well stuck in and have had a few chances to get at the Hun already. One particularly satisfactory skirmish. Arrogant lot, but we’ll bring them down. Worst thing is the weather – pretty awful, cold and wet. The heat of India at its worst seems like heaven in comparison. Shan’t forget that evening with you in a hurry. You were really marvellous. Only complaint, why aren’t you the star of that show? Tell the producer I said so. Home for Christmas I hope. Keep the home fires burning and all that.

Love,

Jack

My darling,

I am becoming a fine soldier very fast. I can march, salute, and shoot, all as well as the next man, and I am enjoying it to a surprising degree. There are a lot of fine chaps here, including, rather wonderfully, John Dukes from Blackies. So we spend what little free time we have talking books and illustrators and putting the publishing world entirely to rights. He is doing a new series of children’s picture books, which sounds very fine. I do feel we should try to develop a children’s list. Perhaps you could put your mind to it, see what LM thinks. Last night we went on a route march, across the flats at Mersea. It was most beautiful, the light shining on the water, and the sky very clear. I looked up at the stars and thought of you and of how much I love you. Take the greatest care of youself, my darling, and I shall see you in – what is it now? – two weeks and three days. I am sure the reunion will be very sweet. And we are still hopeful of not being sent to France before Christmas. My love also to the children. Tell Barty to write to me, letters are so precious. I have written a brief note to Giles. I do hope he is getting on all right, poor little chap.

Most of all, my dear one, my very best love to you. Not a moment passes, but I don’t think of you and how impossibly dear to me you are.

Oliver

Dearest Meg,

Just a brief note as I don’t have long. I am well and safe and things are not too bad. The food is lousy, and we’re a bit tired, otherwise nothing to complain about. The quarters aren’t too bad. Quarters! Barns mostly, in a muddy farm, outbuildings, tents in the woods. We march to the front, the trenches, six or seven miles away, finishing with a long walk across dreadfully muddy fields. Yours truly fell in a ditch full of water up to the waist. So much for my new boots! The last bit out to the trenches was tricky, an open field studded with shell pits and although it was night-time, there was a full moon. When we got there it wasn’t much better, some of the trenches were very shallow, and you have to lie down in the water and mud to get cover. I got down the deeper end, so was lucky. We were supposed to be there for two to three days, but the men in the shallow trenches could not stand it for more than two, and the CO said we should all go back, specially as many of our party weren’t well with diarrhoea. That I have escaped too. We are also erecting miles and miles of barbed wire against the Germans. It is a lot better than roofing in November, I can tell you.

I love you.

Jago.

PS We are hopeful of coming home for Christmas.

Dear Meg, Very very good news. Definitely home for Christmas. Be ready for me.