No Angel (Spoils of Time 01) (47 page)

‘I want to talk to you about something.’

Celia looked up at Oliver, made a determined effort to smile. It was a considerable effort; this was usually the signal for a long tirade of criticism, of complaints about her frittering away Lyttons’ reputation, the lowering of standards over which she had presided. Or a painstaking appraisal of some very minor book which had come in, and whether they should publish it. He seemed to have entirely lost his capacity for taking an overview, for seeing what did and didn’t matter, what Lyttons should and shouldn’t publish.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes, what is it?’

‘Jack came in this morning.’

‘Jack! Into Lyttons?’

‘Yes. He had a proposition for me.’

‘For you?’

‘Well – for Lyttons.’

‘Oliver, really. When did Jack have an idea in his head that was remotely to do with publishing?’ She smiled at him. ‘What does he want to do, write a book about his regiment for us?’

‘Something like that, yes.’

‘What?’ She stared at him; he was clearly serious.

‘Don’t look so astonished,’ he said irritably, ‘he’s not entirely stupid, you know.’

‘Of course he’s not stupid. He’s highly intelligent. But he’s not – well very literate.’

‘I think that’s a little harsh.’

‘Sorry, Oliver.’ She always forgot how careful she had to be about Jack. Oliver could criticise him; she was not allowed to.

‘Anyway, he’s made a suggestion which I’m considering very carefully. I would like you to as well.’

‘Yes?’ she said. Trying to sound positive.

‘It is that we should start a military list.’

‘A military list!’

‘Yes. A series of books on military matters. Histories of regiments, of battles, of traditions – all that sort of thing.’

‘Oh.’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think—’ she took a deep breath; this was going to be difficult, but it had to be said, quickly, before the idea took hold, ‘I think it’s an appalling idea.’

He looked at her levelly. ‘And why do you think that?’

‘It’s so specialist, Oliver. Such a small section of the reading public would appreciate it. And those books are expensive to produce, otherwise they’re not worth having and—’

‘Not cheap, of course. Like
Meridian
.’

‘Oh Oliver, please don’t start on that again. It really isn’t relevant.’

‘It seems quite relevant to me.’

She was silent.

‘Any other objections?’

‘Well – I really don’t think, even if we did such a thing, had such a list—’ she hesitated, ‘well, I presume you don’t actually think Jack should be in charge of it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Oh really, Oliver, he has no experience. He wouldn’t have the faintest idea what he was doing, wouldn’t know about printing costs, illustrations, how to deal with the trade . . .’

‘Well, obviously he would have people to help him on the practicalities. But the ideas and a lot of the contacts would come from him. That seems to me entirely sensible. Sensible and fair.’

‘So you envisage – let me get this straight – a whole new department? Devoted to Jack and his military books?’

‘Oh Celia, don’t be absurd. Not a whole department. Obviously. Although I don’t recall your objecting to a whole department, as you put it, being turned over to
Biographica
.’

‘That is entirely different. As you very well know. The market for biography is vast and—’

‘Oh yes, entirely different,’ he said, ‘it was to be your department. That was the real difference. Well, I like this idea of Jack’s. Very much. At least a military list would have some – quality to it. The books would have class. Not a whole lot of rubbish.’

‘Oh, Oliver please . . .’

‘You simply don’t seem to realise how much you’ve done to lower Lyttons’ reputation. Putting a lot of rubbish out. Cheap poetry, trashy fiction which looks like
Peg’s Paper
.’

‘It was not—’ she stopped. She must keep calm. ‘We had to publish popular stuff, Oliver. The alternative was letting Lyttons go right under. Going bankrupt. I told you. It was so tough. You don’t understand. It was just – oh God. How I wish LM was here. She might be able to convince you.’

‘I am very surprised at her allowing it all, I must say,’ he said, ‘even more than at you.’

She tried again. ‘Oliver, you really don’t understand. We had hugely increased costs. A falling market. No staff to speak of—’

‘You seem to me to have done quite well in that direction as well. Hiring a lot of rather second-rate women. Who I would not personally have considered.’

‘Is that so?’ She was getting angry now; she couldn’t help it. ‘Well, let me tell you those second-rate women worked like slaves here all through the war. Each one doing the work of three. Often with bombs falling around them. Sleeping here, even, when there was a raid on. Doing their own cleaning. LM and I cleaned the lavatories personally, it might amuse you to know—’

‘My heart bleeds for you, Celia. How dreadful. Life in the trenches couldn’t possibly compete with that.’

‘Oh damn life in the trenches,’ she said savagely. ‘I am sick to death of hearing about it. About the mud and the stench and the rats. Absolutely sick of it.’

‘I’m sorry about that,’ he said, his voice measured and very polite. His face was very white. ‘I got quite sick of it myself, as a matter of fact. But I’ll try not to refer to it again.’

Celia stared at him; she suddenly felt nauseous. That had been unforgivable. Absolutely unforgivable. She looked at him, went forward, tried to touch him. He shied away from her.

‘I’m sorry, Oliver. Very sorry. I should never have said that. Please forgive me.’

He was silent.

‘But – don’t you understand. In my – our own way, we did have a hard time here, too. It was lonely. Worrying. Dangerous even. The responsibilities were huge – the children, the company—’

‘You looked after the children very well,’ he said with an emphasis on the word children, and this time his voice was very bitter indeed.

‘ Oliver—’

‘I have to tell you, Celia, that I think a military list would do something towards restoring Lyttons’ reputation, as a quality house. I am thinking very seriously of agreeing to Jack’s proposition. And if I do, I shall expect your full co-operation.’

Celia looked at him, and then turned and walked out of the office. She couldn’t take any more.

His criticism of her was endless: nothing was right for him. The way the house was run, the new staff she had hired at home, the hours she worked, even their social life came under fire.

‘You may go if you wish,’ he would say as invitations came in, ‘I would prefer to stay at home. I don’t feel up to any of that sort of nonsense. Simply working is exhausting enough.’

She did go sometimes: at others she stayed with him, endeavouring to make their evenings together pleasurable. She bought gramophone records of the classical music he so loved, large sets so that he could play an entire symphony, or marked items in the newspapers so that they could discuss them at dinner, items about the things which had always so concerned them both, the growth of the Labour Party, the success of the suffragette movement, the social unrest, the plight of the disabled soldiers home from the war. She briefed Cook to make his rather bland diet as interesting as possible, and often suggested a gentle walk along the Embankment after dinner. Sometimes he seemed pleased, and went along with her plans, more often he did not, claiming a headache or indigestion, and disappeared into his study. Those evenings were almost a relief; at least she could get on with her own work.

But still he did not make love to her.

She could scarcely believe they had ever existed now, the wonderful sudden swoops of desire which had seen them hurrying up to their room in the evening, or shaking one another awake early in the morning, the smiling preamble, the verbal teasing, the, ‘Surely not again, Celia?’ the, ‘I suppose I could if you really want me to, Oliver,’ words that belied their on-going need for and delight in one another.

She struggled for patience, to remember what he had said to her, to understand; but it was hard. Hard in the face of her own desire and frustration, doubly so in the face of his criticism. Had he been loving in other ways, had he talked to her, listened to her, told her he loved her often, kissed her, held her in his arms, she could, she thought, have endured it more easily; but he retired to his study each night after dinner, leaving her alone, and it was very rare that he even came to her room. She could see he was wretched about it, embarrassed, ashamed, but she was trying so hard to understand him, to support him, and she got almost nothing in return.

But if home was not entirely happy, work was turning into pure misery, every day a call on wells of patience she had no idea she possessed, and when that failed, or her conviction that Oliver was wrong became overwhelming, there were noisy exchanges behind the closed doors of their respective offices, as he tried to reverse her decisions, questioned her judgement, demanded her acquiescence. She felt diminished, not only in the eyes of her staff, but in her very self, something she would never have believed possible. In the worst moments of the war, when she had been beleaguered and frightened, not only by the Germans but by soaring costs, diminished income, and a growing belief that nobody would never buy books again, she had still known precisely what she wanted and was trying to do. That sense had begun to desert her in the face of Oliver’s interminable censure.

And then she would not have believed how badly she missed LM. Her calm, rather stern presence had been a support to her ever since she could remember, her sudden robust laugh, her oddly raucous sense of humour, her huge capacity for work, her shrewd judgement. But she was going to have to get used to being without her. She was not coming back. She had moved temporarily into the Dovecot with Jay and was in the process of buying a small house on the edge of Ashingham village. One day, she said to Celia, one day, perhaps, when Jay was away at school – ‘and I am not at all sure I will be sending him away, not sure that Jago would have wanted that’ – she would come back to work. Not before.

‘I know I shall find it boring and frustrating and I shall miss Lyttons dreadfully. But Jay is more important. I have learned my lesson.’

Jay was recovering fast; already regaining his strength, the strange, white, thin face becoming round and rosy again, his leg mending well. He was sublimely happy to be back at Ashingham, and in the absence of Barty and the twins, had latched on to Billy; as soon as he recovered enough to leave the tiny garden of the Dovecot he headed for the stables on his crutches and followed Billy around until he was hauled home again to rest.

‘Look at the pair of you,’ Lady Beckenham roared one morning, arriving as Billy set Jay to work sweeping the yard, ‘pair of cripples. It’s like having the convalescent home all over again.’

She had arranged for Billy to have a more sophisticated artificial leg made; ‘You’ll be able to use it more like a normal leg, I’m told. It’ll have a knee, so to speak. Much better for riding.’

She had also promised to give Jay riding lessons as soon as his leg was better; the very thought of him in a situation where he might fall off and fracture it again, or even break something else, sent LM into paroxysms of anxiety, but Lady Beckenham talked to her quite severely about it one night when she was close to tears. Jay had gone missing for an hour or more, and was then found in the woods, happily damming a stream, using his crutch to form the main structure.

‘You can’t wrap him up in cotton wool, you know. He’s a boy and a damn fine one. I know he’s had a bad experience and so have you, but he’s over it now, and fussing over him like an old hen will simply make him anxious. He has to lead a normal boy’s life, that’s why you’re here. You’ve done the right thing, getting him out of London and now you’ve got to let him benefit from it. He’ll be all right, there’s no danger here. Unless you count falling from the odd hayloft or horse, which all mine did without coming to any harm whatsoever.’

‘Yes, all right,’ said LM meekly. She was not used to being told what to do; it was rather soothing.

She had written to Gordon Robinson, thanking him for his letter, assuring him that she did not blame him in the least, and that Jay seemed to be making a good recovery; he had written again and asked if he might visit Jay, ‘and perhaps bring some books to amuse him. It isn’t much fun being laid up. I broke my arm as a boy, and can still remember the boredom of one whole school holidays, forbidden to climb trees and unable to play cricket.’

She had thought how kind and considerate he had sounded, had written back and said that would be extremely kind; but on the appointed day he had telephoned to say that he was not well himself. ‘Only a gastric upset, but not ideal for visting an invalid.’ LM had been almost disappointed, had suggested another day, but they had been unable to settle on one before she moved down to Ashingham.

‘Some other time then,’ he said; the next day a large box of books arrived by carrier, rather grown-up for Jay, some of them, but certainly of a standard she approved of,
Treasure Island
,
Robinson Crusoe
,
Gulliver’s Travels
.

‘I am not sure how old Jay is,’ he wrote, ‘but if these are too old for him, they can be kept. It is never too soon to start building up a library. I believe there is a wonderful new children’s book about to be published, but I was unable to find it. Anyway, I hope he will enjoy these, and I look forward to making his acquaintance some time in the future.’

He was clearly a most suitable friend and mentor for Jay, even if he had come close to killing him.

‘That’s a very pretty dress,’ said Sebastian.

‘Thank you.’

‘I like pink. Always have.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. And it suits you.’

‘Thank you,’ she said again.

‘Would it like to go out to lunch, do you think?’

‘No,’ she said, ‘no, not today.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, I’m quite sure. I really can’t come out today.’