Something Dangerous (Spoils of Time 02) (57 page)

‘Not a husband, Luc. Sadly.’

A bitter row followed; ending in tears on her part, a mixture of self-reproach and remorse on his, and some rather distracted love-making: distracted on Adele’s part at any rate, perpetually fearful as she was of another pregnancy and of one or both the children waking. But afterwards, lying in Luc’s arms, warm for once, she thought that really she had a great deal to be grateful for. He did seem to love her and for some complicated reasons which she did not properly understand, she certainly loved him. And he must be right about the Germans; they would never, surely, break into France and certainly never ever, reach Paris.

‘So – are you enjoying military life?’ said Venetia lightly, taking the cigarette Boy offered her, inhaling deeply. They were lunching at what was to become the bastion of London war-time life, the Dorchester, known to all its regulars as the Dorch: outwardly changed, the entrance covered by sandbags, the curtains lined with thick black cloth, the interior remained much the same. It was said to be the safest hotel in London, built as it had been of reinforced concrete; and the Turkish baths in the basement potentially a superb air-raid shelter.

Boy and Venetia’s lunches there had actually become a regular occurrence, the excuse being that there was always so much to discuss: the reality that it afforded them both some rather perverse pleasure.

Of course, Venetia told herself, she was glad she had insisted on the divorce: and besides, this way she and Boy had somehow become better friends than they had been for some time. And he was clearly impressed by her job: not only that she was doing it but doing it extremely well. It was very gratifying to have him arrive at Lytton House and keep him waiting while some meeting was concluded, or to tell him she had to break off lunch at half past two because of a meeting with Hatchards or with the book buyer at Selfridges, it soothed her hurt pride, eased her humiliation. And of course it was very nice to be friends with him again; however bad their marriage might have been, she had missed the fun he injected into their lives, his capacity for gossip, and his ability to make her laugh.

‘I might be enjoying military life, if I was experiencing it,’ said Boy slightly wearily now. ‘I hadn’t exactly expected to find myself changing the guard at Buckingham Palace—’

‘As the song says.’

‘Indeed. I can’t see I’m doing a great deal for the war effort.’

‘There doesn’t seem to be much effort required. I think it’s all quite amusing in its own way, all that preparation and – nothing. No air raids, no bombs, all those trenches dug in the parks, all of us with our gas masks, and this ridiculous blackout, five more people run over last week, did you see – it’s all quite a disappointment really.’

‘I think when it does begin, you’ll feel the opposite of disappointment,’ said Boy. He smiled at her, but his eyes were heavy.

‘You think it will, do you? Apparently the bookies are taking bets on it being over by Christmas, and the odds are awfully much in favour—’

‘People always say wars will be over by Christmas. Of course it won’t. Hitler is hardly going to lose interest in his scheme, say come on everyone, settle down again, we’ve had our fun. I very much fear we shall hear a great deal of him yet.’

‘Well – I suppose you must be right. But it is awfully quiet. Even the evacuees have come back to London. At this rate, Henry’s school won’t need to move.’

‘It will. What’s the latest on that?’

‘I spoke to the headmaster on Tuesday. He says they’d like to be at Ashingham for the spring term. Move over the Christmas holiday. But it won’t be ready, Grandmama’s fussing over the lavatories, and anyway, we agreed it did all seem a bit – pointless at the moment.’

‘I think he’s just trying not to alarm you. Nobody with any sense thinks this will last for long. Champagne?’

‘Yes please. Well, it’s hard to worry. Giles says they just sit in France listening to lectures on why they’re fighting and wondering why they aren’t.’

‘At least he’s in France,’ said Boy gloomily. Venetia ignored him.

‘And Kit’s flying happily over Scotland, safe as a bird. It’s wonderfully comforting for Mummy. She says she feels so much better about him now.’

‘I’m sure if Hitler knew that, he’d forget all his plans,’ said Boy lightly.

It was an odd Christmas; everyone felt guilty that they were not suffering more. The Lyttons were all at Ashingham with the exception of Helena who was with her parents. Venetia had gone down with the children and, at their passionate request, Boy, billeted firmly in the Dovecot by Lady Beckenham, who didn’t quite approve of the arrangement. Barty, LM and Gordon were also there, and Jay, home on leave, and at the last minute Sebastian finally gave in to Izzie’s importuning and joined them. The absence of Adele was felt; she had actually tried to persaude Luc to come over to England with her, but he had refused.

‘It’s all that nonsense with Mummy over the Jewish thing and her Fascist friends,’ Adele wrote privately to Venetia. ‘I’m afraid the hurt went very deep in spite of her apology. And I can understand it; even while I’m saddened by it. Have fun without me.’

They all raised their glasses to her, Venetia with tears in her eyes, and to her safety for which they were fearful.

‘Of course she’ll be all right,’ Boy said lightly, ‘France is well defended and anyway, can you imagine Paris ever being invaded? The French are as chauvinistic as we are, it’s why we don’t get on with them very well. They’ll see them off, never fear.’

This wasn’t quite in accord, Venetia thought, with the picture he had painted for her over lunch of Hitler’s madness and power, but she was silent.

There was much talk of Ashingham as a safe haven for the family as it had been in the last war.

‘Although I have to say to you,’ said Lady Beckenham, ‘it is not as safe a haven as it was then. London has grown considerably nearer. And the bombing will undoubtedly be far, far heavier when it comes. We have to face that. But – we
are
on the Oxford side of Buckinghamshire, at least, not the London.’

‘It’s the safest we’ve got,’ said Boy, ‘and don’t say that, when we’re moving an entire school in here,’ he grinned at her, ‘you’ll frighten the horses. Not to mention the rest of us. I think it should be pretty safe. The fact of the matter is there’s no telling what will happen. We just have to – hope.’

‘We got pretty good at that last time,’ said Lady Beckenham, ‘not much else to do really. Now about this school. The main problem will be the lavatories. Apart from the more valuable paintings and smaller pieces of furniture and so on, which clearly need protection. Beckenham is having them moved into the cellars. And we’re bagging the chandeliers, all that sort of thing. Oh, and I’ve insisted no ink. All work must be done in pencil. I don’t want ink pellets thrown about the rooms. But fifty small boys, all peeing into two lavatories: won’t do.’

‘What about the kitchens, are they adequate?’

‘Perfectly. And they can have their football pitch in one of the paddocks at the side of the house. No, the lavatories are the problem. There are only two on the nursery floor, which is where the dormitories are to be. And then another one down on our floor, but that’s ours and Beckenham spends half his time in it anyway.’

‘Of course when the place was built, there was no such thing as plumbing,’ said Lord Beckenham, quite unmoved by this revelation. ‘What about a sanitary block? Or a latrine, that’d be splendid, I could get the gardeners to dig it—’

‘No, Beckenham,’ said Lady Beckenham firmly, ‘absolutely not. No, we’ll have to do a conversion, have some extra lavatories installed. I’m sure the school can afford it. Or would we get a grant from the government?’

‘Either way,’ said Celia, ‘you won’t be able to get it done. It’s just like the last war, there aren’t any useful men left.’

‘Billy and I could do it for you,’ said Jay cheerfully. ‘When I was working here before, on the roof, we learned all about plumbing.’

‘I doubt it very much,’ said Lady Beckenham, ‘it’s a complicated job, not like putting up a few partitions or slates. Anyway, you won’t be here. I can see the whole plan being scuppered. Damn shame.’

‘No, wait. That chap – what was his name, Bill, the plumber?’

‘Barber,’ said Billy. He had joined the party for Christmas lunch as he always did when Barty was there. ‘I remember because he said my hair needed cutting. But he’ll have joined up, surely.’

‘That’s the fellow. Anyway, Mrs Barber is a plumber as well, apparently. He told me, he sort of apprenticed her, taught her everything. She’ll do it for you, I bet, if Mr Barber isn’t around.’

‘Jolly good idea,’ said Lord Beckenham, ‘woman plumber eh? Whatever next. Wonderful what they can do these days. Is she pretty?’ he added hopefully.

‘Might have been once,’ said Jay, winking at Billy, ‘she’s fifty now if she’s a day.’

‘It is possible to be fifty and not entirely ill-looking,’ said Celia coldly.

‘She sounds ideal,’ said Lady Beckenham, ‘ask her to come and see us after Christmas, would you, Billy?’

Billy did; and not only Mrs Barber arrived to do the plumbing work in the New Year, but also her daughter, Miss Barber, who was as pretty as Lord Beckenham or indeed anyone else might have hoped. Rather more importantly, she was as competent as her mother, working long hours in the freezing conditions of Ashingham; by late February, the new lavatories had been installed, a neat row of six, situated next to the vast bathroom on the first floor. ‘The pipe run will be far easier than at the top of the house, your ladyship. And I would suggest a couple of showers could be fitted in without too much difficulty. Otherwise you’ll never get them all clean, you know how boys will be boys.’

Lady Beckenham agreed that indeed she did, and commissioned the work; Billy Miller then suggested a second pair of showers be installed on the ground floor next to the utility room while they were about it, thus ensuring further opportunities for cleanliness for the small boys, further work for the Barbers and for Billy continued access to Miss Barber, whose name was Joan. By the spring, romance was definitely in the well-sanitised air.

Kit had never been so happy. Which was saying quite a lot. In a life which might have been considered charmed and had certainly been hugely agreeable, he had never found much cause for complaint. But as the freezing winter eased into early spring, and the skylarks and kestrels rose into the dazzling clear blue sky above the Scottish moorland he felt very close to heaven. Flying was amazing, all he had ever dreamed of, bestowing a freedom and a power which was quite literally heady.

As he took off for the first time, as his plane had slightly shakily lifted into the air, as the ground beneath him shrank away, as he looked ahead of him and saw nothing, nothing but sky, he couldn’t help it: he shouted with excitement again and again, laughing with pure pleasure. And he never quite became used to it, the pleasure never even began to stale. Riding the clouds, swooping along the tops of forests and hills following roads and tracks (as sure a guide, once you got to know them, as any map) he felt inviolate, exhilarated, absolutely in command. This was his element, this great sweep of space, this was where in some way he belonged. On the days he did not fly, he felt odd, slightly bereft; restored to it, to his kingdom, he relaxed and came alive again.

It was glorious; even on rough days, bumpy days, he felt the same sense of ease and comfort, of being absolutely in the proper place. He gained his wings with absurd ease; he had a natural sense of navigation, found the instrument panel, with its complex bank of information simplicity itself; and he had a feeling for the plane, it was as if it were an extension of himself, he could guide it through storms, thick cloud, keep it steady in strong winds. On complicated exercises, switching suddenly from following in convoy to flying entirely independently using instruments, he found the transition easier, less confusing than most of his fellow pilots, seldom dived or found himself upside down – except by choice. Nothing was more fun than that: looping the loop, turning full turtle, they all loved it, would have spent hours at it had they been allowed.

As the winter of the phony war went on, all of them longed for action; finally in March their squadron was ordered down to Biggin Hill near Bromley in Kent. The name meant little to them; they had no inkling that it would become as evocative and emotive as other famous stage-settings for the war, Dunkirk, Arnheim, and the beaches of Normandy.

Kit and most of his squadron were to fly the comparatively new Spitfire: the already legendary plane, with the same engines as the Hurricanes but with far less weight; it could climb with incredible speed – ‘Twenty thousand feet in eight minutes,’ Kit wrote proudly to Celia, ‘and it can do 362 miles an hour. Marvellous in a dog fight. And don’t worry, the cockpit is made of bullet-proof glass.’

Celia did not find this totally reassuring.

But Kit had another reason for not wanting to leave Scotland, another reason for his intense happiness; he was in love. Catriona MacEwan was the daughter of the local doctor in Caldermuir, the nearest village to the base: not quite eighteen years old, dark-haired, blue-eyed, about to leave home to train as a nurse at the Edinburgh Infirmary, she had met Kit at a dance in the village hall. It had been love at first sight: he had not known anything like it before, but recognised it nevertheless for what it was. He had had girlfriends of course, but they had been little more than that, friends who were also girls, whose prettiness and company gave him pleasure, whose hands he had held, and whose faces he had kissed. The extraordinary absorption of his head and his heart, the sense of absolute happiness in Catriona’s company, the heady physical desire she created in him, had much in common with what he felt in his plane, a sense of rightness, of finding something he had been looking for.

They did no more than kiss and caress; they were young, virginal, respectful of one another and the mores of the time. Nevertheless, the kissing was passionate, powerful, hungry; and the caressing increasingly exploratory; as Catriona had said rather shakily one night, removing Kit’s hand gently but firmly from the top of her thighs, they’d be in trouble soon if they weren’t going to be separated. And then she had burst into tears when Kit told her the separation was only forty-eight hours away.