Something Dangerous (Spoils of Time 02) (66 page)

‘I can’t believe it,’ Barty said to Edgar Greene, walking into his office after what she had imagined to be a long confrontation with Celia and which had lasted for all of ten minutes, ‘she’s agreed to the lot. I don’t know what to do.’

‘Make the most of it,’ said Edgar, ‘it won’t last.’

But it seemed it would.

Celia was aware of it herself and hardly cared; she went through the days in an odd state, her mind only half on what she was doing, the other half listening for the phone, for the ring at the bell which would mean the telegram, or Brunson coming in with the post. They were good, the boys; Kit phoned regularly, brief, confident calls, telling her of the fun in the mess and the greater fun of flying. It was odd, she thought, that no one in his squadron was ever killed or even injured; did he really think she was that stupid? Well, he was only twenty: a child still. Then she would reflect that he was actually taking his life in his hands every single day, along with the controls of his plane and moving out into the skies and enemy fire, all in order to defend his country; and realised he must be further beyond childhood, beyond carefree, thoughtless, self-indulgent time than she would ever be. Oliver could accompany him notionally into that life; he could understand. And when Kit did come home as he quite often did, for twenty-four hours, when he sat at the dinner table, telling tales of incredible courage and unimaginable skill, talking of the comradeship of the squadron, the terrific decency of the other chaps, the bond that had formed between them all, she would see Oliver’s eyes on him, proud, smiling and then suddenly sad, and felt alienated by the shared bond between them, the bond of death faced, over and over again, faced and avoided, and the shadow of it over every victory, every escape.

Giles was safe for the moment: training with his battalion in Wiltshire. He was doing rather well. She would not have believed it possible, the triumph of her dull, dry, nervous son, his recommendation for the Military Medal after Dunkirk. After his failure to get a commission she had expected an indifferent war. But Helena had come to tell her about Dunkirk in person, in an odd mixture of pride and hostility. I know you never thought it of him, she was clearly saying, never thought he was worth anything and here he is, so brave, so fine a soldier that in the first months of the war he has been recommended for one of the highest military decorations. And Celia listened to her, equally proud, but suddenly ashamed of herself, not only of her attitude to Helena, but to Giles as well, her impatience, her condescension, her near-contempt.

‘I’m – sorry, Helena,’ she said suddenly, ‘very sorry.’

Helena looked at her, clearly surprised. ‘What for?’

‘For failing to recognise Giles’s sterling qualities. And I made that rather clear to you, I’m afraid. I feel badly about it now.’

Helena, recognising the enormity of this concession, still couldn’t quite bring herself to kiss her; but she went over to her and smiled and said, ‘Of course, Celia. Thank you.’ And when she left, a very short time later, she did offer Celia her cheek.

Later, the shelling started; and that really was like being in hell. Out of nowhere it began, another clear blue sky, another hot, hot day: and then suddenly low-flying planes swooping down on them and then fire dropping from the sky, people screaming, diving for cover, in ditches. How could they do this, Adele thought, sitting helplessly in the back seat of the car, trying to soothe her children, holding their heads against her, how could they bomb defenceless people, who had done them no harm, threatened them with nothing, helpless old people in horse-drawn carts, little children, exhausted mothers? This was not an army to be defeated, this was a mass of unarmed, passive people.

They saw some dreadful sights, a girl screaming by her injured mother, a dead woman lying on top of her baby, which was nonetheless alive, and scooped up by another woman who had been with her. The woman stood there, holding the baby, covered with its mother’s blood, shaking her fist at the planes, foolishly defiant, but nonetheless an emblem of courage for them all.

The cries were not all of ‘
Les Boches
’; ‘
Les Italiens
’ were also blamed.

The attack passed; shaking, she climbed back into the driving seat and drove on; there was nothing else to do.

When she got home. When she got home . . .

And then, that evening towards sunset she saw the wonderful sight of the twin spires of Chartres across the flat plain; she recognised them at once, she had been to Chartres once before, Oliver had driven them there, via the fields of Flanders which he’d wanted them to see, and she felt a lift of triumph, as if she were already home.

‘Look,’ she said to Noni, ‘look, we’re nearly there.’

She had spoken unthinkingly; it was a dreadful mistake.

The small face, filthy after two days and nights now in the car, tearstreaked with misery and fear, looked up at her, the black eyes alight with joy. ‘In England? And is Papa there?’

‘Oh, my darling,’ said Adele and burst into tears, Noni’s misplaced joy affecting her as the shelling and her own growing hunger had not. How could she have done this to her, her beloved little daughter, who until forty-eight hours earlier had been playing happily in her home in Paris, safe, contented, how could she have dragged her into this hell of shellfire and heat and hostility and danger? To which there was no certain end?

In the cramped sleeplessness of the nights she faced that over and over again. Why did she think that there would be a boat waiting for her at Bordeaux, with a cabin neatly labelled ‘Lytton’? It was madness, a dangerous, reckless madness that she had dragged them all into: simply because she had discovered her husband had gone back to his wife. Suddenly that seemed utterly inconsequential, a passing injury inflicted upon her, of no account at all set against what she had done to her child, a grown-up quarrel, a source of hurt pride, that she should have set aside, dealt with in a grown-up way.

She pulled over, signalled to Noni to climb into her lap, sat kissing her, cuddling her, making reassuring noises. Lucas slept on; he slept more and more, clutching his toy cow, dulled with misery and boredom.

They were on the outskirts of another village; they had parked the car beside a signpost. On it were pasted the now-familiar notes, heartbreaking, dreadful cries of pain: ‘
Madame DuClos, chez l’Hotel Reynaud, demande nouvelles de ses fils Bernard et Jacques, 4 et 5 ans, perdu près d’ici le 10 juin
’.

It kept happening; the children got lost in the crush, in the crowds, climbed unnoticed on to carts or trucks, their small legs too tired to walk further, without their parents realising they had gone, and in ten, fifteen minutes in the huge crowd it was too late. They were lost, for ever it seemed while their parents continued to search, to ask, running up and down the line of people. Frantic mothers or fathers often banged on the window of her car, showing her pictures, desperately crying, ‘
avez-vous vu cette fille, Madame
?’ All she could say was ‘
non
’; but faced with that notice, thinking of the tiny Bernard and Jacques, lost to their mother probably for ever, imagining her panic and anguish as she waited so futilely in the hotel, Adele considered her own position and felt calmer. She had her children; they were all together; they still had some food; and they were nearly in Chartres.

On the other hand, it had taken two days to travel fifty miles – fifty miles as the crow flew at least – they were running out of petrol – and, it seemed days – it was days – since she had spoken to anyone, other than a fractious child or a hostile French adult.

When they got home . . . when they got home . . .

CHAPTER 29

‘Home! You’re home. But you can’t be,’ said Venetia. ‘It’s impossible.’

‘Well I’m sorry if it’s unwelcome news, but I am.’

‘Of course it’s not unwelcome, it’s marvellous. But why – how—’

‘Well you know I’m doing this course, para training, in Warminster. I’ve got a twenty-four-hour leave. I’d love to see you.’

‘Jay, of course you can see me. I’ll – I’ll take you out to dinner. How would you like that? Oh, no, you’ve probably got someone much more glamorous and younger than me to spend the evening with—’

‘Well not in London,’ said Jay blithely tactless, ‘and yes, dinner would be splendid. But of course I’d like to see my mother—’

‘Of course you would. But she’s at Ashingham, Jay. She’s gone down with Gordon for a few days. She’s been so tired lately, she collapsed last week, nothing serious, promise, and the doctor prescribed a week of country air. So she’s in the Dovecot.’

‘The dear old Dovecot. My first home. Are you sure she’s OK?’

‘She’s absolutely fine. But she can’t sleep, worrying about you and everything, and she’s been working like a demon. She’ll be brokenhearted to have missed you. Could you get down for the night?’

‘Maybe on the way back. Not tonight, have to catch the dawn train. I’ll telephone her.’

‘Well, ask for Gordon first, otherwise the shock’ll finish her off. Only joking. So – dinner, then?’

‘Dinner it is. Thanks.’

‘I’ll take you to the Dorch.’

The Dorchester was in good form that night; filled with glamorous people, all beautifully dressed, the women in long dresses, the men in dinner jackets. Several of its regular set were there, the people who regarded it as their second home, a sort of clubhouse, the Duff Coopers, Loelia, Duchess of Westminster, Emerald Cunard, Lord Halifax – ‘And look, there’s Maggie Greville,’ said Venetia. ‘See, in her wheelchair, she’s always here, holding court, she gives the kitchen masses of cream and eggs from her home farm and – oh, there’s Hutch,’ Venetia pointed out an extremely handsome and elegant black man, ‘you know, the piano player, I think he was playing at the Savoy when we were there for Mummy’s birthday last year, if you remember, anyway, they say he’s having an affair with Edwina Mountbatten – oh, sorry, Jay, you probably don’t want to hear all this silly nonsense.’

‘Oh, but I do,’ he said, grinning at her, ‘it’s a marvellous relief, and I knew I’d get it from you, silly nonsense I mean—’

‘Thanks,’ said Venetia coolly.

‘Oh, don’t be stupid, you know I don’t mean that. Have some more champagne, for goodness sake. Get some roses in your cheeks, you look a bit pale. I wanted to see you terribly. Most of all because I knew it would be fun. Bit short of fun we are, down there in Somerset.’

‘I expect you are. Oh, my God, Jay, time to hide behind the menus. One of Boy’s fellow officers has just come in, nice but frightfully dreary, I really don’t want to have to talk to him.’

‘Where – oh, yes. Right oh. It’s all right, he hasn’t seen us.’

‘Good. Now, how is it all, Jay, what are you actually doing?’

‘Well, I’ll give you an edited version and then we won’t talk about it any more. I’m doing a para training course, as I told you. Frightfully exciting.’

‘Don’t tell your poor mother,’ said Venetia with a shudder, ‘she really will never sleep again.’

‘Of course not. I’ve actually told her I’m doing a code-breaking course. I couldn’t think of anything much safer, except perhaps catering. And I didn’t think she’d believe that.’

‘Probably not.’

‘What news of Boy? And Adele?’

‘Oh, Jay, I wish there was some. Of Adele, I mean. As far as I know, she’s still in Paris. It’s a nightmare. An absolute nightmare. I can’t sleep either. I feel – oh, it’s hard to explain, permanently churned up. Odd. Distressed. If only, if only she’d come home earlier. Now it’s too late. And the most terrifying thing is, with the Germans actually on their way to Paris, she’s the enemy. God knows what will happen to her. It’s appalling. I could kill that bastard Luc Lieberman.’

‘Have you tried to make contact with her?’

‘Of course. We’ve phoned and phoned, but the lines are dead. We’ve sent cables, but nothing happens. Do you know Luc actually tried to make her come home in the end, and the stupid girl refused, told him she felt she should stay with him. Did you ever hear anything so stupid?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. You’d do the same. If Boy asked you. Well, perhaps not Boy any more,’ he added hastily, ‘but someone. You’re like that, I know you are.’

‘Well,’ she sighed, ‘I don’t know that I would. Anyway, we can only hope and hang on.’

‘And – Boy? Any news of him?’

‘Yes, he’s fine. At the moment. He’s up in Scotland doing some kind of training. He’s adoring it. He writes quite often.’

‘I’d forgotten how you two were still friends,’ said Jay, ‘jolly clever of you, I’d say. Whenever I end a relationship, I can’t wait to see the back of whoever it is.’

‘Yes, well we’ve got four children to worry about,’ said Venetia quickly, ‘so we have to keep – talking.’

‘S’pose so. I’m in love at the moment,’ he added, leaning forward. ‘Super girl. I really think this might be it.’

‘Jay! Really? How exciting.’

She smiled at him fondly; this was actually not the first time Jay had thought someone might be it, indeed it seemed to take place on an almost monthly basis. ‘Tell me about her. And why aren’t you with her tonight, instead of your old cousin?’

‘You don’t
look
old,’ said Jay earnestly, ‘you look marvellous. I like that dress. Although you are a bit thin, Venetia. Come on, you’re not eating.’

‘Oh – I’m not terribly hungry,’ she said quickly, ‘it’s the worry about Adele. Tell me about your new lady love.’

‘Well, she’s in the WRNS. Posted down at Portsmouth. We’d have been together now, but she’s on duty, couldn’t get away. Bloody awful, but still—’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Victoria. Victoria Halifax. Tory for short. She’s an absolute stunner, so beautiful, look, I’ve got a picture here—’

Venetia looked: Victoria Halifax wearing her WRNS uniform smiled at her, a perfect, even-teethed smile. She was indeed, if not beautiful, extremely pretty, blonde, with a heart-shaped face and very wide eyes; she had signed the photograph ‘With my fondest love – Tory’ in a rather florid hand. Venetia smiled at Jay.

‘She’s – lovely,’ she said.

‘Isn’t she? We met just before I went off. At the Blue Angel. She’s a marvellous dancer, could be a professional, I should think. Anyway, she’s doing awfully well in the WRNS, she was training to be a legal secretary before the war, she’s frightfully clever, and funny too, she tells the most marvellous jokes, you’d love her Venetia, I know—’

‘I’m sure.’ And then because she felt suddenly dreadfully lonely, and missing Boy more than she could have imagined and felt so fiercely jealous of these two beautiful young people, she suddenly found her eyes filling with tears; Jay stared at her in horror; and she brushed them away quickly, horrified too, at herself for spoiling his one lovely evening in London that he had so touchingly entrusted to her.

‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘so sorry. Darling Jay, I’m a stupid old woman. Let’s go and dance while we wait for our lobster.’

They were both already quite tipsy on the champagne; and both emotional, with their heads filled with other people. And somehow, partly in search of comfort, partly because of the champagne, but also because they were extremely fond of one another, they found themselves dancing rather closely.

The big hit that summer was ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square’.

‘How appropriate,’ said Jay, drawing her closer to him still as the band moved into it, and ‘yes,’ she said, thinking of that night, that last night there, in Berkeley Square with Boy, and resting her head against Jay, ‘terribly appropriate.’

Across the room, Mike Willoughby-Clarke, the fellow officer of Boy’s that Venetia had been so anxious to avoid, who was due to leave with his battalion the following day, pointed them out to his wife.

‘That’s Venetia Warwick. I was going to take you over, introduce you to her. But she’s obviously pretty occupied with that young chap. New boyfriend, I suppose. She and Boy are divorced, you know. Damn shame. Lovely girl. Still these things happen nowadays . . .’

It was on the third day, the Wednesday, that they ran out of petrol. Ten kilometres out of Tours. There were cars parked all along the road now, abandoned; petrol was becoming more precious than food. She had seen several fights at pumps; she had managed to get a few gallons the evening before. At a village, she had seen a petrol station just closing, an old man filling up a car, and then shaking his head at the next car behind, locking the tank, hanging a cardboard sign reading
Fermé
on it. The next driver and the next ran over to the old man, shouting at him, threatening, waving money; he spat on the ground, shook his head, pulled out a Gauloise and lit it. And then disappeared into the house.

She had waited: until everyone had lost interest, driven on. And then she got out of the car, brushed her hair, put on some lipstick, sprayed herself liberally with
Joy
, hoping rather vainly it would disguise the smell of sweat that she knew hung about her, taken one of the two bottles of Luc’s Lafite Rothschild from the suitcase in the boot, and walked slowly and as provocatively as she could, over to the door.

She never knew afterwards whether it was the provocative walk, the
Joy
or the Château Lafite Rothschild that did it; but she drove on with twenty litres of petrol in the tank and a sense of triumph as great as if she had won the war single-handed.

Absurdly, wasting time, risking losing the car, everything she had, she drove into Chartres, parked as near the cathedral as she could and led the children into its vast cavernous beauty; she went over to the candles, bought two, and lit them, gave them each one to hold.

‘Should we say prayers, Maman?’ asked Noni, accepting this new surprising scenario with placid sweetness.

‘Yes, we should. We should thank God for looking after us all this time and ask Him to help us the rest of the way.’

‘All right.’ She closed her eyes, put her hands together. ‘And say to bless Papa. Don’t forget that.’

‘Of course not.’

And then she took the children by the hand and walked them slowly round the cathedral and its velvety darkness, behind the high altar, pausing at each side chapel, lighting candles at another
prie-dieu
. And then panicked at the thought of what might be happening outside to the car, the precious car which had become at once their world and their refuge against it.

But it was quite safe.

She had been right to stay on the bigger roads; the villages were becoming dangerous, shuttered against the invader, and at the same time vulnerable to looting. She had heard talk in Chartres of tables and chairs in ransacked cafés hacked to pieces to make firewood, even of small churches being broken into and treasures taken.

But the greatest terror was of the German army, appearing from no one knew where . . .

She knew at once why the car had stopped: it had been overheating, in its slow progress, but she had managed to keep it ticking over. But it wasn’t that; the dial had been jammed on empty for over five miles, and now finally, it gave up its gallant struggle and spluttered to a halt.

Oddly calm, she got out. She had been prepared for this; it was why she had brought the pram. Thank God for it: thank God.

‘What are you doing, Mummy?’

‘Getting the pram down, darling. We have to walk for a while. No more petrol, I’m afraid.’

‘Goody. I’m so tired of the car.’

‘Me too.’

As long as it didn’t rain; the second night it had poured. She unpacked her cases with great care; the pram couldn’t carry much. The gaz stove would have to be left; probably just as well. She had shuddered at the thought of what would happen if it caught a bit of flying shell. She’d need the nappies – running low now – the tins of food and the tin opener, the bottles of water – only two left – the last bottle of wine, the precious Gauloises. She had given away two packs, in exchange for water, they had proved excellent currency.

She slung her own rucksack containing her money and her passport over her shoulder, then lifted Lucas on to the pram.

‘I want to walk,’ said Noni.

‘You can. But you must hold on to the handle, I don’t want to lose you.’ Leaving the car was dreadful, like abandoning a stalwart friend. ‘
Au revoir
,’ she said aloud, patting it, ‘
et merci
.’

‘Who are you talking to, Mummy?’

‘The car.’

‘You’re silly,’ said Noni, a hint of slightly bossy reproof in her voice.

‘I know.’

It was much more frightening; they had no protection now against anyone or anything. And the crowd was becoming increasingly unpleasant, any early camaraderie lost in the desperate struggle for survival, for food, for water. It was slow, painfully slow. After a while Adele’s legs began to throb and her heels became sore. And they would have no shelter against the shells; but then there hadn’t been an attack for two days. The children were happier, Lucas sitting, beaming at her, Noni running alongside, asking for rides now and again.