Something Dangerous (Spoils of Time 02) (77 page)

‘No,’ said Lucas, ‘no carrots.’

‘Well, I got a few in the tack room. Come on in and we’ll find you one.’

It was a measure of her temporarily improved state of mind that Adele allowed Noni and Lucas to follow him into the tack room.

‘You took your time,’ said Cedric plaintively.

He had been buried underneath tons of rubble, mercifully safe, entombed in the shelter his lover had built for him, for almost eighteen hours. He was miraculously unhurt, apart from a crashing headache and some nasty cuts and bruises; but he had had a lot of trouble not panicking, especially when he heard the rescue team moving about what sounded like miles above his head and then apparently abandoning him once more, actually to summon reinforcements.

‘Sorry, mate. Lot of stuff on top of you. You was lucky, just take a look around you.’

Cedric looked; and felt very shocked. The whole building had gone; there was nothing left not only of his flat, but the two adjacent; the rest of the building was tilting crazily on its side, like a child’s toy house, wearied of and kicked aside.

‘Oh my God. Anyone – well, badly hurt?’

He shook the dust off his shoes, stepped back to look better – and slipped, crashing to the ground, hitting his head violently as he fell. The new, handmade patent pumps, still shiny on the soles, that Bertie had given him for Christmas had done what the Luftwaffe had failed to do and rendered him unconscious. He lay, oddly incongruous in the rubble, his eyes closed. His rescuers looked at him then at each other.

‘Better get him to hospital,’ said the first, ‘or at least the First Aid post. Silly bugger.’

‘Bugger’s the word, if you ask me,’ said the second, ‘just look at them shoes. Come on then. First Aid’ll do. Hospital’s got enough problems. Get him on the stretcher.’

It was almost lunchtime the next day before Cedric, quite badly concussed and in any case confused by his ordeal, managed to pick up the phone in Miranda Bennett’s house where he had taken refuge and telephone Cheyne Walk. To his great relief, Venetia and not Celia answered the phone.

‘Noni, come along, sweetie, we’re going for a drive in the car. Just a little one, don’t look at me like that, darling please.’

The one visible effect of her ordeal on Noni was an acute resistance to cars. She had to be bribed to go in one at all, even her great grandfather’s open-topped Rolls, the greatest treat for most of the children, and as innocuous a suggestion as a ride on the tractor with one of the farmworkers or Billy Miller sent her into paroxysms of distress. Adele had been prepared for this, and had a small store of sweets – already a considerable luxury – in the car, together with three of Noni’s favourite books, and her most treasured possession, an old rag doll which had once been Celia’s and which Lady Beckenham had given her when she first arrived at Ashingham.

‘Come on, sweetie. Lucas is already in the car, he doesn’t mind.’

‘Well I do.’

‘Noni—’ Adele could hear her voice beginning to tremble; she simply couldn’t cope with this. It was the perfect time, just after lunch on the Saturday, the boys were doing their cross-country running across the meadow in a long, noisy stream, and everyone else was in the house. ‘Noni, please, don’t be silly. Please.’

‘No. I don’t want to. I’m not going to. And you can’t make me. No, no, no.’

Lady Beckenham was in the gun room, trying to find a pair of riding boots small enough for Amy to wear, when the phone rang.

‘Grandmama? It’s Venetia. Can I speak to Adele, please? It’s urgent. Really urgent.’

‘Well – I’ll try and find her. It isn’t easy these days. We’re awfully worried about her, Venetia, I do wish you’d come down.’

‘I am. Next week. But – please, Grandmama. I can’t tell you how important it is.’

‘What on earth’s happened? I do hope Celia hasn’t done anything foolish.’

‘Of course she hasn’t. No, this is good news.’

‘Oh – very well. Where are you? I’ll ring you back. It could take a while.’

It did; she was interrupted three times, even on her journey to Adele’s room, first by Lord Beckenham who had lost his sword, then by Roo, who was emerging from the cellar, strictly out of bounds to the children and so therefore he was in need of a reprimand, and finally by Kit, who was walking along the corridor without his stick, also strictly forbidden since he was still inclined to crash into things and people and cause both not inconsiderable damage.

‘When the war is over, Kit,’ she said firmly, ‘you can do this sort of thing. Just now it’s dangerous.’

‘Good,’ said Kit morosely.

‘Don’t be insolent. Come on, settle down and I’ll get you a ciggie.’

She was rewarded with the slight softening of his expression that was the nearest these days Kit got to a smile. She sat him down in the dining room, lit him a cigarette, and told him she’d be back and that she was looking for Adele.

‘It’s important, apparently. Venetia wants her. If she comes in here, be sure you tell her, there’s a good chap.’

‘OK.’

She wasn’t at all sure that he would.

‘Hallo, Noni.’ It was Izzie. ‘I’m just going for a little walk. Want to come with me?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘No, Izzie, she doesn’t. I’m sorry, we’re just going to the village.’

‘Well you can go without her. She doesn’t seem very interested in the idea. I’ll look after her, don’t worry, Adele.’

Her smile, as she looked at Adele, was sweetly innocent; to Adele it appeared patronising and almost insolent.

Adele glared at her. ‘No you won’t. And don’t interfere, Izzie, please. I’ve decided we’re going and we are. Noni, get in the car.’

‘No, I won’t.’

‘Yes, you will.’

Noni started to scream; Adele looked at her. This was becoming ridiculous.

‘You are a naughty, disobedient little girl,’ she said. She looked at Noni’s furious little face, and then suddenly reached down, pulled up her skirt and smacked her hard on her bottom. The shock of it, the departure from her usual indulgent, over-protective behaviour, rendered both Noni and Izzie absolutely silent; then she picked Noni up, half threw her into the car and slammed the door. Noni looked at her through the window, an expression of such wild distress in her eyes that Izzie could hardly bear it. Her own eyes filled with tears as she looked at Adele. Adele glared back at her.

‘Stop staring at me like that, Izzie. She has to learn to do what she’s told. Now we’re going.’

She got into the car, slammed the door, and set off at high speed down the drive.

This was agony. What on earth was her grandmother doing? Surely she could enlist help finding Adele. There were enough people down there. She’d scream in a minute.

She counted to twenty, then dialled the number again.

Izzie ran into the house, crying; the incident had upset her horribly. Emotional hardship she was accustomed to; physical violence was a new experience. Even seeing the little boys given the mildest thwack of the cane on the hand in lessons distressed her; despite Henry’s constant assurances that he had been caned frequently and it had never done him any harm.

‘Makes a man of you, Izzie. Father says he was beaten every week at Eton and it did him no end of good.’

Izzie had tried to believe him then and found it very difficult; the memory of Noni’s frantic little face at the car window, seeing the red imprint of Adele’s hand on her small white bottom, was making her feel sick. Noni was so quiet, so good, so gentle; Adele had no right to hit her, no right at all.

She flung herself into one of the chairs at a table and buried her head in her arms, sobbing, quite loudly.

‘What on earth’s the matter?’ It was Kit, speaking from Lord Beckenham’s big chair at the top of the table.

‘Adele hit Noni,’ she said with a gulp.

‘Well I expect she was quite right to. That’s nothing to cry about. For heaven’s sake, Izzie, you are so ridiculous. Anyway – where is Adele? Grandmama’s looking for her.’

‘Gone. Gone to the village. In the car.’

‘Well run and tell her, will you? It’s important.’

‘I—’

‘Izzie, do what you’re told. Or I shall smack
your
bottom.’

She looked at him in horror; but he was half smiling. Even in her misery, she felt faintly pleased. He must be feeling better.

‘Yes, all right.’

She went out to the corridor; saw Lady Beckenham at the end of it.

‘Adele’s gone to the village,’ she said, ‘in the car. Kit told me to tell you.’

‘Thank you. I’d better phone Venetia, tell her she’ll have to wait. She won’t be long, I don’t suppose.’

‘No. No, I’m sure she won’t. She—’

‘She what?’ said Lady Beckenham, picking up the distress in her voice.

‘She smacked Noni hard. And sort of threw her into the car.’

‘Well, I expect she deserved it,’ said Lady Beckenham briefly, walking into the drawing room and picking up the phone. ‘Venetia? No, we haven’t found her. And now she’s gone out for a bit, it seems. Yes, to the village. Oh, she won’t be long, I’m sure. And when she does—What? Good God. Oh, I see. Well – yes, of course, the minute she comes back.’

‘Absolutely extraordinary,’ she said to Kit. ‘Apparently, after all this time, a letter’s turned up for her from Paris. From that so-called husband of hers. Well, maybe that will cheer her up. I certainly hope so.’

Izzie decided she would go the village herself. She had some pocket money and although she’d had her sweet ration that week, she wanted some paper and some stamps, so that she could write to her father. And she could get Cook’s
Picturegoer
at the same time. Cook would like that; she said it was her only pleasure these days.

She would take Roo’s bike and go on that; he wouldn’t need it, he was playing football. It would be much quicker. And if she did see Adele, she would get the news that much sooner.

‘I won’t stay in here. I won’t.’ Noni, unsilenced by her smacking, glared at her mother. ‘I hate the car. I hate it.’

‘Well, you’re going to be in it for quite a while,’ said Adele, ‘so you’d better get used to it.’

‘Why? I’m going to run away when we get to the village and go home without you: I know the way.’

‘No, you’re not.’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘You’re not because we’re not going to stop in the village. We’re going on a long journey. Somewhere different, somewhere nicer.’

‘What do you mean? Away from Ashingham?’

‘Yes. Far away.’

Noni looked at her and saw she meant it; contemplated it, sitting in the car for hours and hours, leaving everyone and everything she had grown to love, the house, the garden, the stables, her cousins, Lord and Lady Beckenham – she especially loved her great-grandfather – and quite simply couldn’t bear it. Panic rose in her, panic and a terrible violent sickness; she took a deep breath and threw up violently all over the back seat of the car.

Adele was sitting by the side of the road, crying, trying to clean up Noni with some grass when Izzie reached her. She looked at her rather desperately, all her anger gone.

‘Hallo,’ she said listlessly, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand.

‘Hallo, Adele. Can I – can I help?’

That was brave of her; it was a horrible sight.

‘No. It’s all right. I think – well, I think we may have to come back and clean up properly.’

‘I can get whatever it was you wanted in the village,’ said Izzie.

‘What?’ said Adele. She sounded vague. ‘Izzie, I’m sorry about that. Sorry I shouted at you. And hit Noni. I feel terrible. She’s forgiven me. I hope you will too.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Izzie. She hesitated. ‘You seemed very upset.’

‘I was,’ said Adele, and she started crying again. ‘I’m always upset and – oh, dear, it’s very complicated, I’m afraid.’

They sat in silence for a moment; then Izzie remembered.

‘There’s a letter for you,’ she said.

‘A what?’

‘A letter.’

‘What, at the house?’

‘No, I think it’s in London. Venetia phoned.’

‘Venetia phoned? About a letter?’

‘Yes. It’s from France, Lady Beckenham said. From – from your husband.’

Izzie never forgot what happened next. Adele stood up extremely slowly, as if she were dreaming, her expression sort of fixed and very, very pale. Then she said, ‘From France? From Luc?’

‘Yes,’ said Izzie, very gently, because it was obviously so important and she didn’t want Adele to start crying again. ‘Yes, I heard Lady Beckenham telling Kit. And then she said that should cheer you up. Adele, are you all right?’

‘Yes,’ said Adele, still talking very slowly, rather as if she were asleep, ‘yes, I think so.’ And then she sped up almost visibly, her eyes became brilliant and her cheeks quite red. She pushed her hair out of her eyes and said, ‘Izzie, I must get back quickly. Could you – would you mind very much – bringing Noni, pushing her on the bike? Or even walking with her? She’s all right now. But I really can’t make her get back into the car. I’d be so grateful. And as soon as I possibly can I’ll come back for her myself.’

‘Yes of course I will,’ said Izzie bravely, although it seemed to her the most awful thing she had ever been asked to do, ‘that’s perfectly all right, Adele. Don’t worry, I’ll look after her.’

Adele bent to kiss her.

‘You’re an angel,’ she said, ‘an absolute angel. I’ll be as quick as I possibly can. Oh thank God you were sick, Noni, thank God, thank God.’

And then she hurled herself into the car, swung it round so fast its wheels screeched, and roared off down the lane back towards Ashingham at what looked to Izzie about a hundred miles an hour.

Grown-ups really were very peculiar. There was just no other word for it.

CHAPTER 34

Kit heard the car drawing away and felt suddenly very bleak. It was Izzie and Henry, both leaving Ashingham for their new schools: Henry for Eton, Cheltenham Ladies’ College for Izzie.

Henry he didn’t care about so much, but he felt dreadful about Izzie; he’d been so rotten to her and the poor kid had only been trying to help. After the day he had sent her away, and Adele had attacked him, he had made a bit of an effort, but she still irritated him, with her determined cheerfulness and her constant suggestions about things he could do. He did submit to her reading to him with a fairly good grace; she read very well, without any of the rather tedious dramatic emphasis which so many people went in for. The worst was his mother: she seemed to feel she had to act every character in the book for him. Although she did manage to choose the ones he most enjoyed. He found the whole thing desperately irritating, he had always read so fast himself, and it was agony hearing something unfolding so slowly. Billy had suggested in his straightforward way that he might learn to read Braille, but Kit had been appalled at the very idea.

‘I don’t see why,’ Billy said, ‘you’d be able to read what you wanted that way.’

‘I know I would,’ said Kit shortly, ‘but I just couldn’t stand it. Don’t ask me why.’

‘OK then,’ said Billy placidly. ‘I just thought it would be a bit like my false leg. Helping out, if you know what I mean.’

‘That’s quite different,’ said Kit. It wasn’t, of course; but he wasn’t prepared to consider it. It meant accepting what had happened and that was something he couldn’t bear. While he was still angry, railing at fate, he felt he was still in some strange way denying it, was not a blind person, fumbling at strange hieroglyphics, but a sighted one who was temporarily unable to see. For the same reason, he absolutely refused to have a white stick.

Just the same, Billy was one of the very few people who he could talk to; he was so easy, so straightforward, there was none of the dreadful tactfulness that everyone else went in for. His grandfather was another; Lord Beckenham would sit with him for hours, grateful for a captive audience, talking about his own military history, about the Home Guard, about life in general, with a complete lack of tact which Kit found for some reason rather soothing.

‘Lovely morning,’ he would say, ‘just look at the sky, another scorcher coming up, don’t you think?’ And then add, completely unfazed, ‘Sorry, old chap, keep forgetting. Anyway, blue sky, yellow sun, all that sort of thing. Very nice. Good day for an invasion, I’d say.’

Lord Beckenham had been deeply disappointed that no invasion had materialised; unlike most people, he continued to hope for it and drilled his troops ruthlessly. He slept with his rifle by his bed, his tin hat slung over the bedpost, and never sat down to a meal, or retired for the night without patrolling the Ashingham defences.

‘Can’t afford to be taken unawares,’ he would say, ‘it’s when we’re least expecting them they’ll arrive, you know.’

He joined Kit now, having waved the car off.

‘I shall miss Izzie,’ he said, ‘pretty little thing she’s turning out to be, don’t you think?’

Kit was silent; the usual pat on his knee followed.

‘Sorry. Anyway, she is, you can take my word for it. She’ll be breaking a few hearts in a year or two. Fancy a walk? I want to have a look at the trenches down by the barn. Come on, I need the company.’

There was a sudden disturbance of the still morning as a herd of small boys went past them on their cross-country run; they waved and shouted at them both. Lord Beckenham waved his rifle back.

‘Lovely to have all these young ones about,’ he said, ‘cheers me up no end.’

‘Does it?’

‘Oh yes. I like children. Always have. So much common sense. Sometimes wonder if they wouldn’t make a better job of running the world than we do. Watch out, old chap, bit of rough ground ahead. Here, let me take your arm, just for this bit. We can steady one another. Old pins aren’t what they were. Oh, now there’s young Bill. Wedding coming up soon, isn’t it? Nice girl, very happy for him. He’s a splendid chap. Don’t know what we’d do without him.’

‘No,’ said Kit. And then greatly to his surprise heard himself say, ‘He asked me to make a speech at the wedding.’

‘Did he?’

‘Yes. I don’t really want to, of course but—’

‘Why not? You can still talk. And rather well, I should think.’

‘I – just don’t,’ said Kit, and he lapsed into silence.

But he enjoyed the walk more than usual; and afterwards he sat down on the terrace in a spot sheltered from the wind and wondered why he felt just a very faint lifting of his depression. It wasn’t just Lord Beckenham’s company, or the pleasure, albeit limited, of sitting in the warmth of the sun: although he found the noise of the small boys shouting and laughing almost unbearable. It was something that had been said. What was it? Not about the speech – he really couldn’t face that, standing up, hearing people laughing dutifully at his jokes, unable to see their expressions, visualising the appalling sympathy and embarrassment. No, it was something else. What had it been?

And then he remembered: this rather intriguing notion of a world run by children. For some reason that had seized his imagination. What would it actually be like? With children in charge of government, the law, education? What would they make of it, what would they do, what would they change? And how would they deal with the adults who had made such a hash of things? Banish them? Employ them? It was all rather – interesting. For some reason it stayed in his head, all day; occupying him, distracting him just occasionally from himself and his misery. It was a distinctly novel situation.

‘Page proofs,’ said Celia, placing them down on Oliver’s desk, ‘of
Grace and Favour
. They don’t look bad, in spite of that awful paper. And the tiny typeface of course.’

‘I don’t suppose the readers are likely to notice,’ said Oliver.

‘Of course they will. I don’t know why you persist in thinking that the only readers of this book will be the housemaid class, as you so charmingly call it.’

‘Because it’s housemaid’s stuff.’

‘Oh don’t be so pompous. Just thank your lucky stars that we didn’t lose the whole thing six months ago in the fire,’ said Celia. And then added, ‘You look tired. Why don’t you go home?’

‘I am tired. But I don’t want to go home. Where’s Mrs Gould? I’ve got a lot of letters to write. And is LM in her office?’

‘I think so. She looks worn out. It’ll be a very good thing when Venetia gets back. LM’s been landed with all her work, you know.’

‘I do find it so noisy here,’ said Oliver. He sighed. ‘It’s so – so frenetic. The street outside, I mean, not in the house.’

‘So you say at least once a week,’ said Celia. ‘Perhaps you’d like to find us a different office – in between commissioning books and writing letters.’

‘Oh don’t be absurd. I know it was very good of your parents to let us use it and at such short notice. That fact does not unfortunately make it an ideal location.’

She ignored him and walked out of the room, thumbing through the proofs. They did look very good. The art department had had the text set in Times Roman, so that it looked as if it had come straight out of the author’s typewriter and had made a virtue of small-font size and narrow margins – designed to save paper – by presenting each page as if it were a notebook. It read so well: sharp, acutely observed, and with a slightly staccato style. There had been much agonising over the cover, which Celia had wanted to look like a rather small, leather-bound diary; the art department and Edgar Greene had looked for something grander, more in keeping with the content. It was still under discussion.

She went into the room that was her office and that had been her mother’s sitting room and sank down at the makeshift desk. She was tired; terribly tired. She had forgotten how tiring war was above all else: the perpetual anxiety, the broken nights, the complication of performing the most simple tasks, thanks to lack of staff, the breakdown of the usual channels of communication, the lack of transport, the restrictions of almost everything.

And of course they were still suffering from the loss of Lytton House, and all the things that had been stored there, practical things, manuscripts, ledgers, authors’ and agents’ contracts. That had been the most appalling revelation of those first few dreadful days, that there was nothing, absolutely nothing left that they could refer to.

Celia and LM had gone up to Paternoster Row as soon as they were permitted, hoping they would find Grandpa Edgar’s safe. But even that was a burnt-out shell. Hubert Wilson’s description of the ‘cavernous glowing holes’ which were what he called the ‘crematoria of the City’s book world’ was hideously apt.

‘How are we ever going to operate again?’ Celia had said to LM and then, hearing no reply, looked at her and saw she was weeping.

‘I’m sorry,’ LM said, trying to smile, rummaging in her pocket for a handkerchief, ‘just shock, that’s all. Being brought here by my father was my earliest memory; it seems impossible that there is simply nothing left.’

‘Of course,’ said Celia quietly; but after a moment, LM rallied, and said, ‘Now then, where can we start? We’ve got orders to meet, we can’t let people down.’

‘Well,’ said Celia who had already spent the morning desperately trying – and failing – to work out how Lyttons could physically fit into Cheyne Walk, ‘the first thing we need is an office. More space than our house can possibly offer, although I do think we could manage there for a few days. I’ve made a few phone calls and a list of where we have work in progress, manuscripts waiting to be set, galley proofs waiting to be sent to us, pages waiting to be bound, that sort of thing. And there are hundreds of our stock books of course, stored at various printers round and about the country. Mercifully Venetia had the manuscript of
Grace and Favour
. Paper will be our biggest problem, everyone will be after it and we’ll just have to take whatever we’re offered, a few hundred sheets at a time. But I have found one source, a printing works near Slough. Because it’s quite near Mama, I can get Venetia to – oh my God!’

‘Yes?’ said LM. She smiled at her; she had known Celia a long time, she recognised an idea in her voice.

‘Curzon Street. My parents’ house. They’re not using it. I wonder if – well no, I don’t wonder, I’m quite sure – they’d let us use it. It’s quite large enough, the large drawing room would make a general office and the dining room an art room, and we could use all the smaller rooms – yes, it’s a brilliant idea. We can even set up a small counter in the hall. Oh dear, Papa would have a fit, we must make sure he never sees it. But he doesn’t need to. Come on, LM. Let’s tell Oliver, he’ll be thrilled.’

The Beckenhams did give their permission – albeit slightly unwillingly – and a skeleton staff moved in two days later. But three or four hundred separate works that had been in print were lost for ever, together with several manuscripts, and the financial cost was considerable. They had been insured, but most of the losses were incalculable, and the loss of all the records had led to months of chaos and constant argument and wrangling with authors, agents and booksellers.

That was the day the book trade changed for ever. Lyttons was not the only house which adapted its systems to expediency, stopped the costly and cumbersome procedure of shipping books back from the printers to their own offices and then shipping them out again. The central distributor, working for all the publishing houses, was born: ‘If Hitler knew he’d actually helped us become more efficient, think how furious he’d be,’ said Celia happily to Oliver. He was unable – as usual – to share her optimism.

As she sat looking out on to the back garden of Curzon Street – surprisingly large and lush – that lovely spring day, there was a knock on her door and Sebastian walked in.

‘Hallo.’

‘Hallo, Sebastian. What are you doing here, you should be at home working.’

‘Tired. Wanted to talk to you.’

‘Of course. I’d offer you a cup of tea, but I think we’re completely out of milk.’

‘That’s all right. The last cup of tea Janet Gould made tasted more of cabbage than anything else. Celia, do you know where I could get hold of a dictating machine?’

‘Oh – one of the department stores, I should think. Army and Navy probably. Or a big stationers possibly. I could ask Janet, she’ll know.’

‘Would you? I want one.’

‘They’re very expensive.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘Who’s it for?’

‘Kit,’ said Sebastian, ‘best news since his plane went down.’

And he sat down on one of Lady Beckenham’s priceless John Adam drawing-room chairs, which Celia had sworn to her parents were stored safely in the cellar and told her about it.

‘Wake up, Miller. In that little world of your own again, are you? And I know who with and all, don’t I?’

Barty jumped, and smiled rather feebly at Parfitt.

‘Of course not. Pass the salt.’

‘Of course you are. I can – oh gawd. Alarm. Here we go again.’

If the alarm went off at mealtimes, the routine was simple; you just dropped everything and ran down to the gun park, taking your gas mask bag on your chest – also used by all the girls for transporting their make-up – and pulling on your tin hat as you ran. It happened a lot at night now – they had been posted to Crystal Palace – but lunchtime was more unusual. As they ran, the firing began; there was no way but forward. Barty fixed her eyes on the encampment in the middle of the gun park and just made for it; she had always been a very fast runner and that day it saved her life. As she looked back from the comparative safety of the encampment, banked up with sandbags and turf for camouflage she saw pits and dust all along the path where she had been running.

‘Phew,’ said Parfitt, grinning at her rather shakily, ‘that was close. Best get to work.’

It could be disorienting, looking down into the instruments when a raid was in progress. With all the noise and disturbance you could somehow lose a sense of where the plane actually was. Not that it mattered; your job was to report what you saw in the instrument. But there had been occasions when Barty had actually seen a plane opening its bomb doors; it took a lot of control not to look up, see exactly where it was in relation to her.