Stratton's War (31 page)
Authors: Laura Wilson
Feeling almost light-headed with happiness, Diana set about removing the stain from her nightdress - it wouldn’t be prudent to leave it for the maid. The girl had become difficult in recent weeks because of the bombs, and it might be impossible to find a replacement. She’d read somewhere that cold water was the thing for blood, and a vigorous rub with a piece of soap had got most of it out surprisingly quickly. Back in bed and wide awake, she sat up with her arms around her knees, listening to the muffled thuds of distant bombs.
Perhaps she ought to write to Evie and tell her:
Sorry, not having baby despite your best efforts, hope this finds you as it leaves me
. . . Stifling a giggle, she reached for her cigarettes, lit one, then picked up a letter, received from Guy that morning. He’d been expecting to rejoin his regiment abroad, but there had been a change of plan and they were now somewhere in Scotland,
so I may be able to see you again sooner than expected
. . . Diana sighed. There was no mention of what had happened between them on the last night at Evie’s, but she hadn’t really expected it - Guy hadn’t said anything before he left, and it wasn’t a suitable topic for writing. Dropping the letter on the counterpane, she closed her eyes and allowed her thoughts to drift to Claude.
Sorry, not having baby despite your best efforts, hope this finds you as it leaves me
. . . Stifling a giggle, she reached for her cigarettes, lit one, then picked up a letter, received from Guy that morning. He’d been expecting to rejoin his regiment abroad, but there had been a change of plan and they were now somewhere in Scotland,
so I may be able to see you again sooner than expected
. . . Diana sighed. There was no mention of what had happened between them on the last night at Evie’s, but she hadn’t really expected it - Guy hadn’t said anything before he left, and it wasn’t a suitable topic for writing. Dropping the letter on the counterpane, she closed her eyes and allowed her thoughts to drift to Claude.
He’d written to her, and even telephoned her at Apse’s office, but so far she’d managed to avoid seeing him. But she couldn’t avoid thinking about him, and as the days went by, she did so more and more . . . A jeering voice in her head told her, for about the thousandth time, that she was weak and pathetic, that she should have defied Evie and walked out there and then, but she knew it wouldn’t have been right. Over the last ten days she’d picked up her pen to write to Claude at least twenty times, but the memory of her mother-in-law’s words and the fierce intensity of her gaze had prevented her. Of course, it was only a matter of time before she bumped into him, and in any case, she did owe him some sort of explanation, however perfunctory . . .
Gingerly, she rubbed her aching stomach. A hot water bottle would be the best thing, but she’d lent it to the girl downstairs and forgotten to ask for it back . . . She crushed her cigarette in the ashtray, then got up again to rummage in her handbag for aspirin. She took two with a mouthful of water, then put out the bedside light and curled up, hoping for sleep.
The following day, feeling better for a few hours’ rest, she arrived at Nelson House to find Apse’s flat empty. A note on the table read,
Urgent appointment, back after 11
. Diana looked at her wristwatch. She didn’t have to go anywhere until the afternoon, so that meant over two hours to search the place. She started with the desk, pulling open drawers and sifting through their contents, careful to put everything back exactly as she’d found it. By half-past ten, she was running out of places to look, and turned to the small, poky kitchen, where she began examining the contents of the cupboards. She was thinking of giving up - after all, she’d never known Apse to set foot in the kitchen - but decided to check the cutlery drawer first. Removing the knives and forks, she passed a cursory hand over the lining paper and found that it seemed to be thicker in one corner. When she turned it back, she saw a sheet of paper, folded in two. Easing it out, she found that she was staring at a page of typewriting, with columns of letters arranged in groups of four that made no sense whatsoever. Not a foreign language, Diana thought, but a code. She couldn’t just take it - Apse might check - so she’d have to copy it, and because it was gibberish that would take time. The kitchen clock said twenty to eleven: too risky to do anything now, and besides, there was the post to be sorted through before he returned. Diana slid the paper back where she’d found it, and, heart pounding, went to her desk and began opening the day’s letters.
Urgent appointment, back after 11
. Diana looked at her wristwatch. She didn’t have to go anywhere until the afternoon, so that meant over two hours to search the place. She started with the desk, pulling open drawers and sifting through their contents, careful to put everything back exactly as she’d found it. By half-past ten, she was running out of places to look, and turned to the small, poky kitchen, where she began examining the contents of the cupboards. She was thinking of giving up - after all, she’d never known Apse to set foot in the kitchen - but decided to check the cutlery drawer first. Removing the knives and forks, she passed a cursory hand over the lining paper and found that it seemed to be thicker in one corner. When she turned it back, she saw a sheet of paper, folded in two. Easing it out, she found that she was staring at a page of typewriting, with columns of letters arranged in groups of four that made no sense whatsoever. Not a foreign language, Diana thought, but a code. She couldn’t just take it - Apse might check - so she’d have to copy it, and because it was gibberish that would take time. The kitchen clock said twenty to eleven: too risky to do anything now, and besides, there was the post to be sorted through before he returned. Diana slid the paper back where she’d found it, and, heart pounding, went to her desk and began opening the day’s letters.
THIRTY-THREE
‘The heifers don’t have very good manners, Dad,’ said Monica, slipping her hand into Stratton’s as a group of cows lumbered past the fence on the way to be milked, barging and rolling their eyes. ‘They always push like that. The old ones wait for their turn.’
‘I wish you’d stand back, dear,’ said Jenny nervously from somewhere behind them.
‘It’s all right, Mum,’ said Monica. ‘They won’t hurt us. That one’s my favourite,’ she added, pointing out a passing Friesian to Stratton. ‘Her name’s Matilda. It’s Daisy really, but I think that’s quite boring.’
‘Come on, Dad.’ Pete tugged at his other arm. ‘I want you to see Jack.’
‘Who’s Jack?’
‘The pony. We told you, Dad, remember? Come on!’
Stratton grinned at his rosy-cheeked, excited children, pleased that they seemed enthusiastic about the workings of Mrs Chetwynd’s farm. ‘Off you go, then. We’ll be right behind you.’ As Monica and Pete raced off down the lane, he turned to Jenny. ‘All right, love?’
She gave him a slightly worried smile. ‘All these big animals . . . But it’s nice to see they’re enjoying themselves.’
‘Must be in the blood,’ said Stratton.
‘Your blood. They certainly don’t get it from my side. But they do look well, don’t they?’
Stratton, thinking that he detected a slightly wistful note to this question, said, ‘Just as good as if you’d been looking after them yourself. I told you they’d be all right, didn’t I?’
Jenny smiled and took his arm. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘Let’s go and see this blessed horse.’
At least, Stratton thought, she seemed to have relaxed a bit. She’d spent most of the train journey unable to keep still, patting her hair and leaning over to brush imaginary specks off his jacket, until he’d told her sharply that it wasn’t a fashion parade and the kids wouldn’t mind how they looked. He’d wished the words back as soon as they were out of his mouth - after all, he was just as nervous about meeting Mrs Chetwynd as she was. But from the moment when Pete and Monica had charged down the station platform towards them, yelling, and Jenny, delighted and embarrassed at the same time, had hugged and shushed and tried to inspect both of them at once, it had been fine, and he couldn’t remember feeling happier. It was so different from the last time they’d seen them, when they’d been wan and miserable, taken in by a woman who hadn’t cared for them, so that he and Jenny had refused to leave until the billeting officer had assured them that a decent place would be found. As they hadn’t had the opportunity to see it, they’d never laid eyes on Mrs Chetwynd, and still hadn’t - it was her afternoon for the WVS Committee, and she’d instructed the children to take their parents down to the farm for tea and a walk round before coming up to the house. However, the farmer and his wife had been hospitable and friendly and the kids seemed to be thoroughly at home.
Pete insisted on lugging their suitcase as they trudged up the drive to the big house, puffing and panting behind Monica, who held Stratton’s hand and skipped. ‘It’s just round this corner,’ she said, when they reached a curve in the road. ‘You’ll see it in a minute.’
As they rounded the bend Jenny stopped suddenly, causing Pete to bump into her and drop the suitcase. ‘Gracious!’
It was far larger and grander than any house Stratton had ever seen - unless you counted paying thruppence for touring some great mansion full of paintings and taxidermy - and he felt lost for words. ‘Your face, Dad!’ said Monica. ‘Mrs Chetwynd doesn’t live in all of it. Lots of the rooms are closed up.’
‘Closed up,’ repeated Jenny, faintly. ‘I should think they would be.’
Stratton relieved Pete - who was now very pink in the face - of the suitcase, and took Jenny’s arm. ‘Try not to say hello to any suits of armour by mistake.’
‘Ooh, creepy,’ said Jenny. ‘Mrs Chetwynd hasn’t got any of those, has she? I always think they’re going to start walking around by themselves.’
‘Da-ad,’ said Monica. ‘There aren’t any suits of armour.’
‘Gone to the Home Guard, have they?’ asked Stratton. ‘I’m sure your Uncle Reg could do with one. Might even keep him quiet for five minutes.’
This made Pete and Monica giggle. Jenny pursed her lips at Stratton and shook her head, then asked, ‘Hadn’t we better go round to the kitchen? We don’t want to disturb anyone.’
Before Stratton could reply to this, Monica, looking very grown up and sensible, said, ‘It’s all right, Mum. We’re allowed to use the front door.’
Jenny stared at the enormous portico. ‘But . . .’
‘Honestly,’ said Monica, gently. ‘It’s fine. We thought like that at first, going round the back and everything, but Mrs Chetwynd’s very nice. Isn’t she, Pete?’
Pete nodded. ‘Everyone’s nice, except Mrs Lavvy-brick.’
‘Mrs Who?’ asked Jenny.
Both children began giggling, Pete with exaggerated hilarity. ‘Mrs Laverick, Mum,’ said Monica. ‘She’s the daily woman.’
‘I hope you don’t call her that.’
‘Mrs Lavvy-brick,’ repeated Pete.
‘Stop it!’ hissed Jenny.
‘Mis-us Lav-vy-brick!’
‘Pete! They’ll hear you. Honestly, I thought we’d taught you better man—’
She froze as the front door opened and there, standing on the threshold, clad in a tweed suit, was a thin woman with a long, gentle face, like a friendly old horse. ‘Mrs Stratton!’ she said.
Stratton, who was conscious that Pete and Monica were still sniggering behind their hands, watched as Jenny, who was pink with embarrassment, stepped forward to greet her. ‘How do you do, Mrs Chetwynd? It’s so kind of you to invite us.’
‘Not at all. I know how much the children miss you. Mr Stratton, how do you do?’
Following her down the hall to a small and surprisingly cosy sitting room - ‘Always use this, the other’s much too big to be comfortable,’ - Stratton thought Mrs Chetwynd had a sort of raw-boned appearance, all knuckles and wrists and ankles. There was no bosom at all, and even the hair seemed angular, made so by a number of pins which stuck out from the small, hard knot at the base of her neck.
They had more tea, brought in by the housekeeper, which embarrassed Jenny all over again, and then a chat, and Mrs Chetwynd proved to be every bit as nice as her letters, and the children’s, had suggested. Pete and Monica took them on a guided tour of the house, and then the garden, where they looked round the ruins of the Norman keep and were introduced to the three dogs. They had a very good dinner - Stratton couldn’t remember the last meal he’d had where there was no talk of shortages - and after brandy, and even a cigar (which he hadn’t much wanted but Mrs Chetwynd insisted that she missed the smell), they went up to bed.
They had great fun examining the room, Jenny exclaiming in awed whispers over the half-tester bed, the good furniture and the vases (‘Don’t touch, Ted, you might break something’), and later, they’d lain with their arms round each other, repeating the things Pete and Monica had told them.
‘What about Mrs Lavvy-brick?’
‘Oh, Ted, that was awful.’
‘You turned bright red.’
‘I didn’t, did I?’
‘Scarlet.’
Jenny gave him a little shove. ‘Oh, stop it.’
‘All right.’ Stratton took hold of her hand and started to nibble her fingers.
‘Ted, we can’t. Not here.’
‘Why not? They do it too, you know.’
‘Ted!’
‘Well, they do. Upper class people don’t lay eggs, you know.’ Jenny laughed so much that she had to stuff a corner of the pillow into her mouth.
Lying awake afterwards, Stratton wondered if it might not be worth investing in a few chickens. He decided to discuss it with Jenny when they got home. With winter coming on, she might not be too keen to surrender her egg coupons in exchange for meal, but perhaps in the spring . . . If we’re still here, he thought, grimly. He returned, then, to the subject that had been bothering him all week: what to do about Mabel Morgan’s film. Jenny, who’d been far too excited about seeing the children, hadn’t pressed him for any more details, and neither had Donald. Which was just as well, because he couldn’t tell either of them anything. Just thinking about the reaction he’d get from DCI Machin, and from Lamb, (who must be due back some time soon), when he told them about Sir Neville Apse and his male dancing partner, was quite hair-raising enough.
THIRTY-FOUR
Diana wondered afterwards how she’d managed to get through the day - which had included an interminable and badly-cooked lunch with several ladies from the Right Club - without giving anything away. Fortunately, she had plenty to do sorting out paperwork, which Apse, like F-J, seemed to think would somehow manage itself if left long enough in the in-tray. She excused herself several times to go and sit in the tiny bathroom where, heart thumping and brain pounding with a mixture of jubilation and terror, she held on to the rim of the basin with white-knuckled hands and stared at her face in the mirror, feeling that the taut countenance that glared back could not really belong to her at all. ‘This is me,’ she whispered to it. ‘This is now. Pull yourself together.’
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