The FitzOsbornes in Exile (30 page)

17th July 1939

We used to have a little brass clock at Montmaray, on a shelf near the kitchen sink, and for many years it was our only reliable timepiece. One day, the goat barged into the kitchen and knocked the clock into the washing-up water, but until then, it worked beautifully. It was my job as a child to wind its key precisely seventeen times every Sunday evening—a number that had been calculated to keep the clock ticking for one week, thus far and no further. As I neared that magic number, the clock springs would squeak in protest, the cogs would groan, and it seemed that at any moment, the entire thing would fly apart, spraying the walls and ceiling with its sharp metal innards. That didn’t ever happen, but I always held my breath as I turned the key. Perhaps one day I’d lose count, perhaps one day I’d apply a fraction too much tension …

That’s how I feel now. The world has been wound up as far as it can go. The slightest pressure in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and everything will explode. We went to the Independence Day garden party at the American Embassy, and even the Kennedys were having difficulties maintaining their cheerful American outlook on life. Kick, uncharacteristically somber, told me that Billy Hartington had joined the Coldstream Guards, and Veronica had a long, gloomy discussion with Jack, who’s been touring the Continent for the past few months.

“He says Britain’s started its rearmament program far too late, that the Germans have twice as many aeroplanes and are churning out new ones twice as fast as Britain can. And do you know what
else
he said? That when it comes to winning wars, a totalitarian regime like Nazi Germany will always have the edge over a democracy! Because a dictator can force every citizen into the army or the factories, ban trade unions, outlaw strikes, take over the press, and flood the country with war propaganda.”

“And what did you say?”

“I told him I’d rather die in a democracy than live under a dictator. And I reminded him about the League of Nations! I still have faith in diplomacy, in rational, intelligent negotiation, if it’s backed by a strong commitment to sanctions and a powerful international defense force.”

“Then what did he say?”

“He asked me out to dinner at the Ritz.”

She turned him down, of course. Aunt Charlotte would’ve thrown a fit if she’d ever found out.

Well,
I
don’t want a war, no one does, but it’s hard to advocate for peace when people like Oswald Mosley have commandeered that side of the debate. He held a “Peace Rally” last night at Earls Court, and twenty thousand people turned up to listen to him rant about how “a million Britons shall never die in your Jews’ quarrel.” I’ve just finished reading the newspaper reports about it. Drumrolls, fanfares, waving banners, black uniforms, roving searchlights, howling spectators flinging up their arms in the Fascist salute—for a man who claims to love peace, Mosley certainly does a good job of using every military gesture and jingoistic cliché in the book (assuming the book was written by Hitler).

I wish I had Veronica’s firm faith in the power of reasoned, diplomatic discussion to solve international conflict, but I’m afraid I am full of doubts and worries. I went over to Julia’s yesterday, and she and her friend Daphne were trying to decide what to do if war does break out. Daphne favored enrolling in the Wrens, the Women’s Royal Naval Service, because they have the smartest uniforms, although she conceded that nurses have a better chance of meeting men.

“Nursing!” said Julia. “Ugh, all those bedpans and dressings.”

And blood
, I thought with a shudder. I could never be a nurse.

“No, I think I’d rather drive an ambulance or chauffeur generals around or something like that,” Julia went on.

“Girls used to work in factories in the last war, didn’t they?” mused Daphne. “Oh, but those ghastly overalls …”

Anthony has joined the Auxiliary Air Force. Rupert failed the medical for the army—he has a heart murmur, from being ill as a child—but his uncle is trying to find him a position somewhere. David, Julia’s eldest brother, is already a lieutenant in the Royal Wiltshire Yeomanry. They haven’t heard from Charlie, Julia’s other brother, in months, but they think he’s still in Canada, and that’s part of the British Empire, so
he’d
be drawn into a European war, too. (Poor Lady Astley, imagine how she must be feeling right now! Aunt Charlotte hasn’t much to complain about, in comparison.) Even Phoebe’s brother has swapped his Blackshirt breeches for khaki and is at an army training camp on the coast.

Oh, the afternoon post has arrived. Just a moment …

A leaflet from the ARP telling us how to put out a fire and explaining what all the different air-raid signals mean. Also, yet another letter from the League of Nations—we get one every other day now. It turns out we
were
voted in as a member of the League in 1920, even if no one paid much attention at the time, and they seem determined to make up for their two decades of neglect by bombarding us with paperwork. This latest invites our head of state to address the Council of the League of Nations, and it might even be quite soon if they hold an extraordinary meeting of the Council before the usual September one due to the current political situation. As the King of Montmaray is in Leicestershire doing an RAF-approved aerobatics course and the Lord Chancellor of Montmaray is very busy learning to fly in London, I’m not quite sure how we’re going to manage this, particularly as Aunt Charlotte is about to drag Veronica and me back to Milford. I think our aunt has finally given up on this year’s Season—most of the eligible young bachelors have been called up, anyway, and Toby is occupying all her energies at the moment. She is absolutely obsessed with him providing a family heir, sooner rather than later. I think she’s afraid there’ll be a war, and we’ll all be killed, and the FitzOsborne name will die out. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if the next time Toby gets leave, she locks him in a bedroom with one of his more determined admirers and a bottle of champagne, in the hope that it’ll force him into a hasty engagement …

21st August 1939

So, the League of Nations confirmed that they would be holding an extraordinary meeting this month, at which we would have an opportunity to convince the world to help us. But first, we had to get around the formidable obstacle of Aunt Charlotte and her obsession with Toby’s marriage prospects.

“We shall have a house party, Saturday to Monday,” she announced. “Whom shall I invite?”

Toby politely explained that he would be using his week’s leave to travel to Geneva with Simon, Veronica, and me, in order to address the Council of the League of Nations.

“Nonsense!” said Aunt Charlotte. “Write and tell this League that it’s not a convenient time, that you have a prior engagement. Besides, you know what I think of all this fuss you children have been making about Montmaray—it’s quite futile, anyone can see that. Now, Lady Helena—”

“The League’s an international organization with an unalterable schedule,” Toby interrupted. “And I’m not interested in Lady Helena. I don’t want to spend Saturday to Monday with her, and I’m certainly not going to marry her.”

“Well, what about her sister?” said Aunt Charlotte. “Not officially out yet, but she’s seventeen. Or there’s Sir Nigel’s daughter, you met her at the Hunt Ball, that tall, thin girl. Not very graceful on the dance floor, I’ll admit, but one can’t be too fussy. Her father has a good-sized place in Scotland, and her grandfather’s a viscount. And then there’s Lady Sarah—”

“Aunt Charlotte,” Toby said, speaking very slowly and clearly. “Please listen to me. I am not interested in any of these girls.”

His words finally sank in. “What?
None
of them?”

“None of them.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “Tobias, these girls are the
cream
of English Society! Do you have any idea how much effort I have put into
finding
them, and investigating their
backgrounds
, and—”

“Yes, and it’s very kind of you to take all that trouble, but I’m not interested in them.”

“Well!” she cried, sitting down very abruptly. “If
these
girls don’t meet your exacting criteria, then may I ask who
does
? Is there anyone you’ve ever
met
whom you might consider marrying?”

Toby thought for a moment. “Yes,” he said. “Julia.”

“Julia?” shrieked our aunt. “Julia
Whittingham
? But she’s already
married
! And the
stories
I’ve been hearing about her lately, she’s
completely
unsuitable—”

“I like her,” said Toby firmly. “And as I can’t marry her, I shan’t marry at all.”

It wasn’t the best moment for him to take a stand on the issue, although I suppose it had to happen eventually. If only Simon had been there to calm things down! But he was off organizing train tickets and hotel bookings. So Veronica and I spoke up in support of Toby, and things rapidly progressed from bad to worse, ending with Aunt Charlotte informing us that she was cutting off all our allowances
immediately
.

“Well, it’s a good thing I withdrew enough funds for our trip when I was in London,” said Simon when he got back and found out what had happened. “And I’ve bought our train tickets.”

“Never mind about that!” said Veronica. “How are we supposed to
catch
the train when we’re locked up here?” Because Aunt Charlotte had confiscated the car keys and instructed the staff that we weren’t to leave Milford Park under any circumstances. Even our post was to be scrutinized. Of course, she couldn’t keep this up indefinitely, but it certainly threw our travel plans into chaos. We had a midnight meeting in my room to discuss it.

“I could ask Parker if he’d drive us up to London on Sunday night,” said Toby. “But I don’t want him to lose his job.”

“If
only
Aunt Charlotte would let me keep pigeons,” said Henry, sitting cross-legged on the end of my bed. “We could have sent a pigeon to Rupert—”

“Rupert!” said Toby. “That’s it! We’ll telephone him, ask him to drive us to the station!”

“How?” I asked. “Barnes has the key to the telephone room.”

“Something will come up,” said Toby confidently.

Unfortunately, it didn’t. Ignoring all of Toby’s protests, Aunt Charlotte sent an urgent invitation to Lady Helena, having correctly judged her the girl most likely to persist in the face of Toby’s indifference, or even actual dislike. (Note to self: chasing after a boy when the boy has turned one down only makes one look desperate and unattractive.) Lady Helena arrived on Saturday morning with enough clothes for a fortnight’s visit, but the only welcoming face was Aunt Charlotte’s. Toby was ordered to take Lady Helena riding, to play a game of tennis with her, and to walk her round the lake to the folly, where the footmen had set up a picnic tea for two.

Meanwhile, Aunt Charlotte kept Simon occupied with a string of pointless administrative chores. She’d always treated him more as a valued servant than a family member, but it suddenly seemed to occur to her that his loyalties might lie with
us
rather than with her. In any case, she didn’t trust him enough to allow him to use the telephone.

Veronica hid herself away in Phoebe’s attic room, working on Toby’s League of Nations speech, with intermittent help from me. Veronica was, of course, very good on the facts, but I convinced her that the speech needed something extra.

“We can’t just lecture the Council,” I said. “We need to make them
feel
for us. We have to tell them such a riveting, heartrending story that they won’t be able to
stop
themselves from coming to our aid! Put in about all the young Montmaravian men dying in the war, and how devastated your father was.”

Veronica gave me a dubious look but took up her pen again. Then I ran back downstairs, where I’d been loitering outside the telephone room, hoping one of the servants would leave it unlocked for a few minutes. Henry had already made several fruitless attempts to pick the lock with a hairpin.

“It always works in detective novels!” she said crossly. “There must be something wrong with your hairpins, Sophie!”

Things were getting really desperate by Sunday afternoon. Toby was due to address the Council meeting in Geneva on Tuesday, and our train left London on Monday morning. But, at last, an opportunity arrived, just as we’d sat down to tea. A maid came in with a telephone enquiry from the Earl of Dorset, about some horse he wanted to buy from Aunt Charlotte. While she was giving the maid her reply, Toby kicked me under the table, turned to Lady Helena, and started a very loud conversation about this year’s Royal Ascot race meetings. As the French had won both the Windsor Castle Stakes and the Queen Alexandra Stakes, beating three of Aunt Charlotte’s horses, the topic was explosive enough for me to sneak out of the room unnoticed. I reached the telephone room just as the maid left and found, thank heavens, that the door was still ajar. There was an agonizing wait while I was connected to Astley Manor, and then, finally, I heard Rupert’s voice.

“Sophie!” he said. “How are you?”

“Fine, thank you,” I whispered. “No—wait, not really. Look, I don’t have much time, but can I ask you the most enormous favor? We all need to get to London tomorrow, and Aunt Charlotte’s got us imprisoned here at Milford, and she’s taken away our allowances and the car keys and—”

“Oh Lord, what’s Toby done now?” said Rupert. “No, forget I asked that. What time?”

“We need to be at Victoria Station by eleven, but we’ll probably have to leave here quite early, before anyone’s awake, and you mustn’t tell anyone—”

“Meet you at five? On the side road outside Milford Park, near the lane that leads to the stables? I may not be able to get hold of my mother’s car, but there’s the farm van—”

“Oh, Rupert!” I said. “Perfect! You’re absolutely
wonderful
. You’ve no idea how much I …”

My voice died away as I realized that the light filtering through the frosted glass door had suddenly become much dimmer. I whirled around. Barnes was standing in the doorway, a set of keys dangling from her fingers. I noted with alarm that her eyebrows had climbed so far up her forehead that they’d disappeared under her fringe. This, Phoebe had once told me, was a Very Bad Sign.

“Sophie?” said Rupert. “Are you all right?”

“Er … lovely talking with you, Rupert! Have to go now. Bye!” I hurriedly replaced the receiver.

“Now, now, Your Highness,” said Barnes, shaking her head. “The Princess Royal gave
clear
instructions about use of the telephone.”

“Well, yes,” I said. “But—”

“But young love isn’t bound by rules,” finished Barnes dryly.

“Er,” I said. “No …”

I tried desperately to think of some plausible excuse. But wait. Were her eyebrows lowering a fraction? To my amazed relief, I saw that they
were
.

“Oh, I was young, too, once,” Barnes said. “And in love.” She gazed past me. “A long time ago …”

I looked over my shoulder, but all I could see was a framed etching of Montmaray House, circa 1785, and I didn’t think Barnes was
quite
that old. She cleared her throat.

“Well, I won’t tell your aunt, not this time,” she said more briskly. “But if this young gentleman has honorable intentions, he’ll approach your aunt for formal permission to court you.”

“Er … thank you. I mean, yes, he will. Right.”

She lowered her voice. “I could even have a quiet word about it to the Princess Royal.
If
you and your suitor manage to conduct yourselves with restraint and dignity from now on.”

What on earth had I got myself into now? But at least Barnes hadn’t heard any of the travel arrangements. And the story did provide the others with some much-needed amusement, although I warned them that if they dared breathe a word of it to Rupert, my retaliation would be Swift and Painful.

We had a frantic packing session as soon as everyone else had gone to bed, then let ourselves out of the house before dawn this morning, as quietly as we could. All was dark, except for a couple of quick flashes of Morse code from Henry’s room—hopefully the “all clear” signal, although none of us could actually understand Morse. Henry had been deeply disappointed about having to remain at Milford but said she understood.

“I’m like the spy who’s left behind enemy lines once the army retreats,” she said.

“The most difficult and dangerous job one can have,” said Toby solemnly, giving her the letter for Aunt Charlotte. This explained that we would only be away for a few days and would send a telegram from our Swiss hotel as soon as we arrived. Henry was to put off handing over the letter for as long as possible, at least till after luncheon. We weren’t quite sure how much influence our aunt had over police officers or railway guards, but we figured we ought to be safe once we were at sea.

We found Rupert exactly where he’d said he’d be, sitting behind the wheel of a nondescript Ford van. He had a thermos of coffee and a gingham-lined basket beside him on the seat.

“Well?” he said. “Should I be wearing a wig and fake mustache? Are you on the run from the law?”

“Sophie can explain,” Toby said, scrambling into the back of the van with Simon and Veronica. “Oh good, are those cinnamon rolls in that basket?”

I sat up front with Rupert and explained. This took a while. Then we discussed poetry, getting through quite a lot of Auden and Eliot and Spender, because the trip took hours. It’s only a hundred miles from Milford to London, but the van made unhappy noises whenever we went up a hill, or down a hill, or round a sharp corner. Rupert said the poor thing wasn’t accustomed to long journeys. We had two flat tires within half an hour, then had to stop to buy more petrol. We made it to Victoria Station with about fifteen minutes to spare.

“Good luck,” said Rupert after we’d surrendered our valises to the uniformed porters. “Please
try
to stay out of trouble, won’t you? And send me a postcard from Geneva, our butler collects stamps.” Then we rushed off to board the Golden Arrow, which was huffing smoke impatiently at the faraway glass roof of the station.

“Well,
this
is more like it,” said Toby, looking round at all the mahogany and shiny brass and plush velvet that made up our first-class compartment. “Much nicer than sitting on a bench in the back of a Ford van. Of course, it’s all right for
some
, traveling up front with the chauffeur. I do hope, Sophie, that you and Rupert managed to conduct yourselves with restraint and—”

I gave Toby a warning look. He grinned, then yawned widely. “Oh!
So
tired. Is there enough time for a little sleep?”

“We’ll be at Dover in ninety-eight minutes,” said Simon, looking at his collection of timetables.

“And you need to practice your speech, Toby,” said Veronica, rummaging in her bag for her papers.

Meanwhile,
I
have used our journey to write down all of this. I’ve just caught my first glimpse of blue sea, though, so I’ll put my journal away for the moment …

Later, on the
Canterbury
ferry (just as opulent as the train but with more of a nautical theme). Toby says he feels seasick.

“I never know whether it’s better to stay belowdecks, so I don’t have to look at the waves sloshing around, or go up and get some fresh air,” he moans. “How much further?”

I can’t help quoting Lewis Carroll:

“What matters it, how far we go?” his scaly friend replied.

“There is another shore, you know, upon the other side.

The further off from England, the nearer is to France—”

“ ‘Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance,’ ” finishes Toby automatically. “Ugh,
snails
, that makes me feel even sicker. Soph, why did you remind me of
them
? They’re so slimy and—”

“You could practice your speech again,” suggests Veronica, holding out the sheaf of now-crumpled papers. “It’ll take your mind off how you’re feeling.”