The Granville Sisters (31 page)

‘This is different,’ Candida retorted. ‘I know there’s going to be a war, but don’t tell me it’s going to happen within the next three months. All I plan to do is take Marina to St Malo, which is just the other side of the Channel, for God’s sake. She’s been really ill with glandular fever and the doctor says she needs a change of air. I thought it would be fun if Louise came with us. They’re both fourteen now and they’ve always got on. They can keep each other company.’

Henry rubbed his hand across his head. His face was creased with anxiety. ‘To go abroad right now, and to Europe, of all places, is crazy. Why don’t you take Marina to Cornwall?’

‘The weather is too dicey in England. Even in July. We don’t want to be cooped up in a hotel, looking at a rainswept beach, Henry.’

‘What about Scotland, then? Stay with Juliet and Cameron? Or the Norfolk Broads?’

‘Henry,’ Candida groaned good-humouredly. ‘Why are you always such a stick-in-the-mud? We’ll be perfectly safe. If the worst comes to the worst,’ she added in her booming voice, ‘we can hop on the ferry and be back at Southampton in a few hours.’

‘It seems safe enough to me,’ Liza intervened. ‘It would be fun for Louise too.’

Henry sighed heavily. It would soon be August. The situation was very unsettled, with Hitler whipping up a patriotic fever amongst the Germans.

‘They’ll invade Poland, Norway and Denmark,’ Henry said. ‘France will be next. Then England. Hitler is unstoppable. It was just a matter of time.’

‘Rubbish!’ Candida scoffed. ‘Nothing’s going to happen that fast.’

‘Only for two weeks, then,’ Henry agreed reluctantly. ‘And come back at once, if there’s the faintest sign of trouble.’

‘We will, old boy.’ Candida smiled affectionately at him. Since the death of her husband, Henry had been very supportive, not only of her, but of Marina and Sebastian, but there were times when he drove her mad with his caution. ‘That’s settled then. We’ll be off next week,’ she said before he changed his mind.

‘Liza, I suppose you’d better tell Louise,’ Henry said wearily.

‘She’ll be so excited, Henry. I’d better get her some nice beach clothes. And a hat with a brim. She mustn’t get the sun on her face.’

On Sunday, Rosie and Charles, pushing Sophia and baby Jonathan in the big smart pram that had been hers, walked over to Hartley for lunch.

‘How he’s grown,’ remarked Lady Anne in delight, when she saw the new baby.

Rosie plonked Jonathan in her arms, and he looked up at her, gurgling and waving his tiny hands around.

‘He likes
you
, Ma,’ Candida observed tactlessly, and then, too late, saw Liza wince. ‘But then, I suppose,’ she continued, without missing a beat, ‘that you see him almost every day; and the rest of us only see him occasionally.’

Lady Anne gave her daughter the hint of a conspiratorial smile. They never talked about it, but they both felt Liza was only interested in children when they became social-climbing fodder.

‘That’s right, Candida,’ Lady Anne agreed. ‘I can hardly keep away from Speedwell Cottage, so I can see Rosie and her lovely babies. I’m probably the most awful bore,’ she added, knowing perfectly well she wasn’t.

‘You can come as often as you like, Granny,’ Rosie said warmly. She looked wan and strained. Two children had done nothing to bring back the bloom of her late teens. Her blue eyes held a dull look, and her skin was dingy. Painfully thin again, her summer dress hung loosely on her frame. She was only twenty-two now, but she felt like forty.

‘I’m going to Brittany, with Aunt Candida and Marina,’ Louise told Rosie, as Henry offered everyone a drink before lunch, and Amanda handed round a silver dish of home-made cheese straws.

‘Lucky you.’

Sophia clambered up on to Louise’s lap. ‘’Tory,’ she begged. ‘Tell ’tory.’

‘I’ll read you a story after lunch,’ Louise promised.

‘Louise has a way with children,’ Lady Anne observed, watching them together. At weekends she was always running down to Speedwell Cottage, offering to help Rosie with the babies.

‘I want lots of my own, one day,’ Louise said now, hugging her little niece tightly.

After lunch, Rosie walked in the garden with Henry, as she pushed Jonathan in his pram. ‘Daddy, I hate to ask, but …’ she drew in a long shuddering breath.

‘How much do you need?’ Henry asked in a low voice, so the others, sitting on the terrace having coffee, wouldn’t hear.

‘It’s worse than that.’

‘What do you mean? You’re not pregnant again?’

She shook her head, her blonde hair hanging limply to her shoulders. ‘Charles has lost his job at the gallery.’

‘Oh, God, I’m sorry, darling. What happened?’

‘They sacked him because he was fiddling his expenses. The usual thing; he didn’t tell me, stayed in London, gambling, and getting into debt, before I found out.’

‘Why doesn’t he sell his place in Cumbria? Of course, he’d have to find alternative accomodation for his mother and sister. Nevertheless …’

‘You and Mummy have never seen his so-called castle, have you? It’s a ruin, Daddy. His mother and Henrietta live in four rooms in the only part that’s still standing.’ Despair filled her eyes. ‘I don’t know
what
to do with him.’

Henry put his arm around her shoulders. ‘I’ll draft some money into your personal account at Child’s Bank, first thing in the morning. As long as Charles doesn’t know about it.’

‘Oh, Daddy, I’m so sorry.’ Rosie bit her lip, trying not to cry. She grabbed his arm as he turned to stroll back to the house. ‘Why did it all go so wrong, Daddy? Look at Juliet. Everything’s gone right for her, and yet she behaved so
badly
. And everything has gone so wrong for me. I feel trapped. Two children. No money. And a hopeless husband. I don’t even love him any more. I wonder now if I ever did …’

‘Life’s a lucky dip in some ways, sweetheart. You’ll find that eventually everything resolves itself, though.’

‘I don’t see how it can. I’m so
tired
, Daddy. All the time.’

‘Why don’t you leave Sophia and Jonathan with Nanny, and take yourself off for a few days? I’ll stand you a nice hotel, where you can enjoy a bit of luxury.’

It was more than she could bear; his kindness, his sympathetic understanding. Tears streamed down her face.

‘I – I don’t want to leave the children,’ she sobbed. ‘I can’t bear to be without them. They’re a-all I’ve got.’

There was no point, Henry reflected, in discussing with Liza what should be done about Rosie. As long as there was no public loss of face, as long as everyone pretended Rosie and Charles were happy, Liza was unlikely to want to get involved, because she didn’t like to think about unpleasant things.

Awestruck, Louise stood beside her cousin on the quayside, gazing up at the massive grey stone ramparts and battlements.

‘Is this where we’re staying, Aunt Candida?’

‘Good gracious, no,’ Candida boomed, standing, feet planted wide, surrounded by several suitcases. ‘This is St Malo. It’s a fortress town; we’ll go round it in a few days. Now, where’s a porter? We need to get this lot into a taxi.’

Louise continued to gaze around her, entranced. There was hustle and bustle everywhere. Market women in stiff white lace Breton caps were selling fruit and vegetables, while fishermen pushed their catch on long narrow wheelbarrows. The smell of fish, garlic and French tobacco hung in the atmosphere like a tangible veil. Shrill voices drowned each other out. Droves of tourists, tottering down the gangplank of the Isle of Thanet, found themselves instantly immersed in a bygone medieval age.

‘Where are we staying, Mummy?’ Marina asked, a touch of anxiety in her voice. Tall, very thin and sallow-looking, and still recovering from her illness, she was already exhausted by the crossing.

‘Ah! Here we are. Come along, girls. At the double,’ Candida exclaimed robustly, as a porter heaved their luggage on to his cart. ‘Jolly good show,’ she told him. He stank of cognac and sweat.
Un taxi-auto
was found, and he tossed their cases on to the roof rack.

Candida heaved herself in first, her wide girth in a pink dress reminding Louise of a squashy marshmallow. Marina and Louise squeezed in on either side of her.

She shouted at the driver as if she feared he was deaf.

‘
Rue des Ecoles, Paramé, s’il vous plait
.
L’Hotel Château Forêt
.’

Grinding the gears, he started the vehicle, which spluttered and shuddered its way out of the old fortified city, heading north.

Suddenly Marina gave a piercing scream. ‘Look!’ she gasped.

A train, with two carriages behind, came chugging along the middle of the road.

Louise’s heart flipped with fear. It was heading straight for them. At that moment, the taxi swerved to the right, the train trundled past them, and they continued along the tree-lined boulevard, as if nothing had happened.

‘Oh, my goodness …!’ gasped Marina, shaken. ‘I thought we were all going to be killed.’

‘Nonsense!’ retorted Candida. ‘Those trains run at regular intervals. They’re like our trams.’

‘Is it far?’ Louise asked. The sea was on their left now, and they could see a golden sandy beach.

‘I don’t think so. The reason I chose this hotel is because your grandfather recommended it to me, years ago. He said I should bring Marina and Sebastian here for a holiday. I gather the food is first-rate,’ Candida told them cheerfully.

Ten minutes later they arrived on the outskirts of Paramé, a small seaside town where rows of shuttered houses, sleepy-eyed in the warm afternoon sun, stood slumbering in the shade of tall lime trees. They saw a sign saying Rue des Ecoles, and at that moment the taxi rattled to a halt, causing them to lurch forward in their seats.

Candida looked puzzled. ‘We want L’Hotel Châ—’ she began and then she stopped. They could see the figure of an old man watering a dusty bed of geraniums in a neglected and derelict garden. Tired palm trees and a gravel path surrounded a patch of sun-bleached lawn. At the far end stood a villa with peeling paint and broken shutters. The place had the desolate air of having been abandoned several years ago.

‘Is this right?’ Louise asked, doubtfully.

‘
Je vais à Château Forêt
…’ Candida told the driver, as if it was all his fault.

The driver spat out of the window on to the road, and pointed to a broken sign hanging at an angle on the ten-foot-high, rusting wrought-iron gate.

‘Mummy, it
is
the Château Forêt,’ Marina said, appalled.

Candida swiftly recovered her poise. ‘Well, it’s certainly not what I expected, but you can never tell a book by its cover,’ she remarked undaunted. ‘Never mind. Come along, girls. Chop-chop! If we want a swim before dinner, we’d better get on with it.’

An aroma of linseed oil and onions hung over the vestibule, which was deserted. Candida, spying a brass bell on the desk, gave it a hearty thump with her fist.

Marina looked pained. Louise got a fit of the giggles. This was
much
more fun than the occasional holiday she’d had with her parents, where they checked into very smart hotels with people bowing and scraping around them.

At that moment, a short, rotund figure, encased in shining black cloth, emerged from the nether regions. She had grey hair and her only jewellery was a wide gold wedding ring which dug into her plump fingers.

Candida stared at her, and the elderly woman stared back.

‘I know your face …’ Candida said uncertainly. ‘We’ve met before, haven’t we?’

The woman smiled. ‘Yes, we have met, Madame.’ Her English was fluent. ‘You were with your father, Madame, walking down Pall Mall, in London. I used to know your father in the old days, and he very kindly invited me to join you for luncheon. Do you remember? We went to Wheeler’s.’

For a moment Candida was taken aback by this torrent of information. ‘Goodness, you
do
have a good memory! It must have been …’

‘It was fifteen years ago,
exactement
, Madame.’

‘Was it really?’ Then Candida remembered. They’d met this woman in the street and she’d been so annoyed at her father inviting her to join them, when she’d been looking forward to having him to herself for a couple of hours. They’d been forced to keep the conversation general, of course, and then he’d had to rush back to Hartley, so they’d never had their lunch
à deux
, because he’d died not long afterwards.

‘Well, I never …! So this is
your
hotel?’ Candida said, forcing the remembered resentment to the back of her mind. ‘Forgive me, but can you tell me your name?’

The rosy-faced woman smiled. How typically English Candida was; so like her late father. ‘I don’t think I told you my name in the first place,’ she said merrily. ‘I’m Margaux St Jean Brevelay.’

‘I suppose you met my father during the Great War; were you in England then?’

There was a fractional pause before Margaux replied. ‘A little before the war,’ she said quietly. ‘Now, if you would like to register, Madame?’ She placed a form on the counter, and Candida noticed her hands were as rough and worn as a servant, with broken nails and reddened skin.

Margaux saw her looking. ‘
Voilà, Madame
. I hope you will find the rooms to your satisfaction. You must ask for anything you need.’ She began counting on her fingers. ‘I have a staff of ten. There are two scullery maids, a chambermaid, an odd-job man who also tends the garden –’ she rolled her eyes despairingly towards the moth-eaten lawn – ‘and I am the other six!’ she chortled, her vast bosom heaving, her arms gesticulating wildly. ‘
Alors
! I hope your stay will be happy.’

‘Fancy her knowing Grandpa,’ Louise remarked, when they’d been shown to their clean if shabby rooms on the first floor, with balconies overlooking the beach and the sea. Candida had been given a room with a double bed, and in the next room there were twin beds for the girls.

Candida agreed. ‘That must be why he recommeded this place to me. It’s sad you and Marina never knew him.’

Louise nodded. ‘I almost feel as if I knew him, because Granny often talks about him, and she has lots of photographs of him in her sitting room.’