The One I Was (32 page)

‘You’re here.’ She kissed his cheek and stood back to look at him. He found himself opening and closing his mouth like a fool as he looked at her. ‘Come in, Benny.’

The hall was the same, though in need of a coat of paint.

‘I spend most of my time in here these days.’ She took him to a room at the back which she’d turned into a kitchen. ‘With just me and Smithy, there’s no point having the kitchen down in the basement. And I eat in here, too.’ There was a wooden table and a small sofa in the corner on which a tortoiseshell cat slept.

Smithy? He must have looked blank. She laughed.

‘Alice Smith. She became known as Smithy in the munitions factory.’

‘She’s still here?’

‘I couldn’t manage without her. She does pretty well everything in the house, with a daily coming in twice a week.’ She went to the stove, which looked new, and placed the kettle on the hob. ‘She’s out this afternoon. It’s been very cosy, just the two of us here
together.’ She gave a laugh. Benny wasn’t sure he liked the idea of Harriet being here alone with Alice Smith, with her sandy eyelashes and those all-seeing green eyes.

‘Things might change, though.’

‘Oh?’ he said.

‘I have to think hard about my future.’

Selling the house, perhaps.

‘You want to stay here?’ he ventured, putting the peacock feather on the kitchen table.

‘I wouldn’t be anywhere else.’ There was a flash of real passion in her eyes. It took him by surprise. ‘The taxes are becoming crippling. And they’ll probably get worse, everyone says. But I couldn’t bear to sell Fairfleet. It’s been in my family for over a hundred years, Benny.’

Her family, not Lord Dorner’s? He’d just assumed the house had been her husband’s. But Fairfleet was Harriet’s.

She waved him into a chair by the stove. On the kitchen table sat the book she was reading, something about racehorses, and her writing case. A Player’s cigarette was stubbed out in an ashtray. She noticed the feather for the first time. ‘How lovely. It’ll remind us of past glories. Poor Vulcan is our last peacock and I don’t think he’ll be around for much longer.’

‘What are your plans now?’ They might have been distant cousins, making small-talk.

‘I’m hoping to get a bit of riding in. There’s a trainer in the next village. It’s nearly as good as flying.’

‘You must miss the planes.’ She seemed slightly diminished, as though being out of her element: pure, bright light, had deprived her of energy.

‘I had a wonderful time in America. I managed nearly two years out in Arizona. Perfect flying conditions there. Then there were bits and pieces out on the West Coast. Until Sidney died.’

She filled the pot, her hand shaking.

‘People thought he married me because I had the house. And I was supposed to be a looker.’

She still was. He didn’t say this, because she must surely know.

‘In fact, it was the other way round. I set my cap at him.’ She gave an amused smile at the surprise on his face. ‘I knew it would be hard for me to keep Fairfleet by myself. My parents didn’t leave me much capital. And Sidney always loved the place. He was a generous man.’

But then he’d died just as the post-war financial squeeze had worsened.

‘Anything to keep the house.’ She nodded over her teacup. ‘I know it doesn’t sound very admirable, Benny. But you can love a man out of pure gratitude that he’s enabled you to keep your house.’

His face must have shown what he thought about that.

‘Would it be more moral to love someone just because he was young and handsome and clever?’ She looked directly at him. He blushed. ‘Fairfleet has been in my family for generations.’

‘I know.’ And he did, now. She’d never love him. He’d never be rich enough to keep Fairfleet going for her. He felt the atoms in the air between them glue themselves into an invisible barrier.

She put down the teacup. ‘Never can remember where we keep the biscuits. Smithy keeps tidying them away.’

Harriet opened a drawer and found what she was looking for. ‘She can’t get used to these reduced circumstances.’ She opened a biscuit tin and took out a packet of digestives.

‘Did Alice, Smithy, go to America with you and Lord Dorner?’

‘She stayed in the house, to look after things here. It’s been tough on her, having very little help. She cleans and dusts and polishes all day long. But she’s always been dotty about the place.’

And about you, he thought. Harriet, Smithy and Fairfleet were a perfect little triad.

They sat silently. The cat stretched and yawned. The afternoon grew greyer. Benny felt his hopes fade. Perhaps she did, too. Her fingers reached towards his over the pile of books and paper on the table. ‘I’ve been rattling away about myself all this time. Very rude. Tell me about the newspaper. And the rest. University. National Service. I’ve got them all in the wrong order.’

He didn’t want to talk about the months polishing boots and trying to keep himself to himself while mastering drills. What possible connection was there between that world of unpleasant food, unpleasant smells and tedious activity and the woman sitting here with him? She belonged to light and air, not to puddle-covered parade grounds and grim barracks where you could never be alone.

He talked instead of college life: tutorials, High Table, with candles and Latin grace, balls he’d been to; rising very early some mornings to go and look at the college gardens while the dew still covered the grass and flowers. ‘But the topiary doesn’t compare with … here,’ he said. He’d been about to say, with
ours
, but stopped himself in time. Fairfleet wasn’t his home.

‘And you saw a bit of Frederick Dawes?’ she asked.

‘Tea on Sundays and sometimes dinner during the week. And of course the vacations.’ Summer holidays spent with Dr Dawes and his sister, walking on the beach in
Sussex, chatting about detective novels and nuclear weapons and what had happened to India at partition. And now the newspaper: finding lodgings in Kingston, near the river: visiting Hampton Court maze and Richmond Park, taking the train up to Waterloo and walking across the Thames to the West End to see a show or play.

‘Work-wise I don’t do anything very exciting at the moment.’ His throat felt dry. ‘Stories about lost dogs. In New Malden. Reports from council meetings.’

‘It’s just the start.’ She broke a biscuit in two and ate a half.

‘Sometimes it’s fun. We sit in the pub in Kingston marketplace and pick up some good stories over a pint.’

He didn’t want her to start feeling sorry for him.

‘Tell me, Benny, do you feel better now about things? You once said you were feeling bad about having survived when so many Jews hadn’t.’

‘I still feel bad.’ A useless way of trying to describe his emotions.

‘But if you’d stayed in Germany and terrible things had happened to you it wouldn’t have saved anyone else, would it?’

‘Yes.’

She frowned. ‘You mean another child would have come on the transport in your place?’

‘Yes.’

‘But why should they have been more deserving than you?’

He could tell her now. He could tell her he was a fraud, a deceiver. Watch the gentle expression on her face turn to disgust and anger. This afternoon was all going wrong; he hadn’t meant to think about all this. He should have taken command of the situation.

He couldn’t do it. He gave a half-shrug. It must have looked desperate.

‘Oh, Benny.’ Her hand reached for his. The fingers were firm; you could imagine them controlling a Spitfire or a thoroughbred.

‘Stop judging yourself so harshly. I know you’re going to do well. I was so pleased when you said you were coming here today.’

He must have made a kind of gasp because the stroking fingers became more intense in their movement. He put his other hand on top of hers so that he held it in a kind of sandwich. ‘Why?’ he asked.

She was smiling at him now, but her smile was uncertain. ‘Oh, I’m not really sure. I liked all the others, they were good boys. But you, you were different. You had an intensity about you, a look in your eyes as though you wanted to gobble up every experience and make part of you.’

‘It sounds unappealing.’

‘Rather the opposite, in fact.’

Now he had nothing to lose. ‘I didn’t feel so much younger than you that last time.’

She looked down at their entwined hands. ‘Oh God, I think we were mad. At least I was.’

He held her hand tighter.

‘If we’ve finished tea, why don’t you sit there?’ She nodded at the small sofa. ‘I’ll bring down your books for you to decide whether you want me to store them for you.’

‘I’ll get them. I don’t want you fetching and carrying for me.’

‘It’s no trouble.’

She probably wanted to be away from him. She was embarrassed.

He didn’t want to let go of her hand, but she twisted her fingers free. As he approached the sofa the cat jumped down.

Harriet laughed. ‘She’s not used to male company. God knows how she’s going to cope when …’ She blushed again. ‘We’ve scared her off, anyway.’

We haven’t done anything yet, he wanted to say. The afternoon was slipping away and so was Harriet. He could sense it. He must have misread the meaning of the telegram. It had just been about books after all. Desperation made him brave.

‘I could walk out of this room right now,’ he said. ‘You could telephone for a taxi for me. And you and I can write Christmas cards to one another every year. Perhaps sometimes you could invite me down for Sunday lunch. Just as you would any of the others. And when I get married you can buy my fiancée and me a silver tea pot.’

‘That’s the way it should be, Benny.’

‘But you remember how it was last time. That night.’

‘August 1945. I remember. Just before the Japanese surrendered.’ Her legs opened slightly so that one of them touched his. She wore a wool skirt. He put his fingers on it lightly. It was soft to the touch. She must have bought it in America. Nobody had wool like that over here.

‘Oh God,’ she said softly. ‘I’ve been so sensible all my adult life apart from those two occasions with you.’

‘You weren’t that sensible when you chose to be thousands of feet up, dodging the Luftwaffe.’

‘Perhaps not then.’ She laughed. ‘But elsewhere. I’ve always done what was best for this place. Until now.’

He didn’t dare look at her or say anything in reply, concentrating on his hand as it moved very slowly up and down the skirt. There was a small bump. Must be the suspender. He moved the hand to her abdomen, more rounded than he remembered, more womanly, and up to her breasts, which also seemed more generous than they had last time when she’d lain
down on his bed. American food had filled her out. He’d touched her like this in his wildest, most guilty dreams.

When she still said nothing he let himself look up. Her face was very still, eyes half closed. He moved his mouth towards hers. When he’d done this with other girls there’d been a giggle, a whispered encouragement or protest. Her silence was exciting. He put a hand on her shoulder, onto her soft silky jumper. Still she didn’t say anything. From its new location by the stove the cat began to purr like a small engine. The shoulder under Benny’s hand rose and fell in silent mirth.

‘I think she’s saying she approves.’ She lay back on the sofa, shook off her shoes and swivelled her legs up. ‘That’s better.’

Nervousness fled. Her eyes widened as he kissed her more hungrily. He reminded himself to take his time. He’d waited for this for all these years, no point in rushing. It felt better than he had ever imagined, years of anticipation and longing had only hinted at what it would be like with Harriet.

He kicked off his own shoes. One of them must have hit the side of the stove. There was a clatter. The cat gave a squawk of indignation. ‘Oh dear,’ Harriet broke off to laugh. ‘Poor puss.’ She pulled Benny back to her. For a minute there was nothing that needed saying. She tasted and felt just as he’d dreamed she would. No better. He unbuttoned her shirt, felt her hands moving underneath his own, stroking and brushing his skin, moving downward, unbuttoning him. The cat gave another more muted squawk, obviously still put out.

Someone was opening the door. ‘If that ginger from the village’s got in here again to bother my Priscilla, I’ll wring its neck,’ a voice said.

Alice Smith. The years had added lines around her eyes. She stared at them. They hadn’t reached the stage where items of clothing had been completely removed. But there
could be no doubt as to what had been happening on the sofa. Still Alice Smith stared at them, face blank.

‘I didn’t like the film much. Left before it finished.’ She blinked, noticing the peacock feather. ‘This shouldn’t be inside!’ She picked it up, cheeks pale. Harriet made an impatient sound.

‘I’ll make a start on that upstairs bathroom then.’ Smithy nodded at Harriet, turned and left, closing the door behind her very quietly.

‘Oh God.’ Harriet pushed him away and reached for her shoes. ‘I’d better go after her.’

‘Leave her.’ He held on to her. ‘She’s just embarrassed. But you’re an adult, a free woman.’

‘No.’

‘She can’t dictate how you behave.’ Still he clung to her. ‘Harriet, we’re always interrupted, every time. Don’t let it happen now.’

‘You don’t understand.’ Harriet rose, tucking her shirt into the wool skirt, brushing a hair from her face. ‘It’s complicated.’

‘How?’

She stood at the table, back to him. ‘There’s Peter to consider.’

‘Peter?’

‘My … Well, the man I might be getting engaged to.’

‘You’re marrying again?’ He was conscious of his mouth opening and closing. Of course. It had to be that. It had to be too good to be happening to him.

‘We met in America, but he’s actually English.’

‘But …’ But they’d agreed that she would summon Benny when the time was right for them to be together. She’d sent that telegram. Why?

An older, wiser, more sceptical part of him answered his own question. She’d just sent a telegram about books. That was all. The rest had only existed in his mind.

‘When will you marry?’

‘I haven’t actually said yes yet. But I probably will.’ She turned now. Her face was stony. ‘It’s the house, Benny. It’s the only way I can keep Fairfleet.’