Sensible Life (37 page)

Then Felix said, “Shall I tell you one of the things which frightens me most?”

“What’s that?”

“I am shit-scared of the Gestapo arriving to arrest me when I am in my bath.”

Flora said, “That I can understand. Was that why you came to England, to have a carefree bath?”

He said, “One of the reasons.”

She said, “Do you tell your wife your fears?” She tried to imagine his wife; he had not described her except as silly and brave.

He said, “She would not understand. I dare not upset her, but I can talk to you.”

As one talks to strangers, she thought.

Towards dawn he fell asleep. She eased herself from the bed and went to her own room. She bathed her face, brushed her teeth and combed her hair. When she was dressed she went quietly about the house, finishing the task Felix had interrupted. When Felix was gone she would have a bath, check that all was well in the house and catch her train back to the country.

There was no time now to question Felix; it was too late. He would wake, have a bath, eat the breakfast she would provide and go, leaving her with the price of cabbage and swedes in occupied Holland. And the knowledge that he loved a brave and silly wife, that he loved or had loved Billy Willoughby, and that he was afraid. Quite a lot, really.

All the same she felt numb and resentful. He had shown no interest in her life; he had asked no questions, used her. “A convenient receptacle for his fear,” she said out loud, and went in search of Mr. Fellowes’ spare razor. He will tell the person he should have spent the night with that he has been with a tart, she thought with sour amusement. Then she thought, Come now, play fair, the poor man has no idea of the part he has played in your life. Trying to recapture the Felix she had known for so long she laughed out loud and went to knock on Mr. and Mrs. Fellowes’ bedroom door and wake him. “Time to get up. I have brought you a razor.”

At breakfast Felix was cheerful; he had had a wonderful bath, he said, and breakfast was delicious. What a treat to have real coffee. She must come and stay after the war, she would love Julia. On the doorstep he kissed her. “It’s done me so much good to talk. You must have thought it a lot of nonsense.”

“Take care of yourself,” she said.

He said, “Never fear, I will.” And, “It would be best not to tell anyone I was here.”

Flora said, “I won’t. My employers might not understand.”

But he was not interested in her employers, she thought as she watched him stride jauntily down the street, any more than he would be interested to know that he had used up all the hot water for his bath. At least I was able to supply a carefree bath, she thought, watching him reach the pillar-box at the corner and disappear. In spite of her numbness she felt sadness for Felix and sadness for herself, for the man she had shared Mr. and Mrs. Fellowes’ bed with did not seem to be anyone she had ever known.

As she stripped Mr. and Mrs. Fellowes’ bed she wished she had not seen Felix; he had robbed her of an agreeable, if faded, dream.

W
E MUST NOT BE
too long.” Mabs stood while Irena, on her knees, pinned the hem of her skirt. “We are meeting Hubert for lunch.”

“How is he?” Irena’s mouth was full of pins.

“Well, he sounds well.”

“I have not seen him since he was a boy.”

“You wouldn’t know him; he’s filled out, going grey. But his eyebrows are bushier than ever.”

“Is he married,” Irena asked, “yet?”

“Says he’ll get married when the war is over, meanwhile lots of girls. He’s sort of in the Navy, just as Cosmo is sort of in the R.A.F.,” she said.

“His mother died,” said Tashie from the chaise longue. “He has a bit of money now.”

“And a reputation,” said Irena, pinning, “as a left-wing journalist. There, how’s that?” She sat back to watch Mabs twirl.

“We could have done without Hubert’s reputation in our family,” said Mabs, easing herself out of the dress. “Shall you need another fitting?”

Irena said, “Yes. Now your dress, Tashie.” She was making them warm evening dresses to wear in the cold wartime winter.

“Tell Irena about the chandelier,” said Tashie, as Irena lowered a half-made dress over her head.

“The chandelier?” Irena looked from Tashie to Mabs.

“It was a chandelier which made Father change his mind about Hitler,” said Mabs.

“Stand still,” said Irena to Tashie, her mouth full of pins.

“Tell her,” said Tashie. “She’s English now; she will get the gist.”

“Father was dining at his club during an air-raid,” said Mabs, “with Freddy Ward and Ian MacNiece. They were too proud, of course, to go to the shelter. This was early in the Blitz. Now nobody in the Club had thought to remove the chandeliers, so when a bomb dropped in Pall Mall the chandeliers flew. Father was cut and Freddy Ward needed five stitches. Father was
enraged.
Up to then he had still been muttering that Hitler had a point.”

Irena sniffed disapproval.

“If it had not been for Hubert’s articles General Leigh would have changed his mind long before,” said Tashie.

“Why?” Irena was fitting a sleeve. “Stand still, Tashie.”

“Honestly, Irena! You read them! Hubert kept stressing how anti-Communist Hitler is. General Leigh is too.
That
was the point they had in common.”

Irena said, “Tiens.”

“Nigel maintains Hubert has a genius for rubbing old gentlemen up the wrong way,” said Mabs. “But Father’s all right now.”

“Didn’t he paint Heil Hitler on some main road?” teased Tashie.

“That was someone else,” said Mabs. “How does it feel to have Russia on our side, Irena?”

“Bolsheviks,” said Irena. “Ça finira mal.”

“You and father should get together,” said Mabs. “Careful with that pin.”

“Perhaps we are too set in our opinions,” said Irena. “Some people disassociate themselves from the war altogether.”

“I wonder who she was talking about,” said Tashie as they drove in a taxi towards Wiltons. “She didn’t get your joke about your pa and the chandelier.”

“Well, she’s Russian,” said Mabs. “Here we are and there’s Hubert just going in.

“Hubert,” she said presently, as they sat eating oysters, “do you know anyone who is
not
taking part in the war even minimally, like Tashie and me?”

“Yes,” said Hubert.

“Gosh, Hubert, who?”

Hubert thought of Felix, who would rather take no part, but said nothing. He swallowed an oyster. Mabs and Tashie were wonderful, he thought, but one could not talk to them, too silly.

“Who? Tell us,” said Tashie.

“Joyce’s young brother, for one.”

“Really? How does he manage? Is he ill?”

“He’s a conscientious objector.”

“I call that jolly brave,” said Mabs.

Hubert adjusted his opinion. “Got himself sent to prison,” he said.

“My word,” said Tashie. “Wasn’t he a queer?”

“Still is, no doubt. He’s now been sent down a mine.”

“So he
is
taking part, and much less minimally than Mabs and I bringing up our tots in the safety of Wiltshire, and keeping up our husbands’ morale by being silly.”

Hubert laughed. “You keep up my morale, too, you know. Are you two going to buy hats after lunch? Hats, like oysters, are unrationed. Shall we have some more or would that be greedy?”

“Let’s be greedy,” said Tashie.

“I could do with a hat,” said Mabs. “Clever fellow to remind us.”

“Are you sad about your mother, Hubert?” Tashie enquired. “Or didn’t you like her?”

“Not sad, no, but I got to like her latterly. I used to buy her hats to console her for my boring step-father’s demise. It worked. I even took her to Pengappah and she quite liked it.”

“So that’s all right,” said Mabs. “Has she left you a lot of money?”

“What was left after the racing; she was keen on the gees.”

“But you earn a mint.”

“I did up to the war. It wasn’t bad.”

“You should get married,” said Mabs.

“Time enough,” said Hubert.

“We could pick you someone suitable,” said Tashie, teasing.

“I’ll pick my own, thanks,” said Hubert. “I’m off to North Africa soon, by the way.”

“Oh,
Hubert.
If you possibly can, send us some cans of olive oil. Will you do that? All the oil I hoarded had to go to help premature babies.”

“What premature babies?”

“The ones I work with in the local hospital. Oh, Hubert, you really believe we sit around doing nothing, don’t you?”

Watching the two friends disappear towards Bond Street, Hubert felt great affection for them. Their relentless shopping represented continuity. Wartime shortages only whetted their appetites; when the war ended they would snap back into peacetime quicker than most. Did Mabs ever regret Felix? he wondered. Or had she forgotten him? She seemed content with Nigel. As he headed back to his office, he wondered where Felix had disappeared to that night. It was not like Felix to pick up a tan; his explanation had been unconvincing. He hoped he had not done anything rash, like looking up old friends.

B
ACK IN LONDON A
year later, Flora stubbed her toe on the kerb, stumbled onto the pavement and landed on her knees. In the ochre-coloured gloom the driver of the car which had nearly hit her sounded his horn. As she groped across the pavement to the railings its tyres squeaked, slithering against the kerb. She had ladered her stockings and grazed her knees, and the latch of her overnight case had burst open. She swore, “God damn and blast,” as she straightened her skirt and spat on her handkerchief to wipe the cuts. “God damn and
blast
.” Her voice was muffled by the fog. She snapped the lock of her case, kept close to the railings and limped on. The monsters in the street crawled invisibly, adding their exhausts to the fog. Her knees hurt, the pain made her gasp, and gasping she inhaled the fog as she bumped into a fog-coloured uniform. The American was stationary. Flora said, “Sorry, I didn’t see you.” She had hit the man’s legs with her case.

He said: “That’s okay, lady. I was just wiping my glasses; they get kinda misted in this climatic speciality of yours.”

Flora said: “Oh, I say, you’ve got a map.”

The American held the map close to his face. “How else would I find my way around in this goddam city, where none of the streets run straight?”

“We are in Farm Street,” said Flora helpfully. “I can tell you that much.”

“Wrong, lady. This is Bruton Street. Don’t you know your own city?”

Flora said: “I thought I knew the way. I am trying to get to Piccadilly. I must be lost.”

“Catch hold of my arm,” said the American, “and I will get you there. This is Bruton Street, right?” He stabbed at the map. “We turn right at the end and go down Bruton Lane. See it?”

“Yes.”

“Takes us into Berkeley Street; turn left and Piccadilly’s at the bottom. Keep close to the railings or we get run down by a nut.” Flora took hold of his sleeve and they started to walk.

“You are very kind,” she said. “I have never actually visualised seeing the air I breathe. Are you a navigator?” (It would be good manners to chat.)

“I do a desk job. Back home I deal in real estate. In San Francisco we get fogs, but nothing like this.”

“At least it stops the air-raids.” Flora was grateful for his company.

“Been in many raids?” Her escort stopped to wipe his glasses.

“Not many. I live in the country.”

“They scare the shit out of me, but we have a great shelter in Grosvenor Square.”

“I’m afraid of shelters, of being buried alive.”

“We should turn left here, and Piccadilly’s at the end of the street. My name is Roger.”

“I thought all Americans were called Chuck or Wayne or Hank.” Flora could now hear heavier traffic; there would be buses, a taxi perhaps, but it would be quicker to get in the tube.

“Only in the movies,” said Roger. “If we can get across your Piccadilly we could reach the Ritz. What d’you say to a drink in the bar, or lunch?”

“I have to catch a train,” said Flora. “I’ve never been in the Ritz. It’s kind of you, though.”

“If we could get out of this fog, I could see your face.” Roger stopped yet again to demist his glasses. “My mom back home wrote that I would be too shy to proposition an English girl. Come on, help me prove her wrong.”

Flora laughed. “Sorry, I must catch my train. But thanks all the same.”

“There ain’t no trains in Piccadilly,” said Roger sarcastically. “I know that much. You want to get away because I’m homely.”

“No!” said Flora. “No.” Homely was exactly what he was, kind and homely. “There are buses and the tube,” she said, “which will get me to my train.” She felt ashamed. She had taken advantage of his map.

“She said not to bother with English girls. Maybe she was right.” Roger’s face had a mulish look. “Hey!” he exclaimed angrily, as a man coming out of the fog at a run cannoned into them. Flora was swung out into the street. “Where the hell are you going?”

“Sorry,” said the man, “I didn’t see you. Here, get back where it’s safe.” He reached for Flora’s arm. “I don’t want to be responsible if you’re squashed. My
God
,” he said, “it’s Flora.
Darling
! Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you for ten bloody years.”

Flora said, “Cosmo,” leaning back against the railings and clutching her suitcase with both hands.

“D’you know this guy?” asked Roger.

“Yes, she does,” said Cosmo. “Where have you been hiding?” He towered above her. “Look, you’d better come with me, I have to catch a train. We can talk on the way.”

“But does she want—” said Roger.

“Of course she wants.” Cosmo put his arms round Flora, pinning her to stand still. “We don’t want this between us.” He snatched her case from her and bent to kiss her. “Can’t you fuck off?” he said to the American.

“The lady has a train to catch too,” said Roger, speaking to Cosmo’s back.

“It will have to wait, won’t it, darling?”

“Paddington,” Flora gasped, as he kissed her again.

“Me too,” said Cosmo. “Come on, there’s an empty taxi in the gloom, let’s try it.” He picked up Flora’s case. “Come on. Do you think you can get us to Paddington?” he asked, as he opened the taxi’s door and pushed Flora in.