Something Dangerous (Spoils of Time 02) (59 page)

There were happy memories with Boy, of course, some very happy ones; but they were fragmented, blurred with unhappiness. She remembered one sharply suddenly; when he had come to her, after Roo had been born, had sat down on her bed, and kissed her and said simply ‘thank you.’ She had felt happy then, terribly happy and so safe.

Safe: it was something none of them would be for a long time now. A precious, half-forgotten thing; danger would fill their lives, all of them, it would surround them, never leave them alone.

And then she thought of Boy, going away tomorrow, into terrible dreadful danger and in spite of everything, she wished she could keep him from it. She kept seeing him again, sitting at the table, so uncharacteristically nervous and quiet, saying the last thing she had expected, the last thing she would have wanted. Or had she? Was she really so angry, and if so, why? And would she be glad tomorrow she had sent him away crushed, unhappy, when he had so clearly struggled to say what he had, and had meant, at that moment anyway, everything he had said. What good would that do her, to reject him, rebuff him, send him away: how would she live with herself, come to terms with that, over the months and years ahead when he was in danger, when he might be injured, taken prisoner, possibly, quite possibly killed? And then she had the thought, and having had it, sat for a little longer, at first very serious and then smiling to herself; she crossed the room and picked up the telephone and dialled Boy’s number in his flat in Pont Street.

He probably wouldn’t be there of course, was probably finding comfort with someone else, comfort from his fear, it was ridiculous of her to even expect it.

But he was there.

‘I just thought,’ she said carelessly, as if he were a friend, someone she hardly knew, someone she was inviting to dinner, ‘I just thought if you had nothing else to do, you might like to come round for a drink. Or something.’

And ‘That would be very nice, yes, thank you,’ he said, as if he were accepting an invitation to dinner, and she knew that he was absolutely aware of what she was actually saying. ‘I’d like that very much. Very much indeed.’

It was extraordinary, what took place between them that night: everything was there, tenderness, violence, sweetness, familiarity, even discovery. She would not have believed it possible, that this man, with whom she had had four children, shared almost ten years of marriage, could possibly lead her into this new place, further, higher, deeper than she could ever remember; it was as if he wanted to reach, to explore, to savour every part of her, imprint himself upon her, and her on to him. And when it was finally over, and they lay holding one another, shaken, almost shocked by what they’d achieved and where they had been, she felt tears on her face, and realised they were his; and realised too that the terrible ghosts of unhappiness had been sent away and that whatever became of them now, they had this, this extraordinary physical memory to sustain them.

‘I love you,’ was all he said over and over again, stroking her hair; and ‘I love you too, Boy,’ she said, and fell asleep, smiling.

In the morning he was gone: leaving only a note on his pillow that said: ‘I couldn’t bear to say goodbye again.’

And then it was Venetia’s turn to weep.

Well, this was it. At last. Today. He was going. Over to France, to meet the Luftwaffe.

He had dressed carefully, absolutely according to instructions: in his blue shirt (Catriona’s letter carefully tucked into the left breast-pocket), a spotted cravat into the neck – they all wore cravats, he’d told his mother, and she’d sent half a dozen, in silk, all different colours – thick trousers tucked into his boots – ‘cold up there, never forget’ – leather helmet and gloves – ‘you’ll need those, chaps, save your hands from being burned’ – goggles, Mae West jacket: he slung his parachute pack over his shoulder, looked out of the small window above his bed at the blue sky, took a deep breath: and then, quite suddenly, had to run to the lavatory where he was violently sick. Again and again.

He emerged shaking, slightly groggy on his legs, walked back into the mess, hoping, praying, no one would have observed or heard him, witnessed this terrible rush of fear. But: ‘Throwing up, were you?’ said a sympathetic voice. It was one of the older chaps, twenty-five he was, an RAF regular, they’d done some of their training down here with him.

‘Oh – it was nothing,’ said Kit quickly, ‘bit too much beer last night I expect.’

‘Yes, I expect it was. Well, don’t worry about it. It gets to us all – the beer. Come on, old boy, we’re flying in convoy. Stay close to me, you’ll be fine. All right now?’

‘Yes, thank you very much,’ said Kit politely.

Barty looked at Wol; he was sitting in his wheelchair, behind his desk, his blue eyes, faded now, fixed on her. She knew that look, knew what it meant; and her heart sank.

‘Barty, my dear—’

She had been right. ‘Yes, Wol?’

‘Barty, I know you want to go and join one of the women’s services.’

‘Yes, I do. The ATS, I thought. It appeals to me most—’

‘Well, I would ask you not to go just yet.’

‘But Wol—’

‘No, let me finish. There is a – a great deal to be done here. We are somewhat bereft already and it will get worse. Giles is gone, of course and Jay and—’

‘Edgar Greene is still here. And you, and Celia and LM and Venetia and—’

‘Of course. But the main strength of the staff is gone. And a challenge lies before us. To keep Lyttons going through the war. It won’t be easy. Already there is the paper shortage, we are not to be exempt from rationing, you know, we’re allowed exactly 60 per cent of last year’s consumption. And costs are rising dreadfully, we have to pay for war risk insurance and—’

‘Wol, I’m sorry. I do know all this, and of course I want Lyttons to survive. I’m sure it will. But I can’t see it as being terribly important to the war effort. I’m sorry, I know that must sound like heresy to you. But I don’t feel it’s right for me to sit here, launching new titles and proofreading catalogues while Hitler is advancing on us day by day. I want to go. Well I am going. I’m – ’ her lips twitched ‘ – I’m not seven any more, Wol. Or even seventeen. I’m thirty-two. Just give me your blessing – please.’

He sat looking at her for a moment in silence; then leaned forward, his hands folded, rather as if he were in prayer, she thought.

‘Barty,’ he said. ‘Please. Wait a little while. Do this for me. And for Celia. Please.’

‘But—’

‘Three of our children are in grave danger. Kit is flying now, Giles is somewhere in France, Adele is in Paris, God knows what will become of her. There is nothing we can do about any of that.’ He sighed. ‘But – if you go as well, I fear for Celia.’

‘For Celia!’

‘Yes. She is afraid as I have never seen her. I would go so far indeed, as to say I’ve never seen her afraid at all. But this time, she is in danger of breaking. I hate to do this, Barty, but I’m going to. Ask you to stay here with us, at least for a while. She – we love you so much. Don’t give us further cause for fear.’

‘Wol I—’

‘Barty, I beg you.’ The voice was hollow with emotion. ‘I am literally begging you. Do it for us, Barty, please.’

She turned away from him, looked out at the street. It was a slightly surreal scene, sandbags in every doorway, two ARP wardens walking along in tin hats, everyone else in normal clothes, but with the ubiquitous gas masks slung over their shoulders. The sun was shining, the skies were clear – of planes as well as clouds. It was a perfect English spring day. None of it quite added up.

She turned and looked at Wol; his eyes were fixed on hers, pleading with her. It wasn’t fair; he had done this before, used this emotional blackmail many times, and she wasn’t going to give in this time. She had a task to perform, talents to offer, a love for her country and a desire to help defend it, far more important than the Lyttons and their demands.

And then he reached out for his pen, and he couldn’t quite reach it, and nor could he get his wheelchair any closer to the desk, and he sat there, looking helplessly at it, biting his lip, refusing to ask any more of her, even so small a thing. And suddenly she knew she couldn’t do it, couldn’t hurt him any more: not now, not for a while. ‘All right Wol,’ she heard herself saying, to her own despair, moving forward, handing him the pen. ‘I will stay. For a little longer, anyway. You can tell Celia I won’t be going yet.’

It was 18 May.

‘Luc, there is something I have to tell you. I – that is, I think I might be pregnant.’

‘Pregnant!’

‘Yes. I hope you will not be too cross with me. I—’

‘Have you seen the doctor?’ Panic gushed into his throat, he felt faint, he was going to be sick—

‘Not yet. I wanted to tell you. But – what do you think, Luc? Are you pleased?’

‘I don’t know what I feel, Suzette,’ he said, ‘I really don’t.’

It was a beautiful spring. The dreadful cold was an ugly memory: the city was alive again, smiling in the sunshine. Adele, pushing the children down the Rue de Seine, felt suddenly fiercely happy. The chestnuts were out along the boulevards, the cafés were on the pavements again, pretty girls in flowered dresses sat sipping
citron pressé
or red wine, men pushed one another good-naturedly out of the way to sit with them.

She crossed the Quai Malaquais, heaved the old pram up on to the new Pont des Beaux Arts and pushed it across the river; it shone, a blue and silver ribbon, in the sunshine. She stopped, pointed out a barge to the children; the bargee saw them, waved up at them.

‘He’s nice,’ said Noni, waving back, smiling. She spoke English to her mother, French to her father. Lucas still spoke very little of anything.

‘Everyone in Paris is nice,’ said Adele, foolish with optimism.

Of course there was worrying news. The invasion of Holland and Belgium was not good, there was talk of the Germans making their way through the Ardennes – but that couldn’t be true, everyone said, they couldn’t possibly, the French line would hold.

There were certain signs of change in the city; Cartier had removed a picture of King Leopold of the Belgians to mark French displeasure at the Belgian surrender and had inserted one of Queen Mary instead; large numbers of people were admittedly leaving Paris and moving south although the general view held by those who stayed was that there was no good reason for it, with no real place to go; there were a great many refugees arriving in the city every day from Belgium and Holland and then being moved on in their turn to the Loire district, and there were three meatless days a week in restaurants, three days when only wine could be served, nothing stronger, and three days without pastries. But food was still plentiful in the markets, the theatres were full, there was a new Cocteau comedy at the Bouffes which was a smash hit, a new production of
Cyrano de Bergerac
at the Comédie Française and chic audiences still went for champagne at the Ritz before curtain-up.

A hugely glamorous English and American colony lived at the Ritz: Mrs Reginald Fellowes and her family; Mrs Corrigan, the millionaire socialite (so rich that she put real Cartier lighters and cigarette cases in her party tombolas); Lady Mendl; the Duke and Duchess of Windsor were frequent visitors from their permanent residence in Antibes; Noël Coward attended the Molyneux Spring collection and
Vogue
itself had reported in its May issue that Paris was ‘an attractive, comfortable, normal city’.

Adele clung to all this, along with most of Paris, and allowed herself to feel safe.

There were two new gardens of flowers on the embankments, filled with tulips; wonderful brilliant colours. Adele lifted Noni out of the pram, let her run over and admire them. She was such a good child, she would never try and pick them or pull the petals off; it was touching, her goodness, especially in the tiny flat, as if she knew it was required of her, that she be as quiet and as untroublesome as possible.

Luc had been – odd lately. Not quite himself. Distracted, worried – he said it was about the war – but gentler, better tempered. He still kept urging her to go home, but she wasn’t taking any notice. They were happier, doing better together; she wasn’t going to be panicked out of her marriage – well, that’s what it was really – by anyone. Certainly not Adolf Hitler.

‘Mother? Mother, it’s me. Kit.’

‘Kit? Oh, my darling, how are you what are you—’

‘Absolutely splendid, thanks. Enjoying myself tremendously.’

‘You really are? And not – not wounded, haven’t been shot at or anything?’

‘Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. We’re giving them hell. Don’t worry about a thing. Least of all me. Oh – got to go. Bye, Mother. Love to Father.’

The fact that 206 of 474 British planes had already been lost, seemed absolutely irrelevant.

A telegram from the French Prime Minister Paul Reynaud had been sent to Churchill: ‘The way to Paris is open. Send all the troops and planes you can.’