Something Dangerous (Spoils of Time 02) (78 page)

The raid that day was savage; the target was a huge ammunition dump for London. How did they find out these things, Barty wondered; one of the great balloons had been sent up and they were going for that. She hauled her concentration back; it was not her job to think about such things. She had to find the height of the plane and inform the guns, while Parfitt read the speed and wind direction; the information was passed on by the oldest form of communication known to man, the shout. It was fast, crucial work; oddly, she was seldom frightened. But seeing the dust on that path today had rattled her: just a bit.

Her romance with John Munnings was troubling her deeply. She liked him more and more; he was so gentle and thoughtful, so good to talk to, and they had an enormous amount in common. Despite his rather old-fashioned air he shared her views on politics, on women’s rights to a career and a proper place in the world. And he was extremely good-looking, there was no doubt about it, with his dark brown hair and his dark eyes and what she could only describe to herself as a sweetness of expression. He was interminably good-natured, nothing panicked or irritated him, and it showed in everything he said and did; he had a calmness about him which she found immensely engaging. He had had very few girlfriends; he had told her that with commendable honesty.

‘The thing is, unless I really like someone, I simply can’t be bothered to spend a lot of time with them. It seems such a waste, going through all that rigmarole if there’s no point in it at the end.’

This was so exactly in accord with Barty’s own views on relationships that she leaned over and kissed him.

Fate also seemed to be taking a hand in their relationship; just as she had been posted to London, so had he. He would be going abroad, probably quite soon, he told her, but he was still in training with his regiment, and had a little free time.

He was now enjoying army life: ‘Everyone said I’d hate it, but it’s such a marvellous change, so much excitement and challenge, and I really get on rather well with both my brother officers and the men. I like the spirit of the army, it’s so – uncomplicated.’

Barty said that was how she felt exactly: marvelling yet again at the closeness of their views and experience.

They were able to meet at least once a fortnight, sometimes more often; London had settled down again, with the easing of the Blitz and there was much to enjoy: the lunchtime concerts at the National Gallery, the West End plays –
Blithe Spirit
actually opened to an audience dressed in dinner jackets and long dresses – the Proms conducted by Henry Wood – where every single seat was sold and the ballet, with wonderful performances by Fonteyn, Helpmann and Ashton, albeit to music provided only by two grand pianos.

Barty was so delighted by John’s liking for ballet that tears filled her eyes when he revealed it: ‘You are only the second man I have ever known who wanted to see a ballet. Oh – it doesn’t matter who,’ she added quickly, trying not to think about it. About him.

What she was enjoying with John Munnings was a romance: and she wasn’t sure it was any more than that. Happy, sweet, intensely enjoyable. But with Laurence, Barty had experienced passion: an experience so intense, so powerful she could still absolutely recall it, both physically and emotionally and it was something she was quite unable to set aside or forget.

She could also, of course, recall the pain in exactly the same way.

‘This is getting ridiculous,’ said Adele, ‘you can’t go on denying the existence of your own child to your own husband.’

‘I’m not denying it exactly. Just not telling him.’

‘That’s splitting hairs.’

‘Not really. We don’t exactly enjoy a close correspondence. Two letters in the last six months.’

‘Yes, and your letter was all about the children.’

‘Well, that’s what he’ll want to know about.’

‘Exactly. Venetia, you’re being so perverse. If you’re not careful I shall write to him myself.’

‘Don’t you dare. Just because you’re feeling better doesn’t mean you have a right to take over my life as well.’

Adele was feeling better: immeasurably so. Reading Luc’s letter, absorbing the love, the remorse, the genuine grief at his loss of her, she had felt rather like some half-dead animal brought in from the frozen, threatening outside world. She had been tempted to tell Venetia to read it all over the phone, indeed had instructed her to begin, but after the first few words, ‘My beloved, my most dearly beloved Adele’, she had said she must stop, must bring it instead, knowing she could wait from this first wonderful spring of happiness for the torrent that would surely follow.

Venetia had arrived four days later with her new baby and the letter (the post being so extremely unreliable); it had, after all, taken six months to reach her; it could surely take another few days. Adele had paused only to admire Fergal and kiss Venetia before taking the precious envelope up to her room and reading it, over and over again. Each day she read it, at first several times a day: its generosity astounded her.

She had expected at least some reproach, some anger even; instead she found only acceptance of what she had done, and love, and a desperate concern for her safety.

It may be months before I know how you have fared and I can only pray, knowing of the dreadful dangers on that road, that the news will be good. I cannot telephone England, and there can be very little hope of a letter from you reaching me, at least for a while. God knows how things will settle down. But for the time being all is well. They have not yet arrived, but are certainly almost here; there are the usual rumours, but I have chosen to hear none of them. The offices of Constantine are closed; Guy is moving to Switzerland. No doubt in due course he will communicate with your father. This letter comes to you, quite quickly I hope, via a special courier service to
Style
. I shall wait impatiently for news of you.

With all my love,
ma chère
,
chère
Mam’selle Adele,

your adoring Luc

That he had not behaved as if he adored her, that she would not indeed have left him if he had, that he had most steadfastly refused indeed to become her husband, that he had misused her dreadfully, that he had been ill-tempered and critical of her, that he had been a bad provider, that his own pride had refused to allow her to add so much as one franc of her own money to the family budget – all these things were as nothing to Adele. She only cared that he said he loved her, that he forgave her, that he prostrated himself before her with remorse at his behaviour, that he had never been so unhappy, that his only happiness indeed had come from her and their children, and then again, that he loved her, more than life itself, and that whatever became of them, she was to know and understand that and believe it for the rest of her life.

Illogically, knowing that he still loved her, that he felt no anger or desire to blame her made her feel less remorse, more happiness; ‘and so you should,’ said Venetia, with whom at least some of the contents of the letter had been shared, ‘he’s admitting he was wrong, that he deserved for you to act as you did. It’s not as if it was in a fit of pique, or so you could run off with someone else.’

‘I know, I know. But I should still have given him a chance to explain, to make me understand.’

‘In which case you’d still be there.’

‘Yes.’ Adele was silent; thinking then of the dangers of still being there, with her children. She would certainly have been imprisoned, and possibly all of them; as it was, they all lived free and happy in the English countryside. She felt sad still, she missed Luc and she feared most dreadfully for his safety; but in days she had changed; she became easy, smiling, released her children from her suffocating care, helped in the house, sat with Kit, and helped her grandmother with the farm, which she discovered she loved.

In her darker moments – and they came more frequently than anyone knew, with the exception of Venetia – this idyll would be punctured by fears for Luc and by her impotence at being able to contact him. She longed to write back to him; had indeed posted several letters (while knowing how hopeless an initiative it was), had telephoned Cedric to ask him (while knowing it was fruitless) if the courier service between Paris and London was still running, albeit via New York.

He had rather specific news of Paris, gleaned from messages via New York; that couture was still alive, despite German endeavours to move it to Berlin, that
Vogue
had ceased to publish along with
Style
, that the fashions were of necessity modest, minimal even, in their use of fabric. News that at another time, in another life would have fascinated her, but now meant nothing, nothing at all.

But, in spite of her frustration and her anxiety, she was deeply happy; released from guilt and restored most surprisingly to love. Love and a state of grace.

And then, a few weeks after the arrival of Luc’s letter, Helena had telephoned.

‘Adele? I have some news for you.’

‘For me?’

‘Yes. It’s about getting messages to – well, to your – your—– ’

‘To Luc?’ said Adele helpfully. She was constantly amused by the difficulty Helena had with such matters. And then she realised what she was actually saying. ‘What, Helena, how—’

‘Apparently through the Red Cross, you can send a written message. It’s quite easy. Well, not exactly easy but it does more or less guarantee the person getting the message in due course.’

‘Oh my God—’ Adele’s voice was shaky, very quiet.

‘Yes. You go to the Citizens’ Advice Bureau. Where you fill in a form, saying whatever it is you want to say—’

‘You mean I can write to him?’

‘Well – not exactly. Not a long letter, anyway. There’s a limit of – let me see, I wrote it down for you . . . oh, yes, twenty words—’

Twenty words. Enough. Enough to tell him she was safe, that she still loved him, that she had only just got his letter to her.

‘So how, what—’

‘I’ve got all the details here,’ said Helena, her bossy voice more clipped than usual. ‘As I said, you go to the nearest Citizens’ Advice Bureau. That twenty words does exclude name, address and relationship, incidentally. Then it gets transcribed on to a Red Cross form—’

‘You mean they get to read it?’

‘Yes. Apparently it’s against the censor’s regulations for the sender to fill in the Red Cross form.’

‘Oh, oh I see. Well—’ That seemed an outrage; then she realised that set against Luc’s assuming she must either be dead or still absolutely hostile to him it was nothing, nothing at all. ‘Well go on.’

‘After that, they get posted to the International Red Cross Committee. And they send them on to the person to whom they are addressed. Via their own Foreign Relations Department.’

‘Oh, God.’ Adele suddenly couldn’t even hold the phone, so weak with shock and relief did she feel. She put it down on the hall table, buried her face in her hands.

She could hear Helena calling her but could do nothing about it; finally she managed to pick it up again, and said simply, ‘Helena, I don’t know how to thank you for this, I really don’t.’

‘It’s not my personal scheme, Adele,’ said Helena, her voice almost a reproof, ‘but I’m very glad if it will help.’

Adele cycled into Beaconsfield that very afternoon, after playing for hours with her twenty words, working out how she could make them say the most; handed them over in all their raw love and concern, watched, feeling oddly exposed as a coolly emotionless woman read them carefully, nodded at her, took her sevenpence, checked the address and said she would see it went off with the next bundle.

‘And then – how – how soon will it get there?’ she said, hearing her voice shake.

‘It’s impossible to say. They often have to go by a fairly roundabout route, as I am sure you can imagine. But you can rest assured it will arrive.’

‘Even – even in Paris?’

‘Of course.’ She gave her a slightly superior smile. ‘Try not to worry. Good afternoon.’

‘Good afternoon,’ said Adele. And cycled home, her heart singing. She tried to believe that Luc would receive the letter within a few days. Or at the very most weeks.

She buried her anxiety and her frustration in helping her grandmother on the farm: and there was a great deal to be done. The young men had all gone; in their place was a small group of land girls, not quite the smiling, sturdy creatures of the posters, many of them townies, unused to physical work of any kind, let alone the backbreaking toil of hoeing, planting, lifting potatoes, making silage, repairing fences. A couple were dreadfully homesick, even took to their beds; surprisingly, Lady Beckenham’s brisk sympathy, her watchful eye on the more serious problems of injured backs, strained joints, and, on one occasion, a septic cut sustained from a rusty scythe, and her willingness to work alongside them at all but the heaviest tasks, did more for their morale than anything.