Camomile Lawn (33 page)

‘How Fling barked!’

‘How I yelled. You must have been terrified.’

‘I was until the baby came out.’

‘You wrapped him in glass cloths.’

‘There was nothing else.’

‘You found Mrs Welsh’s apron, you used that.’

‘So I did.’

‘It was wonderful when they got us out.’

‘Wasn’t it!’

‘Even more wonderful when Catherine came and took him off to Scotland so that I could be free. I wonder who sent for her?’

‘I did.’

‘Really? Clever of you.’

‘I telephoned her and she came right away. She was furious. She said you’d been irresponsible.’

‘So I was.’ Calypso laughed, not minding the criticism. ‘But there was no need to fuss. I was quite all right.’

‘It was Hamish she was worried about,’ said Sophy drily. ‘Not you.’

‘Hector’s baby,’ Calypso agreed. ‘So long ago it doesn’t seem real, does it?’ She stood up. ‘Sure you won’t come to the Queen’s? It’s comfortable.’ She gathered her bag, put on her coat not expecting a reply. ‘See you tomorrow in church. Goodbye, love.’ She laid her cheek against Sophy’s in token affection. Sophy watched her get into her car and drive out of sight, then went and stood by the drawing room window and looked out. She folded her arms, hugging herself, remembering how in the bomb-blasted kitchen in London she had held new-born Hamish screaming his objections to this horrible world. She had crouched, holding the infant, listening to the curses of the rescuers as they dug through the rubble to reach Calypso, buried they knew, injured they thought, unaware that she had Sophy with her, unaware that she had given birth to Hamish. She had crawled about the kitchen still amazingly intact. The ceiling had not completely collapsed until after they were rescued. She had seen the telephone, tried it, found it wonderfully working, said to the operator, ‘Get me through to Scotland.’ She supposed the number had been written up somewhere, or had she asked Calypso? She could not remember. Catherine had answered—she could recollect Catherine’s voice, clear from the Highlands—‘I can hear him greeting.’ She had wrapped Mrs Welsh’s apron more tightly round the sticky, screaming baby and, crouching beside Calypso, had waited for release.

‘D’you think they will get us out?’ Calypso had been wonderfully resilient.

‘Of course they will.’ Sophy listened to the picks and shovels, the grunts of the men trying to reach them, guided by Fling’s high-pitched barking.

‘Hector will kill me for this’—Calypso had sounded pleased, crouching in the shattered kitchen—‘when he gets to know. I really believed he was dead.’

‘I know. I wonder what it’s like to be a prisoner of war. At least he’s safe.’

‘He still writes about trees,’ Calypso had complained. ‘Nothing about his camp or me.’

‘If he wrote love letters he would not want someone other than you to read them. I expect he feels private. I would.’

‘D’you think that’s it? I hadn’t thought.’

‘Of course. For flowering trees read whatever he says when he tells you he loves you.’ Calypso had laughed.

‘Clever Sophy. Guess what he says when he loves me.’

‘I couldn’t. I know, though, that he loves you.’

‘He loves my rump and, well no, I can’t tell you what he says, you would be shocked.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘I’ll whisper. We mustn’t let the baby hear what its pa says.’ She whispered in Sophy’s ear. Both girls were laughing when the first of their rescuers broke through, bringing with him a shower of rubble. There was so much laughter at that time, Sophy thought, and Hector had not been safe in a P.O.W. camp but winding his way down Italy in an intricate escape. She had been back in Cornwall when he got home to Calypso. Hamish had grown up in Scotland. Hector had joined the Labour Party and taken up forestry. Calypso had lived on, beautiful, remote, adored. Hector had died some time in the fifties. Calypso had not remarried and Oliver presumably went on loving her, for though he had married she had never heard he was happy.

Looking out at the grey unfriendly sea, Sophy remembered the last period of the war, living with Monika, helping with the cow, the hens, the garden, Mr and Mrs Floyer, village activities, and of how she had longed to be back in that dreadful school for the sake of the brief moments passing through London when she had felt part of Helena’s, Polly’s or Calypso’s lives, with news of Oliver, glimpses of the twins, moments with Max, talk of Hector, a feel of belonging, of being part of the group which had dined on the lawn on one of the last days of August 1939, sitting round a table lit by candles, with the moon rising over the sea.

I was alone then, she thought. I’m alone now. Oliver, bane of my life.

‘C
URIOUS THAT THEY HAVE
both died in that house.’ Helena had not spoken for some miles, Hamish thinking her asleep.

‘Who, what both?’ he blurted in surprise.

‘My husband Richard, my lover Max are “both”.’ Helena’s accent was tart. ‘I sold it to Max after Richard died. I am said to have smothered him with a pillow. It has become folk lore. I wasn’t sorry when he died, though.’

‘Oh.’ Hamish had heard the legend. ‘Oh.’ He felt uncomfortable.

‘I could not have smothered him, I was in London with Max. Richard smothered me until I bought my present houses. Sound investment, though not thought so at the time. I paid two thousand pounds for the two.’

‘It’s unbelievable. As little as that?’

‘Richard said they were jerry built. They will last me out.’ Helena paused, thinking of her houses. ‘I like risks,’ she said. ‘Polly’s was hit by a doodle bug, only her bed survived. Your mother was caught in a raid, too.’

‘So she tells me. Brought on her labour.’

‘She can be boring about it. She had Sophy with her to make herself useful. One could say she was the midwife.’

‘I never knew that.’ Hamish thought, I must remember to quiz mother about Sophy being there. Helena may be inventing.

‘If anyone smothered Richard it would have been Sophy. She was with him when he died.’

‘Why on earth should she?’ Hamish was surprised at the amount of ill feeling the old woman could arouse.

‘Richard wasn’t what you’d call safe with little girls, though I thought at the time Monika had weaned him. Perhaps she had, perhaps I am wrong about Sophy.’ Helena stared thoughtfully at the road ahead. ‘Mind you, she was secretive as a child, still is. When Richard died she was in her teens, revenge perhaps. Something odd happened in the early days of the war.’ She paused then went on, ‘Well, what does it matter, it’s so long ago. I was busy with Max. Falling in love left me no room for anything else. You wouldn’t know, perhaps.’

Oh, wouldn’t I, thought Hamish, grimly remembering Sophy’s body, silky hair, slant-eyed tenderness. What a bloody old woman Helena is, he thought. What possessed me to come to this funeral anyway?

Helena was speaking again. ‘I may be wrong. At the time nobody else thought so, it was only a hunch so—’

‘What was only a hunch?’ Curious in spite of himself, Hamish questioned his passenger.

‘Just that one of the coastguards fell over the cliff. I wondered whether Sophy might have pushed him.’

‘Jesus Christ!’

‘Not Jesus Christ. Sophy. It was only an idea. The child had some sort of seizure. I thought if she’d given the man a push it would account for it. Then Max and Monika were interned and of course one couldn’t think of anything else.’ Helena laughed her old person’s laugh. ‘The war kept us all busy, even if we didn’t actually take up arms like your dear father and all those boys, Oliver, Walter, David and Paul, beautiful young men. Oldish now, of course, except Walter who had no time to deteriorate.’

‘But Sophy—’ Hamish betrayed himself, Helena noted.

‘Sophy was much younger. Far too shy to push anyone over anything. That I even thought such a thing shows the state war got us into, not that I didn’t enjoy the war, I would be a liar to deny it. Sophy wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ said Helena with force, not wishing to hurt Hamish, Calypso’s son. ‘Sophy had a vein of something which attracted people. Even before her sort of looks became
comme-il-faut
Max was—’

‘Max?’ Hamish was unaware of the jealousy in his voice but Helena noted it, confirming her suspicion that Hamish loved Sophy. I must not be garrulous, she admonished herself.

‘Max was fond of the child, said she would have a success with some types of men.’

‘Did he really?’ Hamish felt relief. Helena smiled. Not you, my lad, I shall not tell you what I never told anybody, that I found black asiatic hairs in my bed and minded when I never minded any of the other women. She cried out, sitting in Hamish’s car on her way to Max’s funeral.

‘I
mind!
God, how I
mind!
Helena’s voice was strong.

‘What?’ He felt her pain embarrassing.

‘Max dying.’ She sighed, lying.

‘Let’s see if we can find violets,’ Hamish said, repenting his anger, but Helena’s grief was not to be assuaged.

She said bitterly: ‘Just because I am very old does not mean I have forgotten about loving.’

Hamish drove on in sulky silence, wishing that curiosity to see something of his mother’s contemporaries had not lured him to come to the funeral.

‘I trust this performance will not be the most fearful cock-up,’ said Helena, using an expression that had been a favourite of Max’s, who had learned it from the twins. ‘Cock-up,’ she said, looking at Hamish’s profile, ‘was one of his expressions.’

‘Whose?’ Hamish felt he would never get used to his passenger’s use of the English language.

‘Max’s. He was so keen to learn English slang. He learned “cock-up” and “pull your finger out” from David and Paul and used them in the wrong context.’

‘When was that?’

‘In bed. I never undeceived him. I overheard a woman at one of his concerts tell a friend with considerable indignation that he had lured her into bed then said, “This is a cock-up, isn’t it.” Ah-ha-ha-ha.’ Helena laughed merrily. ‘He tried so hard to be English. Ah-ha-ha-ha.’

Glancing at Helena Hamish suddenly saw the years fall away. ‘You sound as though you had fun.’

‘We did, we did, a lot of fun. Max and I, Max and Monika, Monika and I. We had many a good laugh.’

‘I’ve never understood Monika’s attitude,’ said Hamish, who held the rather puritanical views of some cradle Catholics.

‘Quite simple,’ said Helena. ‘We were fond of each other. Once Monika took to country life she reigned in Cornwall. I was his town wife. We travelled with him in turns. It wasn’t anyone’s business but ours. After Richard died it worked very well. When poor Monika died I carried on. Max needed two women just as Polly—’

‘Polly?’

‘I was going to say needed two men. She was greedy, she wanted, got and kept the twins. My word, if you’d seen her as a girl!’

‘What was she like?’

‘Pretty, reserved. Gave the impression she was conventional, that no one should dare question her life. On the whole nobody did. Her sheer effrontery silenced her critics and gained the admiration of her peers. It came in useful when she decided to have James and Iris.’

‘Do you know which twin is Iris or James’s father? I often wonder.’

‘I presume they do too. I have never asked because I do not think Polly knows herself.’ Helena laughed her ah-ha-ha-ha laugh, appreciating Richard’s niece Polly, and added, ‘It worked, it still does. There you are, dear boy, two cases of it takes three to make a marriage. Why don’t you try it?’ she asked cheerfully.

‘The Church, my upbringing.’

‘None of us allowed our upbringing to interfere with our mode of life.’

‘Well—’

‘Your nurse Catherine! Your mother! My! My! Your mother converted to annoy your father, who had lapsed. Then, like Saint Paul when he fell off his horse or whatever he did, found she liked it. Your father was flummoxed.’

‘He didn’t mind.’

‘He was like putty in her hands.’

‘He adored her. They had awful rows,’ said Hamish, remembering his childhood.

‘When he was drunk, only when he was drunk. He blacked her eye.’

‘My mother can’t have liked that.’ Hamish was shocked.

‘You’d be surprised what people put up with when they are in love.’

‘Are you suggesting my mother was in love with my father?’ Hamish’s tone of disbelief delighted Helena.

‘Of course she was. She never let on.’

‘My God!’ Hamish whispered. ‘My God!’

‘Why do you imagine she never remarried?’ Helena left her question to penetrate Hamish’s mind. I can’t bear dense men, she thought, how can I endure life without Max? She fumbled in her bag for her flask and unscrewed the cap. After drinking she said in a new tone of voice: ‘If you see a suitable pub please stop, so that I can refill my flask and go to the lavatory.’

‘And if I die in the attempt I shall find you violets.’ Hamish felt a surge of gratitude towards Helena for her betrayal of Calypso. ‘I won’t tell her you told me,’ he said.

‘Much better not,’ Helena agreed, casting her mind back to the return of Hector, escaped from his P.O.W. camp in Italy, and Calypso’s efforts to conceal her joy.

‘She tries to protect herself,
unsere
Calypso,’ Max had told her. ‘She pretends she cannot love, it is her camouflage.’

‘If your father had not loved your mother so helplessly he would have returned to the Church,’ said Helena thoughtfully.

‘How come? I’m not with you.’

‘It would have changed her idea of him, he couldn’t risk that.’

‘If I fail to find violets what other flowers did Max like?’

‘We will find violets,’ said Helena, liking Hamish, Calypso’s son, who reminded her of Hector, his father. Then, feeling warmth for Hamish, she said: ‘As you know, your mother had quite a reputation for sleeping around.’ Hamish winced. ‘But I never heard a whisper after your father came back from the war. Max said she stopped looking at any other man because she found she had the best of both worlds.’

‘When she joined the Church?’

‘Tcha! She married the world of money, found it held a world of love. The Church was for you, I imagine, as much as for Hector. Let’s call it a sauce.’

‘My parents being the goose and the gander?’