No Angel (Spoils of Time 01) (71 page)

‘He was lucky not to be in jail,’ said Oliver, ‘if he was. Listen, “The commotion at one in the morning outside Buckingham Palace as forty cars arrived, tyres screeching, had to be heard to be believed, a passer-by reported. Crowds of young people then jumped out and began rushing up and down the railings, shouting and pushing into the sentry boxes, looking for clues in a treasure hunt. The captain of the guard turned out all his available men and called for reinforcements, believing the palace to be under siege. The young people finally dispersed, after the clue they were looking for was found at the foot of the Queen Victoria memorial and sent them off to Trafalgar Square instead: but not before several had been arrested. Among them was Viscount Avondean, Lord Forrester, the Hon Henry Parker and” – oh God—’

‘Jack?’ said Celia, seeing his face.

‘“And Jack Lytton, a member of the distinguished publishing family, accompanied by his friend Lily Fortescue, the well known actress”.’

‘Well known!’ said Celia. ‘Really—’

‘Celia, please! “A senior policeman commented that they might all have been expected to know better, although conceding that for the most part it was obviously an expression of high spirits and that no great harm had actually been done”. God, what do you think I should do?’ said Oliver.

‘Nothing,’ said Celia wearily, ‘he’s a complete idiot, but he’s thirty-five years old, for God’s sake, and it’s not as if you’re his father.’

‘I find it hard to believe he’s that age,’ said Oliver, ‘when I think—’ Celia stood up. ‘Excuse me, Oliver, please. I must get something from my room before we leave for the office.’

She just made her bathroom in time; this was awful. The nausea was getting worse. Well – it wasn’t for much longer. She sat on the bed for a while, pulling herself together; then went slowly downstairs. Oliver was standing in the hall, looking very black, pulling on his gloves.

‘He may be thirty-five, as you said, and I may not be his father, but I have to put up bail for him. His solicitor just telephoned.’

‘Bail! How absurd.’

‘Not really. There is such a thing as the law of the land. Jack has broken it, and rather publicly. Certain formalities have to be followed. So I’m going to Bow Street and you had better make your own way to the office.’

‘Yes, all right.’ That was a relief; if she was sick again, at least he wouldn’t know. She felt too weak and wretched to give more than a moment’s consideration to Jack. ‘And I have an appointment later this morning. With – Gill. I’ll be back at lunchtime.’

‘Fine.’

She had finally decided to get rid of the baby. She had to: it was the only thing that made sense. She had telephoned Bunty Winnington, in spite of her misgivings, asked her for the name of her doctor, for a friend. Bunty had been very helpful, given her not only the name, but a telephone number as well.

‘Tell your friend not to worry, darling. He’s marvellous, absolutely the highest possible medical standard, and no fear of any comeback. As long as you’re discreet, of course. Pricey though: seven hundred pounds now. Tell your friend he likes cash. Naturally.’

She was going to see him that morning; his consulting rooms were in Bayswater. Normally, Bunty had said, you were in the nursing home a week after that. ‘Sooner sometimes. And home next day. Bit washedout, tell your friend, but perfectly all right. Like a bad curse really. Good luck, darling. To your friend, that is.’

So in a week, it would be – could be over.

‘Ten pounds! Oh all right. Here – I think that’s right.’

‘Thank you very much, sir. I’ll have your brother brought up now, sir.’

‘Is – is Miss Fortescue still here?’

‘Who? Oh, the actress. No, she went hours ago. Sergeant, bring Mr Lytton up will you. There will be a charge, Mr Lytton, disturbance of the peace.’

‘Yes, I see,’ said Oliver. ‘Well, thank you.’

He felt quite sick.

‘I feel quite sick,’ he said to Jack, ‘it’s an appalling way to behave. Drunk, I have no doubt—’

‘Oh Wol, don’t you start,’ said Jack gloomily. He had adopted the children’s name for Oliver years earlier. ‘It could happen to anyone. Just bad luck.’

‘Bad luck! Making so much commotion the royal guard had to be called out, getting thrown into jail, your name in the papers—’

‘Is it? Good Lord!’

‘Yes, it is, and it’s nothing to be proud of. You’re thirty-five Jack, for God’s sake, not fifteen—’

‘I know, I know. I’m sorry. If I say it was stupid and I’ll never do it again, will that help?’

‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t believe you,’ said Oliver. ‘Why do you do it, Jack, what’s the matter with you?’

‘Probably being thirty-five,’ said Jack gloomily, ‘thirty-five and nothing to show for it. Getting drunk and having fun, that’s just about all there is. Life isn’t exactly rosy at the moment.’

‘Isn’t it? What’s wrong? You’ve got a job and a decent place to live, and a very nice girlfriend—’

‘I’m about to lose the job, aren’t I?’

Oliver hesitated; then he said, ‘Not lose it, of course not. But maybe it will – change a little. Anyway, I feel bad about it. Responsible. I shouldn’t have entrusted you with so much so soon.’

‘Well, never mind about that. And I may not have the girlfriend any more. She was pretty bloody furious with me—’

‘I expect she was. Sensible girl, Lily.’

‘And as for the place to live – well it’s damned expensive. I’m always worried about money—’

‘So you conserve it carefully,’ said Oliver drily. ‘Well you can always come home, you know. If you really can’t afford your flat.’

‘No thanks.’

Oliver looked at him. ‘Why not? We miss you.’

Silence.

‘Jack? Is something wrong? I do assure you, you would be very welcome to come back to Cheyne Walk. For a while, at least. Celia would love it, she misses you particularly, you cheer her up and—’

‘Oliver, no. Thanks all the same.’

‘Well, at least come to supper tonight and let’s talk about it.’

‘I’d rather not.’

‘What, come to supper?’

‘Yes. Since you ask.’

He was staring down into his coffee cup; Oliver looked at him intently.

‘I don’t understand. You used to be so happy with us—’

‘Oliver,’ said Jack in a sudden rush of words. ‘Oliver, you’ve got to understand. I can’t live with you any more.’

‘With me?’

‘No. With – with—’

‘Celia?’

A long silence. Then, ‘Well – yes.’

‘But why? You’ve always been so fond of one another.’

‘Let’s just say we’re not any more. Oh – it doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have said anything. Sorry.’

Oliver looked at him very steadily across the table; then he said, ‘No, Jack, you shouldn’t. Shouldn’t say harsh things about Celia.’

He was silent: Jack sat staring at him. ‘You must know,’ he said finally, ‘you must.’

Oliver was silent.

‘Oliver, why do you put up with it? How can you stand it?’

‘Jack,’ said Oliver, ‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about. And I think it would be a good idea if we talked about something quite different. Like how you might deal with your debts.’

The doctor, whose name was Blake, was obnoxiously, smarmily polite, nauseatingly sympathetic. Celia told him, as instructed by Bunty, that she could not face another pregnancy.

‘Of course I understand your dilemma Mrs, – ah yes, Mrs Jones. Several bad pregnancies, difficult births, severe post-natal depression. No, you certainly shouldn’t have to go through it again. Your husband has no idea you’re here, of course? No, I thought not. Good, good. Absolute discretion is our byword. Now, our nursing home is in Surrey. Near Godalming. It was a convalescent home in the war and is still used for that. Plus there is a small wing for minor surgical cases. The removal of ovarian cysts, fibroids, appendices, that sort of thing. Nothing too serious. I would like you to be there this Friday, at eleven. If the dates you have given me are correct, then we have very little time. After three months, as you will know, this sort of thing is impossible. You will be home by Saturday midday. I would prefer you to come in your own car, or a taxi of course. We find third parties on these occasions are simply – upsetting. For all concerned. Now – do you have the fee with you – good. In cash? Yes, excellent. Well good morning, Mrs Jones. I shall see you on Friday morning.’

Jasper Lothian was sitting on a bench in one of the lovely quadrangles in Cambridge, reading the
Times Educational Supplement
when he was interrupted by one of his least favourite voices.

‘Professor Lothian! Good morning, sir. What a lovely day.’

‘Indeed,’ said Lothian, delving physically deeper into his paper.

‘I hope I find you well, sir.’

‘You do, Mr Stubbs, thank you. Very well.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it, sir. And Mrs Lothian?’

‘She is also in the best of health.’

‘Good. Is your son enjoying his life—’

‘Yes, thank you Mr Stubbs, I don’t mean to be rude, but I have a great deal of reading to do this morning; perhaps you would—’

‘Of course, sir. I do apologise, sir. Would you remember Mr Bateson?’

‘Dimly,’ said Lothian, ‘but—’

‘He was here at the beginning of the war. Nice young fellow.

Anyway, I heard from him a few days ago. Expressed an interest in the next college reunion. Just got the letter off to him now.’

‘Really? Mr Stubbs, I—’

‘I thought you might be pleased, because I know you used to tutor him. And he hasn’t been up since the war.’

‘That applies to a great many young men. Whose absence will be permanent. Unfortunately.’

‘Indeed, sir. Most unfortunately. A whole generation wiped out. Dreadful. Dreadful.’

‘Yes, indeed.’

Lothian gave up, put his paper down.

‘Was there anything else you wanted to say Mr Stubbs?’

‘Oh, not really, sir, no. I just thought you might be interested. Would enjoy seeing him. Strange he should have written now. After so long. And he was also trying to contact Miss Bartlett.’

A student of what was later known as body language would have found Lothian’s speaking volumes at this point; he became very still, and his eyes focused intently on Mr Stubbs.

‘Miss Bartlett?’

‘Yes, sir. She was in your tutorial group, wasn’t she?’

‘No,’ said Lothian. Very firmly.

‘Oh, I apologise, sir, I thought she was. Well, anyway, he wanted her address. Mr Bateson I mean.’

‘And – you’ve given it to him?’

‘Well, of course, I only had her parents’ address, sir. I gave him that, yes. They can forward the letter if they so desire. If she is no longer living with them. Of course she may be. You wouldn’t know, I suppose, sir?’

‘No, of course not,’ said Jasper Lothian. ‘Of course I don’t know. Excuse me, Mr Stubbs. I have to get home.’

He walked very quickly back to his house in the college, went straight up to his study, wrote a letter, stuck a stamp on it and went out to the nearest letter-box. Then he sat down and, although it was still only just after eleven, had a very stiff drink.

‘I would like to get home tomorrow,’ said LM. ‘The other children have gone and Jay will be miserable without them. And, of course, I miss him.’

Celia looked up at her wearily. It had been so good to have her in the office for a few days, receiving her wonderful, brisk common sense, knowing she was passing it on to Oliver, saying the kind of things that she would never have dared say. That Jack should not have been given his head, or allowed to waste so much money; that James Sharpe was spending far too much on coloured illustrations when simple line drawings would have done; that perhaps Oliver should consider taking out libel insurance, as several publishers were doing now. ‘Too late for this time, but in future, I would propose it very strongly’; that perhaps Peter Briscoe, with his slow, careful ways was not quite the match for the cut-throat young fellow the Lothians were clearly employing; and that the editors should be trawling the agents energetically for a possible alternative work to
The Buchanans
.

‘Of course we can’t manage the autumn, but that is no reason for inertia. Christmas is just about possible.’

Celia knew she should have been doing that herself, but she felt too ill, was too wretched to do more than go through the motions of each day. Well, this was the last day; she was off in an hour. Then it would be over.

She had been trying, and had for the most part managed to overcome the sense of blind panic and searing misery which attacked her whenever she actually faced what was going to happen. She had kept her mind somehow turned away from the violation not only of herself, and of her uterus, but of everything she believed in and cared about. From the fact that she held within her all that remained of her love affair, her joyful, ecstatic exquisite love affair, or perhaps – and it had to be a real possibility – the last sad shreds of her marriage. She could not think about the fact that she was wilfully destroying it, brutally, savagely, destroying it, tearing it out, throwing it away; denying it its chance, its future, its potential for happiness. Of any pain to herself, any danger, any misery, she was quite careless. That would be her penance, almost welcome. And in an hour – no less than an hour now – the process would begin. In the name, she kept telling herself, of sanity, of common sense, of pragmatism. So that when it was over, she could begin again. It was the only possible decision to make, the only possible thing to do, the only possible way to be free.

‘Mum? Mum, hallo! How are you? Oh, it’s so nice to see you.’

Sylvia looked at her daughter with an odd blend of sadness and pride; she was growing up so fast, was so tall, so pretty. Her figure was developing now she couldn’t help noticing that; her hair was beautifully cut in a long, curvy bob, her skin had turned a golden brown in the summer sun, her small, straight nose was covered in tiny freckles. No longer a child; almost a woman; a charming, clever, pretty woman. And she had had almost nothing to do with it herself; Barty might be her daughter, but she was Celia’s creation. It was hard. But – Sylvia shook herself mentally. She didn’t begrudge Barty any of it. She couldn’t. And there was still room for pride.