The Edge of the Fall (7 page)

And he did, began talking about his life before, a student at London University (failed to get into Cambridge, father still disappointed), joined up in early 1915, long days of training, then out to France, to wait, sit there, counting the rats, and it was for such long stretches of time between waiting and something happening, then it was all rush and shouting and blood and violence.

‘Too dreadful to talk about to a lady like you,' he said.

‘I don't know much about it,' she said.

She did. She thought about the letter the family had received after Michael's death, about the lie it told, written because an officer higher up knew Michael from Cambridge and felt sorry for him, didn't want to tell his family that they'd taken Michael out and shot him.

Celia remembered screaming when she was told. She remembered Jonathan trying to calm her, taking her home. He'd written three times since the end of the war and she hadn't answered.

Come to New York
, he said in his last one.
My father could help you with the fare. My sisters would like to meet you
. She couldn't bear it, she didn't want the story of Michael's death to be true. Her parents' proud, perfect boy, the Cambridge student, army officer – shot like a dog because he'd stayed back in the trenches, afraid, weeping, hiding.

Gilligan looked nothing like Jonathan, who had been blond and wide-faced. But still, he reminded Celia of him. He exuded the same confidence, an expectation he'd always be listened to as he talked on about the weather, the mud, losing the men beside him. She smiled, nodded. He broke off, sometimes, to tell her how grateful he was that she listened to him, that she understood. Because now that they were back, people didn't want to talk about it, said
get over it, we have!
But it was easy enough to get over things if you just had to read the news, wasn't it? People like him had actually seen it. And you can't forget that, anyone who said they had was lying. They were lying to fit in. But why should anyone do that?

He leant across, grasped her hand. ‘You understand, don't you, Miss Smith?'

She nodded. ‘People haven't really forgotten,' she said. ‘They're just pretending.'

He raised his head. ‘That's what makes me angriest, the pretending. Why not tell the truth? We'll never recover!'

She nodded. The crowd was thinning out. A rowdy group of men stood up, laughing, slapped each other on the back, threw her and Gilligan sideways looks.

‘I should go upstairs. Thank you, Mr Gilligan.'

‘I shall escort you.'

‘No need, sir, I insist.'

He clasped her hand. ‘I'll pay for it.'

She shook her head. ‘It can go on my room.' She blushed at the thought of her father seeing the account for sherry.

‘Please let me escort you.'

‘I really am fine, Mr Gilligan.'

‘Please. It's Peace Night, Miss Smith. You shouldn't be alone.'

The waiter was coming towards them.

She seized her hand back. ‘I can't. Maybe I'll be here with my family tomorrow.' She dashed towards the stairs, her heart beating hard.

She rushed up, two steps at a time, face burning. How stupid of her. She thought she could just listen to him talk, and then what? She should have guessed; that he'd feel the same black hole too and think that spending time with her, any girl, might stop it.

Upstairs, she unlocked the door to her room, went in, flung herself against the bed. Her head was still pacing. Outside, on the Strand, she could hear the shouts of people celebrating, men singing ‘Tipperary', women shouting. Everywhere, she thought, everywhere there must be men looking for women, company on Peace Night.

She lay on her bed, head turning, staring at the ceiling. ‘We're alive!' they might as well be saying outside, as they laughed. ‘We've survived.' They were together, hands clasped, arms around each other,
alive
.

She was alone.

FOUR

London, August 1919

Celia

Celia tried everything to stay in London. She told Emmeline that she'd surely need help with the twins, talked about what she could do for them. But Mr Janus was insistent: Celia had to leave again.

The hotel manager had hurried them out of the Savoy two days after the birth. ‘It's not a place for children,' he said. ‘So many people.' They'd packed up their things and struggled into two cabs to the flat in Bloomsbury. It wasn't ready for the babies at all.

Verena and Celia busied themselves with the washing and the tidying. Then Mr Janus burst in, back from his secretive work. Celia made him some tea and he held the twins, fast asleep. After an hour, he asked when they were going to leave.

Celia begged to stay. ‘Emmeline needs the help.'

‘Sorry, Celia,' Mr Janus said, ‘but we have meetings. You'd be in the way.'

‘I could help with the meetings,' she said. ‘I could take notes.' She had done, once or twice, in the old days, when she'd stayed with Mr Janus and Emmeline during the war. His friends Mr Sparks and Jemima had been there regularly, talking about how they'd bring in the revolution, change the world, see men and women equal, wealth shared, poor people living as long as the rich.

But Mr Sparks didn't come any more and Jemima was living with her elderly parents in Norfolk.

‘It's different this time,' Emmeline told her quietly. ‘There's more anger. People were promised things if they fought. So what Samuel is doing is really important. And more dangerous.'

‘I know that's what they say! I've heard them.' Celia knew she was too easily annoyed by Emmeline playing the older sister, but she still rose to it. ‘I just think it is as pointless as it always is. All talk. People don't want a revolution.'

Emmeline had shrugged. ‘We'll see. And you have to listen to Samuel. You can't stay. At the end of the week, you'll go back to Stoneythorpe.'

Emmeline was right about Mr Janus – things were different this time. It wasn't the old talk of plans, the stuff that Celia sometimes thought was pie-in-the-sky. It was discussions of demonstrations, fighting. In the three nights she stayed before Emmeline finally sent her away, Mr Janus went out two nights, and the third he had the men over. Emmeline was asleep, but Celia listened at the door. They were talking about an armed demonstration, how they might have to fight the police.

Aren't you worried?' she said to Emmeline, the day before she left. ‘Aren't you worried about him? They're talking of fighting.'

Emmeline was feeding Albert. It was amazing, thought Celia, how they had tiny characters already. Albert, bigger and stronger, cried out for food all the time. ‘He's a fighter,' said Mr Janus, holding him up. And he was, a strong child, trying to lift his head already, and he fought everything, the mat you put him down on, the bed, even Emmeline when she took him to feed – and he'd need to empty both sides of her before he'd stop crying for more. ‘He doesn't trust the world,' said Mr Janus. ‘Quite right.' But when the mat or the napkin or the towel had been brought to obey him, he was all smiles again. He made noises at things. ‘He's trying to talk,' said Emmeline. ‘Clever boy.' Mr Janus said he was going to be a leader. Celia supposed he was right. Albert slept on his back, open to the world, ready for its blows.

Lily was entirely different. She was small, puny really, never took enough milk. Albert was always ravenous, hard to satisfy. She'd only take a little, then fall away, fretful. She cried and she didn't make noises like her brother. She was shy, hid away from anyone looking at her, slept curled tight, and when Celia held her,
she felt fear. ‘I'll look after you, little one,' she said. ‘I promise.' She knew it was wrong, but Lily was her favourite. It wasn't only because Celia had known she was there, looked into her eyes on that first night, said
I found you
. She also saw herself in her niece, shy, ill at ease, afraid.

‘Please let me stay,' she begged Emmeline again. ‘You need me to help.' She held Lily close. ‘You know I'm good with them.'

Emmeline's face was pale, blue-purple smudges under her eyes. Albert slept well – sometimes five hours at a stretch – but Lily was always awake. Celia thought she hated the dark. ‘Samuel says we need the place to ourselves.'

‘Or how about if I found rooms – Father would pay – and came in every day? I wouldn't have to stay here.' Albert was lying on Emmeline's lap now, arm waving at the air.

Emmeline shook her head. ‘Not for the moment. Samuel needs the flat for himself. He has things he must do. I'm sorry'

‘You mustn't let him! They're dangerous. And how can you look after two babies yourself? You're still exhausted!'

Emmeline shrugged. ‘That's the way it has to be. Maybe you can come later. But not now. I'm sorry. He says other things are more important.'

‘He doesn't care about you.' Lily was nestled against Celia, not sleeping but quiet.

Emmeline straightened up, pulling her wrapper around her. ‘You're wrong to say things like that. And if you say it again, you'll never come back here!'

Celia clasped Lily closer. ‘I'm sorry. I didn't mean it, sister. I was wrong. I'll just miss you, that's all.'

Emmeline touched her hand, lightly, a fairy touch. ‘I'll miss you too, sister. But it won't be for long. Anyway, Mama and Papa need you at home,'

So Celia took the train back, got home, watched Arthur and Louisa talking endlessly, ignoring her. They walked in the garden together, deep in conversation. Sometimes Celia would come through the door into the parlour and find Louisa, alone, writing.
She'd push whatever it was under her papers and look up, gazing-through Celia.

‘Were you writing something?' Celia said.

Louisa shrugged. At dinner, she stared at Arthur, listened only to what he said.

One night, the events of Peace Night still burning hard into her mind, she thought she'd attempt to talk to Louisa. Arthur was outside, smoking.

‘The war must have been quiet at home,' she said. ‘It was quiet here for me too. Mama wanted me to stay. But I had to leave, I really had to. I wanted to go and help. Was it the same for you?'

Louisa shrugged and Celia took it as an encouragement – she started talking about being in the house with Verena, feeling alone, her desire to help. And then she wasn't stopping, the words tumbling out, talking on about France and her life there, confiding, describing. She talked of the men screaming for help, how she recited Shakespeare to them so the pain would stop, the relief when she arrived at the hospital, the white cloth doors ghostly against the dark sky. She talked about Shep, how she hadn't realised she was driving the ambulance in front of her and so when the bombs rained down, she'd thought it was someone else. It was only when she got out to help that she'd seen Shep's poor face. ‘Then I heard the news that Michael had died and I didn't go back,' she said. ‘The others wrote to me, but I didn't go back. I was too much of a coward. I just stayed in London.'

By the end, she'd been looking at her hands, staring at them as she talked. She knew her cousin was listening hard, that she'd clasp her hands, tell her how she could never imagine such horrors. They'd have a sympathy, so close you didn't need words. Louisa would understand. Celia looked up. But Louisa was staring out of the window. Her cousin wasn't looking at her at all. Celia watched her raise her hand, pick at her fingernail.

‘Cousin?' she said softly.

Louisa dropped her hand, looked at her, gave a smile. ‘It must have been very awful, Celia,' she said, quietly. She stared at the door. Celia knew: she was waiting for Arthur to come. They sat in
silence until he did, striding through the door, demanding Louisa, sweeping her off to look at something or other. After that, Celia stopped trying.

The year slipped by, into September. The leaves turned the colour of burnt honey on the trees. Emmeline wrote to the family that Albert was trying to sit up, Lily was still quiet. She didn't invite them to stay. There were demonstrations about work on the streets of London, near Parliament and the palace, but if Mr Janus was involved, Emmeline didn't tell them.

Celia wandered around the house, sat on her mossy stone under the tree. Rudolf had begun to tell her she needed a purpose. He talked about how, when he was her age, he was already setting up the business – and that Verena was married and learning to run the home. ‘You must do something, Celia,' he said. ‘Those school reports of yours from Winterbourne always said you had excellent potential. Now look!'

On the day Rudolf told her she needed an occupation, Celia threw herself on to her bed and wept. Then there had been a knock at the door.

‘Come in,' said Celia. She was hoping it was her father, meaning to apologise. ‘Oh, it's you,'

Louisa stood there, holding a flower. ‘I'm sorry you're sad, cousin. I came to see if I could help.'