The FitzOsbornes in Exile (16 page)

6th August 1937

Well, let’s get the awful bits over with first. The Basque Republic is on its knees, on the verge of total surrender. Most of the children at the Old Mill House have no idea what has happened to their families, but the Basque leaders all seem to be dead or in prison, apart from the few who’ve escaped into exile. Lord Elchester continues his campaign to deport the “little Basque hooligans” from England. Further east, the Japanese have invaded Peking and Miss Amelia Earhart remains missing without trace somewhere in the Pacific, having crashed her aeroplane.

It seems heartless of Nature, but here, the sun continues to beam, the fruit to ripen, the flowers to bloom, the birds to chirp, and the little furry creatures to scamper about in the undergrowth. The lake is our most successful distraction right now—we spend half our day either in it or lying beside it. Carlos is permanently damp and smells of waterweed. Estella the piglet, now almost as big as Henry, wallows happily in the ditch she’s dug near the jetty. Veronica and Simon have turned the color of butterscotch, Toby and Henry have sun-bleached curls and a golden glow, and I have a new crop of freckles.

We held a birthday picnic for Henry down by the lake, inviting all the Basque children, and they loved it (except Javier, who hates everything at the moment). And not even Javier could keep up his scowl when Estella stole his little sister’s cupcake out of her hand—the expression on Carmelita’s face as she tried to work out where it had gone was priceless. Goodness, even Aunt Charlotte found it difficult (although not impossible) to maintain her disapproving expression as she watched Toby lead the children in manic versions of Musical Cushions and Blind Man’s Bluff. She has made it clear to Henry that none of the Basque children, not even the Girl Guides, are to come within fifty yards of the house. She thinks they all have lice, or worse.

Perhaps I ought to have included Aunt Charlotte’s arrival at Milford Park amongst the awful bits. She’s in a very grumpy mood because her best horse narrowly lost some important race, beaten by one of the horses of her most loathed rival, a parvenu industrialist without so much as a
knighthood
. She’s a terrible snob—she wouldn’t have minded nearly as much if it’d been Lord Rosebery’s horse that had won. Still, I suppose our aunt
is
a distraction. It’s impossible to do anything
but
pay attention to her when she’s in the room, especially as she’s renewed her campaign to get at least one of us engaged to be married by the end of the year. She pores over
Debrett’s
in the manner of a horse trainer scrutinizing the studbook.

“There’s Billy Hartington, heir to the Duke of Devonshire,” she said this afternoon as we all sat around the tea table. “He’d do nicely for you, Veronica—apart from his many other advantages, he’s very
tall.
”

“He’s very
dull
,” said Veronica. “If he’s that Cambridge boy you made me sit beside at the Fortescue ball.”

“Although he’s probably
too
eligible,” Aunt Charlotte went on, right over the top of her. “The Palace is said to have him in mind for Princess Elizabeth.”

Toby pointed out that Princess Elizabeth is eleven years old.

“They grow up so quickly,” said Aunt Charlotte, turning pages. “Now, there’s Earl Fitzwilliam’s boy. Oh, I forgot—he married the Plunket girl. And really, when one’s nieces insist on getting tangled up with Communists and Basques and who knows what else”—she paused to glare at Veronica, who glared back—“and fail to accept a
single
house party invitation throughout the entire summer—not that there
were
very many invitations to begin with—then, sadly, one must accept that most of the decent English families are out of reach.” Heaving a sigh, Aunt Charlotte tossed
Debrett’s
aside in favor of the
Almanach de Gotha
. “Hmm, King Alfonso’s children are all of age now—”

“
Firstly
, I’m related to them,” said Veronica through gritted teeth. “And secondly, all the boys are either deaf-mutes or hemophiliacs.”

“Nonsense! The youngest boy’s perfectly normal—married already, unfortunately—but I was thinking of his sister. For Tobias.”

Toby, who’d been quite enjoying the conversation up till that point, choked on his cucumber sandwich.

“Infanta María Cristina,” said Aunt Charlotte, peering at the page. “Catholic, of course—not that we FitzOsbornes worry too much about that sort of thing. Still, it wasn’t such a success with
your
mother, was it, Veronica? I don’t know if one can blame it all on religion in her case, though—”

“Blame all
what
?” said Veronica, her eyes narrowing to dangerous slits.

“Oh, look, everyone!” cried Toby desperately, waving his newspaper around. “The Rector of Stiffkey’s been mauled to death by a lion!”

“I wouldn’t be surprised at
anything
that dreadful man gets up to,” snapped Aunt Charlotte. “And you know quite well what I mean about your mother, Veronica. As if finding a suitable husband for you isn’t difficult
enough
, without you running about dressed like a maid and acting like a chauffeur—there was no reason those children couldn’t have taken the bus to the dentist—not to mention writing that letter to
The Times
about Lord Elchester, I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life! And even if one could find a respectable family willing to ignore all
that
, there’s your scandal of a mother, bolted off from a perfectly good husband and who knows
what
she’s currently—”

Veronica stood up, sending her chair crashing backwards. “He was
not
a perfectly good husband!” she cried. “He had a vile temper, he treated her contemptibly, and now she’s dead!” Then she whirled on one heel and stormed off.

“What?” cried Aunt Charlotte, letting her teacup fall. “Dead? Why wasn’t I informed? Simon! Where is that young man?
Simon
! It is your responsibility to keep me advised of—And how did that
dog
get in here?”

Carlos looked up from the rug, where he’d been busy chewing burrs out of his paws. It was obvious to everyone that he’d had the run of the house while we’d been away—he knew his way round better than I did. But I jumped to my feet to lead him outside, grateful for the opportunity to escape. I decided against trying to find Veronica—I was fairly sure she’d prefer to be alone just then. Instead, I opened a side door for Carlos and followed him down towards the lake, my copy of Ernst Toller’s
Seven Plays
tucked under one arm. Daniel had sent it to Veronica, telling her she needed to read something other than newspapers once in a while, and she’d passed it on to me. It’s rather depressing, though. The author was exiled from Germany after his books were burnt by the Nazis, and his plays are full of war and suffering and death, all of which he describes in gruesome detail. The book isn’t really much of a success as a distraction, but I feel I ought to persist with it, for poor Herr Toller’s sake. I was wandering along, flicking through the pages and trying to find my place, when I nearly stumbled over Javier.

“Oh!” I said. “Sorry.”

He grunted what I presumed was a greeting. He was sitting on a rock, scowling at the lake. The sparkling water, the fluffy clouds drifting through the pale sky, the gently waving grass, all seemed to mock his misery.

“No word from your family, then?” I ventured, sitting down beside him.

“Word?” he repeated with an angry laugh. “No. No words.” He gave my book a scathing glance. “What good are words, anyhow? Or books, or writings.”

“Sometimes,” I said carefully, “they can be a comfort.
I’ve
found. When things get very bad.”

His glare softened. He knew about us, about Montmaray. I think the Basque children found it a strange comfort to know that we, too, had lost parents, had lost our home. He sighed.

“But words are no good against enemies,” he said, turning back to the lake. “They are not guns.”

“Well,” I said feebly, “guns are certainly very … Except they’re rather …”

I really didn’t want to think about guns. My gaze fell upon my book, and I suddenly recalled Herr Toller’s introduction, which I’d read the night before.

“But, Javier!” I said. “Wait, listen to this.” I fumbled for the right page. “This writer has just escaped from Germany, so he knows what he’s talking about, and he says, ‘The power of dictators is limited. They can kill the mind for a time and they can kill it in any one land. But across the border, they are impotent; across the border, the power of the word can save itself … the
word
, which in the long run is stronger and greater than any dictator, and will outlast them all.’ ”

I looked up, but Javier remained silent, staring out at the lake. We both watched Carlos paddle through the blue-green water, his bearded chin held high, a line of ducklings bobbing in his wake.

“You think that?” Javier said at last. “About … across the border?”

“Sometimes, across the border is the
only
place where one can fight dictators,” I said.

Carlos reached the bank, shook himself vigorously, then flung himself into the soft grass to squirm around. Estella trotted over to join him, grunting happily. I saw that Carlos, at least, had adapted to this new life with ease. Why did humans insist on clinging to the past, to things that were lost, probably forever? Why were we so stubbornly territorial, so uncompromising—and so
savage
to one another—when animals managed to get along quite nicely, wherever they were?

Of course, the rabbits of Milford Park might have quibbled with my benevolent view of Carlos.

“You are right,” Javier said abruptly. “Words help. Mr. Herbert shows me the letter.”

“What—oh, Veronica’s letter in
The Times.
”

“That man, he tells lies about us.”

“Lord Elchester? Yes, he’s horrid.”

“
I
would write a letter—no, not a letter, a long story with the truth. But my English is bad.”

“Write it in Spanish,” I said. “Veronica will translate it.”

“No, they will not put it in the newspaper.”

“Well,
The Times
is awfully Conservative. But there are other newspapers.”

Javier shook his head impatiently. “No, I am bad at writing. Even at school, my best teacher said …” His voice broke. Was his teacher in prison now or turned traitor or dead? I didn’t know, and neither did Javier, and he probably never
would
know. How
cruel
war is, I thought, for the hundredth time. Not just for killing soldiers by the thousands, not just for murdering women and children, but for tearing apart everything that makes up a normal, civilized life—children growing up with their parents, going to school …

Javier suddenly lurched to his feet, turning his face away from me, towards the village. “I am late.”

“Well, good—” I said. But he was already slouching through the grass, his shoulders hunched, his dark head bowed. As though he felt even the word “goodbye” was useless.

23rd October 1937

I am seventeen years old today but feel about a hundred and two. This morning, in a fit of nostalgia and homesickness, I read over my old journal—the battered, sea-stained one I started last year. Goodness, who
was
that person writing it? She seems so young, so pathetically hopeful, dreaming of her debutante dance and sighing over Simon. I should like to travel back in Mr. Wells’s Time Machine and give her some helpful advice, except I don’t have any to offer. Besides, I think the Time Machine only went forward, into the future. And I don’t think I want to know about
that
, especially if there’s nothing I can do to avoid the awful bits.

I
am
in a gloomy mood, aren’t I? A lot of it’s to do with missing Toby, now up at Oxford, and Simon, who’s gone to London, on Aunt Charlotte’s orders, to continue sorting through the mess of FitzOsborne financial records and investigate whether Isabella left Veronica anything in her will. (The latter task is, of course, quite pointless. Isabella’s family may have been Spanish aristocrats, but they weren’t particularly rich and they didn’t leave her a penny. Also, the idea of Isabella doing anything as organized as writing a will is laughable.)

Meanwhile, Veronica has decided she needs a thorough understanding of the British parliamentary system before she can even
begin
to convince the British government to help Montmaray, so she’s started working her way through the library’s bound volumes of
Hansard’s Parliamentary Debates
. Which apparently date back to 1830. Veronica never
used
to procrastinate like this. But if she
does
believe she was, in part, responsible for Montmaray’s destruction (which is absolute rubbish, but no use telling her that), it might explain why she’s so reluctant to act now. Better to do nothing than do something if there’s the slightest chance her actions might end in disaster. Except we’ve already lost Montmaray, so how could things possibly get any worse? Not that I have a clue about where to begin, either.

Aunt Charlotte, who knows nothing of all this, has insisted Veronica take over Simon’s job while he’s away. Veronica is just as capable as Simon of writing letters and keeping track of Aunt Charlotte’s committee meetings, but is not very good at being cheerful and obliging—hence the shouting that erupts at intervals from the library. I try to steer clear of that part of the house.

Toby and Rupert did invite Veronica and me to luncheon at their college last week, which might have cheered us up—if it had happened. We’d planned to stay in London at Montmaray House and do some shopping, then take the train up to Oxford. But Aunt Charlotte said no, because Veronica’s would-be assassin is still on the loose. Even though, as Veronica pointed out, we haven’t heard anything from him, or the police, for months and months. Then Aunt Charlotte said that “Smith” (as she persists in calling Phoebe) wasn’t a suitable chaperone for us (too young, too incompetent—it’s just lucky our aunt doesn’t know about Phoebe’s Blackshirt brother), and that Barnes was needed at Milford, so that was that. I think Aunt Charlotte was just annoyed
she
hadn’t been invited to luncheon (which was a bit tactless of Toby, I must admit).

Most of my indignation was on Veronica’s behalf, because I’d thought seeing Oxford might provide some enjoyable distraction for her. But she told me she’d probably feel sick with envy if she caught sight of a lady undergraduate, so perhaps it was better she stayed away, at least until she got used to the idea of Toby being there. Apparently, Oxford has
eight hundred
female students now—almost one for every six men! Goodness, that’s eight hundred sets of parents who are progressive enough (and rich enough) to send their daughters to university! And that doesn’t include the girls who go to Cambridge or … Actually, girls aren’t awarded degrees at Cambridge, Veronica has just told me, nor are they permitted to join any Cambridge clubs, nor wear caps and gowns—although they
are
allowed to attend lectures, as long as they don’t speak or applaud.

So I suppose it’s a good thing I don’t want to go to university. I don’t think I have the right sort of mind for it, anyway, judging by Rupert’s letters. He is reading English Literature and says it’s like school, only worse. He says the tutors are all obsessed with analyzing things. For instance, it isn’t enough to read a poem about Nature, and think it beautiful, and feel happy while reading it, and then drift off into a lovely memory of a summer’s day just after a sudden rainstorm, with the flowers still dripping and the warm, rich scent of new life rising from the black earth. No, one is expected to tear apart the stanzas and lines and words and even the spaces in between the words, and inspect all the broken pieces, and then write a long essay, with footnotes, about how and why the poet put it together in the first place. I think university would make me never want to read anything ever again.

I wrote back and asked Rupert why he wasn’t studying Agriculture or Biology or something like that. He replied that his father told him only a fool would try to learn that sort of thing from books, and if Rupert wanted to manage a farm, he could work on one of theirs—
after
he got a proper degree. Rupert also said he’d much rather be reading English than Economics, as his brothers did (or started to do—Charlie got sent down at the end of his first year for being drunk all the time and not turning up to exams). The rest of Rupert’s letter was about him finding the cook’s cat in the quadrangle after a fight with a terrier, and the veterinarian having to shave the cat’s hind legs in order to stitch up the cuts, so the poor thing now looks as though she were wearing a pair of long pink socks and is too embarrassed to be seen in public. It did not surprise me to learn that she is recuperating in Rupert’s room, sharing the space with three pigeons (in a box nailed above the window, in case the cat makes a sudden recovery) and the dormouse (on top of the wardrobe).

Rupert writes very good letters—not as funny as Toby’s, but more revealing of what he actually thinks and feels. In my letter to him, I just described what I’d been doing, which was not much—helping at the Old Mill House, mostly, and desperately trying to think of some indoor activities for the Guides. (Autumn has descended upon us like a wet gray blanket, and it’s not much fun shivering in the mist, icy raindrops trickling down the back of my neck, watching the girls practice their archery.) There
was
my article in
The Evening Standard
, but I thought it would be boasting to mention it to Rupert. Actually, it’s probably boasting to mention it
here
, except no one could possibly read this (my Kernetin is now so abbreviated that even Veronica would have problems deciphering it).

The article was all about the Basque children at Milford, and how beautifully behaved they are, and how well they’ve adapted to village life. I made sure I described them doing lots of wholesome English activities, like baking Victoria sponge cakes and going to church. I also explained how awful things were in Spain due to the war, especially with all the German bombing, but unfortunately, the editor took that bit out. (So it’s probably a good thing I didn’t follow Toby’s suggestion and send in something about Montmaray as well—they’d never have printed that.) Still, the children pinned up a copy of the article in the Old Mill House kitchen, and Veronica sent a clipping to Daniel, so I feel quite proud and almost like a proper writer.

There—recalling pleasant things
does
make one feel more hopeful about life! So I shall now list all my birthday presents—a string of seed pearls with matching drop earrings from Aunt Charlotte; a portable typewriter in a caramel-colored case from Veronica, Toby, Henry, and Simon; a copy of W. H. Auden’s
Look, Stranger
! from Daniel; a box of chocolates from Lady Astley; a bottle of Shalimar scent from Julia and Anthony, now returned from their honeymoon in France; and a blank journal with marbled sky-blue covers from Rupert, because I’d mentioned that I’d used up nearly all of my exercise book. And then the Basque children gave me a lovely birthday tea at the Old Mill House, and the Girl Guides presented me with a walking stick that they’d carved themselves, which will certainly come in handy, given Henry’s determination to get her tracking badge. I adore all my presents—but I think the typewriter and journal are my favorites, because they show that the others take my writing seriously (probably more seriously than I do).

I forgot to say that Daniel also sent us a newspaper clipping about Oswald Mosley getting hit on the head with a “metal object” after his Blackshirts started a riot in Liverpool, and Mosley having to go to hospital to see if his brain was all right, which is not really funny, but if anyone deserves to be hit on the head, it’s Mosley. The Blackshirts threw another brick through Daniel’s window, and his neighborhood has a lot of disgusting anti-Jewish slogans chalked, and even painted, all over the walls …

Oh, I’m back to the awfulness of life again. Bother. I think I’ll go to bed.