The FitzOsbornes in Exile (17 page)

20th December 1937

We’ve just arrived back at Milford after a week in London. Henry desperately needed new clothes (one can almost
see
her sprouting upwards, like a bean plant), and the rest of us had Christmas shopping to do. Miss Bullock took Henry to the Zoo and the Natural History Museum, and I accompanied them to watch the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace.

Veronica and I also had luncheon with Julia, at the Park Lane flat where Julia and Anthony are living while their house in Belgravia is being done up. Julia apologized for how small and squashed the flat was, but
I
didn’t think it was, not at all. It took up an entire floor of the building and seemed even larger because it was so bright. All the furniture was white, except for a chrome-plated sideboard, and the wallpaper was ivory with silver stripes. There were big vases of iceberg roses set everywhere, huge looking glasses on the walls, and a set of towering windows framing the wintry expanse of Hyde Park. It seemed as though everything should be freezing to the touch, but there was also a ferocious central heating system pouring hot air through vents in the floor.

“It’s like living inside a lightbulb,” said Julia. “Ant’s mother had it done up ten years ago, when I’m sure it was horribly fashionable, but … Oh well! Beggars can’t be choosers!”

There couldn’t possibly be anyone who looks
less
like a beggar than Julia. She brought back three trunks of clothes and jewelry from Paris, and all her new outfits are extremely chic, fit her superbly, and appear to have cost thousands of pounds. She has lost some weight (even her eyebrows seem thinner) and has stopped being pretty in favor of being glamorous. She also seemed more than a bit tired. Anthony was rushing off to a meeting at his club as we arrived, and Julia snapped at him, telling him his tie was appalling and to go and change it at once, which he did. He didn’t seem to mind being bossed about. Perhaps he likes it? But Julia didn’t seem to enjoy it much.

“Finally,” she sighed, sinking into a shiny white sofa once he was gone. “Now we can have a lovely chat. You must tell me
everything
you’ve been up to.”

Veronica talked about the Basque refugees for a while, but I thought Julia probably got enough of that from Anthony, so I told her about Henry saying she didn’t think much of the security arrangements at Buckingham Palace, and being very disappointed when Piccadilly Circus turned out to be utterly devoid of clowns, elephants, and acrobats.

“Heavens, that
child
!” said Julia, starting to laugh and looking slightly less weary. “And how’s our darling Toby?”

Veronica said he was his usual lazy self. He’s only attended two lectures all term (neither of which had anything to do with the subjects he’s supposed to be studying), he failed to hand in his last essay, and he spends most of his time having very long luncheons and even longer dinners. I did wonder why Julia didn’t already know this from Rupert’s letters.

“
Rupert’s
letters!” snorted Julia. “Goodness, a couple of sentences about the weather and his work and how are
we
? He might as well send a postcard. Do you mean to say you get proper letters from him? With actual paragraphs? Well, my
dear
! You
are
privileged—”

Veronica saw me starting to blush and quickly asked whether Julia and Anthony had visited the Louvre during their time in Paris, and was it true that it had a better collection of Roman art than the British Museum? Julia said she had no idea, but that the
Mona Lisa
was so tiny and dark she couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. The Eiffel Tower, on the other hand, seemed far
larger
than in pictures, especially when one’s husband insisted on one climbing hundreds of steps to the second level.

At that point, the maid came in to announce luncheon was served, but the subject of Paris was fascinating enough to last us all the way through the spinach soufflé and then the pheasant à la Normande.

“Actually, I’m surprised your aunt hasn’t sent you two over to Paris for finishing school,” said Julia, nodding at the maid to bring in the next course. “Or at least to do some shopping.”

Veronica explained about the FitzOsbornes not being very keen on France, on account of Napoleon shooting a hole in our castle wall, and then the disaster of the Great War. “Besides, she wouldn’t trust us over there by ourselves,” Veronica said as we were served slivers of an exquisite tarte au citron.

“What, she thinks you’d elope with an Anarchist?” asked Julia.

“Something like that,” I said, giving Veronica a meaningful look so she wouldn’t mention the Crazed Assassin. After all, the attack had occurred on Julia’s wedding day—had almost ruined the event entirely for her. And then, of course, I couldn’t help recalling Julia’s floods of tears that morning. I was longing to ask whether she now regarded her doubts beforehand as silly and schoolgirlish, or perfectly sensible. Was it wonderful to be married, I wanted to know, or terrible, or simply a
relief
after all the trouble everyone took to get girls married off? But it seemed rude to ask, and if Julia believed she
had
made a colossal mistake, she’d hardly admit it a mere six months later. I did ask what she did all day in London, as it turned out Anthony was often away at the family estate, learning how to manage it.

“Oh, darling, you wouldn’t
believe
how busy I am,” she said. “Supervising the maids and sorting out the menu with Cook—not that she pays the slightest bit of attention to me, just says, ‘Yes, m’lady,’ and goes on with whatever she’d already planned—and then there’s invitations to answer, having one’s hair and nails done, dress fittings … Then luncheon out, usually, and in the afternoon, meeting friends at the Forum—my club, you know,
far
more modern than the poor old Alexandra Club, I suppose your aunt belongs to that one—or else a fashion show or an art exhibition, generally some charity thing, then tea, then it’s time to dress. Dinner, then a concert or the theater, then supper and going somewhere to dance—”

The maid set biscuits and five sorts of cheese in front of us.

“—and so by the end, one is simply
longing
to collapse into bed and never get up again!”

I took a piece of the blue-and-white cheese, because I’d always wondered what mold tasted like, and discovered it was nicer to look at than to eat. So I had a wedge of Camembert with a buttery biscuit, which was glorious.

“Not that I’m complaining,” Julia went on. “Heavens, when I think of how it was at home! Perishing of boredom, forbidden from doing
anything
interesting …”

“But, Julia, you did lots of things!” I couldn’t help protesting. “You were always going up to London, or off on flying trips with Anthony.”

“Only after I got engaged, and really only one proper flying trip—well, you know about that one—and Daddy had a fit when he found out. No, no, it’s
much
better being married,” she said, but in tones that made me wonder if she was trying to convince herself. Then she told the maid we’d have our coffee in the drawing room, and the coffee was black and deliciously bitter and came in gorgeous little pink-and-green Sèvres cups with a bowl of chocolate truffles.

And now writing about all the scrumptious food Julia gave us has made me ravenous. Aunt Charlotte and Toby have gone to the Bosworths’ for a luncheon party (Veronica and I weren’t invited), Simon is in Poole, and Harkness the butler is at his sister’s wedding in Bristol, so the servants are having a bit of a holiday, except for the kitchen staff, who are frantically busy with Christmas preparations. (How odd, the idea that stirring the Christmas pudding or decorating the Christmas tree is just another chore on a busy servant’s list. I wonder if they look forward to it, and find it as much fun as we used to do? Although I may be romanticizing Christmas at Montmaray a bit. Last year’s was actually pretty awful, if I’m being honest with myself.) Anyway, due to the kitchen staff being rushed off their feet, we just had the nursery luncheon today, boring old shepherd’s pie and not much of it, either. It’s at least another hour till teatime, so I think I’ll go downstairs to try to find a biscuit and see what Veronica’s doing …

Well! What Veronica was doing was GETTING ATTACKED BY THE CRAZED ASSASSIN! My hand is shaking too much to write neatly … and now Aunt Charlotte’s back, judging by the shouting. Yes, it must have been her car that I heard a moment ago. I’d better go …

Later. I am now tucked up in bed and Barnes has brought in a pot of hot chocolate, “for the shock.” I explained that I’m not in shock anymore, and suggested she give it to Phoebe, who collapsed in hysterics again after the police left, but Barnes only pursed her lips and stalked off. Poor Phoebe. At last, there is silence … Except Henry and Carlos have just burst through my door.

“Hot
chocolate
!” Henry cries. “
I’ve
only got a glass of warm milk with disgusting skin on top. I do think that’s unfair,
considering
. Are you writing everything down? You ought to use your typewriter and send it to the newspaper!”

If I were typing this, I’d still be on the first line, searching for the full-stop key. (I’m teaching myself out of a book, but the keys seem to be arranged in a very illogical manner.) Henry has gone off to fetch my tooth mug so she can share my hot chocolate. No, she’s back. I’ve said they may stay,
if
they don’t disturb me. Now Carlos is drinking Henry’s no-longer-hot milk from my saucer, as quietly as he can. The skin of milk is plastered to his whiskers, and he’s shaking his head and pawing at his nose …

Is it obvious I’m trying to put off reliving this afternoon’s terrible events?

All right, here goes. So, I went down the staircase into the Marble Hall and was about to turn into the corridor that leads off the Hall, towards the dining room and the door to the kitchen stairs, when I heard Veronica’s voice. She was using the imperious tone she keeps especially for Simon.

“How did
you
get in here?” she demanded.

But Simon wasn’t due back till after tea, and he would’ve come in through the front door, as he always did. Who
was
she talking to? Without much thought to the matter, I charged on, round the corner, into the corridor—and then came to an abrupt, horrified halt.

For there stood Veronica, her back to me, and there, a mere five feet away, was the Crazed Assassin, pointing a silver pistol straight at Veronica’s heart. Veronica’s head whipped round at the sound of my footsteps, her expression switching from anger to alarm when she saw me—as though only a threat to someone
else
counted. But I barely registered this at the time. The gun had such a mesmerizing effect that it was impossible to focus on anything but those two gaping, malevolent holes, one on top of the other, an ominous gleam discernible deep within their darkness. With a supreme effort of will, I jerked my gaze away, up into the face of the person who held the gun.

“Why, it’s
you
!” I cried out.

“Who?” asked Veronica—clearly not the most pressing issue at that particular moment, but I quite understood her curiosity.

“It’s Rebecca’s roommate from Poole! She saw you that day we—”

“Quiet!” barked the woman. Her voice was hoarse, and she was as tall as Veronica, though much broader in the shoulders. In her bulky overcoat, she might easily be mistaken for a man—
had
, in fact, been assumed to be one, by me, outside St. Margaret’s, and by all of us at Julia’s wedding reception. “But I don’t need to kill you,” the woman spat at me. “Just
her
.” And she tilted the gun barrels towards Veronica’s face.

“
Kill
me? With that thing?” scoffed Veronica, nevertheless edging backwards. Her arm came up to shove me behind her, but I wasn’t having any of that. If Veronica was the target, it made sense for me to be in front. “I mean, it wasn’t very successful last time, was it?” Veronica went on as I tried to step around her arm. “You really ought to—”

“Shut up! Shut up!” shrieked the woman. “Don’t tell me what to do!”

How on earth could they have let her out of the clinic?
I thought desperately.
Anyone
could see she was stark raving mad! But wait—what would that head therapist have done to calm her down?

“Just a minute,” I said, raising my palm. “First, we need to explore exactly how you feel about Veronica.”

Veronica looked at me as though
I
were mad, but at least the gun barrels lowered an inch or two.

“I mean,
why
do you dislike her?” I asked the woman as I continued to struggle, surreptitiously, against Veronica’s restraining arm. “You haven’t even met her—well, not properly. Is it something Rebecca said about her? We ought to consider whether Rebecca was slightly … confused at the time.”

“Oh!” cried the woman. “Oh, it’s not just her being a harlot! And a liar! And stealing other people’s husbands!” (Heavens, Rebecca really
had
gone completely round the twist.) “No, it’s her being a disgusting Red! Messing about with filthy Spanish hooligans! And disrespecting the
Leader
!”

And, with a dramatic flourish, she tore open her coat lapel to reveal her black shirt, black breeches, long black boots—and shiny British Union of Fascists badge.

“I … I didn’t even know ladies
could
be Blackshirts,” I said faintly. “At least … not with uniforms and everything.”

“The Leader says that under Fascism, women will be valued and honored!”

“Who’s … Are you talking about Mosley?” I asked.

“The
Leader
says every true British citizen, male and female, must fight for Britain! The Leader doesn’t want war, but he won’t back away from taking on the Russians! And beating them!”

“Er … but Veronica’s not Russian,” I said. I was having difficulty following her logic, which was only partly due to the terrifying presence of the gun. I wondered if Mosley was as crazy as his followers, or whether he simply happened to attract people who were violently insane. Meanwhile, I could sense Veronica shifting from foot to foot beside me as she weighed up our options. The gun, if it was the same one Lord Astley had described, held two bullets and could only kill at fairly close range. Which was … what, five or six feet? More? Unfortunately, neither of us were wearing corsets or bulletproof silk vests. If we turned and ran, would we be able to get far enough away before she pulled the trigger? How good was her aim? I could tell Veronica was considering lunging forward and wrestling the woman to the ground. With the element of surprise, Veronica and I stood a fair chance against her—but who could say where the gun might be pointing if it accidentally (or otherwise) went off? Surely the best thing would be to keep her talking—perhaps we could actually talk her into
surrendering
.