The House of Vandekar (19 page)

‘It's something personal for you from me,' he said. ‘I don't want you to open it until you're at home. I wish it was something nicer for you, my darling, but at least it's the only one of its kind.'

‘I've nothing for you,' she said, and bit her lip hard so as not to let her eyes fill.

‘I don't need anything,' he said. ‘I carry you inside myself.'

‘I can say the same,' she whispered, but he had started the car and didn't hear.

She stood under the great portico at Ashton and waved him goodbye until the car had turned out of the main courtyard and vanished among the trees. She stood there looking after him, the envelope under her arm, until one of the convalescent officers came up the steps from an afternoon walk and said, ‘Good evening, Mrs Vandekar. Getting chilly, isn't it?'

‘Yes,' Alice said, and shivered. ‘Yes it is.' And she went inside.

She opened the envelope and found a little notebook. She read his poetry that night. He wrote of his love for her and his passion, of his journey through the deepest despair to a shining hope that made it possible for him to leave her at the end. His spirits had soared while he wrote, there was so much joy and strength and pride in the words and the images that Alice read them without tears. The inscription, ‘To my darling, who made my darkness into light,' seemed to her as beautiful as anything else in the little book.

And then there was the letter, slipped between the last page. Not a long letter, written while they were staying in Poole. It was headed ‘Wednesday morning'. ‘My darling. You won't hear from me for a time, but don't worry. I'm not going to be in London after all. There's work for me to do, and that work means silence until it's finished. I love you with all my heart, and when it's over I believe we'll be together. Wait for me. Nicholas.'

‘Promise me,' she'd said. ‘Promise me you won't let them persuade you to go back.'

It wasn't France. It couldn't be. He'd said himself, ‘My cover's blown, I'd be arrested within hours.' He hadn't broken his promise and gone back. Whatever his work was, it must be safe. Not Baker Street but something more confidential – that was why he couldn't contact her. It must be that. She walked up and down, folding the letter into smaller and smaller squares until it began to tear and she didn't even notice. They wouldn't send him back to France. The telephone rang. She swung round, almost running to reach it, hoping perhaps it was him. But it was her mother-in-law, Beatrice, sobbing down the phone. For a moment Alice felt the ground shift under her. Hugo. But it was Phillip, the brother she'd seen in RAF uniform, drinking champagne on the last family reunion. He had been shot down in action over North Africa, missing, believed killed. Beatrice was broken-voiced and almost incoherent. ‘Alice, Alice, what am I to do? Oh my poor boy, my poor boy …'

‘Where are you?' she asked. ‘Beatrice, where are you?'

‘London. They phoned me from Sussex and read the telegram over the phone. I can't bear it. I can't bear it!'

‘You stay there,' Alice said. ‘Don't go back home. Stay where you are. I'm coming to get you and bring you home with me. Hold on, try to stay calm. I'll be with you some time tonight, I guess. I'll beg, borrow or steal petrol, otherwise I'll take the train.'

Dr Banks gave her his petrol coupons and insisted on driving her himself.

‘My dear girl,' he said, ‘there's no question of your trying to make that journey on your own, let alone attempting to go by train. I'll get you there before the blackout, we'll collect your mother-in-law and set out at once. We don't want to be caught in a raid and have to stay for the night. Besides, I can look after her on the journey if she's in a bad way.'

‘Lily! Lily!' Lily heard the urgency and came up the stairs at a run. She'd been down to the village for sewing materials. Alice hadn't been expected back until the evening. ‘Madam, what is it? What's the matter? Oh, my God.'

Alice was leaning against the door, white-faced. ‘Mr Phillip's been killed,' she said. ‘No, don't start fussing over me – get Mrs Vandekar's room ready. Hot-water bottles, light a fire if you can. Dr Banks is driving me down and we're going to bring her home here. She can't be alone in that bloody house in Sussex.'

‘Madam, I don't think …'

Lily was rewarded by a furious, ‘Shut up. Shut up and don't argue. Do as I say for once, will you?'

Alice slammed the door. Lily knew when she was beaten. Not even she would have dared say another word. She went off to do as she was told.

Alice had never liked her mother-in-law. They had tolerated each other over the years and paid lipservice to the conventions. But Beatrice recognized strength and turned instinctively to her daughter-in-law. Phillip had been her favourite, softer than Hugo, more demonstrative even as a child. Losing him broke her spirit – she gave herself into Alice's hands and let grief have its way.

Alice was patient with her weeping and distress; she pitied her without understanding the mother's anguish for a child. She tried to comfort her, to support her, concentrating on making the old lady comfortable and seeing she wasn't left alone.

But Beatrice was disintegrating; she didn't eat or sleep and there was a frightening lack of self-direction. She didn't brush her hair or change her clothes.

Alice conferred with Dr Banks. ‘It's very sad,' he said. ‘Some people do react like this, especially if it's a favourite son. It's such a pity your husband's away. If he could have got a few days' compassionate leave, it would have helped her. Of course, you could, you know.'

‘How?' Alice demanded. ‘For God's sake, I've done everything I can think of. What else can I do?'

‘You could tell her about her grandchild,' he suggested. ‘I think that would make a lot of difference. Give her something to look forward to.'

Alice didn't answer.

He watched her for a moment and then made an excuse and left. There was something odd about the situation, and he had heard enough rumours to guess why the lady was so reluctant to reveal the news. In all probability it was Armstrong's child. But that was no business of his. He'd offered advice on old Mrs Vandekar's behalf and, in his view, on the young one's as well. It was up to her to take it or not. She was strong-willed enough.

Beatrice Vandekar wiped her eyes. Alice sat beside her. Beatrice had taken hold of her hand and was gripping it tightly. ‘I'm so glad, my dear. I'm so glad,' she repeated. ‘If only my poor Phillip had married …'

Alice said kindly, ‘Well, this baby will be part of him too, you know. A little nephew or niece. Think of it like that.'

‘Oh, I will, I will,' Beatrice agreed. ‘I'm so happy for you and Hugo. And you're so brave to have a baby at such a terrible time. Thank you for telling me, my dear. Thank you for being so good to me.' And she began to cry again.

But there was a difference. Alice sensed it and blessed Banks for his good sense. Beatrice was diverted from her single-minded grief. She was not very intelligent, but she was endowed with maternal feelings that were powerful enough to combat her sorrow. A new baby was going to be born. Hope flickered in her and remained steady, like a tiny flame. She wiped her eyes again and said, ‘Does little Fern know?'

‘Not yet,' Alice answered. ‘You're the first person I've told. Hugo doesn't know either. I wanted to be sure before I said anything.'

‘It'll be lovely for her,' Beatrice mused. ‘She'll be so happy to have a little brother or sister. I hope it's a boy for both your sakes. Boys are so wonderful, especially to their mothers. My Phillip was always such a darling to me.'

‘I know he was,' Alice said. ‘But you've got to pull yourself together now. You've made yourself quite ill these last few days. Phillip wouldn't want that. You owe it to him, Beatrice, to get back to normal. You've got to try, from today on.'

‘I will try,' Beatrice said. ‘Why don't we go and see Fern and tell her?'

‘Why don't I get her and she can sit with you for a while?' Alice suggested. ‘I have things I ought to do downstairs. You wait here and I'll go up to the nursery.'

Fern opened her drawing book. She had some homework every teatime, but that was finished. She had come back after spending an hour with her grandmother, who was always crying and sniffing and trying to cuddle her. Wonderful news, my darling, she'd said, wonderful news. You're going to have a baby brother or sister.

And there was her mother standing to one side, echoing that silly old grandmother. ‘It'll be fun for you,' were her brisk words. ‘Someone to play with later on.' She had a nasal voice that Fern hated. But it wasn't soapy and sugary like her grandmother's. If only Daddy had been there. But he'd been gone for ages, leaving her alone with all these women. Soppy Miss Groves, the governess, smarming up to her mother; that horrid Lily, who'd actually slapped her once when she was rude to her; and, worst of all, her mother, her wicked mother, who'd kissed a man and lied about it, and had him to sleep in her bedroom. Fern knew all about that because she had become an expert spy. She crept about the house, listening at doors and watching people who thought themselves alone. She imagined that she was invisible, like a ghost in the story book seeing through walls.

Now they had sprung this horrible surprise on her and told her she was going to be happy about it. ‘I'm not,' she said aloud, ‘I'm going to hate it. I don't want a brother or a sister.' She drew a circle in her book, stabbed two dots for eyes and a line for a mouth, and then scored it viciously with her pencil. ‘I'm going to hate you,' she said again.

There was no word from Nicholas. One week passed and then the next. Alice read his poems and the tattered letter over and over, as if by doing so she kept him close to her. And safe. Because she was becoming frightened. Twice she telephoned the group captain to be told that he was out of London and unavailable. Alice felt the denial was deliberate. She resisted the temptation to go to London and beard Wallace unexpectedly in his office. Nick might be angry if she went so far. She waited, and that waiting took its toll in sleeplessness and worry.

At five months she was able to conceal the baby by careful dressing. Fern had made her swell up very early. There were fifteen new arrivals at Ashton and Alice tired herself out looking after them. She was taking a short walk one afternoon with a young pilot officer who'd been shot in the left leg and was hobbling on a stick. He'd be fully recovered in a few weeks and talked hopefully of going back to flying. For his own sake Alice hoped he wouldn't.

‘I think we've gone far enough,' she said. ‘If it's a nice day tomorrow, I'll take you down to the walled garden. But you mustn't do too much on that leg.'

He smiled at her. What a smasher she was, he thought. She made you feel better just by talking to you. He'd written so much about her in his letters home, his fiancée had got quite upset. No harm in being a bit in love with her. Impossible not to be really. His leg ached but he had to walk on it. He didn't mind so long as she went with him.

She saw the RAF car parked in the forecourt. A uniformed WAAF was sitting in the driving seat. She helped her charge negotiate the steps up to the entrance, and as they came into the hall a VAD came up to them. ‘Hello,' she said. ‘Had a nice walk? Mrs Vandekar, there's someone to see you. He's in your sitting room.'

‘Oh, thank you,' Alice said breathlessly, then she almost ran in her excitement. Nick was back. It must be Nick.

It was Group Captain Wallace, standing by the fireplace with his hands locked behind his back. Alice stopped dead inside the doorway. He cleared his throat.

Before he could speak she said, ‘What's happened to Nick?' He came towards her. She couldn't read his eyes.

‘Come and sit down, Mrs Vandekar,' he said gently. ‘I'm afraid I have bad news.'

She went so white he put out a hand to steady her. Alice brushed it aside. She said, ‘He's dead, is that what you mean? You mean he's dead?'

‘Yes,' Wallace answered. ‘That's why I came to tell you myself. It'll be public knowledge by this evening. I know how much you did for him and how devoted he was to you. I didn't want you to hear it on the news.'

She moved to a chair and sat down. Dead. Nick was dead. She heard him say, ‘Are you all right?' and her own voice answer, ‘I'm fine. Tell me. Tell me what happened …'

He perched himself on the edge of the sofa. Thank God she hadn't broken down and lost control. He was useless at this sort of thing at the best of times. But he owed it to Armstrong. Armstrong had made him promise to see her if anything went wrong. He cleared his throat again.

She had an impulse to scream at him, but just managed to check it. She said, ‘You sent him back, didn't you? There was never a job in Baker Street.'

‘There would have been,' he said, ‘if this had been successful. He was the only person who could do it, you see. He couldn't have gone into active work anywhere in occupied France, that was out of the question. But this was a special mission. Let me explain it to you, please, before you jump to conclusions.

‘Six weeks ago we got word that the Gestapo intended moving a batch of Resistance prisoners from Lyons to Paris. That was the first stage on their journey to the Avenue Foch. Among those prisoners were two very important Allied agents. Neither had been able to commit suicide before they were captured. They had vital knowledge, Mrs Vandekar. Knowledge that would have ruined years of patient work in France by our people once the Germans got it out of them. As they would have done in the end. They had to be rescued.'

He paused. ‘Would you mind if I had a cigarette?' She shook her head, when he tried to offer her one. Then he went on. ‘We mounted a bombing raid on the prison in Lyons. It was very risky stuff, low-level, accurate targeting. Our objective was to blow out the main wall in the exercise area to pinpoint a part of the building which would allow the prisoners to escape. This is where Nick was vital. Nick knew the prison. He'd been held there himself. He knew exactly where we had to aim for and, more important, where we mustn't hit. Otherwise the people we were trying to rescue would have been killed. You can imagine the propaganda value that would have been to the Germans if the French believed we'd gone in and deliberately killed their people to stop them giving anything away.' He hoped she'd say something, but she didn't.