The Last Summer (18 page)

We sat in silence for a moment, and he held my hand once more. Then he moved from the sofa down to the floor, and on to one knee. He took hold of my hand again, looked up at me with newly serious eyes.

‘Clarissa . . .’ he began, and I knew what was coming. ‘This may be a little premature, may not be the perfect time, but I
have to ask you . . . will you do me the honour . . . will you marry me?’

I wasn’t prepared. I hadn’t expected a proposal that evening. And what could I say? I couldn’t say ‘no’. I couldn’t let him return to war burdened further by my rejection. I thought of Tom, and I heard my mother’s words:
Nothing could ever come of it . . . a truly pointless and impossible liaison . . . only lead to heartache – for you and for him
. . . I stared back at Charlie, into those kind blue eyes.

‘Yes, Charlie . . . yes, I will marry you.’

The foyer of Waterloo station that evening was chock-a-block: parents seeing off sons, wives clinging to husbands, children wrapped around the legs of their fathers.

‘This is a bloody nightmare,’ Charlie said. ‘Let’s get a cup of tea or something.’

We walked arm in arm across the heaving concourse to the station restaurant, and inside we managed to find a table tucked away in a corner. As Charlie summoned over a waiter and ordered a pot of tea for two, I removed my gloves and unbuttoned my coat. When I looked up, there he was: sitting a few tables away from us, with a girl.

I didn’t quite know what to do. Charlie had his arm around me, was busy saying something about his train and without thinking I moved my chair away from his and looked in the opposite direction. I felt sick. I didn’t want to see him with that girl; didn’t want him to see me with Charlie.

A moment later he was standing in front of us.

‘Oh, hello, Tom,’ I said, as though we’d seen each other quite recently; as though I didn’t really care. ‘I think you may have met Charlie at Deyning. Charlie, you remember Tom, Tom Cuthbert . . .’

Within a minute the four of us were huddled round the small table: Tom, his girl, Gloria, Charlie and me; looking for all the world like reunited old friends.

‘I’m so sorry about William,’ he said. I nodded but said nothing. I still wasn’t able to talk about Will in the past tense. In fact, I didn’t like to speak about him at all.

‘You know the trains are all cock-a-hoop, old boy? With a bit of luck we may find ourselves stuck here for sometime,’ Charlie said, and then he turned to me and added, ‘But poor Clarissa so hates these wretched goodbyes, don’t you, darling?’ And he pulled me to him in an overly tight embrace.

He and Charlie would be travelling on the same train to Dover and as they discussed the journey ahead of them, what time their crossing was likely to be, Gloria leant towards me. Wide eyed and smiling, she said, ‘Tom’s only had a few days. But we’ve made the most of it – if you know what I mean,’ and I felt myself my face tingle. I glanced over to him, caught his eye.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, of course.’ I didn’t know what else to say to her, didn’t want to talk to her.

‘You haven’t seen him in a while, have you?’ she asked, quietly.

‘No, it’s been . . . been some time,’ I said, pretending to look for something in my bag. It had been sixteen months.

‘I could tell. He looked like he’d seen a ghost when you walked in here,’ she whispered.

‘So, what have you two lovebirds been up to?’ Charlie asked, smiling at Gloria, who giggled. ‘Making up for lost time, I’ll bet!’ he added.

I glanced at Tom again, who looked awkward and attempted to smile back at me. And then I stood up and excused myself. In the ladies room I lit a cigarette and smoked it slowly. I was in no hurry to return to our impromptu little tea party and Charlie was irritating me with his
bon vivant
manner. As I sat in
front of the mirror, swaddled in my new fur-collared coat, smoking, I pondered on Tom and his girl: they’d quite obviously spent his entire leave
making up for lost time
as Charlie had so succinctly put it. What on earth did he see in her? She wasn’t his type at all, I thought, and then, as I stubbed out my cigarette, she appeared.

‘I do so like your coat, Clarissa,’ she said. ‘And I bet it cost a bob or two.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, rising to my feet, picking up my bag.

She was short, a good few inches shorter than me, and curvy in a way that was no longer fashionable. Perhaps he liked that shape. Perhaps I was not his type after all.

‘Have you and Tom known each other long, Gloria?’ I asked, glancing at the mirror and tucking an imaginary curl back in place.

‘Oh no, not long at all. But you know how it is – when you feel as though you’ve known someone for ever? That’s how it is with us.’ And then she disappeared behind the lavatory door.

When I returned to the table, Charlie and Tom were drinking glasses of beer.

‘You’d better not let anyone see you drinking,’ I said as I sat down.

The King, along with various members of the government, had recently vowed to abstain from alcohol for the duration of the war, to set an example and encourage others to do the same.

‘Ha! I hardly think one beer’s going to lead to ruin. And apparently we’ve another hour, darling. I’m sorry, I know how much you hate these places,’ he said.

‘No, not at all,’ I replied. And then I leant over and kissed him on his cheek.

He looked quite bashful for a moment, glanced at Tom, and said, ‘Golly, what it is to be loved, eh, Tom?’

Tom said nothing, and I didn’t look at him; I continued to
stare at Charlie with what I imagined to be love-struck devotion. And even when Gloria sat back down at the table, I kept my gaze resolutely upon Charlie, who glanced back at me with a look I can only describe as muted excitement.

‘Would either of you girls like a little something?’ Charlie asked, beginning to seem agitated by my continued gazing. ‘Clarissa? A cocktail, perhaps? I’m sure they’ll be able rustle you up
something
. . .’

‘Not for me, thanks, Charlie. I don’t on Sundays,’ Gloria said.

‘Darling?’ Charlie asked again.

‘Yes, why not. A glass of champagne, please,’ I replied.

Gloria giggled again.

‘I’m not sure they’ll have champagne here, sweetheart . . .’ Charlie said, looking about for our waiter. ‘But I shall go and enquire.’

I watched Charlie get up from the table, kept my eyes on him as he moved through the crowd towards the bar, as though mesmerised by some vision just beyond the khaki uniforms. I heard Tom say my name, ‘Clarissa . . .’ but I continued staring in Charlie’s direction. I don’t know why. But I couldn’t bear to turn and look into his eyes.

Then she spoke. ‘Clarissa . . .’

I turned to her, smiling.

‘I think Tom was trying to talk to you, Clarissa.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. Yes, Tom?’ I said, finally looking directly at him, into his solemn, unsmiling eyes. And for a moment, as he held me there, in silence, I knew that we both wished away our sweethearts. I knew that we were both in agony.

‘How is your father? I heard he’s been quite ill,’ he said.

‘He’s much better now, thank you.’

‘And your mother? Is she well?’

‘She’s quite well, thank you. And yours?’

‘Yes, she’s also well.’

He glanced down at my hand, resting on the table, moved
his own towards it, and then looked up into my eyes. ‘And you, Clarissa . . . how are you?’

I stared at him, unable to speak. From the corner of my eye I could see Gloria glancing from me to him then back to me.

‘Sorry, darling, no champagne, I’m afraid, so I’ve ordered you a sherry . . .’

I wrenched my gaze away from Tom to Charlie. ‘That’s perfectly fine,’ I said. ‘And perhaps more appropriate. After all, we have nothing to celebrate. Not yet.’

Charlie turned to me, smiling, took hold of my hand and said, ‘Or perhaps we do . . .’

I shook my head, mouthed the word ‘no’. We’d agreed to keep our engagement quiet, at least for the time being, and so no one apart from our respective parents knew. He squeezed my hand, nodded. I glanced over at Tom; he was watching us and I wondered what he’d seen, if he knew.

We sat there for what seemed to me an interminable time. I hardly uttered a word, but Charlie and Gloria chatted animatedly, and Tom managed the situation with a quiet calm. I was aware of him watching me as I sipped my drink, as I glanced about the place, as I smiled from time to time at Charlie and at Gloria, feigning interest in the conversation. I tried not to look at him. I tried but I couldn’t. And when I did, when I finally allowed myself to look back into his eyes, I could barely breathe. My longing for him simply overwhelmed my senses, blocking out all other sight and sound.

‘I imagine Clarissa’s changed somewhat since you last saw her, eh, Tom?’ Charlie said, and I realised he must have noticed Tom staring at me.

‘Yes. Yes . . . she’s quite grown up,’ he replied, still looking at me.

Charlie picked up my hand, kissed it. ‘And you know what? I think I’m the luckiest chap in all of England.’

Gloria laughed. ‘Aah, isn’t that lovely,’ she said, addressing me. ‘You’re a lucky duckie and a half. I wish someone would say that about me,’ she added, winking at me, and then she glanced at Tom, who’d turned away and was looking across the restaurant.

I pulled my hand away from Charlie and said, ‘I think we’d best get going now, dear.’

And as Charlie finished his drink and summoned the waiter for the bill, he said, ‘Allow me to get this, Tom.’ Then he turned to Gloria and said, ‘It’s been a rather pleasant surprise to have had this little seeing-off party to ourselves, has it not?’ and she laughed again.

I glanced once more at Tom as Charlie settled the bill, but he didn’t look at me. He stared out of a window behind me, frowning, his jaw set. I wondered what he was thinking, and I yearned to touch him: to reach out and take hold of his hand. When we stood up and moved outside to say goodbye, before those final, private adieus on the platform, he simply shook my gloved hand.

‘Goodbye, Tom. And good luck,’ I said, forcing a smile.

He stared at me, into my eyes. ‘Goodbye, Clarissa.’

My heart lurched as he turned and walked away, his girl on his arm, and Charlie must have seen something in my expression, because he said, ‘Is everything all right, darling? You’ve been acting a little peculiar all evening.’

‘These goodbyes . . . they’re just so wretched,’ I said.

On the platform, as Charlie held me, I looked for Tom. But I couldn’t see him, or his girl.

‘You best go now, get yourself a seat,’ I said.

‘So long as you’re sure you’re fine.’

‘I’m fine, Charlie, really I am.
Bon voyage
, sweetheart.’ He held me, kissed me, but I was distracted – and I know he sensed it. And as he climbed on board the train, I felt my heart shiver. ‘And Charlie . . . please, do look after yourself.’

I stood there for some moments, and then, as the guard passed by, I asked how long until the train departed. He pulled out his pocket watch: ‘Three minutes, miss,’ he replied. I moved down the platform, searching the packed carriages, excusing myself as I weaved my way through uniformed soldiers, embracing couples and bags. I know it sounds awful now, as though I didn’t care about Charlie, and I did, I really did care, but I had to see Tom again. I knew I’d hear a whistle blow at any moment and that would be it. I knew that I might be making a fool of myself but I didn’t care. I knew he had his girl with him but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. I was almost at the end of the platform when I stopped and glanced through a window, and there he was.

As soon as he saw me we smiled at each other and in a way that would have been enough: enough for me to hold on to and perhaps enough for him too. But he leapt up, disappeared for a moment and then reappeared at the open window of the carriage door. And I was already there, of course. We had seconds.

He reached out and took hold of my hand as I climbed up on to the footboard. He pulled off my glove, held my palm over his mouth; his eyes closed. And I couldn’t speak. I wanted to say so much but the words wouldn’t come.

Then he looked at me. ‘Clarissa,’ he said. And that was all he said: my name. The whistle blew, he let go of my hand and I stepped down. As the carriage lurched and began to pull away I stood perfectly still, my eyes fixed on him: his eyes, his face, and then his outline; until the front of the train curved away, and he disappeared from view.

I stood there for some time watching the packed carriages as they moved along the platform, a blur of khaki and smoke, and unknown smiling faces. And even after the light at the end of the train had vanished I continued to stand there, staring down the empty track into the blackness. I can’t recall anyone
else on the platform, yet I know it was crowded, that I was surrounded by people. I thought: my heart is on board that train; my heart is bound for France. It wasn’t over. It would never be over.

In the taxicab, heading home, I realised I was missing one glove.

My father died on September the seventh, 1916. He was fifty-eight years old and for me, at least, his death was sudden and premature. He’d never completely regained his former health or vitality after his bout of pneumonia the previous year, and when he became ill for a second time, my mother had feared the worst and tried to prepare me. He was laid to rest in the mausoleum he’d built at the churchyard close to Deyning.