The Last Summer (21 page)

He nodded. ‘Yes, I heard. You’ve been through such an awful time, Clarissa . . . awful.’

‘No different to anyone else really. Life’s not exactly turned out the way we all expected, has it?’

He looked down, shook his head.

‘But you’re here,’ I added, desperate to lighten the ambience, ‘and that . . . that
is
good.’

He bit his lip, looked back at me, his head tilted to one side, and I placed my hand upon his arm. ‘I can’t begin to imagine what’s it been like for you, Tom . . . what it must be like out there.’

And because he didn’t speak, didn’t reply, and because I thought I needed to fill that silence with words, I continued, ‘And I’ve thought of you . . . I’ve wondered about you, how you are, where you are . . . and wondered if our paths would cross . . . and now . . . now they have.’

But he said nothing. And then, for what seemed to me an interminable time, but may have only been seconds, we held each other’s gaze; and in that time, in that look, we said everything. And without any sound, without any words spoken, I heard him think my name, over and over.

‘Are you going to introduce us, Clarissa?’

I turned. Rose was standing at my side, her eyes fixed on Tom.

‘Yes, of course . . . Rose, this is Tom . . . Tom Cuthbert, an old friend of mine, from Deyning.’

‘How do you do,’ she said, extending her hand, and no doubt expecting him to take it to his lips. But he didn’t. He glanced at her, shook her hand and smiled politely, then looked back to me.

‘You must forgive me, Rose. I haven’t seen Clarissa for some time and I’m keen to hear her news . . .’

‘Oh. Oh, I see. Yes, of course, don’t mind me,’ she replied, and turned back towards the others.

It was so crowded in that hallway, with people arriving all the time, calling out to friends they recognised and loudly pushing forward. And forced even closer by the crush of that revelry, I grabbed hold of his shoulder to steady myself, and he put his arm around me and held me to him. In that great swell of bodies no one could see the firmness of his hold, my arms around him, our bodies pressed together. Neither of us spoke, we simply stood there, looking at each other, dazed by our sudden reconciliation.

‘Is Gloria here?’

‘It was nothing, Clarissa. It meant nothing.’

‘I rather think it did to her.’

‘Perhaps, but it’s the way of the war,’ he said.

‘You never wrote to me.’

He shook his head. ‘I wrote. Please, can we go somewhere? I think we need to talk.’

‘Yes, but I need to—’ I began, but he took hold of my hand, and gripping it as though his life depended on it, he led me through that merry chaos and out of the front door.

Outside, people loitered on the steps, smoking, and leant against the railings in intense, intimate conversation. And it felt strange, almost illicit, to be out there, alone – with him.

‘I can’t stay out here,’ I said, pulling my hand from his. ‘Henry’s here and he’ll—’

‘And he’ll tell your mama? Let me have a moment with you, please? Just a moment, Clarissa.’

‘But I’m cold,’ I said, shivering, and he took off his regimental jacket, placed it around my shoulders, then lit us both a cigarette.

‘I wrote to you . . .’ he said, and then sighed. ‘I wanted to tell you, wanted to tell you that day at the station. The reason you didn’t receive my letters, Clarissa, is because your mother intercepted them. She found out – don’t ask me how – about your arrangement with Broughton. And she spoke to my mother.’ He paused. ‘She asked my mother to inform me that I was, under no circumstances, to correspond with her daughter again,’ he added, imitating Mama’s voice, and pulling his jacket around me more tightly. ‘I wanted to write to you,’ he continued, ‘I longed to write to you. I wanted to tell you all of this, but there was no way I could. I knew you were here, in London, but I knew that if I wrote to you here your mother would simply take my letters.’

I didn’t say anything. I was piecing things together, running over what he’d told me in my mind. Mama had taken his letters; his letters to
me
.

‘Clarissa . . .’

‘Let’s walk,’ I said.

‘But . . . Henry?’

‘He’ll not notice. Has he seen you? Does he know you’re here?’

‘No, I’m not sure . . . I don’t think so.’

‘Come along then,’ I said, taking hold of his arm.

We walked down the street slowly, in silence. Then, a little faster, we crossed Park Lane and entered Hyde Park. It was black and it was cold, but all I wanted was some time alone with him. All I wanted was to feel his arms around me once more and know that he was mine.

We moved quickly across the grass, under the low branches, and then up against the damp bark, he pulled me to him. ‘Clarissa . . .’ he whispered, taking my head in his hands, and then his
mouth was over mine, his tongue wrapping itself around my own. He moved his lips down my neck on to my shoulder, murmuring my name again. And as I lifted his head I traced the contours of his face with my fingers. I found his mouth with my own, pushed my tongue into it as his hands moved up through my hair, cradling my head as we kissed. And as I sank further into a state of bliss, I heard myself say his name and drew him closer, wrapping him into me, into his jacket, so that we were cocooned, melting into the ancient tree; invisible to the world, lost in the blackness.

And as his kisses became harder, more desperate, I felt his hands move over my breasts, down my gown to my hips; his breath quickening as he lifted folds of satin, his open mouth pressed on to my neck. I heard him moan as his fingers strayed above my stockings, caressing my bare flesh. And I was lost; I was nowhere. Nothing existed other than him, his touch. I moved my hands down his back, on to his buttocks, pulling him to me. All I knew was my own desire. He was there; he was real. I couldn’t see him but I could hear him, taste him, smell him. And lost in that blindness – in the heart of a city at war – we had found each other again.

He moved, tugging at the belt of his trousers, and then I felt his fingers: pulling aside silk, probing; pushing gently. I heard myself say his name again, and I didn’t care. I was conscious only of my need, his need, our hunger for each other; and then him, inside me; his hands easing me up to him, on to him; my legs wrapped around him, his mouth over mine. And all at once I was rising on a great swell; floating away from him, away from myself, up, up into the ether. I was the night, I was the darkness; I was the universe. I heard myself cry out as his body tensed, and then I heard my name, in one long, breathless shudder.

When I opened my eyes I could see. I could see the lights of
the city glinting through the trees; hear the traffic in the distance.

‘Please . . .’ he whispered. ‘Wait for me, Clarissa. Tell me you’ll wait for me . . .’

‘I’ll wait for you, my darling. I promise I’ll wait for you.’

We walked back across the park, hand in hand, stopping to kiss each other with every few steps. And then, as we neared the house, we pulled away. Once inside, I excused myself and went upstairs to the bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror: I appeared quite different, I thought. I was pink cheeked, yes, and a little dishevelled. But there was something altogether changed about me. I smiled at my reflection, splashed cold water on to my face and then pressed it into the soft white hand towel. I checked my dress, pulled off my new silk camiknickers and pushed them into my evening bag. I took out my tiny hairbrush, tidied my hair; dabbed my nose with powder.

I loved Tom Cuthbert and after the war was over we would be married. I had no doubts. Even if we had to elope, it
would
happen.

Tom was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, and as I descended, sidestepping people and glasses, he watched me intently, smiling. We had a new secret now. As I reached his side he slipped his hand around mine and squeezed it tightly. And then he turned in towards me. ‘You’re
so
beautiful,’ he whispered. ‘I want you . . . again.’

I turned to look at him. He was the most handsome man there, I thought. And soon we’d have to part again; for how long, I wasn’t sure. I wanted to give him something, wanted him to have something of mine, but what? I reached inside my bag, pulled out the tiny roll of flimsy silk and pushed it into his pocket.

‘What’s that?’ he asked.

‘Something for you. Something for you to remember me by,’ I said, looking into his eyes, smiling.

‘As long as I know you’re mine – I don’t need anything else.’

‘I’m yours. You must know that by now.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I think I know that.’

‘Ah! There you are! And look who you’ve found. I’ll be damned . . . Tom Cuthbert!’ It was Henry, worse the wear from drink, and unsteady on his feet. I let go of Tom’s hand. ‘Charlie’s been looking for you, sis . . . Tom, my man! How the hell are you?’

‘Really? We’ve been here all the time,’ I said, without flinching, as Tom took hold of Henry’s outstretched hand.

Henry swayed, his eyes half closed, and then turned and shouted over to Charlie, who wound his way over to us.

‘Clarissa . . . I’ve been looking all over for you . . .’

‘Then you need to get your eyes tested, Charlie Boyd. I’ve been here with Tom, catching up . . . remembering old times.’

I said goodbye to him that night without a kiss, or a handshake, without any sign at all. I walked away. I had to. What else could I do? At the door, as we said goodnight to Jimmy and a few others, I looked back for him but he wasn’t there. He’d disappeared, as if he’d been part of a dream.

Later, in my bed, I closed my eyes and relived each second of our time together. I could still feel his hands; still taste him in my mouth. And beyond my window, somewhere in the city, I knew he was thinking of me, dreaming of me. I had no idea where, what street or under which roof, but it didn’t matter. Out there in the ether our spirits remained entwined.

Despite everything, despite everything that happened afterwards, I’ve never for one moment regretted that night in the park. I wanted Tom to be my first. I wanted Tom. It was our moment and I knew it may never come again, and if it didn’t, if we hadn’t made love then and there, I’d have regretted it for the rest of my life. It had to be, was meant to be. Some things are.

. . . The landscape here is quite blown to pieces: farms, churches, villages and towns simply reduced to piles of stone & rubble, & the trees – entirely stripped, no more than charred stumps, protruding from the churned-up earth like ghosts. And the guns go on and on . . . But I think I have become immune to it all, the horror. Unimaginable sights, which not so very long ago would have made me ill, have little impact now. The dysentery is possibly the worst thing, truly awful, & robs the men of what little dignity they have left – before it kills them . . . The stench & the noise is enough to make a man insane. We are all desensitised, completely brutalised, but it seems to me the only way to survive . . .

Outside my window there was a tree. I watched its leaves turn from palest gold to burnished copper. I watched them fall, fluttering against my windowpane, tumbling through damp air to the sodden path beneath. I looked out through naked branches to an unknown, opaque sky, heard the sighs of time with each tick of the clock. And as my belly grew, daylight dwindled.

Emily Cuthbert Granville was born on Monday, November the
twelfth 1917, with a mop of dark hair and brilliant blue eyes, at St Anne’s, a convent and a type of nursing home, in Plymouth, Devon. She weighed almost eight pounds at birth and she was, the sisters told me, one of the healthiest and most robust babies they’d had in a long while. We weren’t Catholic, but it was the place my mother had chosen for me to stay for the duration of my confinement. Aunt Maude lived in Taunton, and it was, Mama had said, perfectly feasible that I should have gone to stay there for a while, with family, and quite enough to tell people. There could be no further communication with Tom Cuthbert, she said, not now, not ever. And she would make sure that no one knew anything, for
no one
could know: not him, his mother, or even Henry . . . no one.

‘I hardly know what to say to you, Clarissa,’ she’d said to me, after Dr Riley left the house that day; the day he confirmed what I already knew and what Mama had undoubtedly suspected. I had just confessed, only just told her the name. And as I’d spoken his name, I’d seen her wince. There was a sharp intake of breath as she raised her hand to her chest and then closed her eyes, as though at that very same moment she’d experienced a sudden and acute pain. For some minutes she did not speak, and then she said, ‘I never want to hear you speak his name again.’ She opened her eyes. ‘And I hope we never – either of us – set eyes on him again.’