The Last Summer (23 page)

I looked up into her eyes, those beautiful doleful eyes. She pushed my hair back from my brow. ‘Perhaps you’d like me to get Antoine over to do your hair tomorrow, hmm?’ she asked, referring to her hairdresser.

I stared at her, felt my eyes sting, but said nothing.

‘Well, perhaps later in the week,’ she said, rising to her feet. She stood still for a moment, her back to me, her hands clasped in front of her, as though she wasn’t quite ready to leave the room; as though there was something more she wished to say to me.

‘The gels are so looking forward to seeing you again. Rose in particular . . . she’s missed you.’

Then she left the room.

I heard her footsteps descend the staircase, her door close as she disappeared into her suite of rooms on the lower floor. I rolled on to my side, took hold of a pillow, wrapped my arms around it and held it to me. I closed my eyes, felt the sun on my face, the grass against my legs, and I could see him, there, in the distance: waiting for me.

Maude stayed with us for three days, during which time neither she nor my mother ever mentioned the baby or my time at St Anne’s. After Maude left I wondered if my mother would talk to me, ask me about Emily, her granddaughter, but she did not, and I quickly realised that it was not and never would be a subject for discussion between us.

. . . The fighting raged on for three days and nights, & yesterday young Norton was struck. I somehow managed to drag him through the mud and back to the trench, but he’d been hit in the stomach and for almost an hour he lay in my arms – crying for his mother. He’d told them he was eighteen, but I very much doubt he was even sixteen . . .

I remember a white moth amongst the pink rosebuds of my bedroom wall. A small white moth. The only one. It came one day and seemed reluctant to leave, even when I held open the window and tried to coax it out to freedom. Sometimes it moved to another rosebud, another wall, but it was never drawn to the open window. Then, perhaps two days after it first appeared, I could no longer find it amidst the buds upon my wall. I searched the pattern, searched the floor, and then, finally, I found it on the window sill. I picked it up, held it in the palm of my hand. And I wondered again why God created so many beautiful but infinitely fragile things.

I stretched my arm out through the open window, willing it to live.
Fly . . . fly . . .
I watched it as the breeze swept it from my hand. Watched it fall through the air and land upon the roof below. And there it lay, completely still.

The next morning it had gone. I couldn’t be sure if the wind hadn’t picked up that tiny white moth, carrying it further across the rooftops of London. But I like to think it had flown.

Strange, the things we remember.

. . . Last night five of us went out on a listening patrol. We crawled on our bellies through a gap in the wire – through the mud into no-man’s-land – and tried to get as close as we could. We couldn’t hear anything, nothing at all, and no one speaks or even understands German anyway – so it was a hopeless, pointless exercise & – in my opinion – v badly
thought through . . . but then so much is here. I suppose the COs are desperate, we’re all desperate.

It was Henry who said it, and at the time I was grateful.

Tom.

Hearing his name spoken out loud broke a spell, made him real, and released me from a promise; a solemn but unsigned agreement that had become a burden to my conscience. He said he’d seen him with her at a party; that it was quite obvious they were ‘at it’.

Rose and Tom . . .

‘Jeepers, do you remember when you had such a crush on him, Issa?’

‘No, not really,’ I said. ‘We were friends, Henry, that’s all.’

We were friends . . . that’s all.

‘Rubbish. You had the hots for him – and in a big way, as I recall. And you know? I think he rather liked you too.’

. . . He rather liked me.

‘So, did you speak to him?’ I asked, without looking up from my book.

‘Yes, of course I spoke to him. I quite like him actually. Doesn’t seem to care too much what people think, which is . . . really rather refreshing.’

‘And so . . . what was his chat?’

‘Oh, this and that. Where he’d been . . . he’s an officer now.’

. . . Captain Tom Cuthbert.

‘Yes, I know. Did he ask after Mama?’

‘He asked me about you. Said he’d heard of your engagement, asked when the wedding was,’ he replied, removing his shoes, putting his feet up on the ottoman.

‘And what did you say?’

‘Said I didn’t know, that it would all depend on when Charlie
was next home and when you both deemed it necessary, ha!’

‘And how long . . . how long has he been seeing Rose?’ I asked, closing my book, looking up at him.

‘Haven’t the foggiest. But I can’t imagine her parents know. If they did they’d be livid. Anyway, what is it with him? I mean, I know he’s handsome and all, but he
has
nothing.’

. . . He has nothing; he is no one; can never be one of us.

‘It’s not his wealth then, is it?’ I replied. ‘But you know, people don’t select who to fall in love with according to their wealth or lineage, Henry.’

He narrowed his eyes and looked at me quizzically for a moment; opened his mouth as if about to say something, then thought the better of it and said nothing.

‘It may be the case with who they choose to marry, but not where love’s concerned,’ I added.

‘Hark you, my wise sister. And where, pray tell, does this newfound knowledge come from? Or are you thinking back with regret and longing to dear old Cuthie?’

I managed a smile. ‘Not at all. And I’m quite sure Rose Millington shan’t marry Tom Cuthbert. She’s much too ambitious. But she’ll enjoy his attention. He’s . . . quite intense, and women like that – for a while at least.’

I looked away, saw Tom staring into Rose’s pale eyes, his lips moving towards hers.

‘You’re all the same: fickle,’ Henry continued. ‘You want everything . . .’ he paused, sighed, ‘the promise of eternal love and adoration, and then, when you think you have it, when you think you have it all, you no longer want it. Isn’t that true?’

I didn’t answer.

‘Well? Isn’t it?’

‘Perhaps, but I don’t believe men are any different. You all long for what you don’t own and can’t afford, and as soon as you own it, as soon as you’re sure of it – it loses its appeal.
So, perhaps it’s a human trait and not specific to either sex.’

‘Ha! Yes, but it’s the unattainable that’s always the most desirable.’

‘The unattainable . . .’ I repeated. And the poignancy of that word hit me like another blow.

He stretched out in his chair and sighed. ‘Have you noticed how old and cynical we sound now, dear?’ he said.

‘I suppose that’s what the war has done to us,’ I replied.

Later, I sat at my dressing table, staring at my reflection in the looking glass. I would soon be twenty-one; I would soon be married. I hadn’t heard his name in so long, and Henry’s blasé mention of him had thrown me more than I’d realised. One syllable, one syllable was all it took. He had been a moment in my life, a wonderful reckless moment, nothing more. Nothing more, I told myself out loud. I picked up my hairbrush, moved it slowly through my hair. An unsmiling face stared back at me, beseeching me. And when I closed my eyes it was still there. ‘He used you,’ Mama had said, but I knew he hadn’t used me any more than I had used him. My heart ached for him and for our baby, the child whose existence he knew nothing of; the child I’d given away, handed over to a stranger like an unwanted parcel. I clutched my stomach, felt myself begin to shake, and somewhere – somewhere in the distance – I could hear someone crying: great convulsing, breathless sobs. I put my hands to my mouth; heard his name, muffled, desperate; and then a shout, followed by another, and then another. I saw a girl sitting on a pink carpet in my white nightgown, swaying to and fro, rocking empty arms. And the sadness I felt for her was overwhelming.

I don’t remember Mama entering my room. In fact, I can’t recall anything that happened in the subsequent days and weeks.

. . . Four men were shot for desertion this morning. They’d been here for 3 or 4 months, & without any break . . . Every few days the names are read out to us – as a warning, but some would rather face a firing squad than stay here another day. Last week another young boy in my battalion was shot. He’d become hysterical, lost his nerve and couldn’t face going back into the line. He was tied to what was once a tree, in his civilian clothes, a piece of white cloth pinned over his heart. Now, rumour has it, his father and uncle are joining up to avenge his death on the Germans . . . What are we doing? Why are Englishmen shooting Englishmen? Best to suspend all thought & reason.