The Last Summer (30 page)

As Henry pulled me across the drawing-room floor in an attempt to dance, these two damaged boys, for that’s really all they were, sat together quietly like old men, watching – or in Julian’s case, listening – to the young at play. And then the gong sounded, and we all marched into the dining room, overly gay, overly animated. I hadn’t spoken to Tom in the drawing room, but at dinner we were seated opposite each other, and I felt a little too aware of his presence, especially in front of Mama. He and Henry, now seated in Father’s place, smoked incessantly, and, I noticed, drank more than they ate. The conversation was mainly politics, with a few ridiculous and highly implausible stories from Henry, who was on dangerously sparkling form. I saw my mother watching Henry, and then saw her whisper something to Tom, seated on her right. And I suddenly realised why she’d wanted him there: to keep an eye on Henry, to look after him. She knew he would, you see.

After dinner, I noticed Mama whispering to Tom once again, in the hallway, before she excused herself and bid everyone goodnight. The rest of us, four war-torn damaged young men and me, returned to the drawing room. We’d been drinking champagne, the last of the good stuff from my father’s cellar. ‘Let’s celebrate,’ Henry said, returning from the kitchen with two of the young girls Mrs Cuthbert had hired from the village,
and
another bottle. ‘Let’s bloody well celebrate being alive, eh?’ he said, smiling at Tom, and passing him the hand of one of the girls. And in a way it almost seemed like the old days. For there we were, celebrating, and dancing to Geroge’s gramophone records. It was a party, a party at Deyning, and but for the missing furniture and carpets, and the absence of two of my brothers, it could have been . . . how it should have been.

‘I say, Issa, Georgie would have loved this,’ Henry called out to me as he whirled round the young blonde, and it was true: George always loved an impromptu party.

I stood on my own, sipping champagne, swaying in time to the music, watching Tom and his partner. I couldn’t recall ever having seen him dance before, and he moved well, his feet keeping perfect time. I watched him guide her over to where Michael and Julian sat, and a beaming Michael rose to his feet and eagerly took her hand. Tom glanced over at me, then sat down and lit a cigarette. No, he won’t dance with me, I thought; we can’t dance together. Not now. I looked at Julian and my heart ached for him. I wasn’t sure if he wanted to dance, or even if he was able, but I walked over to where he sat with Tom.

‘Julian . . .’ I said, putting down my glass and placing my hand upon his, ‘will you dance with me?’

‘Ah, Mrs Boyd, I thought you’d never ask,’ he replied, rising unsteadily from his chair.

As I led him to the middle of the room, slowly, he said, ‘Do you remember the last time we danced together, Clarissa?’

‘No, I don’t,’ I said, taking his hand and placing it on my waist. ‘When was it?’

‘It was here, Henry’s twenty-first birthday party, the year before . . . before the War broke out,’ he said, trying to smile, stretching the tight skin of his new, colourless mouth.

‘Yes, of course it was, of course. I remember now . . . you told me that you were waiting until I was eighteen, and then . . . then you were going to ask for Papa’s permission to marry me. You really were such a flirt.’

He laughed. ‘Those were the days. I don’t suppose I’ll be doing much flirting now, do you? More likely scare the girls off.’

‘Don’t say that.’

‘Just as well I can’t see myself really. But I want to know, do I . . . do I look particularly gruesome? Tell me, Clarissa; tell me the truth. Do you think anyone might see beyond this face . . . might love me?’

He’d stopped shuffling; we’d stopped moving.

‘Well,’ I began, looking back at him, almost wanting to cry, ‘you’re not quite as handsome as you were Julian, which at least means you give the others a chance now . . . and you’re certainly not going to win any dancing competitions . . .’ He laughed. ‘And if all you’d ever wished for was someone to love you for your good looks, then you may well be disappointed. But if you let someone see inside your soul . . . see who you really are, then yes, you’ll be loved, darling, and she’ll be a very lucky lady too,’ I added. And then, quite spontaneously, for I certainly hadn’t planned on kissing Julian Carter that night, and I’m still not sure what came over me or why I did it, I took his head in my hands, placed my lips where his had once been and held them there for a moment. As I stepped back from him, I heard Henry clapping and then shout, ‘Encore! Encore!’

I turned to Tom, and he stared back at me – his head lowered, as though he’d meant to look away.

Julian said, ‘My God, Clarissa . . . I wasn’t expecting that. You’re the first person to kiss me since . . . in years.’

Minutes later, I led Julian back to his chair.

Tom stood up. ‘I suppose if I ask you to dance
now
, it might seem like I want a kiss too,’ he said. And Julian laughed.

I placed my hand upon his shoulder, felt the warmth of his flat against my back, and I let him guide me across the floor. I didn’t, couldn’t look into his eyes. I stared at his tie, his shirt collar, the line of his jaw, his mouth. Then, as Henry disappeared – twirling his dance partner through the open French doors – he pulled me closer, and I felt his breath on my face, his fingers spread out over my spine. A woman’s voice sang out forlornly, ‘I ain’t got nobody,’ and as he moved his hand in mine, interlinking our fingers, I looked up at him, into his eyes. He didn’t smile, or speak, he simply held my gaze.

But I’d begun to feel light headed. I’d drunk far more than I was used to that night, and my physical proximity to him – his touch – seemed to have exacerbated the effects of the champagne. So, as the record finished, and with my head slightly spinning, I said, ‘Please excuse me, I need some air.’

There was a full moon that night, a long shadow stretching across the driveway in front of the house. I don’t know how far I walked, but I remember standing against a fence, trying to light a cigarette, when he appeared by my side. I knew he’d come. I knew he’d follow me. He took my cigarette, lit it and handed it back to me, and we stood there for a while, smoking, without saying a word.

‘You hate me,’ I said at last, without looking at him.

I heard him sigh. ‘No, I don’t hate you, Clarissa.’

‘Did you ever love me?’

‘Do you want me to have loved you? Is that what you want?’

‘I want you to tell me the truth. I want you to be honest with me. I need to know.’

‘But you belong to someone else now.’

I looked at him and I wished away the world; wished away Deyning, my mother, my brother, Charlie and everything else I knew.

He reached out, stroked my cheek. ‘Beautiful Clarissa,’ he said. But as I moved towards him he stepped back from me. ‘You said you’d wait for me, you promised.’

‘I did wait . . . I waited so long.’

‘I can’t stand the thought of you with him . . . with anyone else.’

‘I don’t want to be with anyone else. I’ve only ever wanted you.’

He stood holding on to the fence, staring out across the moonlit field.

‘I think I should go away, leave here; leave England.’

‘But you’ve only just come back . . . no, no, don’t say that. Please . . .’

He turned to me. ‘Clarissa, you’re married. You have a life now . . . a life with Charlie. What do you suggest I do? Wait for you to one day fit me into your diary, so that we can meet for tea and reminisce about
old times
. Wait in the hope of one day being invited to your home for dinner – so that I can see you, so that I can watch him with you, watch him love you . . .’ He turned away, ran his hands through his hair. ‘We have to move on. I have to move on.’

‘No. I won’t let you,’ I said, and I reached out but he pulled away again.

‘What do you want from me, Clarissa? Do you want us to have an affair? Is that what you want?’

‘No! Oh, I don’t know . . . but I can’t—’

‘I could be your butler, eh? Or perhaps Charlie’s valet . . .
polish his shoes for him, service his wife when he’s not about. Is that the idea? Am I getting a little warmer?’

‘Tom!’

He closed his eyes, shook his head. ‘We can’t, Clarissa, we can’t . . .’ He turned to me. ‘Look at me, I have nothing.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m nobody. How could I ever take care of you?’

‘But I love you, Tom.’

‘Forget about me; love your husband, Clarissa.’

And then he jumped over the fence, and walked off through the paddock towards the light of his mother’s cottage.

I didn’t want to go back to London, but I knew Mama would. She didn’t want to stay and watch what was left of her home, dismantled, packed into crates. She’d said to me the previous day, ‘I shouldn’t have to do this . . . I shouldn’t have to see this.’ And she was right, I thought.

‘I’ve been thinking, Mama, perhaps I should stay here with Henry,’ I suggested over breakfast. ‘It seems wrong for us to leave him, for him to be here on his own – sorting everything.’

‘But what about Charlie?’ she asked.

‘He’ll be fine. We have Sonia now,’ I said, referring to our new maid. ‘She’ll look after him. I can stay here until the end of the week, and get Charlie to come down and fetch me then.’

She looked at me quizzically, and I saw the thought flash through her mind: Tom Cuthbert. Then she said, ‘You’re right, of course, I would feel better if one of us were to stay here with him. But are you quite certain that Charlie shan’t mind?’

‘Quite. I’ll telephone him now.’

‘Mama would prefer it if I were to stay here with Henry. Would you mind awfully if I did?’

‘Yes, I jolly well would. Do you really have to? There’s no doubt a bloody army of helpers there –
and
those two friends of his.’

‘There’s not an army of helpers here, Charlie. And Julian certainly can’t do anything,’ I added. ‘I think Henry only brought him down for a break. And to be honest, Henry’s not much use either. He’s simply not able to cope with it all on his own.’

‘Really, Clarissa, I need you here . . . I need you here with me.’

‘But it’d only be for the week.’

‘The week! You mean I shan’t see you all week?’

‘I’ll call you. Every day. I promise. And on Friday, you can drive down here.’

He muttered something, then said, ‘Well, it doesn’t seem as though I have any choice in the matter. But it’s really not on, you know. You’re my wife . . . you’re meant to be here for
me
.’

‘You’ll be fine, dear. And they do say absence makes the heart grow fonder . . .’

It wasn’t as though I was planning anything sinister. I simply wanted to stay a little while longer at Deyning. And even if Tom Cuthbert hadn’t been there, I’d have elected to stay and help Henry. But yes, I wanted to see Tom again too. I couldn’t leave him. Not yet.

After waving off Mama, I spent the morning sorting china and crockery with Mabel in the dining room, listing each dinner and tea service, checking for chips and cracks before she wrapped them in newspaper and placed them into a crate. Henry had gone down to the farm, where there was to be an auction of livestock the following week, and I wasn’t altogether sure where Michael and Julian were, or even if they were still at Deyning.

‘I think we’ll make that do for now, Mabel. I’d quite like to take a walk, have some fresh air. Perhaps we can finish off later this afternoon.’

I saw her roll her eyes. ‘Right you are, miss. Well, I’ll be helping Mrs C if you need me,’ she said, and then she picked up another box and carried it from the room.

I wandered outside, on to the terrace. It was a warm day, already humid, and I wondered whether to walk to the lake, take a swim. I wondered where Tom was. He could be anywhere, I thought.

I walked back into the house and headed for the kitchen.

I poked my head around the baize door. ‘Mrs Cuthbert?’

She appeared in the scullery doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Oh, hello, Miss Clarissa. Can I get you something?’

‘Actually, I need Tom. I wondered if he’d help me move some boxes.’

‘Oh, Mabel and I can do that for you, dear.’

‘No, these are very heavy boxes. Books.’

‘Ah. Well, I imagine he’s still at home, I’ll go and fetch him for you.’

‘No, no, it’s quite all right, I’ll go,’ I said, and then I disappeared before she could say anything else.

I knocked on the cottage door, waited a moment and then turned the handle and stepped into the small hallway. ‘Hello!’

I glanced into the room on my left: a tiny room with a low beamed ceiling and crammed with furniture. I stepped back over the hallway and opened another door: a kitchen, even smaller. Ahead of me, a steep, narrow staircase. I climbed it, quietly, not sure what I’d find, but wondering if Tom would be there, in his bed, asleep. At the top of the staircase I opened the door immediately on my right. Mrs Cuthbert’s bedroom: immaculately tidy, with a pink bedspread on a small single bed. I stepped back out of the room, gently closing the door, turned to the other the door and lifted its latch. The room was in semi darkness, the curtains still closed. And there he was: lying face down, sleeping.