The Last Summer (9 page)

I returned to my bed and lay down upon the sheet. I thought of Tom; wondered if he was asleep. Was he dreaming of me? Henry’s voice continued, and I tried to block it out and focus my mind on Tom: Tom and me under the sycamore tree. But Henry was gathering momentum, interrupting my scenes with his diatribe about whatever it was he was so impassioned about. I rose from my bed, walked over to the window and shut it, loudly and firmly.

I’m not entirely sure what woke me, or what time it was, but
it was late, very late, and the voices on the terrace were much quieter. I heard giggling, female giggling, and I crept over to the window and peered down. At first I thought I must be dreaming, hallucinating, and as I looked away I could feel the sound of blood rushing through my brain. Venetia Cooper, Mama’s friend, my godmother, was sitting on Henry’s lap, and from what I could make out they were canoodling. I crouched down, peering over the padded cushion of the window seat. I saw Henry’s hand move down her gown, then creep back up – on to her breast. I turned my head away.
I must have made a mistake
. . . I looked back, saw her stand up, take hold of his hand and lead him inside. I moved swiftly to my bedroom door, my heart pounding as I pressed my ear to it. I heard them coming up the stairs, heard them whispering as they passed by my door and headed towards the rose guest room. Then a door closed.

I sat down on my bed, contemplating the implications of what I’d just witnessed. I felt sick. Venetia must be almost forty, I thought,
and
she was the mother of his friend! Did Jimmy know? I wondered. And what would Mama and Papa say? I remembered Papa saying that Hughie, Venetia’s husband, was an ‘exceptional shot’, and I lay down and closed my eyes.

Your note did amuse me, not least your mention of the Grande Dame, but please don’t be too hard on her. She has such innate charm, & I do so love her colourful displays, & her ways with ‘les garcons’. Snob? I am not entirely sure what you mean. She certainly relishes her place with the ‘Smart Set’, as you call it, but surely that’s no crime? And indeed, how could it be otherwise? As for H’s devotion, I make no comment . . . YOD

The following morning, over breakfast, Mama received a telegram, and I remember thinking, praying,
please don’t let this be about Henry and Venetia
. There had been more telegrams than usual arriving at Deyning, but Papa was in London and I’d supposed them to be from him.

Mama looked up.

‘I’m afraid it is as we’ve all feared,’ she began. And I looked down at my plate of kedgeree, for I knew what was coming, and I could hear the next sentence:
Henry, my
eldest, has been making love to my best friend, Venetia
. . . ‘Germany has invaded Belgium and declared war upon France.’

My relief was immense, and I can’t be sure now, but I think I looked up and smiled at Mama.

‘We have given an ultimatum . . . all we can do now is wait, and pray,’ she added. Then she lifted her teacup. ‘God bless England.’

‘God bless England!’ we all repeated, teacups in hand and in perfect unison.

I looked over at Venetia, who was staring at Henry. I glanced
at Edina, who looked back at me solemnly and shook her head. And then I looked at Lucy, who – it has to be said – appeared quite mystified by the announcement.

Immediately after breakfast I walked in the grounds with Edina. And she seemed to me almost excited by the prospect of war.

‘Can you believe it? We may be at war . . . at war, by this time tomorrow!’ she exclaimed, wide eyed.

‘No, I can’t believe it . . . and I don’t want to believe it. I don’t want my brothers to go and fight, Edina.’

‘But England is in danger, dear . . . we have to defend this island of ours,’ she said, marching slightly ahead of me across the lawn, her head high. And I wondered who she’d been talking to, where she’d learnt that line.

‘I hope that Germany sees sense,’ I said, not at all sure what
sense
I was referring to. ‘And that it doesn’t come to a war. Because it will affect everything, won’t it?’

‘Well yes, I should say!’

‘Do you suppose we’ll still be able to go to Brighton?’ I asked, for I was still thinking in terms of the days ahead, and our planned excursion to the coast. ‘I’ve been
so
looking forward to it.’

‘I’m not sure,’ she replied. ‘I suppose it all depends. Mama says if there’s to be a war there’ll need to be a great mobilisation of troops . . . and we’ll all have to do our bit.’

‘In what way? How can
we
do anything?’

‘Well . . . if all the men go to war, I imagine we’ll have to do all sorts of things.’ She stopped. I stopped. She stared over into the trees, tapping her finger on her lips, pondering, and so I waited; waited to hear what we’d all have to do. ‘Drive motor cars,’ she began, ‘do gardening . . . that sort of thing.’

It didn’t sound like much to me, and as we moved on I said, ‘But Papa doesn’t garden and neither do my brothers.’

‘No, but Broughton does, and think of the under-gardeners, all the outdoor servants you have here who may have to go.’

‘Really? You think they’ll want servants as well?’

‘Yes, of course, they’ll all have to go and fight, dear.’

It sounded slightly far-fetched to me. I wasn’t convinced Edina had her facts right. I thought of Broughton: surely he’d not be much use. He was quite old and so gentle, only interested in flowers. And he wouldn’t hurt a fly; was always rescuing injured animals. But if my cousin were right, how would we manage at Deyning without gardeners? I looked around me, across the manicured lawns to the neatly arranged borders where Frank and John were already on their knees and busy. It will all go to wrack and ruin, I thought. The whole place will become overgrown and lost in a wilderness. I looked up towards the house, the west side, and amidst a verdant tangle of Virginia creeper, jasmine and wisteria clinging to its stone façade, there was someone up a ladder there too. There were always people everywhere – attending to something.

That day no one seemed to want to do anything at all. We simply sat about watching the minutes and hours pass by, just as though we’d all received a death sentence. Telegrams were delivered, telegrams were despatched; and Mrs Cuthbert, Mabel, Wilson and Mr Broughton wore funereal faces, as though they’d already received the bad news they had sworn to keep from us.

When I met Tom early that evening he was distracted, and as we sat upon the steps of the boathouse we had little to say to each other.

‘Strange, isn’t it? Summer seems to have ended already,’ he said, lighting another cigarette.

I turned to him, placed my hand upon his arm. I couldn’t think of anything to say at that moment and somehow a touch seemed more voluble than any words. But he simply glanced at my hand and then looked away.

I don’t know how long we sat there for, but long enough. And when we rose to our feet and I began to walk back towards the house, he called after me, said my name. I turned, expecting him to say something, but he simply stared at me, frowning.

‘What is it?’ I asked. And I so wanted to add to that, ‘my darling’.

‘Don’t go back yet,’ he said.

‘But I must go back. I have to.’

‘Clarissa . . .’

‘Yes?’

He looked down at the grass. ‘Oh, nothing,’ he said.

When I arrived back at the house I bumped into Mama in the hallway.

‘Have you seen Tom?’ she asked.

I swallowed. ‘No, why?’

‘I thought I’d invite him to join us for dinner. It’s Edna’s night off and Mrs Cuthbert’s cooking for us. He shouldn’t be on his own at a time like this,’ she added, and walked off towards the servants’ hall.

I stood still; I could hear Mama asking Mrs Cuthbert if Tom would like to join us for dinner, but I couldn’t quite hear Mrs Cuthbert’s reply; and then I heard Mama’s footsteps coming back towards the hallway and I quickly turned and hurried off up the stairs.

Half an hour or so later, when I entered the drawing room, he was there, looking extraordinarily dapper, and sitting in front of the fire with Venetia and Jimmy. He glanced over at me, nervously, and I smiled. It was strange to see him there, in that room, dressed for dinner. There he was: one of us.

I wandered over to the boys, gathered by the window around George. He’d received a telegram requesting him to be back at Aldershot by midnight. They were asking him questions, talking about the war. I glanced across at Tom, wondered what he and
Venetia were discussing. I could hear her saying something about Paris. She loved talking about Paris, slipping into French here and there. I looked ahead, out of the window. Nothing stirred. Every blade of grass, each stem and flower and leaf and shrub appeared perfectly still, as though all of nature held her breath, waiting; and the sun, still above the trees, more achingly golden than ever before. I’m not sure how long I stood there, transfixed, lost in that halcyon moment, but as I turned away I wondered what tomorrow would bring. Would it all be the same?
Will it be the same?

I walked over to Maude, Edina and Lucy, who sat playing cards next to another window.

‘Would you like to join us, dear?’

‘No thank you, Aunt. I’m a little bored of cards . . . or rather, bored of losing at cards,’ I replied, and she laughed.

I moved on again, slowly, towards the fireplace. Above it hung the portrait of Mama by Philip de László. It had been commissioned by my father some years earlier, and was mesmerisingly beautiful. Venetia was speaking about Venice, another of her
most
favourite and yet-to-be-visited places. I caught Tom’s eye, smiled. He didn’t smile back at me, but I caught his gaze move from my face down over my body. And as I stood in front of the fireplace, running my finger over the contours of one of Mama’s precious Meissen figurines, I sensed him watching me.

No fire had been lit that evening, which struck me as odd, because Mama usually insisted on a fire in that room each evening, even in summer. Lends the place atmosphere and warmth, she said. But the polished steel grate remained empty, and the carved marble surround – with its acanthus scrolls, swags of husk and little putti – felt colder than usual to the touch. When I turned, the sky beyond the windows was changing, the last of the sun’s rays shining low into the room, throwing
pale mauve jets of light across the patterned carpet and silk furnishings.

‘Clarissa, darling,’ Venetia began, her cigarette holder in hand, ‘you’re such an ongoing distraction to these poor, poor boys . . . I’m surprised they can think of war – or anything else – with such a vision of beauty in their presence.’

‘Is there any news?’

She smiled. ‘No, dear child, not yet. We shan’t know anything until much later tonight or perhaps tomorrow morning,’ she replied. ‘Do sit with us.’

‘You do look terribly beautiful tonight, Clarissa,’ Jimmy said, as I sat down next to him on the sofa.

‘And it may not be fashionable for a lady to have tanned skin, but it suits you, suits you very well,’ Venetia added. ‘Don’t you agree, Tom?’

I looked at him. He was leaning forward in his chair, holding a glass of something. ‘Yes, it does,’ he replied, looking back at me, without any trace of a smile.

‘Clarissa is going to be a sensation in London, an absolute sensation,’ Venetia continued, with a little shiver, and a shrug of lace. She reminded me of a box of chocolates that night. Confection, sealed in tight, perfectly wrapped and tied up in ribbons. The previous evening she’d come down to dinner in a purple-plumed silver turban and opera cloak. Oh, is it fancy dress? Lucy had asked.

‘I’ve already warned your father, warned him that he’ll have to keep a gun by his bed,’ she continued. ‘You’ll be inundated, darling, inundated, but I’m hoping that Jimmy might be able to be your chaperone about town one day,’ she added, smiling at her son.

Jimmy turned to me. ‘I’d be more than delighted, anytime at all,’ he said, looking slightly awkward.

‘Thank you, that’s very kind, but I don’t know when that
will be, at least not now. If there’s to be a war, I don’t suppose there’ll be many parties or balls to attend.’

‘Oh but of course there’ll be. Life must go on,’ Venetia said, and then she looked across at Tom. ‘And Tom, you must call on me next time you’re up in town. I just
adore
having the young around me.’