No Angel (Spoils of Time 01) (70 page)

Jack was resistant to the idea of going home: ‘I’m fine,’ he kept saying, ‘we’re having a good time, what do you want to spoil it all for?’

Lily said she didn’t want to spoil anything, but she was tired and wanted to get an early night; Jack said did that mean with him? And she said it might do, but not if he went on being so bloody stupid dancing on a chair that was clearly going to topple over. An hour later he had calmed down considerably and they were in a taxi on the way to Sloane Street. Everything was all right for a bit; he got some champagne out of the fridge and she said she thought they’d both had enough for now and he got quite grumpy with her, which was unlike him, and said he didn’t like being told what he should and shouldn’t drink, and then he sat down suddenly and stared into the fire, and she said was something the matter and he said no of course not, and she said she could see there was and went over and sat on his knee, and put her arms round him and asked him again what it was.

That was when he told her that his job at Lyttons wasn’t working out quite how he had hoped and that there had been a big meeting that day with Oliver and Celia and his sister, and he might even have to think about doing something else altogether.

‘And I can’t begin to imagine what it might be. Not fit for anything much at all, really,’ he said with a sigh and added gloomily that he was even thinking of going back into the army.

‘At least I can do that. Do it well. Oh, come on, Lil,’ he said suddenly, managing a smile as she kissed him, ‘let’s go to bed. That’s a much better idea than all this serious stuff.’

It was: a much better idea. For hours it seemed to go on, wonderful bright, light, swooping, flying sex; she stopped worrying, stopped thinking of anything, stopped knowing anything but her body and what it needed and Jack’s body and how it met those needs, surely and tenderly. Jack was not always the most sensitive person, but in bed he often became so: responsive, imaginative, careful, the near-to-perfect lover. And at the end of it, he fell asleep in her arms, peacefully happy, but Lily lay awake for a long time, her head full of images of riderless racehorses.

‘LM,’ said Celia, ‘you will come to dine with us tonight, won’t you?’

‘I – can’t do that,’ said LM slightly stiffly, ‘I’m afraid.’

‘Oh. Oh, I see.’ Celia was silent. She didn’t look well, LM thought; the strain no doubt. ‘well – if you change your mind.’

‘I don’t think I will,’ said LM. ‘I have a – great deal to do. Up at the house.’ And wondered quite why she was being so secretive; and to Celia of all people.

Celia had always been so extraordinarily sensitive about LM’s affairs, never pried, never so much as hinted she might want to know more than she was being told. But – well, she just didn’t want to talk about Gordon Robinson. To anyone. Not even say that they were friends. Certainly not that they were going to the cinema this evening. Of course she hadn’t ever wanted to talk about Jago. And that had been an important, a meaningful relationship. Gordon Robinson certainly wasn’t anything of the sort. He was just – well someone she had come across. Whose company very occasionally she shared. There simply was nothing to be said to anyone about him.

‘I have a lot to do,’ she added, more gently.

‘Of course. I understand. Oh dear, LM, are you very cross with us?’

‘Not cross,’ said LM briskly, ‘a bit dismayed. Very little of it is your fault, it seems to me. Rising costs affect everyone. This libel case – who could have foreseen that? But allowing Jack’s book to cost so much, against such modest orders – that was foolish of Oliver, I feel.’

‘You – you did encourage him to take Jack on,’ said Celia.

‘I know I did. But then to give him his head like that. Extremely stupid. He has no experience, no feeling for the business. I would have started him on a modest editing job – surely you could have guided Oliver there—’

‘Not really,’ said Celia briefly.

LM looked at her and sighed. ‘Perhaps not. Oliver can be very stubborn. But Celia – losing Sebastian Brooke now – that is a pity. Surely you could have spoken to him? You seemed such good friends. Perhaps we could talk to him together, I could look at the figures, see if—’

She was unprepared for what happened next; Celia stood up, took a deep breath and walked over to her sofas, leaned down on one of them, her head bowed. Then she appeared to slump, and half fell on to her knees. LM shot forwards, caught her, and helped her round to the front of the sofa, laid her gently down.

‘Celia! My dear, are you all right?’

She was a ghastly colour; greenish-white. ‘Yes. Yes I’m fine. Just a little – airless in here. It’s so hot at the moment.’

‘You look terrible. I’ll get Oliver.’

‘No,’ The word blazed out, ‘no, LM, he is not to know.’ And then more gently, ‘He’s got so many worries, he’s such an old fusspot, please don’t. But – well you could help me down to my car. In a minute. I might go home.’

‘I shall drive your car,’ said LM, ‘you’re not fit to drive yourself.’

‘LM, no.’

‘Celia, yes. And I shall tell Oliver we are going to talk through the Brooke problem in peace at home. All right?’

Celia nodded feebly. ‘Yes, all right. As long as we don’t actually have to. There’s – well, there’s nothing to be done about it. I’m afraid.’

LM drove her home in silence; she was concerned for her. But she was as unwilling to pry as Celia herself, so she said nothing except to comment on the weather, and to tell her how Jay was not only reading fluently now, but was showing a great interest in English history.

‘Extraordinary, I think, for a seven-year-old, don’t you?’

‘Extraordinary,’ said Celia, ‘yes, LM, he’s very clever. Very clever indeed’. And managed a half-smile.

When they reached Cheyne Walk, Celia said, ‘I’ll be fine now, LM. I know you’ve got things to do. Thank you.’

‘I shall see you to your room,’ said LM firmly.

It was very quiet in the house; the children were still at Ashingham. She went up to Celia’s room, with her, helped her to the bed. ‘You lie there quietly for a while. You probably just need some rest. You never get any. Anything you want?’

‘I – well, a cup of tea would be nice. With sugar, please.’

LM went down to the hall; Brunson was waiting, looking anxious. ‘Is everything all right, Miss Lytton?’

‘Perfectly, Brunson, yes thank you. But Lady Celia would like a cup of tea. With sugar. She – she didn’t feel very well in the office. So I brought her home. I’ll take it up to her myself.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Lytton.’

While LM was waiting for Mary to appear with the tray, the telephone rang; Brunson took it. It was Oliver; a long conversation ensued. LM looked at her watch. It was getting late. And she wanted to see Celia again and to have her tea, before she left to meet Gordon Robinson. She decided to go down to the kitchen and get it herself. She went through the servants’ door, started down the stairs.

And heard Daniels saying, ‘Not well again, eh? What do you reckon, Mary?’

Mary said she was sure she didn’t know what he meant.

‘Course you do. Twice the other day, once today. Terrible, she looked, in my car, green as grass. Only one explanation for that sort of thing, if you ask me. I reckon we’ll be hearing the patter of tiny feet in a few months.’

‘Mr Daniels, that’s quite enough from you,’ said Cook. ‘Mary, take this tray up to Miss Lytton and—’

LM went swiftly back to the hall, sat on the chair in the corner, pretending to read the paper. When she got to Celia’s room, she said, just as Celia had said to her, all those years ago, ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Don’t tell Oliver, LM, please.’ She sat, flushed now, sipping the tea, her eyes brilliant, almost feverish-looking. ‘He doesn’t know yet. He’s so worried about everything, and he does fuss about me so much. Which actually doesn’t help.’

‘Of course not,’ said LM, ‘of course I won’t. When – when is the baby due?’

‘Oh – I’m not sure. It’s such early days. I mean I might not even be pregnant. Dr Perring is doing a test. Even he couldn’t be sure. But if I am, it would be February, I suppose.’

LM looked at her. ‘It’s unlike you to be so vague.’

‘I – I know, but with all the other worries, somehow—’ her voice tailed off.

‘I won’t say I envy you,’ said LM smiling at her, ‘but – well, I’m sure everyone will be pleased. And you like having babies, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ said Celia, ‘yes, LM, I like having babies. Now off you go, I’ll be fine.’

But as LM turned from the doorway to smile at her, she saw Celia wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

The film was very good, a comedy with Charlie Chaplin, but it didn’t properly distract LM. She sat, while everyone else – including Gordon Robinson, – laughed uproariously, worrying about Celia. Afterwards he suggested they went out to supper: ‘Just a quick snack, some smoked salmon perhaps. At the Regent Palace.’

LM thanked him, but said she really ought to get back.

‘Then I shall escort you home,’ he said. She smiled at him; he was so nice. So gentle, so unselfish; he was obviously disappointed in the way the evening had gone, yet all he was concerned about was seeing her safely home.

‘You mustn’t think of it,’ she said, ‘I always see myself home.’

‘Let me hire you a taxi.’

‘No,’ she said, ‘no, of course not. I shall go on the train.’

‘On your own! At this time of night?’

‘Mr Robinson—’

‘Gordon, please.’

‘Gordon. And you must call me LM.’

‘An unusual name.’

‘I know. The letters stand for something too embarrassing to tell you.’

‘Oh dear. Then I shan’t ask. Now come along, my car is near here; I shall drive you home. I have no intention of letting you go on your own, and neither do I want you to go on the train.’

‘But—’

‘No buts. Come along. This way.’

They drove up to Hampstead in silence; but it was an easy, friendly silence. LM felt very happy suddenly. As they reached Fitzjohns Avenue, she said, ‘Please do drop me off here. It gets complicated, all the little streets.’

‘No,’ he said; and then, ‘you walk through these streets on your own? Late at night?’

‘I used to,’ she said, ‘but of course now I’m mostly safe and sound in the country.’

‘Thank God for that. Which way now?’

He refused to come in for a nightcap; he was clearly rather shocked that she even asked him. LM fell asleep, feeling less happy now, almost anxious. Their worlds were so far apart; he was so respectable, so very rigid in his vews and she – well she was an unmarried mother. This would never do. She would have to end it quickly. Before it all got any worse.

In the Westminster laboratory, the young woman bent over her specimen on the dissection bench, adjusted her spectacles, peered into her microscope for a second careful check and then filled in her report sheet very carefully and clearly. Precision was essential, in this work. Absolutely essential. Good news which might be bad: bad news which might be good. You could not afford to make a mistake. Well, this ought to be good news for someone: even if not for the toad.

CHAPTER 27

‘Well, Lady Celia.’ Dr Perring smiled at her.

She swallowed. ‘Yes?’

‘Good news.’

‘Ah.’ That was it then. Bad news. No room for hope, anywhere.

‘You are indeed pregnant. From what you told me, about two and a half months. Perhaps a little more. Congratulations.’

‘Thank you.’ She tried to smile. She felt dull, heavy, utterly weary. He met her eyes, and something passed between them, something gentle, a kind of rapport, a sympathy.

‘You must take care of yourself,’ he said, ‘given your history and if you will forgive the lack of gallantry, you are no longer – very young.’

‘No,’ she said, with a sigh, ‘indeed I am not. Thirty-five.’

‘Well – it won’t be easy. But you are fortunate, you have a great deal of help and support. And I’m sure the other children will be delighted.’

Would they? Not if they knew that the baby was – might be – only a half-brother or sister, only half-related, that its father was not – might not be – their own beloved father. They would be hostile, angry with her, angry with the child, would take against it, on their father’s behalf.

‘And – your husband.’

‘Yes?’

‘Have you told him yet?’

‘No. No I haven’t.’

‘Don’t leave it too long,’ he said, ‘he deserves to know.’

Now what did that mean? So that Oliver could get rid of her, divorce her, throw her out? So that she could tell him she was leaving him, quickly, get it over? And – Sebastian? He deserved to know too. Or did he? Maybe not. Whatever she did, whatever she said it was wrong. Wrong to tell, wrong to keep silent: wrong to stay with Oliver, wrong to go.

‘Mr Lytton isn’t – very strong you know,’ said Dr Perring.

‘No, I know that.’

‘Given his medical history, he achieves a great deal. I’m constantly surprised by him.’

‘Yes,’ she said, wondering where this was leading.

‘A happy family is the greatest gift a man can have. You have given that to your husband, Lady Celia. You have made him very happy.’

‘I – hope so.’

‘You have. And happiness is the best medicine. This baby now could be a very large dose of it.’

‘Yes,’ she said and in that moment, from that word could, she knew he did realise, did understand. Was giving her some advice even; valuable, wise advice.

‘I don’t altogether like the way the world is going,’ he said, beginning to pack up his bag. ‘It seems to me we have lost a lot of the old values.’

‘I – suppose so.’ Don’t start lecturing me, Dr Perring. Don’t.

‘Of course, everyone of my generation talks like this. I am a great deal older than you, nearer your father’s age. I should be thinking of retirement in five years or so.’ He smiled. ‘But – the old ways still seem to me best. Marriage, the family, as a foundation for happiness. It can take quite a lot of punishment, you know, a good foundation. You can kick it around a fair bit. But knock it right away, or rather dig it right up, and the house falls down. On everyone inside it.’

She sat silent, staring at him. He thought she should stay: remain silent, go on with things as they were, pretend.

‘Anyway, I must get on.’ He smiled at her. ‘I have always admired you, Lady Celia. The way you combine your career with your family. The courage you showed through the war, keeping Lyttons going. Your generosity to Barty—’

‘Oh that,’ she said and sighed, ‘there are a great many people who criticise me for that.’

‘I daresay there are. People love to criticise, to say what you should have done, what they would have done, when they usually do nothing at all, for anybody. Of course the situation isn’t perfect for Barty. But you have given her a life and opportunities she would never have had. And when a charming and clever young woman takes her place in the world, a place she would never have dreamed of without you, then you will have enormous reason for pride.’

‘Do you really think so?’ Why was she crying? What was the matter with her now?

‘Well, of course I do. Left where she was, she would probably be a mother herself by now. Buried beneath the struggle against dirt and exhaustion and poverty, like her own mother. Don’t listen to others. Be pleased with yourself. About what you have done. As for those twins of yours – well—’

‘My husband says they’ll either end up in prison, or as the first women prime ministers,’ said Celia, smiling at him through her tears.

‘I’d say the latter. They’re wonderful girls. Beautiful too, like their mother. And Giles, a young man now. You’ve made a marvellous family, my dear. It’s not easy. And now you mustn’t—’

‘Mustn’t what?’ she said, ‘tell me, Dr Perring, I need advice.’

‘Oh dear me. Dangerous stuff, advice,’ he said, ‘All I was going to say was, you mustn’t let yourself down. You must recognise how well you’ve done and go on doing it. That’s all. Good morning. Now lots of rest, throw those cigarettes away, and come and see me in a month’s time. Unless you want a consultation before that, of course. I’m always here.’

Celia went over to him and gave him a kiss.

‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘I’m so grateful to you.’

Dr Perring’s face was pink with pleasure. ‘Good gracious,’ he said, ‘no need for gratitude. I just want you to be happy. Remember that. Really happy.’

Now who else had said that? Oh, yes, her mother. Be happy, or there’s no point in it. Only she wasn’t happy; she was dreadfully unhappy. And whatever she did, more unhappiness lay ahead, a frightening, forbidding thing.

Perhaps she should get rid of it. Rid of the baby. Perhaps that was the solution. It wasn’t impossible. In fact it was quite easy. Provided you had money. It could be properly done, by a skilled surgeon, there was no need for old women in back streets with knitting needles. Now who could tell her about that? Bunty Winnington, she knew had had at least one abortion; Elspeth too, she thought. But – oh God, if she asked either of them, they would know. Know it was her, know why she had to have one. Know it was Sebastian’s baby. No use saying a friend of hers needed to know. And the gossip would be worse, more horrendous than ever.

And as so often before, during the past few weeks, she wondered yet again how it was possible that Oliver had not heard the gossip, not been outraged by it, not confronted her with it. Why, why not?

‘Oh, God,’ she said aloud, resting her head in her arms on her desk, ‘Dear God, what have I done? What have I done to everyone?’

The Secretary’s Office

St Nicholas College

Cambridge

Dear Mr Bateson,

Thank you for your letter. It was good to hear that you survived the war so well, and that you are enjoying your teaching career.

I am able only to give you Miss Bartlett’s family’s address; she was not one of the students who remained in touch with the university and she has never returned for reunions. Her parents will presumably be able to redirect your letter and after that it will, of course, be up to her. The address is 42 Garden Road, Ealing, London, W5, and her father’s name is Mr WE Bartlett. I do hope this is helpful and I look forward to seeing you at the next college reunion. Perhaps if you manage to locate her, you will be able to persuade Miss Bartlett to join you!

Yours sincerely,

W Stubbs

(Secretary, St Nicholas’ College)

‘Marvellous,’ said Guy when Jeremy showed him the letter, ‘bloody marvellous. Well done, old chap.’

‘It was nothing. Let’s just hope that Mr Stubbs isn’t too friendly with old Lothian.’

‘Even if he is, what interest could he possibly have?’ said Guy, ‘it’s such an innocent request, after all.’

‘It is indeed,’ said Jeremy, ‘now shall I write, or will you?’

‘You actually knew her, didn’t you?’

‘Yes I did. Not well, but she’d remember my name.’

‘Then you write. That way the letter can sound perfectly – or almost perfectly – innocent. You could say you just wanted to see her, in connection with a reunion. And then we could go along and see her together. If that’s all right with you. I feel much more hopeful already.’

‘Well – hold your horses,’ said Jeremy, ‘she might not agree. And even if she, does, and even if she talks openly, which is quite unlikely, she might have the worst news of all.’

‘Which would be?’

‘That the rumours were true. That she did have an affair with Lothian.’

‘Oh God,’ said Guy. ‘I hadn’t exactly thought of that.’ There was a silence; then he rallied; ‘I’m quite quite sure she didn’t, though. I feel it in my bones.’

‘So far,’ said Jeremy, ‘your bones haven’t proved too reliable, have they?’

‘Not so far, no,’ said Guy humbly.

The children were all going back to London; Jay was outraged.

‘It’s not fair, why can’t I come too?’

‘You don’t live there,’ said Barty, ‘lucky you.’

Giles looked at her. ‘Don’t you like London?’

‘Not specially. I prefer the country. When I’m grown-up and a famous writer, I shall live somewhere near here.’

‘You could live here.’

‘No I couldn’t, Giles. Don’t be silly.’

‘I’m not being silly. Why not?’

‘Because I don’t belong here. That’s why not.’

She sounded and indeed felt irritable, as she often did when the question of her background was raised, however indirectly.

‘Well—’ Giles hesitated. She was flushed, visibly ruffled.

He felt awkward, sorry for her. He could see why she became upset; her position, as she got older, was so complex.

He often wondered if his mother had actually thought for more than five minutes before taking Barty home with her: probably not, she never seemed to think about anything properly. It would have seemed a good idea to her at the time, the right thing to do and she would have scooped Barty up, rather as if she was a stray puppy and set her down again in her new surroundings and expected her to be happy in them. Of course, in some ways, she was, but there had been some nasty moments, not least when she had been so ill that day: Giles could still remember how outraged he had felt, hearing Nanny lying about her, and telling her she was a guttersnipe, and his parents going off without knowing about any of it: well, they would have done, if he hadn’t told them.

And the other children at school, being so beastly to her, that had been very hard. What would happen, and it was only a few years now, when she really grew up? Would she stay with the Lyttons, as another daughter, or would she finally go home to her own family? Surely not: although she often spoke of it with a sort of longing. It just wouldn’t work, she wasn’t like them, not any of them any more. Billy was a jolly nice chap, but there were light years between him and Barty in terms of education and – well just manners and the way they spoke. And what sort of person would she marry, someone who his mother would approve of, or someone her own mother and brothers and sisters knew? It would be terribly difficult for her. Anyway, lots of people would want to marry her, that was for sure. She was so pretty now and so jolly, Giles couldn’t think of any girl whose company he enjoyed more.

This summer had been superb, he had taught her tennis and she played really quite well, and his grandmother had given them both some riding lessons. She was obviously scared at first, but she had gritted her teeth and got on with it, as Lady Beckenham had instructed and after a week or two, was trotting and even cantering quite competently. She wasn’t as good as the twins, who might have been born on horses, so blithely brave were they, so easily and gracefully did they sit on the pony: so good indeed, that Lady Beckenham had bought another pony, so that they had one each. She entered them for all the local gymkhanas, and at the end of the month, a row of red rosettes hung on the bridle rack in the ponies’ stables.

‘Anyway I want to get back,’ said Barty now, ‘because my mum isn’t well.’

‘Isn’t she? I’m sorry.’

‘No. She wasn’t before I came down here. I had a letter from Frank the other day, and he said she’s been rotten, and I want to get her to see a doctor.’

‘She hasn’t even seen a doctor?’ said Giles incredulously, ‘and she’s been ill for weeks. Why on earth not?’

‘Because, Giles,’ said Barty with rather weary patience, ‘she can’t afford it. That’s why.’

‘Good Lord,’ said Giles, ‘how absolutely appalling.’

‘Lily, get your coat.’

‘What for? I’m quite happy here.’

‘Treasure hunt. Really big one.’

‘Jack, I’m a bit tired of treasure hunts.’

‘No, but this one is special. Thirty of us so far, thirty cars that is, first clue is at Buckingham Palace. Come on, darling, we’ll be last.’

‘It’s not a race is it?’

‘Of course it’s a race. No point in a treasure hunt if it’s not.’

‘Lily looked at him; he was flushed, he’d had too much to drink – and she had a busy day next day. She shook her head.

‘No, Jack, I’m sorry, I really don’t want to come. You go.’

It was the first time she had said that, had refused to go anywhere or do anything with him; he stared at her for a moment, his face shocked. Then he said, slowly and very reluctantly, ‘No, I don’t want to go without you, Lily. If you won’t come, I’ll just have to give it a miss.’

Lily hadn’t expected that; she’d thought he’d just go, off like a small, sulky boy. She was profoundly touched.

‘Well – well maybe I will. Just this once. Wait till I go to the cloakroom, get my coat. It’s quite chilly for August.’

‘Lily, you’re a great girl,’ said Jack.

‘Good Lord,’ said Oliver, ‘Look at this.’

Celia took the paper; it was the
Daily Mail
. There was a picture on the front of what looked like fifty cars jammed in front of Buckingham Palace, and another photograph of a lot of young people, hanging out of several of the cars, all looking as if they had had very much too much to drink. The picture was captioned
Bright Young Things put in the dark
.

‘Isn’t that Jack’s friend, Harry Cholmondley?’ said Oliver.

‘Where? Oh yes, I think it is. Jack was probably there, then.’