Park Lane (37 page)

His kiss had suddenly stopped. He had drawn back and stayed looking at her with sadness in his eyes. ‘I have to go,’ he’d said. Bea had nodded, realising that he meant quite the opposite, that she should go. So she’d pushed herself up with an ‘I’m late’, as though she had an appointment. Yet she was late, a year late in coming to her decision. The moment had passed and she’d missed her chance.

She and Clemmie are packing up the war. Most of the hospital beds are still full but they are putting what they can into the back wing until someone comes to take it away. Though who, says Clemmie, would want a hundred bedpans? Moreover the cupboards, even entire back rooms, are already full of family possessions emptied from the house when it was turned into a hospital. Shall we take all this out first, asks Bea? Some day, Clemmie replies, I’m not sure I can stare at all those dead animals again.

So they pile blankets and pillows around leopards’ and lions’ heads, slowly drowning the creatures in wool and feathers. Let’s move the moose. Don’t be ridiculous, Bea, it needs a dozen men to move one of those heads. With at least two legs each. Then do you think, asks Bea, we can hang some of these bedpans off the antlers?

Clem falls silent, and the two sisters go on folding. Then it comes. At least Tom isn’t alone, she says, though it’s a different type of hospital he needs. Bea almost drops the corners of the sheet she is holding.

‘Clemmie, how can you say that about your husband?’

Clemmie isn’t looking at her; she’s still folding her end of the sheet.

‘It’s been a terrible problem,’ she says, ‘with the nurses. At times he doesn’t know where he is. Or what he’s wearing. I’ve started to lock him in at night.’

‘Clem …’

‘Don’t tell me it’ll get better with time, Bea. Good God, look at the colour of these sheets. Shall we burn them?’

After lunch, they walk over to the woods at a slow pace, the children running between them and around them, almost tripping them up. Among the trees it’s all silver bark and a palette of oranges of autumn leaves. She and Clemmie catch up with the children, who are tracing their fingers over lines scratched into the bark. It’s the soldiers, says Clemmie, their initials, and the dates they were here. They’ve decorated almost all the wood. I like the hearts best, though some of those stories must have turned out terribly sad. Some of them, though, some of them, I like to think, may have ended up together. In any case these hearts will keep on growing with the trees. That’s something, isn’t it? In fifty years’ time, children will be fitting their fingers right into the grooves.

‘Clem?’

‘Yes.’

‘You haven’t nagged me about finding a husband. It’s not like you.’

‘Well, now there are so few … it must be a sore point, Bea, mustn’t it, and I didn’t want to … How are you, you look like you’ve been ridden over. It’s Mother, isn’t it? We all feel—’

‘No, it’s not. Well, perhaps a little.’ Of course it is. Though, Mother, mothers generally, never really go, their voice is always in your ear. More so when they’re dead – at least being corporeal limits where they can be. ‘It’s just that I am beginning to think I rather should get married.’

‘Good God, that sounds jolly vague. To anyone in particular?’

‘I thought you approved of vague. A sort of choose-from-the-list-of suitable candidates.’

‘Well, that’s what most of us do.’

‘Clem! I thought you and Tom …’

‘Oh yes, of course. You can’t help being in love when you’re getting married. There’s all the fuss, and the clothes, and the pantomime. Really for six weeks you’re in such a whirl it’s a miracle that not everyone falls over with exhaustion at the altar. But it’s not necessarily in love with the person you’re marrying. Besides, what a bar it was to live up to in Tom’s case. His parents’ perfect marriage, he said, dying in each other’s arms as the ship went down. So who’s in sight? Anyone I know?’

‘No.’

‘I thought Bill Fitzroy was sniffing around.’

‘Yes, he is, or was. I’m not sure any more.’

‘Well, don’t let him slip through your fingers.’

‘It’s back to the old Clem …’

‘Well, I’m sorry.’

‘John came back.’

Clemmie stops still. She turns to face Bea, immediately angry.

‘What did he want?’

‘He wanted to take me to a show.’

‘And?’

‘I agreed, then chucked and came here instead.’

‘You’ve done the right thing.’

‘Because I was so fixed on him?’

‘Because John Vinnicks is a cad.’ Clemmie pauses. ‘Now he’s back, Bea … you can go to America.’

Yes, thinks Bea, I could. I have nothing to stay here for now.

They are on the club fender in the small sitting room, watching flames the same colour as the leaves outside. Bea’s face is burning in the heat from the fire and she’s sure her stockings are about to singe. The two of them have picked at a supper of not-quite-the-worst of Mrs Cleaver’s offerings.

‘Don’t tell me to replace her, Bea. There are no replacements left. Honestly, even housemaids are as sought after as doctors. Women either only know how to pack shells, or want to work in an office.
Half of them ran off in the war. Didn’t you have a couple who left Park Lane?’

‘Well, in the war, Grace. I rather liked her.’

‘There you are. She couldn’t give two hoots for you, vanishing in a flash when you were so short-staffed.’

‘I don’t think it was like that.’

‘What do you mean? Trouble? We had one here. Obviously one of the patients wasn’t quite so wounded. Anyhow, it can stay with her mother, and I’m tempted to have her back, but the other servants here would throw a fit, they mind so much about these things. You still haven’t told me whom you are thinking of marrying.’

‘No, well. I thought he wanted to marry me, but now he says he doesn’t.’

‘What rot. Gosh, you must know by now that men can never make up their own minds, we have to make them up for them. And once they have been made up, they don’t change. They can say terrible things, but they always come back round to where they were in the first place, otherwise they would have to admit they were wrong. Is he …? No, d’you know, after everything, I don’t think it matters. Is he as boring as Bill Fitzroy?’

‘No.’

‘As caddish as John?’

‘No.’

‘Then for God’s sake what are you waiting for? I’m packing you off on the first train in the morning.’

‘No, Clemmie, I really think it’s too late.’

‘Until he’s down the aisle with somebody else, it is never too late.’

‘Clem, I need some air. It’s too damn hot here. Let’s go for a walk.’

‘Can’t see much in the garden at night.’

‘Let’s walk down to the King’s Arms.’

It has stopped raining. The sky is moon-bright, and so clear that it feels as if a frost is coming down. In the silence, their heels ring on the road.

‘Are you not going to tell me anything about your mysterious beau? Is he a fox or a dog? Is he tall? A dwarf? If you don’t tell me anything, I shall have to assume that he is a dwarf.’

‘He is physically perfect.’

‘Even after the war?’

‘A few scars.’

‘That’s rather detailed knowledge. I hope you’re not being foolish. Does he have any prospects?’

‘Yes, Clem. I think he does.’

They have reached the King’s Arms, a picture-book glow coming from its windows.

‘Let’s go in, Clem.’

‘It will be full of officers.’

‘They’re your patients, and it will be good for you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Let them make you feel good.’

‘Is that what you want for me, my wicked little sis?’

‘For both of us. We need it. All women do.’

‘It feels as though it might rain again.’

‘So let’s call it shelter, Clem.’

27

HE COMES IN THE EVENING, IN THE DARK. THEY
haven’t thought that there is anyone to come for her, haven’t thought to push her out of the way when Mr Blunt opens the door. It was Mrs Blunt who called to him to do it, even before there was a knock. She must have seen the mackintosh and bowler hat from the upstairs window and thought that’s news, money even.

The steady rain is dripping over his hat and the part of his face she can see, but Grace only needs an inch to know her brother, the way he holds himself hasn’t changed. He’s upright and wide, pushing his shoulders out to fill as much of the doorway as he can. His chin is raised as if to avoid the blows he must be expecting, to give as much as to receive. If Mr Blunt has his eyes open, he’ll duck.

A draught’s coming in. The cold air cuts between the armchairs, heading straight for the fire, and Baby, and they’re all shivering. Michael doesn’t speak, and even though she’s quaking at the thought of it, Grace feels a surge of strength as she waits for what he might tell her to do.

Grace can’t see his eyes beneath the rim of his bowler and the shadow of the door, but she can see the direction his chin is pointing and the hardness to him. He is staring at Baby sitting on the rug in front of the fire, and Grace’s heart feels like it’s trying to escape her ribs with just the thought of what might be going
through his head. Baby’s all he needs to see to understand her letter, though. Grace, don’t be a fool, she tells herself, of course he knew. Whether he’s going to ask her to hand Baby over, or invite her to come with him, she doesn’t know. She’s not going to wait, either, for she’s between Mrs Blunt and Baby, and she moves towards her child as Mrs B. is still facing Michael, waiting for him to speak.

Mr Blunt’s eyes are following Michael’s gaze from Baby to Grace, and he starts to lift his arm back to the door. Grace has packed a bag ready, Baby’s too, and hidden them both far under her bed. But there’s no time for that, not unless she wants a fight, and what about Baby in that, and Michael? Grace doesn’t want to think what Mrs Blunt might have in her hand.

Michael’s put his foot in the door quick as silver, and Mr Blunt can see Michael moves faster than he can, and for a moment Mr Blunt isn’t pushing it any further. Grace is like lightning, she grabs Baby up quick and he cries out at the suddenness of it all. She pulls him tighter, he’s feeling soft and hard with the struggling, but she takes a hold and pushes his soft wet cheeks against her. She runs through the gap that Michael has left between his back and the door, and into the watery blackness outside, her boots squelching into the reeking mud.

She goes on running. There’s a moon and she can see where she’s going, can spot the glints of metal lying in wait for her feet, but her feet are sticking in the thickness of the mud, making her stumble. She won’t fall, though; you can’t fall when you’re carrying your baby, there’s something stops you doing that. She holds Baby tight, she’ll keep him warmer that way, for though the rain has stopped his blanket is damp, and it’s not the time of year for an infant to catch a chill. Not that Grace can feel the weather herself. It could be baking July, could be snow. If she shut her eyes she couldn’t tell which. She squeezes Baby tighter, then loosens her arms a little, to make sure he can still breathe.

When she hears the squelches behind her she keeps on running,
Baby light in her arms. Don’t look behind you, Grace Campbell, stop to look and they’ll have you, and back you will go. It’s only when she hears Michael’s voice telling her to calm it, that she slows to a walk, a fast one, mind. She’s still waiting for the squeak of the Blunts’ trap, though it’d take them a little while to harness up first. And there’s the mud to slow them down too.

Grace and Michael walk on. No more words. Two and a half years, and each of them could have been dead. Grace can’t look at him, what does he think of her? He came to her, though, even if he’ll leave her and never speak to her again. She’s waiting for him to ask her how it came about, how she could be so short-brained. He says nothing, there’s no scolding, no demand to know who the father is and that he should take Grace straight to him. Although Grace should be relieved that he’s not telling her how angry he is, the silence is worse, because she’s still waiting. Perhaps this is it, silence because he’s so angry with her that he can’t bring himself to speak. He reaches his arms out for Baby but Grace pulls her child tighter to her.

Michael takes off his overcoat and hooks it around her shoulders. She pauses to let him button it up the front, Baby in her arms in the warmth underneath.

‘Where are we going, Grace?’ Flat as a pancake.

Why’s he asking her? For two years she hasn’t been able to see beyond a half-dozen fields.

‘Wherever you’re taking me.’

‘I don’t know where you want to go, Grace.’

She stops walking and he stops beside her. She turns to look up at him, under his hat. It has stopped raining, but she can feel warm wet lines running down her face. ‘With you,’ she says. ‘I want to go with you.’

Tonight, he says, we’ll stop at the village. Gowden? she asks, though it is the only village around here. There’s an inn there, he says. The King’s Arms. But Grace doesn’t like the thought of going into the village. Can you afford it, Michael? He doesn’t reply.

Don’t be silly, Grace Campbell, she tells herself. What’s Miss Beatrice’s sister going to be doing wandering about the village at night, and not that she’d recognise Grace anyway.

‘Don’t you think it’s too close, Michael?’

‘It’s as far as we’ll get tonight.’ Don’t worry, he continues, I’m here now. There’s something about Michael that makes her not worry. Nonetheless, as they approach the King’s Arms, they see a couple of slight figures walking away in the dark. Grace turns her head in the opposite direction. You never know, she thinks.

As they reach the inn, a pack of uniforms, bandages and crutches hobble out of the door and start to climb into a couple of cars.

‘Back to the monarchy of Matron,’ one calls out, and the others chuckle.

‘Those who can walk, do so,’ says a voice that sounds as if it is used to being obeyed. ‘We need space,’ he continues, ‘to pick up the two ladies who were with us this evening.’

‘They were insistent,’ says another, ‘that they wished to walk. Good Lord, who’s this? Joseph and the Virgin Mary? No offence, my good man, but you do look like refugees.’