Authors: Laura Wilson
Stratton's War (8 page)
‘What a shame,’ he murmured. ‘Still, I daresay Mr Calthrop will buy a new one.’
‘I’m sure he will,’ said Diana, firmly.
‘When he returns.’
‘Returns?’
‘I understand he’s abroad, with his regiment.’
Diana laughed. ‘You have been checking up on me, haven’t you?’
‘Yes. As I told you.’
‘My turn to check up on you, then. Is there a Mrs Ventriss?’
‘Not yet, no.’
They made desultory conversation for the rest of the journey. While they were talking, Diana mentally returned to the fact that he was unmarried several times, and felt - self-disgust rearing its head again, but more feebly each time - relieved. It had never been her habit to lie, or no more than anybody else did, anyway, but really, it was becoming surprisingly easy. Added to which, the knowledge that Ventriss didn’t believe her story about the wedding ring was alarmingly enjoyable. She couldn’t be tipsy, could she? She’d only had two drinks, although they had, admittedly, been pretty strong ones with a good deal of gin . . . all the same, she decided, she was quite sober enough to fend him off if he pounced. He’d already done the verbal equivalent, so a spot of mental preparation was definitely called for. Not that it wouldn’t be nice, although, of course, quite inappropriate. And there would be the satisfaction of knocking him back when he thought she’d be his for the taking.
Having got this straight (or straight-ish) in her mind, Diana started to enjoy herself in earnest. The staff at Sovrani’s clearly knew Ventriss well and made a great fuss of them both, and the dinner was as good as he’d promised. They talked about the war, but in a reassuringly off-hand way, and about Forbes-James. Diana knew she couldn’t question Ventriss directly about what he did, any more than he could question her, but the fact that they both did it and knew they couldn’t talk about it made it rather thrilling - to her, at least; she supposed it was nothing new for him. He must have taken any number of female agents far more experienced than she out to dinner and probably - the thought was at the back of her mind throughout the meal - bedded them afterwards.
While he settled the bill and chatted to the maitre d’, she reflected that she hadn’t laughed so much in months. It occurred to her that Guy, with whom she’d been - or thought she’d been - herself so terrifically in love, had never made her laugh much. Telling herself that the comparison was a dangerous one - she wasn’t in love with Claude, and nor was she going to be - she snapped her compact shut and allowed herself to be helped into her coat with a full complement of bowing and general foreign flummery, before being escorted from the restaurant. The sudden fresh air made her aware of the effect of the wine she’d drunk with the meal, on top of the gin, and she allowed Claude to put a proprietorial arm round her as he ushered her towards another taxi. Like the first one, it seemed, despite the fact that it was now almost pitch dark, to appear out of nowhere as soon as they reached the kerb. Inside, after stating her address, she found that his hand was on hers (how had that happened?). It felt warm and nice, so she allowed it to remain there for the duration of the journey. She’d assumed that he would take the taxi on after seeing her to her door but he paid off the driver. She waited on the pavement while this was happening, feeling awkward. She must thank him - it would be unpardonably rude (as well as risky in the blackout) to rush off up the steps - but she wasn’t at all sure of what might happen next.
As the cab drove off and Ventriss turned to face her, she was struck afresh, even in the near darkness, by his looks. She took a step back, felt her shoulders collide with the railings, and then, in short order, felt his hand on her neck, forcing her head up (not that it needed much help), his mouth on her mouth, his thigh between her thighs, and his other hand inside her coat, cupping her breast. After the initial surprise, Diana quickly found herself struggling between arousal - his mouth was lovely, and his thumb, expertly caressing her nipple with just the right amount of pressure, was giving her an alarmingly liquid feeling - and wondering how long she dared let it go on before slapping his face. Not that she wanted to, but he’d done the whole thing without so much as a preamble and that wasn’t on, no matter how much she was enjoying it.
She was about to take action when he suddenly released her and, brushing her cheek with his lips, said, in a light, almost mocking tone, ‘Goodnight, my dear. No doubt I’ll see you soon.’ Before she had time to do more than take a breath, the darkness had reduced him to mere footsteps on the pavement. Goodnight, my dear! As if she were a . . . a barmaid or something. Who the hell did he think he was? She peered after him, but the feeble circles of light from the veiled lamp-posts illuminated nothing but the ground beneath them. Serve him right if he falls over a dustbin, she thought, angrily, and listened for the satisfying sound of a clang and a curse. When none came, she turned, and, using the railings as a guide, groped her way up the steps and, after a furious scrabble in her bag for keys, through the front door. Flustered and thoroughly humiliated, she set about undressing and preparing for bed, attacking her face with cream and avoiding her eyes in the mirror.
Lying in bed, Diana found her anger giving way to self-recrimination. What the hell was she playing at? She’d been warned, hadn’t she? Not that Lally or Jock, or anyone else for that matter, had been much help. Whatever she felt towards Guy, the man was fighting for his country, and she was carrying on like a . . . like what, exactly? She hadn’t done anything - except allow herself to be kissed. And enjoy allowing herself to be kissed. And . . . For God’s sake, she told herself irritably, it doesn’t matter. In any case, she wasn’t going to fall in love with him. She’d only be making the same mistake, and the consequences would be even worse. ‘Oh, God!’ She sprang out of bed, opened her jewellery box and, extracting her wedding ring, rammed it firmly back on her finger.
NINE
Stratton sat back and watched his brother-in-law Donald sipping his beer. They were in The Swan, which they frequented mainly because Reg was unequivocal in his preference for the pub in the next street. After another row with Jenny - actually, another abnormally loud conversation, which was as close as they ever got - about whether or not the children should come home, Stratton had decided to seek consolation in a quiet pint. The alacrity with which Donald had responded to his suggestion of a drink made Stratton wonder if he might not have spent his afternoon going over the same sort of ground with Doris. He determined to ask about this, but not until they’d exhausted the pleasurable subject of Reg’s recent idiocies. ‘They’ve been drilling at the football ground,’ said Donald. ‘Talk about the blind and the halt! There was one old chap staggering around with an assegai, for Christ’s sake.’ He took off his glasses and rubbed the top of his nose. ‘I hope they frighten Hitler, because they certainly frighten me.’
‘I saw that dirty great sword.’
‘He insisted on taking it. I don’t know what use he thinks it’s going to be . . . I was in the toilet when he came round.’ Donald shook his head. ‘It’s come to something when you can’t even have a shit in peace.’
Stratton laughed.
‘And when I said something about business being bad,’ - Donald ran a camera shop - ‘he told me I’d be had up for spreading alarm and despondency! Said it was unpatriotic to complain. Mind you, I don’t think he’s doing too well, either, with the stationery orders . . .’
‘Has he said anything to you about Johnny?’
‘No, but he wouldn’t, would he? I know Lilian’s worried about him, though. She told Doris.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Bit of trouble at the garage. ’Course, Lilian says it’s all their fault, says he’s being bullied. Boot’s more likely to be on the other foot, if you ask me.’
Stratton nodded. ‘What did Doris say?’
‘Not much she could say. You know Lilian.’ Donald shrugged. ‘I’m surprised she hasn’t said anything to Jenny.’
‘Not yet. But Jenny said she’d seen him loafing with some boys when he should have been at work, so . . .’ After a few more shrugs, and oh wells, and some general stuff along the lines of don’t-meet-trouble-halfway, they relapsed into a companionable silence. One of the things Stratton liked about Donald’s company was that he knew when there wasn’t anything more to be said. Unspoken between them was the knowledge that Johnny was a bad lot and Reg was a fool, and it was this, as well as marriage into a large and close-knit family, that had helped to cement their friendship. They’d never have criticised their wives to each other - not that Stratton had ever felt the need, and he suspected that Donald was the same - but they were both aware of their status as outsiders: Stratton, because he’d grown up in rural Devon (his accent, which had charmed Jenny when they first met, had been gradually eroded by years of contact with hard London vowels) and Donald because of his Scottish parents.
‘Talking of children,’ said Stratton, ‘Jenny keeps saying we should have our two back home.’
‘Yeah . . .’ Donald sighed into his pint. ‘Doris is the same about Madeleine. I keep telling her it’s not safe, but . . . It’s a funny thing. You get into the habit of not bothering each other, but all the time when we’re not talking about it, I know she wants to and she’s biting her tongue.’
‘I know what you mean.’ Stratton thought of Jenny that afternoon, staring through the taped window into the garden, her beautiful green eyes moist with unshed tears. She had claimed - in a tight voice that declared I-don’t-want-to-discuss-it but meant exactly the opposite - to be watching the birds. ‘God knows I miss them - even the squabbling and the racket. D’you know, I found myself in Pete’s room the other night, reading one of his books?
Winnie the Pooh
. Bloody silly.’
Winnie the Pooh
. Bloody silly.’
Donald nodded. ‘I’ve done a few things like that myself. Can’t blame the women though - it’s a lot harder on them, and—’ His expression changed abruptly. ‘Christ, what’s he doing here?’
Stratton, who had his back to the door, said, ‘It’s not, is it?’
‘It bloody is, and he’s seen us.’ Donald raised his hand in a half-hearted greeting. ‘He’s brought Farmer Giles with him. And the Major.’ Stratton half turned in his seat to see Reg’s porky buttocks pushing the tail of his jacket into divergent halves as he laid the camel sword, now clean and polished, reverentially on the floor before straightening up and patting his pockets for change. Next to him, bearing a pitchfork, prongs up, as if it were a standard, was Harry Comber, the grocer, etiolated and balding. Behind them was Major Lyons, a small septuagenarian, stiff and tweedy with bushy eyebrows, who always made Stratton think of a malevolent cairn terrier.
‘I don’t believe it!’ Donald did a dramatic double-take. ‘He’s actually standing a round.’
Reg’s meanness with money was legendary. He regularly subjected the rest of the family to unsolicited advice about household savings, including - until he’d cut his arse on the remains of an acid-drop - the practice of using grocers’ bags and torn up newspaper in the toilet.
‘Shame you haven’t got a camera with you,’ said Stratton. ‘We could capture the moment for posterity.’
Donald rolled his eyes. ‘He’s coming over.’
Reg, pint in hand and trailed by the others - at a respectful distance, because the sword, jammed underneath his arm, was weaving dangerously behind him - ambled over to greet them. ‘Well met, indeed! Off duty, are we?’ He winked, as though he’d caught Stratton doing something he shouldn’t, made an expansive gesture, slopping beer on Donald’s shoulder, and then, having ascertained that both their glasses were well over the halfway mark, said, ‘Can I get you gents anything?’
‘We’re fine, thanks,’ said Stratton.
‘I can’t think why you come in here,’ said Reg, plonking himself on an empty chair. Donald opened his mouth, then shut it again, leaving the obvious answer - because you don’t - hovering in the air. ‘Don’t mind if we join you?’ Reg continued, pulling out the chairs next to him for Comber and Major Lyons.
‘So why are you here?’ asked Stratton.
‘Bit of a crush at The King’s Head. Just come off duty, you know.’
‘We gathered,’ said Donald.
‘Got our armbands, you see.’ Reg rotated his right arm towards them so that they could make out the letters LDV against the white cloth. Comber and the Major moved likewise, the latter letting out an affirmative yap as he did so. After a moment, Stratton, seeing that some response was called for, gave a hearty, ‘Jolly good,’ and raised his pint. ‘Cheers!’
A moment’s arm-raising, toasting and theatrical supping noises ensued, during which Stratton avoiding looking at Donald, and then Comber, lowering his glass, said, ‘Candidly, I think this invasion stuff is all nonsense. It’s Hitler’s last throw. He wants to get the war finished before winter.’ He lowered his voice. ‘There’s going to be famine in Europe.’
The Major looked disconcerted but contented himself with, ‘Now we know where we are.’ Stratton tried to remember exactly how many times he’d heard this remark in the last week, and felt a surge of irritation. ‘I’m buggered if I do,’ he said.
There was a short pause before Reg and Comber started to speak at once, Reg giving way with a small, fruity belch and applying himself once more to his pint as Comber launched into a long and obviously well-rehearsed spiel about how, candidly, there would be no food left in Germany by mid-October and how, candidly, dogs and cats were already being killed en masse because there was nothing for them to eat and how, candidly, the German people wouldn’t put up with it for a second longer than they had to and then, candidly, Hitler would be done for. Stratton toyed with the enjoyable possibility of telling Comber, candidly, to fuck off, but a glance at Donald confirmed that this was impossible.
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