The FitzOsbornes at War (32 page)

Simon likes Daniel, I think – or at least, respects his intelligence and integrity. However, they have such different perspectives on life that even their most casual conversations have a tendency to spark into heated political debate. Today, it was over the ethics of buying up bombed houses cheaply, which Aunt Charlotte has asked Simon to arrange with Mr Grenville, the family solicitor.

‘And why not?’ said Simon, with an edge of belligerence. ‘The property owners aren’t covered by their insurance, and the government won’t be paying any compensation till the war’s over. In the meantime, these poor people are trying to maintain houses that are falling down round their ears – or round their tenants’ ears, if they can actually find any tenants when half of London’s escaped to the country. They want to sell, we want to buy. Where’s the problem with that?’

‘And you’ll repair these houses, and let them to people who’ve been made homeless?’ said Daniel, frowning.

‘There aren’t any building materials to be found, let alone tradesmen to do that sort of work,’ said Simon impatiently. ‘I expect a lot of the houses will have to be demolished. Then, after the war, we’ll build nice blocks of flats with proper plumbing and all modern conveniences.’

‘And sell them at a nice profit,’ said Veronica.

‘Yes, Veronica, that’s the way capitalism works,’ said Simon, rolling his eyes.

‘You know,’ said Daniel, ‘I can’t approve of your motives, Simon. But if one good thing comes out of all this terrible destruction, it will be that, after the war, we’ll have a new London. No more slums. Clean, affordable housing with lots of natural light, surrounded by parks and community halls and health clinics and well-designed schools . . .’

‘All paid for by people like Aunt Charlotte, out of the pure goodness of their hearts,’ said Veronica.

‘Oh, but Veronica, look at what most of them are doing
now
,’ Daniel protested. ‘If they’re not in the services, they’re in the ARP or running canteens or helping at first aid posts. They’re working alongside ordinary people – even living with them, if they’re looking after evacuee children. Their food is rationed just as everybody else’s is, they’ve given up their motor cars, their servants have all joined up so they’re having to look after themselves for the first time in their lives. I tell you, this war will help people see that sharing is good and right – and that’s all Socialism is, making sure that everyone gets a fair share.’

Simon snorted. ‘You think a mere world war will have any effect on the British class system? You really
do
have your head in the clouds. Didn’t you see that letter in
The Times
a few months ago? Some Lieutenant Colonel moaning about how useless working-class men are at being army officers. “Never was the old school tie more justified than it is today.” They
all
think that way, the ones in charge!’

‘Ah, Simon, we’ll make a class warrior of you yet,’ said Daniel, with a smile.

My simmering rage over Elchester is already halfway to turning
me
into a Bolshevik, so it was probably a good thing the conversation then moved on to a happier subject, that of Daniel’s cousins finally being released from their internment camp. Then Veronica mentioned women having to register for war work now. But women aren’t actually being conscripted into the services yet, and they won’t be sent into combat. (Of course, far more civilians than servicemen have died at the hands of the enemy since the war began. There
are
no civilians in this war, really, not since the Blitz started.) Besides, all the women we know are
already
doing war work.

After that, the others discussed the fighting in North Africa (the Allies seem to be winning some battles, for once), but nothing’s more boring to me than military strategy. So I don’t think I can be bothered to record it here.

11th May, 1941

I
’VE COME TO DREAD THE
approach of the full moon, and last night’s was enormous, as round and white as a spotlight, with not a single cloud to shade it. A real bomber’s moon, I thought, as I stared up at it from our front step. Then the siren went off. We were still arranging ourselves and our belongings comfortably in the cellar when there was a tremendous thump and the electric light died. Veronica groped for our torch and we managed to get the candles lit, uneasily aware of a harsh creaking somewhere far above our heads. Then came a crack like a rifle shot, followed by a crumpling roar and an almighty crash. The walls of our shelter trembled. The candle flames shook, and the dark lightbulb shivered on the end of its cord. Then everything went still.

‘Was . . . was that the house, do you think?’ I asked, in a very small voice.

Veronica climbed the stairs to our reinforced trapdoor, but it wasn’t hot, and she couldn’t smell any smoke.

‘Whatever that was, it was close,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t seem to have blocked our exit, though.’

Well, Montmaray House or our flat might be gone, but Veronica and my journal were safe down here; that was all that mattered. We settled back down on our bunk, nerves twanging but each of us determined to keep calm and carry on, as the posters say. Veronica retrieved her book, something heavy and Spanish, and I returned to Kick’s latest letter. Billy Hartington’s younger brother had just married Deborah Mitford – the latest in a ‘rash’ of recent weddings involving Kick’s friends, here and in America. ‘But I am still single, and sometimes feel I will stay that way forever!’ she’d written.
Hmm
, I thought, picking up my pen and wondering whether I ought to tell her that Billy seemed to be spending all his leave with Sally Norton these days. I’d seen them together at the Four Hundred. But if Billy was keeping silent about his unofficial engagement, then it wasn’t
my
business to tell Kick. And in any case, letter writing by candlelight was proving to be rather a strain on the eyes. Unfortunately we’d run out of paraffin for the lamp, and neither of us had had any spare time to queue up and buy more. I put down my pen with a sigh.

‘Reminds me of all those nights at Montmaray when the supply ship was overdue,’ said Veronica, abandoning her book as well. ‘Struggling to read by the glow of the stove.’

‘Remember that time Carlos curled up so close to it that his fur started to smoulder?’ I said. ‘And after we dragged him away, he kept trying to sneak back, because it was so cold?’

‘So we had to take him upstairs with us when we went to bed,’ recalled Veronica, ‘and we all piled up in my bed, and Toby kept complaining about Carlos slobbering on his neck, but that was actually Henry.’

All the while, the bombs were whistling down around us, punctuated by the stutter of the anti-aircraft guns, for what seemed like hours. Time tended to behave strangely underground, I’d noticed. It idled along for the first part of the night, stalling altogether at moments of high terror. It was only at two or three in the morning, after one had finally managed to fall asleep, that time began to sprint forward, in a belated attempt to catch up with itself. Veronica and I propped ourselves wearily against our pillows to wait out the raid, our conversation starting and stopping and going round in slow circles like the minute hand of the clock.

‘I can’t imagine why anyone would
choose
to smoke,’ said Veronica at one stage, as the air filtering through the vents began to take on a distinct smell of ash, ‘but look at all the people who
do
. And there’d be riots in the streets if the government ever decided to ration cigarettes.’

‘Tobacco probably tastes nicer than burning buildings, though. And perhaps they can’t help wanting to smoke? I think cigarettes might be a bit addictive.’

‘Like opium,’ said Veronica, nodding. ‘Someone I know in the Foreign Office started on that when he was posted to Shanghai.’

‘How did it make him feel?’

‘Drowsy, he said. And numb.’

I pondered this for a moment. ‘That doesn’t sound very enjoyable.’

‘No, I didn’t think so, either. But it might be one of those things that appeals to men more than women. Like sex.’

‘I don’t think
that’s
just for men,’ I said. ‘Look at Daphne. And Julia told me it’s very nice, once you find someone who knows what he’s doing.’

‘Oh, well,
nice
,’ said Veronica. ‘Yes, I suppose it is. I’m just not sure how much time and effort ought to be devoted to something that ends up being fleetingly
nice
.’

‘You said you hadn’t been to bed with Daniel!’

‘I haven’t.’ There was a pause. ‘Well, not really.’

‘More than kissing?’

‘Quite a bit more,’ she said. ‘But not enough to worry about getting pregnant.’

‘Oh.’ Veronica didn’t sound
madly
enthusiastic about it – but then, if she didn’t like it, she certainly wouldn’t still be doing it. It would be impossible for Daniel to coerce Veronica into that (or anything else), even if he were capable of behaving so despicably (which, of course, he isn’t). But
I’d
found kissing to be wonderful, and I hadn’t even been in love with the man. ‘Well, perhaps it’ll become nicer when Daniel knows more about what to do,’ I said.

‘He knows perfectly well what to do,’ she said. ‘He’s had other lovers. No, I expect it’s me. I prefer to think, rather than feel, which is probably a disadvantage in that area.’ She stopped to rearrange her pillow. ‘You know,’ she went on thoughtfully, ‘sometimes I’d be quite happy to be a disembodied brain, floating from place to place.’

‘Steered by willpower,’ I said, picturing it.

‘Yes. Imagine how much easier that would be, not having a body that needed to be fed and rested and all those other boring things.’

‘Eating isn’t boring,’ I protested. ‘Well, it is now, but think of all those delicious meals we used to have before the war. And you’d be missing out on long steamy bubble baths, and lying in the sun with the scent of fresh-cut grass wafting on the breeze, and slipping between clean linen sheets, and all
sorts
of lovely things. I suppose I’m more sensual than you, though. Or is it sensuous? I can never remember the difference . . . But wait, did you just say Daniel had been in love with someone
else
?’

‘He’s thirty-one years old,’ she pointed out. ‘It would be a bit odd if he hadn’t. There was a girl at Oxford he was mad about, but her parents disapproved of him, and she finally married a much richer friend of his. That’s why he took up the job at Montmaray, to get away for a while. Then, after he came back to London, there was some older woman, an Italian Communist. But that was years ago.’

Well,
I
wouldn’t have wanted to be someone’s second love – or third love – but Veronica didn’t seem the slightest bit jealous. That was where an aptitude for calm, rational thinking was an advantage, I supposed.

‘And speaking of Italy,’ Veronica said, yawning, ‘I wonder how Mussolini’s feeling, now the Italian Army in Abyssinia is about to surrender . . .’

At which point, I fell asleep. After what seemed only a few seconds, I was shaken back into consciousness.

‘Sophie, come and look!’ said Veronica. She was fully dressed, and when I sat up and rubbed my eyes, I saw that the cellar was now filled with thick grey light. I tugged on my shoes and my coat, and stumbled after Veronica. Outside, scraps of charred paper churned about in the smoky breeze, and the rising sun was a dull yellow ball. We walked up the path alongside Montmaray House – which was still standing, seemingly unscathed – and out into the middle of the road. Two unfamiliar men wearing ARP armbands and tin helmets were standing there, gazing at our neighbour’s house. Except . . . it had vanished. It simply wasn’t
there
any more. I was struck by the realisation of how much empty space makes up a building, for the house, a three-storey Georgian mansion, had been reduced to an untidy pile of crushed stone and splintered timber that stood no taller than my shoulder. Thank Heavens the owners had moved to the country a year ago. I gaped at the ruins for a while, then turned to peer at Montmaray House. There were some broken windows, but no other apparent damage.