The FitzOsbornes at War (4 page)

As I said, it was a pretty depressing meal.

7th September, 1939

I
DIDN’T HAVE TIME TO
finish writing down all that happened on Sunday – in fact, I can see that keeping an accurate record of every significant event of the war is going to be impossible. That’s supposing one can actually figure out what’s significant and what’s not, when one’s in the middle of ‘living through history’, as the newspaper put it this morning. I think I will just do as I’ve always done and write about whatever interests me, and if anyone rescues my journal from the ruins of civilisation after the war is over, they will just have to pick out the significant bits for themselves. That’s assuming they’re able to decipher my abbreviated Kernetin, which is unlikely, given that Veronica and Toby are the only other people who can read our family’s secret code – and even
they
don’t understand my abbreviations.

Anyway, after luncheon on Sunday, Aunt Charlotte went back to the village to do more arguing with and about the evacuees, and the rest of us held a Council of War in my bedroom. There was quite a bit of Montmaray business to sort out before the boys left. Firstly, there was our letter declaring war upon Germany, the draft of which Veronica read aloud. Toby and I nodded our approval; Henry didn’t think it was threatening enough; Simon pointed out that we needed to include how Germany had ignored our League of Nations letter of protest.

‘That’ll remind everyone that we really
did
try every diplomatic means possible to resolve this,’ he said. ‘It might help get the Americans on our side.’

‘I don’t think the Americans are even on
Britain’s
side,’ I said, as Veronica amended the letter. ‘They don’t seem to want to get involved in a European war at all, according to Mr Kennedy.’

‘Sooner or later,’ said Simon grimly, ‘everyone will have to choose a side.’

‘All right, how does this sound?’ And Veronica read the revised letter to us:

The Kingdom of Montmaray was illegally invaded by Germany on the twelfth of January, 1937. Germany has neither apologised, nor restored the island of Montmaray to the Montmaravian people, nor responded to a request from the League of Nations to join mediated talks to resolve this issue. Therefore, on this day, the third of September, 1939, the Kingdom of Montmaray formally declares war upon Germany.

‘That’s fine,’ said Simon.

‘No, it’s not!’ Henry exclaimed. ‘You forgot to say that we vow
eternal vengeance
on Gebhardt, because he was the one responsible for bombing Montmaray
and
he tried to assassinate you lot in Paris! Also, put in that the brave people of Montmaray will
never rest
until justice is –’

‘Henry,’ said Veronica, ‘it’s a diplomatic missive, not one of your twopenny adventure comics!’

‘I’m only trying to
help
,’ she huffed. ‘I just think it sounds a bit
soft
, that’s all.’

‘I’ll type it up now, if you like,’ I said. ‘Does Toby need to sign it?’

‘That reminds me,’ said Toby, ‘I ought to give the Royal Seal to you, Veronica, for official correspondence. You and Soph can take care of all of that, can’t you, while I’m away? Um, what else . . . Oh – money.’

‘That’s simple,’ said Simon. ‘We don’t have any.’

‘I wonder what RAF officers get paid?’ Toby said. ‘Not much, I’d imagine. But what about you girls, what are you going to do?’

‘Well, Julia was telling us about this secretarial school in London that offers intensive courses,’ said Veronica. ‘Her friend Daphne’s cousin did one of them. It’s in Bayswater Road, so all we have to do is get Aunt Charlotte to agree to us living at Montmaray House by ourselves.’ Veronica gave a wry smile. ‘I thought I’d leave the Getting Permission bit to Sophie – she’s our best strategist. After that, we’ll just have to see what sort of jobs we can find. The Colonel said he’d help with that.’

Simon had turned a searching look upon me. ‘But Sophie,’ he said, ‘do you
really
want to be in London if there are bombing raids?’

‘No,’ I said frankly. ‘But then, I don’t want to spend the war sitting in the countryside knitting socks for the troops, either. Especially the way
my
socks turn out, all lumps and no heel – although perhaps I could send them to the Germans, rather than our own side. No, the thing is, I want to do something really useful, and I think I’d have to be in London to do that.’

Veronica nodded. ‘And we have to get out of here. Well,
I
do. Aunt Charlotte is already driving me round the bend, and the war’s only been going for six hours. Imagine how I’ll be in six months.’

‘You just want to go to London to be with your
boyfriend
,’ said Henry, still annoyed that Veronica had disregarded all her helpful letter-writing suggestions.

‘I don’t have a boyfriend,’ said Veronica.

‘Right,’ said Henry. ‘So that’s why you spent all that time on the telephone to Daniel yesterday. I heard the pips go twice, that’s more than
six minutes.
’

‘Oh, and why were you eavesdropping on my private conversation?’

‘Daniel won’t get called up, will he?’ I asked, suddenly confronted with yet another worry. ‘How old is he?’

‘He’s about to turn thirty –’

‘Ancient!’ shouted Toby and Henry.

‘–
and
he can barely see a thing without his spectacles, so he’d never pass the medical,’ continued Veronica. ‘He speaks German, though, so I expect the War Office will want him as a translator or something.’

‘But what about his newspaper job?’ I asked.

‘Oh, he’s going to close the newspaper down. He had a letter from the Ministry of Information on Friday, warning him not to print anything against “the national interest”. And, of course, practically everything he publishes could fit into that category now. Interviews with pacifists, articles protesting against the world armaments trade, letters in favour of the Soviet Union – and his editorials often attack the Prime Minister. But there are new regulations against all that now, and he really doesn’t want to spend the entire war in prison.’

I suspected Daniel was being
slightly
paranoid there, but that’s probably because he’s a Socialist. I’ve noticed that even the nicest Socialists (and they’re all lovely, the ones I’ve met) tend to be just a
tiny
bit unbalanced. The warning letter must have been a mistake, because why would the government care about a little weekly like
The Evolutionary Socialist
? We
do
live in a democracy, after all; journalists don’t have to fear ‘oppression and persecution’ here. Still, I didn’t argue with Veronica about it. Daniel may not be her
boyfriend
, but she does seem to defend his point of view rather vigorously nowadays.

The rest of our meeting was taken up by Simon going through a lot of tedious details with Veronica regarding bank accounts and master keys and so on. By the time he’d finished, it was time to dress for dinner. But as the others were leaving, Simon pulled me aside.

‘There is one other thing,’ he said. ‘Sophie, could I ask you a favour?’

He’d reached out and curled his hand around my bare arm, which caused a familiar fluttering to start up somewhere in the region of my stomach. One would really think I’d have got used to his casual touch by now – after all, he
is
my cousin (probably). He’s certainly not my
boyfriend
. I cleared my throat.

‘Of course I’ll help, Simon,’ I said, in my most business-like voice. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s Mother,’ he said, and the delicious fluttering in my stomach turned into a much less enjoyable sensation. ‘Her clinic in Poole will probably have to be evacuated, because it’s right on the sea. Apparently the army’s already stringing barbed wire along the beaches, in case there’s an invasion. The clinic staff are still looking for a suitable building, somewhere safer, but –’

‘But she can’t stay with us!’ I burst out. ‘Don’t you remember, she tried to
kill
Veronica!’

‘Well, Mother wasn’t exactly in her right mind then . . . but yes, I quite understand that she can’t stay here. I just meant, could I give the matron your contact details, in case of any emergencies? I’m not exactly sure where I’ll be from now on, and I might not always have access to a telephone. I’ll keep writing to Mother, of course, and visit her whenever I can get leave.’

‘Does she know you’ve joined the RAF?’

‘Er . . . not yet,’ he admitted. ‘I didn’t want to worry her. You know how she gets.’

I certainly did. An agitated Rebecca was something to avoid at all costs.

‘Well, she’ll definitely realise once you turn up in uniform,’ I pointed out.

‘Yes, I’d better do it soon,’ he said, with a sigh. ‘So, I’ll let the matron know? And if there are any difficulties, and if you happen to be here at Milford when they telephone . . .’

I frowned. ‘I suppose I
could
go down there to sort things out. If it were absolutely necessary.’

‘Don’t take Veronica with you,’ Simon advised, with a sudden, dazzling grin. ‘Thanks, Sophie, I knew I could count on you.’ He bent down and kissed me on the cheek, then strode out of the room.

And now simply
writing
that sentence makes the heat rush to my face. Sometimes I wonder whether he actually
suspects
something of my feelings for him (my past feelings, that is, as naturally I am too sensible and mature to continue to be infatuated with him). Simon knowing about all that would be too mortifying for words, although it’s not completely outside the realms of possibility. He is fairly perceptive, and must be something of an expert on women by now, given the vast number who keep throwing themselves at him . . .

So much for this journal being an accurate record of significant wartime happenings.

But it’s not entirely my fault that this has gone off on a ridiculous tangent. This morning, I had another embarrassing encounter with Barnes, who persists in believing (despite all evidence to the contrary) that Rupert Stanley-Ross is not merely my brother’s best friend, but also my
secret suitor
.

‘The post, Your Highness,’ she said at breakfast, handing Veronica a dozen envelopes (letters of congratulation from Members of Parliament; requests for magazine interviews; tirades of abuse from Fascists, Germans and men who disapprove of women getting involved in politics). Then Barnes came round to my side of the table. ‘And a letter for
you
, Your Highness.’ Only she said this in such an arch, knowing manner that I couldn’t help blushing when I caught sight of Rupert’s handwriting. Then Barnes hovered nearby, waiting for me to open it, as though she were expecting rose petals or a diamond ring to fall out. I gritted my teeth and attacked the envelope with my butter knife.

‘Oh, look,’ I said loudly. ‘Henry, it’s from Rupert. He’s sent you a pamphlet on how to care for animals during air raids.’ I passed it over. ‘Do you want to read his letter as well?’

I knew Henry wouldn’t – she was too busy poring over the pamphlet – but I hoped this would demonstrate once and for all that there was nothing amorous about Rupert or his letters. Barnes simply sent me a conspiratorial smile as Aunt Charlotte entered the room, then hurried over to ensure Aunt Charlotte’s favourite cup and saucer were in their correct position and that the teapot was full. (The departure of so many of our servants means that our household does not always run as smoothly as Aunt Charlotte expects, so poor Barnes is busier than ever.)

‘What’s “bromide”?’ asked Henry, frowning at her pamphlet. ‘It says to give dogs a dose of it when the siren starts.’

‘It’s a sedative,’ Veronica explained. ‘Medicine to calm them down.’