The Storms of War (8 page)

She called again at the door. ‘What are you doing?’

He didn’t answer. She grasped the handle and pushed, expecting the door to be locked. It fell forward in her hand and she stood at the threshold of the room. Michael was lying face down on his bed, banging his hand into his pillow. He was making a terrible coughing sound, almost like a sob. She was about to speak when her eye was drawn upwards. The movement of the opening door was fluttering the air – and the dozens of little wooden planes hanging from the ceiling.

‘What are those?’ she asked, gazing at the ceiling. ‘Did you make them?’

He didn’t look up.

‘They must have taken
ages.’
She wanted to touch them. Over by
the far wall was a chair and a desk covered in books and papers, the only untidiness in his spotless room. She wanted to hoist herself up on the chair and hold one of the little planes. ‘Did you really make them all?’

He punched the pillow again. ‘Who cares about the bloody planes?’

‘But this one here. The wings are all lacy.’ He had carved out holes and frilled edges on the plane. ‘When
did
you do them?’

He turned over and looked up at her, his face reddened and angry. ‘Why are you asking about planes? You are as bad as them, fiddling about with that ridiculous bunting.’

‘Why are you being so mean? The local children love the party, you know that. And Papa is so happy when he gives it. Mama too.’

He let out a groan and pushed himself up on his arm. ‘You just don’t see, do you? There isn’t going to be a party. There isn’t going to be anything. We are going to war. And everybody hates us, they already do.’

‘Sir Hugh has sent a letter to Emmeline. He is content again.’

‘Not just him. Everybody.’

‘Not true,’ she said. But weakly, for her head was filling with Sir Hugh’s words and digging backwards, further backwards, to pictures of Cambridge that one time, of men waving at Michael and smiling, but turning their faces and laughing when they thought she couldn’t see.

‘I won’t go back to college, you know,’ he said, and her mind jumped – caught by the shock that they had both been thinking of Cambridge. ‘They probably won’t have me anyway.’

‘But you have to go. You
must
!’ Rudolf’s pride in his son’s achievements, his delight, the money poured into buying Michael books, papers, paying for the succession of tutors in Latin and history and the rest, the house hushed, Celia not allowed to run or even call out because Michael was
working.
For as long as she could remember, Rudolf had had three etchings on his wall. She found out early on that the best way of putting off bedtime or anything else that Verena wanted from her was by asking him about the pictures. ‘St John’s, Magdalene and Christ’s,’ he told her.
‘The best colleges. They are full of the greatest brains. The men from them rule the world.’

Arthur had never been a candidate: lazy, relying on being handsome; interested only in European cafés, Lady Deerhurst had snorted. But Michael had always been different – Rudolf said he knew his son would be a Cambridge man on the day after his third birthday. ‘He simply took down
Pilgrim’s Progress
and read five lines of it. From nothing to sentences!’ No one needed to look back with Michael, wonder if, as they did with Arthur, they should have altered something, sent him to a different school, given him a different tutor. The Harrow reports spilled praise, the trunks full of pristine exercise books arrived home, Michael applied himself in the holidays in a disciplined fashion and exams came and went, always the same, each one scored just a tiny bit higher. And then Cambridge, the whole place bathed in gold, in Celia’s imagination. Rudolf accompanied him on the drive there and returned unable to speak, not from pain but because he had gained everything. No one would be able to stop Michael now.

‘You can’t,’ she said now. ‘What about Papa?’ Then she felt drier land under her feet. ‘What about your scholarship? How hard you worked.’

‘Not really. I did it to please everyone here. That big shiny scholarship, all that work and what’s the use of it? It can’t change anything.’

‘But it’s not supposed to change anything. It’s once you have it. Then you can do what you like. Business, politics, change things that way.’ Her head was ringing now with the rooms and rooms of girl students sitting at desks, looking over locked gardens, reading books about literature or history. ‘You have to go back.’

He shrugged. ‘I’ve made my decision. When the world is like this, there is no point to verbs and declensions, listing the dates, the history of building projects in Rome. It’s irrelevant stuff. You know, we don’t even learn about the things themselves. That’s not the point. What you are supposed to do is argue with the writers of books, say they have taken the wrong approach, that they cite the wrong books by other people. That’s it.’

‘Lots of people wanted your place.’

‘They can have it.’

She gazed up at the aeroplanes. ‘So what will you do instead? Make more of these?’

‘No. Of course not. In fact …’ He caught her eye then and stared at her. She watched his eyes, round and blue, so blue. His voice softened. ‘Poor Ceels. Always the youngest. Maybe you can go to college, if you like.’

‘I have to go to balls first. Lots of balls. I might get to go to college when I’m
thirty,
maybe.’

He smiled. ‘That’s not so old. Anyway, what did you come here for? To ask me to come down, I suppose?’

‘That’s right. Mama wants you.’

‘Tell her I’m ill.’

‘That would be lying.’

‘Well then you can tell her the truth. That I can’t bear to watch this charade. I don’t want to. I’ll come down after it’s all over. It’s inviting disaster.’

‘But they’re expecting you.’

‘They have you to keep them company. And dear Emmeline. Surely that is the point of having four children. Always one or two of them around.’

‘Why are you being like this? It’s not fair.’

‘Honestly, Celia, going through all the family stuff just seems like a lie at the moment. We might all be dead next year. The whole country might be dead.’

‘So you won’t come down, then?’

‘No.’

She took a step towards him. ‘Not even for me?’

‘No.’ He flushed. ‘Celia, I can’t. If I could, I would. You know you’re my favourite. You are. But I can’t. Not today.’ There was a tear beginning in his eye, glimmering at the corner. She did not want to look at it. As she walked out of the door, he turned and thrust his face into the pillow again.

Let everybody be there, she bargained, as she walked down the stairs. ‘Let them all be playing and eating and laughing. Please
God.’ She promised to do anything: be kinder to Miss Evans, the French teacher at school, not complain at Miss Wilton, think sweeter thoughts about Emmeline. Anything – if all the children would only be there.

She walked through the doors of the garden room, still bargaining and offering. She looked out. Rudolf and Verena sat, erect, smiling, their faces fixed. The sandwiches were wilting, the bunting drooping. Emmeline was staring at her nails. Just over to the side, by the donkey picture, stood Tom, holding hands with a little girl of six or so. Her pale face had been scrubbed hard, and dark hair hung in a long plait down her back. Tom’s face looked thinner all of a sudden, sickly.

‘Come on, Missy,’ he was saying. ‘Close your eyes and put in the pin.’ The child was holding the pin with the tail limp in her hand, looking around, her face fearful. Every adult in the garden was staring at her: Rudolf, Verena, Jennie, Smithson, Thompson. Even Emmeline was gazing, through the curtain of her looped fringe.

‘Look, Missy,’ he said again. ‘Close your eyes, that’s all you have to do.’

She clutched his hand, her eyes wide. Celia felt as if her heart was burning in her chest. Rudolf was statue-still, watching.
Daddy!
she wanted to cry.
It does not matter! We still have next year.
Tom’s voice was high and unnatural, like Madeline Smith’s in the school play when she suddenly got frightened on the stage in the midst of pretending to be Peter Pan and burst into tears. Celia longed to rush over to him and throw her arms around him.

Jennie was standing beside Tom and the girl, blinking fast. Celia could see she was itching to put her hand out and place the tail.

‘Look,’ said Tom. ‘I will show you again. I will do it.’ He closed his eyes and they all watched. Then he pinned the tail, next to the donkey’s foot. The little girl was still clutching his other hand.

‘Oh no!’ he said, opening his eyes. ‘What have I done? It is miles away. Silly me! Can you do better, Missy?’ He held out the tail to her, but she shook her head. ‘Please,’ he said.

They all watched. Celia knew that no one had even seen her
come out. Missy put out her hand and then seized it back. Her dress was clean, but darned and shabby. It couldn’t be her best one.

There was the sound of a scraping chair and they all looked around to see Rudolf getting slowly to his feet. ‘Please, Miss Cotton,’ he said, his voice cracking around her name. ‘It would mean so much to me.’

She gazed back at him and then held out a trembling hand to Tom. He gave her the tail and she reached up for it, closed her eyes. The air was still as she held it out, circling around the animal’s feet. They watched as she moved her hand over the paper. Then she pinned the tail, pushed it in. ‘Good girl!’ cried Tom. It was right where the donkey’s heart would be. She opened her eyes and stared. Rudolf, still standing, lifted his hands and began to clap. They all joined in so that it was a proper round of applause. The child stood there, holding tight to her brother, and very quickly started to cry.

‘She’s only young,’ Tom said, drawing her to him. ‘She’s not used to parties.’

Rudolf smiled. ‘Oh, we quite understand. A party is a lot for a little girl.’

Tom held Missy as her hiccups quietened and her back shook. ‘There we go,’ he said. ‘There we go.’ Celia had seen him do the same to the horses.

He smiled out at them. ‘All better now.’

‘Well done,’ said Rudolf. ‘Now, perhaps you would like to try the skittles?’

The child shook her head, tears on her face. ‘Later, then, later. Perhaps a little food?’

Tom nodded. ‘That would be a good idea. Come along, Missy. How about some cake?’

She hung back. ‘Now then, dear,’ said Verena, standing up. ‘We have all the cakes you might want: cream-iced, Victoria sponge, jam, and Mrs Rolls made special biscuits with fairy wings on, just for little girls like you. Right over here.’ She gestured to the children’s table next to theirs.

Tom propelled Missy forward. Smithson pulled out a chair for
her and Tom patted her legs. She scrambled up and sat down. Tom seated himself beside her. Smithson passed her a plate of biscuits and she took one, trembling, placed it on her plate. She refused a cake and another biscuit, shook her head to a sandwich. She picked up the biscuit, took one tiny bite, looking around at the adults as she chewed. Then she picked it up again, bit once more. The adults watched the child as she took regular bites, concentrating entirely on the biscuit before her. She ate neatly and dutifully, and as she did so, Rudolf passed a cake to Verena, who took it with her delicate fingers and perched it on her plate. Celia looked up at Emmeline and saw tears forming in her eyes.

Celia sat at the table with her parents. They barely seemed to see her. Verena was holding the side of the table so tightly that her knuckles had gone white.

After Missy had eaten two biscuits and half a sandwich, she whispered to her brother. Tom turned to them and spoke. He had never had such a transfixed audience, Celia supposed. ‘My sister would like to leave the table.’

‘Have you eaten sufficiently, Miss Cotton?’ Rudolf called over.

Missy gave him a mute nod.

‘Well of course then, you may.’

Tom and Missy stood by the tables, both staring over at Rudolf and Verena. Let them go, Celia willed. Of course, the party had to continue as planned.

‘Still don’t fancy the skittles?’ said Rudolf. ‘It has been a busy afternoon. I think that now we have played and we have eaten, it is time for our final celebration. Let us begin the tug of war. Smithson, perhaps you would like to take the other end to Tom?’

Smithson walked over and took up his end of the rope. Tom shook off Missy’s panicked hands and stepped up.

‘Come here, Missy,’ said Emmeline. ‘Watch with me.’ The child scuttled over to her side and held her chair.

‘I want to play too,’ Celia heard herself cry. She leapt down from her own chair and hurried over, ignoring Verena’s call to come back. She stood by Tom, held the rope in her hands.

‘Two against one, eh?’ said Smithson, pretending to flex his arm muscles. ‘I will have to pull my hardest.’

Rudolf stood up. ‘So here we go. One. Two. Three. Go!’

Celia pulled and pulled, feeling Tom do the same behind her. They were tugging Smithson over the line. She pulled again. Then Smithson fell forward, shouting, ‘I give up!’

‘The winners!’ called Rudolf. ‘Congratulations! Come to receive your prize.’

Celia wanted to smile at Tom, but he jumped ahead of her. Rudolf held out a large wrapped package. Tom stared at him for a moment, then took it in his hands. He pulled open the paper and held up a big cricket bat, new and perfectly polished. ‘Thank you,’ he said, looking down. It was the fine bat that Rudolf gave every year, destined for the village cricket team.

‘It is for you,’ said Rudolf. ‘Now, Miss Cotton, are you ready for the skittles?’

Missy shot Tom a pained look. ‘My sister’s ill,’ Tom said. ‘She was too much in the sun this morning. Our mother might miss us.’

Verena bowed her head. Celia, standing by the rope with Smithson, wanted to throw everything in the air and see it come down perfect and proper once more.

‘Oh quite, quite,’ Rudolf mumbled.

‘Thank you, sir, for the lovely party,’ burbled the girl as she scrambled from Emmeline’s chair to her brother’s side.

‘You cannot leave without trying the lucky dip,’ said Rudolf. ‘Celia, dear, help Miss Cotton to the lucky dip.’

Thompson waited, smartly, by the barrel. Celia walked over, Tom and Missy behind her. She tipped the lucky dip so that Missy could reach inside. The child bent over, uncertain, and grasped a small parcel.