After the War Is Over (3 page)

T
he next morning Charlotte was once again knee-deep in files when there was a knock
at her office door.

“Miss Brown?” said the office’s reception clerk.

“Yes, Gladys?”

“Telegram just came for you. Here you are.”

“Thank you.”

Charlotte accepted the flimsy, nearly transparent envelope and took a steadying breath.
Something had happened to one of her parents. That was the only explanation, really.
Either Mother or Father was unwell, and the sooner she opened the wretched thing,
the sooner she could pack and set off for Somerset.

She tore open the envelope and extracted the single sheet, its message penciled out
in neat block letters.

DEAR CHARLOTTE. LORD CUMBERLAND DIED YESTERDAY MORNING. FUNERAL AND RECEPTION FRIDAY
AFTERNOON. HOPEFUL YOU CAN COME. LILLY NEEDS A FRIENDLY FACE. EDWARD TOO. REGARDS
ROBERT FRASER.

Charlotte slumped a little in her chair, her heart pounding, and tried to quell the
sense of relief she felt. Not bad news from home, but from London, from the fiancé
of her dearest friend.

Lord Cumberland hadn’t been much of a father to Lilly, nor had he been a particularly
decent man. But her friend needed her, and for that reason alone she would go to London
and endure what was sure to be a farce of a funeral. What could be said of a man who’d
had so much and had given so little?

Once, long ago, Charlotte had been a servant in the Cumberland household. Lilly’s
governess, beloved by her charge but disdained by nearly everyone else in the family.
Her friendship with Lilly had endured—had made every lowering moment of those years
worthwhile—but the prospect of seeing Lady Cumberland and her elder daughters was
singularly unappealing.

She wouldn’t think of how Lilly’s brother Edward was suffering, though it was a subject
that had preyed on her mind ever since his near-miraculous return from the war. They
had been friends, back in those years of war before his capture by the enemy. They
had written to each other several times, and once, when he was home for Christmas,
he had taken her and Lilly to lunch at the Savoy. As for what had occurred after lunch,
she wouldn’t think of that, not now. Not ever.

She had become very fond of him; perhaps too fond, given that he was engaged to another
woman. Once or twice, she had even allowed herself to daydream of a future in which
they were free to be more than friends.

She went to Miss Rathbone’s office and knocked.

“I’m terribly sorry to bother you, Miss Rathbone. The thing is . . . I’ve just had
a telegram from London.”

“Not bad news, I hope.”

“It is, rather. Do you recall my friend Lilly? She and I lived together in London.”

“The WAAC? Yes, I do. Is she—”

“It’s her father. He died, quite unexpectedly, and she was hoping I might attend his
funeral. It’s tomorrow afternoon. So I was hoping, with your permission, that I might
have leave to go. I’ll make up the time, I promise.”

“I have no fears on that account, not least because you’ve worked late almost every
night since your return. Do go, and please convey my condolences to your friend.”

“Thank you very much, Miss Rathbone. I promise I’ll leave everything in good order.”

“I know you will, my dear.”

“I was also wondering . . . may I use the telephone to ring London and let them know
I’ll be there? I’ll ask the operator for the charges.”

“Never mind about that. Do you wish to use my telephone?”

“No, thank you, ma’am. I’ll use the one at the front desk. But thank you for offering
all the same.”

Charlotte hurried down the hall to the reception area at the front of the building.
The main telephone for the constituency office sat at its own little desk, separate
from that of the reception clerk, and for a change was not in use.

At this hour there was a chance she might find Robbie at the hospital before he embarked
on rounds or disappeared into the operating theater for the day; even if he were occupied,
his clerk would be able to take a message. She picked up the earpiece and waited for
the telltale burst of static that invariably preceded the operator’s appearance on
the line.

“Operator.”

“Hello. I need you to put through a call to the London Hospital, in Whitechapel, East
London.”

“Yes, madam. I’ll ring back once the call is connected.”

Charlotte hung up the earpiece and waited, wishing she had thought to bring some work
with her. At last the telephone trilled out its response.

“Operator here. I’m connecting you with the central telephone at the London Hospital.
Please hold the line.”

“Thank you.”

A different voice came on the line, this time distinguished by an East London accent.

“London ’Ospital. ’Ow may I direct your call?”

“I need to speak to Robert Fraser in general surgery. Or his clerk, if he’s not available.”

“One moment, please an’ thank you.”

A man’s voice came on the line. “General surgery.”

“Good morning. Is this the clerk for the surgeons?”

“It is, ma’am.”

“May I leave a message for Robert Fraser?”

“You can speak to him yourself. He’s right here.”

“Thank y—”

“Fraser here.”

“Robbie? It’s Charlotte. I got your telegram. How is Lilly?”

“Saddened, of course. And surprised, as are we all. I’d always assumed her father
was indestructible.”

“What happened?”

“It was yesterday morning, straight after breakfast. He got up, took a step, and collapsed.
I’ve spoken to the physician they called and he thinks it was Lord Cumberland’s heart.
All but instant.”

“I see. Well, I’m ringing to let you know that I shall of course come to the funeral.”

“Thank you. Lilly’s finding it all a bit much. As you can imagine, her mother and
sisters have been quite dramatic about it all. And Edward is naturally feeling the
effects of this, too.”

Edward. The eldest, the heir—and now the Earl of Cumberland. “He couldn’t have expected
it, not so soon.”

“Exactly. And on the heels of everything else he’s endured. At any rate, the funeral
is tomorrow afternoon, two o’clock, at St. Peter’s Eaton Square, with a reception
to follow at Ashford House.”

“Ah,” was the only response Charlotte could muster. So much for her long-ago vow never
to return to that tomb of a house in Belgravia.

“I know,” Robbie said. “We’ll both be as welcome as ants at a picnic. But it can’t
be helped, and you’ll have an ally in me—I promise.”

Lord and Lady Cumberland had detested Robbie from the moment they had laid eyes on
him, back when he and Edward had become friends as undergraduates. The idea that their
son and heir should associate with the son of a Glaswegian dustman had all but induced
apoplexy in them both. Their daughter’s decision to then marry the dustman’s son had
only deepened their enmity.

But Lilly, for her part, had refused to be cowed by her family’s disapproval. She
had left home not long after the beginning of the war, had served with distinction
in the Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps, and even after her demobilization had refused
to return to her parents. Instead she had moved into the same boardinghouse where
Charlotte had lived during the war.

“You are a dear.”

“Oh—I almost forgot. Lilly says you’re to stay with her at Mrs. Collins’s. It’s all
arranged.”

“That’s very kind of her. Well, then—I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Shall I have a car meet you at Euston?”

“No, thank you. I can easily make my way there. And you have other things to worry
about. Do give Lilly my love.”

“Good-bye until then.”

“Good-bye.”

After they’d rung off, she sat at the desk and stared into space for long moments,
unable to shake the sense of unease that had settled over her like a too-warm shawl.
She had to go. She had said she would, Lilly was expecting her, and she was needed.
But, oh, how she dreaded it.

She worked late, ensuring her desk was clear before she left, and arrived home just
as the other women were finishing supper.

“Hello, everyone. Is there anything left from supper, Janie?”

“Yes, Miss Charlotte. I’ll fill a plate for you now.”

“Thank you. Before I forget, you needn’t cook for me tomorrow night. I have to go
to London for a funeral. For my friend Lilly’s father. The service is tomorrow.”

“What are you going to wear?” asked Norma.

“I hadn’t thought of it. I have a black skirt and coat that more or less match. They
should do.”

“Those things you wear to church? I’ll beg your pardon now, but they’re
awful
. How long have you had them?”

“I’m not sure. I bought them just after I moved to London, so . . . early 1915?”

“Precisely. They’re hopelessly out-of-date. You’ll look like the help if you wear
them.”

If only Norma knew the truth. “But I haven’t anything else that’s suitable. And I
don’t have time to visit the shops before I leave.”

“I’ve a suit you can wear,” Rosie offered. “I had it made only last year. We’re nearly
the same size, I think.”

“And I’ve a hat you can borrow,” said Meg, surprising everyone when she spoke up.
“Black wool felt, with a high crown and narrow brim. Perfect for the occasion.”

“There you are,” said Norma, who was clearly in her element. “Let’s get you dressed
and see how you look.”

Garments were collected, Charlotte was sent into her room to change, and all awaited
her return to the sitting room so they might weigh in and offer suggestions. As there
was no full-length mirror in the house, Charlotte had to be content with the other
women’s assessment of her appearance, as well as such glimpses as she could catch
with her tiny hand mirror. Rosie’s suit seemed to fit well, and Meg’s hat was alarmingly
stylish compared to the battered wool cloche she’d worn for the past two winters.

“I suppose I’ll do.” The suit, which she wore with her best high-necked white blouse,
was beautifully made, its lapels and pockets edged with wide grosgrain ribbon. She
would never fit in, for Lilly’s family could spot bourgeois impostors at a thousand
yards; but at least she wouldn’t embarrass her friend, and that was what mattered.

“What about your hair?” Norma asked. “You wouldn’t have time to cut it, would you?
Imagine how nice it would look.”

If there were one concession to fashion Charlotte absolutely refused to consider,
it was cutting her hair. She had a plain face, and even on her best day was never
more than passably attractive—pretty
enough,
one well-meaning friend had once said—but her hair was beautiful.

“No, Norma. I’m not cutting my hair. I’ll put it in a low chignon. It looks well like
that, and with enough pins it will stay in place.”

She raised the mirror to her face, intent on assessing Meg’s hat, but her attention
was caught, and held, by the woman who stared back at her. Did she always look so
serious, her eyes wary, half-hidden shadows behind the metal rims of her spectacles?
She attempted a smile, but it looked all wrong. It was the grimace of someone in pain,
someone who carried with her the memory of joy, with none of its delight.

S
HE CAUGHT THE
9:15 train to Euston the next morning. With nowhere to leave an overnight bag during
the funeral service, she had only her handbag by way of luggage. Once she’d packed
an extra set of combinations and stockings, and her toothbrush and comb as well, there
hadn’t been enough room for a book. Then again, she rarely managed to read while she
was traveling, for the countryside provided too engaging a diversion. Even now, at
the wan end of spring when the trees had barely come into bud and the fields beneath
lay fallow, the land was beautiful, achingly so.

Alone in her compartment, Charlotte felt secure enough to nap for half an hour, her
bag tucked securely under her arm, and then to eat the tinned salmon sandwich Janie
had made up for her. It wouldn’t do for her stomach to disrupt the funeral proceedings
with a plebeian growl.

Her train arrived at Euston a little past one o’clock, which left just enough time
to visit the ladies’ waiting room at the station and ensure her face was free of any
soot or grime. It was too far to walk, at least three miles, and she didn’t dare risk
taking the Underground if the trains were running behind.
She would have to splurge on a taxicab, although she was loath to spend so much for
such a short journey.

The journey to Belgravia took no time at all; with motorcars and horses alike still
in short supply, traffic was light. Everywhere she saw signs of rebirth, of the nascent
spring: advertisements for luxuries like chocolate, bicycles, face powder, and hair
pomade now adorned billboards in place of recruitment posters, while fresh paint gleamed
on the façades of public houses, private homes, and shop fronts.

The cab drew to a halt on Wilton Street, just north of the church, for the street
beyond was thronged with carriages and motorcars, many of them draped with swaths
of black crape.

“A funeral you’re going to, miss?” asked the cabbie.

“Yes. The father of a friend.” She handed over her fare, together with a generous
tip, and let herself out of the cab. “Thank you very much.”

St. Peter’s was set well back from the street and had, to Charlotte’s eyes, a forbiddingly
austere exterior. Inside, however, the sanctuary was warm and light, with soaring
Romanesque arches, delicately carved screens, and jewel-bright chapels. The altar
itself had been adorned with garlands of hothouse flowers; additional arrangements
flanked the chancel entrance, their heady scent perfuming the air even yards away.

Declining the assistance of an usher, she found a seat near the back of the congregation
and settled down to watch a parade of England’s elite fill the church near to bursting.
The prime minister and at least half his cabinet were there, together with nearly
every duke, marquess, and earl in the land. Last of all the guests were the Prince
of Wales and Prince Albert, and despite the solemnity of the occasion Charlotte was
unable to quell a flutter of excitement as they marched past.