Camomile Lawn (11 page)

‘She was twenty when I was born.’

‘About that. She got her figure back instantly, I remember. Slim, she was.’

‘She still is.’

‘I was plump.’ Helena thought back to the days when Hamish was born. ‘Some men like women plump. I was the same age as your father, of course, not that he ever looked at me,’ she added as the car swerved slightly. ‘A very attractive man, your father. He liked slim girls.’

‘Who liked them plump?’ Hamish played along with reminiscence. ‘Apart from Great-uncle Richard, I mean.’

‘Poor Richard. He knew a lot about music, or so he thought.’

‘You are using my father as a red herring,’ said Hamish, using guesswork.

‘You are not stupid.’ Helena was amused in her eighties, remembering what she had gained when she lost her drawing room. It had not occurred to her, until she found herself on her back in the daffodil field, to consider Max Erstweiler as a lover. Having been married so long to Richard she had thought herself past that sort of thing.

S
OPHY AND OTHER GIRLS
crossing London at the end of term were escorted to Liverpool Street by a mistress who handed them over to their relatives. Helena informed Polly of the times of arrival and expected her to meet Sophy, keep her for as long as necessary and put her on the next convenient train to Cornwall. Helena ignored the fact that Polly worked and might not be able to take time off.

To overcome this difficulty Polly had given Sophy instructions to pretend to recognize anyone who approached her with glad cries of ‘Sophy, how
are
you?’ so that any suspicious mistress would be deceived. ‘If I can’t come myself, ducks, I’ll send a friend.’ Rather apprehensive to begin with, Sophy learned to enjoy the variety of her escorts, in the event mostly men. She was met by soldiers, sailors, airmen, Free French, Dutch, Poles, on one occasion a turbanned Sikh and latterly by Americans. It never occurred to her to wonder how these strangers recognized her. If she had thought she might have supposed Polly had shown a snapshot. She never knew that Polly’s orders were, ‘Look for a thin chinky child with black hair and slant eyes who looks like a Siamese cat. She stands out among the goosey English.’

At half term in 1940 she was met by the twins, who greeted her with cries of ‘Hullo, Soph-ophy-ophy, give us a kiss. You’re not to go home, you’re to spend half term with us.’

‘Oh, goody, where?’

‘With Polly. We are building her a shelter. You can help,’ said Paul.

‘She says she’ll never go down to a shelter so we are reinforcing her bed.’

‘When are these raids, then?’ Sophy had learned to be sceptical.

‘They will come, never fear,’ said the twins, bundling her into a very old car they had bought for five pounds. ‘We can’t have our Polly in more danger than she need be.’

‘She hasn’t noticed,’ said David to Paul. ‘She hasn’t noticed our elevation, have you, Sophy?’

‘What?’ said Sophy.

‘You haven’t noticed us.’

‘You look exactly the same, more so than ever. Oh, I see,’ she exclaimed. ‘You’ve become officers. How grand!’

‘What else?’

‘Wings. Oh gosh, you’ve got wings!’

‘Pilot Officers with wings on leave. We’re posted. We’ve been home, now we’ve got three days in London.’

‘Any news of Oliver?’ Sophy did not want to ask but did.

‘No,’ they said soberly. ‘No. He’ll be all right, bound to be.’

They showed her the shelter, a corrugated iron canopy above Polly’s bed, strongly supported by struts and stays. ‘A wartime four-poster.’

‘Is she pleased?’

‘She doesn’t know. You can paint it while we finish it off. We could only get moss green; it doesn’t look too bad. We want to get it finished before she gets back from her office.’

Sophy enjoyed that hot June day making sandwiches, answering the telephone when Polly called to find out whether she had arrived and later telephoning Calypso, asking her to come round and see the twins.

‘I can’t. I’m in bed with a throat, can hardly speak. Give them my love.’

The twins opened the windows to lessen the smell of paint and sent Sophy to Harrods to buy ribbon. As children they had built a tree house in the Rectory garden; reinforcing the bed recaptured for a day their childhood delight. When Polly came home the canopy was overhanging the bed, the struts bound around with pink and yellow ribbons. She said: ‘Oh, twins!’ She put her arms round them. ‘You darlings! I love it and I love you.’

‘We must have you safe,’ they said, hugging her.

‘Christ Almighty! What is going on?’ Walter, carrying a bottle of gin, appeared from nowhere.

‘Walter, I thought you were in Portsmouth.’ Polly hugged him.

‘I was. I’m on my way to Plymouth to another bloody destroyer. It’s total hell, sadistic bastards.’

‘Who?’

‘The Admiralty. Can I stay the night? I’ll take you all out to dinner.’

‘It’s your home as much as mine.’ Polly was indignant.

‘I keep meeting people who’ve stayed the night. I just wondered whether there was a bed.’

‘They are often your friends.’

‘Let’s go out while the smell blows away. Sophy, you’ve grown.’

Sophy felt happy with Polly, the twins and Walter with his squashy face. She was glad Calypso couldn’t come, glad a sore throat kept her away.

Walter rang her up. ‘Says not to come near her, she feels rotten. Must be, she’s missing some do she was going to with Hector. She had been looking forward to it, says she hopes he’ll be all right on his own. Quite the little wife, our Calypso.’

‘Yes,’ said Polly, ‘er—yes.’ Then, ‘Come on, Sophy, put on a pretty dress, I’m going to.’

Calypso answered the telephone in a husky croak when it rang beside her bed.

‘Can I speak to Calypso?’

‘Oliver! We all think you’re dead, it’s months—’

‘I’m not. I got back a while ago but I’ve only just got to London. What’s this sexy voice?’

‘I’m very ill—tonsillitis. Nearly dead.’

‘Coming to dinner with me? You promised.’

‘I can’t. I’m in bed. Doctor’s orders.’

‘Oh come on, I’ve booked a table.’

‘I’m very ill. Hector’s had to go to a party without me.’

‘Good.’

‘And I couldn’t go out with Walter, Polly and the twins. They’re all there with Sophy. I’m stuck in bed.’

‘Get up and come out. Dinner with me won’t kill you.’

‘I mustn’t. The doctor says—’

‘You bloody well must—’

‘I’ve got a temperature.’

‘I don’t care. Meet you in half an hour at the Berkeley.’

‘Feeling rich?’

‘Nothing to spend my pay on in Norway. Half an hour. Look sharp.’ Oliver rang off.

They held hands through dinner. Calypso felt ill. Oliver refused to talk about Norway except to say it was ‘awful, bloody awful. If the War Office hadn’t interfered all the time we might have managed something.’ He was bitter.

‘How long have you been back?’

‘Several weeks. I’ve been in bed, too.’

‘Wounded?’

‘Very slight. The trouble was fatigue. Retreating, as they call running away, is tiring.’

Calypso said nothing. This was another Oliver, very different from the Oliver who had come back from Spain. That man had been furious but intact. She said: ‘If you hadn’t been retreating in Norway you might have been in France. Incredible how many got back. Hector was sent down to Dover to meet them.’

‘How nice for them. Being met by Hector would be the last straw.’

‘Now, now.’

‘Norway’s forgotten now. All I hear about is heroic Dunkirk. Paddle steamers and dinghies helping the British Navy. Was Walter there?’

‘Polly says he was. He rang up to say he hadn’t been sick because it was calm. I haven’t seen him because I’m so ill.’

‘He’s obsessed with seasickness. Wasn’t he terrified by the bombing?’

‘Polly didn’t say. She was just glad he was all right.’

‘Like me.’

‘More cheerful than you. He wanted me to go out tonight, he sounded quite normal, said he was passing through London—like you—just tonight. I’m glad I’m not in Paris, it must be horrible. You wouldn’t think anything had happened if you’d been in London lying in bed trying to swallow—’ Calypso rather wished she was back in bed. Oliver was poor company. He looked strained. Shell-shock was a state she had read about but never seen. She said: ‘Were you, I mean, are you shell-shocked?’

Oliver laughed, his taut expression relaxing. ‘Only demoralized. I’ve got a room in Half Moon Street, let’s go there for a sex shock.’

‘What, now?’

‘Yes. I’m not hungry. You’re not eating anything, either.’

‘I can’t swallow.’

‘That won’t prevent—’

‘Oliver, I can’t, I’m infectious.’

‘Try not to be silly, stop prevaricating.’

‘Have you told your mother you are back?’

‘Not yet.’

‘You must, she’s in agonies of anxiety.’

‘I will. Soon.’

‘Do it now. Then I’ll come with you to your room.’ She led him to the telephone. ‘I’ll get the number for you.’ Calypso watched Oliver’s strained face as she got through to Sarah in Bath. ‘Aunt Sarah? It’s me, Calypso. No, only tonsilitis. Aunt Sarah, Oliver is here—’ She handed the receiver to Oliver, who listened a moment.

‘Yes, I’m all right. Yes, I’ll come down tomorrow. No, don’t. I’m quite recovered, it wasn’t serious. Tell Father I got a medal, he’ll like that. What for? What medal? Oh, an M.C. for being the last to leave. Couldn’t run as fast as the others. See you tomorrow.’ He rang off. ‘Why do mothers cry?’

‘It’s relief.’ Calypso held his hand as they walked along the street. ‘I wonder whether I shall cry for my child?’

‘Are you pregnant?’

‘Not yet. I’ve put it off. I shall put my mind to it soon. I promised Hector.’

‘You promised me my comforts long before you met Hector. Here we are.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d got a medal?’

‘I was looking forward to this.’ He led Calypso into his room. ‘Hope you don’t mind, it’s the only room I could get at short notice. Landlady’s a tough old bird.’ Oliver took off his coat and helped Calypso out of her dress. ‘Come on, my love, hurry up.’

‘The zip’s stuck.’ Calypso stood with her arms above her head. ‘Not down, you fool. Pull it up and start again.’

‘I believe you are doing this on purpose.’

‘No I’m not. Oh God!’ Calypso gave a yelp of pain as the zip pinched flesh. At the same moment the howl of the air raid siren began. ‘Oh my God, an air raid! Hector will kill me if I get caught out in this.’ She pulled the dress down and stood looking at Oliver with her hair tousled, mouth open. A heavy hand banged the door.

‘Let me in, sir, there’s a raid.’

‘I know. I can hear.’

‘I’ve got to see that the blackout is all right.’

‘It
is,
’ shouted Oliver, drawing the curtains.

‘I must see for myself and in the bathroom. Let me in,’ the angry voice cried. ‘Our warden’s a terror.’

Calypso stepped swiftly into a hanging cupboard. Oliver opened the door. ‘I was just going to bed,’ he said angrily.

‘You alone? I thought I heard voices. I don’t allow my lodgers to bring ladies in.’

‘Just fix the blackout and push off.’

‘Aren’t you going to take cover?’

‘No! All well now? Had a good peek round? Goodnight, then. Have a good raid.’ He closed the door after her and pulled Calypso out of the cupboard. ‘What d’you want to hide in there for?’

‘It’s Hector.’

‘It was my nosy landlady.’

‘I have to be careful because of Hector. If he found out he’d kill me. Oh, look at my hair.’ She began to comb it. ‘Goodness, I feel ill. Will you take me home, Olly, please. I don’t think I can be of much comfort—’

‘You do sound a bit hoarse, now I come to listen.’

As they walked across Green Park towards Westminster the All Clear sounded.

‘I don’t think the Furies want me comforted.’

‘It’s midsummer night. Do hurry, Oliver. It won’t be all clear unless Hector comes home to find me safely in bed. I don’t want to get myself divorced.’

‘Don’t fuss, it’s not late. What’s midsummer night got to do with us?’

‘Nothing. I just thought—well, Hector said this morning that it’s midsummer day and we’ve had the most wondrous summer so far. Hector loves hot weather.’

‘Damn and blast Hector, may he fry in hell.’

‘I forgot to tell you. He’s in the Army now, got a commission in the Guards.’

‘I hope he gets killed. Here’s your street.’

‘Oh good, he went in the car and it’s not back. We don’t seem to be very lucky, do we?’ She put her arms round Oliver’s neck and kissed him. ‘I’d better run or he’ll be back before I am in bed.’ She fled down the street. Oliver watched, leaning against a lamp post, until some time later the Lagonda drew up and, resplendent in Blues, Hector stepped out, locked the car and let himself into the house. Unwilling to go back to Half Moon Street, Oliver walked across the park and down Knightsbridge until he found himself outside his aunt’s house. Looking down the area steps he saw a chink of light and heard laughter. He ran down. Round the kitchen table sat Polly, Walter, Sophy and the twins.

‘Oliver!’ they cried, surprised and joyous. Oliver sat down at the table, rested his head on his arms and wept. Sophy came to stand by him, he put out a hand and she held it between hers.

On her way to the funeral years later, Polly remembered that night. ‘What a fool Oliver was,’ she said aloud. ‘Such a fool.’

‘I should have thought that was the last thing one could say about him,’ said her son, who was one of Oliver’s admirers.

‘I’m entitled to my opinion,’ said Polly, ‘he was a fool.’ Then, sensing her son’s disagreement, she spoke with the irritation she had felt all those years before. ‘He was obsessed—crazed.’

‘About what?’

‘Calypso.’

‘Well, I never!’ said Iris, Polly’s daughter. ‘She’s so artificial.’

‘That’s because she had a stroke, idiot,’ said her brother.

‘No, it was a face-lift,’ said Iris, knowing best.

‘She’s had both a lift and a stroke,’ James persisted, knowing better still.

‘Stop wrangling, you two,’ Polly flared up. ‘How horrible you are.’ She switched on the car radio to drown their voices and drove faster. She shouted above the pop music—‘She is honest.’ Polly’s son and daughter, sitting on the back seat so that Polly’s mongrel could sit beside her, looked at one another in an effort to deduce what exactly their mother meant by honest in relation to Calypso.