Something Dangerous (Spoils of Time 02) (55 page)

‘Yes! I mean Kit. How can he go, how can we let him go—’

‘My darling, he’s nineteen. He’s the right age, he wants to go—’

‘The right age! He’s a child. His second year at Oxford. Why can’t he stay, finish that—’

‘Celia, you couldn’t expect that. Not really, not from Kit. Any more than from Jay. To stay out of it, safely continuing with their lives while their contemporaries risked theirs. It’s totally out of both their characters.’

‘You’re not – not pleased about it, I trust.’ Celia withdrew her hand, stood up, glaring at him.

‘In a way, yes. I am. I’m proud of him. Proud of his courage, of his desire to serve his country. Of course I’m afraid for him as well, any father would be. But I would be more afraid for him if he was a coward, hiding behind some academic smokescreen.’

‘But – the air force! It’s so dangerous, more than anything else.’

‘Nothing is more dangerous than anything else, my dear, in a war,’ said Oliver gently. ‘It can even be quite dangerous staying at home.’

‘Boy, hallo. What are you doing here?’

Venetia looked at him; he was standing in the doorway of her office, looking slightly sheepish.

‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.’

‘No, no, of course not.’

‘Good. I wondered if you’d let me buy you lunch.’

‘Well—’ She hesitated. She had a lot to do and she’d come in late anyway. ‘What’s it about?’

‘It’s about my joining the war effort. I wanted to discuss it with you.’

‘Your joining – Boy, do you mean you’re enlisting?’

‘Yes. I do. I’ve thought about it a lot, and I think we all owe the old country whatever we can give it.’

‘Oh God.’ She felt sick suddenly. It was one thing divorcing Boy, telling him she didn’t want to live with him any more, another seeing him off to war and the possibility of – well, of not seeing him for a long time. ‘What did you think you might do? Which service would you go into?’

‘Well, the army obviously. It’s the only service as far as I’m concerned. I still remember my glory days in the corps at Eton. I’ll go into the Guards, I think. If they’ll have me.’

‘Oh, Boy, don’t be ridiculous, of course they’ll have you. But – are you sure about it? I mean—’

‘Yes, Venetia, I’m absolutely sure. But of course we need to discuss it, very carefully. I wanted you to be involved in my plans from the beginning.’

‘Who will look after the salesroom? And the gallery?’

‘God knows. Well, old Baker will take over the salesroom, he’s perfectly sound. I shall probably have move it out of London of course, away from the bombs. And then there’s Henry and Roo. I was thinking that school of theirs, down near the Kent coast, is not the safest place. The front line, they’re calling Dover. I think perhaps we should move them. There’s a lot to talk about, you see.’

Venetia swallowed, fear seeping into her further, an awful, clammy, cold thing. ‘Yes, of course, do let’s have lunch. I’d love to. Oh, dear—’

Celia came in suddenly. ‘Venetia – oh, good lord. What on earth are you doing here, Boy?’

‘He’s come to take me out to lunch, Mummy,’ said Venetia, blowing her nose hard, ‘and to talk about – about enlisting.’

‘Enlisting!’ said Celia. ‘Oh Boy, not you as well surely?’

‘Yes, Celia, me as well. I’m a bit long in the tooth, I know, thirty-six this year, but – I want to do it.’

‘Oh God,’ said Celia. She sat down suddenly on the chair opposite Venetia’s desk. ‘This is dreadful. Everyone going. You. Kit. Giles. Jay—’

‘Jay?’

‘Yes. Into the Greenjackets. It’s where all the Wykhamists go, or so he tells me. It’s dreadful and for Lyttons as well, he’s an absolute godsend to the firm, such talent, we shall miss him so terribly—’

Only Boy, standing by Venetia’s desk, saw Giles in the corridor, waiting to speak to his mother; saw him, and saw that he had heard what she had said. About Jay’s talent and how much he would be missed. And with a genuine ache of sympathy in his heart, watched him hurry away.

‘I’m thinking of doing something useful,’ said Barty. She was sitting in the garden of Primrose Hill with Sebastian; it was a golden afternoon, and they were having tea. Izzic was sitting on her swing, reading; every so often she would look up and smile at them and then return to it, pushing the escaped curls of hair behind her ears. She was so like Pandora now it was almost painful, with her wide hazel eyes, her small straight nose, the masses of brown hair, worn in a long plait hanging down her back. She was small too, just as her mother had been, and her voice was beginning to develop the same deep tone. Sebastian no longer seemed to find the likeness painful, rather the reverse;

Barty, who had been away when the change had occurred, was warned she would find it surprising, but in fact she had found it almost disturbing.

Sebastian said nothing of it, indeed had never acknowledged it to anybody; the only clue coming in the dedication of the new Meridian, (entitled
Half of the Time
) ‘For Isabella’. He was still short with anyone who tried to discuss her with him, even such basic matters as her education, and his attitude to her was still extremely severe. He was more like a Victorian parent than one of the new modern school that Boy Warwick belonged to. He insisted on early bedtimes, few treats, and a strict adherence to homework and piano practice timetables; but Barty, observing for the first time the affection he clearly felt for Izzie, the careful attention he gave to what she said, the interest with which he observed her as she moved about the house and garden, was so touched, her eyes filled with tears.

‘And what,’ he said now to Barty, ‘do you mean by doing something useful?’

‘In the war, I mean. I don’t know that I want to stay at Lyttons, just keeping it going while all the men are away, I might want to join the Wrens, or something. Helena is joining the Red Cross and—’

‘God preserve us,’ said Sebastian, ‘I must remember not to get injured.’

‘Don’t be so horrid, Sebastian. Everyone’s horrid to Helena.’

‘She’s horrid to everyone. Miserable girl.’

‘That’s unfair. Anyway, that’s what I’m thinking.’

‘So life at Lyttons isn’t enough for you any more, is that it? Now that you’ve savoured life and literary success in the New World.’

She flushed. ‘It’s not exactly that. But – oh I don’t know, Sebastian. It’s difficult working at Lyttons, you know, Venetia is still a bit – odd with me and I can’t blame her. And so is Giles. And I don’t like seeing Boy either, and he’s always coming in—’

‘Well, you won’t have to worry about him much longer,’ said Sebastian, ‘he’s off to join the Grenadier Guards. As you must know. Bloody typical.’

‘Sebastian, that’s unfair too. He’s dying to get out there and fight for his country.’

‘You’re a real little Pollyanna, aren’t you, Barty? Thinking good of everyone. Highly irritating.’ He smiled at her, the old grin suddenly there again; there were times even now when he became again the beautiful, charming young man she remembered from her childhood.

‘I don’t mean to be. I don’t feel it half the time either. Anyway, I really do want to do something—’

‘Yes, yes, you just said. Useful. Far more useful if you ask me to stay and look after Lyttons. Good God, there’ll only be Oliver and Celia left soon; and LM and Venetia, I suppose. That’ll produce a war all of its own on Patermoster Row. We shall need you as appeaser, our own Neville Chamberlain.’

She sighed. ‘Well, it might not be enough. For me, I mean. Not at the moment.’

He looked at her sharply. ‘You’re not very happy, are you, Barty?’

‘No,’ she said abruptly. ‘I’m not.’

And much to her surprise and embarrassment, she burst into tears.

At first getting home had been enough; the sheer pleasure of being in London, of seeing Wol and Sebastian and Giles, LM and Jay, even Celia, of settling into her old room at Cheyne Walk while she found a flat of her own, or rather a tiny mews house in Chelsea, and then settling into it, it had all been a wonderful diversion.

But there had been immediate problems, most notably with Venetia.

‘You knew, didn’t you?’ she had said briefly to Barty, her dark eyes hurt and hostile. ‘You knew, it was your friend having – mixed up with Boy, and you didn’t tell me. I don’t know how you could do that, Barty, I really don’t.’

She didn’t say very much: how could she, there seemed no defence. Only that she had not known until it was too late, and then there had seemed no point; she did not say that Sebastian had counselled her against it, that he had done what he could on her behalf, she did not like to involve him. Venetia, pacing the room, half angry, half tearful and smoking furiously, had said finally that she supposed it was over now, and that it was foolish for them to quarrel, that it was hardly Barty’s fault; but there was a shadow between them that would not lift. It might not have mattered so much once, but now that they met at Lyttons on a daily basis, it remained difficult.

She had been surprised to find her there, surprised and cynical; but she swiftly came to recognise that Venetia was actually extremely good at what she did, with her sharp mind and commercial sense. Had the situation been different, Barty would have rejoiced to have her there, cutting through the inevitable reactionary philosophy of people who had seen Lyttons’ finest hour two decades earlier.

The great joy of Barty’s professional life was Jay; in him she found a true ally. He was still only a junior editor, but she found him more imaginative, more innovative and with a greater grasp of the broad publishing picture than anyone else in the firm, with the exception of Celia; the three of them could often be found talking in Celia’s or Barty’s office long after everyone else had gone home, and that in itself caused problems, with decisions inevitably taken, ideas floated, series launched, if only notionally, all finally having to confront the rest of the firm.

But if Lyttons was not comfortable, it was her grief over Laurence that really troubled her. She still missed him savagely. It surprised her, that she should miss him; she had expected to be unhappy that the affair was over, that he had married someone else, and in so horribly hurtful a way, but she had not expected to feel the dreadful lack of him in her life, day after day. For a year, he had filled every moment, every corner of it, with his passionate, difficult, demanding self; she had scarcely felt or thought or done anything without his involvement, even if that involvement meant only escaping his possessive attentions for long enough to do it.

He had aroused her, angered her, amused her, made her think, and made her feel; now there was a vacuum in her, and she could not ever imagine it filling again. The fact that he had been proved to be unstable, and dangerously so, deeply dishonest, horribly manipulative and totally egotistical seemed at times irrelevant; she quite literally longed to have him back in her life. While she had still been in New York, even though she had left him, he had still been a strong presence in her life, brooding, powerful, even frightening, but at least there; now, with Laurence removed from her by three thousand miles of ocean, she felt only a strong, almost violent loneliness.

She had half expected him to write, to continue to bombard her with details of his life, and his feelings, but he did not. Maud sent her a cutting (not realising how it would hurt) announcing the birth of his daughter and after that there was absolutely nothing. Finally, clearly, he had decided to let her go. And that hurt more than anything.

‘I thought I’d be better by now, it’s a year since I came home. I still think about him every day, Sebastian, I can’t believe it—’

‘My darling,’ said Sebastian, and his voice was very heavy suddenly, ‘it’s nine years since Pandora died, and I think about her every day. Contrary to popular opinion, I find that the passing of time and the dulling of grief have very little to do with one another.’

‘Oh God,’ she said, staring at him in horror, ‘oh God, Sebastian, I’m so sorry, how could I have said that, to you of all people? I—’

‘Quite easily,’ he said, patting her hand, ‘and I’m glad you feel comfortable enough to do so. It’s all right, nothing makes it worse any more. And I have learnt to live with it, learnt what to do with the pain. In that way at least, time does help, if not heals. But – yes, Isabella, thank you, put it down there. And then I think you should run along, Barty and I are still talking.’

‘No, don’t go,’ said Barty, reaching out her hand to Izzie, ‘it’s nice to have you here. Your father and I have said all there is to say. How’s school?’

‘A big concern,’ said Sebastian scowling, before Izzie could answer. ‘I had, of course, planned for Isabella to go to St Paul’s, it’s the best girls’ school in the country and I hadn’t considered boarding school. But with the war, I think she should be moved out of London, it’s going to be dangerous. So I’m looking at places like Cheltenham Ladies’—’

‘Father,’ said Izzie, and her small jaw was set in a way that Barty found so reminiscent of Pandora she almost laughed, ‘if it’s dangerous for me in London, then it’s dangerous for you, and I don’t want to leave you here. In fact I won’t.’

‘You will do what you’re told,’ said Sebastian; his voice was harsh suddenly and Barty looked at him anxiously, but his eyes on Izzie were soft and concerned. ‘I will not have you exposed to danger, and that is the end of the matter.’

‘Perhaps she could go to Lady Beckenham’s school,’ said Barty lightly.

‘What? She’s starting a school? Good God, what next? What will it teach, horsemanship and the best way to treat servants?’

‘That’s not fair,’ said Barty, who was eternally grateful to Lady Beckenham, after all that she had done for Billy. ‘She’s a marvellously wise person. But anyway, it’s not her own school really. The place Henry and Roo are at is going to move down there. She offered it, said she knew they looking for somewhere, and she wanted to do something for the war effort and couldn’t face a hospital again.’

‘Oh my goodness,’ said Izzie, ‘oh, Father, do you think I could, I’d so love to go to school with Henry and Roo—’