Sweet Sorrow (23 page)

‘I know the feeling.’ Verity remembered how, when she had TB, she had hated anyone feeling sorry for her. ‘If he is ill, it would certainly help explain his behaviour. When you see him tomorrow, try and persuade him to come to supper. I’ve invited Virginia and Leonard. I know he respects Leonard.’

‘I’ll do what I can, Verity, but I can’t force him. I remember him as very intense, very sincere, and it’s not an easy time to be a priest and have to explain why God allows so much evil in the world.’

‘Without wishing to be flippant, Tommie, when war comes the churches will be full. At least, that’s what happened in 1914.’

‘True, and in this case we can be sure that we are fighting for a just cause. In 1914, many of us had doubts and hated seeing the Church of England become patriotic to the point of jingoism. We asked ourselves why God should be on our side and not the German. No doubt Germany prayed for victory as hard as we did. This time there can be no doubt that we are fighting against a great evil. The church in Germany has, for the most part, spoken against Nazism and suffered for it.’

‘I know,’ Verity said, resting a hand on his arm in sympathy.

‘You’re hoping to be sent abroad for the
New Gazette
before war breaks out?’ Tommie asked, although he knew the answer.

‘I am. According to Mr Churchill, instead of being pinned down in trenches, the new army will have to move fast. He believes the German tanks will race across Europe, but who knows? The only thing I
do
know is that I have to be in position before everything goes up in smoke. I can’t afford to be stuck in England. It’s all very frustrating. I had expected to get my marching orders a week or more ago. Oh well, I must be patient – though it’s not something I have ever been good at. Anyway, what about you? Tell me, how are you getting on in Kentish Town? It’s a poor area, isn’t it? You must have your work cut out?’

Tommie talked eagerly about the challenges he faced and about the plans which had been made and rehearsed for evacuating the children in the event of London being bombed.

‘We can take some evacuees here,’ Verity offered. ‘As you know, we have Ada and Jean here now but their mother is back later this week and she’ll want to take charge of them, I am sure. I may not be here much but Mrs Brendel, who you met, is all ready to do her bit. As a refugee herself, she feels it’s her special duty.’

‘I’ll have a chat with her, if I may,’ Tommie said, expertly knocking his ball through a hoop but, so Verity informed him, in the wrong direction.

‘And you must speak to Leonard – he’s very involved with placing refugees and preparing for evacuees.’

Edward was delighted to see his old friend when he finally returned, apologizing for not keeping track of the time and being there to greet him. He introduced Tommie to Ada and Jean, whose pink cheeks and happy smiles suggested that they were recovering from the shock of Byron’s death. Jean was excited that her mother would soon be home and even Ada seemed to be looking forward to seeing her stepmother again.

At dinner, and afterwards over brandy and cigars, Edward told Tommie everything he had found out in London. It was useful, he decided, to lay out all the facts so they could be examined by someone impartial and uninvolved. It helped to order his thoughts.

‘It’s not conclusive but . . .’

‘Don’t jump to conclusions,’ Tommie warned him. ‘You thought on other occasions that you had it all worked out only to find that you were wide of the mark.’

‘Very true, Tommie. I promise not to rush to judgement. It is so good to have you here. How long can you stay?’

‘Just two nights, then I’m going to stay with a Cambridge friend, Noel Symington. Do you remember him, Edward?’

‘Of course! He sent me his book,
The Night Climbers of Cambridge
. He used to make me curl up with fright. Do you remember when he scaled King’s College Chapel? I think it was one of the finest, or stupidest, things I have ever seen. He had no equipment, no rope, but he made it. He slipped once, I recall, and knocked away half a gargoyle.’ He mused. ‘I expect in this war his sort of courage and foolhardiness will make him an ideal soldier if they know how to use him.’

‘Yes, but he was never very good at obeying orders, I seem to remember – a bit like Verity – and I gather discipline’s a sine qua non in the army. I thought I might try to persuade Paul to come with me to Cambridge. He was a great friend of Symington’s and a climber himself. Do you remember, Edward, how his gyp had to get him off the roof of Trinity when he got stuck one night? From what you say, he needs a break but I expect he’ll refuse.’

They sat in the garden until it was almost midnight and the ashtrays were overflowing but even then it was not completely dark. Edward and Tommie tossed away their cigars and gradually their conversation gave way to the silence of contemplation and tranquillity. They let the garden scents calm them – the almost overpowering sweetness of jasmine and, beneath and above it, the delicate scent of roses.

‘I shall always remember this evening,’ Verity said as they rose from their deckchairs and made their way back into the house.

‘It’s the sort of night which must have reminded Old Adam of what his and Eve’s foolishness had deprived him,’ Tommie agreed.

Edward, predictably, quoted his beloved Shakespeare. ‘“In such a night Troilus me thinks mounted the Trojan walls, and sighed his soul toward the Grecian tents where Cressid lay that night.” ’

‘Only tonight you are fortunate in having your Cressid with you,’ Verity pointed out, down to earth as usual.

‘I do, and I thank God for it,’ Edward replied, taking her hand.

The following morning, Verity left Tommie with Edward and went up to London with Ada and Jean on their long-promised visit to the
New Gazette
. They were to have lunch at the Lyons Corner House on the Strand and then, if there was time, go to
Jamaica Inn
, Jean’s choice. There was a Spanish film –
Barrios Bajos
directed by a friend of hers, Pedro Puche – at the Academy Cinema in Oxford Street, which Verity very much wanted to see but she could not disappoint the girls. It would be a long day but they were looking forward to being in London again.

Verity’s heart always beat faster when she entered the
New Gazette
. The energy that flowed through her when the great doors swung open gave her hope and purpose. Jean seemed to feel it too and looked about her awestruck. The building was mostly glass and flaunted its modernity. In the magnificent foyer, they could sense rather than hear the rumble of the mighty printing presses below them like the engines of an ocean liner.

Verity had telephoned Miss Landon, Lord Weaver’s secretary, who had arranged a tour of the building for the girls while Verity had an interview with the great man. However, just before she went up to his suite of offices on the fifth floor, she paid a visit to the
New Gazette
’s archive. She wanted to ask Tom Balcombe, the librarian, if he could find any mention of Colonel Heron’s war service. Balcombe seemed doubtful but said he would look through the index and leave a message for her at the reception desk if he found anything.

‘It’s a good index,’ he explained, ‘but it certainly doesn’t list every war hero – how could it? – unless it was a story which was reported at some length.’

Joe Weaver was in a sombre mood. ‘War will be declared within two weeks,’ he told Verity.

Hitler had made it clear that he would annex the Baltic port of Danzig, Poland’s access to the sea. In the House of Commons, the Prime Minister, Mr Chamberlain, had promised to support the Poles if they had to resort to force to keep Danzig a Free City under the League of Nations mandate.

‘And I have just heard that Stalin has signed a Non-Aggression Pact with Hitler. When two devils make peace with one another, then it’s time to worry,’ Weaver declared with a flourish. He was well aware that, as a former Communist, Verity would be horrified at this betrayal.

‘I can’t believe that!’ she exclaimed. ‘Are you absolutely sure it’s not just a propaganda lie by the Nazis? I have known for some time that the Communist Party will do anything, however cynical, if it thinks it is in its interests, but to sign a pact with the devil . . . surely not.’

‘I’m afraid it’s a fact, Verity, and one that makes a European war inevitable. If Poland is attacked, we will go to her aid and so will the French.’

‘And if that’s not enough,’ she lamented, ‘the IRA are still killing people in English cities. I see in the paper that five people have been killed and fifty wounded in a bomb attack in Coventry. It’s too horrible. Just when we’re facing a fight to the death with Nazi Germany the Irish decide to kick us in the teeth.’

‘Indeed. Bus conductors won’t let you take a suitcase with you when you board a bus in case it contains a bomb,’ Weaver said, waving his cigar in the air for emphasis. Verity wondered when was the last time her boss had been on a bus. ‘How we could have got to this pass, I really don’t know,’ he added, shaking his head.

They looked at one another blankly. War had been expected for two years but now it was on the point of being declared. It was hard to believe.

‘The Prime Minister is heartbroken,’ Weaver continued. ‘Between ourselves, Chamberlain’s not cut out to lead this country in war. It’s only a matter of time before Lord Halifax or Winston takes over. Neville’s too closely associated with the policy of appeasing Hitler. He’ll not be forgiven for its failure.’

‘Lord Halifax! You must be joking.’ Verity found it impossible to accept that a member of the House of Lords could lead the country through the perils it faced.

‘I know what you are thinking. I doubt the Foreign Secretary could take over given that he’s just as much associated with appeasement as the Prime Minister.’

Verity thought wryly that, despite Weaver’s friendship with Mr Churchill, appeasing Hitler had been the policy the
New Gazette
had espoused and promoted for the last three years. Apparently that was now to be forgotten.

‘And me?’ she asked timidly.

‘You are to leave for Paris the week after next. Depending on what happens, you’ll stay there to help Curtis or go on to Madrid.’ Curtis was the
New Gazette
’s chief correspondent in Paris. ‘Miss Landon has your tickets. What can I say but good luck? You’re on your own. I can’t give you any instructions. You must just be where it’s happening, that’s all.’

‘I won’t let you down, Joe,’ Verity said earnestly.

‘I know you won’t, and try not to get yourself killed. Edward would never forgive me – nor would I forgive myself,’ he added gruffly.

‘I’ll probably be safer than you will be here. The bombing . . .’

‘Yes, they will bomb London. We have to accept that many historic buildings like St Paul’s,’ Weaver turned to look out at the dome of London’s greatest church, ‘will be destroyed and goodness knows how many civilians will lose their lives. It was bad enough in the last war with the Zeppelins but this will be on a very different scale. If the Germans unleash total war, they will regret it in the long run. If they bomb London, we can bomb Berlin. We have the wherewithal . . .’

They talked about the international situation for another ten minutes until Miss Landon arrived with Ada and Jean who had finished their tour of the building. Verity introduced them to Weaver and she could see that he was taken with Jean. She was on the cusp of womanhood and Verity wondered which lucky man would drown in her green eyes. According to Byron, she had inherited her mother’s creamy skin and auburn hair. It was a stunning combination and Verity was momentarily jealous. But then she remembered what a bore it was fending off men who only had one thing in mind.

She hurried to make a fuss of Ada. The poor child seemed subdued in the shadow of her glamorous stepsister but, when Weaver asked her what she thought of the newspaper, her eyes lit up and she spoke with a fervour and eloquence that surprised them all.

As they were leaving the building, Verity was handed a note from the archivist, Balcombe. He had, after all, been able to find a reference to a Captain Mike Heron who, in 1916, had apparently led an attack on a machine-gun nest which was holding up the British advance in his sector. The attack had been successful but Heron had been wounded and as many as thirty of his Indian troops had been killed. Just as they were celebrating victory, they had seen a noxious cloud of yellow gas coming in their direction. Although they had time to put on their gas masks, several of Heron’s men had breathed in enough gas to leave them gasping. He had personally carried one of his badly wounded men back to the dressing station under fire from the enemy.

He had been recommended for a VC but, in the end, had been awarded the DSO. Mike Heron was no fraud, as Verity had suspected, but a genuine hero.

Although she was longing to get home and begin preparing for her assignment, she knew she could not do the girls out of their treat. At Lyons Corner House, Verity could only manage coffee and a bun but she watched with pleasure as, to the amusement of the ‘nippy’ who served them, the girls ate themselves silly for 2/9d. She half-listened to their chatter as she went over in her mind the implications of what Weaver had told her. She was excited but also apprehensive. She lusted after a cigarette to calm her nerves but managed to restrain herself from buying a packet from the display case by the till. This was what she had longed for – a foreign posting – but would she be up to it physically and mentally? In Spain, she had witnessed the devastation caused by bombing from the air and Weaver’s words about what might happen to London frightened her. She had to suppress an image of the restaurant in which they were eating being flattened by a bomb and all the innocent men, women and children sitting around her being killed.

She turned once more to the tempting rows of cigarettes piled up beneath a poster advertising Player’s Navy Cut. It featured a pensive-looking sailor staring out to sea and she immediately thought of Frank, Edward’s nephew, aboard HMS
Kelly
. She shivered and lowered her eyes. Her gaze was arrested by the sight of a familiar face – or rather two familiar faces. At a small table in the corner of the restaurant, Lewis Cathcart was deep in conversation with Colonel Heron. She was about to get up and go over to them when she had second thoughts. What did these two have to talk about so earnestly? She thought back to the moments after Frieda’s murder. Cathcart had been genuinely distraught – or at least she had thought his anguish was genuine – but what if it had all been an act?