The Last Summer (20 page)

‘And good luck to him. I hope that he survives this wretched war and makes something of his life. But you, my dear . . . well, your life was always destined to be
quite
different to his. And still will be. Quite different.’

I stared at her. ‘All our lives will be different after this war, Mama. Look at us: our lives have already changed.’

I felt irritated by the way my mother was talking. How was I so different now? How were we so different? Her sons had been as fallible as any others on the battlefield.

She looked down at her cards, sighed. ‘Clarissa, Clarissa . . . your head’s always so full of romantic notions. We must accept the life we’re born into, my dear, no matter how irksome or dull we find it at times. The war will end . . . one day, hopefully soon, and then you shall resume your life. You’ll marry; have a family, a home of your own. And Charlie will make a fine husband. A very fine husband.’

I said nothing more. Mama still had her dreams for me: an eligible husband, Charlie, a big society wedding, a town house and a country house, children. But I was already having doubts: doubts about marrying Charlie, doubts about everything. Nothing seemed certain, and I wasn’t sure what, exactly, I wanted in my life any more; wasn’t even entirely sure who
I
was any more. The girl I’d once been, the girl who’d been able to imagine the future – glistening with promise – had gone. I could no longer see ahead, no longer see the possibilities. And if Tom Cuthbert wasn’t to be part of my future, what was there? For he had starred in every fantasy, each and every dream.

I still thought of him, dreamt of him, but so much had changed, and my life in London had propelled me down a path he was not on. I had no idea where he was, how he felt or what he was thinking. I knew nothing other than the fact he was alive,
somewhere. For news of any death travelled quickly and my mother’s continued obsession with the daily fatality list ensured an up-to-date, albeit grim, knowledge of our ever-diminishing circle of friends and acquaintances. He may have met someone, may be engaged; may even have married Gloria, I thought.

If I’d received one letter, a note, anything at all, I’d have stopped my progression down that path. But there was nothing. He’d never written to me after our meeting at the station that day, and though I’d hoped, even prayed, that our paths might cross again, somewhere, anywhere, they had not. I’d half expected to see him at some party or other, there were always so many army personnel and officers, and I’d gone to any number searching for him amongst the uniforms. I’d scan rooms looking for his face, and occasionally my eyes would pick out a tall, dark-haired man in the crowd and my heart skipped a beat. But it was never him. Why would it be? He was not part of the crowd I mixed with in London. His life wasn’t there and never had been. And I was weary from longing, exhausted by my imaginings, and all those anticipated meetings and reconciliations. So I began to tell myself that Tom Cuthbert would never be part of my life again; that he was a memory.

When Henry came home on leave, he’d done his best to be like Papa. He’d sat in Papa’s place, assured Mama and me that all would be well. But things were changing, and changing rapidly. Unbeknown to any of us, Deyning had been mortgaged. My father, ever the entrepreneur, had taken risks on the stock market and his losses, which he’d kept from almost everyone, had in all likelihood contributed towards his ailing health. Now death duties coupled with those losses meant that Deyning would probably have to be sold. Henry had done the sums, with a lawyer, of course. It was simply too expensive to run, he said, and, with the servant problem, much too much of a headache. He’d sat down with Mama and me to try to explain this to us.

‘No,’ Mama said, quite emphatically, ‘Deyning is your birthright, your inheritance, Henry. Things will get better once this wretched war ends . . . and then, then our lives will resume. Things will return to normal
and
we shall return to Deyning.’

‘I agree with Mama,’ I said. ‘We can’t possibly sell Deyning, Henry . . . it’s our home.’

Henry sighed, shook his head. ‘I don’t believe things will be the same, and, as much as it saddens me, I don’t in all honesty believe that we’ll be able to keep Deyning.’

Mama laughed. ‘Rubbish! This country has survived many a war. One doesn’t start reinventing oneself simply because of a war, dear. We have to stand firm and together, and we have to hold on to all that we believe in, all that we are. Papa would turn in his grave to hear you speaking this way. Deyning was everything to him, you know that . . . and the costs, the servants, well, perhaps we shall have to do what they call
economise
. . . run with fewer servants, though for the life of me I can’t imagine how. But . . . if it has to be so, then it has to be so.’

I saw Henry shake his head again, but he left it at that. There was no point in trying to convince Mama, certainly not at that time. Later, I wrote to Charlie: ‘Everything is changing. Nothing is fixed or certain any more.’

. . . Can you believe they sent his uniform home to us? Mr D set fire to it outside in the garden, and I watched it as it burned . . . I still can’t believe he is gone, that both of them are gone, & in so short a space of time. I keep expecting one of them – both of them – to appear here, on the doorstep, in the hallway, poking a head around my door, just as they always did, bright-eyed little boys smiling back at me. And this is what I dream of, night after night . . . . I try to comfort myself with the knowledge that they were loved, and enjoyed a supremely happy childhood & youth, but yes, a part of me is angry. And, in my darkest
and most private moments, & though I know it’s hideous and selfish, and that others have suffered just as much, I find myself wishing that He could have taken another, another two, and spared mine. And I wonder, am I culpable? For I let them go . . . encouraged them, and despite knowing how cruel it would be. And now I keep thinking if W hadn’t joined the RFC – hadn’t gone up in one of those wretched machines – he might still be here, & if G hadn’t been so very brave & hadn’t gone back to get that boy – he’d still be here . . . but people tell me how noble their (& my) sacrifice, and speak so poetically of Heroism. And though at first I thought I might not live, & felt all my courage slip away, & so much so that I was unable to move or feel or speak or think, it has slowly returned, enough for me to continue living. And of course, I owe it to them, and to those still here. But life will never be the same, & I shall never be the same, for something in me is broken and can never now be mended.

. . . They played a searchlight on us all through the night & then at dawn the bombardment started – the very worst I have experienced so far, with shells raining down all around us . . . it lasted an hour perhaps, no more, but so intense that my ears, head, hands and heart continued to ring & tremble & vibrate for hours afterwards. Three of our horses were killed, and later, we had to load the mutilated carcases on to a wagon and then bury them in a ready-made ditch close by. I hate this place. Hate all of it, & with every part of my being, and yet I know this hatred might very well help keep me alive . . .

I didn’t particularly feel like going out to a party that night, but both Henry and Charlie were home on leave, and Henry was keen to be out and about ‘on the circuit’, as he called it. Food rationing had begun to affect everything, and though restaurants remained open, most had cut down to one or two courses, and – like the theatres – closed early. But behind shuttered windows the whoopla of a party and thumping of a piano could be heard most nights. Nightclubs had arrived in London and bands played
on until the small hours; for those boys home on leave were determined to have a good time. We were all determined to have A Good Time.

I spent longer than usual getting ready that evening. I think I almost preferred the anticipation to any actual event. Those idle hours languishing in my bath, listening to music from the gramophone next door; then selecting a gown, and jewellery. Perhaps it was because the evening still lay ahead, uncharted and unknown. It could be anything I wished for it to be. And I loved my room. Mama had allowed me to select new wallpaper and furnishings when we’d moved up permanently from Deyning, and I’d created a rosebudded sanctuary, with matching wall coverings, curtains and bedspread. It was a girlish symphony of pink, and it reminded me of the old rose garden at Deyning.

That evening I chose to wear a navy blue satin gown, one I’d worn before, the previous week, but one Charlie hadn’t yet seen and one I knew he’d like. It suited me well, and Henry had told me I’d be ‘sure to capture any man’s heart in that dress’. I’d borrowed Mama’s diamond choker, again, and wore her blue fox stole over my shoulders. The three of us – Henry, Charlie and I – drove only two streets away, to drinks at the Millingtons’ before heading on to Venetia’s son Jimmy’s party, on South Audley Street. Although Jimmy had been at school with Henry and Charlie, he had gone on to Oxford, not Cambridge, and he was the only one of Henry’s friends, apart from Charlie, whom I genuinely liked. I wondered then if Henry’s affair with Venetia had ended, or if it was still going on. I’d never mentioned it to anyone, and now it didn’t seem important. I no longer cared whom my elder brother was sleeping with, just so long as he was alive.

We could hear the revelry as soon as we pulled up outside Jimmy’s. ‘Sounds promising,’ Henry said, rubbing his hands together. Inside, the place was heaving; the hallway jam-packed
with people, noise and smoke; faces I knew and a few I didn’t. Almost all of the men were in uniform and everyone seemed exuberant, over-animated. I think back now and realise there was an air of desperation at those parties; as though each one had to be better than the last; as though each one was the last.

We’d been there a little while when Charlie and Henry disappeared off together in search of a bottle and I found myself ensconced in a corner of the hallway with Rose Millington – whom I’d just seen at her parents’ house – and a few others. I was laughing at Rose’s impersonation of her mother – she was so funny, a brilliant mimic – and as I turned away, as I turned away from her, laughing, I glanced up and saw him: sitting on the staircase, watching me. And I looked away quickly, I’m not sure why, perhaps because it had happened before; because I’d been to any number of parties where I thought I’d spotted him, only to realise it wasn’t him. I thought I’d imagined it. So, I turned again, slowly, and looked back.

I felt my stomach tighten, couldn’t move; couldn’t even smile. And I can’t recall him moving down the staircase, but a moment later he was standing in front of me.

‘Hello, Clarissa,’ he said, so close we were almost touching.

‘Tom . . . what are you doing here?’

I didn’t mean it as it sounded. I was shocked, unprepared.

He raised one side of his mouth, half smiling in that way I remembered. ‘I bumped into Jimmy on the boat train yesterday,’ he said. ‘I saw you arrive, was on the stairs . . . thought you’d seen me.’

I shook my head. ‘No . . . no, I didn’t see you.’

His face had changed: older, thinner, and so very pale, as though he had not been out in the sun for years. Like most of the others he’d grown a moustache, and that wave of almost black hair, which had once hung down over his eyes, had gone.
And those eyes – staring back into mine – seemed darker, with a new intensity, a new depth and vulnerability to them.

‘I’ve three days’ leave. I’m heading down to Deyning tomorrow,’ he said, and then he frowned. ‘I was so sorry to hear about your father . . .’

‘And I imagine . . . I imagine you know about George,’ I said.