The Last Summer (33 page)

One month slid into another, and then into another, and I moved on with my new life: my life in London as Charlie’s wife. I’d already lived in the city for a number of years, already become acquainted with its many and various tones of grey, accustomed to – and even admired – its hard lines: the almost black shiny new roads and smooth slate rooftops; the murky shape of skeletal trees through smog, and those glinting, hot summer pavements. But now I felt only its weight, and that weight deep and heavy in my heart, as though I was holding in my breath, not fully exhaling. As though I was waiting. Waiting.

But waiting for what?

It had all gone, everything. There would be no dawns or sunsets like those I’d known at Deyning; no early-morning mists to watch rise up from a lake, and no moonlit-drenched trees to
wish upon. And there was no Tom. No Tom. He and everything I’d cherished had gone and could never come back. Yes, I’d lost all I held dear. I’d lost everything. And so I began to go back there, quietly, in my mind. I began to measure time – days, weeks and months – against that place: against the past.

But all of us were burdened, none of us free. For we’d been the children destined for a
great war
. The ones who’d run at it, into it, singing, and shouting happy adieus; now tormented souls, haunted by our stolen youth and absent friends, and our memories of another time. And peace, peace of mind and heart, was not a God-given, not our birthright. Instead, it floated around us, teasingly. Peace. We all spoke of it, liked the sound of it, but it was a word already worn thin. And that other time, like a half-forgotten dream, came in flashes of colour, light and shade; vaguely familiar shapes and fragmented images. Silence took me back, and stillness too. The scents of summer, its sounds: the whisper of the giant beeches in the park, the distant hum of a mowing machine; the sight of children picnicking, or out in boats on the lake; a lone butterfly, dancing amidst the geraniums and lavender of a window box. Yes, all of these carried me back.

I had no idea then that grief is never entirely spent. No idea that it can be suspended, frozen, sometimes for years. War had anaesthetised us, numbed our senses, and even the warmth of summer could not thaw that chill around our hearts. Birthdays, Christmases, high days and holidays; family celebrations and simple pleasures, once so treasured for their languid, perfect moments were irrevocably altered by those missing: those forever young, smiling faces. And so my life was not the life I’d once imagined for myself. How could it be? My cast of players had gone; Deyning had gone; and my heart had been displaced. My marriage to Charlie was not how it should have been, for I wasn’t able to give myself fully, or to love him the way I knew
I could. And we were both haunted. Haunted by the memory of how we’d once been, who we had once been, and that childish notion of unfettered happiness.

Charlie’s love was of a different nature. Our relationship had not been founded on physical attraction, or chemistry, though – initially, at least – it had flickered. I had married him to do the right thing, and, perhaps, to be safe, secure: to be
married
. And he’d probably married me for the same reasons: to have a wife, someone he could call his own, look upon and feel proud of, the way one would anything one deemed valuable, and perhaps rare and pleasing to the eye. To Charlie, our marriage, I knew, was something of an achievement.

During those early days, I didn’t allow myself to ponder on our relationship. I embraced my role as best I could and distracted myself perfecting the part. There were people to see and entertain, a husband to amuse and look after. And we tried, I think, in those early years, to be happy together, to be in love. We both wanted children, wanted that cushion around us, and it was my fault, I thought, my fault no children came. My body seemed unwilling to produce that seal of approval without my heart’s agreement. And it seemed a fitting punishment.

I went to see doctors, specialists, and, unbeknown to Charlie, tried any number of remedies and potions from women in farflung parts of London promising me a baby. I’d lied, of course, when doctors had asked questions. I’d pleaded ignorance to the workings of my body and never said, ‘But I know I can do it; I’ve done it before.’ Perhaps it was that. Perhaps it was simply the tedium and disappointment of living with that longing for a child, but the complexion of our marriage changed. We stopped discussing possibilities, the future, and children. And then, three years into our marriage, we stopped sleeping together.

Of course I’d known from the start that my marriage to Charlie was a mistake. But I had
promised
to marry him, and I’d
made him that promise when he was a fit and able-bodied man, fighting for his country, for all of us. I couldn’t have abandoned him when he returned home, invalided; as though a war-damaged fiancé was somehow not quite up to scratch. And so, though I was lonely, hungry for love and physical intimacy, there was no way out. Happiness, I realised, was as an ideal as elusive as peace.

I once tried to talk to Mama about my marriage, but she stopped me almost as soon as I began. ‘Clarissa, Clarissa,’ she said, her eyes fluttering closed, smiling, ‘a successful marriage is not about physical love, or passion. That type of love – however intoxicating – simply doesn’t endure. A successful marriage is founded upon a partnership; it is an
alliance
, an understanding. And it is about companionship and, sometimes, forgiveness and tolerance too . . .’

I didn’t tell her how much I’d already tolerated, how often I forgave Charlie. I’d never spoken to her about his black moods or his unreasonable and increasingly volatile behaviour: the rages about something being out of place or dinner not served at the correct time. I’d never mentioned the silences, the evenings when he refused to speak or even look at me, and then, later, disappeared off into the night.

‘But I’m still young, Mama. I need to be loved.’

‘You are loved, my dear. Charlie adores you.’

‘I don’t want that . . . adoration. I want
real
love.’

She sighed, looked at me, narrowing her eyes, as though trying to tune into my thoughts. ‘Life is about compromise, Clarissa. We all have to make sacrifices; all of us . . . even me.’

I looked up at her. ‘But you had a perfect marriage. You and Papa loved each other . . . had children and were together until . . . until he died.’

She smiled, closed her eyes again for a moment. ‘Yes, I loved your father, not least because we shared four children.
We shared a life. And it was a good marriage, but no marriage is perfect.’ She sighed again. ‘And my marriage was not
always
perfect.’

I stared at her. I’d never heard my mother speak of her marriage before, never known her admit to imperfection in any area of her life. All at once a door had opened, and I wanted to know more. I wanted to know who my mother was; what she’d known, how she’d felt. Had she, too, known grand passion? Had she ever been forced to question her life, her marriage to my father? Had someone come between her and Papa?

‘Have you . . . have you ever loved anyone apart from Papa?’ I asked.

There was a pause. She looked away from me, and I knew there was something.

‘Yes . . . there was someone, once; many years ago now.’ She raised her hand to her chest, searching for her pearls. ‘But it was not to be.’

‘Before you married Papa?’ I asked, silently willing her to tell me, to say more.

She stared at me.

‘After you married Papa?’

She closed her eyes, momentarily, and I knew that to be a
yes
.

I wanted to ask her more questions, but I wasn’t sure how,
or
if she was prepared to tell me any more. Then she said, quite calmly, in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘It was a long time ago, and it was impossible.’ She smiled at me. ‘I had you, your brothers – and, of course, there was Papa. And it was . . .’ she twisted the long strand of pearls through her fingers, ‘. . . could never have come to anything.’

‘I had no idea.’

‘Of course not. Why would you? You were still a child.’

‘Did Papa know?’

‘No, he did not. Oh, he may have had his suspicions, and we went through a few . . . a few difficult years. But I loved your father, Clarissa. And I have no regrets.’

This was all my mother was prepared to tell me at that time. It was another lesson in compromise and sacrifice.

My life in London was quite different to that time during the War, and my circle of friends had changed too. Charlie was working in the city and we saw more of his friends and work colleagues than we did of my old crowd. A number of them had moved on anyhow, were married and living in the country. But occasionally, at a party, we crossed paths with one or other of them.

Jimmy Cooper had remained in the army after the War. He’d been out in India for two years and had only recently returned when we bumped into him at a charity dance at the Hyde Park Hotel. I knew Jimmy, like his mother, to be a diligent correspondent. He always seemed to keep track of everyone, knew who had married whom and where they were living. And as I stood chatting to him that night, he did indeed seem to know more – was more up to date on everyone’s movements – than me, despite having been away for two years.

‘I can’t believe you’ve been away for two whole years, Jimmy Cooper, and yet
you
have all the gossip!’ I said to him, and he laughed.

‘I have to admit, most of it’s passed on to me from Mama. You know how much she loves to know
everything
,’ he said with a smile.

‘Yes, and hand it on. I think that’s the part she likes best, don’t you? She’d have won a medal during the War – for reconnaissance!’

‘Ha! You’re right. She’d have been a superb spy . . . though perhaps a little too conspicuous behind enemy lines.’

I laughed. The thought of Venetia, trussed up in all her finery, crawling through no-man’s-land, was a bizarre but highly amusing image. And whilst it was good to be laughing, to be able to make jokes about that time, I had a sudden stab of guilt: guilt that we were standing there, at a dance, laughing about the War. And I felt a twinge of guilt about Venetia too. I hadn’t seen her in a while. In fact, if truth be told, I’d been avoiding her. The last time I’d called upon her she’d asked me too many questions: questions about my marriage and about Charlie. ‘You and Charlie . . . you’re happy?’ she’d asked, staring at me with those piercing violet eyes.

‘Yes,’ I’d replied, ‘Yes, of course.’

‘It’s just that . . . well, you sometimes seem a little distracted, dear, a little lost.’

I’d shrugged, shaken my head, unsure what to say. ‘I’m fine, it’s fine,’ I said, looking away from her.

‘
Fine?
Fine does not make my heart sing, Clarissa. Fine does not evoke that flutter of happiness I so wish to feel when I look at you. And you know, you can tell me . . . you can. I’m always here for you. You’re the daughter I never had . . . as dear and as precious to me as my own.’

‘Mama says that marriage is about compromise . . . and sacrifice. She says passion does not endure.’

She smiled. ‘Ah, I see. And you . . . you’ve known passion?’

I hesitated, and then I said, ‘Yes, yes I have.’

‘But not with your husband, not with Charlie?’

I looked down, shook my head.

She sighed. ‘You’re still in love with him, aren’t you? You’re still in love with Tom Cuthbert.’

At that moment I was relieved to hear her say his name. She knew, and I was pleased she knew. I wanted someone to know
the truth. When I began to cry she moved over to me and took me in her arms.

‘Please, please promise me that you shan’t say anything to Mama.’

‘Of course I shan’t. I wouldn’t dream of it . . . there are many things I don’t tell your mama, Clarissa.’ She took my head in her hands and looked at me. ‘But you have to try and make your marriage work, my dear. Otherwise . . .’ she stared at me, unsmiling, with tears in her eyes now too. ‘Otherwise you have years of loneliness ahead of you, and I simply can’t bear the thought of you lonely and unhappy.’

Even later that same day I’d regretted telling her. I wasn’t convinced that she wouldn’t report back to Mama or inadvertently say something. And so, for the next few weeks, I’d purposefully avoided her, hoping to put a distance between that sad outburst and myself. Hoping we’d both forget. But weeks had turned into months, and now I felt guilty.

‘I must visit your mother,’ I said to Jimmy. ‘I’ve been a little lax in my calling of late.’

‘Yes, you must. You know how much she adores seeing you . . . adores seeing you both.’

I glanced over at Charlie. He’d moved further away from us, was talking with a group of people I didn’t recognise, and so, with practised nonchalance, I took the plunge.

‘And do you ever hear anything of Tom Cuthbert?’

‘Ha! Now there’s a name that doesn’t often crop up,’ he said, stopping a waiter and grabbing us each another glass of champagne. ‘But Cuthbert was never the best correspondent. Bloody unreliable, I’d say.’

‘But now that you’re back – will you be seeing him?’

‘Good grief, didn’t you know? He’s in America.’

‘America? No, no . . . I didn’t know.’

‘Yes, been there for almost two years now, I think,’ he said,
sipping his champagne. ‘And doing quite well for himself too, from what I understand.’