The Last Summer (38 page)

‘Well, you could’ve fooled me,’ she replied. ‘It’s quite clear
to me the man’s besotted with you. And you . . . well, really, darling – how could you not be?’

I didn’t want to be drawn and I wasn’t about to tell Davina Blanch anything. She was a notorious gossip; someone one only ever told those things one wished to have published without incurring any cost.

‘I wonder if he’ll get in touch with you . . .’ she said, thinking aloud, excited by the possibility of another affair for her to disclose. ‘Or has he
already
been in touch with you?’

‘No, he hasn’t. He doesn’t have my telephone number,
or
my address. And, to be honest, I doubt he will. I’m married, Davina, and he’s engaged . . . engaged to be married.’

She leant back in her chair, rolling her eyes heavenwards. ‘You really think that stops men when they see something they want? Men like him? The only thing that makes men think is their wallet, darling. How much it will cost them. And let’s face it, Tom Cuthbert might be new money, but he’s big new money. He doesn’t need to think about his goddamn wallet. But you know, it’s a mystery to everyone where, exactly, his money’s come from. There’s talk of speakeasies, bootlegging . . . that sort of thing. Anyway, you know me, I’m not one for gossip, and who cares . . . he’s delicious material for an affair,’ she added, winking at me.

I laughed. ‘Really, I don’t know
where
his money’s come from, and to be honest, I’m not interested.’

‘I don’t believe you. I simply don’t believe you. No, not for one minute.’

‘Davina, it won’t happen.’

‘I bet poor little Pen’s distraught,’ she continued. ‘She must have seen the way he looked at you last night. Poor little limpet. But, darling, what’ll I do if he calls me for your number?’

‘You can give him my telephone number by all means, and I’ve no doubt that I’ll see him again, at some stage, somewhere.
We seem to be moving in the same circle these days. But please, Davina, don’t discuss me with him.’ And as I said that I realised immediately that I’d made a fundamental error: by asking Davina
not
to talk to Tom about me I’d only fired her curiosity more. Now, she wouldn’t be able to help herself, she’d have to discuss me with him; in fact, she’d probably think of some pretext to call him up the very next day.

‘Of course not. I wouldn’t dream of it, darling,’ she said, as we made our way back downstairs, ‘but seeing as it was me who brought you back together, you must keep me posted.’

‘Yes, I’ll keep you posted,’ I said, ‘but don’t hold your breath.’

Driving home, I wondered if I’d hear from Tom. Would he get in touch? Would he telephone? I crossed Oxford Street, heading towards home, but I didn’t want to go back. I didn’t want to return to that empty house, my home; and so I turned right instead of left, towards Hyde Park. And then I parked the car, walked down the street, across Park Lane, and into the park. It was a beautiful summer’s evening, not late, perhaps around six, and I walked in a southerly direction.

I’m not altogether sure why, but I wanted to go back to that place, to try to find the tree: the tree where Tom and I had made love that night, so many years before. I walked quite briskly at first, smiling and nodding at people as I passed them. I imagine they thought I was running late for an engagement, or perhaps a mother rushing home to her children. And for a while I imagined that too. I imagined that I was heading home to a family, a husband and children: Emily and Tom. A house in Belgravia perhaps, with a glossy black-painted front door and an ornate polished brass knocker; three children . . . or even four . . . yes, four: two girls, Emily the eldest, and two boys. They’d be waiting for me in the nursery, bathed and smelling divine; creamy skinned and pink cheeked; dark eyes peering out of a high window, waiting for their mama. He’d anticipate my
return too; greet me with outstretched arms, smiling. We’d climb the staircase together, hand in hand, feeling whole once more, feeling complete.

And there she is, Emily, almost ten, the eldest of our offspring . . . standing at the top of the stairs. ‘Where have you been?’ she says. ‘I’ve been waiting.’

‘I’m here now,’ I reply, wrapping my arms around her. ‘I’m here now.’

As I reached the southernmost point of the park, I stopped.

Somewhere here . . . somewhere here.

But there were so many trees: some huge, old and established; others younger, possibly planted in the intervening years.
Ten years.
I stepped away from the pathway on to the grass, looked back towards Park Lane and tried to remember that night: it had been dark . . . we’d crossed over, entered the park . . . walked upon grit and then grass . . . But where had we crossed? Which path had we taken? A military band played on in the distance, its vaguely familiar melody distracting me, muddling me further, and I sat down upon a bench under the beech trees of Rotten Row.

Once, before I knew about war and death and loss, the earth had drawn me to it, pulling me into its shapes and colours, curling up around me and enveloping me in its warmth. Sometimes, I’d even fancied I could see it trembling, hear it breathing, but not any more. The earth had no heartbeat, it had stopped, perhaps with mine; for all I could see was what I could see, and nothing more.

I closed my eyes, half listening to the strains of a waltz drifting across the park.
I am a memory, unspoken, unseen. I am but a whisper, a glance. The echo of that other time . . . the rhythm, the dance . . .
Then, through the shuffle and hubbub, through the din of traffic, I recognised the music: ‘The Blue Danube’, my father’s favourite.

When, eventually, I returned home, as I stood in the hallway pulling off my gloves, Sonia appeared. She told me that a
gentleman had telephoned, twice: a Mr Cuthbert, she said.

‘Was there a message?’

‘No, ma’am, but he said he’d try again later.’

It was around 8.30 p.m. when the telephone rang out, and though I’d been sitting staring at it, waiting for it to ring, I jumped. I was on my own, had no idea when Charlie would be home and had no wish to see him. ‘I’ll get it!’ I called out into the empty hallway, and then I closed the drawing-room door and picked up the receiver. And as soon as I heard him, as soon as I heard his voice, I wanted to cry.

There were many pauses, achingly long silences in that conversation, for at times I simply couldn’t speak. Words wouldn’t come. And so he spoke, and I listened.

‘It was wonderful . . . wonderful to see you again, Clarissa. And I’m pleased, pleased if you’re happy.’

I closed my eyes.

‘But I wanted to call you . . .’ he continued. ‘I want you to know that I’m not getting married.’

‘Oh, I see . . .’

‘It’s not the reason for my call, of course, but I want you to know that anyway.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘It’s over between Penny and me; in fact, it was over before yesterday evening.’

Through the crackle on the line I could hear him light a cigarette.

‘And the other thing I need to tell you . . . is that I’m going back to America.’

I didn’t say anything. I could feel myself begin to shake. That wobbling feeling that starts deep inside and then, quite quickly, moves outside – to one’s head and hands, and legs and knees. A tremor.

‘Clarissa?’

I nodded.

‘I really hadn’t expected to have to return – at least not yet, not now – but something’s cropped up . . . it’s difficult. It’s not . . . it’s not work, it’s a personal matter . . . but I wanted you to know, and I . . .’

I heard him suck on his cigarette.

‘I don’t want you to think I’ve just disappeared, you see. I don’t want you to . . .’

‘I understand,’ I said.

I heard him sigh. ‘No, you don’t understand. I know that. You can’t understand. And I wish I could tell you more . . . but I can’t.’

There was a silence, a long silence. And then I said, ‘When will you be back?’

‘I’m not altogether sure, but hopefully in a few months.’

A few months . . . a few months . . .

‘I’d like to see you again before I leave.’ He sighed again, and I could see him running his hand through his hair. ‘I’m sailing from Southampton next Tuesday . . . and I’ll be staying there – at the South Western – the night before.’

Another silence.

‘Clarissa?’

‘Yes. The South Western.’

‘Next Monday . . . I’ll be there on Monday . . . Monday evening. From around six.’

I nodded. ‘Yes, next Monday.’

‘From around six,’ he said again.

‘Yes, around six,’ I repeated, smiling.

I can’t remember now what we said, if anything, after that.

It was Davina who found me: Davina who unlocked my bedroom door. I’m not sure what I’d intended. But I don’t think – no, I can’t think – that I’d wished for death. Or had I? I knew he’d sailed that morning, knew that he’d have waited for me the night before. But it had all been so poorly planned; by me, at least.

Charlie said, ‘I don’t think so.’

‘But it’s almost a day trip, Charlie . . . after all, I shall only be staying for one night. I’ll be back tomorrow . . . I’ll be back tomorrow morning, and Edina,’ I went on, referring to my cousin, who now lived at Sevenoaks, ‘is so looking forward to seeing me. I haven’t seen her since she had little Archie. I’ve never met him.’

He lowered his newspaper. ‘I forbid it,’ he said, without looking at me. And then he refilled his teacup.

I think that’s when I stood up. And as I moved away from the breakfast table, towards the door, and towards him, I said, ‘I don’t care what you say . . . I’m going.’

And then, as I passed him, he must have reached out and
grabbed hold of my wrist; because I remember him holding on to it and saying, ‘You will not be going anywhere overnight, and you’re certainly not gallivanting off to Kent on your own, Clarissa.’

I tried to pull my arm free. I remember that, and his grip, so tight, burning my flesh.

The rest is all a muddle. There was a fight. I picked up his cup of tea, threw it at him. He hit me. I screamed, and then . . . and then I think I screamed again. And I said, ‘I’m going, Charlie, and I’m never coming back!’

It was he who locked me in my room as I packed. I know that.

And I remember panicking, throwing everything movable, anything throwable – pillows, cushions, ornaments, silver and china – at the door, and shouting for him; shouting for him – or anyone – to let me out.

Mess, mess, mess . . . Everything broken. Me broken.

I remember the tick-tock of minutes and the chime of each hour; and lying on the carpet surrounded by tiny white feathers and slivers of porcelain. I remember daylight fading, darkness descending; barely breathing.

And then the bottle of sleeping pills in my bedside cabinet.

Kiss me; kiss me now . . .

A few days later, my doctor called on me. He spoke to me about something called
neurasthenia
, and prescribed more pills. Of course, he didn’t know what I’d done, didn’t understand. He told me that these new pills would
help my nerves.
And they did. In the weeks and months that followed I glided through life, moving effortlessly through doorways and rooms, along flagstoned pavements in a dreamy mellow state, smiling. I sat in Hyde Park, lost in the cacophony of the city’s traffic: the sound of horns and whistles and motors, and the clippety-clap of hoofs. I watched open taxicabs and horse-drawn delivery wagons, men
with barrows and street sellers; the organ grinder, surrounded by hordes of children; the ubiquitous war veteran, balanced upon his crutch, a harmonica pressed to his mouth; and the ever-present military band, playing on in the distance. I watched people scurrying, people dawdling; courting couples and wind-swept picnics. I watched the world pass by, watched people for hours and hours.

At home, I quietly arranged flowers and stared at menus. I tried to read, attempted a few books, but couldn’t quite absorb the words or sentences on those pages. I preferred to look at the pictures inside magazines and newspapers, and imagine the stories that went with them. I dined alone most evenings, waited on by the servants; the table set for one, with the very best bone china and crystal. And Charlie didn’t bother me. In fact, I hardly saw him. On the few occasions I did, he rarely looked me in the eye, and preferred to speak of mundane matters. If he felt any remorse, he neither showed nor expressed it.

Davina called on me, and quite regularly, but I never told her anything. Luckily, there’d been only enough pills in the bottle for me to knock myself out for a few hours, no more, nothing more sinister. By the time she’d found me I was – to all intents and purposes – lying asleep on my bed. The debris in my room – the result of a huge argument with Charlie, I’d said. Yes, I’d been hysterical. And yes, yes, I’d packed; I’d planned on returning to my mother’s, for that night at least, I’d told her.

‘Men! They can be such beasts . . . and they’re all the same,’ she said, looking at me, holding on to my hand. ‘You know, I sometimes feel like running away too . . . but where could I go?’ She shrugged. ‘Where could either of us go? Other than back to our mothers,’ she added, rolling her eyes. ‘All marriages are hard work,
bloody
hard work, darling . . . all of them. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. But the sad truth of the matter is,’ she went on, ‘women like you and me . . . we’re not meant
to be . . . independent, on our own. We’d be no good, no good at all . . .’ She looked down into her lap. ‘Sometimes I think we’ve simply been bred to be sold on, to be
breeding machines
. . . to be owned.’ She looked up at me with a queer smile. ‘We’ll never be free.’