So Much Life Left Over

  ‘You should write and suggest it to the Prime Minister, Cookie.’

  ‘Well, madam, I think I will.’

  Rosie was at her father’s graveside at St John’s, after matins, when a passer-by waved to her cheerily, and said, ‘It’s war. I don’t know if you heard.’

  She went back into the church and knelt in the front row of the pews, but the prayers never came. She wondered how long the war would last, because Bertie might become eligible for it if it went on too long.

  Bertie was upstairs at The Grampians wondering what else he could cram into his school trunk, and whether he could get away with taking some tins of pineapple from the larder.

  Esther was brushing her hair and making faces at herself in the mirror, hoping that it was lamb for Sunday lunch. She suddenly remembered the ultimatum and went downstairs to the kitchen, where Cookie and her grandmother were sitting together at the table with one of the family cats between them. She saw their numbed expressions, and said, ‘It’s war then, is it?’ She went out into the garden and realised that she urgently needed to see her father. He would know what to do.

  Daniel Pitt missed the broadcast because he was out on his Brough, taking a joyride to Box Hill on the way to his mother; but when he stopped in a roadside cafe outside Reigate he caught the painfully halting and monotonous broadcast of the King. Nobody in the cafe spoke for the whole address, and then somebody said, ‘Good old George.’

  Daniel went outside. He had been expecting this for months, especially since the partial mobilisation at the time of Hitler’s annexation of the Sudetenland. He was fortunate to have such a record from the previous war, and had been pulling strings for months. Now he was merely waiting for a telegram. The RAF would definitely want him, whether up in the air or not. Whatever happened he was determined to get back up in the air. He was thinking of the Air Transport Auxiliary. He’d be flying every kind of plane there was, and the thought of that was a little intoxicating.

  Out in India Ottilie wondered if she could refresh her nursing skills and go back into hospitals, or whether she would be more usefully employed continuing to run her own little clinic for the poorer coolies, just when she was making progress in persuading them to accept inoculation. In any case there were the three children to think of. Frederick wrote to the War Ministry of the Indian government stating that he was a former naval officer, and asking how he might be useful.

  Near Berwick, Young Edward, no longer as young as he was, wondered what he would do when the golf course was made into a training ground. They had already built a pillbox on it and an anti-aircraft emplacement that as yet had no gun. There was even talk of turning the par fives into airstrips. Life had suddenly become too serious for golf, and his rigid leg and damaged hip made any military career seem improbable. All the same, he was going to volunteer for the LDV, even if they were presently only drilling with broomsticks. It occurred to him that if the course became an airfield he could give lessons to the young officers.

  At the family house in Edenderry, Mary went to the window and looked out at the familiar rain. She calculated that Daniel was too old to fight now, but knew that he still would. She wondered if Ireland would be dragged into the war, and thought, ‘Only if Britain is defeated. Or the Germans start sinking our ships.’ She was sure that the Irish would enjoy the Schadenfreude of watching from a safe distance as British soldiers fell. The sadness of this thought made her regret all over again being neither one thing nor the other.

  In Ceylon, when the news of war arrived in the hills of paradise a day later, Samadara stroked the head of her oldest son and remembered the man of whom he reminded her so much. She smiled sadly and wondered if the war would bring him back, and what it would be like if it did, and whether she would even know, and if he were even still alive.

  42

  After All These Years

  Esther met her father at the Ritz. It was her plan to spend her last five-pound note. A good cream tea at the Ritz seemed like an excellent way to arrive at utter destitution until the end of the month, which was not too far away.

  They were shown in by a footman in immaculate uniform, who, despite his impeccable respect, made it quite clear by his manner that no one short of the King himself might be considered an equal.

  ‘Daddy,’ said Esther, once they were settled and spreading jam on their scones, ‘I really think you should come and talk to Mummy.’

  He was startled. ‘What on earth for, Shompi? So we can shout at each other?’

  ‘I just think that you should.’

  ‘But why?’

  She paused and then said, ‘I want you to.’

  ‘Is that a good enough reason? You’re not hoping we’ll be reunited, are you?’

  ‘Of course I’d like you to be reunited, but I know how you feel about it. I know how she feels about it.’

  ‘She thinks I’m an irresponsible God-hating wastrel addicted to disgusting sensual pleasures.’

  ‘And what do you think of her?’

  ‘Well, I can’t stand her piety for one thing, and I can’t forgive her for marrying me when she was still in love with a dead man, and I can’t forgive her for refusing to leave home and make a life with me. And abandoning me at Southampton. And I will never understand why she thinks her dead child was a punishment and not just bad luck, and I will never understand why she insisted on living with her mother. I found it all intolerable, and that’s putting it mildly.’

  ‘Gran’s not very well,’ said Esther.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Ever more senile. Mummy couldn’t leave her now even if she wanted to. She thinks I’m Princess Elizabeth.’

  ‘What fun.’

  ‘It is quite. I don’t try to put her right. It’s not worth the trouble. And she does have periods of complete clarity. And the most terrible snobbery.’

  ‘And is your mother better now?’

  ‘They removed it.’

  ‘I know, you told me when you wrote. There’s no sign of it returning?’

  ‘It can take ages.’

  ‘Fingers crossed then.’

  ‘It must be absolutely horrible…having one of them cut off like that. I can hardly imagine it.’

  ‘Luckily your mother never had any vanity about her body. She was always covered up. In all circumstances. Like the wife of Montaigne.’

  ‘Daddy, I don’t really want to know about those kinds of things.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that you and I have something special, don’t we? All that heartbreaking separation; I missed so much of your childhood, but you never forgot me and I never gave up hope.’

  She leaned across the table and patted his hand. ‘I missed bags and bags of fun not having you. And I still remember all the characters in the stories you used to tell us at night. Like Boris Clapperbang.’

  ‘Who stole iron manhole covers so that people would fall into sewers? And what about Mr Cratchett, and Snuffles the dog, and Mrs Poorpong? And the giant mole who objected to light bulbs? And Cyril Nutsack who stole people’s lawns? And Knickerless Knickernicker?’

  ‘Who stole knickers from washing lines? And what about that story about pushing us on a swing so hard that we flew to the moon…?’

  ‘Where the souls of all the dead cats go when they die? And Gran’mère is there, having a picnic, and you then have to find the lunar trampoline in order to fly home again.’

  An idea occurred to him. ‘We’ve got a dance next month. Not in the mess. It’s been bombed. But it will be somewhere nearby. Do come. I’ll pretend you’re my little doxy.’

  ‘I’d have to come all the way from Scarborough! Much as I love you, it’s a bit far. And we’re obviously going to be posted somewhere soon. I don’t know where. Wouldn’t you rather take one of your poor gullible little floozies?’

  ‘The Wrens get sent to Gibraltar and
Malta, don’t they? And as for floozies, I’m afraid the Yanks have got all the best ones. It’s the nylons and steaks and the big dollar pay packets. The rest of us have to make do with three-legged squinters and bearded ladies and oddities from freak shows. God knows what the other ranks make use of. They probably take the bungs out of barrels.’

  ‘Daddy! Did you hear the one about why picking nuts is like a pair of nylons?’

  ‘No. Why is picking nuts like a pair of nylons?’

  ‘One Yank and they’re off!’

  There was a moment of silence between them, and then Daniel said, ‘Shompi, you know I was driven out, don’t you? You know I never would have deserted you of my own free will. I adored you. I always did and always will. Losing you was the greatest sorrow of my life. As it is I have lost your brother permanently, because of never having had him in the first place. He doesn’t even remember me from when we were a proper family. Bertie once said something terribly intriguing when he was tiny. He said, “I can feel the earth moving. It’s moving very slowly.” I can’t remember anything else he ever said because I wasn’t there to hear him say it.’

  She looked up at him and saw that his eyes were dark with pain. She felt the same thing happening to her and she reached into her bag for a lacy handkerchief. She sniffled into it and said, ‘Daddy, you never lost me. You know you didn’t. And I’ve been working on Bertie for years. He knows I’m right, but he loves Mummy too much to admit it.’

  ‘I didn’t see you for six months once. Every time I arranged to see you I got a message at the last minute saying that something had come up, and I couldn’t. I can’t tell you how desperate I got. And angry. The rage was unbearable. I went for ten-mile walks in the rain just to tire the fury out of me so that I could sleep. At times I felt like committing murder, and at other times I just wanted to kill myself.’

  ‘I know, Daddy. And now Mummy has to live with knowing that she didn’t do the right thing. She isn’t happy. I don’t think she ever will be. She knows that Bertie and I could have been happier. She knows that you’re lots of fun, and we didn’t have enough time with you. You’re happy now, aren’t you? You won out, really, didn’t you?’

  ‘I’m happy,’ he replied, ‘but I have holes that I can’t fill. One is shaped like you, and the other is shaped like Bertie. I’ve got the kind of happiness that comes after you’ve been through so much that you can’t feel it any more and are forced to rise above it. And I enjoy being at war. It gives me something to concentrate on that really feels important. They’ve given me a Hurricane to get around in, but I’m not allowed to initiate combat. It’s not a very good one, unfortunately.’

  ‘Well, I’m having a fine time in the Wrens. Join the Wrens! Free a man for the Fleet! Just think, I’m a third officer now, and all the lower ranks have to salute me! Great hairy sailors, saluting me! And I’m a fully qualified radio telegraphist!’

  ‘Good for you, Shompi. I’m so proud of you. If you’re lucky you’ll get sent back to Ceylon. Trincomalee. You’d love it.’

  ‘The sailors call us Jennies.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Jenny wrens, of course!’

  ‘Oh. Silly of me. It’s obvious, isn’t it?’

  ‘Bertie’s working on the fire watch because he’s too young to do anything else.’

  ‘Really? I must write to say that I am proud of him. Do you think that would help?’

  ‘I don’t know. It might. You know he helped to put out the fire on the roof of Eltham Palace?’

  ‘Did he, by God?’

  ‘He did. He was the only one with the guts to go up on the roof. And one day he was left to guard an unexploded bomb in the middle of a crater on Court Road. He thought nothing of it. Do you know Steven Courtauld?’

  ‘Well, not personally, but I know of him of course.’

  ‘Bertie says he’s a terrible funker. He’s supposed to be in charge of the fire watch, and every time something happens he’s nowhere to be found.’

  ‘The only thing I know about him is that he had a pet lemur that had its own fireman’s pole for getting downstairs.’

  They laughed, and then she said, ‘Come home and say hello to Mummy. You can say you were worried about how she is after the operation.’

  ‘I was worried. I am. And in fact there is something I have to talk to her about. I’ve been steeling myself, but somehow I’d rather face a horde of Huns than bring it up yet again.’

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, and when he told her, her face fell.

  ‘You’re still hoping then?’ he said.

  * * *

  —

  Rosie was both astonished and vexed when she found herself face-to-face with her husband in the hall of the house. She had come out of the drawing room upon hearing the turn of Esther’s key in the lock and was eager to see her. She was feeling very weak, and even small separations were difficult these days. The bombers only came over at night, but you still worried about anyone who was even a fraction later than you expected.

  Daniel made as if to kiss her, and she hesitated before offering her cheek to him. He was half French, after all. The French even kissed people they didn’t like or hardly knew. She looked at him and her heart lurched when she saw that he had barely changed in twenty years. He was grey, and his hair was thin, but he was still slim and handsome, with an athletic air and the same glint in his eye. She felt an immediate association with Ash, and her sense of loss doubled.

  ‘You’re looking very well,’ said Daniel, ‘you’ve hardly changed at all.’ They both knew he was lying. She was greying and her skin had sagged. Her body had lost much of its shape, and she was dressed without any sense of style; practical shoes, darned stockings, a plain frock, and her hair pinned up in a practical bun. He had kept his youth, but she had lost hers.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ she said, adding, ‘Bertie’s out.’

  ‘I asked him here. It was my idea,’ said Esther. ‘And he wants to talk to you about something.’

  ‘Come into the drawing room,’ said Rosie. ‘I’ll make tea. I expect you know, Cookie’s become a little old and helpless. I do almost everything now. It’s funny when you think back. The house used to be swarming with servants…when I was a girl.’

  Daniel looked around. It was a strange feeling to be back in this house that had once been so familiar, that had intermittently been his home for years. He saw that the beautifully delicate and elaborate cornices were as fresh and white as they had ever been, and the family portraits on the walls still gazed down with the same knowing, impassive inscrutability. The huge Bible still stood on its lectern in the morning room. The difference was that the carpets were worn out and nothing sparkled any more.

  Daniel and Esther went into the drawing room, to be confronted by a virago. Mrs McCosh was ensconced in a high-backed armchair with one quivering hand resting on the ball of her cane, got up in the same black dress she had worn almost every day since the death of her husband. Her white hair was piled up on her head, topped off with a small white mob cap, and she wore a white lace ruff about her neck.

  Upon looking up and seeing Daniel, she sprang to her feet and pointed her cane at him. ‘You!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘How nice to see you again,’ said Daniel, approaching as if to kiss her on the cheek. She poked him in the stomach with the silver tip of her cane and cried, ‘Scoundrel! Ne’er-do-well! Traitor!’

  ‘Oh Lord,’ said Daniel, backing off.

  ‘Gran, what’s the matter now?’ asked Esther, taking the old lady’s arm and trying to encourage her back into her chair.

  ‘I’m not going to call him “Your Grace”,’ explained Mrs McCosh. ‘He is a dis-Grace. I will never bring myself to call him “Your Grace”.’

  ‘But who, Gran? Who are you talking about?’

  She waved the tip of her cane at Daniel. ‘Running off
with that American slut! How dare he come here and show his face? Letting us down like that! Traitor!’

  ‘Oh my, she thinks you’re the Duke of Windsor,’ said Esther.

  ‘Explain yourself!’ demanded Mrs McCosh.

  ‘I can only apologise,’ said Daniel, glancing sideways at Esther. ‘Sometimes one is led astray by love.’

  ‘Love! Love! It was lust! Pure greedy, naked, lubricious, salacious, lascivious lust! They say she has certain skills. Do you think I’m to be taken in by talk of love?’

  ‘It was indeed lust, madam,’ said Daniel. ‘I do most heartily apologise. When it wears off I shall have to endure a lifetime of regret.’ Esther put her hand to her mouth and giggled.

  Rosie entered pushing a trolley sparsely laden with a teapot and a few biscuits. Daniel looked at it and remembered the sumptuous teas they used to have in the old days, before rationing had made it easier to avoid the appearance of poverty.

  ‘We can’t have tea in here, Mummy,’ said Esther; ‘Gran’s peeved. She thinks Daddy’s the Duke of Windsor.’

  ‘Oh dear, we’ll go in the morning room then.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mrs McCosh,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Be off with you,’ said Mrs McCosh. ‘And thank God we got a better king in your brother.’ She turned, arranged her skirts and sat down, gazing resolutely at the fireplace, in which no fire was burning.

  In the morning room they made polite and strained conversation about the various relatives that one or other of them had not seen for years. She learned that Daniel was back in the RAF, and that Mr Wragge had gone back to Norwich.

  ‘It’s horrible to see all the bomb damage, isn’t it? It’s far worse than last time,’ said Daniel eventually. ‘I do hope you have a decent shelter.’

  ‘At the bottom of the garden,’ said Rosie. ‘Just an Anderson. But it’s quite impossible to get Mother to go down there. She thinks it’s a mine and she thinks it’s beneath her to have to consort with miners. She kicks up a fuss and runs back to the house. We have to sweat it out in the shelter while she stands in the garden with her air rifle and shoots at the aeroplanes. Still, I don’t think we’re important enough to bomb, really.’