“How about being out on a freezing wet day, and coming home, chilled to the bone, and being able to wallow in an immensely hot, deep bath?”
“That’s a good one. Or spending a day at Silverstone, deafened by racing cars, and then, on the way home, stopping off at some vast, incredibly beautiful cathedral, and going in, and just listening to the silence.”
“How awful it would be to crave for sables and Rolls-Royces and huge, vulgar emeralds. Because I’m certain that, once you got them, they would become diminished, simply because they were yours. And you wouldn’t want them any more, and you wouldn’t know what to do with them.”
“Would it be the wrong sort of luxury to suggest that we have lunch here?”
“No, it would be a lovely one. I was wondering when you were going to suggest it. We can eat fried onions. My mouth’s been watering for the past half hour.”
* * *
But their evenings, perhaps, were the best of all. With the curtains drawn and the fire blazing, they listened to music, working their way through Helena Bradbury’s collection of records, and taking turns to get up and change the needle and wind the handle of the old wooden gramophone. Bathed and changed, they dined by the fireside, drawing up a low table, setting it with crystal and silver, eating whatever Mrs. Brick had left for them, and drinking the bottle of wine which Richard, acting on instructions, had fetched up from the cellar. Outside, the night wind, blowing offshore, nudged and rattled against the windows, but this only served to underline their own seclusion, their snugness and their undisturbed solitude.
One night, very late, they listened to the whole of the New World Symphony. Richard lay on the sofa, and Penelope sat on a pile of cushions on the floor, her head leaning against his thigh. The fire had collapsed to a pile of ashes, but as the last notes finally died away, they did not move, simply staying as they were, with Richard’s hand on her shoulder, and Penelope lost in dreams.
He stirred at last, and broke the spell.
“Penelope.”
“Yes.”
“We have to talk.”
She smiled. “We’ve done nothing else.”
“About the future.”
“What future?”
“Our future.”
“Oh, Richard…”
“No. Don’t look so worried. Just listen. Because it’s important. You see, one day, I want to be able to marry you. I find it impossible to contemplate a future without you, and this means, I think, that we should get married.”
“I already have a husband.”
“I know, my darling. I know only too well, but still, I have to ask you. Will you marry me?”
She turned, and took his hand, and laid it against her cheek. She said, “We mustn’t tempt Providence.”
“You don’t love Ambrose.”
“I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk about Ambrose. He doesn’t belong here. I don’t want even to say his name aloud.”
“I love you more than words can say.”
“I too, Richard. I love you. You know that. And I can think of nothing more perfect than to be your wife, and to know that nothing can ever separate us again. But not now. Don’t let’s talk about it now.”
For a long time he was silent. Then he sighed. “All right,” he said. He bent and kissed her. “Let’s go to bed.”
* * *
Their last day was bright and fair, and Richard, doing his duty and paying his rent, trundled the motor mower from the garage, and cut the grass. It took a long time, and Penelope helped by barrowing the grass cuttings to the compost heap at the back of the stable, and clipping all the edges with a pair of long-handled shears. They did not finish until four o’clock in the afternoon, but the sight of the sloping lawns, smooth as velvet and striped in two different shades of green, was worth all the effort and eminently satisfactory. When they had cleaned and oiled the mower and put it back in its place, Richard announced that he was parched and was about to make them both a cup of tea, so Penelope went back to the front of the house and sat in the middle of the newly mown lawn and waited for him to bring it to her.
The fresh-cut grass smelt delicious. She leaned back on her elbows and watched a pair of kittiwakes, come to perch on the end of the jetty, and marvelled at them, so small and pretty compared to the wild great herring-gulls of the north. Her hands moved over the grass, stroking it as one might stroke the fur of a cat. Her fingers came upon a dandelion which the mower had missed. She pulled at it, tugging the leaves and the shoot, trying to dislodge the root. But the root was stubborn, as dandelions always are, and broke, and she was left with only the plant and half the root in her hand. She looked at it, and smelt its bitter smell and the fresh smell of the damp earth adhering to and dirtying her hands.
A footstep on the terrace. “Richard?” He had come with their tea, two mugs on a tray. He lowered himself beside her. She said, “I have found a new luxury.”
“And what is that?”
“It’s sitting on a newly mown lawn, all by yourself and without the one you love. You’re alone but you know that you’re not going to be alone for very long, because he’s only gone for a little while, and in a moment or two he’s going to come back to you.” She smiled. “I think that’s the best one yet.”
Their last day. Tomorrow, early in the morning, they would be leaving; returning to Porthkerris. She closed her mind to the prospect, refusing to envisage it. Their last evening. They sat as usual, close to the fire, Richard on the sofa, and Penelope curled up on the floor beside him. They did not listen to music. Instead, he read aloud to her MacNeice’s Autumn Journal; not just the love poem, which he had quoted that far-off day in Papa’s studio, but the whole of the book, from beginning to end. It was very late when he came to the last words.
“Sleep to the noise of running water
Tomorrow will be crossed, however deep;
There is no river of the dead or Lethe
Tonight we sleep
On the banks of the Rubicon—the die is cast
There will be time to audit
The accounts later, there will be sunlight later
And the equation will come out at last.”
He slowly closed the book. She sighed, not wanting it to be finished. She said, “So little time. He knew the war was inevitable.”
“I think, by the autumn of nineteen-thirty-eight, most of us did.” The book slipped from his hand onto the floor. He said, “I am going away.”
The fire had died. She turned her head and looked up into Richard’s face and found it filled with sadness.
“Why do you look like that?”
“Because I feel I am betraying you.”
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know. I can’t say.”
“When?”
“As soon as we get back to Porthkerris.”
Her heart sank. “Tomorrow.”
“Or the next day.”
“Will you be coming back?”
“Not immediately.”
“Have they given you another job?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s going to take your place?”
“Nobody. The operation’s over. Finished. Tom Mellaby and his administrative staff will be staying on at the RMHQ to wind everything down, but the Commandos and the Rangers will be moving out in a couple of weeks. So Porthkerris will get back its North Pier, and as soon as the rugger pitch has been de-requisitioned, Doris’ boys will be able to play football again.”
“So it’s all over?”
“That part of it is, yes.”
“What happens next?”
“We’ll have to wait and see.”
“How long have you known about this?”
“Two, three weeks.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Two reasons. One is that it’s still secret, classified information, although it won’t be for very much longer. The other is that I didn’t want anything to spoil this littl
e time we’ve had together.”
She was filled with love for him. “Nothing could have spoiled it.” She said the words, and realized that they were true. “You shouldn’t have kept it to yourself. Not from me. You must never keep anything from me.”
“Leaving you will be the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”
She thought about his going and the emptiness beyond. Tried to imagine life without him and, dismally, failed. Only one thing was certain. “The worst will be saying goodbye.”
“Then don’t let’s say it.”
“I don’t want it to be over.”
“It’s not over, my darling girl.” He smiled. “It hasn’t even begun.”
* * *
“He has gone?”
She knitted. “Yes, Papa.”
“He never said goodbye.”
“But he came to see you; to bring you a bottle of whisky. He didn’t want to say goodbye.”
“Did he say goodbye to you?”
“No. He just walked away, down the garden. That was the way we planned it.”
“When will he be back?”
She came to the end of her row, changed needles, started another. “I don’t know.”
“Are you being secretive?”
“No.”
He fell silent. Sighed. “I shall miss him.” Across the room, his dark, wise eyes rested upon his daughter. “But not, I think, as much as you will.”
“I’m in love with him, Papa. We love each other.”
“I know that. I’ve known it for months.”
“We are lovers.”
“I know that too. I’ve watched you bloom, become radiant. A shine on your hair. I’ve longed to be able to hold a brush, to paint that radiance and capture it forever. Also,…” He became prosaic. “… You don’t go away for a week with a man and spend the time talking about the weather.” She smiled at him, but said nothing. “What will become of you both?”
“I don’t know.”
“And Ambrose?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know that either.”
“You have problems.”
“A marvellous understatement.”
“I am sorry for you. I am sorry for you both. You deserve a better fortune than to find each other in the middle of a war.”
“You … you like him, don’t you, Papa?”
“I never liked a man so well. I should like him as a son. I think of him as a son.”
Penelope, who never wept, all at once felt tears prick at the back of her eyes. But this was no time for sentiment. “You are a villain,” she told her father. “I’ve said so many times before.” The tears, mercifully, receded. “You shouldn’t be condoning this. You should be cracking your horsewhip and grinding your teeth, and daring Richard Lomax to darken your doorstep ever again.”
She was rewarded by a gleam of amusement. “You insult me,” he told her.
* * *
Richard was gone, the vanguard of a general exodus. By the middle of April, it was clear to the inhabitants of Porthkerris that the Royal Marine Training Scheme, their own small involvement in the war, was over. The American Rangers and the Commandos—as quietly and inconspicuously as they had come—departed, and the narrow streets of the town were empty and strangely quiet, no longer ringing with the tramp of booted feet, or the din of military vehicles. The landing craft disappeared from the harbour, towed away one night under cover of darkness; barbed-wire barriers were removed from the North Pier; and the Commando Headquarters were de-requisitioned and handed back to the Salvation Army. Up on the hill, the temporary Nissen huts of the American Base stood forlorn and empty, and from the deserted ranges out at Boscarben no longer came the sound of gun-fire.
Finally, all that remained as evidence of the long winter’s military activity was the Royal Marine Headquarters at the old White Caps Hotel. Here, the Globe and Laurel still snapped at the mast-head, the Jeeps stayed, parked in the forecourt, the sentry stood on duty by the gate, and Colonel Mellaby and his staff came and went. Their continued presence was a reminder, and gave credence, to everything that had taken place.
Richard was gone. Penelope learned to live without him, because there was no alternative. You couldn’t say “I can’t bear it” because if you didn’t bear it, the only other thing to do was to stop the world and get off, and there did not seem any practical way to do this. To fill the void and occupy her hands and mind, she did what women, under stress and in times of anxiety, have been doing for centuries: immersed herself in domesticity and family life. Physical activity proved a mundane but comforting therapy. She cleaned the house from attic to cellar, washed blankets, dug the garden. It did not stop her from wanting Richard, but at least, at the end of it, she had a shining, sweet-smelling house and two rows of freshly planted young cabbages.
As well, she spent much time with the children. Theirs was a simpler world, their conversation basic and uncomplicated, and she was comforted by their company. Nancy, at three, had become a little person; engaging, single-minded, and determined; her remarks and pointed observations a source of constant wonder and amusement. But Clark and Ronald were growing up, and their arguments and opinions she found astonishingly mature. She gave them her full attention, helped them with their shell collections, listened to their problems, and answered their questions. For the first time she saw them, not simply as a pair of noisy little boys, with two hungry mouths that had to be fed, but equals. People in their own right. The future generation.
* * *
One Saturday, she took the three children to the beach. Returning to Carn Cottage, she found General Watson-Grant there, on the point of departure. He had come to see Lawrence. They had had a pleasant chat. Doris had given them tea. He was now on his way home.
Penelope walked with him to the gate. He paused, to touch with his stick, and admire, a clump of hostas, thick with quilted leaves and tall white spiky flowers. “Handsome things,” he remarked. “Wonderful ground cover.”
“I love them, too. They’re so exotic.” They moved on, by the escallonia hedge, which was already bursting with dark-pink buds. “I can’t believe summer’s here. Today, when the children and I were on the beach, we saw the old man with a face like a turnip, raking all the flotsam from the sands. And there are tents going up already, and the ice-cream parlour has opened. I suppose, before long, the first of the visitors will be arriving. Like swallows.”
“Have you had news of your husband?”
“… Ambrose? He’s well, I think. I haven’t heard from him for some time.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“The Med.”
“He’ll miss this show, then.”
Penelope frowned. “Sorry?”
“I said, he’ll miss this show. Going into Europe. The invasion.”
She said faintly, “Yes.”
“Bloody bad luck on him. I tell you something, Penelope. I would give my right arm to be young again, and to be able to be in the thick of it. It’s taken a long time to get this far. Too long. But now the whole country’s ready and waiting to pounce.”
“Yes. I know. The war has suddenly become terribly important again. Walking down a street in Porthkerris, you can listen to an entire news bulletin, from one house to the next. And people buy newspapers, and read them, then and there, on the pavement outside the paper shop. It’s like it was at the time of Dunkirk, or the Battle of Britain, or El Alamein.”
They had reached the gate. Once more they stopped, the General leaning on his stick.
“Good to see your father. Came on an impulse. Felt like a bit of a chin-wag.”
“He needs company these days.” She smiled. “He misses Richard Lomax and his backgammon.”
“Yes. He told me.” Their eyes met. His regard was kindly, and she found time to wonder just how much Lawrence had thought fit to tell his old friend. “To be honest, I hadn’t realized young Lomax had gone. Have you heard from him?”
“Yes.”
“How’s he ge
tting on?”
“He didn’t really say.”
“That follows. I don’t suppose security’s ever been so tight.”
“I don’t even know where he is. The address he gave me is nothing but initials and numbers. And the telephone might never have been invented.”
“Oh, well. No doubt you’ll hear from him soon.” He opened the gate. “Now I must be on my way. Goodbye, my dear. Take care of your father.”
“Thank you for coming.”
“A pleasure.” Suddenly, he raised his hat and leaned forward to give her a peck on the cheek. She was left wordless, for he had never in his life done such a thing before. She watched him go, stepping out briskly with his walking-stick.
The whole country’s waiting. Waiting was the worst. Waiting for war; waiting for news; waiting for death. She shivered, closed the gate, and made her way slowly back up the garden.
* * *
Richard’s letter arrived two days later. The first downstairs in the early morning, Penelope saw it lying where the postman had left it, on the hall chest. She saw the black italic writing, the bulky envelope. She took it into the sitting room, curled up in Papa’s big chair, and opened it. There were four sheets of thin yellow paper, folded tight.
Somewhere in England
May 20th, 1944
My darling Penelope,
Over the past few weeks I have settled down a dozen times to write to you. On each occasion I have got no further than the first four lines, only to be interrupted by some telephone call, loud hailer, knock on the door, or urgent summons of one sort or another.
But at last has come a moment in this benighted place when I can be fairly certain of an hour of quiet. Your letters have all safely come, and are a source of joy. I carry them around like a lovesick schoolboy and read and reread them, time without number. If I cannot be with you, then I can listen to your voice.
Now, I have so much to say. In truth, it is difficult to know where to start, to remember what we spoke about and when we stayed silent. The unsaid is what this letter is about.
You never wanted to talk about Ambrose, and while we were at Tresillick, and inhabiting our own private world, there seemed little point. But, just lately, he has seldom been out of my mind, and it is clear that he is the only stumbling-block between us, and our eventual happiness. This sounds appallingly selfish, but one cannot take another man’s wife away from him and remain a saint. And so my mind, apparently of its own volition, plots ahead. To confrontation, admission, blame, lawyers, courts, and an eventual divorce.