Camomile Lawn

  ‘I said there’s no tea,’ said Helena, ‘no tea on this train. No.’

  ‘Oh. Shall I get you a cup at Plymouth? I get off there. There is usually a buffet, unless the station has been disrupted by a raid.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you, but I think not, no.’ The Wren went back to sleep. Helena planned ahead for her life in London. It was fortunate that Monika was terrified of raids and that Richard loathed London, only visiting it once a year to stay at his club for his regimental dinner, to meet his few remaining contemporaries. Now, with the war, there were no dinners for retired Majors, but opportunity for adultery for their wives. Helena considered the situation with wry amusement.

  She had recently met Hector in the street and he had taken her into the Ritz bar. As they sat in the bar he had pointed to the people around them. ‘Look at them all, not one with a wife or husband. All hell let loose. War makes people fearfully randy. It may not apply to you, or does it?’ He had appraised Helena, sharp-eyed under his eyebrows. She had blushed. ‘Well, good luck to you, old girl. Now I’m in the Army Calypso’s out every night. She says she goes round to Polly but that’s all my eye. She’s picked up a friend of Polly’s, that’s true, Tony Wood, entertaining fellow, and she meets Oliver there. He’s in love with her.’

  ‘They were children together.’

  ‘Ceci n’empêche cela! The poor chap’s crazy about her.’

  ‘She isn’t about him.’ Helena knew this in her bones.

  ‘Maybe. Then there’s Walter and those twins. Wouldn’t blame her there. What a handsome pair! If one had a brougham and they were horses—’

  ‘Those three are over Calypso.’

  ‘Really? Nice to know. But look at the choice she has. All the most enterprising Frogs, Dutch, Belgians, Poles, you name it. They’ll be around sniffing and God help us husbands when the Americans make up their minds. No, no, this is one hell of an opportunity for licence.’ Hector drained his glass and signalled to the barman, ‘Same again.’

  ‘No, thank you. You and I are not particularly licentious.’ Helena in her role as Max’s mistress heard herself making remarks she would never have made until recently.

  ‘No—though—well, what I mean is when I am overseas, as I shall be shortly, I’m not fool enough to imagine Calypso sitting at home, tatting.’

  ‘And what shall you do?’

  ‘I shall be propping up the bar with a popsy, as I’m doing now.’

  ‘Not with such innocence, I daresay.’ Helena’s martini had gone straight to her head.

  ‘You have your fiddler—’

  ‘How—’

  ‘News gets around, it gets around, good news and true.’

  Helena wondered why she had made no denial and decided that she was proud to be pointed out as Max’s mistress. It was the only thing that got her through the intolerably boring concerts. ‘Are you fond of music?’ she asked Hector.

  ‘Yes, but not night and day. I bet you feel the same.’ He had stood up to leave, settling his Sam Browne belt at his waist. They had exchanged a glance before parting which Helena was to remember. It said ‘Were it not for Calypso’ and ‘Were it not for Max’. Sitting in the train on her way back to her husband Helena gave a little laugh. The soldier opposite her sized her up, thinking her a bit touched. He was very young, as yet unaware of the extremes a woman of forty’s pent-up sexuality could lead to. Helena had tried to conceal her ignorance from Max, but he had noted and played on it, enjoying her pleasure as one would enjoy a volcanic eruption. Not being at a safe distance added spice to his practised palate.

  When at weary last the train drew in Helena roused herself, snatched nervously at her suitcase and stepped out on to the platform, half-consciously searching for her old self, her old preoccupations with Richard, her household, her garden, her friends in the neighbourhood. Ahead of her she caught sight of Sophy, a semi-familiar figure walking lopsided because of her suitcase, grown since she had last seen her almost into that stage which is now called teenage but which Helena termed awkward. She felt a spasm of anger as a young man in R.A.F. uniform overtook Sophy and took her heavy case, smiling down as Sophy looked up with laughing profile. Then she saw Sophy wave an arm and break into a run to greet Monika, holding the dachshund on a lead. Sophy and Monika embraced, the dog leapt up barking, the young man carried the case to the car, saluted and went on his way. ‘My car, what’s she doing with my car?’ Helena knew she was being unreasonable as she watched Monika question Sophy and Sophy shake a negative. Monika looked worried, got into the car and Sophy, holding the wriggling dog, followed. Monika started the engine. Helena called out loudly: ‘Hey! Monika!’

  Monika looked relieved and jumped out of the car, leaving the engine running. ‘Sophy said you were not on the train. What a relief you are here.’ Sophy looked secretive.

  ‘I joined it at Exeter. I didn’t see you.’ Helena accepted Sophy’s help with her suitcase.

  ‘Nor I you,’ Sophy lied.

  ‘Poor Richard will be so glad,’ Monika said gently. ‘Perhaps you should drive, yes?’

  ‘No, you drive, I expect you can manage.’ Helena was ungracious, angry with herself. ‘And how is he? Much better?’

  ‘Not better, oh Helena he is not better.’

  Helena sighed a sigh of exasperation. ‘We’d better be getting along. Can’t you keep that animal still, child,’ although the animal sat perfectly still in Sophy’s arms. Helena met its beady eyes and glanced away from Sophy’s black ones. Sophy smiled.

  ‘You must be so worried.’ Monika headed the car out of the town.

  ‘Of course I am. Max sent his love,’ she added cruelly.

  ‘He has so much.’ Monika, used to this kind of attack, rather enjoyed it. ‘How was the concert?’

  ‘Splendid. How lovely the sea smells.’ Her pre-war self was roused. She consciously tried to get back to Helena, the aunt by marriage of Richard’s nephews and nieces, churchgoer, member of the Women’s Institute.

  ‘That is where the bomp fell.’ Monika slowed the car as they drove through the town. ‘Poor Richard unt der General were very upset but no people hurt at all.’

  ‘All that lovely wine! I’d asked them to keep it for me. We will win this war, but think what the Germans will have drunk meanwhile. Any news of your son?’

  ‘No.’ Monika increased speed. ‘None,’ choking back her anguish.

  ‘Can I get out before we get to the house? I’ll give Duck a run.’ Monika stopped to let Sophy and the dog out. ‘She loves that dog and so does Richard. You are a good woman, Helena.’

  ‘Oh no I am not. No.’

  ‘Come, Duck, run.’ Sophy raced up the hill with the delighted dog, arriving abruptly on the camomile lawn. She ran round it, brushing the turf with her feet. It was the wrong time of year and the scent was faint. She stopped running and looked at the sea, rough and grey, sea horses turning into rollers to crash against the cliffs. She looked along the path, blocked by barbed wire, to the coastguard station once so bravely white, now camouflaged dirty green and brown. ‘It’s all gone,’ she cried miserably to the dog, who whimpered, feeling the wind sharp and cruel on his thin coat.

  Helena went upstairs, leaving Monika to manage the luggage. Richard lay passive, propped on pillows.

  ‘Poor fellow. How d’you feel?’ Helena bent to kiss his forehead. ‘You’ve got a temperature. What’s the doctor doing about it?’

  ‘Given me M and B.’ Richard’s voice was weak.

  ‘Hope it works. Who changed the room round?’ Helena looked disapprovingly at a change in the order of furniture.

  ‘Monika. Easier to nurse me. She is very good.’

  ‘She called me good just now.’ Helena laughed and Richard smiled a conniving smile. ‘You’ll be all right.’ Helena’s voice was confident.

  ‘Now you are here.’

  Helena felt a pang of guilt. ‘Sophy was on the train. We didn’t see each other until we arrived. Polly posted her off from Paddington. I was in Liverpoo
l with Max when I heard you were ill.’

  ‘No need for you to bother.’

  ‘Probably not. All the same, it wouldn’t look well if I didn’t come.’

  ‘What would the neighbours say? I ask you.’

  ‘Are you joking?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Richard’s voice was hoarse. ‘Must think of the General and Monika. Not that she cares.’ His voice dropped to a mutter. ‘She’s used to it. Used to it! I ask you.’ He began to cough.

  ‘Shall you get used to it?’

  Richard nodded. He looked feeble and unattractive. Helena looked round the room for his leg and, not seeing it, caught his eye.

  ‘She put it next door.’

  ‘Oh.’ Helena experienced a rush of friendship for Richard, smiled at him warmly, then sat beside him holding his hand. She felt they had briefly exchanged the truth and grown closer. The dachshund scratched at the door.

  ‘There’s your dog. He loves you.’

  ‘Yes.’ Richard watched his wife walk across the room to let the dog in. Her walk was different.

  ‘I can’t bully you any more,’ he said, coughing.

  ‘You never really succeeded.’ Helena watched the dog jump on to the bed and settle its head close to Richard’s, looking at her down its long nose.

  ‘She’s moved the kitchen furniture and you are to sleep in the spare room.’

  ‘Oh.’ Helena was surprised into annoyance. ‘Why?’

  ‘You might catch my flu.’

  ‘And if I did?’

  ‘You’d stay longer.’ He laughed, then coughed, getting very red in the face.

  ‘So that’s how it is.’ Helena watched him cough, trying to speak between spasms. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘A straight swap,’ he gasped.

  ‘But it isn’t, is it?’ she queried.

  ‘No.’ He held the dog’s absurd nose loosely in his hand, its wet black tip showing between thumb and forefinger, its eyes peering across his veined fist. ‘But it’s all right.’

  Helena was furious, insulted. He was her husband, he should mind.

  ‘You’ve got bronchial pneumonia,’ she said, wondering whether he would die, whether if he did she would mind.

  ‘Not dying, though.’ The bout of coughing stopped. He lay back.

  ‘Uncle Richard?’ Sophy came in, hurried up to the bed and kissed him, then stood back holding his hand, looking down at him.

  Richard’s eyes lit up. ‘Sophy.’

  ‘Am I glad to see you!’ the child exclaimed. Helena was surprised. Sophy had never shown Richard affection.

  ‘Thanks for your letters,’ she said. ‘They make school bearable.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, holding her hand. ‘Good.’

  He loves her, Helena told herself, loves her. Sophy sensed something and, turning to Helena, said: ‘He writes to me about the garden and the birds and what’s happening in the village and what the General thinks and the Rector and all that, so that I know it’s all here, that I’m not just homesick for an idea. I always end my letters, “Love to the camomile lawn”.’ She paused and looked at Helena. ‘You planted it, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Helena remembering. ‘They all said it wouldn’t grow.’

  ‘But it does.’ Sophy felt warmth for her aunt, for a brief moment they liked each other.

  ‘You’ve grown.’ Richard held on to Sophy’s hand. ‘One day—’ he began to cough again, a hard, racking cough. ‘Bugger this cough, got pneumonia too, doctor says “Being gassed didn’t help”. The Huns didn’t do it to help us. I ask you! Did it to kill us. Sloppy use of the English language.’

  ‘Time you stopped talking.’ Monika sailed into the sick room carrying an inhaler. ‘Swallow your pills and then you inhale, yes?’

  ‘Whatever you say, my dear.’

  His dear! Helena raised her eyebrows.

  ‘He has talked too much.’ Monika dismissed Helena gently, Sophy too.

  Helena followed Sophy downstairs. ‘He doesn’t write to me,’ she said.

  ‘You don’t need letters. You’ve got so much. Oh, how wizard!’ Sophy admired the new arrangement of the kitchen. ‘Uncle Richard said I’d like it. You like it, don’t you?’ She turned to Helena.

  ‘Yes.’ Helena looked at the transformed kitchen. ‘I admit I do.’

  ‘Much cosier than in Cook’s day, quite Viennese, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’s enjoying the factory.’

  ‘Who? What factory?’

  ‘Cook.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘We write. She’s engaged to the foreman, he’s called Terence and is a widower.’

  ‘You do keep in touch.’

  ‘I must. Otherwise I—’

  ‘What?’ Helena stopped staring at the unrecognizable kitchen and looked at Richard’s niece.

  ‘Nothing.’ Sophy patted a cushion which had appeared from another part of the house to soften an upright chair. ‘Otherwise I should get lost,’ she said to herself, ‘disappear.’

  Nineteen

  ‘I SHALL HAVE TO stop to let Jumbo out.’

  ‘You can’t stop on the motorway, Ma.’ Iris and James spoke together, knowing best.

  ‘I wasn’t born yesterday. I can turn off at the next junction.’

  ‘Junction 17 is two miles on,’ James and Iris chorused.

  Children! thought Polly. ‘Travelling in the war was quite different,’ she said. ‘There was no petrol except for short runs and the trains were full to bursting. People like Calypso managed to get sleepers. She used to press ten bob into the attendant’s hand, look him in the eye and say, “I am the Member of Parliament for Hogmanay” or whatever Hector’s constituency was. It worked even when she went to Penzance.’

  ‘He was an M.P. wasn’t he—Conservative?’

  ‘Yes.’ Polly turned off the motorway. ‘All right, Jumbo, I’ll let you out in a moment. When he went off to war some other member looked after his constituency. He came back to vote Labour and chuck politics.’ She stopped the car, let Jumbo out on to the grass verge. ‘Don’t take all day,’ she said to the dog. ‘Hector had more constituents in the Highland regiments than anywhere else.’

  ‘Charging across the desert with bagpipes?’ Iris watched the dog defecating. ‘He did want to be let out.’

  Polly whistled. The dog, who had not finished, ignored her.

  ‘I can’t somehow see Calypso in the Highlands.’ James snapped his fingers at the dog, now scratching the grass, sending little clods of turf high.

  ‘She went once on their honeymoon and once just before Hector went overseas. Catherine came from his place, Hamish’s now, of course. Catherine had him up there when he was an infant and later for his holidays. Calypso found it dreary and isolated.’

  ‘Not her style.’ Iris pulled the dog into the car. It jumped on to the front seat beside Polly.

  ‘Not her style at all.’ Polly drove back on to the motorway. ‘Of course Hamish—’

  ‘Hamish behaves as though he had no drop of English blood,’ Iris agreed, ‘totally Highland.’

  ‘And yet he is Calypso’s child.’

  ‘If anyone had told me this would be enjoyable I would have told them to get their head examined.’ Calypso, held tight in Hector’s arms, rocked with the train. Hector held her, pressing his feet against the foot of the bunk.

  ‘I rather like the rhythm,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘It says, “Fuck fuck-fucker fuck fuck fuck-fucker fuck.”’

  He turned his head to find her mouth. ‘Improper words.’

  ‘Not for a wife.’

  ‘Another go?’

  ‘Another go. Don’t fall out of the bunk.’

  ‘I’ll try not to.’

  ‘What time do we get to Euston?’

  ‘Just shut up for a while.’

  When she slept he held her in his arms. The train roared south through the night. The engine shrieked eerily.

  ‘Are we nearly there?’ she said sleepily.


  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘We are too big for this bunk.’

  ‘Do you want me to move to mine?’

  ‘Not if you can bear the discomfort.’

  If I tell her how happy I am she will laugh, he thought, gritting his teeth against the agonies of cramp.

  ‘Oh, I must stretch, you are squashing me.’ She was suddenly fully awake, pushing him on to the floor. ‘D’you think there’s any whisky left in that bottle?’ She pulled a jersey on and sat up.

  He had stood up, swaying with the train, to reach up, find the whisky, pour her a drink.

  ‘D’you think the puppy is all right?’ Calypso fumbled under the bunk to peer into a basket where crouched a small brindled cairn with a black face. It wagged its tail. ‘Yes, he’s all right.’ She closed the basket. ‘He’s a lovely present.’ She took the whisky from Hector, who watched her sitting swinging her long bare legs, wearing her jersey. Hector poured himself a drink and sat beside her, putting his free hand to cover her warm stomach, feel her hair.

  ‘I shall call him “Highland Fling” but “Hamish” for short.’ She tossed back the whisky. ‘It’s a family name, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not for a dog,’ he shouted at her in sudden rage.

  ‘I didn’t mean the dog.’ He could not read her expression. ‘You are on embarkation leave, aren’t you?’

  ‘Darling—’ he stared back at her.

  ‘Yes. With any luck. It’ll keep me busy. Oh, Hector, do I see a tear?’

  ‘I can’t help it—I love you.’

  ‘Is it so painful?’ Her wry smile made him laugh.

  ‘Agony,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Glad I don’t.’

  ‘Calypso had a dog in the war.’ Polly increased speed.

  ‘I thought she didn’t like animals,’ said James, who did.

  ‘She liked that dog, horrid little thing. It bit and was never properly house-trained. Hector gave it to her. It slept on her bed.’