Camomile Lawn

  Max had taken her to a rehearsal of Yehudi Menuhin. She had sat listening to the talk, watching Menuhin and other musicians, and then the unearthly sounds of Menuhin’s violin drew her up to a new plane of existence. She was aware that Max had left the hall to talk to a stranger. Coming back he sat beside her, held her hand until the music stopped, then said, ‘We must go’, and led her out. He had not said goodbye to any of the people. He had said, pushing her into a taxi, ‘Stay with me, try not to talk.’ On the way to Enderby Street he had held her against him, sitting taut, just holding her until they arrived, fumbling for money, paying the taxi, not speaking, pushing her ahead of him into Helena’s house. He had told her in the drawing room or Helena’s bedroom that in the concert hall the man who had access to information, no one knew exactly how, told him that Pauli had died in the concentration camp. ‘I have lost my son. What can I say to Monika? Why did we not stay? Why did we run away?’ He had rocked her in his arms, holding her against his bony body. She had responded, holding his head against her breast, consoling him with all the emotion set in train by Menuhin, and then Sophy delved back into that traumatic afternoon in Helena’s bed, to the tender love-making of a deeply sorrowful man. She had lain beside him as he slept, glad of what he had done. He had woken, kissed her. ‘Did I hurt you, child?’

  ‘Very little,’ she had said honestly.

  ‘I am glad you were there,’ he said, consoling her.

  ‘I am glad, too,’ she had answered, comforting him.

  Sophy, remembering the comfort of Helena’s bed, the hardness of Max’s ribs, was glad that she had been there while he endured the agony of his loss—not unexpected, no deaths were unexpected. Later they shared the bath, using Helena’s bath essence, wrapping themselves in her enormous white towels with ‘H’ stitched on the corners in red. They dressed and walked from Enderby Street to Calypso’s house. Max had held her hand all the way. On the cliff-top Sophy smiled, for now he was dead she was the only one left who knew that they had been lovers. She had happened to be there at the right moment for him to reach for.

  In the dusk they had stopped to stare at a bombsite, each noticing, neither commenting on the weeds growing in the cracks of what had once been a house. They had reached Calypso’s house as it grew dark, letting themselves in. Fling had rushed to greet them and Calypso had called from upstairs, ‘Is that you?’

  She was sitting in the middle of the sofa, heavily pregnant, legs apart, holding the telegram. Sophy remembered Calypso’s eyes and she remembered Max’s face as he read the telegram held out to him.

  ‘What joy,’ he had said, kissing Calypso, who put her arms round him, laying her face against his. His eyes catching Sophy’s had signalled ‘No’, and neither of them had breathed a word about Pauli.

  Max had said: ‘Bubbly, nicht?’ being very keen on using what he called ‘English argot’. They had trooped to the basement to raid Hector’s precious cellar and Calypso had telephoned Aunt Sarah, her parents, Helena and Richard. Polly had come round with Brian Portmadoc, Tony Wood and a Frenchman who knew Hector. There had been quite a party. Probably, Sophy thought, it was the best thing for Max, who did not break the news until weeks later to Monika, waiting until she was quite well, no longer likely to throw herself over the cliff, as she had tried during the guinea pig scandal. It must have been about here, Sophy thought, peering over. There was the ledge she had fallen on. If it had been anyone other than Monika one would think she had known she couldn’t fall far. As she peered over, aware of the sea, the wind, the crying gulls, measuring the drop to the ledge, one of the many impertinent cliff foxes poor Ducks used to chase zigzagged along the slope. Sophy felt a rush of tears for the dog, for Max to be buried tomorrow, for her virginity given him so carelessly. Lucky, she thought, that she didn’t conceive a replacement for Pauli, and she remembered what she had long forgotten, Calypso’s glance exchanged with Max, the way they had smiled complicitly, then Calypso’s change of tone.

  ‘Perhaps he’ll stay long enough in prison to get the news that I am pregnant.’

  ‘You make him sound like a shop,’ Polly had said with implied reproach.

  ‘He is very distant,’ Calypso had answered. ‘Hard to imagine when he isn’t here.’

  Sophy climbed the last bit of cliff, arriving breathless on the camomile lawn. She looked at the house, quiet now, its rooms empty, the windows sightless. The Ilex tree stood as it always had, protecting the eastern side; the branch she had climbed along as a child darkened the drawing room. Here Helena had sat in her deck chair, here Oliver, Walter, Polly, the twins and Calypso had lolled chatting on the summer evenings of their youth. Here she had stood whistling and calling Ducks when he had gone hunting the cliff foxes when Uncle Richard lay ill with pneumonia. He had fretted for his dog. She had spent hours whistling and calling, her voice mingling with the gulls. On the third evening the dog had appeared, paws sore with digging, coat ingrained with earth, eyes bunged up with sand, so tired he crawled to Sophy’s feet and lay feebly wagging. She had carried the dog into the house, given it water, tempted it with food and carried it up to Uncle Richard, who gasped for breath against his pillows. Coughing, he had said, ‘Give him to me, put him here.’ The dog had lain in the crook of his arm, his long nose on the sleeve of Richard’s striped pyjamas, his eyes closed in exhaustion and Richard had slept for the first time for days. Monika had sat up with him, sending her to bed, anxious for Richard who was iller this time than ever before, not responding to the M and B pills prescribed by the doctor.

  Mildred Floyer had come to sit with Richard. Sophy had listened to the two women discussing penicillin, which could save Richard but was only issued to the forces. Unable to sleep, she came down to the kitchen to join them drinking cocoa.

  ‘He was so anxious for the dog, he will get better now he is found.’

  ‘One hopes,’ Monika had said. Monika, who no longer had hope for Pauli, no longer flushed at the mention of guinea pigs. Monika, who had in her sorrow strength to lavish on Richard, who loved her, had said, ‘He may try to get better now, perhaps he will try for the dog’s sake.’ She had asked to be allowed to sit with Richard and they had agreed. Mildred left to get a little rest, her face etched with anxiety for the twins in Italy now, for the war had taken its turn for the better and the German armies were moving back, albeit slowly.

  Standing on the lawn Sophy remembered Richard and sitting by the bed listening to his breathing, his snorts and snuffles. Repelled by the sickroom smell she sat bolt upright, unable to relax, watching Richard’s grey face, his mouth slackly open, his every breath an effort. He opened his eyes and said: ‘I’m buggering off.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come over here.’ She got up and stood by the bed.

  ‘Dog’s done for too.’ His breath whistled.

  ‘What?’ She could barely hear him for the fear she felt.

  ‘Can’t move his legs, poor little brute.’

  She had felt the dog, picked him up, put him on the floor where he rolled over, his eye catching hers, listless.

  ‘Put him back.’ Richard coughed, fighting for breath, gasping, wheezing, his face a dull purple.

  She eased the dog back into place. ‘He’s not old,’ she had said defensively, feeling the dog criticized.

  ‘But done for.’

  ‘I’ll get the vet as soon as it’s light.’

  ‘No good, both dying.’ Richard’s eyes on her face, the dog staring, daring her to move it again, its teeth bared.

  ‘He loves you,’ she had said, adding after a pause, ‘we all do.’

  ‘Love,’ Richard gasped, an expression of weary contempt on his face. ‘Used to love Helena.’ Sophy had leant close to hear. The dog growled, threatening to snap. ‘Love Monika now. Your mother said she loved, Priest said she said.’ His chin sank on his chest. ‘Some Chink, I ask you. A coolie, shouldn’t be surprised, lucky we’re winning the war, the Huns would see you’re not pure Aryan.’ His voice had trailed into a coughing
fit. She remembered holding the glass of water so that he could sip, and hating his breath. He gripped her hand.

  ‘I ask you, Sophy. It is Sophy?’

  ‘Yes,’ she had said. ‘Yes, it’s Sophy,’ repelled by him.

  ‘Come closer.’

  Holding her breath so that she need not breathe the odour she feared, she had leant closer.

  ‘See that they bury him with me.’

  ‘At your feet?’

  ‘In coffin. Promise.’ His anxious eyes close to hers echoed the dog’s expression. ‘I ask you—’ His grip on her hand faded, his chin sank on to his chest, she could hear the bedside clock ticking where Monika had moved it on to the chest of drawers. She stared at the dog and the dog stared back. She closed Richard’s eyes, able to touch him now without dread. She remembered waking Monika and that Monika had lifted the dog from the bed, saying in a matter of fact voice, ‘Put him in his basket,’ that she had carried the dog to its basket in the dressing room, reached for something to cover it and the nearest thing was a pair of trousers. She had pulled the artificial leg away and wrapped the trousers over the animal.

  Sophy remembered standing where she stood now the morning Richard died. She had wept for the dog, who was dying. She had run back into the house where Monika was telephoning the doctor and Helena and found the dog dead. It was Max who helped her smuggle it into the coffin where Richard lay in a dark suit, his wispy hair brushed neatly back, his face wearing the mortician’s idea of dignity. Ducks joined his master, his lip curled in a snarl, body stiffly bent. Max tucked him in beside Richard and called to the undertaker to put the lid on the coffin. Standing on the lawn, looking up at the house, Sophy wondered how large a tip had been pressed into the undertaker’s hand, how Max had ensured the dog’s burial would remain secret. When she stood by the grave with Helena, Monika and Mildred Floyer, Mr Floyer reading the burial service, his surplice flapping in the wind, the coffin resting in the deep pit, Max had caught her eye across the open grave and smiled. The old devil, Sophy thought, turning to look at the sea, where later strange shapes which were bits of Mulberry Harbour were towed past in the spring of 1944. How Uncle Richard would have loved the Normandy invasion, she thought, even though both the High Floyers were wounded and several men from the village never came home. He would have gloried, watching American bombers fly over the coast to bomb France. Without his enthusiasm the war had become dull, something to be finished as quickly as possible, for Richard had represented the audience. All the rest of us, she thought, who had gathered in 1939 on the camomile lawn, played small parts. She bent to look at the texture of the lawn. It was amazing it had survived. She ran her palm over it, sniffing the elusive scent evocative of other times, other loves. Someone tapped on the glass of the French windows. She had thought the house empty and was startled. The light, tempered by racing clouds, shone in her eyes. She could see a shadowy figure behind the glass, who tapped again then backed out of sight.

  Sophy crossed the lawn and stared in at Monika’s meticulously furnished drawing room, all trace of Helena obliterated. When Max bought the house in the fifties Helena had finally settled in London. She tried the windows, found them locked and walked round to the front door.

  ‘I’m in the kitchen,’ Calypso called, ‘making tea.’

  ‘Oh.’ Sophy felt mixed emotions: anger at being disturbed in her nostalgic trip, gladness at hearing Calypso’s voice.

  ‘Come along, darling, it’s only me.’

  The two women embraced, each hiding her face against the other’s cheek.

  ‘You still use Mitsuko,’ said Sophy.

  Calypso stood back, holding Sophy’s shoulders, smiling.

  ‘Not a grey hair. Not even a rinse! How many years?’

  ‘What are you doing? The funeral is tomorrow.’ They spoke together.

  ‘I thought I’d collect my thoughts. I haven’t been here for years.’ Sophy returned Calypso’s crooked smile.

  ‘Doesn’t show much, does it? I thought I’d come the night before the wake. I’ve got a carload of booze. Any idea who’s coming?’

  ‘The neighbours, I suppose, friends, other artists. Hamish is bringing Helena, you know.’

  Calypso laughed. ‘At her age, crikey.’

  ‘She enjoys funerals, she’s strong. She was at Richard’s, Monika’s, both Mr and Mrs Floyer’s. She even turned up at General Peachum’s.’

  ‘Seems excessive. Were you at all of them?’

  ‘No, no, only Monika’s and Uncle Richard’s. Felt I owed it. Why didn’t you come?’

  ‘I was abroad. Besides, if you mean what I think you mean, I don’t know that I—’

  ‘I always imagined you qualified.’

  Calypso chuckled. ‘I expect Polly will come, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sophy watched Calypso search for cups, find sugar, warm the pot. ‘I wanted to look round the house.’

  ‘I’ll come with you, unless you want to be alone.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I suppose it will be sold now, Pauli won’t want it.’

  ‘I am sure he doesn’t.’

  They left the kitchen, strolling through the hall—‘D’you remember Monika’s hyacinths?’—into the dining room. ‘Those holiday breakfasts, Uncle Richard crumpling The Times.’

  ‘Monika made this room look lovely.’ They stood in the drawing room.

  ‘Helena had no real idea.’

  ‘The bedrooms were always comfortable.’

  ‘Cold in the winter.’

  ‘Not since they put in central heating.’

  Companionably they climbed the stairs. Sophy noticed that Calypso dragged a leg.

  ‘This room had the finest view.’ Calypso opened a bedroom door.

  ‘Uncle Richard died in it.’

  ‘Oh Sophy, look, did you know?’

  Propped on stools Max lay in his coffin. Calypso crossed herself. Sophy took her hand.

  The afternoon light was kind to Max. He seemed to be listening, his springy white hair swept back, arched nose, mobile mouth, bottom lip slightly pouting, brow lined but serene, paper-thin eyelids hiding the black observant eyes.

  ‘I never realized he was so beautiful,’ Calypso whispered.

  ‘Because he was busy making us feel beautiful.’ Sophy spoke in a normal voice. ‘No need to whisper,’ she said.

  ‘He doesn’t look his age. He’s as old as Aunt Helena.’

  ‘Not quite.’ Sophy bent to kiss the still face. Calypso watched her.

  ‘I couldn’t do that,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t even kiss Hector goodbye. What are you laughing at?’ She turned on Sophy, who had sat back on the bed giggling.

  Sophy told her of Max smuggling the dog into Richard’s coffin. Calypso let out a yelp of laughter.

  ‘The old rogue.’

  ‘He had compassion,’ said Sophy.

  ‘What a philanderer,’ Calypso grinned.

  ‘But faithful to Monika and Helena,’ said Sophy.

  ‘If you like a ménage à trois,’ said Calypso.

  ‘They did. Country wife and town wife. They were happy.’

  ‘Mistress,’ said Calypso.

  ‘If you must split hairs,’ said Sophy, who had never married.

  ‘Shall we make that tea?’ They went downstairs. ‘I will gee up the kettle. I wonder why they haven’t closed the coffin, why he’s alone, why the house is empty—’

  ‘We’d better stay and keep him company.’

  ‘I don’t want to,’ said Calypso. ‘I’ve got a room at the Queen’s.’

  ‘I shall, then. Somebody should until Pauli comes—’

  ‘Of course that’s why it’s open. I’d forgotten Pauli.’ Calypso made the tea.

  ‘People do.’ Sophy watched Calypso pour water into the pot.

  ‘He isn’t one of us, is he?’ Calypso poured. ‘Lapsang Souchong sounds better but doesn’t taste as good as Earl Grey.’ She handed Sophy her cup. ‘Sugar?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Co
me and spend the night at the Queen’s. I’ll pay.’

  ‘No, thank you, Calypso.’

  ‘Come to dinner, then, we have so much to catch up on—do. It’s so many years.’

  But Sophy refused. ‘No, thank you, love.’ She had so very nearly married Hamish. What would Calypso have been like as a mother-in-law?

  ‘Tell me something.’ Calypso sipped her tea, reading Sophy’s thoughts.

  ‘What?’ Sophy was wary. ‘I always think you know everything.’

  ‘Did Hamish want to marry you?’

  ‘I was there when he was born—’

  ‘That’s no answer.’

  Sophy laughed. ‘I am nearly old enough to be his mother.’

  ‘You haven’t answered me.’ Calypso was watchful. ‘You would have been rich, didn’t that tempt you? I like being rich, always have.’

  ‘So you always said. You said, too, that you didn’t know what love was. You lied.’

  ‘Oh?’ Calypso was non-committal. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘When Hamish was born you gave yourself away.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Your voice.’

  ‘I don’t remember saying anything. I remember yelling a lot.’

  ‘When you saw him, when you looked at him you said, “His balls are as big as Hector’s”—your voice.’

  ‘I’d never seen a new-born baby, it gave me a shock.’

  ‘You sounded as if you loved Hector.’

  ‘You are fanciful.’ Calypso sipped her tea, watching Sophy. ‘You still haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have worked.’

  ‘So he did want to marry you.’

  ‘He was only a baby.’

  ‘Too young to know his own mind?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘He has never married anyone else.’

  ‘There’s time enough,’ said Sophy stoutly.

  Calypso laughed. ‘What a birth that was, put me off having another.’

  ‘You didn’t want another.’

  ‘Right. Hamish is enough. We might have got on, you and me. You could have provided me with a grandchild. Hector would have liked that.’