The FitzOsbornes at War (13 page)

‘That
is
interesting,’ said the Colonel slowly. ‘Was his last position in Moscow, by any chance?’

I shook my head. ‘I’m not sure. Do you know him?’

‘Perhaps.’ The Colonel looked very thoughtful. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve been invited to the next cocktail party at the Embassy?’

‘Not yet, and I’m hoping I won’t be,’ I said. ‘I’m not very good at cocktail parties, I’ve discovered – I’m never sure what I’m meant to be doing. It’s too noisy to have proper conversations, and it’s so difficult to eat those little bits of food they bring round, when one’s holding a slippery glass and balancing on high heels and trying to talk. I honestly don’t see how anyone could
enjoy
a cocktail party.’

‘Well, I don’t usually attend them wearing high heels,’ he said, ‘but the general aim is to get drunk enough not to mind about the noise and the awkward eating arrangements. I don’t want you to do
that
, though, so forget about the party. Hmm . . . but you’ll want to deliver Kick’s birthday present to the Embassy soon, won’t you? As it’s her birthday on the twentieth of next month?’

‘How do you . . . Never mind. I’ll telephone you if I find out anything, shall I?’

‘I’d be very interested to find out if Mr Kent has access to any confidential letters or telegrams, if he’s had any visitors at the Embassy, and whom he meets outside work. But don’t draw any attention to yourself, or to him. It’s only if you happen to overhear something.’

As if that’s the sort of information one tends to
overhear
.

Still, at least
something
useful has finally resulted from all those uncomfortable hours at the Embassy – not that being forced to go to tedious parties is a true hardship, not compared to some of the things other people have to do now. Look at Simon, for example, slogging away at his pilot training so uncomplainingly. Reading between the lines of his letters, he seems to regard his situation as something to be endured, like a visit to the dentist. He doesn’t even get much leave, poor thing. That was why I wrote to him, to see if he could make it to a party I want to hold for Veronica’s birthday. She will be turning twenty-one, but Aunt Charlotte is completely ignoring this in favour of elaborate (and quite futile) plans for Toby’s own coming-of-age. Toby would rather spend his birthday in London with us and Julia than in Milford, but
he
can’t get any leave, either.

Really, this
war
! It hasn’t even started in earnest yet, and it’s already messing up everything for everyone.

16th March, 1940

H
OW BLISSFUL
S
ATURDAYS WOULD BE,
if only one weren’t forced to fill them with tedious chores. Scrubbing out the bath, sewing a button back on my coat, washing the sheets and draping them all over the kitchen to dry, queuing for half an hour at the greengrocer’s and discovering there are no onions to be had for love or money . . .

But now I am settled by the stove with my journal, watching Veronica bat damp sheets out of her way as she searches for her muffler. She is going out to inspect the flower beds and determine whether the ground has thawed enough for us to start planting potatoes. She is being remarkably optimistic, in my opinion. I think Spring has decided to give England a miss this year. Anyway, I’d prefer onions to potatoes. Actually, I’d
prefer
smoked salmon sandwiches and chocolate éclairs, but one can’t grow those in the garden, unfortunately.

Apart from cleaning and shopping and mending, another of my regular Saturday chores is to write to Henry’s headmistress, who does not seem to have grasped the concept of vegetarianism. Henry is supposed to be getting extra cheese and eggs to make up for the lack of meat in her diet, but the headmistress feels that serving Henry separate portions would simply reward her ‘obstreperous’ behaviour. Apparently, Henry had been talking very loudly at breakfast about how intelligent, funny and charming Estella was – while her fellow pupils were trying to eat their bacon ration. After she made two girls cry and another rush off to be sick, Henry was moved to the end of her table and ordered to stay silent during meals. Then, last week, her arch-enemy Loretta complained that Henry had been ‘staring at her sausages’ in an ‘accusing’ way. Henry has now been banished to the prefects’ table. This is meant to be a sign of deepest disgrace, but Henry says she much prefers this arrangement, because the prefects, being older, have far more interesting conversations than the girls in her year.

I fear this is all our fault. Henry has spent so much more time with Veronica and me than with children her own age, and we included her in almost everything we did at Montmaray. Toby, in particular, has always indulged her shamelessly. And Veronica must have been a greater influence than we ever suspected, because Henry has recently started up a vigorous campaign – stirring speeches in the common room, letters to the headmistress, even a petition addressed to the school’s Board of Governors – for her portion of the school’s meat ration to be packaged up each week and sent to Carlos. She claims it’s a violation of her human rights to force her to eat animals, or to prevent her giving her ‘fair, legal share’ to anyone or anything that she chooses.

I’m amazed she hasn’t been expelled yet, but I think the school likes saying that it counts a Royal Highness amongst its pupils. Also, the headmistress is still too intimidated by Aunt Charlotte to dare suggest to her that Henry might be better off elsewhere. That’s why
I’m
the one to whom the headmistress addresses all her complaints.

Not that I mind, really – I did promise Henry I’d do whatever I could to make her school life easier. It’s just that I’m beginning to feel a bit weary of dealing with all these adult responsibilities. I keep saying to myself, ‘But I’m only
nineteen
.’ (Of course, whenever Aunt Charlotte tries to stop me doing something because I’m too young, I think, very indignantly, ‘But I am
nineteen
now, you know!’) When I was little, I longed to be older, except now I can’t recall what it was that I most keenly anticipated. Being allowed to stay up as late as I wanted? To wear or eat or read whatever I pleased? Well, I
could
do all those things now, but mostly I don’t – either because I have to get up early for work the next morning, or haven’t enough money to buy the outfit I really love, or for some other boring, grown-up reason. Also, children don’t realise what a huge proportion of adult life is used up
worrying
about things – from what to make for dinner and whether one’s sheets will get dry in time to make the beds that night, to whether one will ever manage to meet the right man and marry him. Shouldn’t being a grown-up be slightly more
exhilarating
? Is this the fault of the war? Or is it simply how life
is
?

What a depressing thought . . . but hooray, the telephone’s ringing! With some exciting news, I hope!

M
UCH LATER, NEARLY MIDNIGHT.

I wonder if God (or Fate, or whoever) was reading over my shoulder and thinking, ‘She’s always whingeing about how dreary her life is. Well, I’ll show her. I’ll give her
exciting
.’

I would vow to stop complaining forever, if it meant I’d never again have to have a telephone conversation like the one this morning.

‘Is that Miss Sophia FitzOsborne?’ asked the voice, brisk and female. A nurse, I realised instantly, before I’d even grasped what that could mean. ‘You’re the next of kin of Simon Chester?’ she went on.

‘Yes,’ I managed, feeling all the blood draining from my face. ‘Yes, what’s happened?’ A horrible rushing sound filled my ears, engulfing most of her words. The name of the hospital, I caught that. Something about surgery and a doctor. Simon couldn’t be dead, then! They wouldn’t operate on a dead person, would they? But I couldn’t get my mouth to work, to ask the right questions. Thank Heavens Veronica walked in at that moment – not soon enough to snatch the telephone receiver from me, but at least to stop me fainting on the floor.

‘Keep your head on your knees,’ she ordered, tearing through the telephone directory for the hospital’s number. ‘I don’t suppose you caught the name of that nurse? Or the doctor? Never mind . . . Hello, do you have a patient called Simon Chester? He may have been admitted just now . . . No, I don’t know who telephoned. Yes, I’ll wait . . . What? Why not? But I’m his
sister
. . . Oh, all right. Yes.
Fine
.’

‘Well, that was a waste of time,’ she said, turning to me. ‘He’s there, possibly in surgery, but they wouldn’t tell me anything else. Let’s go.’ She bundled me into my coat and got us into a taxi. I don’t remember much about the journey, except the driver was awfully kind and charged us far less than I would have expected for a trip across London. He said his son was in the army, so he could just imagine what we were going through. But
I
didn’t even know what I was going through – I simply couldn’t understand what had happened. What was Simon doing in London? Had he been in a motor car accident? He couldn’t have crashed his aeroplane, could he? I kept saying to myself, ‘But we aren’t even at
war
, not properly! This just isn’t
right
!’

As though it would have been much better if he’d been shot down in battle.

The hospital, when we reached it, was the sort of hulking Victorian edifice designed to frighten patients and visitors into complete submission. The reception desk was at the end of a gloomy corridor and was staffed by a gorgon, who sent us on a long journey to a ward that didn’t exist. When we were finally directed to the correct ward, we were confronted with the terrifying sight of an empty bed.

‘Oh, you’re looking for that pilot who got himself smashed up?’ rasped a nearby patient, raising himself on his elbows. He was horribly scarred, and his leg was suspended from something resembling a gallows. ‘I think they’ve moved him down the end, closer to the nurses’ station.’

So, when we finally arrived at the foot of Simon’s bed, I almost burst into tears from sheer relief that he was alive and in one piece. Veronica, of course, showed her concern in quite a different way.

‘What on Earth have you done to yourself
now
?’ she said, as if he did this on a regular basis. His chest was swathed in bandages, one arm was in a sling, and his shoulder was swollen and mottled blue and purple. But he managed to glare back at her with some of his usual spirit.

‘I deliberately went and crashed my plane,’ he said, ‘just to annoy you.’

‘Well, you might have spared some consideration for poor Sophie,’ Veronica retorted. ‘That nurse who telephoned made her think you were
dead
.’

‘Sorry,’ he said to me. I sat down by his side and reached for his good hand, which was icy.

‘How are you feeling?’ I asked.

‘Not too bad. The morphia seems to be working.’

‘What did the doctor say?’

‘Broken arm, a couple of cracked ribs. I was pretty lucky, actually. The plane’s a mess.’

‘What happened?’ Veronica asked, frowning down at him.

‘Engine stalled. Made a bad landing. Ploughed into a stone wall. Satisfied?’

Veronica opened her mouth, closed it, then turned around. ‘I’m going to talk to the matron,’ she announced over her shoulder.

‘You can talk to
me
,’ said the man in the next bed, in hopeful tones. She gave him a thin look, then stalked off.

‘She’s just worried,’ I told Simon, who’d closed his eyes. ‘You know how she is. Did they say how long you’ll be in hospital?’

‘A couple of days. I should be up walking tomorrow. I suppose I should be grateful it was my left arm, not my right.’

I looked at his arm, which was encased in plaster from below his elbow to his wrist. ‘And you’ll still be able to move your fingers. I expect you’ll get a few weeks of leave now?’