The FitzOsbornes at War (47 page)

Not one of them seemed to comprehend that I was now completely and utterly alone. My parents were dead. My brother was gone. And now my sister had been killed – murdered by Nazis – and I’d been abandoned. I stomped along the road, grinding my teeth and clenching and unclenching my fists. Daniel had driven Veronica back to the gatehouse in the car he’d borrowed, and Barnes had taken Aunt Charlotte, who’d fallen apart entirely during the final hymn, to lie down in Mrs Jones’s room. No one cared about me. Well . . . except for Carlos, who’d stopped begging people for sandwiches when he’d noticed me leaving, and had faithfully followed me outside. He moved so slowly these days, though, that when I glanced over my shoulder, I saw he’d only just reached the vicarage gate.

So I sat down on the front step of the village shop to wait for him. The sign on the shop door said, ‘Closed for funearal’, possibly in some sort of tribute to Henry’s creative spelling. I was still shaking with anger, although I was already feeling pangs of guilt over my behaviour in the vicarage. It wasn’t
their
fault that this had happened.

No, I blamed the Germans –
all
of them, every single one of them, but especially Hitler, for starting the war, and the Nazi general who’d ordered the attack on the south coast of England that day, and those Luftwaffe pilots who’d machine-gunned the harbour and dropped their bombs on the anchored ships. I blamed the Wrens commanding officer, too, for sending off Henry in the motor launch that morning, and the navy for not sending its
own
launch out to collect those maintenance men from the ship, and the RAF for not giving enough warning that bombers were approaching. I blamed the Colonel for writing Henry a reference, Aunt Charlotte for signing the permission papers, Henry herself for wanting to join the Wrens in the first place . . . but most of all, I blamed myself. The Colonel and Aunt Charlotte had only given in to Henry because I’d
asked
them to do so.
I
was responsible for Henry joining up – when I knew she was just a
child
, far too young to be away from home, let alone to do a difficult, dangerous job like that . . .

At some stage, I became aware that Carlos was licking my face. I put my arms round his comforting woolly bulk and went on weeping, until finally a car pulled up beside me, and it was Lady Bosworth, and she drove us home.

19th October, 1943

T
HE LETTERS OF CONDOLENCE CONTINUE
to arrive. Rupert’s was so touching – his recollections of Henry so fond and true – that I can hardly bear to mention it here, because it will only make me start crying again. The Basque refugees in Manchester sent a beautiful card, and Carmelita wrote from Mexico. Phoebe posted us a box of wildflowers from Somerset. Kick delivered a kind note from her mother, with a postscript scrawled by her little brother Teddy. I hadn’t even realised he’d known Henry, but apparently he’d met her in Kensington Gardens one day and been ‘mighty impressed’ with both her and Carlos. It isn’t just letters, either – everyone here is being so supportive. Julia, in particular, has helped in all sorts of little practical ways. I don’t know how we would have managed without her these last couple of weeks.

Veronica and I have both gone back to work, of course, but I’ve been making so many mistakes that I wouldn’t be surprised if I received an official reprimand. The thing is, I can’t be
bothered
about it any more. What does it matter if I’m five minutes late to work? Why
should
I respectfully defer to Mr Bowker’s directives, when he’s so often wrong? Who cares if the updated potato fact sheet lists the wrong vitamins?

Veronica has gone to the other extreme – rushing off to her office at seven each morning, eating her sandwich at her desk, and staying late into the evening. It isn’t just that she believes her work is important, although she does – it’s that she can’t bear to be idle for a single, waking moment, because she’s as wracked with guilt and grief as I am and would rather not contemplate any of it at all. Before this, there had been some talk of her taking up a three-month posting at the Embassy in Madrid. Now she says she couldn’t possibly leave me here in London by myself. But I could move in with Julia. Or I could resign from my pointless job and go back to Milford. Aunt Charlotte isn’t at all well – she came down with a bad cold after the funeral, and now it’s turned to bronchitis. It isn’t fair to expect Barnes to nurse Aunt Charlotte, in addition to looking after the house and taking over all Aunt Charlotte’s WVS jobs. I’m sure I could be of help there . . .

Except I’m so weary that the mere
thought
of having to make a decision about this makes me want to take to my bed and not get up again for days.

O
H,
I
FORGOT
to mention – Rebecca also sent a note, saying she’d pray for Henry’s soul and for us. Apparently she’s become even more wildly religious, and is a constant visitor to a nearby abbey, where the nuns all love her. (Of course, it’s the
job
of nuns to love disagreeable people; the more disagreeable the person, the holier the nuns probably feel.)

Not a word from Rebecca’s son, though. Perhaps he hasn’t received Veronica’s letter. Or perhaps he just doesn’t give a damn.

26th November, 1943

I
HANDED IN MY RESIGNATION
letter to Miss Halliday the week before last, and I think she was almost as relieved as I was. Now she can replace me with someone genial and obliging. I dithered over the decision for a while, but the matter was settled for me when I heard that Lord Woolton was being transferred to another position. He’d been such an enthusiastic and capable Minister of Food, and he always made our jobs seem so important and useful. It was difficult for me to imagine working under the leadership of anybody else – so I’m not even going to attempt it.

Lord Woolton’s now been appointed Minister of Reconstruction, which I suppose means the government thinks the war is almost over and they ought to be planning for what happens next. But as they have been wrong about so many other things, I am not making any effort to feel hopeful (and it
would
be an effort, believe me). I don’t even read the newspapers any more, because Veronica is the one who bought them and she’s in Spain now.

Julia and the others have been making valiant attempts to raise my spirits, but I wish they’d stop it. It only makes me feel guilty when their efforts inevitably fail. Last week, Kick invited me to a party for her brother Joe, whose squadron has been posted to England to work alongside RAF Coastal Command. There are thousands of American servicemen in London now, and nearly all of them turned up at the party. It wasn’t at all enjoyable. Someone kept playing the piano far too loudly, and a drunken soldier accidentally set fire to Billy’s sister’s dress. Joe looked very smart in his uniform, but otherwise seemed much the same – I overheard some girl complaining he’d propositioned her in the taxi on the way there.

I suppose I ought to make allowances for him, because he’s very brave to be doing such a dangerous job, but frankly, I am fed up with men right now. A girl can’t walk anywhere after dark in the West End without being accosted by some GI trying to be ‘friendly’. As if I can be purchased with a pair of nylon stockings and a bar of chocolate! And it isn’t just men I
don’t
know who are making me fume. Simon hasn’t bothered to write us one single word of condolence. And as for Mr
Bowker
. . . Well! I am still absolutely flabbergasted.

Today was my last day at work, and I went in to his office to deliver my final set of corrected brochures and to say goodbye. I was mildly interested in how he’d react to my departure – after all, I’d been in his department four years, and I’d been a fairly diligent and efficient worker for all but the past few weeks.

‘So, I hear you’re leaving us, Miss FitzOsborne,’ he said, after I’d handed him all the paperwork and explained (in words of one syllable) what still needed to be done. ‘Moving to the country, I believe.’

‘Yes, Mr Bowker,’ I said. As usual, he hadn’t asked me to sit down, so I was standing at attention on one side of his desk, and he was leaning back in his chair on the other side, gazing up my nostrils.

‘Leaving the Civil Service,’ he went on, shaking his head slowly. ‘I’m not sure I approve of that.’ Just as I was thinking he might actually be about to deliver a
compliment
, he added, ‘I mean, a lady of your age, getting on a bit – you need security, don’t you? The Civil Service provides that.’

I gaped at him. A lady of my age! Getting on a bit! But he hadn’t finished.

‘And you’ll be called up now, won’t you? The services. Not very nice for ladies, being in the army.’

‘I won’t get called up,’ I snapped, ‘because I’m not a British citizen!’

He blinked. ‘Aren’t you?’

‘
No
. I’m Montmaravian!’

He ignored this, the way he always ignored anything he didn’t immediately understand. ‘Of course,’ he said, leaning forward and raising his ginger eyebrows, ‘
married
ladies aren’t forced to join the services. And now that you’ve resigned from the Civil Service, you
are
permitted to
marry
.’ He shifted his gaze and peered over my shoulder at the ceiling, apparently deep in thought. ‘Yes . . .
marriage
might be a very good idea for you.’

A horrible notion began to form in my brain.

‘I myself,’ Mr Bowker continued relentlessly, ‘have been considering marriage. When a man reaches a certain point in his life – when he has a good position in the Civil Service and a house of his own – he begins to think about such things.’

Then he gave a very artificial jolt.

‘Oh!’ he said, as though he’d just had a brilliant idea. ‘I wonder if . . . Well, perhaps you and
I
might . . . Knowing each other as we do . . . That is, it’s something to consider, isn’t it?’

He shot me a look to gauge my reaction, then pressed on, seemingly heartened by the fact I hadn’t said anything. (I
couldn’t
speak. I simply couldn’t find the
words
.)

‘That is to say, having worked together all these years . . . it would make
sense
, I think you’d agree? And then you wouldn’t need to leave London. Very convenient for all concerned –’

‘Mr Bowker,’ I interrupted, ‘are you asking me to
marry
you?’

‘Oh, well . . . ’ He gave a little cough. ‘That is, perhaps in
time
, to come to a mutual arrangement, to consider an engagement . . .’

8

‘Mr Bowker,’ I said, drawing myself up, ‘“I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.”’

Then I marched out of his office.

Veronica is quite wrong when she claims there is no value in reading novels such as
Pride and Prejudice
. Of course there is. They provide one with the exact words one needs when one is
speechless
in the face of
extreme provocation
.