The FitzOsbornes at War (53 page)

Bless her, she’d used all her contacts and influence to ensure he’d be sent to the Milford Park Rehabilitation Hospital. I hadn’t even
realised
it specialised in helping servicemen who’d lost limbs, although I probably ought to have, given all the figures I’d glimpsed on crutches or being wheeled along the terrace, over the years. Anyway, Veronica and I decided that I’d travel down to Milford this morning, and then, if it looked as though Toby was going to be there a while, Veronica would try to arrange some time off work so she could join us.

I caught the early train and Mr Wilkin met me at the railway station, as he’d brought a load of pigs into town to sell. (Not Estella, of course, because everyone has a soft spot for her. Mr Wilkin reported she was still going strong, bossing everyone about at the Home Farm and periodically producing enormous litters of piglets.) By ten o’clock, he’d dropped me off at the gatehouse, where I found Aunt Charlotte in an agitated state, pacing about the sitting room.

‘I saw an ambulance arrive yesterday, as I was walking back from the stables,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose one of
those
men could have been Tobias? The matron did telephone here early this morning – Barnes took the call – to say he’d arrived. But one wouldn’t be expected to visit
immediately
, would one? He’d need time to settle in, wouldn’t he?’

‘Well, why don’t we walk over now and see?’ I suggested.

‘Now?’ Aunt Charlotte said uneasily. ‘Oh, but surely they have official visiting hours and so forth? One wouldn’t want to disturb their . . . their therapies and so on.’

‘I’ll just go and ask, shall I?’ I said. ‘You can stay here.’

‘No, no, I ought to accompany you,’ she said. ‘Yes. I’ll go with you. Barnes, where’s my coat? No, not
that
one. My good coat!’

The mink looked rather odd worn over her battered old jersey, jodhpurs and riding boots, but I didn’t mention this. There were more important things to discuss – specifically, Toby’s current condition. To me, his improvement over the past six weeks had been miraculous, but I quite understood that his appearance (and probable mood) would be a shock to her, and I tried to explain this as best I could. However, I was also thinking of one of Rupert’s recent letters, in which he pointed out that I wasn’t responsible for the feelings of other people. Aunt Charlotte (or Toby) might feel sad or angry or frightened, but there wasn’t much
I
could do to stop them feeling that – however difficult it might be for me to observe it.

But Aunt Charlotte didn’t pay attention to anything I said, anyway. I might as well have saved my breath for trying to keep up with her, as she strode along the driveway. Having finally made the decision to visit Toby, she was determined that it should happen at once, if not sooner. She bounded up the front steps of the hospital and flung open the doors – whereupon she came to a horrified halt. I suppose she hadn’t been inside her own house since the hospital had moved in, and it can’t have been pleasant to see dented metal filing cabinets and ‘What To Do In Case Of Fire’ posters taking the place of her beautiful marble statues and gilt-framed Rembrandts.

‘Dreadful,’ she muttered, staring about the hall. ‘This is absolutely
dreadful
.’ She shook her head, then drew herself up. ‘Wait here, Sophia,’ she ordered. ‘I’m going to find the doctor in charge!’

And before I could stop her, she’d marched off. I just hoped she’d remember why we were
there
. I wandered past the empty reception area, then peered down a corridor towards what had once been the Velvet Drawing Room, wondering where Toby’s ward might be.

‘Well, well,’ said a voice behind me. ‘If it isn’t the Angel Thief.’

I whirled about. ‘What?’ I said. ‘Oh – it’s
you
.’ It was the man I’d seen on my last – my only – visit to the hospital, the patient who’d caught me sneaking out with our Christmas tree decoration.

‘Me again,’ he agreed.

‘You’re looking well,’ I said, quite sincerely. His scars weren’t anywhere near as livid as they had been, he’d acquired a very realistic glass eye, and his mouth was turned up in a smile that looked almost normal. If I’d passed him on the street, I’d hardly have blinked – although perhaps that was just because I’d become accustomed to seeing men with far
worse
disfigurements. ‘But why are you still here, after all this time?’ I asked. It must have been at least three years since I’d seen him, and he was still on crutches.

‘Oh, I only arrived yesterday,’ he said. ‘I’ve been working in London, pushing papers at the War Office. But it wasn’t enough for the Nazis to shoot my Spit down in flames, with me in it. Oh, no – they had to come back and drop a bloody great bomb on my house last week. Smashed my leg to bits. I suppose I ought to be grateful it was the fake leg I’d taken off for the night, and not the real one. Anyway, I’m here to get a replacement fitted.’

‘Oh, right,’ I said. ‘Well, you might have arrived with my brother. He’s here for the same thing – I mean, a new leg. Have you seen him? Squadron Leader Toby FitzOsborne?’

‘Hmm. Haven’t met anyone of that name, but a couple of men turned up a few hours after I got here. He might be one of them. They’re in the ward beside the –’

‘Sophia!’ came an imperious cry behind me. ‘Sophia, have you –’ Aunt Charlotte rounded the corner, then stopped and stared at my companion. ‘Is that . . .
That
isn’t your brother?’

‘No, no,’ I said quickly, because she’d gone so pale. ‘This is, um . . .’

‘Pilot Officer Sam Jones.’ He began the effortful task of shifting one crutch so he could hold out his hand to shake, but she’d already stepped back.

‘Yes, how do you do?’ she said coldly. Then she turned to me and said, ‘Sophia, don’t stand about
chatting
. Come along, I want you to see what they’ve done to my house. There is a
bathtub
sitting in the middle of my
dining room
!’ And she stalked off in a swirl of mothball-scented mink.

I began to apologise to the pilot, but he just shook his head.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘My grandma went just as dotty in her old age. Used to think the postman was her long-dead brother, kept insisting there was a cat trapped inside her teapot, that sort of thing.’

‘No, you see –’ Then I decided an explanation would take too much time. ‘Sorry, I’d better go and find her before she offends anyone else. Where did you say that ward was?’

Toby, when we eventually tracked him down, was almost too tired to talk, let alone snap at anyone. He’d spent most of the past six weeks in bed or propped up in chairs, so his first session with the physiotherapist had been exhausting and painful. He did tell us it would take two weeks before his new leg was ready, and that he’d need to practise using it after that, so he supposed he’d be at Milford till the end of the month. Then a nurse arrived to change his dressings and we left.

Poor Aunt Charlotte was terribly shaken. She’d said almost nothing to Toby – she’d found it difficult even to meet his eye. After we were outside again, walking past the fountain littered with cigarette butts and sweets wrappers, she stopped and looked back at the hospital.

‘Oh, Sophia,’ she said. ‘What has
become
of us?’

She sounded so sad and bewildered that I wasn’t sure whether she was thinking of Toby, or the house, or the world in general, but I tucked my arm in hers and after a while, I led her slowly back down the driveway, home to Barnes.

19th April, 1944

T
OBY HAS RETURNED TO THE
Queen Victoria Hospital for his next operation, so I’ve moved back to London for a few weeks. I can easily get down to visit him by train, and I’m taking the opportunity to give our flat a spring clean and cook Veronica some proper meals. She’s become far too thin – I think she subsists on tea and toast when I’m not around. Anyway, I was scrubbing some potatoes early this evening when Kick burst in.

‘Is Veronica home?’ she asked.

‘Not yet,’ I said, wiping my hands. ‘Why?’

‘I need to ask her whether she thinks England will turn Socialist after the war.’

I couldn’t help laughing, despite (or possibly, due to) Kick’s earnest expression. ‘What on Earth
. . .
?’ I said.

‘Well,’ she sighed, pulling out a chair, ‘Billy says Socialism is inevitable now. He says there’ll be massive taxes, and the government will take over all the industries, and families like his will have to give up their estates.’

‘Ah,’ I said, the fog lifting. ‘So, if the Devonshire dynasty is going to become redundant anyway –’

‘Then we can bring up our children as Catholics,’ she said, nodding. ‘But if there’s any chance he’ll be the next Duke, he says our children will have to be Protestants.’ She propped her chin on her hand and sent me a despairing look. ‘You know how I wrote to Daddy? Asking if he could organise a special dispensation from the Church so I could marry Billy? Well, the archbishop said
no
! Can you believe it?’

The Kennedys think they can buy anything – and with their money, they generally can. Just not this time.

‘Oh, I just don’t know what to
do
, Sophie!’ wailed Kick. ‘I
love
Billy. I want to spend the rest of my life with him! And his mother’s being
so
sweet to me. But
my
mother would never forgive me if I left the Catholic Church. She keeps telling me I’d be living in mortal sin.’

Mrs Kennedy has a distinctly flexible attitude towards reality. Kick’s brother Joe is currently having an affair with a woman whose husband’s off fighting overseas –
and
she was divorced before this marriage,
and
she’s a Protestant. And Jack’s just as bad as Joe, chasing after anything in a skirt. But does Mrs Kennedy ever say a word about
their
immortal souls, let alone that of her philandering husband?

‘Of course,’ Kick went on, ‘there
was
that one priest who said it
wouldn’t
be mortal sin, because I wouldn’t be marrying Billy out of selfishness, I’d be doing it for love.’

‘Well, he’s right,’ I said. ‘I’m glad someone in your Church is showing a bit of compassion and good sense.’

‘And Billy could get shipped out any day now, couldn’t he?’ she said. Poor Billy had been so stung by the accusations of cowardice levelled at him during the election campaign that he’d gone straight back into his regiment after the results were announced. ‘He’ll be off fighting in France soon, and – Oh, how
could
I be so selfish as to refuse him anything?’

She jumped up, determination written all over her freckled face.

‘Thanks, Sophie, you’ve been a great help,’ she said. She gave me a hug, rushed towards the door, then came to a sudden halt. ‘Oh,’ she cried, ‘but I haven’t even
asked
how Toby’s doing!’

‘He’s making progress, thanks,’ I said. ‘Much less frustrated now that he can walk about and do things for himself. I’m sure he’ll feel even more positive once this next set of skin grafts is done.’

‘Well, I’ve been saying a novena for him,’ Kick said, ‘to the Little Flower.’ Then she bounced off.

I stared after her, astounded – and a little awed – at how deeply embedded her faith was. No wonder the poor girl has been feeling torn in two over Billy.

B
UT EVEN MORE ASTOUNDING WAS
our next visitor, who turned up five minutes after Veronica arrived home from work.

‘Sorry, I know this is a bad time to drop in,’ Julia said, ‘but I’ve just come from the hospital.’

‘Is Toby all right?’ Veronica asked sharply, letting a plate clatter onto the table.

‘Oh, yes! Yes, he’s fine. But I needed to talk to you about . . . well, about him, really.’