The Storms of War (40 page)

‘When I saw Tom, I felt he was hiding something. I did not believe the letter either. Killed in the course of action. Surely someone could have given us more details than that?’

He picked up the jug and poured more milk into his tea. She watched his hands, waited.

‘I think if I had lost a brother, I would be like you, searching for an answer. But there isn’t one. The men went over and the shooting was random. Thousands died on the Somme.’

‘But why would Tom hide something from me?’

‘You don’t know that he is. But I suppose that if he saw Michael die in front of him, he wouldn’t want to remember the details.’

‘It seemed more than that.’

The waiters were pouring tea again. Celia tried not to stare at them, to pretend she was in this sort of place all the time. She fiddled with the side of her plate.

‘I really think, Miss de Witt, that it is only the horror of war.’

‘I was in France for nearly a year. I saw some of it.’

‘Good for you. Were you nursing?’

‘Ambulances.’ One word, one simple word, and she wanted to cry it out: the bodies of the men, the coughing from the gas, the screams as the morphine wore off. Shep dying as she reached out to her, Johnson calling her Elizabeth.

He whistled. ‘They really do breed some gals in your family. Tell me – if you don’t mind – where were you?’

‘Étaples. Although I didn’t really have much idea where I was.
I was always driving. The food was awful. Nothing like this.’ She pointed at the stack of cakes.

‘Have another! But see – you’re doing the same. You’re talking about the dreadful food because it’s easier. You don’t want to talk about what you really saw.’

‘No. You’re right. I can’t really think of the words to fit. I think we need new words for it all.’ She took another cake. Warterton was still out there, driving doctors and coffins around by day, dreading the night and the bombers. She had written again two weeks ago, saying that none of the old lot were still there; she missed the girls she had gone out with. She said that perhaps Celia might like to visit her mother in Winchester if she got a moment, since she had told her mother all about her and she was very eager to meet her.
She’ll talk a lot but she’ll give you a good meal!!
Warterton had written. The exclamation marks hit smartly at Celia’s heart, Warterton trying hard to seem jolly, to persuade her to go. Celia had not replied, still had not written to Shep’s parents, telling herself it was because it hurt too much. And here she was, tucking into soft cakes and drinking tea.

Jonathan broke into her thoughts. ‘You were a great reader when I last saw you. Do you still keep up with the intellectual trends? You were deep in Freud, I think?’

‘Not so much, no. The war takes up everything. I look at the books and they seem to belong to an old world where everything was safe. I don’t even know if I want to go to university after the war is over any more.’ The picture of Cambridge she’d always dreamed of floated in front of her: a sunlit table in a library, cycling to lectures, giving the other girls cocoa in her room. She pushed it away.

‘You should go. I’ll be there too, and the ladies’ colleges let us call round for tea.’

Little German fräulein,
he had called her. ‘I might not let you visit me.’

‘I would expect not. You’ll be one of those serious lady students, no time for fun.’ His hand was near the milk jug. She knew he
wanted to reach for her fingers. ‘The war will not last for ever, you know,’ he said.

She wanted to push those words from his mouth and replace them with her mass of confused letters: no sentences, no verbs, nothing but a fog, as if, she thought, she was looking at signs but could not read. ‘Everything’s changed at home. We’ve only seen Papa once, when he moved prisons.’ She put her hand in her lap, so he could not reach for it. He left his where it was for a moment, then took it back to his cup. The ring glowed gold in the lamplight.

‘And when was that?’

‘Middle of 1915. I spent the year after you all left with my mother. It was terrible. Michael went to France, and it seemed like Arthur was never coming back. And Emmeline disappeared with my tutor.’

He put his teacup down abruptly, so that it clattered in the saucer. ‘She did what? What about that stiff old stick?’

‘Sir Hugh changed his mind because of the war. So she came to London with Mr Janus.’

He whistled through his teeth. ‘I never would have thought it. What a gal, after all.’

‘She’s married,’ Celia said hastily.
And telling me to deliver objectors around London because she thinks we won’t get caught.

‘Another war widow then, poor gal.’

‘He is not well enough to fight, actually.’

‘Poor chap. I don’t remember much about him. Colourless sort, wasn’t he?’

‘I suppose so. He is different now. I live with them. So you were wrong that Sir Hugh would come back for her, forgive us all.’

‘Did I say that?’

That shocked her. ‘Yes! Have you forgotten?’

‘Well, clearly she didn’t want him, did she?’

Celia shook her head. She had found in general that people’s memories of the time before the war were unreliable. Even Emmeline’s were quite wrong sometimes. She supposed that the war was such a great, dividing thing, you spent so long thinking about it,
that the time before became some kind of muddle. Except for her, that was. She had every moment entirely clear.

‘Anyway, after Papa was detained and Michael and Emmeline left, Mama grew upset. She said there was no point to a house like Stoneythorpe. Then she shot the horses.’

Jonathan shook his head. ‘That’s a lot of bad news. I had no idea. I imagined you still living there just as you did before. I thought of you doing lessons. I thought that your mother would be the type to keep things going.’

She blushed at the judgement of Verena, unfair, she thought. Surely thousands of women were not behaving like those ones in the pictures, making tea and waving their men off. And yet still it rang a small bell inside her, the one that said her mother should have tried harder. ‘I shouldn’t have told you.’

‘No, no, of course you should. And I asked.’

‘Anyway, she might make it into a hospital.’

‘That would be a fine thing.’ He smiled nervously, as if he knew he had said too much.

She thought she should try to be polite. ‘What do your family think of it all? Your father.’

‘I don’t write to them much. They want me to come back to New York.’

‘Why don’t you?’

He played with his cup. ‘I am here now, that’s the thing. I feel like I have to stay to see it through to the end.’

‘If there is an end.’

‘Of course there will be.’

‘I am glad I have no more brothers in the war. Arthur is still in Paris.’

‘And mine is in America.’

She supposed she should remember her manners. ‘You had older siblings, I recall. A brother and a sister, I think, Mr Corrigan.’

‘Call me Jonathan, please. Yes, one elder sister. She is married to a New Yorker. My brother has just finished at Harvard.’

She nodded and picked up her teacup. There were so many words, millions of them – she had after all been trying to learn
them all before the war began. But she could not think of a single one to say. She took a sip of tea, nearly cold now and greasy with milk.

He sighed. ‘I have kept a memory in my mind of you all preparing for the party. I did not think things would have changed so much.’

‘The party was a failure. At least you didn’t see that.’ With those words, she remembered something forgotten, so important to them all at the time. ‘And you too! Why did you leave so suddenly? Mama’s feelings were hurt.’

Jonathan looked around. Most of the other people had gone. ‘I think the café may be closing.’ He summoned a waiter for the bill.

‘Why didn’t you stay?’ Celia tried not to look as he counted out notes and coins as shiny as the ring on his finger.

‘It is hard to explain. I just couldn’t. I told them I had business.’

‘They didn’t believe you. Who would? You promised to stay for the party.’

He stood up. The waiter arrived with Celia’s coat, engaged in a creditable attempt at not seeming disgusted by it. She supposed he was used to furs.

‘You know, you were the beginning of it all. Once you left, nothing went right.’

He shook his head. ‘I couldn’t stay.’

‘Why? You saw the fight with Sir Hugh and you left. Were you so horrified by us?’

‘Of course not! I just couldn’t.’

‘Well,’ she pushed ahead of him, ‘I suppose that is that. You just didn’t want to.’

The waiter held the door open for her, smiling. ‘Madam.’ She ignored him and continued out into the biting wind. People were hurrying, collars pulled up against the weather. She thought it would probably snow soon; maybe it was snowing already in France.

‘Thank you, Mr Corrigan,’ she said, holding out her hand. She was being cold but she could not help it. ‘It was a very nice tea. I am sure you send your regards to my mother and sister.’

He grasped her hand. She wanted to tug it away. ‘Don’t go!’ he said. ‘Please.’

‘I have to get back.’

‘You’re angry with me.’

She shook her head. ‘It was because we were German, that was it. You didn’t want to be seen with us.’

‘No.’

‘You were just like all the rest of them. You liked us enough in the good times. But then you dropped us overnight.’

‘That’s not true. What are the royal family, after all? They changed their name in July. Did you know they had six choices of name? Windsor was the best, don’t you think?’

‘The King wouldn’t make room at the palace for the Tsar, even though they’re cousins. Now they’re going to put him on trial.’ His attempt to make her smile only infuriated her. ‘You know, this afternoon, when we met, I should have said that if my family were not good enough for you, then I’m not either.’

‘Celia, it wasn’t like that. Let me explain.’

‘What could you possibly say?’ She tugged her hand back and stuffed it in her pocket, where he couldn’t reach it.

‘It was a mistake,’ he said. ‘I know it. I just thought … if the war was going to begin, I should get back to America. And, if I am being honest, then yes, I felt as if things were not simple at Stoneythorpe, with Sir Hugh and the rest. I was only making it more complicated.’

‘You knew what the war would be like, then?’

‘No. I didn’t expect anything like this.’

‘And what you did to me before you left was wrong. I dreaded seeing you in the morning. I didn’t know how I was going to speak to you. I was glad you had left.’ Instead of freezing London, where the ground was dark with dirt, early grey snow dropping on the slabs, she was back in the garden in Stoneythorpe, and he was putting his hand out for her face. He was kissing her. His cigarette glowed in the darkness, silhouetting the roses.

He ran his hand through his hair. ‘Was it so terrible of me? It was, wasn’t it? I am a cad. I frightened you.’

‘No, you didn’t. Or maybe a little. Not any more. It’s all different now.’

‘I shouldn’t have, Celia, I know. I had heard so much about you from Michael. I was always predisposed to like you. And then I met you and you were so engaging and said such odd things. I only found myself liking you more.’

‘Everybody else who came to visit admired Emmeline.’

‘Not me. I told you that then.’

‘Oh yes, I remember.’
Not my style of broad.
‘Why did you call me a little German fräulein?’

‘Oh, I did. I am sorry. I don’t know why. But you were little, you were a fräulein … Look, I know it was wrong. I trespassed on the kindness of your parents. I wish you would forgive me.’

‘I suppose I do. You know, it might have been the thing I remembered, how awful it had been, if so many other things had not happened later. After Michael went, I forgot about it.’ She blushed. ‘Until … well, until now.’ He was standing by her in the shrubbery, running his hand over her cheek, reaching down to kiss her.

‘I am sorry. And I ran away. It was cowardly. I never thought that Michael would go to war.’

‘Don’t think he went to war because of you.’ A drop of something freezing landed on her nose.

‘Did he leave me anything to say goodbye?’

‘He left something for me and Mama, Papa, Emmeline. We found paper in his room on which he had started letters. Dear Mama, Dear Celia, Dear Papa. There was one for you. Dear Jonathan. It stopped there. He put a comma.’

‘I wish I could have it.’

‘Mama threw them away, I think. We were expecting him to come back, you see. If someone is coming back, you don’t need bits of paper saying Dear Jonathan.’ She had told herself this a thousand times; said that was why Verena hadn’t kept them, all those pages with Michael’s writing on.

‘I wrote to him care of Stoneythorpe. Did you forward the letters?’

‘I think so. But you know what war is like. Things get … lost.’ She blushed. Thompson had sent on two, after all, after the one she had destroyed.

‘I didn’t receive anything from him.’

‘Well, he was occupied. Being brave. He was so brave, that’s what they told us. He gave his life for his country.’

‘It’s getting cold. I have kept you out long enough already. I should escort you home.’

‘You don’t have to.’ She brushed another drop of freezing rain from her eye.

‘It is the least I can do, after keeping you out. As I said, I’m very grateful that you could spare time to take tea with me. Where are we headed?’ His voice was newly stiff and formal, like the girls at school when they were rehearsing for their drama exams.

‘Bloomsbury.’

‘Come then.’ They set off north. He had his hands buried deep in his pockets. The first flakes of snow fell around them as they walked.

By the time they reached Tottenham Court Road, shops shuttered, cheap stalls along the road, she could not bear it any more. She stopped dead near a dirty-looking church. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve spoiled everything.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Everything was so nice, the cakes, meeting you out of nowhere. And it is all spoiled now. It’s my fault.’ For so long, two years really, she had thought of Jonathan with hostility, imagined that he had escaped the war and was happy while they suffered. She had torn up his letter. And now, standing in scraps of snow, two street cleaners shivering as they threw salt onto the road for the buses, she was afraid of him going. She didn’t want to be alone; she wanted to stay and talk about Michael, as if by sitting together, sister and friend, they might make him alive once more.

‘No, you were right to ask. I acted wrongly in hurrying away. Listen, Celia – Miss de Witt – don’t be down. Please. I couldn’t bear to think I had made you unhappy.’

‘The war makes me unhappy.’

He held out his hand. ‘I tell you what. Don’t go. You must still be hungry. Let’s get something to eat.’ He hesitated, and she could see the fear of her saying no pass across his face. ‘There are some nice places for dinner.’

The other choice was the saucepan of old soup bubbling in the damp flat, or the smoggy café around the corner, since she didn’t get many of Jemima’s pies these days. ‘All right, then. On one condition.’

‘Which is?’

‘No talking about the war.’

‘That is a good idea. Come,’ he said. He put his arm through
hers and led her onwards. She felt the press of his flesh through her coat. The warmth spread through her. Strange, she thought, that such a touch meant nothing from Emmeline, her mother, her father. With Jonathan, though, it seemed significant, as if she should remember how it began, how long it lasted. She pushed the thought down, almost shocked by herself. She couldn’t think that way about Jonathan. She was in love with Tom.

They walked back the way they had come, past the Trocadero, dark and closed up, and on to Piccadilly. Cars careened around the statue of Eros, greying and chipped, not cleaned for four years. She stopped to shake the flakes of snow from her hat before they melted.

‘Let’s go in here.’

‘But this is the Ritz!’ The gold doors rose in front of her.

‘Our money is as good as anyone else’s. Come on, Celia, let’s go.’

The restaurant was full of men in suits and smart women in gowns of pink, blue, yellow, as perfect as jewels in a shop window, untouched by the greens and browns of war. Celia blushed, thinking of her uniform, her hair pulled back, wished she had spent nights rubbing cream into her face or wax on to her lips, washing her hair in oils and rose water. The place had thick white tablecloths, mirrors on the wall and a heavy carpet that absorbed her feet as she trod. As they sat down, she tugged nervously at her uniform.

‘I don’t think people like me should be coming here,’ she whispered.

‘Oh don’t be silly. I’ll tell you what will make you feel better.’ He waved to a waiter. ‘Champagne, please.’ The waiter nodded and whisked away.

‘We can’t!’ she hissed across to him. ‘Jonathan – Mr Corrigan!’ Lloyd George boomed in her head. Drink was evil, enervating the nation, bringing down the working man. She remembered the champagne at Emmeline’s wedding. But it had been
legal
then. Even the royal family had vowed not to take drink until the war was over.

‘Why not?’ he said. ‘Why can’t I treat a hard-working young lady to a drink or two?’

‘It’s illegal, Jonathan. You could get arrested.’ The girls in Étaples had passed round flasks of alcohol against the rules. One of them had been caught, and let off with five mornings of extra cleaning after she’d said she kept it for the most desperate men.

‘They only care about the working man or woman, you know. It’s only Joe round the corner who will be fined five pounds for buying his wife a sixpenny beer. Although how they can afford it any more, I don’t know. Look around you: don’t you think everyone here is buying each other a drink?’

‘I don’t know.’ The women all had long glass flutes, some of the men the same, others taking small tumblers of what looked like whisky. ‘What if they catch us?’

He winked. ‘I’ll tell them I’m a rich Yank and didn’t know the law. Actually, the base is pretty dry these days. CO hates the rum. Says it makes us slower on the controls. All the more reason to stay here.’ He grinned.

Celia nodded. If the police were to come, they would have to arrest the whole place. ‘But this will cost a
fortune.
I can’t.’

The waiter had returned and was pouring from a dark bottle.

‘Allow me to treat you, Miss de Witt. As I said, I have this money and nothing to spend it on.’ He held up his glass. The ring glinted. ‘Cheers!’

She took a sip. It was bright and sugary, tasted like the golden colour it was. She felt the bubbles billowing into her head. It was much sweeter than the stuff at Emmeline’s wedding, and there was no comparison, really, with the horrid rum they used to pass round in the flask. But the wedding was before, and overseas was different. This was in London! She was doing something that not even the
King
was allowed.

‘Why don’t you have a girl?’ she found herself asking as another waiter put leather menus on the table.

‘Never found the right one.’ He grinned, fingered his glass. ‘Maybe I was waiting for you.’

‘You can’t have been.’ She wanted to laugh, but she was blushing. ‘You would have written to me if you were.’

‘I did write.’

‘I didn’t see the letter you wrote after Michael’s death.’

‘No, I wrote again after that. And then three more times. I wrote from Egypt.’

‘I never received them. You sent them to Stoneythorpe?’

‘I did. I suppose they got lost on the way.’

‘Perhaps.’ Or maybe, she thought, there was a pile of letters at Stoneythorpe from Jonathan and who could guess who else, letters that Verena had not given her.

‘I wrote to tell you that I was thinking of you, that I felt for you in your loss. I know I had already said that in the first letter, but I wanted to say it again. I wanted to ask if we could meet but I did not dare. Instead I wrote about Egypt, a little. I remember you talked of travelling. I wrote again, but there was still no reply, so I thought I should leave you alone.’

‘I would have liked some letters about Egypt.’

‘I wrote to you about what I saw. I told you about everything, the sand outside, the heat, the odd local fruits they bought us, the language of the servants. I wrote about other things too, Michael and Cambridge and our studies, how life had been there, what I hoped for the future.’ He stopped, drank some champagne. ‘Actually, I wrote to you before as well, before Michael died. I thought of you at home. It wasn’t much, just things about Cambridge and how I missed your brother. I didn’t know who else to tell.’

‘I would have been interested.’ She was lying: before Michael’s death, she would have put such letters aside. Now she reached out for the words, for he had seen her as the Celia she had been before the war. No one else but Verena thought of her that way any more. ‘Tell me about America.’

The waiter appeared behind them. ‘Have you made your choice, sir?’

She had barely looked at the menu. ‘What do you think?’ Jonathan said. ‘Sole followed by steak?’

She nodded. ‘Are we allowed three courses here?’ she whispered.

‘Just about.’

She could not think when she had last tasted either sole or steak. The very thought of them made her feel so hungry she
thought she might faint, even after three cakes. Jonathan held up his glass. ‘To us!’ he said. There was something oddly intimate in the touch of their glasses. She blushed and looked away. All the people around them were in couples or pairs of couples. They were married – or perhaps lovers. They must think the same about her and Jonathan.

The sole was placed in front of her by a waiter who whisked his hand away immediately. She waited for Jonathan, then followed him in cutting into it. The fish fell on to her fork, the test of a good one, she knew. It tasted delicate, of whiteness. She took another sip of champagne, felt it dancing up into her head and behind her eyeballs. ‘We have a whole bottle to finish,’ he said. ‘Now, we are not to talk of the war, or of the past. So why don’t we play a game? Spot me something beginning with Q.’

Three hours later, she fell against him as the doorman ushered them outside. ‘Oops-a-daisy,’ he said. ‘Come on now, Celia.’ She grasped his hand and thought how funny it was that he had said her name. She started laughing, and soon she was bent double, unable to stop, like a child. Snow was falling around them, dusting her shoulders. A spot dropped on his nose and she laughed even harder. She leant against him. The centre of her felt weak, like a puppet that had collapsed in the middle. She kept laughing. He gripped her around her shoulders as she bent over, laughing still.

The door behind them opened and two people came out.

‘We should walk on,’ Jonathan said. ‘We are getting a bit in the way here.’

Celia tried to step forward, but found herself laughing again. She held on to his waist to stop herself from falling. ‘Let’s go this way,’ he said, pulling her to the side. She looked up and took a deep breath. ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘I can’t!’

He was smiling at her, but it didn’t matter that he wasn’t laughing too. She knew he saw how funny it all was. She felt him put his arm around her shoulders. ‘Let’s not go home,’ he said. ‘Would you like to go dancing?’

That made her laugh even more. ‘I can’t … I can’t …’ Finally, she managed to say it. ‘I can’t go dancing in this!’

‘Plenty of war girls go dancing.’

She laughed again, thinking of glamorous women in high heels and shiny dresses. ‘I can’t!’

‘Well, why don’t we try?’

She tried to stand up straight, and fell against him again. She put her arms around him. In a moment, he was grasping her close, holding her to him. ‘Let’s stay here!’ she said.

‘We can’t stay here. We’ll freeze. Come on, I will find a taxi.’ He held her arm as he steered her forward into the road and hailed a cab. She dropped against him in the warm interior. He put his arm over her and stroked her hair.

At the door of the club, she watched him count out notes – much more than he needed. She knew from the look of the man in the booth that she was the problem. Two pretty women in sequinned gowns spun past her as she waited. One had a white fur wrap draped over her shoulder the way Mrs Rolls used to hang a tea towel over hers. The other had gold high heels on, buckled low over her feet. They both stole glances at Celia, laughed as they did so. She looked back calmly. The waiting in the cold air had steadied her head.

‘You had to pay a lot for me,’ she said. The club was down a dark set of stairs. He let her go first and she was tentatively finding her way, clutching the wall with her hand, edging her feet. ‘I am not dressed correctly. Those other girls were very smart.’

‘You are dressed fine. You are serving your country. Those girls were probably tarts.’ He had to shout over the music filling the corridor.

‘What do you mean?’

He took her arm as she pushed open the door in front of her. ‘You know.’

Celia gazed at the club. She thought she must be in some sort of play. Everyone was beautiful. She could not see the two girls – it was as if they had disappeared into a mass of loveliness. Her eyes were dazzled, gazing at the bright gems. Men and women were
dancing to a band at the front, drinking together at low tables. She gazed at a couple in front of her. The girl had a butterfly ornament in her dark red hair.

‘This way, sir, madam.’ A waiter showed them to a table just to the side of the band. Celia tucked her knees under the white tablecloth, feeling less self-conscious seated. The waiter put a glass of champagne in front of her. The band were playing an upbeat song. The music coursed through her. She gazed at a couple on the dance floor, moving together quickly to the beat. ‘They do it well,’ she said, admiringly.

‘Some people come here every night.’ Jonathan took a sip of champagne and sat back.

‘Do you come here a lot?’

‘Not now,’ he said. ‘I used to. I met a girl who … used to come here. I wanted to see her. She made a fool of me, of course. Looking for a man with more money than me.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Her words came out clipped, and she felt a spark of anger with herself. The thought of the girl stung. ‘Was she very pretty?’

‘Of course. All those types of girls are.’

‘Like the ones at the door?’

He shook his head. ‘No, she wasn’t like them, not really. She just liked dancing. She wasn’t a tart. Listen, let’s not talk about her.’

‘What do you mean by a tart?’ The couples came dancing past her, hands on each other’s arms. The lights on the dance floor looked like little stars.

‘Oh Celia, you must know. They go with men for money. Surely you aren’t ignorant of that?’

‘Oh.’ Warterton had told her that the men at the front queued up to go with Frenchwomen. She had driven through Covent Garden late at night and seen gaggles of women standing on corners who she supposed might be looking for men. But she had thought of such women as poor, dirty, lying in grimy rooms. These ones looked like they must be duchesses, in glamorous evening gowns, their fingers sparkling with rings. ‘I didn’t think they would be so … rich.’

‘Smoke and mirrors.’

Celia gazed around and saw that the red-haired woman with the butterfly ornament was on the dance floor. She was wearing a bright gold gown, jewelled over her back. The man’s hand was around her waist. They turned with the music and she saw his face. He was gazing at his partner in naked adoration. Celia’s heart sank. She could not imagine someone feeling so strongly for her.

‘These people look very happy here,’ she said. ‘I suppose they chose the right husband.’

‘I don’t think many are married. Quite a lot are here with someone else’s husband, I daresay.’

She stared at him, shocked. This was worse than Cooper. Why get married, then, if you wanted to be with other people? But perhaps all their husbands were fighting and they felt terribly lonely. Still, surely Jonathan was wrong. She took a sip of her champagne. She was getting used to the stuff now, she decided; it was barely going to her head at all. ‘Are you still in love with her?’