La's Orchestra Saves the World (10 page)

Gerald muttered something that she did not catch. She looked away, wondering whether she should leave him there alone with his son in this final farewell. And it was to be final; the doctor had made that clear.

“I’ll wait outside,” she said. But Gerald shook his head and then bent down quickly, awkwardly, to kiss his son. Then he replaced the hand on the counterpane, slowly, with care, and turned away.

“I shall be in the corridor,” he whispered.

Alone with Richard, La stood beside the bed. The doctor’s words were in her mind; there are things that one might wish to say. She looked at the bandage that was wound past the top part of Richard’s head. There was a dressing underneath, to the side, and blood had seeped through, had turned black, a human crust. She looked at his eyelids; if there was consciousness within, if he was merely
sleeping, there would be movements revealing the flickering of activity in the brain; the skin was taut, and still.

What should she say? What did one say to the dying in their beds? It’s a fine day outside; we saw people on the benches, under the trees, enjoying the autumn sun. The trip from England was smooth; just a little rough in the early morning. I am enjoying living in Suffolk; you know the house, Richard. I have been working in the garden. I am lonely without you. So lonely. It is like an ache, right here—an ache.

Instead, she moved closer and sat on the edge of the bed, in silence. She took his hand, the hand that Gerald had held. It was warm to the touch, but it was as if there were no muscles controlling it, just passive flesh and bone. That hand had caressed her; that hand had placed a ring upon her finger. She remembered that now.

“I’m so sorry, Richard. I’m so sorry.”

A sound came from his lips. She looked up sharply, but it was just breathing; faint breathing, like the wind on a still day, an almost imperceptible movement of air, not enough to stir the leaves; a touch.

“I have come to tell you something,” she continued. “Darling. My darling. I have come to tell you that I forgive you. I do.”

She waited for a response, but what did she expect? Some sign, perhaps, that he had heard, that he understood.
But there was nothing; if there was any consciousness, somewhere in that sleeping mind, it was fixed on other things, dreams, flickers of light, remembered sounds, fragments of what had been.

She stood up. She felt as she had on the day, shortly after her thirteenth birthday, when she had been taken to the Bishop for confirmation. She thought that the experience of that oiled finger making the sign of the cross on her brow would change her; that she would feel herself transformed, filled with the inrush of some sort of spirit. But she had not; she had felt exactly the same as she always did, unchanged—and the world about her was as it ever was, prosaic, stubbornly ordinary. There had been no rush of the Holy Spirit, no roaring as of a waterfall, nothing; just the face of the Bishop who had cut himself shaving that morning, a nick on the chin, and had staunched the cut with styptic pencil—she could see the white mark it had made, like a small crust of salt.

Her words were unheard. But she had bestowed her forgiveness upon him, and as she turned and left the room, she thought: you can be forgiven without knowing it, and for the forgiver it does not matter that the recipient is unaware of what has happened; just as one may be loved by another without ever knowing it.

A DIFFERENT TAXI-DRIVER
drove them back from the hospital. The one who had taken them there had been taciturn; this one was conversational.

“So you are going back to the harbour. The boat to England? That is very wise. We are in greater danger here in France, as you no doubt know. You see that road over there, that one? That leads to the cavalry stables. They have turned the horses out of their stalls, you know, to accommodate the animals from the Paris Zoo. Did you know that? They have evacuated the animals from the zoo up in Paris because they know that the Germans will be coming. Or German aeroplanes, rather. Paris will be destroyed. They know that up there. They know that, and are trying to save the animals, even if they cannot save the people.

“Your king is still there in London, I believe. Well, you tell
monsieur le roi
that if he had any sense he would be out of London. Anywhere. Go anywhere—anywhere—until the fighting is over. And get the animals out of London Zoo. You have a big zoo there, do you not? Send the animals over here; we shall look after them for you.”

In the taxi and at the harbour, Gerald seemed strangely composed. La looked at him anxiously as they boarded the ship. “Are you sure that you are all right?” she enquired. “Are you sure that you want to travel?”

He was adamant. He had accompanied her to France, and he would see her back safely. This was the way he was—stoic—and she knew that there was no point in her trying to persuade him she was capable of getting back by herself. He went to his cabin, but only after he had seen La to hers.
Then, each alone in their different forms of sorrow, they began the crossing.

The following morning, shortly before twelve, the ship’s engines suddenly stopped. They were four hours’ steaming from Southampton, and the skies had clouded over slightly. The air now had a northerly smell to it, had become sharper, and the colour of the sea had changed, silver darkening into a grey-green; the south, and the freedom it suggested, lay behind them. Some of the passengers came up on deck when the engines stopped, curious to see what had happened; a man overboard, perhaps, or one of the yachts they had seen earlier now in need of assistance. But the sea about was calm, and there was no other shipping to be seen. An off-duty member of the crew leaned over the railing, watching the wavelets below lap against the side of the ship; there was clearly no emergency.

The Captain’s voice came over the loudspeakers that were affixed at points to the ship’s superstructure. He spoke with the accent of Devon; a voice that struggled to sound grave, even now. “This is the Captain speaking. I am very sorry to tell you: the radio room earlier today received a message from shore telling us the Prime Minister has addressed the nation. War has been declared on Germany. That is all we have heard.”

La had been standing on the aft deck. The wind was blowing straight on, and it carried the Captain’s words quite clearly. After he had spoken, there was a short pause
before the engines were started, and they got under way again. La stood where she was, near the starboard lifeboats. She put her hand against one of the boats. It felt sticky, from the salt spray that had blown against it; the stanchions holding it were rusted; she saw that. If somebody attacked them now, she wondered whether these ill-kept lifeboats could be released. Somebody, somewhere, had to be the first civilian casualty. War. It was what people had feared for so long; it seemed unavoidable—like a brewing thunderstorm that one knew would engulf one. How was it that people had done nothing to stop it? Why had those who remembered the last time, and all its horrors, not risen up and shouted at the politicians, shaken them, made them listen:
Never again?
War.

She felt a cloying, leaden dread. Whatever happened—whether the war was businesslike and swift, or hopelessly drawn out—young men would lose their lives in their thousands, in their tens of thousands, their millions perhaps. It was happening; in a dreadful form of slow-motion it was happening. And this time, she feared, it would not be possible to hide away from it. This was a war that would involve them all. Gerald and his wife. The Aggs. Dr. Price in her rooms in Cambridge. Her old neighbours in London. Herself. Now that war had been declared, they could come out into the open—those who would kill her; her, of all people; La. They could show their face.

For the rest of the voyage and on the train from
Southampton, she did her best to comfort Gerald. His earlier composure failed him, and now he moved between silence and talkativeness, bringing up memories of Richard, sobbing occasionally, covering his face with his forearm, as if ashamed. “You know what news we shall get when we return? You do know, don’t you, La?”

“Sometimes people recover …”

Gerald shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

She travelled with him as far as London, where they said their farewells on a station platform within earshot of a newspaper man calling out, “News from the war.”

“There can’t be anything,” said Gerald. “Not yet.”

“It won’t last long,” said La. “There’ll be peace.” He was grieving already for his son, even if they had left him alive; she did not want him to have to worry about the war.

“No, there won’t,” he said.

She returned to Suffolk. From the train window she saw that everything was normal; the crops were being brought in; a man stood on top of a haystack and lifted a fork of golden hay against the sky; boys leaned over bridges to watch the train go by; a couple held hands in the carriage, stole a kiss in a tunnel. In the taxi from the station, Mr. Granger gave her his views on the situation.

“They’ll sort Hitler out quickly enough,” he said. “The War Office. The generals. They’ve never let us down.”

La was silent. “They’re very strong,” she said. “The other side. They’ve been pouring money into armaments. Duff
Cooper had to struggle to get anything to bring our forces up to date. Remember?”

“They’ll be all right,” said Mr. Granger. “Look at the Spanish. Look at Napoleon. Look at the Kaiser. We dealt with them all. Sent them packing.”

He helped her with her luggage and then left. As she opened the front door, she saw the telegram that must have been sent shortly after she had left Gerald in London; he must have heard within minutes of his arrival. She knew what it would say, and so she did not open it, but placed it on the kitchen table, from where it stared at her, daring her to open it. She went into the dining room and wound up her gramophone. She chose Bach’s
Mass in B Minor
, but only played one side of the first record. She moved to Mozart, because he had the greatest healing power. The music reminded her: love and loss were inextricably linked. This world was a world of suffering; music helped to make that suffering bearable. She listened intently, and then, as the record came to its end and the needle scraped against the last swirling grooves, she rose to her feet and lifted the arm of the gramophone and let the turntable spin round until its spring unwound completely and it stopped.

N
OW THEY HAD A WAR
to fight, La wondered whether she should get back to London and volunteer. There were plenty of things for women to do; she had friends who were in the Wrens and the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force; another drove an ambulance in Liverpool. Everybody, it seemed, could find war work—
should
find war work. She had wanted there to be peace—who did not?—but now the proponents of peace were discredited, or considered defeatist: Munich had been a shameful act of appeasement, people said. Few seemed to remember their relief at the time; the clarity of hindsight had almost obliterated memories of that.

In the February after the outbreak of war, La visited a recruiting office in Cambridge, where she was interviewed by a carefully groomed major. The major’s manner was formal; it was as if, thought La, he wanted to impress upon her
the gravity of the work he was doing. This was military business; and so might a general sit at the board on which campaigns were plotted.

He moved the piece of paper in front of him on his metal desk. His hands, she noticed, were small. “You are a widow, I see.”

She was not used to being called that, and hesitated a moment, as if the description did not apply to her. But she was a widow, of course;
la veuve Stone
, like a champagne heiress. What difference did it make to what she could do for the war effort? She had read that widows encountered social difficulties—balancing tables at dinner parties was widely said to be a problem—and thought: Did the army and the air force have anything against widows? She studied the major. He was a man in his late forties, she thought; spruce and handsome in an asexual sort of way. Men in uniform may have interested some women, but had never meant anything to La. Uniforms destroyed individuality, she thought—that was what they were meant to do, after all—and characterless maleness was of no interest to her.

Did this major like women, she wondered; or was he one of those military men who prefer the company of other males? She met his eyes, and the retreat within gave her the answer.

The major picked up the piece of paper and then replaced it on the desk. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You have lost your husband very young.”

“Thank you. And, of course, being by myself now means that I can be flexible in the work I undertake.”

“Yes. Naturally.” He paused, then spoke; but not to La, more to himself, as if reviewing possibilities. “We shall need more nurses.”

“I could do that.”

“You would have to train … and, well, they’re taking single girls first. Young women. Eighteen or so.”

“I see.”

“I suppose that it’s something to do with being able to train an eighteen-year-old more easily. Nurse training is almost like military training, I’m told. Very strict. Very demanding.”