The Second-last Woman in England (15 page)
The words ‘The History of Ocean Travel’ gradually came into focus. Behind it were photographs of big-masted sailing ships and passengers, dressed from before the first war, climbing up long gangways carrying boxes and trunks, and other people waving goodbye from the railings on the ships, all with big smiles on their faces as if sailing off into the unknown was a good thing. And there were the big modern ocean liners, the sort that went to New York and Australia, and beside each one was the name of the shipping company—Union-Castle, P&O, Cunard, Empire and Colonial—and in important curly print beneath were the names of the men who ran each line. They were all ‘Sir’ this and ‘Lord’ that and ‘The Hon’ someone else and they all had lots of meaningless letters after their names:
Sir Maurice Debden, Mr St. John MacIntosh DSO
. They didn’t seem like real people at all.
Mr McAuley Standforth CBE, Mr Cecil Wallis
.
She stepped backwards, not caring that she had trodden on a small child’s foot. The Festival, Eddie and Maureen having it away in the first-class cabin, the swirling mass of nuns, even the small child whose foot she had trodden on, had all been for this. They had guided her here, to this one spot. To Mr Cecil Wallis.
The window in her bedroom rattled. It rattled a lot as the days moved deeper into autumn. This morning a sharp chill had whistled around the upstairs rooms, then the sun had briefly come out; but now the wind was getting up again and it had started to rain. A door slammed somewhere downstairs—Mrs Thompson, perhaps, returning from the shops. Putting the shopping away, sitting down, taking the weight off. Putting the kettle on.
Outside, Mrs Wallis and the man had parted, he walking rapidly away towards Old Brompton Road. He was a youngish man, quite handsome and well dressed, though perhaps a little shabby. A poor bank clerk, perhaps; an aspiring writer; an out-of-work musician. Did they carry on right there in the garden, within sight of Mrs Wallis’s own house?
There were voices downstairs. Mrs Wallis was back already, and was even now giving orders to Mrs Thompson about the weekly menus and the housekeeping budget as if nothing had happened, and with not the slightest notion that Mr Wallis had practically caught them in the act. It was just as she had pictured it and there could be no avoiding a scene now, there could be no denial—
And yet his step had faltered. He had pulled his hat down as though he didn’t wish to see them. What kind of man did that?
Mr Cecil Wallis. A name in a glass cabinet at the Festival of Britain.
But the festival was long over, the pavilions dismantled, the glass cabinets removed and in storage, or perhaps broken up and destroyed, and Mr Cecil Wallis had walked right past his wife and her lover; had walked right past his own house and continued round the corner into Fulham Road.
A Piccadilly Line train came in, bound for Kings Cross and Finsbury Park. The doors opened, a number of lunchtime office workers and West End shoppers got in and the doors closed again. The train rattled noisily out of the station with a screech of metal and a shower of sparks. And Cecil found that he had failed to board and was still standing on the platform.
Freddie was back. And Harriet had lied to him.
A mother with a little girl in tow pushed past and stood in front of him, the mother peering at the mirror of a powder compact with one hand and firmly holding onto the little girl with the other. The girl looked over her shoulder and regarded Cecil wordlessly.
He remembered the last time he had seen Freddie—in the tea rooms at Harrods in March ’44—and the last time Harriet had lied to him. Or perhaps it was not the last time she had lied to him? Perhaps Freddie had been back for some time?
The child’s unwavering gaze was unnerving. Cecil glared at her but she only stared more intently.
He had been surprised to see Freddie that bleak and drizzling March afternoon in Harrods. He had presumed Freddie was somewhere in North Africa. That was what he had been told, though during the war one never knew for certain where anyone was and even if one did, one was not meant to say. It was a question of national security. But Harriet had said, Freddie is in North Africa and he had seen no reason to question it.
He had arranged to meet Harriet and the children in Harrods tea room. In those days, particularly towards the end of the war, when the Blitz had ended but the V1s and V2s had yet to start up, he had got into the habit of meeting Harriet and the children every couple of weeks for afternoon tea and scones. There was no jam and no one could remember the last time they’d seen double cream, but at Harrods one could, at least, still get scones. And tea. Harrods had always managed to put on a magnificent array of teas, even during the darkest hours of rationing.
A convoy of ships had just made it across the Atlantic, and Cecil, who had been seconded by the Admiralty to oversee merchant ship repairs and refits at the docks, had not been home in a week. Security around the docked ships had been stepped up and a black-marketeer had been shot by guards the previous evening. Cecil had not slept for three nights, other than hastily snatched catnaps on the chair in his office. But one did not complain; it was much worse for the troops. It was much worse for Freddie, who was in North Africa.
Or not in North Africa, for there he had been, bold as brass, sitting at the table, sipping his tea and jiggling one-year-old Anne on his lap. And beside him Julius was fairly jumping up and down with excitement, pleading to try Freddie’s officer’s hat on. Opposite him Harriet had been sitting with her gloved hands folded over each other on the table and a teacup untouched before her. And once Cecil had got over his surprise at seeing Freddie it was this that struck him the most—the expression on her face, which he at first mistook for a sort of serenity but was, instead (as he saw, drawing closer), a kind of studied tension, her teeth clenched so tightly he could see the muscles in her jaw and the tendons standing out in her neck.
‘Dada!’
Anne had seen him and pointed a chubby arm at him over Freddie’s shoulder. The effect this single word had had on the little gathering had been remarkable. Freddie had reacted first, springing up and almost knocking Anne to the floor. Seeming belatedly to remember her presence, he had scooped her up and handed her to her mother. Harriet’s face had assumed a greyish tinge but aside from turning her head towards Cecil and taking the squirming child she had not moved.
‘Daddy! Uncle Freddie’s back!’ Julius had announced, somewhat unnecessarily, and he had tried once more to reach Freddie’s hat. But as Freddie had now placed the hat on his head and appeared to be making ready to leave, he was again thwarted.
‘What’s this?’ Cecil had said, walking towards them, a bemused smile on his face. ‘Didn’t realise we were expecting you, Freddie. When did you get back?’
Freddie had not replied. He had instead turned to Harriet.
‘It’s just a flying visit,’ Harriet had explained, and her voice had been strained. ‘We only heard from him today.’
Freddie had appeared to find his voice. ‘Yes, short notice. Sorry, can’t stay,’ and he had dismissed Cecil and turned, rather helplessly it had seemed, towards Harriet. She had got up and hugged him, though she had not looked at his face, and had quickly resumed her seat. ‘Be seeing you, Julius,’ Freddie had said, and he had picked up first one child and then the other and hugged them rather fiercely. Anne had squirmed and wriggled to be free. And the next moment Freddie was gone.
Cecil had watched him go and sat down at the space Freddie had just vacated. His wife, he had realised with a shock, was silently crying.
Another Piccadilly Line train was approaching, and this distracted the little girl from whose merciless scrutiny Cecil was at last spared. The doors opened and he stepped on board and located a seat, and found that the little girl and her mother were now sitting directly opposite. The girl resumed her gaze and began to pick her nose.
Eight years. And now Freddie was back.
I ought to have confronted them, Cecil realised. Why had he just slunk away as though
he
were the guilty one?
The train pulled away and gathered speed as it entered the tunnel.
Eight years. He remembered his shock at seeing Harriet crying like that, sitting there perfectly still with the tears steaming down her face, in the middle of Harrods tea room. Had he avoided a confrontation today because he had known—just as he had known eight years before—that Harriet would choose Freddie over him?
According to the society page of
The Times
the Swanbridges had last night attended a charity ball also attended by Princess Margaret. That would have pleased Valerie, Harriet thought with a brief smile. She would be dining out on that for a month.
There was nothing in
The Times
about Empire and Colonial, or about the man who had stolen from Cecil’s firm. Instead there had been another piece about Daphne’s husband, Peter Goodfellow, only this time the story was less about Peter himself and more about revelations that Mr Goodfellow’s nephew, a junior naval officer in the war, had been convicted on a charge of dereliction of duty in June of ’43 and had duly been court-martialled. It had been suggested in some quarters that the Honourable Mr Goodfellow’s recent resignation from the Ministry and his earlier failure to win a Cabinet posting in the recent reshuffle—a post he had been widely tipped to win—were connected to this revelation.
The Times
concluded by noting that, while it was not the British way to lay the guilt for one man’s action at the doorstep of another, would the Honourable Mr Goodfellow feel himself able, in light of the above-mentioned revelations about his family, to continue to serve his constituents?
It was a horrid, vindictive story. Harriet folded the paper over and pushed it to the far side of the table. Dereliction of duty. The war had been over seven years, but people did not forget. Poor Daphne.
The newspaper was a complimentary copy provided for the enjoyment of members and their guests at Simon’s club, so naturally it was
The Times
. It was revolutionary enough that his club now had a sitting room where members could entertain ladies. But to read a newspaper other than
The Times
would have been inconceivable.
The Planters Club was a minor establishment as far as gentlemen’s clubs went, which explained why it had recently opened its doors (albeit its back doors) to ladies. It was located near to, but not actually in, St James, and catered largely for returned administrators and overseers from the remnants of Britain’s empire. Harriet’s father, a long-time District Officer in the Indian Civil Service, had become a member following his return from India in 1930 and had thoughtfully bequeathed his membership to Simon. Harriet was reasonably certain that, left to his own devices, Simon would never have bothered with such a place. But having had membership thrust upon him, and especially since the war, he had taken to spending a large amount of time in its reading room. Reading, he was quick to stress, not in conversation with the other members, the majority of whom sat in gloomy silence, sunk within ancient winged armchairs, each turned at an angle away from its neighbour. No one spoke other than to order a port, a newspaper or a cab and the only movement came from the ancient, white-gloved staff who padded about carrying silver trays—trays on which important missives ought to have arrived from Whitehall and Westminster but on which, instead, were balanced crystal tumblers of not-quite-vintage port and dusty-looking sherry. Hanging over it all was a fug of pipe and cigar smoke thick enough to make your eyes water.