The Second-last Woman in England (18 page)

‘Julius, go back to your lunch,’ Cecil had ordered. ‘And kindly do not leave the table again until I give you permission to do so, do you understand?’

Julius had glared mutinously and turned and stomped back up the stairs, and Cecil had experienced a moment of irritation. But there were two military policemen standing in the hallway.

‘How do you do? I am Mr Cecil Wallis. This is my wife, Harriet. How may we assist you?’ he had said, because it was important to remain calm and in control. And because Harriet had been holding onto the banister with fingers that looked as though they were going to cut right through the wood.

‘Captains Milton and Peters. May we find somewhere private to talk?’

No one had said, sorry to trouble you on a Sunday, sir. Please excuse this intrusion. Cecil had felt a little sick.

‘Of course,’ and he had led them into the ground floor reception room. They had all sat down, the two officers on the settee, himself and Harriet in the armchairs. It had been noticeable that no one had leaned back in their chair; they had all placed themselves right on the very edges. One of the officers had been carrying a small leather attaché case, which he had placed on his lap. Cecil had hitched up his trousers at the knee and stared at the small case.

‘Are you the sister of Second-Lieutenant Frederick Paget of the 1st Royal Tank Regiment, Mrs Wallis?’ the officer who had spoken earlier—Peters or Milton?—had said to Harriet, and Cecil, convinced now that they would all be attending Freddie’s memorial service before the week was up, had reached across and touched her hand. She had pulled her hand away at once and laid it on her lap, flat, pressing down hard the same way she had on the table at Harrods a few days earlier.

‘Yes,’ she had replied.

‘And have you seen or heard from Lieutenant Paget in the last few weeks?’

‘No.’

No. She had answered, no. It was an unequivocal ‘no’ and Cecil had looked sharply at her and remembered the tears in the tea room five days ago. He had felt a rising sense of panic. What was going on here? And what was he going to do if the officer now turned to him and asked the same question?

But he hadn’t. Instead the man had opened his case and pulled out a sheet of typed paper.

‘Lieutenant Paget failed to report for duty on the twenty-ninth of last month. His division is presently stationed in Southern Italy—we are not at liberty to say exactly where. We have reason to believe that he is now back in this country. There is a warrant out for his arrest on a charge of desertion. May I remind you that harbouring or assisting a deserter during wartime is a very serious offence?’

It was difficult to remember with any certainty how they had both reacted. Cecil had somehow found himself standing by the window gazing out over the street. A young nurse had walked past, pushing a bicycle in the direction of the Brompton Hospital. He could remember her clearly, remember the click her shoes made on the pavement below the window.

Harriet, he had presumed, was still seated. He had not been able to turn around to look at her. It was impossible. Those tears in the tea room at Harrods.

Who had spoken next? He couldn’t remember. There had been no further details forthcoming from the two officers. They had ‘not been at liberty’ to say more. So he himself must have said something, mumbled some reply, expressed his shock—though that must have been patently evident—had probably thanked them for coming! At any rate, they had gone and he and Harriet had waited in the room as the men’s footsteps had receded down the front steps and the little gate had creaked open and snapped shut and two car doors had opened and closed, and a moment later an engine had started up. He had been standing by the window and yet he could not recall seeing them depart. Had no recollection of seeing their vehicle, some military staff car, presumably.

And after they had gone—

Yes, there was a period of time, a long, long time, it had seemed, when neither of them had spoken. He had left the window, finally, with a sense of dread at the words that must be spoken, had to, simply could not be avoided.

‘You knew, of course,’ he had said and it had seemed as though these words must break something, something that might never be repaired.

‘Yes.’

Still he not been able to look at her.

‘You knew last week when you saw Freddie. He told you then. He came to you to tell you. Didn’t he?’

‘Yes.’

He had nodded and had felt himself beginning to lose control, had felt his breath coming faster and faster while not quite catching enough of it to be able to breathe.

‘And you lied to the military police.’

‘Of course.’

‘Of course.’ He had nodded a second time. ‘And you mentioned nothing to me—’

She had abruptly got up and they had stood facing each other.

‘How could I “
mention
” it to you? That would have implicated you.’

‘You
lied!
To the
MPs
. Do you have
any
idea—’

‘I did
not
assist him. I am
not
harbouring him.’

‘
But they asked if you had seen him
! My
God
, what if they had asked me?’ He had gaped at her as the implications of this had washed over him. ‘Do you suppose I would have lied
too
? Is that what you expected me to do? And if I had told the truth, what then? They would have known you had lied. You could have been
arrested
! Dear
God
, you still could be. We
both
could be!’

He had reached blindly behind him for the chair and sunk down into it, feeling nauseous. In a second he had got up again, finding it impossible to remain still, and had begun to pace the room.

‘Are you expecting me to
help
you? To help
him
? Because I won’t!
I
will not
—do you understand? How
dare
you put me in this position? How dare Freddie put
you
in this position!’

Harriet had gone back to her chair and slowly and calmly sat down.

‘All that matters is Freddie’s safety,’ she said in a low tone. ‘He has made plans to leave the country; indeed, he may already have done so. You do not need to concern yourself with him or this matter any longer.’

Cecil had stared at her in disbelief.

‘How can you be so
naïve
? This isn’t simply going to go away. What you have done is
reprehensible
! You have put yourself, me, our children, at risk!’

She had appeared to be listening, though there had been no expression on her face, and it had been this that made him stop. She had turned and looked him, the same way she might have looked at him were she offering him a second cup of tea.

‘Cecil, if you think I am concerned about you or about me then you are mistaken. I am not.’

Cecil lifted his gaze from the broken cufflink that lay on the dressing-table before him and looked at his own face in the mirror.

He had never been back to the tea room at Harrods, he realised. That had been the end of that particular ritual. And he had somehow avoided setting foot in Harrods for the last eight years.

So, Freddie had returned. But what difference did it make, really? Freddie, he realised, had been with them all along.

Chapter Twelve

NOVEMBER 1952

On the stage the unscrupulous Don Giovanni attempted to woo the recently betrothed Zerlina away from her fiancé and in the second row of the circle Harriet thought: maybe it will all be all right. Freddie had come home, there would be an amnesty and maybe everything would be fine.

She leaned back in her seat. Her shoulders felt stiff and she realised they had been hunched up beneath her ears since the opera had begun—and perhaps for much longer.

Zerlina, now offstage, let out a terrified scream as Don Giovannni’s seduction turned violent.

Was it possible? Could things simply slip back to how they had once been, before the war? Freddie living his rakish bachelor existence in Maida Vale, a string of vapid girls following him about and Simon coming over every so often and shaking his head and making those irritating tutting noises, as though all that mattered was that Freddie hadn’t got married yet and settled down?

On the stage a grand ball was in full swing at Don Giovanni’s castle but, unfortunately for the host, his guests had turned on him and he was obliged to fight his way through a crowd and flee. There was much clashing of swords and flashing of lights and rolling of drums.

Harriet narrowed her eyes and lifted a discreet hand to shield her eyes from the worst of it. Beside her Cecil sat perfectly still and in the darkness she could sense rather than see his utter absorption in the production. How would he react if he knew Freddie was back?

She resolved to tell him. And once Cecil had got over his initial outrage, and there had been an amnesty, everything would be all right.

Around them the audience burst into applause and the lights came up to indicate the end of the first act. Cecil started slightly and began belatedly to applaud and it occurred to Harriet that he had not been absorbed in the production at all; indeed, he appeared to have seen as little of it as she had. They got to their feet and in the confusion of retrieving gloves and bags and programs Harriet found it easy enough to avoid catching his eye. As they filed out, Cecil was waylaid by a merchant banker and his wife and Harriet slipped out alone, anxious suddenly to be outside in the light and air.

In the auditorium David and Valerie Swanbridge were at the bar already, collecting their interval champagne. Valerie waved and she and David fought their way through the crowd towards her.

‘Darling, how are you?’ said Valerie, kissing her. ‘It’s been ages. You look wan. She looks wan, doesn’t she, David? Cecil, what have you been doing to her?’

Cecil, who had just that moment appeared at her elbow, met this accusation with a look of consternation and Harriet turned quickly away.

‘You’re looking well, Cecil. All going well in the shipping industry?’ asked David, who didn’t give two hoots about the shipping industry. Of course, Cecil couldn’t see it. As far as he was concerned the whole world was as much in thrall to big ships as he was.

‘Oh well, it has its ups and downs. We—’

‘Excellent. Harriet, you’re looking ravishing as ever. Have some champagne.’

‘I think she’s looking wan.’ Valerie had stepped back from kissing Harriet and now passed an eye over her dress. ‘Dior?’

Harriet nodded and took a sip of the champagne as Valerie cast a critical eye over her shoes.

‘Jordan?’ and Harriet nodded again.

‘Good God!’ exclaimed David, ‘You ladies talk in some form of secret code half the time.’

‘It’s merely to hide the fact that our entire existence is taken up with the latest fashion, being seen at the right places and our husbands’ careers,’ replied Harriet and, as no one seemed willing to offer a reply to this observation, she took another sip of her champagne.

‘Are you enjoying the production, Valerie?’ enquired Cecil, after a moment of silence.

‘Oh, I don’t think anyone ever
enjoys
opera,’ replied Valerie, surprised. ‘Enjoy it ending, quite probably. Surely we are all here simply to get dressed up? To go out? For the occasion of it? Seeing people. Being somewhere—isn’t that right, Harri?’

Valerie placed her lips on a just-lit Gauloises and removed them with a sound like a kiss. A perfect red imprint of her lips stained the cigarette.

‘I married my wife for her shallowness, you know,’ said David, leaning over and kissing her cheek.

‘And he’s rarely disappointed, are you, my love?’ replied his wife.

‘Practically never. Cecil, what do you make of this Eisenhower fellow?’

Cecil took a mouthful of champagne and seemed to give David’s question a great deal of consideration.

‘We-ell. He was a formidable general, no question that he’s proved himself capable in war. But peacetime politics is a whole other kettle of fish.’

‘Certainly a very convincing victory,’ David mused. ‘Perhaps it means this war in Korea might end soon and everyone might stop testing these ghastly atomic bombs.’

‘Oh, I doubt that very much,’ said Valerie in a bored voice. ‘What would all you boys do if you weren’t playing at war games?’ and she whipped out her powder compact and flipped open the lid with a single, practised move. ‘Harriet,’ she said a moment later in an aside, and Harriet moved closer, sensing gossip. ‘You saw Peter Goodfellow resigned his seat?’

Harriet moved away again and looked off towards the far side of the auditorium. No, she had not seen that. She had stopped reading the paper and if Cecil had read it he had not mentioned it.

‘No, I’ve not seen the paper,’ she murmured with a shrug, hoping Valerie would take the hint. But Valerie was not one for hints.

‘It was in this morning’s
Times
. He’s stood down. All this stuff about the blasted nephew. It’ll be a divorce now for sure. Daphne won’t stand for it. Poor Peter. I always rather liked him.’

‘You did not! You always described him as “widely disliked”!’

‘Quite possibly. But now that this has happened one can’t help but feel dreadfully sorry for him. I mean, it’s not his fault his blasted nephew did a bolt in the war, is it?’