The Shifting Fog (51 page)

‘Excellent,’ said Teddy.

‘Going to sell the place?’ said Deborah.

There was a pause and the squeak of leather as Teddy rearranged himself in his desk chair. ‘I don’t think I will,’ he said. ‘I’ve always fancied a place in the country.’

‘You could seek nomination for the seat of Saffron,’ said Deborah. ‘Country people do love their lord of the manor.’

There was a pause and Hannah held her breath, listening for footsteps. ‘By God, Dobby, you’re a genius! I’ll call Lord Gifford immediately,’ said Teddy breathlessly, and the telephone cradle rattled. ‘See if he’ll have a word with the others on my behalf.’

Hannah pulled away then. She had heard enough.

She didn’t speak to Teddy that night. In any event, Emmeline was home by the comparatively early hour of two. Hannah was still awake in bed when Emmeline stumbled along the hall. She rolled over and closed her eyes tight, tried not to think any more about what Deborah had said, about Pa and the way he had died. His desperate unhappiness. His loneliness. The darkness that had claimed him. And she refused to think of the letters of contrition she’d never quite managed to finish.

And in the isolation of the bedroom Deborah had decorated for her, with Teddy’s contented snores drifting from the room beyond, noises of night-time London muffled by her window, she fell into dreams of black water, abandoned ships and lonely foghorns floating back to empty shores.

II

Robbie came back. He gave no explanation for his absence, simply sat down in Teddy’s armchair as if no time had passed and presented Hannah with his first volume of poetry. She was about to tell him
she already owned a copy when he drew another book from his coat pocket. Small, with a green cover.

‘For you,’ he said, handing it to her.

Hannah’s heart skipped when she saw its title. It was James Joyce’s
Ulysses
, and it was banned everywhere.

‘But where did you—?’

‘A friend in Paris.’

Hannah ran her fingertips over the word
Ulysses
. It was about a married couple, she knew, and their moribund physical relationship. She had read—rather Teddy had read her—extracts from the newspaper. He’d called them filth and she had nodded agreement. In truth, she’d found them strangely affecting. She could imagine what Teddy would have said if she’d told him so. He’d have thought her ill, recommended she see a doctor. And perhaps she was.

Yet, though thrilled to have opportunity to read the novel, she wasn’t certain how she felt about Robbie bringing it for her. Did he think she was the type of woman for whom such topics were ordinary fare? Worse: was he making a joke? Did he think her a prude? She was about to ask him when he said, very simply and very gently,

‘I’m sorry about your father.’

And before she could say anything about
Ulysses
, she realised she was crying.

No one thought much of Robbie’s visits. Not at first. Certainly there was no suggestion that anything improper was passing between him and Hannah. Hannah would’ve been the first to deny it if there had. It was known to everyone that Robbie had been a friend to her brother, had been with him at the end. If he seemed a little irregular, less than respectable, as she knew Boyle continued to maintain, it was easily enough put down to the mystery of war.

Robbie’s visits followed no pattern, his arrival was never planned, but Hannah started looking forward to them, waiting for them. Sometimes she was alone, sometimes Emmeline or Deborah was with her; it didn’t matter. For Hannah, Robbie became a lifeline. They spoke of books and travel. Far-fetched ideas and faraway places. He seemed to know so much about her already. It was almost like having David back. She found she longed for his company,
became fidgety between times, bored with whatever else she’d been doing.

Perhaps if Hannah had been less preoccupied she would have noticed she was not the only one for whom Robbie’s visits had come to hold attraction. May have observed that Deborah was spending more time at home. But she did not.

It came as a complete surprise one morning, in the drawing room, when Deborah put aside her crossword puzzle and said, ‘I have a ball organised for next week, Mr Hunter, and wouldn’t you know it? I’ve been so busy organising I haven’t had time even to think about finding myself a partner.’ She smiled, all white teeth and red lips.

‘Doubt you’ll have trouble,’ said Robbie. ‘Must be heaps of fellows looking for a ride on society’s golden wave.’

‘Of course,’ said Deborah, mistaking Robbie’s irony. ‘All the same, it’s such late notice.’

‘Lord Woodall would be sure to take you,’ said Hannah.

‘Lord Woodall is abroad,’ Deborah said quickly. She smiled at Robbie. ‘And I couldn’t possibly go alone.’

‘Going stag is all the rage according to Emmeline,’ said Hannah.

Deborah appeared not to have heard. She batted her lids at Robbie. ‘Unless …’ She shook her head with a coyness that didn’t suit her. ‘No, of course not.’

Robbie said nothing.

Deborah pursed her lips. ‘Unless you’d accompany me, Mr Hunter?’

Hannah held her breath.

‘Me?’ Robbie said, laughing. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Why not?’ said Deborah, ‘We’d have a great old time.’

‘I’ve none of the social graces,’ said Robbie. ‘I’d be a fish out of water.’

‘I’m a very strong swimmer,’ said Deborah. ‘I’ll keep you afloat.’

‘All the same,’ said Robbie. ‘No.’

Not for the first time, Hannah’s breath caught in her throat. He had a lack of propriety quite unlike the affected vulgarity of
Emmeline’s friends. His was genuine and, Hannah thought, quite stunning.

‘I urge you to reconsider,’ said Deborah, a note of determined anxiety screwing tight her voice, ‘everybody who’s anybody will be there.’

‘I don’t enjoy society,’ said Robbie plainly. He was bored now. ‘Too many people spending too much money to impress those too stupid to know it.’

Deborah opened her mouth, shut it again.

Hannah tried not to smile.

‘If you’re sure,’ said Deborah.

‘Quite sure,’ said Robbie cheerfully. ‘Thanks all the same.’

Deborah shook the newspaper onto her lap and gave the appearance of resuming her crossword. Robbie raised his eyebrows at Hannah then sucked his cheeks in like a fish. Hannah couldn’t help herself, she laughed.

Deborah looked up sharply and glanced between them. Hannah recognised the expression: Deborah had inherited it, along with her lust for conquest, from Simion. Her lips thinned around the bitter taste of defeat. ‘You’re a wordsmith, Mr Hunter,’ she said coldly. ‘What’s a seven letter word starting with ‘b’ that means an error in judgement?’

At dinner a few nights later, Deborah took revenge for Robbie’s blunder.

‘I noticed Mr Hunter was here again today,’ she said, spearing a pastry puff.

‘He brought a book he thought might interest me,’ Hannah said.

Deborah glanced at Teddy, who was sitting at the head, dissecting his fish. ‘I just wonder whether Mr Hunter’s visits might be unsettling the staff.’

Hannah laid down her cutlery. ‘I can’t see why the staff would find Mr Hunter’s visits unsettling.’

‘No,’ said Deborah, drawing herself up. ‘I rather feared you wouldn’t. You’ve never really been one for taking responsibility where the household is concerned.’ She spoke slowly, enunciating each word. ‘Servants are like children, Hannah dear. They like a
good routine, find it almost impossible to function without. It’s up to us, their betters, to provide them one.’ She leaned her head to the side. ‘Now, as you know, Mr Hunter’s visits are unpredictable. By his own admission, he doesn’t know the first thing about polite society. He doesn’t even telephone ahead so you can give notice. Mrs Tibbit gets herself into quite a flap trying to provide morning tea for two when she’s only been prepared for one. It’s really not fair. Don’t you agree, Teddy?’

‘What’s that?’ He looked up from his fish head.

‘I was just saying,’ Deborah said, ‘how regrettable it is that the staff has been unsettled lately.’

‘Staff unsettled?’ said Teddy. It was, of course, his pet fear, inherited from his father, that the servant class would one day revolt.

‘I’ll speak to Mr Hunter,’ said Hannah quickly. ‘Ask him to telephone ahead in future.’

Deborah appeared to consider this. ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I’m afraid it’s too little too late. I think perhaps it would be best if he were to cease visiting at all.’

‘Bit extreme, don’t you think, Dobby,’ Teddy said, and Hannah felt a wave of warm affection for him. ‘Mr Hunter’s always struck me as harmless enough. Bohemian, I’ll grant you, but harmless. If he calls ahead, surely the staff—’

‘There are other issues to consider,’ Deborah snapped. ‘We wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea, would we, Teddy?’

‘Wrong idea?’ Teddy said, frowning. He began to laugh. ‘Oh Dobby, you can’t mean that anyone would think Hannah and Mr Hunter … That my wife and a fellow like him … ?’

Hannah closed her eyes lightly.

‘Of course I don’t,’ Deborah said sharply. ‘But people love to talk and talk isn’t good for business. Or politics.’

‘Politics?’ Teddy said.

‘The election, Tiddles,’ said Deborah. ‘How can people trust you to keep your electorate in check if they suspect you’re having trouble keeping your wife in check?’ She delivered herself a triumphant forkful of food, avoiding the sides of her lipsticked mouth.

Teddy looked troubled. ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that.’

‘And neither should you,’ Hannah said quietly. ‘Mr Hunter was my brother’s good friend. He visits so that we might speak of David.’

‘I know that, old girl,’ said Teddy with an apologetic smile. He shrugged helplessly. ‘All the same, Dobby has a point. You understand, don’t you? We can’t have people getting the wrong end of the stick.’

Deborah stuck to Hannah like glue after that. Having suffered Robbie’s rejection, she wanted to be sure he received the directive; more importantly, that he realised from whom it came. Thus the next time Robbie visited, he once again found Deborah on the drawing-room sofa with Hannah.

‘Good morning, Mr Hunter,’ Deborah said, smiling broadly while she plucked knots from the fur of her Maltese, Bunty. ‘How lovely to see you. I trust you’re well?’

Robbie nodded. ‘You?’

‘Oh, fighting fit,’ said Deborah.

Robbie smiled at Hannah. ‘What did you think?’

Hannah pressed her lips together. The proof copy of
The Waste Land
was sitting beside her. She handed it to him. ‘I loved it, Mr Hunter. It moved me immeasurably.’

He smiled. ‘I knew it would.’

Hannah glanced toward Deborah, who widened her eyes pointedly. ‘Mr Hunter,’ said Hannah, tightening her lips, ‘there’s something I need to discuss with you.’ She pointed to Teddy’s seat.

Robbie sat, looked at her with those dark eyes.

‘My husband,’ began Hannah, but she didn’t know how to finish. ‘My husband …’

She looked at Deborah, who cleared her throat and pretended absorption in Bunty’s silky head. Hannah watched a moment, transfixed by Deborah’s long, thin fingers, her pointed nails …

Robbie followed her gaze. ‘Your husband, Mrs Luxton?’

Hannah spoke softly. ‘My husband would prefer that you no longer call without purpose.’

Deborah pushed Bunty off her lap, brushed her dress. ‘You understand, don’t you, Mr Hunter?’

Boyle came in then carrying the tea salver. He laid it on the table, nodded to Deborah, then left.

‘You will stay for tea, won’t you?’ said Deborah, in a sweet voice that made Hannah’s skin crawl. ‘One last time?’ She poured the tea and handed a cup to Robbie.

With Deborah as gay conductor, they managed an awkward conversation about the collapse of the coalition government and the assassination of Michael Collins. Hannah was hardly listening. All she wanted was a few minutes alone with Robbie in which to explain. She also knew it was the last thing Deborah would permit.

She was thinking this, wondering whether she would ever have opportunity to speak with him again, realising just how much she’d come to depend on his company, when the door opened and Emmeline came in from lunching with friends.

Emmeline was particularly pretty that day: she’d had her hair set into blonde waves and was wearing a new scarf in a new colour—burnt sienna—that made her skin glow. She flew through the door as was her way, sending Bunty scuttling beneath the armchair, and sank casually into the corner of the lounge, resting her hands dramatically on her stomach.

‘Phew,’ she said, oblivious to the room’s tension. ‘I’m as stuffed as a Christmas goose. I truly don’t think I’ll ever eat again.’ She lolled her head to the side. ‘How’s tricks, Robbie?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. She sat up suddenly, eyes wide. ‘Oh! You’ll never guess who I met the other night at Lady Sybil Colefax’s party. I was sitting there, talking with darling Lord Berners, he was telling me all about the dear little piano he’s had installed in his Rolls Royce, when who should arrive but the Sitwells! All three Sitwells. They were ever so much funnier in the flesh. Dear Sachy with his clever jokes, and Osbert with those little poem things with the funny endings—’

‘Epigrams,’ Robbie mumbled.

‘He’s every bit as witty as Oscar Wilde,’ said Emmeline. ‘But it was Edith who was most impressive. She recited one of her poems and it brought the whole lot of us to tears. Well you know what Lady Colefax is like—an absolute snob for brains—I couldn’t help myself, Robbie darling, I mentioned that I knew you and they just about died. I dare say they didn’t believe me, they all think I’ve a
talent for invention—I can’t think why—but you see? You simply have to come to the party tonight to prove them wrong.’

She drew breath and in one swift movement withdrew a cigarette from her bag and had it lit. She exhaled a rush of smoke. ‘Say you’ll come, Robbie. It’s one thing to have people doubt one when one’s lying, quite another when one’s speaking the truth.’

Robbie paused a moment, considering her offer. ‘What time should I collect you?’ he said.

Hannah blinked. She’d expected him to decline as he always did when Emmeline tossed him one of her invitations. She’d thought Robbie felt the same way about Emmeline’s friends as she did. Perhaps his disdain did not extend to the likes of Lord Berner and Lady Sybil. Perhaps the lure of the Sitwells was too much to resist.