The Storms of War (41 page)

‘Who?’

‘The nightclub girl.’

‘Naomi? Of course not.’ He laughed, then softened his voice. ‘Listen, I shouldn’t have talked about her. I’m here with you.’

All the men here are looking at women and you’re not looking at me,
she wanted to say. She reached out and caught a spot of wax dripping from the candle on the table.

‘You know,’ he said, ‘when I wrote to you, these ideas kept forming. I told you about Egypt and the things I saw. I said how much I missed your brother. I thought of you reading my letters. I thought maybe … I don’t know … maybe we might be closer friends than we were. Or something like that. I had this image of you in my head, the girl I saw last.’

‘I’m not that girl any more.’

‘No. You’re more.’

The band finished the quick-paced song. A woman in a blue dress stepped forward and began swaying as the violins played. She had a low voice. It was a love song from a woman to a man who had deserted her.

‘Let’s dance,’ Jonathan said to Celia.

‘I don’t know how to.’ All the lessons with Miss Gillieflower had been about the type of dancing you might do at court. Not this.

‘I’ll show you. Just follow what I do.’

She folded her hands in her lap.

‘Don’t think about those other women, Celia. You are much more beautiful. Their faces are just caked in paint, you know.’ He stood up. ‘Come with me. I want to dance, and there’s no one else I want to dance with.’

He put his arm through hers as they stepped down to the floor, and then held her close. She realised he was stronger than she had thought as he whirled her around, spinning her across the floor, taking her from side to side. They danced past the singer, and Celia felt herself flush.
Don’t forget me, why did you go away, you broke my heart and oh why would you not stay.

‘You know,’ he said. ‘This is the champagne talking, Celia, but sometimes, since Michael’s death, I have thought of you and me dancing together. I thought we would do it well.’

‘What?’ He was swinging her in a turn then and didn’t answer. She asked again, but the music was too loud to hear what he said. As they turned once more, past another beautiful woman, she told herself that perhaps she hadn’t heard correctly. She had muddled what he said with something the lady in blue had been singing.

‘Again?’ he said, after the song finished. The band were fiddling with their instruments. Celia looked up, and one of the sequinned women was casting her a mocking glance. That was it. His arms were still around her. Why not? she thought. Everybody else was doing it. That was what war made people do. She thought of Cooper, smiling to herself in the daytime, creeping off from the dorm at night, even though it might have got her fired.

‘Where did you say your hotel was?’

‘I didn’t. Knightsbridge.’

‘Why don’t I go back with you?’

‘What?’

‘I said, why don’t I go back with you? To your room.’

He gripped her hand. ‘Celia? What are you saying? You don’t mean that!’

She was flooded with shame. ‘You don’t want to.’ First Tom, now him.

‘No … no, it’s not that. It is just … Celia … you are …’

‘That’s what everybody else is doing around us, isn’t it? They dance, and then they will go back to each other’s hotel rooms or apartments.’

‘Yes, but Celia, you are not like them. That’s not … not what I want.’

‘You don’t like me. I’m too plain.’

‘No!’ The word exploded from him. ‘Listen, come back to the table. Then we can talk.’

She sat down next to him, her heart hot with misery.

‘It’s not that I don’t like you, Celia, not at all. Not that. Of course I do. I just … you know … that’s not what … those girls, they are not like you. They are different.’

‘They’re beautiful.’

‘So are you. And all the more so because you haven’t spent hours before a mirror, primping yourself. You are like … something else. I shouldn’t have brought you here. I suppose … I don’t know what I planned. There wasn’t really a plan. But if I could look into the future, I wish we might write to each other and do this again when I’m next back, and …’

‘And?’ She was wrong to demand, she knew. But she wanted to hear his explanation.

‘Oh dammit, who cares.’ His voice was all irritation. ‘You could be my girl. Walk out together. You know. And I suppose … I suppose … You know, all the chaps are doing it. People get married after knowing each other for a few weeks! Why not us? Eventually.’

Celia felt as if she was going to shake so hard she might fall from the seat. ‘You don’t know me. Not really.’ She fixed her gaze on his eyes. The colour in them was sweeping, the same thing she had seen after the morphine shot as the relief plunged though the soldier’s body.

‘I do. Michael told me all about you. I know enough; I want to marry you. How much longer do we need? I am back in four months, we could do it then. I would say let’s wait until the war is over, but why should we? We shouldn’t let the war win. We can do it wherever you want. You can pretend not to be married if you want to carry on driving, I don’t mind. And then we can … I don’t know. You could come to America just to see, and if you don’t like it, we’ll come back.’

Celia gazed at the candle, still dropping hot wax over its saucer. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ she managed. It was an answer, she thought, something like the morphine that meant she didn’t have to think. And yet that didn’t make it less true. How she had hated America before. Now she thought: there is no war there! The woman was singing another song, about the sea. The drink was dancing in her head. And Jonathan’s kiss outside Stoneythorpe, the glow of his cigarette in the darkness … ‘I just met you by chance and now you ask me to marry you.’

‘It was by chance, it’s true. But I’ve been thinking about you. I wrote.’

‘I can’t comprehend this.’ The picture of the flat in France floated into her mind, the pile of books by her window looking out on to the Seine. Cambridge slipped in behind it, so the two were mingling. ‘Marriage.’

He patted her hand. ‘I’m sorry. Sorry.’

‘Well, people are getting married quickly in the war, you are right. I read about it.’
Do you love him?
Shep would have asked.
I don’t know,
Celia wanted to reply.
How will I know? I can’t tell!
And then Tom rose up in her head, his head covered in bandages. ‘I am …’ she began.
I want to marry another.
But then,
I do not want to marry you,
Tom had said. Him and the other girl, living in a cottage somewhere, her serving up food that she had cooked herself. Celia had always thought of spending her future with Tom, exploring, visiting the world, talking, riding around the countryside together. That future she could see. But maybe, she told herself, that was because it was not real, never could be. This possible future with Jonathan was something quite different, lost
behind a foggy glass. A great boat going to America, dance clubs like this – and then what?

Jonathan poured more champagne into her glass. ‘Please don’t try to speak. I was wrong in springing this on you. Let’s write to each other, meet up again next time. Don’t think about the other things I said.’

She nodded. ‘I would like to write.’

‘I shouldn’t have said it like this. I should have had a ring and a bunch of flowers and the violins behind us should shoot into song. We should be in a park surrounded by people dancing. I should write it in the snow.’

What would Emmeline think of Jonathan? Celia supposed she would probably like him. Only three years ago she had said
I am never getting married!
Tom had laughed at her, said she would be a grand lady. Emmeline had got married in the blink of an eye. She and Jonathan could do the same. And then she would be his, every night. Her head was spinning.

She tried to speak again, could not.

‘But I haven’t thought of the most important thing,’ he said. ‘You probably don’t like me. You’re just being kind to me as the friend of your brother.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘No. I do.’

‘You’re not promised to someone else?’

‘No.’ It hurt to say the words. ‘I’m not.’

He put his hand over hers. It glowed in the lamplight. ‘I’m pleased.’

She felt the warmth of his hand. She didn’t want him to take it away.

‘I’m so happy,’ he said. ‘Really.’

I am too,
she was about to say. It didn’t matter about Tom not wanting her, Michael under the ground, Rudolf in prison, Verena’s sadness. Here was happiness; this was what it was. You had to catch it and hold tight to it. She held his hand.

The candle darkened. She realised there was someone standing above them. ‘Hello, Corrigan, old chap!’ It was a dark-haired man, tall, smartly dressed in an evening suit, small eyes in his wide face.
He was smiling. ‘Fancy seeing you here. I thought you were out in the field.’

‘Back on leave. Hello, Burlington.’ Jonathan’s tone had dropped low. His voice was weary, displeased. But the smartly dressed man, Celia thought, was too drunk to notice.

‘What a pleasure to see you, old thing. And who is this little lady?’

‘A friend. Miss de Witt.’ He mumbled her name so no one could have heard it, let alone Burlington. Celia blushed. Was he ashamed of her?

‘Charming, charming. Lovely to see a war girl out enjoying herself. May I sit down?’

‘Well, we, er, were just talking actually.’

‘Splendid. I will join in! Budge up.’ He folded himself down on to the seat and squashed up against Celia. She felt the pressure of his thigh and her blush deepened.

‘Aren’t you here with anyone?’ Corrigan said. ‘Surely they’ll wonder where you are.’

‘Oh, some chaps over there.’ Burlington waved his hand. ‘They won’t miss me for a tick. Had to come and say hello to my old chum. We miss you now you are gone off to be a hero.’

‘Hardly a hero. I see you’ve avoided it.’

‘Oh, I went for a month or so. But I’m needed at home, don’t you see. My old man bought a munitions factory, told the powers that be that he needed me to run it. It’s good money, that sort of thing, you know. He made me promise I would return to college after the war was over, but I prefer living in London. Don’t fancy going back to the wet old fens.’ He squeezed Celia’s arm. ‘No pretty girls like this young lady here, I can tell you. You Yanks always get the beauties. Now, tell me, what are you two drinking? Champers? I will get some more.’

‘Really, Burlington, we were just leaving.’

‘You can’t refuse me one night with my old pal and his lovely lady.’ He waved his hand at the waiter. ‘More champagne over here, Christopher.’ He squeezed Celia’s arm again. ‘Christopher is a good one, you know. Can’t do enough for you.’

‘You come here a lot, I suppose.’

‘Every night, some weeks. Gets a bit dull, same old scene. Although not as dull as Cambridge. But still, same old guys, same old gals. That’s why I couldn’t believe my luck when I walked in and saw you two on the dance floor.’

‘We really are just leaving.’

‘Oh, one more won’t hurt.’ He moved his hand up Celia’s arm. ‘You are very quiet, old thing. What are you in the forces? Not a nurse, I can see that.’

‘I’m a driver.’

‘Oh, wonderful! Trust you, Corrigan, to find a girl with a car. Now tell me, how do you know our big Yankee chappie here?’ Celia almost jumped; under the table, Jonathan was digging his nails into her leg. She turned to him in shock.
Don’t!
he was mouthing. He reached across her and pushed away the bottle of champagne. ‘We really need to go now, Burlington. Sorry we don’t have time to stay. Come on, Celia.’ He pulled her to her feet.

‘Why! Just when we were getting acquainted. We can’t have that. What did you say your name was again?’

Jonathan was grasping her arm so hard she felt tears come to her eyes. How could he treat her like this?

‘De Witt,’ she said. ‘Celia de Witt.’ She heard Jonathan groan over the music.

‘We have to go now, Burlington.’ He was almost shouting.

But Burlington was staring at her. ‘De Witt? As in Michael de Witt? Of course! You are a relative of his?’

‘I am his sister,’ she said proudly.

‘Oh God!’ she heard Jonathan say. ‘Celia, please.’

‘Of course you are! I should have seen the resemblance. What a guy. It was a pleasure to know him at Cambridge.’

‘Thank you.’ Jonathan was pulling at her but she would not go.

Burlington put his hand on her shoulder. ‘So sorry about his passing. So very unfair. I couldn’t believe the news when I heard.’

‘We miss him very much. I wish he’d never gone to war.’

‘You are right. Pretty brutal stuff if you ask me. You would think
there were enough Fritzers killing off our chaps without the Brits doing the same to their own men.’

Jonathan was tugging at her so hard she almost fell against him. ‘We have to
go
!’ he said urgently. She ignored him. Burlington’s words were shaping in her head. ‘Doing the same to their own men?’

‘Yes, just terrible. You would think they would be sympathetic. Not
shoot
them.’

The music flashed around her head. The candle was flickering. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Celia, please.’

Burlington’s big bear face crumpled a little. ‘What happened to him. You know.’

‘He was shot by a German when they went over the top.’

Burlington looked at Jonathan over her head. ‘She doesn’t know.’

‘I don’t know what?’

‘Celia, come on, I’ll tell you outside.’

‘I want to hear now!’

People were turning to look. She could hear Burlington saying, ‘I am sorry, old chap, I had no idea.’ Jonathan was trying to pull her forward. ‘Come on, Celia, let’s get some air.’

‘I don’t want air!’ A man in a suit was coming towards them. ‘Is something the matter, sir?’ he said to Jonathan.

‘No, no, we were just leaving. Celia, let’s go.’

‘I want to know! Tell me!’ The man in the suit gestured to the band and they played louder. Burlington, face wracked, was muttering urgently to Jonathan. ‘Tell me now!’ she cried.

‘Let’s talk about it outside.’ Jonathan was still holding her arm.

‘No!’ she said, gripping Burlington’s arm. ‘You tell me!’