The Wheel of Fortune (35 page)

What am I going to wear when Robert makes his maiden speech?

What a stunning success we both were yesterday! I wore royal blue, the skirt of the costume so narrow at the ankle that I could barely glide, and the material draped and swathed in gorgeous curvy lines over my hips and legs. A new corset and three days’ rigorous banting had ensured a slim waist, and all the surplus flesh above was pushed upwards so that my bosom, discreetly swathed beneath pale blue trimmings, was guaranteed to rivet the male eye. I also wore a sumptuous new hat decorated with osprey feathers (thirty guineas at divine Harrods), and when I entered the gallery even the male monsters on the benches below dropped their eyeglasses and gaped. Sometimes I do think the suffragettes are very stupid. They shouldn’t go around wrecking everything in sight. All they need to do to get the vote is wear splendid hats and look lavish.

Darling Robert made a wonderful speech about the boring old Balkans and was warmly congratulated. Later so was I—in fact we were both positively weighed down with “dewdrops” and the evening finished in a haze of champagne. What heaven! I adored every minute of it, and in the midst of so much euphoria I quite forgot Lion but lo and behold, today he’s appeared again, madly in love, and says this is
it
and please could I help him and he’s utterly desperate because he knows his whole future happiness is at stake.

She’s perfect for him. Her name is Daphne Wynter-Hamilton, and her father, Sir Cuthbert, has a house in Belgravia and thousands of acres in Scotland complete with castle and grouse moor. Daphne is an only child. Her father dotes on her—and her wretched mother, of course, wants her to marry someone with a title and ten thousand a year.

But this is a nice, sensible girl, not pretty but very jolly, and she doesn’t mind Lion having no money. She’s passionate about him and he’s passionate about her and whenever they’re not giggling together they’re sighing into each other’s eyes. Yes, they must certainly marry but how are we going to overcome the cold-eyed mother who thinks a penniless younger son of an untitled Welsh squire is about as low as one can go without sinking into the middle classes?

I’m going to ask Robert if he can cultivate Sir Cuthbert.

“Good God, certainly not!” said Robert. “Let Lion fight his own battles! Ginette, you’ll oblige me, if you please, by doing as I say and terminating this consuming interest you have in Lion’s affairs. I’m not prepared to tolerate it any longer, and for the good of our marriage I’m now drawing the line.”

I’m back with my husband again. My friend has vanished. I’m back with this ghastly male monster who says that for the good of our marriage I should obey him unquestioningly—even when he’s being unreasonable and wrong.

Of course we’ve just had the most appalling row. I felt so angry with Robert after our clash this afternoon that this evening I flirted with a charming American at a reception in Grosvenor Square. I knew at the time that it was a stupid thing to do, but I wanted Robert to know how livid I was with him.

I’ll never do it again, though, because just now, when we were shouting at each other in the bedroom, I felt genuinely frightened. Violence always frightens me and Robert is potentially a violent man. Curiously enough Conor, who was certainly a violent man in some ways, was never violent with me; when he wanted to hurt me he just slept with someone else or perhaps extorted my money to lose at poker. But that’s not Robert’s style. Robert’s style is first to slap me so hard across the mouth that I fall backwards across the bed and second to assert himself in the most obvious way available. It’s not rape exactly because I’m sensible enough to give in without a fight, but whatever it is, it’s vile. All I could think in the bathroom afterwards was: Conor would never have done that, never, never, never. And to my horror I found myself grieving for Conor all over again.

Robert apologized afterwards but spoiled the apology by adding: “Nevertheless I’m your husband and I’m entitled to make a strong demonstration of my marital rights if you appear to need reminding of your marital duties.” Anyone would think I’d been guilty of the grossest infidelity, yet all I had done was flutter my eyelashes at this inoffensive diplomat over a glass of champagne.

However with great self-restraint I made no comment on Robert’s monstrous statement and presently in bed in the dark, he slipped his hand into mine to show he wanted to be friends. What’s my final verdict? Oh, I daresay we shall be friends again in a day or two. I don’t mind Robert when he’s trying to be a friend. It’s when he’s trying to be a husband that he’s so absolutely bloody impossible.

I now feel quite exhausted with getting Lion off my hands, almost too exhausted to consider the problem of the school holidays. Declan is determined to go to Ireland again and Rory is determined to go too, but although I’m not keen on this I feel I can’t cope with them here while Robert’s being even more possessive than usual. With reluctance I shall tell them that they can spend the first month of the holidays with Dervla and Seamus but the second month must be spent with me—and yet I’m sure now, if I drum up the courage to be honest with myself, that this time when Declan goes to Ireland he’ll have no intention of ever coming back.

How did the war creep on me like this? One moment I was thinking of Lion battling for Daphne and worrying what in God’s name I was going to do about Declan, and the next moment the ultimatum was expiring and the Germans were on the rampage. I know a great many people felt they had been taken by surprise but I thought I should have been more aware of what was going on.

“Why didn’t you tell me how crucial matters had become, Robert?”

“I thought all you cared about was getting Lion married.”

Robert’s still being thoroughly impossible. I know I should put matters right by being especially warm and loving to him, but frankly I can’t be bothered. I want someone to be warm and loving to
me.
I’m desperately upset about Declan, and I’ll never forget that dreadful scene two weeks ago on the eve of his departure for Ireland. …

“Declan, you’re not coming back, are you?”

“No, I’m sorry, Ma, but it’s impossible. I promised Cousin Bobby I’d stick it for a year to see if things got better, but they haven’t. I loathe that school. I loathe England. I loathe Robert.”

“Do you loathe me?”

“Yes, sometimes. But generally I just feel you’re no use to me and I’d be better off on my own. Are you going to raise hell if I don’t come back?”

“There’s no point, is there?”

We were silent for a time. We were in his room, which only so recently I had planned for him with such care. It still looked new and unused, a symbol of his hatred of the house and everyone in it. Declan looked older than fifteen because he was tall. His dark hair grew exactly like Conor’s and even waved in the same places. His dark eyes, also exactly like Conor’s, regarded me with gravity. A lump formed in my throat. I turned away.

“Will you remember,” I said to him, “that this separation’s not of my choosing? Will you remember that whatever happens I love you and will always want you to come back?”

“I couldn’t come back so long as you’re married to Robert, Ma. So it’s no use wanting the impossible.”

“But you’ll write to me?”

“No. I don’t want any correspondence. I want to start again without having to read your letters telling me how miserable I’ve made you.”

“I wouldn’t reproach you, I swear it—”

“The very letters would be a reproach. I’ll send news regularly to Aunt Dervla, and if you want to know what’s happening you can write to her.”

“Oh Declan—”

“No, it’s no use crying, Ma. You’ve brought all this on yourself, behaving like a whore, betraying Pa’s memory, smashing all my faith in you by marrying a bastard like Robert—”

I left him, and the next day he left me. I managed to control myself at the station but when I arrived home I shut myself in my darkened room and cried as I had not cried since Conor’s death fourteen months before.

“I’m sorry,” said Robert. “Very sorry. I know how you must feel. But it may all be for the best.”

My nerve snapped. I flew at him, hit him, screamed that I wished we’d never married. Then I burst into tears again and flung myself down upon the bed.

I felt him sit beside me but he said nothing, and when at last I felt compelled to look at him I saw his face was stricken with grief. His pain was obviously so genuine that I couldn’t bear it. One can be driven to be cruel to a husband, but no matter how adverse the circumstances one should never be cruel to a friend.

Struggling upright I pushed my tangled hair away from my face and put my arms around him. After I had apologized I said, “You did your best, you tried so hard, this failure isn’t your fault. Some problems really are insoluble and Declan’s one of them. There’s nothing we can do but let him go.”

He seemed not to hear. He whispered, “Do you really wish you’d never married me?”

“Darling, I wish no such thing, and I don’t hate you either, but do try to understand. I’ve just lost my son. I’m demented with grief—”

“Of course. Yes. Forgive me—oh God, what a fool I am sometimes,” said my poor friend, pathetically acknowledging how baffling such a complex situation was to his simple emotional nature. He put his arms around me and we hugged each other. Finally he said in a low voice, “I’m beginning to think I’ve been a most obtuse and unhelpful husband. I must try and put matters right. You mean everything to me, Ginette, everything in the world, so … what can I do? Tell me how I can help you get over this tragedy.”

I kissed him to show how precious he was to me. Then when I was calm enough to speak, I said, “I want to have a baby.”

Robert’s response is perfect. He says it’s the best possible idea and he’s only sorry he didn’t think of it himself because he wants a child just as much as I do.

No more douches of vinegar. No more sordid little chunks of sponge tied with flesh-colored thread. The dreary side of physical love will be eliminated for nine blissful months, and at the end of it all will be another adorable bundle in a shawl, a new little Robert Godwin for Oxmoon—or perhaps a little Ginevra for myself. I’ve always longed for a daughter. What a pity it was that my first marriage was so arduous that I never had the strength to embark on a third pregnancy, but at least now I can make up for lost time. Conor wanted a daughter. I’ll never forget the rows we had after Rory was born and I, encouraged by a sophisticated friend, started to conspire against pregnancy with the aid of vinegar and sponges. I can so clearly remember Conor shouting that it was contrary to his religious principles and he wanted me to have a baby every year.

“And who’s going to look after them?” I screamed, demented with motherhood as I struggled to survive two small boys with the aid of incompetent nursemaids. “And who’s going to pay for them?”

 Sulks. Then a smile. Then a laugh. And finally acquiesence, laced with the charm that made me forgive him everything. “Suit yourself, sweetheart, but say nothing more. Then I’ll lie more easily in the confessional.”

What a villain he was, but how we laughed! And we did so enjoy my pregnancies, our times in bed became better than ever—and of course that was why he wanted me to be constantly pregnant, the rogue; it had nothing to do with his religion at all.

I understood him and he understood me but now Robert finally understands me too so all’s well. Oh, I simply can’t wait to conceive. …

This war is really rather alarming. At first, reassured by Harrods’ notice that business would be as usual, I thought the squabble would be a nine-day wonder, but ghastly things have been happening in Belgium and someone’s now invited me to a charity bridge afternoon to raise money for the refugees. I don’t play bridge but I’m going to learn. The Asquiths are mad about it. However I can’t learn just yet because there’s no time. Darling Lion, triumphantly engaged to be married at last, is busy telling me I’m the best sister-in-law a man ever had and I’m just wholeheartedly agreeing with him when we hear that our joint victory has been eclipsed by his younger brother. Johnny has announced his engagement to the beauty of the season, Blanche Lankester. How typical! Lion huffs and puffs, I moan and groan, we both end up in a stupor of exhaustion securing a nice plain little girl who apart from her money is nothing out of the ordinary, and then Johnny, without any apparent effort, walks off with the catch that richer and more blue-blooded men than he have been fighting for since the season began.

“How did you do it?” gasps poor Lion, overcome with admiration. “You’re just as penniless as I am!”

“True,” says Johnny, who I’m beginning to think is a very cool customer indeed, “but my prospects at the F.O. are excellent, and Mr. Lankester is convinced that I have a first-class diplomatic career ahead of me.”

The benign Mr. Lankester has a large estate in Herefordshire, a house in Connaught Square and a private fortune which Margaret might describe as “useful.” Like Daphne, Blanche is an only child. I would love to write that she’s a spoiled bitch of an heiress certain to make her smooth-tongued Lothario unhappy, but honesty compels me to admit the child is perfect. She’s eighteen, charming, lovely, modest and accomplished. In fact she’s the kind of girl who makes a married woman like me feel like a garish old war-horse. I’m probably jealous of her youth. Let me combat my jealousy by saying how lucky Johnny is. I feel her musical talent, which is considerable, is quite wasted on him, since he’s one of those people who only recognize “God Save the King” because people stand up.

I still say he’s too young to get married, but if Mr. Lankester’s happy with his daughter’s fate, who am I to criticize? I think Bobby and Margaret are perturbed, though, for Bobby’s been dispatched to London to size up the situation, but Bobby is charmed by Blanche and confesses himself unable to object to the match.

Silly Lion’s talking of enlisting. I tell him it’s pointless as the war will be over by Christmas, but he thinks being a soldier would be a terrific lark. Apparently down at Oxmoon Edmund thinks so too. Men
are
odd. I can’t see the point of enduring all sorts of tedious discomforts like poor food and primitive lavatories unless there really is a chance that the war will last, but Sir John French will soon mop up the Germans and everyone will be on their way home again before Lion can emerge from some dreary training camp. Thank God I’m a woman and can sit at home and knit Balaclava helmets. Who in their right mind would want to do anything else?