The Wheel of Fortune (39 page)

Nobody knows what’s happening. It’s July the first, 1916, and nobody knows what’s going on. Robert says this will be the greatest action of the war so far, an action by a British army of continental size. Robert is optimistic. Lloyd George believes Haig is about to win the war, and Robert is Lloyd George’s man at heart now even though they both still claim allegiance to Asquith. But the war’s proving too much for Asquith. The war’s proving too much for us all.

I’m thinking of Lion all the time, I’m praying and praying to my nice kind Church of England God, the God whom I first met long ago during my magic childhood with Robert and whom, like Robert, I’ve always been unable to abandon. During my marriage to Conor I nearly turned Catholic three times but I always balked at the last minute; I felt the Roman Catholic God would be too demanding and we’d be forever having rows which would leave me a nervous wreck. My Church of England God doesn’t mind if I go to church only at Christmas and Easter; he sits up in heaven quiet as a mouse but if I ever want him he’s always there to listen even though he can seldom be bothered to reply. But perhaps out of sheer horror he’ll now intervene and look after Lion for me. It’s only as I pray that I wonder if God really is benign. Perhaps he’s evil. Or indifferent. Or simply not there at all.

“Any news?” I keep saying, but there never is. The Somme. What a vile name. It reminds me in shape of the word “tomb.” But that’s an unspeakable thought which I must erase at once. I must think of the name as a clean-cut shining syllable, sharp as the edge of some invincible sword; I must picture the word as it will appear in future history books. “The Great War, which began in 1914, was triumphantly concluded in July, 1916, by the mighty victory of the British Army on the Somme. …” Yes, I can see it all: the battle that will go down in history as the battle that won us the war, the greatest British battle since Waterloo, the last huge battle of the twentieth century—

THE BATTLE OF THE SOMME.

They say there are nineteen thousand dead. They say there are nearly sixty thousand casualties and nineteen thousand dead—in a single day. And nobody’s winning. The battle’s just going on and on and on.

How does a nation survive such a hemorrhage? I feel like a damaged nerve in a body that is fatally ill.

Nineteen thousand dead.
And that’s just the beginning.

I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I can’t work. I can’t do anything. I just sit and wait for the telegram from Oxmoon to arrive. The official telegram will go to Scotland, where Daphne’s retreated with her parents, but the Wynter-Hamiltons will wire Bobby and then Margaret will wire us.

Nineteen thousand dead, and all over the country the telegrams are starting to arrive; all over the country there are people like me, sitting, waiting, listening for the ring of the doorbell—but no, there’s no ring of the doorbell for me, only Robert returning home at eleven o’clock in the morning. I look out of the window and see him paying off the cab, and the instant I see his face I know all there is to know.

“I’m afraid …”

“Yes.” I turned away and went upstairs to our bedroom. I was trying to remember how many clean shirts Robert had. With Bennett gone it was so easy to lose sight of what was happening in Robert’s wardrobe. When I reached the bedroom I moved to the tallboy and started counting shirts. I wondered how long we would be at Oxmoon and decided a minimum of three days would be required. Putting down the shirts on the table I stood looking at them. I remember the sun shining. I can see the sun shining on those shirts. They were achingly white.

“Robert—”

But he was there, and as he took me in his arms I knew I had my loyal friend back again. It seemed like a miracle. I had feared my grief might irritate him but now that I had my loyal friend restored to me I knew there was no need to suppress my feelings. For he was grieving too, grieving for the life that had been lost, and beyond the grief lay his old rage against death which now set fire to our emotions with the violence of a torch thrust into a tinderbox.

We were embracing but without passion. We were merely two friends locked for comfort in each other’s arms, but as I sensed that rage exploding in Robert’s mind we felt the sexuality vibrate between us and the next moment we were overpowered by a force which neither of us attempted to resist. Robert locked the door. I pulled the curtains. We shed our clothes, fell on the bed and copulated. It had no connection with any conventional notion of passion. What I chiefly remember is that it seemed the obvious natural thing to do, and the act was strangely functional, as if all sensuality had been cauterized by grief. It was our violent protest against the war, our savage litany for the men who had died on the Somme, our unyielding determination to defy death by celebrating life. Lion was dead. His joyous life had been brutally laid waste but we were still alive to rebel against his end.

Later, much later, when I had resumed sorting our clothes for the visit to Wales, I began to cry, but Robert was there still, my beloved Robert, the best friend anyone could wish for. Robert took me in his arms and when he said, “My dearest Ginette,” it was as if by some miracle we were back at Oxmoon, the lost Oxmoon of our childhood, and in our shared memories we saw it live again.

Oxmoon’s in a shambles because Margaret’s withdrawn to her room and Celia is distractedly trying to manage a household in which the servants seem as mindless as lost sheep. I’m shattered by this new evidence that without Margaret Oxmoon falls apart; against my will I’m reminded of that time when she visited her sister in Staffordshire and my childhood came to such a horrific end.

However I try not to think of that. I do my best to be strong and capable, but that’s not so easy because the most unnerving aspect of this unnerving situation is that Bobby’s useless. With a glass of champagne in his hand he drifts around talking of wartime farming and how splendid all the land girls are, and at regular intervals he pauses to pronounce that all will be well once Margaret’s recovered—as if Margaret will miraculously iron out the tragedy by bringing Lion back to life.

Robert soon loses patience with his father and yells at him to be quiet but Johnny’s with us, thank God, and—yes, I have to conquer my antipathy and admit it—Johnny’s a tower of strength, not only soothing poor Bobby but coping with little Thomas, who’s obviously so disturbed by Margaret’s withdrawal that he’s seizing every opportunity to create havoc.

I’m not sure at first how I should approach Margaret but in the end I send in a little note of sympathy to indicate that she needn’t see me if she doesn’t want to. However she decides I have to be seen, so we have a short interview during which she thanks me for coming to Oxmoon to help. She’s not in bed. She’s sitting by the window in a shabby old dressing gown and looking much older than her age, which must now, I suppose, be fifty-one. Her eyes are tearless but she frowns when she says how special Lion was to her, a baby so miraculously full of life after the three babies who had died.

“Yes, he was lovely, Margaret. I can remember him so clearly in the nursery.”

And I can. I want to cry but Margaret stops me when she starts to speak again in that low passionless voice.

“I don’t know whom Lion resembled but I loved him the better for not reminding me of anyone. It’s so difficult when a child, poor innocent little thing, reminds one of someone one loathed, but I never had that difficulty with Lion. I can see why people thought he was my favorite. If one could choose one’s favorites I would indeed have chosen him, but one isn’t allowed to choose, is one? There’s always one child for whom one cares so much that his existence becomes almost an ordeal, but that sort of relationship has nothing to do with choice; it exists whether one likes it or not. I tried to explain that to Robert yesterday and I think he understood. Now that Lion’s dead it’s finally possible to have a rational conversation with Robert about him.”

I nod to show her I understand, but all the time I’m thinking neither of Lion nor of Robert but of the child who reminds her of someone she loathed. She’s thinking of Johnny reminding her of her mother-in-law, I know she is, but she and Johnny get on so well together and Johnny’s the most devoted son. If only Robert could have got on equally well with Declan, who must have continually reminded him of Conor, but Declan was hardly his own flesh and blood, just a little Irish-American second cousin who came from a world Robert was unable to comprehend.

Thank God Declan’s survived the Easter Rising in Dublin. I hope he can escape to America—but oh God, supposing his ship’s sunk by U-boats! I worry about Declan all the time still so I know what Margaret means when she says one can care so much for a child that his existence becomes an ordeal. I love Rory because he’s so cheerful and uncomplicated—like Lion—but Declan is to me as Robert is to Margaret, and I know he’ll always be the son who’s closest to my heart.

I seem to have missed this month, but I’m sure I can’t be pregnant so I suppose this is a physical reaction to the shock of Lion’s death. I’m trying to arrange a visit to Scotland to see Daphne, but Robert refuses to go, despite the fact that it’s August and many of our friends will be in Scotland too. But the Wynter-Hamiltons’ castle is a stone’s throw from Fort William and you can see Ben Nevis from nearly every window, and this must surely be why Robert shuns a visit; he can’t bear to be reminded of his climbing days and the dreadful accident which scarred his mind.

However I must see Daphne so I’ve nerved myself to go without him, and at least I have Rory to look after me on the long train journey. As soon as I leave Robert will go down to Pwlldu to deal with various constituency problems, and then he’ll journey south into Gower to make sure Bobby’s pulled himself together.

Thank God that for once I have a genuine excuse not to accompany him to Oxmoon.

I seem to have missed again, but of course I can’t be pregnant; this is the product of nervous strain resulting from my visit to Daphne. I found it a great ordeal. I could have borne it better if she’d been distraught but she was so brave that I felt I was the one in constant danger of breaking down. However I know she was glad to see me, so I did the right thing by forcing myself to undertake the visit. Little Elizabeth is nearly a year old now. She’s fat and happy and has Lion’s impudent blue eyes, and as I cuddle her I can’t help longing again for the baby I know I’m never going to have.

“Raymond’s dead.”

“Oh Robert, no—not Raymond—”

“He’s dead. The army’s dying. It’s the biggest graveyard the world’s ever seen.”

It was my turn now to comfort him, but what could I say? I thought I had become immune to the full horror of the casualty lists but now that someone like Raymond had died I felt the horror batter me afresh. Someone like Raymond … But there was no one quite like Raymond Asquith. So much brilliance, so much charm, so much wit—and all obliterated one September day by a German bullet in a French hell. Although to me Raymond had been no more than a delightful acquaintance I knew he had meant far more than that to Robert who could so readily associate Raymond’s image of brilliance with his own, and as I sensed Robert thinking, There but for the grace of God go I, I suddenly had an intuition of what was to come.

“Christ, what a bloody coward I am,” whispered Robert, and covered his face with his hands.

“Rubbish,” I said at once. “It takes great courage to stay on the Home Front when both the new law and public opinion push men to enlist.”

“I deserve to be thought a coward. I
am
a coward. I’m just so bloody afraid of dying—of losing—”

“Anyone in their right mind should be afraid of dying: That doesn’t mean you’re a coward.”

“I ought to enlist, I know I ought to enlist—”

“How can you? You’ve been ordered by the people who are running this war to stay where you are!”

“Raymond was told to stick to his staff job. But he had the courage to go back to his men—”

“You’re not Raymond, Robert. Not only is your position quite different as an Under-Secretary in the Commons, but I suspect your personalities are more different than you’ve ever realized. The truth is we don’t know much about Raymond, but I’ll say this: if he was so keen to go back and dice with death in very adverse circumstances then I suspect he was a far more complicated man than you are. You’re a simple man with complex problems. Raymond seems to have been a complex man with complex problems. There’s a difference.”

“But—”

“To put it bluntly, Robert, if you rushed off to enlist now you wouldn’t prove you were courageous, you’d simply prove you were suicidal. Don’t be ruled by guilt! Be ruled by reason—and
that,
in the circumstances, will require just as much courage as the courage displayed by most men in uniform.”

He made no attempt to argue. Some time passed while I held him close but finally he said in a low voice, “This’ll knock the heart out of Asquith. Lloyd George will disembowel him now.” And then he began to talk of Raymond’s intellectual glamour, of his own golden days up at Oxford and of a vanished world that had been blasted beyond recall.

Today I’ve been shopping, partly to distract myself, partly to recuperate from the ordeal of writing to Raymond’s wife and partly because I thought I might buy some charming but inexpensive cuff links for Rory in the Burlington Arcade. I always like to take him a little present when I visit the school at half-term. However I couldn’t find what I wanted at the right price so I abandoned the Arcade, and I was just wandering idly through Fortnum’s, as one so often does when one’s marooned in Piccadilly a long way from divine Harrods, when I saw the most sumptuous blackberries. Good fruit is hopelessly expensive nowadays but I was seized with the urge to pamper myself so I went wild. I bought six oranges, six peaches and two pounds of blackberries, and the price I paid was almost enough to buy off the German blockades.

I can’t help but think now how curious that impulse was, just as I can’t help but remember my passion for fruit, particularly oranges, when I was pregnant with both Declan and Rory. The craving would strike in the early months and last several weeks. Conor used to say it was like living in a Florida orange grove, and we had such fun peeling the skins off and chasing the pips around the sheets.