Spare Brides (27 page)

‘What?’

‘If your proposal had any impact at all, it was probably a comfort.’

‘Really?’ Bea looked at her with shy desire.

No, not really. Ava did not believe that the man had gone to his death thinking how marvellous it was that a desperate, chubby girl was prepared to marry him, following just the briefest of associations, but she never had any qualms about lying for expediency, and she had lied for much less worthwhile reasons than this. ‘Most definitely.’

Somewhat comforted, Bea put down her handkerchief and picked up her cocktail. For a moment they sat in a more serene silence, each pursuing their own line of thought as they allowed the chilly cocktails to take effect. Ava felt a rare but sincere moment of sympathy for Beatrice’s predicament; she was infuriated by the enduring inequalities and tragedies that they all had to stomach. Bea was thinking about the last time she’d felt intrinsically linked to the fabric of life. The last time she was useful and needed. ‘It wasn’t as bad during the war; we were all so busy. I didn’t notice the loneliness. There were the sewing guilds and the fund-raisers, parcels to send to the soldiers.’

‘Do you remember those awful entertainment evenings for the wounded?’

‘Lydia’s singing!’ Bea smiled, despite her gloom.

‘It can’t really have aided recovery, can it?’ asked Ava, with a sly wink.

‘Quite the reverse.’ The women giggled. The tight air loosened around them. The dread of solitude slackened. Bea asked, ‘Do you remember how we celebrated Armistice night?’

‘Of course. At the Ritz.’

‘We sang patriotic songs.’

‘Cynthia Curzon wore nothing other than a Union Jack!’

‘We thought all our troubles were at an end for ever.’ Bea paused and swallowed. ‘You see, I’m not sure what I shall do if I don’t marry. It’s all I’ve ever imagined. All I’ve been brought up to. What can I do, if I don’t do that?’

‘The terribly good thing about the war is that—’

Bea gasped. ‘Ava, how can you even begin a sentence like that?’

‘Darling, every cloud has a silver lining and all that. I was just going to say that it opened doors for us.’

‘Us?’

‘Women.’

‘But they all died. The men. Our men.’

‘Well, not
all
of them, but that’s not my point. Think, no chaperones to scrutinise our every move. A valid excuse if one wants to avoid matrimony.’

‘But why would one want that?’

‘Because, darling Bea, being married doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll be happier.’ Ava couldn’t help a hint of condescension sneaking into her voice. She was, quite simply, the more worldly-wise of the two. ‘I see countless cases that prove otherwise, every day.’

‘Oh, but you mean poor people. Drinkers. Brutes.’

‘Drinkers, brutes and unhappy marriages are not confined to one class. You know very well that the concept abounds among our sort too.’

‘Oh, don’t. It’s all too sad.’ It was clear that Beatrice wasn’t quite ready to step out of her fairy-tale, make-believe world. Ava decided to accentuate the positive instead.

‘There are plenty of things you can do with your time. You could go abroad.’

‘I can’t afford it.’

‘I find there’s always someone willing to pick up the bill.’

‘I imagine
you
do.’

‘No, not like that. Someone who needs a companion. Perhaps a middle-aged widow who wants to learn about the classical artists in Italy. These people advertise in
The Lady
, you know. You could sketch.’

‘The object of travel to the Continent is to bring home a young man.’

‘The object is to have
fun
. Lydia and I have gone abroad for the past two years and we’ve only ever thought about having fun.’

‘Maybe it is just about fun if you are married or simply gorgeous.’ Beatrice sounded accusing. ‘But no, not at all for me. I can imagine the humiliation. It will be like going to a dance full of expectancy and hope only to return with a relentless sense of ineptitude when one fails to click with anyone, except it will be a hundred times worse because dances are on every doorstep but abroad is such a distance.’

‘Would you think of golf lessons? Or joining the Women’s League of Health and Beauty? I hear it’s incredible fun and chummy, you know.’

‘Hobbies.’ Bea sighed, articulating that she didn’t think hobbies were enough.

‘Then you must get a career. You could teach, or join the civil service.’

‘But those are consolation prizes.’

‘I disagree.’

‘I feel like a lesser being. An unmarried woman. How low can one go?’

‘It is true that single women are underestimated and underrated, but just because others think little of our position doesn’t mean we should fail to appreciate just how wonderful an opportunity is being presented here. Singleness isn’t an illness or a state to be despised; it’s an endless opportunity,’ said Ava firmly. ‘You know there are women accountants, engineers, doctors. You could go into law or banking.’

‘No, I couldn’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, how would I begin? It’s impossible. Quite hopeless. Those things are possible for women like you, maybe, I suppose. But …’ She left it hanging. The air was awash with loneliness and self-imposed limitations. Ava saw a lack of confidence, thought and ambition. It wasn’t Beatrice’s fault; they’d all been encouraged to think small and narrow.

‘Do you know what? I need to introduce you to some more people.’

‘Like who?’

‘Like my friends that I was out with today. Campaigners, suffragettes.’ Ava saw the horror on Bea’s face and couldn’t resist adding, ‘Do-gooders. Come on, there’s no time like the present. I shall cancel dinner with Lady Cooper, because really, how many times can we chat about frocks, and the exceptional view from her box at the opera? I’ll telephone my women instead. You need to meet fresh faces. Not fresh men. Fresh
faces
.’ She jumped up and walked towards her telephone; she instructed the operator. ‘Belgravia 214, please.’

The thought of a fresh face brought to mind a familiar one. ‘I saw Lydia today,’ commented Bea.

‘Really? Where?’

‘The V and A Museum.’

‘Lydia? In a museum? How utterly astounding.’

‘She was with that terribly handsome man.’

Ava put the phone down without speaking to Lady Cooper. She felt the earth shimmer a little. She felt askew and yet she was certain that she knew what was coming. ‘Which one?’

‘Sergeant Major Trent.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Quite sure. They talked to me. He’s a lovely person, isn’t he? So polite and sincere.’ Not for the first time Ava doubted Bea’s ability to make sensible judgements about people; she really didn’t have enough experience of the world. This suspicion was confirmed when Bea added, ‘What do you think they were doing there together? Is there a particular exhibition that everyone is seeing? I didn’t know that Sergeant Major Trent was a friend of Lawrence’s.’

Ava wondered whether it was time to shove the baby bird out of the nest. It would not do for Beatrice to blithely drift through the world in a state of naïve wonderment and innocence.

‘I don’t think he is a friend of Lawrence’s, Beatrice darling.’

Ava’s hint settled like rain on a parched field. Bea gasped. ‘No, not Lydia.’

‘I’m afraid it looks that way.’

Ava never understood the girls who accepted the rules, who didn’t baulk at them and strain at their ribbon chains. Lydia had been such a girl and Ava used to long for her to kick up her heels a little. Now that she had, it was terrifying, unsettling. It was another war; smaller, quieter. A domestic front but still real and destructive. Now Ava just wanted her friend to melt into the accepted, to blend. To fuse.

T
HEY FOUND A
tea room near South Kensington tube station. It was steamy, smoky and crowded. Lydia could smell coats that had served throughout winter and bodies that didn’t have frequent access to hot water. The teapot was chipped and cracked in two places; brown veins of tea stains showered over the lip. She wanted to send it back but couldn’t bear to look fussy.

She was beginning to despair. He had not said one thing that might suggest she should hope. He had been polite and careful. He’d pointed out things of interest in the museum; they’d both been fond of Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s painting
The Day Dream
. He had talked about the long winter and everyone’s dire need for spring to blossom; wasn’t it marvellous that the sun was finally out? He’d told her about a Noël Coward play he had seen recently. But he had not referenced the fact that they were lovers. He gave no indication that he too burned. It was perfectly possible that rather than meeting to cement their relationship, he was politely defining their new status as well-mannered, distant acquaintances. She had to find a way to introduce the subject of
them
; she had to be sure of where she stood. She took a sip of tea. It was strong and bitter, but she noticed that there was only one teaspoon in the bowl of sugar and none on her saucer; how would she stir if she added sugar? She’d have to drink it as it was. She scrambled around her brain to look for a way back into
that
weekend.

‘It was very kind of you to pass on your condolences to Beatrice.’

‘One of the servant boys ran to the station to tell us all the news.’

‘Yes, I know. Some of the men came back to the house.’ He had not been among the number; she’d been disappointed. ‘To see what they could do.’

‘Ghouls. What could they possibly do? How could they help?’ Lydia knew he didn’t really expect an answer. ‘Was he her fiancé?’

‘No.’

‘I saw them together quite a bit. I thought there must be something special between them.’

‘Not really. It was just that weekend, but I think she’d hoped …’ Lydia trailed off, uncomfortable with the awareness that her situation was in some ways very similar to Beatrice’s. A weekend was a short period of time if one measured it by the hands on the clock, yet it could be a lifetime.

‘I expected to see the suicide in the papers, but I didn’t find anything.’

‘Sir Peter has enough influence to keep it out.’

Edgar nodded curtly. He looked amused and yet infuriated at the same time. Power – the use and abuse of it – always exasperated those who were toothless.

‘Besides that awful thing, did you enjoy your stay at the Pondson-Callows’, Sergeant Major Trent?’ It was ridiculous to call him Sergeant Major Trent, but she felt she had to because they were in public, elbow to elbow with complete strangers; who knew who might be listening? This place looked just the sort of place servants gossiped, and besides, today he had not given her any reason to call him anything other.

‘It was an education.’ He stroked his upper lip, hiding his mouth, a gateway to expression and emotion. She wondered if it was a deliberate habit.

‘What did you learn?’ She dared not breathe until she heard his answer. Whatever he had to say had to be imbued with deep meaning; after all, secret metaphors, hints and codes were the tools of the adulterer.

‘I learned that I don’t belong there.’ The world shifted; it spun a little faster, making her dizzy, and yet simultaneously slowed right down, dragging her under like an enormous wave. She heard a rebuff; she felt the sting of rejection. He was backing away.

‘Well,’ she gasped. She wondered how he could ever have thought he did belong, and in the same instant she wondered why he should not. It was complex.

‘I admit there is an undoubted sense of beauty, but it was overwhelmed, in my opinion, by a sense of the ridiculous.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘No one was very real there. Well, except for Arnie Oaksley, I suppose.’ He glanced at her. It was a challenge.
She
had been real. As she’d lain spread and open to him on the desk, she was more honest and valid than she had ever been, than she was being now when she addressed him as Sergeant Major Trent. Did he know? Did he need her to say so? She wasn’t sure whether she dared. Would he believe her?

‘Are people especially real elsewhere?’ she asked instead.

‘Maybe.’ He shrugged.

‘Where?’

‘You know where.’ He looked right at her. Stared this time. Green arrows darting to her soul. She understood.

‘But we can’t stay on the battlefields.’

He sighed and mumbled, ‘I wish that was true. I find I can’t get off them. Nor could that poor sod Oaksley, by the look of things.’ He lowered his head. There was nothing to do but listen to other people’s chatter and the sound of china cups clattering on to saucers. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes; he lit two and handed her one. She’d noticed that he smoked each cigarette as though it was his last. A habit, perhaps. Something he’d developed in the trenches. She knew he was trying to appear relaxed, and that he was nothing of the sort. It took some moments before he pulled himself back on track, before he remembered that it was considered rather off to sit in a busy cafe and talk about the war. ‘It wasn’t a bad place to spend a weekend,’ he admitted finally. ‘It had a certain charm.’

If he was hoping to pacify her, his comment had the opposite effect. Lydia felt jabbed with irritation. He was not answering her real question about that weekend, or if he was, then his judgement that she had ‘a certain charm’ was not flattering. Not enough.

Haughtily she answered, ‘Many consider Ava’s home among the most beautiful in England.’

‘I’d prefer it if the Pondson-Callows weren’t trying so damned hard to pretend they were something else. Isn’t it enough to be clever and phenomenally wealthy? Not to mention beautiful. Do they have to pretend to have history too?’

‘You think Ava is beautiful?’

‘I have eyes, Lid.’

Lydia fought a curious agonising pang. It was ridiculous. It was a fact that Ava was beautiful; it wasn’t news to her. Of course every man noticed. But she feared it was more. She was losing him, he’d moved on. Already. Although he wasn’t hers to lose. What had she expected? What had she hoped for? Nothing could come of this. And yet …

Angrily she snapped, ‘Is it that you just don’t like my sort?’