Towards the end of the writing of the novel which she thought of as her war book, Georgia Kennedy had still not decided whether or not it would be wise to include the revelation that Harry Partridge had been careless enough to father not only Tottie, but Dixie also.
Her editor had wanted it left out on the grounds that although such coincidences may be quite common in real life, nevertheless Eye of the Storm would appear in the fiction list. The hassock and cassock schooling of Georgia Honeycombe was, at times, apt to be a bit strong for the laid-back Giacopazzi. The Honeycombe part of her wanted to be honest, and fair to Eve. Now, again in a doubtful mood, she imagined the reviewers’ criticism: Giacopazzi’s propensity for drama and surprise is now so necessary to the seasoning of her books that she cannot write without that extra shake and pinch, even in a book that purports to be based upon fact…
She recalled Eve’s words when they had met in London, back in the summer. ‘It was not much of a surprise to me, Georgia,’ she had said. ‘When you left Markham without so much as a word, I guessed that you were probably pregnant, and I worked out that it couldn’t have been Nick’s little bun.’
It was September of the long hot summer of 1989, the day of a reunion with some of the women. Georgia carried the last of her drink to the window. The sky was clear again, this summer seemed to be going on and on. For years to come, English people would remember it as they remembered the summer of ’76, and people as old as herself remembered the summers of ’39, ’40 and ’41.
The floodlights that were left on all night to deter any possible rustlers of their valuable breeding stock lit up the yards that were close to Pete’s house.
She thought of Pete, reliable and intelligent, as good and caring a farmer as one would find anywhere. She saw the bathroom light go on in Pete’s house. At last, probably reluctantly, Pete would leave the farm alone for five or six hours. Pete had gradually become her son. In the early days, when he was bewildered and lost, Georgia had given him some affection, and he had returned it with a lifetime of love. She had grown to love Pete a great deal – ‘This is our son, Pete. He’s the best farmer in Hampshire.’ She knew that he sometimes found her sudden demonstrations of affection embarrassing, but she knew equally that he would not want her to alter.
Pete had been eight years old when she had brought him here, and now he was a man who had reached the age when he needed to put on glasses to read. How angry Georgia Kennedy had been at the time, and with what difficulty did she hide her frustration.
She had worked out what she must do so that, once the war ended, she need never again return to the domestic role she had filled at the beginning.
Hugh’s love affair with Floozie had freed her of a bad marriage, her parents’ legacy had freed her of the necessity of going out to work for a year or two, the women at the Town Restaurant had freed her of her own stereotyped ideas of a woman’s place, and Harry Partridge had freed her of her inhibitions about sex. She was ready to travel the world and write novels. Footloose and fancy free described precisely what she expected for herself in the future.
But, as she felt the bonds which had restrained her ever since she had become a woman loosen, so, during the last months of the war, did others tighten. A four months pregnancy from an accident with a man who died a hero. A feeling of responsibility towards Pete who had nowhere to go except back to his mother’s violent marriage. A feeling of duty to Nick who loved and needed her.
When she had arrived here at the farm, she had been so angry. Her bright and footloose future she now saw as a long and reluctant Lenten denial. It was a wonder that Dixie hadn’t come into the world red and screaming.
‘Why did you write the book?’ Ursula O’Neill asked.
‘Because I wanted to write something about the war. Something but not about Spitfires and Blitz and men machine-gunning and going into battle. I wanted to tell a love story. When I came to do it, I found that I had lived one.’
Dorothy Partridge’s shrewd eyes in the puffy old face searched Georgia.
‘And was this here love story about my Harry?’
‘No, it is about more than that kind of love. It’s about several different kinds of love and what it did to us, about men going away, and women getting a bit of freedom and about what the war did to love.’
‘So you wouldn’t say it was romance then?’
‘No. It’s a love story. Didn’t we women love one another? You can’t call it anything else can you? It occurred to me whilst I was writing it, that it was a bit like having a love affair… Romance is too shallow a word. Eye of the Storm is a love story.’
Lying back on a soft sofa, she stretched above her head the arm with the hand holding the brandy glass, and watched the flickering flames of the fire glittering the cut glass.
Tomorrow, I shall go out on the Downs. Perhaps I’ll ride a bit… work off this brandy. Or maybe I’ll go to London and see what they think about the idea for the new book. Or get Nick to go over the plan for the trout tanks with me. Perhaps I’ll take Belle to the pond.