October 1922, Longworth House, Sussex
Bart opened his eyes. His face was pressed into the pillow and he could smell his rotten breath infused in the fabric of the slip. He’d been having the most depraved dream: he was on Brighton Pier at night and overhead turquoise Zeppelins drifted, benevolent as clouds, smiling almost, as if they had human personalities; and behind him, a man he couldn’t see but who he knew to be Lord Kitchener was sliding cricket stumps up his arse, one at a time, one after the other, as if feeding blocks of timber into a wood-shaving machine, and then the stumps turned to sausages, a linked line of sausages. He laughed weakly through cracked lips. Kitchener, of all people. Really.
He felt a hand on his cheek and flinched. His mother. She loomed over him, smiling with glistening, tragic eyes.
‘Mother?’
She nodded. Tears spilled down her cheeks, tracking a clean line through her face powder.
‘Who let you … Mother? Am I—’
‘You’re home, darling.’
He screwed his face up. ‘Rodge was just here. He was just here.’
She shook her head. ‘You’ve been in delirium, darling. I thought you might die.’ She stroked his cheek with the back of her fingers, her clusters of sharp jewels tickling. ‘Dr Spielman said I should prepare myself.’
‘Bloody hell – sorry, Mother. Jesus.’
‘First your sisters, then your father, then you … I thought, well, I thought I shall be all on my own.’ Her chin crumpled. ‘I thought I was going to lose you.’ A dignified sniff and a small, tight smile. ‘But I haven’t, have I?’
He sat up and looked around the room. The curtains were half open, allowing a block of fresh white sunlight in. He was in the day nursery, where he’d spent many boring hours as a baby and then a child. Outside, close by, he could hear the gorgeous snip-snip of the gardener pruning the hedges, and, further off, the singing of the canaries in his mother’s prized aviary. A pale, red-haired nurse stood near the door, clutching her hands and smiling sentimentally. As if she gave a fart. Lucille placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Try not to exert yourself, Bartyboy. You’re very weak.’
‘I’m thirsty.’ He aimed this at the nurse and she nodded and came over to the dresser, where a jug of water sat on a tray, next to some glasses.
‘Who won the match?’ he asked his mother.
‘What match?’
‘The cricket match.’
‘Honestly, Bart! I thought my only child was dying and I was supposed to enquire after a cricket score?’
‘Could you find out?’ The nurse brought him a glass and held it for him as he drank.
‘I don’t see why not, if you promise to rest. Now, why don’t we let Nurse Cooper here give you a wash and change and then we’ll see about some broth.’
He nodded, glancing mistrustfully at the nurse. He’d never got on with nurses. They were, more often than not, condescending and domineering and they always poked and prodded too hard with bony, rough fingers. And if I wish to feel violated, he thought, all I need do is close my eyes and think of dear old Kitchener.
The next time he woke up, Bettina was sitting next to the bed.
‘Afternoon, gorgeous,’ she said, bending down to kiss his forehead. He held on to her in a clumsy hug, loose wisps of her hair sticking to his bottom lip. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed her.
‘Your breath is like a brothel full of dead rats,’ she said.
He opened his mouth wide and exhaled into her face.
‘Damn you, Bart,’ she said, struggling to get away, but laughing. She sat back down in her chair. ‘You’re all skin and bones.’
‘I’ll put it all back on in a flash, you watch.’
She looked around, her eyes lingering on the empty toy trunk and the small purple bookcase, also empty. ‘You always hated this room.’
‘Still do.’
‘I used to love it. I always preferred your toys to mine.’
‘I don’t know why she brought me here,’ he said. ‘There are plenty of other rooms in this house I might’ve stayed in. I have a bedroom.’
Bettina shrugged. ‘She thought her baby boy was dying. I imagine it made perfect sense to put you here.’
‘I was never going to die of the flu. It’s too boring.’
She glanced at the door. ‘I can’t stay long.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘I’m under house arrest. They’re only letting me out to see you.’
He grinned. ‘What have you done?’
‘Oh, I can’t really say.’
‘Can’t or won’t?’ He thumped the bed next to him. ‘Come up here with me.’
Another nervy glance at the door. This should be good. Venetia and Monty were seldom strict with her – she must have done something truly atrocious. He thumped the bed again. ‘Come on. Tell old Barty the trouble.’
She climbed onto the bed and they lay opposite each other, face to face, bodies slightly curled, like two mandarin segments.
‘It’s really quite embarrassing.’ She fidgeted around and placed her pressed-together hands under her cheek, like a child at bedtime.
‘I’ve been suspended from school.’
‘Well, that’s a result. You hate school.’
‘Don’t jest, Bart. It’s really serious.’
‘What did you do?’
She rolled onto her back. ‘I’m afraid you’ll think less of me.’
‘Never.’ He moved closer to her – her hair smelled of pears. ‘You could murder someone in cold blood and I still wouldn’t think less of you. Unless it was my mother. Please don’t murder my mother.’
She did a hiccupping sort of laugh.
‘Now bloody well tell me, won’t you?’
She sighed, her eyes on the ceiling. ‘You remember that gift you sent me?’
‘Oh my dear God. You didn’t get caught drinking it, did you? You fucking bungler.’
She turned her head so they were nose to nose. ‘I did. But that’s not even the worst of it. Well, it is according to the house mistress. It’s grounds for expulsion according to her. But for me it’s not the worst. I was planning not to tell you the whole story actually. It’s just …’ She shook her head.
‘You’re deliberately eking this out for dramatic effect,’ he said.
‘I am not! It’s just a hard thing to say. Do you remember my talking to you about Margo?’
He nodded. She’d told him during the last summer holiday all about her new best friend and all their worldly conversations. He’d felt jealous. He’d had to stop himself making cutting remarks about this girl, not because he didn’t want to be mean, but because Bettina was shrewd and would see the jealousy behind his words. He didn’t like his jealousy to show itself. It was an especially ugly emotion.
‘Well, we had your brandy in the boiler room and we got into very high spirits, and well … one thing led to another and we … do you know, I can’t say it.’
‘You danced the one-step? You juggled fire together?’
‘Please do be serious, Bart. Have you ever had any desires that to you seem quite … abnormal?’
‘Well, I once wanted to learn German.’
She jumped off the bed. ‘Stop cracking jokes, Bart! You’re always doing this! You always – every time.’
He laughed. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help myself! Genuinely, I can’t. Please, come back to bed.’ He put on a repentant face.
‘When you act like this, I feel I can’t quite trust you. And if I can’t trust you—’
‘But you can! Honestly, you can. Look, I’m sorry. I’m a clown. I’m a stupid, childish clown. Come back to bed and tell me all about how you and Margo shared a passionate tryst in the romantic setting of your school boiler room.’
She stared at him. ‘Your mother told you.’
He shook his head – his mother had told him nothing. But it’d been bloody obvious where all this was going. High spirits and abnormal urges. ‘Really, it’s not so shocking,’ he said. ‘Bunch of randy hormonal girls crammed teat-to-teat in a restrictive environment, I’d be shocked if it didn’t happen. Now come here, come back to your Barty.’ He patted the space next to him again.
Smiling, she got back into bed. ‘And you don’t think I’m a pervert?’
‘Of course I do. Bravo, I say. Was she a better kisser than me?’
‘Well, it was all very sloppy and excitable. You won’t tell anyone?’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’
She huddled in closer, resting her temple against his stubbled jaw. ‘I feel much better now, for having told you. But Mother and Father are frothing at the mouth about it. Father called me a silly little slut. His exact words.’
He hissed in air through his teeth. ‘That’s a tad uncalled for.’
A knock at the door. Bettina jumped off the bed just as it was flung open. It was Bart’s mother.
‘Bettina, darling, your father said to hurry things along.’
‘Oh, tell him to keep his knickers on,’ said Bart. ‘I almost died, remember.’
Lucille slanted her head sardonically. ‘I do remember, as it happens.’ She brought her cigarette to her mouth with a graceful movement of the wrist and took a puff. ‘I’m sorry, Bettina, but I must respect your father’s wishes.’ Smoke oozed out of her nose. ‘I’m sure Bart is grateful for the visit, regardless of its brevity.’
Bettina nodded and thanked his mother. ‘Well, goodbye then,’ she said to Bart. ‘I’m so relieved to see you well. The train journey over here was pure hell – I’ve never prayed so much in my life.’ She stood awkwardly for a moment, probably not knowing whether she should hug him in front of his mother. She squeezed his arm and then left.
His mother stood there for some time, smoking and watching him. She was wearing a loose beige dress with a low waist, a gold-sequinned hairband and lots of gold bangles. He’d always thought his mother stylish and felt proud of her – well, as much as one can be proud of one’s mother. She had big hips and a humongous arse – truly humongous – but she’d never let this stop her from embracing the newest styles, unlike his Auntie May, who unsuccessfully hid her wide arse under flouncy monstrosities leftover from the Victorian nightmare.
‘The birdies have been tweeting,’ his mother said finally, a twinkle in her eye, ‘regarding your just-departed friend.’
‘Don’t the birdies have anything better to do?’
‘No, they don’t actually.’
‘Save your breath – I already know it.’
‘Do you now? If it was about someone else – Sir Percy’s daughter perhaps, or that plain girl you always like to make fun of—’
‘Average Anastasia—’
‘If it was about her or someone else, you’d be laughing your head off right now and we both know it.’
‘It’s true, I would. But it’s not about them. It’s about Bettina.’
‘And lucky it was! Did you know her father is a benefactor to St Vincent’s?’
‘Of course.’
‘A most generous benefactor, Neesh told me. He donated fifty pounds last year. And here’s the hilarious thing – you are going to love this’ – she leaned forward, the whites of her eyes glittering – ‘it was his donation that paid for the new heating system in the very boiler room in which she was caught!’ She held her hands out incredulously. ‘The irony! Ha! She’d have been expelled otherwise, for the drinking. Bit of an idiotic thing to do.’
‘I’ll thank you to show some restraint, Lucille.’
His mother’s mouth scythed into a grin. ‘It is rather funny, though. I always thought her such a stuck-up sort.’
‘Well, she’s not. I’m very fond of her.’
‘Don’t get too fond of her.’ A raised brow. ‘If she does indeed prefer a stroll through the peach orchard to a jog through the banana grove.’
A laugh burst out of his chest. He couldn’t help it. ‘Away with you, witch!’
She tilted her head back and cackled, then left, a trail of loose-tendrilled smoke in her wake. His mother had this tendency to move through daily life as if she was being filmed, and this was another quality of hers that he grudgingly admired.