It was Martin’s birthday and Claire insisted that we came down to celebrate it with her family. She said he’d been under a lot of stress and everyone getting together would cheer them all up. Stress. Well, that’s one way of putting it. I don’t know how much her parents knew but Len and I had decided that as far as we were concerned we were happy to pretend that Martin hadn’t had an affair, Claire hadn’t been arrested, their daughter was perfectly well adjusted and everything was hunky-dory. We only hoped that the Reverend Matthew and Lady Celia took the same line.
As soon as we arrived, Lucy started to play up; well, you could expect as much after the attention she must have received at the camp. We had to obey each whim: looking at the souvenirs she’d brought back, the paintings she’d done, and watching the show she wanted to put on. It was sweet at first, even if it did involve a lot of her falling about and pretending to be dead, but after a while it appeared that she wanted some kind of audience participation. I whispered to Len that I wasn’t going to start lying down and pretending I was dead in front of a cruise missile. Not before dinner, anyway.
The meal was all right, I suppose, because at least we were getting used to Martin and Claire’s ways. Personally, I don’t understand how anyone in the world can enjoy comfrey-leaf fritters but there’s no accounting for taste. I think they prepared it just to see the looks on our faces.
I noticed Claire had lost some weight and I thought it might be polite if I told her so. She replied it was the Greenham diet and I should try it.
After that most of the meal was conducted in silence, apart from Lucy singing songs and pretending the adults were policemen. She made us listen to her like she was still at that awful place.
‘And so, Claire,’ said her father, ‘tell us your news, your stories from the front. The battles you have fought and won, your tales of derring-do.’
‘Don’t, Daddy.’
‘No, I’m interested. We’ve seen it on the news, of course, the mud and the singing and the dungarees. Some of my parishioners even went on a coach trip. Funny kind of holiday.’
‘It wasn’t a holiday.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘You should have come, Mummy.’
Celia looked startled. ‘Oh, I think I’m a bit old for that kind of thing.’
‘If every woman in Britain came then no one could stop us. Imagine …’
‘But that’s hardly likely, is it …’
‘What’s happened to you both?’ Claire asked.
‘When I was growing up you were full of such ideals. We travelled to Africa, we went all over the place installing water pumps and converting the heathen, and now you spend all your time stuck drinking sherry by the Thames.’
‘I wouldn’t say we were stuck, my darling.’
‘Where’s your courage? Where’s your vitality?’
She was beginning to rant and Martin asked her to calm down.
‘I’ve told you before. Don’t tell me to calm down. It’s so patronising.’
‘You’re all right, Claire,’ said Len.
‘Do you know what it’s like to see your friends kicked in the stomach and being pulled away by their hair? Do you know what it means to be frightened every day that something terrible is going to happen? It’s not a joke, lots of women getting beaten up. It’s not just a nice story to tell at a coffee morning. You can’t imagine it.’
‘I can imagine it,’ said Matthew.
‘I don’t see how. You only became a clergyman so you wouldn’t have to fight.’
Her father coloured up. ‘That’s below the belt, young lady.’
‘I wonder, Celia, if you would like some of this delicious salad?’ I interrupted.
I could see she was starting to get in a state. ‘Your father always wanted to be a cleric. Don’t you dare put it any other way.’
‘We KNOW,’ Claire was almost shouting. ‘It’s hardly a secret. You should be proud of it. Conscientious objection. It has a noble history, even if people did get shot for it.’
‘Don’t bring that up now. That’s family.’
‘We ARE family,’ said Claire. ‘This is my family. Martin and Lucy. And Len and Vi. We’re one family. Don’t you think they should know rather than we all keep pretending?’
‘Your father has nothing to be ashamed of.’
‘Except in front of people who actually fought.’
Matthew was dignified. ‘You don’t know what it was like. You can’t even imagine the horror, sitting there with your friends on a campsite. It’s easy enough to protest in a time of peace. It’s a lot harder in war.’
There was silence.
‘I’m sorry, Daddy, I didn’t mean to hurt you.’
Her father looked at Len and me and said, ‘I got as far as the bayonet training. We were told it was important to hate your enemy. We had to run at sandbags in this field outside Aldershot. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t imagine hating anyone.’
‘It’s the one word Matthew won’t allow,’ said Celia. ‘The children have always been able to swear if they want to but we won’t have the word “hate” in our house.’
‘And yet so many of my friends were killed. And my brother, of course. You would think I would be able to hate but I just couldn’t do it.’
It all came back to me. Not that it had ever gone away. Claire’s father saying ‘of course’, like the death of a brother in war was the most natural thing in the world.
He turned to his daughter and spoke quietly. ‘It was a lot harder to say no then. You were stigmatised. Some people never recovered.’
Len put down his knife and fork. His fingers were resting on the edge of the table like they always did when he was waiting to speak. ‘I think you should put a stop to this conversation,’ he said. ‘You’re all right, Matthew. Let’s not go into this. Long time ago. Things are different today.’
‘I’m sorry this has come out,’ said Celia. ‘I do think it’s best if we change the subject.’
‘And anyway,’ Len went on, ‘plenty of padres were killed. They were there with the troops. That was brave enough. They saw enough death. Lots of burials to get through.’
‘That’s what Matthew did,’ said Celia. ‘He was always by people’s side when it mattered. He has high moral principles.’
‘Not high enough for some, alas.’
‘But I’m sure that’s where your daughter gets her ideals from,’ said Len.
‘I’m sorry, Daddy. I didn’t mean it. I’m very tired.’
She stood up and kissed her father on the top of his head. Then she put her arms round his shoulders and he took her hand.
‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘I forgive you.’
‘I’ll get the pudding. It’s lemon meringue pie.’
Her father rubbed his hands together. ‘My favourite.’
When his daughter was in the kitchen Matthew said, ‘Claire always did have such high expectations of people. Perhaps that’s what happens to the children of clergymen. They want so much goodness and then they find that there just isn’t enough of it in the world to go round. They get so disappointed.’
I could hear Claire singing as she took the pie out of the oven.
You can forbid nearly everything
But you can’t forbid me to think
And you can’t forbid my tears to flow
And you can’t shut my mouth when I sing.