While appreciating that Armistice Day was exciting in principle, Lady Benson sat on her own, feeling curiously gloomy. One heard shouting and singing outside, motorbuses hooting. The servants had gone out, chanting the catchphrase ‘Eleven eleven eleven eighteen’. She had no wish to follow them. Mafficking was for the young, and common people. She stared out at the communal garden with its allotments, thinking about all the people they’d known who were dead.
Her mind dwelt on Edward. He was not the man he had been. His mind was slower, he got tired easily. In the old days he’d been so forceful, but now it was clear – though unsaid – that he would not rise to the top of the firm. Under pressure he lost control, trembled and shouted for no good reason. She’d seen this once when little George had annoyed him, he’d struck the poor mite, before Victoria took the child away and soothed her shaking husband.
Victoria was an angel. If she had a fault, it was being too adaptable, too ready to work for money. At least now, with two of her brothers dead, there might be some money to spare.
Still, one was lucky. So many of her friends had been bereaved. But what use were her three children if they lived abroad? Irene could not come home, Mark only occasionally – which left her with Sophia. Well, this nursing business must come to an end. It was unfortunate, in a way, that the child was so good-looking, she might turn someone’s head. Well, now she’d had her fun and games, she must settle down and look after her poor old parents.
She looked drearily round her drawing room. It looked so old-fashioned, she wanted something modern, light, cheerful. It must be possible soon to buy attractive materials and furniture again. Of course, now they might finally move house, though William had been difficult lately about money. It was true everything cost more because of the war, but really there was no need to fuss.
She heard the sound of a cab, the front door opening, footsteps. William looked unwell, though that was usual.
‘I feel very weak. I’m going to bed.’
‘I’m so sorry, my darling.’ They needed a holiday. Cannes, perhaps.
What a disappointment, on a day like this, being alone with a sick husband. At least Edward and Victoria were coming to dinner. She’d told them not to change, it was absurd to put on evening dress for a dubious rissole.