The tea party after the funeral resembled those infinitely distant At Homes before the war. The same drawing room, the same cups and plates (though much less to eat), many of the same people. But it was not really like old times. The room was filled with black clothes, some of them rubbed from over-use. Today, meeting an old acquaintance, you’d rapidly calculate their wartime losses. And now there were other dangers to fear, not least the flu epidemic that had killed Sir William.
The entire family was there, except Thomas. Irene had arrived the day before, with her little daughter tightly grasping her hand. Sophia was back from France. Mark was living in London before his next posting. Edward was in evidence. The aunts and uncles attended, with a remnant of children. A large congregation mourned this witty thoughtful man, including a surprising number of strangers who thanked Lady Benson for her husband’s kindness.
The Benson children were scrutinised. ‘Irene has changed so much, very pale – and those clothes, really not English at all.’
‘And is that Sophia?’
‘She’s been a nurse, you know, they say she was very brave.’
‘She’s not been looking after herself, she looks like a working woman.’
‘Striking though.’
‘I suppose that’s the brother.’
‘Elegant. Good shoes.’
‘No signs of suffering there. Of course he was safe in Washington.’
During the funeral tea the children looked after the guests just as they had when they were young. It was Victoria who took charge of the widow, led her to a comfortable seat, brought people to talk to her.
Victoria talked freely about her work: having started as a stenographer in a firm of auctioneers, she had been promoted to chairman’s secretary. ‘I love it! The chairman even listens to my advice, and the work is so interesting, and now the war is over, we expect a great deal of business, people selling up, you know. I ought to regret it, but if you’re in the business. . . I wouldn’t give it up for anything.’ When a lady said, ‘But won’t you leave, now the war is over?’, she replied, ‘Certainly not, I enjoy it and we need the money.’ The lady was shocked.
Afterwards the family sat, exhausted, around the drawing room. ‘At least I have all my children around me,’ said Lady Benson, ‘the last time we were all assembled was for Irene’s wedding – what an occasion, only ten years ago. . .’
‘Eight and a half,’ said Irene.
‘It seems a century. I am so happy to meet my grandchild.’ Actually, meeting Dorothea had been a disappointment, the child was plain and quiet, spoke hardly a word of English. ‘You must all be here tomorrow, when Mr Morgan comes, the solicitor.’
The children stayed up late.
‘How does it feel,’ they asked Irene, ‘to be back in London?’
‘Oh, very strange, I don’t know what I feel about this country now, I’ve lived so long in a place where England’s detested.’
‘And will you stay for a while?’ asked Mark, who was sitting beside her on the sofa. ‘It would be lovely for us if you did.’ He slid his arm round her and gave her a little kiss on the cheek.
‘Oh, a little while. Mamma needs me, and Dodo must improve her English, and realise this isn’t a country of monsters.’
‘Thomas will miss you. . .’
She almost looked angry, an unfamiliar expression for her. ‘I’ve lived in Germany for Thomas’s sake, all through the war. He can allow me to be English for a while.’ She paused. ‘You can’t imagine how awful it’s been, like a long crucifixion.’