Everyone Brave Is Forgiven(113)
December, 1941
AT DAWN RAIN BEAT on the garret roof and leaked here and there in drips. Mary reached out a hand and tasted it. Now that the morphine was long gone from her system, the clarity of sensation was extraordinary. Things no longer shifted and warped. Until now she had never understood how much one could love this dignified stillness of still things.
There had been no major raids since May. It might all start again, of course—Mary found that she knew less of the war the longer it went on. Certainly it was still growing, drawing countries in, and when it reached sufficient size perhaps it would come back for London. The newspapers had stopped printing situation maps, which suggested that the picture was dispiriting. She kept her anxieties to those she could do something about. Zachary had still to learn his times tables beyond six. Charles must be encouraged not to use the geometry compass as a weapon. The war expanded and the world shrank to what one knew.
Memory retreated to its old boundaries and renounced its incursions into sight. Emotions submitted to the authority she had learned in childhood to exercise over them. Pleasant sensations she allowed their effervescence, dark thoughts she quarantined. Rain drove against the skylights and streamed down the panes in sheets. It was a steady and confident rain from a vast and somber sky that seemed installed for the duration.
A knock came in the early morning: the landlady, with the post. Mary thanked her and went back to bed to slit the envelopes open. The first was a begging letter from her old finishing school, inviting her to help a fresh batch of girls to—well, to finish, she supposed. The second was an aerogramme from Major Simonson.
Dear Miss North,
I am sorry to write again. I assume the Army has told you that Alistair is safe but I imagine it has exercised discretion in communicating the details.
Mary put the letter down on the blanket and stared at it. It was too early in the morning to cry, the day having not yet delivered enough venom to be expelled. She leaned back on the headboard and closed her eyes tight. Her fingers scratched at the sheets. It was as if her body wanted to burrow.
When it was finished, she sat for a while in a daze.
I do not know how things stand between you and I do not wish to pry, but I am informed that Alistair is forbidden from sending or receiving letters. I do not know if you have been made aware of this and I write to apprise you.
Following the loss of his arm in May, Alistair was to be invalided home but there were perhaps irregularities in the repatriation list. These came to light after Alistair reached Gibraltar, where he was taken by the Navy having been recovered when his aircraft ditched.
The upshot is that Alistair has been sentenced to twelve months’ imprisonment for absence without leave. He is to serve this time in Gibraltar. I have tried to get the sentence set aside, emphasizing Alistair’s selfless record and his wound. My efforts have been unsuccessful, and I pray you will both forgive me. Though Alistair was under my command, it is as his friend that I write.
Mary read it through again. Alistair was alive. The world remade itself. Her hands clasped and unclasped. It had been so long since she had numbered herself among the fortunate that she had lost all immunity to the shock of it. Joy, at first, was foreign and unsettling.
After the first hour she began to wonder what one might do. It wasn’t possible to travel to Gibraltar as a civilian. Nor, apparently, could she write to Alistair there. She thought it through, but nothing came. In the end, reluctantly—but it hardly dragged at her at all, she was so elated—she supposed she ought to talk to her mother.
She put on her mac and limped through the sleet to untouched Pimlico. At her parents’ house on Warwick Square the white stucco facade, the classical portico and the first-floor balcony with its sculpted box bushes all spoke of exemption from the things she had lived through. She climbed the six steps to the black door with its leonine knocker but as she lifted her hand, the door swung open. One couldn’t know what mechanism of housemaids and semaphore detected one’s approach.
“Good morning, Miss Mary.”
She stepped inside as if it was nothing. “Hello, Palmer. Are you well?”
Palmer afforded the minutest inflection of an eyebrow, sufficient to relegate his well-being to the category of things without import. Mary found that her raincoat was already across his arm.
“We expect Madam home at eleven. Shall you wait for her by the fire in the morning room?”
“Oh yes, very good. Thank you.”
The slightest nod. Palmer was so invariant that Mary herself was suddenly unsure whether she had been away for seven months or seven hours. In the morning room she sat on the green settee. On the pewter tray Palmer brought cocoa with golden amaretti and a hint of apology.
“Unless Miss might prefer sherry?”
“Even for a monster like me, it’s a little early.”
His face didn’t change. “I shall make a note.”
Her mother came home, spilling over with cut flowers and instructions for their display. Her graying hair was dragged back in a bun. When Mary showed herself in the hallway, a single strand escaped to lift in the winter draft.
“Hello,” said Mary.
“Darling,” said her mother, the production of the word being necessary according to Newton’s third law.
“I hope it isn’t a bad time,” said Mary.
Her mother let her coat be taken. ‘You do understand that you cannot make a scene. Your father is this close to being called up to Cabinet—he may return at any time, and perhaps with a visitor. We are being careful not to display the wrong sort of periodicals, let alone . . . well, there is no need to elaborate. Oh, you’ve been crying.”