“There was a scene with Henry,” she went on. “He found out about the pregnancy and hit her. She fell hard on the floor.”
I put my arm around her as we sat down beside the bed. Henry’s explosion must have been the last straw, after the blood loss, the weakness, the heartache. We watched her in silence, and I was relieved when the situation began to stabilize around dawn, and she fell into a light sleep.
“Go to bed now and get a few hours’ sleep, as I’ll have to leave at eight,” I whispered to Mrs. Winthrop.
“I’m far too awake to sleep,” she said. “But I’ll make us some tea.”
I stayed, quietly monitoring Venetia’s fever while Mrs. Winthrop crept in and out, bringing tea and a vase of purple hydrangeas from the garden. She opened the curtains a few inches as the sun rose over the wheat-clad hills, allowing a pastel amber stream to flicker into the room.
It was all over, and Venetia was alive.
When she woke, she lay despondently on her bed for a long while, her large eyes wide open, fixed on the ceiling, or closed shut, tears billowing out.
“What have I done?” she would whisper from time to time. “What was I thinking? I could never have married Henry. What have I done?”
Mrs. Winthrop and I glanced at each other. It was as if the culmination of the whole situation had finally broken her inside.
The Brigadier was throwing a tremendous racket downstairs, as if it were yet another battlefield, the sound of crockery breaking and doors slamming in utter contrast to our quiet little corner of grief.
After eight, I trod sadly back to the village to get some rest before morning surgery, feeling light-headed from the lack of sleep. I reached Ivy House just in time to see the Colonel leave for Litchfield.
“Is she all right?” he asked, although I hadn’t mentioned it to him, and I have no idea how he knew where I had been.
“Yes,” I replied. “She’ll be fine.”
“And you?” He stopped right in front of me, his bulky mass hovering over me.
“I’m—” I began, about to say as usual that I’m all right. But it wasn’t true. “I’m tired. It’s all been rather traumatic, to be frank.” I looked at him and gave him a frail smile.
“Why don’t you go and lie down for a while.” He leaned his head down slightly. “I’m sure the surgery can do without you this morning.”
I could have cried on his large, friendly shoulder, but I just stood there, trying to be practical, holding in my tears. “But what about all the people waiting for me?”
He stood looking at me for a moment, and then he put both arms out, perhaps to put them around me, but then stopped himself midair, deciding instead to plant his hands firmly on my arms. “You need to rest for a while, otherwise you won’t be able to help anyone.”
“I’ll try,” I said, then pulled away, embarrassed by our closeness. “But where’s Kitty? I need to make her breakfast.”
“Kitty has already made me breakfast and, if you ask very nicely”—he smiled, raising an eyebrow—“I’m sure she’ll rustle up some for you, too.”
Friday, 9th August, 1940
The Sharp Light of Day
When I opened my eyes this morning, I found myself blinking at Mrs. Tilling’s small back room, and spent a few abysmal moments piecing together the gruesome events of the last day, my fast and furious demise into a pit so deep I’ll never be able to struggle out.
My Future
Daddy’s unleashed fury—I’ll have to leave home in disgrace
Venetia’s anger, and her unremitting torment
My utter and complete disgrace that will follow me like a shadow of death
My broken heart dissolving my insides into molten lava
My shattered dreams—the end of everything I’ve ever known and wanted
I wandered downstairs and into the kitchen to find some breakfast.
“Is Mrs. Tilling up yet?” I asked the Colonel.
“She’s still at the Manor,” he said, starting to poke through the cupboards for something to eat. “She’s been there all night.”
“Oh dear,” I muttered as I reached for the oats. “It must be Venetia. I hope she’s all right.”
As I made tea and porridge for the Colonel, I couldn’t stop thinking about Venetia, and how it was all my fault she had the dreadful row with Henry. He must have been furious with her. I shouldn’t have told him. I really can’t think how bad people can live with themselves and their guilt. I felt it lurking in me, like a poisonous slime slushing around my body, making everything I do or say come out all yellowy-brown and stinking of sick.
The Colonel sat down at the table, reading yesterday’s paper and giving me a running commentary.
“Well, it’s officially called the Battle of Britain now. The Nazis are bombing all our airfields and factories.”