Marcus is being very patient. But he’s a man, you know, and men have needs.

“Anyway,” Pamela went on, “I must tell you my news. Rex Fisher has asked me to marry him.”

“Mother thought he might. Are you pleased?”

“Of course I am. I mean, it’s always nice to be asked.”

“And what did you say?”

“I said I needed to think about it. And talk it over with Fin and Mother, of course. It doesn’t do to seem too eager, you know.”

Lydia thought that her sister had a point. She herself had worn her devotion to Marcus on her sleeve. When he had asked her to marry him, he hadn’t even waited for her answer. He had taken it for granted she would say yes, and so had she and everyone else.

“But I will say yes, of course. I know he’s dreadfully old. I looked him up-he’ll be forty-one next birthday. On the other hand, he’s very well preserved, apart from the slightly gammy leg, but that’s just a war wound. All his own teeth, and he doesn’t look silly in a bathing suit. And on the practical side there’s the money and the title. I know some people say the Fishers are trade, but that’s all nonsense nowadays. It’s only snobs who say that. Nobody else cares.” She took out another cigarette. “He gave me this case, actually. Isn’t it pretty?”

“Charming. Is it silver and enamel?”

“Platinum, darling. Did you know that Rex’s almost certainly going to stand for Parliament? I do like a man who does something, don’t you? Fin says he’ll probably end up in the Cabinet. I say, wouldn’t it be fun if he and Marcus were in the House together? It’s perfectly possible if Mosley decides to field a few candidates in the next election. They’re just the sort of men he’d want. They won’t frighten the left-wingers or spit in the Lobby. And above all they’re not decrepit.” She flashed a smile at Lydia. “Anyway, it’s all the more reason for you to go back to Marcus, darling. Then we can be political wives together. We can start a salon and invite lions every Tuesday evening. Think what fun we can have.”

She began to giggle, and Lydia found herself first smiling and then laughing.

“That’s better,” Pamela said. “You’ve been looking ever so solemn. And hardly any make-up, either.”

“Do you love him?”

“Rex? I suppose so. I like him, and he makes me laugh. He makes me feel safe too. I’m sure everything else will come naturally after we’re married.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if you were in love with him now?”

“As you were with Marcus?”

“That wasn’t love. That was idolatry. And it’s all over now.”

Pamela stretched out her hand and took Lydia’s. “Look, Lydia. I’m twenty-one. I’ve been out for years. The only people who’ve wanted to marry me have been quite unsuitable. Either they hadn’t got a bean or they were perfectly loathsome. And now here’s Rex. He may not be absolutely perfect but he’s streets ahead of the competition. The odds are, I’m not going to get a better offer. One has to face facts.”

Lydia said nothing but she returned the pressure of her sister’s hand.

“Incidentally, if you’d rather not bump into Marcus, I shouldn’t go out this morning.”

“Why? Is he outside?”

“No. Not exactly-and he’s not coming here as far as I know. But he and Rex are visiting a BUF branch in Clerkenwell this morning. And Rex said they were going to call at Rosington Place because he needs to see someone who lives opposite where you work.”

“Not many people live in Rosington Place. It’s mainly offices now. Including mine.”

“Well, that’s what Rex said. They were calling on someone who lives there.”

“Anyway, there isn’t a house opposite our office. It’s an old chapel.”

“There we are then,” Pamela said with another giggle. “I expect Rex and Marcus are calling on God.”

14

Tuesday, 11 March 1930 Men are such BRUTES. My hand trembles so badly I can hardly hold the pen. I am writing this by candlelight in our room at the Alforde Arms. Yes, OUR room. Joseph is in the bar downstairs talking to some men of the village. He didn’t mean us to spend the night here. The plan was that we would come down to Morthams Farm for the day and make a list of what we needed to buy, and discuss what would have to be done to make the house ready for us to move in. The trouble began on the train from Liverpool Street. There was a young woman in the compartment-I really cannot call her a lady-wearing a great deal of lipstick, black satin high-heeled shoes, a vulgar little cloche hat and a very short skirt. She pretended to have trouble lifting her case onto the rack, and Joseph sprang to his feet and helped her. It was the way he did it. And the way she responded. I doubt if the horrid girl was more than eighteen-a mere child, which made it worse. During the journey he kept ogling her, and once or twice I noticed her looking at him in a very sly way. Then he asked if she would like to borrow his newspaper. Of course she did. Soon they were chatting away like old friends and completely ignoring me. I felt so mortified. We weren’t alone in the carriage, either-there was a very nice elderly couple as well. I couldn’t say anything in front of everyone so the only thing I could do was stay calm and stare out of the window and hope my agitation wasn’t obvious to everyone. Fortunately, when we changed on to the branch line to Mavering, we were by ourselves again. Joseph was suddenly all courtesy and consideration. I said I’d noticed him making eyes at that girl and he denied it all and grew quite angry. I decided to let it go. Like all men, Joseph has something of the brute in him. He has his animal instincts. One can hardly blame him for that. So he was easy prey for a designing girl. It occurred to me that there was a simple solution to the problem. All I needed was a little courage. I waited until we had nearly finished at the farm-where Joseph could hardly have been more attentive to my little wants and needs. I said, as we were standing in what will be my drawing room, that I hadn’t forgotten what I had said the other day after our visit to my brother John’s. We were already married in spirit, I reminded him, and it was high time we were married in the other way. He seized me in a great bear hug and covered my face in kisses. I could hardly breathe. He pointed out that everyone in Rawling already knew us as Mr. and Mrs. Serridge, so here would be the perfect place, and of course it would signify the beginning of our new life together, etc., etc. Obviously we couldn’t stay at the farm, because nothing was ready, but he had noticed the village inn was a most respectable-looking establishment and a sign in the window there said that there were rooms to let. I was beginning to have second thoughts so I said there were things I needed to purchase, which was true. He swept away my objections, and later that afternoon we took a taxi into Saffron Walden so we could buy what we needed for the night. And then-and then-it all went horribly wrong. We dined at the inn-on dreadful, fatty mutton-and Joseph ordered a bottle of Burgundy, most of which he drank himself. We retired to bed early. It was not even nine o’clock. I’m sure the landlady suspected something. I cannot bear even to think of what happened next, let alone describe it. It was horrible. Dirty. Painful. Disgusting. We didn’t even change into our nightclothes. He pushed me on the bed and ATTACKED me. The whole business can’t have taken much more than a minute though it seemed to me that every second lasted an hour. I felt I was being smothered, though that was the least of my troubles. I had not expected him to be so rough. I had not expected it to hurt so much. Is this what it all means, what it all comes down to? At least, I thought while he was doing it to me, he will never leave me now. He will be mine for ever. When he had finished, however, there were no signs of tenderness. He just patted my shoulder and said I was a good girl. Then he got out of bed, pulled on his trousers and walked up and down smoking a cigarette. I turned away and pretended to sleep. After a while, I actually heard him relieve himself in the pot. Then he whispered loudly to me that he was going down for a nightcap. I didn’t reply. So here I am, writing by the dying fire. I don’t want to see anybody so I won’t ring for more coals. They are still talking downstairs, and I think he’s laughing at something. Laughing. I know it’s a sin, dear Jesus, but sometimes I wish I were dead.