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She nodded.
He disappeared again. Where had he learned to be so competent and self-sufficient? In the Spanish Civil War, she supposed.
She heard him moving around the kitchen. He reappeared with two cups of tea. "You probably hate this stuff, but it will make you feel better." She took the tea. He showed her two white pills in the palm of his hand. "Aspirin? May ease the stomach cramps a bit."
She took them and swallowed them with hot tea. He had always struck her as being mature beyond his years. She remembered how confidently he had gone off to find the drunken Boy at the Gaiety Theatre. "You've always been like this," she said. "A real grown-up, when the rest of us were just pretending."
She finished the tea and felt sleepy. He took the cups away. "I may just close my eyes for a moment," she said. "Will you stay here, if I go to sleep?"
"I'll stay as long as you like," he said. Then he said something else, but his voice seemed to fade away, and she slept.
iii
After that Lloyd began to spend his evenings in the little housekeeper's flat.
He looked forward to it all day.
He would go downstairs a few minutes after eight, when dinner in the mess was over and Daisy's maid had left for the night. They would sit opposite one another in the two old armchairs. Lloyd would bring a book to study--there was always "homework," with tests in the morning--and Daisy would read a novel, but mostly they talked. They related what had happened during the day, discussed whatever they were reading, and told each other the story of their lives.
He recounted his experiences at the Battle of Cable Street. "Standing there in a peaceful crowd, we were charged by mounted policemen screaming about dirty Jews," he told her. "They beat us with their truncheons and pushed us through the plate-glass windows."
She had been quarantined with the Fascists in Tower Gardens, and had seen none of the fighting. "That wasn't the way it was reported," she said. She had believed the newspapers that said it had been a street riot organized by hooligans.
Lloyd was not surprised. "My mother watched the newsreel at the Aldgate Essoldo a week later," he recalled. "That plummy-voiced commentator said: 'From impartial observers the police received nothing but praise.' Mam said the entire audience burst out laughing."
Daisy was shocked by his skepticism about the news. He told her that most British papers had suppressed stories of atrocities by Franco's army in Spain, and exaggerated any report of bad behavior by government forces. She admitted she had swallowed Earl Fitzherbert's view that the rebels were high-minded Christians liberating Spain from the threat of Communism. She knew nothing of mass executions, rape, and looting by Franco's men.
It seemed never to have occurred to her that newspapers owned by capitalists might play down news that reflected badly on the Conservative government, the military, or businessmen, and would seize upon any incident of bad behavior by trade unionists or left-wing parties.
Lloyd and Daisy talked about the war. There was action at last. British and French troops had landed in Norway, and were contending for control with the Germans who had done the sam
e. The newspapers could not quite conceal the fact that it was going badly for the Allies.
Her attitude to him had changed. She no longer flirted. She was always pleased to see him, and complained if he was late arriving in the evening, and she teased him sometimes, but she was never coquettish. She told him how disappointed everyone was about the baby she had lost: Boy, Fitz, Bea, her mother in Buffalo, even her father, Lev. She could not shake the irrational feeling that she had done something shameful, and she asked if he thought that was foolish. He did not. Nothing she did was foolish to him.
Their conversation was personal but they kept their distance from one another physically. He would not exploit the extraordinary intimacy of the night she miscarried. Of course the scene would live in his heart forever. Wiping the blood from her thighs and her belly had not been sexy--not in the least--but it had been unbearably tender. However, it had been a medical emergency, and it did not give him permission to take liberties later. He was so afraid of giving the wrong impression about this that he was careful never to touch her.
At ten o'clock she would make them cocoa, which he loved and she said she liked, though he wondered if she was just being nice. Then he would say good night and go upstairs to his attic bedroom.
They were like old friends. It was not what he wanted, but she was a married woman, and this was the best he was going to get.
He tended to forget Daisy's status. He was startled, one evening, when she announced that she was going to pay a visit to the earl's retired butler, Peel, who was living in a cottage just outside the grounds. "He's eighty!" she told Lloyd. "I'm sure Fitz has forgotten all about him. I should check on him."
Lloyd raised his eyebrows in surprise, and she added: "I need to make sure he's all right. It's my duty as a member of the Fitzherbert clan. Taking care of your old retainers is an obligation of wealthy families--didn't you know that?"
"It had slipped my mind."
"Will you come with me?"
"Of course."
The next day was a Sunday, and they went in the morning, when Lloyd had no lectures. They were both shocked by the state of the little house. The paint was flaking, the wallpaper was peeling, and the curtains were gray with coal dust. The only decoration was a row of photographs cut from magazines and tacked to the wall: the king and queen, Fitz and Bea, and other assorted members of the nobility. The place had not been properly cleaned for years, and there was a smell of urine and ash and decay. But Lloyd guessed it was not unusual for an old man on a small pension.
Peel had white eyebrows. He looked at Lloyd and said: "Good morning, my lord--I thought you were dead!"
Lloyd smiled. "I'm just a visitor."
"Are you, sir? My poor brain is scrambled eggs. The old earl died, what, thirty-five or forty years ago? Well, then, who are you, young sir?"
