Beatrice shrugged. ‘What if she has?’
‘You’re in her clutches, I can tell.’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous. You make me wish I hadn’t come.’
Angie stared at her for a moment, then her expression softened. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and gave one of her most dazzling smiles. ‘It’s just everything’s so deathly at the moment.’ She stood up and started walking about the room, peering into Beatrice’s washbag, admiring herself in a long mirror, and finally swooping on a tiny framed photograph of Rafe that she found in the suitcase Beatrice regretted having left open. She studied the picture thoughtfully for a moment, seemed about to say something, then didn’t, and put the photo down.
‘So,’ Angie said, wrapping the candlewick bedspread around her shoulders and sitting on the bed again, ‘you’re stuck with Peterkin all day tomorrow.’
‘It’s very kind of him,’ Beatrice replied, wondering what was going on behind Angie’s mild expression. Angie’s fingers traced around the printed roses on the eiderdown.
‘Isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Well, perhaps you’d come out for dinner later at Quag’s. Dickie’s bringing some friends. Have I told you about Dickie Bestbridge? He’s an absolute scream. Listen, I’ll tell Mummy you’ve lectured me and that I’ve promised, hope to die, to be better, then maybe she’ll get off our backs.’
‘All right.’ Beatrice smiled, with relief. The cloud had passed. Angie shrugged off the bedspread, came over and kissed her cheek, then padded out of the room, not quite closing the door behind her. Beatrice climbed out of bed and pushed it shut. There was something wrong with the latch, so to keep it closed she turned the key.
The next morning there was still no call from Rafe. Beatrice and Peter trailed about the National Gallery, Peter deploring the sad gaps on the walls.
‘Where’ve they put everything?’ Beatrice asked.
‘I don’t know. My father thinks somewhere in Wales. I’ve got this vision of a cave in the mountains, where King Arthur’s sleeping, hundreds of paintings stacked up all around him.’
She laughed, then said more soberly, ‘He’s supposed to wake in England’s time of need, isn’t he?’
‘Perhaps that’ll come before too long. It’s unnerving, this war-that-isn’t-a-war. I wonder how Ed’s getting on? He hasn’t written lately.’ He looked around the room. ‘I say, if you’ve seen enough pictures, let’s get a bite of lunch, then catch a bus back to Kensington. The Victoria and Albert’s rather splendid.’
Peter was much nicer away from his family, Beatrice thought. He’d lost that hang-dog look, and when he was talking about things that interested him – pictures and antiques – he became quite animated.
They ate sandwiches in a Lyons Corner House, where Beatrice admired the nippies rushing to and fro and tried to imagine what it would be like to work in a job like that. She’d like to do something useful once she’d finished with school, but the question was what. Anything but go back to St Florian and live a suffocating life of seclusion with her parents, she knew that much.
‘I suppose I’ll have to try and get a commission,’ Peter said miserably, when they discussed the future, ‘unless Father can find me a desk job. I couldn’t stand to stay at home. I’d go mad. Beatrice, why did you come?’
‘I wanted to see the museums,’ she replied, knowing exactly what he meant but not sure of the reason behind his question.
‘No, why did you come to stay? You know my mother’s up to something.’
‘Yes, I do,’ Beatrice said, wiping her fingers on her handkerchief. ‘But it’s all right, I can manage her.’
‘Thank the lord for that,’ he said. ‘We’re no good for you, any of us.’
‘You said that before. Don’t be silly,’ she said.
‘No, I mean it. You’re too nice for us Wincantons, Bea.’
‘Well, thanks very much.’
They hardly spoke on the journey up to the Exhibition Road, both a bit out of sorts after this conversation. Looking down from the bus Beatrice considered how calm and ordinary everything seemed. She’d expected people to be fearful, to see more evidence that invasion was expected any day. Yet there was little, apart from the ubiquitous piles of sandbags, the blackout paper and the odd boarded-up window, to suggest that this wasn’t like any other Christmas. Occasionally she saw men in uniform, but not as many as might be expected. Every now and then she’d glimpse the back of one who looked like Rafe and would will him to turn round so she could see his face. Every time one did, she was disappointed. Why hadn’t Rafe replied to her letter? Had he been sent away somewhere?