Winter of the World

‘The government lies,’ Boy said. ‘And the bomber crews know it. Many of them don’t give a damn, of course, but some feel bad. They believe that if we’re doing the right thing, then we should say so; and if we’re doing the wrong thing we should stop.’

Lowther looked uneasy. ‘I’m not sure we should be talking like this here.’

‘You’re probably right,’ Boy said.

The second round of cocktails came. Lowther turned to Daisy. ‘And what about the little woman?’ he said. ‘You must have some war work. The devil finds mischief for idle hands, according to the proverb.’

Daisy replied in a neutral matter-of-fact tone. ‘Now that the Blitz is over, they don’t need women ambulance drivers, so I’m working with the American Red Cross. We have an office in Pall Mall. We do what we can to help American servicemen over here.’

‘Men lonely for a bit of feminine company, eh?’

‘Mostly they’re just homesick. They like to hear an American accent.’

Lowthie leered. ‘I expect you’re very good at consoling them.’

‘I do what I can.’

‘I bet you do.’

Boy said: ‘Look here, Lowthie, are you a bit drunk? Because this sort of talk is awfully bad form, you know.’

Lowther’s expression turned spiteful. ‘Oh, come on, Boy, don’t tell me you don’t know. What are you, blind?’

Daisy said: ‘Take me home, please, Boy.’

He ignored her and spoke to Lowther. ‘What the devil do you mean?’

‘Ask her about Lloyd Williams.’

Boy said: ‘Who the hell is Lloyd Williams?’

Daisy said: ‘I’m going home alone, if you won’t take me.’

‘Do you know a Lloyd Williams, Daisy?’

He’s your brother, Daisy thought; and she felt a powerful impulse to reveal the secret, and knock him sideways; but she resisted the temptation. ‘You know him,’ she said. ‘He was up at Cambridge with you. He took us to a music hall in the East End, years ago.’

‘Oh!’ said Boy, remembering. Then, puzzled, he said to Lowther: ‘Him?’ It was difficult for Boy to see someone such as Lloyd as a rival. With growing incredulity he added: ‘A man who can’t even afford his own dress clothes?’

Lowther said: ‘Three years ago he was on my intelligence course down at Tŷ Gwyn while Daisy was living there. You were risking your life in a Hawker Hurricane over France at the time, I seem to remember. She was dallying with that Welsh weasel – in your family’s house!’

Boy was getting red in the face. ‘If you’re making this up, Lowthie, by God I’ll thrash you.’

‘Ask your wife!’ said Lowther with a confident grin.

Boy turned to Daisy.

She had not slept with Lloyd at Tŷ Gwyn. She had slept with him in his own bed at his mother’s house during the Blitz. But she could not explain that to Boy in front of Lowther, and anyway it was a detail. The accusation of adultery was true, and she was not going to deny it. The secret was out. All she wanted now was to retain some semblance of dignity.

She said: ‘I will tell you everything you want to know, Boy – but not in front of this leering slob.’

Boy raised his voice in astonishment. ‘So you don’t deny it?’

The people at the next table looked around, seemed embarrassed, and returned their attention to their drinks.

Daisy raised her own voice. ‘I refuse to be cross-examined in the bar of Claridge’s Hotel.’

‘You admit it, then?’ he shouted.

The room went quiet.

Daisy stood up. ‘I don’t admit or deny anything here. I’ll tell you everything in private at home, which is where civilized couples discuss such matters.’

‘My God, you did it, you slept with him!’ Boy roared.

Even the waiters had paused in their work and were standing still, watching the row.

Daisy walked to the door.

Boy yelled: ‘You slut!’

Daisy was not going to exit on that line. She turned around. ‘You know about sluts, of course. I had the misfortune to meet two of yours, remember?’ She looked around the room. ‘Joanie and Pearl,’ she said contemptuously. ‘How many wives would put up with that?’ She went out before he could reply.

She stepped into a waiting taxi. As it pulled away, she saw Boy emerge from the hotel and get into the next cab in line.

She gave the driver her address.

In a way she felt relieved that the truth was out. But she also felt terribly sad. Something had ended, she knew.

The house was only a quarter of a mile away. As she arrived, Boy’s taxi pulled up behind hers.

He followed her into the hall.

She could not stay here with him, she realized. That was over. She would never again share his home or his bed. ‘Bring me a suitcase, please,’ she said to the butler.

‘Very good, my lady.’

She looked around. It was an eighteenth-century town house of perfect proportions, with an elegantly curving staircase, but she was not really sorry to leave it.

Boy said: ‘Where are you going?’

‘To a hotel, I suppose. Probably not Claridge’s.’

‘To meet your lover!’

‘No, he’s overseas. But, yes, I do love him. I’m sorry, Boy. You have no right to judge me – your offences are worse – but I judge myself.’

‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘I’m going to divorce you.’