it—’
‘I think I ought to come in.’
‘I really would rather—’
‘Chop, chop, James.’
That was how the Greys were: they would not take no for an answer, so no one ever gave it to them. He opened the door.
‘Oh Lord. You look absolutely dreadful!’ Her eyes darted past him, no doubt taking in the devastation; then she wrinkled her nose in distaste: she had smelled the whisky.
‘What
has
been going on here?’ She marched into the room uninvited.
‘Would you like a drink, Mrs Grey?’ He took an almost malign pleasure in the appalled expression on her face.
‘I rather think you’ve had enough of that already, don’t you?’
‘I was actually offering one to you, Mrs Grey. But if you won’t, I will.’
She ignored this remark, instead finding a chair and making herself comfortable. Then in a voice that was kindly, and nearly free of the usual imperiousness, she said, ‘Can I suggest you tell me what happened?’
James sat down too, realizing that he was grateful for the chance to speak to another person. ‘It would appear that Florence has left me.’
Grey stifled a gasp. ‘Good God, no. When?’
‘This morning. I came back from sculling and the house was empty.’
‘And Harry?’
‘She’s taken him with her.’
James watched a thought flicker across Grey’s face, stern beneath its bun of silver hair. Her initial shock seemed now to give way to urgency, the practical desire to act and to act immediately. ‘Have you spoken to her? Has she telephoned?’
‘She left a note.’
‘A note? What did it say?’
‘Nothing.’ He paused, weighing up the temptation to tell her everything. But something held him back. Was it loyalty to Florence? Was it embarrassment? ‘Nothing that explains anything anyway.’
‘Had she ever talked about leaving before?’
‘No. Never.’
‘So why do you presume she left?’
‘She must have met someone else. She is the most beautiful woman in Oxford, after all. Your husband called her that, as I recall, at our wedding celebration.’
A picture instantly sprang into his head. That Indian summer’s day, late September 1937, in the college garden: Florence, heavily pregnant and glowing with good health. Next to her, on crutches, James himself, his smile for the photographer more of a wince. Though the Greys had insisted on the location, the idea of the celebration had come from Florence’s parents: ‘Darling, you’ve denied us the delight of seeing our daughter married; you will
not
deprive us of our right to throw an enormous party.’ So nine months after they had exchanged their Spanish vows, they had listened as Sir George Walsingham made a toast extolling the qualities of his wonderful daughter while Bernard Grey made jokes at James’s expense and, like a man who could not help himself, offered repeated paeans to the beauty of the bride.
‘Her attractiveness has no bearing on her willingness or otherwise to pair with other men, nor to leave you. Unless you have any evidence to the contrary, James?’ Virginia Grey asked tartly.
James closed his eyes. ‘No, I don’t suppose I do.’
‘You have made a telephone call to Florence’s parents of course.’
He sighed. ‘No, as a matter of fact, I haven’t.’
‘Well, why ever not? She’s probably on her way there now. It’s the first place any young girl goes when there’s trouble at home.’
‘She’s not gone there. Believe me.’
‘Well, it’s the obvious place to start and I insist that you check. Now where’s the number? I’ll—’
‘Please! Mrs Grey. Florence hasn’t spoken to her mother in … for a while.’
Virginia Grey frowned.
James looked away, guilty to be breaking one of his wife’s secrets. ‘They’re not speaking to each other at present.’
Silence hung in the air until eventually Mrs Grey spoke again. ‘I imagine it will be awkward, but I fear you will have to do it all the same. She has almost certainly gone there and no proper search can begin
‘I think I ought to come in.’
‘I really would rather—’
‘Chop, chop, James.’
That was how the Greys were: they would not take no for an answer, so no one ever gave it to them. He opened the door.
‘Oh Lord. You look absolutely dreadful!’ Her eyes darted past him, no doubt taking in the devastation; then she wrinkled her nose in distaste: she had smelled the whisky.
‘What
has
been going on here?’ She marched into the room uninvited.
‘Would you like a drink, Mrs Grey?’ He took an almost malign pleasure in the appalled expression on her face.
‘I rather think you’ve had enough of that already, don’t you?’
‘I was actually offering one to you, Mrs Grey. But if you won’t, I will.’
She ignored this remark, instead finding a chair and making herself comfortable. Then in a voice that was kindly, and nearly free of the usual imperiousness, she said, ‘Can I suggest you tell me what happened?’
James sat down too, realizing that he was grateful for the chance to speak to another person. ‘It would appear that Florence has left me.’
Grey stifled a gasp. ‘Good God, no. When?’
‘This morning. I came back from sculling and the house was empty.’
‘And Harry?’
‘She’s taken him with her.’
James watched a thought flicker across Grey’s face, stern beneath its bun of silver hair. Her initial shock seemed now to give way to urgency, the practical desire to act and to act immediately. ‘Have you spoken to her? Has she telephoned?’
‘She left a note.’
‘A note? What did it say?’
‘Nothing.’ He paused, weighing up the temptation to tell her everything. But something held him back. Was it loyalty to Florence? Was it embarrassment? ‘Nothing that explains anything anyway.’
‘Had she ever talked about leaving before?’
‘No. Never.’
‘So why do you presume she left?’
‘She must have met someone else. She is the most beautiful woman in Oxford, after all. Your husband called her that, as I recall, at our wedding celebration.’
A picture instantly sprang into his head. That Indian summer’s day, late September 1937, in the college garden: Florence, heavily pregnant and glowing with good health. Next to her, on crutches, James himself, his smile for the photographer more of a wince. Though the Greys had insisted on the location, the idea of the celebration had come from Florence’s parents: ‘Darling, you’ve denied us the delight of seeing our daughter married; you will
not
deprive us of our right to throw an enormous party.’ So nine months after they had exchanged their Spanish vows, they had listened as Sir George Walsingham made a toast extolling the qualities of his wonderful daughter while Bernard Grey made jokes at James’s expense and, like a man who could not help himself, offered repeated paeans to the beauty of the bride.
‘Her attractiveness has no bearing on her willingness or otherwise to pair with other men, nor to leave you. Unless you have any evidence to the contrary, James?’ Virginia Grey asked tartly.
James closed his eyes. ‘No, I don’t suppose I do.’
‘You have made a telephone call to Florence’s parents of course.’
He sighed. ‘No, as a matter of fact, I haven’t.’
‘Well, why ever not? She’s probably on her way there now. It’s the first place any young girl goes when there’s trouble at home.’
‘She’s not gone there. Believe me.’
‘Well, it’s the obvious place to start and I insist that you check. Now where’s the number? I’ll—’
‘Please! Mrs Grey. Florence hasn’t spoken to her mother in … for a while.’
Virginia Grey frowned.
James looked away, guilty to be breaking one of his wife’s secrets. ‘They’re not speaking to each other at present.’
Silence hung in the air until eventually Mrs Grey spoke again. ‘I imagine it will be awkward, but I fear you will have to do it all the same. She has almost certainly gone there and no proper search can begin
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