Rage of Battle

“I mean,” said Georgina, astonishing Rosemary with her ability to have broken the roll without a fall of crumbs onto the pressed white linen tablecloth, “he probably has a thing for you.”

Rosemary’s face turned beet red. She glanced at their father, but he was hidden behind the Daily Telegraph. Anne Spence, who’d just entered the dining room from the kitchen as the exchange between her daughters was heating up, looked wearily down at her younger daughter. “Don’t be ridiculous, Georgina. Rosemary’s old enough to be his mother.”

“Exactly,” countered Georgina knowingly.

A rush of exasperation came from behind the Telegraph, Richard Spence lowering the newspaper, breaking its back, folding the broadsheet to a quarter its size. “That fool Knowlton’s at it again!”

“Who?” asked Georgina. Her father peered over his reading glasses, unsure of whether she knew or not. “Knowlton — Guy Knowlton. That idiot professor who keeps taking out ridiculous advertisements.”

“Oh,” said Georgina, “the man who wants to collect all our hair dryers to save energy.”

“Yes. That’s him.”

“He sounds like a harmless enough eccentric to me, Father.”

“That’s not the point, Georgina. I was telling your mother — you were here, weren’t you, Rosemary?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Here we are, desperately short of all kinds of things, paper not being the least of them, and yet they persist in allowing this, this madman to waste space in—”

“It’s a free country, Daddy,” said Rosemary, tired of his constant harping about the dotty professor. For Richard Spence, Dr. Guy Knowlton, the author of a text on archaeology, continued to represent all that was self- indulgent and wasteful in a country that was fighting for its life and yet in which old fools like Knowlton were allowed to squander valuable resources.

“Do you really think so?” asked Georgina, looking at Rosemary.

Rosemary lifted the teapot lid, seeing it pointless to try to squeeze any more out of the exhausted tea leaves. “Think what?”

“That it’s a free country,” continued Georgina, taking the last of the milk for her tea.

Anne Spence pointedly left the room.

“Don’t upset her like that,” said Richard. “You know how quarrels upset her.”

“It’s not a quarrel, Daddy,” replied Georgina. “I’m merely stating a fact. Just because we’re at war doesn’t mean we can’t question whether we’re really living in a free—”

“Georgina!”

In the strained silence that followed her father’s rebuke, Georgina returned to her book and Rosemary could hear the steady, heavy ticking of the grandfather clock in the living room, recalling that the last time she had been so aware of its presence was after she and Robert had made love, when— ironically — at the height of the Soviet rocket attack, she had felt so safe in his arms.

Georgina finished the bread roll and, licking her fingers, ran them around the bread-and-butter plate to gather up the remaining crumbs.

“My God, Georgina,” exclaimed Richard. “Is that what they teach you up there—?”

“It’s very proletarian, Daddy,” said Rosemary. “Didn’t you know?”

Georgina poured herself more tea as if squeezing the pot. “This is a bit weak, isn’t it?”

“We have to use the leaves over again,” said Rosemary. “Rationing. Or don’t you have that in London?”

“I don’t know why you’re so shirty, Rose,” retorted Georgina.

“She’s worried,” said her father.

“We all are,” said Georgina. “This wretched war has mucked everything up. It’s the same old story. Big capital against—”

“Not at the table,” said Richard.

“I would have thought,” put in Rosemary, “that the war suited you very nicely. Liberating women from the bourgeois apron strings. Kitchen to factory. Manpower shortage and all.”

Georgina’s cup stopped in midair and she replaced it on the saucer without having sipped the tea. “Why didn’t I think of that? Rosey — that’s quite brilliant.”

“Thank you,” said Rosemary. “I’m glad we poor country folk occasionally think of—”

“Still,” cut in Georgina, “I bet I’m right about Willie.”

“Who?” asked Richard, looking up from his newspaper. He had thought she said, “William.”

“That boy-Williams.”

“Wilkins,” Rosemary corrected her.

“He’s got the hots for you, Rosey.”

Richard Spence’s paper shot away from him. “What a vulgar expression. Insulting people, is it? Is that what you’re learning up there?”

“Oh really, Daddy. It’s just an expression—”

“Yes, and I don’t care for it.”

There was another long, strained silence.

“Well,” said Georgina finally, “and how about this Robert Brentwood? Bit sudden, Rosey, you sly fox. When do I get to meet him?”

“Excuse me,” said Rosemary, pushing her chair back from the table, brushing her lips quickly with the napkin.

“I only wanted to—” began Georgina. Richard Spence folded the newspaper neatly, ran his hand down the crease, and taking his reading glasses off, rubbed his eyes. “I thought you had grown out of it, Georgina.”

“Out of what?”

“Don’t be obtuse. Your willful aggressiveness. You’re not happy until you push people to the edge. God knows where you get it from.” He looked hard at her. “Why do you do it?”

Georgina said nothing, holding her teacup like a communicant’s chalice, staring ahead.

“Is it because,” Richard said, “you think we don’t — care for you?”

“Care?” said Georgina, her tone defensively hostile as she turned on him. “You can’t even say the word, can you?”

“Your mother and I have never made any distinction—”

“The word’s love, Daddy. Or was that just for William?”

“You astound me.”

“Really?”

“What, pray, is that supposed to mean?”

“I’ve always known it, of course,” she said bitterly, putting the cup down hard.

“Known what?”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Father,” she said, vigorously folding and refolding her napkin on the table. “Rosey’s always had your heart.”

“Do you think—”

“I know,” cut in Georgina. “Ever since we were children. I’m not being churlish about it. It’s merely an observation anyone could—”

“I’ve always cared for you. Your mother and—”

“If,” said Georgina slowly, a tension clearly crackling in her voice, “you say cared once more, I’ll scream!”

The phone was ringing, and as Richard Spence got up to answer it, Georgina avoided his distracted gaze, her eyes brimming with tears. She heard her father only vaguely, yet despite her hurt, could tell that something was terribly wrong.

“I’ll tell her,” she could hear him say. “Yes. Yes. Thank you for calling.” He put down the receiver slowly and, turning, called for Rosemary.

“She’s gone out,” said Georgina, holding her teacup in both hands, elbows on the table, something Richard Spence could not abide.

“Where?” he asked her.

“I’ve no idea,” said Georgina.