A Map of the Damage

by Sophia Tobin

  To Miss Kilmartin and Dr Hume

  CHAPTER ONE

  1940

  Her destination was the Mirrormakers’ Club, but she did not know it. Her feet guided her through the two-hour walk to the City of London, that maze of streets which sat behind ancient walls in the heart of the wider city. She walked through the autumn leaves that were gathering in the gutters, a chill deeply bedded into her bones, feeling pushed by some superior force like a chess piece. ‘I have somewhere I must be,’ she had told the rescue party. And then she had walked away. From their questions, from their care, and from the ruins.

  At the sight of it, she felt a thrill of recognition: a hit, like a shot of whisky entering the blood. The Club looked like a small palace, faced with pale Portland stone, classically symmetrical, with six columns demarcating its central section, unadorned wings on either side, and carved trophies above the five tall windows on the piano nobile. Seeing out its first century, it could not have been accused of lacking grandeur. But now, its windows were blacked out, a single pane broken in a first-storey sash window, third from the left. She stood there, in a shaft of autumn sunlight that transformed the pavement from grey to gold, and glanced at her wristwatch. The glass over the dial was cracked, the hands frozen at half past six.

  She walked up the front steps to the wooden doors which were twice her height, and pressed her fingertip against the ivory button of the doorbell for a long moment. Its aggressive trill made her flinch.

  She waited, the wind stirring up dust and leaves on the narrow street behind her, and raising a single sheet of newspaper. The air felt thick with ash blown in on the autumn breeze, the scent of the newly bombed city.

  She heard no approaching footsteps, so when the door was opened she jumped: a stocky middle-aged woman stood there, dressed in a pinafore over a mauve day dress, her hair tied up in a scarf. She had bright blue eyes, the same blue as the sky above them. She frowned.

  ‘Hello?’ she said. ‘You weren’t meant to be working today. You said you had something to do.’

  The girl stirred with surprise. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘The thing is, I don’t seem to be able to remember my name.’

  *

  The woman led her visitor through the panelled Entrance Hall, up the York stone steps and into the great Stair Hall, onwards to a small green door leading to the basement. When she reached the door, she realized the girl was not behind her. She turned, to see her looking around the space, as though she had never seen it before. Her face was tipped up to the light, and she turned a full circle to take in the walls clad in coloured marble, the columns topped by carvings of City of London dragons, the gilded chequerboard dome high above them in the great quiet space.

  ‘It’s so beautiful,’ she said.

  ‘Come on, now,’ the woman said, gruffly but kindly. With a sudden instinct, she went back, and took the girl’s hand, as though she were a child. She had never touched her before. The girl did not resist: her hand closed tightly around the other woman’s.

  ‘I’m Peggy,’ the woman said. ‘You knew me as Mrs Holliday.’ But she saw no recognition in her colleague’s face.

  In the basement kitchen, Peggy made tea, and dropped a saccharin tablet into the girl’s cup. ‘A strong, sweet cup of tea will put things right,’ she said. She watched as the girl took off her gloves, opened her handbag, and rooted through, producing a buff-coloured ration book. She opened it and read the contents. ‘My name is Olivia Baker,’ she said. It was a question as much as a statement.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Will you call me Livy, though?’ said Olivia Baker. ‘I would – prefer it. I have no memory of a surname or prefix but – I do remember Livy.’

  The woman cleared her throat. ‘Well – yes, if you wish. I am used to calling you Miss Baker – but I can get used to it. I’m the housekeeper here. Do you know where we are?’

  Another firm shake of the head.

  ‘The Mirrormakers’ Club in the City of London. It’s a private members’ club. You work here. You were a secretary here before the war, briefly. And now – well, there’s a handful of us here.’ She said the names carefully, slowly. ‘Me; my husband, Bill; Miss Hardaker; the fire parties. You help Miss Hardaker with filing and correspondence. The other staff have been evacuated. It’s just us in this grand old place. Quite something to have it to ourselves. It seems to have a life of its own, noises and all kinds of things.’ She hazarded a smile before something else dawned on her worried face. ‘You do remember there’s a war?’

  ‘Yes.’ Livy blinked, eyes glassy. A strange film of calm lay over her face; it made Peggy feel rather cold. Without asking, she added another saccharin tablet to the tea, and stirred it vigorously before Livy could raise the cup to her lips. ‘It’s shock, that’s all. Everything will come back to you. You said there was a bomb?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What do you remember?’

  Livy swallowed and considered what to say.

  I remember a concertinaed stack of rubble and wood,

  and a fragment of red satin, fluttering,

  which looked like the belt of a dressing gown.

  ‘I don’t remember much. Only the last few hours,’ she said. ‘They asked my name. The rescue party. I was standing in front of a house that had been destroyed. My house, I think. They kept asking me my name. But I just said I had to get somewhere. I knew I had to start walking, somehow.’

  ‘They didn’t try to take you to hospital?’

  ‘No. The doctor wanted to look me over. I said no.’

  ‘Well,’ said Peggy. She had run out of words.

  *

  ‘What on earth is going on?’ said Miss Hardaker in an unforgiving tone. She had happened upon Peggy and her husband, Bill, standing over the sleeping Livy. Livy had closed her eyes immediately after her last mouthful of tea, lulled by the sudden warmth.

  Peggy explained as best she could, but the others were incredulous. Sympathy would not be expended today. It took a certain amount of energy which could not be spared; it was an unnatural thing for both of them. Unlike Peggy, who felt sympathy as easily as she breathed. ‘One does hear of such things,’ said Miss Hardaker. ‘But she always seemed so sensible.’

  ‘I’m not sure that has anything to do with it,’ said Peggy. ‘I wish I knew who her folks are. At least I could telephone someone.’

  ‘I always thought she was too high and mighty for her own good,’ announced Bill.

  ‘She might wake and remember everything this very moment,’ said Miss Hardaker testily. And she put down the armful of papers she had been carrying, and clapped her hands.

  Livy started awake, and stared at them all. Gently, Peggy began to introduce everyone.

  ‘There’s work to be done,’ interrupted Miss Hardaker. Sleepily, Livy looked at her. This woman knew her place in the world. She, at this moment, did not.

  ‘What would you like me to do?’ she said.

  ‘Can you remember how to type?’ said Miss Hardaker.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Thank heavens,’ said Miss Hardaker, with a sideways glance at Peggy and Bill which indicated that she did not believe in this memory loss thing at all.

  Livy followed the woman up the basement stairs, out of the green door, and came face to face with a Victorian portrait which she had somehow missed on her journey down.

  ‘Who is this?’ she said.

  ‘Look at the plate.’

  Livy did. It was inscribed Woman and Looking Glass.

  The woman’s white shoulders and neck were exposed by the cut of her black velvet dress. Behind her, on a shelf, there was the looking glass of the title; and over her other shoulder, a window, with distant hills and trees, lit by the same so
ft light that glanced off the glossy dark ringlets which cascaded down each side of her face. The woman was rich, it was clear: although her shoulders and neck were left unadorned, there was a large diamond pinned to her bodice, blazing against the black of her dress.

  ‘Are you looking at the stone?’ said Miss Hardaker as Livy stood, barely an inch from the painting. ‘So vulgar. Don’t you remember it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You should. You saw it every day.’

  The woman in the portrait stood in part defence, part openness. One arm crossed over the waist, the hand hidden beneath the opposing arm; the right hand resting on the back of a chair, casual but a little forced, as though someone had moved her into that position. It was her face: heavy-lidded eyes, with a tinge of amusement, and of challenge, which was so intriguing. The steady, unrelenting gaze, the beginnings of a smile, but slight, as though she were waiting for someone to speak. Before Livy’s eyes, it seemed to scintillate. Her focus flicked between the face and the diamond. It was as though the painter had caught something of the lady’s soul, and frozen the viewer in eternal battle between her eyes and the jewel.

  She reached out to touch it.

  ‘Miss Baker!’

  Livy turned. And whatever Miss Hardaker saw in her face, it made the stern woman take a step back.

  *

  After an afternoon of typing, Livy slept and slept as the others listened to the wireless. When the siren went, it was Peggy who gently woke Livy, and led her into the bomb shelter section of the vault, and Miss Hardaker who finally shut the metal-clad doors as Bill went up to the roof.

  ‘Sleepy-head,’ said Peggy with a smile, as Livy yawned.

  ‘I suppose you did work relatively hard,’ said Miss Hardaker, but in a tone that indicated it was a reprimand rather than a compliment.

  ‘I hope I’m useful,’ said Livy. ‘My head feels as though it is stuffed full of cotton wool.’

  ‘If you’re fishing for a compliment, Miss Baker, none will be forthcoming,’ said Miss Hardaker. She was rifling through a small knitted bag she had brought into the shelter. After a moment she turned, and came towards Livy, a small stack of clothes in her arms. ‘I have a friend in the WVS,’ she said. ‘She runs a clothes centre on Milk Street. When you had your tea break this afternoon, I went to see her.’

  Livy unfolded a grey skirt and grey jumper, several slips, some underwear, a pair of slacks, a blouse and a bright fuchsia day dress. The colour was so bright it made her eyes sting.

  ‘You’ll need something to wear,’ said Miss Hardaker. ‘And I thought that little dress rather glamorous. Just in case you get any exciting invitations at some point.’ She gazed at her own hands, as though they were of sudden interest.

  The kindness of the gesture overwhelmed Livy. She stared at the two women, as Peggy calmly unpacked her knitting, and Miss Hardaker inspected her nails. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ Livy said.

  ‘Then say nothing at all,’ said Miss Hardaker brightly.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Livy, and she placed her warm hand over Miss Hardaker’s cool one.

  Miss Hardaker stifled a smile. ‘Who needs diamonds when there are such beautiful colours in the world?’ she said. ‘You will put the black-clad woman in that portrait to shame.’ She gave a little sigh. ‘That’s enough for now. I would like to disappear into my book.’

  But she had no chance. Bill came and said they were short of watchers on the roof, and Miss Hardaker got to her feet readily, and said it would be good for Livy to come with her.

  ‘Surely not,’ said Peggy, putting her needles down. ‘Look at her.’

  ‘I’m happy to go,’ said Livy, in an expressionless voice. ‘Really.’

  ‘Very good, Miss Baker,’ said Miss Hardaker.

  ‘Why is it called Woman and Looking Glass?’ said Livy, as they trudged up the stairs, more stairs, and emerged onto the roof. ‘Surely she should be described as a lady, at that time?’

  ‘Still worrying at it?’ said Miss Hardaker archly. ‘One of the members is a relative of the person. A Mr Whitewood.’ She paused at the name, and an expression flickered across her face which Livy couldn’t quite identify. ‘I could write and ask, if you wished me to. Now, watch.’

  Livy was still possessed by that deep tiredness which stifled any fear in its wadding, but she listened carefully as Miss Hardaker explained how to use the sand and shovel to put out incendiaries, a dustbin lid in one of her white, red-tipped hands. She carried it as Livy imagined an ancient warrior would have done a shield: aggressively, as much a symbol of courage as an implement of protection.

  Afterwards they stood in the shelter of the dome’s rafters, the dull drone of planes high above them. So possessed was she with dwelling on her questions about the painting, Livy hardly noticed when Miss Hardaker went out across the roof.

  ‘There’s one here. Miss Baker. Come quickly!’

  Livy was too slow. She picked up the bucket of sand, but stumbled over the raised step to the dome and fell hard. Embarrassed, she scrambled up.

  ‘Come on!’ And Miss Hardaker looked up at Livy. Livy saw the glitter of her eyes in the half-darkness. She moved towards her, wary of missing her step in the darkness.

  Two seconds more and she would have reached her. But with a blunt puff of energy, dull, inconsequential, almost trivial, she saw the dustbin lid blown backwards and into Miss Hardaker’s face, as though subverting the rules of gravity.

  And then cool, controlled Miss Hardaker was screaming words which made no sense, and her face was covered with blood.

  Livy felt the warm trickle of liquid on her own face, but no pain, and did not know if it was her blood or Miss Hardaker’s as she landed on her knees beside the prone woman. Behind her, she heard the shouts of the other firewatchers as she gathered her colleague in her arms, and lifted her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Livy. And she had the sense that she was not just apologizing to Miss Hardaker, but to some other person that she had wronged. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  A medic came, quicker than she thought possible, and someone lifted Livy up and out of the way, his hands beneath her arms. ‘She should never have brought you up here,’ she heard someone say, and she realized it was Bill.

  As they tended to Miss Hardaker, bent over her, their dark backs edged with light, Livy walked away, shivering. The coldness of the morning had returned. She shook her head. Stared at a speck on a roof a little way away: the tiniest speck, which fizzed into life, blazing white, suddenly. Was it some kind of flare? she thought. Was it a bomb? Unaccountably it reminded her of the diamond in the portrait, against the black velvet of the woman’s dress: a hard, adamantine brightness, too elemental to be ignored.

  She stepped towards it, towards the edge of the roof. Looked down the length of the building from that high, dizzying viewpoint. And then she felt a hand on her shoulder, and turned.

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ said Bill.

  CHAPTER TWO

  1940

  ENTRANCE HALL, THE MIRRORMAKERS’ CLUB

  Peggy was standing in the doorway of the Mirrormakers’ Club with a broom in her hand, staring out onto the street, when a small balcony on a nearby building collapsed. She watched as the masonry crumbled and fell, scattering a small group of rescue workers. The building had been the offices of Smith and Fisher, a firm of solicitors. Before the war, she thought, she would have run screaming into the street. Now she simply waited for it to finish, and began her sweeping again.

  The morning light bathed her tired eyes. These were the Blitz mornings: waking to the relief of survival, framed by sadness and exhaustion. She heard soft footsteps approaching from behind, and wondered if it was a person, or if she would turn and find the Entrance Hall empty. It didn’t frighten her; one got used to causeless things, living in the Club. A slammed door here, a distant set of footsteps there. Although somehow it had felt worse since Miss Hardaker’s departure. In her sudden absence, Peggy had often wondered if she would appear one day, a
s if nothing had happened. Sometimes, she simply forgot. No one knew where she had gone. When Peggy had telephoned the hospital on behalf of the Club, she was told Miss Hardaker had discharged herself. Her resignation had been sent to the director in Suffolk.

  She felt a hand on her shoulder, and turned her head. It was Livy, standing behind her, as though she were sheltering from the daylight.

  ‘It was a parachute landmine, that one we really felt last night,’ Peggy said. ‘Windows blown in on the front side. A man from the council has already been in, looking around, early on. Bill let him in. I was waiting to see if anyone turned up to work over there and offer them a cup of tea.’

  Livy nodded. She remembered that sickening procession of detonations which had made her curl forwards and cover her ears with her hands. So close, she could feel the detonations in the tissues of her body. She had dropped her chin to her chest, and waited. My bomb, she thought, as the dust had rained down from the gaps between the bricks in the vaulted basement bomb shelter. But she had been wrong.

  ‘I just checked upstairs,’ she said, as Peggy waved to some of the rescue workers. ‘The News Room has its whole ceiling down. I don’t think we should go in there anymore. The Red Parlour is less bad, but it looks – shredded. And Sir John Blake has been damaged in the Committee Room.’

  Peggy glanced at her, and saw the tightness of her expression. The uneven scar from the night on the roof which had slowly healed shone pale, but was only noticeable if you looked for it. ‘Young skin heals better than old,’ she said, and brushed Livy’s face gently with her fingers. Livy was no longer a colleague, but a child to be taken care of, an innocent to be protected.

  ‘I told Bill to move the paintings weeks ago,’ Livy said.

  ‘Have you ever known Bill do something because you tell him to?’ said Peggy, watching her face, seeing her try to bury her anger. ‘Besides, he’s tired now. He didn’t really believe that bombs would fall on London. They kept us waiting a long time. And now, there’s always something else to do. He doesn’t feel for these things like you do, sweetheart. And the director hasn’t told him to put them away.’