A Map of the Damage

by Sophia Tobin

  His sudden protectiveness towards the house unnerved him. Redlands had been remodelled by his great-grandfather Ashton Kinsburg, and he had always viewed it as a kind of gorgeous monstrosity. He made jokes about it at dinner parties. He called it a money pit of the worst kind, with its leaking roof and impractical bathroom arrangements. In the early years of their marriage, lying warm against Stevie in the depths of the night, he had murmured to her that he was sorry that they had to live there at all. If he hadn’t been the eldest son, she could have had a townhouse in Chelsea, fitted out in the most modern taste. He could not remember how she had replied, but thought now, rather meanly, that whatever she had said would have been perfect and well-judged. Perhaps she had laughed, and turned, and kissed him. Perhaps she had said nothing at all, drifting gently and silently into sleep.

  The anger that had grown in him over the months had surprised him. He had struggled to contain it; it felt rather like trying to hold a thunderstorm in one’s chest. He hoped he did not let it show to Stevie, although he was aware that he occasionally called her Stephanie. In the past, he had never used her full name unless in anger. He still felt it now, walking away from her in the garden, and he supposed she felt it in return. Only now, he felt that his anger was a feint, a gateway for other, darker things.

  He went into the hallway of the house, which was, as usual, bustling with people. A doctor talked intensely to a nurse beneath the coats of arms – not necessarily about medical matters, he suspected – and he saw a tracery of cobwebs swinging from the ceiling like an abandoned trapeze line. Two men in uniform discussed administrative concerns. One of them leaned against a liver-coloured marble console table, his arm a hair’s breadth away from an ormolu girandole, its sockets empty of candles and its crystal pendants swinging in the breeze from the door.

  ‘Mind that,’ said Jonathan sharply.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the man. Jonathan’s rank from the last war was always respected.

  Before he reached beneath the table and extracted his suitcase, Jonathan straightened the girandole himself, and saw the two men glance at each other. The stupid thing was, he’d never liked it. ‘Perhaps someone will break it,’ he’d joked, before they came. But now, it seemed incredibly precious, its familiarity conferred on it the status of a relic. For hadn’t he walked past it at eight as he now did at eight-and-forty? No one understood the tenderness he felt for the damned thing suddenly, in this moment; he didn’t even understand it. He wondered if he was going insane. He nodded at the men, and walked briskly out.

  The air outside the house was the only normal thing: sharp with the advance of winter, the November bareness of it brewing, its scent insistent, complex, a mixture of autumn decay and approaching ice. He breathed it deeply as he walked towards the stable-block, where one of his old retainers had prepared the tub trap and pony – no need for petrol.

  He thought of the lines of desks in the smoking room. His great-grandfather’s ridiculous smoking room in the bachelor’s wing, fitted out in some fantastic Victorian approximation of the Gothic, so intensely strange that it had given Jonathan nightmares as a child. He disliked that room. But what he disliked even more was to see its character cancelled out by lines of desks, its purpose disregarded and overlooked. Unacknowledged, not even worth a dinner-party joke, now. It had been a man’s life. Yes, they were involved in more serious things now, in a lethal battle. But did it mean that every hope and dream from the past had to be ignored, erased by indifference? ‘I’m afraid so, darling,’ Stevie had said. ‘It is, really, a monstrous folly of a room. You know that.’ Jonathan had looked at her, and seen a stranger.

  He patted his breast pocket, felt the package tucked there, too large for the pocket but too precious to leave anywhere else. It was the source, in his mind, of the sudden changing of the quality of his anger, from engagement to estrangement. He felt separated from Stevie, from his own home, and he could not un-feel this estrangement no matter how much he turned it over in his logical mind; like a faulty engine, it stuck each time he turned the key. The gemstone in his pocket had let him down and it was this, he thought, lighting a cigarette, which was clouding everything. It felt more like a death-fall than a missed step.

  ‘Sir,’ said Jones. He had loaded Jonathan’s suitcase onto the trap, and now stood at the pony’s head. Jonathan climbed up without help; it was he who held out a hand to the old man, and helped his servant to scramble up. ‘You have too much work with the others gone, don’t you?’ Jonathan said, speaking quickly, with a nervous tension his companion immediately picked up on. Highly strung, thought the old retainer, that was the Kinsburg blood, uncountered by the Whitewood solidity.

  ‘I’ll manage, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Of course, life isn’t perfect,’ said Jonathan.

  Jones exhaled softly, a sigh by other means.

  Jonathan smoked on, ticked off the years as the pony moved slowly forwards. Unlike so many others he had survived the Great War unscathed, protected by luck, a shock of adrenaline and the innocence of youth. There had been disappointments in business, and despite much investment he had never rid Redlands of the persistent smell of drains. And his brother’s brats would inherit everything, if there was anything left to inherit after the war. But these cumulative sadnesses were as nothing to the strange coldness which had overcome him since he had extracted the Kinsburg Diamond from its bank vault. It was as though his warm emotions – his affection for Stevie, his exasperated fondness for the old house – had been cut off, cleanly, like turning off a tap. All that was left was a sterile, empty feeling, and an exquisite sensitivity to the pain and wickedness of the world; a protectiveness towards the swinging, cloudy pendants of the girandole which would soon be destroyed, he had no doubt. It seemed he had no agency in anything; he could neither protect the girandole, nor Stevie, nor the house. So it was not worth feeling anything like the old allegiances and affections.

  ‘Nice bright day,’ said Jones. Jonathan looked around, full of amazement that the man should say such a thing. At the trees, nearly all bare; the birdsong; the clopping of the pony’s hooves as it circled the house and emerged into the front courtyard. He could observe each element objectively and agree that it was a beautiful day. But he could not feel it; not even the brightness of the winter sun as it broke through the clouds.

  ‘We’ll get through all this, you know,’ said Jonathan, and Jones was left wondering whether his master had gone and lost his mind completely, as he seemed to be having a completely different conversation in his head.

  The visit to London would allow him to take arms against his disappointment. The Kinsburg Diamond had been his insurance policy, and the key to everything: to fixing the house, to fixing Stevie, to shoring them up. And now, it had let him down. Its mythical value was precisely that: a myth, an aberration, a betrayal. He had left the safe-deposit building as calm – outwardly – as he had entered it, shaking the hand of the valuer and hailing himself a taxi; but only because he was a gentleman.

  ‘How long will you stay in London, sir?’ said Jones.

  Jonathan flicked the cigarette stub wilfully into the hedgerow, and a pair of startled sparrows flew out, a pale brown, dull as his thoughts. ‘As long as it takes to settle my business matters,’ he said. As long as it takes for me to feel as though I can begin anew, back here, and call it my home again.

  As they entered the Long Drive he turned back, certain he would see Stevie in the doorway of the house. She always saw him off, not waving of course – she never did that, for her mother had told her it was bad manners to stand waggling your hand like a shopgirl – but she always stood and watched him go, her slight, elegant form pale in the dark shape of the doorway, watching until he was out of sight.

  She was not there, and he felt the slight fall in the centre of his torso. Had he been his normal, gentle self he would have thought: of course, she is tired, she must still be in the garden, or maybe she has gone to lie down. But he was not usual, or gentle; he was disap
pointed, and bitter, and unfair. Instead, as he turned back to look ahead, and touched his breast pocket again, he thought: damn you, then.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  1940

  STAIR HALL, THE MIRRORMAKERS’ CLUB

  A visitor to the Mirrormakers’ Club on the late afternoon of a November day might have seen what they thought to be a wraith. The grand central staircase of white marble, which split at the first landing into two, looked forlorn in the emptiness, as though it awaited guests in crinolines and tailcoats. The left branch of the staircase led to the north landing, from which could be accessed the large Dining Hall, Miss Hardaker’s office, known as the Hide, the Committee Room and Red Parlour. The right branch led to the south landing, which presented another entrance to the other end of the Dining Hall, and the News Room, before the ring met in the Red Parlour, but these had been rendered inaccessible by bomb damage. A slim figure, dressed in a grey jumper and darker grey woollen skirt, was seated on a step on the right branch, and was staring up at the central dome above the staircase, which was decorated mesmerizingly in tapering black and white checks. Either side of the dome, demi-lunes with ornamental grating let in the light, but the large chandelier, shrouded in white sheets, would have done well to be lit, to bring the panels of green, pink and white marble on the Stair Hall walls to life. What light there was caught fleetingly on the woman’s hair and in her eyes. She was examining the place, sensing it, as though, even in the blackout, she might be able to find her way by touch. It had become her daily habit, to know the place well, as though it were a code that needed to be deciphered. It was home; it was everything.

  The wraith was Livy.

  The sound of the doorbell interrupted her, the hard-edged trill echoing through the near-empty building. Up to the dome above the staircase, and back again, halting her in her place.

  A robust knocking at the door.

  She walked towards the darkness of the Entrance Hall slowly.

  ‘I say, hello?’ A man’s voice. ‘Is that you, Bill?’

  Livy came to the door, stood on her tiptoes and looked through the peephole. A man stood there, smartly dressed, with a large case in his hand, and carrying his gas mask in a brown leather box, its long strap over his right shoulder. He was older, late forties at least, and despite his height and broad shoulders had a rather hungry look to him: defined cheekbones, pale green eyes, and thick black hair. The face was handsome, perfect by some buried classical equation, and this beauty overrode his tiredness. He looked rather like a faded matinee idol.

  But the face inspired faint dread in Livy as she paused behind the peephole. Another stranger, and perhaps one that knew her.

  ‘I know someone’s there,’ he said.

  She turned the key in the door, and opened it a crack.

  Their eyes met, and she saw him take a breath. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Hello there. I didn’t expect to see you. I thought all the staff were let go apart from Mr and Mrs Holliday.’

  ‘No,’ she said. She did not open the door any wider.

  ‘Don’t you recognize me?’ Beneath his detached tone she heard the affront in his voice. ‘I am on the committee.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, feeling the energy drain out of her. ‘Good afternoon, sir. Please come in.’

  She opened the door widely and he passed her. ‘Find a place for this, will you?’ He handed her his hat and coat and mounted the steps to the entrance of the Stair Hall. ‘Where to?’ He looked at her, was perplexed by her silence. Finally, his irritation broke through properly. ‘Where are Mr and Mrs Holliday?’

  ‘If you’ll take a seat here, sir, I’ll find them.’ She pointed towards one of the large, architect-designed chairs which sat beside the staircase, domesticating the vast interior.

  Walking behind him, she felt the weight of his beautiful coat, a grey Chesterfield ripe with the mixed scent of cigars and cologne.

  She fetched Peggy, who greeted him with reverence. ‘Oh, Mr Whitewood!’ she said, hurrying towards him. The note of gladness in her voice was caught in the acoustic of the marble-clad hall. ‘We didn’t know you were coming, sir. Would you like a cup of tea? A poached egg and some buttered toast?’ Livy glanced at her. They were only supposed to have one egg per person per week.

  ‘Only,’ he spread out one hand, ‘only if it’s not any trouble, Mrs Holliday. I’ll be staying for a few days, perhaps even weeks, so I’ll register for temporary rations. I don’t want you to be short of anything.’

  ‘Or you might wish to eat in restaurants,’ said Livy. The moment the words were out of her mouth, she realized how rude they sounded.

  Peggy ignored her. ‘Very good, Mr Whitewood: a poached egg it is. Where would you like to take your tea?’

  ‘I’ll take it here with you, if you’ll permit me, Peggy, and,’ one hand out, to indicate Livy’s presence, ‘this young lady.’

  ‘Miss Baker, sir,’ Peggy said, her eyes widening. ‘You remember Miss Baker?’

  He nodded. ‘I do, I do. But I don’t remember why she is here now.’

  Livy did nothing; despite Mrs Holliday’s pleading look, as though to say ‘smile at him’, she stood there silently. Already, she sensed the shift in the room: this man had power, and he was therefore a threat. In the midst of his energy she felt her own sense of self, which she had gradually started to accumulate over the past few weeks, guttering like a candle flame in a strong breeze.

  ‘Miss Baker had a direct hit on her lodgings two months ago, sir. She’s registered for war work now but until she goes, she’s helping us, especially when we give tea and supper to the firewatchers. And in the day she’s working in the Document Room, trying to organize things with the archive. The director and the manager both know, and signed it off. Miss Hardaker was meant to put things in order before the war but it never quite happened.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said in a regretful, slightly patronizing tone. ‘The venerable Miss Hardaker. Do you know, I once caught her piling documents into the furnace?’

  ‘Oh, goodness,’ Peggy half-laughed fearfully.

  Livy took her chance, watching Peggy tiptoe off to make toast. ‘The archive is rather patchy. Finding things is rather a matter of luck than anything else,’ she said.

  A frown briefly crossed the visitor’s face but then he smiled cordially, attempting to make a connection. ‘I might have need of your expertise,’ he said. ‘I am here to visit friends, but also to look for some papers which have a connection with my family. We’ve been members of the Mirrormakers’ Club for generations. Looking-glass-makers’ Club, perhaps I should say. It’s not quite the thing to say mirror these days, but as our greatest poets used it, why not? “And in her hand she held a mirror bright”.’

  Livy nodded, flushing that she did not know the reference. Peggy had explained to her that the Mirrormakers’ Club was known more formally as the Mirrormakers’ and City Club. The original founders had been well-connected traders in small mirrors, cabinets and glass, who had loosened ties with their livery company and decided to form a club for convivial company, the first in the City of London. Its members now included any City gentleman who knew the right person through blood or business, but the name had been kept. Members were elected by ballot.

  ‘I can’t remember seeing anything related to the Whitewoods,’ she said. ‘But I’ll gladly look for you.’

  ‘That’s not the name,’ he said. ‘I’m researching my mother’s side of the family, the Kinsburgs. And I can look myself, if you just point me in the right direction.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ she said.

  They sat in awkward silence, until Peggy came bustling out with the poached egg and toast on a tray.

  ‘Sorry not to have a newspaper for you, sir,’ she said. ‘We do take The Times, thin as it is these days, but Mr Holliday’s done something with it.’ She tried to keep the irritation out of her voice and failed.

  He tucked into the food with gusto. ‘Will it be the Blue Room I am in, tonight?’ he said between mouthfu
ls. ‘I assume no one else is staying here?’ The guest rooms were on the top floor of the building, along with the flat the Hollidays had in peacetime.

  ‘Oh, Mr Whitewood,’ Mrs Holliday said. ‘We don’t stay up there now. It’s closed up. Of course, I check things, and keep the rooms aired, but it is far safer to stay down in the basement shelter, what with night after night of the bombing. It would be unwise to sleep up there.’

  He swallowed a mouthful of toast. ‘That’s rather overdoing it, don’t you think? After all, we should carry on as usual, shouldn’t we?’

  Livy watched him. It seemed to her that he really rather wanted to sleep in the Blue Room now, solely because Peggy had told him that he couldn’t. She could see the tiredness on the housekeeper’s face as she worked out how to pacify him, and it angered her.

  ‘You’d do best to listen to Peggy’s advice, sir,’ she said. ‘The upper rooms are closed off for a reason.’

  He put down his knife and fork. ‘I’ll sleep in the Blue Room,’ he said.

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said Peggy, with something like sadness in her voice.

  Staring at his face, Livy thought of the portrait Woman and Looking Glass. There was something about the line of his face, something about the way the shadows fell on it, which reminded her of the painted face she returned to again and again. Bill had assured her that the painting was safe in its current position: ‘it’ll only be damaged if the whole building comes down’ was his reassuring phrase, but after every long night of bombing it was the first thing Livy checked, and the anxiety was growing within her.