Mrs P's Book of Secrets

by Lorna Gray

  This was the moment when the fraudster would step up. Jacqueline was ready to be galvanized into fresh action. She was, in fact, practically begging for encouragement. So the fraudster would tell her to commit, to finish the job, to perhaps even invest a little more into it.

  It was at times like these that I could begin to believe that I must at least be reasonably nice.

  I only said quite truthfully but not at all coldly, ‘I really can’t tell you what to do, I’m sorry. I’ll still happily answer any questions you may have about the book, though.’

  ‘Then, do it.’

  ‘Finish the book?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely. Finish the book. We’ll show that rotten Walter John Ashbrook what an insignificant little man he is.’

  She rang off.

  I returned the telephone receiver to its cradle and almost immediately heard my uncle claim the line for himself in his office. The other office door – Robert’s – was still firmly closed. It indicated that he was working hard to conclude the task he ought to have finished yesterday, so I invented the excuse to disturb his peace by making the morning tea round.

  I began, naturally enough, by going downstairs first. And it was then that I realised that I should never have allowed myself to be prevented by personal concerns from making this tour earlier.

  Because the shop was shut and was still as dimly lit as it had been when Robert and my uncle had passed through at the start of the day. Amy had left an uncharacteristically brief note upon the countertop, and it read:

  Dear Lucy,

  My cold is worse so I’ve decided to take a few days off.

  I’ve seen Doctor Bates and he says that this is absolutely the right thing to do.

  That last line was the part that really lodged in my mind. Her style of writing made me wonder what precisely the doctor had told her. And how much my uncle had been right to fear that the first small rumours of our decline would flow from this shop.

  It also made me wonder what had passed between Robert and the doctor during their private meeting, and if it was going to turn out that Robert’s discussion with the man hadn’t been quite as frank as Robert had thought.

  Then I noticed the way that the note was addressed to me. Amy’s elegant script had placed my name at the top. And then I had to worry that Doctor Bates had helped her to decide that part too.

  Chapter 17

  He came to see me on Saturday.

  Doctor Bates found me as I was helping Mr Lock, who was floundering in the inky fug of his print room. We were battling with the first test sheet for the giraffe book. Mr Lock had been muttering over it since Friday, and I had left the shop closed today so that I could help him to finish laying out the text.

  We were bending over the great table that stood at the heart of the room. It was cold in here beneath the long ridges of glass which hung overhead on fine iron girders. A potbellied stove was huffing away in the corner but I was rubbing warmth back into my hands while I observed, ‘I can see at least three misspellings of Ashbrook on this page.’

  I wasn’t levelling an accusation. It was easy to misspell the name when the fingers hurried. Our printing machines ran on the letterpress principle, where each printed page was laid out as raised type and printed directly onto the paper. But instead of assembling hundreds of single letters of loose type by hand, Mr Lock would cast the text a line at a time in soft metal using a 1920s linotype machine.

  On the test print for the first set of pages, I could see at least one Ashrbook and several Ashbroks. It was the sort of error that made me realise that when I had been tutting over the misspellings in the proof copy, they must have been Mr Lock’s mistakes, not Jacqueline’s.

  Now Mr Lock was grumbling because today was Saturday – not his normal day for work. Tomorrow was definitely his day of rest and then Monday counted as less than two weeks before Christmas.

  He was saying, ‘I don’t know the book. I can’t tell at a glance where the errors are. We’re already running tight on time to meet the author’s deadline, and now I’ve got to go through it all, piecemeal, to compare it to the original. Or scrap the lot and start again. You do see, don’t you, what the problem is?’

  I did see the problem.

  Our books were very small – about the size of a respectable pocket book really – so our main press was large enough to print eight pages on one sheet of paper. Efficient though this was, I knew that it took many days to produce the pages, trim them, fold them and get them stitched before he and Larry could bind them into their covers.

  On the other hand, I also knew that for once I was in the position of being able to state that I had read the book, so I could find the errors. I would mark up the test print myself and it would be simple enough then to replace the faulty lines with him on Monday.

  This was one of the wonderful benefits of laying out the text in lines like this. Single lines could always be altered without having to remake the entire set.

  Only I didn’t get the chance to say any of that because I saw Mr Lock’s eyes flick beyond me. ‘Can we help you, Doctor?’

  I’ve never moved so quickly from complacency into sharp attention in my life. Mr Lock and I were standing at the heart of this cluttered old workshop. Our neighbours were the presses and the copper kettles which filled this place with a disgusting smell of fish glue on binding days.

  Doctor Bates, on the other hand, was standing at the mouth of the arched passage from the street front, where he had no right to be, and staring at us.

  Doctor Bates seemed to think that we were accosting someone else at first. He was dressed in the long coat of a respectable man-about-town, and beneath the customary mass of fair hair, his eyes coursed the old rough stonework of the office building. They ran to the vacant door that gave access to the back of the shop, then drifted back to me. He explained, ‘I was hoping to speak to Mrs P.’

  He seemed confident, as though I should be pleased, and all of a sudden I was wooden.

  ‘How did you get in?’ My voice was brittle.

  ‘Through the coach doors?’ It wasn’t said with any kind of swagger, just plain honesty. ‘The shop door was locked, but they weren’t.’

  I was thinking that I really needed to have a private word with Mr Lock about leaving the place more secure when he was working here out of hours.

  I was also thinking that the doctor didn’t seem very aware that he was guilty of trespassing here a second time.

  The paper that had inspired his original break-in was there behind us in the racks that lined the workshop wall. He didn’t so much as glance at it. He also wasn’t quite acting like a man who was busily recalling his last encounter with me.

  Instead, his question was insistent but very mild. ‘Might we have a chat?’

  I felt Mr Lock’s curious glance at my face. I was feeling curious too. Doctor Bates didn’t seem to be assessing my delight at being near him again. So then it occurred to me to be afraid that if this visit wasn’t for me and it wasn’t for that paper, it had to be for the sake of giving me a few more searing judgements about Robert’s fitness to work here.

  I was afraid the doctor had gathered new material during the visit Robert had paid him. I thought he might be about to cast me once again as his ally. In which case, I very much did not wish Mr Lock to hear what I would have to say in reply.

  It was when I came downstairs after fetching my coat, that I really felt I was back in that misunderstanding from my last encounter with the doctor.

  He met me at the turn on the stairs as I stepped back down from the office. He surprised me in the same dark corner that carried the memory of that interview by the shop counter.

  Behind me was the shadow that must have concealed him in the dead of night when my hand had been caught by the door. And today he came here as if this old stairwell didn’t still echo with the memory of how he had subsequently tried to turn every word of blame back to Robert.

  He did it amiably, charmingly and quite as if I hadn�
�t, in fact, specifically asked him just now to wait for me downstairs with Mr Lock in the print room.

  I took him to the little teashop by the Curfew Tower. I did it very plainly after explaining my plan about the edits to Mr Lock, and without leaving Doctor Bates any room this time to misunderstand my wishes.

  I poured the tea, and then I asked coolly, ‘What is this “little chat” about, Doctor?’

  ‘I need to tell you that I am going to marry Amy.’

  I have to admit that this wasn’t remotely the reply I was expecting.

  I set the teapot down and abruptly sat back in my seat. It was my first moment of truly examining my companion’s face. He didn’t look threatening at all. In the fussy setting of teapots and tablecloths, I saw fair eyelashes lift beneath that boyish tangle of hair and then he gave a small and amiable shrug.

  He added, ‘I thought you ought to know. First, I mean, before Amy gives notice to Mr Kathay. I arranged it that she would wait for a few days.’

  Suddenly I was laughing. I wasn’t afraid at all any more of how my manners might be interpreted. Relief was easy. I fiddled with the placing of my teacup and said with an attempt at seriousness, ‘Congratulations. Has this been coming on for long?’

  ‘For some time, yes.’ The set of his mouth implied that laughter was not perhaps the most polite reaction I could have had.

  Then, a different aspect of this struck me. He had implied that he had needed me to know first.

  All of a sudden, there was something deeply unnerving in this man’s mildness as he sat opposite me in this gentrified tearoom. I watched as the expression on his mouth moulded itself into sympathy.

  The doctor remarked with the gravitas of a professional giving dreadful news, ‘Perhaps you should take some sugar in your tea.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Amy was afraid we might upset you. I said I’d talk to you.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd, Doctor Bates.’

  Because he knew I wasn’t distressed. And I was pretty certain he hadn’t come here to tell me that I was in love with him, either. Regardless of what he remembered of our odd slide into intimacy during that highly-strung conference over my bandaged hand, he couldn’t have come to confront me about it. Because if he was here, publicly, that meant he wasn’t remotely afraid that the ensuing scene might embarrass his future wife.

  And yet the doctor was saying quite genuinely, ‘She was worried. We both are.’

  With my eye on the teapot and thinking I really didn’t want to play this game any more, I asked, ‘Why?’

  ‘Do you know, I worry about you, Mrs P. We don’t want you to be alone.’ He said it kindly, in a way that made me shiver.

  It was the mention of my married name that did it. He was talking about a specific kind of loneliness to do with the loss of my husband.

  Bracingly, he remarked as if we were finally getting down to business, ‘I was bemused to find that it was Robert Underhill who visited me on Wednesday and not you. It told me precisely what place that man has in your uncle’s office. And I should have thought you’d have an opinion about what that means.’

  ‘Please, Doctor Bates. I don’t want to speak about Robert any more.’ He’d swept on as if this still related to that reference to loss, but I couldn’t quite see how. I said clearly, ‘Don’t you think we discussed his apparent failings enough the other day? I don’t want to hear anything you have to say about him. And I most definitely do not wish to hear what new dire accusations you can add after his visit to you at your home. So if you’ll excuse me, I’ll—’

  He didn’t let me finish my attempt at a neat goodbye. He stopped me in the midst of gathering up my handbag and gloves by saying ‘Surely, you must realise by now that Amy is going to leave you alone in that office?’

  My brows furrowed. It was Doctor Bates’ turn to show amusement because I was still missing the point. He surprised me by saying earnestly, ‘You’ll be the only woman. And I was entirely wrong, you know, about Robert Underhill. My old lecturer painted a very inaccurate picture of the man, and I don’t think he’s going to leave you all in the mess of your uncle’s failing business at all. I think he means to stay.’

  My heart gave one unpleasant jerk in my chest as I gave up my attempt to rise from my seat. I set my handbag down again.

  I stared at him as he added, ‘In fact, I’d go so far as to admit that Robert Underhill was unexpectedly decent when he came to see me the other day. And I believe Mr Underhill when he says that he counts himself a friend to you, and your aunt and uncle. Which is rather telling, don’t you think?’

  I might have thought he was hinting about feelings – Robert’s and mine – except that I just didn’t trust that I could ever fully understand this man, and I didn’t think he was ever going to be capable of reading me. I said carefully, ‘I don’t know what you mean by that.’

  The doctor adjusted the arrangement of the tea things to make better room for telling me, ‘I think it’s time, Mrs P, that we considered your place in your uncle’s business. And how that relates to Mr Underhill seniority as your uncle’s right-hand man.’

  I’d been right to distrust him. He was saying, ‘I’m trying to observe that we already know Underhill feels a certain degree of responsibility for you all. I think you need to consider how much that feeling extends to the long-term upkeep of your uncle’s business. If Underhill thinks he’s got an important duty to fulfil there, do you really think he’s going to just quietly hand all that down to the woman who answers the telephone when your uncle George Kathay retires?’

  The doctor was adding in a low voice, ‘Amy and I are terribly worried about you. You’re a widow. You’re alone with no one to safeguard your future unless your friends step in.’

  Suddenly, I began to understand. I should have guessed when he had given such emphasis to my married name. I said slowly, ‘You aren’t trying to bully me. You’re trying to warn me. You’re speaking about the struggle I’ll have to keep my place at the helm when my uncle retires. You’re telling me that I’m about to lose my livelihood to the better man.’

  Doctor Bates was nodding as if I had given him the clear answer that would end this. He had given his warning, he had done his duty and now he could move on. But then his mouth moved and he said, ‘Were you never formally adopted? Were you known as Miss Kathay as a child?’

  The muscles in my jaw tightened. He was hinting about my inheritance, but there was an awful lot about ownership in that question, or belonging or something. My voice was acid. ‘I kept my father’s name.’

  I set my cup aside with an unsteady but determined hand. I said, ‘Let me be perfectly clear, Doctor Bates. I do not have and never have had any claim on my uncle’s property in that way.’

  I saw his eyebrows rise. I told him, ‘They may have brought me up, but I have no expectations on that score. As far as I’m concerned, they’re fully within their rights to keep the business, sell it, gift it to Robert; anything, if that is what they want.’

  Doctor Bates looked as if I had just betrayed the utter loneliness of being me. He leaned in to confide sadly, ‘I can’t help thinking that the swiftest solution here would be to take back control now, before it’s too late. I know you don’t want to face the real error Robert Underhill made by buying that paper, but it needn’t injure your uncle, if we’re careful.’

  ‘No.’

  He took my negative as a question. He assured me, ‘Absolutely. I believe I know the man well enough to suggest which few well-placed words from you might do the trick. Let’s help him to realise that he really ought to go away, shall we, and restore your peace of mind?’

  It was like he was promising to speak to Robert for me, man to man.

  He meant it as an act of kindness. An unanswerable, undeniable act of charity. And now I really was close to the distress the doctor was expecting. The feeling belonged to the burning realisation that this man had convinced himself that I needed a friend; someone, anyone to act for me to preserv
e my income. Since I had no one else to keep me, not even a husband.

  This ridiculously stuffy teashop was smothering me. I said unsteadily, ‘Why are you doing this?’

  This was an extension of that infuriating intimacy that had grown from the injury to my hand, only it wasn’t quite the same because the doctor didn’t like me. He wasn’t even afraid that I liked him. We certainly weren’t friends. And that was when it struck me.

  I said on a low note of realisation, ‘You’ve come to me because you’re trying to patch up your own mistake again. The simple truth is that you can’t bear the memory of nearly kissing the wrong person. So instead you’ve reduced me in your mind to something less than the level of a woman. You’ve decided that I’m fragile and needy, and you’ve used that detail to talk yourself – and Amy – into doing this last noble deed to save me.’

  He didn’t fully understand me. He blustered, ‘But you are vulnerable. You’re a widow.’

  I added in a voice made flat by the force of trying very hard to be utterly, uncompromisingly clear in every word, ‘Can’t you just go off and marry Amy and be happy, and leave me to muddle along by myself?’

  I can’t describe how painful it was to finally grasp that the term ‘widow’ wasn’t mine to define. Some years ago, when the news had been fresh, I had imagined my relationship with my past marriage would be a private matter; personal and wholesome, like the memories I had of the man who had given me his name.

  Here, though, the term was worse than a shackle upon my capacity for independent thought. Today, the fumbling steps of Mrs Lucinda Peuse also seemed to be tainting Robert’s choices and the future of my uncle’s business.

  Before this man could find words to contain me further, I asked rather more pertinently, ‘Do you love her?’

  I was beginning to feel concerned for Amy. I didn’t want to have to learn that this man was my enemy. I didn’t want to find myself deciding that the pleasant, uncomplicated woman who ran my uncle’s shop needed my help.