by Alex Reeve
Mr Ramsden scratched his head as if pondering the problem, and then made a lunge for Aiden. The boy skipped nimbly backwards and Mr Ramsden stumbled and almost fell, dropping his sheet of paper.
I picked it up for him.
‘Please, let’s stop and think about this,’ I said. ‘There must be a way to resolve the situation. Are there other places like this one, but that would take both of them? It’s wrong for them to be kept apart when they’ve so recently lost their mother.’
‘It’s best to educate boys and girls separately,’ insisted Mrs Ramsden, indicating the pictures on the walls as if they were proof.
Her husband had recovered his balance. He held out his hand for his piece of paper. I was about to give it to him when I noticed the name written at the top: Aiden Jones.
Beneath that, Ramsden had written Aiden’s age and nationality, and that the fees would be paid by Sir Reginald.
‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘His surname isn’t Jones.’
‘Of course,’ said Ramsden, looking flustered. ‘It’s just administrative.’
I read it again, turning it over to check both sides. ‘But Sir Reginald knows his name is Hannigan. Why would he place him here under an alias?’
The realisation blanched across my skin.
I knew why.
‘We have to go,’ I said, pulling Ciara towards the door. ‘Come on, Aiden. Quickly, please.’
Mr Ramsden trailed us across the hall, appearing to be in two minds as to whether to block our way. ‘Sir Reginald gave us strict instructions. He paid six months in advance!’
I reached the door and opened it. ‘And a substantial bonus as well, I’m sure. Goodbye, Mr Ramsden.’
And with that, we left the building.
We rushed home as swiftly as Ciara’s legs would carry her. When we got into the pharmacy, I bolted the door behind us.
Alfie came through from the back room. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I think they may be in danger.’
I looked out of the window as far as I could in both directions.
‘What danger?’ I could see his mind working. He wouldn’t shy from a fight, but he had Constance to consider. ‘Leo—’
‘I’ll make a new arrangement for them as soon as I can, I promise. In the meantime, we must be vigilant.’
I could think of only one reason why Sir Reginald would place Aiden in an orphanage under a false name.
He wanted the boy to be lost.
12
That night, I sat in my armchair once again, looking out at the familiar landscape of brick and smoke. There was a time I would have stolen a teaspoonful of chloral hydrate from downstairs to ease me into sleep. It was tempting even now; that yearning had never completely worn off. But I feared those terrible visions. Whatever was to come, I would need a clear head.
Sir Reginald wanted Aiden to be lost, and presumably Ciara as well. Perhaps he knew that she’d witnessed the murder, or perhaps he wanted to hide the evidence of his own past indiscretions. Perhaps both.
I looked over at them; two small shapes under the blanket, Aiden’s arm dangling over the edge of the mattress. They didn’t deserve any of this.
I had only saved them for a brief few hours. Tomorrow, I was certain, the police would come for them. And for me. Kidnapping was a serious offence.
Before dawn, I felt a tugging at my shirt, and almost jumped out of my chair. For a few seconds I thought the police had arrived already. It was so unfair. I had only tried to do what was best.
‘Mr Stanhope!’
It was a child’s voice and a child’s hand. I reached out and touched Ciara’s hair.
‘What’s wrong?’
I sat up, reality coalescing.
‘The tooth mouse hasn’t come,’ she whispered.
‘He’s very busy. Maybe he’ll leave you something tomorrow.’ I rubbed my temples, feeling a headache crawling around the side of my skull, coming to rest over my right eye. ‘How do you know he hasn’t come?’
‘I looked.’
‘You mustn’t go downstairs on your own. It’s not safe.’
Her face was very close to mine, so even in the half-dark I could see her earnest expression. ‘I was quick as lightning.’
‘Go back to sleep.’ I closed my eyes but could tell she was still there. ‘What’s wrong now?’
‘I can’t sleep. Aiden’s taking up all the space.’
I tried to think what I used to do when I couldn’t sleep, back when I was a child. We lived on the edge of the countryside and at night there was no light at all, not even to see my hand in front of my eyes. Sometimes, in that blackness, my mind was able to detach from the world and float above it, all my troubles soothed until morning. But at other times, I grew afraid, hearing the owls as ghosts, and the whistles and moans of the vicarage as monsters, and had to crawl into Jane’s bed beside her. On the very worst nights, I would rouse her and beg her to make the nightmares go away, and she would put her arms around me and tell me a story, her voice so close in my ear I didn’t know if it was her speaking or me, if it was out loud or only in my head.
‘Shall I tell you a story, Ciara?’
She climbed on to the armchair beside me, wriggling to make herself some room, not caring how uncomfortable I was.
I realised, with a twinge of contrition, that I didn’t know any stories. Poor Jane. I had woken her on those nightmare nights and then fallen asleep again before she’d finished introducing the first squirrel.
I would have to improvise.
‘Once upon a time, there was a …’ Ciara closed her eyes and curled up in anticipation ‘… there was a boy. He was born as a … as a robin.’
‘The bird?’ she asked, yawning.
‘Yes, the bird. His name was Robin too, which is probably why it happened.’
‘Robin the robin?’
‘Yes,’ I agreed, not sure now whether the name had been a wise idea. ‘Every day he wished to be a human, but the other robins thought him a fool, and wouldn’t listen. He tried to play human games and read books, but he couldn’t, because he had wings instead of hands. So, one day, he flew away from his family and …’
I petered out as her breathing slowed, her hair straggling across her face, the soles of her feet pressed against my leg.
I dared not move for fear of waking her, so we remained that way until the dawn light seeped through the curtains.
That morning, we waited in my room for the police to come.
I was supposed to go to work at the hospital, but I couldn’t bear the thought of Hooper turning up there to arrest me, so I wrote a note telling my foreman that I had a fever and would be staying in bed. I found a messenger-boy in the street and paid him a penny to deliver it.
Over and over, I repeated the calculation in my head; Mr Ramsden would surely have told Sir Reginald that I had not obeyed his instruction, and Sir Reginald would inform the police immediately. They would arrest me, and the children would be taken away, probably today and at best tomorrow.
I was running out of time.
How could I keep them safe?
I thought of placing them in a different orphanage, a good one, using their real names. But Sir Reginald might still find them and, even if not, there would be questions. Where did they come from, and why did I have them? How was I paying for their care?
As the bells rang for nine o’clock and then ten, the hours seemed to be dawdling just to frustrate me. Whenever the doorbell downstairs jangled, I froze, listening for the officious timbre of a policeman’s voice. It was maddening. I began to wish they’d arrive soon and get it over with.
We couldn’t go anywhere in case they came while I wasn’t here. I didn’t want Alfie and Constance to have to deal with the explanations: Yes, Mr Stanhope was at home earlier. No, I’m sure he hasn’t run away.
Aiden and Ciara didn’t appear to notice my disquiet. I was amazed at how resilient they were. Despite having almost been separated at the orphanage, they
had afterwards tucked into a dinner of cold chicken and potatoes as if little of note had happened, and this morning had spent two hours playing draughts. By noon, Aiden had got bored and was juggling with screwed-up pieces of paper, showing surprising proficiency, while Ciara lay on the floor, amusing herself with my chess men, sending the knights off on adventures to discover hidden castles.
‘Can’t we go outside, Mr Stanhope?’ asked Aiden, for the third time.
‘No,’ I answered, a fraction more crossly than I’d intended. ‘Please be patient. I’m trying to decide what to do.’
Ciara returned to playing draughts. She had asked her brother to play with her, but he had refused, preferring to continue juggling, so she was taking both sides of the game. It was white’s turn and she was sitting cross-legged on that side of the board, her lips pursed. She made her move and crawled round to the black side, her eyes scanning the pieces anew.
That could’ve been me, I thought, twenty years ago. Oliver rarely agreed to play me at chess. He was good at ball games and fighting, but Jane had sucked up all the brains while they were still in the womb together. He had ventured out first, ever the explorer, so he was technically older, but he was never her match. Their battles were fiery, but brief. I was stuck in the middle, the other one, the non-twin, lesser in every way.
But, like Ciara at her game, I was able to see both sides.
Though I could scarcely tolerate the idea, I could only think of one thing to do. I sat down and wrote a letter.
I had to go outside to find a boy to deliver it, so I gave strict instructions to the children to stay in the house and out of sight. Alfie reluctantly agreed to keep an eye on them, muttering something about having done more than his fair share of raising a child already. But as I closed the door I heard him calling up the stairs, asking if they wanted to watch him make a foam mountain out of baking soda and vinegar. Judging from their cheers, I guessed my coin trick would soon seem rather second-rate.
I found the same boy in the street who’d delivered my earlier note to my foreman. He looked about thirteen years old and as scrawny as they all were, but less suspicious than most, with gentle features beneath the dirt.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Tommy Sollars, sir.’ He stood up straight, his eyes darting up and down from my face to my shoes as if he was watching a ball being bounced. ‘I live in Cleveland Street, sir,’ he added, as though his place of residence was significant.
‘Do you know where Maida Vale is? Good. Please deliver this. I’ll pay you a penny for the delivery and twopence if you bring it back with a reply.’
That was how desperate I was, relying on my sister for help.
A rainstorm had passed, and the pavements were crowded again by the time she arrived.
Alfie stood back and almost bowed as she entered, such was her presence, in a well-fitted jacket, silk dress and a hat that managed to be both spectacular and reserved. Either she was wearing this garb to intimidate me, or her husband, Howard, had risen another rank or two at the bank. I had never met the man, nor was I ever likely to, but I imagined him as a huge, damp frog, sitting at their home in Maida Vale in a greasy puddle.
‘Will you look after Aiden and Ciara while I’m out,’ I said to Constance. ‘And please do as I asked, all right?’
She nodded.
‘Thank you.’ I turned to Jane before she could say anything. ‘Let’s go for a walk, shall we?’
I took her to Soho Square, a patch of grass with pleasant houses arranged around the sides. Water was still dripping from the trees overhead like our own, personal raincloud, but she didn’t open her umbrella, perhaps unable to face sharing it with me. She was my sister but would not accept me as her brother.
‘Father is dying,’ she announced, with the merest catch in her throat. ‘The doctors are useless and disagree about everything save one thing: he has a few weeks at most.’ She pursed her lips, as though trying to keep her next words inside her mouth. I had already guessed what they were. ‘He says he would like to see you, Lottie.’
‘Leo,’ I corrected her sharply. ‘I will answer to nothing else.’
‘You were christened Lottie.’
‘I was christened Charlotte, but that’s not my name either. And why does it matter to you anyway? You said you didn’t want to hear from me any more.’
She gave a stiff little nod. ‘It’s Father who wishes to see you, not me.’
I felt a bite of disappointment.
‘And yet here we are.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Here we are. Ollie’s gone back to India and won’t be home again for another year, so there’s just the two of us. Will you come and see him, or will you allow Father to die while you sulk?’
‘I will consider it. But I have conditions.’
She gave me a look. We had spent our childhood bickering and could veer from amusement to anger, and triumph to resentment, even within a couple of sentences. It was impossible for anyone but us to distinguish between a genuine row and a mere tease. But we always knew; the tiny inflections of a word, a blink, a glance, a sly flick of a hand. We never had a second’s doubt about what the other intended.
‘I had assumed you would. Very well, let’s hear them.’
I was somewhat taken aback. I hadn’t expected her to be so prepared. But now I came to think about it, I had never in my life beaten her at chess, and the few times I had captured her queen, it had turned out to be a ruse, a prelude to her ultimate victory.
I had to tread carefully.
‘Where is Father?’
‘He retired to Hampstead, and he’s at his house there. I’ll give you the address. But you must be quick. I don’t know how long he’ll last.’
‘And he asked for me? Are you certain?’
She cast me another look, and I thought: of course she’s certain. She’s always certain.
‘He’s quite lucid most of the time,’ she said. ‘At least now I’ve stopped those quacks from filling him with opiates like some oriental.’
‘Is he in pain?’
I realised I didn’t want him to suffer. No matter that I hated him, I would prefer he lived out his days peacefully, as long as he was far away from me.
‘Sometimes. Often. But better that than drooling and comatose, don’t you think?’ She tapped her umbrella irritably on the ground, conscious that she’d accidentally asked my opinion of our father’s treatment. ‘He’s always had such an acute mind. Exacting, yes, and sometimes more candid than we would like, but always with a purpose.’
I sensed this fabrication was more for her benefit than mine. Yes, he did have an acute mind, but he wasn’t exacting, he was dogmatic, and he wasn’t candid, he was brutal. My father adored his only son, as he would see Oliver, and doted on his only daughter, as I would see Jane. But I was always the other one, the awkward one; unwanted, unfortunate and unwelcome.
‘If I do see him,’ I told her, ‘I will be myself.’ I stood back, looking down at my waistcoat and trousers, the bulge in my groin where I had sewn a roll of cloth to make me appear to have what I did not.
I knew what she was about to say: that for her sake and for his, I should put on a dress and a wig and all the rest of the paraphernalia that women wore, and be obliging and gracious, and pretend to be Lottie. It was a small thing to ask, was it not, to make a dying man content?
But I would not. Not for him, not for anyone. I had made my decision and would never reverse it.
You could have knocked me down with a stalk of grass when she replied, ‘I expected as much. It can be as you say.’
She was still walking, even-paced, stepping around the puddles and smiling politely at passers-by. She did not appear to have gone mad.
‘You understand what I’m saying? I will see Father as I am now.’
She nodded, not meeting my eye. ‘That’s acceptable, with the proviso that you don’t mention it unless he does.’
‘But he will mention it. He’s mentioned everything he disli
kes about me since I was born. He’s not going to stop now.’
‘You haven’t seen him in years, Lottie. What is it? Ten? Eleven? He’s changed since Mother died.’ She went to take my hand, before realising what she was doing and pulling hers away. ‘He’s an old man. He wants to see his child again before he goes. Will you deny him that?’
We had completed another lap of the square, and she stopped, clearly hoping our conversation was concluded.
‘I have one more requirement,’ I told her.
‘Another one? I’ve already agreed that you may go as …’ she pointed at me with her umbrella ‘… as this. Is that not concession enough?’
‘It’s not a concession at all, Jane. This is who I am. Why should I dress up as someone else?’
She clenched her hands into fists. ‘Can you not, for once in your life, understand the damage you’re doing? What you’ve taken from me? I lost Mother, and now Father will be taken also, and Ollie’s in India, but you, my only sister, who could come back to me at any moment you choose, persist in this idiotic … masquerade.’
‘I was never your sister.’
She swallowed, fighting back a sob in her throat. ‘You were never so unkind either.’
‘What kindness do you think I owe you?’
‘A Christian kindness, at least.’
Well, I supposed she did have a point there; it was her Christian kindness I was relying upon. That, and her maternal instincts.
‘Very well,’ I said. ‘I will visit Father this week, if I can.’ I didn’t mention I was expecting to be arrested within a few hours. ‘But there’s still one thing I need from you in exchange.’
The children were clean and smelling of soap, having been thoroughly immersed in the tin bath in the back room, scrubbed with pumice and dressed in their least-patched clothes. They were waiting in the doorway when we returned to the pharmacy, as I had instructed. I brought them outside on to the pavement where Alfie and Constance wouldn’t be able to hear our conversation.
‘This is Mrs Hemmings,’ I said to them. ‘She will be looking after you for a little while until we find a permanent arrangement.’