by Anna Maxted
‘Help me!’ she screamed with her last breath, her raw fists leaving red streaks on the window pane, but even as the fire lapped, lunged, engulfed her, melting her skin in a sadistic blaze of agony, her terrified gaze fixed on a small figure, a blanket round his thin shoulders, standing alone, in the street.
Nathan.
He seemed to look right at her, and … wave? He was holding something in his little hand, something he wanted to show her … a key.
LONDON, SPRING 1980
Claudia
‘There’s Mummy,’ said Claudia, pointing to the biggest, brightest star in the sky. Ruth’s heart crumpled like paper. It was the same every night. At least tonight was clear. God help them if it was cloudy.
‘Yes,’ said Ruth. ‘Now, darling, shall we go in and see JR and Daddy? You must tell Daddy all about the ballet. Oh, those dancing girls in their pink dresses! They were so pretty! And the man dancer threw you a flower!’
‘They were fairies,’ said Claudia, still gazing at the sky. ‘I want to be a fairy too. When I die, can I be a fairy and a star?’
Ruth felt a rush of fury. Bloody Jack. He was her only son and she’d spoilt him. He was a stupid, spoilt man; he had no idea. It was all about him. Yes, yes, we have all lost husbands or wives, and of course, so tragic that Felicia had died so young, but Jack never considered other people.
For years, nothing – the odd visit, the rare phone call – and then the wife dies, and she, Ruth, is called upon like a … grandmother (she wasn’t that old, especially after the surgery) to look after a motherless child because he is too damn selfish to do the work himself. He knew she didn’t like children. They were not like dogs. If he hadn’t agreed that JR, her beautiful collie, could come too there was no way – no way – she would have moved in. Jack seemed to think he could have his normal life while Ruth looked after the child. He was just like his grandfather, except in those days it was expected of men, the remote interest. At least Daddy had got things done. He had moved the family from Hamburg to Amsterdam, found a friend to hide them for three years, sent her to that God-awful finishing school in England – hah! How to turn from a cygnet into a swan on their dreadful food, all meat pies and sausages! Thanks to his grandfather, Jack had had it easy. And now, the first difficulty – and his answer? Get the secretary to book ballet tickets.
‘You can be a fairy and a star right here, there is no need for dying. Tomorrow I ring my couturier at Harrods, and I order you a fairy costume, and a star costume, and Daddy pays. Now come inside, it is freezing out here.’
‘Goodbye, Mummy, see you tomorrow,’ said Claudia, and walked slowly towards the grand front door. She looked such a young lady in her little fox-fur coat and matching Davy Crockett hat and the prized black patent shoes, but she was a baby, a baby. Ah, she could hear JR barking. She bet that Jack had forgotten to let him out, he must be bursting!
‘Hello, darling, hello, Mother, how was the ballet? Did Baryshnikov throw Claudia the rose?’
‘Yes, the short one in the tightest pants, he threw the rose. For that bit, I woke up. You have a very efficient secretary. JR! Darling!’
‘Ruth, why is JR allowed to wear lipstick and I’m not?’
‘Oh, just a little got on his snout when I kissed him! I will kiss you too if you like?’
‘Mother, please. Would you mind putting Claudia to bed. I have paperwork. Goodnight, darling. Sleep tight.’
He was already retreating, up the stairs, backwards. He was scared of her, the bloody mouse.
‘Daddy, please may I have a story?’
‘Darling, it’s late and you have school tomorrow.’
Claudia got that glazed look in her eyes that Ruth hated.
‘Look what I have in my bag,’ she whispered. ‘Half for you, half for JR. Then we read a story, all together.’
‘Not Bambi.’
A children’s cartoon – how was she to know the deer mother would die? Claudia had screamed herself hoarse; they’d had to leave the cinema, everyone staring. And then her father gets the secretary to buy her the book.
Ruth helped the little girl brush her teeth, comb her hair and change into her nightdress. All this hefting you had to do with children, it was exhausting. Then she shared the KitKat – no way was she brushing the teeth again, one night wouldn’t hurt – and read a book about a witch called Meg’s Eggs. Bloody rubbish, but it was short.
Claudia hugged JR and gave him a kiss on his nose. She pouted, ‘Am I wearing lipstick now?’
‘Yes,’ smiled Ruth. ‘Here is an extra kiss from me to make sure.’
‘Where’s Bass? I need him to sleep with me. And Blankie. And I need all the cupboard doors shut so monsters don’t come out of them. And please will you check under my bed.’
Ruth sighed, shut the cupboard doors, checked under the bed and looked around the vast pink bedroom. Ah. The housekeeper had folded the filthy rag of blanket on to a shelf, and placed the stinky furless toy basset hound on top. Ruth picked up both between long fingernails and Claudia snatched them, snuggled down into the wide feather bed, jammed a thumb into her mouth, curled a piece of blanket over her forefinger to sniff, and hooked Bass tightly under an arm.
Ruth tiptoed to the door, and when she looked back, the little girl’s eyes were closed. Ruth marched across the landing to Jack’s study and booted open the door – like a Nazi, it occurred to her, but she didn’t care. JR trotted behind her. During the War, they had had a little schnauzer. They’d called him Tommy, after the British soldiers.
Oh, mein Gott, terrible to see a man cry. Also, the tiresome obligation for an appropriate reaction.
‘Jack, darling, I’m so sorry.’
‘Mother, I’m fine. You might try knocking next time. What is it?’
‘It’s Claudia.’
Jack smiled in that tense, terse, busy man way of his. To her he was always a little boy in shorts, swinging his skinny legs. ‘She’s doing well, isn’t she? Little trouper.’
‘No, Jack, she is not doing well. Her mother is dead, and the brother is gone.’
Jack sighed. ‘Mother, she’s too young to understand death. The most she can comprehend is absence. It’s not the same for her as it is for … me. It’s quite possible that it’s no worse to her than if Mummy were asleep upstairs.’
The endless squeaking from the violins had given Ruth a headache. ‘That is bullshit!’ she shouted. ‘You bloody idiot! Mummy was her whole world! She’s destroyed! Her little heart is shattered, in a thousand bits! She doesn’t show it, that’s all! She knows there’s no point! You’re not interested!’ Ruth took a breath, and smoothed her fuchsia Karl Lagerfeld silk smoking jacket. There was a small chocolate fingerprint on the sleeve.
Jack rubbed his hands slowly over his face. ‘Oh, God,’ he said. Ruth tried not to hear the sadness in his voice. He looked at her. ‘What do I do?’
Ruth shrugged. Just because you were a certain age, people expected wisdom. She had never been a clever girl, nor was she now. She’d relied on her beauty, and it had done well for her, once. During the War, her mother had dyed her dark hair a gorgeous copper red. The German soldiers had liked her: they weren’t like the Gestapo or the SS. She was fourteen, she had no papers, and she wasn’t frightened of them. She was probably a little bit stupid. But they were normal guys, mostly. She was chatting to one, and she’d said, ‘What do you do in normal life?’
He’d replied, ‘I’m a hairdresser. I can always tell when a woman has tinted her hair.’
She’d smiled, even while her heart beat fast. But the soldier had wanted nothing, only to chat and flirt with a beautiful girl. She’d wondered, after, what he might have done had she been less beautiful. If there was a lesson to be learned, it was this: whatever little you’ve got, use it. Her son had looks and brains, and he was wasting both.
Ruth sighed. It would help if JR would go and rest his nose on Jack’s knee to help with the comforting. Lassie would have done. But JR was like any man; selfish to the bone. ‘I
don’t know,’ she said. ‘But I see that in this house, no one talks of Felicia. It’s as if she didn’t exist. Claudia needs to know that when Mummy died, she couldn’t help it, she didn’t want to go. She needs to know that her mother loved her; that she will always have that love, that she will keep it inside, in her heart. She needs to hear it from you.’
Jack’s eyes filled with tears. Ruth ignored this. She briskly patted his knee, then walked to the door. ‘I know what you can do,’ she said.
‘Yes?’
‘Find her a new mummy.’
Jack flinched.
‘The child needs a mother,’ said Ruth firmly, and closed the door. JR looked up at her. She raised her hands, pursed her lips and addressed the dog: ‘They both do.’
AEGEAN SEA, LATE SUMMER 1980
Innocence
Sharon stood in the darkness and let the warm night air caress her face. The stars were a million diamonds spilt on black velvet. A great moon cast its silvery light on the water. She felt the quick movement of the boat rock her; she closed her eyes and listened to the gentle slap of the waves.
‘Look,’ said a deep voice, and there were dolphins, leaping out of the water, trailing sparkles of green glitter in their wake.
‘What is it?’ she said. She must have been transported to another world: that children’s story, with the pirates, the crocodile, the boy who could fly.
‘Phosphorescence,’ said the man. ‘I prefer to call it fairy dust.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘So do I!’
The man turned to her, and smiled. ‘I’m Jack. Jack Kent.’
Thunk! went her heart. She would have liked a little more time to prepare. She hadn’t expected him to be so tall. He was a stunning man. Often, when you saw people off the telly, they were uglier. He had just the right amount of sadness in his eyes.
But really, this was perfect. He’d caught her unawares. Men found that charming, did they not? The truth was, she had picked one private moment to indulge herself. You had to have the right amount of wealth to admire nature. Too poor, and nothing was beautiful, unless it was your chance to grab something. Too rich, and you were too spoilt to take pleasure in anything that didn’t cost you a vast sum. Sharon Marshall had the perfect bank balance to appreciate the wonder of sea creatures dancing in the ocean on a summer night.
She had the Queen of England to thank.
She felt a little bad, but, well, the Queen had plenty, and what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her.
Anyway, it was the Queen’s fault. The Queen had all but encouraged her. And the Princess should have kept her mouth shut. She was forever going on about Her Majesty’s diamond drop earrings. How in 1858, or was it 1885, Queen Vicky had had twenty-eight stones removed from a Garter badge and a ceremonial sword to make a ‘collet diamond necklace and a pair of earrings’. She’d left them to the Crown when she died, and the Princess was convinced that she was due the ice as a Christmas present.
That night the Queen had entrusted Sharon with her jewellery safe, the Princess had opened it, in front of Sharon, ‘just to have a tiny peek, give my favourite heirloom a whirl!’ And she’d seen that it wasn’t a state-of-the-art safe, it was one of those cheap crappy ones. She couldn’t believe her eyes. It was a disgrace what they fobbed off Her Majesty with these days. Half the royal household must be on the take. Her brother Gerry could crack that kid’s money box in two seconds.
She’d run to a phone box and called him. He started moaning about the hassle. His mate in Hatton Garden would want half the cut. Gerry, you spaz, these earrings belong to Queen Liz, she wore them at her Coronation, this ain’t H. Samuel we’re talking about! His man would have to sell them abroad. That was if his mate could replicate them in – one night? You daft cow! Think about it, girl. You’re doing a painting. It’s not taking you twenty-four hours! More like a month.
But Sharon didn’t give up that easily. Not when ten million quid was at stake. She had Gerry’s mate work from photographs. So that when, an excruciating seven months later, she happened to be trusted with the jewels again, they were prepared. Gerry’s mate got six hours with the real earrings, enough time to perfect the fakes, then the switch was made. In the end, it was a lot less than ten million. Two million each, the Hatton guy got three, but fair’s fair, he’d done a cracking job: the fake earrings looked priceless. And the real ones made the favourite wife of an Iranian arms dealer very happy.
Sharon had remained in her post for another year: a lady can’t have enough poise. Then she’d given her notice, returned to London, paid cash for a four-storey townhouse in Chester Row. That’s SW1 to you. One’s postcode was so important. She’d also taken the liberty of assuming a title. An English one was too risky since the peerage wasn’t that big. Even la noblesse was a no-no. But, ah, to have it quietly spread about that hers was one of the nineteen families mentioned in the deed of armistice signed by King Matthias in 1487 as ‘Magyarország természetes bárói’, the ‘natural barons of Hungary’ … It was as simple as attending Ascot, providing Tatler’s photographer with the information, and saying ‘cheese’. Of course, Ashford was an anglicized approximation of Aczel – there were variations on the ancient spelling. Hers was one of four dynasties styled ‘count’. Yes, she was an ‘honourable’. Tragically, her parents, her ancestral estate, and her documentation had been swept away in the Revolution. Prove that shit!
She couldn’t resist one tiny flourish. She’d killed off ‘Sharon’ and rechristened herself ‘Innocence’. It had the ring of purity and of new beginnings, and if it was good enough for the Pope, who was complaining?
Mind you, she did have a twinge.
Three years back she’d seen the Queen on telly for her Silver Jubilee, wearing the Hatton Garden fake diamond earrings. She owed it to Her Majesty to succeed big time. She had to be meticulous.
Toffs were a nosy lot. They couldn’t rest until they’d placed you; it was all ‘what school did you go to?’ even if a person was in their fifties. She had invented herself a nice little CV. She was the widow of an industrialist: a long foreign-sounding name as people were too polite to say ‘Sorry?’ and it was hard to verify the existence of a man whose identity you didn’t quite catch. They’d spent four years abroad: she decided on Australia. Her education: L’Institut Le Rosey, in Switzerland – same as the Duke of Kent and some bloke called Aga Khan IV – and in case any smart alec should try to check, she’d been expelled for smoking pot. You see, before Mummy and Daddy had perished in the fight for freedom in 1956, they had smuggled her to England, aged two, with a maid – now sadly dead – and a few valuables, enough to pay for a decent education. She had taken the precaution of paying one of Gerry’s mates to forge an old birth certificate, allegedly her father’s. Yes! One crucial piece of evidence had survived! The genius was, it was in Hungarian. She had left it, loosely hidden, behind an invitation on the mantelpiece, where Lady Helen was bound to see it and jump to the desirable conclusions.
That was the secret: to let her neighbours discover her, as she knew they’d prefer it that way. The estate agent couldn’t wait to tell her the pedigree of each one, and she couldn’t wait to hear. She knew it would be wall-to-wall toffs. The posh were like lemmings, they all swarmed to one area. There was no thought behind it, which suited her. She let it be known that she was interested in charity work – the NSPCC was always a good one – but she didn’t push it. She thought of it as like catching rabbits in a trap. You let the rabbits come to you.
Lady Helen was the bunny she had her eye on. A big social busybody; always talking, not very bright. She looked as if she put a great deal of work into eating cake.
Sharon made sure to look dowdy but rich in her presence. The last thing she wanted was to be frozen out because of jealousy. She also emphasized to Helen that she, Innocence, was a traditional, safe sort of young widow. ‘No one knows how to set a table / write a proper letter / address people correctly these days …’ Sigh.
Miss Ashford received an endle
ss number of excruciatingly dull luncheon invitations for her trouble, at which the food was disgusting, the company pompous, and the ‘voluntary’ donation a right bloody nerve. She met no eligible men, as Helen saw her as reliable entertainment for every purple old pisshead colonel who wanted to bore on about the War to a bosom for several hours. On a few occasions Miss Ashford was driven by tedium to consider hacking off her own head to test this theory.
And then, after fifteen months of suffering fools, she received one of those stiff white invitations, gilt-edged and embossed with curling black script that every aristocrat scurries to place on his mantelpiece:
The Hon. Harry Cannadine requests the pleasure of your company aboard his yacht My Fair Lady to celebrate the occasion of his thirty-second birthday.
Dress: Ancient Greece
Location: Aegean Sea, off the coast of the island of Eos
Transport: private aeroplane from Heathrow
Sharon Marshall hugged the invitation to her, and cried with delight. This was it. This was the little jaunt that was going to set her up for life.
Now she turned to Jack, so the gentle ocean breeze blew her hair softly around her face, and smiled. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Miss Innocence Ashford. But please do call me Innocence.’
LONDON, 1982
Nathan
The minute that Shanta saw that poor little mite, she wanted to give him the biggest hug of his life. But you couldn’t go overboard on affection. The Powers That Were didn’t like you to ‘form attachments’ to the kids – it wasn’t fair on the kids, apparently.
Shanta sighed. Some people seemed to think that a heart of stone was a social worker’s main qualification. The girl assigned to Nathan Williams had been useless. His case notes were sparse, and she’d not checked regularly on the level of care his foster parents had been providing. On the few occasions she had visited, she’d always written ahead. This might be standard practice, but use your noggin, girl. If there was abuse, the foster mum had time to cover.