by J. D. Oswald
‘So you’re married?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why keep it a secret?’
‘Because my husband left and now he’s dead.’
Dorothy gave one of her non-committal ‘mms’.
‘Now I’ve received these.’ She thrust the letters into Dorothy’s lap. Dorothy read them impassively.
‘He thinks well of himself, this Sir George Elkins, Justice of the Peace.’ She emphasised the title.
‘Yes, he did…does. He secretly hated the fact that his was the second estate in the village, the minor estate compared to Norwood Park, and so he made up for it in other ways.’
‘What sort of man was your husband?’
Philippa tried to think of a phrase that would sum him up. She finally settled upon, ‘He was never satisfied.’
‘How so?’
‘It was as if…once he got what he wanted – me – he lost interest.’
‘I’ve known men like that,’ Dorothy murmured. ‘The chase is everything to them. I’m lucky that Robert is not one of that kind. When did you marry?’
‘1914. I’d just finished my nurse’s training.’
‘Any children?’
‘No. I wanted them though.’
‘Perhaps it was for the best,’ Dorothy said. ‘I still don’t understand why you had to keep your marriage a secret. Lots of married women worked during the war. Many of them still do. Widows too.’
‘I know but...George didn’t leave to fight. He abandoned me. He went to Canada in 1915 and must have joined the army there.’
‘So why are you hiding away?’
‘A woman from the village disappeared at the same time,’ Philippa continued reluctantly. ‘A married woman. Edward’s family was desperate to hush things up so they blamed me instead. I know George started rumours about me.’
‘What sort of rumours?’
‘That I’d been unfaithful, even that I was carrying another man’s child.’
‘Disgraceful behaviour.’
‘Yes it was,’ Philippa paused, ‘but I could cope with people whispering behind their hands or snubbing me at Sunday service – I had a few good friends who didn’t believe the lies. Then something else happened. I don’t know whether I should tell you...’ Philippa swallowed hard.
‘I can’t help if I don’t understand the problem.’
‘I found out something about George.’ Philippa paused again.
‘Come on Philippa, what was it?’ Dorothy said impatiently.
‘I found out that Sir George Elkins J.P. was – is – a criminal.’ The word sounded strange, ridiculous even, now that she had said it out loud.
Dorothy stared at her, a sceptical look on her face. ‘What do you mean “a criminal”?’
‘I mean a man who uses his respectable country estate for prostitution,’ Philippa said, fighting back tears, ‘hiding the girls in one of his filthy barns.’
‘I see.’ Dorothy’s manner had transformed to one of grim concern. ‘How did you find out?’
‘I’d moved into the Hall after Edward left and I went for a walk one evening, to get out of the way of the family. I’d never been to the far side of the estate before. There were troops stationed in one of the fields. They were camping inside those circular canvas tents. I noticed some of them going into one of the barns and so I looked inside. I saw...’ Philippa stopped and stared up at the beamed ceiling. She realised that she had balled her hands into fists so tightly that her nails had started to dig into her skin. She could not bear to describe the women, some no more than girls, shivering in straw-strewn stalls, the men waiting in line to rut like animals.
‘I can imagine what you saw,’ Dorothy said.
‘That’s not the worst of it. I started to run back to the Hall and then I heard a shot in the trees. I couldn’t see very well so I went closer. There was a body lying on the ground – I couldn’t see who it was. A man was standing over the body holding a gun. George was next to him, just watching.’
‘I take it he saw you.’
‘Yes,’ Philippa managed to say, her voice hoarse. ‘He caught up with me at the Hall. I told him I was going to the police. He said that if I did, I’d end up in the barn with the others, or worse.’
Dorothy picked up George’s letter. ‘I trust that you have not forgotten our conversation the last time we met. Are you sure he was serious?’
‘Oh yes. I could tell by his eyes. I believe he would have killed me if we hadn’t been so close to the house. I crept out before dawn the following morning and got myself to Cambridge. My uncle arranged for me to join the Imperial Military Nursing Service and I escaped to the ambulance trains.’
‘I wouldn’t call that an escape!’
‘Strangely it was. I had to stand on my own two feet for the first time in my life. Matron found me the job here at the end of the War. But if George found out where I was, I know he’d come after me.’
‘I see your difficulty,’ Dorothy said. ‘George sounds like a nasty piece of work, I grant you, but I think you must go and see these solicitors, and do your best to conceal your whereabouts.’
‘But if George saw me...’
‘That’s a risk you’re going to have to take Philippa. You could do a lot with this inheritance. So you’ll go?’
Philippa nodded. She felt too drained to argue and disheartened that Dorothy could so easily dismiss her fears.
‘Speaking of opportunities,’ Dorothy said her voice becoming bright, ‘how would you like to work with Doctor Godwin? I’ve had a word with him and he’s prepared to involve you with some of his military patients. It would be excellent experience for you.’
The sudden change of subject was unwelcome but she could hardly refuse. She tried to smile. ‘That would be most interesting.’
‘That’s settled then. You must travel to – where was it again? – ah yes, Southwell as soon as you can. I’ll arrange for you to start with Doctor Godwin when you get back. Don’t worry about your duties here. I’ll speak to the Bursar and see that you’re excused from some of your more menial tasks. Now I must be off. And here’s Mrs Hibberd to relieve me.’
‘What’s she doing here again?’ Bella asked after Dorothy had gone.
‘We had some matters to discuss, and she likes to look in on Christopher.’
Bella grunted. ‘She should take her campaigning elsewhere. Ah, Christopher, darling, you’re awake.’
Philippa’s stomach twisted as if an animal was writhing inside – had Christopher overheard?
I worked out that there’s a point at the side of my eye where I can see clearly. It’s like looking through a miniscule tunnel. If I hold a piece of paper up to it, with a bit of jiggling around, I can just about read the words. So I’ve taken his papers, and given him mine. It helps that he’s called Edmund. All the nurses called us Eddie 1 and Eddie 2, they never bothered about surnames. He told me he had no wife or child but owned a farm near Toronto, a profitable one by all accounts. That would suit me for now. No interfering brother sending me scraps from his table and denying me my rightful share. And the ‘wife’ will be better off without me. She only has eyes for the baby anyway and her demands to be made a respectable woman are becoming rather tiresome. Not that we could even if I wanted to. She should have thought of that before getting herself knocked up. I didn’t sign up for that.
10
Saturday 22nd November
At Rolleston Junction, the other passengers hurried across the platform and into the compartments of the single carriage shuttle. Philippa waited until the rush had died down. Then, as the locomotive steamed, she began to walk along the platform in search of a seat, pulling her hat down to her eyebrows and sinking her chin into her coat collar. All the compartments were full, except in first class where a clergyman in frock coat and gaiters sat in solitary splendour. That was no good. She had sold a necklace - a birthday present from Edward - to pay for this journey, but the tiny diamond and gold chain had only made enough to cover a third c
lass ticket and the cheapest room in the hotel.
The guard leaned out of the brake compartment. ‘Are you getting on Miss?’ he shouted.
There was no option but to squeeze into the compartment next to the locomotive. She was relieved to find that she recognised none of the passengers. She sat down between a young woman with a hat box in her lap and an elderly gentleman in a trilby surrounded by four faded carpet bags. It was impossible to manoeuvre her shoulder blades against the seat and so she was forced to lean forward and feign interest in the goings-on beyond the rain-streaked windows. A few blurry faces stared back from beneath the canopy on the other platform.
The locomotive jerked into motion, its wheel shafts squealing in protest, opaque grey steam enveloping the carriage. The smell of cinders intensified. The elderly man lowered his spectacles and peered at a gleaming pocket watch. ‘One minute late.’ He smiled at her. His skin was ashen and stretched so thinly over his bony face that it appeared transparent.
She smiled back, too exhausted to respond in words. She had been shaken, jostled and crushed for nearly seven hours and her body ached from neck to calf. When she touched her coat, her fingers came back smeared with a sooty film. Now there were only five more minutes to bear until the train arrived into the village of Southwell. As the station gave way to fields, a man in a leather apron emerged from a copse, two rabbits slung over his shoulder. He broke into a run alongside the track and managed to clamber into the driver’s cab. The train gathered speed. The carriage swayed, the wheels sounding de-dum de-dum, de-dum de-dum over the jointed rails. Philippa let her eyes close. In almost no time it seemed, she was jolted out of a fitful doze by the carriage clattering over Upton Crossing. To her right, the imposing fortress-like walls of Caudwell’s Mill came into view. The sight, so familiar, made her shudder.
So far she had met no one she knew but that situation could not continue for much longer. The train passed by the grimy engine shed, then the lime-washed cattle pens almost luminescent in the gloom, slowing beside the ticket hall. The smart young woman immediately scrambled over the legs of the other passengers, pulled on the droplight and called to the waiting porter to open the door. The elderly gentleman bent arthritically to the floor to gather up his carpet bags. Philippa experienced a moment of indecision before her compassion for his condition got the better of her instinctive reluctance to speak to any passenger.
‘Can I help with those sir?’ she asked.
‘Mm?’ the man murmured vaguely. ‘Oh no, you have your own bag to manage young lady. But I thank you for your kind offer.’ His voice was clipped and precise.
She realised from his clear gaze that it would be pointless to argue, although it would be awkward just to leave him. As he made his way painfully slowly towards the ticket hall, she strolled at his side leaving an ample gap between them. They were the last to relinquish their tickets and pass through the hall onto the station approach. The gentleman paused beneath the overhang, breathing heavily. Philippa took the opportunity to hang back as the other passengers dispersed, a few to automobiles or carts, most hurrying away on foot. The air smelt fetid from the piles of dung and rotting leaves.
‘Now young lady,’ the man wheezed, ‘we must part.’
‘Yes.’ Philippa looked down at her feet as her eyes filled with tears. The route from the station to the hotel was a short one but there was no avoiding King Street and the familiar faces she would inevitably see there. It had stopped raining and so she no longer had the excuse of hiding beneath an umbrella.
‘Unless..?’ the man continued, ‘I have a car. Would you care for a lift?’
‘Thank you,’ she said with relief, risking a glance at him. ‘I would.’
‘Where to?’
‘The Saracen’s Head Hotel.’
‘And who am I to have the pleasure of driving?’
‘My name is Mrs Elkins.’ She said it without thinking.
‘Ah.’ She could hear recognition in his voice. She expected the offer of a lift to be immediately withdrawn. Instead the man grinned, exposing a set of even yellow teeth.
‘The famous Mrs Elkins. I knew your father you know. Yes, your father and I had many mutual clients. He used to forget their medical bills just as I used to excuse them their legal ones. We had enough rich clients between us to subsidise the rest. Tell me, did the police ever find the driver who ran them down?’
‘No. I don’t think they looked very hard.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. I distinctly remember reading the report in the newspaper. Cars were rather a novelty back then. Remind me, what happened to your father’s practice?’
‘My uncle couldn’t find anyone to take over, so it closed.’
‘A triple tragedy. Now, Mrs Elkins, you are due to meet my partner Mr Dobell on Monday morning, yes?’
‘Are you Mr Abraham?’
‘I am. Did I omit to introduce myself? My apologies. My faculties are not what they once were. I’m what you might call a sleeping partner in the firm nowadays, although I still take on the odd matter now and then.’ He paused and regarded her searchingly. ‘How’s this? To save you the trouble of waiting a day, I’ll open up the office tomorrow and deal with your case myself. I’m not averse to missing the Sunday sermon.’
‘That’s very kind. I’ll be able to get back to Winchester for…’ She stopped, realising with dismay what she had just given away.
‘So Winchester is where you’ve been hiding eh. A claustrophobic city as I recall, set in a hollow with that great Cathedral waiting to pounce as you turn a corner.’
‘Please don’t tell anyone where I am. Please…’
Mr Abraham patted her arm. ‘Do not worry, young lady; solicitors are experts at keeping secrets.’
‘Thank you sir.’
‘Now climb in, and I’ll start her up.’
He led the way to a rusty black Citroën, a few days’ worth of soggy leaves and broken twigs amassed on the bonnet. The familiar feeling of dread struck her. She forced herself to climb into the passenger seat and clutched her handbag to her stomach. She was relieved to find that Abraham drove slowly, his face inches from the windscreen. They passed up Station Road with its discoloured pre-war houses. A few half-cut workmen ogled the car from the doorway of the Newcastle Arms. Then the gradient increased and the car struggled beneath glowering dripping trees to the top of Burgage Green. She could hear the familiar dull rumbling of the lace machines inside Carey’s Factory, housed in the old House of Correction blocks next to the police station. She had known lads from the local school who had left at age twelve to become apprentice threading boys. Sometimes when playing on the Green, she had seen them emerge through the elegant stone entranceway at the end of their shift, sallow-eyed and with clothes covered in black dust.
The car descended between King Street’s Georgian terraces and townhouses. Many of the shopkeepers were drawing down their shutters although the Central Stores was still busy with queues of last-minute shoppers. Philippa shrank down in her seat; she knew every shopkeeper by name and they, hers. After her marriage to Edward, she had made an excuse nearly every weekday to escape their house on Cooks Lane and walk the twenty minutes to the village. The house stood half way between Southwell and the tiny village of Halam, her only neighbours a bunch of surly agricultural workers who would troop along the ridge path every morning to get to the outlying fields of the Westwell Park estate. She had felt lonely and isolated, sometimes the shopkeepers’ banter the only friendly words she would hear all day. She wondered whether the Stores still sold her favourite violet and rose creams.
As the car approached the junction with Church Street, she dared to raise herself up to see if the Minster’s herring-bone clad ‘pepper-pot’ spires were visible over the rooftops but Abraham turned the car sharp right through the archway that led into the Saracen’s Head courtyard. Two small boys leapt out of the way in alarm.
‘There you are Mrs Elkins, you can hide here until tomorrow morning. I will see you at nine
o’clock.’ He had a slight mocking smile on his face. Or perhaps that was just her imagination.
She was given a bedroom on the attic level of the medieval inn, accessed via an uncarpeted staircase and with no-one to carry her bag. She could only stand upright in the very centre of the room. She wondered how many guests over the years had ended their stays with sore heads as a result of collisions with the exposed and blackened beams. She knelt on the single bed and could just see through the high window across the interlocking roofs and red-brick chimneypots to the Minster towers beyond. Their sharp angles stood out against the reddening sky. She felt reassured by the sight of this incongruous cathedral, a once out-post of the Archbishop of York – it seemed like a benign protector of the overgrown village. It had been part of her life ever since she could remember, from her christening to her confirmation, to her parents’ funeral and then, finally, her marriage. She allowed herself to remember that mid-May day in 1914, the seemingly endless procession up the Nave to where Edward was waiting for her in the Quire, the vergers joking that her silk train was doing an excellent job of cleaning the stone floor. Her uncle had been so unsteady on his feet that the organist had been forced to play the Prince of Denmark’s March twice over. Edward had not been pleased. After the ceremony, they emerged from the West door to a surprisingly solemn crowd of onlookers. People had been reluctant to approach and from those that did, the messages of congratulation seemed forced, their smiles false. But maybe that had been her imagination too.
***
Every Friday during Creswell’s brief tenure as Master of St Cross, Mamie had made a cake. There had been a sponge cake one week, filled with a gooey layer of raspberry jam, and a fruit cake the next, steeped overnight with brandy or occasionally whisky. Mamie’s cakes always lived up to the picture in the recipe book: sponge swelled to nearly the height of her hand; walnuts, cherries and raisins protruding from the fruit cake as if it was an unstable cliff. She always insisted that Creswell eat a generous slice before Saturday Evensong, and on Sundays, she would wrap up a slice for him to eat between morning services.