She swallowed. Jonathan went out through the door. She closed it after him. He stood outside in the hallway cursing himself.
She lay down on her bed. It all felt impossible. The dawn was arriving. She willed peace to enter her body.
CHAPTER EIGHT
On the second ever morning that Philomena awoke in London she was recalling a play that she’d made costumes for in Saddleworth. She sat up, wondering if clothes, costume, was a good idea. Could she be like that girl tutored by the professor, but doing it to herself? Clothes and a bit of pretending. Was that all that was needed?
Hurriedly she began to dress. She looked at Dan’s photograph, hoping he’d comment on her plan. Such as it was.
But she hadn’t time to make everything; she needed it all that day, for goodness’ sake. And what of the cost? And how much more time could she afford to spend on this mission? For that was what it had become. Two more days, she hoped, after which she really had to get back to the business. Now she wished she had brought some work with her, but she’d had no idea, had she?
But meeting Anthony Dore might prove impossible. She would have to find him, first. And talk to him. She knew that if she asked him anything that even barely resembled a leading question he would be immediately suspicious. Especially if he’d been warned about her. Would Major James do that? She couldn’t decide. She didn’t know what pressures he was under. She had no idea if Anthony Dore would be expecting her.
Clothed, she parted the threadbare curtains. Looking out of the window, there was no sign of life in the young soldier’s room. So she had something she wanted to achieve and a mad notion of how she should go about it. Breathe deeply, Philomena; breathe very, very deeply, she said to herself. The last thing she did before leaving the room was pick up her felt flowerpot hat.
At reception the day porter, a pleasant individual, smiled at her: “I hear there was some trouble in the night.”
“Trouble?” asked Philomena, uncomprehendingly.
“You saved that young soul. Everyone’s talking about it.”
Oh yes, remembered Philomena, there was all that. “It was nothing. Anyone would have done the same.”
Still smiling, the day porter shrugged as if to say he wasn’t sure about that.
Philomena privately disagreed. If anyone wouldn’t have done the same, that was a disgrace. “And I didn’t do it alone,” she said.
The day porter dipped his head, saluting both her deeds and her humility, and got on with his work.
Philomena moved on, out of the hotel, recalling Jonathan’s decisive actions to save the suicide. He’d quickly understood what was wrong and what needed doing. He hadn’t asked any questions—in fact she couldn’t remember him speaking, apart from “Around the side,” and “Which room?” He’d fallen in and cooperated. She could see why Dan would have liked to be shoulder to shoulder with him in the war. But what a complex and infuriating man he could be! One minute solid and simply getting on with things, the next threatening to erupt. And there were the dark, heavy atmospheres that suddenly emerged, threatened to envelop; his self-confessed tendency toward melancholy and worse. The drinking wouldn’t help that, would it? Why didn’t he reduce it or stop?
At a post office she sent yet another telegram to Jo explaining that she had to stay on for another day. From a directory she noted the name and address of a likely-looking dress agency and made her way to it. On the way she practiced making her accent a little more southern, rehearsed sounds in her head and listened intently to anyone speaking nearby.
On the threshold of the dress agency she paused for a moment and a pair of women of about her own age in smart clothes brushed past her on their way in. They behaved as if she didn’t exist, which caused her to ask herself what on earth she thought she was doing. She tried to answer “nothing wrong.” She wasn’t about to attempt a deception for any financial gain, but if “caught” by Anthony Dore, what might the consequences be? If he had murdered Dan would she be risking her life? No. Dore wouldn’t have any motive to kill her, would he? Yes, if she’d acquired proof. Which would be? She didn’t know, yet. If she ever got proof she’d get away from him and the authorities could do the rest.
Changing her mind about entering the dress agency she instead went to drink a cup of strong tea. And she had a sugar in it to settle her stomach. Where would she meet Anthony Dore? And how? These details would determine how things went. Should she keep her protective wedding band or remove it? Get a better one to go with the clothes she imagined she’d need? She could be what—a widow?
Just live now, just do the next thing; you can’t know what will happen next—death teaches that.
She finished her tea and walked back to the shop. This time she pushed the door open without allowing herself to doubt. Once inside she felt more comfortable because she was surrounded by things she understood; rows of shelves and rails of clothes. The two women who had been oblivious to her were still in there chattering brightly as they half-examined various pieces. They appeared to be just browsing, unlikely to actually purchase anything. Philomena moved nearer and homed in on their manners and their speech and deportment, telling herself that what she planned was just a girl’s dressing-up game. Once she looked right and was speaking differently why would anyone think that she was in disguise? They’d take her at face value, wouldn’t they?
She began to notice a refrain of the two women: “What fun!” “What fun!” they kept saying. But the rules of “What fun!” were difficult to apprehend, because the women seemed to use it arbitrarily, whether discussing clothes they’d seen, what they’d had for breakfast, (kippers, kedgeree, coffee), where they might go for lunch, people they knew (Tilly, Monty, Freddy, Bunty). They headed for the exit. With them gone the shop would be empty. Philomena chose some items to try on and entered the communal changing room. She didn’t want anyone to see her undergarments, which were clean, but practical, not decorative; cotton, not silk. Without looking at herself in the mirror she knew that her cotton underwear really didn’t work under these sorts of dresses. She’d have to buy some that did. But as bad luck would have it, the two women entered just as she was slipping on her first dress, a sleeveless black crepe de chine with silver trim. They both stared for a moment then smiled and proceeded as if she was there for their benefit—an audience for them. There was something juvenile about them, wanting attention from strangers in that way.
Only one of the women had anything to try on. That dress looked outlandish on the hanger and ridiculous when she got it on. It wasn’t even clear which was the back and which the front. The two of them were in fits of laughter over it and Philomena couldn’t help smiling. The one who wasn’t trying the dress on called over for Philomena’s opinion. She said that she agreed that the dress was slightly unorthodox. That word made the women think for a moment. Wide-eyed, they laughed some more.
“That’s a perfect description of this dress,” hooted one of them.
“That’s a very good word,” agreed the other. “Let’s use it as much as we can today. Let’s have an unorthodox day.”
For a moment Philomena worried that they were belittling her. But they weren’t. They examined her openly.
“I wish I had your figure,” said one.
“That dress looks marvelous on you,” said the other.
“Thank you,” she stuttered.
“Is it a special occasion?” inquired one.
“Yes,” she said, timidly.
“It’s a man, isn’t it?” exclaimed the other.
“It is a man, isn’t it?” squealed the first.
“Well he’s a goner,” said the second woman.
“He’ll want to eat you,” said the first.
Philomena blushed deeply as an image of sex flew into her mind.
“If he hasn’t already,” cackled the second woman, setting her friend off.
Only after they left did she slip off the dress and her underwear and put the dress back on to see if she could get away without anything under
neath. She was slender enough to carry it off. Not skinny, though. She had hips, and a bottom. The dress was pretty much straight up and down but too thin. She felt too vulnerable without underwear. She was going to have to buy a silk slip.
She knew this way of dressing was going to make men look at her. It would be wrong to entrap a man to trick him out of money, but if you needed to get near to one in order to find out if he’d done something to someone you loved, or to clear his name for him if he hadn’t, she thought it was justified.
She laid out the items that constituted her new evening outfit and calculated the cost of hiring them for one or possibly two nights. She was hemorrhaging her cash. She couldn’t afford a complete daywear outfit too. But she’d have to add a coat to cover the marvelous dress in the day. She also had to have a hat for eveningwear. And a hatpin; hers was too plain. Her hair was unfashionably—for this sort of girl—long but she’d keep it pinned up. It’d do, without cutting, if she could manage to roll it around her ears. And she’d rent a little handbag. But there was another problem. She’d only come to London with one pair of shoes, rather sensible ones. Of course not right for this. How much would shoes be? She slipped her own coat over the agency’s sleeveless dress and went out into the shop to look for some, finding a pair of high Louis heels that looked right. She also located a green velvet coat with raglan sleeves, and a neat velvet dress hat. In the changing room she tried it all on once more, then returned to her hotel, via a haberdasher’s for underwear—a slip, knickers and silk stockings, and in her room she put it all on. She practiced walking, standing and sitting. She felt like an exotic owl caught in daylight. Lord knows what the surly porter would make of it all when he saw her. It would confirm that she was a woman of a certain type, probably. In the event, when she exited the hotel, she didn’t see him, but she could feel eyes upon her.
Philomena’s next problem was make-up. She didn’t own anything remotely suitable and didn’t want to splash out on stuff she’d never use. In Selfridges she browsed the make-up counters. She’d always imagined herself in Selfridges if she ever visited London. She could remember the opening adverts ten years previous: “London’s New and Wonderful Shopping Center Dedicated to Women’s Service.” It certainly served her. She found an assistant whose own make-up appealed; subtle but glamorous at the same time. She hovered until the assistant greeted her, and had a little lie prepared. Speaking in her new voice modeled on a girl from home, the eldest Osbourne, plus those two women at the dress agency, she said: “I’ve been caught out, rather. I’ve borrowed this outfit but none of my make-up works with it.”
The assistant understood at once, and gestured that she should sit, offered to coil her hair, bless her, and started chatting. Philomena couldn’t be taciturn given that she was receiving a favor so she had to make up things about her new self as the need arose. She said her home was in Saddle-worth, which it was; that her name was Philomena, which it was; that she was going to meet a man, which she was, she hoped; that she was excited at the prospect, which she was. It all seemed to pass muster. But the thing she was not satisfied with was her name. Using her own, jarred. She couldn’t pretend to be someone else if she retained her own first name.
From the make-up counter Philomena made her way to the ladies’ rest room to examine herself. Only one cubicle was occupied. She stood at the washbasins and looked at herself, forthrightly, in the beveled mirrors. She was in costume, now, and needed to learn what other people would see. A painted Philomena—beyond her means to sustain and completely unnecessary for her real life—which felt not only miles away but also years ago. What was her real life, now?
She had been walking up on Pobgreen only three days before. Alone, as usual, recently. At her favorite spot. Dove Stone Moss is behind you and if you just edge forward, Yeoman Hey reservoir is revealed down below. But this time it was different at her favorite spot. She had had unpleasant feelings there, peering down the precipitous drop. She’d had a dark impulse to step out … Nothing would survive that fall. But she didn’t seek death; that wasn’t it. She craved weightlessness. Giving in to that would end in death, of course, so she’d resisted. To succumb to weightlessness—that had been her desire.
The lavatory in the occupied cubicle in Selfridges in London flushed. Philomena pretended to be washing her hands as she slipped off her inappropriate wedding band, concealing it in her hand. A woman exited the cubicle and came to the hand basins. In the mirror Philomena watched her walk. She was very elegant. Philomena tilted her pelvis forward slightly in an attempt to emulate her. She watched the woman wash her hands and check her appearance. She caught Philomena looking, and smiled. Philomena was horrified for a moment then she returned the smile, much more confidently than she felt. The smile worked because the woman seemed entirely at ease as she left the rest room.
Alone, Philomena practiced walking like her. She could see her whole self in one mirror. “What fun!” she said out loud to her reflection. She closed in on her image saying her name in her new voice, but exaggerating the accent even more. It felt strange, naughty; even rude. Perhaps Philomena wasn’t such a bad name after all if you said it in a certain way. When she arrived in front of the mirror again she shortened it: “Phil. Phil. Philly.” She sounded too posh now, too exaggerated, and like she was calling a horse, dog, or henpecked husband. “Philly! Philly!” Approaching caricature. She toned it down. “Okay, Phil? Having fun? Isn’t this fun? Phil … Felicity.” Why did she say Felicity? She stood still, looking into her own eyes wondering if she really knew herself.
“Felicity?” She greeted her reflection. “Felicity? Hello, Felicity. Okay, Felicity? Having fun, Felicity?” The wedding band went in her pocket.
After lunch she practiced being Felicity in a post office while searching the directories until she found a telephone number, which she rang. A servant confirmed that Anthony Dore was at home and was asking the caller’s identity when Philomena replaced the handset on its cradle. Her new voice hadn’t alarmed the servant. He’d acted as if the owner of the voice was legitimate. This was good. But what now? She knew where he lived, knew what he looked like; needed to speak with him without alarming him. She drifted toward his address. Dusk arrived early, and with the sundown came chill, and new doubts about how implausible and vague her plan was.
As she arrived in view of the front doors to Anthony Dore’s house they began to open. She walked on as swiftly as possible to a place where she could turn to look. But Anthony wasn’t to be seen. Instead an older man was descending to the pavement. She thought that she had seen him before but couldn’t think where. A grand motor car pulled up at the bottom of the steps. The driver smartly alighted and opened a passenger door. The older man entered the car and it drove away. This speculative spying on Anthony Dore’s home was useless if all she was going to achieve was sightings of other men.
But then Dore himself emerged, a little furtively, and descended the stone steps. Philomena turned and walked away a few steps in the opposite direction from the one he seemed set upon.
He made off on foot and she turned and followed him, first to a restaurant, opposite which she took refuge in a cafe, where she sat staring out for nearly an hour, deflecting any friendly overtures. He visited a pub where he stood at the public bar, while she nursed a drink in the lounge. Two women in couples surveyed her with suspicion and put themselves between their men and her. In neither place was she being Felicity. In her clothes but not being her. Now Dore entered a murky passage between two tall, scruffy, nondescript buildings.
Philomena waited to see if Anthony reemerged from the passage. When he didn’t, she crossed the road and looked into it. Seeing no movement, she checked behind herself, took a deep breath, followed, making as little noise as she could—trying to silence her footfalls yet not creep on tiptoe. She walked slowly past the door that had the only visible light showing around it, looking for any sign that might tell her what lay behind. There was nothing except a spy hole. She kept walking, further
into the passage.
She didn’t like it down there. Didn’t like it at all. She could make out different kinds of blackness but that was about it. That shade of black might have been a pile of rubbish, that one might have been something moving—and now she could hear sounds. Breathing, and perhaps the scratch of a shoe on the ground. Beginning to panic, she swore that if she got out of the passage in one piece she’d go home. In desperation she reached for her hatpin. It had a very sharp point and the shaft felt strong, but it was difficult to get a decent grip on. It would only give her a very little time to get away if she was attacked. Aim for eyes or privates.
She backed up the passage until level with the mysterious door. A closer look still revealed nothing of what kind of place it was. For a few moments all that she could hear was the erratic thumping of her own heart. One fear out here, another fear about what lay in there. Which to choose?
To knock on the door and try to gain admittance required more courage or recklessness than she possessed—she turned and walked forward as fast as she could, into the lit street, across the road, and attempted to calm herself, still keeping a tight grasp on the hatpin. A group of people, young, boisterous—five women and two men—came into view. This group was obviously in a party mood. One of the men limped badly and had an eye patch, but this didn’t stop him having his arms around the waists of two of the laughing girls and kissing their necks, each in turn. The other man rapped on the door and the party was admitted instantly. That they were inside reassured her.
Then her decision was made for her. The hairs on the back of Philomena’s neck stood up and she knew that she was being watched. She turned her head a fraction. She could just make out the shadowy shape of a man standing completely still a few yards away. No movement. No acknowledgment. No greeting, no gesture of any kind. His silhouette told her that he had his hat pulled low, his hands in his coat pockets. Seconds ticked by while she watched him and knew he watched her. When he moved a foot and shifted his weight in her direction this impelled her across the road and into the passage and up to the door just at the same time as a pair of women arrived slightly ahead of her. Philomena quickly assessed them. They were dressed expensively but both had on gaudy make-up—eyes too black, lips too red. They raised their faces for inspection via the spy hole. The door opened and the two women entered without speaking. As she tremblingly crossed the threshold in their wake Philomena heard a man’s cheerful Cockney voice say: “All right, girls. You’re early. No show tonight?” The two women answered, in slightly posher voices: “Thank God.” The man looked over their heads toward Philomena and frowned a little. He was big, but not threatening, unless, she imagined, he chose to be.
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