The Nightingale's Nest

by Sarah Harrison

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘No.’ He showed neither dismay nor approval, but commented thoughtfully: ‘Still, it’s a pity when beautiful things don’t get used.’

  ‘I’m sure an opportunity will come along.’

  ‘With your young man, the doctor, perhaps.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Until then,’ he suggested, ‘you could wear them here, any time you like.’

  I couldn’t tell if he was joking. ‘I don’t think so, Mr Ashe.’

  ‘Ah, well.’ He shrugged. ‘To business.’

  The shoes were returned to their box and we dealt with the correspondence. When he went back to his own room I began typing, but made a far from perfect job of it and kept repeatedly having to erase mistakes. I was finding it hard to concentrate. Now that he had seen them, the blue shoes had assumed a significance far beyond their worth.

  And there was the young woman who had been here earlier . . . For minutes on end I gazed out of the window, searching my mind. But try as I might, I could not remember where I had seen her before.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Louise was reticent about her meeting with John Ashe. Like Dorothy, she was more interested in eliciting information from me than confiding any of her own, but her interrogation only served to confirm how little I knew. She shook her head in exasperation at my lack of enterprise.

  ‘Pamela! You probably spend more time alone with him than his wife!’

  ‘I very much doubt that.’

  ‘You very much doubt – listen to yourself! You know, if you played your cards right you could be his trusted confidante. That’s what happens to the secretaries of powerful men. I’ve read about it in books.’

  ‘It’s not going to happen to me,’ I said.

  ‘You’re such a saint,’ she complained, lighting up. We were in her room, between my return from work and her departure.

  ‘No I’m not. I don’t want it to happen. I don’t want him to confide in me, even if it was likely, and I certainly don’t want to confide in him.’

  She leered, narrow-eyed, through her smoke. ‘You protest too much, darling.’

  To prove my point, but also to get it off my chest, I said: ‘I’ve never even seen the photograph of his wife.’

  ‘But it’s standing there, on his desk!’

  ‘I’ve never had occasion to go to that side of the desk. In fact I’ve hardly been in the main office since my first day.’

  ‘Be a bit nosey, can’t you? He’s not there all the time, surely.’

  ‘He is. And anyway, I’ve told you, I don’t want to be nosey.’

  ‘I do,’ she said, ‘I am.’

  ‘Well, good luck. Let me know if you find out anything.’

  ‘I might. He likes me!’ She prinked, in a self-parodying way. Then her manner changed completely as she leaned towards me, gesturing fiercely with her cigarette. ‘He likes me, but he doesn’t respect me. He respects you.’

  ‘Louise! I’m his part-time secretary.’

  ‘Nevertheless. A man like that doesn’t respect – certain kinds of women. I don’t care, it’s not his respect I’m after. But you – he could be putty in your hands.’

  I laughed and shook my head. I was only half-flattered. I had heard what she had been too polite to say: that it was pretty women John Ashe didn’t respect. But I had good legs, and a pair of kingfisher-blue kid shoes, and he had admired both. I wasn’t all I seemed, any more than he was.

  More time had gone by and I had not been in touch with Barbara. Now that I knew she was well again it was too easy to keep putting this off, but as my mother had said it was only right and proper to make the effort to see a friend who’d been ill.

  The hostel was a long way away and clearly embarrassed her, so I decided to call in on the tailor’s in Jermyn Street. My unannounced arrival at its hallowed, masculine portals would almost certainly be unwelcome, but I calculated that if I arrived there just before one they could hardly stop her taking her lunch hour with me.

  It was a grey, drizzly day, and I put on my mackintosh, also grey. The blue shoes had thrown the dullness of the rest of my wardrobe into sharp relief. Until now, the utilitarian mackintosh had fulfilled its function perfectly – it was capacious, and it kept the rain off. Now it seemed downright ugly. On an impulse, I stopped and bought an umbrella with bright blue and pink panels. Carrying it, even furled, put a swing in my shoulders and a snap in my stride. I was beginning to see what all the fuss was about.

  I arrived at Rice and Claydon at five to one. It was another of those establishments of which I had encountered several in recent months that proclaimed its exclusivity through self-effacement. Nothing could have looked duller or less inviting than the frontage in Jermyn Street with its window empty but for an unremarkable City suit and its unpainted door, beside which a small notice advised me to ‘Ring and await admittance’. ‘Await’, forsooth! Perhaps it was due to keeping company with more unconventional and relaxed people these days that I found such pomposity irritating.

  The door was answered immediately by a youth in dark trousers and the light-coloured jacket that went with his junior position.

  ‘Good afternoon, miss. Can I help you?’

  ‘I’m a friend of Miss Chisholm. I wondered if she was free, whether I might have a word with her.’

  ‘Oh – er – I don’t know. What’s your name, miss?’

  ‘Mrs Pamela Griffe,’ I said pointedly.

  The lad went scarlet. ‘Sorry, madam.’

  ‘That’s quite all right,’ I said in a clipped tone, as if the poor lad had actually put his foot in it.

  ‘I’ll go and see for you.’

  ‘Do you think I could come inside while I wait? It’s raining.’

  ‘Um—’ He glanced over his shoulder, thoroughly moithered. ‘I don’t see . . .’

  ‘Thank you.’ I stepped in and shook my umbrella. The interior of the shop stretched away, twilit and mysterious, like the temple of some arcane sect of which the bolts of cloth, dummy figures, and catacomb-like shelves of patterns and papers were the votive objects. I had some sympathy with the youth – even I could tell I was out of place.

  ‘I’ll wait here,’ I said.

  He hurried away and was met, towards the back of the shop, by a tall man in pinstripes. They conferred. First the youth, then his superior, glanced in my direction before the youth disappeared, and the older man advanced on me with a measured stride. If he intended to intimidate me, he failed: recent experience stood me in good stead.

  ‘Mrs Griffe, I believe?’ It was the same thinly supercilious voice I’d heard over the phone on several occasions.

  ‘That’s right. I’m a friend of Miss Chisholm. I was passing, and I wondered if she was free to join me for lunch.’ I was careful not to frame this as a request, but a straightforward enquiry as to Barbara’s availability. After all, I was not this man’s employee; I had every right to consider myself his equal.

  ‘So I understand.’ He looked down his long nose at me. A hand gestured dismissively: ‘Richard is finding out.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  We stood in silence ‘awaiting’ Richard’s return, side by side, but separated by an unbridgeable gulf. After an interminable time – probably thirty seconds – Richard reappeared with Barbara, buttoning her jacket, in his wake. I noticed that she was still dreadfully thin, her eyes sunk deep in blue-grey sockets. She addressed her employer first.

  ‘Mr Rice, is it convenient for me to take my lunch break now?’

  ‘We seem to be quiet. Shall we say –’ he consulted his watch – ‘a quarter to two?’

  ‘Yes of course.’ Finally, she looked at me. ‘Hello, Pamela.’

  ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Shall we go?’ I wanted to sweep out, and sweep my friend with me. I hated to see her so wan and put-upon. The tailors were lucky to have her.

  Out on the pavement it was raining in earnest, and I put my umbrella up. It bloomed like a big, brightly coloured flower over our
heads.

  ‘Where shall we go?’ asked Barbara, hunched up close to me. Only then did I realise that I had no idea. This was an expensive part of town and one I didn’t know well.

  ‘What do you usually do?’

  ‘I bring a sandwich!’

  ‘Let’s do that, then!’

  She gave me a pale shadow of her special look, but this afternoon I was in charge. Splashing along under the umbrella, we scurried back to the top of the street where I’d seen a baker’s that sold rolls. I bought two, and two Eccles cakes, for a shilling.

  ‘Where to now?’

  ‘In there?’

  She nodded towards a church, whose noticeboard bore the slogan ‘Down on your luck? Come in and tell the Lord. A problem shared is a problem halved. Tea and a biscuit free. Prayer beyond price’. It was one of the many places catering for the increasing number of derelicts and down-and-outs, the human detritus of the war that littered the city – depressed, demoralised, homeless, and out of work. We weren’t down on our luck, or not in the way that they meant, but I told myself that a church was a place of sanctuary for everyone, not just the indigent, so they weren’t going to turn us away.

  Inside, the candles were lit, and several people sat in the pews, not worshippers but patrons of the tea-and-biscuit table in the transept, from which a queue snaked down the south aisle. Some were obviously tramps, others threadbare but respectable, still – just – holding their heads up on the slippery slope to destitution.

  ‘This’ll do,’ I said. I folded down the umbrella and led the way to a pew beyond the north aisle, away from the queue. ‘There. A roof over our heads, a place to sit, space and privacy – perfect!’

  I could hear myself sounding somewhat overenthusiastic about what, by any standards, came under the heading of any port in a storm. We sat down with our picnic, and I offered Barbara a roll, which she absent-mindedly broke in half and stared at as if unsure what to do next.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ she said, glancing around, ‘I often come here.’

  ‘Oh.’ I couldn’t help being disappointed. My resourcefulness had been well and truly put in its place, ‘I must say you surprise me.’

  ‘I don’t see why. It’s perfect, you just said so yourself.’

  ‘Yes, but – I don’t know. It’s not very you, somehow.’

  Head averted, she murmured something which I could not hear.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I said, you don’t know what is me.’

  ‘Perhaps not.’ I was nettled, and afraid I sounded it. ‘But I am trying. That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘Very decent of you.’

  It appeared I could do nothing right. Our almost untouched picnic lay on the pew between us, the symbol of my folly . . . I took a deep breath, and asked myself, what would Alan do? The answer was clear: he would not substitute self-pity for sympathy.

  ‘I’ve been worried about you,’ I said. ‘After last time, and what you said.’

  ‘You don’t want to take any notice of all that. I was sickening for something, I wasn’t myself.’

  ‘How are you feeling now?’

  ‘Fine. A bit tired.’

  ‘You look it.’

  ‘That’s encouraging.’ Her mouth twisted in a small, wry smile.

  ‘I’m sorry, that was tactless. I just want to say, look after yourself.’

  ‘If I don’t, no one else will.’

  ‘Exactly. For a start, you should eat something. These look good, come on.’

  I ate the whole of my ham roll in the time it took her to nibble uninterestedly round the edge of hers. I would have eaten an Eccles cake, too, but her lack of appetite made me self-conscious. We talked about a girl we had been at college with, whom Barbara had bumped into in the street.

  ‘She behaved as if we were old friends,’ said Barbara. ‘I was mystified.’

  ‘It was a long time ago.’

  ‘Not so long that I don’t remember I had only one friend at that place. And it wasn’t her.’

  I was hugely gratified and touched by this, but knew better than to make too much of it at a moment when the balance between us was uneven. Instead, I asked: ‘What’s she doing now?’

  ‘Married. Three children. Lives in Godalming. She was up for the day to buy school uniform at the Army and Navy Stores for the eldest boy who was with her.’ Barbara stretched out her long, bony fingers and examined them. The backs of her hands were spotted with small scabs and scars. ‘You and I are strange, unnatural beings, Pamela.’

  I wasn’t having this. ‘We are not! Unusual we may be, and thank God for it.’

  She seemed not to have heard me. ‘He was a nice boy as a matter of fact. About twelve. Red hair, freckles, took his cap off when he said hello . . .’

  ‘I should think so too.’

  She looked at me directly. ‘How is your man friend? Alan.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll get married?’

  I didn’t want to tell her, but it would have been wrong to patronise her by lying. ‘Yes. Eventually.’

  ‘You see?’ she said. ‘So you’re not unusual, in spite of your brave words.’

  ‘No,’ I said briskly, ‘and I want a cup of tea, with lots of sugar. Are we allowed, do you think?’

  ‘I always do,’ she said, ‘but since I’m not quite a tramp yet, I give them something for it.’

  Her melancholy would have been almost comical, but for the fact that I’d glimpsed its dark depths once before. No amount of self-deprecation could fool me. We walked over to the south aisle and joined the queue for the urn. At the entrance to the transept a side door stood open; a notice with an arrow and the words: ATTENDED NIGHT HOSTEL IN CRYPT pointed down the flight of stone steps. I thought this was a good use of a city church, and said as much. Barbara agreed.

  ‘I’ve no time for holy joes,’ she said. ‘Vicars and do-gooders have been precious little use to me when it mattered. But at least this lot are doing something constructive.’

  There were three people behind the table, a vicar and two cheerful, well-spoken middle-aged women who might have started their lives in the pages of an Angela Brazil story. I began to explain myself but presumably they recognised Barbara, because they smiled, poured and waved us through. I put a threepenny bit in a saucer on the end of the table.

  Back in our pew, Barbara looked at her watch. ‘Mustn’t be long, I’m due back.’

  ‘They’re stingy with their time.’

  ‘Time is money!’ She raised a finger, parodying her employer.

  ‘Actually they’re not that bad. They’ve put up with me all these years.’

  ‘They’re lucky to have you,’ I said staunchly.

  It was still raining outside and we half-ran down Jermyn Street, huddled together under my cheerful umbrella. Our feet got wet just the same. When we arrived at the door I said:

  ‘Let’s meet up again next week.’

  She examined my face for signs of duplicity. ‘You don’t have to do this, you know.’

  ‘Barbara. Would you like to?’

  ‘Might as well.’

  ‘I’ll meet you here after work on Tuesday then.’

  ‘All right. ’Bye.’

  ‘See you soon.’

  When I glanced back her gawky figure had broken into a run.

  ‘You did the right thing,’ said Alan when I told him about this. ‘Try and keep in touch even if she is grumpy. She obviously needs you.’

  ‘I don’t know about that. But I will.’

  ‘Good for you.’ He held my face between his hands. ‘I love you.’

  That was one of the nice things about Alan – that he believed in, and brought out, the best in me. No wonder love, as Louise had said, was considered a good beauty treatment. Those in love recreated themselves in the image of their reflection.

  One evening after supper I did something daring. I took the bus to Highgate, and walked down the hill to Crompton Terrace. It was nine o’
clock on a beautiful night: sweet-smelling, balmy and still. There was no one watching, and even if there had been they would have recognised me, and known the Jarvises were away, but even so I stopped and looked around before opening the gate.

  I went in, closing the gate behind me without a sound, and walked round the side of the house into the back garden. The deckchairs were stacked against the wall, but I took one and set it up on the grass, arranging it on its lowest notch. When I sat down, I lay back, legs stretched out, and gazed up at the stars. Not a soul knew I was here, in this sequestered garden high on the hill above London. Its peace and privacy were my secret. It was bliss.

  And then, after a few minutes, the nightingale began to sing. The sweet, liquid notes bubbled and trickled like a spring. The only living creature who did know I was here was singing for me alone. I listened, spellbound, for I don’t know how long, to this private recital. When the song eventually melted away, the silence rang in my ears. I felt warm, relaxed, comforted. The nightingale had told me she was safe.

  The Jarvises were due back the following Tuesday. I had been deputed to go up to Crompton Terrace on the Monday, collect a key from the people over the road, and generally make sure that all was well for their return. I was to admit Dorothy, too, to put a welcoming shine on things and air the beds. In other words, I had been placed in charge. They were very trusting, and I was very aware of my responsibilities as I turned the key in the lock.

  The house felt a little stuffy and neglected; I could have sworn it was pleased to see me. I went round opening windows, and the back door on to the garden. Here, as at the front, nature had once more asserted itself – the grass was long, the weeds rampant and the first few dry, premonitory leaves had fallen.

  Perhaps I shouldn’t have done, but I looked into each room. After all, the Jarvises had asked me to check that all was well. The top attic was neat, and bare, and stifling hot. I could scarcely breathe up there, and pushed open the back casement window as far as it would go. A dead bee lay on the windowsill.

  With Suzannah gone, the mural appeared even more striking, as if, separated from its creator, it had taken on a life of its own. As I stared at it my heart beat furiously and my head swam; I felt a little faint. Telling myself I must have taken the stairs too quickly in the heat, I sat down on the edge of the bed to recover. This time I saw a curious prescience in the painting, as if Suzannah instinctively knew of connections and associations yet to be. Why, otherwise, had she seen fit to place me, of all people, at John Ashe’s shoulder as he turned his back on everyone else?