Rory looked through his article again but this time his eyes would not even focus on the words. She doesn’t want him, he thought, she doesn’t want him. Not like that.He felt the beginnings of an unpleasant sense of triumph, instantly cut short by the realization that Fenella had made it quite clear that she didn’t want him either. You’re just the same as all of them. Filthy beasts. She didn’t want anyone, not like that.
Heavy footsteps were coming slowly down the hall. Dawlish came into the kitchen.
‘How’s it going?’
‘I think I’ve finished,’ Rory said. Instinct told him to act as if he had heard nothing of what had happened in the sitting room. He pushed the typed sheets across the table. ‘I’d be glad of an opinion.’
Dawlish pulled out a chair. ‘Oh – by the way – Fenella had to go.’
‘I thought I heard the door,’ Rory said carefully.
‘She was in a bit of a hurry. No time to say goodbye.’
‘It must be a busy time for her.’
Dawlish stared vaguely at him. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s been overdoing it a bit lately.’
Rory agreed. Dawlish picked up the typed sheets. Rory waited, forcing himself to stay still. Dawlish skimmed through the entire article and then turned back and read it again, this time more slowly. At last he looked up.
‘This is good,’ he said. ‘Just what the doctor ordered.’
‘Do you think the editor will agree?’
‘I’m quite sure he will.’ He swallowed and then went on in a rush, ‘I say, old man, would you mind if I asked you something?’
‘Fire away.’
Dawlish hesitated. ‘Do you think that …’ He lost his nerve and broke off, running his fingers through his hair. He swiftly recovered. ‘What I mean to say is, I ought to show you over the rest of the house soon – especially the attic. See how you feel about living there for a bit. Do you think you’ll be able to manage the stairs later today?’
‘I hope so. I can certainly try.’
‘Good,’ said Dawlish absently. He stared at the kitchen sink, and Rory knew he was really looking at the emptiness of a world without Fenella. ‘Absolutely splendid.’
Lydia Langstone had never travelled in a third-class railway compartment before. She discovered that, like crowded buses or bone-shaking trams, they were where you met British humanity in all its smelly, noisy variety. On that Sunday it was a slow journey punctuated with changes and delays and populated with tiresome fellow passengers. She had plenty of time to regret her decision.
Eventually and reluctantly, she reached Mavering. As she walked along the rainswept platform, she was tempted to wait for the next train that might take her in warm, safe discomfort back to London.
A porter approached her, scenting a tip. ‘Taxi, miss?’
Lydia shook her head and asked where the footpath to Rawling was. He looked surprised but gave her meticulous directions. She rewarded him with a sixpence and set out.
She had dressed for the weather in a waterproof coat and hat so the rain did not worry her. It was cold, however, and she forced herself to walk as quickly as possible. When the path forked, she took the left-hand turn, the one that would take her along the bottom of the meadow behind Morthams Farm. Twenty minutes later she came out on to the lane to Rawling.
The stumpy tower of Mr Gladwyn’s church was about half a mile away. No one was in sight. Less than a hundred yards from where she stood, the chimneys of a small cottage poked into a muddy grey sky. She hurried down the lane and stopped outside.
The garden gate had fallen backwards from its hinges. The disintegrating corpse of a blackbird lay on the path up to the front door, and the weeds were waist high on what had once been a lawn. A wisp of smoke rose from one of the chimneys. Ignoring the front door, Lydia followed the cinder path round the side of the house. As she passed one of the windows, she glimpsed movement inside.
She tapped on the back door and waited. No one came. She was about to knock again when the door opened suddenly. A tall woman with ragged grey hair stared at Lydia. She wore a rusty black dress draped over a stick-like body. Her skin had a grey pallor, and her eyes were large, a faded blue in colour. The hand gripping the side of the door had long and graceful fingers that ended with nails bitten to the quick. Lydia thought the woman had once been beautiful. She had seen her before, of course, at the graveside, but then the widow had been masked by her veil and in any case her individuality had been swamped by the occasion.
‘Good afternoon,’ Lydia said uncertainly. ‘I’m Mrs Lang-stone. We haven’t met, Mrs Narton, but—’
‘I know who you are.’ The voice was low and harsh. ‘What do you want?’
‘First I wanted to say how sorry I was about your husband.’
‘Why? You didn’t know him.’
Lydia rushed on: ‘I was here with Mrs Alforde—’
‘You came to the funeral,’ Mrs Narton said. ‘I don’t know why, I’m sure.’
There was a long silence, during which Lydia wished more than ever that she had not come. Mrs Narton’s face remained impassive. Finally, she let go of the door and in doing so pushed it wide, revealing a low-ceilinged kitchen. She turned away and sat down at the table. She rested her hands on the table, palms down, on either side of an open Bible.
It was, Lydia decided, a sort of invitation. She went inside, closing the door behind her. She drew out a chair and sat down opposite Mrs Narton. She waited.
When the tapping on the window started, Rory was sitting as close as he could get to the electric fire with a blanket draped like a cape over his shoulders. He was whiling away the long evening with a plump and undemanding novel by J. B. Priestley that he had found in the kitchen. At first he thought he was imagining it because the tapping was both faint and sporadic, almost as though it wasn’t sure it wanted to be heard.
He put down the book, hobbled to the window and pulled aside the curtain. Lydia’s face, distorted by the rain on the window, swam on the other side of the glass. He dropped the blanket on the carpet, stumbled into the hall and opened the door.
The first thing he realized was how wet she was. Her coat was streaked with mud. She didn’t speak. She stood there on the doorstep and stared blankly at him until he drew her over the threshold. He helped her out of her coat and draped it with her hat on one of the pegs in the hall.
‘Come and sit by the fire,’ he ordered.
He followed her into the sitting room. She stood in the middle of the threadbare carpet, looking around her as though wondering what she was doing here. Her skirt and stockings were filthy.
Rory touched her shoulder. ‘Sit down.’
She sank obediently into the chair in front of the fire. He picked up the blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders. She seemed not to notice. Her teeth were chattering.
‘What the hell have you been doing with yourself?’
‘I – I walked from the station.’
‘Which station?’
‘Liverpool Street.’
‘But that’s miles away.’ He glanced at the mud on her shoes and stockings. ‘And you fell over too, by the look of it.’
‘That was on the footpath from Rawling.’
She pulled the blanket more tightly around her. Rory limped into the kitchen and returned with Dawlish’s whisky bottle and a clean wine glass. He filled the glass half full and held it out to her. She took it obediently and sipped, making a face at the taste.
‘Have some more,’ Rory said.
‘I don’t like it.’
‘Have another sip. It’s good for you.’
She obeyed, wrinkling her nose like a petulant child.
‘Why did you go to Rawling?’
She didn’t reply. She took another mouthful of whisky. In her bedraggled state she looked much younger than she usually did.
‘All right,’ he went on when she showed no sign of replying. ‘You can’t sit there in your wet things. I’m going to fetch some more blankets. Then
you can take your things off and hang them to dry.’
He brought two more blankets from the room where he had slept. As an afterthought he added his pyjamas, which Dawlish had brought back from Bleeding Heart Square the previous evening. He went back to Lydia, who was sitting where he had left her.
‘You’ll need to take off your shoes, your stockings and your skirt,’ he said firmly, as though she were one of his sisters. He laid the blankets and pyjamas on the floor beside her. ‘The pyjamas are clean. You’re welcome to borrow them. I’ll leave you alone for five minutes.’
She looked up at him. ‘Thank you.’
In the kitchen he put the kettle on and smoked a cigarette. When he returned to the sitting room ten minutes later, the wet clothes were drying on the chair. Lydia had changed into the pyjamas and was curled up in a nest of blankets by the fire. The whisky glass at her elbow was empty. There was more colour in her cheeks.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I feel an awful fool barging in like this.’
‘You’re not.’
‘It’s just that I didn’t know where else to go.’ She hesitated. ‘The thing is, I’ve had a bit of a shock, and I need time to think about what to do. I don’t want to go to Bleeding Heart Square.’
‘Has Mr Langstone—’
She shook her head. ‘It’s nothing to do with Marcus. If you don’t mind, I – I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘When did you last eat?’
She shrugged. ‘I can’t remember.’
‘I’m going to forage in the kitchen. There is a bit of tinned ham left and some bread and one or two apples.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Yes, you are, you just haven’t noticed.’ He smiled at her. ‘And then we’ll have some more whisky.’
‘I can’t stay here.’
‘Where do you think you’re going then?’
‘I don’t know. An hotel, I suppose.’
‘Don’t be silly. You haven’t any luggage. Besides, the weather’s foul, and you can’t go out dressed like that. You can have the bedroom. I’ll sleep in here.’
‘I can’t let you do that. Anyway—’
‘I’m sure Dawlish wouldn’t mind. You’re fagged out, the weather’s beastly and you’ve had a shock. Damn it, I won’t let you go. I’ll take away your shoes if you try.’
She looked at him and he noticed her eyes narrowing, as they sometimes did when she was amused. ‘Then it looks as if I haven’t got much choice.’
That evening they ate an unpleasant scratch supper in front of the electric fire. They drank Dawlish’s whisky and smoked Lydia’s cigarettes. Lydia asked him questions. She wanted to hear about his parents and his sisters. She wanted to hear about what it was like to live in the manager’s accommodation over a bank. She wanted to hear about grammar school and university and India. While he talked, she sat there, eyes half closed, glass in hand, with a dreamy expression on her face.
Had someone tried to rape her? Or robbed her?
Gradually they ran out of words. It was very quiet in the basement flat. Mecklenburgh Square had only three sides because to the west lay the children’s playground, once the site of the Foundling Hospital, so Dawlish’s house was effectively near the end of a cul-de-sac.
Rory felt his eyelids drooping. He wasn’t used to whisky. The room was warm and stuffy. He was glad not to be alone in this big house. No, it was more than that: he was glad Lydia was here.
The next thing he knew, he was fully awake. He wasn’t sure how long he had been dozing. Lydia was on her feet and folding one of the blankets. For an instant he didn’t recognize her, and a shiver of lust flickered through him. She looked down at him and smiled.
‘I think I’ll turn in.’
He yawned. ‘Sorry – I must have dropped off.’ He noticed that his article was beside the whisky bottle.
Lydia had followed the direction of his eyes. ‘I hope you don’t mind. I read it. It’s very good.’
‘I wondered whether it was rather personal in tone.’
‘Don’t change a word. They deserve every last one of them.’
He stood up. ‘Thank you. I’ll show you where everything is.’
She didn’t move. ‘You’ve been very kind. I think I can cope now.’
‘What will you do tomorrow?’
She picked up her skirt and felt the hem. ‘The first thing I have to do is see my mother.’
25
You turn over the page and read the last lines. Philippa Penhow never wrote anything else in there, and the rest of the diary is as blank as oblivion.
Wednesday, 23 April 1930 (continued)
...go back. I’ll leave the diary in the barn on the way. Blast & botheration. Find some money. Try again. He can’t stop me. I’ve made up my mind.
Car on drive. Say I was caught in rain & took shelter.
Jacko barking.
Oh Joseph, Joseph.
‘Good morning, Fripp.’
‘Good morning, Miss Lydia.’ Fripp’s eyes flickered. He opened the door wide and stood back, ushering Lydia into the hall. ‘Her ladyship is still upstairs, and Miss Pamela has gone out. His lordship is in the library, though.’
‘Thank you.’ Lydia allowed him to take her hat and coat. ‘And how are you?’
‘As well as can be expected, thank you, miss.’ Fripp was innately conservative: in his eyes she would always be ‘miss’, never ‘madam’, however many husbands she acquired. ‘I hope you are keeping well yourself.’
‘Yes, thanks. Do you know where my sister went?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t say.’
The library door opened and the little figure of Lord Cassington hurried out. He was carrying the morning’s Times and struggling to prevent part of it slipping to the floor. His eyes fell on Lydia. ‘Lydia, my dear.’ Automatically he held up his cheek for a kiss. ‘Splendid – come to see your mother, eh? You’ll find her in her bedroom, I believe.’ He looked up at her, his face a mass of wrinkles like a sun-dried sultana, and tapped the newspaper. ‘You’ve heard Pammy’s news, I suppose?’
Lydia said she had. Lord Cassington said that Fisher was a splendid chap and Lydia smiled but did not reply.
‘Must dash,’ he said. ‘Stay to lunch if you can.’
He bustled away. He was a man of routine. For as long as Lydia could remember, he had liked to spend between ten and fifteen minutes at this time of the morning locked in the lavatory with The Times.
Lydia went upstairs. Her mother’s bedroom was on the second floor. She tapped on the door and went in without waiting for an answer. Lady Cassington was still in bed. Her maid was doing her nails. A large notebook lay open beside her on the eiderdown, and the remains of breakfast were on a table beside the bed. Seen like this, with a scarf over her hair and her face devoid of make-up, she looked her age. When she saw Lydia, she waved her free hand and said, ‘Hello, darling, so there you are,’ as if she had been expecting Lydia to call at Upper Mount Street. Her maid was less adept at hiding her reaction: she gave a visible start and pursed her lips in a puckered circle.
‘Matthews, run away now. I want to talk to Miss Lydia,’ Lady Cassington said. ‘I’ll ring when I want you.’
When they were alone, Lydia walked over to the window and looked down on the street below.
‘Stop prowling about and come and sit on the bed where I can see you,’ her mother said. ‘Have you seen Fin?’
‘Briefly.’ Lydia sat on the chair beside the bed, the one the maid had been using. ‘He seems pleased about Pammy and Rex Fisher.’
‘We all are. So you saw The Times?’
‘Pammy told me about the engagement on Saturday.’
Lady Cassington arched her eyebrows, which suggested, Lydia thought, that she hadn’t known that Pammy had seen Lydia; that in itself was interesting. Her mother tapped the notebook. ‘I’m making lists. There’s not a moment to lose. Pammy should be back for lunch if you want to see her. She was going to Regent Street, the Aquascutum s
ale, I think.’ She went on without any change of tone, ‘You will come to the wedding, won’t you?’
‘I don’t think it’s a good idea.’
‘But, darling, she’d be frightfully disappointed if you weren’t there. You of all people.’
‘I mean, I don’t think the wedding itself is a good idea. I don’t like what I’ve seen of Fisher and I don’t like his politics either.’
‘Of course there may be implications for you and Marcus. I quite understand that.’
‘That’s partly what I came to talk about,’ Lydia said.
Lady Cassington helped herself to a cigarette from the box on the bedside table. She looked warily at Lydia. ‘I know things have been very difficult,’ she said cautiously. ‘Sometimes, though, one just has to look forward.’
‘That’s exactly what I’m doing,’ Lydia said. ‘I want you to make sure that Marcus cooperates over the divorce.’
‘But darling—’
‘The man hires a prostitute, doesn’t he? They go to a hotel in Brighton or somewhere and register as man and wife, leaving a trail a mile wide. Isn’t that how it’s done?’
‘I’m not sure Marcus would agree to that.’
‘If he doesn’t manage it one way or the other, I shall go to the papers.’
‘Don’t be childish, dear.’
Lydia sat back in her chair and said very slowly and distinctly, ‘If he doesn’t, I shall tell them what I saw you and Marcus doing in Frogmore Place the other Sunday.’
Her mother sat up so abruptly that she knocked both the ashtray and her notebook on to the floor. ‘Now that really is going too far. And it’s nonsense too. Wicked nonsense.’
‘I was there. I saw you.’
Neither of them spoke. Lydia listened to the clock ticking on the mantel, a car passing down the street and the barely audible sound of her mother’s newly manicured nails scratching the eiderdown.
‘And think of the effect on Pammy, on Fin, on—’
Bleeding Heart Square Page 39