Two for Sorrow jt-3

by Nicola Upson

  ‘Yes. She looked after me herself. Sally was born last September.’

  ‘What happened after the child’s birth?’

  Edwards hesitated. ‘Mrs Sach asked me what I was going to do, and I said I didn’t know. She told me there was a woman in Balcombe who would adopt Sally for twelve pounds. I didn’t want to let the baby go and I told her as much.’

  ‘And did she argue?’

  ‘She said the woman would have a cot waiting for her, and that she’d be well looked after, but I couldn’t do it.’

  ‘You stayed in the house, though?’

  ‘Yes. I paid her fifteen shillings a week at first, but then she offered me a job in return for our keep.’

  ‘And she never mentioned adoption again?’

  ‘No, never. She’s always been good to us both, and the kids play together. You can see for yourself.’

  Kyd looked down at the floor, but Lizzie’s sulky expression and the tantrum threatened by the other child were no more convincing to him than Edwards’s testimony of Sach’s good nature. ‘And what are your duties?’

  ‘Oh, the usual—cleaning, a bit of cooking, the odd errand.’

  ‘And did you ever meet anyone called Mrs Walters here?’ He described Annie Walters, and Edwards nodded.

  ‘I met someone who looked like that, but her name was Laming. I’ve seen her at both houses—here and in Stanley Road. She used to come when a child was born. Mrs Sach would send her a telegram.’

  ‘Did you ever see money change hands between them?’

  Edwards looked nervously at Jacob Sach. ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘And did Mrs Sach ever say anything to you about Mrs Walters?’

  ‘She told me not to tell the mothers that their children had gone with her.’

  ‘How many children would you say that Mrs Walters had taken away with her since you’ve been here?’

  ‘I don’t remember. I wasn’t counting.’

  ‘Please, Miss Edwards—just a rough figure.’

  ‘About eight, I suppose. And once Mrs Sach asked me to take a baby and three pounds to Mrs Laming—Mrs Walters, I mean—in Plaistow.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Edwards.’ He watched as she picked the toddler up from the floor and drew her close. ‘Did Mrs Walters ever speak to you about your own child?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, she did, Inspector, quite a few times. She said I was a fool to keep her.’

  The house was unbearably quiet when the police left. Jacob Sach sat in the kitchen, going over and over the questions they had asked him about his wife, trying to associate the woman they had taken away with the one he had married, but nothing made any sense to him. He poured another glass of rum and took it out into the back yard, desperate now to get out of the room which felt like the cell he imagined Amelia to be in. Had she confessed yet, he wondered? Or did she really believe herself to be innocent?

  He heard a noise at the back door and turned to see Nora there, holding Lizzie in her arms. As the light from the kitchen fell on the child’s auburn hair, it was like looking at his wife when she was young, and Lizzie’s innocence stung him like a personal rebuke for all his failures.

  ‘Take her away,’ he said quietly, not trusting himself to move.

  ‘But Jacob, she’s asking for you. Don’t take it out on her—none of this is her fault.’

  ‘I said take her away,’ he yelled, and hurled the glass towards the door. It broke against the wall, and Nora looked at him in horror, then fled back into the house with the child.

  Chapter Seven

  Josephine usually took breakfast upstairs in her room, but the envelope which Marta had given her had, during a long and sleepless night, come to dominate the small space to such an extent that she was glad to leave it behind for the comparative safety of the club’s dining room, where, if she were forced into any conversation at all, it would at least be of a reassuringly superficial nature.

  The dining room was the centrepiece of the building’s architectural design, situated midway between the Cowdray Club and the College of Nursing and easily reachable from both. Breakfast was laid out along one wall, and Josephine lifted the lid on a dish of perfectly cooked sausages before deciding that coffee was all she could face. She settled down at a table in the corner, enjoying the peace and general harmony of an exquisitely conceived room. The walls were entirely faced with oak panelling, and fluted Corinthian columns and pilasters with finely carved capitals supported a magnificent ceiling. The floor, too, was of oak, finished to a rich brown colour. All in all, the wood gave the room a warm, autumnal feel which contrasted pleasantly with the ivory-white enamel that served most of the building. Strong natural light flooded in from tall windows and a glass dome overhead, illuminating the room’s decorative focal points: four portrait medallions—one on each wall—of Florence Nightingale, Edith Cavell and the Viscount and Viscountess Cowdray, ensuring that, wherever you sat, you could not escape a reminder of the club’s nursing origins.

  ‘You look like I feel.’ Geraldine Ashby sat down at Josephine’s table without waiting for an invitation.

  ‘As long as I don’t look like you look. What on earth have you been doing? Or should I say whom?’

  Geraldine grinned. ‘Now that you mention it, I did get awfully scratched last night. We were at the Ham Bone—do you know it?’ Josephine shook her head. She had heard Lettice and Ronnie mention the club, and knew of its reputation for glamour and the sort of carefree bohemianism that was increasingly hard to find in London, but she had never been. ‘Oh, you should come with me some time—it’s a riot if the right people are in. And last night, all the right people were in. Enid and Eileen were there, helping Toupie get over that embarrassing divorce, and then we all had to see Poppy and Honey safely home in the snow because they were absolutely wrecked. It really was the least we could do, but of course you can never get out of their flat without another drink, and the next thing I knew, it was daylight.’

  Judging by Gerry’s glazed, somewhat vacant expression, another drink wasn’t the only thing that had kept her out all night. Josephine looked at the dark circles around her eyes, where the habit was beginning to take its toll, making her look so much older in unguarded moments than her thirty-odd years, and asked: ‘Don’t you ever get tired of the party?’

  ‘Believe me, darling, you have to take your fun where you can get it these days. What I wouldn’t give to have the twenties back again, before John wrote that tedious book, bless her, and everyone started to feel so bloody threatened by women having a better time without men.’ Josephine had often heard Lydia talk about the change in attitudes to lesbianism in recent years; it was less of a problem in the theatre but, in other walks of life, there was no question that women faced discrimination and suspicion if they tried to make a life together. She remembered herself how liberating the early twenties had been, when she and girls like her—invigorated by the female war effort and with the optimism of youth—had carved out a new independence for themselves, working together, sharing digs, never dreaming that the intensity of their friendships would be questioned. Although she was one of the lucky few who were financially and emotionally free to dictate their own lives, she was not entirely immune to a feeling that—collectively—women were being punished for getting on with things and made to feel ungrateful for a sacrifice which had never been of their choosing. ‘It’s ironic, isn’t it?’ Gerry continued, echoing her thoughts. ‘The politicians wipe out all our young men by sending them to war, and then decide that the fabric of the nation is somehow at risk if we girls make our own amusement in their absence. But enough about me—what’s your excuse for looking so weary?’

  ‘Don’t even ask,’ Josephine began, automatically shutting down the conversation before it became personal. Then she thought better of it: she liked Geraldine, and needed to talk to someone who wasn’t involved; Lettice’s offer had been kind and genuine, but her loyalties were divided and, in any case, it wasn’t fair to ask her to lie to a friend. ‘Actual
ly, as you’ve shown such an interest in my love life since that wretched flower arrived, you can ask.’ She signalled to the waitress. ‘What do you want to drink?’

  Geraldine perked up immediately and twinkled at the young girl. ‘Strong coffee, darling—you know how I like it and plenty of fresh toast. All of a sudden, I find myself with quite an appetite.’ She turned back to Josephine. ‘I have a feeling this is going to be good. Just let me get some breakfast, and I’m all yours.’ She returned a couple of minutes later carrying two plates piled high with scrambled eggs, bacon and tomatoes, and put one in front of Josephine. ‘No arguments—tell me everything.’

  Josephine obliged with a verbatim account of what had happened the night before, deciding that, on the whole, it was safer to be completely truthful; Geraldine was the unofficial agony aunt to the whole club and what she didn’t know she invented with flair and imagination; on the other hand, although her curiosity was insatiable, her integrity was equally legendary and Josephine had never known her to betray a secret once trusted with it. ‘So this woman’s written a diary especially for you?’ she said when the story was complete.

  ‘She didn’t write it for me. She gave it to me to read because I’m in it.’

  ‘Even so—as approaches go, I’d give her ten out of ten for imagination. It certainly beats some of the apologies for a love letter that I’ve received over the years.’

  ‘It’s not a love letter.’

  Geraldine looked at Josephine over the rim of her coffee cup. ‘Really?’ she said cynically. ‘Then what is it? What’s she written about you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t bring myself to read it.’

  ‘You haven’t read it?’ This time the disbelief was genuine. ‘Good God, Josephine—what sort of creature are you? I’d have had it out of the envelope before the ink was dry. Just think—the chance to see yourself through someone else’s eyes. If she’s in love with you, it’s hardly going to be anything other than flattering, is it? Unless you turn her down, of course, in which case I’d keep away from the next few entries.’ She put her toast down and looked seriously at Josephine. ‘I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that it must matter if you’re this worried about it. What are you afraid of?’

  She spoke gently, but Josephine would not even have known where to begin with the truth. ‘I just thought it would be easier for everyone if I sent it straight back,’ she said.

  ‘With a rejection slip from your publisher? Come on, darling—you’re better than that. I’ve never thought of you as unkind, but you couldn’t come up with a sharper slap in the face than not even bothering to read it. I don’t know the woman, but I can’t imagine it was easy for her to face you and hand it over. It makes her incredibly vulnerable. So what is the problem? Don’t you like her?’

  Josephine smiled. ‘And you’re better than that. You make it sound so straightforward. I do like her—at least, I like what I know of her, which isn’t very much. But it’s complicated, Gerry. For a start, she’s the lover of one of my closest friends.’

  ‘Ah. Tricky, but not insurmountable. Is that how you met?’

  ‘Yes. It was last year, when Richard was on at the New. She and Lydia had been together for a few months by then …’

  ‘Lydia Beaumont?’

  ‘Yes. Lydia wanted us to meet because Marta’s a writer and she thought we’d get on.’

  ‘And she was right. The architect of her own demise, then—how very Greek. When will we women ever learn to keep a good thing to ourselves?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that. Nothing happened—well, a lot happened, but nothing to do with that. I had no idea how she felt until she told me the other night.’

  ‘Not even an inkling? How sweet!’

  Josephine threw her napkin across the table. ‘We’re not all like you,’ she said, laughing. ‘Some of us don’t expect to be adored.’ Gerry grinned and poured them both more coffee. ‘Anyway, for one reason and another, the two of them parted shortly afterwards. But not because of me.’

  ‘So they’re not actually together at the moment?’

  ‘No, but it wasn’t out of choice. There were things in Marta’s life that meant she had to go away.’

  Gerry looked sharply across the table at her. ‘Is this the woman who was in the papers?’

  Reluctantly, Josephine nodded. ‘I don’t want Lydia to get hurt so please don’t say …’

  ‘Of course I won’t say anything. But a woman with a dark past—how splendid! For God’s sake, darling, if you don’t want her, pass her over here. I could do with a little excitement. And do you?’

  ‘Do I what?’

  ‘Do you want her?’

  The waitress came over to their table to clear the plates, but Gerry waved her away. ‘I don’t know what I want,’ Josephine said at last. ‘It sounds ridiculous, but I was hoping not to have to think about it too deeply.’

  ‘It is easier to cling to some sort of finders-keepers mentality, I suppose,’ Gerry said provokingly. ‘Lydia had her first, so that’s where the poor woman must stay. God forbid that there should be any unpleasantness between the three of you—it’s only happiness at stake, after all.’

  ‘Yes, it must look like cowardice from where you’re sitting, but it is a problem for me—a real problem,’ Josephine said, refusing to rise to the bait. ‘I’m afraid I’ve always been cursed by a sense of what’s right, and I don’t mean what’s acceptable to other people—I don’t give a damn about them; I mean what’s acceptable to me, what feels right in here. And picking up with Marta when I know that Lydia still loves her doesn’t feel right. I care about Lydia and this year’s been torment for her.’

  ‘Although on the few occasions that I’ve bumped into her, she’s been doing her very best to get over it. We’ve all admired her for it.’

  Josephine smiled. ‘That’s just Lydia’s way. It wouldn’t be mine, but you fall back on whatever gets you through, don’t you? And anyway, most of it’s bravado. I know what you’re thinking,’ she added as Gerry opened her mouth to speak. ‘You’re about to tell me that I shouldn’t be putting Lydia’s happiness before my own, that she wouldn’t be as hesitant if it were the other way round—but it could never be happiness if that’s what I had to do to get it. There’d be no peace—and peace is something I want. Can you understand that?’ Gerry nodded, more serious for a moment. ‘So no matter how much this sounds like an excuse, what I feel or might come to feel for Marta is irrelevant.’

  ‘It sounds to me like you’ve made your decision already. Why are you so angry with her, though?’

  ‘Is it really that obvious?’ Josephine asked, surprised.

  ‘Oh yes. You’re livid, darling. Is that because you’ve found someone capable of disturbing your peace?’

  ‘People want too much, then they take offence because I can’t give it,’ Josephine said, knowing how selfish and condescending it sounded. ‘Give them dinner and they expect a lifetime.’

  ‘It’s human nature to be disappointed, though. If two people collide who want the same thing, it’s nothing short of a miracle. And spending as much time with Lydia and her friends as you do—it was only a matter of time before one of them made a play for you. It’s unfortunate that it happens to be Lydia’s girlfriend, but you shouldn’t mess with fire if you don’t want to get burnt.’ She paused for a moment to light a cigarette. ‘Are you sure you’re quite as blasé about what people think of you? You wouldn’t be the first person to turn love down because of what it might do to your reputation.’

  ‘Being with another woman, you mean?’

  She nodded. ‘It’s not as easy as it used to be, although money and an artistic nature help.’

  Josephine smiled, but there was a serious side to the question which she had often thought about. ‘I have two lives, Gerry, and the less one knows about the other, the better I like it. You’re right, of course; back home, people already think I’m peculiar but there’s a limit to how far I’ll push my luck, if only for my fam
ily’s sake. I’d defy even you to walk down Inverness High Street with a woman on your arm, but what I do when I’m here is up to me.’

  ‘You lost someone in the war, didn’t you?’

  ‘At the Somme, yes, and as far as Inverness is concerned, it’s the only normal thing I’ve ever done. How did you know?’

  ‘Oh, people talk. You’re often discussed, you know—the celebrity amongst us, your fleeting visits and famous friends, the mysterious other life in Scotland and the handsome inspector from Scotland Yard. And now the exotic flowers at reception. The gossip in this place is simply shocking, but then what else do we have to do?’ Her words reminded Josephine of the letters that Archie had discussed with her; Gerry would certainly have the knowledge to write them, but not the spite, she thought, nor the patience to remain anonymous, and she dismissed the idea almost as soon as it arrived. ‘The war’s another good excuse not to commit, of course,’ Gerry added, ‘if not a particularly original one.’

  ‘You’re not the first person to tell me that, and I don’t suppose you’ll be the last.’

  ‘No, you’ll probably hear it from Marta on Friday night, depending on what decision you come to. We girls will clutch at any straw to convince ourselves that rejection isn’t our fault—trust me, I’ve had plenty of practice.’ She smiled, then said: ‘We’re very alike, you and I.’

  ‘In what way?’ Josephine asked. To her mind, she and Gerry could hardly have been more different: they were roughly the same age, but their backgrounds were worlds apart and, while she was reserved and constantly questioned herself, Gerry was bold and unselfconscious.

  ‘We have a freedom that many women would envy us for. We have money and we have independence—all right, so you’ve earned yours by being talented and I’ve fallen into mine because of who my parents are, but the end result is the same: we’re not subject to the same cares as other people, and we very rarely have to compromise. I’ll have to marry eventually, I suppose, if I want to inherit, but I can do what I like until then. You don’t even have that pressure on the horizon.’