The Anatomy of Death

by Felicity Young

  She frowned at her sister across the table. It was all very well to tease Dody about her predicament in private, but not in the presence of strangers. Derwent O’Neill would hardly see her role with the police in an unprejudiced light.

  Thankfully, Florence realised her faux pas. “And you, Derwent,” she asked quickly. “How do you view the women’s movement?”

  “We don’t care for it much,” Derwent said, wiping the soup from his lips with the back of his hand. “We see it as of marginal importance and it detracts Westminster from our own cause.”

  A spark flared in Florence’s eyes. She glared back at the Irishman for a moment. “Well, I appreciate your honesty,” she paused. “On this subject, in any case.”

  Derwent ignored both her icy tone and its implications. “You’re welcome, I’m sure,” he said with a disarming smile.

  “By your cause, you mean Home Rule, I suppose,” Dody said. “I would be interested to hear what it is you are hoping to achieve from the government. Patrick,” she said, turning to the younger brother, who had said nothing at all yet, “perhaps you could tell me.”

  Patrick cleared his throat and considered his words. “It is imperative that we become a self-governing nation. The English have never understood the Irish, and it is ridiculous that they should attempt to rule over us, oppress us with the pretence that they do it for the good of all men. The English have taken everything that is good about my country and given nothing back in return. Your average Irishman’s wages are worse than those of the Englishman, as are his living conditions. Even our food is exported to England. There is famine in our countryside—”

  “But what about the oppression of Irish womanhood?” Florence interrupted. “Surely you do not seek freedom from oppression for men alone?”

  Derwent cocked his head and affected an almost unintelligible brogue. “Don’t you be worrying your head about Irish womanhood around us, my girl. They can have all the freedom with me they want.”

  Dody attempted to catch her sister’s eye. Stop now, Florence, please stop now,” she willed. Florence paid the unspoken message no heed. “You know, Dody, one thing I cannot abide,” she said, loud enough for everyone at their end of the table to hear, “is people who try to ingratiate themselves in this house by adopting manners and attitudes other than those into which they are born. Like those who affect an uncouth manner when they certainly know better.” At this she turned to Derwent O’Neill and shot him with a triumphant smile.

  “And your father?” Derwent asked casually.

  Florence lifted her chin. “My father might dress like a peasant but he never adopts the manners of one. He is as much at home in Buckingham Palace as he is the local public house. Class means nothing to him; education and social justice are his driving ideals.”

  “You think my brother and I are not what we seem?” Derwent asked with a hint of amusement on his lips. He finished his soup, this time spooning it towards the outer rim then dabbing his mouth with a starched table napkin.

  “I hope you are not what you seem,” Florence said. “Your cause has no chance if you are.”

  “I think you’ve met your match in that one, Derwent.” Patrick laughed.

  Derwent raised his wineglass to Florence, the glint of desire in his eyes unmistakable, the curl at the edge of his mouth dangerous. “Touché, Florence McCleland.”

  Dody noticed the wolfhound asking to be let out at the French doors. As she passed Derwent to reach the dog, she whispered, “My sister is also not as she seems. Tread carefully, Derwent O’Neill, or be accountable. To me.”

  She did not linger to gauge his response. Two servants, a man and woman dressed in ordinary street clothes, cleared the remnants of the first course from the table. When one of the new girls rose to assist, the manservant clicked his tongue and ordered her to remain seated. Dishes of steaming Russian dumplings filled with potato and minced meat as well as shish kebabs, cabbage, and mashed potatoes appeared on the table along with decanters of fine French wines. The rest of the meal passed in relative equanimity.

  After the meal, Louise McCleland called the brothers aside. “Now, Derwent, Patrick, I believe we have something to discuss in the library.”

  She rejoined her daughters in the kitchen moments later. “They need more help with their writing than I expected. I’ll have to get back to them this evening.”

  Writers? Dody thought. Derwent and Patrick were writers? Who would have imagined that?

  Dody and Florence helped their mother pack up the leftovers. The kitchen was the heart of the house; her parents ate there with the servants whenever they had no visitors. Bunches of herbs and knotted onions dangled from wires stretched wall to wall. A massive Victorian range dominated one wall, a huge vat of water bubbling upon it ready for the washing up. The plumbing was basic, and a single cold-water tap in the scullery was the only source of water downstairs. The servants still bathed in a tin tub by the range, while family and guests had their hot water hauled upstairs to their bedrooms. Dody’s father viewed electricity with suspicion. Little wonder their mother had fought so passionately for the townhouse, Dody thought. Not only did it serve as a London base for her daughters, but it was a handy bolthole for Louise McCleland when the deprivations of country life became too much to bear.

  With George’s help, they carried the baskets of food outside, where the pony and trap waited for them at the hitching rail. Louise gave the pony a sugar cube, scratched it between the ears, and announced that she would drive it to the vicarage herself.

  George untied the stamping pony, keeping a firm hold of it. Dody noticed the stiffness with which her mother mounted the trap. “Your hip looks to be bothering you, Mother. Why don’t you allow George to deliver the food?” She looked to the lowering sky. “There’s a feeling of snow in the air.”

  No one spoke for a moment. The expectant hush of pending snow was broken only by the occasional caw of the rooks from their haphazard nests high in the leafless trees.

  “Mother is making a point, Dody,” Florence said. “If she comes back with frostbite, she thinks she might be able to persuade Father to purchase a motorcar.” Florence leaned into the trap and tucked a fur rug around her mother’s legs, which were already encased in a skirt of rich tweed. While tolerant of her husband’s eccentric dress, Louise McCleland had never been in favour of Russian peasant clothes for herself.

  “Nonsense, my dear, I need to talk to the vicar in person. There is a new widow; her husband was killed last week, run over by a feed wagon. They had a hard enough time making ends meet when he was alive. Now I don’t know what’s to become of them. The children are half starved as it is.”

  “Mother, the people need rights, not charity,” Florence said.

  And I hope they soon develop a palate for Russian food, Dody thought.

  “One can’t fight for rights on an empty stomach, Florence dear,” their mother said. “Tell the young Irishmen to meet me in the library at four o’clock. We can discuss our business when your father comes in for his tea.”

  “What exactly is their business here, Mother?” Dody asked. “I have an unpleasant feeling about them.”

  “Oh, Dody, they are harmless fellows, you mustn’t worry.” Louise picked up the long switch and was about to tickle the pony’s back with it. “Oh, one more thing, can you make sure your Rupert is around also, Dody? There is something I need to discuss with him, too.”

  “My Rupert?”

  Her mother lowered the whip and pulled back on the reins. The pony pawed at the ground and shook its untidy mane. “If you think otherwise, you really should let him know, my dear.”

  “Yes, Dody, you are being cruel, keeping him hanging on like this,” Florence said with a twinkle.

  Dody shot Florence a cool look before returning to her mother. “What do you think of his play? Are you really going to show it to Mr. Shaw?”

  Her mother appeared to be searching for something diplomatic to say. “I really gave him no encouragem
ent, you know. All I said was that I thought it…ah…interesting.”

  “In other words, you think it rubbish—Mother, you are no better than me!”

  Louise gave her daughters a smile, clicked her tongue, and spun the trap towards the village at a rapid trot, pea gravel pinging out from under the wheels. The sisters watched in silence until the trap rounded the bend of the long driveway and was swallowed by rhododendrons.

  “You weren’t so dismissive of Rupert last year,” Florence said. “Don’t tell me you are now as against marriage as I am. When I spoke at the rally, a man in the crowd yelled for me to get a husband. It was hard not to laugh—but then again, I am married to the cause and you are not.”

  Perhaps it was easier for Florence to reject the idea of marriage because of her unpleasant experience with the poet. Dody had yet to have any intimate experience with a man, unpleasant or otherwise. Her studies had left little time for that. But she was curious, and it was not as if certain feelings had never been stirred.

  “I suppose my year in Edinburgh changed me. Before that, I had little hope of a specialist career,” she said. “Now I am a specialist doctor—even if it is in one of the less popular branches. I could not give up my career now for a man like Rupert. Perhaps someone more suitable will come along, but I am in no hurry. And if I become too old to find a husband, well, so be it. There are surely worse fates that could befall a woman.”

  Florence turned a full circle on her toes. “Well, Dody,” she said with a satisfied sigh. “I can’t see either of us settling down with a young man, suitable or otherwise, for a long time to come.” She swept her arm to take in the old Tudor manor and the fine gardens surrounding it. “How could either of us settle for less than this?”

  Dody knew it was not just the bricks and mortar to which she referred.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The pier pointed into the churning sea like a dead finger. Bad weather meant the gates were locked, the slot machines silent, and the bandstand empty. Pike took his daughter’s hand and they dashed from the pier gates, down the deserted promenade to a tram shelter. He sat down immediately on the hard bench. Violet remained standing and gazed through the glass at the angry grey sea.

  The cold air stung at their cheeks. Pike undid his scarf and tied it around his bowler.

  She giggled. “Daddy, you look like you have toothache.” She had given up trying to keep her own hat on her head and stuffed it under the straps of her school cape.

  They watched the curling waves crash against the sea wall. The pebble beach was deserted; further down, fishing boats waited patiently on the beach for the storm to pass and ragged seagulls clung to their naked masts. Pike had still not broached the subject of the photograph, and Violet’s boarding school’s visiting afternoon was rapidly drawing to a close.

  “Tea?” he shouted.

  They held hands as they splashed around the traffic and headed to the tearooms on the other side of the road.

  At a sweets stall next to the tearoom he bought two sticks of rock candy with HASTINGS written all the way through them.

  “One for Marjorie,” he said as he handed them to her.

  At the mention of her friend’s name, Violet’s mouth turned down.

  “What’s the matter?” Pike asked.

  “Marjorie’s no longer at my school. Her mother has sent her to Switzerland to improve her French and German,” she said.

  Pike waited, sensing there was more to come. When Violet failed to elaborate, all he could think to say was, “Oh,” missing his chance to probe. The two girls were inseparable. Whatever Violet had been involved in, Marjorie would have been, too.

  In the crowded tearoom they took off their outer garments, draped them over the backs of their chairs, and ordered tea for two and knickerbocker glories.

  Violet lifted her cup in a toast. “To Mummy,” she said.

  Pike guessed she was hoping he might say something nice about her mother. She did not remember her mother at all, and loved to hear stories about her. He clicked his cup against hers, remained silent, and cursed his own inadequacy at conversing with females.

  Violet took it upon herself to fill the vacuum. Barely pausing to draw breath, she launched into an account of how Gloria Bradshaw had got stuck in a tree and been rescued by a teacher with a ladder; how much better this jelly was compared to what they got at school, which in summer was riddled with tiny red spiders; how she was dreading next term when swimming started again—didn’t he think it cruel that they were forced to bathe in the sea when there was still frost upon the playing fields?

  He responded with the occasional nod and a wan smile. He was running out of time, damn it. Eventually she gave up and concentrated on the concoction of fruit, jelly, cream, and ice cream. He had no appetite and hardly touched his. When she began to scrape the ice cream at the bottom of her glass with the long spoon, he pushed his dessert over for her to finish.

  “Violet, there’s something I need to discuss with you,” he said just as she said,

  “I’ve been selected for the lacrosse team, Daddy.”

  The sudden shock of both of them speaking at once plunged them into silence once more. Outside the wind howled, waves crashed against the sea wall.

  “The lacrosse team, that’s very good,” he said absently. Then he reached inside his suit jacket and removed an envelope. He passed it to her across the table and knocked over one of the empty parfait glasses, and everyone in the tearoom fell silent and turned their heads to look at them.

  Violet flushed with embarrassment. Good start, Pike thought glumly.

  She delayed removing the contents of the envelope until she was certain everyone had returned to their own murmurings. Pike watched her closely.

  She looked at the photograph and paled. God only knew what memories it was stirring. The photograph shook in her hand; she tried to slide it back into the envelope, and failed. Pike took it and cleared a space for it on the table between them.

  “Look at it again, please, Violet.”

  Her hand went to her mouth. She shook her head; he could see her fighting back tears. And suddenly he saw in her face what he had not seen on the photographic paper—the terror she must have gone through in the middle of that violent scrimmage. Good God, what had she been through?

  Pike remembered the first moment he’d seen the photograph in his office—her hat awry and face pinched and anxious—he had telephoned the school immediately. The headmistress had assured him she was absolutely fine, had suffered no ill effects from “the unfortunate incident outside the tube station” other than the loss of her purse. He had only half listened: the headmistress’s words had nothing at all to do with the protest outside the House of Commons. He had made arrangements with the school to take Violet out at the weekend and hastily rung off.

  The look on her face told him he must be looking stern. “Violet, you have to tell me all about it, tell me right from the beginning,” he said. “You have nothing to fear. What is done is done.”

  Violet bit at her bottom lip. “I’ll be expelled …”

  “The school does not appear to know. I won’t tell them and I will not be angry. You have my word.”

  Violet would not meet his eye. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. “We heard about the demonstration from one of our teachers—many of us at school agree with the idea of women’s emancipation.”

  Pike almost choked on his tea. “Women’s emancipation? You are fourteen years old!”

  “Daddy, you gave your word!” Her voice rose.

  He wiped his mouth with a serviette. “Carry on.”

  Violet took a deep breath and spoke with more courage. “I am nearly fifteen. I was spending my weekend break at Marjorie’s house in Hampstead Heath. We caught the tube into London, telling Marjorie’s mother we were going shopping, and we met with the protesters outside Caxton Hall. We saw the Pankhursts, they were marvellous—if only you could have heard them—and all the ladies were ter
ribly kind.”

  “I’m sure,” Pike said without enthusiasm. But he was glad they had been kind to his little girl.

  “But things started to go wrong as we neared the Houses of Parliament. Other people joined in the march and started to heckle us and fight. Then the police came and they were absolutely horrid, the worst of all.” Violet dropped her eyes again. “They made me feel ashamed.”

  Of me? Pike thought. She looked up at him and he saw a look in her face he had never seen before, strained and defiant.

  “Were you hurt?” he asked.

  “A little. I was knocked to the ground and banged the side of my head.” Violet touched her cheek. “The bruise has only just gone. It was a policeman who did it, you know. My dress was torn, and for a while I lost Marjorie, and that was awful.”

  “It’s all right, my dear, I am relieved you came to no worse harm.” Pike kept his voice calm but inside he seethed. He had put his daughter in one of the finest girls’ boarding schools in England, partly to protect her from the brutish behaviour of men. But instead she had been exposed to suffragette ideology and nearly killed. By a policemen, no less. He felt sick.

  “When I found Marjorie, she had received similar treatment to me,” Violet continued. “She had a cut on her head and was terribly frightened. We tried to keep out of the fighting, but it was all around us. Then suddenly a young lady came to our aid and led us down a back alleyway to safety. If not for her, I think we would have been killed. She took us to the railway station, where we caught the tube back to Marjorie’s house.”

  “Did this lady have a name?”

  “Yes, Miss McCleland.”

  Florence McCleland. Of all the confounded things! Pike could feel the rise of colour in his face.

  Violet frowned. “Daddy, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, nothing at all,” he said, exercising all his restraint. “Though it seems that I owe a debt of gratitude to this young lady.” He lit a cigarette and tried to calm himself. “And then I suppose you had to explain your condition to Marjorie’s mother?”