We were together but alone as we went from enclosure to enclosure disturbing monkeys huddled on hot water pipes and trying to spot bears hiding in piles of straw. Zebras peered from stables, their breath clouding in the air, and mongooses formed one shivering mass of russet pelts. The penguins, stood rigid by their frozen pool, were the only creatures to face the cold.
We found refuge in the Natural History Museum where the bones of the dinosaurs could not shrink away from the cold and the sandstone monkeys that climbed the columns could not escape from the hundreds of little hands that stroked their backs until they were smooth.
At dusk the lights of Kensington looked magical as we made our way down into the subway and joined the huddle of overcoats that waited in the ticket hall.
It had been difficult to find the right moment to talk about Maud’s illness. It had been the reason for the trip after all, but somehow the words failed to come and I could not face ruining what had been a special day. On the station platform was a poster urging people to buy festive stamps to help fight tuberculosis. Relieved, I pointed to it.
‘Have you heard of tuberculosis, Ruby?’ I said. ‘Or of consumption or TB?’
She looked at the poster, screwing up her eyes. ‘I can’t read very well,’ she said.
‘No, of course,’ I muttered and then mumbled something about the nice Christmas scene on the illustration, thinking that I would have the whole journey back to explain.
At Baker Street the train was crammed full of passengers jostling with bags and coats. I managed to squeeze onto the last free seat and pulled Ruby up next to me, feeling the warm press of her body against my arm. By the door was another poster – a picture of a mother and child at a gravestone with a message about how even kissing could lead to infection. The letters TB were printed large and bold and I was sure that even Ruby would be able to read them. Then a man opposite started coughing, a handkerchief pressed over his face and around him others turned away or put hands over their mouths.
‘Ruby,’ I said. ‘About your mother’s mouth ulcer…’ but then I felt the weight of her head on my lap and saw the slow heave of her chest. She slept all the way to Missensham.
*
As we approached Little Willow, I saw that the curtains were still open, the orange orbs of the streetlights reflected in the black windows. I started to worry – where was George?
My key turned loosely in the lock and I realized that Mr Tuttle must have forgotten to lock up after himself again. The hallway was cold and lit only by a beam of streetlight from the pavement. The hat stand was bare and there was nothing but a dusty little rectangle where George’s briefcase usually stood. I fumbled with my gloves and ran into the kitchen to light the burner – the blue light flickering like a will-o’-the-wisp.
George’s sherry decanter was on the draining board, the stopper resting against the base and sticky fingerprints on the glass. George must have left Mr Tuttle alone and the old man had helped himself. I took the decanter through to the study, hoping George wouldn’t find out. Through the long glass doors, I saw washing still hung on the line, white bed linen billowing like ghosts. I called Ruby to help, watching wearily as she ran out with the basket and grappled with the sheets. Then I noticed a small, white card left on the desk, an invitation written in embossed ink – the hospital ball! It was already the second Saturday in October and I had forgotten about it completely. I had been so preoccupied with Ruby that George had slipped my mind all together. He had not even mentioned the ball that morning and I felt angry that he had just expected me to know. The bells of St Cuthbert’s started chiming the hour – eight o’clock – I had already missed the dinner and the speeches. I could try and set off for the lido now, but it was too late; George would already be disgraced.
In the lounge the light switch made a hollow clicking sound in the darkness and I saw a coil of wire and the old bulb and shade piled up against the skirting board – another job Mr Tuttle had left unfinished. I perched on the window seat, under the weak light from the street lamps and remembered how often I had sat alone in this spot over the years. How different things were now! The house seemed accustomed to the silence, but it was the first silence I had heard in weeks.
I got up and switched on the wireless, then flinched, startled by a sudden hiss of static. The noise filled the room and I turned the dial frantically, hearing only faint voices fading in and out of the fog.
Then I saw a glint of metal by the speaker and felt a stab of ice in my stomach. Something else had appeared in the house. I stared at it, my knees starting to buckle beneath me. I touched it cautiously with my fingertips, then picked it up, the skin on the back of my head tightening.
‘No!’ I gasped, shaking my head. ‘No-no-no.’ I felt the ivory ring between my fingers, the silver ball cold to the touch and the little bells jangling as I turned it over in my hand. I ran my finger over the inscription – VM.
Then the hands that held the rattle were not my own, they were George’s, large hands with slender fingers, the nails bitten to the quick with the stress of loss. It was George in mourning dress, George as he had stood in the churchyard nine years ago. And that George looked at me sadly before nodding his head and carrying the rattle off to the vestry to be placed inside the coffin next to Violet where it would be buried, buried forever.
A floorboard creaked in the hallway and my heart flung against my ribs. A figure stood in the doorway. A little girl in a white smock, one cheek in shadow, the stray hairs rising from her crown catching the light like a halo. I stared at her. Words caught in the dryness of my throat and I held up the rattle with a shaking hand, the silver bells murmuring against the metal.
‘Oh,’ said Ruby. ‘That’s mine.’
34
The sky had darkened by the time I reached the lido; the changing block and turnstiles had faded into shadow and the water in the swimming pool had become mere shivers of silver moonlight. In the distance the pavilion blazed with colour, like a flaming galleon floating on a sea of black air.
I walked blind, feeling my way along the railings until the lights grew closer, became flickers and movements and then people – angular dinner jackets and sinuous evening gowns swaying and mingling behind long glass doors. There was a buzz of noise; ripples of laughter and the chink of champagne bowls over the constant babble of voices. From somewhere came the undulating drone of violins being tuned and the rhythmic blasts of a trumpet as it pushed to the top of a scale.
The main door of the food hall was propped open, hot air wafting out on to the tarmac.
‘Madame?’ A boy in an oversized suit stepped forward, his arms held out in front of him as if to take my stole, but he stepped back quickly, his face reddening, when he saw that I had neither stole nor evening gown and would not wait to be ticked off the guest list.
The food hall was hot, the air thick with the musk of Macassar oil and body heat. The walls were draped with sheets of red, white and blue linen, trails of bunting leading to a stage where the flower of a huge brass tuba blasted over the heads of the band.
Finely dressed people were crammed onto the dance floor, a sea of heads – carefully set curls and oiled partings nodding and swaying while thin trails of cigarette smoke shuddered up to the ceiling.
I pushed into the crowd, leading with my shoulder and parting bodies with my hands. A group of society girls recoiled as I touched them, eyes wide and mouths open in an exaggerated reaction to the disturbance. I passed a group of old ladies decked with jewellery of Victorian lavishness, then an old soldier, the chest of his red jacket fringed with medals. A young man balancing one champagne glass on top of another, the golden liquid slopping on the floor as he was jostled by revellers. The mayor, with his chain of office. A fat man with a monocle and his wife with a sparkling tiara. Harassed waitresses in white caps. Flashes of silk, brushes of feather, glinting jewels, sable furs, waistcoats, handbags, spats – everything blurred by my tears.
Then I saw him, George, trussed in
a dinner jacket, his scalp shiny with sweat. His head was nodding quickly and his hand chopped the air as he argued some point with a group of portly gentlemen who clustered around him.
He looked up suddenly. ‘Emma!’ His hand froze in mid-air and his lips moved silently as he started to stammer: ‘Oh-oh-oh my God, what is it? Are you—’
I held out the rattle.
The colour drained from his face. There was some movement around me, people shuffling awkwardly and stepping back, heads bowed and apologies murmured.
‘This should be buried, George,’ I said slowly. ‘Why isn’t it buried?’
He laughed self-consciously, pulling me away from the watching faces. ‘Good God, woman, what are you talking about?’ he rubbed his fingers together but they failed to click. ‘Give… give it to me.’
I handed it over.
He turned it slowly in his palm, frowning. He brushed the silver tube with his fingertips, dragging his thumb over the inscription as if it would rub away onto his skin.
‘Well?’ I said.
‘Well what?’
‘What!’ I shouted. ‘I have just given you something that I asked you to bury, to bury in our dead daughter’s grave and you have nothing to say to me!’
‘Emma!’ he hissed, glancing round as heads turned. ‘Not here.’
‘Where then?’ I screamed. ‘Where could we possibly go to make your explanation any different?’ I realized that the room around us had gone quiet. George’s eyes were boring right through me, the pupils little black specks frozen in the glass of his spectacles. Around us the party blurred and flickered but our stare was the only thing that existed, as if space and time has melted away around us and we were all that was left, just us and the silence.
Then a champagne cork popped and people whooped and laughed. The band started playing ‘Let’s Fall in Love’, the pump of the tuba filling the room. There was a hum of conversation and ripples of laughter in the air again. Around us, bodies swayed as people started to dance, hands clasped, cheek to cheek. The air became hot.
‘Old man! Old man!’ Walter appeared, staggering over to George, his face red and his fist closed round the neck of a champagne bottle. ‘I say, old man, have you seen the—’ He stopped short. ‘Oh my God, Emma!’
George pocketed the rattle quickly, then glanced down. ‘Yes, yes.’
But Walter brushed past him. ‘So glad you could make it at last – Audrey will be thrilled – Darling! Darling!’
‘Emma!’ squealed Audrey, the feather in her hair shivering with excitement. ‘So good to see you. And to ignore the dress code too – très moderne! We simply must—’ She grabbed my arm, pulling me towards the thronging dance floor.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Really Audrey, I’d rather—’
‘Oh come on, I can see plenty of spare gentlemen from the committee. And I know that you want to dance with them. Oh yes you do! Oh yes you do!’ she nodded excitedly, her ringlets bouncing.
‘Audrey,’ said George firmly. ‘Will you be so good as to take my wife home. She’s not feeling well. I’m afraid she’s had far too much to drink.’
‘What?’ I stammered. I stared at George. ‘No, I—’
‘Oh!’ Audrey pulled down the corners of her mouth. ‘Oh, so you have, you poor thing. You do look terrible.’ She bent her head and made big eyes at me, brushing the hair from my forehead.
‘No, I’m fine,’ I said slowly, my eyes fixed on George.
‘You have had too much haven’t you, Emma?’ said Walter. ‘George should take better care of you. Take her, Audrey, it’ll only take a few minutes, you’ll be back well within the hour.’ He whisked the fur from her shoulders and wrapped it round the bottle. ‘Take this for the walk.’
‘Where did you get…’ she squeaked. ‘Oh you glamorous bastard!’ Audrey twisted her silk-covered arm round mine. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘If I don’t polish this off on the way, I’ll leave it in the Frigidaire for you tomorrow.’
Audrey yanked my arm and I was pulled backwards through the crowd. My eyes started to sting and, in front of me, George’s face quivered and blurred.
‘Why?’ I mouthed at him. ‘Why?’ But then the world dissolved in to a blur of light and movement and he was gone.
35
Ruby
My name is Ruby Brown but it did not take Emma long to forget this. One time she called out: ‘Vi—’ but then shouted ‘Ruby’ very quickly after it. She labelled my coat with a ‘V’ and then sighed and added the hook and slant of an ‘R’. Once she held me tight, stroked my hair and whispered ‘Violet’ in my ear. But Violets bring bad luck and death, and if I am Violet, then it must be me that brought bad luck to this house. Maybe death will follow.
That morning Emma slept in late. I lay in bed watching the sun creep higher and higher between the gap in the curtains. I heard the rattle of milk bottles on the doorstep and the plod of the milkman’s horse, but there was still not a peep from her. Then came footsteps of people on the road and the rumble of the first bus and at last she stuck her head round the door, eyes all red like she’d been crying.
She sat with me while I ate breakfast, but she didn’t touch her triangle of toast, just stared at it until it went cold. Dr Marks was banging about upstairs and she jumped whenever she heard him move. The buttons on her dressing gown were undone and her yellow hair was matted like a bird’s nest. Her eyes were red and all runny, but she said it was just ca-junc-shon-itis. She liked to copy Dr Marks’s big words, you see, and liked to think that she was frail.
She didn’t even blink when I finished eating, so I got down from the table and told her not to worry, and that I would play in my room all morning. She just nodded. So I went upstairs slowly waiting for her to stop me, but she didn’t.
Dr Marks’s posh black suit was airing on the back of my bedroom door; the trousers fell limp from the jacket like a hanging corpse, the bow tie draped over the collar like a slack noose. The smell of the fabric caught in the back of my throat; sweat and smoke, just like the evening – bitter and faded.
I fancied that this was my fault. Things like this usually were. It was me Emma was talking to when we got back from London, when she went all shaky and the colour drained from her face. She had left the house as soon as she saw my jingly silver treasure, just charged out into the darkness, with wild eyes and jutting chin. I wish I had tidied it away. I did not know that leaving it out would upset her so much.
It was Clarence that had given it to me. It was on my last visit back to Rose Cottage, after I had shown Maudy the photograph of the baby. I think Maudy must have told him that I had been asking about babies because he said that it had been mine since birth and that he had been keeping it safe until I was old enough. He said that a doctor had given it to me when I was a baby, a special gift made just for me. Well, I knew that the treasure would never have come from my family so maybe the part about this doctor was true but it was never made for me – it had VM scratched into it in big curly letters – my reading had never been good but I did know my letters and VM was surely not me or anyone in my family. I knew that the treasure was not mine or his, but I did think that it might have been Clarence’s way to make up for the Bad Thing that he did, so I kept my mouth good and shut. Anyway, I quite liked it. It looked like something that the queen would hold when she wore her crown and sat on the throne and the little bells jingled like Christmas.
It had already lost my other treasures by then - Fatkins had taken the cigarette case back and Jim had stolen Emma’s abandoned shillings. The jingly ornament was all I had, so I had taken it to Emma’s, where it would be safe. But I did not look after it, I left it lying around. You couldn’t be messy at Emma’s house. One little thing left lying around could upset her and turn her mad. And now my treasure was with Dr Marks, and that is all that she would say.
I stood on the landing and listened to Dr Marks in his bedroom, his slippers pacing to and fro on the carpet. I tiptoed to the door and peeked through the crack. A suitcase w
as open on the bed and he was throwing clothes into it; shirts and jackets sailing through the air, gusting mothballs all about the place. He slammed the suitcase shut but then he just stood and stared at it, his hands on his hips. He was breathing quickly, sniffy little breaths, the air going hiss-hiss from his nose. He was the man who shouted, the man who called me a thief, the man who hated me and the man who could not bear to touch Maudy when she was most sick. I hated him. I stared at him, trying to bore into him with my eyes, make him dead, but it did nothing because he just sighed and picked the suitcase up and put it in the back of the wardrobe, as if going away had just been a passing thought and he had changed his mind, for now at least.
I went back to my room and shut the door behind me. I sat on the bed, staring out the window but not seeing anything. Then I got out the xylophone and played a few notes – Emma would be worried if she couldn’t hear me. I played ‘London Bridge Is Falling Down’, but somehow I thought it sounded sad, so I played the other one – Frère Jacques, but then I remembered that Dr Marks didn’t like anything French, so I stopped dead, right in the middle of it.
Snuffly little sounds came from downstairs; long sighs and little shrieks and hiccoughs. I listened hard because I didn’t know what they meant but then I realized that Emma was crying. I thought of Maudy crying or Henry, Jim, John or Andy. They all cried like big babies, roaring into their hands, all red-faced with strings of dribble and snot, but this crying wasn’t like that – this crying was all little whimpers and sobs.
I could see Emma in my head, see her draped over the sofa, the back of her hand across her brow, silver tears rolling into a lace handkerchief like a princess in an oil painting. She was even posh when she cried. Before I met Emma, I had always thought that posh was something that you put on for other people, like when you were on the telephone or ordering something in a shop. But now I know that isn’t right. Posh is something that you are born with. Like that baby called VM with that silver rattle in its hand. Posh is blowing your nose silently in a lace handkerchief or not making a sound on your porcelain toilet and not laughing or grinning. Posh is sitting straight-backed, not biting your nails or spilling your food or using a fork round the wrong way to eat peas, and posh is being angry in silence and crying like a mouse.
The Liar Page 21