Plan for the Worst

by Jodi Taylor

  I made myself comfortable on the bench, the folded altar cloth in my lap, head bowed, hoping anyone catching sight of me would think I was meditating. Or praying.

  I sat there all morning. Loads of people came and went and not one of them looked even remotely like Dr Bairstow, Mrs Brown or a young boy. There were delegations of merchants, a grand group of clergymen, including a bishop – I stepped back out of sight until they’d gone – sundry riders and ­messengers – it was all go. A widow she might be, but Margaret of Burgundy was obviously at the centre of everything in this part of the world.

  I sat quietly and watched all these courtyard comings and goings through the door. No one paid me the slightest attention. My stomach rumbled and I remembered I’d had no breakfast – or, now I came to think of it, dinner last night, either. I chugged some water and nibbled either a high-energy biscuit or a piece of carpet underlay. It’s hard to tell; taste-wise, they’re very similar. The delicious roast meat smells emanating from the kitchens did not help.

  The garden and cloister were deserted. No one came out at all. Whether because the morning was cool and damp or because everyone was busy, I had no idea. It wasn’t quiet – I could hear voices, footsteps, doors opening and closing. Half a dozen female voices were shrieking for Jacques, whoever he might be, but they sounded angry so he was obviously in a lot of trouble and, if he had any sense, was halfway to Antwerp by now.

  I leaned back against the cold wall behind me and thought. For how long could I do this? How long before someone challenged me? I had no illusions. These windows were blank but the rooms behind them would not be empty. Half a dozen people were probably watching me right now.

  I got up – I couldn’t afford to become stiff; my shoulders and arms still gave me the occasional twinge – and resumed my perambulations around the cloister. Anticlockwise this time. Just to liven things up a bit.

  I had no watch, obviously, but the church bells enabled me to keep track of time. As noon approached, I left the altar cloth and stood slightly to one side of the door where I had a good view of both gates.

  And I waited.

  And waited.

  Noon came. The city exploded in a cacophony of bells and then fell silent again. I walked round the cloister again and then sat back on the bench, hardly daring to take my eyes off the main gate.

  I’m a bit like this with trains. I arrive at the station hours too early and then sit staring at the tracks in case the train slips in and out without me noticing. Obviously I’m the same with princes. I sat and stared and stared as the quarter hours and then the half hours and then the hours dragged past, and apart from what looked like another deputation of citizens, only servants or messengers passed in and out of the gates. Front or back.

  At around mid-afternoon I began to panic he had arrived and that somehow I’d missed him. I walked slowly around the cloister again and had a bit of a think.

  For a start, I should calm down. I was certain that if a prince was here – if I’d missed him somehow – then he’d gravitate to the garden sooner or later. All I had to do was be patient and wait. And then, once I’d satisfied my burning need to know, I could . . . what?

  What would I do if the prince was here? What would I do if the prince wasn’t here? The answer was the same to both questions. Nothing. There wasn’t anything I could or should do. Yes, I’d know whether Dr Bairstow had lied to me or not, but did I actually want to know? I thought about that very carefully and came to the conclusion that yes, I did want to know. Yes, in view of his role as Director, I was perfectly prepared to admit there were some things he should keep to himself and if he’d said, ‘Sorry, Max, you’re just going to have to trust me on this one,’ I probably would have. But he’d left me to die so he could interfere in one of the most important events in English History. And then he’d lied to me about it. And now I strongly suspected he’d lied to me about taking the prince to Burgundy as well. In fact, I didn’t think he’d carried out an honest act or told a truthful word since that night at the Tower. I felt the familiar anger begin to rise again. I’d been on the point of calling all this off and returning to the pod but now . . . Now I was determined to see it through. I was determined to find out if Dr Bairstow had actually delivered the young boy to Margaret of Burgundy as he said he had. If he wasn’t here then . . . then I’d go home and carry on with my life as best I could with the knowledge that I could never trust Dr Bairstow again.

  Or the prince was here and despite my best efforts, somehow I’d missed him. I just could not rid myself of that thought. I remembered I hadn’t asked Dr Bairstow exactly how he’d delivered the boy to his aunt. Could he have been smuggled in somehow? I’d seen no children at all – not even a page. And surely Dr Bairstow would have brought him personally. I’d watched the wagons being unloaded in the courtyard. I’d checked out the riders as they dismounted. I couldn’t have been more thorough. No, the boy wasn’t here.

  Unable to sit still, I left the altar cloth neatly folded on the bench and began to walk again, head bent and fingering my rosary but keeping my eyes open. I’d been keeping to the public areas. No poking around behind closed doors because if anything happened to me then I had no one to come to my aid.

  I’d left a note for Leon under the abandoned mug of tea in my office. The tea itself was thickening nicely. New forms of life would begin to emerge any day now. Given Miss Lee’s determination not to touch it, I couldn’t help wondering whether anyone would ever find the note or whether it would just sit there until the end of time. Very possible.

  I’d grown so used to the silent stillness of the garden that when, without warning, a gaggle of colourful young women, giggling together, noisily exited one door and entered another, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Their gauzy headdresses floated around their heads and I think they were all talking simultan­eously. The door slammed behind them and the garden was quiet and empty again.

  Around late afternoon, about four-ish, the weather changed and the rain came down again. I was dry enough inside the cloisters. I stood and watched the rain run down the roofs and splatter into the garden. It was very hard not to feel despondent. The courtyard had emptied – the guards disappeared to take shelter. I was the only person I could see.

  A door opened and a young boy stepped out. My heart leaped – Dr Bairstow had told the truth. He was here. Thank God. I was astonished at the relief flooding through me. He’d told me the truth. Everything would be all right after all.

  And then I looked again. Even I could see this was no prince. Just a young servant, bearing a rough wooden tray of platters. He was dark-haired and plump. This was not the little boy I was looking for. The corresponding disappointment nearly brought me to tears. Then I had a sudden thought and moved to intercept him, enquiring after the young lord.

  He stared at me blankly, obviously decided he didn’t understand me and walked off.

  I was still staring after him, shivering with equal amounts of cold and disappointment when another door opened. This was another boy, slightly older and much better dressed – a chamber servant perhaps. He understood my Latin, anyway.

  ‘A recent arrival,’ I said, speaking slowly. ‘A young boy. Yesterday, perhaps, or today. Staying quietly inside. Perhaps unwell,’ and watched carefully for even the faintest flicker that would indicate he knew what I was talking about.

  I didn’t need to. He nodded. ‘Just after dawn, sister.’

  I literally sagged with relief. Dr Bairstow had been telling the truth. It was only at this moment I realised how important that had been to me.

  I looked up at the windowed walls. ‘Where?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘What is his name?’

  He shrugged again. I wondered if they were keeping him in the private apartments, which would make sense. Keeping him out of general circulation for a few days while they decided how best to keep him safe.

  I
shook myself. That wasn’t important. I’d got what I came for – I should leave. For the first time, it struck me that making persistent enquiries about a secret guest might not be the wisest thing to do.

  The lad was edging away – polite, but wanting to get on. I smiled at him and he scuttled away through a door to my right.

  I should have let it go. Why didn’t I let it go? I’d got what I came for. I should shoot back to St Mary’s for a nice cup of tea and an early night. This had been a long day and I still wasn’t completely recovered. I should grab the altar cloth and leave. I actually took a step towards the bench. And then I saw it.

  He hadn’t closed the door behind him. It stood half open. Inviting me in. It wouldn’t take long. Just a little walk about. With the altar cloth, looking for the chapel, silly me, however did I get up here? Back that way, you say? Of course, thank you so much, sorry to have troubled you. And I’d know. I’d know for sure which of the princes had made it to safety and if, as I suspected, this was Richard of York, then the chances were that Perkin Warbeck was who he said he was. I had a chance to solve one of the greatest historical mysteries ever. How could I not go in?

  I picked up the altar cloth, draped it over one arm and approached, very, very slowly, my heart pounding with excitement.

  No one appeared to stop me, which I took as a good sign. I stared inside. The door opened into darkness. Literally. It was a door into darkness. I had no idea what was on the other side. I clenched my fists. That feeling was back. That awful urge to run before it was too late. That this was not somewhere I should be. The feeling was physical. I could feel the weight pressing on me. The voice in my head was screaming at me to leave. To walk away. Now.

  I don’t know about anyone else, but whenever I get scared – I get angry. A legacy from childhood, I guess, when there was only me and I stood alone against the world. Fear was no bloody use at all, but anger – anger can be harnessed and drawn upon. Anger gives strength. Fear takes it away. And, right at that moment, I was very, very afraid.

  Slowly, very carefully, taking tiny steps and prepared to turn and run at any moment, I stepped up to the door. I could see the coarse grain of the wood, the iron hinges, the rust on the latch. I could see the stone threshold and a small area of terracotta and black tiles leading away into the gloom. Everything else was cloaked in shadow. I literally had no idea what I was walking into.

  I took a deep breath, lifted my chin, stepped through the door and—

  26

  It had been a bad day. Nothing had gone right and now I was running late. Another half hour and Len would be home. And it was Friday. I hated Fridays. Friday was the beginning of the weekend, which meant a solid forty-eight hours of Len.

  On Saturday mornings, he would fall out of bed, hungover after a night out with my father, and it would all be Matthew’s fault for not playing quietly. If we survived that, then on Saturday afternoon, he would remember he was a father and we would climb into the car we couldn’t afford and visit a local attraction, just like a normal family. Sometimes that could go well and the resulting good mood might last even until Sunday. If it went badly, then Saturday night would be worse than Friday night and Sunday might well result in driving around the county trying to find a hospital where they wouldn’t know me.

  Sunday night he would remember he was back to work the next day and he would have a few drinks to keep that thought at bay while I cleared things up and got Matthew calmed down and ready for the next week’s school. Matthew attended the expensive prep school around the corner (we couldn’t afford that, either) and eventually would go on to the good grammar school in whose catchment area Len had been careful we resided.

  I looked at the clock again and glanced around the kitchen. A casserole was simmering in the slow cooker. Another hour and it would be perfect. The kitchen, all the house, was spotless. I was exhausted but the house was immaculate. I swilled my mug and teaspoon under the tap, wiped them and put them away. Glancing into the lounge, I could see Matthew in front of the TV. The sound was down low so he could hear when his father returned. Even as I looked, he stood up and craned his neck to see out of the window. To see if his father was coming yet.

  I was desperately worried for Matthew. He’d always been small and quiet, but during these last months, he’d almost stopped speaking entirely. Huge, anxious, golden brown eyes continually watched the world around him. He had cleared a space in his bedroom cupboard and knew, at the first signs, to take himself up there out of the way. I’d bought a solid bolt for the inside of the door and fitted it myself one afternoon, low down, where he could reach it while crouching on the floor.

  We couldn’t go on like this. I know there are refuges for people like us. Places that are supposed to be secret, but my father was John Maxwell – head of surgery at the Royal Free, magistrate, member of the Social Services Committee, friend to every senior police officer in the county. He would find us. And being found and returned to Len was not something even to be thought about. But we couldn’t go on like this.

  There was a small mark on the kitchen wall where Matthew had banged a toy. I wet a sponge with washing-up liquid and carefully wiped it off. I was just finishing when I heard his car in the drive. Len was home. And he was early.

  At once, Matthew switched off the TV and ghosted upstairs, out of the way. He wouldn’t come down until I called him. I checked everything one last time, smoothed my hair and stood ready, waiting for clues as to how bad this Friday was going to be.

  It was going to be very bad. Len couldn’t get his key in the lock properly. Possibly, he’d already had a few. I walked to the front door and opened it for him. He pushed past me and dropped his briefcase on the carpet. I looked out through the open front door. It was just beginning to get dark. Lights were coming on in nearby windows. Small, cosy worlds, filled with comfort and love, not fear and violence. Not like this one. Nothing at all like this one. I wondered what it would be like to step outside, pull the door shut behind me and just keep on walking into the purple twilight. But I had Matthew. There would be no walking.

  ‘Are you going to stand there all night?’

  I followed him into the kitchen. He pulled out a chair. ‘I’m meeting your father early tonight, so I’ll eat now.’

  Shit, shit, shit.

  I made myself stay calm. ‘It’s not quite ready yet. Shall I get you a quick snack?’

  ‘Why isn’t it ready?’

  ‘Well, you’re a little early. It’ll be ready in about half an hour. Why don’t you have a shower first and get ready and then eat.’

  ‘Yeah, OK,’ he said casually. ‘I’ll do that.’

  I picked up the slow cooker, meaning to move it out of the way so I could make his sandwich. I never learn. The blow came out of nowhere. I never saw it coming. My whole side and left arm went numb. The pot slipped out of my hands and crashed to the kitchen floor. Boiling stew splashed up the cupboards and across the floor. It went all over me too, although I never noticed at the time.

  I couldn’t move. I was lost in a world of pain. It took everything I had to stay on my feet.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done.’

  I heard his chair clatter as he kicked it out of the way. I grasped a drawer handle for support and weathered the storm. All things pass and eventually, so did this. I heard the front door slam, the car started and he was gone. He really was in no condition to drive but I didn’t care. Just as long as he didn’t hurt anyone else.

  I let go of the handle and used my sleeve to wipe the blood away from my mouth. I think it was his ring that had done the damage. Slowly, I got my breath back.

  Matthew stood in the doorway, saying nothing. He came into the kitchen and picked up the chair. I sat down heavily and tried to find a position that didn’t hurt too much. He started to try to pick up bits of the broken ceramic pot.

  ‘No,’ I whispered through swollen lips. ‘It’s
hot. I’ll do that.’

  He shook his head and continued picking up the bigger pieces, placing them carefully on the draining board. Neither of us spoke. I tried to make myself get up and knew I couldn’t, not this time.

  I looked down at Matthew, who paused and looked up at me, a world of fear and unhappiness in his eyes.

  I said to him, ‘Come here,’ and held out the one arm that still worked. I kissed his hair and blinked back my own tears. Crying wasn’t going to help us now. This was all my fault. I’d allowed things to get this bad. No matter how afraid I was of my husband and my father, nothing was ever going to be worse than watching the damage being done to Matthew. I looked at the skinny, frightened little boy, straightening the kitchen, picking up the pieces, trying to put everything right all by himself and I hated myself so much. Look what my stupid cowardice had done to him. I had to get us out of here. Before it was too late for both of us.

  If we were going, then now was the time to go. Len wouldn’t be back until the small hours. We could get a long way by then. All I had to do was get us out of town. We could go north or south. Somewhere well away from John Maxwell’s influence. I had hardly any money in my handbag, but that didn’t matter. I had enough to get us to the train station. We’d get on the first train out and when they came for the tickets, I’d explain. They’d probably chuck us off at the next stop but if I was lucky, it would be a good long way away. If I was doubly lucky, then they’d call the police and maybe they could get us to some sort of shelter.

  I got to my feet, leaning heavily on the table and reached for the phone on the worktop to call for a taxi. This marriage was over. I’d given it nine years and that was nine too many. I should have turned and run as soon as I left the church. Actually, I should have turned and run before I even entered the church.