The Gate of Angels

by Penelope Fitzgerald

  ‘I’ll go and see another editor,’ said Daisy, getting to her feet. ‘You’re ten a penny the other side of the river. There’s plenty of weeklies in south London.’

  ‘You’re in trouble,’ said Kelly. ‘You weren’t very sensible to come here.’ She hadn’t been asked, when she first came in, to take off her coat, and that was a godsend when it came to getting out of the place. On the staircase she passed the office boy coming back from the post. They could barely squeeze past each other. The boy looked at her, and asked her if she felt all right. She said that she did.

  In 1911 the Aerated Bread Company provided a Ladies’ Room on the first floor of their tea-shops. It was one of London’s first acknowledgements of the fact that there were now a multitude of women workers who wanted to sit down in peace and spend the money which they had earned, if only on a piece of toast. If there wasn’t time for the ABC you had to go to a tea-and-coffee stall, and Daisy stopped at one she knew pretty well, near the car park in the next street but one. As she took out her purse to find the money, someone moved up behind her and put a penny down on the stall’s counter to pay for her before she had time to do it. His penny was underneath her penny. It was the editor of the Blackfriars, Vauxhall and Temple Gazette. Standing there in the dingy vanity of his billycock hat and checked suit he said: ‘You’re going the wrong way for Southwark.’

  ‘I’m not going there,’ she said. ‘You know that.’

  ‘I’ll walk along with you a bit. I’m not sure that you saw me at my best in the office.’

  ‘I don’t know what your best is,’ said Daisy. ‘Is that why you went and came after me?’

  ‘Something riled me,’ he admitted. ‘We don’t often get a young woman in by herself.’

  ‘Have you left that poor Mr Sweedon to do the lot, then?’

  ‘There’s not all that much to do, just the pasting up. Two to one he’s gone out for a wet. I’d sack him if I wasn’t a generous soul.’

  ‘Does that paper belong to you, then?’

  ‘Give her another tea,’ Kelly told the stallholder.—‘No, it’s owned by the printers.’

  ‘Then they’re the generous souls,’ said Daisy. ‘I don’t want any more, thanks.’

  They were walking together across the Blackfriars Bridge, where the din of the horse-traffic was louder than the motorbuses. ‘You’re irritating me,’ Kelly persisted. ‘All I asked you was what you thought of me.’

  ‘I’d like you to tell me something first. When I came in, why couldn’t you give me a straight answer to a straight question?’

  ‘It’s a habit I’ve got into,’ said Kelly, ‘and I felt it would be a kindness to you to put you in your place.’

  ‘Well, all I thought was: I’m sorry for that man, if he’s like that now, what’ll he be in ten years’ time?’

  ‘Ten years’ time, I can tell you that,’ Kelly said sourly. ‘I’ll be dead.’

  ‘What makes you think that? You look well enough.’

  ‘I’ll have to go and be shot, though, if the cousins don’t stop quarrelling. I’m a Territorial.’ She stared at him. ‘Didn’t you know the King had a German cousin?’

  ‘I don’t read the papers much,’ said Daisy.

  He had her by the elbow. A passer-by might have taken them for friends. ‘Don’t hold me so tight,’ said Daisy. ‘I bruise easy.’ She stopped at a point where a sooty building was divided from the pavement by iron railings and a few feet of stone flags covered with bird droppings. ‘I’m going in here,’ she said.

  ‘You can’t go in there, that’s a church!’

  ‘Well, I’m going in there.’

  ‘Whatever for?’ he cried out. ‘If you want to get rid of me, surely there’s easier ways of doing it.’

  ‘What’s wrong with going into a church?’ asked Daisy.

  ‘You can’t believe all that,’ Kelly shouted in real distress. ‘All that’s made up to keep you quiet, and they collect your money on top of it. A smart girl like you, a nurse, that knows what’s what, you can’t believe there’s a God up there keeping a list of everything you do. You can’t believe there was a Jesus who went about turning loaves into fishes.’ He took off his hat, put his cigarette behind his ear and followed her through the main door and the green baize doors set at a right-angle inside. The candles had been lit for evensong. ‘Nothing they do in here is of any perishing use,’ said Kelly in a hoarse whisper. ‘I don’t give a Friar Tuck for anything they do in here.’

  ‘You don’t have to whisper,’ said Daisy. ‘Just talk quiet.’

  A sacristan came out of the vestry and opened a door in one of the pillars, an imitation, built in 1876, of the columns of San Miniato. There was a cupboard inside from which he took a broom, a dustpan and a brush, and began to sweep up the nave.

  ‘That’s the kind of thing I mean!’ Kelly cried angrily, and then turned on her. ‘You’re not religious anyway. You’re a liar.’

  13

  Daisy Leaves London

  When Daisy got back to the hospital (she was on duty at six) she found that the screens had been taken away from No. 23 in Alexandra Ward. During the afternoon James Elder had been discharged. A middle-aged woman, giving the name of Floreen Harris, had called round, spoken to the medical officer on duty and the secretary, signed the necessary papers and taken Elder away in a cab.

  The day after next, a Friday, the Blackfriars, Vauxhall and Temple Gazette printed a headline on its local news page: MYSTERY OF ‘MINISTERING ANGEL’. The paragraph beneath it spoke of James Elder, of no known address, at present lying at the point of death in the Blackfriars Hospital. His story had been related exclusively to the Gazette by a charming informant, whose interest in the unfortunate man had been evident in spite of her attempts to conceal her agitation, giving rise to the suspicion that she was a member of the nursing staff at the hospital. Throughout the interview, the paragraph continued, she had remained closely veiled.

  When Daisy was sent for to Matron’s office the Gazette was lying open on the desk, so that she could read, upside down, MYSTERY OF ‘MINISTERING ANGEL’. When Matron turned the paper round, she was able, at sickening speed, to read the rest of the paragraph.

  ‘Well, Saunders?’

  ‘I never thought he’d do that!’

  ‘I don’t quite follow you. You don’t deny that you gave information about a patient—one for whom you had a special responsibility, but that is not the point at issue—you gave information about him to a newspaper. Now you tell me that you didn’t expect it to be printed.’

  ‘I did at first. Then I didn’t. I went to the office. I wasn’t closely veiled, I hadn’t a veil on at all.’

  ‘Why did you go there, Saunders?’

  ‘I thought it would be of benefit to the patient if he could see something about himself in the paper.’

  ‘You thought you were carrying out the doctor’s orders?’

  ‘No, Matron.’

  ‘Did he give you special instructions of this kind?’

  ‘No, Matron, he didn’t.’

  ‘You have been trained at this hospital for nearly two years to think, but not to think that you know best. You were doing, from all reports, very well. However, your training has failed. Why was that?’

  It was made clear that she must leave by Monday week. This was a concession, because it was known that Daisy had no home to go to. Kate Smith and some of the eighteen other second-year probationers—but not all of them, some were cautious—bought a leaving present for her. There was not much time, and they had to settle for a travelling salt-and-pepper set, said to be new china, and decorated with a view of the coronation of George V. Daisy was grateful. Disgrace contaminates, even though it makes everyone else feel a little safer.

  When she went to hand back her uniform and apron to stores, she was told that someone from the kitchens wanted to see her before she left.

  It was a dark little woman, bundled into a sacking apron. ‘You remember me. I am Mrs Martinez. They don’t let me
be a nurse. I took employment here in the kitchens.’

  ‘How is the baby, Mrs Martinez?’

  ‘Always asking for you.’ This seemed unlikely. ‘I still have your two shilling. I didn’t ask you for it because I was poor. I asked because you never forget anyone who borrows money from you and I don’t want you to forget me.’

  ‘I’d sooner everyone forgot me,’ said Daisy, kissing Mrs Martinez, who asked where she was going.

  ‘I’m going to Cambridge. It’s not much of a chance, but I can’t think of anything else to do. Dr Sage has a private hospital quite near Cambridge. He’s there when he’s not here, that’s Wednesday and Saturdays. I got his address from Admissions. I am going to take a day return to Cambridge and ask if he’ll see me.’

  ‘Oh, but he is very mad,’ said Mrs Martinez. ‘One day he flung the beef-tea.’

  ‘You go back to the kitchen, my dear. Don’t get caught on this floor.’

  ‘You know best,’ said Mrs Martinez.

  The best way to go to Cambridge was from King’s Cross. Daisy went from Liverpool Street, which worked out cheaper. She had hardly ever been out of London. She and her mother never went to see the house at Hastings—all that was left to the solicitor, although if she’d been nineteen then, as she very nearly was now, she would have acted different. Twice she’d been on a school outing to the seaside. Once, at Southend, they’d stayed late, and gone out on the water in boats with Japanese lanterns. The lights and the colours, brilliant yellow and red, were reflected in the dark slap and wash of the sea. The Boys’ Brigade played from the shore. The music travelled across the water as though it was going to settle there.

  As she went to buy her ticket in soot-blackened Liverpool Street station she thought, suppose it happens again. The old trick, the old game. Never look back. Someone touched her, and a hand covered her half-crown with another half-crown. ‘Lord, it can’t be Kelly again,’ she said, still not turning round. ‘You’ve fooled yourself this time. I’m going out of town.’

  ‘I know you are,’ said Kelly. ‘You’re going to Cambridge. I told you I had someone in the kitchens at the Blackfriars who tipped me the wink.’

  ‘I don’t think you mentioned the kitchens,’ said Daisy. She took her ticket and turned away. ‘I suppose there’s someone who wants to earn a bit extra there, like all the rest of us.’

  ‘I’m coming with you to Cambridge,’ said Kelly, walking after her, heel and toe, like a music-hall comic. ‘Do you know the town well?’

  ‘I don’t know it at all,’ said Daisy.

  ‘Well, I’ll watch out and see as you come to no harm.’

  ‘That’s the reason, is it?’

  Liverpool Street was still lit by gas, and in the greenish light Kelly looked seedy and worn at the edges—how old was he?—but he felt the obligation to be jaunty still.

  ‘No, I’m coming because I’m eaten up with remorse at putting you out of a job. I didn’t write that piece, by the way, Sweedon did.’

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘No, Sweedon can’t write anything. He can’t hardly write his own pawn-tickets. I wrote it—had style, didn’t it? Where’s your box?’

  ‘It’s in the Left Luggage. If Dr Sage gives me a berth, I shall tell the railway to send it on. Stand out of my way now, Kelly, my train’s going in five minutes.’

  ‘Women always think the train’s going in five minutes. Trains start according to the time-table.’

  Daisy looked him up and down.

  He added, not at all as if he had never said it before, ‘I know a hotel in Cambridge, quite near the station.’

  ‘Where they don’t ask questions, and if they did, they’d ask me, “What can you be thinking of coming here with that little runt?”’

  Kelly looked stung. Then he recovered and said: ‘It’ll be your first time, won’t it?’—Daisy said, ‘I suppose when I came to the office like that you thought I looked easy.’—Kelly said, ‘I thought you were in an awkward fix. I wasn’t surprised that a hospital nurse should be after the patients. What else do they go into it for? But I thought you must be more than ordinary fond of men if you was going to risk losing your job on account of this James Elder.’—‘I didn’t mean to lose it,’ said Daisy. ‘I love nursing.’—‘You need a man, though,’ said Kelly. ‘I mean a man of some kind. That’s what I am, dearie, a man of some kind. I’ll look after you, Daisy Saunders. I won’t marry you, that’s not my style, apart from being married already, but I’ll look after you, I give you my dicky-bird.’—‘You mean you’ll pay for one night at a hotel that don’t ask no questions,’ said Daisy, whose eyes were full of tears.

  ‘Two nights, Daisy, three nights. You want to get used to it. What else can you do? I can’t see there’s anyone else wants you. I want you, though, Daisy Saunders. It’s nothing. You just want to take a couple of whiskies.’

  ‘I don’t drink,’ said Daisy.

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘No,’ Daisy answered. ‘I never had a whisky, though.’

  She felt pity for them both.

  ‘You’d better come, I suppose,’ she said. ‘I don’t expect you know Cambridge any better than I do, but I don’t see as I can stop you.’

  He put his arm round her waist, fingering her. What a pair we make, she thought. He doesn’t deserve any better, no more do I.

  PART THREE

  14

  No Mystery about Daisy’s Movements

  Fred put the two sheets of writing paper with a small collection of other unposted beginnings of letters to Dear Miss Saunders which he couldn’t bring himself to throw away from a conviction—something stronger, anyway, than a superstition—that was quite at odds with his rational self. This conviction was that if he destroyed his earlier efforts he would destroy, at the same time, his chance of finishing one at all. Yet the contents of the letters were already decided. He could have finished the first one, he could have finished any of them at any time. After seeing Daisy at close quarters for let us say half an hour—though perhaps with not very clear vision—and having, he thought, addressed nine remarks to her and had eight answers—those he could still repeat word for word—he knew that he must marry her. There was, from that point of view, nothing more to say.

  It must be spoken about as soon as possible to Professor Flowerdew. The Professor hadn’t expressed any sympathy or indeed made any comment about Fred’s accident, because he had never heard anything about it. He had been in Vienna, and had missed the first few days of term. He knew nothing of his young assistant’s fall. He was, however, in a state of distress. This, Fred knew, had been caused by the growing invasion of physics by the pernicious notion of mass. The conservation of mass, it seemed, was to be taken as a principle, along with the constancy of matter. But Flowerdew didn’t believe that mass was indestructible, or matter either, and where, he asked, was mass anyway? A crude notion of substance was slipping (or being slipped) unnoticed into science, proving itself constantly insufficient, and always under the necessity of being reduced to smaller and smaller particles. And once again the professor urged upon Fred that to base one’s calculations on unobservables—such as God, such as the soul, such as the atom, such as the elementary particle—was nothing more than a comforting weakness. ‘I don’t deny that all human beings need comfort. But scientists should not indulge themselves on quite this scale.’

  At the same time Flowerdew reproached himself because his assistant had not yet started upon his own programme of research, or even settled what it was to be. It was scarcely the moment, then, for Fred to tell him that it would be necessary, for reasons which were at the same time physical and spiritual, for him to resign his appointment at Angels.

  I cannot live without Daisy, Fred thought. There is no God, no spiritual authority, no design, there are no causes and no effects—there is no purpose in the universe, but if there were, it could be shown that there was an intention, throughout recorded and unrecorded time, to give me Daisy.

  A week later (the
week during which he had debated at the Disobligers’ Society), the porter told Fred that a Mr Wrayburn was in the house and wanted to see him. Fred found Wrayburn in the normal costume of a scholar off duty—tweed knickerbockers and a stiff collar—but agitated, and trembling a little. The work which he did for Dr Matthews—providing occasional notes on the notes on the supplementary and possibly forged manuscripts of the apocalyptic gospels—must, of course, be taxing.

  ‘It’s a somewhat delicate matter, Fairly.’

  Wrayburn seemed to want to go neither in nor out, so, as there was no-one for the moment in the court, the two of them began to walk round the walnut tree.

  ‘Well, perhaps “delicate” is not the right word,’ said Wrayburn. ‘I’m hardly a judge of whether it’s delicate or not.’

  He fell silent, so Fred said, ‘Is it to do with Dr Matthews?’

  Immediately, like a slot-machine, Wrayburn wheezed and clattered into a stream of words. ‘It has nothing whatever to do with Dr Matthews, and even if I felt tempted to do so, you can hardly imagine that I should confide in someone so much younger than myself, a mere acquaintance, and a man who knows nothing, and less than nothing, about palaeography. I do, however, want to say that because of the minute nature of my work, necessitating long stretches of concentration, I am perhaps more easily surprised, and more easily upset, than most people. I’m not talking, Fairly, about your accident often days ago. But yes, I admit, this has been a surprise to me.’

  ‘What has?’ asked Fred. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I don’t say that it was impossibly late, I suppose it may have been about a quarter or twenty past nine. She was the only person I ever remember arriving at our house on a laundry-van. It appears that she asked for a lift at the station. But then, there had been no suggestion of her coming back at all.’