Nightingale

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, glad to have a steady voice. ‘Just taking some air for a headache.’

  ‘This cold will make it worse, miss. Head home, they’re saying more snow is on the way. I’m lucky, I live upstairs with my stock,’ she smiled with a shrug, ‘but your outfit is not stout enough to withstand the night weather.’

  She nodded with a sad smile and one of the Burlington’s Beadles now approached. He’d obviously been watching her from his armchair positioned at the end of the arcade. She knew his job was to ensure the peace and calm was kept within the arcade; Beadles had been patrolling the arcade since it had first been built by Lord Cavendish.

  The beadle waddled closer in his gold braided uniform and Claire could hear the squeak of his polished boots on the tiled floor.

  ‘Miss . . . are you well?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

  ‘It’s just you’ve been standing there awhile and we’re locking up now. The millinery shop is the last to close. Everyone else has gone for the night.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, I’m so sorry. I was walking off a headache,’ she lied again and then ridiculously began to cry. She wished he hadn’t possessed such an open face and kind voice or she might have got away without the tears. Sympathy only made her feel worse.

  ‘Oh, come now, miss. There, there. It can’t be that bad, surely?’

  ‘It is,’ she muttered, sniffing. ‘Forgive me.’

  ‘Nothing to forgive, miss. I’ve got myself two daughters and a wife and I’ve learned over the years that every girl needs a good cry now and then.’

  His generosity helped and she sniffed back the tears as she looked at her watch. ‘Thank you. I see I have really lost track of the time.’

  ‘Have you got far to go?’

  ‘Radlett.’

  ‘Far enough.’

  She nodded. ‘So I’d better get started,’ she said, discovering only now that her fingers and toes were losing feeling and her nose was already numb. It would be deep night before she got back to Radlett, if she could get back easily.

  ‘I don’t think you should make that journey this evening, miss, if you don’t mind me saying so.’ He was too loudly echoing her concerns. ‘I think you should stay overnight in London.’

  ‘But I have nowhere to stay.’ Her mind began to race towards hotels, lodging rooms, but which one? She probably had enough money to cover it, she decided.

  ‘Well, as it happens, we have a tiny room that we use for storage and making cups of tea when we’re on a break. It’s modest but it’s just upstairs and it’s got a heater and light, and a very comfy armchair. If you just need a place to put your head down, it’s safe and secure. No one will bother you.’

  ‘Mr . . .?’

  ‘Jackson. Call me Percy, though. And before you ask why, I’ll tell you it’s because I do have daughters and one must be your age and I wouldn’t let her walk off into the night alone so I can’t, in all good conscience, let you do it either.’

  ‘Mr Jackson, I really —’

  ‘Percy,’ he insisted.

  She smiled.

  ‘Please,’ he encouraged. ‘You seem upset and everything always looks better in the morning.’ He pulled out his watch hanging on a chain at his belly. ‘Look at that, it’s gone six, all the trains will be slowing now so you could be waiting on a chilly platform for hours.’

  ‘That’s true.’ She couldn’t believe she was about to accept his offer but she was exhausted and needed somewhere quiet to reflect. The thought of returning to Eugenie in her current state was unpalatable. She needed to be strong now, especially for Eugenie . . . a night to gather up the pain and put it away for good was a helpful plan. ‘Are you quite sure about this?’

  ‘I am, miss. And it would make me happier to know you’re secure and warm.’

  ‘Then thank you.’

  Percy took the extra precaution of asking the milliner to accompany him when he showed Claire to the room. She gladly did so, still tutting about her fancy clothes being inappropriate for the cold evening. Claire didn’t feel like explaining so she went along with it and allowed them to fuss, even accepting some soup and bread.

  ‘You’re very kind. How can I repay this?’

  They both waved away her gratitude and then they were gone. She was alone with a cup of beefy broth, a slice of thinly buttered bread, a small apple and her thoughts. She sipped the broth gratefully, appreciating only now that she had not eaten since the previous evening. She had been too nervous this morning and all she had in her belly was the single gulp of tea from the Langham. Claire began to feel better for the food as she munched her apple and considered her situation.

  ‘It’s time to let him be,’ she whispered aloud.

  26

  Once again Claire stood at the end of Loom Lane. Fresh snowfall had turned it into a fairytale landscape, with even the hedges iced with a sparkling frost that crunched underfoot. Mercifully it wasn’t nearly deep enough to trouble her steps and if Claire were honest, she couldn’t feel the cold right now.

  She had dozed fitfully, and welcomed the chance to get busy and ready herself to travel again by rising before dawn and taking time with making herself presentable. She didn’t bother with even lighting a fire, not planning to be around long enough to coax the embers back to life and enjoy the results. Because she’d rested sitting up, her hair was still in place and her eyes, though a little bruised, brightened with the splash of freezing water. She pulled on her coat, hat and gloves and was slipping out the door and down the back entrance as day broke. The chorus of birds sang chirpily but they couldn’t lift her spirits. She waved back at the rubbish collectors and early workers who lifted their caps to the elegant young woman hurrying towards the Piccadilly Tube Station but she was pretending at cheerfulness simply out of politeness.

  She’d forced herself to sit in the station refreshment rooms and had ordered a steaming pot of tea and some toast with butter and jam, impatiently chewing and sipping, while she waited for the first train to leave Paddington for Radlett. And now finally she was here, glad of her enforced overnight in London to gather her wits and feel strong enough to face the journey to Eugenie and whatever else came beyond that.

  A golden-headed bird flitted past and settled on a nearby branch. She instantly recognised the tiniest of the winter songbirds, the goldcrest, and she knew from the warbling that this was a male and that he was busy foraging. His miniature presence, up against all the odds of a harsh winter, prey to larger birds, always on the move for food, usually a dozen hatchlings to worry about with his mate, strengthened her resolve further. If he could survive, she could . . . no, she would.

  She didn’t have far to walk up the lane until she was facing the familiar gate and, without pausing or taking a breath, she marched up to the door and knocked. She gave a final promise to herself that today was the first day of a new life. She was going to embrace and enjoy whatever time she had left with Eugenie.

  It opened and there was Joy, a look of surprised relief ghosting beneath her otherwise controlled expression. And before Joy could speak, Claire hugged her; it helped to stop her tearing up.

  ‘I’m sorry about yesterday. I know I would have worried Eugenie, I should have called; I decided to overnight and it’s a long story why and where but I’ll explain everything shortly. I’m just glad to be back. Is she upstairs or . . .’

  ‘She’s outside,’ Joy murmured, as if stunned by the gushing tumble of words that had barged in with the cold.

  ‘Thanks, Joy, I’ll find her.’

  ‘Er, Claire . . .?’

  But Claire was already moving out of earshot, keen to take a deep breath, dab away the damp in her eyes and to hug Eugenie, tell her sorry tale and try not to cry all over again. She hurried out onto the patio but, discovering it empty, turned to look down the garden where she saw the familiar, rugged-up shape of her closest friend sitting in her wheelchair, facing away from the house.

  Claire steeled herself to not show her
ragged emotions in her expression, and moved down the stairs, careful of the melting frost, and across crunchy grass until she crouched by Eugenie’s side.

  ‘Eugenie,’ she began and watched her elder’s pale, tired expression ignite.

  ‘Oh my dear,’ she said, breathlessly weak. ‘My darling, Claire. You had us so worried . . .’ Her eyes glistened with tears of delight.

  ‘I’m so sorry. Yesterday was —’

  ‘Don’t be sorry. I heard. I’m just so happy I got to see you one more time.’

  Claire wasn’t really paying attention, just glad to know she hadn’t broken down at the sight of her dear friend. But she had heard the last three words. ‘What do you mean, “One more time”?’

  ‘Time ticks away, dearest, and I fear the clock sounds my bell.’

  ‘No!’ she said firmly, yet her nursing instincts were already confirming the worst. Eugenie was dying and it was happening now, so much sooner than she’d imagined . . . in these unbearably fragile moments of crystallised grass, the songs of finches, the first peeping colour of croci. Eugenie would not see spring’s full burst. These were her final heartbeats – how many? Twenty more? Fifty, maybe even one thousand? Even if it was as many as a thousand, Claire calculated that was barely a quarter hour more of life. She had only just made it back in time. She knew she should begin to fuss about getting Eugenie back into the warmth, into bed, even, but she knew it would serve no purpose and in truth when the time came she too would prefer to leave life on a beautiful spring day like today, seated outside, appreciating nature’s moment of rebirth, knowing that life goes on after death. Yes, she would leave Eugenie be.

  Eugenie seemed to understand her private decision and gave Claire a smile of such radiance it made Claire hold her breath for what was coming. Eugenie began to speak haltingly but with clear delight. ‘I did say that I hoped yours would be the last face I saw before I left to join my Eddie, but now I have another face – less familiar – but one that nonetheless brings immense pleasure to my farewell.’

  Claire wondered if Eugenie was beginning to get lost in her thoughts as she slipped away. It didn’t really matter what she was saying – this was goodbye and she’d seen it happen so many times previously. Rather than allow herself to feel maudlin, she let a thrill of happiness wash over her to look at Eugenie’s serene smile as she moved closer to her beloved Edward. And the truth, she decided in that moment, was that Eugenie didn’t need to know what happened yesterday: Let her slip away without hearing your sorrows. Yet, even as she thought this, something wasn’t adding up. She hadn’t been paying attention but her hearing was sharp. What had Eugenie meant when she said ‘I heard’? Heard what? How? And from whom? How could she know anything of what happened yesterday?

  Claire’s questions died in her throat and her expression leapt from quizzical to astonishment to hear a man’s voice sounding from the small, hidden orchard at the bottom of Eugenie’s extensive garden. It was an orchard of plums, pears and apples – all of them now in flower and some of the beautiful ivory Farleigh damson petals fluttered ahead of him on the April wind as he approached.

  ‘Strike me, Mrs Lester, you’re right! It’s going to be perfect for it,’ she heard him say.

  The voice was beautiful and achingly familiar. Its Australian twang was unmistakable and when its owner broke cover from around the hedge that hid the orchard, with blossom drifting around him and settling on his hair, it seemed to Claire that she was seeing an apparition. She couldn’t say anything because she couldn’t breathe in that tight-chested moment when it felt as though even her blood had ceased moving as her heart seemed to trip and stutter to a stop.

  James Wren limped from beneath the shade of the trees, using a crutch awkwardly to balance on the good leg; his other was obviously injured but whole, possibly bandaged beneath his baggy uniform. She noted now that the opposite arm’s jacket sleeve was tucked into a pocket to prevent it flapping. She took this all in with a single, speechless glance.

  He had been looking down, carefully choosing where to place his next step in the strange, slow, hopping hobble he’d adopted. But when he looked up and saw her, she watched him lose his balance and if not for a handy tree trunk to fall against, he would have toppled sideways to the hard ground.

  ‘Claire,’ he murmured in a choked whisper.

  She still couldn’t speak. But she heard a deep and delighted chuckle from Eugenie, still alert, still clinging to life. ‘I told you to believe, dear one. There he is. Your Jamie Wren. Rush to him. And tell him all that’s in your heart.’

  And she was moving, propelled by Eugenie’s words, powered by shocked delight, moving on a heavenly air for she could not feel the ground, had no ability to judge the distance between leaping to action and throwing herself into the embrace of Jamie’s one good arm. He’d already flung aside the crutch, relying on the tree to fully support him as he gathered her to him.

  She couldn’t hear, couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. All she could do was feel the solidity and reality of his presence. She could smell the shaving soap still clinging to his neck where she nestled and wept without shame.

  ‘Claire, I’m sorry. I couldn’t —’

  She swallowed, needed to find her voice, which sounded only a pathetic whimpering.

  He kept trying to explain. ‘I couldn’t get to you yesterday. The snow, the train, my legs wouldn’t move me fast enough . . .’

  She finally felt as though she had control of her speech again. ‘How are you here?’

  ‘A bloke called Rifki.’

  If he’d asked her to guess, she would have said a hundred names before that one. ‘Rifki Shahin, Açar’s father?’ Her voice shook but so was her whole body trembling from the shock of seeing him here.

  He nodded, searching her face. ‘He told me where to find you. He remembered you mentioning Eugenie in Radlett. And I remembered Loom Lane.’

  She took a moment or two to grasp this. ‘Wait . . . wait, but where did you see him?’

  ‘He was at the Langham Hotel, taking afternoon tea, waiting for a colleague . . . And then I arrived.’

  She didn’t trust herself to say too much; she needed time to examine these facts. Rifki in London? At the Palm Court on the same day, at the precise time of her rendezvous with Jamie? ‘I wish he’d said hello,’ was all she could think to say.

  ‘Odd that he didn’t. He seems fond of you.’

  The understatement in his careful words was unmistakable. Jamie knew. She didn’t know how, but he knew that Rifki had come for her; there was no other explanation. However, he was looking at her with only love and suddenly nothing else in the whole world mattered more than holding Jamie.

  Joy had arrived and Claire didn’t know if she was more surprised to be in the arms of Jamie again or to see such a genuinely thrilled smile.

  Joy took up the story. ‘As soon as Mr Wren called the house, Mrs Lester sent Mr Cartwright to pick him up in his Bentley. I’m sure she called in all her favours.’

  Eugenie wheezed a struggling breath.

  Claire straightened to look at Jamie again; the glow from his green-brown eyes, like the orchard he’d emerged from, warmed her soul and she didn’t believe she could ever be cold again as long as Jamie was near.

  ‘I didn’t mean not to trust you. Every way I turned I thought I’d lost you.’

  ‘I know,’ he soothed. ‘Wrong soldier, right unit, similar name . . . communications were dire in the desert and it was hard to keep track of the fallen,’ he said, glancing at the empty sleeve.

  ‘How could they get it so wrong?’

  ‘Mine’s not the first or last mix-up.’

  ‘Claire . . .’ It was Eugenie and her voice was choked. ‘Come, both of you . . . please.’

  Claire picked up Jamie’s crudely made crutch, ensured he was steady again and together they limped the short distance to their friend. Joy pulled a nearby garden chair across so that Jamie could be seated and then Claire moved to crouch beside her dying elder.
The questions of failed communications and wrong details could be asked later.

  ‘Ah, look at you both,’ Eugenie said, mainly to Jamie. ‘I don’t think I could be happier than in this moment to see Claire reunited with you,’ she said in a hard-won, whispering voice.

  ‘Thank you again for bringing me here,’ Jamie said, taking Eugenie’s now very skeletal and suddenly tiny hand. She pulled his to her chest where her heart worked hard to keep her alive for a few moments longer.

  ‘Love her forever, James Wren.’

  Claire watched him nod with misted eyes before she saw Eugenie turn with difficulty to focus a drifting gaze on her. Helplessly, she reached for Eugenie’s other hand and kissed it as Eugenie continued. ‘And you, my girl; he has fought for you, stayed alive for you. He is here now and needs your care and your cherishing.’ Eugenie found some final reserve of strength to pull Claire’s hand to her chest and cover Jamie’s with it.

  Claire knew they both felt it in the same moment like a charge of lightning passing through them; it was a repeat of the scene of Spud’s death, both of them connected over the failing heart of someone whom one of them loved. This time it was Claire’s turn, although she suspected that Jamie’s fondness for Eugenie was already well established.

  ‘Marry each other. The vicar is waiting. Joy has agreed to witness, so will Bertie Cartwright. Don’t hesitate over me; be married in the orchard as we planned, Jamie, with the happiness of blossom and all of its significance of new life and fecundity.’ Her expression brightened again from intense to a relaxed, resigned grin. ‘It’s time, my darlings,’ she whispered. ‘I’m tired, but oh so happy.’ She looked at Jamie and nodded.

  He glanced at Claire but leaned forward to murmur, ‘Godspeed,’ at Eugenie’s ear and kissed her hollow cheek.

  And she turned once more to Claire with affection. ‘Don’t grieve, Claire dear, because I am feeling unburdened and curiously joyous. I want to rush to Edward now – I’m choosing to. So no tears on my account, lovely girl, I’ve had a wonderful and long life.’