by Maggie Joel
Well, it was a wife’s prerogative to assess and, if need be, repair the damage one’s husband had got them into.
‘Cecil, I was thinking we ought to invite Jeremy Rocastle and that lovely wife of his—Jenny, is it?—over to lunch one weekend. They seem like such a nice couple.’
Beside her, Cecil had fallen silent. He walked stiffly, upright, no creases spoiling the line of his Sunday blazer, but she didn’t need to look at his face to picture the furrow between his brows that her words had invoked. One did not argue in marriage; one never created a scene. One merely forced the issue in a calm and polite fashion.
‘I don’t believe that will be possible,’ he replied and he might have been discussing the possibility of a day out at Ascot rather than an ex-employee who had absconded in the dead of night with the entire contents of the firm’s safe.
‘Really? Why not?’
Cecil paused. And no wonder—he could hardly say: because I was wrong about Rocastle. He turned out bad. We have been taken for a ride, ripped off, duped. Swindled.
‘Rocastle no longer works at Empire and Colonial.’
‘I see. And where has he gone?’
‘I am not at liberty to say.’
‘Why not? Have the police told you not to?’
They continued to walk in silence, turning left into Portchester Crescent. Many of the houses along this street were now owned by embassies—East European, Middle Eastern—and the faces that one occasionally saw at the windows were dark and bearded, sometimes in white suits or sporting strangely shaped black hats and the occasional turban. Cecil paused beside the first house and adjusted his cufflinks. They were silver, a present from her on his fortieth birthday.
‘Harriet.’
She waited.
‘I met the new nanny this morning. A Miss Corbett. She appeared to be taking Anne to church.’
Harriet neither confirmed nor denied this statement.
‘I never question your decisions,’ he continued, ‘where matters of the house or the children’s well-being are concerned.’
Ah, now she could see where this was going.
‘And by the same token I don’t expect to involve you in matters of business.’
She said nothing. It was as close to an argument as Cecil would allow himself to get, this putting his foot down, this principled stand. If he found out about the telephone call she had received on Thursday she knew he would make a fuss about that too. Well, she would not give him the opportunity.
‘All I ask, Cecil, is that you tell me if it will be in the newspapers.’
He paused. A wood-pigeon cooed loudly overhead and, further away, a small terrier yapped excitedly then fell silent.
‘I can’t say … It’s possible,’ he conceded at last. ‘But it’s poor Mrs Rocastle who will bear the brunt of it, I’m afraid. Thank God they have no children.’
They resumed walking.
‘This man, Rocastle. He reported directly to you, didn’t he?’
Cecil took a deep breath.
‘Yes, that’s so, but—’
‘So it’s inevitable that questions will be asked. That your name will be linked with this scandal. That the police will return and make enquiries—’
Cecil turned to her indignantly.
‘What are you suggesting, Harriet? This man broke into the safe and absconded with a large amount of company money—do you think I had any idea of what was he was planning? That I was aware—?’
He paused as a door opened in the basement of one of the houses and a young man in a dark suit came up the steps to the street, glancing at them as he passed.
No, she did not think he had had any idea. That was not Cecil’s way. If he had suspected he would have acted at once. He wouldn’t have been able to stop himself.
‘I shall speak to Sir Maurice this afternoon,’ Cecil said when the man had gone.
And, in his eyes, that was the matter closed. Yet the police would make enquiries; they were bound to.
‘Mother, I’ve been blessed,’ Anne announced, pausing dramatically on the stairs.
Harriet stood in the hall and regarded her younger child. She was wearing her school hat, a hideous wide-brimmed straw thing with a red ribbon that went under the chin.
‘Have you, dear?’
‘Yes, the man put his hand on my head and said “Bless you, my child” and I hadn’t even sneezed. It was terrifically funny!’
Behind Anne the new nanny appeared, tall and gaunt and her face like thunder and Harriet thought, oh they’ve been to church. And Anne had behaved—well, like Anne, by the sound of it. Harriet experienced a flash of annoyance that the new nanny—a mere girl of twenty—was standing there scowling at her daughter as though Anne had used the wrong knife at dinner.
‘Perhaps he thought you were about to sneeze,’ she suggested. ‘Was it very dusty in the church?’
Anne gave this question some thought. ‘It was a bit, I suppose. And I went out without my handkerchief, too.’
She came clattering down the remaining stairs, the nanny following two steps behind her at a more sedate pace, her face stony, but rearranging her features as she reached the bottom stair so that her face became that of an East End girl once more.
‘We’re off to the garden, Mrs Wallis,’ she announced, and it seemed like a challenge thrown down. ‘As you suggested,’ she added, as though this gave her immunity to criticism.
‘Don’t go to the garden over the road,’ Harriet instructed. ‘Take the children to Kensington Gardens, it’s better exercise for them. Take Julius with you.’
Harriet went into the drawing room and picked up yesterday’s Times and skimmed the headlines: La Bohème was playing tonight at Sadler’s Wells, there was talk of tea being de-rationed, the War Office had provided its daily list of casualties in Korea. Her eyes skipped over the page and refused to settle long enough to take in more than the headlines.
There were footsteps in the hallway and the front door opened.
‘I can walk down the steps backwards with my eyes shut!’ called Anne from outside.
‘She likes to throw stones at the squirrels, you know,’ were Julius’s parting words and a moment later the front door shut.
Downstairs in the kitchen Mrs Thompson could be heard slamming baking trays around. Cecil was at the office. He had gone straight there in a cab after their return from the Swanbridges’, though what exactly he hoped to achieve there was unclear. Harriet imagined him at his desk surrounded by his ships and an empty safe, the outer office silent and deserted, everyone at home for the weekend and his secretary, Miss James, tending her elderly mother in Rickmansworth or Norwood or wherever such people lived.
It was almost half past four. Harriet stood at the window. Athelstan Gardens was still and silent. She stood up, reaching for a scarf to cover her hair and a pair of sunglasses and, after a moment’s hesitation, her handbag. She wasn’t sure if she would need it, if she might need some money or not.
Outside the sky was clear and a pale blue; the sun was still high and she felt it slowly warm her arms. The house was cold; even on the hottest summer day its high ceilings and narrow windows were an effective defence against sunlight.
She paused on the doorstep, listening. The tinny strains of light music from Mrs Thompson’s wireless drifted up from the kitchen. Harriet pulled the front door closed behind her and went down the steps, her pumps making no sound on the stonework. Resisting the urge to pause again at the gate she lifted the latch and crossed the street. She wanted a cigarette, but one didn’t smoke in the street so she walked, head up—this was, after all, her own street. No traffic came by, no front doors opened or closed. No one appeared at their windows. It was almost eerie. She walked on the opposite side of the street along the length of the garden, the black railings and the privet hedge on her right until she reached the padlocked gate. As she eased the key into the padlock she looked over the gate into the garden beyond. An elderly couple, the Pashkints, émigrés from some
extinct Eastern European state, were seated at the bench nearest the gate, both muffled up for a Moscow winter, she with a dusty fur stole, he with a long gabardine coat, sitting side by side, silent and staring straight ahead.
Harriet entered the garden, wondering whether to wish them a good afternoon, but it was simpler not to. She walked soundlessly past them and neither looked up, only the eyes of the dead animal around Mrs Pashkint’s neck followed Harriet’s progress, an animal that had probably been killed in another century.
There were four benches in the garden, one on each side of the square of lawn. Two of the benches were empty, aside from a lone pigeon strutting importantly back and forth. The bench on the far side of the lawn was occupied by a young man in a linen suit and hat. Even from a distance one could see how tall he was. He leaned back, an arm resting along the back of the bench in a posture that seemed to want you to believe he was relaxed and unconcerned, but the arm in its pressed linen sleeve was stiff and awkward, the fingers of the hand beat a rapid tattoo on the spotted wood of the bench.
Her footsteps made a sound on the path and he looked up at once and met her eyes. His was a handsome face, clean-shaven, dark hair cut short, dark eyes and a light tan—a face she had never expected to see again, and for a moment her footsteps faltered. But only for a moment. She smiled. Moisture stood out on his forehead and upper lip and, as though aware of her gaze, he reached for a handkerchief and dabbed at his face. He looked like someone who had been sitting here a while.
‘Well, finally!’ he said by way of greeting, uncrossing his legs and standing up. ‘Do you know how long I’ve been sitting here?’
They were not the words she had anticipated and Harriet felt her smile dissolve into a frown but she embraced him anyway, clinging to him, her fingers digging into his arm, then abruptly releasing him.
‘I’ve no idea, Freddie. I didn’t tell you to come at a certain time. In fact, as I recall, I didn’t tell you to come at all.’
‘One o’clock I got here, one o’-bloody-clock!’ he complained, as though she hadn’t spoken. ‘And I was here all yesterday afternoon too. I’ve had to suffer the gaze of every child and old biddy in the district, not to mention the faecal matter of every pigeon in this part of London. It’s a wonder I haven’t been moved on or arrested. One charming young lady took her children away, obviously under the impression I was just waiting for the opportunity to expose some part of my anatomy to her young charges. Really, I’m quite fed up.’
‘Things came up expectedly yesterday. And you did just ring up out of the blue! I warned you it would be difficult—’
She could hear her voicing rising and she made herself stop. She would not cry; she had told herself she would not cry. Freddie didn’t need tears. What did he need? She couldn’t imagine. She took a deep breath.
‘—and today we went out to lunch and, really, what do you expect me to do? Invite you along?’
She sat down beside him and as Freddie made no reply to this they sat in silence and stared at the pigeons. She laughed suddenly. ‘Do you know, you sound just like Julius. That same petulant schoolboy manner.’
Freddie stirred and she regretted at once saying that.
‘Well, I wouldn’t know, would I? Haven’t seen the little blighter since he was five.’
They fell silent again.
It’s no good blaming me, Harriet thought bitterly. Wasn’t she taking enough of a risk just being seen out with him? She allowed herself a quick glance to left and right, but cautiously, not wanting Freddie to notice. At the far end of the garden the Pashkints hadn’t stirred. Just then Mr Pashkint lifted a mournful head and said something, holding his right hand out before him, palm upwards in a gesture that said, What can you do?
What could you do? Freddie was back. He had rung up out of the blue on Thursday. They had spoken briefly on the telephone, but nothing had been resolved. They had spoken about the past. And what could be resolved? Freddie couldn’t stay here.
‘You didn’t tell Cecil?’ he said suddenly and Harriet shook her head irritably.
‘No, of course not. Why on earth do you think I would tell him? Besides, there’s something going on with him. A police matter—’
Beside her Freddie stiffened.
‘No, it’s something at work. One of Cecil’s employees stole from the company and disappeared. That’s all he’s concerned about at the moment.’
Freddie settled back down again. ‘But will you tell him?’
‘I don’t see what can be gained from it.’
Freddie almost seemed to want Cecil to know he was back, as though he wanted to force things. But he didn’t know Cecil, he didn’t know what Cecil might do. Harriet did. And because of that she wasn’t going to let Freddie coerce her into anything.
‘Why did you come back, Freddie?’ she demanded and even though she could see the sudden hurt in his eyes she couldn’t hold back. After all, it was his fault, all this, not hers. He had brought it on himself. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to see you, Lord knows, but for God’s sake why didn’t you stay in Canada? You had a life there. You said you had a new life.’
Freddie said nothing. He didn’t have to. He reached over and took her hand and held it and they sat like that for a long time until Mr Pashkint had stood up and offered his wife his arm and tottered back with her through the gate and away.
Chapter Six
OCTOBER 1952
Anne was proving to a be something of a handful.
It was Monday morning. The smell of bacon wafted up from below and Mr Wallis could be heard, distantly and petulantly, complaining that there was no newspaper. The Times came some mornings but not others—for no adequately explained reason. Julius was up, Jean could hear him rummaging about in his room, flinging open doors and banging them shut again. But from Anne’s room there was silence.
‘Good morning, Anne. Oh, you still in bed? Come on, then, let’s get your things together for school.’
Jean came into the room, pulled Anne’s school uniform out of the wardrobe and handed it to her. Anne reached out to take it then withdrew her hand at the last minute so that the tunic fell to the floor.
‘I don’t want you going through my wardrobe, Nanny,’ she announced getting out of bed and flouncing over to the window.
Jean looked down at the uniform where it lay on the floor.
‘Oh. So how am I to get you ready for school then, Anne?’
‘I can get my self ready.’
‘Suit yourself. I’ll go and see if breakfast’s ready. Don’t forget your hat,’ and Jean indicated the St Lydwina’s straw hat hanging on its hook on the door. It was the third such hat Anne had had this month. The previous two were now at the bottom of the school pond and Anne was on double report with her teacher.
‘I did it on purpose,’ Anne had declared after the first incident. ‘My friend Patricia Pritchard said I was stupid because I’d done it while everyone was watching. She said they can’t get you if you do it when no one’s looking. But what’s the point of doing it when no one’s looking? She’s the one who’s stupid.’
What was the point of doing anything if no one was looking? That appeared to be Anne’s motto.
Downstairs The Times had made a miraculous, if tardy, appearance and Mr Wallis could now be heard exclaiming indignantly from the breakfast room. As Jean passed the door, Mrs Wallis looked up from her cup of coffee and saw her.
‘Nanny, where’s Anne got to? Her father will be leaving for the office soon and she must come and say goodbye.’
‘She’s coming down directly,’ replied Jean, though Anne had indicated no intention to do any such thing. It was strange, this insistence on saying goodbye to their father each morning, the three of them—Anne, Julius and Mrs Wallis—lined up at the front door as though Mr Wallis were going off to war rather than simply catching the Piccadilly Line to Holborn.
‘Oh. Goodfellow’s resigned,’ she heard Mr Wallis remark. ‘Harriet, your old school chum Daphne’s hus
band has resigned from the Ministry, ‘… in order’, it says here, ‘to concentrate on his electorate’. Wonder what that means?’
‘Anne, come and say goodbye to your father,’ Jean called up the stairs and, getting no response, went back up to the girl’s room.
‘I said goodbye to him last night,’ replied Anne and she got out of bed and wandered over to the window. ‘Father prefers it that way.’
There was silence while Jean attempted to make sense of this. She decided Anne was just being difficult.
Downstairs the front door slammed shut and a moment later they could hear the smart click of Mr Wallis’s shoes on the front steps.
‘Anyway, it’s too late, Daddy’s already left,’ Anne pointed out, gazing down at the street below where Mr Wallis’s rapidly retreating figure could be seen.
‘Well. It’s high time we got ready for school,’ Jean countered, feeling that she had somehow been out-played by the child.
‘We? Oh, are you coming too, Nanny?’ Before Jean could reply to this Anne returned to her bed and sat down heavily, placing a weak hand to her forehead. ‘Anyway, I shan’t be able to go to school today, I’m afraid, as I don’t feel well.’
Jean was about to reply that Anne was clearly well enough to get up out of bed and go and stand by the window, but stopped herself. What would a nanny do in such a situation?
‘Oh poor lamb,’ she said. ‘Yes, you do look a little poorly. Let me get you into bed,’ and Anne submitted to having her forehead felt and a thermometer placed beneath her tongue, lying perfectly still until Jean had removed the thermometer and studied it for a while with narrowed eyes, holding it up to the light and twisting it this way and that.