When Shadows Fall

by Paul Reid

  After a quick bath in the tub, he filled the washbasin, worked up a lather, and applied the straight razor to his cheeks. Watching himself in the mirror, he clipped his moustache and waxed the tips, subtly so, seeking the look of a young General Haig rather than a bellicose Lord Cardigan. Lastly he ran pomade through his hair—sleek and golden, he knew it was his best feature.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Come,” he allowed.

  The door was pushed open, and through the wash-screen he heard a timid female voice say, “Begging your pardon, sir, but I have the shirts and slacks you wanted pressed.”

  “Oh, that was jolly fast.” He towelled off his face and under his armpits. “Leave them on the bed, please. And there is a young lady staying in room sixty-four down the corridor––will you enquire as to anything she might need?”

  “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

  Once the maid had left, he slapped cologne around his face and neck, tamed a few stray locks of hair, and belted the beige trousers round his waist. Bare chested, he went to the window and opened the curtains fully.

  London.

  The heart of the empire. Her very pulse resounded beneath his feet.

  He gazed awhile at the serene parkland scene, the palace and the bandstand and the fine carriages of the aristocracy riding up Route du Roi, or “Rotten Row” as it had since been corrupted by more unappreciative Londoners. He remembered childhood outings here. His mother’s picnics where his father sat awkwardly on the grass, gruffly denouncing passing youths as dandies.

  Near Apsley House, James had seen a statue by Westmacott of the Duke of Wellington and his brave companions in arms. An Irishman, the Duke of Wellington. But the hero of Britannia. A sorely reluctant Irishman, he’d once said that being born in a stable does not make a man a horse.

  Ireland. James wanted to forget that place right now. But yet Ireland had produced wonders besides Wellington.

  His mind moved once more to her.

  His family would love Tara, he had no doubt. Even his snobbish sisters, wives of doctors and lawyers. Even his cantankerous old father.

  Sure, Tara was common Irish born. Sure, she was a Catholic. But she was of sweet and strong disposition, the kind of character that every decent Englishwoman should be made of. And she was brave. She had weathered tragedy; she had turned herself away from the destruction of her Irish brethren in the hope that she might better her country. Brave beyond her years.

  Once again James knew, as he had always known, that not all the Irish were bad.

  If only she could understand how I feel.

  He checked his watch. Half-past twelve. Lunch soon. He’d give her another few minutes then walk down the hallway and politely knock.

  London.

  She will have happy memories of this place, he vowed. Of me. Of us. Memories we will recall years from now.

  Far too Edwardian, no doubt.

  Tara’s skirt was long, covering her ankles, and the shirtwaist had a high buttoned border with a lace collar. The fashionable ladies of London would probably titter in scorn once they saw her.

  Yet she was a secretary, attending luncheon with her superior, and sensibility was the order of the day. Sensible or not, the outfit of soft white cotton nonetheless gave her some secret pleasure with its neat silhouette fitting, emphasising her narrow waist and generous bosom, and she complemented it with jade gypsy earrings and a silver pendant round her neck. Two pounds five shillings the lot had cost at a huckster’s stall when she’d initially arrived in Dublin, a lost and traumatised country girl. And she liked her clothes. The London ladies could sneer all they wanted.

  He knocked again, the third time now.

  “I’m coming,” she called, for the third time.

  Her camisole and drawers were new, and almost comfortable. She had to fidget a moment, kneading everything out. Then she glanced in the mirror and smiled.

  Mother, you should see me now. I wish you could.

  A fourth knock, louder this time. Tara undid the bolt. “Mr. Bryant, I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.”

  “It was worth it.” His face creased into a smile. “My goodness, you look . . . ”

  Hopefully that was a compliment. She felt a little less awkward. “Thank you. Um, where are we going?”

  “Lunch, I told you.”

  “I know, but after—should I bring writing material for the meetings?”

  He laughed. “Tara, goodness, no meetings today. Just London. And you won’t be attending the meetings anyway. That’s my job.”

  “It is?” She was confused. “But why am I here? I thought you said I was to be your secretary.”

  “And you will. The clerk’s notes of the meetings will be given to you, and you’ll transcribe and correlate them for me, for Dublin. Something of a housekeeper, only without any dirty linen.” He laughed again. “So, shall we go?”

  A cab arrived to collect them. The Cockney driver had something of a piratical gleam in his eye, and he gave Tara a bold compliment as he handed her into the car, much to James’s chagrin. While steering a route through Park Lane to the Marble Arch, he informed them that he’d become a father again only last night, for the sixth time.

  James sighed in disinterest. “That’s very impressive. Boy or girl?”

  “A boy, guv’nor.”

  “Congratulations are in order, then.”

  “Thanks, guv’nor. I only hope my wife doesn’t find out.” He let out a throaty guffaw, and the car veered to the left.

  “Lunch will be getting cold, my man,” James growled. “And I hope you haven’t been drinking.”

  “Not whilst I’ve been driving you, guv’nor.”

  The Maison Lyons was a splendidly broad and ornate restaurant at the corner of Oxford Street. When James led her inside, Tara felt a thrill of delight at the confectionary selection to the right of the oak staircase. Over the counter were trays and baskets of every sugary delight imaginable, coated almonds and warm fudge nuggets, jelly candies and dodol. With a giddy flap of her hands, she forgot herself.

  “Oh, James, could I try one of those?”

  James was giving orders to a hostess on which table he’d like. “My, quite the sweet tooth, aren’t we? But afterwards, Tara dear. You’ll enjoy it all the more.”

  Beyond the confectionary counter were wines, cheeses, tropical fruits, and other imported splendours of the empire. There was a hairdressing salon as well as a telephone booth and a theatre booking desk. Everything was gleaming and utterly sophisticated. The building had several floors with a different style of restaurant on each, and the hostess showed them to one which was as big as a ballroom, well lit and heady with the scent of fresh flowers.

  They were given a table next to a pillar decorated with Elizabethan woodcuts, and the hostess took their coats as a liveried waiter approached, stiff backed and thin as a beanpole. He lifted his upper lip ever so slightly in what was presumably a smile, then pulled back Tara’s chair and bowed to James.

  “If sir permits, may I present the menus?”

  “Sir indeed permits.” James adjusted his cuffs and moved the flower vase out of his face. The waiter snapped his fingers and another youth came forward and produced the menus with a flourish, then both waiters withdrew. Then a third one approached and enquired if they would like an aperitif before dinner.

  “Two sherries, my good man,” James told him, “and perhaps a plate of foie gras canapés if your trusty chef can rustle them up. Is it Nicolas today?”

  “Nicolas is indeed head chef today, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Once they were alone, Tara nervously scanned the menu.

  “Goodness, Mr. Bryant, I don’t even know where to begin. What on earth does daube de boeuf—”

  “Beef stew.” He smiled reasonably. “Don’t worry about the French names. That’s a lot of twaddle to make it sound more European, as if we haven’t heard enough of the place already. But the beef is as British as it comes, and thank the Lord for t
hat.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” She lifted her head from the menu and looked at him. “I’ve never felt so out of place.”

  “Tara, tut, tut.” He touched her hand briefly. “You’re exactly where you belong.”

  When the food was served, she decided it was the most exquisite she’d ever tasted. Surely this must be what the English kings and queens ate too? Every dish was a work of art, each single taste on her tongue as though it had been individually conceived and nurtured by a team of genius chefs for the sole purpose of her palate.

  And just as she was savouring the magnificence of the place, spooning in the last segment of coffee fudge gateaux, it was suddenly all over.

  James had checked his watch and was signalling to the waiter that he would like to pay the bill. He caught Tara’s eye. “Apologies, my dear. But it’s heading for four o’clock.”

  “Oh. Not at all.” She wiped her mouth guiltily. “I understand. You have meetings tomorrow and you’ll want to rest.”

  “Rest?” He chuckled. “Tara, my little Irish delight, you misunderstand. There’s no resting just yet. We’re in London. Give me a minute to pay these chaps, and I’ll show you a treat before nightfall.”

  Awhile later, inside a large, very dark and smoky room on Coventry Street, Tara witnessed the most spectacular sight of her young life.

  The Mark of Zorro had been produced by Douglas Fairbanks’s company, and it brought film to a whole new swashbuckling height. Fairbanks himself was Don Diego Vega, heroically defending the hearth and kin of the poor peasants of Spanish California, and along the way winning the hand of the beautiful Lolita Pulido. Tara was enthralled.

  She wept at the end, as the villains were roundly defeated and Zorro unmasked himself as Don Diego to the tearful swooning of Lolita.

  James put out his pipe and clapped his hands, grinning across at her. “Enjoy that?”

  She was breathless. “It was-oh, Mr. Bryant, it was incredible. I’ve never seen a film before. That . . . ” Dabbing her eyes, she beamed at him. “Thank you.”

  They were in a taxi for the hotel by eight o’clock. James had taken a few drinks in the cinema and was garrulous with the driver. Once, in the journey, his hand had strayed onto Tara’s knee. He hardly seemed to notice himself, but the hand stayed put. Gently she removed it.

  After the train journey, the food, and the prowess of the princely Zorro, she felt her eyelids sink with tiredness inside the hotel lobby. James fetched their keys from the reception desk. The lift attendant brought them to their floor.

  They passed her room first.

  “Well,” James paused. He caught her eye and winked. “Tired, eh?”

  “Yes,” she said. “But thank you for a lovely day. What time should I meet you in the morning?”

  He glanced aside, as if suddenly remembering why they were in London. “Oh, ah. Yes. I have a meeting scheduled in Whitehall for nine. I guess we ought to rise early. Shall we have breakfast about seven?”

  “Of course. Good night, Mr. Bryant.”

  He watched her, a hungry gleam in his eyes. “I don’t think I can wait that long for breakfast.”

  “Er, good night, Mr. Bryant.”

  James’s expression became deathly serious, and for several silent moments he stared at her. Then, just as fast, his mouth crinkled into a smile. “Indeed.” He straightened up, somewhat unsteadily, and tapped his watch. “Seven o’clock, then. I’ll knock on my way.”

  As he meandered up the corridor to find his bedroom, Tara withdrew and locked her door.

  A blue sky shone over the Victoria Embankment. The man sitting at the desk in front of James was dressed in a civilian suit and he gave a thin smile.

  “With every respect, District Inspector Bryant, your approval is neither asked for nor required. This is how it’s going to be.”

  They were alone in the room. James kept his expression blank but his agitation had begun to rise. “Soldiers. Yet more soldiers in Ireland. I just don’t think it’s the answer.”

  “Not soldiers, as I’ve explained already.” The man looked about twenty-eight, bloated from easy living, his voice now edged with impatience. “This is coming from the very top, I’ll remind you. This is to help you. To police that damned island––properly for once.”

  “Soldiers,” James repeated. “Soldiers for policemen, it’s—”

  “The order,” the other answered. “And you will comply. You will take this and every other order given of you when the new recruits are sent in. Your policing efforts in Ireland have not worked. That’s why the prime minister—the prime minister—has directed that things should be done differently. To restore law, to restore order.”

  James gave a short laugh. “And what do you know of law and order? You’re a bloody civil servant.”

  “And so are you, District Inspector,” the man replied. “You may be cock of the walk over in Dublin Castle, but Dublin Castle is not London. You’re a small fish in a big pond over here, old boy, and as I sense opposition, then perhaps your role in Ireland may have to be reconsidered?”

  James swallowed his disgruntlement with some effort. “What are they talking of, exactly?”

  “Ex-soldiers to begin with. Ex-officers after that. You’ll be briefed. Good men, able men.”

  “Thugs from the back ends of British cities,” James elaborated. “Yes, I can imagine.”

  “Once more, District Inspector,” the man hummed, “your approval is neither asked for nor required. Ireland is on fire. We simply want to put the fire out.”

  “I say you’ll burn Ireland to the very ground.” James shrugged. “I take orders and I follow them. Have no fears. Send your boys over to us in Ireland, and I’ll continue doing what I do, which is getting on with my job.”

  “Admirable.” The man checked his watch. It was almost ten. Sunlight had burnished the Thames to a coppery blue. “Time for some tea. The main briefing will be at eleven, and see that you’re on time. Have you brought writing material? Your secretary is not allowed inside.”

  “She’s waiting at our hotel.” James stood up. “I’ll skip the tea, if you don’t mind. I think I need a walk.”

  Tara sat for some hours in the hotel lounge until James returned. He took a chair and began tapping his pipe against his knuckles as he recounted some of the developments to her. “I don’t know. Hmm. I don’t know. This could create quite the bother over there. Soldiers don’t make proper policemen. I’m a policeman, confound them.”

  Tara tried to transcribe his notes on the coffee table. The news troubled her, for more soldiers in Ireland inevitably meant more fighting. She put down her pencil and sighed. “Your handwriting is dreadful, Mr. Bryant. It’s going to take me ages to record this.”

  “Quite the bother,” James repeated absently. His gaze lay upon the window, at the sky of cotton clouds outside. A waiter was serving tea to an elderly couple near the hearth. The fire was starting to glow. He sighed and tucked the pipe into his coat. “It’s all a riddle, and rather tiresome. Come on, Tara, we’ve been here all morning. Let’s get some fresh air.”

  She looked up from her writing. “But I’m not even halfway finished with these notes.”

  “I want to go to Greenwich,” he announced. “Ever been to Greenwich? I want to go to Greenwich.”

  “But—”

  James clicked his fingers, the concierge went outside to whistle up the street, and moments later a hackney pulled up.

  They travelled to Greenwich by a Thames river barge. The sun had burned away the earlier banks of cloud, and now a sky of cerulean vaulted the city. On the boat a white-liveried Indian laid out a buffet table with tea, cold drinks, and wine whilst his colleague brought platters of smoked fish canapés and cheese. James smoked his pipe, resting one elbow on the rail as he gazed at the buildings gliding by on the port side—Fishmongers’ Hall, the Tower of London, the Mint. The river breeze tousled his blond locks, sleek gold in the sunlight.

  For a stolen moment, Tara could
n’t help but watch him.

  He could have been a work of art at that particular moment, the light just right, his eyes distracted, yearning into the distance. Strong jawline and tanned complexion. She became aware that she wasn’t the only female on board looking in his direction.

  People said that Michelangelo’s David was beautiful too.

  But not to everybody’s taste.

  “Ah.” He turned back to her after a while and smiled. “There it is, that’s Greenwich just ahead. I haven’t been here in years. You’re going to love it.”

  There was a grand frontage of buildings on the river. A hospital and naval college occupied a site that had once been a royal palace. The birthplace of Henry the Eighth and his daughters Elizabeth and Mary, James told her.

  “Did you learn about King Henry and his wives when you were at school?” he asked. “Six wives, he had. Divorced, beheaded, died—”

  “Divorced, beheaded, survived,” she completed the sentence with a laugh. “Yes, I remember.” She gazed around. “It’s so pretty. I had thought London might be full of dirty streets and chimneys, but this . . . ”

  They walked up to Greenwich Park, a royal domain of nearly two hundred acres, and explored its landscaped pathways, herb gardens, and boating ponds. Fallow deer grazed shyly in the trees beyond. The grass heath was of brightest emerald.

  “Let’s test your school lessons again,” James quipped. “Ever heard of Wat Tyler?”

  She shook her head.

  “He led a peasant’s revolt in England back in the fourteenth century. Quite the plucky fellow, and a fine mess he made too. But he marshalled a great horde of his chums here on this very grass that we’re standing on. Of course, he was duly despatched in the end and killed by the mayor of London and his rabble seen off. And proper order.”

  It was impossible to picture violence in this serene setting. Tara could smell summer flowers on the breeze, unseasonal and all the more pleasing for it. “Right here?”