Two for Sorrow

by Nicola Upson

  He lit a cigarette and looked out of the window. ‘You don’t really believe that. You just think you should believe it.’ She smiled and ignored him, and he took that to mean she conceded the point. ‘Do you know anything about Celia Bannerman’s personal life?’ he asked casually. ‘Did she ever talk about her family?’

  Josephine considered the question. ‘Now you mention it, I’ve never heard her talk about her family at all. That may not be as strange as it seems, I suppose—we were pupil and teacher, so there was always a distance between us, but when I think back to Anstey, I could tell you something personal about most of the other teachers there. For a start, we were all homesick when we got there, so they’d share things about their own families to make us feel better, and we got to know them quite quickly. It was that sort of school. But I think I can honestly say that I’ve never heard Celia talk about anyone who wasn’t connected with the job she was in at the time.’

  Her reticence would make sense if she had been raised in an institution, Penrose thought; even now, there was a stigma attached to that sort of upbringing. ‘And did she ever mention being attacked by a prisoner?’

  She looked at him, startled. ‘No. Is that what Ethel Stuke told you? Sorry—I know I shouldn’t ask. I’m trying so hard to be discreet and respect the confidentiality of your case, but it’s not easy when I know some of the people involved.’

  ‘It’s because you know them that we can’t talk about it. Sod’s law, really—I’d value your opinion, but I simply can’t put you in that position. And please don’t mention it to her—the attack, I mean.’

  ‘Of course I won’t.’

  ‘Actually, I’m not terribly happy about your being at the Cowdray Club at all at the moment. Couldn’t you come to Maiden Lane and spend a couple of nights with the girls?’

  ‘They seem to be spending most of their time at the club right now. Ronnie told me she’s developing quite a taste for the institutional life, and Lettice has booked herself in for lunch every day until next Wednesday.’ His smile was half-hearted. ‘You mean it, don’t you? If it will stop you worrying, of course I’ll stay with them, although I can’t imagine they’ll thank me—they’re frantically busy.’

  ‘It’s all right—the Snipe will sort it out. She’ll be pleased to see you. Don’t make a big thing of it, though—you don’t have to tell anyone if you stay out all night, do you?’

  She laughed. ‘It’s not a boarding school, Archie. I can come and go as I please.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll tell the Snipe to make up a bed.’

  ‘All right. There’s no hurry, though—I thought I’d pop in to Holly Place first if there’s time when we get back. You were right yesterday—I do need to speak to Marta.’ She waited, but he said nothing. ‘You haven’t asked me anything about it.’

  ‘Perhaps I just don’t want to know.’ The remark came out more abruptly than he had intended, but it had the advantage, at least, of being honest.

  ‘It isn’t what you think.’

  ‘I’m glad you know what I think, because I don’t.’

  ‘Oh come on, Archie. This isn’t like you. Can’t we at least talk about it?’

  ‘No, Josephine, I don’t think we can. Who you see and what you do is entirely up to you—you’ve always made that abundantly clear. But surely you can’t expect me to sit here like some sort of passive sounding-board while you work out where your heart is? I’m not a bloody saint.’ He could see he had shocked her; in truth, he had shocked himself, but there was no point in trying to retract his words now. ‘This is something you’re going to have to work out for yourself. I can’t help you.’

  They sat in silence as the train snaked through the East End. When they got off at Liverpool Street, he was surprised to find Fallowfield waiting for him on the platform. ‘I’ve got some information, Sir—I thought the sooner you heard it, the better.’ He smiled at Josephine. ‘Can I drop you somewhere, Miss Tey?’

  ‘Thanks, Bill, but no. I’ll get a taxi.’

  ‘No, Josephine, don’t be silly,’ Penrose said. ‘At least let us take you to Hampstead. I didn’t mean that we can’t ever …’

  She cut him off abruptly. ‘No, Archie, it’s fine—you’re busy. And you’re right. I need to sort this out for myself. Tell me one thing, though: Marjorie’s murder and what happened to Lucy—is it because I’ve been digging up Sach and Walters?’

  ‘No. Marjorie knew nothing about her family history—I’m convinced of that.’

  ‘Good. I’ll see you at the gala.’ He nodded and moved to kiss her, but she had already walked away.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The taxi jolted slowly but steadily up the hill, and Josephine sat in the back, wondering what on earth she was doing. The driver’s first few efforts at conversation had met with such a brusque response that he soon lapsed into silence, but the peace did nothing to help her make sense of her thoughts, or to form any sort of rational decision on what she was going to say when she knocked at Marta’s door. Archie’s words had hit a nerve, and not only because she recognised how upset he must be to make his feelings so obvious; in truth, she was at a loss even to understand the situation she found herself in, and she certainly had no idea how to resolve it. The only thing she was sure of was that the longer she hesitated, the more damage she would do.

  Hampstead rested on higher ground than most of the city, and had a clean, country feel to it, even on a grey, November afternoon; the church clock which struck the half hour as she got out of the car had little other noise to compete with, and the spire which nestled among the trees just ahead of her could easily have graced any village in the south of England. When she turned into Holly Place, she found it quieter still; as she rang the bell at number 8, only the poignant song of birds about to roost and the dry rustle of leaves along the pavement disturbed the peace. She waited, but there was no answer, so she rang again, relief mingling with disappointment at the prospect of finding no one in. Still, the house refused to come to life, and she was just about to leave when a woman ran down the steps of the house next door. ‘She’s in the garden,’ she called to Josephine over her shoulder. ‘Try round the back.’

  She did as she was told, following a narrow path around the side of the house. Her heart sank when she heard Marta’s voice—the last thing she needed was to walk uninvited into a crowd of strangers—but she resisted the temptation to turn back. In fact, Marta was alone. She stood next to a pile of earth by the far wall, wrestling with a large ceanothus root which stubbornly refused to budge from the ground. On the lawn next to her, there was a wheelbarrow piled high with dead branches, stones and bits of brick, and a motley collection of spades, trowels and secateurs, none of which seemed to be of much use in the task she had set herself. ‘Come out, you bastard,’ she swore loudly, oblivious to the fact she had any company other than the tree.

  ‘Do you want some help?’

  Marta let go of the wood as if it had burnt her. ‘Josephine! What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘Is this a bad time?’

  ‘No, of course not. Well, yes, but only because of my pride. Look at me—I’m such a mess.’ She gestured at the mud on her face and the twigs caught in her hair, but, if anything, she looked more striking than ever, and it occurred to Josephine that this was the first time she had ever seen Marta truly at peace with herself. ‘Muck and dirt wasn’t exactly what I envisaged wearing when we met. If we met.’

  The contentment left her face, and Josephine knew that Marta was trying to work out if her appearance five days ahead of their scheduled meeting was good news or bad. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘Muck and dirt suit you. What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’re hardly dressed for gardening.’

  ‘No, I’m not. It was probably short-sighted of me, but I didn’t expect to be digging up trees in November in virtual darkness. If you insist on it, though, I might as well join you.’ She took off her hat and fur, and threw them down on a wrou
ght-iron table, next to her bag. ‘Anyway, they’re only clothes.’

  Marta smiled. ‘At least let me get you a coat.’ She disappeared into the house for a moment, and returned carrying an old tweed jacket, gloves and a pair of boots. ‘I’ll feel better if we both look ridiculous. I can’t be seen in rags while you stand there in Chanel.’

  Josephine slipped the jacket on, noticing that it smelt faintly of cigarette smoke and Marta’s perfume. ‘It’s a lovely house,’ she said. ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Only a couple of months, and it was the location I chose it for.’ She picked up a spade and started digging again. ‘I couldn’t be in the city, Josephine—I’ve had enough of being hemmed in by bricks and mortar day after day. I took a flat in Kensington when I got out, but I soon realised that a place doesn’t have to be a prison to feel like one. I couldn’t face the loneliness of the country, either, so this is a perfect compromise—solitude in the middle of London. And you’re right,’ she added, touching the crumbling red brick which enclosed the whole garden, ‘there’s something special about these walls. Think how many summers’ worth of sun they must hold.’

  ‘I must try something like this one day,’ Josephine said, raising her voice slightly as an aeroplane clattered lazily overhead. ‘I’ve never made a new home in my life.’

  ‘You’ve always lived in the same house?’

  ‘Not in the same house, no, but always the family home. I’ve got an encyclopaedic knowledge of digs, boarding houses, hotels and other people’s homes, but that’s not the same as choosing something for yourself.’ She dug a fork deep into the earth and lifted it so that Marta could cut through the sinewy roots that had spread towards the wall. ‘It’s pure laziness, I suppose. I could easily have had a flat when I was teaching, but I preferred even the ugliest of rooms to doing anything for myself.’

  ‘You should try prison,’ Marta said drily. ‘It doesn’t get much uglier than that, and you never have to cook a thing.’ They worked in silence for a while, each preoccupied with their own thoughts. ‘Do you have a garden in Inverness?’ Marta asked eventually.

  ‘Yes, and it’s full of every sort of shrub and tree, from hydrangeas to monkey puzzle, all painstakingly cared for and agonised over each year, but if you were to ask me what I love most about it, I’d say the daffodils that fill the drive in the spring without a moment’s work from me. I know it’s not a very original observation, and if I were a proper gardener, it’s probably the last thing I’d single out, but I don’t care. I look forward to them every year, and every year they surprise me.’

  A thin trail of smoke rose up from a pile of burning leaves in a neighbouring garden and the smell filled the air, at once nostalgic and bitter, the final goodbye to summer. ‘That’s the point of a garden, though, isn’t it?’ Marta said, wiping soil off her face with the back of her hand. ‘Something to look forward to, something permanent. That’s what I want to create here—markers of a year. You can keep your flower pots and your annuals—they’re all far too temporary for me. No sooner has something flowered than you’re deciding what to replace it with, and I can’t cope with that at the moment. I need something that promises to come back, something that convinces me I’m going to be here to see it.’ She glanced up, embarrassed at having strayed into the emotional territory which they both seemed to have been avoiding. ‘Something like your daffodils.’

  Josephine crouched down and took off her gloves, then gently brushed the mud away and let her hand rest on Marta’s cheek. ‘I can’t be what you want me to be,’ she said.

  Marta smiled sadly at her, and covered Josephine’s hand with her own. ‘But you already are—that’s the problem. None of this is about changing you.’ The encroaching dusk brought a melancholy aspect to the garden, and the lights from the house combined with the smoke and the evening mist to create an atmosphere of pale ochre. Marta stood up. ‘It always gets depressing at this time of night,’ she said. ‘Let’s go inside.’

  Josephine followed her into the house, and waited alone in the sitting room while Marta went to change. Inside, the house was very much what she would have expected—elegant, although not particularly tidy, and furnished according to individual taste rather than fashion or expectation. In two months, Marta had managed to create the illusion of a much longer occupancy, and Josephine could imagine how much time she had invested in the house, seeking the safety that Mary Size had talked about in a home rather than another human being.

  The weather had taken a turn for the worse, and she walked over to the French windows, looking out into the darkness and enjoying the sound of the rain against the glass. ‘It’s a lovely view when you can see it,’ Marta said, putting an armful of logs down in the hearth. ‘Just trees beyond the wall, with the odd roof or gable, and the spires of the city in the distance.’ She waved dismissively at the garden. ‘Shame about the no-man’s-land in between.’

  ‘It won’t look like that forever. You’ll have it beaten into shape by the spring.’

  ‘Damn right I will. Beverley Nichols is moving in round the corner, apparently, so the challenge is on.’

  She took longer than was absolutely necessary to lay the fire, and Josephine noticed that she was much less relaxed than she had been in the garden, as if coming inside had forced her to focus on the awkwardness between them. Being here with her was a different experience entirely from reading the diary, where the strength of Marta’s emotions and her ability to analyse them had left Josephine feeling like a gauche, inexperienced schoolgirl. Shy and reticent when it came to anything other than her work, Josephine so very rarely made someone else uneasy; now, she seemed to be more in control than Marta, and she was ashamed to acknowledge that she found it gratifying.

  Marta poured them each a large gin and sat down by the fire. ‘So what did you dress for, if it wasn’t gardening?’

  ‘A day by the sea. Archie had to go to Suffolk for something to do with a case he’s investigating, and he asked me to go with him.’

  ‘Doesn’t he have sergeants any more?’ Marta asked, and her expression was so like Archie’s whenever her own name was mentioned that Josephine would have laughed had she not found the inevitable triangle so tiresome. Right now, she would gladly have absented herself from the whole situation and let the two of them fight it out between themselves. ‘Does he know you’re here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I bet that made his day.’ Josephine said nothing; she refused to be drawn into a conversation which would reflect badly on Archie, and to defend him felt like protesting too much. ‘Is there anyone else?’ Marta asked, and Josephine shook her head. ‘You know, I often wondered if you and Lydia would get together after I left. She’s always admired you.’

  ‘We’re friends, that’s all,’ Josephine said impatiently, wondering if she would be asked to justify every relationship she had. ‘It will never be anything more than that.’

  ‘And where do you draw the line? Spending time together? Enjoying things more together?’ She finished her drink and got up to fetch another. ‘Having sex?’

  She was being deliberately provocative, and Josephine realised that she was simply adopting the best form of defence, but her question was less straightforward than it sounded. Even as it stood, her relationship with Marta was unlike anything else in her life: she and Lydia shared a creative bond and a mutual admiration, but she increasingly felt obliged to be somebody else whenever they were together and, if you removed the theatre, they had very little in common; Ronnie and Lettice’s friendship was an uncomplicated joy, which was picked up and put down again with no damage to its significance; and Archie—well, there was no question that she loved Archie and would choose his company over any other; if he pushed her like Marta was pushing her, she had no idea what she would do—but she knew that he never would. None of those relationships risked anything, none of them made the slightest difference to the world she returned to in Inverness—to her real life, she supposed. But Marta was different: she t
hreatened to blur all the boundaries that Josephine had so carefully drawn. Although they had spent very little time together, most of it had been on their own without the safety of numbers, and they had been thrown together in circumstances which demanded an intense emotional honesty; she knew that Marta was capable of awakening something in her which her life would be happier—or at least more content—without. Complacent, Gerry had called it, but frightened would have been more accurate.

  She took the diary out of her bag and put it down on the table. Marta said nothing, wanting her to speak first. ‘This is all so foreign to me that I don’t even know how to begin to respond to it,’ Josephine said quietly.

  ‘Because it comes from another woman?’

  ‘What? No, don’t be silly. Why should that make a difference? No, it’s not that.’ She hesitated, realising that any attempt at an explanation would expose flaws in her own character which Marta might scorn, but she owed it to her to be honest. ‘It’s the intensity of it, Marta—the strength of how you feel. I’m not hard-hearted, I don’t lack imagination, but I’ve never felt like that about anyone. This love that you have for me—look how unhappy it’s made you. I haven’t often made people unhappy in my life.’

  ‘Perhaps they just didn’t tell you. But I didn’t hand it over for you to beat yourself up with—making you feel sorry for me was the last thing I wanted.’

  ‘I know, and that’s not what I meant.’ She left the sofa and sat down by the fire next to Marta. ‘I’m being much more selfish than that. You’re writing about emotions that terrify me—because of what they might do to both of us.’

  Marta took her hand. ‘You really didn’t know, did you? I thought at first that you were just trying to brush it aside, but you had no idea how I felt until I told you.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. And I suppose, in hindsight, that makes me very stupid.’ She laughed. ‘Even Lettice had spotted it, for God’s sake.’