by John Boyne
He entered the house and put his hat and coat in the hallway before walking into the living room with a sigh. Inside, he could hear Cora singing, but only quietly, as if she was engaged on some unlikely task, such as washing the dishes. Entering the room, however, he froze, believing for a moment that he might have entered the wrong house, before realizing that such a thing was impossible. Sitting in the middle of the room, in the armchair he always sat in himself, was a young man, smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper, which he lowered slowly as Hawley stood before him, looking him up and down arrogantly. ‘Evening,’ he said in a deep voice, nodding his head slowly.
Hawley looked past him at his wife, who was—mysteriously—busying herself in the kitchen and coming towards him now with a smile, the like of which he had not seen in a long time. ‘Oh, Hawley dear,’ she said, welcoming him home with a kiss on the cheek. (He flinched back in surprise, as if worried that her lips were coated in strychnine.) ‘You’re home. How lovely. Dinner won’t be long.’
‘Cora,’ he said, glancing from her to the young man. ‘Yes,’ he muttered, trying to make sense of the situation. ‘May I ask—?’
‘Oh, you haven’t met Mr Heath, have you?’ she asked, knowing full well that he hadn’t. ‘This is Mr Alec Heath, Hawley. Our new lodger.’
‘Our new what?’
‘Lodger, darling. You remember I told you about him?’
Hawley blinked in surprise. He knew for a fact that Cora had never mentioned anything to him about a lodger, and he found it outrageous that she would select one without discussing the matter with him first.
In fact, she had come up with the idea of a lodger long before Mr Micklefield’s last visit and had been working on it ever since. In truth, the house in Hilldrop Crescent was a little too big for just the Crippens, something she had originally thought to be necessary when impressing her friends with their new accommodation, and the top floor had a third, decent-sized bedroom which was lying entirely to waste. She had decided that such a room would be best sub-let to another tenant and had known immediately whom to ask.
‘I don’t recall,’ Hawley replied miserably.
‘Oh, you must,’ she said with a laugh. ‘Alec, this is my husband, Dr Hawley Harvey Crippen.’
Slowly, as if every movement was irritating for him, Alec Heath folded the newspaper—Hawley’s newspaper—and placed it on the side of the armchair, pulling himself up and standing before his new landlord, extending his hand. The new man’s presence immediately intimidated Hawley. Alec was about six foot tall, broad and muscular, with a shock of unruly dark hair falling down his forehead in definite contrast to Hawley’s balding pate. He had dark skin, as if he spent a lot of time at sports or outdoor activities, and he had not shaved that day, leaving a rough line of stubble around his jaw. The shirtsleeve of the extended arm was rolled up, revealing a powerful forearm and bulging bicep that amazed Hawley. This was the sort of fellow whom ladies looked at twice in the streets, but he had grey, cold eyes, which suggested he had little time for romance. ‘Hey,’ he said, by way of a greeting.
Hawley shook his hand. ‘Good evening, Mr Heath,’ he replied.
‘Alec works with me at the Majestic,’ Cora explained. ‘He’s an assistant stage manager. He’s only nineteen years old and already has one of the most responsible jobs in the music hall. Isn’t that something?’
‘Nineteen?’ Hawley asked quietly.
‘He’s from Wales originally, aren’t you, Alec?’
He nodded, not taking his eyes off Hawley for a moment, and the older man could sense that he was sizing him up for any potential conflict between the two and realizing happily that he would surely have the upper hand.
‘Cardiff,’ he said.
‘The poor boy’s been living in a hovel for the last year. Some rat-infested flat in Collier’s Wood. The distance he had to travel to work is ridiculous and his landlady was apparently a nightmare. Anyway, he was looking for new lodgings and we were looking to fill the spare room on the top floor, so naturally I thought of him.’
‘Naturally,’ said Hawley.
‘I’m sure we’ll all get along famously,’ she continued, her cheerful air unlike any he had seen since just before their marriage. ‘Now, why don’t you two men sit down and get to know each other while I finish dinner.’
‘You’re cooking?’ Hawley asked, amazed.
‘Why, of course I’m cooking,’ she said, laughing as she glanced towards Alec. ‘Don’t I always have a lovely dinner ready for you when you come home in the evenings?’ He thought about it. ‘No’ was the correct answer, but he assumed the question had been rhetorical. ‘Ready in ten minutes,’ she added, practically dancing away.
Alec sat back down in the armchair, leaving Hawley the sofa, and they stared at each other suspiciously. For a few moments they had nothing whatsoever to say, but it was only Hawley who felt uncomfortable as he sized up the well-built boy opposite him and felt himself to be puny and almost feminine in contrast to him. Alec was not threatened at all. He had been concerned earlier in the day as to how he would get on with his new landlord but, meeting him now, he realized that his worries had been misplaced. He pulled another cigarette from a silver case and lit it without either asking whether he could smoke or offering one to Hawley. The case seemed expensive as it caught Hawley’s eye and he used it as a means to break the silence between them.
‘What a fine case,’ he said. ‘Was it a gift?’
Alec shrugged. ‘A woman I knew in Chelsea gave it to me,’ he said with a quick wink. ‘Nice, eh?’
‘Yes, very nice,’ Hawley admitted.
‘I earned it, believe me.’
Hawley nodded. ‘You worked for her, then?’ he asked. ‘Were you employed by her before you joined the music hall?’
‘I didn’t work for her,’ Alec said in a disgusted tone. ‘Not likely.’
‘But you said you earned it.’
He put the cigarette between his lips and drew on it heavily, exhaling a thin line of smoke which he watched evaporate into the air before bothering to answer. ‘I did,’ he said quietly.
‘Hawley, could you open this for me, please?’ Cora asked, returning to them and handing her husband a jar of preserves whose top she could not budge. ‘I can never open these things,’ she said with a laugh.
Hawley struggled with the jar, but he knew instantly that he was not going to be able to manage it. The top felt a little greasy and his hands kept slipping. His face grew more and more red as he tried to open it, but it was useless; without a word, Alec reached across and took it from him. He placed his large hand around the lid and opened it effortlessly, almost by merely glancing at it and frightening it into coming undone. Hawley’s heart sank. Sitting on the sofa, shrinking into its vastness while Alec Heath relaxed in the armchair, he realized that he was no longer master in his own home—if he had ever been in the first place.
‘Thank you,’ Cora said, taking it back from him. ‘Hawley, won’t it be wonderful having Alec in the house?’ she cried from the kitchen. ‘He’ll be able to do all those little jobs that neither of us can manage. Such a help!’
‘Indeed,’ said Hawley, unconvinced.
‘Anything you can’t manage,’ Alec said to Hawley with a smile.
‘I’ll bear it in mind.’
‘It’ll be so useful having a man about the place,’ she called out, returning to the living room.
‘I am a man, my dear,’ Hawley pointed out.
‘A young man,’ she corrected herself. ‘After all, you’re not fit for all the manual work you once might have been, now are you? It would be unfair to ask you, even. No, things will be better now that we have Alec with us.’ She reached forward and ruffled the boy’s hair gently, letting her fingers linger in the thick black thatch for a little longer than was appropriate; Hawley gazed at the boy’s face to see whether he was smiling, but it was slowly disappearing behind a cloud of smoke and all he could make out were those cold, grey eyes staring back
at him contemptuously.
It was a Tuesday evening in late summer and Hawley was alone in the back garden at 39 Hilldrop Crescent, strolling around with his hands in his pockets, disturbing the soil with the toe of his boot. Cora had left for the Majestic a few hours earlier for her regular performance there, wearing the red dress that had cost him six shillings a few months earlier. Recently, he had taken to closing the dental surgery on Tuesdays and returning straight home after Munyon’s closed. It wasn’t as if his practice made much money anyway, although that wasn’t his reason for the night off. In fact, this was the only evening in the week when he had the entire house to himself and he valued the peace and quiet which it afforded him. Over the past twelve weeks his life seemed to have gone further and further downhill, to the point where he could hardly wait for sleep to come at night, since it gave him some sweet relief from the daily grind. Only the first few seconds in the morning were peaceful for him as he slowly awoke, before he remembered how wretched his life really was.
Although his marriage to Cora had been a failure from the start, he could scarcely remember a time when he was as miserable as he was at this point. Her life seemed to revolve around only two things: the music hall and taking care of Alec Heath. He was not so jealous of the Majestic, because he knew it was still something which made her believe that she had a future in show business, something he himself had long believed to be a pipe dream. Alec, however, was a different matter. The boy seemed intent on being a constant annoyance to Hawley, being everything that he wasn’t and presenting such an obvious contrast to her ageing husband, so that he made him seethe with anger and jealousy.
Mornings were the worst. Alec would sit at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette, shirtless, with no thought for decorum or manners. His muscular body provided an unspoken rebuke to Hawley, who cowered in his own chair, nibbling at a piece of dry toast and sipping his tea nervously, a stranger in his own home. Alec seemed to relish the attention that Cora paid to him, and the manner of her flirtations was obvious when she spoke to Hawley while resting a hand on one of the boy’s bare shoulders. He desperately wanted to order him to cover up or stay in his room until he was dressed, but he was afraid that he would be laughed at and that then he would have nothing left to say in his own defence. And so he stayed mute, quietly seething, wishing that the boy would simply leave or find another couple to intrude upon.
From the back garden, he heard a distant knock on the front door and sighed. He glanced at his watch; it was only eight fifteen. Neither his wife nor Alec should be home from the Majestic yet, unless one of them was ill and had forgotten their front-door key, a double coincidence. He hoped not. Tuesday evenings were all he had; surely fate would not deprive him of this small luxury?
To his surprise, the small figure of Ethel LeNeve was standing on his doorstep, looking neat and prim in a new coat she had purchased the previous day. ‘Ethel,’ he said, surprised to find himself so pleased to see her. ‘I wasn’t expecting you. Is anything the matter?’
‘Nothing, Hawley,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry for calling around, but when I went home I realized I’d taken your shop keys with me. And of course you’re in first thing in the morning so I knew you’d need them.’
Her small hand fished into her pocket and retrieved the set of keys for Munyon’s front door and she offered them to him. ‘I never even missed them,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I must be getting old and forgetful. Will you come in for a moment?’
‘No, I shouldn’t,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I don’t want to disturb you or Mrs Crippen. I just wanted to drop the keys round. I’ll leave you both in peace.’
‘Well, Mrs Crippen isn’t here right now, and you’re not disturbing me. Not in the least. Please come in. I’ll make some tea.’
Ethel considered the offer and looked up and down the street nervously. ‘Well, if you’re sure,’ she said doubtfully and Hawley stepped out of the doorway to let her through.
‘Of course, of course,’ he said. ‘Please. Come in.’
Ethel walked through into the living room and took her coat off, laying it over the side of the armchair. ‘What a lovely place you have here,’ she said, looking around. For once, their home was fairly neat, for he had cleaned it himself the previous night after Cora had handed him a mop and bucket. ‘You’re sure I haven’t disturbed your work?’
‘Not at all. I was only in the garden, pottering around. Cora performs at the music hall every Tuesday night, so I have the place to myself.’
‘Of course,’ said Ethel, remembering him telling her this before. ‘How glamorous. I’m surprised you’re not there, though, cheering her on from the audience.’
Hawley smiled regretfully. ‘I’m not really one for the music hall,’ he admitted. ‘And to be honest, I don’t think Cora would thank me for coming. She has her friends there, you see. And her audience. The last thing she needs is me worrying her.’
‘But you’re her husband.’
‘Exactly.’
He boiled some water in a pan on the stove and made a pot of tea for them both, laying it out carefully on the table with some cups. It was pleasant, he realized, to entertain a friend. It crossed his mind that he had never done such a thing before and that Ethel was, perhaps, his best friend. In the year they had been working together at the pharmacy they had formed a close alliance, trusting the other entirely and enjoying each other’s company and humour. Although he tried not to dwell on the fact for very long, he knew that her presence in his life was one of its few bright sparks.
‘It seems strange to see you here,’ he remarked. ‘Sitting at my table, drinking tea. I don’t think we’ve ever seen each other outside the shop before, have we? We’re like fish out of water.’
‘That’s true,’ she said, taking a sip and almost burning her tongue. ‘But I suppose we must both have lives outside of Munyon’s. You’re a married man, after all. That’s a whole life in itself.’
‘You never wanted to marry?’ he asked her, the first time he had ever broached such a personal topic with her. Somehow it seemed appropriate in this setting for him to do so.
The question, however, was a slightly odd one, as she was only twenty years old and had hardly been left on the shelf just yet. She blushed, however, and looked down at the tablecloth. ‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘No man seems to want to fall in love with me.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘It’s true,’ she replied. ‘Sometimes a young fellow speaks to me at a dance or in a public place, but . . .’ She drifted off, the tips of her fingers touching the scar above her lip self-consciously, as if this was the impediment to romance for her. ‘Somehow it never seems to come to anything,’ she concluded.
‘One day,’ he said. ‘Very soon. I have no doubt of it.’
‘I hope so,’ she said, her face bursting into a smile at the thought of it, and he couldn’t help but smile back. ‘It must be quite something to be married as long as you and Mrs Crippen have been. And such a comfort for you both. How long has it been now, anyway?’
‘Eleven years,’ he said with a sigh. ‘For my sins,’ he added.
‘Such a long time. I was only nine at the time. Just a child.’
‘Good Lord, but you’re just a child now!’
‘Hardly.’
‘Of course you are! With time and beauty and intelligence on your side. Really, Ethel. You mustn’t put yourself down like this. It’s too bad.’
She stared across at him, cocking her head to the left slightly, feeling flattered by his kind remarks. She had always been glad that she had had the good fortune to walk into Munyon’s that day when she saw the ‘Help Wanted’ sign. She could scarcely imagine a better employer and friend than Hawley. Of course, in the early days they had been a little more reserved; it had taken time for them both to get to know and to trust each other, but with familiarity grew affection and these traits were as important to her as she knew they were to him. She was about to risk everything and tell
him just how fond of him she really was when a door outside the living room slammed—the front door—and, like a tornado arriving unannounced over a peaceful town, Cora Crippen swept into the room, flinging her hat across it.
‘Damn it all to hell!’ she screamed, her voice piercing through the air with such venom and volume that windows might have smashed. Hawley jumped in fright, while Ethel simply stared at her, her mouth hanging open in horror at the lunatic woman who’d just appeared. ‘Damn it!’ she repeated, even louder than before, clenching her fists together and screeching like a rabid dog.
‘Cora,’ said Hawley, jumping up and running over to her. ‘What on earth’s the matter? What’s happened to you? Have you been attacked?’
‘Attacked? Attacked?’ she asked through gritted teeth. ‘Worse. I have been insulted beyond anything that a person should have to suffer. I tell you, Hawley, I will take a box of matches and burn that music hall to the ground before I allow such a thing to happen again.’ Her voice rose in decibels as the sentence progressed and Hawley could only stare at her, transfixed, forgetting his guest. He had seen her angry before, but never anything like this. Although he knew that nothing he had done could be to blame, he was sure he would have to pay the price for it.
‘For heaven’s sake, Cora. Tell me. What has happened?’
She glanced past him and spotted Ethel sitting at the table, one hand gripping the arm of her chair nervously as she watched the older woman, wondering whether she would suddenly pounce and bite her head off. ‘Who’s that?’ Cora asked, looking at her husband before turning to stare at Ethel again. ‘Who are you?’ she snapped.