by Erica James
Later that afternoon, just as Stanley arrived home from school and Mrs Partridge and Florence were putting the finishing touches to his birthday tea in the dining room, there was a loud ring at the doorbell. Followed by another. And another. From upstairs, Bobby barked.
‘Somebody needs to learn some manners,’ remarked Mrs Partridge with a sniff of disapproval.
Florence stopped what she was doing and went to see who it was. But as she stepped out into the hall, an awful thought occurred to her. What if it was the boy bringing a telegram, a telegram with bad news about Billy?
Chapter Fifty-Three
‘That’s all right, Florence,’ said Romily. ‘I’ll see to whoever it is who’s disturbing the peace so rudely.’
As if to prove just how rude the person was, the bell rang again and with greater impatience.
Romily tutted and drew herself up, shoulders back, chin out, then opened the door, adopting her best Lady Fogg impersonation.
On the step before her stood a shabbily dressed woman of indeterminate years. The expression on her face, however, was much easier to read. Eyes narrowed, red lips pursed, she exuded indignant hostility from every pore. Interesting, thought Romily, a complete stranger on the doorstep who was plainly here to take somebody to task. Who could she be? And who did she imagine was culpable for whatever offence had been committed?
‘Where’s my Stan?’ demanded the woman. ‘It’s time he came ’ome. ’E’s needed.’
Ah, all was now clear! This was Mrs Nettles, come to play the part of aggrieved and doting mother. Romily had wondered what sort of woman she was to be able to wash her hands so cleanly of her son all these months. ‘Come in, Mrs Nettles, please,’ she said hospitably, conscious of Florence moving behind her. ‘You must have some tea with us.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ the woman said, bristling on the doorstep. ‘Just give me my Stan and we’ll be on our way.’
Thinking of the effort Mrs Partridge and Florence had gone to with Stanley’s birthday tea, and how much he had been looking forward to it – rushing back from school and being shooed away to his room until all was ready for him – Romily urged Mrs Nettles over the threshold and closed the door after her. But as she turned around, she saw Stanley standing at the top of the stairs looking down at them, faithful Bobby by his side.
‘Look who’s here,’ said Romily brightly, ‘and perfectly timed to celebrate your birthday.’
‘Birthday?’ repeated Mrs Nettles. ‘It ain’t his birthday.’
‘Yes it is, Mum,’ Stanley said in a faint voice. ‘You just never remember it.’
‘None of your cheek, young man,’ said Mrs Nettles. ‘Now get yourself down ’ere. I’m taking you ’ome, where you belong.’
‘But I don’t want go ’ome, I want to stay ’ere.’
‘Why you bleedin’ little devil! Get down ’ere before I’m tempted to tan your hide!’
‘Come on, Mrs Nettles,’ intervened Romily. ‘Let’s go and sit down and sort this out calmly over a cup of tea, shall we? You must be thirsty after your journey.’
‘There ain’t nothing to sort out,’ snapped the woman, ‘and I ain’t thirsty.’
‘You can sort it all you like,’ cried Stanley, ‘I ain’t going nowhere. I like it ’ere! This is my ’ome!’
‘We’ll see about that!’ With a swiftness that took Romily unawares, Mrs Nettles shot up the stairs towards her son. Dodging out of her grasp, Stanley turned and went crashing into Hope, who had appeared with Annelise on the landing, Allegra close behind them; clearly they had heard the noise and had come to see what was going on. They weren’t the only ones to appear. Mrs Partridge had now joined Romily and Florence in the hall, just as Bobby bared his teeth and began to growl warningly, his head low, his eyes glinting. Suddenly it seemed as though they had all been caught frozen in time, with nobody moving or appearing to know what to do next.
It was Florence who spoke first, in an admirably authoritative voice, the like of which Romily had never heard from her before. ‘Lay one finger on that boy, Mrs Nettles,’ she said, ‘and I shall telephone for the police. And don’t think I won’t. Now come down here and leave Stanley be.’
With Bobby still growling, and perhaps realising they’d reached an impasse, and that to continue in the same manner would leave her looking more foolish, Mrs Nettles made no further attempt to grab hold of her son.
‘Stanley,’ said Romily, ‘perhaps you’d like to go and wash your hands and then come down for your tea. We’ll be in the dining room waiting for you. Won’t we, Mrs Nettles?’ she added pointedly.
With her mouth set in a red hard line, the woman retreated down the stairs, but not before throwing Stanley a look that shook Romily with its venomous hatred. The thought of letting the boy leave with such a gorgon filled her with despair, but they could hardly stop a mother taking her own child back to his real home, could they? The law was most definitely on her side.
In the end, and after the most excruciating tea party Romily had ever known, letting Stanley go was what they had to do. Clutching the pillowcase he had arrived with, packed with the few things he’d brought with him, he stood in the hall to say goodbye, staring grimly down at the floor.
Other than the shoes and clothes he wore, there was no question of Mrs Nettles allowing him to take any of the other clothes Romily had bought him, or the birthday sweater Florence had secretly knitted for him. The gifts of books and games, including those from Tony Abbott, were abandoned upstairs in the room that had been Stanley’s since September. Even the wrapped remains of the birthday cake Mrs Partridge had done her best to bake with so little butter and sugar had been refused. Her son’s ration book stuffed into her handbag, Mrs Nettles made it clear she wanted no reminders of his time spent at Island House, and poor Stanley went along with it without a word of argument. There was no repeat of the brief display of defiance they’d witnessed earlier on the stairs. He probably knew that his mother was a force to be reckoned with, that it was pointless to fight back or reason with her. Romily observed him sadly, feeling as if all the joy and zest for life he’d acquired while in their care had drained out of him. His face was blank; his body stiff and detached.
It was only when he bent down to say goodbye to Bobby that Romily saw his expression soften with a glimmer of emotion. His lower lip wobbled and he buried his face in the dog’s neck. Around him, Allegra, Hope, Mrs Partridge and Florence looked on in silent distress. Annelise was not so silent, though, and suddenly started to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ in a bright sing-songy voice. It was the last straw for Romily and with a sorrow that clutched at her heart, she willed herself not to cry.
‘Well, Stanley,’ she said with forced heartiness, ‘best you go now or you’ll miss that train. And remember, please write to let us know how you’re getting on. We’d love to hear from you. As I’m sure would Miss Flowerday.’
Stanley let go of Bobby and looked up at Romily, his eyes brimming with tears. She would have given anything to change the situation, but she knew she couldn’t; instead she tried one more time to offer to drive him and his mother to the station.
But Mrs Nettles shook her head adamantly. ‘We can manage on our own. We don’t need the likes of you shoving your charity down our throats.’
From the doorstep, with Romily holding Bobby by his collar, they watched Stanley and his mother walk the length of the drive, then disappear from sight. There was no last wave from Stanley, not even a backward glance.
‘It’s not going to be same without him here,’ said Mrs Partridge, wiping a tear from her eye.
‘We should have stopped that awful woman taking him,’ Florence muttered as they turned to go back inside the house.
‘How?’ said Romily despondently. ‘What could we have done? She’s his mother.’
‘A mother who doesn’t deserve him,’ said Hope quietly.
‘I don
’t disagree with you,’ Romily said tiredly. ‘Rarely have I encountered a person so full of vindictive bitterness.’
‘Other than Ruby Minton,’ murmured Florence.
‘Other than Arthur,’ added Allegra.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Arthur looked around the dinner table at their guests and wondered if he’d ever been more bored.
Strictly speaking, they were Irene’s guests; she was, after all, the one who fancied herself a great society hostess, which, no matter how hard she tried, she would never truly be. Ironically Irene was too pretty for her own good; she was all froth and no substance. So far in life she had got by on her appearance, and to a degree she had been successful in gathering a coterie of friends around her. Or so-called friends. For what poor stupid Irene didn’t realise was that these women she counted as close associates were the very ones who thwarted her attempts to be truly accepted.
His proof of this was during a weekend house party at the home of Diana and Claude Charleston. While Irene had been lying down with ‘one of her heads’, Arthur had been in the garden and had overheard the women discussing her behind her back. ‘If it weren’t for her prettiness there really would be very little of worth to her,’ the ringleader, and their hostess for the weekend, had said with malicious pleasure.
‘Oh yes,’ another had joined in. ‘Beneath the superficial gloss and fluttering eyelashes one always suspects there’s nothing but a very dull and vacuous woman staring back at one.’
‘They make an odd match, don’t you think?’ a third had remarked.
‘Who?’
‘Irene and Arthur.’
‘Not odd at all. He was looking for a wife to give him status and breeding, and Irene wanted a husband who didn’t care how stupid she was.’
Someone in the group had laughed and said, ‘I can never quite put my finger on what it is, but there’s something just a little bit mysterious about Arthur Devereux, isn’t there?’
‘I know exactly what it is,’ Diana Charleston had replied. ‘There’s a hint of danger about him. One never truly knows what he’s thinking.’
‘Do you suppose he beats Irene? Lord knows I should like to sometimes; she drives me mad with her prettiness!’
Arthur had been tempted at that moment to make his appearance from behind the yew hedge where he’d been listening, just to see how these catty women would react, but he’d done what he always did, and stored the knowledge away for a future time when he might use it to his advantage.
He could almost pity Irene having such two-faced friends if it weren’t for the utter tedium she put him through on evenings such as these. ‘Just a few friends, darling,’ she would say, and then spend days planning the extravagant menu with their cook and fussing over the smallest detail of how the table should be set. She read countless periodicals on how best to present the perfect dining table so that guests would leave so impressed they would at once rush to imitate what they’d seen and eaten.
For this evening’s dinner her lavishness had fortunately been tempered by rationing, although it hadn’t stopped her from employing the services of an expensive florist to produce a centrepiece in the style of Constance Spry. But right now Arthur felt he could refuse his wife nothing. She was the mother of his unborn child, and to that end her happiness was of paramount importance to him and the well-being of the baby – a baby he strongly believed was a boy.
He viewed the arrival of a son as the start of a new life for him. He’d carelessly allowed matters to gain a momentum of their own recently and as a consequence things had got out of hand, but the baby symbolised a fresh start.
If somebody had told him that fatherhood would make him feel this way, so fiercely protective of the child that would be his to nurture and mould, he would not have believed them. He would not make the same mistakes his own selfish father had, of putting himself first. No. He intended to be an abiding presence in his son’s life, a father who could be relied upon and who had time for his child, a father who would guide and advise.
They had just had their fish course served by their new maid, a marked improvement on the old one, who’d been so cack-handed she spilt the soup every time she served it, when the girl returned to the dining room and hovered like a moth at Arthur’s right shoulder.
‘Yes?’ he said. ‘What is it?’
She leant down and whispered in his ear. Such was her discretion, he couldn’t make out what she’d said. ‘What?’ he responded irritably.
‘There’s a man at the door, sir,’ she answered, this time more audibly. ‘Says he has to see you.’
‘Tell him it’s not convenient.’
‘He was most—’
‘Did I not make myself perfectly clear? I said tell him it’s not convenient.’
‘Yes, sir,’ she murmured, her face anxious. ‘Sorry, sir.’
‘What was that about, darling?’ asked his wife from the other end of the table.
‘Some man or other at the door wanting to see me.’
‘Probably one of those ghastly travelling salesmen,’ Diana Charleston said. ‘I hear they can be terribly pushy these days.’
‘Surely not at this hour of the day,’ disagreed her husband, a rather pompous barrister. Claude had the infuriating manner of a middle-aged man despite being only in his early thirties. Correcting people was his stock in trade.
‘Did Jane say what he wanted?’ Irene asked.
‘No.’
‘How strange.’
Arthur had only taken a few mouthfuls of his fish when he saw the dining room door open and Jane come in again. She walked the length of the room, and not bothering to whisper this time said, ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but the man insists. He says he won’t leave until he sees you. He says it’s very important, that he has something for you.’
‘Oh for heaven’s sake!’ Arthur threw his napkin onto the table and stood up abruptly. ‘It’s come to something when a person can’t enjoy his dinner in peace!’
‘Who could it be?’ asked Irene, her expression one of faint alarm.
‘Maybe it’s the police,’ said Raymond Corby with a hearty chuckle. ‘Have you been a naughty boy, Arthur, got yourself on the wrong side of the law?’
‘Yes,’ joined in Claude, ‘if this were a play, that would be an inspector in your hall waiting to arrest you.’
‘Very droll,’ said Arthur. The smoothness of his words belied the churning in his stomach, however. In the weeks after Christmas, he’d lived in fear of a visit while at work, or a knock on the door here, from a policeman investigating Pamela’s death. But as the weeks slipped by and he heard nothing, he’d begun to relax, his confidence growing that he’d got away with it, that he’d left no evidence in the house that could connect him with the woman.
Yet now, and with a strong sense of foreboding growing within him, he was gripped with a chilling certainty that whoever this caller was, he could only be the bringer of bad news.
The man was waiting for Arthur in the hall. He was staring intently at a particularly large oil painting of a herd of Highland cattle, standing no more than a few inches away from the canvas as though studying it hard. In his hands was an envelope. A gut feeling told Arthur that it contained something he’d hoped never to see again.
The man turned his head at the sound of Arthur’s footsteps on the black-and-white-tiled floor. ‘Ah, there you are, Mr Devereux. Finally we meet.’
‘Do I know you?’ Arthur replied with steely detachment.
‘No. But I know you. Indeed, we once had a mutual friend. Pamela Mills. The name ring any bells for you?’ The man smiled, revealing two rows of badly stained teeth. With an air of sickening amusement, he held out the envelope towards Arthur. ‘This will make everything very clear to you.’
Arthur made no attempt to take the proffered envelope. ‘I can’t imagine what you’re talking about. You mu
st be confusing me with somebody else. Now if you’d kindly like to leave, I have dinner guests who—’
‘No mix-up, I assure you,’ the man interrupted. ‘If you’d just take a few seconds to look at what I’ve brought you, we can settle matters and you can get back to enjoying dinner with your guests. Guests who I’m sure you’d rather didn’t know the nature of our business. If you know what I mean.’
‘I don’t think I care for the tone of your voice.’
‘Come, come, Mr Devereux, please don’t waste my time by playing games. We’re both adults.’ He pushed the envelope towards Arthur, then inclined his head towards the closed door of the morning room. ‘Perhaps you’d prefer some privacy?’
His heart beating like a drum in his ribcage, sweat pooling beneath his shirt and dinner jacket, Arthur knew he had no choice but to do exactly what this odious man said. With resignation, he led him into the morning room, which was primarily Irene’s domain, the room where she wrote her letters and planned memorable dinner parties. Certainly this evening would not be one Arthur would forget in a hurry.
The door closed firmly behind them, he looked inside the envelope and pulled out two black-and-white photographs of himself arriving and leaving Pamela’s house in Wembley. In each of the pictures his face was perfectly visible; there was no question of being able to claim a case of mistaken identity. They were the very same pictures Pamela had shown him on Christmas Eve, and which had led to this moment – a moment he had feared because he’d always known that the involvement of a photographer in Pamela’s deceit was the one thing he could not control.
He slid the photographs back inside the envelope and tossed it carelessly onto Irene’s writing desk.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ the man said.
‘I doubt that very much,’ replied Arthur drily.