by James Wilson
I found a wicket-gate, and went in. As I did so, a mass of crows rose cawing from the branches of a fallen oak lying at the far end. Apart from a solitary cat hunting among the thistles, there were no animals to be seen, but the rough tussocky ground was dotted with fresh cow-pats. I picked my way among them, relishing the spring of the long grass under my feet, and took up position behind a young lime tree directly opposite number 109. The trunk was too narrow to conceal me completely, but the canopy of overhanging branches meant I should be visible only from the ground-floor windows. And if somebody appeared in one of them, I would simply bend down, like a walker who has paused for a moment to re-tie his boot, and then move on again.
For almost two hours I stood there, as the air cooled, and the shadows grew longer and fainter, and finally melted away altogether in the deepening dusk. In all that time, though there was an almost constant traffic to and from the neighbouring houses, no one either came to Oaklands or left it. Then, just as the clock from a nearby church struck half-past six, lights appeared – first in the basement, and then in the hall. A couple of minutes later, an elderly man walked stiffly into view from the direction of the station and slowed in front of number 109. As he turned in at the gate, I caught, in the glow from a street-lamp, a fleeting glimpse of a pale, tired face, with heavy bags under the eyes, and a straggly grey moustache. It was hard to believe this was Emily’s husband: he looked closer to the age I should have expected her father to have been. But – after struggling painfully up the steps to the front door – he went inside without ringing, taking off his hat and glancing down at the letters on the hall table with the unmistakable air of the master of the house returning home.
I was still trying to square this frail old figure with the picture I had formed of Mr. Cooper – a man whose ability to manage every detail of Mary’s upbringing and preserve the secret of her parentage had imbued him, in my imagination, with almost superhuman powers – when I heard a sudden commotion at the top end of the field. I spun round, and saw a herd of cows being chivvied through the five-bar gate by two men and a dog. Not wanting to have to explain my presence there, I edged quickly along the line of trees, and managed to slip out through the wicket before I was spotted.
It was already clear, from the little I had seen, that Emily Cooper’s life would not easily open itself to me; and that if I were to find an opportunity to accost her, I must be prepared to keep the house under surveillance for several days. The question was: how could I do it without arousing her suspicion?
I wrestled with this conundrum all the way back to my hotel. By the time I got there, I thought I had the answer.
*
After breakfast the following morning, I walked to Cornelissen and Son in Great Queen Street, and bought myself a sketchbook, a box of charcoal and a folding stool. Then I made my way back to Victoria, and by mid-day was walking down Gipsy Hill again. The cattle raised their heads and watched with sullen curiosity as I entered the field, opened the stool beneath the lime, sat down, and – squinting at them, in what I hoped was a convincing impersonation of an artist sizing up his subject – began to draw their collective portrait. It took me several attempts; but after an hour or so, I had finally succeeded in producing something that seemed just about competent enough to justify the pretence that I was an enthusiastic amateur enjoying a day’s sketching in a picturesque spot.
I had just finished, and was starting to try my hand at a general view of the field and the cluster of buildings beyond, when out of the corner of my eye I noticed a flicker of movement in front of number 109. I glanced towards it as discreetly as I could, and saw two women climbing the steps to the front door. One of them was leading a small black spaniel, which, in its eagerness to get inside, barged against her legs, almost knocking her off balance. She grabbed the handle to steady herself, then started to turn towards the street, as if she imagined someone might have witnessed her near-accident and be laughing at her. I dropped my gaze; but not quickly enough to avoid seeing a strong, jowly profile, with a prominent nose and heavy black eyebrows. I dared not look again; but I turned to a new page, and, my heart thumping, dashed off a quick sketch of it. When I at last had the thing to my satisfaction, I was pretty certain I was looking at an image of Mary Wilson’s mother.
It was a fair bet that they had come home for lunch, and that I could count on their remaining there for at least an hour or two while I went in search of something to eat myself. But I was too excited to relish the thought of a steak-and-kidney pudding in a smoky pub; and by the time my appetite returned, it was too late. So all afternoon I stayed doggedly at my post, waiting for something else to happen.
It never did. There was a constant hammering and shouting from the builders working on a rash of new houses further down the hill, and every half-minute or so a wagon or a motor-lorry would trundle past, laden with bricks or timber; but number 109 seemed to have lapsed back into a state of suspended animation. At about four o’clock, I noticed a thin stream of sulphurous smoke starting to drift from the chimney. Otherwise, there was no sign of life at all.
By the time the dairy-men arrived to round up the cows for their evening milking, it was pretty obvious that Emily Cooper meant to be at home for the rest of the day. Rather than continuing to wear myself out to no purpose, I decided, I should conserve my energy for the morning – when, if today’s experience was anything to go by, I should have a better chance of seeing her.
And so it turned out. At nine the next day, I was back in the field. At a quarter past, the door to Oaklands opened, and Mrs. Cooper appeared, leading the little spaniel on a leash, and accompanied, this time, by two younger women. I started to pack up my things, but remained sitting down until they had reached the street and set off up Gipsy Hill. Then I quickly folded up my stool, and – after giving them a hundred-yard start – slipped out of the wicket-gate and began to follow them.
They passed the station, then crossed the road and halted at the entrance to a side-street. They seemed to be debating which way they should go, because one of the younger women was pointing towards a cross-roads further up the hill, while Emily Cooper stood repeatedly shaking her head. After fifteen seconds or so the younger woman capitulated with a nod, and they disappeared from view. I hurried after them, and reached the corner just in time to see Emily Cooper, magnanimous in victory, drawing her two companions to her and walking arm in arm with them down the middle of the road, with the dog scampering eagerly ahead, like a small tug pulling three ships under sail. As they swayed along together, so nearly in step that they looked as if they were dancing to the same inaudible music, it was impossible to mistake the easy air of familiarity and affection between them. For one instant, I had the odd sensation that I and Mary Wilson and her still-born son were all looking at them through the same pair of eyes, and I had to bite my lip to keep from yelping with anger and despair.
Apart from a delivery boy on a bicycle and a couple of women scrubbing doorsteps, we were the only people in the street; and – knowing how conspicuous I must appear, with my stool and artist’s sketch-book – I hung back, in case one of the Coopers glanced behind them. For ten minutes or more I trailed them through a web of modest little terraces, losing them at one corner, and then catching sight of them again at the next. Finally, they emerged into a bustling, shop-lined road running at right angles to Gipsy Hill. A second or two later they stopped, as a respectable-looking man in a dark suit intercepted them, raising his hat.
I was, of course, too far away to hear what they said; but I noticed that Mrs. Cooper retreated a step or two, making a great show of managing the dog, and leaving the burden of carrying on a conversation to the two younger women. The fellow – I should have taken him for a prosperous tradesman, or perhaps the manager of a bank – at first seemed slightly taken aback by her reserve; but he soon adjusted to the situation, and stood turning from one daughter to the other, with the pursed-up little smile of an older man plying a younger woman with gallantries. After a
minute or so he lifted his hat again and hurried off, and they continued on their way.
As soon as I turned into the main road I guessed where they were going. There on the horizon, looming up incongruously between the drab rows of shops like a pagoda, was one of the Crystal Palace water-towers. I followed them into the park, and along the upper terrace running in front of the Palace itself. Even though I had been here as a boy and knew what to expect, I was still shocked by the sheer scale of the place. I stopped, and for a few seconds stood staring up in childish awe at the massive central bay, with its huge ziggurat steps crowned by a gargantuan arch. For all its impressive size, it seemed somehow to have grown tired and frail since my last visit, like a giant green-house left untended in a corner of the garden, giving you the unpleasant sense that at the first puff of breeze the whole thing might come tumbling down on top of you.
I shook myself free of its spell and looked about for the Coopers again, but they had already disappeared in the sea of hats eddying in front of the building. I quickly made my way to the far end, keeping close to the wall, where the crowd was thinnest, but I could not spot them in the crush. I looped round and went back along the other side of the terrace, scanning the faces coming towards me, but there was still no sign of them.
I began to wonder if they had somehow realized I was following them, and deliberately given me the slip. But then, as I was approaching the main entrance again, I heard an excited yapping coming from the park below; and, looking down, saw the little dog tearing wildly across the grass, watched by the two younger women, who were perched together on the edge of an ornamental pond, smiling at its antics. But I could not immediately see their mother; so I squeezed my way into the line of people ranged along the balustrade, and began searching the garden for her.
As I did so, the spaniel spun round and bolted back towards the pond, running so furiously that it seemed bound to overshoot and end up in the water. But at the very last moment it spreadeagled to a halt, and streaked off in another direction. The two young women got to their feet, weeping with laughter, and stood gazing up at the terrace, like a couple of comedians acknowledging the applause of the crowd. Their likeness to Mary Wilson, now I could see them clearly, was striking: they both had the same pale delicate skin and dark hair and strong eyebrows. But it was the relationship of two healthy young flowers to a withered bud: where she frowned suspiciously at the world, they beamed confidently at it, certain of its admiration.
For a moment I had the unnerving impression they must somehow have sensed my interest in them, because they seemed to be looking directly at me. Then I heard a low, knowing laugh to my left. Turning towards it, I saw Emily Cooper leaning on the balustrade, gazing down at her daughters with an expression – complicit and tender and ruthlessly oblivious to everything else around her – that reminded me of a buzzard or a kite surveying its young.
She was so near that I could have reached out and touched her. I edged a couple of inches closer. She must have noticed the movement out of the corner of her eye, but did not allow it to divert her attention for even a fraction of a second. She fluttered her fingers at the younger women. They waved back, turned and started sauntering after the dog, whistling and calling to it, and then – when, instead of coming to them, it merely twitched its ears quizzically and rushed off again – doubling over with laughter at its naughtiness. The sound of their voices grew fainter, until – after a couple of minutes – they were out of earshot altogether.
Emily Cooper was still watching them, bent over the parapet with her elbows splayed and her face bracketed in her hands, as if she were fixed to the stone. It would be the easiest thing in the world for me to lean down and whisper something to her. She could, of course, move away, but only at the risk of making a spectacle of herself – which everything I had seen of her so far suggested she would be reluctant to do. And if she tried to recall her daughters, and take refuge behind them again, they wouldn’t be able to hear her.
I had visualized talking to her somewhere less exposed, and with fewer unknown quantities to contend with: in a tea-room, say; or a railway compartment. But there was no guarantee – however long I followed her – that fate would throw me together with her in such a setting. There was no guarantee, in fact, that it would throw me together with her anywhere. This might be the only opportunity I should ever get.
I eased myself on to the balustrade beside her. I was close enough now to feel the heat of her body against my hand and cheek. I ran a few phrases through my head, before deciding that only one could be sure of really harpooning her.
I turned towards her, silently mouthing Mary Stone, Mary Stone.
I could not have said what it was that stopped me. Nothing she said or did, certainly: even now, she gave not the slightest sign that she was aware of my presence. Perhaps that very indifference, in circumstances where most people could not have helped responding, either by returning my gaze or retreating from it, persuaded me that I should not be able to penetrate the invisible no man’s land she had created around herself.
For a second or two I stood there, studying the obstinate set of her heavy mouth and snuffing the warm bedroom smell of rose-water on her skin. Then, as quietly as I could, I gathered up my things, and set off for the railway station.
XVI
The next morning I was up early, intending to take the 8.20 from Victoria and be back opposite the house again by nine. But I was aware, as I went down to breakfast, that I felt none of the excitement about it that I had the day before. My legs were leaden; I had virtually no appetite; and when I peered out through the dining-room window, the world outside had that cold, flattened-out greyness it seems to take on when you have some thankless duty to perform.
My porridge tasted of soap. I pushed it away after a couple of mouthfuls, then fell at the first hurdle with the scrambled eggs, which stuck like rubber to my palate, making me retch. Perhaps, I thought, I had caught a chill standing in the field, and was sickening for something. If so, the sensible thing would not be to drive myself back to Gipsy Hill, but to take a day off. I was pretty certain I knew Emily Cooper’s routine now; and there would be nothing to be lost if I delayed going after her again for twenty-four or forty-eight hours. In fact, there would be everything to be gained, because it was essential that, when I did finally speak to her, I was absolutely at my best.
I went up to my room, and – though I had had no conscious thought of doing it when I left the table – immediately began fumbling in my jacket for Miss Dangerfield’s letter. She was leaving, it said, on the 25th. Today was the 24th.
Some nannyish voice told me that if I was well enough to see Miss Dangerfield, I was well enough to go to Gipsy Hill. But it was too late now to catch the 8.20; and the next train would almost certainly not get me there until after Emily Cooper had left her house. And, besides, had I not already persuaded myself that Emily Cooper would be there tomorrow – whereas Alice Dangerfield, I knew, would be gone?
I put on my coat; and – taking care to avoid Hyde Park Gardens – made my way across the park and down Piccadilly. I had not given much thought to where Miss Dangerfield would choose to stay in London; but when I turned into Half-Moon Street and saw Fleming’s Hotel, it seemed reassuringly in keeping with her character: an unpretentious, quietly elegant place, formed out of two Georgian terraced houses.
The hall smelt pleasantly of starch and furniture polish and spring flowers. I asked the soberly dressed man at the desk if Miss Dangerfield was in.
‘Miss Dangerfield?’
‘Yes.’
He glanced down, looking for something among the pile of papers in front of him. ‘Would you be Mr…. Mr. –?’
‘Roper.’
He nodded, although his face had a slightly pained expression, as though that were not quite what he had expected to hear. ‘I think you’ll find her in there, sir.’
She was sitting in a window at the far end of the lounge, reading a book. On the table in front of her was a large va
se of daffodils that gave her bowed head a faint yellow halo. She was so engrossed in what she was doing that it was only when I had gone the entire length of the room and stopped in front of her that she finally looked up. Her eyes widened. She dropped the book, and her hand sprang like a jack-in-the-box to her throat.
‘Good morning,’ I said.
‘Good … Oh … My gracious …’
‘You’re waiting for someone else, I know –’
‘Yes.’ She seemed confused. She swallowed, flushed, then searched the wall for the clock. Watching her, I could not suppress a spasm of jealousy – made all the worse by the knowledge that I had no business feeling it.
‘So I won’t detain you,’ I said. ‘I simply wanted to say goodbye.’
She hesitated a moment, then got up and took my outstretched hand. ‘I would have been waiting for you, if I’d known,’ she said, with a directness that made the back of my neck prickle.
‘Yes, I know, it was dreadfully rude of me to turn up unannounced like this. But I’ve not been back in town long, and –’
‘It doesn’t matter. It’s just rather a shame, that’s all.’
I nodded. ‘I’m sorry. Anyway …’ I started to withdraw, then stopped and said: ‘Would you be free later on, by any chance? For lunch, say?’
‘No, I’m afraid I have appointments all day.’
‘Then for dinner, perhaps?’
She shook her head, colouring more deeply. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Well, in that case –’
‘But the gentleman I’m expecting’, she said hurriedly, glancing at the clock again, ‘won’t be here until half-past eleven, which gives us almost an hour. So why don’t you sit down – if you’d like to – and –?’