Abigale Hall

by Forry, Lauren A

  No one had answered the first time he knocked on the door of the maisonette, but he was determined to wait out the cold. The last time he stood here was when he picked Jessie up for their first and only date. There was something about her blue eyes and the way she smiled, he had to ask her out for a dance. The evening was a disaster for them both, but it ended up being for the best. Jessie soon found another boy to latch on to and Eliza started work at the Palladium.

  Peter stuffed his frozen hands into his pockets, wishing for the first time that he was wearing the knitted mittens his mother had given him for Christmas. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, clapped his hands together and sneezed into his sleeve. He searched for his handkerchief then realised that, too, he had left at home. He was kicking a stone about when an older couple approached the maisonette, their hands laden with shopping baskets. They stopped when they saw Peter. He removed his cap.

  ‘Good afternoon. I’m terribly sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if I could have a word with Jessie?’

  The couple said nothing.

  ‘Jessie Rolston? She lives here, does she not?’

  The woman dropped her shopping and burst into tears.

  ‘Oh. Oh dear. Here, let me help you.’ Peter scurried after the rolling potatoes, gathering them from the gritty pavement. He tripped over his own feet but managed to maintain his balance as he bagged her groceries. ‘I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .’

  The man spoke. ‘Are you with the police?’

  ‘No, sir. Only a friend. Peter. Peter Lamb.’ He extended his hand, but the man kept hold of his sobbing wife. ‘We work together at the Palladium, but I haven’t seen her in a few days. I thought she might have fallen ill or . . .’

  ‘Why don’t you come in, son?’

  Inside a small kitchen, Mrs Rolston busied herself lighting the coke in the grate and making tea. Cracks riddled the walls and many windows were boarded up. Shrapnel had taken chunks from the bricks in the fireplace. The sitting room was blocked off with an old sheet, and Mr Rolston’s armchair was positioned awkwardly between the larder and the cooking range. He sat there now, fiddling with the small, broken wireless in his lap.

  ‘How do you like your tea, dear?’ Mrs Rolston asked, her voice weak and tired.

  ‘Milk, two sugars, please, ma’am.’ Peter smiled. It brought no joy to the room. ‘Please don’t trouble yourself about the sugar.’ Though he spoke to strangers every night at the theatre, he had no idea how to begin this conversation, not without making Mrs Rolston cry again. Mr Rolston cursed at the wireless.

  ‘Any good with electrics?’ he asked Peter.

  ‘No, sir. I’m doing an apprenticeship in accounting.’

  Mr Rolston stopped listening as Mrs Rolston served the tea, adding a small spoonful of powdered milk to each cup. Peter thanked her and sipped the tea. The Rolstons left theirs untouched. It was a bitter, watery mixture, the teabags reused too many times.

  ‘Where is Jessie?’ he asked quietly. Mrs Rolston began scrubbing the range. Mr Rolston buried his face deeper into the wireless.

  ‘Do you know where she is?’

  Mrs Rolston sniffled, and Mr Rolston sighed.

  ‘Moved out a few months ago, didn’t she?’ Mr Rolston said.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t . . .’

  ‘Said she wanted to be an independent woman,’ he continued, his voice mocking. ‘Whatever the bloody hell that means. Not even married and she leaves us, goes to live in some brothel. Don’t even write.’

  Mrs Rolston slammed her fists onto the range. ‘Because she can’t! She can’t. She can’t.’

  Peter looked between them. ‘Why can’t . . . ?’

  ‘Don’t you start, woman! I’ll hear no more of that rubbish.’

  ‘No! I need someone to listen. Someone needs to listen.’

  ‘To what? How you’ve gone mad?’

  Mrs Rolston flung herself at Peter. His tea spilled over the table top. ‘She came to me in my dreams. Begged me for help.’

  Mr Rolston threw the wireless aside and grabbed his wife’s arms as she held onto Peter’s hands.

  ‘They won’t let her write. They won’t. “Help me, Mummy,” she said. “Help me!”’

  Mr Rolston slapped her across the face. The second time, she stopped crying. Mr Rolston smoothed back his hair as his wife prodded her bleeding lip.

  ‘Go and lie down,’ he ordered. She did as she was told, disappearing behind the sheet. ‘You must excuse my wife. She’s ill.’ He took up a newspaper. Peter feared he would be struck with it. Instead, Mr Rolston scribbled something in the margins.

  ‘That’s where she is.’ He handed it to Peter. An address in Camden. ‘You do see her, tell that whore she’s no longer welcome here.’

  *

  It was after eleven by the time Peter made his way home, thoughts of Eliza and Jessie still distressing him. Home was a small flat in a quiet area of Earl’s Court. The majority of residents should have already been asleep by the time Peter shuffled out of the Underground station, so he thought it odd when he sensed someone behind him.

  He didn’t see anyone the four times he peeked over his shoulder, but the feeling – that pressure on his back, as if something was staring into his soul – refused to dissipate.

  Peter kept a steady pace, ears keen for the slightest sound. He never liked walking down empty city streets at night. It reminded him too much of being caught out in an air raid. Too young to fight, most of his war days had been spent at the family cottage in Shepperton. Though it was much smaller than London, they heard their fair share of sirens thanks to the nearby aircraft factory. Many cold nights had been spent cowered in the Anderson shelter at the bottom of their garden, wondering if they would have a house to return to come morning. His family had been lucky. His father was too old to enlist and all three of his brothers returned home safe to English soil. His mother’s disposition had been Peter’s greatest challenge, but Peter understood her nervy feeling. He had it now.

  It was the feeling one had whenever a telegram was delivered to the door. The drop even the heartiest of stomachs would take as fingers tore open the envelope with silent prayers of ‘not Casualty Services, please God, not that’. It was a feeling which remained under the skin all day, even after good news. That one had escaped this time, but the next would bring Death to the door.

  Something hit the back of his shoe. Peter’s chest constricted as he turned round. It was a stone. Just a small grey stone. Yet the way it hit was as if someone walking behind him had kicked it forward. He looked. There was no one he could see. Though only a few doors from his building, Peter walked faster.

  He tried to imagine what it must have been like for his brothers walking across the fields of France, their packs weighing them down as they waited for a German attack. How they would peer over their shoulders, ensuring it was a comrade behind them, not a kommandant. The longer they went with no attack, the more heightened their senses would become. Every snapping twig or barking dog would become the enemy. Every scent would mean danger. Or death.

  A pot shattered.

  Peter ran to his door, fumbled with his keys. He leapt inside, locking himself in before someone could follow. Leaning against the door, short of breath, he paused and listened. No sound came from the other side of the door. The panic in his chest threatened to escape as a nervous laugh until the door shook.

  The handle twisted and rattled. Peter backed away, the swallowed laugh stuck in his throat. He did not wait for the door to still before running up the stairs to his flat. His foot slipped on the second landing, and he caught himself against a neighbour’s doorway. Peter clung to the wooden door jamb. A fall in the other direction would have sent him tumbling onto the hardwood floor below, the wrought-iron banister having been long since removed to support the war effort. He continued to the third floor, keeping his body pressed against the far wall until he safely reached his door.

  As soon as he unlocked his flat, he ran to the
sitting room, slipping on the day’s post as he went to the window which overlooked the street below. All that moved was a shadow in the mews opposite. It could have been anything – a cat, a neighbour, anything. Peter drew his curtains and waited several minutes before switching on the lights. His nerves, though stilled, remained fragile as he scooped the post from the floor. The first envelope gifted him a paper cut as his uncoordinated fingers slit it open. He sucked on the sharp sting as he read the brief missive, his nerves returning tenfold as his eyes pored over the unwanted words.

  *

  It was late, but this would not wait till morning. He needed answers now. He pounded his fist on the door. He wouldn’t stop until it was opened.

  ‘Miss Haverford. Miss Haverford!’

  ‘Who is it?’ Bess’s voice carried into the hall. So she was home now.

  ‘Peter. Peter Lamb.’

  ‘It’s late, Peter.’

  ‘I know. But I need to speak with you. Urgently.’ He straightened himself up, tried to sound like his father.

  ‘I’m in no state for visitors. Please, go home.’

  ‘Not till you tell me about Eliza. Where is she? Where has she gone?’

  There was a pause. The door barely opened, stopped by the chain. Bess seemed disinclined to remove it. Peter was about to demand entry when he noticed her face. She was without make-up, and her pale complexion and unpainted lips drew more attention to the bloated black bruise under her left eye. Conscious of his staring, she turned her head away.

  ‘Eliza is no longer your concern.’

  The door closed, leaving Peter standing there alone, the letter from Eliza crumpled in his fist.

  5

  Only a sliver of moonlight shone through the dirtied windows, but it was all Eliza needed to see the framed photograph on her bedside table. Despite her exhaustion, she was unable to sleep. She was accustomed to having her sister beside her and, while grateful for not having to share this tiny bed, she couldn’t shake the sensation that a part of her was missing.

  A shadow passed by the window. Eliza shrank back. There were all sorts of stories about what lurked in the Welsh hills, legends easily conjured up by her tired mind. She focused on the photograph instead – she with her mother, father and baby Rebecca outside the Royal Pavilion in 1935. She was five years old and Rebecca about six months. Eliza remembered the smell of salt water, a seagull leaving a mess on her pink dress and Rebecca crying at night. They went to Brighton every summer up until the war. It was where her parents had met. They had taken hundreds of photographs over the years, had bought dozens of souvenirs, and this was all that survived. The war took the rest.

  Unable to sleep in the bright moonlight, Eliza rose to shut the curtains. Her fingers froze around the fabric, unable to draw them closed. Outside stood a beast. It possessed the outline of a dog, but one larger than any natural animal of the earth, its bristled fur black and matted. Hellhound, she thought. The beast that appears to those about to die. It turned its misshapen head towards her, eyes glowing red, white fangs reflecting the night-time glow. It lifted its muzzle upwards, prepared to howl.

  She yanked the curtains shut and cowered beneath the window, hugging her knees to her chest while she waited for the sound which would pull her soul from her body and send it to the demons below. Silence rang in her ears. Steadying herself, she peeked through the curtains. Only the empty lawn remained. Two days of exhaustion must have been playing tricks on her mind. A nervous laugh did little to ease her frantic heartbeat.

  Eliza crawled back into bed and drew the covers up to her chest. Though the curtains blocked the moonlight, she could still see the silver outline of the picture frame. She closed her eyes, telling herself Rebecca was fine, and tried to smell salt water and listen for seagulls. She could not hear the child crying.

  *

  The alarm clock announced the hour with a screech. Eliza silenced it as quick as she could. Six a.m. She could either sleep another half an hour or finally take the bath she desperately needed. With a groan, she forced her body out of bed.

  Carrying a clean dress and undergarments, her old towel and some soap, she crept up the hall to the bathroom then locked herself inside. With her measuring tape, Eliza made a careful five-inch line along the tub. She missed the days when Mother would fill the tub to the brim, and she and Rebecca would spend hours playing in water scented with Coty’s bath salts.

  ‘If it’s good enough for the king and queen, it’s good enough for me,’ she sighed. The taps, nearly rusted shut, turned after a few hard twists, and the pipes spluttered to life. When was the last time Thornecroft had a housemaid, she wondered. The first water to emerge was brown and carried a stench of sewage, but the pipes soon cleared. Eliza bathed slowly, letting the tepid water massage her aching neck and stiff limbs. Despite the lukewarm temperature, it was better than the cold baths she was accustomed to at Aunt Bess’s flat.

  As she climbed out of the tub, a rasping groan echoed from the hall – the same as she had heard in Abigale Hall. She listened but, like yesterday, it did not repeat itself.

  Shaking off the chill, Eliza dressed then opened the bathroom door only to have it yanked shut, catching her fingers in the jamb. She gasped, pulling her hand back as she listened to Rebecca shouting in the hall.

  ‘No! You’ve ruined it! You’ve messed it all up.’

  ‘Rebecca. Open the door,’ Eliza said, cradling her injured hand against her chest.

  ‘You know you mustn’t do that. You know you have to wait!’ Rebecca started counting.

  Eliza’s hand throbbed, the pain causing her to hold her breath. Tentatively, she tried flexing her fingers. Pain made movement difficult.

  Rebecca reached ten. Fifteen.

  All she wanted was a calm morning. One without shouting or tears.

  Twenty.

  One without . . .

  The door opened. Eliza grabbed Rebecca with her good hand.

  ‘You know you can’t run about slamming doors! Look what you’ve done.’ Eliza showed Rebecca her already swollen fingers.

  ‘I need a bath.’

  ‘You need to apologise.’

  Rebecca kept her eyes on the slight bulge of her cardigan pocket. Eliza extracted the dead mouse. It was cold and stiff now.

  ‘This is filth. I told you. Do you want to go back on medication? Do you want to go back to hospital?’

  Rebecca shook her head.

  ‘Take your bath. There’s already water in the tub. Don’t waste it.’

  Without looking behind her, Eliza marched to her bedroom then hefted open the heavy window and tossed the little corpse outside. She heard it land somewhere in the grass then pulled the window back down. The cold morning air had snuck in and, with her hair still wet, she began to shiver. She wanted to wash her hands, but the basin in her room was empty. She rubbed her hand against her towel until her skin turned red.

  As she chose a dress from her wardrobe, she realised how unsatisfied she was with the arrangement of her clothing. She pulled everything out, refolded and refitted it, ignoring the throb in her hand and her clumsy swollen fingers.

  Still unhappy, she took the clothing out again, noticing how much ironing she needed to do. Everything was wrinkled, a shambles, unsuitable for service – the phrase from Father’s letter whispered inside her head.

  She threw the clothes into the wardrobe and shut its doors. She would never get it right. It would always be a bit off.

  It wasn’t until after she finished dressing that she realised Peter’s ring had fallen from her finger. She searched the wardrobe, the windowsill, the floor. It had to be here somewhere. She couldn’t lose that, too. Down on her hands and knees, she peeked under the bed and saw the gold band. The sight of it calmed her. Unable to reach it, she moved the end of the bed, exposing the floor beneath.

  As she bent down to collect the ring, she noticed a crack in the floorboards. The edge of something thin, like a piece of paper, protruded from the crack like a new tooth pushing
through the gum. Eliza reached for it when someone pounded on her door.

  ‘Eliza! Liza! It’s breakfast. We’re going to be late!’

  She slipped the ring onto her finger and moved the bed back into position, forgetting her discovery.

  *

  According to Mrs Pollard, the blue towels Eliza carried belonged in the north hall linen cupboard. This was all well and good except that Mrs Pollard never told Eliza where the linen cupboard was. Which of the seemingly hundreds of doors was it? She balanced the stack in one arm as she tried yet another knob with no success. As she went further down the hall, she was reminded of when they had first moved in with Aunt Bess. So often she was given tasks without being told the necessary information.

  Put that pan away. Away where?

  Take this letter to Mrs Granderson. Where did Mrs Granderson live?

  Give this money to the butcher. Which butcher?

  Eliza learnt to ignore Aunt Bess’s annoyance and ask the necessary questions. Asking a question and receiving a rebuke along with an answer was better than spending an hour running up and down the steps of their building searching for the old woman who lived directly above them.

  This part of the manor was like ice, as if no fires had been lit here for decades. The cold froze Eliza’s joints.

  That noise, again. That groan. Eliza stopped.

  Maybe it was the pipes, but pipes didn’t normally make her heart beat faster. Pipes didn’t remind her of the patients in Rebecca’s hospital. She tried another door. Brooms and buckets but no linens. She continued down the corridor. Every door remained the same. The wallpaper repeated an endless pattern. Eliza had no idea where she was. She clasped the towels tightly, the throb returning to her sore fingers. There appeared to be no end to the hall before her. Behind her looked the same. From which way had she come? Which way should she go? She could not even tell which door was the broom cupboard she last opened. She felt like she was on an assembly line being pulled through a never-ending tunnel. She was dizzy and, when she closed her eyes, felt herself spinning down and down.