Abigale Hall

by Forry, Lauren A

  No one noticed his entrance. Office boys darted back and forth while secretaries tapped violently on their typewriters. The room filled with the shrill ring of telephones left unanswered and was scented with the sweat of closely packed bodies and gathered cigarette smoke. Peter inched his way into the chaos and tried to stop a passing secretary.

  ‘Excuse me . . .’

  She brushed him aside and he bumped into a clerk, who waved him away. No one took any notice as he ventured further in. He approached two ladies towards the back. An older one resembling a canary with her yellow dress and peroxide-blonde hair chirped away at the young girl beside her, who appeared as nervous as Peter.

  ‘. . . can you be out of tea, I told him? No, dear, put it in like this,’ Canary said.

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am.’

  ‘Don’t apologise. Just do it properly.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Peter whispered.

  ‘I mean tea,’ she continued. ‘Of all the things. During the war there was always tea. Why can’t we have any now it’s over? No, I said like this.’

  ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘How did you get this job, you can’t handle carbon paper?’

  ‘Excuse me, I––’

  ‘Not now, lad. Can’t you see we’re busy?’ Canary took the carbon paper from the girl. ‘My daughter, Jennet, I’ve told you about Jennet? She was a secretary in the war rooms and even she can’t find work.’

  She reminded him of Eliza, the young girl, the way her hand flitted to check the curls of her hair.

  ‘I’m not saying they shouldn’t have hired you, but you should appreciate what you’ve got, you understand?’

  Eliza never knew what to do with her hands when she was nervous. Peter placed his on Canary’s typewriter. ‘I need to see Mr Mosley.’

  Canary looked at the hand, then up at Peter. She crossed her arms.

  ‘What time is your appointment?’

  ‘I don’t have an appointment.’

  ‘Then you won’t be seeing Mr Mosley. Now, Gladys, try it yourself this time. This stack here needs––’

  ‘It’s about Bess Haverford.’

  Canary shut her mouth.

  ‘Who’s . . . ?’ the girl began, but Canary hushed her.

  ‘Never mind that. Go and fetch us some tea, Gladys. Go on.’

  The girl scurried away, smiling thankfully at Peter.

  ‘Who are you then?’ Canary asked.

  ‘Peter Lamb. A friend of the family. I’m the one that . . . that found her.’

  The woman’s face softened. She clasped a hand to her breast.

  ‘Oh, you poor thing. I’m Harriet Wilson. I am – was Bess’s dearest friend here in the office. Such a tragedy, isn’t it? She never told me how sad she was, didn’t want to worry me, the poor dear, but I told Regina over there, I said, “Regina, something is going to happen to that poor old girl. Just you wait and see.” And now look. Feel like a prophet of doom. I only wish I’d done something.’

  ‘I’m sure there was nothing you could’ve done, ma’am.’

  ‘Oh, you sweet thing. You’re so kind. Now, tell me, dear,’ she leant in close, ‘how did she look when you found her?’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘People say gas distorts the face, bloats the skin, but I think that’s rubbish. I bet she looked peaceful, didn’t she? Like a sleeping angel?’

  The angel of Peter’s nightmares, her face dripping . . .

  ‘It’s . . . very difficult for me to discuss, ma’am.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’

  ‘Is Mr Mosley in?’

  ‘Oh yes, let me check. You just wait right there.’ She disappeared into a back office, returning moments later, her expression solemn. ‘I’m sorry, Paul.’

  ‘Peter.’

  ‘Mr Mosley can’t see anyone right now.’

  ‘But it’s urgent. If I––’

  ‘He said no. I’m sorry.’

  Peter saw the thin, ghastly man staring at him through the open blinds of his office window, clutching a pen. How many times had those knuckles grazed Bess’s face?

  ‘Then I’d like to make an appointment.’

  A firm hand gripped his shoulder. Peter turned to see a large clerk glaring down at him.

  ‘You were asked to leave, son.’

  Peter looked to Harriet for support but, finding none, allowed the burly clerk to escort him from the office. Better to be a gentleman, he thought, until he was thrown onto the pavement.

  ‘Spiv.’ The clerk spat on Peter.

  He wiped the glob from his cheek. ‘I’m not . . .’

  The door closed. Wincing, he put on his hat and straightened his coat. Across the street – bright amongst the faded colours of other passers-by – a blue and yellow checked cap, the cap from his nightmares, rested on the head of a man whose face was blocked by the other pedestrians.

  Peter was knocked from behind.

  ‘Out of the way,’ huffed a silver-haired woman. Peter apologised then looked again. The man in the checked cap was gone.

  *

  Heavy grey clouds rolled across the blue London sky, bringing a chill to the air as they blotted out the sun. Like Peter’s dark mood, they had formed while he rode the crowded Tube. Peter had stood crammed between other passengers as the bumpy tracks jostled his bad leg, with only thoughts of his latest failure to occupy him. His brothers wouldn’t let anyone treat them like that, not even Michael.

  Peter kicked his feet against the pavement, trying to draw out his anger as he walked up Shaftesbury Avenue. The only man who had any information about Bess and Eliza had refused to even speak to him. He’d had one opportunity and let his uselessness cost him. Maybe there should be another war, he thought. He would be old enough to enlist this time. Perhaps the army could teach him to be more like his brothers instead of the fool that he was.

  The day had begun with such promise. Now it was as miserable as the pedestrian-clogged streets and empty shops. All he wanted was to pick up his pay packet from the Palladium, get his name on the next rota, and disappear into the Coach and Horses.

  A woman’s sobs changed his plans.

  ‘Please, please! You must know. Please!’

  Outside the stage door, Mrs Rolston clung to Purvis, crying into his shirt.

  ‘Madam, get a hold of yourself. Madam, that’s enough!’

  ‘But she must be here. She must!’

  Purvis shoved her away. ‘I have no idea where that trollop is.’

  ‘That’s no way to speak to her,’ Peter said, taking Mrs Rolston into his arms.

  ‘I’ll speak to her any damn way I please, Lamb. Look at her. She’s hysterical!’

  Mrs Rolston cried into Peter’s shirt. He could feel her tears soaking into the fabric.

  ‘Her only child is missing, Purvis. How would you feel?’

  Purvis brushed off his lapels. ‘Children are not my area. Even so, I wouldn’t act like some wailing harpy from a Greek tragedy. Especially if my daughter got into trouble as easily as Jessie Rolston.’

  ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means do something with that woman before she chases away all our patrons!’ Purvis disappeared into the theatre. Mrs Rolston pulled back and apologetically dabbed at the wet spot on Peter’s shirt with her handkerchief.

  ‘It’s all right, ma’am.’ He stilled her hand. ‘What’s happened, Mrs Rolston?’

  ‘Oh, boy. Dear boy. Tell me you’ve seen her, too. Tell me she’s all right.’

  ‘I don’t know. I couldn’t . . .’ Peter paused. ‘Too? Mrs Rolston, have . . . ?’

  ‘Just now. In the square.’ She pointed towards Trafalgar. ‘But I must have imagined it. I must have. I called to her, but she refused to answer. My Jessie wouldn’t ignore me. Oh, how foolish I’ve been.’ She blew into her handkerchief. ‘I’m seeing things, like Tom says. My Jessie would’ve answered.’

  He squeezed her hand. ‘Mrs Rolston, I don’t think you’re foolish at all.’

 
; *

  Peter remained in the square all night, sitting on the steps in front of the National Gallery until his back grew stiff. It was the first time he had witnessed sunlight and lamplight exchange places at both ends of the day. There had been no sign of Jessie, but he knew mothers possessed an instinct about their children. He remembered the times his mother knew his brothers were in trouble – the distant gaze that would dog her for days until they received word John was injured or Michael’s squad was missing. If Mrs Rolston said she had seen Jessie, Peter believed her. And if Jessie was still in London, maybe Eliza was too.

  His stomach grumbled as the sun rose over St Martin’s. Abandoning his post on the stairs, he found a café on Whitcomb Street and settled at a grubby table, the surface sticky from chip oil, and ordered breakfast and tea. The meal took the edge off his night in the square. Some would have considered him a failure. John and Samuel would laugh if he told them he had spent the night walking in circles, searching for a girl. Michael, though . . . He thought Michael would understand. Michael would tell him he was only doing what had to be done. Peter’s eyes felt heavy, but an extra tea helped keep him alert. If Eliza were in London, there was one person who knew where she could be.

  Eliza often complained about Mr Mosley, the way he sneered at her. How he would make Rebecca run errands all over the city. How his eyes would linger on her aunt’s chest whenever he spoke to her.

  ‘He has a wife and children,’ Eliza said one night after work. ‘But I know Aunt Bess wants him. She’s always trying so hard to please him. I bet she’d do anything for him. Anything at all.’

  Anything at all. That was what she said, that or something similar.

  Peter drank a third tea without tasting it and left the remainder of his food on the plate, even though it cost him two coupons.

  Michael had told him a story once, about the time he helped capture a German soldier. The man had sensitive information they needed to pass on to their superior officer. Information the man would not give freely. In wartime, Michael said, a man had to do things he wouldn’t normally do. Behave in a way that society might frown upon.

  Peter passed an alley bombarded by bombsite debris, the ruins of a shop visible beneath the brick rubble and fallen beams. A man on crutches hobbled by, his right leg missing from the knee down. A child with the toes cut off his shoes was dragged down the street by a woman with an empty shopping bag, her coat thin and faded. Up ahead, the queue for a butcher’s was already snaking round the corner. London today looked no different than London two years ago. Were they not still at war?

  Peter descended into Charing Cross and took the District Line east. The heat of the Tube made his head fuzzy, the soft feelings cocooning him from the sharp edges of the world. Life on the street above was biting by comparison. The wind picked up and needle-like raindrops fell, piercing his exposed skin.

  Inside a Corner House, he sat at a table by the window. All day customers came and went, but Peter remained, twirling the poker chip in his fingers and ignoring the newspaper laid out before him. He could have been there days, weeks. He had no sense of time, only the patience that came from waiting for one, singular thing.

  The dining-hall clock chimed five times. How many hours had he been awake now? He’d lost count. The lack of sleep only made him more focused. At quarter past, a trio of women exited the building, followed by a few office boys attempting to look up their skirts. An elderly clerk hobbled out, clutching his briefcase to his chest with both hands. At half past, Canary emerged, again dressed in yellow, the door held open for her by Mr Mosley. It felt like only a few hours since he’d last seen them.

  He hurried outside, the pain dull in his leg. Mosley stopped at the corner and adjusted his tie, giving Peter the opportunity to catch up. He followed at a safe distance, his stomach churning from too much tea and too little food. He didn’t know this part of London, didn’t know where Mosley was heading, until he saw the sign for Liverpool Street station. He would lose him there. It was too big. Too many people.

  He ran up and jabbed the corner of his ration book into Mosley’s back like a knife’s edge.

  ‘Don’t say anything,’ Peter warned. ‘Keep moving. This way.’ He directed him into a quiet pedestrian street of closed market stalls.

  It was a bombsite. A whole side of a house had been blown away, revealing the striated layers within, the empty, pillaged floors resembling a doll’s house left to rot. Peter shoved Mosley into the pit, watched him roll into piles of destroyed brick coated in years of discarded rubbish and hit his head on a fallen wooden beam. He climbed in as Mosley, disorientated, tried to regain his footing. Peter knocked him back down.

  ‘Here!’ Mosley fumbled in his pocket. ‘My wallet. Take it!’

  Peter grabbed the wallet and threw it into the empty half house. ‘I don’t want your money. I want to know where you sent them!’

  Mosley turned onto his back, squinting at Peter. ‘You. You’re that boy.’

  ‘Where is Eliza Haverford? What have you done with her?’

  ‘I’ve not done a thing. That business is nothing to do with me.’

  ‘But Bess Haverford’s bed – that has everything to do with you, doesn’t it?’

  Mosley slipped on the bricks, fell to his knees. Peter grabbed him by the collar, hoisted him as high as his back allowed. ‘You were having an affair and, what, wanted her pesky nieces out of the way? Wanted more time with your mistress?’

  ‘No. It wasn’t . . .’

  Peter punched him. His fist hit the eye socket, returning the favour Mosley had bestowed upon Bess. ‘She would’ve done anything for you. Anything at all!’

  ‘Not for me. Only money. Bess did anything for money.’

  The poker chip. The bills.

  ‘She was short on the rent, so I agreed to lend her what she needed in exchange for certain . . . favours. Last I saw her, socially, was the night she sent those girls away. She sent them away herself.’

  ‘Where? Where did she send them?’

  ‘I don’t know! Please, I didn’t know anything about it. She was drunk. Said she sent them with the one-armed man and that was that and could I lend her money until the payment came. I couldn’t put up with her any more. I told her our arrangement was off and I left.’

  Peter noticed for the first time how weary the man looked, the blood on his face making the grey of his skin more apparent.

  ‘Please don’t tell my wife. Please. That’s all I know. Please let me go.’

  Peter released him.

  Mosley scrambled to his feet and hurried out of the crater, hands struggling for purchase on the loose chunks of rubble. Peter watched him climb onto the pavement, his black suit covered in chalky dust and dirt, and run off down the street.

  Peter looked at his hands. They were covered in blood. He wiped them on his trousers, but that only smeared the red around. Peter stumbled sideways into the house and vomited over a half-charred kitchen table. Through a hole in the ceiling, he watched the wind sweep through the exposed rooms, fluttering curtains too high to be pilfered. There he fell to his knees and, on the destroyed lino floor, he wept.

  15

  The day Mother died was one Eliza often replayed in her mind. She imagined Mother had woken early to make Father breakfast and tea. After he left for work, she must have tidied the kitchen then done the daily shop, stopping to gossip with Mrs Michaels, the young mother who lived next door. The weather had been mild that day in Hungerford and Eliza thought it would be mild in London as well. Then Mother would have worn her favourite blue tea dress with a white cardigan, her hair neatly permed and decorated with a zinnia purchased from the corner market. Father worked late at the office, so she would eat dinner alone – potato pie, with syrup tart for dessert – after which she would listen to the wireless before taking a bath and going to bed around eleven. Three hours later she would be set alight by incendiary bombs – the first night of the Blitz.

  Father sent a telegram to tell Eliza the ne
ws. It read simply:

  Incendiary bomb. Your mother is dead.

  Father

  She thought he would later post a longer letter, find a way to comfort her with greater words, or even make the trip up to Hungerford to see her. He did neither. It was Aunt Bess who eventually told her more of what happened, though she, too, struggled to make her words a comfort.

  Eliza couldn’t remember what happened to that slip of paper. Some days she remembered tearing it into pieces. Others she thought she had thrown it into the fire. And sometimes, although rarely, she pictured herself folding it up and tucking it into her little Bible for safe keeping. It did not matter what happened to the paper because it left its mark inside her – a numbing coldness that lived with her, impossible to shake, and, if ignored too long, made it difficult to breathe. Some days it wasn’t there at all. Others, it threatened to overwhelm her.

  It was there when she woke this morning, a small speck between her lungs that expanded as the day’s shadows grew long.

  There was no delaying it any longer. She had to put on the dress. It lay on her bed like a shed snakeskin, every detail haunting her – the lace around the cuffs and collar, the perfect hemline, the embroidery on the skirt.

  Her clock continued to tick. Quarter past seven. She slipped the dress over her head, the light fabric weighing heavy on her limbs.

  As her shaking fingers struggled with each button, she heard a woman singing. Did Mrs Pollard sing? Yet the voice was too youthful. Eliza peered out of her window. An orange-hued ball of light floated round the back of the manor. She ran out of her room to follow it and bumped into Rebecca.

  ‘Oh, Eliza! You look so beautiful.’

  ‘Hm?’ The singing could no longer be heard.

  ‘What will you do with your hair? Are you going to wear make-up? Hurry.’ Rebecca took her hand. ‘You have to finish getting ready.’

  Reluctantly, she let her sister lead her back to the bedroom. There was no light outside. No singing. Nerves, that was all. She was tired, imagining things.

  Eliza’s last failed perm was fading and, with no kirby grips or wave set, her hair hung limply round her face. She put in a silver hairclip, but it did nothing to illuminate her muddy brown strands. She resembled a child playing dressing up – no beauty, no glamour. She would never meet Peter like this.