‘What’s going on?’ Mrs Pollard kept still in the doorway. Her nightgown hung loosely from her thin frame, the tendons in her neck straining as she stared down at them both.
‘Rebecca woke me an hour ago. She’s been ill.’
‘I can see that.’
‘Do you have any stomach medicine?’
Mrs Pollard said nothing at first. Eliza believed she would refuse Rebecca help, but she didn’t care. They didn’t need Mrs Pollard.
‘There may be something. Put her to bed.’ She disappeared down the hall.
‘Rebecca? Do you think you can walk?’
Rebecca nodded weakly, and Eliza helped her to rise. With one arm around her sister, Eliza pulled the toilet chain.
The first time she had cared for someone with a stomach upset was the night of their return to London. Though she never remembered Father drinking heavily before the war, that night he remained in the pub until closing time then continued imbibing from his private stock of homemade marrow liqueur once he stumbled home. He mistook Eliza for her mother then ran to the toilet to be sick. The next day, he would not even look at her.
As Eliza tucked Rebecca into bed, Mrs Pollard returned with a small brown bottle and a spoon. It was the bottle she had seen Mrs Pollard sipping from on their way to Plentynunig.
‘Stomach tonic. Old family recipe,’ Mrs Pollard said, catching Eliza’s eyes as they scanned the unlabelled bottle. ‘One couldn’t live in the Indian colony without suffering all sorts of unpleasant stomach ailments. Mother swore by this. Give it to her. Two tablespoons.’
Eliza untwisted the cap and was struck by the pungent odour of herbs and aspic. She poured the viscous black liquid onto the spoon and held it to Rebecca’s lips. Rebecca turned away.
‘Please, dearie. It will make you feel better.’ Eliza tried to force the spoon into Rebecca’s mouth but only succeeded in dripping the sticky substance onto the sheets.
‘Rebecca. You know what’s best for you. Be a good girl,’ Mrs Pollard ordered.
Rebecca complied, grimacing as she swallowed.
‘One more,’ Mrs Pollard said. Rebecca’s mouth was open before Eliza could pour another dose.
‘That will do for now.’ She took the bottle and spoon from Eliza. ‘Let her rest.’
Rebecca was already falling asleep. Eliza looked for the bisque doll, wanting to tuck it under her sister’s arm, but she did not see it in the small room. She took Rebecca’s old plastic cat instead and placed it with her underneath the sheet. Rebecca rolled over and pushed the cat onto the floor. It landed with a smack on the scuffed floorboards. Eliza left it.
*
Between Rebecca’s illness and the nightmare, the day was filled with worry. The nightmares had never gone that far before. Was Victoria working harder to keep her here? She tried to keep the matter at the back of her mind, but the vivid dream came flooding back when Mrs Pollard ordered her to sweep the veranda. Eliza looked at the dried muddy footprints on the stone tiling and felt the dirt on her own feet, hidden by stockings and shoes. She had never known herself to sleepwalk. Not even Rebecca suffered from that condition. It was something about this house, about Victoria’s lingering presence. Was this how it started? Victoria entering the dreams of those she wished to harm? Was that how she led them away? How was Eliza to control her body while she slept? Perhaps she could lock the door, tie herself to the bed frame. Maybe she could go without sleep tonight. It was only tonight she had to survive. By tomorrow, they’d be in Abergwili.
Father was always threatening to send them away. He was upset with Rebecca’s shyness and Eliza’s constant references to the Littletons. More than once he snapped at them to be quiet, even when they weren’t speaking. It didn’t take long for Eliza to recognise that this wasn’t the father she’d had before the war. Yet who wasn’t changed by those years? Eliza did her best to please him. It was never enough. He never appreciated anything, not his daughters, not his position, not even his own war work. Eliza was sure he had done his bit – Father couldn’t help his poor eyesight – but ‘too young for the first war, too crippled for the second, too old for the third’ was what he muttered to himself when drunk.
As she dumped the mop water, she caught a whiff of marrow liqueur.
By the afternoon, Rebecca felt well enough to eat, so Eliza prepared her luncheon. She put only one tablet of lithium bromide into the tea rather than the full dose, unsure how the medication would interact with Mrs Pollard’s homemade tonic. Rebecca did seem calmer today – less angry and more like the little girl she used to be. As soon as they were back in London she would take Rebecca to the doctor, make sure Thornecroft hadn’t caused any lasting damage.
London. London as early as next week. She could already feel the bustle of the city. She would welcome it. Peter would meet them at the train station. She would send him a telegram from Abergwili. He would be waiting at Paddington with roses and a ring, and she would run into his arms and right there he’d propose. The whole station would cheer for them. She could stay with his family as they planned the wedding. Peter would have finished his apprenticeship and she would enrol in a secretarial college, or perhaps a teacher training college. They would need to earn as much as they could if they were to afford a house of their own. Rebecca could live with them until she finished school and found a job, or maybe she would go to university. She was so clever when she wanted to be. If Eliza was half as clever as Rebecca, they would be in London already.
‘How are you feeling?’ she asked, slipping into Rebecca’s room. She set the luncheon tray on the bedside table. ‘No fever?’ She placed her hand against Rebecca’s forehead. ‘How’s your tummy?’
‘Stop fussing.’ Rebecca shifted away. ‘You’re always fussing.’
‘Only because I care. Do you need anything? Where’s your doll?’
‘I don’t need anything. Especially not a stupid doll.’ She rolled away from Eliza and pulled the blanket over her head. The coarse, moth-eaten fabric scratched Eliza’s skin as she stroked Rebecca’s shoulder. Her sister’s wiry frame tensed with every caress, as if Eliza were winding a watch. She pulled her hand away.
‘Well, you stay in bed and get as much rest as you can. We have a big day tomorrow, remember?’
The body under the blanket remained still.
‘Rebecca, you do remember what tomorrow is, don’t you? Friday?’
‘Tomorrow we run away.’
‘We’re returning to London.’ Eliza smiled. No reply. ‘That’s what you wanted, remember? When we first arrived? You told me you couldn’t wait to leave.’
‘I remember. I always remember.’
‘Good. Now try and eat some of this, will you? You’ll need your strength. I’ll come back in a little while. See how you’re feeling.’
More silence. Was Mother this underappreciated? With a sigh, Eliza returned to the hall.
‘What did you give her?’ Mrs Pollard stood there, hands gripping the waist of her black dress. Now she had seen Mrs Pollard in her nightgown, Eliza noticed how this dress, too, seemed a size too big.
‘Some Oxo stock,’ she answered.
‘And?’
‘A slice of bread.’
A chill prickled Eliza’s skin as Mrs Pollard took a slow step forward. The keys at her waist jangled once, like a warning bell. The skin of her face was a shade darker than that of her neck. Eliza could see where she had tapered off her make-up underneath her chin.
‘And?’ Mrs Pollard’s voice dropped in octave and temperature.
‘Tea.’
‘And?’
The pill bottle burned against Eliza’s thigh. She slipped her hands into her pockets and took her own step forward.
‘Was there something else you wanted me to give her?’ She could feel Mrs Pollard’s breath across her brow. It smelled of aspic. Eliza did not move, did not breathe, did not blink. Mrs Pollard’s face remained unreadable.
From the bedroom came Rebecca’s cry. Eliza glanced at the door. When sh
e turned back, Mrs Pollard’s eyes were on her pocket.
‘Stock and bread and tea sound more than sufficient,’ said Mrs Pollard. ‘Go to the henhouse. I need the eggs for dinner.’
Eliza calmly walked down to the kitchen, refusing to turn round even as she felt Mrs Pollard’s eyes boring into her back. As Eliza reached the kitchen, a door slammed. She turned. The hall was empty.
The day’s grey light stained the kitchen. The absence of colour further dampened Eliza’s mood as if she, too, had been drained of all colour. If she looked at her hands, would they be pale and pink or grey like the images in a film? She passed through the kitchen, focusing on the damp green grass she could see through the window, but stopped at Mrs Pollard’s office. Through the half-open door, she could see a stack of post sitting on the housekeeper’s desk. Eliza had received no correspondence since her arrival, but that did not mean none had been sent.
She listened. When the house gave no sound, she slipped into the office and scooped all the letters into her hands. She flipped through them, looking for any message from Aunt Bess or Peter or anyone from London. A few had return addresses unknown to Eliza, and those with no return address were yet unopened. None of the handwriting looked familiar. There was one telegram – a message from Swansea inquiring about a delivery order. Nothing from those she knew.
Eliza placed the post on the desk, careful to return every piece to its exact position. As she aligned the top letter, her eyes fell on an ivory-handled letter opener. Though likely once expensive, the silver file had experienced much mistreatment. Several scratches marred its surface and brittle wax stuck to its tip.
Footsteps thudded on the wet ground outside. Eliza forgot the letter opener and hurried back to the kitchen, leaving the office door half-opened as she’d found it. She continued outside, passing Mr Drewry who was making his way in. Neither acknowledged the other, though she noticed he was eating one of her rolls. The wet ground dampened her shoes as she crossed to the henhouse. Inside the gated grounds, feathers and chicken droppings immediately stuck to her wet shoes as if drawn there by magnetism.
She grabbed the wicker basket from the hook and entered the acrid structure. The thin hens pecked at the vegetable scraps at her feet, some aiming for her hands as she reached for their eggs. Chickens were filthy animals, especially these sickly ones, with their missing feathers and crusted eyes. Eliza could imagine the bugs and mites crawling across their skin, leaping onto her as she passed. Her arms began to crawl and itch. She brushed her skin with her free hand – the hand that came closest to the nesting chickens – and the itching intensified. Had she brushed more creatures onto her arm? The further she went inside the henhouse, the stronger the smell of excrement-soaked straw. What if she inhaled the mites that plagued the chickens? Would they nestle in her lungs? Eat her soft, wet tissue from the inside out?
Eliza started coughing and was certain she could feel the mites rattling in her lungs. They scratched and tore at the delicate membranes as she tried to force them back up her throat. Tears clouded her vision, but she could not stop coughing. She had to get them out. She backed out of the henhouse, the basket dangling from her elbow, weighing her down. She stumbled down the steps and hurried to the gate, the increased squawking deafening. Her lungs felt sore, but she coughed harder, needing to scrape every last intruder from her body. Her feet slipped on the wet ground and she tumbled forward.
The eggs went sprawling onto the grass. Eliza heard them crack under her hands, felt the sticky mess and crunched shells in her palms. She sat back on her calves, wiping the wet yolk on her trousers. The spilled basket lay beside her. Brown eggs – some broken, some whole – dotted the grass.
It was too much today, doing Rebecca’s chores as well as her own. Her eyes were so dry, she felt they would crumble into grains of sand if she blinked. She would sleep soon, on the train to London, with a belly full of tea and sandwiches and Rebecca calm beside her. It wasn’t long now. She set the basket upright and began gathering the eggs closest to her. Voices came from the kitchen.
‘. . . want that girl skulking about . . .’ It was Mrs Pollard. ‘. . . as bad as Kyffin was. And I can’t . . . another of those. Well? Are you even listening?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Mr Drewry. ‘. . . harmless. Don’t even know what . . .’
‘I did not ask for your opinion. I asked you to handle it. I must inspect the collection tomorrow, and I can’t have her . . .’
Their shadows stretched across the lawn, nearly touching Eliza.
‘. . . sure that girl is under control.’
‘She’s no trouble.’
If they looked out of the windows, they would catch her eavesdropping.
‘Remember, I only promised . . .’ Mrs Pollard’s voice dropped, and she whispered something too low for Eliza to hear. Whatever it was caused Mr Drewry to stomp out of the kitchen. The door slammed hard behind him. He spat on the grass, in Mrs Pollard’s direction. As he fixed his hat on his head, he caught sight of Eliza kneeling on the ground. Their eyes met. She held her breath and waited for him to yell for the housekeeper.
He turned and walked towards the carriage house.
Eliza collected the rest of the undamaged eggs and hurried into the kitchen, keeping her head down.
‘Miss Haverford,’ Mrs Pollard called from her office.
Eliza left the basket on the table and went to the doorway. Mrs Pollard knew. Of course she knew. She always knew.
‘Your sister was calling. I suggest you go and see to her.’
Eliza nodded and hurried out of the kitchen, so many thoughts filling her head that she felt no relief from escaping. Kyffin. The name on Victoria’s grave. And why had Mr Drewry ignored her? What was he planning?
She tried to forget everything. Under control, that’s what Mrs Pollard expected of her, and that was what she would be. But only until tomorrow.
*
Having coaxed Rebecca to join her for dinner, Eliza now encouraged her to help with the clearing up.
‘It’s only a few dishes. Then you can go straight back to bed.’
‘I don’t feel well. Why can’t you do them?’
Rebecca’s whinging was doing nothing for Eliza’s headache. ‘Because I asked you to. Isn’t that reason enough? And I did all your chores today so you could rest, so could you please just do this?’
‘Fine.’
‘Thank you.’
Rebecca rolled up her sleeves to wash the dishes, and Eliza noticed the red, raised rash on her arms.
‘Rebecca, what’s happened to your arm?’
She pulled down her sleeve. ‘Nothing. Look, I’m doing what you asked.’
‘You can’t pretend I didn’t see it. Give it here,’ she said, holding out her hand. Rebecca ignored her and began scrubbing a plate. Eliza was tired, her head pounding, every muscle stiff and aching. Her temper had grown short. ‘Rebecca. Oh, for goodness sake.’ Eliza grabbed for Rebecca’s arm. Her sister jerked away, dropping the plate. It broke into three pieces on the stone floor. ‘Now look what you’ve done.’
‘It’s your fault.’
‘If you had just let me see your arm . . .’
‘It’s your fault I have a rash in the first place!’
A lump formed in Eliza’s throat. ‘Don’t be silly.’
‘Turn out your pockets. Let me see. You’re making me sick just like the doctors did. I know it’s you! Let me see your pockets!’ Rebecca ran for her and grabbed at Eliza’s trousers. She got a hand inside the pocket and snatched the pill bottle. Eliza reached for it but Rebecca was too quick.
‘I hate these.’ She dumped the tablets onto the floor. ‘You know I hate these!’ She stamped on them, crushing them into powder.
‘You needed something to calm your nerves, that’s all. For tomorrow.’
Rebecca needed to understand. This was for the best.
Eliza lowered her voice. ‘We’re leaving tomorrow, remember?’
‘Why should I go anywhere with
you? You always lie to me. I’m glad we came. I’m glad I did it!’
Eliza froze. Rebecca wasn’t making any sense. Or maybe she was too tired to understand. Maybe she wasn’t hearing the right words. ‘What did you say?’
‘I knew you’d be too stupid to catch me. So I burned our clothing coupons and our ration books and I let you think you lost them and I’m not sorry because it’s funny. It’s funny to see you act so very stupid.’
Eliza slapped her.
She wanted to do it again, hit her until she cried and begged and apologised for being a disgusting little wretch. Rip her hair out and burn her favourite dress. Take away every good thing she ever gave her and watch her weep.
She raised her hand.
Rebecca smiled. ‘You pretend you’re different, but you feel it too, don’t you? Father gave it to both of us. It lives in here.’ She pressed her finger into Eliza’s heart. ‘You can’t kill it, so why don’t you stop trying?’ She twisted her nail into Eliza’s skin then walked away, her feet crunching on the broken plate. At the kitchen door, she dropped the empty pill bottle. It rolled across the floor until it bumped into the cabinets by Eliza’s foot.
Eliza felt the mark of her sister upon her chest. Inside, she felt the cold spot grow, and while it numbed her, it didn’t take the hateful thoughts away. It made them clear and strong and turned them from Rebecca and onto herself as they ate away at her heart.
Ask yourself what horrible thing you’ve done to be here, Ruth said, and now she knew. She fell to her knees, surrounded by crushed porcelain and pills, and she knew.
19
Huddled in a rain-soaked alleyway on a black, foggy evening, prostitutes offering him their services and his hands red and chapped from the cold, Peter wondered if he could handle war. John and Samuel told stories about mud that went to your armpits, sideways rain that never stopped, heat that would burn your skin clean off. For less than an hour he’d been standing alongside Rainbow Corner, feeling as abandoned as the deserted Red Cross club, and already his feet were soaked through, his freezing hands barely able to keep his collar clasped shut. This was meant to be exciting, but all Peter felt was cold and nerves.
Abigale Hall Page 19