Honour & Obey

by Carol Hedges

  Closer inspection also reveals a slightly wild look about the eyes, somewhere between ravenous and sensual. She has a wide mouth and puffy lips, parted slightly as if starving. The young woman sidles up to Constable Evans and gives him a long hard stare as if making up her mind about something.

  “’Ullo p’liceman,” she says in a husky voice.

  Another interesting aspect of Constable Evans’ new beat is dealing with ‘ladies of the night’. Sometimes he also has to deal with ladies of the day whom gentlemen have mistaken for ladies of the night. His skills in tact and diplomacy are increasing incrementally as a result.

  “Yes, my good woman, how can I help you?” he asks in his lilting Welsh accent.

  The young woman looks him up and down very slowly, in a way that brings the colour to Constable Evans’ honest face.

  “Well, now, you’re a nice big man, ain’t you,” she says, with an emphasis on the word ‘big’ that produces further blushes.

  “Um,” says Constable Evans.

  “I fink we are going to get on like a house on fire,” the young woman murmurs seductively, leaning in.

  Constable Evans recalls the only time he ever saw a house on fire. There were no survivors.

  “Miss ... I have to warn you that I am an Officer of the Law,” he says, mentally paging frantically through the Police Handbook. “And if you are propositioning an Officer of the Law while he is engaged in carrying out his official duties, I have to warn you that it is a crime for which you may be arrested and taken to the nearest police station. In handcuffs,” he adds for further dramatic effect.

  Undeterred, the young woman gives him a cheerful and infectious grin.

  “Well, you can’t blame a girl for trying to drum up a bit of trade on a slack day, can yer?”

  Constable Evans assumes what he hopes will be interpreted as a stern and forbidding expression.

  “Now if there is nothing further, I must be about my lawful employment.”

  “No, wait a bit,” the golden-ringletted one says. “There is summat.”

  He pauses.

  “It’s Sawney Sue.”

  “I am sorry?”

  “She shares my patch. Well, she did. Ain’t seen her around for two days now.”

  “And this Sawney Sue would be ...”

  “Yeah, she would be. Only she ain’t now. And I was wondering whether I oughter mention it, like.”

  She looks at him, head on one side coquettishly.

  At this point, it would be all too easy to tell her to “Move along, my good woman and stop wasting police time.” Indeed, most of his colleagues would have done just that.

  But Constable Evans possesses, in embryonic form, that intuition and acuity that in future years will take him to the very top of his profession, earning him the respect not only of his colleagues, but also of those in high office.

  Thus, instead of airily dismissing her concerns and resuming what is known universally in police parlance as ‘proceeding’, he regards her thoughtfully.

  “Tell me what is worrying you,” he says, getting out notebook and pencil.

  So she does. Tells him how she and Sawney Sue (“She’s a bit simple like, but a good-hearted girl, do anything for anybody,”) had met some time ago and struck up an unlikely friendship. How they'd been standing under a portico in Regent Street, eyeing up the potential clientele.

  How a punter had sauntered over and asked her for a bit of a jangle, so she’d taken him down a side alley, telling Sue to keep cave. (“Coz there’s them as would report you for doing it in a public place, dunno why, it’s not as if it ain’t in the Bible, is it?”) and when she returned, Sue was gone, which wasn’t like her, coz they always looked out for each other, and she hadn’t seen her since.

  “What did she look like, this friend of yours?” he asks.

  She gives him a description.

  “What do you fink, Mr Policeman? You fink The Slasher’s got her?”

  Constable Evans is thinking a lot of things. Some of them are more urgent than others.

  “Now look, you wait here, Miss ... I just have to see a man about a dog. When I return, I shall escort you to the nearest Police Station, where you can give a full statement, which I will make sure gets to the detectives in Scotland Yard.”

  Constable Evans goes to point Peter at a convenient wall. When he returns, the young woman will have vanished. Of course. But he will mention what she told him to his superior officer, who will tell it to the station sergeant, who will relate it to Detective Inspector Stride over a jar of ale in the Dog and Bucket two nights later. Detective Inspector Stride will, in turn, match up the description with the body of an unnamed and unclaimed young woman lying in the police mortuary.

  There may still not be a pattern, but the individual threads are beginning to come together.

  ****

  Love and liability. They go together like the title of a novel. For some it involves taking responsibility for finding a place to call home. For others, it is faking a façade of normality.

  Thus, here is Hyacinth Clout, in the hallway, with a duster, waiting for the lunchtime post to plop through the letterbox. Since their first meeting ten days ago, she and Lonely Widower have exchanged several letters of an increasingly amicable nature. His always seem to arrive at the same time of day.

  This explains her current location, and therefore also her air of agitation. For Lobelia, who generally keeps to her own quarters in the morning hours, is wont to appear from on high when lunch is scheduled.

  Hyacinth has on her cleaning apron, all the better to fool her with. She makes half-hearted dabs at the bannister rail, while listening for footsteps on the other side of the front door and at the same time for footsteps coming along the upstairs corridor. Her ability to multitask is truly admirable.

  Just when the tension is becoming almost too much to bear, the flap is lifted and a letter is pushed through. Hyacinth falls upon it like a vulture upon its prey. As she straightens up, she meets the stern-eyed face of her sister, who has appeared from the morning-room without her realising.

  “What on earth are you doing scrabbling around on the mat?” Lobelia inquires. Coldly.

  Hyacinth hides the letter in her hand and the hand behind her back.

  “I thought I saw a black beetle,” she lies.

  “Really, Hyacinth, your current behaviour leaves a lot to be desired,” her sister continues. “Have you prepared luncheon yet?”

  Hyacinth nods. A cold collation of last night’s beef is awaiting consumption in the kitchen.

  “I hope you have not forgotten that we are both attending a meeting of the Society for Returning Young Women to Their Friends in the Country. Your absence from the last meeting has been noted and remarked upon.”

  “Who has remarked upon it?”

  “Reverend Bittersplit.”

  “Well, it’s none of his business,” Hyacinth declares defiantly.

  Lobelia’s unplucked eyebrows almost disappear into her straggly hairline.

  “I hope I did not hear you aright! Reverend Bittersplit is a man I hold in the highest respect. He is a member of the cloth – a sacred profession. And he was the only man Mama trusted in her final days upon this earth.”

  More fool her, Hyacinth thinks glumly. She remembers all too vividly his tedious visits to the house, when she was forced to sit at the dying woman’s bedside in her role as nurse and chaperone, listening to her mother’s choky, rasping breath as Reverend Bittersplit read passages from the Bible interspersed with long invocations to the Almighty.

  “And he is the father of Bethica, our dear and trusted friend.”

  Your dear and trusted friend, Hyacinth thinks. Frankly, the relationship between Bethica and her sister puzzles her. They seem very close – almost unnaturally so – visiting or corresponding with each other daily.

  And one evening last week, when Hyacinth had cause to return unexpectedly to the vestry, having once again left her umbrella in the stand, she had
found her sister and Bethica clasped in each other’s arms in a passionate embrace.

  Hyacinth has never seen her sister display any sign of affection towards her, and only dutiful affection towards Mama. The sight had given her a jolt. Of course, they’d jumped apart and pretended they were merely tidying the hymn books, but Hyacinth knew what she saw. And since that day, Lobelia has been extra-sharp with her. It is strange and confusing.

  “I shall fetch the luncheon,” she says heading for the basement door.

  In the safety of the kitchen, she tears open the letter.

  Dear Hyacinth (yes, things have certainly moved on apace),

  I have so enjoyed your last letter – the descriptions of the committee ladies made me laugh out loud. What a witty way with words you have. I could almost see them in my mind's eye: such a sad solemn bunch of spinsters. How can a bright sunny nature such as yours flourish in such poor soil?

  Thank you also for your recipe for mint tea – I gave it to one of the servants and she produced a fragrant cup of it the very same afternoon. ‘The cup that cheers but does not inebriate’ as Dr Johnson once memorably wrote.

  The reason I am writing to you is to suggest another delightful meeting. I shall be in the vicinity of Hampstead this very afternoon, and intend to partake of tea and cakes at the Lily Lounge, where we spent such a pleasant afternoon a short while ago.

  Would you be able to slip away for a couple of hours? I do hope so. There is something rather important that I wish to say to you, and I do not feel that a letter is the correct medium to say it.

  I look forward to a merry meeting,

  Your

  ‘Not So Lonely’ Widower

  Hyacinth lets the letter fall to the table ... where it lands face down on the butter. Her heart is pounding like a piston engine in her chest. She feels the room swim and clasps the side of the table for support.

  The words ‘something rather important’ swim before her eyes. Oh, what could it be? Surely ... no – not after so short an acquaintance? But did not Romeo and Juliet fall in love upon first sight? And what about David and Bathsheba?

  Hyacinth reclaims the letter, now greasy and smudged, and places it in her pocket. Then she picks up the serving tray and makes her way to the dining room, where Lobelia is already seated in her place, napkin upon her lap. She eyes the food with relish, helping herself to the best bits of meat before she closes her eyes and folds her hands.

  “For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly thankful,” she intones, before seizing her knife and fork and digging in.

  Hyacinth pokes at her plate. Her brain is in a whirl. One thing is paramount: she has to find a reason to be absent from the committee meeting this afternoon.

  “You are not eating, Hyacinth,” Lobelia remarks, pouring herself a glass of water.

  “I am not hungry. In fact, I feel a little nauseous. I have a headache coming on. I think I ought to rest upstairs this afternoon.”

  Lobelia eyes her narrowly. Headaches are her territory. Hyacinth flinches. It is almost as if her sister can see inside her mind, can tell that she is lying.

  “Nonsense,” Lobelia declares robustly. “A bit of fresh air will do you good. A nice brisk walk to the vicarage will soon get rid of your headache. Now eat up. It is a sin to waste good food.”

  Miserably Hyacinth forks a miniscule portion of meat into her mouth. The unfairness of her situation is almost overwhelming. Lobelia, upon the slightest pretext, can take to her bed, whilst Hyacinth has to soldier on, suffering in silence. (Although, as a small inconvenient inner voice reminds her, she isn’t really suffering at all – merely pretending she is so that she can sneak out and meet Lonely Widower).

  Angrily, she clatters the plates, causing further eyebrow-lifting.

  “I do not know why you are behaving so childishly, Hyacinth,” Lobelia remarks acidly, “I have only asked that you accompany me this afternoon. You missed church last Sunday – and Reverend Bittersplit preached so eloquently upon idleness. Something that seems to be your besetting sin at the moment.”

  “And what if I do not want to go?”

  Lobelia laughs harshly. It is not a pleasant sound.

  “Want? What is this sudden ‘want’? We are not put on this earth for our own ‘wants’ Hyacinth. Anyway, I’m afraid you have no choice. I cannot continue to make excuses for your absence.”

  She folds her thin lips together and eyes her sister disapprovingly. Hyacinth glares back at her, two spots of colour in each cheek.

  “Temper, temper,” Lobelia scolds. “Always the way with you. I recall how Mama used to say: I can beat her and beat her, but the temper will not come out.”

  She rises and walks to the door. Turning on the threshold, she says,

  “Be ready at 2.30 prompt, please. I do not wish to keep the committee waiting.”

  Hyacinth returns to the kitchen and rereads her letter. Joy and duty. One of them is going to smash. She washes up the luncheon things. Then she tiptoes upstairs. Lobelia’s door is shut – she is probably taking a brief nap. Hyacinth changes out of her morning dress into a smarter one, takes her best bonnet and shawl, and tiptoes downstairs once more.

  She opens the front door as quietly as she can and steps out into the street. There will be consequences to face later, and she knows they will be dire, but right now she is not going to think about them. Her heart is singing like a caged bird set free. She almost dances her way to the cab rank at the bottom of the street.

  Some time later, Hyacinth alights at the top of Hampstead High Street. She crosses the road, trying to keep her shoes and the hem of her dress from getting splashed by the many muddy dung-filled puddles, and makes her way to the tea-room.

  Lonely Widower is already waiting. He rises and smiles at her. Hyacinth feels her heart beating faster. This moment is worth all the scolding she will have to endure upon her return. Blushing, she threads her way between the tables.

  “Hyacinth.”

  He says her name in a way she has never heard it said before. As if he liked the sound of it; as if it were special, not a name to be uttered crossly, or angrily, or scornfully. She feels lightheaded. This must be what being slightly drunk feels like. Not that she drinks; the nearest she has ever got is a tiny sip of syrupy Communion wine once a month.

  The waitress pulls out her chair. Hyacinth sinks into it and begins to remove her gloves.

  “I am so glad you have come,” Lonely Widower says. “And look – I have secured our table once more. I’m afraid I always think of it as ‘our table’ now whenever I recall that happy first meeting.”

  “Yes, I think so too,” she admits shyly.

  “I have also taken the liberty of ordering the identical tea – I hope you do not mind.”

  “Oh no, that is just what I would like.”

  “We are very similar in our thinking, aren’t we?” he says, sitting back and regarding her intently.

  Hyacinth is so overcome that she lowers her head and focuses on the gloves lying in her lap. The waitress brings the tea and cakes. She gives Hyacinth a quick glance as she lays out the plates and pours the fragrant liquid into the two china cups.

  “Now, let us eat,” Lonely Widower says, passing her the plate of cakes.

  Hyacinth takes one, but finds she cannot manage more than a few crumbs. She is too excited at the prospect of what lies ahead. Lonely Widower, however, makes a good meal. Cake after cake vanishes and the waitress refills his cup three times.

  Finally, he wipes his mouth carefully and folds his napkin.

  “Now, to the matter I mentioned in my letter,” he says.

  Hyacinth can barely utter a small squeaky “Yes?”

  “I have spoken and written often about my dear precious girl Agnes and her delicate state of health, have I not?”

  Hyacinth nods.

  “Indeed, were it not for her condition, I should have been able to see you far more often, maybe take you to dinner and a concert or theatre performance,” he
sighs.

  “But all those lovely occasions have had to be set aside. I must be at her beck and call as much as possible. I know you have understood, and it is greatly to your credit.”

  Hyacinth smiles modestly and looks down.

  “However, a wonderful thing has happened. And I wanted to share it with you, as you are the young lady who is, if I might be very bold, second only in my affections. Agnes has the opportunity of going abroad to visit a spa. It will greatly improve her health and make her pain and suffering so much better.”

  Hyacinth looks pleased.

  “It would also give us the opportunity, in her absence – which may be as long as six weeks, her doctor says – to spend more time together. I should like that so much, Hyacinth, wouldn’t you?”

  Hyacinth makes a small choking sound.

  “But there is one thing standing in the way of poor Agnes’ trip and our treats: the cost. Six weeks abroad ....” He sighs, lets his voice tail off and shakes his head sadly. “I so want my ewe lamb to be well enough to dance at ... but no,” he hastily corrects himself, “I presume too much; I have spoken too freely.”

  Hyacinth’s throat is so dry and her heart is pounding so loudly that she is sure he can hear it – that the hovering waitress can hear it, that the whole tea-room can hear it.

  “What can I do?” she hears herself ask, in a voice she doesn’t recognise as hers.

  “I cannot ask you for money – that would be too much, and I will not do it Hyacinth, no I will not. Maybe I could solicit your prayers instead? I shall try to raise the necessary amount as best I can.”

  Hyacinth begins to speak. Stops. Then begins again.

  “I have some jewellery left to me by Mama. Perhaps I could sell it?”

  He raises both hands in horror.

  “SELL your beloved Mother’s jewels? Oh Hyacinth, Hyacinth!”