Rack & Ruin

by Carol Hedges

  Millie cuts her beef into tiny squares and covertly scans the other supper-room clientele. Meanwhile Persiflage, whose understanding of the female mind and its workings is as close to non-existent as it is possible to get, continues to act as if there is nothing the matter which, as anybody who has ever been in her situation knows, is Extremely Aggravating.

  Eventually, Millie decided to move the huff out into the open by letting her knife and fork clatter onto her plate. Persiflage, who has been in deep discussion with the other two about the usual injustices and extravagances of the upper classes, turns to her.

  “What’s the bizz? Don’t you like your dinner, Millie?” he asks carelessly.

  “It ain’t the dinner so much as the com’p’ny,” the aggrieved one says, tossing her head.

  “Well, I’m sorry for that. I thought a nice night out would do you good.”

  “Ho yes, maybe that woz what you thought, Edwin Persiflage, but my idea of a nice night out ain’t sitting in some supper room being totally ignored.”

  The three men exchange a quick glance. Millie’s role in any future operations has not yet reached job specification level, but it is tacitly acknowledged that she is going to be useful at some point.

  “Aww Millie,” Persiflage says, putting on his most killing air. “I wasn’t ignoring you. How could I ignore such a beeyootiful young lady. It’s these two fellows - they will monopolise a chap so. Now then, let me make it up to you - how about if we go for a nice little walk, just us on our own? And you can tell me all about your day. Would you like that?”

  “I might.”

  Persiflage slips an arm round her waist and gives it a little squeeze.

  “So should I,” he whispers in her ear, blowing into it gently and Millie gives a little giggle and slaps him playfully.

  Persiflage throws some coins on the table.

  “My share of the supper,” he says.

  He steers the slightly less disgruntled Millie round the tables and out of the door. Several hours later he will return to the shared room with a satisfied smile on his face, and a mental map of the various entrances and exits to the Palace of Westminster.

  ****

  Meanwhile the engineer sleeps and dreams and heals. Two floors below him, a tea party takes place, music is played, conversations are had, plans are discussed, meals are eaten and the members of the family come and go without him being aware of anything more than a cooling hand on his brow, someone turning his body over in bed and the metallic taste of a teaspoon.

  After three days, he is pronounced well enough to be allowed to sit propped up in bed and hold his own spoon. He is just finishing off a bowl of beef broth when Daisy’s father enters the sickroom.

  “Good, you have eaten all your supper; that is a positive sign,” he smiles.

  “I might never have eaten again had you not taken me in.”

  “I think you exaggerate. It is your condition speaking. I am sure you would have been looked after one way or the other.”

  The engineer makes a wry mouth.

  “By whom? I am a disgrace to my family - I should have gone into the church as my father wished. Instead I chose to find God in my own way, through structure and design. I see God’s hand in the detail of a drawing, in the building of a bridge or a tunnel. He has disowned me, you know. My father, the archbishop. I am cast into outer darkness.”

  Mr Lawton glances at the pale intense young face and hot eyes, recognising the fanatic but also seeing the wounded animal beneath. Mens sana in corpore sano, he thinks. This young man’s mind is as damaged as his body. Both must mend for wholeness to be achieved.

  “Come now young man, this will not do. You are recovering well and soon you will be able to return to your work. So let us put all these gloomy reflections to one side and talk of more positive matters,” he says, drawing up a chair to the bedside.

  A short while later Lawton leaves, having first checked the wound and administered a mild sedative to ensure his patient has a good night’s sleep. He has not mentioned his letter to the young man’s father, nor the terse response. That is for another time. Sufficient unto the day.

  He goes downstairs and enters the sitting room, where his wife is ticking off a list and Daisy is embroidering a fire screen. Together they make a sweet picture of home and hearth. His wife glances up.

  “How is your patient?”

  “On the mend. I hope he will make a full recovery - at least physically.”

  “Why should he not?”

  Mr Lawton sighs, running his hands through his hair.

  “He is very down - that business with his father, it lowers his spirits.”

  “Perhaps I should play to him,” Daisy suggests. “You always say how much my playing lifts your spirits, Fa.”

  He smiles indulgently at her.

  “It does and I’m sure it would, Daisy-duck. But a sickroom is no place for my little girl. And I am hopeful that in a very short while, he will be fit enough to move back to his digs, now that he has recalled where they are. The railway company are anxious for him to resume work as soon as he is able.”

  “Poor young man. Can I see him before he goes?”

  Mrs Lawton shakes his head.

  “That wouldn’t be at all suitable, Daisy! An unmarried lady visiting a young man in his bedroom! Now, really! What did they teach you at that school!”

  Daisy bends her head over her embroidery. She thinks about the engineer, then she thinks about her friend Tishy. It makes her sad that not everybody is as happy as she is. When she is married, she will try to be a good wife and kind to people less fortunate than herself.

  She stabs her needle into her work, rises, kisses her mother and father goodnight and goes upstairs to her room. She has a busy day tomorrow. A tea party at the Barnes Baker’s residence. She wants to look her best for it.

  Daisy’s sleep is sweet and peaceful, unlike that of the engineer. He tosses and turns fitfully in his bed, finally waking with a start. The same old nightmare once again, catching something inside him and tearing it open. It is three in the morning, the house around him is silent and he is as alone as he has ever been.

  ****

  What could be more pleasant than a tea party on a perfectly mown lawn, when the sun shines, the sky is cloudless blue and all the world seems in harmony? From inside the Belgravia town house of the Barnes Bakers, Mrs B would certainly be hard put to find anything to compare.

  She stands at the open door of the conservatory, surveying the pleasant scene before her, while checking that all her guests are being served with delicious things to eat.

  Daisy Lawton thinks she is in heaven. She sits on a white wicker chair in the shade of a plane tree, her rose sunshade becomingly tilted while two beaux stand by, ready to wait on her. Her plate and cup bear witness to the consumption of cakes and Indian tea. She is all smiles and dimples and white muslin.

  Mrs Lawton is delighted with the way things are progressing. She remains in the conservatory with the other Mamas, all pretending to exchange polite chit-chat, while watching their daughters closely.

  How nicely upright Daisy sits, she thinks to herself. Nothing worse than a lolling girl. How well she has positioned her parasol - the last thing she needs is to acquire any freckles at this crucial stage of the proceedings.

  Digby Barnes Baker, eligible young man about town and prospective Parliamentary candidate is enjoying the tea party as well, even though it is a very feminine affair. He is one of the beaux favoured by Daisy, who is certainly the loveliest girl present.

  The more he is in her company, the more Digby thinks she might indeed make him a suitable wife. She is lively, kittenish and very young. She has not been tainted by the wiles and wickednesses of the world. She is the exact opposite of his usual female companions.

  Ma is quite right: Daisy Lawton would suit his future career. A man needs someone decorative and supportive. She’d certainly fit the bill better than his cousin Africa, who wouldn’t do at all. Her loud
laugh and forthright opinions have driven off all the chaps he invited and she is now happily romping with a couple of small children.

  Servants glide discreetly to and fro, refilling cups and offering silver platters of sandwiches and tiny cakes. Gentle female voices rise into the air, girlish laughter trills, the fountain splashes and the family cat sits washing itself after finding and finishing off a discarded cream cake under one of the tables.

  Outside the Belgravia townhouse a line of polished carriages and shiny horses await their owners’ return. The grooms and coachmen lounge against them, smoking and flirting with a couple of pretty housemaids who have sneaked away from their duties to distribute some leftover food and mugs of tea.

  Only one person seems not to be participating in the jollity of the occasion. Opposite the Belgravia townhouse, in the shadow of a doorway, a young woman waits. She cannot be one of the guests, for she isn’t dressed finely enough.

  She did not arrive in a glossy carriage, but on foot. Nobody has noticed her presence. She has not been offered anything to eat or drink. She leans her back against the house wall, her eyes fixed intently on the front door opposite, as if she is waiting for somebody to emerge.

  Eventually as the sun dips, the guests begin to leave. Farewells are said. Carriages are loaded up and driven off. Daisy and her Mama are the last to leave, seen to their carriage by young Digby himself.

  He hands Daisy into the carriage, his brown eyes smiling down into hers. He kisses her gloved hand in a dashing and romantic way. She dimples, blushing sweetly.

  The carriage departs. Digby stands on the pavement smiling and waving it off. But just as he is about to re-enter the house, the young woman hurries across the road, calling his name. He turns at the sound of her voice, his mouth dropping open in shocked surprise.

  “You?” he exclaims.

  “Yes Digby, it’s me,” she says, laying hold of his sleeve with a shabbily gloved hand. “I have come to see whether you are going to fulfil the promise you made to me before it is too late.”

  And as she speaks, she lets her shawl drop from her shoulders so that her condition is clearly visible.

  ****

  Up in his sickroom, the engineer wakes refreshed and coherent. His side still aches but the clouds in his head have dispersed and for the first time, he contemplates rising from his sickbed and trying a few steps unaided.

  The nurse is not in attendance so he lifts the covers and slides his thin wasted legs to the floor. It takes a while for the giddiness to stop, but at length he is confident enough to let go of the bedpost.

  The engineer advances a few wobbly steps, then a few more, heading for the window and the late afternoon sunshine streaming through the muslin curtains like melted butter. There is a chair by the window and he sinks into it, breathing hard, his face flushed with the effort but with an inner sense of triumph.

  Beyond the window, he hears the sounds of children playing in adjacent streets, a metal hoop being bowled, the smack of the stick on its sides, and muffled voices from people passing below.

  Carriages clip-clop by, their wheels ringing on the cobbles, the coachmen cracking their whips. He drinks in the sounds, letting his mind wonder back to happier times and places.

  He is about to rise when a carriage pulls up outside the house. The engineer leans forward, resting his elbows on the sill, watching as the coachman dismounts and helps down an elegantly dressed older woman whom he guesses to be the surgeon’s wife. She is followed by a beautiful young lady in a white muslin dress. She carries a rose parasol.

  The engineer gasps, feeling the breath leave his body, his heart beating the blood into his face. It is she - the vision on the balcony. His Juliet, his adored Angel. He stares as she enters the house, never glancing up at the window to see his hungry eyes devouring her.

  He gets to his feet. A feeling of wild joyous elation fills his body. Now he knows why he was attacked - so that he could be brought here, so that he could meet her. But as he lurches towards the door with no clear plan in mind, just desperate to see her sweet face again, his foot catches on the corner of the rug. The engineer flails his arms, cries out, then falls heavily.

  He will be found a short while later by the nurse, lying full length on the floor. There will be blood and froth on his lips. When he regains consciousness, he will remember nothing of the fall, only that for some reason he was suddenly and deliriously happy.

  ****

  Digby Barnes Baker may have been initially dumbstruck by the appearance of the young woman, but he recovers his equilibrium with a speed that bodes well for a future career at Westminster.

  Taking her by the arm, he steers her quickly away from the house, marches her to the end of the street and whistles up a cab. He gives the driver instructions to “just drive” and bundles her inside.

  “Now then Annie, what’s this all about?” he says brusquely, once they are seated opposite each other and the cab is rattling towards the West End.

  “You can see what it’s about, can’t you?” the woman says, her voice low but full of suppressed emotion. “I stayed at the house as long as I could, but in the end, I was showing too much, and Mrs Tabard sacked me. So I came up to London to find you and a pretty time I’ve had of it tracking you down.”

  “And what have I to do with your condition, my girl? As I recall, you had several suitors - wasn’t there some curate on the scene who was sweet on you?”

  She gives him a scornful look, her cheeks flushing.

  “You think I’m that sort of girl?”

  “I have no idea what sort of girl you are. You were a governess. A very pretty governess, and we had a bit of fun together, but that was the beginning and end of it, as far as I was concerned.”

  “You promised me marriage.”

  “I promised you nothing of the sort, I assure you. If you think I did, then you are deluding yourself.”

  “So you aren’t going to do the honourable thing?”

  “My dear girl, I am soon to become an MP. And I am shortly to be engaged to a young woman from a very well- connected family. The honourable thing doesn’t come into it.”

  Her face darkens.

  “Maybe I should speak to your father then. Or to your mother. Maybe I should show them what their precious MP son has done. Let us see what they have to say about it.”

  Now it is his turn to show anger.

  “I highly recommend that you do not,” he says icily. “For a start, they will not believe you. They may even have you arrested and put in an asylum. Is that what you want to happen?”

  She gives a low cry, wringing her hands.

  “Then what will become of me? I spent all my money getting here. I have been ill and only just got back on my feet.”

  Digby Barnes Baker watches her weep and does not try to comfort her.

  “Now look Annie, pull yourself together. Let me think what’s to be done. You are not a bad person, and I shouldn’t like it noised abroad in the future that I turned my back on somebody in need.”

  He reaches in his coat pocket and produces a fistful of silver coins and a couple of notes.

  “Take these ... they will buy you food and lodgings for a while.”

  She stuffs the money into an inner pocket.

  “But what am I supposed to do with a child? Who will employ me as a governess now?”

  Digby Barnes Baker stares straight ahead.

  “I am sure there are ways to deal with this,” he says. “After all, you are not the first young woman to find herself in this predicament, are you? Let me make some inquiries and see what I can find out for you.”

  He taps on the roof. The cab stops. He hands her his card and opens the door.

  “I’ll leave you now, Annie. Take care of yourself. Good bye and good luck. When you have found somewhere to stay, write to me. Do not attempt to call at my parents’ house though. I warn you, if you do, I shall wash my hands of you altogether. Do you understand?”

  Digby jumps down, and
slams the door shut. Then he walks briskly away without looking back.

  ****

  Another day in which much is attempted but little achieved is followed by a supper of indifferent quality at a local dining-room. Now Inspector Lachlan Greig sits at his desk writing his letter home.

  Dearest Jeanie (he writes)

  I hope this finds you and the bairns well. I was delighted to hear of Ishbel’s birthday. I think a china dolly is exactly what I would have bought for her. I am delighted in your choice and her pleasure in the gift.

  Many thanks for the tin of shortbread, which arrived safely. As usual, your baking is superb but it appears I am not the only one to think so - two pieces have already gone from the tin.

  London is an amazing city, Jeannie. Everything is for sale, from goods to people. There are even nightmen here who make a living from human excrement. There is something wonderful in that, I think.

  But still I feel lost in the vastness of it all. The streets are never quiet. Though it is nearly June, there is smoke and dust everywhere. I am told there are places where the birds sing all night because the street lighting keeps them awake.

  As to my actual investigations, I will not write of them, for I would neither weary or worry you. Suffice it to say that they progress, although not as quickly as I should like. Please send my love and best wishes to the little ones and keep in good health and spirits yourself.

  Your loving brother

  Lachlan

  Greig sits on awhile after finishing the letter, thinking about London, its stink, its sounds, the hoardings over waste ground, the alienation he experiences, as familial as the lines of his cheekbones.

  His life has narrowed to such a point that the only thing left is his work: the need to know what is round the next corner. The compulsion to reach the next junction. This is what gets him up every morning and propels him into the unwelcoming day. It is both a blessing and a curse.