Abigale Hall (20 page)

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 she 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.

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.

A red door opened in an alley a few feet away. Peter hoped to see Stephen, but it was only a drunken couple sent running by the rain. Peter checked his watch. What time had Stephen gone in? It had to be at least half an hour ago. Twenty minutes, certainly. Maybe only fifteen but no fewer than that.

Michael talked only to Peter about the war, and his stories were very different from John and Samuel's tales of derring-do and amorous French girls – but John and Samuel hadn't been POWs. Michael said war wasn't about action, bravery or romance, but waiting – how his squad would march hours upon hours over frozen French soil, waiting to be shot at, then camp in their foxholes, mending their socks or rereading letters from home, waiting to be bombed. Michael said when the air was still, it was like you could see Death walking amongst the trees and barbed wire and you kept watching for him to turn and point his blackened finger at you. Michael said he still saw Death. He came for him in his dreams, chastising him for living when so many others had died. Peter wondered if Death wore a blue and yellow cap.

A girl in a turquoise dress hurried past him using a newspaper to shield her hair. She stopped on the opposite corner, and turned towards the building to light a cigarette. It was difficult to see her in the dim light and incoming fog, but the dress looked similar to the one Jessie wore on their date. She even wore her hair the same way. But what girl didn't have victory rolls nowadays? Peter stepped forward to get a better look. A private car drove past, splattering his trousers. It stopped in front of the girl and, after a moment's conversation, she climbed inside, discarding the wet newspaper on the pavement. He tried to catch another glimpse of her through the rear window when someone whistled.

It was Stephen, leaning in the open, red doorway. He lit a cigarette then beckoned Peter over.

‘Do what I say, when I say it. All right?'

Peter watched the car drive off.

‘Oi, ginger.'

‘Right. Sorry.' Peter followed him into a dark, narrow hall. One exposed bulb dangled from the ceiling, illuminating cheap wallpaper that peeled at the creases and corners. A thin black carpet beneath his feet reeked of fag smoke, liquor and urine.

At the end of the hall was a little booth – a coat check where a woman whose peroxide-blonde hair and layers of pancaked make-up made her severe age more pronounced. Before her sat a small tin ashtray filled with a few soiled coins. She tapped the tray with a finger ringed in costume jewellery as they passed.

‘Leave it, Marjorie,' Stephen said.

Peter's unease grew as Stephen led him up a maze of creaking wooden stairs. Unmarked doors surrounded them at every corner. Always know your exits, Michael said, but Peter could see nowhere out of here. ‘Are you sure . . . ?'

‘If ol' Bess was into gambling then these would be the people who'd know.'

Peter wanted to ask why Stephen couldn't ask for him, why he had to come at all. His cowardice must have been obvious. Stephen clapped a hand on his shoulder.

‘You want the truth, aye? What if Mosley was lying to you? Don't want to be taken for a fool, do you?'

‘Of course not.' It had happened too many times already.

‘Of course not.' Stephen patted him on the back. Muffled music and conversation seeped into the hall from behind a black door. ‘Now you don't owe these lads anything. So, you've nothing to worry about.'

Stephen showed him into a large, windowless room filled with crowded tables covered in cards, poker chips and drinks. Ladies in tight, brightly coloured dresses sat in the laps of men with wrinkled suits and loosened ties. A layer of smoke drifted up from their cigarettes and ashtrays, collecting at the nicotine-stained ceiling. A phonograph in the corner scratched out a Glenn Miller tune barely audible over the chatter and laughter of the punters. Stephen guided Peter to a makeshift bar at the back where a pockmarked barman served what looked to be homemade spirits.

‘Matthew.' Stephen leaned against the counter. The barman nodded. Peter tried to act casual, but his arms felt clumsy and unnatural. He settled for standing beside Stephen, arms crossed.

‘What now?' he asked.

‘We wait.'

‘For what?'

‘Until the boss is ready to see us.'

‘I thought that's what I was waiting outside for.'

‘You were waiting outside till I could get you in. Now we wait for the boss.'

‘But . . .'

‘Have a drink. More nervous than a virgin in a brothel.' Stephen looked him up and down. ‘Then again . . .'

‘Beg pardon?'

‘Have a drink.' Stephen nodded to the barman and a glass of liquor was placed before Peter. Tiny unidentifiable specks floated within the off-white liquid.

‘Took my pain pills,' he lied.

Stephen shrugged and drank it himself. As they waited, Peter tried to relax. The gamblers seemed like normal-enough people, the kind who came to the Palladium for a show and needed a place to go after the pubs closed. He could imagine he was at the theatre now where he knew every aisle, every row, every exit. But the heat of the room was causing his wet clothes to steam and the smoke itched his eyes, clouding his vision. His mind grew foggy. The questions he wanted to ask about Bess – so perfectly formed when he woke this morning – now became jumbled, some disappearing completely.

After several minutes, he noticed people staring at him. Eyes would glance in his direction then dart away as the person shifted in his chair. It happened several times before Peter realised they weren't looking at him but at his companion. Stephen seemed unaware of the glances, playing nonchalantly with his lighter as they waited.

Peter's cluttered mind began to drift. There was something about this smoky haze – so much like fog – and the way it clouded the dim electric lights, causing an indistinct glow. And Stephen, the way his brutish hands fiddled with the lighter . . .

A door slammed. Peter caught sight of it at the other end of the gambling hall as it bounced off the wall. A blonde woman in a red dress hurried out, still adjusting her undergarments. A short man with thinning, slicked-back hair, dressed in a white button-down shirt but no jacket or tie, appeared in the doorway, zipping up his trousers. He scanned the tables before resting his eyes on Stephen. He nodded and disappeared into the back room.

‘Here we go.' Stephen slipped the lighter into his pocket. Peter followed closely as they navigated the mishmash of tables to reach what he now saw was an office.

Inside, the man leant back against his desk, lighting a cigarette. Stephen closed the door behind them.

‘You must be Peter.' The man extended his hand. His skin was tough and smooth and cold. Wet from the condensation on his glass. It felt to Peter the way a shark's would.

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Angelo. Stephen says you work with him at the Palladium?'

‘I used to.'

‘Yes, Stephen told me about that, too. Good thing you still have that apprenticeship. You middle-class folk have it all sorted out. But we're not here to discuss social politics, are we?' Angelo moved slowly back and forth across the room, leaving a trail of cigarette ash in his wake. ‘I'm told you're an acquaintance of dear Bess Haverford.'

‘I am. Or, I was.'

‘My wife took her life the same way. Women, eh? So, what is it you wanted to know? Stephen was a bit . . . fuzzy on those details.'

‘Well . . . that is, I've been told Bess was a gambler, sir. Or fond of it.'

‘Old girl owe you money? Is that it?'

‘No. Nothing like that. Only, it was her niece that I was close to.'

‘Didn't know she had any family.'

‘She, well, see . . . thing is . . . I, that is . . .'

‘I haven't got all night, Peter.'

‘Right. Yes. I believe she may have sold her niece, to pay off her debts to you. Sir.'

Angelo stopped. ‘I never said she owed me.'

‘No. Of course not. Beg pardon. But, if she did owe money, to someone, how would, that is, would she have got in contact with the people that offered her the, well, deal? That is what I'm hoping to learn, you see. Sir.'

Angelo crossed his arms. ‘Now, how would I know a thing like that?'

‘Well, of course, I don't know that you do. But Stephen said . . . Perhaps if you knew other people who ran such establishments then perhaps they might know.'

‘Hm. Yes, yes, I think I understand now. So you want to get in touch with these people in Wales, I think it is? Now, if I were privy to such information, how much would it be worth to you?'

‘Worth, sir?'

‘How much would you be willing to pay for it? What would you be willing to do?'

Peter's mouth went dry. ‘Stephen didn't say—'

‘Stephen is not in a position to negotiate on my behalf. Are you, Stephen? Now,' Angelo resumed pacing, ‘I could ask you for money, but to be fair, I'm earning plenty from those punters out there. If it's all the same to you, Peter, I'd like to ask a favour of you. Would that be agreeable?'

‘I suppose it would depend on what the favour was.'

‘Ha! Smart boy. I like you. Yes, I like you. Well, let's see. Let's see what would be fair. Yes, I know.' He walked behind his desk and wrote on a piece of paper. ‘Bess may or may not have owed me money, but there are others who certainly do.' He handed Peter the paper. It was an address in Blackfriars. ‘There's a man there who owes me two hundred quid. You get me that money, I'll make sure you get your information.'

The note quivered in Peter's grip, fluttering like a moth's wings.

‘What do you say?' Angelo held out his hand.

In war, Michael said, a man had to make sacrifices for others as well as himself. A real man could do that and anyone who couldn't should be shot for cowardice.

‘Well?'

*

The address of the man's flat sat in his pocket. Peter needed to leave soon if he was to make good time, but there was one more thing he wanted to carry, something for luck. From inside his sock drawer, he pulled out the small case which had sat there for so long. It opened with a little click. The engagement ring glittered in the black velvet lining. He snapped the box shut and slipped it into his pocket. There was no more time for cowardice.

The bomb-damaged streets and long queues in Blackfriars were much the same as in any other part of London. Signs of slow rebuilding could be seen in the stacks of disused iron stretchers piled on the edges of pavements, waiting to fence in unfinished estates Peter was sure had waiting lists as long as his arm. Would Eliza want to live here? Or would she prefer the suburbs? Maybe Richmond or his own Shepperton?

Construction workers sat on the edge of the scaffolding, chewing on sarnies from tin pails, watching Peter as he walked past. What was he doing, they probably wondered, walking around down here in a suit and tie while they wore overalls and steel-tipped boots? Their voices fell from the scaffolding as they gossiped like housewives about the awkward boy in the ill-fitting clothes. He couldn't hear their exact words, but he knew they must be talking about him. He drew up his coat collar and continued on.

He had memorised the address and worked out directions using the A–Z, but his was a pre-war version. Some streets he needed were closed for repair, missing their signs or completely blocked by bomb debris. After circling Borough Tube station twice, he ducked into an off-licence for directions. He half expected the shopkeeper to raise an eyebrow when he heard the address, say, ‘Oh, you're going to see him, are you?' The only response Peter received was a set of complicated instructions scribbled on the back of an old receipt. He felt the man's eyes on him as he left, but when he turned back, the shopkeeper was busy with a customer.

Despite the cool air, Peter's palms became sweaty and smudged the pencilled directions. The weather continued to turn the closer he came to the address, the darkening sky making the buildings loom taller and shadows stretch longer. All the walking emptied his stomach and made his mouth terribly dry. He debated making a quick stop at the next pub, but before he came across one, he stumbled upon the building.

A discarded newspaper drifted across his path and an air of abandonment permeated the entire street. He reread the address. This was the right place. It was a brown Victorian house now split into flats, the higher windows boarded up, smoke damage staining the bricks. Chunks torn out by shrapnel littered the façade.

The man might not be home, he told himself. He might not be home, then Peter could return to his flat and forget the whole ordeal, at least for today. He rang the buzzer then wiped his damp hands on his trousers. It was a few minutes before the door opened. A mole-like old woman with thick glasses stared up at him in silent regard. Peter's tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

‘Afternoon, ma'am. I'm looking for Mr Cooper?'

The woman walked away, leaving the door open behind her. Peter was overwhelmed by the stench of cat urine as he entered. The mole stopped and pointed to a poorly painted door then toddled off down the hall to a kitchen. A chorus of meows increased in number and volume as the woman approached, barely silenced when she slammed the door behind her.

Peter knocked where she had pointed. Blue paint flecked his knuckles.