Abigale Hall (7 page)

‘Mr Drewry?'

The shadows swallowed her voice. She pulled her cardigan tight and listened for a reply. There was none. She took another step towards the open doors then stopped. She saw nothing inside the carriage house.

‘Mr Drewry?'

The wind died, the clouds ceased moving. The world stilled around her as if she had wandered into one of the east wing paintings.

A heavy weight tackled her to the ground.

Warm liquid coated her neck as claws dug into her shoulders. The hellhound had her now. She could not breathe.

We'll
meet again . . .

And Mother was gone and Father did not care. Perhaps the devil would let her see them once more . . .

‘Kasey! Heel!'

The pressure disappeared.

‘All right?'

Trembling, she put her hand to her neck to staunch the wound, stop the bleeding. Although her neck was wet and sticky, it felt whole. She drew back her hand. The liquid was clear – not blood. Saliva.

‘All right?'

Mr Drewry stood above her, hand outstretched. A black wolfhound sat beside him. Eliza scrambled to her feet without his assistance. Moments ago, she could not breathe. Now, she could not stop gasping. Mr Drewry, with his tanned, cracking face, his vacant expression, this Frankenstein's creature, stepped towards her. Eliza staggered back.

‘Are you all right?' he asked again. She could not bear to look at him.

‘Mrs . . . Mrs Pollard. Carriage. One o'clock.'

Without waiting for confirmation, she ran back through the garden and into the manor, unable to catch her breath until she reached her room. By one o'clock, she had nearly stopped shaking.

*

The low fog parted as the old grey horse pulled them towards Plentynunig. The hills on either side were a brownish-green, the foliage hardened from a harsh winter, fighting to revive for spring. In the distance stood the rusted red pithead and brick boiler chimneys of a coal mine that poured smoke which mixed with the grey sky.

Rebecca sat beside her, tapping her knee. There had been no time for reconciliation this morning and Eliza wouldn't try now, not with Mrs Pollard sitting there across from them. Ever since they climbed into the carriage, Mrs Pollard had not removed her eyes from Eliza. She said nothing but raked her gaze up and down Eliza's body, occasionally pausing on her face.

If Eliza had done anything to offend her, she did not know. Perhaps she was displeased with Eliza's choice of clothes – brown utility coveralls and a white shirt. She had been wearing a dress this morning but changed before they left. She couldn't go into the village covered in dog slobber and dirt. Yet Eliza could not quell the feeling that it was not her clothes that Mrs Pollard was examining. Hers was the same look Mr Purvis had given her before she was hired as an usher. The same look Peter's parents had showed when meeting her the first time. The look which decided one's worth. Since Mrs Pollard would not look away, Eliza kept her eyes on the passing landscape. Every quiet, sheep-dotted hill looked the same. What she wanted to see more than anything was a bright-red double-decker bus bursting with harried businessmen and busy shoppers.

Eventually, they approached a crop of buildings. Eliza thought they were passing through a small farmers' village on the way to Plentynunig. It wasn't until Mr Drewry slowed the carriage that she realised this was it. The village was only half a mile wide and about two miles long. There were no street signs but vacant wooden poles. Markers removed during the war had not yet been replaced.

Mr Drewry parked the carriage in front of an ashen wood building whose fading painted sign read
Davies Market
. A pack of muddy dogs raced around the corner. Eliza tensed. Mrs Pollard took a sip of something from a small glass bottle then slipped the bottle into the pocket of her coat.

‘Follow me,' she ordered.

Unlike the shops of London that even with bare shelves managed to project a semblance of life, Davies Market appeared dead. A whiff of rot hung in the air, its source unseen. The wood, old and untreated, was a faded grey, like the remnants of a fire left to cool till morning. Indeed, the place looked as though a fire had swept through, burning out the life it contained and leaving the building a frail skeleton. Eliza feared one touch would turn the splintered shelves to ash.

While Mrs Pollard was distracted by the grocer – a man as ghastly grey as his store – Eliza turned to speak to her sister, but Rebecca was not there. She ducked outside, hoping to see her in the carriage. It was empty, save Mr Drewry.

A warning siren sounded in Eliza's head. While Mr Drewry busied himself with a cigarette, Eliza took off down the road, looking down every side street and calling out Rebecca's name. It started raining, a soft but heavy misting that permeated her trousers and beaded on her wool coat.

‘Rebecca!'

The dirt on the road changed to mud, which clung to her black shoes and kicked up on her ankles and calves.

‘Rebecca!' She should've known better than to take her eyes off her sister. Why had she not paid more attention when they arrived?

‘Rebecca!'

Eliza looked down the next street and stuttered to a stop. There, at a crossroads, a young girl anxiously tapped her thigh while a man kneeled before her, clutching her wrist.

‘Rebecca!'

Eliza grabbed her sister away from the man. He smiled, revealing a mouth of broken, yellowed teeth and red, blistering gums. His face was covered with deep wrinkles which Eliza first mistook for scars. When he spoke, his breath was choked with beer and tobacco. She noticed the bottle of Wrexham lager in his gnarled hand.

‘Want a sip, little girl?' he asked Eliza, holding up the bottle.

‘Rebecca, we're leaving.'

‘Ah, another English rose. Working for Master Brownawell? He does love his roses. Mm, yes.' He wrapped his flaking lips around the mouth of the bottle and took a sip. ‘Yes, loves 'em. Loves 'em bright and red. Red, red roses.' He coughed. Yellow sputum flew from his mouth onto Eliza's shoe.

Still holding Rebecca, Eliza hurried back to the main road, the old drunk shouting at them as they left.

‘No runnin' from Thornecroft, is there?
Pob luk
, little roses!
Pob
luk
.'

Eliza watched the faces in the doorways and windows – faces that didn't bother turning away when caught staring. Tired mothers in grey aprons holding silent children wearing nought but rags. Young girls picking undernourished vegetables from small gardens. Old men peering down from dirtied windows, cigarette smoke clouding their faces.

Eliza wanted to yell at them to leave her alone, go about their business, ignore her. She squeezed Rebecca's hand so tight her sister winced, and turned her own eyes to the grey dirt, listening to the whispers of those they passed. The name Thornecroft followed them through the streets.

As she climbed into the carriage, Eliza caught the eye of a girl across the way. The damp mist plastered her wavy auburn hair to her head. She did not sneer or frown at Eliza, like the others had. Her face was, instead, etched with lines of worry. Mr Drewry watched all, his back to the wall of the market. He started at small sounds but kept his position, moving only to follow Mrs Pollard as she approached the carriage.

‘There you are.' Mrs Pollard dropped her filled basket onto Eliza's foot with a heavy thud. Eliza drew back her leg, making space for the packages. Mrs Pollard took no notice as she lifted herself to her seat. ‘When I was a child, those who did not listen had their ears sliced off.'

Rebecca huddled close to Eliza.

‘And that, if it failed, was followed by their tongues.' She snapped her fingers. ‘Home, Mr Drewry.'

The carriage started with a jolt. When Eliza looked again, the auburn-haired girl was gone.

*

Tonight, no moon illuminated the grounds. Though she left the curtains open, a thick cover of clouds blocked the sky. The clock read one thirty, but Eliza was not tired. She lit a candle she found at the bottom of her wardrobe and watched the changing shadows reflecting off the photograph. Sometimes the shadows would enshroud Mother and Father. Sometimes Rebecca. Eliza remained in the light.

Another trip to Brighton – their last trip, the summer of 1938 – was the one Eliza wished she could forget. She was eight, Rebecca three. They were sitting on the beach. Eliza was too small for the red and white striped chairs but wanted to sit in them nonetheless. She wanted to feel grown up. Father read his paper, while Mother prepared the tea and sandwiches. Rebecca finished another tantrum and played calmly in the sand until she asked if she could play by the water. Mother made Eliza take her.

Eliza wanted to relax and sunbathe, like the models she saw in
Woman's Own
. She pouted and whinged but did as she was told and took Rebecca to the water, where she jumped and played in the shallow waves, laughing as the water covered her toes. Eliza stood there with her arms crossed, glaring at the water as it came near her feet. When she looked up, Rebecca was gone. Eliza searched all around her but could not see her. She called her name, but the crowd and ocean were too loud.

She couldn't remember how long she searched before she heard the scream. This wasn't the scream of people playing on the beach. It was a scream of terror. Eliza ran towards it. A woman fainted and others cried as lifeguards pulled the body of a small girl – a girl Rebecca's size – out of the water. Before Eliza could see the poor child's face, she felt a tiny hand slip into her own.

Rebecca stood beside her, giggling.

‘She had a pretty shell.' Rebecca smiled and showed Eliza a small, pearlescent seashell.

‘Come away,' Eliza whispered. ‘Come away, Rebecca.'

When they returned to their parents, Mother asked what the screaming was about. Eliza said she didn't know. She never told her parents about the little girl's death, Rebecca's disappearance or her younger sister's behaviour upon seeing the body pulled from the water. She carried those secrets inside her, afraid if she spoke of them she might be implying something untrue, that her parents would believe she was ascribing some terrible misdeed to Rebecca to get her in trouble. Yet ever since that day, Eliza began keeping Rebecca at a distance, not wanting to stay close to this child that giggled at death.

Eliza extinguished the candle and turned away from the photograph. It was just as she was closing her eyes that she heard another scream, one not in her mind. She ran out of her bedroom and into the hall. It was dark, but she could see the small figure standing there. Eliza threw her arms around her.

‘Shh, it's all right. It's all right, dearie. Was it a nightmare?'

‘I want to go home. I want to go home, Liza. Why can't we go home? You said Peter would come for us, but he hasn't and he won't. I hate it here. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it!'

‘Shh. Come now. Let's go back to bed. Here, come in with me.'

Nestled together in the small bed, Eliza listened as Rebecca fell asleep. In the hall, a door slammed shut, while outside, the wolfhound howled.

The pint glass released with a sticky snap as Peter tugged it from the table. A few drops of bitter sloshed over the brim and onto his hand. He shook them off, adding to the congealed beer stains already coating their table, before wiping his hand on his trouser leg. Cigarette smoke eddied above the punters, the various plumes mingling in the air much in the way the men commingled around the bar. The chatter this evening was low, broken only by the occasional guffaw from the large, drunken Scotsman at the darts board.

Peter was content to stay at the small corner table and send Stephen to get the fresh pints, a trade made possible by Stephen's never-ending lack of cigarettes and Peter's ready supply. Tonight, he didn't feel much like drinking yet couldn't stop his hand from lifting the glass and tipping the beer down his throat.

Stephen returned, nearly dropping his fag butt into Peter's pint.

‘Watch it, Stephen.'

‘Just a bit of ash. Don't get cross with me. I'm not the one what left you. Now, cheer up. There are loads of lovely ladies here in London.' Stephen held out his hand. Peter gave him another cigarette.

‘She didn't write it.' He lit a cigarette for himself and watched as Stephen's Guinness settled.

‘Oh, she didn't? And what sort of nutter makes up letters from girls and sends 'em to their boyfriends?'

‘The words – it wasn't how Eliza would have written it. She's better with her words.' Peter's fingers pinched the end of his cigarette so tight it was nearly flat.

‘Unless she were told what to write.' Stephen turned his attention to the darts match, but Peter saw him continuously glance in his direction.

‘What are you thinking, then?' he asked. Stephen turned towards him with such eagerness, Peter could almost see his tail wagging.

‘What if it were the sister?'

‘Rebecca?'

‘Aye. What if she went a bit, you know, nervy again and they had to send her off to the country and Eliza went along, but her aunt were too embarrassed to let her say so? So, she tells Eliza to make up this running-off story instead. Me gran's sis, she went mad after me uncle were killed in the trenches. Stood facing the sitting room wall for hours at a time. Great Uncle Albert found her with her head in the oven, but the dozy cow forgot to switch the gas on. They sent her to this place near Edinburgh where––'

‘Rebecca's a good girl.'

‘Right. Yeah.' Stephen sipped his Guinness and turned back to the darts match. ‘All I'm thinking is maybe it's best if you leave it alone. Probably nothing to concern yourself with.'

‘Yeah. Maybe.' Peter rose and grabbed his coat.

‘Oi, where you off to?'

‘Nowhere. I just . . . I have an errand to run.'

‘But I just got you a pint.'

‘Keep it.'

Stephen called after him. ‘I don't like bitter!'

Peter jostled his way through the crowded pub and onto the cold street outside. He walked to the bus stop that would take him north to Camden, checking over his shoulder every few steps. It was impossible to see anything through the fog, and he nearly missed the bus.

The Camden flat sat hidden in the basement of a three-storey Georgian nightmare. Peter passed it three times before locating it. The houses on either side had been bombed and the rubble remained where it had fallen. A child's toy pram stuck out from a pile of broken bricks.

He wanted to come during daylight, but Uncle Marvin wouldn't let him leave the office early. Now here he was, pacing in the fog and dim light, lost in an area of London he did not know well. Lights were on in the basement, and Peter could hear music blaring from within. He walked down the steps to the door, careful of the empty milk bottles.

No one heard him when he first knocked. He tried again, and the door was opened by a blonde in a tight dress, a long cigarette between her fingers. Behind her, a party seemed in full swing – loud music from the wireless, raucous chatter from numerous guests. The sound of glass breaking disturbed no one.

The blonde took her time looking Peter up and down before speaking. ‘Yeah?'

‘I . . . that is . . . I'm here, I was wondering . . .'

‘Out with it, love.'

‘Is Jessie here?'

Expressionless, she pulled on her cigarette. ‘Another of her suitors?'

‘Suitors? Oh, oh no. No, I'm a friend.'

‘Okay.'

‘No. Really. I am. We work together.'

‘Never said I didn't believe you.' She smiled. Peter felt his palms go sweaty.

‘Is she here?'

The girl tapped ash onto the welcome mat. ‘Jessie's not been round the past couple of weeks. Couldn't pay her share of the rent so we chucked her out.'

Someone called from inside. ‘Who's at the door?'

‘It's no one!'

‘Did she leave a forwarding address?' he asked.

‘Told me she were going back to Mummy and Daddy's. Try them.' She went to close the door. Peter put his hand out to stop her.

‘I have.'

‘Shame. Tell you what . . .' She walked away, leaving the door open, and returned a moment later with a brown carrier bag. ‘You find her, give her this. I ain't a storage cupboard.'

The door closed for good.

There wasn't much in the bag, merely a few pieces of clothing, a notebook and a green and white poker chip with a joker's face on one side. Defeated, Peter tucked the bag under his arm and began the long journey home to Earl's Court.

*

Peter only made it as far as Euston. Warm blood mingled with cold rainwater, the rust-coloured concoction seeping into the gutter as he tried to stand. Blood poured from his forehead into his eyes, obscuring his vision. He made it to his knees – like a dog, he thought – and was struck again, this time on his back. He collapsed onto the pavement, splayed out in his own vomit. He didn't remember being sick, but he could taste the sweet acid in his mouth.

Someone spoke to him, but he could hear nothing over the air-raid siren. As he rolled onto his back, he realised there was no siren, only his own head ringing. He wiped a clumsy hand over his face and smeared some of the blood away. His attacker loomed over him, face darkened by the backlit shine of the street lamp, but Peter recognised the flat pug nose.

‘S-Stephen?'

‘Told you to leave it, didn't I?' his friend said, holding a lead pipe at his side.

‘I . . .' Peter tasted blood in his mouth. He swallowed instinctively as consciousness ebbed away.

‘Leave her, mate. For your own good.'

Peter's eyes blurred as the pipe dropped by his head, its clatter muffled by the rapid beating of his heart. He felt his head lower to the pavement, the damp seep into his cheek. He watched as Stephen fixed his checked cap and turned away, but then the strength to keep his eyes open became too much. The sound of the pipe rolling towards the gutter was the last he heard before he gave in to the darkness.