For King and Country (32 page)

‘I’m not surprised. Happy birthday, Kitten,’ Sally said, and remembering his last one added, ‘and will you be having chocolate cake again this year?’

‘I hope so. Why did you go away, Sally?’ he demanded. ‘I wanted you to stay with us.’ He looked at her with a child’s directness, calculated to cut through all
polite evasions.

But polite evasions were essential. ‘So I could go to the hospital to look after boys like you who get poorly,’ she said, ‘and help to make them better.’

‘The Lord works in mysterious ways his wonders to perform,’ Mrs Lowery murmured.

‘Indeed,’ her husband agreed. ‘Well, we must be getting along. I hope you’ll be better soon, Sally. Keep up the good work.’

With a nod to Sally they moved off, and then suddenly, with the brightest of smiles Mrs Lowery turned back. ‘Oh, Sally! I meant to tell you – that young man who came to the house
while you were out that time – I saw him the other day, walking on the Leazes. But I suppose you must have seen him.’

Sally felt the colour drain from her face. ‘No, Mrs Lowery, I haven’t, and neither have you. You couldn’t have. His mother had a letter – he was killed three months
ago.’

‘But I could have sworn . . . well, I admit he had a moustache, and a rather bad facial wound, but it was the same face, and the same way of walking.’

‘Whoever it was, Mrs Lowery, it couldn’t have been Will Burdett. His mother had all his things sent back to her.’

Mrs Lowery looked very dubious. ‘But I could have sworn . . .’

‘That’s odd,’ said Dr Lowery. ‘I remember your telling me, and it’s not often you’re wrong, is it? My wife has many faults, but failing eyesight isn’t
among them, and she has a phenomenal memory for faces.’

Sally stared at them, leaning against the bridge for support. Her husband’s meagre praises seemed to please Mrs Lowery, and she approached Sally with a half-smile. ‘Of course, he was
your sweetheart,’ she said. ‘You look quite ill. I’m so sorry, my dear, but I could have sworn . . . But it was getting dark. I suppose I must have been mistaken.’

Was there a tinge of malice in that voice? A touch of malevolence in those oh, so gentle fingers on her arm?

‘There’s no other explanation, Mrs Lowery,’ Sally whispered. ‘Will’s dead; and what’ll grieve me to my dying day is this: he died believing I’d given
him a white feather. ’

Mrs Lowery withdrew her hand, and the look in her eyes told it all.

‘Will’s dead,’ she’d told them, with her knees buckling under her. The wicked witch and the warlock had cast their evil spell, and thrown a shadow over
the enchanted land. Sally shivered and turned for Miss Brewster’s house. If only she hadn’t insisted on coming out, she might never have met them again, those birds of ill omen. She
hardly knew which of them was worse, him or her. It was cold, cold, cold, and she wanted to be back inside, but hadn’t the energy to walk at more than a snail’s pace. This was no good.
She began to hum a ragtime tune to revive her flagging steps, and was soon moving through the lovely wooded gorge of Jesmond Dene at a quicker pace.

She had been a hard taskmistress, Mrs Lowery, and a spiteful one at times. When she’d first gone to work for them Sally’d had no doubts about who was to blame for all the friction in
their house; it was her. She’d sympathized with this poor man with his demanding, unreasonable wife, and had helped him in the surgery because his wife refused. And so she’d slaved for
both of them and might have killed herself with overwork had he not tapped on her bedroom door that night and, before she’d had a chance to answer, stepped inside.

She blushed from head to toe at the remembrance. How could he have so mistaken her as to think . . . She’d admired him, certainly. She’d been flattered that a man of his standing
should think a housemaid worthy of instruction, of intelligent conversation. She was ready to admit that she’d worshipped him from afar, and that was how he should have stayed, a romantic
hero in a silly young girl’s head, nothing nearer and nothing more. She’d never given him any sort of encouragement to . . . any reason to think . . . and he knew it.

And then he’d walked into her bedroom spouting all sorts of rubbish while she sat helplessly in bed in her white, virginal nightie, and two minutes later his wife had burst in on them.
What must it have looked like? What must she have thought? Sally had pulled the sheet up to her neck and looked at the pair of them, appalled at finding herself in the middle of this scene from
Bedlam, with the doctor telling his wife it was no wonder if he was tempted to stray, it was all her fault, and Mrs Lowery crying and incoherent, blotchy-eyed and raving, until six-year-old Kit
awoke at the noise, and came up the attic stairs, adding his wails to his mother’s.

‘Don’t go, Daddy!’ Clinging on to his mother’s skirts he’d screamed it, and Sally had stared at them open-mouthed, utterly bewildered at this scene of accusation
and counter accusation, of tears and gnashing of teeth. ‘Don’t go, Daddy!’

Go where? Who with? Nothing of the sort had ever been contemplated, not by Sally, at any rate. She’d looked at Dr Lowery for an explanation and had been amazed to see him absolutely in
command of himself, with a tiny smile playing at the corner of his mouth, and a light of satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. It dawned on her then that he was enjoying the drama he’d caused,
loving being in the centre of it, and she’d thought: this is not about me at all. It’s about the two of them, and he’s using me in some cat-and-mouse game he’s playing.
He’s torturing her, and enjoying it! He’s feeding off the misery he’s causing, like a vampire feeds off blood.

She got dressed as soon as they left her alone and packed her bags, and sat sleepless on her bed until day broke. Then she said a final goodbye to Dr Lowery in the doorway of his house. Mrs
Lowery did not appear; Sally would have been surprised if she had, but at the very last moment Kitten had come bounding down the stairs, had thrown his arms round her legs, rested his cheek against
her stomach and squeezed tight.

‘Don’t go, Sally! I don’t want you to.’

‘I have to go, Kit. Your daddy always said I’d make a good nurse, and now’s the time to start.’

‘I’ll write to Matron and put in a good word for you, if that’s what you want,’ Dr Lowery said, then added, as if nothing had happened, ‘but you needn’t go,
you know. It’s not necessary. My wife’s given to bouts of hysteria at times, that’s all.’

What was he talking about? She could hardly look at him, this handsome, clever man who’d been her hero. She’d witnessed the ugly cruelty of him, and now she thought of him as ugly,
felt his appalling ugliness at her core, and his handsome face and cleverness, and his glib tongue had lost all hold on her.

She gave the child a tearful smile. ‘Goodbye, Kitten. I’ll miss you.’ She touched his cheek then turned to Dr Lowery, her manner distant. ‘Goodbye, Doctor.’

She saw he was not pleased, but left then, feeling as if she’d escaped a madhouse. There was a tightness in her throat and tears threatened, not for him, but for the child she’d been
fond of, and her shattered illusions, and for the part she’d played herself in ignoring all the little slights he’d dealt his wife, for being such a willing pawn in his game with Mrs
Lowery. But when a man makes such disparaging comments about his wife they make you squirm, what else can you do but pretend you haven’t heard, or make no comment if it’s obvious you
have? She could hardly take him to task, her employer. But in her heart she’d made excuses for him because his wife was difficult, and he’d managed to make himself appear so
misunderstood, so patient and good, and kind, and noble.

He was none of those things. She wanted no favours from him and would have liked to tell him so. She’d have liked not to have to depend on Dr Lowery for anything, or his wife for that
matter, but there was the bogey of employment and references, always there to force a servant girl to eat the bread of humility, if she wanted bread at all.

And so she’d held her tongue. There was only one person who would be blamed for that nasty little performance, she’d thought, as she walked towards the station with just enough money
in her pocket to get her back to Annsdale and her mother. It would be the housemaid, and none other. Dr Lowery had plenty of surface charm, which kept the uglier depths of him well hidden. No doubt
his wife could have told many a tale about those ugly depths if she’d wanted to, if she’d clung to her own judgement rather than let herself be bullied and seduced into seeing things
through the distorting lenses of his eyes, with him always the hero of the piece, the coveted prize of every woman breathing. But Mrs Lowery wouldn’t want to tell such tales; she’d want
to blame anybody but him, and Sally had known only too well from living near him day by day how that had come about, how easy it was to be drawn in, until there was only one way of seeing the world
– his way.

Will had stopped writing to her, and the demigod she’d idolized had shown his feet of clay, and hurled himself off his pedestal. Well, love and hero-worship had been a washout. She gave a
cynical little laugh. In romantic novels, men run off to join the Foreign Legion after disappointments in love, and women go into convents. Nursing, she’d thought, would be pretty much the
same thing.

The sight of Miss Brewster’s gabled porch conjured thoughts of a roaring fire and steaming coffee, and dispelled her reverie. The Lowery episode was all in the past, and
better left there and forgotten she thought, as she approached the gate. What she was faced with now was that Will was trapped in that hospital until his left arm healed, with every day bringing
fresh dangers of discovery. She had to see him as soon as she could, to warn him about the Lowerys.

S
hivering and with teeth chattering, Sally stood on the scrubbed white doorstep and raised her hand to the polished brass knocker. She had hardly
let it fall before Miss Brewster opened the massive oak door and stood there, tall and angular, frowning like the Wrath of God.

‘Where on earth have you been? You were only going to be five minutes!’ She ushered Sally into the hallway, touched her frozen cheek with the back of her strong, bony fingers, and
nodded in the direction of the drawing room. ‘You’re frozen to the marrow! Get your things off and get in there this minute. I’ll make you a mug of something hot.’

‘Don’t put anything in it, will you? Remember, I’ve signed the pledge!’ Sally said, watching her hostess disappear down the hall and into the kitchen.

The drawing room fire was roaring up the chimney back, a welcome sight. Sally crossed the thick Persian carpet and perched on the padded red leather seat of the brass fender until the heat drove
her back a little, half scorched now, as well as half frozen. Still shivering she dragged the leather pouffe as near to the fire as she dared and sat on it, and staring into the flames wondered
what Will was doing, and how long it would be before she could get back to the hospital.

Miss Brewster handed her a mug of steaming coffee. ‘There, get that down you.’

Sally took it and gave it a surreptitious, suspicious sniff ‘You’ve put something in it.’

The older woman bared her large, yellowing teeth and laughed. ‘It won’t hurt you. It’ll do you a power of good.’

Sally was not convinced, but it was near impossible to get anything to drink in this house that wasn’t laced with alcohol, and Sally’s protests that she was teetotal ran off Miss
Brewster like water off a duck’s back. The stuff was ‘medicinal’.

‘I wonder you dare carry on like you do, Miss Brewster,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t, for my soul. If I were in your shoes, I’d be frightened of the police and the
customs men catching me.’

‘Ach, you worry too much; those people aren’t half as clever as they want you to believe. But if I went about looking as nervous as you do just now, I would be frightened, because my
face would tell them I was up to no good. But I don’t, I live the sort of life that puts me beyond suspicion. I was at church this morning, dropping my mite onto the collection plate and
sitting through the sermon, and then I loitered about the place with some of the righteous afterwards, deploring the state of the nation’s morals and the youth of today, and wondering what
the world’s coming to. And it’ll soon be Christmas! It only took us five minutes to establish that, after the clue the vicar gave us about it being the start of Advent. He’s
honouring me with a visit on Tuesday for afternoon tea, by the way.’

Miss Brewster clasped her hands in front of her breast in what Sally supposed must be the vicar’s manner, and went on, ‘“And ah, ahem, perhaps you’d care to make a
contribution to my little fund for the moral welfare some those wretched women who tramp the Quayside, Miss Brewster?” I felt like telling him if it weren’t for his congregation, half
the lasses on the Quayside would be out of business. But I nodded, and smiled, and tut-tutted, and he wants to get me on the Board of Guardians, now! How could I make myself any more respectable?
And old maids have nothing very important to do, so better find them some useful occupation, as long as it’s unpaid, of course.’

‘Oh, Miss Brewster!’ Sally reproached her, ‘You’ll cop it, one of these days.’

‘What? Never. If anybody ever comes nosing about, then there’s enough glass in that coping on top of the back garden wall to put them off. I can’t see anybody wanting to hop
over that, can you?’

Sally shook her head, more at Miss Brewster’s shocking hypocrisy than at the thought of the wall. But no, she certainly wouldn’t like to try ‘hopping over’ a seven-foot
high wall to cut herself to ribbons on those enormous shards of broken glass Miss Brewster had had set into the thick layer of concrete at the top. And as if that weren’t enough, there were
the dogs. Scutum, the mastiff, who might have been the model for
The Hound of the Baskervilles
and whose bark would awaken the dead, and the surly bulldog, Gladius – both lived in
the outhouse and had free run of the shrubbery. They would be more than enough to deter even the most determined uninvited guest.