No Angel (Spoils of Time 01) (6 page)

‘She’s just lying up there feeling sorry for herself, with nothing to do; she needs occupation. I always found a week’s fishing up in Scotland put me right after one of these things. Don’t look so surprised, Oliver, I lost at least four. Bloody miserable it is too, you couldn’t begin to imagine it, being a man. Can’t imagine much about anything, if you’re at all like Beckenham. I’d rather thought you were a bit different, I must say. And she thinks you blame her; you shouldn’t. These things happen. I’ve ridden to hounds when I was pregnant with no mishaps; lot more likely to induce miscarriage than bookwork, I’d have thought. Anyway, I don’t imagine fishing would do Celia much good, but I hope you take my point. You let her get back to that work of hers, she really loves it, heaven knows why and I think you’ll find she’ll be as right as rain in no time. Only don’t get her pregnant again yet, for God’s sake. It happens horribly easily afterwards. She’s not as strong as she likes to think.’

Oliver was so appalled by the picture she painted of him that he went straight up to Celia, took her in his arms, and said tenderly, ‘Darling, I want you to know I do love you.’

‘Do you?’ she said, looking at him warily. ‘You don’t seem to.’

‘Of course I do. I’m sorry you’ve had such a rotten time. And—’ he paused, looking back at her just as warily, ‘well, I want you to come back to Lyttons as soon as you possibly can,’ adding, ‘only part-time at first,’ when she sat up in bed, her face flushed with excitement and said:

‘Tomorrow?’

‘No darling, not tomorrow. Next week, if you’re good.’

At which Celia burst into tears again.

‘Darling, please don’t. I want fewer tears now. Perhaps it’s not such a good idea,’

‘No, no, it is. I just need to have something else to think about. I’m so, so sorry, Oliver, I feel so guilty, so bad. I should have been more careful, it’s quite right what the doctors have all said; it was selfish of me, and it’s hurt you so much as well as me. Please forgive me.’

‘I do forgive you,’ he said, kissing her, ‘of course I do. And you – well you weren’t to know,’ he added with great generosity. ‘But next time, well of course you must do what the doctor says. Rest, rest and more rest.’

‘And you’re not angry with me any more?’

‘Not angry. Sad for us both, that’s all. But next time we’ll get it right. And that isn’t going to be for quite a while,’ he added firmly. ‘We must be very, very careful. Now your mother thinks you should join us for supper downstairs. Feel up to that?’

‘I do, yes.’

‘Wily old bird, your mother,’ he said, ‘lots of common sense. I like her more and more. She told me she had at least four miscarriages herself. Did you know that?’

‘Not till today,’ said Celia, ‘when she told me. I suppose it’s not the sort of thing you’d talk to your children about. But I did find it comforting. It didn’t stop her having more babies. So—’

‘Darling, I told you, no talk of more babies.’

‘Well – all right’ said Celia with a sigh, ‘but I have missed loving you dreadfully. It’s one of the things that’s made me most miserable. I thought you didn’t want me any more, that you were too angry with me.’

‘I want you terribly,’ said Oliver, ‘and if – well, as I said, we must just be very careful. I know you don’t like that, but—’

‘We will be careful,’ said Celia, ‘I promise. If I can have you loving me again, I’ll promise anything.’

Biographica was launched in December 1907 with the first three volumes boxed together, the biographies of Florence Nightingale, Lord Melbourne, and William Morris, each one with a frontispece illustration by a new artist Celia had discovered, with the auspicious name of Thomas Wolsey. The series was sold out in days. An army of collectors – the young men who literally collected volumes from the publishers and delivered them to the booksellers – was kept fully employed right up to Christmas.

Celia was already working on the next set, in between performing (rather perfunctorily) her proper Christmas duties of present-buying and tree-trimming. She was almost, but not quite, too busy to notice how tearful she felt every time she saw a baby in a perambulator, or even the ubiquitous infants lying in straw-filled mangers with their mothers bent tenderly over them, hands clasped in prayer. It was especially bad when she took two-year-old Giles to a crib blessing at Chelsea Old Church, so bad, indeed, that as they walked home together, hand in hand, he looked up at her and asked her why she had cried so much in church. Celia smiled down at him and said she hadn’t really been crying, it was only that she was so happy and so lucky. And when they got home, and Oliver was waiting for them by the huge Christmas tree he had had set up in the hall, with presents for them both, a toy pedal car for Giles and an exquisite three-strand pearl choker for her, she did feel that to a large extent, she had spoken the truth.

Meanwhile, in her bed in Line Street, with the mattress carefully covered with layers and layers of newspapers, her children banished to a neighbour’s house, her husband pacing wretchedly up and down the tiny corridor, trying to ignore the sound of her groans, a great pan of water boiling endlessly on the stove, and attended only by another neighbour who was unofficial midwife to the district, Sylvia Miller gave birth to a rather small but perfectly healthy baby girl. Lying in bed afterwards, pale and exhausted, but very happy, showing the baby to the other children, she told them her name was Barbara.

But little Frank, who had just begun to talk and was very excited by the new arrival, said, ‘Barty, Barty, Barty,’ while stroking her small silky forehead.

And Barty she remained for the rest of her life.

CHAPTER 4

‘Well I’m going to. You have no right to stop me. I am not your – your chattel.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Celia,’ said Oliver wearily, ‘of course you’re not my chattel. I hardly think urging you to take care of yourself, to take things very easily indeed, constitutes laying down some kind of diktat. I’m worried about you. You and the baby. We must not have a repetition of what happened last time.’

Celia met his eyes and flushed.

‘No,’ she said, quietly, ‘no of course not. But I have given up work, Oliver. For the time being. Until the baby is safely born. All I plan to do now is join Mrs Pember Reeves’s group, and observe one of these pathetic families. Once or twice a week. It will probably be marginally less exhausting physically than playing with Giles. It’s important, Oliver. I’m surprised you don’t support me more. Obviously your socialism is hardly even skin deep.’

‘Oh, Celia, really. This has nothing to do with the depth or otherwise of my socialism. Or yours for that matter. It is concern for you and for our baby. You need absolute rest.’

‘That’s not what Dr Perring said. He said I should be careful and take plenty of rest. Especially at the stage when it happened last time. Which is still a long way off. When it comes, I shall take to my bed for a week or so, I promise you. I am doing what he said, I am sleeping for at least two hours every afternoon. This work is not going to prevent me doing that. Anyway, Oliver, unless you want to be branded as an outmoded, capitalistic-style husband to the whole of the Fabian society, you have to let me do it.’

Oliver looked at her. ‘Tell me again,’ he said, ‘precisely what this task involves.’

‘I knew you weren’t listening. Mrs Pember Reeves, she’s such a wonderful woman, Oliver, it was in her house the Fabian Women’s Group was founded, she has come up with a scheme for helping poor families in Lambeth. Well poor families everywhere. Not by doing charitable works, raising money, taking them soup, all that nonsense. Mrs Pember Reeves has a permanent solution in mind. She says the state must be obliged to realise its responsibilities, must understand exactly what the poor are condemned to unless they are given what they need. Which is decent housing, and a chance to raise their families without the constant fear of poverty and illness.’

‘And how does she propose to make it realise that?’

‘Well, by showing, in a properly informed, detailed report, exactly how poverty damages people, damages them permanently, it’s a vicious circle, condemning the children, and especially the girls, to a life-pattern which repeats that of their mothers, only then can the state be persuaded to provide the basic human needs. And satisfy the most basic human right, that of decent living conditions and a chance for women particularly to better themselves.’

‘Does this have anything to do that other subject so dear to Fabian hearts, getting the vote for women?’

‘No, not really. Only very indirectly at any rate. Of course I care about that as well. But I can’t start demonstrating, tying myself to railings and so on, or you really would lock me up.’

‘True.’

‘And I think I can do more good this way. Do you know, Oliver, there are families not two miles from here, large families, living on less than a pound a week, in a couple of rooms a quarter the size of this one. And the mothers, decent, intelligent women, simply can’t make a tolerable life for their families within those homes. The infant mortality rate is dreadfully high, not because the mothers are ignorant or incompetent, but because they lack the money to provide for their own and their families’ needs. They don’t have enough food, they don’t have enough clothing and they certainly don’t have any facilities for recreation. And it won’t get any better until they obtain those things. As a right. If Mrs Pember Reeves’ scheme comes to fruition, there will be hope for these women. And I intend to help her see that it does.’

Oliver sighed. ‘Well, I can’t stop you, I suppose. I’ve never been able to stop you doing anything. Even,’ he said, with the shadow of a smile, ‘even from marrying me.’

‘I don’t see what you’re afraid of, Oliver.’ Celia said impatiently,

‘What harm do you think this will do me?’

Oliver looked at her. ‘I’m afraid of two things,’ he said. ‘One is that you will harm yourself and the baby. The other is,’ and here he stopped, smiled again, almost involuntarily, at her, ‘the other is that in spite of everything you’ve said, you will arrive home one day with one or more of these families, and inform me that they are coming to live with us.’

‘Oh don’t be so ridiculous’ said Celia, ‘we are absolutely forbidden to make any kind of personal input. I could be expelled from the Fabian society if I did. That really is one thing you don’t have to worry about.’

LM was taking the short cut up from the underground station towards her house; she was lost, not so much in thought, as in financial consideration. She had a remarkable facility for mental arithmetic, she could carry three or four columns of figures in her head, add them up, subtract them, make percentages of them: it was not only an enormous help to her in her work, it was also a pleasure, almost a recreation. Just as some people recite poetry in their heads before going to sleep, or on a walk, played with figures. Tonight though, she was not playing; she was calculating the precise profit Lyttons were making out of the three new volumes of Biographica. They had had to be priced at a higher level than originally planned; such considerations as the book club and library discounts, the new titles on approval scheme for the central London book showroom, the rising cost of binding – all these things had meant that the series had been launched at six shillings per volume. That had been all right the first year: just. This year, it looked as if they might have to be six shillings and sixpence, which hardly met with their original criterion of a cheap library of quality books. And even at that, they would do well to make a profit of half a crown a book; which meant that for their initial print order of five thousand, they would make a little over a thousand pounds. Not enough. Just not enough. But—

‘Now what is a lovely lady like you doing walking out on her own at this time of night. And in a dark alley like this too? Eh?’

LM said nothing: just stood absolutely quiet and still.

‘Going to come quietly? Much better if you do.’

Hands were on her now, strong hands, one gripping her shoulders, the other on the back of her neck.

‘Come on now. Just along here. This way, that’s right, on you go – no, no, don’t you try biting me. I wouldn’t like that at all. Not yet, any ro ad—’

They had almost reached the street lamp at the end of the walk; one of the man’s hands had moved down, was caressing one of her breasts.

‘Very nice. Very nice indeed. Can’t wait to see a bit more of those. Really can’t wait. Hey, now, I said no biting. I get quite aroused when I’m bitten. Or scratched, so don’t start that either.’

LM swung round swiftly, suddenly, confronted him; under the street lamp his face was very clear. A well-shaped face it was, with a strong jaw and a wide mouth; dark waving hair, thick black eyebrows and set quite deeply, a pair of very dark eyes. They were smiling, the eyes: smiling confidently.

‘Like what you see, do you? I certainly like what I see.’ He reached up, touched her mouth; she took his finger between her teeth.

‘Now now. Temper temper. Come on now, this way. And get a move on. I haven’t got all night.’

‘Haven’t you really?’ said LM turning to face him winding her arms round his neck. ‘well I have. And I really hope you’re up to it.’

She had met him at a meeting of the Independent Labour Party in Hampstead; she had noticed him straight away, because he wasn’t quite like most of the people there, the self-consciously middle class folk in expensive clothes; he was clearly working class, in his heavy tweed suit, a scarf knotted round his neck, his hair untidy. He had been leaning against the wall; he’d noticed her too, was watching her with a half-smile on his face.

Afterwards he told her he’d felt her, even before he looked at her; ‘Felt you under my skin, getting at me.’

The meeting was badly attended; afterwards, there was been an invitation from Michael Fosdyke, a local party member, to come to his house up on the Heath, for tea and biscuits. ‘Or beer, if anyone wants it. Or a glass of wine.’ She’d been hurrying away from the hall and the crowd, not wishing to take any of Michael Fosdyke’s hospitality, for she found his social conscience, worn stark naked on his sleeve, hugely irritating, when the man had stopped her. Quite courteously, but firmly: simply stepped in front of her.

‘Not going up to the big house? To discuss how to improve the working man’s lot over a glass of madeira? Shame on you.’

‘I am not,’ she said, meeting his amused dark eyes with her own. ‘I happen to think I can do more for that than I could by eating a lot of expensive biscuits, baked by Mr Fosdyke’s rather underpaid cook.’

‘My goodness,’ he put his head back and laughed. ‘Well that’s a novel view. And how would you then? Improve our lot?’

‘I don’t think yours needs improving too much,’ she said, ‘you seem fine to me. But I’m in the publishing business. And I have friends in journalism. The
Daily Mirror
and so on. I think a few well-expressed articles are worth a million words of waffle.’

She was aware she was talking too much to him: encouraging him. It was dangerous for a woman to talk thus to a young man. Whatever his social background. She didn’t quite know why she was doing it; he just made her want to.

‘And . . . you’re all alone. You’re not afraid of being attacked?’

‘Of course not. It’s greatly overrated, that fear, in my opinion. I walk all over London. I love it. Nothing’s happened to me yet. Anyway—’

‘Yes?’

‘Well. I’m hardly a – a young girl.’

‘So what? That’s a stupid thing to say.’

‘Why?’

‘I hadn’t noticed attacks being limited to young girls. Besides, you’re a very attractive woman. If you’ll pardon my saying so.’

‘Thank you.’ She looked at him; he wasn’t being insolent, his expression was charmingly serious.

‘So, why don’t I walk you home?’

‘Oh no. No, you mustn’t do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well—’

He might attack her on the way. Or even burgle her house, at some later date, if he knew where it was. He might. But it did seem unlikely.

‘Why not?’ he said again.

‘No reason really,’ she said and realised he was smiling at her; a slightly knowing smile.

‘Well then. Let me take you. Not far is it?’

‘No. No, just down – down there.’

‘You’d better tell me exactly where,’ he said, ‘I’m going to find out sooner or later. If I’m going to walk there with you.’

‘Yes. Yes of course. It’s in Keats Grove.’

‘Very nice.’

‘Yes. Yes it is.’

She could be making an appalling mistake; telling him all this. Then she thought that if he had been some well-spoken middle class Hampstead resident, she wouldn’t have hesitated, and felt ashamed of herself. Just the same—

‘Look, it really isn’t necessary,’ she said rather feebly.

‘I know it isn’t,’ he said simply, ‘but I want to do it. All right?’

‘Yes,’ said LM, ‘yes all right.’

They walked in silence for a few minutes, then she said, ‘So where do you live?’

‘Oh, down the bottom. Near Swiss Cottage. Got a little house there.’

‘Of your own?’ she said, and then hated herself for sounding surprised.

‘Yes. Belonged to my auntie. She left it to me. I was her favourite. I let half of it out, to pay for the outgoings, rates and that.’

‘Yes, I see.’

‘This printing business of yours—’

‘Publishing.’

‘What’s the difference?’

LM chose her words carefully. ‘Publishers sell the books; printers – well – print them.’

‘Oh yes? What do you do there then? You a secretary or something?’

‘No,’ said LM who had always found honesty a most valuable and underrated commodity, whatever the circumstance, ‘no I own it. With my brother.’

‘You serious?’

‘Yes. Absolutely. It was founded by our father.’

There was a silence; then the young man smiled.

‘I knew you were quality,’ he said, ‘soon as I saw you.’

‘Knew you were keen too,’ he said several hours later. They were sitting on the sofa in LM’s drawing room; he was kissing her. LM was responding with considerable passion.

She’d asked him in for a cup of tea. She told herself it was only polite, it had been quite a walk, and he had another, much longer one before he got home. They were engrossed in a political discussion by then: about whether the Liberal Party would manage to bring in enough social reforms to improve the conditions of the working class before the decade was out. It was quite a complex discussion. He was extremely well-informed. Anyway, her housekeeper, known as Mrs Bill, was at home; she had moved with LM from the big house, quite sure she was incapable of looking after herself. She now had a pair of pretty little rooms on the top floor. She was actually called Mrs Williams, but had been christened Mrs Bill by LM herself when she was tiny.

She really wanted to go on talking to the man: she liked him. Liked him a lot. His name was James Ford, ‘But my friends call me Jago.’ He was what Celia would call charming and what she would call easy. Easy and intelligent and with a quirky sense of humour. He talked well, he was articulate and opinionated, and although he had a London accent, his turn of phrase was surprisingly polished and confident. He drank two cups of tea, brought by a resigned Mrs Bill, who was used to what she called funny people coming to the house and then (as the debate on the Liberal party had still not been quite settled) she offered him a beer; he shook his head.

‘No thanks. You having one?’

‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t like beer. I might have a whisky.’

‘You could offer me a whisky. Not suitable, for the likes of me, is that what you thought?’ His expression was amused.