The Edge of the Fall (41 page)

THIRTY

Paris, July 1924

Celia

Celia stood on the platform, hot and exhausted. Arthur wasn't there. She hadn't seen him for four years and he'd promised he'd be there. She looked around the bustle of French people hurrying around, men in suits, women carrying children, two old people hunting for their friends. He wasn't anywhere. She waved the porter forward. ‘I'll just wait there,' she said, pointing to the edge of the platform.

He shook his head. ‘You can't wait there. Not a lady.'

‘My brother will be here in a minute. He's been held up. He won't be long.'

He shook his head. ‘You can't wait there. Impossible. You must go to the Ladies' Waiting Room.'

‘But my brother won't know where I am.'

He looked incredulous. ‘Everyone knows to come to the Ladies' Waiting Room at the Gare du Nord. No one would meet a lady in the station.'

People were beginning to stare. She shrugged. ‘Very well. Let's go there.' She followed him through the crowds – mostly French, she supposed, but some people looked so
English
– off to the Ladies' Waiting Room.

He deposited her trunk unceremoniously in the room. She stood against the wall. Arthur would never think of looking here. She glanced over at the ladies, knitting, fiddling with their carpet bags. Her trunk was safe with them. She walked to the door and peered out, looking for Arthur. She could see nothing but
throngs of people. She walked out further, towards the platform. He wasn't there.

Something cool was creeping around her heart.
What if he wasn't coming
? It would be easy enough, she assured herself, she could just find a hotel, go back to London tomorrow. She'd stayed alone in the Somme and in Dover on the way back. Paris would be no different. But still, this was a huge city. It made her afraid. The whole idea of coming here had been to get away from things. Or so Verena had said.

Celia had tried her hardest to forget about what Mrs Stabatsky had said. She had spent whole months doing her best not to think about Michael, or any of it. She threw herself into her work, into looking after the children. But no matter what she did, she kept on coming back to her son. On a visit to Stoneythorpe with Emmeline, Celia had demanded the truth from Verena and Rudolf. They'd told her she was wrong, said they wouldn't hear another word about it. Verena and Emmeline had told her they'd decided Celia was overworn, that her mind had gone wild and she had too much strain.

Then Verena said there was a letter to her from Paris, two weeks old, they'd forgotten to send it on. Celia didn't recognise the handwriting on the envelope. She opened it – and it was Arthur, his familiar scrawl spreading over the page. He said he'd asked a friend to send it for him. He said he wondered how she was.
I'm in Paris now
, he wrote.
Come and see me, if you like
.

‘Arthur's in Paris,' she said to Verena. ‘He said I can go and see him.'

Verena and Rudolf were in shock. Emmeline jumped in. ‘You should go. Take your mind off all this. Father, give her the money to go. You can persuade Arthur to come home. Papa needs the help with the business.'

‘But why has he changed his mind?' said Verena. ‘Why suddenly say where he is?'

‘I suppose he grew tired of hiding,' said Emmeline. ‘Not that there's any need for it. I wrote to him at his old address in Paris. When the agency said they thought he'd gone abroad, I wondered
if he might go back there. I told him that Celia had lost her baby and she was unhappy. So he's thinking of her, I'd say, although it's taken him a while to do anything.'

‘He always was a good boy,' said Verena.

Emmeline snorted. ‘Sometimes.'

‘Tell him to come home,' said Rudolf. Celia thought she would. It had all died down now. The papers stopped mentioning the scandal long ago and the police hadn't been in further contact. None of the sewing ladies made comments to Verena now. They still hadn't given back Louisa's belongings, but Rudolf said maybe they shouldn't ask, didn't do to be too difficult.

‘Why don't you go to Paris?' said Emmeline. ‘Talk some sense into our idiot brother. There's nothing to run away from, and if it's grief, he should get over it.'

‘I will have to check with Mr Penderstall.'

But Mr Penderstall was quite happy about it all – said Celia deserved a holiday – he'd save all the work up for when she returned. She packed her bag, bought new books, set off for Paris, firmly resolved to tell Arthur to come back home. She'd tell him about Michael. If he came back and asked Verena the truth, perhaps she'd tell him.

But that all relied upon him turning up. She stared at the platform, willing Arthur to appear. He didn't. People were beginning to assemble for the next train coming in. She felt her heart start to pound. She would have to find her way on her own. He wasn't coming. Her breath was rising, choking her throat. The porter would laugh at her, say –
I knew you didn't have a brother
. What if someone took her for a courtesan? She was really choking now, breath high. A woman looked at her concerned, asked if she was well.

Celia nodded, couldn't summon up the French to reply. The heat of the place was rising. A child next to her was eating a sandwich, she smelt the sourness of cheese and felt sick. She needed air. It didn't matter about her trunk, the thing would be fine. She needed fresh air, to clear her head. Over to the side was a door. She hurried towards it, ignoring people, pushing past, desperate
to get outside. She broke out into the air, saw what looked like a hundred cab drivers waiting, groups of men. She closed her eyes, leant against the wall.

‘Hello, sister,' said a voice. ‘Didn't you bring anything with you?'

She opened her eyes, her heart still cartwheeling. Arthur stood in front of her. A cigarette was burning down in his fingers.

‘You really don't have anything,' he said, wonderingly. ‘And where have you been? I've been waiting for you.' He looked well, she thought, better than any of them at home. You might even say he looked a little younger, his brow less furrowed, his eyes bright. He'd had his hair cut, it was further off his forehead, looked smarter. He was wearing a neat three-piece suit, as if he'd come straight from a business meeting.

The words wouldn't come out. She gestured behind her. ‘I've been inside.'

He brought the cigarette to his mouth and puffed. ‘I thought you were never coming. I was beginning to think about giving up and going.'

‘I've been inside all the time.'

‘What were you doing there?'

‘You said you'd meet me at the station.'

He shook his head. ‘Everyone knows to meet here! Anyone would have said if you'd asked. No wonder you took so long to find the right place.'

‘Look, I did!' Then she thought better of arguing. What was the point? ‘Well, I'm here now. My trunk is in the Ladies' Waiting Room. Well, that's if it's still there. Will you come with me to find it?'

‘Is there not a porter?' He looked around him.

‘I found one before. He said I had to go to the Ladies' Waiting Room.'

‘You left your bag behind? Someone could take it, you know.'

‘I know.' She felt suddenly tired, couldn't face any more of this. After the trains and the boat and the train again, she just wanted
to sit down in a car, get taken to wherever Arthur lived, lie down on his sofa. ‘I'll go and get it. Can I borrow some French money?'

‘Of course.' He took a wallet from his pocket, pulled it open. It was full of notes. He handed her two.

‘I'll wait for you here.'

She shrugged, walked back in, through the throng, found a porter, collected her trunk (the other passengers were looking askance at it). Then they returned, piled it into a car and Arthur directed it to set off into Paris.

His flat was off a square, a few banks and a small market flourishing at the corner. ‘This is the Place Maubert,' he said. ‘The Seine is just behind us.'

He unlocked a big gate in the wall and ushered her through to a great building around a courtyard.

‘This is pretty,' she said. Arthur picked up her trunk, unlocked the door and moved into the courtyard. They walked up the stairs to a flat, Arthur puffing as he dragged the trunk. He unlocked the door and went through to a hall.

‘This is my humble abode,' he said, waving his hand. ‘Welcome!' He ushered her through, showed her two parlours and a kitchen. She followed him around. It was neat, had paintings of Paris on the walls. She couldn't see any pictures of Louisa or the family. He talked on and on about how difficult it was to find good places to rent in Paris, how actually life was much more expensive than you might think, and contacts didn't get you anywhere. The words were flooding her head.

‘I'm so tired,' she said. ‘Could I lie down? Just for a little while.'

‘Why of course,' he said. ‘You should have asked earlier.' He ushered her into a room. It was the spare room, unloved; there was a small single bed, a table, a chair. The wallpaper was ugly green flowers. He stood in the doorway, awkwardly. ‘Do you need anything?'

She shook her head. ‘I'll just rest. I'll only need an hour or so.' He closed the door and she pulled off her boots, fell on the bed. The sleep came quickly, washing fast over her body.

*

She awoke and the flat was dark. There were the lights of the odd car passing in the street below, the sound of people talking outside, shouts. She walked to the door. ‘Arthur?' There was no reply. She edged into the hallway, holding the walls. Still no one answered. The parlour was deserted. He must have gone out. She found her way to the kitchen, took a glass of water, then used her hands to move back to her room. She undressed in the dark, fumbled in her trunk for her nightdress, pulled it on, lay in bed, feeling cold and unwashed. The blanket was thin and the sheets were rough. The lights passed across her ceiling. She put her pillow over her head to block out the sound.

Next morning, the light was flooding on to her face and there was the smell of cooking. She pulled herself out of bed, and wrapped the blanket around herself. Arthur was talking to someone. She stepped through to the kitchen and saw there was a dark-haired woman there, back turned as she cooked at the stove.

‘Morning, Celia.' Arthur jumped up from the table. He was wearing a thick red dressing gown that pooled around his feet. ‘Did you sleep well?'

‘Not bad.' She gazed at the woman.

‘This is Marie-Rose.' The woman turned and smiled. She had a very beautiful face, great grey eyes like pale pools, cream skin. ‘Marie-Rose, meet my sister.'

She smiled, nodded, turned back to the pan.

‘What would you like for breakfast? I've taught Marie-Rose how to make an excellent breakfast. She really has learnt fast. Would you like bacon?'

Celia stared at Marie-Rose's slender back. Was this his maid? Or his cook? She looked at Arthur, uncertain.

Arthur gestured around the kitchen. ‘Doesn't Marie-Rose keep everything ship-shape? She's a marvellous cook and housekeeper.' Marie-Rose turned, smiled again. ‘She comes in every day.' The woman lowered her eyes, went back to the stove.

Celia nodded. ‘It is beautifully clean.'

After a while, Arthur got up from the table, said he was going
to dress. Celia followed him out of the kitchen and Marie-Rose brought some water to her room.

She met him again in the parlour. ‘Matthew is dead, Arthur,' said Celia. ‘I don't know if you knew.'

Arthur nodded. ‘I did know. One of Mama's letters. I kept it from Louisa. It would have been too much for her.'

I tried to tell her when I saw her in London
, she was about to say – then thought better of it.

‘I'm so sorry about what happened to Louisa, Arthur. It must have been terrible. I – can't imagine.'

Arthur nodded. ‘It was awful. But let's not talk about it now. Too many sad things.'

‘But you know, brother, there's no need to stay here. No one thinks you did anything wrong. You could come home. Papa and Mama miss you so much.'

‘I aimed to look after her,' he said. ‘I tried. I failed.' He shook his head, as if to throw away the thought. ‘Now, little sister. What would you like to do? You've never seen Paris?'

She shook her head.

‘Well, I have so much to show you.'

She gazed around him at Marie-Rose, sweeping the corridor. ‘Will Marie-Rose come too?'

He shrugged. ‘No, no. She's quite happy here. Now come along, get ready. I shall show you Paris.'

And so he did. They spent the day wandering the city, playing at being tourists, They walked to the Eiffel Tower (such a blight on the landscape, Arthur said), took a boat down the Seine. Arthur talked the whole time, pointing out things of interest, landmarks, people. Everything, he said, had been more beautiful before the war. He pointed out places he had eaten, where he drank with friends. They ate lunch in a restaurant near the Town Hall, Arthur taking out his wallet, bulging with notes. She tried to think how it must have been for Louisa, listening to his jokes, laughing with him.