The Silver Locket (13 page)

Rose made a mental note to keep away from Henry Denham’s house, and off the footpaths on his land. Then she stood up. ‘Mummy, if you’re tired, I’ll ring for Payne to bring the car.’

But she found she couldn’t keep away. She started going for walks with Boris, dragging him along the cliff top, hoping she’d meet Alex going for a morning stroll.

One day, she did. As Boris wheezed and grunted, grumbling that he wanted to go home, she noticed Alex and another person coming down the track. If she turned off now, and if she went down to the beach, she could avoid them.

She stayed up on the cliff top.

She couldn’t believe that Charlotte Stokeley had attached herself to Alex yet again. But this time they weren’t laughing. Charlotte looked quite grim, and Alex was looking positively gloomy, tired and depressed.

‘Good morning,’ Rose said briskly.

‘Good morning,’ Charlotte murmured, and slipped her arm through Alex’s. He didn’t seem to have the strength or will to shake her off – or perhaps, thought Rose, he didn’t
want
to shake her off?

‘Lieutenant Denham.’ Rose hoped her voice was neutral. ‘We heard you were in Dorset, convalescing. I hope you’re feeling better?’

‘Thank you, I’m improving.’ Alex shrugged, his eyes met Rose’s, and they seemed to say, we can’t talk here. In fact, we can’t talk any more. Rose, we can never talk again.

‘My parents would be delighted to see you and Mr Denham at the Dower House.’ Rose knew she was sounding desperate now. ‘My mother is at home most afternoons.’

‘I’m not really fit for company.’ Alex shook his head. ‘But, even if I were, I couldn’t accept their invitation. Soon, I’ll be going back to France.’

Rose glanced at Charlotte Stokeley, and thought she could see triumph in her eyes. She said goodbye and walked back home.

Phoebe cowered in a corner, wondering if the blood would stain her dress. Daniel would be furious if it did. The turquoise satin had cost five guineas, and he’d had to pay a tailoress to make it up.

Also, would her dresser manage to cover all the cuts and bruises, especially the black eyes? If not, she wouldn’t be able to go on and do her spot tonight. They’d have to find another girl, then Daniel would be even angrier, and he might well beat her up again.

‘Whose is it?’ he’d demanded, as he kicked her on the shin.

‘Yours – I’ve told you half a million times!’ Phoebe shrank away. She folded her arms across her bulging stomach. ‘Dan, I wouldn’t lie to you! I know how mad you get, when anybody lies.’

‘My mother had fifteen.’ Daniel glared at Phoebe in a fury. ‘I know what size a woman ought to be when she’s only six or seven months gone. You look damn near your time to me.’

‘I’m carryin’ lots of water,’ Phoebe wept. ‘The doctor says it might be twins.’

‘My family don’t have twins.’ Daniel gave Phoebe one last kick. ‘I was up in Liverpool three months, so you ’ad plenty of time to mess about. I’ve seen you lookin’ at the soldiers. I’ve watched you smirk an’ flap your drawers at them.’

‘Dan, there’s only you,’ cried Phoebe, sobbing. ‘There’s only ever been you, I swear to God and all the saints.’

‘You women are all liars,’ muttered Daniel, unconvinced. ‘Well, we’ll soon find out. I’m dark, an’ so’s me Mum and Dad. So if this baby’s fair, you’re goin’ to be in serious trouble.’

‘Daniel, please!’ begged Phoebe. ‘New born babies often has fair hair! I was fair myself ’til I was five. Ask anybody in the Green!’

‘My family’s kids are dark. So if this brat’s a ginger nut or anything like that, I’m goin’ to make you sorry you drew breath.’

‘Breathe in, Mr Denham.’ The doctor listened to Alex’s chest. ‘Now out again – that’s excellent.’ The doctor smiled, delighted. ‘What about the headaches?’

‘I don’t get them any more.’

‘You don’t?’ The doctor wrote on Alex’s notes. ‘It looks as if you’re in the clear, my boy.’

‘You mean I’m fit enough to go and get smashed up again?’

‘We don’t want to hear that sort of talk.’ The doctor frowned. ‘I know it’s hard for you young officers, but this year ought to see the end of it. You chaps will be the heroes of the hour. Girls will be falling at your feet, old men will envy you.’

The doctor tapped his nose and grinned. ‘You know your Shakespeare? “Gentlemen in England now abed,” and all that sort of thing. Where are you going next?’

‘To some place near Bethune.’ Alex buttoned up his khaki shirt and found his tie. ‘There are rumours of another push this autumn. My battalion will probably be in the thick of it.’

‘Well, there you are, then. Jerry’s going to get it in the neck, and you’ll be home for Christmas.’

Christmas 1924, thought Alex. He pulled his gloves on then walked out of the doctor’s stuffy office, feeling sick and tired, his everlasting headache worse than ever.

But at least he’d managed to put on something of an act. They’d finally passed him fit, and he was grateful, for the thought of going back to the trenches was all that kept him sane.

Perhaps this autumn they would finish it. Perhaps there’d be a real battle, somebody might win it, and the politicians would be forced to talk. Then he could go to India, as he’d planned. If he were half a world away from Rose, he might forget he’d ever seen her face.

He caught a train up to the railhead, then walked for miles along communication trenches looking for his company, which he finally found in the front line.

‘Alex, my dear fellow, good to see you!’ Captain Ford was evidently pleased to have him back. ‘Just in time to have a pop at Jerry. We’re going in next week, so we’ve been told and do believe. We’re going to blow them up the Kaiser’s arse.’

Michael Easton walked into the dugout. ‘Hello, Denham,’ he began. ‘You’re feeling better, I assume?’

‘Yes, thank you, Easton.’

‘Mr Easton, I told you to check the fire-steps, to see that they were properly revetted. The damned things looked as if they were going to crumble yesterday.’ Captain Ford scowled angrily at Michael. ‘But perhaps you’ve done it?’

‘I’m just going now, sir.’ Michael turned to leave.

‘Lieutenant Easton, I didn’t tell you to dismiss!’

‘I’m sorry, sir. I thought–’

‘You never think, man – that’s your trouble. Anyway, you could say congratulations to Mr Denham here.’

‘Sir?’ frowned Michael.

‘Alex’s got himself another pip. The order came through yesterday. So when the time comes for the push, this company will be split into two. Captain Denham will be officer in charge of you and Lomax, heaven help him. All right, tell him you’re delighted.’

‘Well done, Captain Denham.’ Michael held out his right hand and smiled, but Alex saw the hatred in his eyes.

Chapter Eight

Maria’s letter came the day that Lady Courtenay was due to go to London for some tests. Sir Gerard had to be in court, but Rose could see he was relieved he wouldn’t have to accompany her mother.

‘Poor Gerard, he hates hospitals,’ said Frances Courtenay, as she waved him off to deal with local poachers and to remand suspected German spies. ‘I don’t care for them myself. It’s odd that you should have this strange desire to play at being a nurse.’

‘We must be going.’ Rose picked up Lady Courtenay’s sable coat. ‘Payne is here to take us to the station.’

They settled down in a first-class compartment. Lady Courtenay shook open
The Times
and began to read the obituaries, clucking as she scanned the lists of names.

‘Peter Mallison, from the first battalion,’ she frowned. ‘Do you remember him? Mr Mallison was on the bench, until that business with the chorus girl. I must write to Sylvia tonight. David Borden, Colin Graston-Smith, Alex–’

‘Alex?’

‘Burton-Powell, Royal Essex Rifles.’ Lady Courtenay looked at Rose. ‘Do we know him, darling?’

‘No, I don’t think we do.’ Rose breathed again. Opening Maria’s letter, she shut her ears to her mother’s doleful litany.

‘Now I have a favour to ask,’
Maria wrote, three or four pages into long descriptions of even longer journeys through the French and Belgian countryside, during which the ambulance trains had been attacked and shelled by German planes. One of them had been derailed, killing two nurses and a hundred men.

‘Rose, could you go and visit Phoebe? She hardly ever writes to me, unless she wants some money. But this month I’ve had three letters begging me to go and see her, which of course I can’t. We’re really busy over here. We ought to have four nurses to a train, but we’re often down to two or three, and all leave is cancelled.

‘This October, our troops started using poison gas. But there are often mix-ups and it all blows back at them. The Germans bomb the trenches where they keep the cylinders, and these all explode. So now we’re having to cope with men whose lungs are badly damaged, and most of them are going to die in the most awful way.

‘I shouldn’t be writing this, I know. The censor will most probably strike it out, and all you’ll see will be a mess of black. But will you go and see Phoebe? She’s in lodgings at 15 Finker Street – that’s in Bethnal Green. If she needs money, could you lend her some? I’ll pay you back, upon my honour. I wouldn’t trouble you, dear Rose, but there isn’t anyone else to ask.

‘I hope your mother is better, and has forgiven you for running away. When I finally get some leave and can come back to England, I hope we’ll meet again.

‘All my love, Maria.’

Rose looked at the address Maria had given. She had never been to the East End. She supposed it must be full of costermongers selling oranges and lemons, cheerful Cockney flower girls and maybe even pearly kings and queens.

It would be an adventure to go to Bethnal Green, and see the place where Phoebe and Maria had grown up. She’d leave Lady Courtenay at the clinic, she decided, then get a cab to the East End. She would sort Phoebe out, then be back in time to take her mother home to Dorset on the evening train.

The train steamed into Paddington. They took a cab to Harley Street. ‘Listen, Mummy,’ Rose began, ‘I’m going to leave you here with Sister Golding and the other nurses, and go to see a friend.’

‘Very well, my darling.’ Then Lady Courtenay smiled graciously at Sister Golding, who clearly knew her place and was deference itself to influential patients. ‘Sister, when do you think we might be finished?’

‘Well, Dr Firth will do some tests, then Mr Morris will examine you and have a little chat,’ said Sister Golding. ‘We don’t know how long that’s going to take, but Mr Morris likes to get away by four o’clock.’

‘Off you go then, darling.’ Lady Courtenay fluttered one white, fragile hand. ‘Do remember to have luncheon. You could go to Bonner’s in the Strand.’

Outside in the busy street, Rose flagged down a cab. She gave the driver the address. ‘Where’s that then, miss?’ he frowned.

‘Bethnal Green,’ said Rose, whose imagination had conjured up a pretty park with winter trees.

‘It’s rough over that way, miss.’ The driver shook his head. ‘You don’t want to be there after dark.’

‘But it’s not yet eleven,’ Rose said crisply. ‘So the sooner we set out, the sooner I’ll get back.’

‘On your head be it, miss,’ the cabman said.

Rose watched the gracious buildings and smart shops of the West End give way to offices and banks, then to tenements and mouldy, peeling terraces. As the streets grew meaner and more narrow, the people crowding them grew less well-dressed and less well-fed.

She saw women with babies in their arms who looked even older than her mother. Little children had the pinched and wolfish faces of malevolent old men.

The streets grew shorter and more crowded. When the cab stopped for a brewer’s wagon or a dray, the people lounging on the pavements or arguing outside the public houses took a good look at Rose.

In Dorset, peasants bobbed or pulled their forelocks to the gentry. But these Cockneys met her gaze with bold, hard stares or mirthless, knowing grins.

Market stalls piled high with second-hand clothes and shoes, or selling fruit and vegetables, lined almost every street. People pushing loaded barrows, old men touting patent medicines, baked-potato vendors and hurdy-gurdy men walked up the middle of the road. Ragged boys were fascinated by the motor car, touching it with sticky, dirty fingers and peering curiously inside, so the driver had to honk the horn to part the crowds and let the vehicle pass.

Rose saw buildings that had recently burned down, and were in the process of being shored up or demolished. ‘They have a lot of fires round here,’ she said.

‘It’s them blasted Zeppelins tryin’ to ’it the docks, but missin’ by a mile or more.’ The driver turned into a cobbled street of squalid tenements, grubby-looking old clothes shops and soot-stained terraces. ‘This looks like the place you wanted, miss,’ he added, grimly. ‘What number was it, then?’

‘Fifteen,’ said Rose.

‘It must be this one, by the pump.’ The driver stopped, and Rose got out.

‘I’ll wait for you,’ the driver said.

‘There’s no need, I might be here a while.’ Rose took out her purse. ‘How much do I owe you?’

‘One and tenpence, miss – and you should put that purse away.’