The Strange Fate of Kitty Easton (13 page)

He was glad, as much for Maggie’s sake as anything else, that the day looked set fair. He could see David, Eleanor and William by the maze at the far side of the upper lawn. David had put planks down so that he could wheel the chair as close as possible. Eleanor saw Laurence as he approached. As she waved, the brim of her deep-brimmed straw hat bobbed.

‘Are you all set?’ she called. ‘We’re going to be off in five minutes.’

David and William were in earnest discussion but broke off as he reached them.

‘Morning,’ William said. ‘We’re just sorting out the watering. Almost all the plants have taken but the ground here is drying out much more quickly than I expected and we’re going to need some organised irrigation.’

‘We can run hoses from the stables,’ David said. ‘We might need a pump but the pressure should be enough. We could use the generator. Though Mr Easton says the levels on the river are already so low this year, we might have to switch off if we don’t get rain. First time in twenty years, he says, because of the dry winter.’ He surveyed the maze with satisfaction. ‘Good strong plants. Give them some water, they’ll do fine, I reckon.’

As Laurence looked at David, he found it hard to imagine he had ever lived in a city. Despite the man’s initial reservations about driving to London, he had made an effort. He was wearing a suit, well worn but clean, a tie, his shoes were polished and his hair was slicked down. He was holding his chauffeur’s cap in one hand, but he looked every bit the countryman he was.

‘David, Julian and I are the only ones praying for a cool summer,’ William said. ‘I’d expect to replace some if there are gaps, but I hope they’re putting down good roots.’

The pattern of the maze was increasingly clear. The plants had become bulkier even since Laurence had first seen them and there was bright new growth on almost all of them. In the centre was a statue of a half-draped woman.

‘William’s a romantic,’ Eleanor said. ‘Meet Aphrodite.’

‘Actually it was Eleanor’s suggestion,’ William said, ‘and David’s execution. She saw poor old Aphrodite lingering forlornly by the lake.’

As William paused, Eleanor said, ‘You know, we do need to set off. Nicky is terribly keen that Maggie should go with us in the car so I’ve said she may, though I think she was really quite excited about the train.’

‘Righto.’ William looked quite cheerful. ‘I’m going to make the best of the day. Work without interruption.’ He smiled, then reached out and stroked Eleanor’s arm. ‘It’s all right, Ellie, I’m going to be fine.’

‘You know Mrs Hill is coming in to fix your lunch soon after midday. And Susan will be checking on you, to see if you need anything.’

‘Oh dear.’ William smiled. ‘I’ll try to think of something.’

‘Lydia’s had a bad night,’ Eleanor said. ‘Frances thinks she’ll sleep today.’ She shook her head almost imperceptibly. ‘What she needs most is a doctor but she just won’t have it...’

Laurence pulled out his father’s old watch. His father had been dead for nearly fifteen years, yet the watch kept perfect time. It was five to eight.

‘I’d better find Patrick. Enjoy your peaceful day, William. Eleanor, we’ll meet you by the roaring Lions of Wembley.’

Laurence took the path around the house. The Daimler was parked on the drive, ready to go. By the stables, Patrick was leaning against his Morris, lighting a cigarette. He held a silver cigarette case out to Laurence.

‘Frances has gone back for her gloves,’ he said. ‘Or probably to tell Lydia something else. You’d think we were going to the French Riviera for a month.’

The kitchen door opened on to the yard and Julian came out.

‘We need to get going,’ he said. ‘The train leaves before nine.’ ‘Then we shall,’ Patrick said, tapping his cigarette on the bonnet of his car. ‘But perhaps we should wait for Frances?’

Even as he spoke, Frances appeared. She had on a loose summer dress and carried a coat over her arm. A green cloche hat made her face look elfin and the effect was increased when she smiled.

‘Sorry, Patrick.’ She waggled some cream gloves in his direction. ‘Hardly worth it because I shall undoubtedly leave them in the car, or on the train, or drop them at Wembley, but my Aunt Lavinia’s precepts stay with me. A lady without gloves is a lady on the brink.’

‘Aunt Lavinia?’ Patrick looked amused.

‘And anyway, I bite my nails.’

Laurence hadn’t seen her so relaxed. He had worried that both she and Eleanor would have their day overshadowed by anxiety about those left behind, although both Lydia and William claimed that they would rather stay at Easton. He thought it was probably true in Lydia’s case—since his arrival he had never seen her go further than the upper garden—but there was so much that he thought William might enjoy at Wembley, not least observing Nicholas’s excitement.

They made the train just in time. It was fairly full. The first-class compartment was already very warm, with a middle-aged woman and a vicar comfortably established. Patrick opened the window a little.

At one point Frances whispered, ‘Are you seriously going to see His Royal Highness immortalised in butter?’

‘I don’t think you can be immortalised in butter,’ Laurence said. ‘Not when the next day you’ll meet oblivion between the toast and the marmalade. It’s not exactly the Colossus at Rhodes, is it?’

The vicar gave Laurence a stern look over his spectacles, while the corners of Frances’s mouth twitched as she tried not to laugh, but after that conversation felt inhibited. Julian, in the seat nearest to the corridor, read his
Morning Post.
Patrick sat on the other side between the vicar and Laurence, armed with a newspaper and a small book on Mesopotamia. Eventually and slightly self-consciously, Laurence brought out the mystery novel his friend Charles had given him. Frances raised an eyebrow and he held it upright so that she could see the cover. She seemed amused. From time to time over the next hour he looked up to see Frances with her forehead against the window, gazing out, her face almost hidden by her hat. Some instinct caused him to look up just as they passed the White Horse and she had leaned forward to get a better view. He watched her but she never noticed.

Despite himself, he was soon caught up with Mrs Christie’s ridiculous Belgian detective. By the time the ticket collector opened the door to their compartment, Julian was apparently asleep, although his fists were tightly balled. The misshapen scars showed clearly against his taut skin. Patrick was reading his
Times
and Frances was talking quietly to the woman next to her. Laurence looked out at the western approaches to London: on every journey there were new roads and new houses and more being built by the look of things. The train was slowing now. A billboard announced: ‘Thrift, security, healthy living. Your own home in the country.’ A big key and an acorn at the centre were obviously the symbols for this new life.

The vicar rifled among the papers in an elderly briefcase. Julian opened his eyes, uncurled his hands and stretched. Awake, he thrust his hands in his pockets. As they passed a gasometer, the sweet smell of gas seeped through the window. The long vistas were soon blocked out as they came to a stretch of soot-stained factory buildings following the line of the railway.

At Paddington they took a short ride to Marylebone and within minutes had caught the LNER train on the loop line to Exhibition Station. Each train was more crowded than the one before. Laurence found himself standing jammed in a corner away from the doors, his head slightly bent by the curve of the roof. A Wembley Lion snarled from a poster six inches from his face. Next to it the word Metroland was imposed upon a garish stylised sunrise, a boxy house and solid lupins. He felt slightly giddy. If he leaned further forward he could just see Frances, who had been offered a seat, but Julian and Patrick were out of sight.

After a few minutes, he began to feel the first stirrings of an anxiety that he had not faced for a couple of years. He took a couple of deep breaths, gripping the back of a seat. He tried to fix his eyes on a line of rivets across the carriage but his neck was prickling and he was beginning to sweat. The carriage was getting very warm, he could smell male sweat and women’s perfume. He had no idea how long this last bit of their journey would take; surely it was meant to be not much more than a quarter of an hour. He forced himself to focus on an imaginary map of London and ran a finger around his collar to ease its pressure.

Just when he thought he must escape or pass out, the train took a curve to the left, and the standing passengers swayed. Through their slight shift of position he suddenly saw Frances, watching him with concern. He attempted to smile at her but it felt forced and he looked away. She got up from her seat and moved towards him, squeezing through the passengers standing between them. A woman near him tut-tutted, but, smiling brightly and pushing determinedly, Frances reached him. She was immediately forced right up against him but she also placed her hand on his upper arm. It was that action that seemed an act of intimacy. He wanted to cling to her until the dizziness had passed.

‘It’s all right,’ she said, not even bothering to ask for confirmation that something very much wasn’t all right. ‘We’ll be there in five minutes.’

Although he still longed to escape, he felt the panic subside.

The train drew in a few minutes later. They let the other passengers get off, noisy and urgent.

‘You’d think this was the last day,’ Frances said. ‘Look, there are Patrick and Julian waiting for us. Are you sure you are all right? We can stop for a while.’

‘No. I’m fine. It was just the heat.’

She looked at him but did not reply and he felt churlish for not showing his gratitude.

A quarter of an hour later they passed through turnstiles into the exhibition. Patrick and Julian were studying the map. Laurence gazed about at an extraordinary landscape of domes and towers, pagodas and massive archways, as far as the eye could see, each building wonderfully unrelated to its neighbour, with flower beds, rivers and terraces, even a lake with pleasure boats. Around them a flow of humanity moved slowly and sinuously along paths and avenues. Immediately in front of them were two hefty neoclassical buildings—the Palaces of Industry and Engineering. He had seen pictures in the newspapers and had thought them rather grim. William had pronounced them unimaginative, but in the sunshine their severe lines were softened by the gardens and waterways around them.

Despite himself, Laurence felt exhilarated by the mood of the crowd, the fine early summer’s day and by Frances’s company. He could smell burnt sugar, grass and roses, hot oil and horse manure. Above the chatter and laughter, the wails of a nearby baby and people shouting to each other, he could hear an assembly of noises almost beyond what his brain could process. A crash of cymbals and trombones at a distance, a hurdy-gurdy, a tinkling of bells from a pavilion on his right, water rushing and some animal bellowing. A tall man in uniform, rather strangely of a major in the Scots Guards, walked past with a beautiful young woman on his arm. She caught Laurence’s eye and held it for a minute before dropping her gaze. He looked after her; she was dressed all in black and white, with the palest blonde hair he had ever seen. He had a feeling that in this unreal place anything was possible. Patrick noticed her too.

‘What a looker,’ he said. ‘Do you think she’s his wife?’

On the train they had decided to split up for the hour or so before they were due to get together for lunch at the Grand.

‘We don’t want to look like a Methodist church outing,’ Patrick said as they arrived. Clearly he wanted to be free of them though he gave them no hint of what he had planned.

Julian was keen to see the monolithic Palace of Industry and was undaunted by the queues.

‘My
Times
,’ Patrick had said, consulting his newspaper just before they all dispersed, ‘calls it “the ripened fruit of all the wisdom and invention of the ages”.’ He looked at his brother. ‘Could have been set up just for you. Enough wisdom and invention to keep you topped up for another decade or so at Easton.’

Julian, who was dressed in his country suit and already looked hot and uncomfortable, flushed.

‘But then a quick restorative nip to see the most beautiful negress in the world, do you think?’ Patrick said. ‘Or into the Palace of Beauty? Think of it as art, Jules. Fruits of the empire. The sort of thing you fought for.’

Julian didn’t even acknowledge Patrick’s comment. He took out his map again and scanned it briefly, before nodding and saying brusquely, ‘I’ll see you at the Grand for luncheon then.’ With that, he strode off.

As Patrick himself turned to go, he passed his folded newspaper to Laurence, pointing to the inside-page headline. It read: ‘Italian opinion shocked.’ Underneath were details of the abduction and murder of the Socialist Signor Matteotti and the arrest of the presumed assassins. Patrick raised an eyebrow but made no comment. He lifted his hat to Frances and walked off in the opposite direction with a sense of purpose.

Laurence skimmed the piece. ‘The charges have no relation to Signor Mussolini or the honesty of the Fascisti generally,’ it continued. He looked around for a bin and pushed
The Times
deep into it.

Laurence was glad to have Frances to himself but now he felt he should offer suggestions as to what they should see, when in truth, faced with the huge scale of the exhibition, he had no idea where to begin. Julian had told him it was spread over two hundred acres. Now he was here, the chaotic reality of its size hit him.

Frances flicked through the exhibition programme and then, rather randomly he thought, opted for Underwater World. ‘We’ll impress Nicky, at least,’ she said.

The aquarium was only five minutes’ walk away. From the outside a huge painting promised a vast if rather complicated marine world. Octopuses waved from behind a coral reef and malign-looking sharks lurked on the seabed near a treasure chest and what looked like a smiling skull still in a pirate’s hat. Bubbles rose prettily and homely crabs lingered at the water’s margin. They went in. After the glare outside, the room was cool and dark, the ranks of glass aquariums observed by quiet spectators. Presumably no single aquarium could contain the sort of peaceable undersea kingdom portrayed outside or one very fat creature would soon have the place to itself.