Tyringham Park (43 page)

Dixon fixed her face in a solemn mask and let the silence lengthen between them. There was no way she was going to share what she had deduced from Teresa’s information with her.

“I’m afraid there is something I can tell you and it’s not good news,” she said.

Teresa’s apprehension became visible at once.

“Little Victoria died less than a month after you left. Pneumonia. We cared for her around the clock. Everything that could have been done was done but it wasn’t enough.” To
add verisimilitude she added, “Dr Finn wore himself out trying to save her. He was in a terrible state over it. We all were.”

Teresa looked at Dixon as if she’d never seen her before. Tears welled in her eyes and followed the cracks down her weather-beaten face.

“Poor pretty little Victoria,” she said softly. “The little darling. I loved that child. Poor sweet little girl.” She shook her head in disbelief, then replaced her cup
with what she thought was care but it clattered against the saucer. “And poor, poor Manus,” she added softly as if talking to herself.

When Teresa came out of her first wave of crying, the receptionist was standing beside her and Dixon was gone.

“Excuse me, but Miss Dixon said I’m to show you around the hotel, as she has something important to do for the next half-hour, and then she’ll join you in the dining room for
lunch.”

Over lunch, Teresa explained she had been lucky to find work as a live-in housekeeper to a kind family who had allowed her to keep her son with her, but in the end it meant that she had ended up
with no home of her own.

“Like me,” said Dixon.

“Except that you’re not retired.”

“No, that’s true. And I’ll never be homeless. Jim and Norma, the ones I told you about, think the world of me and treat me as one of the family, so I expect they’ll take
care of me until I fall off the perch.” Dixon refilled Teresa’s wineglass and with a feeling of satisfaction offered her a job working in the hotel. Now that she had found her friend
again, she wanted to keep her close, basking in that remembered warmth of her personality.

“But what would I do? Wash pots?”

“Not on your life. No friend of mine washes pots.”

“But I’m not trained in hotel work.”

“I’ll fit you in somewhere. It would be wonderful working together again. Remember the good times we had at the Park?”

“Ah, yes, I do, but the two little girls were with us then. We could never bring those days back, try as we might.” Teresa’s voice wobbled for a second until she checked
herself. “You must be very high up if you can offer an unskilled person like me a job without having to consult anyone.”

“I’m not just an ordinary member of staff,” Dixon couldn’t help boasting. “I have been head bookkeeper and assistant manager for years, and should have been
manager, but in the end they lost courage and wouldn’t give that position to a woman, even though I could do the job with one hand tied behind my back. Well, what do you think?”

“It’s a tempting offer, and it’s lovely of you to think of me, but I’m afraid I can’t accept. I’m already committed to helping my daughter-in-law and little
grandson until my son returns from the war, and after he comes back I’m going to move in to live with my Irish friend whose late husband left her comfortably off. She’s quite a bit
older than me and needs the help and company.”

“Sounds as if she wants you to look after her in her old age.” Dixon couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice.

“Probably,” Teresa agreed without rancour. “That seems to be my destiny in life. My father and now my friend. But I’m not complaining. It’s wonderful not to be
among strangers in my later years.”

“All very convenient and cosy,” said Dixon, deflated. “Never mind. It was just a thought. I didn’t really expect you to be available.”

“Perhaps you’ll come to visit me at my son’s house and meet my daughter-in-law and grandson.”

“Perhaps I will,” said Dixon, who had no intention of doing any such thing. Let you go off with your devoted family and your old friend and let you all have a lovely time and
don’t give a second thought to me who has no one except poor old Mrs Sinclair who isn’t even a relation and who is at death’s door, anyway, and isn’t much use to me now. See
if I care.

Dixon could feel herself cooling towards Teresa, who had achieved motherhood after all and who had brought Manus’s name into the conversation when there was no need, just to show off how
well she knew him. The temperature in the room was dropping as if in a southerly wind, and a familiar greyness was being painted over her bright image of two equal friends working together side by
side for life.

“Did you ever regret leaving Ireland?” she asked, scrambling around for something civil to say.

“No, not with my yearning for a child and the way things were with my brother. And then being blessed with a baby at the last minute. I love it here. I think I have been very fortunate in
my life.”

“How lucky for you,” said Dixon, jealousy clawing away at her insides. “Tell me.” She leaned across the table in a confidential manner. “Tell me. There’s one
thing I always wanted to know, and you can tell me now, seeing the Park life is over for both of us and we won’t be going back.”

“Of course. Ask me anything.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t think of it at the time, but as the years went by it seemed glaringly obvious. You can clarify it for me now. Did Miss East employ you with
instructions to spy on me?” The idea had come to her only in the last few minutes, but now that she’d put it into words, she believed it to be true.

“Whatever gave you that idea?” Teresa picked up her glass and swallowed a large mouthful of wine. “She thought you could do with a hand after Victoria was born, that’s
all.”

Dixon studied Teresa’s face. Its heightened colour and downcast eyes convinced Dixon she was lying.

Half an hour later Dixon paid for a taxi for Teresa to be rid of her, and stood on the pavement waving her off with the intention of never seeing her again. She then went to her room and howled
into her pillow for a long time, tearing at the pillowslip with her still perfect teeth.

Dublin
1943

Charlotte received a parcel from Ballybrian in the post. While she read the letter that had been inserted under the second layer of brown paper, she allowed Mary Anne to take
out the tightly scrunched balls of paper that were packed around the object in a large cardboard box.

Charlotte paused in her reading.

Mary Anne squealed with joy when she lifted out a further handful of paper balls to reveal what was under all the packing in the box.

Charlotte continued reading. The last paragraph of the letter said:

Charlotte glanced up and screamed when she saw, tucked under the arm of her twenty-two-month-old daughter with her pretty face and dark soft curls, a yellow-haired porcelain
doll wearing a sapphire-blue dress. The doll that had once belonged to her and had been confiscated by Dixon. The companion piece to Victoria’s red-headed one, the one she had been holding on
the day she disappeared.

Charlotte dropped the letter.

She couldn’t breathe. She felt as if she would suffocate. Her ribcage heaved as she tried to force air into her lungs.

Mary Anne looked up and began to cry in alarm to see her mother’s contorted face.

There was roaring in Charlotte’s ears, and a sensation of pain in her chest. She was finally able to draw in a honking, rasping breath, the sound of which increased the volume of Mary
Anne’s wailing.

Five minutes later Queenie found Charlotte in a state of near collapse and told her she would run straight for the doctor and not to worry. Charlotte made feeble gestures with her arms,
signalling Queenie to get the child out of the room.

“I’ll take Miss Mary Anne to her aunt’s for the morning,” Queenie said and knew she had made the right decision when Charlotte nodded and tried to smile. “And
I’ll fetch Dr Grace on the way back. Don’t panic. I’ll be here again before you can say Jack Robinson.”

Queenie put the sobbing child, still clutching the yellow-haired doll, sitting up in the pram she was now too big for and wheeled it with speed across five streets to Iseult’s house, where
she told Iseult that Charlotte had a throat infection and didn’t want Mary Anne to catch anything. Three streets back she called to the Carmody house and rang the bell of the surgery at the
side and, when there was no answer, banged on the knocker of the front door. Dr Grace answered and, as soon as she could make out what the breathless servant was saying, said she would come over
straight away. On being questioned, Queenie said she had no idea what had brought on the attack or fit but it must be something drastic if ma’am was so out of sorts she couldn’t attend
to Mary Anne.

“Has this happened before?” Dr Grace asked, picking up her coat and medical bag and pulling her door closed behind them.

“No, not that I’ve ever seen.”

“Is there someone with her?”

“No, there isn’t.”

Queenie wanted to run ahead, but had to wait for the doctor so she could guide her to Charlotte’s rooms by the back entrance to avoid being spotted by Lady Blackshaw. While they hurried
along the street Queenie tried to answer the doctor’s questions as accurately as she could.

Hours after Dr Grace had sedated her, Charlotte tried to rouse herself but found it difficult to keep her eyes open. There was someone asleep in the chair across the room, she
noticed, and the curtains were drawn, so it must be night. Where was she? What had happened? Why were her arms too heavy to lift?

She saw a child standing beside the bed. It was Victoria. Not the distressed one of her dreams who didn’t leave until Charlotte had made a deal with her, but a happy one, holding a
redheaded doll. Charlotte turned with joy to welcome her lost little sister in her white linen dress.

“Thank goodness you’re alive,” Charlotte whispered so as not to wake the person in the chair. “I knew you’d come back one day to see me.”

Smiling and confident, the child held out her free arm.

“Come closer, my little darling, so I can take your hand,” Charlotte said in a coaxing voice.

Victoria moved forward one step, hesitated, then started to cry.

“Don’t cry, my pretty pet,” Charlotte pleaded, feeling a terrible anxiety overwhelming her. “Come to me and I’ll kiss you better.” She tried to move so that
she could rise from the bed to comfort the child, but her head wouldn’t lift from the pillow and her legs remained leaden. Her arms ached with the desire to enclose the figure, hold her close
and keep her safe.

“I have a little girl just like you, with curly hair and a pretty face. You’ll be able to meet her in the morning when she wakes.”

“Is there anything the matter, ma’am?” asked the figure in the chair.

Charlotte’s eyes snapped wide open at the sound of Queenie’s voice, and Victoria vanished.

“What did you do that for?” Charlotte wailed. “You frightened her away. Come back, Victoria, ignore Queenie! I have so much I want to say to you!” Her voice rose to a
shrill pitch. “Come back and I’ll explain everything!”

Queenie rushed over to her side. “Take some more of this, ma’am,” she coaxed, lifting up Charlotte’s head and pouring liquid into her mouth. “Dr Grace said it will
calm you down.”

“Get back – get away,” Charlotte spluttered, trying to spit out the potion, but ending up swallowing most of it. She turned her head away from the servant to avoid being given
a further dose and said with as much force as she could summon, “I don’t want to be calm. I want to talk to Victoria. You go away and she might come back. Go on, leave immediately and
don’t dare return unless I ring for you. Do as you’re told. Go!”

Queenie ran from the room and kept running until she reached the Carmody house for the second time that day and told the sleepy Dr Grace to come quickly as Charlotte had definitely lost her mind
this time.

Charlotte looked at the space vacated by Victoria and pleaded aloud for the child to return but was met with emptiness and silence. The energy she had felt while talking to Victoria was
dissipating. Her body was becoming heavier. That damned medicine Queenie forced her to drink was sending her to sleep. She called out to Miss East for help, but there was no answering voice.

A familiar person leaned over her and she felt the sting of a needle being injected into her arm.

The next time Charlotte woke she stayed still and didn’t speak so that Queenie, keeping vigil, wouldn’t rush over and pour that opiate down her throat.

There was a strange sensation in her head. It was as if her mind was a hundred-roomed mansion that was falling apart, each wall as it crumbled revealing its individual secrets to all the other
rooms until the house was a single pile of rubble with all its furnishings and artefacts exposed.

She was eight years old again, back at Tyringham Park. Her mother was wheeling the baby carriage towards the stables. Charlotte, as was her habit on the daily walks with Nurse Dixon, began to
follow.

“Not you,” Lady Blackshaw snapped at her. “I don’t remember including you in the invitation. Nurse Dixon, take her off.”