Bleeding Heart Square Part 17

"You can't have it."

"You should burn those things you've got in there. All of them."

He sighed. "Don't be stupid. They might be important. We've talked about this over and over again. Don't you listen to a word I say?"

She stared up at him, pus.h.i.+ng out her lower lip like a thwarted child. Her fingertip was still touching the page in front of her and moving slowly and erratically toward the right-hand margin. She had been not just pretty but beautiful, he thought, and elegant with it, like a lady; not that it mattered. He brought the bread and dripping from the larder and put them down on the table. Muttering under his breath, he picked up her left hand, the one with the thin gold wedding band.

"You're freezing," he snapped. "You silly woman. What do you think you're trying to do? Die of pneumonia?"

She stared at him, withdrew her hand but said nothing. He fetched a blanket from the unmade bed and draped it over her shoulders. She neither helped nor hindered him. He had seen mannequins with more life in them.

He touched the range with his fingers. "It's getting warmer. That's what you need, warmth. You'll be better when you've had some tea."

She looked up without smiling. Then at last she held out her hand to him.

"We're a fine pair of crocks," Narton said furiously, and took it.

He pulled out the chair beside hers. They sat there, hand in hand, staring at the kettle and waiting for the water to boil.

On Sunday afternoon Rory walked north from Bleeding Heart Square, at first in a straight line and later in a long north-westerly arc that took him through Regent's Park and over Primrose Hill. Fenella was not expecting him. He reached Cornwallis Grove a little before half past three. Fenella answered the door. He fancied a look of disappointment pa.s.sed over her face when she saw it was him. Instantly he supplied the reason for it. That was the trouble with jealousy. It created a ferocious appet.i.te that was capable of nouris.h.i.+ng itself just as effectively on speculation as on fact.

The hall was full of broken chairs, tins of paint, canvases stacked against the wall and an entire aviary of stuffed birds.

"Come into the kitchen," she said. "It's warmer."

On the way he tripped over a canvas bag of tools and grazed his hand on a half-built bookcase.

"I'm beginning to think I'll never be free of the old monster," Fenella said over her shoulder. "All that clutter is like having Dad around again."

"Will you miss it?"

"Why should I? Quite the reverse."

"No," he said. "I mean the house and everything. It's your home."

"It doesn't feel like it since Mother died. The only thing I really miss is the car. A car gives you freedom-you can drive anywhere you like, at any time." She smiled at him. "You can always escape."

She turned aside to fill the kettle. Rory thought she looked almost incandescent with excitement. He hadn't seen her in such a good mood since he had come back from India. It was either the job or that chap Dawlish, or more probably both.

"Listen, there was something that I forgot to ask you yesterday," he said. "It's about those men who attacked me on Friday."

Suddenly she was all attention. "The drunks? What about them?"

He chose his words with care: "There was a cufflink on the ground which might have come from one of the men who attacked me. It had the badge of the British Union of Fascists on it."

"It wouldn't surprise me in the least. Everybody knows they're brutes. Why, Julian says-"

"The point is," he interrupted, "do you think it's possible they might have attacked me because of you?"

She frowned. "Why?"

Now he had said the words aloud to her, the possibility seemed even less likely than it had before. "It's just that you go to these socialist meetings and-and a lot of your friends are that way inclined, or more so, like that chap Dawlish. And now your new job with-what's it called?"

"ASAF. The Alliance of Socialists Against Fascism. You make it sound like some-some deviation."

"I don't mean to. It's just that I wondered whether someone might have seen you and me together and a.s.sumed I was a communist or something too. In other words, they attacked me for political reasons. After all, if the chap was wearing cufflinks, you'd think that he was at least halfway respectable."

"Respectable? And he goes around beating up strangers on Friday nights?"

"Not on the breadline, then."

Fenella shook her head. "I can't see it. Those Fascists are capable of almost anything, but the idea of them lying in wait for you in Bleeding Heart Square and then beating you up-well, it's too ridiculous. You came to that meeting in Albion Lane, I know, but you didn't exactly play an active part in the proceedings."

"But I know you. And I've met Dawlish."

She shook her head. "If the target were Julian or me, they would just chuck a stone through my window or perhaps beat him up. Anyway, from what you say you can't even be sure that the cufflink came from them." She paused and added in quite a different voice, "Rory?"

"What?"

"Are you all right? I know this isn't easy for you."

The gentleness in her voice took him by surprise. "I'm fine. It will be better when I find a job, of course."

"You're not going to waste any more time on this business about Aunt Philippa, are you?"

"You think it's a wild-goose chase."

"It's a distraction," Fenella said. "But you should be concentrating on finding a job, not chasing shadows."

"But I thought-"

"Even if you found her, it wouldn't be any use. Aunt Philippa went to the States to make a fresh start. Why should she give me any money? She owes me absolutely nothing."

"I want to help. That's all. You won't let me in any other way."

"I can help myself, thank you."

"You mean that fellow Dawlish can."

Fenella shook her head briskly. "It's not like that."

"Of course it is. I've seen how he looks at you."

"I'm not saying he doesn't like me. But it's not reciprocated, or not in that way. The thing is, we think the same about things and this job is a splendid opportunity. It's perfect."

Rory thought it was perfect for Dawlish because it would give him unlimited access to Fenella. He said, "It really is over, isn't it?"

"What is?"

"You and me."

She stood up. "Look, we talked about this. We were very young when we got engaged, especially me. Then you went off to India for years and years. We can't expect to just take things up where we left off. People change. I know I have. And I think you have too. Now you're just in love with a sort of idea of me, something you dreamed up while we were apart. As far as you're concerned I'm like a bad habit. You need to give me up and then you'll be fine."

"So that's it?"

"Of course it's not. We can be friends. I hope we always shall be. And who knows what might happen?"

"I'm a b.l.o.o.d.y fool," Rory said.

"No you're not. You're a dear good man. And I'm truly grateful for all you've done. Now, while the tea's brewing, will you help me clear a s.p.a.ce in the hall? There's so much rubbish I can't get into the dining room."

Rory took the Tube back to Holborn. He smoked two cigarettes on the way and glowered at anyone who he thought might be looking at him. Until now, despite the evidence to the contrary, he had taken it for granted that he and Fenella were destined eventually to spend most of their lives together. His a.s.sumptions about the future had been based on that proposition. He scowled at his reflection in the window on the other side of the carriage. All that wasted time and emotion. Narton be d.a.m.ned. If Fenella didn't care what had happened to Miss Penhow, why should he? What was the point? What was the point of anything?

When he left the Tube, it was almost dark. The thick, heavy air tasted of coal dust and chemicals; fog was on its way again. He hurried along the north side of Holborn. As he was pa.s.sing the long, dark facade of the Prudential building, he drew level with a woman walking more slowly in the same direction. He glanced at her face. In the same moment she turned her head toward him.

He touched his hat. "Mrs. Langstone. Good afternoon."

She frowned as though she had been accosted by a stranger. Then she recognized him. "Oh h.e.l.lo."

"Beastly weather." He peered through the gloom at her. "I say, you feeling all right?"

"Yes-no. I mean, I think I might be going down with something. A chill, perhaps."

They fell into step and returned to the square by way of Rosington Place. A furious yapping came from the lodge. Howlett's face appeared at the little window. He raised his hand in a half salute. Faster and faster, as though someone were pursuing them, they walked toward the chapel and the gates at the end.

"Are you enjoying the job?" Rory asked as they pa.s.sed s.h.i.+res and Trimble's office.

"Not particularly." She did not look at him. "But then that's not really the point, is it?"

They reached the gates that led to the square. He opened the wicket and stood to one side so that she could precede him.

She hesitated, and looked suddenly up at him. "Have you ever felt you'd be better off dead, Mr. Wentwood?"

"I imagine most of us have." In fact the thought had crossed his mind not twenty minutes earlier. "But think of the mess it would make."

Her blue-gray eyes stared up at him. There wasn't an answering smile on her face. "Life's messy enough anyway. What's a little more here or there?"

"What's wrong?" There was nothing like misery for making one blunt. "Is there anything I can do?"

"It's very kind of you, but no. I shouldn't have said anything. I'm sorry."

She stepped into Bleeding Heart Square. He followed, closing the wicket. She stopped suddenly, so sharply that he almost cannoned into her. He heard her mutter something under her breath.

Serridge was walking from the direction of the garage toward the house. His loud check overcoat was open and flapped on either side of him like the wings of a brash and enormous bird. One hand was in his trouser pocket, and the other held a cigar. He caught sight of them at the gate and waved.

"Mrs. Langstone. Good afternoon." He added, clearly as an afterthought, "Mr. Wentwood. Have you been out for a walk?"

He was looking at Lydia but she didn't answer, so Rory said, "No, we met by chance in Holborn."

Lydia moved toward the house and the two men followed.

"I don't suppose you're putting the kettle on, Mrs. Langstone?" Serridge said.

"No. I'm not feeling well." She pushed her latchkey into the lock.

Serridge joined her on the doorstep. "You do look a bit under the weather if you don't mind my saying so. A cold or something?"

"Something like that." She got the door open at last and almost ran into the house. She murmured goodbye and set off up the stairs.

"Let me know if there's anything you need, eh?" Serridge called after her.

"Thank you," she said without turning her head.

Serridge stood in the hall and watched her on the stairs. Rory was surprised to see an expression of what might have been tenderness on the other man's face, as incongruous as an oasis in a desert. For the first time, he was struck by the absolutely revolting possibility that Serridge was sweet on Lydia Langstone.

13.

Sat.u.r.day, 8 March 1930 Well, I've done it! I took Joseph to meet John and Agnes. It was fortunate that Fenella was there, which made things a little easier than they might have been, but it was pretty ghastly. I must admit I'd been dreading this, and I was right. It's one thing Joseph coming to the Rushmere, where frankly anyone in trousers is likely to be lionized, but it's quite another to take him to Cornwallis Grove. My brother is such an awful sn.o.b! Not that he's got very much to be sn.o.bbish about, if the truth were known. And I've always felt that he begrudged Aunt's money coming to me, though heaven knows there was no reason why any of it should have gone to him. She was MY father's sister, not his. He wasn't even related to her. Agnes wrote and asked me to tea, which was the first I had heard from them since Christmas. I know one shouldn't think badly of people but I can't help suspecting that John put her up to writing to me for mercenary reasons. (Even as a little boy, he was very greedy.) I asked if I might bring a friend, and you should have seen their faces when they opened the door and realized that I meant a man friend! I had warned Joseph they might be a little stuffy, which turned out to be just as well. They had got out the silver tea service and the Crown Derby. Old Mary, who has never been more than a maid of all work and not a very good one at that, had been forced to come in on Sat.u.r.day afternoon and drilled so hard in the duties of a parlormaid that she didn't know whether she was coming or going. John took one look at Joseph, and clearly decided that he wasn't enough of a gentleman for him, though anyone can see that Joseph's more of a man than John could ever be. Anyway, John, who can talk the hind leg off a donkey, went on and on about this and that, trying to make Joseph look small. At one point he asked him what he thought of young John Gielgud's Hamlet and later he pretended to be very surprised when he learned that Joseph had not been to a public school. I was never so ashamed of my relations in my life, but dear Joseph rose above it splendidly. He spent a lot of time talking very nicely to Agnes about her work with the Girl Guides and to dear little Fenella, asking her about her studies and so forth and what she plans to do with her life. She's such a sweet little thing-she takes after my side of the family. I told her I had been using the diary she gave me at Christmas. And then we had the row!! Beforehand, I had thought about telling John and Agnes about our engagement while we were there-not the full story, of course, because that concerns only Joseph and me-but decided it might be better to break the news when we next met. But John was so beastly I changed my mind. I slipped out of the room, put on my engagement ring and went back and said, cool as can be, "By the way, Joseph and I have some news." Well, you should have seen their faces drop. John began to splutter-he was so angry and surprised he could hardly get his words out. If looks could kill!! At least Agnes and Fenella managed to congratulate us. I couldn't wait to get away. I made our excuses as soon as I decently could. We walked to the Tube station. I was still seething with indignation on Joseph's behalf. But he said that it was quite all right and he understood why they had been like that. "I know I'm a bit rough round the edges, my darling," he said. "But the heart's as true as oak, I promise you that. And you were so brave in there. Like a lioness." I suppose that was what made me do it-not John and Agnes's despicable behavior but Joseph's truly manly generosity and the loving tone of his voice to me despite the insults he had received. I told him that I felt we were now married in the eyes of G.o.d. I was trembling in every limb. "I want to be your wife in every way, dearest." I repeated it: "In way, Joseph. Do you understand?"

Philippa Penhow saw a chance of happiness and she took it. She gave more than she took. You have to admire that, don't you?

His wife had taken to sleeping in the kitchen. At bedtime Narton watched her pulling the mattress out from the scullery and un-rolling it in the corner by the range, which had been banked up for the night. Margaret lived in the kitchen, which made sense in this weather because it was the warmest room. If you were going to spend your days there, Narton supposed, you might as well spend your nights there too.

Margaret had once been house-proud to the point of mania. She had kept the floor so clean you could eat off it, and she used to give the Vicar tea with newly baked scones in the parlor. On more than one occasion, Mrs. Alforde herself had come with him.

Without looking at him, Margaret made the bed with blankets from the dresser drawer. Narton wondered whether he should stay with her in the kitchen, but only for a second. Anyway it was only a little single mattress of lumpy horsehair. It had gone on the bed they had given Amy when she was ten years old. All in all, he preferred to lie upstairs in the big double bedstead that sagged in the middle, turning restlessly to and fro between the dirty sheets, weighed down by too many memories and a mound of frowsty bedding.

He drifted into unconsciousness at about five o'clock in the morning. The bang of the back door roused him abruptly from a deep sleep at a quarter past seven. His limbs were aching and his mind was as misty and full of foulness as a London fog. Margaret had gone to work. He rolled slowly out of bed and painfully forced his body back to life. It was still almost dark outside. He had slept in s.h.i.+rt and underclothes. He urinated in the pot and pulled on his trousers and socks, noticing without much interest that the hole in one of the sock heels seemed to have grown larger overnight. He stumbled down the narrow stairs into the kitchen. As he had feared, the range was out. Margaret would get a cup of tea and perhaps a slice of toast at the Hall. She worked there for the loonies, whose souls were far above such mundane matters as keeping the kitchen clean.

It took him well over an hour to light the range, boil a kettle, shave and make tea. Afterward he put on his overcoat and walked into the village. It was a gray morning, raining slightly, and he met no one until he was nearing the shop by the church. Robbie Proctor was standing under the lych gate, with his mouth open as usual and his nose in need of wiping. Had a screw loose, that one. When the boy saw Narton, he turned tail and ran off among the gravestones.

Things weren't much more welcoming in the village shop. Rebecca, the Vicarage parlormaid, was there, and a couple of laborers' wives from Home Farm. They nodded a greeting but sidled away from him, re-forming in a whispering huddle on the other side of the shop. What were they afraid of? That he'd contaminate them like a cloud of poison gas?

He bought five gaspers and a loaf of bread. No one wished him goodbye. He knew that as soon as the door closed behind him the conversation would begin again. Margaret told him that everyone in the village thought he was mad. Perhaps they weren't so far wrong.

At the cottage, he put the kettle on again and ate some of the bread. Afterward he lit one of the cigarettes and wandered from room to room. It already had the feeling of an abandoned house. He came to a halt at last in the parlor, where he studied the cupboard beside the fireplace. He threw the b.u.t.t of the cigarette into the empty grate and fished out a key from his waistcoat pocket. The door creaked as he opened it. There were three shelves. The upper two held toys, one or two books, some clothes. On the bottom one was a flat, soft parcel loosely wrapped in brown paper. Narton took articles at random from the top two shelves-a copy of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, a woolly hat with a bobble on the top, a tiny china pony that he had won for Amy with an air rifle at a fairground stall in Saffron Walden.

There was a hammering on the back door. Narton closed the cupboard, locked it and went unhurriedly back to the kitchen. The knocking continued. He opened the door and found Joseph Serridge standing outside and leaning on a stick. He wore a heavy raincoat and galoshes thick with mud.

"I reckon it's about time you and I had a man-to-man chat," Serridge said in a flat voice.

"I thought you were in London."