Abdication: A Novel (8 page)

Evangeline settled herself further into the faded blue velvet chair next to the fire, the silver paper knife as always on the table beside her. Realising from the startled yelp beneath her that she had sat on top of the new kitten, she extracted the tiny animal from underneath the cushion, relieved when it shook itself out and headed unruffled for the door. Smoothing out the folded pages of blue stationery, she began to read. Wallis wished to ask Evangeline a favour. Mentioning the dinner party at which she had chatted with the “charming Lady Joan Blunt,” Wallis expressed her sadness in discovering so late in the day that Mrs. Nettlefold had passed away. Wallis had heard that Lady Joan was encouraging her goddaughter to take a trip across the ocean and expressed the hope that a word from Wallis, her “oldest friend,” might help to convince Vangey to come.

“I would love to show you how life is so different over here,” Wallis had cajoled. “It might amuse you to know that this democrat has been taking dancing and curtseying lessons, though my curtsey is more of a mop than a floor sweeper!”

Given that her aunt Bessie was now too elderly to cross the Atlantic more than once a year, Wallis was missing the company of someone to talk to about the way they did things back home. She was not sure if Evangeline was acquainted with a fellow compatriot, Thelma Furness, with whom Wallis had previously spent a good deal of time. Sadly Wallis saw little of her these days, and if Evangeline could keep this one confidence to herself for now, the truth was that Wallis was beginning to feel a little overwhelmed by the British. Sometimes she did not know which nationality she belonged to. She loved the British dignity and their wide outlook but she preferred the American sense of humour and its peculiar brand of pep. Sometimes, despite the social swirl around her, Wallis felt a little out of things. Even the friendship of one or two special individuals (other than that of her dear husband, of course) did not wholly eradicate her sense of homesickness. She wanted to discuss all this and much more with Evangeline in person.

“Do come! Oh
do
!” she had written, underlining the words three times for emphasis. “We might even find you that elusive beau over here! He is bound to be waiting for you somewhere.”

A longing for her school days engulfed Evangeline. That long-gone sense of innocence and trust reminded her of the feeling she now had when about to put on a new dress, or when given a box of chocolates sealed up in its wrapper. Everything was lovely in the anticipation.
There must have been a time
, she though wistfully,
when disappointment was an undiscovered emotion
. The warmth and wit of her old school friend suddenly seemed deliciously tempting. The misunderstanding in the Baltimore bedroom with the “Chinese wand” was behind them
and need never again be mentioned. Putting the letter back in the envelope, Evangeline made her mind up to go to England at once.

As the
SS Thalassa
switchbacked its way through the Atlantic waves in one of the worst crossings in memory, most of the passengers clutched their queasy stomachs in the privacy of their luxury staterooms. The outside temperatures dipped so low that the bottom of the empty swimming pool had cracked in the freezing winter weather. Evangeline counted her blessings that she was making this journey during the winter months so that one of her secret shames would remain undiscovered. Evangeline had a profound fear of water and had never learned to swim. Deck tennis and table tennis were also impossible activities in the heaving ship, but movies and bridge filled the hours between meals most satisfactorily. Evangeline found herself unaffected by the rocking motion of the waves, as long as she kept herself away from the terrifying sight of the rolling, cresting seascape. As a result she was often one of just a handful of diners in the restaurant and, lavished with the constant attention of dozens of under-occupied waiters, she felt the glee of a hippopotamus that had just landed on a thick and oozy mud bank.

With Wiggle in canine paradise, devouring as many sausages and biscuits as his small jaws could manage, Evangeline wished the voyage would take double the time. There had been cocktails and cigars, caviar and canapés, and she had enjoyed herself, the many invitations to dance with the perspiring assistant captain notwithstanding. Evangeline was not a gifted dancer despite the hours of lessons that she had undertaken at her mother’s insistence on the premise that you never knew when they might come in useful for “important society gatherings.” On the final evening on board Evangeline and her naval suitor stumbled their way through the Viennese waltz, his clammy hand suctioned to a small area of Evangeline’s exposed flesh. The cutaway lozenge on the back panel of her evening gown provided the impetus for a
whisky-drenched suggestion that the assistant captain might introduce her to his widowed mother who lived in Liverpool and who would so enjoy hearing tales of the New World in Evangeline’s charming accent.

In more ways than one, Evangeline was looking forward to reaching Liverpool but above all she was excited about the reunion with her schoolfriend. She was particularly pleased to have found the perfect gift for Wallis, a belated Christmas present as well as something that would remind them both of the years of affection and of memories that still bound them together. A week before she sailed for Britain Evangeline paid a visit to Hochschild’s. The shop’s familiar yellow and black delivery vans still darted through the Baltimore streets, bringing a flash of colour to the grey asphalt. After much thought, nostalgia encircling her as she browsed through the departments she and Wallis had once known so well, Evangeline had stopped in the music department and come across a box of jazz records marked “old stock.” There, near the top of the pile, was a recording of W. C. Handy’s “Memphis Blues,” the band’s top hit in 1909 and re-released in the 1920s under Hochschild’s own label, Belvedere Records. The name was clearly imprinted on the yellow vinyl record. What a perfect present to take to Wallis at her new address at Fort Belvedere! The coincidence could not fail to delight her friend. How the gift would confirm to Wallis how much she had missed her teenage companion! She had made a couple of other purchases too. For Joan there was a stylish umbrella with the Hochschild logo stamped on the black and yellow waterproof. And for Philip there was a pair of loafers, the latest casual shoes all the rage amongst fashionable men, who had adopted the American variation on the Norwegian moccasin with gusto.

Even as she made her way down the gangplank at the crowded Liverpool docks, with Wiggle hidden underneath her coat, Evangeline was still trying to shake off the persistent assistant captain’s attentions. She was relieved to spot her name written in uneven script on the large
piece of card held up high by a bulldog of a man in uniform. His cap was sitting slightly askew on his head as he waited for her beside a glistening blue Rolls-Royce on the quayside.

Philip’s chauffeur, Cropper, was to bring her straight to London and Evangeline’s luggage had been strapped to the back of the car by the taciturn driver, who was evidently reluctant to open his mouth even in cursory greeting. Not until she had settled herself and Wiggle on the leather seat beneath a thick, plaid rug did Evangeline detect a whiff of whisky in the air.

Deciding that the least confrontational and therefore most pleasurable way to spend the long journey was to remain silent, she gazed out of the window, relieved when they left the grim-looking streets of Liverpool behind them. As the car gathered speed along the monotonously grey roads of the North of England, Evangeline fell asleep. She only came to during brief stops at the side of the road when Cropper muttered that he needed to check that the luggage was still securely tied to the back of the car, but she soon dozed off again until they eventually arrived in London.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

W
hen May and Sam squeezed their way into the tiny front room in Bethnal Green they found three people waiting for them. A tall girl with wide-open grey eyes, rose from her chair beside the coal fire to greet the new arrivals. An older, balding man, his shirt buttons perilously close to detaching themselves from the straining fabric of his shirt, tucked his arm into the crook of Sarah’s elbow and smiled at May and Sam. His facial resemblance to Sarah was unmistakable.

The third member of the greeting party, a woman wearing a floral apron tied tightly over her cardigan, faced the visitors from her position in front of the fire. She had hitched up the back of her skirt almost to her waist and was warming herself on the coals. Releasing her skirt she bustled over to May and peered at her over the top of her glasses. May could smell something faintly farinaceous.

“Well now! Here you are. Nat’s cousins! And let me say we are very happy to have you here in Oak Street, aren’t we, Sarah? Aren’t we, Simon? Simon, are you paying attention to me?”

“This is Mrs. Rachel Greenfeld, my mother-in-law; Simon, my father-in-law; and my wife, Sarah,” Nat began.

“Was it rough on the boat?” Nat’s mother-in-law interrupted, her grey bun pinned in a graceful coil at the back of her head. “And was the coach on time? I hope your mother packed you both off with a lot
of warm clothes and a nice flask for a hot drink. I expect you could all do with a nice cup of tea. Simon, put the kettle on at once, Simon. Did you hear me, Simon? These children are half-dead with thirst, I shouldn’t wonder. Now then, did your mother warn you that it’s very cold here in England? Did you tell your aunt to warn them, Nat?”

Rachel tapped her neatly laced shoe on the floor as she spoke, as if keeping time with the rhythm of her own speech. Her questions came like bubbles popping from a child’s blowpipe, with one bursting into the air only to be replaced at once by another.

“Well, tell me, May, what was the food like on the ship, Sam? Not enough of it by the look of you both! Well you won’t have to worry about quantity in
this
house!”

Sarah sat quietly, occasionally rolling her eyes at her father and husband as she watched two strangers encountering her mother’s inquisitive but affectionate volubility for the first time.

“You look peaky, Sam. Simon, doesn’t Sam look peaky? Come over here by the fire and warm yourself, my boy. You don’t look so bad, May. Got a bit of colour on you, I’m glad to say. Still, come over here near the heat. Now, is that kettle on, Simon?”

As Rachel continued to interrogate them, May noticed Sarah smoothing down the neat waistline of her dress. For as long as she could remember, May had watched the young women in the plantation fields, their pregnancies advancing gradually to a size that made it uncomfortable for them to bend their distended bodies over the sugarcane without splaying their legs. The absence of even the hint of a swell convinced May that Sarah was still dreaming of the day when she might have a child of her own.

The Greenfeld and Castor’s house was the showcase of the street. Number 52 had been one of the first to be connected to electricity, and the chrome plate warmer was displayed on the sideboard with as much fanfare as a cup awarded to the comeliest cow at a country
show. The house was fit to burst with possessions accumulated over many years but it was neat, aromatic and well ordered, like a baker’s tray of buns. The front door opened directly onto the front room where an ironwork basket on the hearth of a blue-and-white tiled fireplace was filled with a hillock of coal, shining black-red with heat. Rachel had returned to her position on the hearth and May could see the lace edge of her petticoat peeping out from beneath her skirt. Arranged around the fireplace was a mottled leather three-piece suite and on either side were a couple of lumpy armchairs covered in a brown matte material speckled with pink flowers. A large chestnut wood wireless sat prominently on a low table between the chairs and on the wall hung two shelves full of books.

“Come and see the rest of the house while we wait for the kettle to boil,” Nat said, leading May and Sam next door.

A schoolroom table, covered with a dark green velvet cloth with thick fringed edges, was laid for tea at one end while neatly arranged at the other were the tools of Sarah’s trade. Several pairs of polished scissors, a collection of pink hedgehog-spiked rollers, a variety of different size hairbrushes, a silvery tin marked “bleach” in handwritten letters and a couple of razors were all laid out in precise lines. Along the back of one shelf was a display of beautifully coiffured wigs, waiting for their owners to come and reclaim them from their wooden stands. A small mirror fixed at eye level to the wall opposite a comfortable-looking chair with armrests completed Sarah’s salon. The whole effect smacked of efficiency. The source of Rachel’s elegant hairstyle was obvious.