Abigale Hall (16 page)

‘Where is Eliza Haverford? What have you done with her?'

‘I've not done a thing. That business is nothing to do with me.'

‘But Bess Haverford's bed – that has everything to do with you, doesn't it?'

Mosley slipped on the bricks, fell to his knees. Peter grabbed him by the collar, hoisted him as high as his back allowed. ‘You were having an affair and, what, wanted her pesky nieces out of the way? Wanted more time with your mistress?'

‘No. It wasn't . . .'

Peter punched him. His fist hit the eye socket, returning the favour Mosley had bestowed upon Bess. ‘She would've done anything for you. Anything at all!'

‘Not for me. Only money. Bess did anything for money.'

The poker chip. The bills.

‘She was short on the rent, so I agreed to lend her what she needed in exchange for certain . . . favours. Last I saw her, socially, was the night she sent those girls away. She sent them away herself.'

‘Where? Where did she send them?'

‘I don't know! Please, I didn't know anything about it. She was drunk. Said she sent them with the one-armed man and that was that and could I lend her money until the payment came. I couldn't put up with her any more. I told her our arrangement was off and I left.'

Peter noticed for the first time how weary the man looked, the blood on his face making the grey of his skin more apparent.

‘Please don't tell my wife. Please. That's all I know. Please let me go.'

Peter released him.

Mosley scrambled to his feet and hurried out of the crater, hands struggling for purchase on the loose chunks of rubble. Peter watched him climb onto the pavement, his black suit covered in chalky dust and dirt, and run off down the street.

Peter looked at his hands. They were covered in blood. He wiped them on his trousers, but that only smeared the red around. Peter stumbled sideways into the house and vomited over a half-charred kitchen table. Through a hole in the ceiling, he watched the wind sweep through the exposed rooms, fluttering curtains too high to be pilfered. There he fell to his knees and, on the destroyed lino floor, he wept.

The day Mother died was one Eliza often replayed in her mind. She imagined Mother had woken early to make Father breakfast and tea. After he left for work, she must have tidied the kitchen then done the daily shop, stopping to gossip with Mrs Michaels, the young mother who lived next door. The weather had been mild that day in Hungerford and Eliza thought it would be mild in London as well. Then Mother would have worn her favourite blue tea dress with a white cardigan, her hair neatly permed and decorated with a zinnia purchased from the corner market. Father worked late at the office, so she would eat dinner alone – potato pie, with syrup tart for dessert – after which she would listen to the wireless before taking a bath and going to bed around eleven. Three hours later she would be set alight by incendiary bombs – the first night of the Blitz.

Father sent a telegram to tell Eliza the news. It read simply:

Incendiary bomb
. Your mother is dead.

Father

She thought he would later post a longer letter, find a way to comfort her with greater words, or even make the trip up to Hungerford to see her. He did neither. It was Aunt Bess who eventually told her more of what happened, though she, too, struggled to make her words a comfort.

Eliza couldn't remember what happened to that slip of paper. Some days she remembered tearing it into pieces. Others she thought she had thrown it into the fire. And sometimes, although rarely, she pictured herself folding it up and tucking it into her little Bible for safe keeping. It did not matter what happened to the paper because it left its mark inside her – a numbing coldness that lived with her, impossible to shake, and, if ignored too long, made it difficult to breathe. Some days it wasn't there at all. Others, it threatened to overwhelm her.

It was there when she woke this morning, a small speck between her lungs that expanded as the day's shadows grew long.

There was no delaying it any longer. She had to put on the dress. It lay on her bed like a shed snakeskin, every detail haunting her – the lace around the cuffs and collar, the perfect hemline, the embroidery on the skirt.

Her clock continued to tick. Quarter past seven. She slipped the dress over her head, the light fabric weighing heavy on her limbs.

As her shaking fingers struggled with each button, she heard a woman singing. Did Mrs Pollard sing? Yet the voice was too youthful. Eliza peered out of her window. An orange-hued ball of light floated round the back of the manor. She ran out of her room to follow it and bumped into Rebecca.

‘Oh, Eliza! You look so beautiful.'

‘Hm?' The singing could no longer be heard.

‘What will you do with your hair? Are you going to wear make-up? Hurry.' Rebecca took her hand. ‘You have to finish getting ready.'

Reluctantly, she let her sister lead her back to the bedroom. There was no light outside. No singing. Nerves, that was all. She was tired, imagining things.

Eliza's last failed perm was fading and, with no kirby grips or wave set, her hair hung limply round her face. She put in a silver hairclip, but it did nothing to illuminate her muddy brown strands. She resembled a child playing dressing up – no beauty, no glamour. She would never meet Peter like this.

She turned to Rebecca. ‘Well, what do you think?'

The rough fabric itched her skin. She resisted the urge to scratch.

‘I think it's beautiful!'

‘You do?'

‘It's the most beautiful dress I've ever seen. More beautiful than any of Mother's.'

‘You don't remember any of Mother's.'

Rebecca stroked the skirt. ‘It's simply wonderful.'

‘Isn't it just?' Mrs Pollard appeared in the doorway, her hair pulled back in a neat double plait, accentuating her thin, sharp face. ‘Rebecca, your dinner is in the kitchen. Miss Haverford, it's time.'

Passing the paintings felt like passing her own reflection, and her hands began to shake. She felt as if she shouldn't be able to breathe, yet air somehow found its way into her lungs. She expected Mrs Pollard to lay out strict rules regarding the upcoming introduction, and would've welcomed the distraction, but the housekeeper remained silent as she glided ahead on light footsteps.

The early-evening sky looked down on her through Abigale Hall, the stars just starting to appear, each one a beacon, a comfort, reminding her that life existed outside of Thornecroft, if not within, and she gathered whatever scraps of courage she had as she passed out of sight of the dome.

Mrs Pollard flung open the doors to the Ancestral Parlour. The glass chandelier reflected the light of the candelabras covering the dining table. Each flame flickered to its own design. A thousand whispered conversations passed between the candles as Eliza took her place beside the head seat and Mrs Pollard left to fetch the master.

Tonight the portraits were silent but, alone in the parlour, Eliza felt their heavy presence. Only two places were set at the massive table. Frail bone china with pink and red roses and gold trim waited to be soiled, the real silver cutlery ready to wage war.
Say hello to the roses
, that was what Berwin had said.

Outside, Mr Drewry's wolfhound barked in anticipation. She tapped her foot to dispel the anxiety growing within her, but the cold refused to budge. Soon it would grow too large and burst from her skin like the boils in her nightmare. She dug her fingernails into her palms.

All at once, the house stilled. The dog fell quiet. The candles ceased flickering. Even her heart seemed to stop. A screech of metal tore through the silence like a pair of rusty shears. Eliza felt her heart restart to match the steady rhythm of its approach. She focused on a flame and let the rest of her vision blur. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the dark shape of a person approaching. The sound grew in volume. Eliza closed her eyes as it crossed behind her.

The creaking ceased. Her heart maintained its new momentum.

‘Miss Haverford, open your eyes and greet your master.'

Through the haze of the candles, it appeared to be a corpse. Its skin was thin, nearly translucent. The few grey hairs remaining were wisps of cobwebs over a liver-spotted skullcap and the blue eyes milky with cataracts. It must be a corpse, she thought, until she saw him breathing. His protruding chest heaved with every inhalation and the air was released with a rattling sigh. Gnarled hands rested on the armrests of the Victorian wheelchair which supported him, the third and fourth fingers of each curled all the way into the palms. He wore a black dinner jacket, bow tie and a dress shirt tinted yellow with age. A long strand of saliva dripped from his chapped, open lips. He coughed and the strand fell, seeping into the shirt, leaving a moistened, penny-sized spot.

Through his clouded eyes, he stared at Eliza.

She looked for Mrs Pollard but caught only the housekeeper's back as she slid out of the parlour.

The breath rattling in and out of his chest was as mechanical as the roll of the wheelchair. He said nothing, nor did he move. There was only his breathing and the eyes that never left her face. Watching the candles flicker, Eliza tugged at the itching cuffs of the dress, wishing she could rip off the sleeves, tear the whole dress to pieces, and put on her dungarees instead. The portraits smiled at her discomfort. Eliza longed to take her dinner knife and thrust it into each of their faces. Mrs Pollard returned before she had the chance, carrying two bowls of soup in matching rose china. The soup was merely broth – Oxo cubes dissolved in hot water.

She reached for her spoon. Mrs Pollard slapped her hand.

‘The master eats first.'

Eliza set down her cutlery and waited. Mr Brownawell did nothing.

‘He can't do it himself, now can he?'

Eliza reached across the table for Mr Brownawell's spoon. A candle flame licked close to her sleeve. Mrs Pollard grabbed her wrist.

‘Careful. You can't scrub out a burn.'

Eliza dipped the spoon into the bowl then lifted it to his mouth. His cracked lips closed around the silver, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.

‘Good girl. And again. He'll let you know when he's finished.'

This was fine. She could do this. It was only soup. Like feeding a baby. She could pretend it was a baby.

When he stopped accepting the spoon, she was allowed to eat, but the broth had gone cold. She managed a few spoonfuls before her stomach rebelled. Mrs Pollard left to fetch the main course.

Feeling nauseous, Eliza reached for her glass of water, hoping it would settle her. One course finished. Soon, this would be over. Then she could hide in her room with
Mrs Miniver
and pretend this night never happened. Everything would be all right after all. Mr Brownawell kept staring. The only movement he made was of his lips and throat as his chest eked out those laboured breaths.

It felt an eternity before Mrs Pollard returned with a brass trolley. She lifted the first silver cloche to reveal a plate of mash and served each of them heaping portions. Potato was good, plain. Her stomach would handle potato. Mrs Pollard lifted the second cloche. Beneath was a small mound of dark, roasted meat.

‘Rabbit.' Mrs Pollard served them each several pieces. ‘Your sister said it was one of your favourites.'

Eliza smelled blood. The rabbit was rare. Its juices spilled onto the china plate as she cut into the tender meat, revealing the dark pink flesh hidden under outer brown skin. She raised a small piece to Mr Brownawell's mouth. He sucked it off the fork and swallowed it whole, like a snake. No, like a baby, she thought. Same as a baby. As a child. It took over a quarter of an hour to feed him, and by that time Eliza's portion was lukewarm. She took one bite and pushed it away. Mrs Pollard pushed it back.

‘We mustn't waste food.' She leant over Eliza's shoulder. ‘Be a good girl and finish your dinner.'

The meat was tougher than she expected and, unable to grind the pieces into manageable bits, she swallowed large chunks. The lumps slid down her throat and plopped into her stomach, where she pictured them floating on top of the brown Oxo broth. Every time she paused, Mrs Pollard cleared her throat, refusing to let her finish until all that was left were the remains of watery gravy mixed with leftover pink juices. Mrs Pollard cleared the table. Eliza listened as the brass trolley was wheeled out of the long hall while the food she had eaten continued to bob in stomach acid. When she heard the groan, she thought it was her own body breaking under the strain.

But it was Mr Brownawell, whose eyes were off her for the first time that evening. He stared at the wall and groaned again, a low, dry sound like a dock coming loose from the shore.

‘Mr Brownawell?' Was he admiring the portraits? Eliza followed his eyes.

Her chair skittered across the floor as she leapt to her feet.

Victoria stood at the window, her back to the parlour. The candles illuminated her long, brown plait, the pale porcelain skin of her arms, the white muslin dress. She moved away, gliding into the darkness of the night.

‘Wait.' Eliza's voice was but a whisper. ‘Wait! Am I next? Am I next!' She ran towards the window but was stopped by a cold vice on her arm. Mr Brownawell's fingers curled around her wrist. ‘Let me go. Let me go!'

He gripped her harder, stronger than his form suggested possible.

‘Let go!'

His lips sputtered, attempting words, his cloudy eyes focusing as he strained to speak.

‘Please let go. You're hurting me!'

He maintained his grip, his movements stilted like a broken automaton.

Eliza slapped him across the face. He released her. She staggered back, barely able to maintain her footing.

‘What do you think you're doing?' Mrs Pollard stood in the parlour with a dessert trolley.

Eliza felt her face flushing. Her head was light and stomach heavy. Any moment now, she would be sick. ‘May I be excused? I don't feel well.'

‘You haven't had pudding.'

‘Please, ma'am, I . . .'

‘Sit. Down.'

Eliza fixed her chair then did as she was told. She could see the mark of her hand on Mr Brownawell's face, but Mrs Pollard made no comment. A heavy treacle tart with thick, yellow custard was placed before her.

‘The master isn't fond of desserts, but he insists his guests enjoy themselves.' She placed a spoon into Eliza's hand. ‘You wouldn't want to offend him now, would you?'

Though the tart was Eliza's first warm food of the evening, eating it was like swallowing warm sick. She gagged every time she put more into her mouth, but it wasn't until the dish was empty that Mrs Pollard allowed her to be excused.

As soon as she left the parlour, Eliza ran – through Abigale Hall, past Victoria's paintings, and into Rebecca, who waited in their passage.

‘How was . . . ?'

Eliza pushed by her into the bathroom. She managed to close the door, but her knees had not hit the ground before the night's meal came pouring out of her.

*

Eliza lay on the mattress, fully dressed beneath the top sheet, and waited for the house to quieten, for Mrs Pollard to fall asleep in her room next door. Then she waited some more. The clock continued its merciless beat into night, bringing a stillness unnatural to those who lived in the day.

Finally, it was time. She slipped on her shoes, threw on her coat and stuffed the family photo into the pocket. She would take nothing else, nothing except Rebecca. Having lain awake, her eyes were accustomed to the darkness. As quietly as she could, she opened her door and snuck across the hall to Rebecca's room. Her sister was asleep, the Victoria doll face down on the floor.

‘Rebecca,' she whispered. ‘Rebecca, dearie, you must wake up.'

‘Liza?'

‘Come now. I have your coat. Hurry.'

‘What's wrong?'

‘I told you we'd leave, didn't I? Well, we're leaving.'

Rebecca was too tired to understand but too sleepy to protest. Eliza snuck Rebecca back to her room. There she hoisted the window and lifted Rebecca out then climbed down herself, taking the Tilley lamp with her.