Abigale Hall (21 page)

‘Come in! Come in!'

Peter saw no one as he descended the steps. Stubs of lit candles sat on the floor, table and mantelpiece. A pile of rags on the bed rose to greet him.

‘Sorry 'bout the light there, guv'nor. Bit short of coins for the meter. Now, lad, what can I do for yeh?' The man had a hump in his back which made him stoop low, a web of broken red veins on his nose and an unkempt beard which covered the lower half of his face. The rags he wore were of an old army uniform.

‘Are you Mr Leslie Cooper?'

‘Aye, that I am. Captain Leslie Cooper, retired. First cavalry. You in the cavalry, lad?'

‘No, sir. I've never been on a horse.'

‘Pah!' The man dismissed Peter with a wave of his hand. He pulled a dented flask from his pocket and took a swig while he waddled back to bed. The smoke stung Peter's eyes as they strained to see in the candlelight.

‘Sir . . .'

‘Never been on a horse. That's what's wrong with society today, I'll tell you. Men sitting behind desks, no getting dirt under their pretty nails. Wouldn't have been no war, I'll tell you what, if each man in England were forced onto a horse. That's the God's honest truth, that is.'

‘Sir, Angelo . . .'

At the mention of the name, Cooper froze – one leg in bed, one out. He took another drink.

‘Angelo says you owe him some money. I'm here . . . I'm here to collect it, sir.'

Cooper sat down, the flask dangling from his fingers. ‘Go on and do it then,' he whispered, not meeting Peter's eye.

‘All right. Well, I'll . . . if you show me where you keep your money, I can . . .'

‘I don't have any money.'

‘Then, how can I . . . ?'

‘Don't play with me, son. I don't have the money. Angelo knows it, aye. Told him so meself only last week. So go on and do what yeh came here for. I won't fight yeh.'

Little tremors ran through Peter's body, breaking him into tiny pieces. ‘No. No, I . . . I'm only here for the money.'

‘There ain't no money, I told yeh. Now get on with it, else you'll be in as much trouble as meself.'

All he had to do was get the money. Pay back the debt. Then he could find Eliza. That was all he was asked to do. Cooper didn't understand.

‘No. You have to have it. You have to. There has to be something, God damn it!' Peter searched through the man's things, tossing rubbish and clothes into the air. He had to make him understand. All he came for was the money. Only the money. It all came down to money. A soggy newspaper landed on a candle, extinguishing it with a small hiss. Peter stopped. The smoke in the room seemed heavier than before. His eyes watered. Cooper regarded him with pity.

Imagine that, Peter thought. He's the one about to die and he's pitying me.

No, no one was going to die.

If you don't do it now, his voice said, someone else will. Someone less sympathetic. Someone who will make it hurt.

Cooper waited, his eyes low and sunken like a dog's. A wise old dog who knew why his master had brought him alone to a quiet wood, too obedient to run even at the sight of a shotgun. The fool. He was an absolute fool.

‘I won't,' Peter whispered.

‘No? What got you here, boy? You ain't like his normal toughs. What's he got on you? What do you owe him?'

‘Nothing. I owe him nothing.'

Cooper smiled. Half his teeth were gone. ‘We all owe him something. Better to pay your debts now than wait for his reckoning.' He rose from the bed and hobbled towards Peter. ‘Don't worry. Killing a man is easy. You won't ache too bad after.' Cooper exposed his neck, offered it as sacrifice.

‘I can't.' Peter backed away. ‘I can't. I won't!' He ran up the steps, knocking over candles.

On the street, the overcast day blinded him. He squinted against it and ran, not caring what road, which direction. He reached the edge of a bombsite and nearly tumbled in. There was Mosley's body – broken and bloody – resting at the bottom. He blinked and it was gone. He blinked and it was Cooper.

He ran the other way. Buildings passed by in a blur. Voices shouted, at him, he didn't know. His leg sent pain up to his back and down through his calf, but he had to keep running – from the house, from Blackfriars, from his idiotic, foolish self.

Not war, not war, not war.

His feet pounded out the rhythm.

Not war, not war, not war.

War was noble, war had cause. This was not war. This was a fool's errand.

The river stopped him. He collapsed into the rail along the Thames path, let it support his weight. His face was damp, sweat mixed with tears. He watched the gentle pull of the tide as the drops gathered and fell from his face. Barely had he caught his breath when he heard a voice he could not ignore.

‘Well, didn't think a little thing like that would be a problem for you. Not after what you did to Mosley.' Stephen smoked a cigarette, eyeing him with a cool detachment Peter had never seen before.

Except he had.

‘I never agreed to murder anyone. Never. Especially not over two hundred pounds.'

They were walking alone down Kentish Town Road towards Camden Station on a dark night with only the orange sodium street lamps for company.

‘So Eliza's not worth that, is she?'

‘What is this, Stephen? What have you got me involved in?'

He remembered how the first blow hit his back and he fell to his stomach, his chin scraping against the pavement as another blow hit his head.

‘Me? I've done nothing of the sort. You got yourself involved. I'm the one that told you to leave it, wasn't I?'

And how he vomited onto the pavement as the blood began to flow.

‘For my own good,' he whispered. He remembered that the pipe was tossed onto the ground beside him, that it rolled into the gutter. ‘You said it was for my own good.'

‘Aye, I did.'

‘When was that?'

‘At the pub. After Purvis told you Eliza quit. Or don't you remember that either?' Stephen laughed.

He remembered rolling over, staring up at his attacker, and how the man whispered to him as he fastened a blue and yellow checked cap on his head.

‘I remember,' Peter said.

‘Good, 'cause you're in it now and you don't want to give Angelo bad news, do you? So let's go back to old Coop's and finish the thing, eh? Before anyone needs to know.' Stephen pulled a cap from his pocket. It was blue and yellow in a checked pattern. He slipped it on as he turned from the river.

Peter punched him in the back of the head and ran.

The Thames guided him. With the blood pounding in his ears, he could no longer hear Stephen but knew he was being pursued. He'd be safe on the other side of the river, that's what he told himself. If he reached the other side of the river, he'd be safe. He ran across Blackfriars Bridge, ignoring the burning in his chest and leg, not stopping until he slipped inside St Paul's. His hands shook terribly as he collapsed into a pew, and he shoved them into his coat.

Only then did he discover a new despair, for, somewhere along the riverside, the engagement ring had fallen from his pocket.

Eliza ran her fingers over the scratched image of her mother's face. Behind the damage caused by the broken frame, she could still see her mother's smile. No photograph had ever captured the way her eyes shone when she saw her children. And what horrible children they were. Spiteful, nasty little creatures that could do no right. Perhaps it would be different if she were here to guide them, but her goodness was lost when the incendiaries burned shrapnel into her skin. Eliza now saw why she could never be like Mother. There was not enough good within her. The thoughts she had towards Rebecca had always been there, contained in a small sack stitched the day her sister was born, hidden for years behind her heart. Now that sack was damaged, its contents free to poison and devour her.

She could still try to be the responsible older sister her mother and father expected her to be. She could try to rid herself of the coldness that lived within her.

Eliza kissed the photograph and tucked it into her pocket. There was hardly any room. Her coat was stuffed with handkerchiefs, extra underpants, fersolate, Mendahol and what was left of Rebecca's medication. In her handbag were Peter's unfinished scarf, two pairs of stockings and make-up. Her shopping basket held her undergarments, knitting needles and an extra headscarf. She dressed in layers with three pairs of pants and one blouse under her dungarees, legs covered in her newest stockings and her only pair of nylons on underneath. She felt bloated, heavy, but there was so much she would have to leave behind. Departing London, now escaping Thornecroft, she lost things important to her. If she had to leave somewhere else, would there be anything left of her at all?

Rebecca was not at breakfast. Eliza decided to let her sleep and snuck some bread and cheese into her shopping basket for later, feeling the cold block in her chest start to shrink. After breakfast, she checked she could carry no more and tried not to think about all that she had to leave behind. She would be able to replace it all, given time. But it would take so much money and so much time – even thinking on it made her want to forget the whole ordeal. She took a breath to steady herself. This was no time to think about the future. Any loss would be worth escaping Victoria.

She knocked on her sister's door.

‘Rebecca? Dearie? Are you ready to go?'

No answer.

‘Rebecca.' She knocked again. ‘Rebecca, you must get up. We have to leave.'

Silence.

Rebecca's bed was empty.

Perhaps she had gone for a late breakfast after all? Eliza hurried back to the kitchen. It was empty. She went out into the vegetable garden and ran to the henhouse. Rebecca loved the hens. Surely she would be there. Eliza's body trembled as she peeked inside the wooden house and underneath its support stilts. Nothing.

Mr Drewry came across the lawn, leading the grey mare. ‘Coming?' he asked.

‘Have you seen my sister? This morning? Anywhere?'

‘Hard to keep an eye on that little brat, innit?' He stroked the mare's neck, not meeting Eliza's eye. ‘I'm leaving in a quarter of an hour, whether you're in this carriage or not.'

‘We will be. Just . . . just wait.'

Eliza checked Mrs Pollard's office and the larder. Her bedroom and Rebecca's again. The bathroom. Rebecca was nowhere in their quarters. The quick beating of her heart caused the vein near her temple to pulse. Pressure tightened round her head like a vice.

‘Rebecca! Rebecca, this is no time for games. You must come out now.'

Eliza stood in Abigale Hall, face flushed, skin clammy yet warm, not knowing which path to choose next. Rebecca could be anywhere, and the house was too big to search in its entirety now. Her skin itched, Thornecroft's ever-present dust worming its way into her pores. She rubbed her hands, trying to scrub it away.

‘Rebecca!'

It started to rain. Water pinged off the glass dome like a thousand pins dropping to the tiled floor. Eliza felt each sharp sound prick her skin as if drawing blood.

‘Rebecca, please!'

Her panic turned to anger. How dare she do this, now of all days? If Rebecca wanted to stay, Eliza could leave without her. She could have her own life. Her palms burned. She'd rubbed them raw. Eliza returned to their hall and grabbed her basket. She would do this. She would leave.

‘I'm going,' she shouted. ‘I'm going to town with Mr Drewry and you won't . . . you won't see me for quite a long time. This is your last chance, Rebecca Haverford.'

Nothing.

Eliza walked patiently to the entrance hall, expecting Rebecca to come skipping towards her any moment. Rebecca always listened to her sister. When she reached the front door, she counted to ten, waited, then counted again.

Nothing.

‘Goodbye, then.'

Nothing at all.

She joined Mr Drewry outside. The mare shook its head, trying to clear the rain from its eyes as the caretaker finished securing a roof to the carriage. Eliza climbed inside.

‘Didn't find her?' he asked.

‘She's not coming. Let's go.' Eliza gripped the basket tightly to keep from fiddling with her hands.

‘Yes, ma'am.' He spat into the grass.

As the carriage moved forwards, she made no effort to look back.

They were over now, those days when Rebecca was her responsibility. Rebecca herself had given Eliza up. Why should Eliza fight to keep her? It was, after all, a responsibility she never fully accepted, that she had tried to give up before. The day they boarded the train at King's Cross, both of their luggage labels destined them for Hungerford. They were supposed to stay together, Mother said, no matter what happened. Yet, when the train arrived, there was a rush to get the children unloaded, and they became separated by the billeting officer as they were lined up at the station. One by one, families stepped forward to claim tired evacuees. The strongest and healthiest went first, Eliza amongst them.

As the Littletons herded her away from the throng of the unclaimed, they asked her if she travelled alone. Did she have any siblings, any cousins, that had been evacuated with her? Eliza looked over her shoulder to where Rebecca stood with the smaller children. Rebecca saw her and waved, and Eliza remembered how Rebecca had taken the last of her chocolate on the train without asking. As Rebecca called out her name, Eliza took Mrs Littleton's hand and whispered, ‘No. I'm alone.'

At first she was frightened Mother would be angry, but as the weeks passed it was freeing to be an only child. The childless Littletons doted upon her, made her pretty frocks and delicious cakes. They even had a car and would sometimes take her for trips to the seaside. Several months passed before she saw Rebecca again. By then she was used to not sharing toys or treats, and to sleeping through the night without being woken by screams. She didn't care that Rebecca was thin and dirty, that she wore the same dress she had on the train. Rebecca Haverford was a distant cousin to the new Eliza Littleton, some girl Eliza saw on holidays but never need concern herself with.

*

Water dripped through the roof, wetting her dungarees. She shivered as the carriage approached Plentynunig. The whitewashed houses appeared like ghosts on the unforgiving landscape, more of their life stolen each time another pit closed. Many people were out today, but even the market-day activity brought no cheer to the dour faces.

‘Don't get lost,' Mr Drewry called as she joined the small crowd on the damp dirt road.

Eliza turned the first corner she came to and rested against a house. She removed her headscarf and dabbed it across her face, suddenly warm under all her layers of clothes. Was Rebecca warm at Thornecroft? Perhaps she had not slept in her room last night but found a hidden, cold corner in which to curl up and rest her head. She would wake, unaware of the hour or day and seek Eliza out only to find empty air and the truth that her selfish sister had abandoned her as she had in Hungerford.

No. She shook her head. No, Rebecca could keep track of the days and hours perfectly well. That had been hatred on Rebecca's face last night. She was happy about what she did, no matter how it hurt them. She was doing this to test Eliza, to see if Eliza would give in and save her yet again. Rebecca was sat by the warm kitchen fire, giggling to herself as she plotted how to next torment her sister.

No, Eliza would not fall victim to her again. She would escape to London then return with Peter to claim her. By then, Rebecca would be so grateful she would be unable to stop crying. She would make all sorts of promises to Eliza, tell Eliza she would be a good girl, never make any trouble again. They would begin a new life then, both of them. Eliza had learnt her lesson. Now it was Rebecca's turn.

She approached Ruth's house from the garden and knocked on the back door. There was no immediate answer. What if Ruth forgot about her? What if the market cart was already gone? What if . . . ?

‘Where have you been?' The door opened and Ruth stepped out, wrapping a shawl round her shoulders.

‘I'm sorry, I––'

‘Where's Rebecca?'

‘She's not here.'

‘Then are you sure you want to . . . ?'

‘Please, let's not speak about it. Where's the cart?'

‘This way.' With a sad glance, Ruth led Eliza through the streets of Plentynunig, past housewives wringing out their clothes and crippled men leaning against hedgerows with cigarettes dangling from their lips, past children playing hopscotch in the dirt while little dogs nipped at their feet. Eliza had often seen Rebecca in Hungerford, playing hopscotch in the street with the poorer children as she passed by in the Littletons' car.

She had taught Rebecca hopscotch, that summer before the war, soon after they returned from Brighton. Yellow chalk, it was, drawn on the pavement, and the air smelled of hyacinths. Rebecca could not skip, so Eliza made up new rules to keep her happy. They had both been happy. Laughing and playing as Mother watched from the kitchen. Father returned from work, walking up the pavement with the sun setting behind him, the sky coloured in bright pinks and purples. They had all gone for ice cream – Father, too. All of them, a family.

Eliza's foot landed in a puddle, taking her away from that warm summer evening, back to this cold, drizzling day. She saw the large market cart up ahead, waiting for her. It was not horse-drawn, like she expected, but powered by a motorcar – the first she'd seen since leaving London. Its presence was unnatural on these streets, like something from the future come to the past. So fixated was she on it, she didn't hear Ruth speaking.

‘I'm sorry?' Eliza asked.

‘Do you have everything you need?' Ruth repeated.

In her mind, Eliza recited the list of items she had packed then thought of all the things left behind.

The truck's engine started.

She thought of Rebecca in Hungerford, sleeping outside in dirty clothes, forced to slaughter rabbits while Eliza gorged herself on carrot cake and custard.

A burst of black smoke puffed from the exhaust.

‘Eliza, he has to leave. Are you ready?'

Nearby, the little dogs barked. Children laughed. Their mothers called them indoors.

But there was Peter in London, holding roses. West End lights and Big Ben's chimes. And Rebecca in Thornecroft's cold kitchen, hands in blood, with Mrs Pollard watching. Eating dinner with Mr Brownawell, Victoria waiting, and Eliza gone.

‘Eliza, he . . .'

‘Selfish,' she said.

She felt the temptation to abandon her responsibilities. A part of her, the cold part, wanted to jump into the lorry. Eliza backed away.

‘I can't. I'm sorry. I can't.' She ran from the lorry and climbed back in the Thornecroft carriage, hiding her face from the sight of Ruth's house. In the distance, she heard the lorry sputter and pull away – the sound of civilisation leaving her behind.

*

She thought she would detest arriving through Thornecroft's twisted iron gates, seeing its ivy-covered façade. Instead it was as if she was now inoculated against any hate weaker than that she had for herself. She said nothing to Mr Drewry as she exited the carriage and thought nothing as she returned to her room. The presence of Mrs Pollard standing there, waiting for her in the hall with Mr Brownawell in his chair, should have startled her. She felt nothing.

‘Went to the village, I see. Shopping?' Mrs Pollard looked into Eliza's mostly empty basket. ‘It seems they didn't have what you were looking for. Next time, inform me when you're going out. I was hoping to speak with you this morning. It was about your sister.'

Guilt pierced the numbness that encased her.

‘Yes. What about her?'

‘I'm afraid I've had to send her away.'

Resentment, too, threatened to intrude. Rebecca had been permitted to leave?

‘Away?' Eliza asked.

‘Well, you know how sickly she's been.'

Rebecca vomiting. Eliza cleaning the crushed bromide tablets from the kitchen floor. ‘Yes,' she said. ‘Yes, I know.'

‘Last night, I had the doctor come up from town to examine her.'

Eliza had heard no one arrive.

‘Would you believe your poor sister has contracted polio?'

Her second cousin once had polio. Had he suffered stomach pains? She didn't think so.

‘Yes, awfully contagious. So I'm afraid I had to send her away to be quarantined. Only until she recovers, of course. Oh, she did say she wanted you to have this while she was gone.' Mrs Pollard handed Eliza the Victoria doll. ‘It looks like it's just us now.' She patted Mr Brownawell on the shoulder. He drooled on his shirt. ‘Do let me know if you feel at all poorly.'

Mrs Pollard wheeled Mr Brownawell away, leaving Eliza alone with the doll, whose paraffin wax eyes, those Eliza so carefully created, had been scraped from its skull.