Abigale Hall (22 page)

Eliza sat on the edge of Rebecca's bed, tipping the toy cat back and forth, trying to make its eyes open and close, but they had broken long ago. Rebecca was much too old for such toys. Eliza could not remember who had bought Rebecca this cat. Mother? Father? Perhaps Aunt Bess? Its half-open eyes caused her to shudder, reminding her of Father's eyes as he swung lifeless in the cellar.

The sky had been overcast that day. She had returned from shopping and began preparing dinner – Woolton pie – shortly before Rebecca arrived home from school in a foul mood, having got in trouble for pulling a girl's hair. As Eliza diced the cauliflower, she asked Rebecca to find Father. When she could not, Eliza decided he must have gone to the neighbour's for a cigar, as he sometimes did after work. Then came the crash from the cellar.

It was at that point her memories became fragmented, unconnected vignettes linked together by fear.

Rebecca running. A potato rolling across the kitchen counter. The broken jar of marrow liqueur, the syrupy brown liquid seeping into the dirt floor. The taut cord of the washing line. Rebecca staring, eyes fixed on his body as she counted his feet tap-tap-tapping against the shelves. The stool tipped on its side, the spreading liqueur inching towards its wooden legs. A look of fascination on Rebecca's face as the sweet, smoky scent of the spilt liqueur mingled with the sulphur of the wet coal in the cheap furnace, stinging Eliza's nose. His eyes bulging, face red and engorged. Shouting for the neighbours. The line of spittle dangling from swollen lips. His feet tapping. Rebecca watching them, still counting, counting for the first time. His bulging eyes unable to close. Telling Rebecca to come away. His feet tapping the shelves twenty-three times before she managed to drag Rebecca upstairs as the smell of the marrow liqueur fermented in her brain, etching itself a permanent place in her memory.

*

Eliza set the cat aside and searched the room. All of Rebecca's clothes were missing, as was her suitcase and those damn too-small shoes. Eliza didn't know what else to look for. Rebecca had so little. How did Eliza have so much to pack? So much to leave behind?

‘We need to burn it.' Mrs Pollard stood in the doorway, hands clasped neatly at her waist, her thin figure draped in a plain brown dress. Her face was solemn, but her eyes hid a smile.

‘Burn what?' Eliza looked away, too tempted to strike her.

‘Everything in this room is contaminated by your sister's disease. Mr Drewry is building a bonfire on the east lawn. Take everything to him.' With a scuff of her boot on the carpet, she was gone.

Mrs Pollard was wrong. It wasn't Rebecca who was contaminated.

Eliza stripped the bed and gathered what little remained – Rebecca's hairbrush, a headscarf, the toy cat. The bottle with the surviving bromide tablets rattled in her pocket as she carried the items out through the kitchen. In the centre of the east lawn, Mr Drewry put a torch to a pyramid of sticks and kindling. He circled it, prodding the fire in various places as she approached. The stack was ablaze by the time she reached him.

He indicated the bundle in her arms. ‘Leave it.'

‘No. I'll do it.'

He looked for a moment as if he would argue, then appeared to think better of it. ‘Maybe . . .' He spat into the fire, his voice changing to the one she heard in the carriage house. ‘Maybe she'll recover,' he muttered then threw the torch into the bonfire and walked away.

Eliza laid everything on the ground as the increasing heat seared her skin. For the first time in months, she began to feel warm. One by one, she tossed items into the flames, waiting until each was sufficiently burned before adding another.

The fire suffocated her. Her lungs filled with its smoke. She breathed it in and held it. This was what Mother experienced, she thought. This is how she died. Eliza coughed, feeling the smoke coiling in her lungs. She thought it might choke her. Father choked, by wrapping that washing line around his neck. She put a hand to her throat to ease the fresh soreness there.

Rebecca had choked, too, choked that little boy in her school. His face went dark and red before the teacher separated them. Aunt Bess was so embarrassed. A schoolyard scrap, that was what she tried to pass it off as, but they both saw the bruises on the boy's neck, the fear in his eyes, the lack of remorse on Rebecca's face. Why, Eliza asked. Why had she done such a thing? There was never any answer. Rebecca hadn't even known the boy. Aunt Bess rang the doctor that evening. They were on a train to Portsmouth the next day.

Eliza stared into the bonfire, Rebecca's plastic cat in her limp hands, and listened to the crackle of the wood. Rebecca was her responsibility, Father said so in his letter, that very last letter of all, which Eliza found crumpled in the bottom of his drawer the day she packed away his clothes. The paper was so cheap and thin it nearly dissolved in her hands as she smoothed it out on his writing desk. The ink was blotted and smudged, obscuring the meaning of sentences that made little sense to start with. The father so elegant with his words when describing a painting, whose hand was so neat in the inscriptions on the books he gave his daughters, that father was gone, replaced with an incoherent madman. Or maybe she simply had not understood. Maybe his words were meant for an adult's eyes. Aunt Bess perhaps, but Eliza never showed it to her. She never threw it away either. She folded it into quarters and stuffed it into the hollow leg of Aunt Bess's bed, as if by hiding it there she could keep him close, and remember the only words which made sense.

Eliza is responsible for
Rebecca. Eliza, you are responsible for Rebecca. You are responsible
.

The cat looked at her with its half-open eyes as Victoria's voice whispered in her ear,
You are
responsible
. Eliza never took her responsibility seriously, never understood why she should. When it came time to truly help her little sister, she was unable to for she did not know how. Instead, she pretended. Played the role of the loving sibling.

She tossed the cat into the flames. It remained whole for a moment. Then the heat took hold, melting the hard plastic shell. The shape of it dripped away as its ears shrank into white liquid stubs. The wax-like plastic covered its eyes. At last it could sleep, she thought, feeling a cold breeze caress her back. Only one item remained. Eliza pulled out the pill bottle and ran her thumb over Rebecca's name. Never could she do what Father wanted. Eliza threw the bottle in and watched it burn.

*

The veg was tasteless and overcooked. She mashed it in her mouth, pressing it into a soft ball with her tongue before swallowing the lump. However, she did not complain, as she did not deserve decent food.

With the table to herself, she sat facing the windows, watching the bonfire burn itself out. The first time she had ever eaten dinner alone was the day Aunt Bess took Rebecca to Portsmouth, but it had not been this quiet. It was as if a heavy curtain had descended upon Thornecroft, sequestering it from the world outside, sheltering its inhabitants from each other. No, London was never like this. Even tucked in their bed, a cab would sound its horn or a night bus would rattle past, hitting that pothole. That
thunk thunk
– the noise which so annoyed her – Eliza's world now felt empty without it. Not even the fire outside, now faded to a mere red glow, made a sound.

She looked down at her food. The veg was smashed into one gobbet and the mutton was cold. The fat separated from the gravy, congealing on top of the brown meat like a layer of wallpaper paste. She went out to the compost pile and scraped the plate clean.

A shadow passed before the bonfire's dimming embers. Eliza first thought it was Mr Drewry coming to check on the flames. As she looked closer, she caught a glimpse of an orange-hued ball and a trail of white heading round the back of the house. She dropped her plate and followed.

The high stone wall which protected the overgrown garden was missing a chunk in its side, as if an artillery shell had pounded through its edifice. More bricks succumbed to the harsh Welsh weather, leaving a hole large enough to climb through. Eliza glanced through the shrubberies but saw nothing save the disused fountain.

The squeak of a door opening broke the quiet like a gunshot. Eliza shrank behind a hedge and waited for the silence to reassert itself before risking a closer look. Past the main garden doors, she spotted a raised sash. It was a window, then, that had opened. Seeing no one, she crept closer and peered through it into an unfamiliar room. It was too dark to make out any details except for the dark, square shape in the centre.

Eliza climbed through a window and hurried to the object – her copy of
Mrs Miniver
. Tucked in the front cover, marking the faded table of contents, was a handkerchief. She recognised the embroidered
R
immediately. There was no reason Rebecca should have been here. The place was completely bare, like a prison cell. She tried the door but found it locked. Lowering herself, she peeked through the keyhole, but the hall on the other side was too dark.

Eliza turned back to the window and stifled a shout.

There she stood outside, her back to the room.

‘Victoria?'

The woman lowered her head in recognition, shame, or both. Eliza held out Rebecca's handkerchief.

‘You took her, didn't you? Why? She's only a child. Why not me? You could've taken me.'

Victoria moved away, her long dress sliding against the ground.

‘There must be a way to get her back. Tell me how to get her back!'

A key turned in the door.

‘What in God's name are you doing in here?' Mrs Pollard grabbed her by the arm, digging her sharp nails into Eliza's skin. ‘Answer me!' The lantern dangled dangerously over Eliza's head.

‘There was a bird.' It was the first thing she could think of.

‘A bird.'

‘Yes, ma'am. I was passing by outside and saw it in the room.'

‘And what kind of a bird was it?'

‘I'm not certain. A crow?'

‘You saw a crow.'

‘Yes, ma'am.'

‘And how would a crow get into a locked room?'

‘The window was open.'

Mrs Pollard's eyes darted to the window, searching. Eliza too, looked, but Victoria had vanished.

‘For how long?' She shook Eliza. ‘For how long was it open?'

‘I don't know!'

‘And where is this bird now?'

‘I don't know. I scared it off.'

‘You don't know much, do you, Miss Haverford?' When she spoke, her voice came as a soft hiss. ‘When you first arrived, I thought your sister was the imbecile. Now . . .' She tilted her head from side to side, examining Eliza's face. ‘Now, I rather think it's you. Someone should keep an eye on such unfortunate souls. Simpering idiots who cannot keep their hands off other people's property.' She reached for the book, but Eliza pulled it away.

‘This is mine. I brought it from London.'

‘Is it now?' she sneered. ‘Well, I suppose you'll need something to occupy your time.' Mrs Pollard dug her nails deeper into Eliza's arm as she dragged her back to her bedroom. ‘This is really unfair to me, you know. I have responsibilities that don't involve keeping an eye on snooping, ungrateful housemaids. I do deserve time to myself, which I can't have when I'm wasting hours chasing you around this house.'

Tossed inside her room, Eliza listened as the door was locked.

‘I'll release you in the morning, once you've had time to think about what you've done.'

She ran to the window, but it was nailed shut from the outside. She pounded on the door. ‘Let me out! You can't keep me prisoner here. Let me out!'

The door refused to give. Eliza banged her fists even harder.

‘I'll get her back! From this house, from Victoria. Do you hear me? She is my sister and I will take her back!' She shouted until her voice grew hoarse and night fully fell.

Eliza turned her back on the door and slid to the floor. Her knuckles were covered in scratches. On her arm, half-moon punctures from Mrs Pollard's fingernails welled with blood. She dabbed at them with Rebecca's handkerchief until the bleeding stopped.

*

Victoria, Pip and Rebecca held hands and surrounded her, singing ‘Ring a Ring a Roses'. Their eyes were gouged out, the empty sockets bleeding, but they smiled and laughed as the blood stained their white dresses.

‘Give her back to me,' Eliza demanded. They kept singing. ‘How do I get her back? Tell me! What must I do?'

Faster and faster they spun, their faces blurring together until they became one and their smile stretched like a snake's and their mouth spoke in Mrs Pollard's voice: ‘You must be responsible. You must break the curse.'

A thin, clawed arm reached out from the blur and grabbed her by the hair, pulling her into the vortex. Eliza felt her body being torn apart, her soul consumed, until she woke on the cold floor, sweat plastering her dungarees to her skin as she failed to dislodge the scream in her throat. She could feel Victoria watching her from somewhere in the darkness.

Something clattered to the floor in the room next door – Mrs Pollard's room. Eliza listened to her footsteps as the housekeeper retrieved the object. Thoughts of Victoria still occupied her head as she rubbed at the fingernail scratches on her arm. Victoria, Pip, the other housemaids, now Rebecca. Every woman seemed to vanish from Thornecroft, all except one.

‘What deal did you make with her?' Eliza asked Mrs Pollard's footsteps. ‘Why doesn't Victoria take you?'

Peter pulled on a cigarette to stave off his hunger. Three-quarters of an hour and the queue had not moved. For forty-five minutes he had stood by this same lamppost, staring at those same scratches in the paint while either side of him women gossiped about the latest fashions, the new looks ladies were wearing in Paris. But he had no choice. He had eaten the fruit cake, opened the pickled cabbage and reused the same teabag four times. This was his last cigarette.

The queue moved one step forward. Peter kept his collar turned up and his cap pulled down. Although the grey sky had held off so far, there was nowhere to go if it did rain. A solid concrete building stood on his left. The pavement to his right was a constant flow of mothers and prams, old ladies and shopping trolleys. Little children clutching wooden toys stared at him as they passed, their small faces blank and innocent. Michael said the Germans used children as spies. You'd see all these raggedy little urchins crawling about in the rubble and offer them a bit of your ration, then suddenly a German troop would know your position or a bomb would go off beside you.

Another step forward. The lamppost was beside him now, not before him. Progress.

No one knew his face. London was anonymous like that. It was easy to hide in such a mass of people. Especially queues. A queue was probably the safest place in all of London. There were so many of them and all the people standing there looked the same. It was easy to hide in a queue. Easy to stay anonymous. Easy to stay safe.

He flicked ash onto the pavement. How long till he would move past that dusting of ash? Till it, like the lamppost, would be behind him?

A pair of turquoise heels stepped on the ash.

‘Got a light?' a woman asked.

‘Oh. Yes, of course.' Peter fumbled for the lighter. It fell from his pocket. As he bent down to retrieve it, the woman did the same. ‘I'm sorry, I . . . Jessie?'

She wore a turquoise dress to match her shoes and a pillbox hat with full veil which shielded her face. They rose slowly, both holding the lighter. Peter let go.

‘Cheers.' She lit her cigarette, her fingernail polish chipped and uneven. ‘Are you still looking for Eliza?'

Peter nodded.

‘We can't talk here.' She walked away down the road.

The queue behind him moved forward as Peter stepped out. Jessie's high-heeled shoes knocked against the pavement, echoing off the surrounding buildings. Peter remembered their date – how she ran ahead, trying to be flirtatious, when all she did was give him a headache from the sound of her shoes. There was no running today. Jessie wobbled once or twice, as if she could barely stand. The stockings decorating her legs were merely stains of gravy browning and eyebrow pencil, and the smell of stew wafted from her, making Peter's empty stomach churn.

This was a trap. It could only be a trap, but she mentioned Eliza and, like a starving dog, he couldn't resist following the scent. He kept alert, glancing either side for the ambush, the way Michael had taught him. His mind shouted at him to turn away, to run, that every step with Jessie down narrower and ever more deserted streets was a step towards death.

I know
, announced her heels.
I know
, I know, I know
.

What happened to Eliza, they left unspoken, but Peter could hear it. They stopped outside an old church. Jessie nodded for him to enter. Through the open door, all he could see was darkness, an open mouth wanting to swallow him whole.

‘So they're waiting in there to kill me?' he said.

‘No one wants to kill you, Peter.' She adjusted the strap on her handbag.

‘I don't believe you.'

‘Then why did you follow me?'

‘Eliza.' The mention of her name could get Peter to follow anywhere. Jessie knew this. She had to. ‘Do you know where she is?'

‘Not exactly.'

Peter walked away. He wouldn't be lured into a friendly trap, not again. Not ever again. He heard Jessie hurry after him, those damn wooden heels clacking on the cobblestones like gunfire.

‘Peter, wait.'

‘If you have nothing to tell me . . .'

‘That's not what I said.' She ran in front of him, blocking his path the way the veil blocked her face. They both were trapped. ‘I need you to listen. Come and sit with me.'

Peter looked back at the darkened church. How cold such a place would be. So able to absorb a man's screams, even in the daytime. Jessie's shadowed face held a trace of that gloom.

‘Not there,' he said. Across the road was a dismal tea house. He led her inside.

Once they were seated, Jessie pulled up her veil. Cheap make-up poorly concealed a bruise on her cheek.

‘Where did you get that?' he asked.

Jessie took out her compact and refreshed the black-purple skin. ‘Same place as Bess. Our friend Stephen.' The compact snapped shut.

‘He killed her.'

‘I couldn't say.' Jessie glanced at the counter, trying to catch the waitress's eye as she removed her lace gloves finger by finger. Turquoise used to bring out the colour of her eyes. Their shine had faded as much as her clothes.

They remained silent until the waitress brought them dry biscuits and tannin-stained cups. The tea was no more than beige water, but Peter, needing something in his stomach, drank quickly.

‘I'm listening,' he said.

Jessie ignored her tea and played with her food. ‘After I started work at the Palladium, Dad kept taking my pay. Said he needed it for family expenses. Mum didn't agree but kept her mouth shut like she was told. I got sick of it. It was my money. I should be able to do what I like with it. So when I saw an advert in the paper – a girl looking for a roommate – I moved out. And it was alright. For a while.'

Across the road, an old man wearing an old Great War uniform limped out of the church. Was Cooper still alive? Peter tasted blood. He finished his cup and poured another from the pot. The steam from Jessie's cup faded as the tea cooled.

‘Is that when you started gambling?'

Jessie broke a biscuit, pressing her painted nails into the crumbs. ‘Not like we have anything else to spend it on, is it? I paid my rent, fed myself. Why not have a little pleasure?'

‘And then you started losing.'

‘Kept thinking my luck would change. Didn't realise it already had. Stephen said Angelo would forget my debts if I did a little work for him. Lucky me, eh? Two jobs when all these girls can't find one. Thought all I had to do was work at the club for him, smile at the gents, serve a few drinks. That sort of thing.'

The biscuit was dust. Jessie brushed off her fingers, finished her cigarette and pulled another from her handbag.

‘Then Angelo said I needed to earn money, to make up for what he lost. But there's only one skill I have to sell, and it ain't my needlework.'

Peter choked on the tea. Sell. Like Bess sold . . .

He set down his cup. ‘Eliza's in Wales. She's working as a housemaid in Wales.'

‘They said you knew that. They said . . .' Jessie looked out of the window towards the church then quickly down at her lap. ‘They said a lot of things.'

Peter reached for her hand. Jessie latched onto his touch. The crumbs stuck to her fingers scraped against his skin.

‘Peter, there are rumours Angelo . . .'

The church bells tolled a mournful chime. Jessie released him and lit her cigarette. Her hands shook.

‘Never mind. That's not why I'm here.'

‘Then why are you?'

‘To settle my debts.' She checked her watch.

‘What rumours?' He reached for her hand again, but she moved it under the table. ‘Jessie?'

‘I want to go home, Peter. To my mum and dad. I don't want to do this any more.'

‘You don't have to. What rumours, Jessie? What is he doing?'

A tear ran down her cheek, taking her mascara with it. Peter handed her his handkerchief. The tears made her eyes glisten, reminding him of the Jessie he used to know.

‘They say Angelo keeps an eye out for . . . girls that have a certain look. For a special client.'

‘Pollard?'

‘I don't know the name, or what happens to them. But whoever it is pays Angelo a nice fee for finding them.'

‘So he can get in touch with Eliza. Or whoever took her.'

Michael said there was a certain thrill that came with going on an offensive, a lightness in the chest coupled with a hardening of the soul. Eliza wasn't lost. He wasn't a failure.

Jessie tossed the handkerchief at his chest. ‘Peter, why can't you leave it alone? Haven't you learnt yet? The house always wins. But if you walk away now, it might let you live. Just walk away. Now.'

‘Don't cause trouble? Is that what you're saying? Let those in power do what they will? I thought the Germans never invaded.'

‘I'm trying to help you.' She flicked ash into her teacup. ‘But you men. Always making this about the war. Always wanting a fight. Well, I'll tell you what, Peter Lamb, I've spent my life fighting – my parents, my bosses, myself. And where has it got me? You want to see the other bruises? Pay a few quid and I'll even let you touch 'em. Fine. You keep fighting, if you like, but they'll find a way to bring you down. That I can guarantee.'

She extinguished her cigarette into her biscuit crumbs and grabbed her handbag. She reached for his lighter, too, but Peter put his hand over it before she could take it.

‘Don't pretend Eliza wasn't your friend,' he said. ‘You were going to tell her, weren't you? That Saturday after she disappeared. Ask her for help. Look, I'm sorry for what's happened to you. For what Stephen did. But if I leave it alone, it means giving up on the woman I love. I'd give my life for her.' He pushed the lighter towards her. Jessie hesitated then tossed it into her handbag.

‘No one's life is worth another's.' She glanced at the church then pulled down her veil. ‘But if that's how you feel . . . let's go out the back.'

*

The filth of the club was clearer in the daytime. Black stains from coal dust and car exhaust plastered the red door, the dried vomit on the entrance hall carpet unmistakable. Peter's shoes stuck to the wooden stairs, and he could smell the heavy dust collected on the wall sconces. This place was not meant to be seen in the light.

He followed Jessie up to Angelo's office, keeping an eye out while she unlocked the door with her hairpin. He didn't like the quiet. London should never be this quiet. Quiet in London meant something was wrong. Jessie struggled with the lock. He wanted to slap the pin from her hands and try it himself, but his were shaking too badly.

The door clicked open. Peter rushed in ahead of her. The light switch didn't work, and quickly he drew back the curtains. Together, they searched the desk.

‘He must have an address book,' Peter said as they rifled through the drawers.

‘He is an organised man. Likes things a very particular way.'

Downstairs, a door closed. Footsteps travelled up the staircase. Peter and Jessie froze.

‘You told them I'd be here.'

‘No, Peter. I . . .'

Someone entered the gambling hall. Peter crept to the office door, listening. No one approached the office. Whoever it was might leave on his own time. He and Jessie would have to wait. There was no other way out.

A heavy thump sounded behind him. Jessie stood in shock by the overturned desk chair. The footsteps hurried towards the office and the door swung open.

The barman shook off his surprise and lunged for Peter. Peter dodged the first blow but caught the second on the chin and went sprawling to the floor. He rolled away from the barman's foot, but a second kick landed on his ribs. His breath rushed out of him. On the third kick, he caught the foot in his hands and shoved the barman back. Peter crawled to his knees but was grabbed by the shirt collar and hauled to his feet, the man's fist primed and ready to strike.

A shower of glass came down over the barman's head. He lost consciousness as he fell to the floor, blood already seeping from a gash in his head. Jessie stood behind him, holding the remnants of Angelo's desk lamp. She dropped it then grabbed a small leather-bound book from the desktop and tossed it to Peter – an address book.

‘Let's go,' she said. He raced after her out of the building and into the alley. ‘Don't go straight home,' she said, pushing Peter away. ‘And don't come looking for me.'

‘Jessie . . .'

‘Go!' She ran off into the crowds of Shaftesbury Avenue before he could thank her.

*

Though it was hours after the assault at the club, Peter remained dazed as he exited Earl's Court station. The address book was tucked safely in his jacket pocket, but he hadn't looked up Pollard, afraid that if he opened the book, it would somehow signal his whereabouts to Stephen and Angelo. Jessie had not sought him out in the hours that followed. With no way to contact her, he could only hope she was somewhere safe. He debated writing to Mrs Rolston, but thought the truth could be more devastating than her uncertainty. Jessie would tell her parents in her own time.

The bruise on his chin garnered him unwanted attention from weary glances as he walked home. Though it was only early evening, he was exhausted. He still hadn't found time for a proper meal. So when he spotted the grey smoke billowing into the sky, he thought he was imagining things. Then he noticed other people pointing at the rising ash. As he walked more quickly towards his flat, he drew closer to the smoke. He wanted to deny it, wanted to hold on to the hope of a different possibility, but as he reached the fire brigade's barricades, he was forced to accept the truth.

His building was in flames. Fire shot out of the windows as water hoses battled to keep it from spreading. His landlady stood to the side, gaping at the destruction while her little dog barked in her arms. Nearby, a body covered in a white sheet was being loaded into an ambulance. A pair of turquoise high-heels stuck out of the bottom.