Abigale Hall (5 page)

‘It's beautiful,' Rebecca whispered, staring up at the magnificent structure. The morning light shone through the iron and glass, illuminating the large room below before spilling into the surrounding halls and tapering off partway down each corridor. To Eliza, it felt like standing in the centre of the sun.

While Mrs Pollard started back down the east wing, Rebecca remained in the centre of Abigale Hall unable, or unwilling, to look away from the dome. Eliza watched as her sister turned slowly on the spot, face slack, eyes unblinking. Eliza had witnessed her stare that way only twice before – at the Royal Pavilion in Brighton and the last time they saw Father. Drawn in by her sister's trance, Eliza made no move towards her. The sunlight was so warm, the silence of the house so soothing, she could not move for fear of shattering the much-needed sense of calm. For the first time since arriving at the manor, she felt welcome. It was as if the hall fought against the ravages that had overtaken the rest of the manor – forcing the damp and mould into retreat, illuminating the blackened corners. Like the warmth of her mother's arms, Abigale Hall wrapped itself around her, shielding her from all that was dark and terrible.

A loud groan ejaculated from the bowels of the house, spoiling the illusion. Hunger, headache and hurt clawed their way back into her consciousness. Her senses now acute, she listened again for the sound. Rebecca took no heed of it; nor did Mrs Pollard, who continued to glide down the hall. Eliza listened a moment longer.

Nothing. Perhaps it was the pipes. Her hand shaking – from exhaustion, nothing more – she pulled Rebecca away from Abigale Hall and hurried after Mrs Pollard.

‘Every morning I'll have a list of duties for you to complete. And they must be completed that day. I assume you can handle basic household chores? We'll travel into the village tomorrow. There may be occasions when I'll need you to run errands. Sundays are days of rest in this house. Breakfast is served at seven thirty, after which I take Mr Brownawell to church. You may do as you like. If you require any other holidays, you must ask me in advance. The answer will be no.'

They arrived at their bedroom door.

‘Any questions?'

Eliza had several but knew none were wanted.

‘Good. Now, your first task will be to unpack your things. As for you . . .' She looked at Rebecca. ‘Your room will be here.' Mrs Pollard showed Rebecca to a door up the hall.

Eliza held her panic in check. They never had separate bedrooms except during the evacuation and Rebecca's hospitalisation. Sleeping alone increased Rebecca's anxiety, as did sleeping in new places. Eliza could only do so much to keep her sister's nerves under control.

‘Excuse me, Mrs Pollard?'

‘You'll have to clean the space first then you may unpack.'

‘Mrs Pollard?'

‘We'll bring an extra bed round this afternoon.'

‘Mrs––'

‘I gave you your task for the morning. Get on with it.'

Eliza mustered all the patience she learnt from dealing with Aunt Bess and countered Mrs Pollard's cold disposition with her own wavering conviction.

‘I was only wondering if it was necessary for us to have separate bedrooms. We're quite used to sharing and––'

‘Those are Mr Brownawell's rules. They must be abided by.' She waited for Eliza to retaliate, but Eliza could not find the words to form a sensible argument. The way Mrs Pollard's body stiffened, she seemed to be using every ounce of her self-control to refrain from slapping Eliza. The memory of Aunt Bess's sharp palm across her cheek was enough to keep her mouth shut.

‘Now,' Mrs Pollard said, ‘do you have any more questions, Miss Haverford, or am I allowed to continue with my day?'

Eliza looked past Mrs Pollard to Rebecca, but Rebecca kept her eyes to the floor. Perhaps if they both objected to the sleeping arrangements, Mrs Pollard might acquiesce. As usual, Eliza received no help from her sister.

‘I'll see you at luncheon, ma'am,' Eliza said.

‘Till luncheon.' Mrs Pollard took Rebecca inside the second bedroom, leaving Eliza with only a fluttering stomach for company.

*

All morning, Eliza cleaned the bedroom. Climbing on top of the wobbly side table, she took down the curtains and hung them out the open window. She remembered helping Mrs Littleton stitch her blackout curtains when the bay window shattered during a night of bombing. Broken glass made numerous cuts in the fabric, the sunlight peeking through the small holes like a hundred fairy lights.

The respite brought from the thorough cleaning was mitigated by how utterly filthy she felt underneath her clothes after so much dusting. It felt as if the little mites were again crawling all over her skin. She hoped she would be allowed to bathe tonight. Not only was her body covered in grime, she could still smell the sweat of the train journey on her. If Peter could see her now . . . She stopped herself. She was too worn down to think of Peter or London without crying. She twisted the ring on her finger. Tomorrow would be better. That was what she had told Rebecca. She had to believe it herself.

As she re-hung the curtain, she noticed the time on her alarm clock. Almost twelve thirty. She wiped her hands on a dusting rag and made her way into the hall. Rebecca was there already, tapping her bedroom doorknob.

‘Twenty-two, twenty-three.'

‘How is it in there?' Eliza asked, wrapping an arm around her sister's shoulders. Rebecca was often able to lose herself in work. By focusing on chores or cleaning, she had less energy to spend on her worries. If they had plenty of work to do, as Mrs Pollard implied, perhaps Rebecca wouldn't be as anxious here as Eliza originally believed.

But Rebecca did not answer, her attention on something in the pocket of her cardigan.

‘What do you have there, dearie?' Eliza asked.

Rebecca turned away. ‘Nothing.'

‘Go on. Let me see.' Eliza pulled Rebecca's hand from her pocket.

A dead mouse fell to the carpet, its head twisted backwards in a grotesque fashion.

‘Why on earth are you carrying that around?' Eliza shuddered, looking at the tiny, lifeless body on the floor.

‘I found it.'

‘In your room? Well, you should have left it or put it in the bin. Not your pocket. It's still warm . . . Never mind. It's time for luncheon.'

‘We can't leave him there!'

‘And what do you suggest we do? Give it a proper burial?' Eliza felt her headache, which had receded over the past few hours, make its return. This time it pulsated at the back of her head, drilling its way towards her eyes. ‘No. I suppose you're right. Mrs Pollard will have a fit if she sees it lying there. Is there a wastepaper basket in your room or . . .'

‘A small one.'

‘Put it in there then. We'll chuck it out later. Go on.'

Rebecca knelt beside the mouse and placed it in her palm as if coaxing an injured chick. Her lips were moving. She whispered, but Eliza could not hear what. After disposing of the mouse, the girls made their way to the kitchen.

Mrs Pollard addressed them the second they entered.

‘You were almost on time. Sit.'

On the table was a small spread of boiled ham, cheese and bread. Rebecca lunged for the food while Eliza attempted to be more demure. Mrs Pollard busied herself by rolling out a pastry shell.

‘When will we get to meet Mr Brownawell?' Rebecca asked.

‘It will depend on when he wants to meet you. If he does at all.'

‘Does he live here alone?'

‘I live here. As does Mr Drewry. And now you.'

‘Doesn't he have a wife?'

Eliza couldn't kick her in time.

Mrs Pollard paused in her movements then continued working the pastry. ‘That opportunity passed a very long time ago,' she answered.

‘But doesn't he have any children?'

‘Rebecca! Apologise to . . .'

Mrs Pollard slapped her rolling pin onto the counter. She was at Rebecca's side in an instant, clutching Rebecca's chin in her fingers.

‘Nosy children are severely disciplined in this house.' She released Rebecca and returned to the counter, taking up the rolling pin as if the outburst had never happened. ‘Finish your luncheon. There are chores to complete.'

The silence was oppressive. It reminded Eliza of the times Mother and Father fought then refused to speak. Like there was something invisible in the air, coiled and waiting to strike. Eliza could feel the tightness in her stomach. The strength it took to remain calm strained her nerves. She felt like she was waiting for a bomb. She could even smell the reeking sweat of an air-raid shelter. Across the table, Rebecca reached into her cardigan and stroked something within her pocket.

The city was bright. Rare sunlight had burned off the morning fog and, from his office window, Peter could see far down the Thames, all the way to Tower Bridge. With no barrage balloons blocking the sky, the light was free to reflect off the brown water. Tiny crests caused by the current glistered in myriad compositions, shining a secret code only the river understood.

Uncle Marvin coughed, and Peter's attention was drawn back to his work, but the numbers in his accountancy book brought him no joy. He spent his last hour tracing over the same number eight until he wrote through the paper to the next page, waiting for the clock to reach five.

Once it did, he made his way to the Palladium, reciting his favourite Sid Field jokes to cheer him. As he turned off the Strand and cut through Covent Garden, a pigeon flew past and any accumulated joy vanished as he remembered yesterday's walk with Eliza. He kicked at a loose chunk of pavement but missed and tripped, catching himself on a nearby lamppost.

He had upset her yesterday, all that talk about a holiday he would never take. The idea had hit him suddenly after that awful morning in the office, and he'd been giddy to share it. Yet he shouldn't have shared it with Eliza, who could never take a holiday, not with her responsibilities to her aunt and sister. There he was waxing on about relaxing in the Lake District when inside she must have been fuming. It was a stupid mistake, she had to know that, and he had to make it up to her. He passed a Lyons Corner House and knew exactly what to do. Dinner followed by a night of jitterbugging at the dance hall. That was just the thing. They hadn't been dancing together in ages.

In better spirits, Peter shoved the last of a sausage roll in his mouth as he entered the stage door, tipping his cap to the evening watchman. He let his eyes adjust to the low lighting before venturing further. The narrow halls held only a quarter of the electric lights they should on account of Mr Purvis conserving the bulbs for Vera Lynn. The lady required a fully lit dressing room more than the ushers needed to see where they were going, or so he said.

The call sounded, ‘Twenty minutes, twenty minutes to curtain!'

Peter entered the staff room and quickly traded his accountant's suit for an usher's vest.

‘Oi, curly ginger!' Stephen sauntered in, dropping a cigarette butt into Peter's teacup. ‘Cutting it fine again, are we?'

‘I've plenty of time. Have you seen Eliza?'

‘Not tonight. That's two shifts in a row. Bit queer, isn't it?'

How could he apologise if she wasn't here? Peter tried not to let his concern show. ‘Maybe she's sick.'

‘Aye. Sick of you. Did you finally propose? That'd be enough to scare any girl off.'

The little box in his sock drawer, when would he bring it out? Peter shook the image away as the next call came – fifteen minutes till curtain. He and Stephen hurried out of the staff room, dodging frantic make-up girls and a rehearsing warm-up act before a decapitated papier-mâché horse rolled into their path.

‘Evening, gentlemen. Supposed to be at the doors, aren't you?' Purvis rested his flabby elbows on the horse's body, transforming himself into a hideous centaur. ‘Well, now I know why there's such a long queue to get in the stalls. There's no one there to collect the bloody tickets!'

‘But Eliza works the stalls,' Peter said. His vest seemed to tighten.

‘Worked. Past tense. Haverford's quit, like that no-show Rolston. Which is why you two incompetents need to be on time! Now hurry up. Miss Lynn will be quite displeased if her show is delayed because of two irresponsible ushers.'

Peter froze as Purvis's words bounced off a brick wall in his mind, refusing to be understood. As he walked to his post, the news pummelled that wall until its meaning slipped through the cracks. The sausage roll in his stomach began to spoil. Eliza had never mentioned she was handing in her notice. Dinner and dancing might not be enough.

As soon as work ended, he travelled as quickly as possible to the Haverfords' flat. He had to apologise now, in person, let her know what a fool he was before it was too late. He knocked on the door for a good fifteen minutes before the overweight bachelor across the landing shouted at him to leave it. The Haverfords weren't home.

*

A normal evening would see Peter at the theatre, preparing for the night's performance. He would finish his cup of tea then walk up the aisles, ensuring all the floors were clean, before taking his post at the dress circle. It would be warm in the theatre, the heat of the stage lights working in tandem with the coal to counteract any chill encroaching from outside. But this was not a normal evening and, instead of taking tickets from the warmth of the Palladium lobby, he was huddled against a brick wall, wearing the thickest coat he owned and blowing on his hands, trying to create a facsimile of warmth.

Jessie and Eliza often worked the stalls together and on their days off would go to the Majestic or for a meal before Eliza needed to get home and help with Rebecca. Peter thought it odd that the two of them should up and leave like that, especially when jobs were so scarce. Perhaps they had confided their plans to each other, as girls tended to do. As another day passed and he couldn't get hold of Eliza, Peter wouldn't know the truth unless he found Jessie, and he couldn't find Jessie until someone came to the house. So, he waited, something his brothers told him he was good at. Michael used to joke that waiting was Peter's only skill. Michael didn't joke much any more.

No one had answered the first time he knocked on the door of the maisonette, but he was determined to wait out the cold. The last time he stood here was when he picked Jessie up for their first and only date. There was something about her blue eyes and the way she smiled, he had to ask her out for a dance. The evening was a disaster for them both, but it ended up being for the best. Jessie soon found another boy to latch on to and Eliza started work at the Palladium.

Peter stuffed his frozen hands into his pockets, wishing for the first time that he was wearing the knitted mittens his mother had given him for Christmas. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, clapped his hands together and sneezed into his sleeve. He searched for his handkerchief then realised that, too, he had left at home. He was kicking a stone about when an older couple approached the maisonette, their hands laden with shopping baskets. They stopped when they saw Peter. He removed his cap.

‘Good afternoon. I'm terribly sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if I could have a word with Jessie?'

The couple said nothing.

‘Jessie Rolston? She lives here, does she not?'

The woman dropped her shopping and burst into tears.

‘Oh. Oh dear. Here, let me help you.' Peter scurried after the rolling potatoes, gathering them from the gritty pavement. He tripped over his own feet but managed to maintain his balance as he bagged her groceries. ‘I'm terribly sorry. I didn't mean to . . .'

The man spoke. ‘Are you with the police?'

‘No, sir. Only a friend. Peter. Peter Lamb.' He extended his hand, but the man kept hold of his sobbing wife. ‘We work together at the Palladium, but I haven't seen her in a few days. I thought she might have fallen ill or . . .'

‘Why don't you come in, son?'

Inside a small kitchen, Mrs Rolston busied herself lighting the coke in the grate and making tea. Cracks riddled the walls and many windows were boarded up. Shrapnel had taken chunks from the bricks in the fireplace. The sitting room was blocked off with an old sheet, and Mr Rolston's armchair was positioned awkwardly between the larder and the cooking range. He sat there now, fiddling with the small, broken wireless in his lap.

‘How do you like your tea, dear?' Mrs Rolston asked, her voice weak and tired.

‘Milk, two sugars, please, ma'am.' Peter smiled. It brought no joy to the room. ‘Please don't trouble yourself about the sugar.' Though he spoke to strangers every night at the theatre, he had no idea how to begin this conversation, not without making Mrs Rolston cry again. Mr Rolston cursed at the wireless.

‘Any good with electrics?' he asked Peter.

‘No, sir. I'm doing an apprenticeship in accounting.'

Mr Rolston stopped listening as Mrs Rolston served the tea, adding a small spoonful of powdered milk to each cup. Peter thanked her and sipped the tea. The Rolstons left theirs untouched. It was a bitter, watery mixture, the teabags reused too many times.

‘Where is Jessie?' he asked quietly. Mrs Rolston began scrubbing the range. Mr Rolston buried his face deeper into the wireless.

‘Do you know where she is?'

Mrs Rolston sniffled, and Mr Rolston sighed.

‘Moved out a few months ago, didn't she?' Mr Rolston said.

‘I'm sorry. I didn't . . .'

‘Said she wanted to be an independent woman,' he continued, his voice mocking. ‘Whatever the bloody hell that means. Not even married and she leaves us, goes to live in some brothel. Don't even write.'

Mrs Rolston slammed her fists onto the range. ‘Because she can't! She can't. She can't.'

Peter looked between them. ‘Why can't . . . ?'

‘Don't you start, woman! I'll hear no more of that rubbish.'

‘No! I need someone to listen. Someone needs to listen.'

‘To what? How you've gone mad?'

Mrs Rolston flung herself at Peter. His tea spilled over the table top. ‘She came to me in my dreams. Begged me for help.'

Mr Rolston threw the wireless aside and grabbed his wife's arms as she held onto Peter's hands.

‘They won't let her write. They won't. “Help me, Mummy,” she said. “Help me!”'

Mr Rolston slapped her across the face. The second time, she stopped crying. Mr Rolston smoothed back his hair as his wife prodded her bleeding lip.

‘Go and lie down,' he ordered. She did as she was told, disappearing behind the sheet. ‘You must excuse my wife. She's ill.' He took up a newspaper. Peter feared he would be struck with it. Instead, Mr Rolston scribbled something in the margins.

‘That's where she is.' He handed it to Peter. An address in Camden. ‘You do see her, tell that whore she's no longer welcome here.'

*

It was after eleven by the time Peter made his way home, thoughts of Eliza and Jessie still distressing him. Home was a small flat in a quiet area of Earl's Court. The majority of residents should have already been asleep by the time Peter shuffled out of the Underground station, so he thought it odd when he sensed someone behind him.

He didn't see anyone the four times he peeked over his shoulder, but the feeling – that pressure on his back, as if something was staring into his soul – refused to dissipate.

Peter kept a steady pace, ears keen for the slightest sound. He never liked walking down empty city streets at night. It reminded him too much of being caught out in an air raid. Too young to fight, most of his war days had been spent at the family cottage in Shepperton. Though it was much smaller than London, they heard their fair share of sirens thanks to the nearby aircraft factory. Many cold nights had been spent cowered in the Anderson shelter at the bottom of their garden, wondering if they would have a house to return to come morning. His family had been lucky. His father was too old to enlist and all three of his brothers returned home safe to English soil. His mother's disposition had been Peter's greatest challenge, but Peter understood her nervy feeling. He had it now.

It was the feeling one had whenever a telegram was delivered to the door. The drop even the heartiest of stomachs would take as fingers tore open the envelope with silent prayers of ‘not Casualty Services, please God, not that'. It was a feeling which remained under the skin all day, even after good news. That one had escaped this time, but the next would bring Death to the door.

Something hit the back of his shoe. Peter's chest constricted as he turned round. It was a stone. Just a small grey stone. Yet the way it hit was as if someone walking behind him had kicked it forward. He looked. There was no one he could see. Though only a few doors from his building, Peter walked faster.

He tried to imagine what it must have been like for his brothers walking across the fields of France, their packs weighing them down as they waited for a German attack. How they would peer over their shoulders, ensuring it was a comrade behind them, not a
kommandant
. The longer they went with no attack, the more heightened their senses would become. Every snapping twig or barking dog would become the enemy. Every scent would mean danger. Or death.

A pot shattered.

Peter ran to his door, fumbled with his keys. He leapt inside, locking himself in before someone could follow. Leaning against the door, short of breath, he paused and listened. No sound came from the other side of the door. The panic in his chest threatened to escape as a nervous laugh until the door shook.

The handle twisted and rattled. Peter backed away, the swallowed laugh stuck in his throat. He did not wait for the door to still before running up the stairs to his flat. His foot slipped on the second landing, and he caught himself against a neighbour's doorway. Peter clung to the wooden door jamb. A fall in the other direction would have sent him tumbling onto the hardwood floor below, the wrought-iron banister having been long since removed to support the war effort. He continued to the third floor, keeping his body pressed against the far wall until he safely reached his door.

As soon as he unlocked his flat, he ran to the sitting room, slipping on the day's post as he went to the window which overlooked the street below. All that moved was a shadow in the mews opposite. It could have been anything – a cat, a neighbour, anything. Peter drew his curtains and waited several minutes before switching on the lights. His nerves, though stilled, remained fragile as he scooped the post from the floor. The first envelope gifted him a paper cut as his uncoordinated fingers slit it open. He sucked on the sharp sting as he read the brief missive, his nerves returning tenfold as his eyes pored over the unwanted words.