Abigale Hall (8 page)

The absence of warmth in the bed beside her woke Eliza before the alarm clock could. Rebecca was gone. She felt the blankets. They were cold. The clock read quarter to six, and no sunlight yet peeped through the open curtains. Eliza rubbed her eyes, trying to remember if she had closed the curtains last night. She tossed back the blankets and let out a scream. She wasn't alone in bed after all.

A dead mouse lay beside her leg.

Rebecca came running into the room. ‘Eliza, what is it?'

‘I . . . Did you put that there?' she asked. It was the same mouse Eliza had thrown out yesterday, or at least looked it.

‘Of course not. This one is a girl. Mine was a boy.'

‘Rebecca, don't be absurd. How else would a dead mouse end up in my bed? Get rid of it.'

‘I said I didn't do it. You're always blaming me for things I didn't do.'

‘So a ghost put it there, is that it?'

‘Maybe. Or maybe it crawled into your bed and you suffocated it while you slept. Then it would be your fault for once, not mine.' Rebecca started to pout, and Eliza recognised the onset of a tantrum. This early in the day, she could not handle it.

‘Fine, I'm sorry. But could you please do something with it? I've handled enough dead mice for a lifetime.'

Rebecca picked it up by its tail.

‘Not your pocket,' Eliza warned.

‘Where am I supposed to put her?'

Eliza opened the window and Rebecca gently dropped it outside. She stood there looking at the spot where it had landed.

‘Where were you?' Eliza asked.

‘I went to my room. Mrs Pollard said that was a rule and I didn't want her to catch us.'

‘Rebecca, what makes you think Mrs Pollard would check on us in the night?'

Rebecca ran away from the window. ‘I'm going to get dressed. I hope breakfast is hot. I always like your hot breakfasts. Are you doing the washing today? I'll bring you my soiled things.' She darted out of the room as a cold wind flooded in, freezing Eliza in her nightgown.

At breakfast, Mrs Pollard dropped an empty bucket and scrubbing brush at Eliza's feet. Eliza dreaded what new dust-filled room she would have to clean next, until Mrs Pollard announced, ‘Today, you'll be cleaning the library.'

‘The library?' A lightness filled her, one she had not experienced since Peter's final kiss on Charing Cross Road.

‘Are you deaf?'

‘No, ma'am.'

‘Good. Then you'll understand me the first time when I tell you to go there immediately after breakfast.'

‘Yes, ma'am.'

‘Now, will you be able to find your own way or shall I have to draw you a map?'

‘That won't be necessary, ma'am. Mrs Pollard . . .' Eliza caught her attention before she could drift away. ‘After I clean the library, would it be possible to borrow one of the books?'

Mrs Pollard regarded her through half-lidded eyes and, although her expression did not outwardly change, Eliza suspected a laugh was hiding in her thin chest.

‘I doubt anything in Mr Brownawell's collection will be of interest to you. You, girl.' She stared at Rebecca. ‘Come with me now. I'll show you the henhouse.'

Rebecca left her half-eaten porridge on the table and followed Mrs Pollard, head low, arms stiff at her sides. Now alone, Eliza hurried to finish her own breakfast and clean her dishes. Mrs Pollard had not technically said no to her request and, even if she did not find books which interested her, simply being in their presence would help her feel more at ease here.

Eliza hummed as she carried the bucket and brush to the library. The pain of leaving her books behind continued to lessen as she thought of the stacks she'd be caring for now. Shelves reaching from floor to ceiling would be filled with original leather-bound copies, their titles embossed in real gold; paper thin as a butterfly's wing with shining, gilded edges; red velvet bookmarks creased in forgotten chapters. Yet it was the smell she looked forward to most – the welcoming mustiness that would fill her nose and permeate her whole self, reminding her of home, of Mother reading to her by the fireplace, Father taking her to the British Library. Eliza saw herself spending hours curled up in a chair with an old book in her hands. She could fill her free time hidden away in her own corner of Thornecroft, away from Mrs Pollard. The work here might be bearable now, she thought. This place might begin to feel like home.

She ran her fingers over the engraved doors as she had yesterday, though this time with less fear. The heavy doors opened with a hard push, but no electric light meant she had to open all the curtains before she could admire the room. Resting her Tilley lamp on the floor, she tied back the heavy Victorian curtains and opened the Holland linen blinds. Rain pattered the windows as grey daylight entered the room in rectangular slabs. With the final window exposed, Eliza turned to face the massive bookshelves.

The massive, empty bookshelves.

They went from floor to ceiling like she imagined, but they held no books. None at all. There was a large oak desk with a reading lamp, a calligraphy pen and a bottle of dried ink, but not a single book.

Eliza ran her finger through the inch of dust on a barren shelf, bitter disappointment forming inside her. All she wanted was this one thing – one thing to make life in this empty place bearable – yet this, too, had been snatched from her. And Mrs Pollard had known yet said nothing. She had been laughing at Eliza. Eliza grabbed the filled bucket from the hall and let it clatter angrily to the floor. On her hands and knees, she scrubbed the brush into the wooden boards, working up a thin sweat that kept her warm in the cold, cavernous room. She focused on her cleaning, unwilling to look at shelves that mocked her with their open, empty mouths. Peter once referred to her as Aunt Bess's Cinderella, and Eliza chided him for mocking her aunt. Now his remark was all too accurate. She slammed the brush into the floor.

Where was Peter? Shouldn't he be trying to track her down, hounding Aunt Bess for answers as to her whereabouts? She rinsed the scrubbing brush in the warm water and slapped it down again. No, Peter would not be playing detective. When he left his keys at a Corner House, he couldn't even ask the waitress if anyone had turned them in. She had to do it for him.

Eliza scraped the brush back and forth, her arms sore from the effort as a stronger pain formed behind her eyes. Another headache. Peter was wrong. Aunt Bess demanded much of her but allowed her to lead her own life. Not until now was she truly a slave, every second of her day devoted to the demands of a decaying house. When would she have time to do the things she needed? When would she have time to rest? The brush hit the floor with a wet slap.

Scrub, sweep, cook. Mend this. Fix that. Scrub, scrub, scrub.

Water sloshed over the side of the pail.

Do the ironing. Unpick the mattress. Find more soap flakes.

Her fingernails were cracked, caked with dirt.

Bottle more fruit. Find a nylon to hang the marrow.
Father's homemade marrow liqueur, its jar broken, glass
in pieces, as the smoky syrup seeped into the dirt
floor. The smell of that damn marrow as he tap-
tap-tapped . . .

Eliza dropped the brush and stopped. Stopped cleaning, stopped thinking. Curled her knees to her chest like she had as a child. She felt warm tears on her cheeks but did nothing to wipe them away. She stopped, and needed the world to stop with her.

A wetness in her undergarments moved her. She felt her face flush, but as she clambered to her feet, she realised she'd not had an accident. The washing bucket had tipped over and she was sitting in the dirty, soapy water. Her relief was short-lived for, when she picked up the bucket, she spotted the blood.

Dried onto the gold handle of the desk drawer, it was so old it was nearly black. Yet Eliza had seen old blood before. She could recognise it for what it was. As she examined the drawer more closely, she realised it was slightly ajar. With her handkerchief, she opened it. Inside was a copy of
The Mammoth Book of Thrillers, Ghosts and Mysteries
. The only book in an otherwise empty library. Eliza took it from the drawer. More brown streaks stained the crisp pages.

The book fell open to the first page of a story entitled ‘The Woman Who Rode Away'. Yet the page was unreadable, as it was covered in smears of bloody fingerprints.

*

‘I don't want to go on holiday with Rebecca. She ruins everything.'

That was what Eliza said when her parents told her about the evacuation. She sat on the Oriental carpet in front of the hearth, staring up at Father while Rebecca played on the floor with her wooden Noah's Ark and paper animals. Two by two she made them trot – a giraffe with a polar bear, a ram with a camel. Eliza explained many a time that the animals were meant to go with their own kind, like with like. Rebecca did not care.

‘Be nice to your sister,' Father answered, his face hidden behind
The Times
. The bold headline read WAR IMMINENT. ‘She's your responsibility.'

A crack of lightning lit up the room. Rain pelted the windows.

‘Yes, like I'm yours, Freddie.' Aunt Bess smiled, a glass of orange gin in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Eliza could tell she was planning on going out that night, her scarlet dress neatly pressed and cinched at the waist, her hair freshly permed that morning. All Aunt Bess needed was her soldier. She'd be waiting all night. ‘It'll be like an adventure,' she said. ‘Don't children like adventures?'

Another roll of thunder.

‘I do!' Rebecca raised her hand.

Eliza crossed her arms. ‘No.'

Mother entered from the kitchen, her apron stained with cooking fat and flour.

‘Eliza, won't you help me with the pies?' she asked.

Eager to leave, Eliza followed her mother and was soon set to work, kneeling on a stool and flattening the pastry with the heavy wooden rolling pin.

‘Wonderful,' Mother said, kissing her on the top of the head.

‘Mummy, why do I have to leave? Why aren't you and Father coming?'

Mother stopped slicing the carrots and sat in one of the kitchen chairs, beckoning Eliza into her lap. Soon, she would be too big for her mother's lap. Before then, her mother would be dead.

‘Do you know who Hitler is?' she asked.

‘He's the man from Germany. The one they talk about on the wireless.'

‘Well, he has been doing some very bad things to his neighbours. We've asked him to stop, but . . . it doesn't appear that he will. So, we must stop him ourselves.'

‘Father says there's going to be a war.'

‘That's right. And when the war starts – which may be very soon – Hitler is going to drop bombs on London. They're going to hurt people and it's going to be very dangerous. So, you and Rebecca and all the other children, we must send you somewhere safe.'

‘Until the bombs stop?'

‘Until the bombs stop.'

Eliza toyed with the string of her mother's apron. ‘Why doesn't everyone leave? Then Hitler can drop all the bombs he wants and no one will get hurt.'

She remembered the scent of her mother's perfume emanating from her soft neck as she sighed.

‘There are many people in London, dearie. Too many to move elsewhere. You children have priority, always. And, well, if we all left, that would be like running away, wouldn't it? And we mustn't run, Eliza, ever. We must stand and fight. Say it with me: we mustn't run.'

‘We mustn't run.'

The storm outside made the lights dim and the house shake. It would be the worst storm they would have in all of September. They sat at the dining table together, the crackle of the wireless barely audible over the storm as they ate in silence. Eliza did not know then that it would be the last time her family would ever eat dinner together. At nine years old, one did not yet understand things such as ending or change. Life was as it was before and always would be.

Now, years later, as she hurried down a dusty corridor, clutching a bloodstained book to her breast, Eliza remembered how naïve she had been as her mother's words repeated in her mind.

We mustn't run. We
mustn't run.

And yet she had, hadn't she? She had left Mother and Father there, left them to suffer the horrors of the Blitz while she remained safe and sound in the country. Now she had run again, from Aunt Bess and Peter and everything she loved in London.

The paintings passed in a blur, their faded colours melding together as she maintained her focus on the fixed point ahead of her. She had to get to her bedroom. There she could hide the book and decipher it later.

‘Miss Haverford.'

The words struck her like a knife to the back. She heard the footsteps approaching, the clang of keys hanging from the waist, but could not move. Her palms began to sweat, her grip on the book slipping.

‘Yes, ma'am?'

‘Finished in the library, I presume?'

‘Nearly, ma'am.'

‘Turn around. It's impolite to speak to one's back.'

Her heart flapped wildly in her chest, desperate to escape its cage of bone. There was no place to hide the book. As she turned, she could only adjust her fingers to cover the bloody smears.

‘Nearly finished because you're stealing Mr Brownawell's property?' Mrs Pollard put out her hand. Her eyes were cold and focused. Before them, Eliza could be nothing but obedient.

‘I wasn't stealing––'

‘I packed and catalogued the entirety of Mr Brownawell's collection the other year because of a silverfish infestation,' Mrs Pollard interrupted, reading the spine. ‘Books must be carefully monitored. If not properly maintained, all sorts of terrible ideas could come spilling out. This must have escaped my notice. Or . . .'

Cradling the spine in her palm, her eyes fell on the bloodstained pages. Eliza felt her whole body shaking as Mrs Pollard stared at the blood.