Gillespie and I (26 page)

Tuesday, 18—Friday, 21 July 1933
LONDON

Tuesday, 18th July. Relations with Sarah continue to be less than amicable, and I still have my doubts about her. There has been no disagreement, no heated exchange, but the atmosphere between us leaves something to be desired. She is cross with me now because I failed to mention the date of my blood test to her, and then I stupidly forgot all about the thing, and missed it. I could easily have telephoned them myself, had she not been so impatient but, for some reason, she wanted to make a great song and dance about booking another appointment, even though all she did was make one telephone call. In my opinion, she has deliberately begun to act as though I am difficult, in order to play the martyr.

This evening, to my relief, she has gone out to see a Marx Brothers picture at the Empire. I sat here, thinking of the past, and trying to remember how, exactly, Elspeth Gillespie used to pronounce and stress her words. Such a strange accent she had: so distinctive. In due course, I looked out my address book and found the telephone number of Miss Barnes, which I copied from Sarah's letter of recommendation before returning it to Burridge's. Then I placed another call to Chepworth Villas. The same polite, breathy voice answered, as before, but this time, instead of asking for Miss Barnes by name, I said (in an approximation of Elspeth's Kelvinside tones): ‘May I speak to the lady of the house, please?'

‘Yes—speaking.'

This stopped me short, for it was not at all what I had expected. To be honest, I had imagined that the ‘Miss Barnes' with whom I had already spoken would—upon being asked for the lady of the house—scuttle off and fetch her employer. I have an idea that this ‘Miss Barnes' is simply a friend of Sarah's, someone who works at Chepworth Villas, perhaps as a housekeeper or governess. I have heard and read of such cases: a fake letter of recommendation, including a telephone number; an associate, whose usual duty it is to answer the telephone, and who is primed to adopt the persona of an employer should anyone call in search of a character reference for their friend.

‘Hello?' said the voice. ‘Is anybody there?'

‘Yes, please may I speak to your mistress?'

‘I am the mistress. Who is this?'

‘Oh, very clever,' I said. ‘It's a criminal offence, you know, impersonation. You could go to gaol for some time.'

‘What? Who is this? Did you telephone here the other day?'

Doubt seized me. If this person was Sarah's friend, then it was a mistake to have challenged her. And what if she really was the lady of the house?

‘Hello!' I cried. ‘Hello? Is that—Museum 2186?'

‘No, it's not! We're on the Frobisher exchange.'

‘Oh, I'm so sorry—wrong number—cheerio.'

Admittedly, I am a little bad-tempered, after events this afternoon. Sarah keeps forgetting to put in an order to Lockwood's and so, while she was at the library, I myself went across the street to the shop. Normally, I would simply place an order by telephone, but I am trying to bear in mind Derrett's words of wisdom about exercise. This has been another sultry day, and by the time that I had reached the ground floor, I was already hot and bothered. As I stepped out into the sunshine, the heat hit my head like a hammer blow. A dray had got itself jammed across the breadth of the road, and a procession of cabs and laden motor buses had drawn to a halt on either side. The drivers were amusing themselves, while they waited, by bandying oaths and sarcasm. I picked my way between the vehicles, which fumed and sweltered under the boiling sun. Despite the awning outside the grocer's, his display of lettuces lay wilting.

Inside, the temperature was a little cooler. The shop appeared to be empty, apart from the delivery boy, who was loitering at one end of the counter, actually scraping marks into the wooden surface with his thumbnail. This particular boy is known to me, as he often complains about the lift in our building when he brings up a box. He greeted me in a way that is, perhaps, peculiar to Cockney lads: an almost imperceptible backward tilt of the head, accompanied by an equally slight elevation of the eyebrows. Then he resumed scraping his initials into the counter. Whilst waiting for Mr Lockwood or his wife to make an appearance, I studied the advertisements that had been pasted to the wall until, of a sudden, through the front window, I spied my neighbour, Mrs Potts, as she lifted a lettuce from the display and approached the entrance. Potts is the most terrible gossip, and I had no desire to be detained by her. Therefore, I spoke up, addressing the delivery boy.

‘Excuse me, can you call Mr Lockwood, so that I may be served?'

At that—and just as Potts entered, the boy yelled into the back of the shop.

‘Mr Lockwood, sir! You're wanted! It's the whisky lady!'

Stunned by this careless impertinence, I was rendered speechless. I stared at the boy, for a moment, open-mouthed, and then, instead of waiting to be served, made my exit, pausing only to nod stiffly at my neighbour, who smirked and avoided my eye, as I hurried past her into the street, my cheeks burning.

As yet, I have not quite recovered. After all, it is not as though I buy inordinate amounts of whisky from them. The boy must simply resent lugging the cases up the stairs. Bottles, presumably, are much heavier to carry than lettuce and tomatoes. One thing is certain: I shall not be placing any orders with Lockwood at any time in the near future. There is a perfectly good grocer on Marchmont Street, which I have used, on occasion. From now on, I shall take more of my business there. Indeed, after leaving Lockwood's, I went there directly and ordered the few little things that we need.

In the meantime, I must return to the memoir, for I am about to embark upon a description of pivotal events.

Friday, 21st July. Something terribly unsettling has happened. Indeed, my hand is shaking, as I write. I am not quite sure what to think. It is a long time since I have felt this afraid or vulnerable. It all began last night, at suppertime, when I brought up the subject of the piano. Ever since I caught Sarah using the instrument, last month, neither of us has made any mention of it. This mutual silence, or avoidance, has not helped the general atmosphere and so, yesterday evening, in the interest of clearing the air, I decided to try and put her at ease. ‘Oh, incidentally,' I said, as she set down my plate on the dining table. ‘Please feel free to play the piano, dear, whenever you wish.'

She blushed, and gave her head a shake. ‘I'm sorry, it won't happen again.'

‘Please! Do make use of it! You play rather well. Where did you learn?'

‘Just here and there,' she said, in that infuriating, vague way of hers. She stepped away, towards the door. ‘I'm not very good—but thanks for your offer.'

‘Well, I do hope you take advantage of it. I so seldom play myself, and it's lovely to hear the instrument in use. Why didn't you tell me you could play, dear?'

She hesitated at the threshold. ‘I don't know … it just didn't seem—' Her voice tailed away, and then she nodded towards my plate, saying: ‘I hope you're going to eat some of that, tonight.'

‘Oh, yes—foo foo! How old are you, dear, if you don't mind me asking?'

‘Forty-three.'

She produced it without a pause but, for some reason, I got the impression that she was lying. Perhaps it was that deadened look in her eyes, or the fact that her West Country accent had suddenly become very pronounced. She certainly looks older than forty-three. And then, before I could stop myself, the words came tumbling out:

‘Now Sarah, do you know any hymns?'

She thought for a moment, lightly slapping the escutcheon with her fingers.

‘Well, I suppose I do know one or two.'

‘Could I beg you to play one for me, while I eat this lovely supper? Would you be so kind? A hymn would be marvellous.'

The look on her face was what one might call sceptical, but she went out to the hall, saying: ‘Well, if you eat something, then I will.'

Tucked away in its alcove, the piano is not visible from the dining table, but I heard her sit on the stool and lift the lid of the keyboard. After a moment or two, she began to play a jaunty tune, which I recognised, within a single bar, as ‘Ding Dong Merrily on High': not exactly a hymn, and although she played enthusiastically, she was clearly not very practised in this particular piece, since she kept making errors, and going back to correct them.

As the music bounded along, I picked at my food and gazed across the table towards the birdcage on the sideboard. Layla stood, motionless, on the edge of the china feed bowl, her head cocked to one side, listening, and Maj, bless him, soon began to twitter an accompaniment to the piano notes, although of course, he made up his own melody. The windows were open, and the sound of traffic and smell of fumes drifted up from the street. Sunset had cast the hotel opposite into silhouette, dark against the sky; behind the tall black chimneystacks, the heavens had turned a vibrant shade, somewhere between pink and orange, tinged with violet. It was rather odd to sit there, in the sultry heat of the summer evening, listening to a Christmas carol.

All of a sudden, as though out of nowhere, I was seized by an overwhelming sense of déjà vu: not that I had been in this exact situation before, but there was something terribly familiar about the moments as they unfolded, and something in Sarah's playing that I almost recognised. Not only that, but—far more unsettling—I soon became gripped with the notion that there was a malign quality to the music. The piano has always been boomy, but Sarah seemed to be attacking the ivories far more ferociously than was necessary. Had she simply rammed her foot down on the sustain pedal, to make the noise reverberate around the hall—or was the lengthy, rising and falling, melismatic ‘Glo-o-o-r-i-a!' of the chorus always so horribly unrelenting? It was as though the notes—for all their jollity—were vicious spirals, each one of them uncoiling, with furious intent, towards me—towards my person. An evil, creeping fear came upon me, as I sat there—unable to eat, and watching the birds flit around their cage, oblivious—while Sarah stabbed at the keyboard, as if each note was the thrust of a dagger entering my viscera. I began to wonder whether the noise would ever end, or whether I would be frozen there, for all eternity, pinned to the spot by Sarah's hatred, and the din of her hideous music.

But why should she hate me so? Why?

At last, the carol came, clashing, to its conclusion. Having no desire to reveal how dreadfully frightened I was, I managed some polite applause, and called out: ‘Bravo! Thanks awfully… That'll be all now, thank you.'

The lid of the piano closed; the stool scraped on the parquet. I held my breath, dreading that Sarah might reappear, in all her bulk, at the doorway, but then I heard her slow, plodding footsteps as she retreated down the hall. The kitchen door snapped shut, and then, there was silence.

I sat there, paralysed by fear, feeling the accelerated pounding of the blood in my veins. I cannot say how long, in a state of confusion and dread, I remained in my seat. I only recall that when I stole along the passage to my bedroom, night had crept up to the windows of the apartment.

During breakfast this morning, I watched Sarah carefully. She behaved, as far as I could tell, perfectly as normal. She brought the coffee pot, set the toast in the rack, gave Maj and Layla a glance, and then left the room in her usual lumbering fashion. There was nothing in her behaviour to make me think that she had guessed at my anxiety of last night, and nothing that she did seemed spiteful, in the least. However, I am still gripped by a sense of unease, and am concerned that she might be hiding something. Sadly, I am very alert to mendacity, having been through all that I have had to endure, in life. My experiences—all those years ago, in Scotland—have certainly left me with scars. Moreover, I am well aware that there may be those who will resent that I am writing this memoir, and it would be good to have some reassurance that my companion is to be trusted.

I waited until Sarah had gone out to the shops, then I telephoned to Burridge's and asked to speak to Mrs Clinch. After a slight delay, she came to the apparatus. ‘Miss Baxter. What seems to be the problem?'

‘Nothing, Mrs Clinch. I simply wish to know, if I may, have there ever been any complaints about Miss Whittle?'

‘About Miss Whittle? No! No complaints. Have you got one, Miss Baxter? You must tell me if you have.'

‘Not a complaint, exactly. She just seems rather—unhappy. Melancholic.'

‘Probably just a bit homesick. D'you want me to have a word with her?'

‘Oh no! Please don't. I'm sure it'll be fine. Sorry to have troubled you.'

‘Let us know if you do have any problems, Miss Baxter. Cheerio, then.'

‘Just a moment—I'd like to know—if I might—the age of Miss Whittle.'

‘What, you want to know how old she is now? Can't you just ask her, dear?'