The Edge of the Fall (45 page)

For the next two weeks, they talked about VAD outfits in every spare moment. Ellen brought in possible things they could make into nurses' gowns, Mary bought red ribbons to sew the red cross. Sarah even found a photograph in a small junk shop near Warren Street of some VADS with their patients and Mary pored over it, trying to work out the exact position of the crosses. The scripts mounted up in the trays behind them. Celia picked up her post
at the Post Office. Verena wrote to say that they were having problems with the business. She said she was really worried, had begged Arthur to help. Then there was another letter saying Arthur might even come back to England to help. Celia knew he never would. She folded up the letter, put it in the box where she kept them all.

‘Do you think this way would look correct, Miss Witt?' Mary asked, white material draped over her head. ‘Or is it more Queen Alexandra than VAD?'

‘I think so,' said Celia. ‘I'm sure the exact details don't matter anyway.'

‘But of course they matter!' Mary said, anguished. ‘How can you say that? We have to get it right.'

Sarah was adjusting her headdress next to them. She didn't need to spend too much time worrying. She was so pretty, with pale blonde hair and great blue eyes, that she could get away with a few faults in the costume.

‘Well then, I think they are very good.' Celia was wondering about what the men would be dressed as at this party. Were they all going to be orderlies? Or patients? Perhaps there wouldn't be any there at all, it would be the same as her dancing lessons at school, girls dancing with girls.

‘What do you think the men are going to be?' she ventured, next day, at lunch. ‘Did the advertisement say?'

All three stared at her. ‘They will be soldiers, of course,' said Mary. ‘Fine, brave soldiers.'

‘Even though most of them never fought,' said Celia.

‘Oh, but they would have done!'

Celia picked up her sandwich. ‘Of course.'

The men would be perfect soldiers, she thought, upright, honourable. Mary and the rest wouldn't see any relation between them and the ones they passed in the streets, turned away from because they were holding out saucers for money, standing up and rattling tins on the Underground.

‘Why can't they look after themselves?' she'd heard Mary say yesterday. ‘The rest of us have to.'

The Times
talked about soldiers who couldn't work when their wives could, so these men took the children, but left them tied to the posts outside the pub.

‘Miss Witt!' Mary was waving in front of her face. ‘We've lost you, Miss Witt.'

Celia smiled, shook her head. ‘I'm sorry! I was deep in thought.

‘We should go upstairs, ladies. Resume.' They gathered up their bags, Mary piled up the trays and took them to the canteen desk. Ellen started talking about a writer they had nicknamed Mr Squiggle. His handwriting was probably the worst Celia had ever seen and yet the higher-ups commissioned him. to write an inordinate amount of plays. Yesterday, they'd all spent an hour poring over one word alone, eventually deciding it said ‘firework'.

‘No one thinks of us,' said Sarah. ‘They think we can read anything so they send us Mr Squiggle.' She brushed back her blonde hair. It looked soft in her hands, Celia thought enviously.

‘I shall meet him one day,' said Ellen. ‘And I shall tell him he needs to change his ways. Didn't his first teachers teach him how to hold his pencil properly?'

Ten days later it was Saturday, and Celia and the others were at the party in a large townhouse in Portman Place.

‘I suppose it was an aristocratic house once,' Celia said to Mary. She imagined a rather grand family using it as their London home. Now the place was dark, decorated with khaki flags, war souvenirs everywhere. There were VAD uniforms draped over the banisters – where had they got them from? – and war medals pinned over the wall. Around them were dozens of girls in uniforms (not as good as theirs, Celia thought) and some men dressed as soldiers. Outside there were even more waiting, queuing up to pay ten shillings each to get in. Two of the rooms were playing loud music, wartime songs. She recognised the song about the flying machine that all the men had liked. The last time Celia heard it was in her ambulance. One of the men had been singing it to the others, his voice cracked, stumbling over the high notes. ‘Keep going,' they had shouted. ‘Don't stop.'

‘Let's go and dance!' shouted Mary. Ellen nodded and they followed after her. They passed through the door and there were twenty or so couples – some double girls – twirling and hopping to the flying machine song. Now it was loud – so loud it would burst your ears – a chorus of voices joining in. No one would be interested, Celia thought, if she told them about the man singing it to the others (he'd died not long after arriving in hospital, a nurse had said). She shook her head when Ellen held out her hand for dancing, stood by the side against the slightly damp wall. She watched Mary and Ellen twirling and laughing. Sarah was already talking to one of the men dressed as soldiers, one hand touching her long hair.

Celia waved, smiled, as they whirled past her, still dancing. The VAD uniforms were so terribly uncomfortable, she was almost surprised that any of them managed to dance at all. She leant against the wall. Probably ten years ago or so, some man might have come up to her to talk. Now, they were in such short supply you had to go up to them.

A new song came on. She didn't recognise it. The girls kept dancing. She thought she might go to get them all a drink – although perhaps not Sarah, because she looked deep in conversation. Against her instinct, she was rather enjoying herself. Everybody looked so happy you could almost believe they were. She was wondering where the drinks were sold and how much they might cost. Then she felt a hand on her shoulder.

‘Celia.'

She turned and Emmeline was standing there, Mr Janus a few steps behind her.

‘They said you were here,' Emmeline shouted over the music.

Celia gazed at her, baffled. ‘Who?'

‘That girl you live with. Whatever her name is.'

‘But how did you have my address?'

‘Your work. Samuel saw you going into the building a month or two ago. Your man in charge, Mr Ellerton, is it? Well, he gave us your address. We said we were your family.'

‘Right. And now you're here.' Just over Emmeline's shoulder,
Mary and Ellen were looking at her quizzically. She grinned at them, and they turned back to the dance.

‘We have to tell you something.'

‘Is it about Michael? I'm not interested if it's not.' Celia felt cruel even saying the words. In a room of young, happy, dancing people, they looked painfully tired and old. Samuel looked even greyer than ever, his face gaunt, the rest of him so thin that his jacket looked like he'd borrowed it for the evening. Emmeline had got thin too and her eyes were sunken, cheeks so pale she almost looked like she'd painted them white.

‘It's about Louisa. And Arthur.'

Celia looked away. The music turned, resounded. Another song. Sarah was dancing with the soldier, twirling around the room in some sort of Scottish dance. ‘I saw him in Paris. He told me about it.'

Mr Janus shook his head. ‘Could you come outside with us, Celia?'

‘Never! I told you. I won't speak to you until you tell me the truth about Michael.'

‘Please,' Emmeline said. She put out her hand. ‘Please, sister.'

‘I won't. I should go back to my friends.' She turned away, looked back. ‘How is Lily? And Albert?'

Emmeline nodded. A tear was glittering on her pale cheek. ‘They are well.'

‘Give them a kiss from me. But I have to go. I'm sorry, but until you tell me about Michael, we can't talk.'

‘Tell her,' Samuel said. ‘Now.'

‘They went to Paris to arrest Arthur. They said they had new evidence. They've . . . they've arrested him on suspicion of killing Louisa.'

Celia looked at her, mind reeling. ‘
Killing
her.' The music was slowing around her, the notes lengthening, sagging, as if someone was pulling on the record.

‘We don't know much,' said Emmeline. ‘The police came to Stoneythorpe. They told Mama. She's suffering.'

‘It was an accident,' Celia said. ‘Death by misadventure. The
coroner said so.' The bright faces of the others were sickly now, lipstick greasy, eyes slathered in garish, vulgar colour. The heat rose up from their sweaty, dirty bodies and swamped her. She gripped the wall.

‘It looks like the police have changed their minds.'

‘But – why?'
Stop!
she wanted to cry to the awful, endless circling music.
Stop it!

Emmeline shook her head. ‘We don't know. We don't know much.'

Celia swayed. Mr Janus reached out and gripped her shoulders. ‘Hold still, now,' he said. ‘Breathe.'

‘Arthur wouldn't have killed her.' A VAD uniform was pinned up over Emmeline's head. Celia wanted to tear it down, the ridiculous, stupid thing. ‘It was suicide, that's what it was. Arthur didn't want to say, but it was.'

‘Will you come with us?' said Mr Janus. ‘We need to think about what we do next.'

Celia nodded. She shook his hands off her shoulders. ‘Thank you. I think I can breathe now.' She walked up to Ellen and Mary, who were standing watching at the near side of the dance floor.

‘I should go,' she said. ‘Something's come up. I might not be at work on Monday. Tell Mr Ellerton.'

Mary caught her hand. ‘Who are those people? They look odd.'

‘I don't think you should go with them,' said Ellen.

‘Don't worry. That's my sister. Please tell Mr Ellerton. I'll come back when I can.'

She followed them out, past the pictures of VADS and Land Girls, a draped uniform over the banister. Emmeline walked ahead, dodging around the couples, a laughing group of women dressed as orderlies. There was still a long queue of guests outside.

‘Come,' Emmeline said, turning back to Celia, just outside the door. Celia stepped out of the heat of the house, into the darkness. All she could think of was Louisa.

THIRTY-THREE

Paris, 1911

Arthur

When he'd first arrived in Paris, back before the war, he'd been afraid. He'd spent the first night alone in the small flat off the Place Maubert, fearful of the noises. It sounded nothing like home. There were shouts from outside and some sort of animal scratching at the door. Every time he forced his eyelids closed, the pipes banged again – such a bang – and they sprang open once more and he stared at the ceiling in terror. Why had he come? But he knew, of course, why he'd come. He'd had no choice. ‘Overseas or I report you,' Rudolf had said.

That night in France reminded him of his first night at school. He'd been five. No one had told him he was going to school. His father had said he was going on a drive with Thompson. Verena dressed him up in his best coat, Emmeline, a fat toddler, hiding behind her legs. He tried to imagine, looking back, that she'd been crying. But he didn't think she had been.

‘When are we stopping?' he had asked Thompson. Then, when he grew more afraid, he began to ask more questions. ‘When are we going home?'

‘We'll be there soon,' Thompson said.

He had wanted to go to the WC, but Thompson wouldn't stop and so he had to cross his legs. ‘Please,' he said. ‘I need to go.'

‘Your father told me not to stop. This road isn't safe,' said Thompson. ‘Won't be long now.'

Arthur wanted his mother to take him into her arms, say it didn't matter. But she hadn't, she wouldn't, she'd been too busy
with Emmeline. Ever since she'd been born, no one had wanted Arthur. He remembered when Verena had gone away. Nurses had come to the house and they wouldn't let him into his mother's room. They'd said the room was locked and his mother was sleeping. She wouldn't see him. He banged on the door, shouting for her. The nurse slapped his legs, said he was a naughty little boy when his mother was suffering like this! The nanny he hated, Muriel, pulled him away, slapped his legs again. That night, in the nursery, he heard his mother crying out. He shouted for her, tried to get out of bed, but the door was locked. Then he heard Muriel come for him and ran back into his bed. Still, she stood over him, called him a bad little boy and said he deserved to lose his mother, behaving like that! He spent all night staring at the ceiling, because every time he closed his eyes, great monsters came and ate his mother.

‘You can see her now,' said Muriel, next morning.

He went down with her. His mother was asleep and the nurses said not to wake her. ‘You can see your new sister instead,' they said. There was a strange basket on legs next to his mother's bed. ‘There she is!' said the nurse. ‘What a pretty little girl. Emmy. Very good.'

He looked at her and knew Mama would prefer him, of course she would. Not this thing that had made her scream like she was being bitten.