The Jewel Box (27 page)

The night was long and restless. The curtains were open a chink, letting the moonlight smear its way in to the bedroom, illuminating O’Connell’s face on the pillow, accentuating his large features, the hollows in his cheeks, making him appear entirely different from his daytime self. His profile was more severe by moonlight, his skin waxy gray.

It’s a glimpse of how he’ll look when he’s old, thought Grace. He’ll look like this in his coffin.

Sleepless, she lay propped on an elbow, watching him. She’d been watching him for a long time. Her tired eyes
would start to swim every so often, and his face would distort further—becoming skull-like, the flesh melting away. Then she’d try, once more, to close her eyes and slip away into blissful unconsciousness, only for it to continue to evade her.

Why had he gone and told Barbara?
Why?
Had he chosen her as his confidante? Poured out all his worries and doubts about his new relationship? Or did it simply make an amusing anecdote? And was it only Barbara or had he told others, too? Did he toss it casually into conversation with the boys over cigars and brandies? God, she could just imagine how it would go.
“That new girl of mine—well, she might appear to be just a nice English girl, but beneath that impeccable bob and behind that shiny smile, there’s something of a Pandora’s box. Doesn’t bother me of course—I’m rather enjoying opening it up. A little dirt piques my interest.”

When sleep did make fleeting appearances, it was only to tease her with its elusiveness. She’d be sliding beautifully off, when suddenly she’d find herself cast back into the bedroom, with its thick brown curtains, faded carpet and cracked ceiling (the cracks seemed to be growing); with the heavy, even sleep breathing of the stranger lying beside her (for he
was
still a stranger to her, she could see that now); with the ticking of her alarm clock evolving into a constrained but relentless taunt. The spaces between the ticks seemed to extend themselves over the hours; to stretch out and grow, until on came the next sickeningly inevitable tick.

How could he sleep so deeply while she fretted and whirred beside him? How could he be so utterly oblivious to her fury? His sleep was an affront. The more she thought about it, the more she burned inside.

Why had he brought her here to this monkey house and lied to her about it? This was supposed to be a weekend for
the two them to get to know each other better. How ironic that she perhaps
was
getting to know him, finally.

Eventually—the clock showed five o’clock—she got out of bed, dressed in the previous day’s clothes, and threw her belongings into the little case she’d brought with her. Throughout her hurried and not particularly quiet packing process, he slept on. His sleep was obscene.

She took a brief look back at him from the doorway. The sun was coming up now, and his face was softening again, his skin honeying. For a moment she almost dropped the case, took off her clothes and got back into bed with him. Perhaps she should wait for him to wake up, give him a chance to explain…Her grip tightened on the handle of the suitcase. Just then, he stirred in his sleep and made a tiny sound in his throat, which had something of his laugh in it. His laugh. She turned and headed out the door.

Walking down the lane, Grace was soothed by birdsong and the sparkle of morning sunlight on the sea. She’d thought it would take a good hour to reach Horace and Mrs. Horace’s cottage and feared it might be longer still, but in fact it was only a twenty-minute walk. Cars distorted distances so.

It took a while before the upstairs curtains twitched. Shortly afterward, Horace appeared in a beige dressing gown.

“What the devil’s up, miss? Is someone taken ill or something?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you so early. Nothing’s wrong. But I’d be most obliged if you’d drive me to the station.” Grace couldn’t quite look him in the eye as she shoved some coins at him.

“Righto, then. Back in a jiffy. Would you like to step in a moment, miss…? Very well, then, as you please. You just wait here and I’ll be down directly.”

A cockerel was crowing somewhere nearby. A dog was barking. Grace sat down on the doorstep, her case beside her, and waited to start out on the drive back to the station. Once there, she’d catch the grindingly slow milk train to London. Alone in her carriage, she’d come upon a folded copy of yesterday’s
Telegraph
, its front page emblazoned with a photograph of a monoplane coming down over a floodlit airfield, and she’d settle back for the journey with the story of Charles A. Lindbergh’s epic flight. And long after she’d finished reading the article, she’d be sitting thinking about the man who wrote it. Turning things over in her mind. The things he’d said. The way he’d kissed her. John Cramer.

“Nancy?”

Grace’s heels were loud on the tiled floor of the hallway, the emptiness of the house ringing out at her. It seemed bigger than when she’d left. “Nancy?” she called again, though she knew by this time that her sister wasn’t at home, and wasn’t quite sure why she had shouted her name a second time. As if she could summon her up like a genie.

There was a faint smell of baking. In the kitchen, the two halves of a sponge cake were laid out on a wire rack, waiting to be pasted together with jam and cream and put away in a tin. Grace wanted this to mean that Nancy was, after all, somewhere about the place. She needed so badly to sit down with her sister and find out, absolutely and definitively, how Nancy felt about John Cramer. This was crucial now. She had
to know for certain whether or not her sister was in love with him.

She stepped forward and touched the cake. It was still warm.

There was a noise from the living room. A creaking floorboard.

“Nancy?” Grace felt slight trepidation as she approached.

“Just me, dear.” It was Mummy, sitting on the couch and bundling something swiftly into a wooden box. Looking flustered. “Did you have a nice time?”

“What have you got there?”

“Nothing of interest. Anyway, I thought you weren’t coming back until tomorrow. Is everything all right?”

“Fine. I just decided it was time to come home.”

“Shall I make us some tea? I’ve baked a cake.” Without waiting for the answer, Catherine got up, deposited the box in the bottom cupboard of the sideboard next to the drinks bottles and trotted off to the kitchen.

Sitting on the couch, waiting and listening to the distant clatters from the kitchen, Grace wondered what was going on. She was tempted to go and look in the box, but knew this would be a transgression.

“What were you doing?” she asked when Catherine finally came in.

“Nothing much.” She set the tray down on the low table and perched on the edge of a chair. Grace’s slice of cake was far too big. “I’m glad you’re back, though. We’ve a chance for a little talk.” She busied herself with strainers and tongs.

“What about?” Grace tipped the spilled tea back into her cup. In fact, she knew what this was going to be about. Nancy had warned her some time ago.

“Well, it’s your column, dear. It’s such a splendid opportunity. So many people reading you every week. What I’d have done to be in your position, at your age…”

“But?”

“All those words, week after week, devoted entirely to the latest hairstyles and dance steps…Why you should never order fish at such and such a place; how you stop your silver-fox coat from molting all over your dress. Frankly, I’d have thought you’d have something more
substantial
to say.”

Grace stared at her cake. Its daunting size. Here they were again, at their perennial difficulty: Catherine’s disappointment in her. It had been the same when she’d dropped out of university and then again when she’d first joined Pearson & Pearson—back in the days when Catherine pretty much lived for the WPS, patrolling self-importantly about Hampstead in that ridiculous uniform, shouting at drunks and chasing the couples off the Heath. Whatever Grace did, it would never be enough.

“It’s a column about going out in the West End. What would you have me write about?” But why had she even said it when the answer was so obvious?

Catherine set her cup and saucer down on the tray. “There are thousands and thousands of women across the country whose voices are simply not heard when it counts most. Your own sister is still one of them.”

“Mummy, it’s not my fault that you didn’t win your battle. I have my life to live. Must I live yours as well?”

“The battle is not lost! We won a partial victory and we’re still fighting.”

“Sorry,” said Grace. “I didn’t mean to belittle what you’ve done. I know we joke about it all, Nancy and I, but we both think you’re absolutely marvelous.” She glanced at
her mother. Frowned. There was something not quite right about all this. She’d been expecting this talking-to, but oddly Catherine looked as though she wasn’t even paying attention to her own tirade. “Mummy, what are you up to? I know you’re bothered about my column, but there’s something else going on.”

Catherine shook her head. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“What’s in the box, Mummy?”

“Just some photographs.”

“Mind if I take a look?” Before Catherine could answer, Grace was across the room and fetching the box out. Opening it up.

“See?” said Catherine. “It’s just photographs.”

There were only three photographs in the box. Formal groups, taken at a studio, each in a cardboard frame. One showed Grace and Nancy, aged about six and five respectively, wearing identical pinafore dresses, their arms around the shoulders of a tiny boy who stood between them—skinny with overlong blond hair, an absurd lace collar and knickerbockers.

“Sheridan,” said Grace.

The second picture showed the children’s parents. The women were seated on chairs: Catherine’s round, young face had a fresh, intelligent look to it, while Amelia, with her luxurious black hair and catlike eyes, was altogether more exotic. Behind them stood Daddy, with his shock of untamable hair, prematurely white, and his round glasses, every inch the mad professor; and Edward Shapcott, a good six inches taller with enormous shoulders and fierce eyes.

The third photograph had the whole group together. It was obvious, on examination, that this shot was taken at
the end of what had been a rather prolonged session. The children’s expressions displayed an obvious boredom and impatience, as though they couldn’t wait to get away and play. The adults were somewhat fixed and rigid in their posture.

“I’ve never seen these before,” said Grace.

“Dreadful, aren’t they? The photographer was quite hopeless.”

“I wouldn’t have said they were
that
bad. They’re not part of our collection though, are they? Where did they come from?”

But Catherine appeared thoroughly absorbed in cleaning her glasses.

“Are they Sheridan’s?” She knew, as soon as she’d spoken, that she was right. “Did he bring them round?”

“Yes, he did.” Mummy put the glasses back on for a moment. Then, dissatisfied, took them off again, blew on the lenses and continued with her polishing. “You only just missed him, actually. Nice boy. He tells me the two of you are quite friendly these days?”

“That’s right. Mummy…?”

“He wanted to talk to me about his parents. His mother in particular. Go trawling through the memories, sort of thing. He’s rather lonely, you know.”

Grace was staring at her mother. The words were making sense, the voice was light and normal-sounding, but Catherine was far from being her normal self. Her eyes were full of anguish and there was a tangible tension in her—as though it was taking all the effort she had to keep her emotions from bubbling over.

“Mummy…”

“I hadn’t seen him since he was a boy. There’s so much of his father in him! Rather took the wind out of my sails.”

“Yes, it must have.” Poor Catherine! There was a tear sliding down her face now. Grace reached out for her hand, touched it gently. They’d sworn they’d never tell, she and Nancy. They’d made a pact. “Mummy—” She was still hesitating, but if ever there was a right moment to speak out, it was surely now.

“Mummy, I know. I mean, I
know.
”

Catherine looked up at her with startled, watery eyes. “What?”

“About you and Edward Shapcott.”

“I see.” She got up. Moved to the mantelpiece, ostensibly to put her glasses away in their case. “How…”

“We’ve known for a long time, Nancy and me. We saw you together up on Parliament Hill. You were kissing. We weren’t so very young. I was thirteen. We’d guessed already. It was just a confirmation of what we both knew, each of us privately. It went on for years, didn’t it?”

It was out there now, taking shape between them. There was no going back.

“Oh, gosh.” Catherine was leaning heavily on the mantelpiece, her back turned to Grace. “I don’t know what to say to you.”

“It must have been very hard for you.” Grace wanted to go over and put a hand on her shoulder, but somehow she couldn’t. “I do understand, Mummy.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” The passion flared up in Catherine’s eyes as she looked around. “How could you possibly understand?”

The temptation to tell her mother about George was
strong. But no. No. “Mummy, you wandered off the path, but you did the right thing in the end. You both did. You ended the affair and you stood by your families.”

“Yes. We did.” She drew the back of her hand across her wet eyes. “And it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. You know, I did love your father very much. You do realize that, don’t you, Grace?”

“Of course you did.”

“But Edward…Edward Shapcott was the love of my life and I had to give him up.” Catherine was a sturdy woman, but in that moment she looked so frail, so fragile.

Grace swallowed. “Did Daddy ever know?”

The tiniest of nods. “I don’t want to speak about this again. Not ever. I don’t want Nancy to know about this conversation.” And then, after a moment, “Or Sheridan. Sheridan doesn’t know about any of this, Grace.”

“Whatever you want, Mummy.”