The Mysterious Affair at Castaway House (14 page)

I faced the boutique window while I considered my plan. The legend ‘Best Paris Fashions!’ mocked me with its sneering lie, sucking in young would-be flappers
through its black-wood doors. The whole town was a lie, an act, and Mrs Bray the biggest act of all. I imagined her inside the butcher’s back room now, amidst the hanging sides of beef, one bare leg wrapped round Mr Dacre’s waist, her tongue probing his lips just as Lizzie’s had probed mine, and as I paced up and down, I realized I had worked myself into quite a state of excitement and I had better calm down before marching in there to confront the hussy.

Then, as suddenly as she’d stopped, she emerged and continued on her way down Wellington Street, her heels clipping the pavement, a joint of meat wrapped in paper emerging from the mouth of her basket. I started after her, blinking at my mistake, realizing that of course she was on her way to her assignation still and had merely stopped to buy him some meat. Perhaps their furious lovemaking woke some sort of savagery in them, to be tamed only by animal flesh. There was certainly some sort of insidiousness occurring, as the meat orders for Castaway were undertaken by Mrs Pennyworth at pain of death of anyone else interfering, including Mrs Bray.

She slowed outside Bradley’s, the department store that imperiously surveyed the rest of the street from its position at the base, like a much-upholstered maiden aunt, and under whose curlicued three-sided Victorian clock I had met Lizzie and realized how much she bloomed when her father was not by her side.

Across the road from the end of Wellington Street was a small green with a fountain at its centre. Mrs Bray headed towards it, and I scanned the various benches that surrounded the fountain for a lone man pretending to read
a paper. I wondered, again with a rising excitement, if there were some particular bench well known as a spot to meet strangers with a view to disappearing to a cheap hotel. However, Mrs Bray walked straight through the crowd of people without looking left or right and crossed the road at the other end.

I hurried so as not to lose her. On the other side of the green was a terrace of run-down houses, broken by a narrow street opening in the middle. It was down here that she disappeared and I, desperate by now not to lose her, plunged across the road and followed her inside.

Instantly, I was in another world. A closed-in, dark, fetid little world.

The road here was cobbled still, a relic from an earlier time, and the cobbles sloped from both sides of the street to form a drain in the centre. Arched alleyways broke the two-storey terraces at regular intervals, leading to who knew where. Washing was pegged across the streets from the upper floors, and a foul smell permeated the air – of latrines, coal dust and rubbish.

The slums.

I had never entered streets such as these. I was aware of their existence in my home town, but I had never even been close to them before. In my imagination they were pockets of depravity and crime, where housewives emptied bottles of gin into their gullets and babies squalled their way to death behind walls oozing damp.

I should have known that this would be where my cousin’s wife chose to commit her act of adultery. She had a mouth as unpleasant as the stench I was breathing in now; it was only natural she would feel at home here. I
was tempted to turn tail and go straight back the way I had come, but I told myself that only a coward would do such a thing, and so I continued walking. Although I occasionally lost sight of her round a corner, the steady clop of her heels told me she was only slightly ahead, and I knew it would simply be a matter of time before she entered the house she was making towards.

I was somewhat surprised that these very houses were cleaner than I had imagined; in fact, several women were on their doorsteps as I passed, bent double and scrubbing them, a tin bucket of water by their side. Two more, neighbours, were cleaning their adjacent windows with red-raw hands and old grey cloths. As I passed they turned and nudged each other. ‘Lost something, dearie?’ called out one.

‘I … I’m quite all right, thank you.’ I tipped my hat to them as I passed, rather scared of their thick wrists and tree-trunk legs.

‘Don’t worry, darling, she’ll help you find it!’ shouted her friend, as they both hooted with laughter. I continued on my way, scarlet-faced, realizing now why Mrs Bray had stripped herself of the usual fast make-up and couture outfits, the better to blend into these crooked little streets.

‘Mister, you from the Corporation?’

There was a gaggle of young boys swarming about me.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m not from any Corporation.’

‘You got a farthing?’ asked one, a cheeky little beggar with dirty blond hair.

‘No, I haven’t.’ I turned my walk into a stride, as if I had some perfectly legitimate business here and that, once conducted, I absolutely knew where I was going and how to get out of this hellhole.

Yet every street I followed Mrs Bray down seemed to bring me further into the maze of the slum. The smell here became more intense, and I attempted to take as few breaths as possible, resulting in my lungs constricting further and panicking me even more.

I nearly collided with a man emerging from one of the arched alleyways, a black book in his hand, a sense of self-importance in his step although his shoes were worn and his hat was bent. I wondered if this was the mysterious man from the Corporation.

I proceeded cautiously to the next alleyway, and, on looking down it, I saw Mrs Bray being embraced by a tiny, malnourished woman in a pinny.

I could almost believe I had imagined the scene, that Mrs Bray, with her bobbed hair and eyebrows shaped into a permanent sneer, could bear to be touched by such a creature – and yet she had. Perhaps the woman was the procuress, I thought, although it hardly seemed feasible that Mrs Bray would have the need of her services. Yet I had led an innocent life and had no idea of the depths to which the vicious could sink.

A sharp object hit my back and, as I turned, another stone now hit me square in the chest. A group of older boys – in reality, more like young men – stared at me, hands in pockets, expressions of malignancy on their faces.

I stared back at them and, as I did so, one of them pulled back his hand and lobbed another stone at me. I held up my arm and the stone bounced off it. ‘What you doing here?’ one of them jeered.

I put my arm down. ‘I was going about my business,’
I said firmly, determined not to be intimidated. They were younger than me, after all.

The leader of the men, who wore his shirt unbuttoned at the neck and had his cap pushed back on his head, spat on the ground. ‘Going about your business?’ he mocked. ‘We don’t want your fucking business here, ponce.’

‘Yeah,’ said another. ‘Fuck off back to the Majestic.’

A stone hit me again, and a sharp pain spiked my cheek under my eye. I staggered backwards, holding up my hands to protect my face, and said, ‘You could have blinded me, you fool!’

‘I’ll fucking get you next time.’ I sensed another stone being prepared. I was against the wall; I could not even run. They had me surrounded; they had heavy-looking boots and fists trained by manual labour. My lungs constricted and I cursed them for letting me down just when I needed them the most.

‘What the flaming heck is going on out here?’

The youths turned. The malnourished woman I had seen in the alleyway was out on the street, arms akimbo, glaring from me to the boys.

As one being, they shrugged. ‘Nothing,’ they muttered.

‘Nothing, my arse!’ She jabbed a finger in my direction. ‘He’s bleeding, you not see that?’

‘What’s he doing here anyway?’ said the ringleader, defiantly. ‘Ponce.’

The woman turned to him and said, ‘And you, Ted, you should know better.’ She made a shooing motion with her hands. ‘Go on, get yourself back home and lend your mother an ’and instead of hanging about here causing trouble.’

There was a general embarrassed shuffling. Backs were turned, shoulders hunched. Ted muttered something vague about getting me another day.

The woman shook her head at me. ‘You,’ she said firmly, ‘you’re coming in here so I can take a look at that.’

She walked into the alleyway, beckoning me to follow with one finger and shouting behind her, ‘And if any of you’re still here when I come out, I’ll box the ears of the lot of yer.’

I followed her into the depths of the alley. ‘Thank you,’ I said to her back, feeling that the words were somehow inadequate. ‘Honestly. Thank you.’

‘No blinking work, that’s the trouble with that lot,’ she muttered, almost to herself. ‘All they got to do is hang about being bored. You something to do with Clare? Cos she never told me no one else was coming.’

‘Er …’ I began, as the alleyway turned a corner and we were suddenly in a small yard.

The smell of sewage here was overwhelming and appeared to be coming from what I assumed was the privy, tucked into one side of the yard. More washing was strung across the cobblestones, and facing each other on either side were two houses, the mirror of the ones on the street. On the step of the left-hand one a child dressed in a scrubby little dress was playing with a rag doll: some sort of make-believe game. She walked her doll first one way and then the other along the low step, sing-songing imaginary conversations to herself.

As I stood in the yard, watching the girl, I had the odd feeling that I was looking down on myself from above, and the image I saw made me cringe. Here was a young
man in good clothes marching through the poorest quarter of town as if he had the perfect right to be there. Not only was he obviously a cretin, he was a frightful snob to boot. No wonder those boys had attacked me; in fairness, I deserved nothing less.

‘Not there.’ The woman jerked an elbow at the right-hand house, bustling her way towards its open door. ‘This way. I’ll need to dress that wound.’

I swallowed and entered the house, ducking my head to fit under the low doorway. The entrance gave directly on to a tiny bare-walled room, which had a stone sink, a lung-tightening, smoking black range and a wooden table, one of whose legs was propped up with a pile of newspapers. Sitting at the table was Mrs Bray, smoking a cigarette and looking as incongruous in the room as a poppy in a rubbish tip.

Her eyes widened with shock when she saw me. Her mouth gaped open around her cigarette. ‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘What the fuck?’

‘Found him outside being set on by that Ted Barker and his mates.’ The woman had pulled a clean scrap of cloth from some hidden drawer and was holding it over a small bottle, tipping it upside down. ‘Throwing stones at him. Can you believe it?’

‘I’d throw a grenade at him if I had one handy.’ She eyed me with as icy a look as I’d ever seen on her.

The woman turned, a question on her brow. ‘You two know each other?’

‘Unfortunately.’ Mrs Bray tipped ash into the tin tray in front of her. ‘Following me, Mr Carver?’

‘Ooh.’ The woman cackled and looked up at me,
delighted. ‘You do know she’s a married woman, don’t you?’

‘He certainly does.’ She sucked on her cigarette. ‘He’s my husband’s cousin.’

‘I see.’ The woman clearly did not see, but covered her confusion with a brisk, ‘Right, sit down, you, so I can have a look at that wound.’

She dragged me on to a chair by my jacket and I sat down with a thump, facing Mrs Bray. I wished, with a fervency that I had never previously experienced, that the floor would open up and take me into the bowels of the earth for ever. I wanted somehow to present an acceptable explanation for my presence, but none occurred, and so I simply said, ‘Yes, I’m afraid I was following you.’

The woman held the cloth to my forehead; the alcohol she’d soaked it in stung horribly and I winced.

‘Hurts, does it?’ asked Mrs Bray. ‘I really hope so.’

‘Come on now,’ said the woman, dabbing at my wound. ‘We all know what it’s like to be lovesick, don’t we?’

Mrs Bray snorted and poked a finger in my direction. ‘He’s not lovesick, Dotty. He’s been sent to spy on me, either by my husband or my father-in-law. I presume Mr Carver followed me because he thought I was on my way to visit my lover, like the brazen little whore I am.’

The woman she’d called Dotty laughed. ‘That’s a good one,’ she said. ‘Got a lover in here, have you? Wouldn’t mind one meself. Pass him over when you’re done.’

‘I’m not a spy,’ I whispered, in between winces. She gave me such a look of scorn I added, ‘I – I mean, Uncle Edward didn’t send me … and Alec … Alec knows nothing.’

‘That’s true enough,’ she said sourly. ‘They’ll inscribe that on his headstone.’

‘Please.’ I knew I was scarlet-faced. I lowered my head, only to have it whipped upright by Dotty. ‘I am so sorry. Allow me to apologize.’

‘For what? Thinking I’m an adulteress, or following me, or having far too much interest in your cousin’s wife than is appropriate?’ She stood up and ground out her cigarette in the ashtray.

Perhaps I could die right then and there, I thought. That would solve the crushing shame that was forcing me lower and lower in my chair. ‘I can only apologize,’ I said again.

‘Oh, grow up, you little boy.’ As she swished past me, the wool of her shawl brushed my neck. ‘Bye, Dotty. Sorry I couldn’t stay.’

‘That’s all right, my love.’ Dotty’s voice was as strained as my own. ‘And thanks for all the stuff. You shouldn’t, you know.’

‘I absolutely should.’ I heard the soft collapse of a cheek-to-cheek kiss, and then, like a subsiding storm, Mrs Bray was gone, clacking back over the cobbles, and I found that, once again, I was able to breathe.

Dotty whistled. ‘Ooh, you really upset her and no mistake. Like a tiger when she’s riled, ain’t she?’

‘To be honest,’ I winced again, ‘I’ve never seen her any other way.’

‘Ah, she’s a pussycat really.’ She leaned close to my cheek as she inspected the damage. ‘But then, I’ve known her since she was born. Can’t get away with nothing with old Dot.’ She laughed.

Despite myself, curiosity forced a question from my lips. ‘She grew up here?’

‘Princes Street girl, through and through.’ She turned her back to me and bent down, pulling apart a flimsy curtain that hid shelves of neatly stacked boxes. ‘That’s the main road, Princes Street. It’s what we call our area. You never been before?’