Penny, unwilling to display sentiment, laid her hand on John’s and, after a moment, withdrew it.
“Didn’t I say anything to you that night? You know, at your hotel?”
John could not see any good could come of raking that up. It was not nice to remember you had seen your daughter so much the worse for drink that she could hardly stand. Nor did he want to recall Penny’s face as he had seen it that night.
“No.”
“I’ve often wondered. I was so cockeyed.”
“Give up wonderin’. Get down to realities. Your stepmother thinks we should try for a small place in the country. Old Pollock says we’d all better move from here where too many people think Jane is Duke’s child.”
“I suppose that will have to happen. I wish it needn’t. I know it’s better to bring a child up in the country, but I’ve become so much a Cockney. The war did that. I’d like Jane to be a Londoner. I think accidental backgrounds are a bore. I belonged to Peasefield, but if I get some place in the country now it won’t have anything to do with us, but London is to do with me.”
To Penny’s surprise John nodded understandingly.
“See how things turn out. Can’t move till you find somewhere. You know your stepmother and I aren’t settled here. Glad to find an excuse to shift. Seemed the sensible thing to do when we got the offer for Peasefield House to come here. Had nowhere else to go, but we don’t belong. Sometimes think we might try for a small place Devon or Somerset.” Penny saw herself and Jane in Devon or Somerset. Then she smiled. John looked inquiring. “What’s funny in that?”
“It’s me. I was thinking it would be nice for Jane in her holidays, and then I thought how like a revolting film it all was. You know, the little golden-haired grandchild healing hearts—all that stuff—really only need some organ music.”
John could not follow that. He thought Penny was talking poppycock. He got up.
“If you’ve finished your port what about comin’ into the drawin’-room?” He caught Penny by the shoulders and turned her to face him. “Hear you’ve given up that job. What about you and Jane comin’ riding now the weather’s a bit better?”
Penny thought, “This party’s gone on long enough; ‘t’isn’t possible to get on easy terms all at once. We’ve been careful and it’s been very nice, but enough is enough. Not that we won’t settle down; in the end we will, in fact, I can see us settled down.” Out loud she said:
“I’ve nothing to ride in but I’ll dig something out, and I must rig out Jane. If you don’t mind I’ll be going off now. I want an early bed.”
John kissed her.
“Very well, my dear, bless you.”
Penny was surprised to find herself going to bed. When she had told John she would go to bed it was in her mind to go out and find some of her friends, but when she reached her bedroom she discovered she was deadly tired. Tired, but more relaxed than she had been for days. Life was taking shape; it seemed to her as if she had been fumbling along a tunnel which was now growing lighter. Soon she would be out in the open. It would not be the open country she wanted, but it would be the open. It had always upset her to hear her daughter called Duke; the sooner she could put an end to that the better. Still, for the moment, while she had to be in London, there was some sense in it. Everybody in the house was used to her fondness for the child. There were not so many to be interested; she must be careful in front of Mabel; old Hannah would never put two and two together. She must be careful in front of Mrs. Parks, with her sharp mind and clacking tongue. The Willises she never saw and they took no interest in other people’s affairs. Paula had guessed the truth already and certainly would not pass it on to Mr. Bettelheim. Jane would be home in a day or two, she would put her bed beside her own. She laughed at herself about that. “You’ll have to change your ways, Penny, my girl, and if I know you that’s not going to be so easy.” As she got into bed she thought how nice it was that she had talked it out with her father. It had been hell, really, ever since she had been in this flat, hoping not to meet him, not to run into him, trying never to see him alone. She wished in a way he had told her what she had said that night when Bill had left her. She must have said something. Vile to be so tight you didn’t know what you’d said. She thought he looked better, less grey and bent. She’d try and make it up to him. It was not easy to be the daughter about the place after all these years, but it would please him and she would try. She stretched out her hand for her bottle of sleeping tablets, then laid it down in surprise. She felt for the first time since her day of confession that she did not need them. She would not even have to read to keep herself from thinking. She lay down and went drowsily through what she and John had said, her mind caught at Charlotte’s phrase, “Don’t judge. Help.” Poor old Charlotte! She hoped she wasn’t having too bad a time, for if ever a nice woman walked she was one.
Penny woke with a start disturbed by her front door bell. She turned on her light and looked at the clock. Two-fifteen! Well, whoever it was could stop outside; probably someone had said, “Let’s see if old Penny’s awake and will give us a drink.” The bell rang again and was followed by knocks. Penny pulled on her dressing-gown and put on her slippers. Blast them, whoever they were, they would wake the whole house.
She opened the front door prepared for loud greetings; instead, a completely strange young man lurched in. Her experienced eye told her he was very drunk.
“Who are you? Who do you want?”
The young man blinked at her, trying to focus her clearly.
“This Lady Nettel’s house?”
He was under the hall light. Penny knew who he was. They were bloodshot, but they were Charlotte’s eyes that were looking at her. Before Charlotte’s hair went white she had probably been chestnut; this must be Peter. Penny was never at a loss with drunks. Obviously she could not turn Charlotte’s son out into the street. In any case, he would only knock and ring and wake the Parkses. She had no idea what Charlotte meant to do about Peter, but she was certain she would not want him explaining to the Parkses where he had come from or who he was. As if she had been expecting him and was dressed to receive him, Penny said graciously:
“You must be Peter Ternon, my half-brother, do come in.”
Peter was far too muzzy with drink to work that out.
“Half-sis’er? I’ve no half-sis’er.”
Penny took his arm.
“Yes, you have. I’m Penny. Your mother married my father, Sir John Nettel.”
Peter stumbled beside her into the sitting-room.
“That bastard, ruined my life; always said my mother wanted to be rid of me to marry him.”
Penny pushed him into an armchair.
“What you need is some coffee.”
“No. What I need’s a drink.”
Penny knew it was no good arguing with a drunk. She went over to her drink cabinet.
“What’ve you been drinking?”
“Whisky.” She poured out two whiskies, and added soda, and gave him his glass. He wagged a finger at her. “Nice girl. Makes me laugh to think my mother’s sitting in a lil’ hotel Gloucester.”
“Why Gloucester?”
“‘Shamed of me. You don’ know anybody in Gloucester, nobody knows anybody in Gloucester.”
Penny quite saw Charlotte’s choice of a remote hotel, but somehow it seemed unlike her to leave her son, even an unattractive specimen like this, to come out of prison alone, not met, to find his way to a hotel to join her. She had no idea what happened when people came out of prison, but she thought she had read that relations met you outside the gates.
“Didn’t she meet you when you came out?”
Once more Peter wagged a finger at her.
“Too clever for her. ‘I’ll mee’ you,’ she said. ‘No, you won’t,’ I said. I knew how it would be. ‘D’you really wan’ ’nother drink, Pe’er?’ When you�
�ve been without a drink long as I have you don’ want anybody telling you how many drinks you wan’. Never did understand me, never had a chance.” The easy emotionalism of drunkenness came over him. Tears trickled down his cheeks. “Never had a chance.”
“We’ll have to see you have one now.”
“Too late. D’you know what happened to me—father was rich—gambled it all away and then fell on a railway line—everything finished—I was taken from school—sen’ to beas’ly lil’ school—we moved to flat in Brighton—you can’t be brought up rich one day, next day nothin’. I couldn’t—wasn’t fair.” He finished his whisky. “What I say is, there’s plen’ money ’bout if you know where to look for it. I got wha’ I wanted, then I was unlucky, I was caught—wha’ you say your name was?”
“Penny.”
He held out his glass.
“Gimme ’nother drink—I’m no good, Penny—never be any good—Chaplain said to me, ‘You’re young, you’ve go’ all the worl’ in fron’ of you,’ but I said, ‘No—no’ true—there’s only one way I can live and what’ll happen?—ca’ch me again.’”
Penny gave him his refilled glass. She hoped he would not be sick on her carpet; he looked a most depressing colour. She was turning over in her mind what to do with him. She could make him a bed in her sitting-room and lock both doors on him, or she could fetch her father. On the whole, she thought, John had better handle him. Most likely Charlotte did not want him in the house; John might have some idea where he could go for the night. What a mess he was! Whatever was Charlotte going to do with him? Poor, wretched Charlotte! She must try and get the name of the hotel and ring her up.
“Do you want anything to eat?”
Peter was too deep in pity for himself to hear what she said.
“There’s no place in the world for an old lag, Penny—d’you suppose anybody’s going to say, ‘Here’s a poor devil had a bad break, let’s give him a chance?’—nobody—you don’t know what it does to a fellow to be taken from a good school and shoved into a cheap one—no money to spend—I’ve had a rotten deal.” A sob broke from him. “I tell you, I’ve prayed a bomb would fall on the prison and finish me—wha’ good am I—tell me that?”
Penny thought, none at all. Poor old Charlotte!
“Which hotel were you going to in Gloucester?”
He rambled on increasingly unable to speak coherently.
“You don’t know wha’ it’s like to wish you were dead—you don’t know and never will know.”
Penny looked at the clock. It wouldn’t do any good to go on giving him whisky till he was unconscious. If she was going to fetch John she must find an excuse to get out of the room. She came across and patted his shoulder.
“Cheer up. I don’t know about you, but I want a cup of coffee, It’ll warm us up. You don’t want to give up, you know.”
“Have given up—thought it would be marvellous when I was free—thought, to-morrow I’ll be standin’ in the road outside—nobody saying, ‘Do this, do that’—go where I like—what happened?—scared of everything. People, traffic, everything—d’you know it took me half a’ hour to ge’ up my courage walk into a bar and say, ‘Gimme a double whisky.’”
“Damn lucky to get it. Plenty of bars haven’t got doubles these days.”
He fell forward, gripping her round the waist, his face pressed to her hips, tears pouring down his cheeks.
“Don’ laugh—you’ve been kind to me—on’y fren’ I got.”
Penny began to lose her temper.
“For goodness’ sake, I never heard such nonsense. Your mother’s been marvellous, she’s been down to see you every month, I know.”
“On’y for the look of the thing—didn’ want people saying she was ashamed of me—I tell you, Penny, if I knew how to do it I’d put an end to myself—no good—nothing’s any good.”
Penny freed herself from him. She knew the exhibitionist type. Nothing was so salutary or so sobering as to take them at their word.
“If that’s all you want there’s a loaded revolver in that top drawer. You’ve only got to take it out and use it. Now, for goodness’ sake, cheer up, I’m going to get some coffee.” She pushed him back in his chair. “Sit still, you’ll fall over if you try and get up.”
Peter looked round the room after Penny had gone. What had she said? Loaded revolver? She thought he was just talking. She thought he didn’t mean what he said. Did he mean what he said? ’Course he did—never had a chance—never going to have a chance . . . He got to his feet, swayed, then steadied himself. He went across to her desk. He could not see clearly the handles of the drawer but he got it open. Jack’s service revolver lay on the top of a pile of papers. He picked it up.
Penny was just putting the coffee on the stove when she heard the shot. She flew into her sitting-room. Peter must have understood firearms; he had done the job perfectly. She felt his pulse but before she touched him she knew that he was dead.
* * * * *
The milkman stopped Nellie outside the Nettels’ house. He hurried down the area steps. Mrs. Parks was waiting for him.
“Inquest next week.”
“You called?”
With the deepest regret Gladys had to reply that she was not. Over and over again she had said to Rene—and Rene had agreed with her—there was no understanding how she and Alfred had come to sleep so heavily that they had never heard the shot. “Right over our heads and never moved, though mind you, as I said to the policeman, I seem to remember waking for a minute with a nasty start, and though I didn’t look at me watch it must have been then. We didn’t even hear the police come. That’s not to be wondered at for Sir John himself opened the front door. It’s a funny thing but police, when you don’t want them, walk so heavy it’s enough to shake the street, but when they come to your house you’d think they’d got on felt slippers.”
The milkman had been having the time of his life telling his friends of the death and was willing for any scrap of news that Gladys had to spare. Joany had perked up wonderful since it had happened, and even Joany’s flash brother, though he had not said so in words, had suggested that some people had all the luck.
“Any further news? D’you think the police believe he shot ’imself?”
Gladys was torn between her liking for Penny and her wish for further drama. She compromised.
“That’s for the coroner.”
“Seems funny his calling on her in the early morning, never having seen her before. He was her half-brother, so the papers say. ’Course you never know with these cases. Maybe there was money in it somewhere.”
Gladys could not let that pass.
“No. What I can’t get over is him being Lady N’s son. So secret she’s been. D’you know the maids upstairs never knew she had a son?”
“Well, ’e wasn’t the sort of son any one would want to have.”
“You’ve said it. I was sorry for her, though. She’d fixed up to stay with him in a hotel in Gloucester. Waited and waited, poor thing. Sir John telephoned at half-past three in the morning. He knew where she was staying. You should have seen her when she came home. She looked terrible.” She felt in her pocket. “You seen this picture of me?” She produced a smudged picture of the house. “It was in the paper. Of course I don’t come out so well being behind the area; lucky I thought to pick up Ket, he looks ever so pretty. Rene says—she’s my daughter—that if we write to the paper we could get a proper photo.” She sighed, not adding what Alfred had said about that. “After all, lots never get a picture in a paper.”
The milkman put the bottles of milk on the floor.
“Well, I’ll be getting up to the kitchen.”
“They won’t tell you anything there, even that Mabel who’s usually got plenty to say for herself; carries on as if it was the death of a relation. As for Hannah, she couldn’t act up worse if it was her own son.
”
The milkman knew about that. Mabel, usually so cheerful, had taken their milk from him with scarcely a word. In a dim way he understood how she felt. After all, it wasn’t a nice thing to happen.
“I feel sorry for his mother, poor thing. She was ever so nice that day I picked up her parcels. I was telling her how Joany and me needed a home. She was ever so interested.”
He went out to fetch the Nettels’ milk. He was just climbing the steps to ring their bell when he saw Charlotte coming up the street. She looked, until she got close to him, very much as she had last time he had seen her. Then he saw she might have been through an illness. He was embarrassed. He wished he could get off the steps and out of her way. Charlotte was getting her keys out of her bag and did not for a moment seem conscious of him. Then she said:
“Good afternoon. I’ll open the door for you.” She tried to give him all her attention and succeeded. “Have you got a home yet?”
He shook his head, wishing he could think of something to say to show he was sorry for her.
“No, ’m.”
She fiddled with her keys, looking for the right one, then gave him a sweet, but, as he told Joany later, shockingly sad smile.
“We must see what we can do about that.”
* * * * *
Penny and Charlotte were at the foot of the front stairs. Both were drenched with exhaustion. Penny was wearing a hat and her hair was pinned up. She wrenched off the hat and pulled the pins out of her hair.
“That’s better. How I abominate hats, but I thought they were probably the done thing in Coroners’ courts. What an atmosphere! They can’t have opened a window since last autumn. My head’s bursting.”
Charlotte began to climb the stairs, each step an effort. Penny, watching her, was moved and angry with herself for being moved. How stupid, she thought, to get a lump in your throat when you watched Charlotte tired, wretched and yet somehow so entirely her poised, usual self, toiling up the stairs, and not get a lump when you listened to an equally composed Charlotte, with great dignity, giving a shattering description of the character of her dead son. Charlotte said, without looking round:
Grass in Piccadilly Page 24
