by Mary Gibson
‘Why not?’
‘You don’t look like a Bermondsey girl any more,’ Aunt Sarah said and insisted she didn’t want to eat her dinner being stared at. They went back to East Lane, where her aunt put out some cold mutton and pickles.
‘How do you like living with Archie?’ her aunt asked as she made room at the cluttered kitchen table.
Kate was silent a moment too long.
‘Seen the other side of him now?’
The cold mutton was tough and she waited till she could swallow it, then pushed the plate away. ‘I ain’t got much of an appetite, Aunt Sarah. You may as well save this for tomorrow.’
‘You don’t look well, Kate. He’s dressing you nice enough, but I should think that’s cold comfort after the way you built him up. I warned you! He’s disappointed you, ain’t he?’
She wasn’t sure if her aunt’s lifelong loyalty to her brother had been completely broken or merely stretched. What if she couldn’t trust her?
‘More than disappointed, Aunt Sarah. He’s turned on me.’
‘Turned?’
‘He threw a hammer at me.’
Aunt Sarah’s small eyes narrowed and she gave a knowing nod. She wasn’t shocked. ‘What did you do to upset him?’
‘I asked him about the night Mum died, and he went mad. Said I’d get worse if I didn’t keep me mouth shut. But that just made me believe it more…’
‘Believe what?’
‘That he killed my mum.’
Aunt Sarah put a hand to her mouth. Kate had never seen her display such a range of emotion. It was like watching a sluggish Thames as the churning tide turned. Eddies of confusion, whirls of disbelief surfaced, disappeared, then resurfaced on her broad flat face, till she shook her head. ‘No! You’re wrong. Sylvie saw your mum at the bottom of them garret stairs and her neck was broke. Why would you say such a wicked thing about Archie?’ Her aunt was breathless, sweat shining on her forehead.
‘Because I saw him that night.’
‘Saw him kill her?’
‘No.’
‘Well then.’
Kate explained exactly what she had seen and doubt clouded Sarah’s small dark eyes. Doubt and fear.
‘I know Archie was angry with Bessie because she had some of her gold left and she wouldn’t let him have it. He needed money to start up this business. Mind you, she’d given him most of what she had already, and I suppose all the promises he made hadn’t come true. They was living up in that garret and she was thinking of the future. But you can’t cross our Archie. He won’t be told “no”.’ Aunt Sarah rubbed her hand across the pitted wood of the table. ‘I will tell you something, though, Kate, he moved heaven and earth to get that girl to marry him. Then once they was married, he ended up treating her like shit. It’s my opinion he was more interested in her gypsy gold than anything else.’
She wondered now if that’s all her father had seen in Nora as well. Poor Nora. She’d been worried Chibby felt trapped into marriage by her pregnancy, but now Kate suspected it was the other way around.
‘Aunt Sylvie’s always been Dad’s biggest champion. Can you trust she’s telling the truth about what happened to my mum?’
‘Trust her? Well, I suppose not. At the time I did think it was a bit strange she was the one found your Mum. She had no time for her, never went inside her house, not for nothing, not even a cup of sugar! I never dreamed she was lying about it, though.’
‘Do you think he could have done it?’
‘If he was in a rage with Bessie he might’ve lashed out and hurt her – by accident. You never really knew him, love. But there was times when he’d give me a right-hander.’
‘You?’ Kate was genuinely shocked. ‘But why did you pretend he was something special all these years, then? Why lie to me?’
Her aunt thought for a moment. ‘I wasn’t lying. You can be special and still be a bastard, Kate. Ain’t you learned that yet?’
She felt more than crushed, she felt pulverized to a fine powder that might dissipate on the wind of one more damning revelation about her father. Aunt Sarah put a rare comforting arm around her. ‘I’m sorry you’ve had to find all this out about your dad. Truth be told, I used to like telling all them stories about Archie much better than I ever liked the feller himself.’
‘I’m going to see Aunt Sylvie.’ Kate rose and retrieved her hat and handbag. Aunt Sarah followed her.
‘Not without me, you ain’t!’
*
Aunt Sylvie’s look of surprise was almost comical and it was probably only that surprise which got them through the front door. The kitchen was exactly the same. Laundry hanging on an overhead dolly, and a pudding boiling away on the range filling the air with thick, fatty steam. The same, yet different. Kate looked around at the scene of so many torments and realized how ordinary it was. And Aunt Sylvie, the torturer of her youth, how worn out and plain and insignificant she looked. There was nothing remotely scary about this woman. Kate was almost regretful that she didn’t even want revenge. All she wanted was the truth.
‘What do you pair want?’ Sylvie stood with arms crossed over her faded pinafore. ‘I ain’t got all day, they’ll all be home soon and expecting their tea.’ She shot an accusing look at Kate, as if blaming her for no longer being there to cook it.
Aunt Sarah spoke first. ‘Don’t ask us to sit down, we wouldn’t want to catch nothing.’
‘All right, you can go and piss off out of it!’ Aunt Sylvie uncrossed her arms. She looked ready to swing a fist.
‘Don’t start, you two.’ Kate stood between them. ‘Aunt Sylvie, I just need a few minutes. I’ve come from me dad’s.’
‘Oh, I know where you’re living. His new favourite now! Looked after you all them years, I did – for nothing!’ She clicked her fingers in disgust. ‘Always promising he’d give me something for your keep and I never got a penny from him. But he don’t want to know me, not now I’ve served me purpose.’
This was something new. Sylvie criticizing Archie? He had obviously told Kate the truth when he’d vowed to cut off both his sisters.
‘What’s he sent you here for – to do his dirty work?’
‘Can we sit down?’ She saw Aunt Sarah grimace and shot her a warning look. ‘Dad doesn’t know I’m here. And I don’t agree with the way he’s treated you both.’
Aunt Sylvie tucked in her chin, stared at her, and said, ‘All right then, say what you’ve come to say.’
Kate took a deep breath. Trying to avoid accusing Aunt Sylvie of covering up a murder wasn’t going to be easy. ‘You know I’ve been living with him – in Belgravia.’
‘Money.’ Aunt Sylvie nodded. ‘Belgravia – that’s money for you.’
‘I think he’s in debt.’
‘Well that ain’t nothing new, he’s always owed someone something. But Archie can get himself out of anything, plenty of old bunny, he could talk the leaves off the trees, couldn’t he, Sarah?’
Aunt Sarah nodded.
‘I think he’s had all Nora’s inheritance for his business and for his house in Belgravia.’
‘Nora, that French tart?’
Kate swallowed her retort. ‘They’re married now.’
‘Not before time. They had a boy, didn’t they?’
‘What boy?’ Aunt Sarah asked. ‘I don’t know nothing about no boy!’
‘That’s because Archie was writing to me – not you!’
‘He doesn’t talk about Paul. He didn’t even tell me I had a brother.’ Kate tried to mollify Sarah, for she’d get no information if these two started arguing. She suggested a cup of tea and got up, reverting to her servant status without a thought.
The two sisters sat in strained silence while she made it, but once the tea was in their hands she felt her aunts were less likely to come to blows, and so she pressed on. ‘I’ve come to ask about the night my mum died. Aunt Sylvie, are you certain it was an accident?’
Silence hung thick as steam in the kitchen. She could hear the wate
r around the pudding basin bubbling and spitting in the pan. It needed topping up, but Kate didn’t dare speak.
Finally, Sylvie put down her cup and let out a long breath. ‘Whatever I tell you, you’ll never prove nothing against him. But – she shook her head slowly – it wasn’t no accident.’
Kate leaned forward, putting a hand over Aunt Sarah’s to stop her interrupting.
‘I remember it like it was yesterday. He come here in the middle of the night, in a terrible state. Blood all over his hands and his shirt. He says, “I’ve killed her, Sylvie. She’s finally driven me to it, you’ve got to help me.” And he tells me he’d got himself in trouble with Mr Smith, owed him a lot. He asked Bessie for the rest of her jewellery and she said there wasn’t none left, he’d had it all. But he knew different. He turned the place upside down. “Sylvie,” he says, “Mr Smith’s threatening to cut me throat and chuck me in the Thames and she wouldn’t help me!” Well, he hit her and she’s cracked her head on the range and that was that. Dead.’ Aunt Sylvie sat back, looking exhausted. She closed her eyes and Kate saw a single tear escape. As it trickled down her cheek, she opened her eyes and went on, ‘Don’t look at me like that, Sarah, what could I do? Bessie was dead. And his life was over if I said a word to anyone. So, I left him in here, sitting just where you’re sitting now, Sarah. And then I went next door and found Bessie, laying on the floor with her head smashed in and her neck broke. I pulled her over to the stairs, cleaned all the blood up around the range. Then I went up the garret stairs to check on you.’ For the first time in her account she looked at Kate. ‘You was asleep and I picked you up and took you home.’
‘I don’t remember that,’ Kate said in a hoarse voice that sounded very far away. ‘I only remember Dad bringing me to your house, after Mum’s funeral, and then leaving me there.’
‘It’s just as well you didn’t remember – when I got you back home, he wouldn’t even look at you. Guilt. Guilt, not grief. That’s why he never wanted to see you. He’d robbed you of your mother, hadn’t he? He went out that night, back up to Liverpool, so he could pretend he was away when it happened.’
‘Why did you protect him?’ Kate asked, dry-mouthed.
‘He played on me soft heart.’
Aunt Sarah gave a snort of disbelief.
‘Oh, you can laugh, Sarah. I wasn’t always a hard woman. But I learned. He says to me, “Would you deprive that orphan child of her father, just because I’ve robbed her of her mother?”’ She paused. ‘And I looked at her, shivering she was and her arms stretched out to her daddy and I knew what I had to do. Well, the arrangement was that she’d live with me, just till his business was on its feet, and then he’d come back for her and see me right. And did he? Did he begawd.’ She sat back, finished at last. ‘So, is that what you wanted to know, Kate? Is it better, now you know the truth? Or should I have kept me mouth shut, like I have all these years?’
She didn’t feel any better. But she did feel stronger.
‘I’ll go to the police.’
‘You’ve got no proof.’ Aunt Sylvie went to the range and inspected the saucepan. ‘Me puddin’s burned dry. Stan won’t be happy when he comes home, meat pudding’s his favourite.’
‘You could tell the police the truth.’
‘But I won’t.’
*
Kate made a silver bowl. She hammered it so finely the indentations were barely visible. She soldered elegant, swan-necked handles on either side, burnished it till it was without blemish, and then she took it to Martin.
‘Oh, Kate. This is beautiful! But where did you get the silver?’
‘From my father.’
‘Actually, I was hoping you’d reconsider the idea of putting your work into a gallery.’
‘Can you sell it for me?’ she asked.
Martin shot her a puzzled look. ‘But you told me Chibby doesn’t approve of “his women” going into trade,’ he said tartly.
‘I don’t give a tinker’s curse what he approves of. If you can get it sold, it would help me out. I need to get hold of some cash – quickly.’
Martin picked up the bowl. He ran his fingers around its curved body and along the elegant handles. ‘So well balanced! I’ll buy it. How much?’
She was taken aback. ‘That don’t seem right.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because if I gave it to you, I’d want it to be a gift.’
He looked at her, love warming those cool grey eyes. ‘It’s my gift to you.’
‘I can’t let you do that, but you’re so kind to offer, Martin. I don’t think I deserve you.’ And she flung her arms around him and held him tightly. He laughed, delighted, because normally he found her not demonstrative enough. It’s the Goss in me, she’d explained to him once, the only feelings we can’t hide are when we’re angry! And now the very thought of her father’s blood running through her veins made her shudder.
*
The other trip that she needed to make while her father was absent wasn’t so easy to arrange without Nora’s knowledge. She told her she was going out with Martin for the day, but instead took the train to the small Sussex station near Paul’s school. She didn’t bother to knock on the front door. They would certainly have turned her away on this unscheduled visit. Instead she made her way to the back of the house, where, on open day, she’d noticed a metal fire escape. Now she climbed it to the second floor. On the way up, she heard sounds of lessons going on and discordant jangling from the music class, so hated by Paul. She came to a tall sash window and began to ease it open, but froze as it stuck and juddered noisily in its warped frame. It was open about a foot, but she couldn’t risk raising it any higher. She squeezed through, putting one leg over the sill, then ducking her head and dragging the other leg after her. She was in a long corridor smelling of wood polish and urine. Walking softly forward, she checked each door. Paul had told her the dormitories were named after trees and his was called Thorn.
The reason she knew he would not be in class today was that he’d told her so. He’d slipped her a note towards the end of open day, begging her to get him out of the school. He knew he was being treated differently to the other children, he wrote. Tied into his chair all day, left in his dormitory without even a book – sometimes they even forgot to feed him. He pretended to his mother that the swimming and the pottery and the trips out were for older boys, but that wasn’t true. He was left out because his fees weren’t paid. He didn’t want to upset his parents, but he needed to come home now. Could she help him?
Thorn announced itself with a picture of a twisted tree. She stopped and turned the doorknob. There looked to be a dozen iron-framed, thin-mattressed beds, each with a small chest at the foot. Paul was sitting in his wheelchair in front of the end window. He looked up as she entered and let out a cry of surprise. She put a finger to her lips, and hurrying to him, she hastily undid the unnecessarily tight straps. He rubbed at chafe marks on his wrists and neck.
‘They say it improves my posture, but if I complain, nurse Jim only ties them tighter. Have you come to take me away?’ He looked up with such trusting eyes that she hated to admit she had not.
‘Not today.’
The eyes brimmed with tears and he bit his lip. ‘Don’t worry. I’m all right,’ he tried to reassure her.
‘I’m sorry, Paul. I can’t take you home today – but until I can I’ve come to make things better for you here.’
He grasped both her hands. ‘Thank you!’ The teeth-grating sound of the percussion section drifted up from below and Paul smiled at her. ‘At least if I’m up here I can escape the music class!’
‘Paul, why didn’t you tell your mother about the way they’ve been treating you?’
‘I don’t like it when she’s sad and it would have made her sad,’ he said solemnly.
She opened her bag and gave him some chocolate and a bag of biscuits.
‘Oh, I’m not allowed – they say these aren’t good for me!’
‘Starving
ain’t good for you either! Where can we hide them?’
Paul giggled and pointed to a nearby chest. ‘That’s mine. Put them under the other things. They never go through it.’
‘At least if they forget to come for you at teatime, you can nibble on these,’ she said, stuffing them under his few possessions. ‘I can’t stay long. I just wanted to let you know things will get better.’ She kissed him. ‘And now, I’m going to see Mr Woolf!’
‘You don’t look much like Red Riding Hood!’ he giggled.
She promised to come back soon and was rewarded by his open, eager smile. She wondered at how resilient he was, how such a small thing as a visit and a packet of biscuits could so cheer him. But then, perhaps in her darkest childhood days, she would have been the same. Any show of interest, or kindness, was enough to last a very long time.
She closed the door quietly and went to the main staircase. At the bottom she followed the directions Paul had given her, praying that she wouldn’t encounter any curious teachers on the way.
She gave a brief knock on the principal’s door and walked in. She opened her bag and drew out her purse. ‘How much does my father owe you?’ she asked.
*
The sale of the bowl, along with a cigarette case and a small vanity box which she’d made, had paid all the outstanding school fees. She added more cigarette cases and some pill boxes to her collection and was astonished at the prices her creations could fetch. They were only metal boxes, after all – though smaller and more refined than the tins she’d made at Boutle’s, and, of course, of a far more precious metal. For her own amusement she tried out some jewellery – a pendant and a deep bangle with a repoussé geometric design. She was only satisfied when all the silver plates her father had given her were transformed into cash that would make Paul’s life easier. When Mr Woolf no longer telephoned to chase payment, perhaps her father might wonder why, but she doubted he’d care enough to investigate. She had very quickly worked out why Archie Goss had given her a handful of silver when he was so deeply in debt. He wanted her close and he wanted her silent.
