Elizabeth felt desolate and afraid.
After Forbes had handed her the letter and she discovered Stefan was here in the same city, she had agonised over what to do. She had hurriedly sought out the nervous Forbes, insisting he tell her, and for the first time learned of the deception and the way her father had lied to her. While she had been writing daily to Hahndorf, Stefan had been here to the house trying to see her. He had even written her letters, which had been intercepted and burnt.
Under her questioning, Forbes admitted all of this. He had been instructed not to tell her mother. It was her father who had done it all. Deceived and lied to her. He had never, as far as she knew, lied to her before. It was that, above all else, which prompted her swift decision to run away.
She realised she had to be careful. She had thought it out; had packed almost nothing, just an extra dress and a pair of shoes, and made them into a parcel. She had worn two additional sets of undergarments beneath her dress, taken the small amount of money she kept in cash from her dressing table drawer, together with her few pieces of jewellery including a silver locket she had been given for her twelfth birthday, and strolled out of the house, unnoticed. In the garden she waved to Mrs Forbes, who was cutting flowers for the dining room, and indicating the brown paper parcel, told the housekeeper she was going to post it. In Oxford Street she hailed a horse cab, and asked to be taken to the central Post Office in the heart of the city. After the cabbie had set her down and driven off, she walked a city block and hailed another cab to whom she had given the address of the house in Clyde Street.
It was a simple but necessary precaution, for she did not underestimate her father’s anger or his influence. She was prepared to defy him, and to cover her tracks until she was safe with Stefan and able to plan their future. What she was not prepared for was the squalor of the neighbourhood, the garbage, the smell of the open drains, and above all the hostile glances that assessed her, priced her clothes and categorised her as someone to resent, or if the opportunity presented itself, to rob.
She lay awake beside Stefan, her arm imprisoned beneath his body. She was unable to avoid thinking of the joyful and passionate night she had envisaged, comparing it to the grim reality. She knew that they must move from here, or else she would soon return in defeat and humiliation to her parents. Tomorrow they must try to start a new existence together.
But not here. Nothing could begin here.
In the darkness, while the men slept, she tried hard to curb the feeling that her emotions had played some terrible trick on her, as she counted off the hours, waited for the daylight, and endured the longest and unhappiest night of her young life.
Edith stared out of the living-room window. The rain that had begun before dawn fell relentlessly, and ran down the pane like tears. Neither of them had slept. Her head throbbed from the shock and the same repetitive argument.
‘You must go to the police,’ she said yet again, and when he failed to answer she realised with astonishment that he was crying. ‘William,’ she said, touched by this rare show of weakness, and ready to comfort him, but he merely blew his nose angrily and wiped at his eyes as if they had betrayed him.
Pretending not to notice, she fixed her gaze on a puddle outside the window, and watched the huge raindrops splashing into it. I wonder, she thought, if he would cry for anyone else? Not for her, she knew. Probably not even for the woman he visited at the house in Paddington, whose existence she had only learned about by accident.
‘Please,’ she begged, ‘ask the police to start a search.’
After some moments he spoke. ‘You know perfectly well,’ he said at length, ‘we can’t do that.’ Then he left her alone in the gaunt living room.
She was in a mood, for once, not to be dismissed. She pursued him through the house, past hushed and nervous servants. When the study door slammed shut in her face, she flung it open and confronted him.
‘You’re frightened of a scandal,’ she accused him. ‘You won’t report it because you’re afraid of it getting into the newspapers.’
‘They’d love to get some dirt on me. It’s taken me years to be accepted, socially and politically. I won’t be humiliated, lampooned as someone who can’t control his own child.’
She felt rage, but with an effort kept her voice composed. ‘She’s not your child. She’s our daughter. For God’s sake, don’t you care?’
‘Of course I care, Edith. But there’ll be no police. And no talk outside this house.’
‘She’s not even eighteen yet. It’s infatuation. If we don’t get her back, she could spend her life regretting it.’ As I have, she wanted to add. Instead she said, ‘You can’t abandon her just because of the gutter press.’
‘I haven’t abandoned her.’ His voice was colder than she could ever remember it. ‘She made a choice. I loved her and I gave her everything. She never lacked for a single thing in her life.’
‘Perhaps that was a mistake.’
He continued as if she had not spoken. ‘In return she chose to reject us for a penniless immigrant. Well, if he hopes for a handout from me, I’ll see him in hell first.’
‘Is that what you think? He’ll come for money?’
‘Eventually.’
She could no longer constrain her anger. ‘You call it a choice,’ she said, ‘but we made her choose. We wouldn’t let him visit. We don’t know what he was like, because we wouldn’t allow ourselves to find out. Perhaps he was nice—’
‘What?’ He stared at her, as if she was possessed.
Edith was aware of the words pouring out, unchecked. She, who so rarely had a word to say, could not stop herself talking. ‘There must have been some quality about him that made Elizabeth feel this way. Some attraction.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘There were so many other young men competing for her attention. If she picked him he can’t have been entirely unlikeable.’
‘Don’t talk like a fool,’ he said.
Whenever I talk to him sincerely, she thought sadly, I’m told I’m talking like a fool.
‘Is it foolish to want her found?’
‘I’ll find her,’ William insisted. ‘But no police. I’ll find her my own way.’
‘What way is that?’ she asked.
Ignoring her question, he said, ‘Warn the staff. If anyone gossips, they’re out. Sacked.’
He shut the study door on her again, and this time she made no attempt to stop him. There seemed no point in further pleas. She guessed why a public police search with its chance of publicity so concerned him. It was nothing to do with politics, she knew. He had lied about that, as he had about so many things.
Though Edith knew no details, she nursed a secret belief that the source of their wealth had been dishonest. She could not say why she felt this. A great many other men had vanished for months to the gold or silver fields and returned triumphant, but William had not done that. He had arrived back almost stealthily, evasive about where he had been, secretive about the bars of silver which he cashed from time to time, and anxious always to have it known he had made his money from land deals. Even now, in political life, he disliked being photographed, and she believed this fear of his past prevented him initiating a full search for their only child.
Edith wanted to hate him. But, instead, she was possessed of such a feeling of loss and desolation, she thought her heart would break.
‘Ten shillings,’ he suggested cautiously, eyeing the locket, while trying to gauge how desperate the young couple might be. ‘Sorry.’ Elizabeth put out her hand to retrieve it.
The jeweller smiled. ‘It’s just a trinket, lovey. A toy.’
‘It’s silver,’ she said, ‘and I want five pounds — or I’d rather keep it.’
‘Two pounds,’ the jeweller offered.
Stefan had been standing by, watching. ‘The lady has changed her mind,’ he said.
‘What do you mean — changed her mind?’
‘She now wants six pounds.’
<
br /> Elizabeth tried to hide a smile, but the man saw it and was indignant.
‘Five was what she said. Four I might think about. Not a penny more.’
‘Sorry,’ Stefan said. ‘It is now seven pounds.’
‘All right — five,’ the jeweller snapped, confused by this alien and unusual method of bargaining.
‘Done.’ Elizabeth nodded.
He paid her, counting out the money with bad grace. She produced several other items, among them a necklace, a brooch and a ring. The jeweller made a pretence of studying them, and gave his best impression of an off-handed shrug.
‘What can I say? They’re just baubles.’
‘You say what you like, but I want another five pounds.’
The jeweller decided not to argue. He opened his cash drawer with an audible sigh. He paid out the five single notes, as if each one caused him acute physical pain.
‘Five. And may you never come back to cheat me again.’
They walked out of his tiny shop, as pleased with themselves as the jeweller was with his day’s work. Ten pounds was a great deal more than they had hoped for; the jeweller, on the other hand, knew he could resell this little lot for four times that sum.
The sign on the door said: HORACE PERKINS, PRIVATE ENQUIRIES. CONFIDENTIALITY GUARANTEED. William made up his mind and entered. Mr Perkins was a large man, who had formerly served in the police force, and came well recommended. His modest office was sour with the smell of cheap cigars, but he seemed to know his business.
William refused a cigar, and produced a recent photograph of Elizabeth. He explained the situation, or as much of it as he felt Perkins needed to know. Mrs Forbes had supplied him with a description of the missing dresses, and the enquiry agent wrote these down. William also gave him details of the jewellery. Mr Perkins said he would begin with the pawnshops and loan offices. His fees, he said, were four pounds daily plus all expenses, and he knew he had assessed his man accurately when the client accepted the price without protest. Mr Perkins wrote out a receipt for his first payment, a ten-pound commissioning fee, and assured William he would give it his immediate priority.
He expressed his hope for a quick and successful outcome.
The room was in lower George Street, above a bootmaker’s shop. They followed the stout landlady up narrow, uncarpeted stairs. It was small and contained a double bed, a tiny wardrobe, and a dresser with a wash basin and jug. There were flimsy curtains, and beyond them the sound of horse traffic from the street below.
‘It’s clean, dears,’ the landlady promised, ‘it’s quiet, and it’s four bob a week, The dunny’s in the backyard. A chip heater for the bath downstairs — tuppence a time.’
She watched them trying to make up their minds, while wondering about this good-looking young girl, and her foreigner. She hoped they weren’t in trouble, but times were bad in the boot making trade, her husband was ill, and she needed to let the room.
To her relief they nodded, paying her four shillings, the first week’s rent in advance.
‘I like it,’ the girl said. ‘We can be happy here.’
It was a surprise; someone like her saying this about the tiny, unprepossessing box room. She had thought the girl was from a good family, but appearances might be deceptive. Perhaps she was unused to anything better?
The stout landlady went down to tell her husband they had tenants, unmarried and very young, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. For some reason she kept hearing the words. We can be happy here. She found herself hoping, certainly for the girl’s sake, it might be true.
There was little traffic as they approached Oxford Square, and for that Forbes was grateful. His mind could not focus on other vehicles today. He was still stunned by the past twenty-four hours, the enormity of what had happened and the part he had unwittingly played in it. Unwittingly? It would not be deemed so if his employer found out. The old man, always in his mind he called him that, though William was not yet forty and younger than him, the old man would blame him and boot him out in an instant.
He could not even tell his wife. She was close to Mrs Patterson, who was distraught, and neither would ever forgive him. He could not forgive himself. This family had always been kind to them, and he would not willingly have done anything to hurt them.
Yet he had done this.
In his own defence he could only have said the young foreign man had seemed so vulnerable, quite decent really, so hurt and desperate. And Elizabeth — Miss Lizzie — had been so unhappy. Ever since the day they had come to work for Mr Patterson he had had a soft spot for her. With all the family wealth and advantages, she had been a nice girl, kind, natural, always considerate. If he and Mrs Forbes had been able to have a child, which sadly had not been possible, he would have wanted a daughter like her.
He wished he had burnt the piece of paper with the address on it. He almost had. But he had felt sorry for the boy, and uncertain of what was best, so he had left it in his pocket. Then the following day, when he was marking and rolling the grass court; he had heard this sound from the tennis hut. It had shocked him, for he had never heard such grief. He had found Miss Lizzie sobbing her heart out. And because he could not bear the thought of her being so unhappy, he had taken the scrap of paper from his jacket and placed it in her hand.
Two hours later she was gone, but not before she had sought him out, found details of the letters which had not been delivered, and the young man’s visit when her father had kept them apart. He had not wanted to tell her these things. He had an obligation to William Patterson, as well as great respect, quite apart from the spacious quarters and well-paid employment. But Elizabeth was special. She always had been, both to his wife and himself.
So he had told her everything. And ever since, Forbes had been in torment, and felt like a Judas. He barely heard the call to stop as they reached lower George Street, and he saw the jeweller’s shop.
‘He claims he gave her thirty quid for the lot,’ Mr Perkins said, while the jeweller managed to look upset and offended at this insult to his veracity.
‘I did — honest. Thirty quid.’
‘Liar. I know him, sir, and his kind. He’s a robbing bastard.’
‘Never mind that.’ William looked down at the delicate silver locket he had given Elizabeth on her twelfth birthday. ‘Where did they go?’
‘No idea,’ the jeweller said, relieved to be able to give an honest answer at last. ‘Just took the money and left. The young foreign man had a suitcase. If you ask me, they went to find a room.’
‘In this neighbourhood?’ Perkins persisted.
‘Not the faintest,’ the jeweller said.
He looked carefully at William Patterson. He was used to assessing people’s worth, and this was clearly a rich man, if a distressed one. He asked him if he would like to buy back his daughter’s locket, saying he was prepared to forgo any profit if it was of sentimental value. He would be pleased to accept only the eighteen pounds he’d paid for it.
William put the money on the counter, took the locket and left without a word. He waited for Perkins to join him.
‘Should’ve let me bargain, sir. I’ll start a search. Put on extra men. More than likely they’re not far away. Lot of rooms to let in this part of town.’
William shrugged. He felt sick and despondent.
‘Do whatever you think necessary, Mr Perkins,’ he said.
He would pay the bills. Go through the formality, although he knew it was pointless. Even if they found her now, he had lost her. He climbed into the landau and was driven away.
The letter came a day later. It was left in their mailbox early, before anyone was awake. It was in her neat and upright handwriting.
Dearest Mama and Papa,
Please try to find it in your hearts to forgive me. I wish I could ask you to our wedding, but I know you would try to stop us. When we hear from his relatives in South Australia, Stefan and I will go there. Meanwhile, he has found a part-time job, and we will manage. I do truly
wish there had been some other way, but you wouldn’t even let us meet or give us a chance. You should have done that Papa. I will write when we are in Hahndorj, and remain, please believe me, your loving daughter.
Elizabeth
He read it in silence, and returned it to Edith. He was aware of her reproach. For a moment he felt tempted to give this letter to Perkins, order him to hire an army of observers to watch every church and registry office, and prevent the marriage. But it was already too late. She had turned her backs on them, chosen this stranger.
They went to find a room, the jeweller had said.
By now she would have been ravished — his mind shied from the word, but there was no other for it — ravished by this bastard. The trusting child, so often his companion on walks, her small hand in his; the schoolgirl in her long skirts at Miss Arthur’s Academy; the images went through his mind and returned yet again to the image he could not bear but also could not obliterate; Elizabeth naked and …
He experienced such a rush of fury towards the youth, that he saw the room and his wife’s face in a red mist. There was a weight in his chest. His hands clenched so tightly that the nails drew blood, and bile rose in his mouth.
It was the last time he showed such emotion. He wrote to Mr Perkins, terminated their arrangements, and requested his final account. From that day on, for more than a year, William Patterson devoted his time to business and politics, and consoled himself with daily visits to Hannah. He and Edith lived in their austere, oversized house in a state of unforgiving politeness, and he did his utmost to forget he’d ever had a daughter. Although it could not, even for a moment, be said that he succeeded.
A Bitter Harvest Page 6
