I flicked forward to the day of the argument.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE JOURNAL ENTRY was different from the others. No diagrams of equipment, no product ideas scribbled in the margin. Just half a page of words fraught with pain.
The truth is out finally. Sofia told Joseph. She could not bear to take our guilty secret to the grave. Joseph blames me of course.
He asked about Constance. I told him I didn’t know. I make no claim on her. He is her father in all ways that matter. I hope he does not hold it against the child. She at least is innocent.
Sometimes I have wondered if she was mine, or wished it almost. She is a charming, intelligent child. I like to imagine I see myself in her as well as her mother. But it does not matter now. Unless she seeks me out, I will not see her again. She loves Joseph and I hope he deserves it. It would be selfish to trouble her innocent affection without any proof in the matter.
I read it several times. Then I threw the book against the far wall so hard it left a dent in the plaster.
It couldn’t be true. I must have misunderstood. With great reluctance, I retrieved the book and forced myself to read it again. However I tried, there was no other way to interpret the words. Nor was there any reason for the Professor to lie in his private journal.
It made a horrible kind of sense. I vividly remembered the day of the argument, Father’s voice booming through the closed door, his silence on the drive home. He barely looked at me. But when he told me Mother had died, he took me in his arms and we wept together. If his manner to me was any different after that, I put it down to grief.
I remembered Mother as an invalid, pale and weak, propped up on snow-white pillows. I remembered her gentle smile, her love for me and Father. The idea of her conducting a secret affair with the Professor was incomprehensible. But she hadn’t always been sick. She had married young. Father was older. They were married several years before my birth and had no other children.
Certainly though, I wasn’t the Professor’s daughter. He had let his imagination run away with him on that point. Joseph Wright was my father.
The sight of the journal became abhorrent. I shoved it under the mattress.
I woke from a doze to find my room in darkness. After a moment getting my thoughts in order, I turned on the electric light and checked my watch. Nearly dinner time. I splashed cold water on my hot face and made myself presentable, then went downstairs.
The meal had been organised by Molly from the contents of the larder, but it was no great hardship to be spared Mrs Jones’ cooking. Langstone was absent. Perhaps he was ministering to her.
'You look very pale, Miss Wright,' Enfield said.
I wasn't hungry, but helped myself to bread and cheese.
'You might be sickening. My cousin died of that Spanish Flu.' Rickett folded his newspaper. 'Fit young lady. Sniffling one day, dead the next.'
'You really don't look well,' Enfield said.
'I'm fine.' I forced a smile. ‘How’s the Machine coming on, Mr Rickett?’
Rickett grunted. ‘Pretty well. It’s just the steering not quite right.’
‘Steering,’ Enfield said. ‘Rather essential I should think. Useful for avoiding things. Like fences.’
‘Flipping heck. That were weeks ago. It’s just bloody cabbage. Get over it.’
‘It may just be cabbage to you, to me it’s my life’s work. And a lot more worthwhile than a stupid machine which can’t even turn corners.’
Rickett scowled at me. ‘If someone hadn’t ordered the wrong parts, it would have worked just fine.’
I stared at him, too taken aback to make a coherent response.
‘Don’t bring Miss Wright into this,’ Enfield said. ‘You can’t blame her for your incompetence.’
Rickett was turning purple. His knife trembled in his clenched fist.
I coughed. ‘Could one of you gentlemen pass the water, please?’
Neither Enfield nor Rickett moved.
‘If you’ve quite finished shouting?’
‘I’m sorry, Miss Wright. Some people quite forget their manners.’ Enfield poured my water.
‘Speak for thissen,’ Rickett said. ‘I’m always perfectly reasonable and calm.’
Sam’s face worked as if he was fighting not to laugh.
After dinner, I sat down with a novel. I stared at the first page, reading the same passage over and over without making sense of it.
‘I thought I would listen to the wireless for a while,’ Enfield said. ‘Would you care to join me? There’s an interesting program of music.’
Under other circumstances I would have been happy to join him, but I didn’t want him to see my misery and confusion. ‘Thank you. But I do feel a little unwell. Headache.’
His sympathy made me feel worse, if anything. I went to bed early. Inescapably, my thoughts returned to the journal, the Professor, Father, Mother, running in useless circles I must have slept eventually though it didn’t feel like it.
I rose in the morning sandy-eyed and sat in the library, staring at the typewriter without the slightest urge to work. Dust motes danced in the sunlight streaming through the east-facing windows. I felt hollow, vacant and useless. I had sought the Professor’s treasure but I had failed. He had been wrong about me. I wasn’t his daughter and I couldn’t solve his puzzle.
My hands reached out for a piece of blank paper and a pen. Without thought, I began to draw.
I don’t know where it came from. I suppose my mind had grown tired of unproductive gnawing at my own problems and turned for relief to the simpler world of machinery. In sure strokes, I drew the Giant Walking War Machine. Then I fetched more paper. The ideas came to me without conscious effort, as simply as breathing. Logically, things just ought to be so, and I drew it out. The design flowed through me and onto paper, coming from who knew where.
When I finished, I sat back with a profound sense of satisfaction. It was quite simple, quite obvious. It would work.
What to do with the drawings? I knew better than to approach Rickett directly. Even he ought to see this design was good, but if it came from me he wouldn’t give it a chance. I needed a plan, a way to make him consider it without knowing where the idea came from.
The exercise had improved my mood, anyway. I put the drawings on one side and plunged into the accounts. Hours flowed by as I lost myself in dry numbers and arithmetic.
A tentative knock on the door broke my concentration.
‘Why, Sam. I didn’t expect to see you. What can I do for you?’ I stretched the stiffness from my shoulders, surprised to see how long I’d been working.
Sam sidled in, not looking me in the eye. He held out a few grubby receipts.
‘Oh, more receipts. Thanks. Was that all?’
‘Yes.’ But he remained, hunched and awkward, with his hands in his pockets. ‘Did you…’
I remembered the poetry with a rush of guilt. The papers were somewhere. I hadn’t read them, but I didn’t think I’d thrown them out. ‘Sorry, Sam. I’ve been busy.’
‘Oh.’ He scuffed the carpet. ‘That’s all right. I understand.’
‘I really will read them, when I have a chance.’
‘It’s all right. It isn’t important. I should go.’
His hand was on the door when inspiration struck me.
‘Sam, wait. I have an idea.’
It took some time to convince him.
‘He won’t believe I drew these.’ Sam shook his head. ‘I couldn’t have.’
‘He’ll want to believe,’ I said. ‘And who else could have done it?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘All you need to do is show him the pictures, say you had an idea for how to improve the steering. If he asks questions, just say everything’s in the drawings. Trust me. He’ll be happy you’re interested.’
He finally accepted the drawings though he didn’t look convinced.
‘You want his approval, don’t you? He’s your father. He wants to be proud of you.‘
‘There’s no harm in it. Just take the drawings for now. Think about it.’
‘All right. Thank you.’ His shy smile lit up his face.
When he had left clutching the drawings, I sat thinking again. The account books lay open on the table. I should sort out Sam’s receipts, but I felt so tired. And there was the report for Bentley, still unfinished. The fact was, I would never be a good secretary. For a while I had hoped the Professor’s treasure would answer all my prayers, but I’d run out of clues and ideas. He’d set up the treasure hunt with the mad fancy that I was his daughter. I wasn’t. The one thing I was really good at was mechanics and no one wanted me for that.
I recognised the symptoms of self-pity and shook myself. It did no good to mope. I might not be a good secretary, but it was the work set before me, and I should earn my keep and justify Bentley’s faith in me. I resolved to push the treasure hunt from my mind and concentrate on my work.
My resolution lasted for several long dull weeks, which seemed even longer.
Sam did summon the courage to show the drawings to his father, and Rickett seized them with all the enthusiasm I could have hoped for. For a few days, he was full of praise for Sam’s previously undiscovered mechanical genius, until I feared Sam would confess from sheer embarrassment. Thankfully, it didn’t take long for normal relations to reassert themselves.
The overthrow of my good intentions was heralded by the pervasive smell of boiled cabbage.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
'DIDN'T WE HAVE cabbage yesterday?' Hack sniffed the air.
Enfield cleared his throat. 'Mrs Jones has kindly agreed to assist me with a small experiment. She’s cooking some of my plants, so I can evaluate them. Of course, none of you are obliged to eat it if you don't wish to.'
A murmur of subdued, but polite, interest ran round the dinner table.
'Have you tried this stuff before?' Rickett looked sceptical.
'My tests on the starch and protein content were in line with my expectations. But no, I haven't tasted it yet.'
Mrs Jones swept in with the cold remains of the Sunday roast, followed by Molly with the other serving dishes on a tray. Everyone leaned forwards to inspect the cabbage when the dish was uncovered. The yellowish-grey mush resembled the other vegetables on offer.
'I hope it's all right,' Mrs Jones said. 'It's funny looking stuff, but I boiled it well.'
Everyone took at least a nominal helping, even Rickett, who looked far from enthusiastic. With an eye on Enfield, I sniffed and then tasted a small forkful of the slimy vegetable. It tasted like burnt rubber mixed with Brussels sprouts. Around the table, expressions changed from curiosity to disgust.
'Ack!' Rickett seized a glass of water and gulped it down. 'That reeks.'
I forced myself to swallow. My mouth tingled and the bitter aftertaste was nauseating.
'Hah. I thought as much. You should pack it in.’ Rickett sat back in his chair, gloating.
'I'm a little disappointed.' Enfield sipped water, looking as miserable as I had ever seen him.
'I don't think it's as bad as all that,' I found myself saying. 'Perhaps an acquired taste.' I took another forkful and inserted it in my mouth quickly, before I could think better of it. If anything, it was worse the second time round. It was all I could do to swallow the vile stuff without gagging.
I forced a smile. 'Really, not that bad.'
Enfield stared at me with a mixture of astonished curiosity and baffled gratitude. I met his gaze with watering eyes.
'The flavour can be improved, with continued breeding,' he said. 'It’s remarkable what can be done with judicious hybridisation.'
Langstone sniffed the cabbage doubtfully. 'You’re the expert. But I think we'll stick to Savoy for the time being.'
I spent the rest of dinner trying to get the awful taste out of my mouth, but felt well compensated by occasionally catching Enfield looking at me. By the time the pudding arrived, my stomach was churning. I excused myself and went straight up to my room.
For the next hour I sat in the bathroom, racked by spasms of nausea. My head ached. The light striking off the white tiles hit my eyes like daggers, sending bolts of pain shooting through my head. I closed my eyes, groaning in pure misery. Perhaps I should go and find Dr Langstone. But I had already thrown up everything in my stomach. Surely, I would recover soon.
The sickness subsided and I ceased wishing for a quick death. My mouth was dry. I sipped water, resisting the urge to gulp, which might make me nauseous again. The headache settled down to a dull throbbing. On trembling legs I went to my room and prepared for bed. With the lights out my head didn’t hurt so much and after a while I felt strangely relaxed and comfortable.
I must have slept for a while. The next thing I knew, I stood in the hallway, watching the silver half-moon through the window. How I got there, I didn’t know. I trailed my fingers along the wall, tracing the moonbeams. The floor was cool under my bare feet. I span round, giggling as my nightdress flared out.
It was like a dream. One of those dreams where everything is quite normal, except you find you can fly and are not at all surprised to be soaring through the air. I felt full of bubbles. If I had risen into the air like a balloon and bounced along the ceiling, I wouldn’t have been alarmed at all.
What was I doing out of bed? I must have a reason for wandering around in my nightdress. I was pretty sure it wasn’t my normal behaviour. Perhaps I wanted to speak to someone?
Enfield, that's it. About something. Something important. Where was his room? I was on the top floor. Moonlight shone down the long hall from the uncurtained windows at the end. The light was pleasant, gently illuminating. The men's rooms were all on the first floor.
I danced along the hall and through the door to the corridor at the back of the house. Once the door shut out the moonlight, it was dark. My hand found the switch for the electric light.
The merciless light burnt like fire. I cried out. With my eyes closed, I fumbled for the switch again. Darkness flooded back, bringing instant relief. I couldn’t see, but I preferred to feel my way along than to face the pain of the light. I traced my way along the walls until I found the back stairway.
Moonlight illuminated the first-floor landing, black shadows alternating with silvery light. I stopped, wondering which was Enfield’s room. Just as I approached the first door, I heard footsteps on the tiled floor of the hall below. Someone else was awake. I padded to the top of the stairs and hung over the rail in time to see Langstone striding towards the front door. His figure and walk were unmistakable.
At once, I decided to follow him. I slipped down the stairs, not worrying about keeping out of sight. Fortunately, he didn’t look back. My bare feet padded over the cold tiles. The front door closed behind him. I wrestled with opening it until I remembered how to turn the handle.
Langstone marched down the drive, the gravel crunching under his feet. A bucket swung in his hand. I followed, keeping my distance. The wind tugged at my cotton nightdress, but I didn’t feel cold, only excited. There was a strong sense of unreality about the moonlit landscape and the figure of Langstone striding ahead. Every detail of the scene stood out clearly. Gravel pressed against my bare feet, yet without any discomfort.
He passed through the gates and on towards the church. I saw him go through the wicket gate into the churchyard. By the time I arrived there, he’d vanished.
Where had he gone? The church? I went to the door and opened it, but there was only stillness within. I circled the churchyard, seeking his tall figure among the graves. After a complete circuit, it was clear he wasn’t there. I wondered if I had been circling widdershins, which in childhood ghost stories had terrible consequences. But I couldn’t remember whether widdershins was clockwise or anti-clockwise, and the question of where Langstone had gone was more pressing.
He must have taken the path down to the shore. I found the narrow descent and clambered down, cli
nging to the greasy tussocks of grass.
The tide was out. Mud and sea slept under the moonlight. I soon spotted Langstone out on the flats. He stooped, gathering something into his bucket, but I didn’t dare go closer to see what it was. A faint idea of the risk I was running was dawning on me, along with an awareness of being cold and wet, though this seemed only a minor irritation.
He stood facing out to sea and stretched as if he had finished his task. If he looked round, he would undoubtedly see me, white nightdress and all. I scrambled up the path, skinning my knee on the rocks in my haste. The graveyard offered plenty of hiding places. I ducked behind a stone and crouched there. My heart pounded, an urgent drum sending blood rushing through me.
What on earth was I doing? Had I lost my mind? I froze as I heard Langstone climbing the path, huffing with exertion. He passed by a few feet away, quick striding, not looking right or left. I watched him out of the churchyard. How long to wait before following? I forced myself to wait, counting my heartbeats. Minutes stretched like hours, and I started to shiver. The dream-like feeling was fading, and with it, whatever had kept me from feeling cold and discomfort. My feet hurt. So did my knee. My damp clothes chilled me with every breath of wind.
I couldn’t wait any longer. If I stayed here, I would freeze. Langstone was out of sight. I assumed he had been heading back to the house. Back to the house was where I needed to go, anyway, back to warmth and dry clothes. I hobbled along as fast as I could, though the gravel felt like hot coals against the tender soles of my feet.
Finally, the house loomed over me, dark and silent as the night. I pushed and pulled at the front door, but Langstone had locked it behind him. He had a key. I didn’t.
I limped round to the back door. It was locked and the ground floor windows were too high for me to reach. My feet burnt with cold. To add to my misery, it began to rain. I needed shelter, and fast. The stable yard, with its workshop and garages, tempted me. I could curl up in the Morris until morning, but a better idea arrived. The greenhouse. Enfield had said the hotbed kept it from freezing.
Meanwhile, at the Dernstrum Institute Page 10
