by P. D. James
While her mother wandered among the bushes, Philippa sat on one of the benches under a great swag of small white roses and took from her shoulder bag the pocket edition of Donne’s poems picked up for ten pence from a stall in the market. The roses swung gently above her head, thick as May blossom, dropping their sweetness and an occasional shower of small white petals and golden stamens onto the clovered grass. The sun was warm on her face, inducing a gentle lethargic melancholy. She couldn’t remember when last she had visited Queen Mary’s rose garden, perhaps never. Maurice preferred buildings to nature, even nature as disciplined, organized and formally displayed as Regent’s Park. There was one rose garden which she could remember, but that had been at Pennington and her imagined father had been there, coming towards her through the enclosing circle of green. Odd that so clear a memory, scent, warmth and mellow afternoon light, recalled with peculiar intensity, almost with pain, should be nothing but a childish fantasy. But this garden, this park were real enough, and Maurice was right about architecture. Nature needed the contrast, the discipline of brick and stone. The colonnades and pediments of John Nash’s terraces, the eccentric outline of the zoo, even the technical phallus of the Post Office Tower soaring above the hedges, contributed to the park’s beauty, defined it and set its limits. It would, she thought, be intolerable to contemplate this lush perfection stretching to infinity, a never-ending, corrupted Garden of Eden.
She lowered her eyes from contemplating the swinging roses to watch her mother. She was always watching her mother, who had, she supposed, exchanged one kind of surveillance for another. She was smelling an orange-red rose, cupping the flower gently in her hand. Most of the rose worshippers closed their eyes to savour the scent; she opened hers wider. She had a look of intense concentration, the facial muscles drawn and taut as if racked with pain. She was standing a little apart, quite motionless, oblivious of everything except the rose resting in her palm.
It was then that Philippa saw the man. He had come up the sloping path from the lake, a small, spectacled, grey-haired man solicitously accompanying a blind woman with a coffee-coloured guide dog. His glance fell on her, their eyes met and instinctively, and out of the lazy pleasure of the moment, she smiled at him. The result was extraordinary. He stood transfixed, eyes widened, in what seemed a second of incredulous terror. Then he turned abruptly away and, taking the woman by the elbow, almost forced her back down the path and towards the lake. Philippa laughed aloud. He was a plain little man, ordinary but not repulsive, and surely not so plain that no woman before had ever spontaneously smiled at him. Perhaps he thought that she was trying to pick him up, a summer temptress lurking under the swinging roses. She watched the odd couple out of sight, wondering about their relationship, whether he was the girl’s father, what excuse he was giving her for so abruptly hurrying her away. Then she thought that she might have seen him somewhere before, but the memory was elusive. His, after all, was hardly a memorable face. But the feeling that she ought to have recognized him was frustrating. She bent her eyes again to her book and put him resolutely out of her mind.
15
Violet Hedley said, her voice sharp with anxiety: “What is it? What happened? Are you all right?”
His grip must have tightened painfully on her elbow. Or was it that she had smelled the sudden reek of excitement and fear? People said that the blind had an extra sense. He slackened his pace.
“I’m sorry. Nothing’s wrong. It’s just that I saw someone unexpectedly, a man I used to work with in the accounts office. I didn’t want to have to talk to him.”
She was silent. It occurred to him that she might think that he was embarrassed to be seen with her, and he added quickly: “I’ve never liked him. He was rather officious, a bit of a bully. You know the kind. I didn’t want him to see me. I didn’t want to have to speak to him.”
She said gently: “He must have made you very unhappy.”
“Not really. Not too unhappy. But it was a shock seeing him so unexpectedly. I thought that part of my life was behind me for good. There are some rather nice yellow roses in this bed. I’ll find the label and tell you what they’re called.”
She said: “They’re called Summer Sunshine.”
It had been hard to keep his voice steady. He felt sick with disappointment. They were there together. He had seen the murderess bending over one of the rose bushes in that second as he turned abruptly away. He had found them at last and he was helpless, tied, prevented from following them. And it was an ideal opportunity. Like the girl, he could have found a seat and sat there innocently in the sun watching them. The park was getting more crowded every minute. When at last they decided to leave for home nothing would have been easier than to tail them, one anonymous man among the crowd. He could have used his binoculars if necessary. Many of the tourists wore them and trained them occasionally on the more exotic waterfowl. Time, place, chance were all in his favour and he had to let them go. For a moment he toyed with the idea of deserting Violet, making some excuse, planting her on a seat and promising to return. But he couldn’t do it, and he was ashamed of the impulse. And after all, he had to return to the hotel and so did she. She would expect some explanation of his desertion and there was none he could give. But, worst of all, Philippa Palfrey had seen him, had actually smiled at him, might recall his face if she saw him again.
The smile, in its spontaneity, its openness, its frank asexual comradeship, had appalled him. It had seemed too like an invitation to a shared happiness in the warmth of the day, the scent of the rose-drenched air, the physical joy of living; an acknowledgement of a common humanity, a kinship of pleasure which he repudiated, most of all from her. But had it been as simple as that? As they made their slow way back to the hotel, not speaking, he tried to recall that moment from which he had turned away with such instinctive horror. Surely he couldn’t have been mistaken? It had been a smile of spontaneous pleasure, nothing more. She couldn’t have known who he was, couldn’t have guessed his purpose. Surely it was madness to persuade himself even for a moment that what he had seen had been a smile of complicity, of shared knowledge?
But one thing was certain. It had spoilt the day for Violet Hedley. It had started so well. She had enjoyed her meal and they had been happy together in the park. He had found himself talking to her without strain. But that was over. Even Coffee lurched along beside them, dejected, tail drooping. And he had learned his lesson. From now on he must learn to bear his loneliness. To move, however cautiously, into the ordinary world of friendship, of caring, of shared confidences, could be fatal. He was totally alone and that was how it must be. He must keep himself unencumbered for the task in hand.
16
And then, at last, on Thursday 31st August, she led him to them. The day had started like any other with himself at his room window, binoculars trained on the door of number 68. Mr. Palfrey left as usual at quarter past nine. He noted the time on his wristwatch. It wasn’t important, but he had grown into this habit of timing every move as if he were a fictional spy. Three minutes later he saw the woman. At once it struck him that there was something different about her, and he saw that she wasn’t carrying her string shopping bag or trundling the trolley. All she had with her was a large old-fashioned handbag. She wore a fawn-coloured coat, undistinguished in cut, and a little too long for fashion, instead of her usual cardigan, and her face was obscured by an immense headscarf patterned in blue and white. There was only a gentle humming wind and the day wasn’t cold; perhaps she wanted to keep her hair tidy. Most surprisingly, she was wearing fawn gloves, a touch of formality which reinforced his impression that this outing was different, that some attempt had been made at smartness.
He grabbed his rucksack and followed quickly. She was only fifty yards ahead and he saw that she was making her way towards Victoria. As he followed her across Eccleston Bridge and down the side of the station he worried in case she intended to join the queue for taxis at the front entrance and was relieved when she turne
d instead down the entrance to the Underground. She took a ticket from the thirty-five-pence machine. He found that he hadn’t a fivepenny piece and there were two young tourists, rucksack laden, who, pushing ahead of him, had already inserted ten pence and were taking their time over finding the necessary coins. But he had two tenpenny pieces ready in his hand. He inserted them quickly in the next machine and was able to follow a few yards behind her through the barrier and down to the Victoria line.
He kept as close behind her on the escalator as he dared, afraid that she might just catch a train; but he heard with relief a receding rumble before either of them reached the platform. The next came quickly, and the carriage was only half full. He took a seat close to the door, but distanced from her. She sat very still, unrelaxed, her eyes fixed on the opposite advertisements, feet together, gloved hands in her lap. She looked tense, preoccupied. Was it his imagination that she was bracing herself for some ordeal, rigid with the self-absorption of a victim on her way to a dreaded medical examination or a crucial interview?
She changed at Oxford Circus and he followed her on the long track to the northbound Bakerloo line. Never once did she glance behind her. She got out at Marylebone and he followed her up the escalator clutching the fifty-pence piece in his hand and suddenly worried that the collector might be desultory in giving him change for the outstanding fare. But all went well. The thirty-five pence were speedily and nonchalantly pressed into his hand and he was through the barrier before she was halfway across the concourse of Marylebone Station. Again, to his relief, she ignored the queue of three or four people at the taxi rank and made her way north towards Marylebone Road.
Here he let himself fall back a little. The crossing lights were against her and a solid stream of vehicles in both directions blocked her way. He guessed that it might be some time before the lights changed and he didn’t want to stand close to her, the two of them alone at the crossing signal. But it was important to cross when she did. If he lost the lights there might be several minutes in which she could be lost in the criss-cross of streets south of the great divide of Marylebone Road. But again, all went well. He was only a few yards behind her as they crossed together, but she seemed unaware of his presence. She turned into Seymour Place.
And here was her destination, an imposing stone building with an elaborately carved coat of arms above the cornice. A nameplate told him that this was the Inner London Juvenile Court. Mrs. Palfrey disappeared through the open double green door through which there came a babble of childish voices as piercingly discordant as a school playground. He walked on pondering his next move. Obviously she was neither a delinquent nor the mother of one. He knew that she didn’t work here. That meant that she must be either a witness or a juvenile magistrate. The latter seemed to him unlikely, but in either case he had no way of knowing when she would emerge. At last he went resolutely inside and asked the policeman on duty if he could watch the proceedings. The answer was a polite no; the general public were not admitted to a juvenile court. He said: “A friend of mine, a Miss Yelland, is one of the witnesses. I forget the name of the case, but I said I’d meet her here when it was over. When are they likely to finish?”
“Depends on the list, sir. And there’s more than one juvenile bench sitting. If it is a defended case she could be here a long time. But they should all be through by mid to late afternoon.”
He returned to the Marylebone Road. There was a seat beside the bus stop and he sat there to consider his next step. Would there be any point in killing time until Mrs. Palfrey left at the end of the day? On reflection he decided that this was what he must do. After all, if what he believed were true, and the murderess and the girl were living together in this area, somewhere near to Regent’s Park, Mrs. Palfrey was reasonably close to them for the first time since he had been trailing her. There was always the chance that she would visit them on her way home. He would return in the late afternoon and wait for her to come out. It wouldn’t be an easy doorway to keep watch on. There were no convenient bookshops opposite in which he could pretend to browse. He would have to return in good time and then walk slowly up and down Seymour Place, never out of sight of the courtroom entrance, yet never loitering so close that his presence would arouse interest. The slow parade, the need for constant watchfulness, would be tedious, but it shouldn’t be too difficult to avoid suspicion. This was no village street with peering eyes behind the curtains. As long as he kept quietly walking, crossing the road from time to time at the traffic lights, it was unlikely that his comings and goings would be noticed. And what if they were? He told himself that he was getting unnecessarily careful. There were only three people from whom he must keep his presence secret and one of them was inside that building. In the meantime he decided to spend a couple of hours in the public library on Marylebone Road—the girl was someone who bought books and might even turn up there—and then walk in Regent’s Park and revisit the rose garden. There was sure to be a place in upper Baker Street where he could buy a sandwich and coffee for lunch. He looked at his wristwatch. It was now nearly ten o’clock. Shifting his rucksack more firmly on his shoulder he turned right towards Baker Street.
17
She had never really wanted to sit on the juvenile Bench, but Maurice had suggested with the persuasive force of a command that she ought to have what he described as “some interest outside the kitchen,” and the wife of one of his colleagues, herself a magistrate, had suggested the juvenile Bench and had put her name forward. Maurice had said: “You ought to be able to make a useful contribution. The Bench is stolidly upper middle class, self-perpetuating. They need shaking out of some of their comfortable misconceptions. And most of them haven’t an idea what sort of lives their clients lead. You’ll bring to the job a different experience.”
He meant, she knew, that she could bring to the job the experience of living in a small terraced house in the poorest part of Ruislip, of a comprehensive school education, of being the only child of working-class parents who hung their window curtains patterned side outward because what determined conduct and comfort was what the neighbours thought, whose highest ambition for her had been a job as a bank clerk, who saved up to take their annual holiday in the same boarding house at Brighton.
Sitting on the left of the chairman under the royal coat of arms, none of it seemed particularly relevant. Lady Dorothy, with whom she usually sat, brought to the job the experience of living in Eaton Square with weekends in a converted seventeenth-century rectory in Norfolk. Yet Lady Dorothy, if she didn’t share the lives of the children and parents who stood before her in varying attitudes of resignation, sullenness or fear, seemed to have no difficulty in sharing their feelings. She dealt with them with a brisk common sense, tempered with more sensitivity than her heavy tweed-clad body and gruff arrogant voice would suggest. Scanning the social inquiry report with its mention of a common-law husband in prison, of too many children and too little of everything else, she would lean forward and say briskly to the mother of the boy before her: “I see your husband’s not at home at present. That must make it hard for you with four boys. And this office cleaning job you’re doing at Holborn; that’s a long journey for you. How do you go, on the Central line?”
And the woman, apparently sensing an interest and compassion which the voice certainly didn’t convey to Hilda, would crouch forward eagerly on the edge of her chair and pour it all out as if the courtroom had suddenly emptied and there was no one there except herself and Lady Dorothy: how that, yes, it had been hard, and that Wayne was a good boy at home only he missed his dad and had got in with the Billings gang, and how he wouldn’t go to school because of the bullying and she’d tried taking him but it meant losing an hour’s pay because she was supposed to start work at eight o’clock and, anyway, he only ran off again after the roll had been taken, and how her journey was all right except that she had to change at Oxford Circus and it was expensive because the tube fares had gone up and it was no use going by bus because they wer
en’t all that reliable in the mornings.
Lady Dorothy would nod as if she had spent all her life changing at Oxford Circus to get to her cleaning job at Holborn. But some communication passed between them. An impulse of sympathy, if unspoken, was acknowledged and understood. The woman felt better at the end of it, and so, she supposed, did Lady Dorothy. Hilda remembered having overheard the words of a fellow justice: “She treats them all as if they were wives of her father’s gamekeepers, but it seems to work.”
But what made every sitting of the juvenile court a long-drawn-out purgatory for Hilda was not her inadequacy as a Justice—she was used to inadequacy by now—but her terror of blushing. It was worse some days than others, but she could never hope entirely to escape its anguish. At some stage in the proceedings, early or late, she knew that it was going to happen, that nothing could stop it; not willpower, not desperate prayer, and not the pathetic expedients she had devised to try to conceal it: the hand casually held up to shield her forehead as if in deep thought, the studious examination of her papers so that the hair hung over her cheeks, a paroxysm of simulated coughing, her handkerchief held to her face. She would feel first the clutch of fear at the heart, as physical as pain, and then it would begin, the burning flush spreading over her neck, mottling her face and forehead, a scarlet deformity of shame. She felt that every eye in the courtroom was fixed on her. The child with his parents, fidgeting in his chair, the clerk lifting his head from the court register to stare in wonder, the social workers watching with their pitying professional eyes, the chairman briefly pausing to glance at her before averting his eyes in embarrassment, the attendant police, stolidly gazing at her with their dead, controlled faces. And then the red pulsating tide would recede, leaving her momentarily as cold and cleansed as a wave-scoured beach.
