God Save the Queen!

by Dorothy Cannell

  “Excuse me!” The voice came at Flora like a fist through a windowpane, shattering her thoughts like flying glass. The speaker was one of the men sitting across from her. The one by the window, not the one with the clerical collar. “Forgive me for intruding when it’s clear you’re miles away, Miss Hutchins,” he said with a touch of primness. “But I didn’t want us to reach King’s Cross without reintroducing myself and telling you how exceedingly sorry I am about your grandfather’s unhappy end.”

  Flora blinked. He was a youngish man with a head of beige woolly hair that looked unfortunately like a barrister’s wig, and he had a long nose and a mouth that seemed to flap when he talked. He was wearing a Burberry raincoat. Where had she seen him before?

  He helped her out. “My name is Ferncliffe. On the day of your grandfather’s accident I brought a group of eleven-year-old boys from the New Church Preparatory School.”

  “I remember,” said Flora.

  “The boys were rather rowdy,” Mr. Ferncliffe felt called upon to admit, “wound up like a bunch of alarm clocks all going off at once. It quite put me off teaching; but my mother thinks I ought to stick it out as a character-building exercise.” He looked decidedly wistful, clearly hoping Flora would tell him that keeping himself cheerfully occupied as an early retiree was far more likely to make a man of him.

  “I talked to you in the Great Hall, didn’t I?” she asked. “About being worried that I couldn’t find my grandfather; but I never dreamed, not for one single minute, that at the time he may already have been dead.” Flora bit her lip.

  The sad tilt of her pale face smote the science teacher with such force that the pen in his shirt pocket almost jumped out. He was beset by an almost overpowering urge to rescue her from a life of loneliness and despair.

  Only looming thoughts of his mother demanding to know what had made him late for his tea prevented Mr. Ferncliffe from reaching across the laminated table for Flora’s hand and imploring her to run off with him to somewhere unbearably romantic, such as the Isle of Skye, change their names to Jones, and hide out forevermore in a bed-and-breakfast. Mr. Ferncliffe, all five foot eleven of him, flamed with the intensity of his enthusiasm as he pictured the sweet, shy smile that would touch Flora’s lips when she discovered fate had supplied her with a Young Lochinvar when she most desperately needed one. She would be so intensely grateful, so heart-wrenchingly humble, that he would have his work cut out for him trying to persuade her of his relief at having escaped the clutches of innumerable ravishing beauties.

  Sadly, common sense returned full force. Possibly it would be best to tread the path of true love slowly. Sighing heavily, Mr. Ferncliffe adjusted the buckle of his raincoat in a heroic attempt at pulling himself together, and was able to address the object of his present heart’s desire in a reasonably level voice.

  “I expect you’re wondering, Miss Hutchins, what brought me back to Lincolnshire?”

  Flora hadn’t been wondering anything of the sort. She had been thinking about those eleven-year-old boys and what a good thing it was that their school outing hadn’t been spoilt. Luckily they had just departed in the coach when Grandpa was found in the garderobe. Then her mind had flashed to Mr. Ferncliffe vainly trying to control his youthful charges that afternoon and, unkind as it sounds, she couldn’t help suspecting that at least one or two of the youngsters might have got a big buzz out of being at hand when a corpse was discovered in gloomy Gossinger Hall.

  “I’m sorry,” Flora looked full at Mr. Ferncliffe, “what was it you were saying about coming back to Lincolnshire? Did it have something to do with Grandpa’s death?”

  “You mean ... yes, I suppose there would have to be an inquest. One of the boys—Boris Smith is his name—did come to me the other day wanting to know if the police would be around asking me and the lads from the day trip to give statements. Little ghoul! But if there is to be anything of that sort I don’t know about it. The headmaster doesn’t exactly make a habit of confiding in me.”

  Mr. Ferncliffe realized he sounded peevish, which was not the image he wished to promote. He proceeded to sink deeper in the mire by adding that the HM was inclined to treat all his teachers like servants. Fortunately Flora didn’t seem to notice, and Mr. Ferncliffe finally got round to explaining that he had returned to the city of Lincoln because his mother (at least he didn’t slip up and call her “Mummy”) had been quite cross with him after his last visit.

  “She was extremely upset that I didn’t go up Lucy Tower.”

  “That’s at the castle, isn’t it?” Flora was trying very hard to sound interested and not wish that a suitcase would bounce off the luggage rack and come crashing down on Mr. Ferncliffe’s woolly head so she could sit in silence until she reached King’s Cross.

  “My mother’s name is Lucy,” Mr. Ferncliffe said.

  “Is it?”

  “She is very attached to her name.”

  “It is pretty.”

  “So I suppose it’s understandable,” Mr. Ferncliffe conceded, “that she felt slighted that I didn’t go up that blasted tower and think about her every step of the way. I tried to explain that the boys were out of control and I might have been tempted to forget about the wonderful view and push one or two of them off the top.” He laughed rather shakily to prove he was only joking. “Mum—Mother wouldn’t get off the subject for days. What did the trick was her reading about that bank robbery, the one that took place not far from Gossinger Hall.” Mr. Ferncliffe rested his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. “And I’ll admit it was somewhat interesting that it turned out the man who did the holdup was technically only taking out his own money.”

  “Yes, that’s what it said in the papers.”

  “Don’t mistake me, Miss Hutchins, I don’t have any particular sympathy for the chap, but I’m not sure it was right for his family to lock up his assets so he couldn’t—legally, at any rate—get at them when he came out after spending fifteen, or whatever it was, years in prison.” Repressing another of his wild urges, this time to confide in Flora that his mother kept a sharp eye and a tight fist on his own purse strings, Mr. Ferncliffe dropped his hands into his Burberry lap. “It would be different,” he continued, “if the man had been put away for murdering young women in the backseats of cars.”

  “Did your mum see him as a sort of folk hero?” Flora asked.

  “She didn’t say.” Mr. Ferncliffe shook his head. “She started talking about the Swineherd of Stow and how he left his life savings to Lincoln Cathedral. Mother said she couldn’t believe I hadn’t come home from Gossinger Hall with a pamphlet about this great philanthropist. Anyone would have thought I’d committed a crime. And one far worse than robbing a bank. So I decided to do my filial duty.” Mr. Ferncliffe gave another of his unconvincing laughs. “Meaning I returned to climb Lucy Tower and see what I could find out at the cathedral about this swineherd, but unfortunately, yesterday being Sunday, there was no one in the information booth....”

  “Perhaps I may be of help to you, my son.” The speaker was the gentleman seated next to Mr. Ferncliffe, who had been silent up until this point. “I’m returning to London after spending the weekend with my very dear friend, the dean of Lincoln Cathedral.”

  Here he cupped a hand to his clerical collar. “And it so happens that in the course of a delightful fireside chat we fell into a discussion of how saints appear so often in humble guise. The Swineherd of Stow is of course a splendid example of this.”

  “What a piece of luck,” said Mr. Ferncliffe, ungratefully hoping that the man would say his piece and shut up. The train was now only about ten minutes from reaching King’s Cross Station. That did not allow much time for Flora to realize she had fallen headlong in love with Leonard Ferncliffe and beg him not to leave her prey to the evils of London traffic.

  “I regret I can provide you with only the sketchiest details,” the clergyman’s bland face expanded into a genial smile, “but I do not believe I am at risk of leading you into grave
theological error. Indeed, I assert up front that there are those who claim the story is nothing but a pretty legend. You are free, my dear children, to decide,” his kindly gaze included Flora, “without fear of heavenly recrimination, whether to believe that a certain swineherd of Stow left his life savings—a peck of silver pennies—to Lincoln Cathedral. He decided to do so it is said, as a result of his having been lost one winter night out on the marshes. The unfortunate fellow blew his horn, but no one heard, and he continued to wander in growing desperation until he heard the bells of Lincoln Cathedral, which led him to safety.”

  “It’s such a nice story.” Flora had heard it before, but never recounted with such benevolent charm. She found herself smiling, partly because she was remembering all those safe and lovely times when Grandpa told her stories about Lady Normina and the like, and also because the beaming face above the clerical collar was so clearly made-to-order for the job. It was impossible to imagine the man in any other walk of life than the one leading to and from the pulpit. She was vaguely aware that Mr. Ferncliffe was looking cross, but all thoughts were flung right and left at that instant by a voice booming out the words: “King’s Cross Station!” over the loudspeaker. Within seconds the train was at a standstill and many of the passengers were on their feet, checking their watches and gathering up their luggage.

  “Another stop on the journey of life.” The clergyman picked up the briefcase that had been deposited at his feet and stepped into the aisle. “May I be of help lifting down your bags, my dear children?”

  Mr. Ferncliffe, rising stiff as a soldier to his feet, replied that he could manage and produced his overnight bag from under the table. But Flora said she would be very grateful for a hand getting her two cases off the train, which led to the clergyman taking one and Mr. Ferncliffe the other and carrying them through the barrier for her.

  “Are you sure you can manage the rest of the way?” The clergyman smiled kindly, as people with no time to dawdle brushed past them.

  “I can help you down to the underground if that’s where you’re going.” Mr. Ferncliffe asserted his right with a reckless disregard for his mother’s feelings on the subject of his being late for tea.

  “A splendid suggestion.” The clergyman continued to beam as he sidestepped a woman with a black-and-tan beagle who lunged for his ankles as if suspecting he had drugs sewn into his turn-ups. “I will take it as a kindness, my dear young lady, if you will allow me to continue carrying my share of the load.”

  “You’re ever so kind,” Flora told both men, “and I’m really grateful, but honestly the cases aren’t heavy and I’ve only got to get to Bethnal Green Station. From there I’ve been told it’s only a little walk to where I’ll be living.” She noticed that the clergyman was looking rather sharply at Mr. Ferncliffe, as if sizing him up for the very first time. And for no reason that she could put a ringer on, the world seemed suddenly as foreign as Mars, without a signpost in sight.

  “Well then, my daughter,” said the reverend gentleman, handing over her suitcase and watching the other man reluctantly do likewise, “we will leave you to go upon your way, trusting you will find as happy a sanctuary within the sound of God’s heavenly bells as did the Swineherd of Stow.”

  “Honestly, I’ll be fine.” Flora had to raise her voice to be heard over the loudspeaker announcement that the train departing for York would be stopping at such-and-such stations on the way. “I’m going to be living rent-free in a nice little flat above a shop, so who could be luckier?”

  Her words dealt a fatal blow to Mr. Ferncliffe’s vision of Flora forlornly selling bunches of wilted flowers in Covent Garden and his fortuitous arrival in the midst of a downpour one gloomy winter afternoon, at which time he would buy up her entire stock before sweeping her off in a taxi to dinner at the Ritz, where she would melt at the touch of his hand and profess sweet bewilderment that a man of his urbanity and startling good looks would look beyond her plain face and meager circumstances to the woman within. Never mind; she proved herself to be of a shallow nature by saying good-bye to him without one longing glance. Whereupon Mr. Ferncliffe took himself off, determined to drown his sorrows in numerous cups of tea. Should he succumb to caffeine poisoning, so much the better.

  The friendly clergyman, on the other hand, said good-bye with wholehearted goodwill and within seconds disappeared. As if, Flora thought rather wistfully while picking up her cases, he had been an angel sent to briefly lighten her load and had now been summoned back to the top office to be briefed on another assignment.

  Flora stood for a moment looking toward the ticket office on her right, fighting down the urge to scurry toward it and buy a ticket back home. Only—her feet started moving in the opposite direction—Gossinger wasn’t anything like home anymore. It had become—her pace was quickening and she hardly felt the weight of her cases—more like a house of trick mirrors so that even what was once comfortingly familiar now looked queerly out of shape.

  Sometimes it’s better the devil you don’t know, she thought, going down the escalator to the tube. Like as not her Ladyship’s sister could be a prize chrysanthemum, all eager to please and help me get settled in Wishbone Street. And if that name isn’t a good son of omen I don’t know what is.

  Flora’s mood of determined cheer lasted until she stood checking the metal chart on the wall to see what platform she needed. It was stupid to feel a prickle of unease and to suspect even for a second that someone was watching her. True, Flora had wondered if she were ever going to get rid of Mr. Ferncliffe; but it was certainly a stretch to suspect the schoolmaster of following her ... even to make sure she got on the right train. And that nice clergyman couldn’t have been more harmless. Turning away from the map, she decided that her problem was not being accustomed to crowds, particularly of the hurry-scurry sort. Talk about life in the fast lane! She was forthwith sucked onto the platform by the incoming rush of a train. And in her haste to get aboard without the doors closing on her, Flora didn’t notice the woman with the dark and secret sort of face, wearing a black-and-yellow plaid cloak, start toward her before apparently changing her mind and entering the next carriage.

  So when Flora got out at Bethnal Green she didn’t look back over her shoulder. She was too busy relearning how to breathe after standing for what had seemed hours being crushed to death by people who seemed only able to maintain their balance by standing on her feet. And when she reached the top of the station steps and stepped out into the street, her sole thought was that if this grim and grimy place was London, she’d never feel at home.

  However, walking past the narrow-fronted shops and catching snippets of conversation tossed about in strident cockney voices by the men and women engaged in closing up their market stalls, Flora had to admit this place was alive. And some might say that put it worlds apart from Nether Woodcock. Crossing at a traffic light she passed a woman wearing a sari. Stopping to remember how far she was meant to go before turning left on Wishbone Street, Flora saw two men in turbans coming toward her. They’d have stood out at Gossinger. But here, Flora turned the idea over in her head, they aren’t the foreigners. I’m the one who looks like I arrived in a cartload of cabbages.

  And here I am, Flora realized as she looked up at the number above the doorway. This is Sixty-seven Wishbone Street. Setting the suitcases down on the crumbling stoop, she tried valiantly to find something to like. She started with the shop windows, but there was something decidedly unfriendly about the iron bars at the windows. The sign above the scarred bottle green door read “Joe’s Camera Shop.”

  Flora wondered enviously where Joe was now. She tried to convince herself that he had shown heart by leaving the curtains strung across the windows of the upstairs flat. But even from this distance the grayish material looked as though it would fall apart if dunked in lukewarm soapy water.

  When the key refused to turn in the lock, she wished with growing desperation that Lady Gossinger’s sister Edna Smith would suddenly open the door an
d explain that she’d been in the back of the shop making a cup of tea to hearten the weary traveler.

  But then the key turned suddenly and smoothly, as if it had been playing a little joke on Flora by pretending not to fit. Wedging the door open with her foot, she reached inside for a light switch. Failing to find one, she stumbled over the threshold, dragged in the cases, and continued the game of blindman’s buff until her hand finally made contact. The room sprang into bleary light, provided by a naked bulb in the ceiling.

  Flora sat down on one of the suitcases and began unbuttoning her coat with fumbling fingers. There was nothing to frighten her in the shop, because there was nothing there except a counter toward the back and two empty shelves mounted on the wall behind it. But if I don’t get up and take a look at the other rooms, I’ll scare myself silly there’s someone hiding behind one of those doors, Flora told herself in a very firm voice. Exploring the kitchen immediately behind the shop wasn’t much of an adventure. There was the sink and a dreadful old cooker in one corner and that was the extent of what could be reported to Better Homes and Gardens, apart from the staircase leading up to the flat.

  And that’s what’s important, Flora staunchly reminded herself as she flicked on another light and ran up the steps. She found herself on a tiny landing that opened onto a sitting room, two tiny bedrooms, and a bathroom that would have given a field mouse claustrophobia. It was difficult, verging on impossible, to imagine Lady Gossinger ever living here, let alone making room for a sister and a couple of parents. It seemed to Flora that the rooms were empty of more than furniture. No one had left anything of their inner selves at Sixty-seven Wishbone Street. There was nothing to welcome a newcomer, and by the same token there was nothing to tell her she didn’t belong.