Reaching the house near the bottom of the street she banged on a front door much cleaner than that of any of the neighbours’ and waited, nervously, for an answer. The door opened immediately. Elaine, in a fresh dress stood in the doorway of a newly papered passageway. She smiled. ‘Marguerite. I knew you would come. She’s here!’ she called back. From the bottom of the passageway, where there must have been a kitchen, came Mrs Grose, wearing a huge, white pinafore. She wore cotton gloves, which she stripped off as she came forward. She shook hands with Marguerite. ‘I’m cleaning the silver,’ she explained. ‘Go into the parlour.’
Elaine led her into a tiny neat parlour where white net curtains hung, but changed her mind as she heard two boys quarrelling outside the window. ‘We’ll go in the dining room, where it’s quieter,’ she decided, shutting the door and leading Marguerite into the next room.
There, in another very small room, were a large mahogany table, very well polished, and six matching chairs, with upholstered seats.
‘From Bly,’ Elaine said, gesturing. ‘But there’s not much room for anything else.’
Mrs Grose came in, having removed her apron. She added, ‘My rooms at Bly were more commodious.’
‘We like it,’ said Elaine. ‘Well, do sit down. It’s good to see you. What do you want?’
Marguerite was taken aback by this welcome. She had expected strained cordiality, at best, after what had taken place in June. She felt welcome, almost as if she had been expected. She smiled. ‘I don’t want anything. I came to pay you a visit. I’m glad to see you so well.’ She sat down on one of the chairs.
‘How’s the school?’ asked Elaine.
‘Very pleasant. Unexpectedly so,’ Marguerite said.
‘I’m glad.’
‘Now,’ said Mrs Grose, sitting down opposite her, with her hands clasped on the table in front of her, ‘what news is there from the Bretts?’
Surprised, Marguerite told her, ‘I’ve heard nothing from them.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Of course you have,’ Elaine told her with assurance.
Marguerite’s heart sank. She feared the old routine of accusations and irrational assumptions beginning again. ‘No, Elaine,’ she said steadily, ‘I have not. I can’t think why you should imagine I might.’
‘There must be a letter at Mrs Constantine’s.’
‘I’ve just been there. She said nothing about it. In any case, she would have sent letters on to you.’
‘I can’t understand this,’ Mrs Grose said to Elaine. ‘Unless …’
The two women gazed at each other speculatively. Elaine, sitting next to Mrs Grose, asked fiercely, ‘Are you withholding something from us?’
‘Oh, Elaine,’ Marguerite answered in despair. ‘What can you be thinking?’
‘If she is not, perhaps Mrs Constantine is,’ Mrs Grose suggested to Elaine.
Marguerite said firmly, ‘Mrs Grose. No one is hiding anything concerning the Bretts from Elaine. It is … it is wrong to sit here proposing such a thing. It is deluded. If you wish to get news from the Bretts, you must write to them, let them know where you are.’
‘Do you think I have not?’ she said in agitation. ‘But do you think the Bretts would let Tom have my letters?’
So she had written, Marguerite told herself with a sinking heart. More than once. How often?
‘I suppose they could be suppressing your letters to Tom,’ she agreed faintly. Or, she thought, but did not say, Tom will not write to you.
Mrs Grose shook her head in bewilderment. ‘Well, I don’t understand it,’ she said. ‘But, of course, these things take time. You’d better write to Tom,’ she told Marguerite firmly, ‘and ask him to come here.’
Marguerite was disconcerted. She was fairly certain no appeal from her would influence Tom. ‘If the family is scrutinising Tom’s letters, do you think he will be allowed to see mine?’ she asked.
‘You can write to his legal firm. They will not recognise your handwriting,’ Elaine said. ‘They will think it is a letter from a client. In addition, will you find out the telephone number of that firm from Mr Reeve?’
‘If that is what you want. But as to writing to Tom Brett …’ she said hesitantly.
‘I see you will not help,’ Mrs Grose said in an accusatory tone.
‘Then I will write,’ assented Marguerite, and having given her word knew she would, and guessed how little difference it would make.
‘Good,’ Mrs Grose said briskly. ‘Now, what news of Flora Kilmoyne?’
The meeting taking place round the polished table had the air of a conference, Marguerite thought. It was as if she had come to give a report by arrangement. She felt it better to act as if this was normal and replied, ‘I have no news of Mrs Kilmoyne, I’m afraid.’ She added, ‘There’s no reason why I should. I don’t know her.’
‘I suppose Mr Reeve may have news. You’ll be seeing him, I expect,’ Mrs Grose said briskly.
‘Yes. I am,’ Marguerite replied, now totally bewildered.
‘Send word when you send the telephone number,’ said Mrs Grose.
The intent stares from the other side of the table worried Marguerite. In an attempt to put the conversation on a more ordinary footing, she said, ‘I see you’ve settled in. It’s very pleasant. Do you go about much? I gather they’re reopening the theatre for a season, in spite of the war. I planned to see some of the plays. Would you like to come with me?’
‘I don’t much care for the theatre,’ replied Mrs Grose.
‘Elaine, you used to love plays when we were young,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we need something to cheer us up.’
‘I don’t need cheering up,’ Elaine said.
‘I meant the war.’
‘The war,’ she said blankly. ‘That will end soon, I suppose. I hear we’re winning. Paris is saved. Is that not what they say?’ she appealed to Mrs Grose.
‘I believe so.’ There was a silence. Marguerite realised, with something of a shock, that they were waiting for her to go. When she stood up and explained she was due for tea at Lion House there was no attempt to detain her. Mrs Grose only said, ‘Don’t forget the telephone number of the Bretts’ firm – and you will write to Tom there, won’t you? Soon, within a day or two.’
Although not altogether happy about doing this, Marguerite agreed to write a note, asking Tom to get in touch.
‘Good, good,’ Mrs Grose said.
They were both in the doorway to say goodbye. ‘Don’t forget to send the news,’ Mrs Grose said, and the door shut firmly behind Marguerite.
The words, ‘the news – don’t forget to send the news’ ran round her head as she took the road back up to the main part of the town. During the time she had been there they had both continually asked her for ‘news’ as if they believed she had come as a messenger. She was disconcerted by this visit to a house into which it seemed the outside world did not come.
Back in Mermaid Street all she said to Mrs Constantine was, ‘I’m afraid Elaine’s still waiting for Tom Brett to come and rescue her.’
‘In my opinion, that could be a very long wait. Still, stranger things have happened,’ said Mrs Constantine. ‘I’ll go down and see them, now you’ve broken the ice. They can only turn me away from the door.’
Then they went up to Henry Reeve’s house.
He had his gramophone out on the lawn. As they ate their tea he played Offenbach. Golden light filled the garden. Some roses still bloomed.
‘What could be nicer?’ Marguerite exclaimed looking round.
‘Now we both have employment,’ Henry said, ‘how much more we appreciate our leisure.’
‘What does your work involve?’ Marguerite asked.
‘I have a corner of the West African desk,’ he explained. ‘I’m filling the gaps left by younger men who have volunteered. I wouldn’t be much use to the army at my age, and I’ve a stiff ankle from being bitten by a small animal in the Gold Coast.’
‘I’m very glad to hear it,�
� announced Mrs Constantine. ‘I mean, that you won’t be joining up.’
‘I may have to if it goes on too long,’ he said. ‘But don’t let’s think about that.’
‘I’m sure it won’t be necessary anyway,’ said Mrs Constantine. ‘They’ll all be back by Christmas.’
‘We hope so,’ he said.
‘I suppose your excavations can’t continue,’ Marguerite said.
‘Not for the time being. I’ve put it all under canvas, and Welsh will look after it for me until I can get back to it, I hope.’
It was at this point Mrs Constantine exclaimed, ‘Oh my good heavens! That reminds me – I have a meeting of the Ladies’ War Committee. We’re organising comforts for the troops.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Please excuse me, I ought to go.’
‘We must all do our bit,’ Henry Reeve said gravely.
‘Do stay, Marguerite. You don’t have to get your bus for a little while, do you?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Besides, I have a question for Mr Reeve.’
Mrs Constantine bustled off, leaving them alone.
Henry bent forward. ‘I’m intrigued – what question was it you wanted to put to me?’
‘I’m afraid it’s on a subject you wish to put behind you,’ she said. ‘I’ve just visited Elaine – she would like the telephone number of Mr Brett’s legal firm, if you have it. She fears the family is keeping her letters to Tom Brett away from him.’
He gave her a guarded look. ‘She has not heard from the young man?’
‘No. But she wants to get in touch with him, and I believe he owes her some explanation.’
‘One can’t argue with that,’ Henry said, though remembering with acute embarrassment Elaine Selsden’s wild claims that he was in love with her. ‘I will see if I can find the number and drop you a note of it.’
‘Thank you,’ said Marguerite.
‘As to wishing to put this behind me,’ he said, ‘you know, I hope, if there is any service I can render you, I’ll gladly do it. Call it my apology for leaving for Italy without a word of farewell. I was called away suddenly. How is your sister getting on?’
Marguerite did not know what to reply. She scarcely understood herself what was happening in Slope Street.
‘Mrs Grose seems to have a great influence on her,’ she said. ‘I had the impression they should have more society.’
‘Perhaps they don’t want any,’ he said in a steady tone.
‘Perhaps not. Mrs Grose enquired after Mrs Kilmoyne.’
‘She’s apparently well. They’re in the country, but shutting up the house soon and returning to London. Her husband is serving in France. She expects a child next year.’
‘She must be so anxious.’
‘I believe he’s with the Chiefs of Staff, not in the front line at present, which reassures her. But this is all hearsay. I’ve not seen her since her wedding. But because I am staying with her uncle and aunt— Oh, I forgot my wonderful idea. They say they would like you to come with them to the theatre. It’s something by Pinero. I’d hoped my brother and his wife would have been with us, but they are in America, prevented from coming over by the war. So, we’ll be just a small party, and they wish to include you. At my own instigation, of course. If it’s too late to get back they’d be glad to offer you a bed for the night.’
Refusal seemed quite impossible, as Henry had planned. Marguerite said, ‘Thank you.’
‘Good. Mrs Bennett will write to you, then. There may be many changes, if this war goes on. We may need our courage so we might as well keep our spirits up.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Marguerite. She made her departure not long after, saying she had to catch her bus, although in fact she was not due back at the school for several hours. Henry took her to the bus stop. On the return journey she realised that Henry was, stage by stage, courting her. They had now reached the point where he wished to introduce her to his friends. He planned, she saw, to ask her to marry him. No other explanation was possible. Moreover, Mrs Constantine must, she decided, know, or suspect all this, for, otherwise why had she, having invited her to tea, suddenly remembered she had a meeting of her committee and gone off leaving them alone?
Marguerite Selsden, in her seat in the bus, trembled. Suddenly, she realised she could hope for a different, happier life. She rejoiced, and was afraid.
That evening in an upstairs back bedroom, behind drawn curtains, Elaine Selsden and Martha Grose sat at a card table. The room was very clean and bare. One candle burned on the mantelpiece.
Discs on which the letters of the alphabet were engraved stood round the edges of the table. Each woman had her index finger on a small, upturned, glass tumbler.
Mrs Grose dropped her head. ‘The messenger has come and gone but there has been no answer. Come to us. Help us. Feed us and we will feed you; give to us and we will give to you. That is what you promised. Feed us, we will feed you. That is what we agreed.’
And, ‘Amen,’ said Elaine. As the tumbler began slowly to move, she asked, ‘Are you there?’ It moved faster, diving from letter to letter as the sound of rustling, of voices muttering, of laughter filled the room.
Fifty-Two
Marguerite stood outside the Slope Street house, knocking on the door. She carried a parcel under her arm. Snowflakes were falling and the cobbles were lightly capped with snow. Through the small glass pane above the door she could see light, but no one came. She turned and walked away, puzzled. This was the third time in six weeks she had called at Slope Street, every time announcing her arrival in a letter, in the first of which she had put the telephone number Henry had given her. But, each time she had called, the door had not been answered although she had never been quite sure the occupants of the house were out. Where they, she wondered, inside, listening to the knocking, waiting for her to go?
She began to walk back uphill. Halfway up, she was struck by an instinct. She turned. A flash caught her eye; the net curtain of the upstairs window was dropped. Someone had been watching her.
Downstairs the kitchen sink was full of unwashed crockery; on the kitchen range was a dish of blackening potatoes. The surface of the mahogany table was dusty. The grate was uncleared, the fireplace full of ash. Upstairs in the small back bedroom dust lay on the window sills, the mantelpiece, the rails of the iron bedstead in the corner.
Elaine wore a red padded dressing gown. Her hair was loose on her shoulders, her face very pale. Mrs Grose wore her old black dress. There were slippers on her feet. The two women, Elaine Selsden and Martha Grose, huddled over the card table. A paraffin stove burned in the fireplace. The room was full of fumes. The only light came from the candle on the mantelpiece. They sat, head to head, over the small table as the glass swam quickly from letter to letter over the one shiny surface in the room.
‘Aah,’ breathed Elaine.
Mrs Grose took her finger from the glass. ‘Coming soon,’ she breathed. ‘They say he is coming soon.’
‘They did not say Tom,’ Elaine said in a low voice.
Mrs Grose looked at her, frowning. ‘No. They didn’t. Shall we ask again?’
Once again the glass began to move quickly from letter to letter. ‘N-O M-O-R-E,’ it spelled, ‘N-O M-O-R-E.’ Then even more rapidly, ‘NO MORE, NO MORE, NO MORE.’
‘I have called half a dozen times,’ Mrs Constantine told the anxious Marguerite. ‘I never got an answer. Jenny’s cousin says they never go out, though, only for a little bit of fish or meat, potatoes, that kind of thing. The next-door neighbour says they are mostly upstairs all day. She hears footsteps. There is light from the room, candlelight, she sees it from her yard. I don’t know what more you can do, Marguerite. You mustn’t worry about it. It will spoil your happiness. This is a special time for you. It will not come again. Be happy when you can, my dear.’
‘But what can they be doing?’ Marguerite asked.
‘Let whatever it is take its course,’ Mrs Constantine advised. ‘We have enough to worry us with our men bogged dow
n in trenches from the North Sea to Switzerland, and our own coasts shelled from the air.’
‘Miss Greenslade talks of moving the school for fear of bombing,’ Marguerite observed. ‘Five girls are being taken away by their parents next term.’
‘I can’t say I’d want to leave my daughter in a school so close to the coast,’ Mrs Constantine said. ‘They say at Brighton you can stand on the cliff and hear the guns. I don’t think you’ll need to go, though. You’ll have something better to do.’
Marguerite looked down. ‘Perhaps.’
Fifty-Three
The screams from Slope Street caused neighbours, normally shy of the police, to decide to fetch a constable.
‘It’s been going on since this morning,’ gasped the woman deputed to fetch him, trying to keep up with his rapid pace.
‘Who lives there?’
‘Two women, alone. A young one and an old one. We hardly see them. They’ve been here six or seven months, since June. They hardly go out. Then, suddenly, these screams, going on and on.’
‘You’ve knocked on the door?’
‘Over and over. No answer. I don’t know,’ said the neighbour.
The constable knocked and knocked at the door. A crowd collected. Tearing screams came from within. There was the sound of footsteps hurrying to and fro.
The constable was alarmed. ‘Are there any visitors, relatives, anyone we can fetch?’
‘No – are you going to do anything?’
‘The landlord. Can we get keys?’
‘Just break the door down,’ said a workman in the small crowd. ‘It could be a matter of life and death.’
In the end the workman erected a ladder in the yard next door and the policeman climbed over and dropped down into the next-door yard, followed by the other man.
A swift kick opened the back door. The house inside was very neglected. In the scullery Mrs Grose, her face puffy and desperate, her greying hair undone, and unclean, was trying with a shaking hand to fill a kettle. She turned a horrified face to the entrance, in which the policeman stood, the other man behind.
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