‘I re-papered most of the lodger’s bedroom today.’
‘I just don’t know how you do it all.’ Dawlish looked admiringly at her. ‘Running this place and so on. She’s never idle, is she, Wentwood?’
Rory muttered in agreement.
‘Have you eaten, by the way?’ Dawlish went on, his eyes on Fenella. ‘I haven’t had anything since breakfast in fact, and I’m starving. I wonder whether you’d like a bite to eat. There’s quite a pleasant little Italian place in Hampstead.’ He hesitated, only for a fraction of a second but it was enough. ‘We could all go, of course,’ he added, turning to Rory.
‘I’ve eaten already, thanks,’ Rory said.
‘Oh. Never mind.’
‘It would be lovely,’ Fenella said. ‘But are you sure that—’
‘Of course I’m sure. I wanted to ask your advice in any case, so we can mix business with pleasure.’
‘Advice?’ Fenella asked. ‘What about?’
‘I’m writing a pamphlet. Actually, it might even be a talk on the wireless. I know a chap at the BBC. It’s about the role of women – how they can make a difference in the class struggle and so on. Whether women are naturally against Fascism.’
‘Are they?’ Rory said, determined to be contrary.
Dawlish grinned at him, refusing to take umbrage. ‘That’s what we want to find out. But I’m sure Miss Kensley has a better idea of how to do it than I do.’
It had been neatly contrived, Rory thought bitterly, as he walked back to Bleeding Heart Square. There had been no reason for him to stay, since he claimed to have eaten already, which he hadn’t. Dawlish, ever the perfect little gent, had offered him a lift to the nearest Tube station, which Rory equally politely had declined. He walked partly to save money and partly because it fed a masochistic appetite within himself to feel even more miserable than he already was.
There was, he accepted, no one he could reasonably blame for this state of affairs except himself. Fenella had given him fair warning that their engagement was suspended, probably over: she was quite within her rights to change her mind and prefer someone else to him. He himself was hardly much of a catch. But Fenella had been a central feature of his emotional landscape for so long that her absence from it was hard to envisage.
He plodded home. In a side street off the Clerkenwell Road he stopped for a pint in a pub that sold only beer. The place chimed perfectly with his mood. It had grimy sawdust on the floor and smelled of cats’ urine. Surly men played shove-ha’penny and dominoes, and stared at him with surreptitious hostility until he left.
The shops of Hatton Garden were dark and shuttered. In Charleston Street the windows of the Crozier were blazing with light. Someone was thumping the keys of a piano inside the saloon bar and producing a sound that was just recognizable as ‘The Teddy Bears’ Picnic’. He turned into the alley leading to the square and hesitated. He wanted whisky, he thought, he wanted a whole bloody bottle of the stuff.
The music from the pub was gathering in volume, and people were singing. He didn’t want to get drunk among all that cheerfulness. Besides, Ingleby-Lewis would probably be there, and perhaps Fimberry or even Serridge. He still had nearly half a bottle of gin in his flat. Drinking alone was far more appealing than that dreadful jollity inside the pub. It would be cheaper too.
He left the alley and passed into the relative gloom of Bleeding Heart Square. It was very quiet after the din of the pub. Suddenly the silence was broken by running footsteps. He had time to register that they were behind him, that they belonged to more than one person, and that they were coming towards him. He turned towards the sound.
But he was much too late. A heavy blow landed on his upper left arm, just below the shoulder. In a tiny instant of lucidity he realized that if he hadn’t started to turn, it would have been his collarbone. Someone cannoned into him, sending him sprawling across wet cobbles, jarring his body with the violence of the fall.
He writhed on the ground, struggling to get up, and grabbed a man’s arm, as unyielding as an iron bar. Heavy breathing filled his ears. He sensed shadowy figures surrounding him.
A boot hammered into his ribs. He cried out. He grabbed the man’s wrist and pulled, trying to haul himself up. His nose exploded in pain and his head jerked back. He fell back on the cobbles. The boot went into his ribs again. He was lying on his back now with someone holding his shoulders down and somebody else trying to pull apart his legs. He twisted away but they were too strong for him.
Someone punched the inside of his thigh. Christ, they’re going for my balls. He lost his grip on the wrist. His hands curled into fists. He lashed out and was rewarded with a grunt. Then a blow – a kick? – landed in his crotch and he screamed, a high, inhuman sound.
‘Listen to me, you bastard,’ a voice snarled very close to his ear, penetrating the white curtain of pain. ‘I’ll say this only once. And if you don’t take notice I’m going to cut your prick off and shove it down your mouth.’
A door opened somewhere. The music was suddenly louder as if the teddy bears were pouring into Bleeding Heart Square itself. Rory’s shoulders and legs were free. He rolled onto his side, curling into a protective huddle. He heard voices and running footsteps.
‘Hey, I say!’ a slurred male voice said. ‘Mind where you’re going, old man. What’s the rush?’
The footsteps receded. Now there were other footsteps, much slower and less regular.
‘I say,’ the voice said again. ‘You all right, old chap? Bit squiffy, eh?’
Another door opened, and another wedge of light spilled into the square. Rory forced open his eyes but the pain made it hard to focus. He recognized the voice rather than the dark shape looming over him. He tried to speak but there was blood on his face and some of it had got inside his mouth and made him cough.
‘I don’t think those fellows liked the cut of your jib,’ Captain Ingleby-Lewis continued.
There were more footsteps, lighter and faster than the others.
‘Father, what’s happening?’
‘Hello, my dear. I think someone’s had a bit of an accident.’
Rory struggled into a sitting position. Lydia Langstone was on one side of him and her father was on the other.
‘Mr Wentwood – what on earth is going on?’
‘Someone …’ He stopped trying to get up as a twinge of pain made him groan. ‘Someone attacked me.’
‘Can you stand?’ Lydia asked.
‘It’s a damned disgrace,’ Captain Ingleby-Lewis said. ‘This wouldn’t have happened before the war, you know.’
‘What – what wouldn’t?’ Rory asked.
‘This sort of barefaced robbery. What can you expect with these Bolsheviks everywhere? It makes Jack think he’s as good as his master. I’d hang the lot of them if I had my way. It’s the only answer.’
Rory groggily manoeuvred himself onto his hands and knees.
‘Father,’ Lydia said, ‘help Mr Wentwood up.’
‘Eh? Oh yes. Of course.’
Ingleby-Lewis hooked an arm under Rory’s, the one that had taken the blow, and pulled. Rory squealed with pain. Ingleby-Lewis started back and nearly sat down.
‘Let me help,’ Lydia said.
Together they pulled Rory to his feet. He stood swaying for a moment, supported by Lydia and Ingleby-Lewis on either side. ‘The Teddy Bears’ Picnic’ tinkled and thumped across the square. He had not realized before how damned sinister the tune was.
‘Damn,’ he said. ‘I hope I’m not bleeding on you.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Lydia said. ‘We’d better get you back to the house. Can you walk?’
‘I think so.’
‘We need to find a policeman. What did they steal?’
‘I don’t think they stole anything.’
‘I arrived just in time,’ said Ingleby-Lewis with a note of congratulation in his voice. ‘They’re yellow at heart, you know, scum like that.’
‘How many were there?’
&nbs
p; ‘Two,’ Ingleby-Lewis said. ‘Or was it three? Great big chaps, in any case. Cowardly devils. As soon as they saw me, they—’
‘Let’s take Mr Wentwood back to the house. Then perhaps you could find a police officer.’
‘Not much point, my dear.’
‘But Mr Wentwood has been attacked.’
‘It does happen, I’m afraid. Especially around here. Friday night and all that. Nothing was stolen. I’m not sure the police would be very sympathetic and frankly it’s a waste of time. They’re not going to catch the blackguards, after all. Much better to get Mr Wentwood cleaned up.’
Lydia stooped and picked up something that glinted in the light. ‘Is this yours?’
Rory blinked at her.
‘This cufflink,’ she said with a touch of impatience.
‘I don’t know.’ It was hard enough to stand, let alone talk. ‘Probably.’
She held it out to him. Rory swayed, wondering if he would be sick. She pushed the cufflink into the pocket of his raincoat and took his arm. ‘Hold up,’ she said. ‘We’ll get you inside.’
The first step made him howl with agony, but as the three of them moved slowly towards the door of the house, the pain receded a little. Captain Ingleby-Lewis was less than steady on his feet. Rory wasn’t sure who was supporting whom. Once they reached the hallway, Rory let go of Lydia’s arm and took firm hold of the newel post.
‘Can you manage the stairs?’ she asked.
‘I think so. I’m sorry to be such a bore.’
‘It’s not your fault. Come up to our flat and I’ll get some hot water.’
‘Brandy,’ Ingleby-Lewis said behind them with the air of a man who says Eureka! ‘That’s what one needs in a situation like this. I’ll see if the Crozier can provide some, shall I?’
Lydia took Rory into the sitting room she shared with her father, and made him sit down at the table. Ingleby-Lewis set off to the Crozier on his errand of mercy. Lydia went away for a moment.
Rory thought that the room seemed tidier and cleaner than before. Indeed, it looked almost cheerful. There was a book lying open with its spine upwards, as though Lydia had put it down in a hurry on the table when she heard the commotion outside. He craned to see the title, and the movement made him wince. Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own. How odd. He would have expected an Agatha Christie novel or even a well-thumbed copy of Horse & Hound. A snapshot protruded from the pages, a marker no doubt. He made out the top half of a rather pretty girl in a bathing costume, surrounded by several grinning young men with little moustaches. He heard footsteps and turned away.
Lydia came into the room with a basin of hot water, a towel and a cloth. She soaked the cloth in the water, wrung it out and advised him to wipe his face. He obeyed her. Afterwards he looked up at her.
‘How do I look?’
‘Not too bad. The nosebleed’s stopped. Are your teeth all right?’
He ran his tongue over them. ‘I think they’re all there. One of them’s chipped.’
‘What about the rest of you?’
‘A few aches and pains.’ He tried to ignore the agony below, to pretend it belonged to someone else. ‘I don’t think anything’s actually broken.’
A silence grew between them, awkward and unwanted.
‘Thank you,’ Rory said.
Simultaneously Lydia said, ‘Shouldn’t I try to find a doctor? Or you could go to the Outpatients at Barts. Surely someone should have a look at you?’
‘I’m all right, thanks.’ He felt as though he were temporarily disconnected from the world around him. He wanted desperately to be alone. ‘I really must go.’
There were footsteps on the stairs. The door opened and Captain Ingleby-Lewis came in with a bottle of brandy in a brown paper bag. He set it carefully on the table with an air of triumph.
‘There,’ he said. ‘That’ll set you right. Lydia, my dear, would you bring us some glasses?’
‘Not for me, thank you.’ Supporting himself on the table, Rory struggled to his feet. ‘I – I won’t take up any more of your time. I’m sure I can get upstairs under my own steam.’
Ingleby-Lewis protested, though not very hard, and Lydia said nothing at all. Rory thanked them both again and slowly walked out of the room, trying to hold himself very straight. The stairs stretched up from the first-floor landing, flight after flight, their summit as unattainable as Mount Everest’s. But he wanted the silence of his own flat, the privacy, and the security of a locked door.
His mind was moving slowly and seemed to be full of fog. But he remembered there was something odd about Ingleby-Lewis, and as he struggled up the first flight, he remembered what it was. Ingleby-Lewis had sold Morthams Farm to Miss Penhow and Serridge. Yet here he was, living in Serridge’s house, living as Serridge’s tenant. Except it wasn’t Serridge’s house, or it used not to be. It used to belong to Miss Penhow.
After the second-floor landing, he abandoned dignity, dropped to his knees and crawled.
If only I didn’t feel anything. Not a bad old stick, Ingleby-Lewis. And the girl, of course. Where did I put the bloody gin?
Finally, swearing continuously under his breath, he ascended the narrow stairs to the attic. As he searched for his key, he glanced over his shoulder, down the stairs. Serridge was standing on the second-floor landing watching him. He was in his shirtsleeves, and his face was as unreadable as the face of the Red Indian outside the tobacconist’s in Charleston Street. Rory tried to say something but at that moment pain shafted through him, making him double up and screw his eyes shut. When he opened his eyes again, Serridge had gone. Perhaps the man had been a hallucination.
His sitting room was very cold. Rory locked the door behind him, lit the gas fire at the fourth attempt, and tracked down the gin to the bottom of the chest of drawers. He slumped into the armchair in front of the fire with the bottle at his elbow. He uncorked the gin and swallowed a mouthful of neat spirit. His mouth and throat burned. He coughed so hard he almost dropped the bottle. He swallowed some more. He was still wearing his raincoat and he stuffed his hands into the pockets to keep warm. The fingers of his left hand touched a small metallic object. He took it out and let it rest in the palm of his hand. A cufflink. He frowned at it.
The cufflink had an enamel design – a red circle on a blue background; and superimposed on the circle was a golden symbol he didn’t recognize.
Cinderella’s slipper? Find the other one, and perhaps I find who attacked me.
The words churned through his mind as the gin worked its way down to his stomach, tumbling from side to side, numbing some of the pain in his body. The words twisted and turned like dead leaves dancing in the heat haze above his father’s bonfire in the garden of the house in Hereford. More gin, less pain. Mrs Langstone had been jolly decent this evening. He must remember to thank her properly.
11
Philippa Penhow decides she is married to Joseph Serridge in the eyes of God. Joseph Serridge decides to buy them a home in the country (with Philippa Penhow’s money). Then, hey presto, he produces the perfect place like a rabbit out of a conjurer’s hat. It would have made anyone suspicious, you’d think, anyone but a fool in love.
Friday, 28 February 1930
Joseph and I went down to the country today to visit the farm he thinks might suit us. It’s near a village called Rawling on the Essex–Hertfordshire border and surprisingly close to London (though we had to change twice between Liverpool Street and Mavering, the nearest station to the village). We took a taxi from Mavering to the farm. It’s called Morthams.
Joseph said that if we do decide to purchase the property we might consider buying a little motor car. It would be so much more convenient for running up to town and might even save money in the long run. This started me thinking! I should so like to give him a present he would really enjoy and I think a motor car might be just the ticket.
The property consists of a farmhouse (most picturesque!), with a farmyard to one side and about 120 acres of go
od land. We drove up to the house by a muddy lane and parked between the farmyard (rather smelly!) and the house. It’s a nice old place with some good-sized rooms and plenty of space for all the furniture I have in store. It would need some work on it, Joseph says, but nothing that should be too expensive. I must confess it seemed rather cold and damp to me but Joseph explained that that was because no one had been living there over the winter, since the last tenant had moved away. On the side away from the farmyard is the sweetest little cottage garden, though sadly overgrown.
As we walked in the garden, Joseph pressed my arm and murmured that it was such a romantic spot, and at last we could be alone together. I asked whether Morthams was perhaps rather lonely, a little far from the shops. But he pointed out that we should soon get used to that, and in any case we could make regular trips into Saffron Walden and even London for shopping.
The owner’s solicitors had sent a clerk to open up the house for us and answer any questions we might have. Joseph had quite a chat with the man, who said he thought the owner was in a hurry to sell and might accept an offer substantially below the asking price, which is £2,100.
I was still in the garden when Joseph came to tell me this. The clouds had parted, and the sun was streaming down. Out of the wind, it was almost warm. I imagined the garden coming to life around us in a few weeks’ time with crocuses, cowslips and daffodils. He asked me what I thought and I replied that perhaps we should go back to London and consider what best to do. Joseph said in that case we might lose the property because several other people were coming to see it today and tomorrow. He thinks it would be perfect for us and suggested we make an offer of £1,700. It will mean selling about a quarter of my investments, but as Joseph pointed out, the farm itself would be a far better investment than any stocks and shares and besides it would give us a home of our own, so we should save money on rent. Even if we were to sell it right away, we should make a profit.
The clerk showed us over the rest of the place. Joseph made much of the neglected state of it, but murmured privately to me that in fact the land was in very good shape underneath. Then we made our offer! I dare say we shall have to wait a day or two before we hear the owner’s reply. I’m on tenterhooks!
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