Bleeding Heart Square

by Andrew Taylor

  ‘Looking for something?’ Rory suggested. ‘The diary?’

  ‘God,’ Robbie said. ‘Where’s God?’

  ‘He’s gone, lovey,’ Rebecca said. ‘You know that.’

  ‘I want God.’

  Rory looked at the boy’s pale, vacant face. He was on the verge of tears.

  ‘You can’t have him,’ Rebecca said.

  ‘God?’ Rory asked. ‘He’s looking for God?’

  Rebecca turned back to Rory. ‘Not God, sir: goat. He’s lost his goat.’

  Robbie pulled at Rory’s sleeve, dragging him towards the wall.

  ‘There now,’ Rebecca said comfortably. ‘He must have taken quite a fancy to you. He wants to show you his Golgotha bones.’

  The boy reached up and very carefully lifted down a small skull, not much larger than a lemon. Its lower jaw was still attached, and along the top of it ran a high, vertical ridge of bone like the crest of a Roman helmet.

  ‘It’s his badger,’ Rebecca explained. ‘It’s his favourite now the goat’s gone.’

  ‘God,’ Robbie said. He lifted the badger very carefully back onto the wall and pointed to the space beside it.

  ‘That’s where it was,’ Rebecca said. ‘You’ve got lots of others though, Robbie, haven’t you? Show Mr Wentwood your sheep.’

  Robbie lifted down two skulls, one a ram’s with sawn-off horns and the other much smaller, a lamb’s. There were cats too, and birds, most of which Rebecca could identify. ‘That’s a magpie, that’s a pigeon, that’s a starling.’ Finally there was a frog, this one a full skeleton with brown, leathery tatters of skin attached to it, its long, graceful rear legs trailing into the air.

  ‘He collects them?’

  ‘Yes. I got one or two for him from the keepers up in the Hall woods, but most of them he finds himself. He had this great big skull of a billy goat. Lost it the other week, and he won’t stop going on about it.’ She patted the boy’s head. ‘Nasty-looking thing, mind you.’

  ‘God,’ said Robbie, spraying spittle over the frog.

  ‘No, dear. Goat. And if you ask me it looked more like the devil.’

  16

  You like to think that in those days Philippa Penhow had moments of happiness.

  Saturday, 5 April 1930

  Here I am, sitting at my desk in the window of my own morning room looking out at my own garden! For the first time in my life, I am the mistress of my own establishment. How strange and delightful – I have always lived in other people’s houses – the first with Mother and Father, then with Aunt, and then at the Rushmere.

  We moved in only yesterday, in a great rush, and my heart sinks when I think of everything there is to do. This room and our bedroom are reasonably habitable, but everywhere else needs redecorating. I have two maids to keep in order – Rebecca, a nice sensible sort of woman who once worked at Rawling Hall and knows how things ought to be done, and Amy, a rather flighty young thing – I can see already that she will need a good deal of instruction and supervision. When I was giving my orders to Rebecca after breakfast, Amy came running into the kitchen like an excited child. She was holding a dripping skull in her hand! A goat’s skull! One of the farm workers had been clearing a ditch and he had found it in the water. He left it on a tree stump in the orchard. These simple country folk have a very strange sense of humour, I must say.

  The sun is out, I’m in my new home, my spirits are high. But I must confess that yesterday evening I felt a little low. Joseph was very preoccupied. He spent much of the day driving our new car up and down the drive, practising the gears, etc.

  I had expected that he would share my excitement at being here. I must sound very foolish but I had hoped for a loving word or a gentle touch. I’m sure my Joseph is as happy as I am, but men find it hard to show their feelings. And of course he has a lot to worry about. I thought he drank rather a lot of brandy after supper. I went up to bed, expecting him to join me. He did not, however. This morning, at breakfast, he said he had not wanted to disturb me, as he had stayed up late with the accounts, and so he dozed on the sofa in front of the fire. He said that old soldiers can sleep anywhere.

  He may have to go up to London on Monday on business. I thought perhaps he might invite me to come with him but as yet he has not. I expect it has not occurred to him that I might like to come. Perhaps I shall mention it.

  On Saturday Lydia caught a tram down from Theobald’s Road to the Embankment and walked along the river. It was a fine, cold afternoon and the water swayed and sparkled like shot silk. Here at least was a sense of space. Lately, as the city became increasingly oppressive, closing round her like one of its own fogs, she had begun to dream about the countryside. She wanted trees, rivers, muddy fields and broad, empty skies. Rory Wentwood had gone down to Hereford for the weekend, and she envied him.

  The walk took longer than she had expected, and she was footsore by the time she turned up from the river towards Sloane Square. Alvanley Mansions was a large block of flats perhaps thirty years old. It was a solid, dull place of red brick, with gleaming brass letter boxes and scrubbed steps.

  She enquired for the Alfordes at the desk, and the porter directed her to the lift.

  A middle-aged maid showed her into a drawing room at the front of the flat. The room was so full of things that for a moment Lydia failed to notice the people. You could hardly see the wallpaper because there were so many pictures, hung seemingly at random in order to squeeze as many as possible onto the wall. Then Mrs Alforde rose from a desk tucked into the corner beside an immense glass-fronted display cabinet crammed with china. And Colonel Alforde tottered out from the shelter of a high-backed sofa, his left arm outstretched, and his right arm hanging awkwardly by his side.

  ‘My dear Lydia. Very glad you could come.’ His left hand shook her right.

  Mrs Alforde was short and plump, whereas her husband was long and thin. She shook hands vigorously, as though operating a pump handle. ‘You’ve got quite a colour in your cheeks, dear,’ she said in a tone which made it hard to distinguish whether it was intended as a compliment or a criticism.

  ‘I walked up from the Embankment.’

  ‘A nice afternoon for it.’ Colonel Alforde settled her in a chair. ‘Hermione tells me you’re staying at Bleeding Heart Square. Can’t say I can place it. Where is it precisely?’

  ‘Near Holborn.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever known anybody who actually lives in that part of the world.’ Alforde chewed the ends of his long, grey moustache. ‘Still, it must be very … very central. And your father? How’s he keeping?’

  ‘Very well, thank you,’ Lydia said, and added another lie: ‘He sends his regards, of course.’

  Both Alfordes looked disconcerted by this news. ‘Not seen him for a while,’ the Colonel said at last. ‘Used to run into each other a good deal before the war.’ The muscles around his mouth trembled. ‘Things were different then. Everything was very different.’

  The maid brought the tea. Alforde’s good hand trembled so much that he spilled his over his waistcoat. Mrs Alforde dabbed at him with a napkin; her passionless efficiency suggested that this was a regular occurrence. He ate nothing, but pressed cake on Lydia as though she were a hungry child.

  ‘And how’s that husband of yours?’ he asked. ‘Nice young fellow.’

  ‘He’s very well, I believe.’

  ‘I hear he’s joined the Fascists. They seem a pretty sound outfit. A lot of ex-servicemen so they understand discipline. And they realize the importance of avoiding another war and the importance of the Empire. This Mosley chap has the right idea. Of course he knows first hand what war was like. I met him once in France, you know. Quite a young firebrand in those days, a little too reckless, but he’s settled down since then. No more war, that’s the important thing. No more war.’ He began to speak more slowly, like a clockwork motor running down. ‘No more war.’

  Mrs Alforde patted his shoulder. ‘There, there, dear. It’s all right. Nobody is going to
be silly enough to have another war.’

  He looked at his wife with wide, panic-stricken eyes. ‘You can’t be sure of that. And the next time nowhere will be safe. They’ll bomb all our cities.’

  ‘Of course they won’t, dear. Now, isn’t it time you had your medicine and a little lie-down? I’m sure Lydia will excuse you.’

  Mrs Alforde rang the bell. She and the maid helped the old man out of the room. When Mrs Alforde came back alone, Lydia was on her feet.

  ‘I think perhaps I ought to be going. Thank you so much for asking me.’

  ‘Do sit down, and in a moment we’ll ring for more tea. I’m sorry you had to see Gerry like that.’

  ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘Not really. He was too long in France. They kept sending him back to the front, and he felt so responsible for his men. He can keep up appearances for a little but you can never quite tell what’s going to set him off. Sometimes it’s a motorbike backfiring on the street. Or seeing a soldier in uniform. Or a headline in the paper. Even the mention of war can do it.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Yes, well we have to make the best of it.’ Mrs Alforde folded her hands on her lap and looked at Lydia with bright little eyes. ‘We all have our crosses to bear.’ She went on, without any change of tone: ‘I had lunch with your mother on Tuesday.’

  Lydia said nothing.

  ‘She is very worried about you, you know. I gather you and Marcus have been having a difficult time.’

  ‘That’s one way of describing it.’

  ‘You mustn’t mind my talking about it, dear,’ Mrs Alforde said. ‘After all, Gerry’s your godfather, and if his health permitted, I’m sure he would be saying exactly the same things as I am.’

  ‘My mother asked you to talk to me, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t want to go back to Marcus.’

  ‘That’s as maybe, dear. But it doesn’t follow that it’s suitable for you to be with your father.’

  Lydia frowned. ‘I don’t understand. I know he’s not well off but at least he is my father.’

  ‘I’m not disputing that. But I don’t think you fully understand about his little weaknesses. Your mother has always tried to spare you. She thinks now however that you ought to know. And she asked me to talk to you because she wasn’t sure you’d believe her.’ Mrs Alforde looked sternly at Lydia over the top of her glasses. ‘Which is in itself a very sad state of affairs.’

  Lydia looked around the overcrowded room. She heard movement elsewhere in the flat, a door closing, raised voices. Was the maid some sort of nurse as well? She wondered what it was like to live with someone poised on the brink of a mental breakdown, someone who occasionally fell over the brink. She said, ‘If you want to tell me something about him, you’d better go ahead and get it over with.’

  Mrs Alforde nodded. ‘Very wise. It’s always more sensible to know these things. Now, let me see: you were born in 1905, weren’t you? It all came to a head the previous winter. Gerry and I had been married in July and it was our first Christmas together. We were down at his uncle’s place. Rawling Hall, near Saffron Walden. Your father was there too. He was Aunt Connie’s nephew. Gerry knew him quite well – he’d met him out in India once or twice when his battalion was there. But your father had resigned his commission since then. It had all been rather sudden, I’m afraid, and in the circumstances Gerry was quite surprised to see him at Rawling.’ Mrs Alforde paused. ‘To be perfectly frank, my dear, he left the army under a cloud. In fact, if his CO hadn’t wanted to avoid the scandal, he would have been cashiered.’

  ‘What had he done?’

  ‘Forged several cheques, falsified the accounts and embezzled the mess funds,’ Mrs Alforde said crisply, abandoning finesse. ‘No doubt about it. One of the NCOs was involved as well, a mess sergeant. I believe the sergeant went to jail. And there was your father, as bold as brass, at Rawling Hall. But Aunt Connie always had a soft spot for him. She’d given him a little job to do – he was making pen-and-ink sketches of the chimney pieces that Gerry’s uncle had put in the drawing room and the library. Can’t think why – horrible pseudo-Jacobean things; best forgotten. The maids hated dusting them.’

  ‘I’m glad someone had a soft spot for him.’

  Mrs Alforde glanced at her. ‘I’m sorry to have to say that he was cold-shouldered by the men down there and by most of the women too. And then he seduced your mother under our very noses. Do you know, she was only just sixteen? She wasn’t even out. He was after her money, of course. Not that she wasn’t very lovely too. And the very final straw was that he didn’t even trouble to take precautions. He made the poor girl pregnant. With you, in fact. Of course she had no choice but to marry him. We all rallied round, for your mother’s sake. But no one was surprised that the marriage didn’t last.’

  ‘You make him sound very ruthless,’ Lydia said quietly. ‘Very calculating.’

  ‘My dear, he was. Of course he ran through the money in a year or two. I gather he’s a sad case now. Even so, he’s not to be trusted. So that’s why I think you’re better off without him.’

  Lydia sat staring straight ahead and said nothing.

  ‘All marriages have their ups and downs,’ Mrs Alforde went on. ‘Gerry and I – well, I won’t go into details but it hasn’t always been easy. But one soldiers on. I’m sure you and Marcus will soon be rubbing along together perfectly well again. And it would make your mother so happy.’

  Lydia looked at her hostess. Mrs Alforde was a nice woman, she thought, and doing her best. It wasn’t her fault that her best had nothing to do with what Lydia wanted, and nothing to do with what was actually happening.

  ‘Now promise me, dear – you will at least think about it.’

  Lydia shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not going back to Marcus. I wasn’t before and I’m certainly not now, when I’ve seen him and my mother behaving like farmyard animals together.’

  She sat back and watched the blood leave Mrs Alforde’s face. All the vitality drained out of the older woman. She looked small, pale and frightened.

  By the middle of Tuesday morning Rory had already smoked the third of the three cigarettes which were, in theory, his ration for that day. He was typing yet another letter of application on the Royal Portable and trying to resist the temptation to light a fourth.

  He had spent the weekend in Hereford with his parents and his sisters. Here the familiar rituals of his childhood continued to be observed, except all the participants were older than they had been. Despite the comforts of home – despite the freshly laundered sheets, the excellent leg of lamb for Sunday lunch, his father’s Navy Cut cigarettes – there had been something unreal, even stultifying, about the weekend. He had been glad to get away, even though it was only to return to the uncertainties of an independent life with a failed engagement, dwindling savings and no prospect of ever earning a decent income.

  He heard the muffled sound of the postman’s knock, and movement in the house below. Then came footsteps on his own stairs and a tap on his door. When he opened it, Lydia Langstone was waiting outside on the landing. She was carrying a parcel and her face was slightly flushed from the exertion of climbing the stairs.

  She held out the parcel. ‘It was for you. I thought I might as well bring it up.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She turned to go, and then looked back at him. ‘Do you remember when you showed me that cufflink the other day? When we had lunch.’

  He nodded. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I happened to hear at the weekend that the Fascists have hired the chapel undercroft for another meeting.’

  ‘Really? When?’

  ‘Saturday week. The first of December, I think. Apparently it’s part of a big push to attract businessmen to the movement.’

  ‘By telling them the Fascists will shoot all the reds under the beds and make sure there will always be a market for British goods?’

  ‘Something like that. Do you
think it was Fascists who attacked you?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I couldn’t find anything else that supported the idea. The most likely explanation is that somebody just happened to lose a cufflink there and it had nothing to do with me whatsoever.’

  He thanked her again and said goodbye. He stood for a moment watching her as she clattered down the stairs. A strange, nervy woman, he thought, all bones and breeding like a racehorse. He went back into his sitting room, pushed the typewriter aside and put the parcel on the table. It was addressed to him at Bleeding Heart Square but he didn’t recognize the writing. He cut the string with his penknife and pulled the brown paper apart. The paper was creased and with jagged edges, part of a larger sheet that had been used before.

  There was another layer of darker brown paper underneath. The second layer wasn’t secured in any way. He saw material inside, some sort of tweed. He pulled it from its wrapping and held it up.

  It was a skirt made of blue-green Irish tweed, rather worn in places. Part of the hem had come down. A sheet of lined paper fluttered from the folds of the skirt and down to the floor. He picked it up. The enclosure looked as if it had been torn from an exercise book. It was a letter, without date or address at the head, written in round, unformed writing.

  Dear Sir,

  This was in Narton’s cupboard. I reckon it belongs to Miss Penhow. I don’t know how to find her or the lady it’s addressed to, so maybe her niece had better have it for her. It’s no good to me. I don’t want it.

  Yours faithfully,

  M. Narton

  Rory dropped the note on the table and picked up the inner packaging. Nothing was written on it apart from Mrs Renton’s name in neat, familiar handwriting.

  Mrs Renton?

  Something blue protruded from the waistband of the skirt, an unsealed envelope also with Mrs Renton’s name on it in the same handwriting. Rory removed the single sheet of notepaper it contained.