Bleeding Heart Square

by Andrew Taylor

  It had been Dawlish who had pointed out that, now the lodger was no more than an unhappy memory and some curious stains on the carpet in her room, there was no longer any need for Fenella to remain at Cornwallis Grove, unless of course she wanted to, which she did not. The Alliance of Socialists Against Fascism was anxious to get itself up and running as soon as possible. The house in Mecklenburgh Square was standing empty. The flat in the basement could be made ready whenever she wanted it. Dawlish had visited an estate agent in Hampstead Village who was convinced that he would have no trouble in letting the Kensleys’ maisonette in Belsize Park for the remainder of the lease; in fact he already had a prospective tenant in mind.

  Suddenly, it seemed, there was no reason for Fenella to stay and every reason for her to go. On Tuesday evening, Rory received a postcard from her, asking if he could spare the time to help with the clearing out; the Kensleys had been storing some of his belongings while he was in India, and she would be grateful if he could remove them.

  Early on Wednesday afternoon, he took a tram in the Hampstead direction and was at Cornwallis Grove a little after two o’clock. Fenella was alone in the house. She was wearing overalls and her hair was bound up in a headscarf. The hall was still cluttered with the mortal remains of Mr Kensley’s ill-fated hobbies.

  ‘Work first,’ she said. ‘Tea later.’

  As he followed her towards the stairs he stumbled again over the bag of tools and narrowly avoided treading on a crystal receiver.

  ‘Careful,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry to hurry you, but I’ve got the estate agent coming round next week and I want the place to look as clear as possible.’

  She took him up to the box room, a former dressing room on the first floor where the Kensleys had deposited anything they didn’t want but could not bear to throw away. Rory found himself looking at two suitcases, much scuffed and dented, adorned with faded labels recording long-forgotten railway journeys. He had left them with the Kensleys just before going to India in what seemed another lifetime, and one that had belonged to someone else. He carried the cases out to the landing and rummaged half-heartedly through their contents. As well as clothes and bed linen, he found a tobacco jar, books he could not remember reading, chipped crockery, a stack of lecture notes and an embarrassing attempt at an extended poetic analysis of the discontents of civilization written in the style of The Waste Land.

  ‘I’m not going to want much of this,’ he said.

  Fenella wiped a grimy hand across her forehead and grinned at him. ‘Nor am I. Why don’t you sort through it and chuck out what you can?’

  He spent the next fifteen minutes picking through the contents of the cases. Moth had got into one of them. In the other, however, he found a heavy suit which still had some wear in it. The jacket fitted and the trousers would probably do if he asked Mrs Renton to alter them. By the time he closed the lid of the second suitcase, his hands were filthy and he had had more than enough of the detritus of his own past.

  He poked his head back into the box room. ‘I’ve gone as far as I can go. One suitcase can go on the rag-and-bone pile. I’ll keep the other. I can give you a hand in here, if you like.’

  ‘Thanks. Could you lift down the box from the top of the wardrobe?’

  The cardboard box brought a shower of dust with it. He put it on the floor and pulled open the flaps. It was full of dusty papers, letters and photographs.

  ‘How will you get the suitcase back to your flat?’ she asked.

  ‘Carry it to the bus stop, I suppose. Less walking than the Tube.’

  ‘No, don’t bother. Julian’s coming round later in his car. I’m sure he won’t mind dropping it off.’

  ‘Oh. That would be very kind.’

  Fenella dug her hands into the box and deposited its contents on the carpet. A little photograph slipped to one side. Rory picked it up. It showed a woman on a park bench with a little dog at her feet.

  ‘Who’s this?’ he asked casually.

  Fenella took the photograph from him. The good humour left her face. ‘It’s Aunt Philippa.’

  ‘She looks rather pretty,’ Rory said, surprised. ‘And I thought she’d be much older.’

  ‘It’s not a very good likeness,’ Fenella said, dropping the photograph in the open box.

  ‘In what way?’

  Fenella turned away and opened the wardrobe door. ‘She made herself up as if she was ten or twenty years younger than she was. But if you got close to her, you could see the cracks. Literally. She plastered on the make-up. Father used to say Aunt Philippa made herself look ridiculous, mutton dressed as lamb.’

  Late in the morning, Mr Smethwick tripped over the caretaker’s bucket and dropped three box files outside the general office. The contents of the files related to some of the late Mr Trimble’s pre-war clients. Pieces of paper floated over the landing and into the stairwell. Some reached the landing below, and two letters fluttered all the way down to the hall. Mr Reynolds rushed out of the office and gazed in anguish at the cascade of yellowing paper, rusting paper clips and pink ribbons.

  ‘Smethwick! What were you thinking of? Mrs Langstone! Come here at once!’

  Lydia had never seen him so agitated. She and Smethwick gathered up the papers. Then it became her task to restore them to order, and Mr Reynolds would not let her take her lunch break until she had finished.

  It was after two o’clock before she was able to escape. On her way to the Blue Dahlia she called into Mr Goldman’s shop in Hatton Garden. He was hunched over a necklace, peering at it through a jeweller’s glass. He looked up when the door bell pinged and uncoiled his long body.

  ‘Good afternoon, madam.’

  ‘Hello, Mr Goldman. I don’t want to sell today but I wanted an idea of what you’d give me for something.’

  He inclined his head but said nothing. Lydia put her bag on the counter and took out a box containing a diamond and sapphire ring. It was the third and last of Lydia’s pieces of her great-aunt’s jewellery. Goldman opened the box and eased the hoop from its velvet setting. He screwed the glass back into his eye and examined it, breathing heavily through his nose.

  ‘I know it’s old-fashioned,’ Lydia said, hating the hint of desperation she heard in her voice. ‘But the stones alone must be worth a good deal.’

  He ignored her and continued his examination. She turned aside and pretended to look at one of the displays. Beans on toast, she thought, her mind running over the Blue Dahlia’s limited menu, and a cup of tea: I can afford that. Push the boat out and have an egg as well?

  ‘It’s a handsome ring,’ Mr Goldman said at last. He rubbed it gently. ‘Forty or fifty years old. The sapphires are particularly fine.’

  ‘What would it be worth?’

  ‘What were you hoping for?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. A hundred, perhaps? A hundred and fifty?’

  He shook his head. ‘There would be a case for reusing the stones. I might manage forty pounds. Forty-five, even.’ He saw the expression on Lydia’s face. ‘You might be able to get more elsewhere. Or you might decide to pawn it instead, although of course that would not raise as much.’

  She thanked him and went to lunch. Food made her feel a little more cheerful. After all, she had a roof over her head, a meal inside her and clothes on her back. She also had a job of sorts to go to. It all depended on one’s perspective: she had more than most people on this crowded planet. And because she had taken a late lunch, at least it would be a short afternoon.

  Three hours later, as Lydia was putting on her hat before leaving the office, Miss Tuffley’s bright face loomed behind her in the mirror.

  ‘Hard luck,’ she whispered, nudging Lydia’s shoulder. ‘His nibs wants you in his room.’ She rubbed some of the condensation from the window next to the mirror. ‘Ugh. The fog’s getting fouler and fouler.’

  Lydia went through to the private office where she found Mr Shires standing at his desk and putting files in his briefcase.

 
; ‘Ah, Mrs Langstone. Shut the door, please.’ He strapped up the briefcase. ‘I’ve considered your request this morning, and I’m inclined to look favourably on it.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Lydia said, surprised.

  ‘Mind you, I’m not saying we are prepared to act for you in this. But I shall take it a stage further. See how the land lies with Mr Langstone, hmm?’

  ‘As to the cost, I—’

  Mr Shires held up a small pink hand. ‘We shall leave that to one side for the moment. We like to help our employees where possible, and in the circumstances there’s a chance we may be able to oblige Mr Langstone to meet our costs. But we shall see, eh? Let’s not cross our bridges before we come to them. Leave it with me for the time being. Let me see, you’re not coming in tomorrow, are you, but we’re expecting you on Friday? If I’ve time, we’ll have a word about it then.’

  He dismissed her for the evening. The outer office was now empty. Lydia ran down the stairs feeling more lighthearted than she had for some time. She had clearly misjudged Shires. He wasn’t such a bad old stick after all.

  Outside the pavements gleamed with rain and the gathering fog reduced the street lamps to fuzzy globes of moisture. She found her way to Bleeding Heart Square as much by touch as by sight. As she let herself into the house, she heard the whirr and clack of Mrs Renton’s sewing machine in the room by the front door.

  There was a letter for her on the hall table. She picked it up and went upstairs, ripping open the envelope on the way. It was from Mrs Alforde. She had replied to Lydia’s letter almost by return of post.

  Captain Ingleby-Lewis was not in the sitting room. Lydia put down her handbag and scanned the contents of the letter, which was dated that morning.

  My dear Lydia,

  Thank you for your note. It’s sweet and generous of you to apologize but the more I think about it, the more I think it was foolish of me to take what your mother said entirely at face value – I should have known better. The truth is, I’m a meddlesome old woman with too much time on my hands.

  Will you do me the great kindness of letting me make a fresh start? My time is rather taken up with your poor dear godfather – he often becomes agitated if I am not around – but tomorrow is Thursday, and therefore his day for Sergeant Stokes. Stokes was with him for most of the war. For some reason – it seems perverse to me – Gerry finds his company soothing.

  As it happens I have to run down to Rawling for a funeral tomorrow morning but I hope to be back by teatime or a little later, and I could pick you up if you are free. (I have a little motor car now, which has transformed my life!) Alternatively, if you would like a day in the country you could come with me, and we could talk on the way. I could drop you in Bishop’s Stortford or Saffron Walden and show you where to find a decent lunch. But of course this may not be convenient, or you may feel enough is enough! Whatever you decide, I shall quite understand.

  I hope to hear from you – perhaps telephone me this evening if you would like an excursion tomorrow?

  With affectionate good wishes from us both,

  Yours sincerely,

  Hermione Alforde

  Lydia put the letter away and went into her bedroom, where she took off her hat and coat. She picked up Miss Penhow’s skirt and the accompanying letter from the bottom of her chest of drawers and took them downstairs. She knocked on Mrs Renton’s door. The old woman’s wrinkled face brightened when she saw Lydia.

  ‘Hello, dear. I was just going to make some tea. Would you like a cup?’

  Once the kettle was on, Lydia said, ‘I’ve something I want to show you.’

  Mrs Renton eyed the skirt. ‘A bit of sewing?’

  ‘In a way.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m rather busy at present.’

  Lydia laid it on Mrs Renton’s table. ‘It’s not for me, though.’

  Mrs Renton lifted up the skirt, feeling the material, running her fingers along the seams. She frowned.

  ‘Do you recognize it?’ Lydia asked.

  ‘I’m sure I’ve seen that tweed before.’ She turned a bewildered face to Lydia. ‘It’s not Miss Penhow’s, is it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She showed it me just before she went away to the country. She wanted it altered. But she decided to wait until the weather was warmer.’

  ‘There’s a letter with it.’ Lydia handed the note to her.

  Mrs Renton read it, and when she had finished she dabbed her eyes with her apron. ‘For a moment I thought she must be back. Miss Penhow, I mean. But this letter’s years old, isn’t it? Poor woman.’

  ‘I didn’t realize you knew her,’ Lydia said.

  Mrs Renton glanced at the door as if to confirm it was shut. ‘Mr Serridge introduced us. I did some sewing for her while she lived in Kensington. Made her a nice little silk tea gown too. And then she married and moved away, and I didn’t hear from her again. Where did that skirt come from?’

  ‘Someone found it at Rawling. That was where she moved to.’

  ‘Does Mr Serridge know?’

  Lydia shook her head.

  ‘It might be better not to mention it. They say she left him. You wouldn’t want to open old wounds.’

  ‘You must have wondered what had happened to her.’

  ‘None of my business,’ Mrs Renton said. ‘That kettle must be boiling.’

  18

  The tone of the diary is darkening now, three days after Serridge came back from London. But Philippa Penhow soldiers on like a little hero in the battle of life.

  Friday, 11 April 1930

  The Vicar called this morning. He is a Mr Gladwyn, a clergyman of the old school. I must confess I have been rather worried about church. I don’t feel I can take Communion at present. After all, in a sense Joseph and I are living a lie, though of course God knows the truth and understands. Still, I felt a little awkward with Mr Gladwyn. Not that I had a great deal to do with him. He and Joseph got on very well. They talked mainly about cars – Mr Gladwyn plans to buy one soon and wanted to pick Joseph’s brains about them. Joseph took him for a spin in our Austin 7.

  Now the weather is better, I have begun to explore the farm. I have been finding the house rather claustrophobic of late. It’s partly because we see so few people, but mainly (I expect) because I’m used to towns and lots of comings and goings. Here there is so much silence. Sometimes I see countryfolk in the distance and once or twice have exchanged waves. I have not had any conversations with them yet.

  This afternoon, I brought my diary with me. Sometimes I feel a little self-conscious about writing my diary in the house – Joseph is always asking what I’m doing. So today I am writing this al fresco, as the Italians say.

  It’s very odd that I have had no letters since we moved. I wish I knew what it was best to do. I feel stupidly worried a lot of the time and I don’t quite know why. I tell myself not to be silly. But the worry is there when I wake up, sitting like a weight in my stomach, and it’s there when I go to sleep. Sometimes I don’t sleep very well either. My heart is heavy. I wish I could stop feeling. If only I could tear my heart from my breast and take away the pain for ever.

  You want to tap her on the shoulder and say it’s always wiser to be cowardly than heroic. Not that she would have listened if anyone had. But let’s not anticipate.

  ‘Good morning!’ Mrs Alforde said when Lydia came to the door, already drawing on her gloves. ‘Glad you’re punctual. I can’t bear unpunctuality.’

  Once they were in the little car, a grey Morris Minor with scratched and dented wings, Mrs Alforde nosed her way up to the Clerkenwell Road and then turned east towards Shoreditch and Hackney. She drove badly but with the sort of panache Lydia associated with the hunting field. She kept up a running commentary which needed no response from Lydia and was actually rather restful, unlike the driving itself.

  ‘The blithering idiot, can’t he see it’s my right of way? Are you deaf or something? Look at those houses over there, aren’t they dreary? They get worse and w
orse. Really, how the government can look itself in the eye I just do not know. Ha! That will teach you!’

  Lydia luxuriated in the absence of responsibility. From Dalston they went to Leyton. From Leyton they went to Walthamstow. Now they were on the A1 and almost in real country. She stared hungrily at trees and grass. Even Mrs Alforde seemed to feel their soothing effect because she settled down to drive far more calmly and now seemed disposed for conversation.

  ‘Now what would you like to do? Poor Mr Narton’s funeral’s at a quarter to twelve. I can drop you off at Bishop’s Stortford if you like – I can show you where to get quite reasonable coffee and a bite to eat – or if you want to see Rawling itself you could come with me. You needn’t feel you have to come to the funeral, of course, but the Vicar will give us lunch. I should warn you, though, there’s not much one can do in Rawling.’

  ‘I think I’d like to come with you,’ Lydia said.

  ‘It’s entirely up to you. You could always have a walk, I suppose – at least it’s not raining and I see you’re wearing sensible shoes.’ While speaking, Mrs Alforde glanced down at the shoes, causing the car to swerve and almost collide with an oncoming lorry. ‘Blast the man – you’d think he’d realize that he’s not the only person on this road. Yes, or you could wait at the Vicarage if you prefer – I’m sure Mr Gladwyn wouldn’t mind. I imagine the funeral itself wouldn’t be your cup of tea.’

  ‘I’m not really dressed for it.’

  ‘Don’t let that put you off, my dear. I doubt there will be many people there so there won’t be anyone to notice. Anyway, you’d be with me.’

  ‘That would make it all right?’ Lydia asked, amused.

  ‘Well, yes – I’m sure it would. Old habits die hard, especially among the older villagers. I remember when I was first married, going for a drive with my father-in-law, and the women would come out of the cottages and curtsy as the carriage went by. It was really rather touching.’