The Hiding Places

by Katherine Webb

  ‘Don’t be nervous, Irene,’ he told her softly, as the door of Biddestone Hall swung open. He kissed the back of her hand. ‘They’re jolly nice, and they’re going to love you.’ An immaculate butler admitted them, but a woman of perhaps thirty appeared behind him at once, giving the immediate impression of huge eyes and a huge smile, with perhaps slightly too much tooth and gum. Her chestnut hair was close-cropped, with a wave; she had a long neck and long arms, and the overall effect was instantly appealing.

  ‘There you are, Alistair!’ She gave him a hug on the doorstep.

  ‘How are you, Cora? You look ravishing,’ said Alistair.

  ‘Oh, you know – simply melting in the heat. Thank heavens for the pool. And you must be Irene.’ Her handshake was hearty. ‘I just know we’re going to be the best of friends,’ she said, with such bulletproof conviction that Irene immediately wondered who she meant to convince. Cora was a war widow, Alistair had told her; she’d married a childhood sweetheart called Bertram, only for him to be shot dead on more or less the same day he’d arrived in Belgium. Since then, she hadn’t found anybody eligible to marry amongst the ranks that stumbled back from the war. But within half an hour of seeing how she beamed at Alistair, and glowed whenever he looked at her, and laughed his way, Irene had an idea about where Cora might have put her stock.

  The inside of Biddestone Hall was as imposing as the outside – all Turkmen carpets, gleaming silver, mirrors and liveried servants. Gerry, into his eighties, was a quiet, dignified sort of man, clearly quite deaf, and Charles was as vivacious as his sister; a handsome man, if running a little to fat. They ate an enormous dinner, served at one end of a vastly long dining room table.

  ‘The next time you come we’ll invite more people,’ said Cora, leaning towards Irene. ‘But this time, we wanted you all to ourselves, didn’t we, Charlie?’ Irene smiled, but couldn’t think of a reply. She wondered whether Alistair had told them she was shy, or unwell, or otherwise feeble, and felt small. She dropped her eyes to her salmon mousse and kept them there for a while. But Cora was undeterred. ‘Tell me everything about London – I do so miss it, between seasons! Not that it isn’t divine down here in Wiltshire, and nobody in their right mind would want to be in town in this weather. But one does feel so out of it, after a while. Have you met the St Iveses yet? Johnny and Maria? Alistair! What have you been doing, closeting her away like this? Their house near Malmesbury is the place to be when it’s this hot. We’re going for a Friday to Monday next week.’

  ‘Cora, take a breath, old thing, and let Irene fit a word in,’ said Charles, laughing.

  ‘Oh – am I talking too much? I do do that, it’s true,’ said Cora, not in the least abashed.

  Irene was perfectly happy to let them talk and, like Gerry, contribute little. There was little she could contribute, since they’d clearly been primed not to question her about her London life, or her swift departure from it, and she didn’t know any of the people or places they wanted to talk about. Gerry met her eye over dessert and gave her a benign, tolerant smile, as Cora dissolved into laughter at the shared memory of a Christmas party when they’d all been in their teens, and Charles had drunk too much rum punch, and they had to hide him behind the curtains until he was less of a giveaway. After the meal the men went off together to smoke and play poker.

  ‘Not that it’s worth it, with Alistair. I can never get your husband to bet more than a shilling, Irene,’ said Charles.

  ‘He’s exaggerating,’ said Alistair. ‘Will you be all right?’ he said to her, quietly. Irene had little choice but to nod.

  ‘Of course she will,’ said Cora, taking Irene’s arm and giving Alistair a knowing look. When the men had gone she toned it down a little, draped herself languidly over a sofa and lit a cigarette. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Now we can get to know each other properly.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Irene, more stiffly than she’d intended. Cora took a deep breath of smoke and blew it out through painted lips.

  ‘So tell me, how are you getting along with Aunt Nancy?’ There was a definite glint in her eye, but Irene couldn’t tell, yet, if it were directed at Nancy or at herself.

  ‘Nancy is …’ she began, thinking carefully. ‘I don’t think Nancy has warmed to me terribly much, yet.’

  Cora tipped back her head and laughed delightedly.

  ‘I should think that’s the understatement of the century!’ she said. ‘Gosh, I do feel for you, really. I’m sure Alistair would have been married five times over by now if it wasn’t for Aunt Nancy. I know of at least one girl she chased off.’

  ‘She’s like a mother to him, I suppose. And rather picky.’

  ‘She’s a demon! And don’t pretend otherwise,’ said Cora, frowning at Irene’s reticence. ‘Why else would it take a sweetie like Alistair so long to find a wife? We were all terrified of Nancy as children – I still am a bit, I don’t mind admitting. And as for her being like his mother,’ she tipped her head to one side, and cocked an eyebrow, ‘you don’t know how right you are.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well.’ Cora shook her head and reached for her brandy. ‘Far be it from me to spread scurrilous rumours. But perhaps I will, just this once.’ She chuckled. ‘You know Alistair’s father was Nancy’s twin brother? They were inseparable as children, by all accounts – nothing unusual there. But I’ve heard it remarked upon that perhaps Nancy remained a trifle too devoted to her brother, as they got older. She only let him get married because it was that or lose the estate, since he’d all but gambled the whole lot away, and Tabitha Hadleigh brought her whopping inheritance with her from America – her parents owned half the goldmines in California. And when Tabitha died Nancy came back in a flash, and devoted her whole life to taking care of her brother and her new nephew. Almost more like a wife than a sister.’

  ‘You can’t mean to say …’ Irene trailed off, aghast. Cora waved a hand through the cloud of smoke around her head.

  ‘Oh, nothing biblical, I’m sure. But more than one new acquaintance mistook them for husband and wife until it was pointed out that they were brother and sister. And since old Alistair died, your Alistair has been the sole focus of all of her energies.’ Irene didn’t miss the slightly strained way in which Cora said ‘your Alistair’. ‘So I’m not at all surprised that she hasn’t taken to you.’ Irene wondered how much of what had gone on in London the McKinleys knew, and whether Cora knew that her disgrace formed part of Nancy’s distaste for her.

  ‘I don’t think she ever will,’ she said, heavily.

  ‘No,’ said Cora, not without sympathy. ‘I fear you’ve your work cut out for you there.’ She swilled her brandy around in its huge glass. ‘But if any man were worth putting up with her for, it’s Alistair, isn’t it?’ She leapt up before Irene could reply. ‘Come on. Why should the boys have all the fun? Do you fancy a swim?’

  ‘I … I haven’t a costume.’

  ‘Me neither. Don’t worry, it’s dark as pitch out there. Come on, it’ll be a hoot!’

  In the end, Cora swam and Irene perched on the side of a steamer chair, smoking, watching moths batter themselves against the lamps and the way the profusion of stars turned the night sky mauve. The air filled with the smell of swimming pool water on still-warm stone. It was a dream of a night, too benign and beautiful for words, but Irene noticed the way it failed to move her, and felt a kind of creeping despair that she would never feel anything properly, ever again. She’d expected Alistair to be half-cut by the end of the evening, but he seemed quite sober. He put his jacket around her shoulders on the way home, and his arm around that, and held the reins easily in one hand.

  ‘Was it all right?’ he said. ‘Did you like them?’

  ‘I think it would be impossible for anybody not to like them,’ she said, and he smiled.

  ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘How did you do at poker?’

  ‘Oh, not very well. I never do, that’s why I refuse to bet real money. I really only play to keep Ch
arles company. It’s one way in which I’d prefer not to follow in my father’s footsteps,’ he said, and Irene remembered Cora’s remark about the estate being almost gambled away.

  ‘He liked cards too much?’

  ‘He did. Not that I ever saw it – one of Nancy’s looks was enough to keep him in line when I was a boy, as I recall it. But I’ve heard she wasn’t always able to rein him in when they were younger.’ They drove on in silence for a while; the Stanhope’s lamps only lit a few feet in front of them, and a barn owl swooped overhead on silent wings.

  ‘I think Cora carries a torch for you,’ said Irene, in the cover of darkness.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Alistair, uncomfortably. ‘She’s a lovely girl. But my heart belonged to you the moment I saw you, Irene.’ He pulled her closer, and kissed her hair.

  When Alistair made love to her, Irene noticed all sorts of things. The well-worn softness of the sheets, and the slight itch in her eyes of dust from feather pillows that could have done with replacing. The odd creaks and knocks of the house as it cooled down with the night outside, the shadows cast by the sinuous beams that wriggled across the ceiling, and the rasp of Alistair’s cheek against her own. The way his face seemed to blur as he was carried away by sensation, and emotion; the way her mind did the precise opposite – calling everything into sharp, unforgiving focus. She wished she could stop feeling as though she were betraying Fin, each and every time; and she wished she could stop hoping, in the exact same moment, that he would feel that betrayal wherever he was, and be wounded by it. In his bed, she supposed; Serena sleeping beside him. Or perhaps not sleeping at all. She knew deep down that it was only herself she was hurting with such thoughts, and she knew that, to the rest of the world, that would seem entirely just. She didn’t mind Alistair’s touch. He didn’t repel her – he was wonderful in his own way. She liked the smell of him, and the width of his hips, and the rhythm of his movements. Her body ignored her, treacherously, and responded to him. She wondered if, were she whole, she wouldn’t come to feel for him what she should, and fall in love. She wondered if she could ever do that again. If she had any love left.

  Afterwards, Alistair got up for a glass of water, climbing back into his pyjama trousers. He was boyish, with his flushed cheeks and tousled hair. Made light by happiness. His limbs were long and smooth; neither muscled nor soft, but lean, economical.

  ‘Is there anything you need, my darling?’ he said, lying down beside her and propping himself up on one elbow, and she shook her head, though there were many things. She could hardly bear his efforts to please and the guilt they made her feel. ‘Oh, I meant to say – I hear we’re not about to be struck down by voodoo,’ he said, lying back, letting his hand rest on her midriff. His smile put gentle creases around his eyes, and smoothed out his brow.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The doll you found. Pudding told me Ma Tanner confirmed it: no witchcraft.’

  ‘Oh, yes, that’s right. No witchcraft.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief.’ He smiled. ‘I’m afraid I can’t think of any other way to establish who it belonged to, or what it was doing there.’

  ‘It really doesn’t matter,’ said Irene, truthfully. She’d been tempted to throw the doll away once they’d escaped from the Tanners, but that weird sense of significance had persisted, and in the end she’d rewrapped it and put it away in a drawer. The whole expedition annoyed her now – pointlessly putting herself in such an uncomfortable situation. Shouted at by a bedridden old man in front of a herd of unshod children. The thought made her hot with shame, and she had to keep reminding herself that it hadn’t been Nancy’s idea, but her own. One more way in which she’d managed to do the wrong thing. ‘I’ve forgotten all about it already,’ she said.

  ‘Well, anyway, I’m happy you went out and met some of the villagers. Even if it was old Mrs Tanner and her nefarious brood.’

  ‘There did seem to be a lot of them.’

  ‘Who did you meet?’

  ‘Well, “meet” is perhaps an overstatement. Ma, of course, a lot of children and some older girls, and a woman called Trish, who looked past fifty. And an old grandpa. Then after a while Tanner himself came home, with two older lads – but he didn’t make a point of introducing himself or them, so I didn’t get their names.’

  ‘Well, Trish is Tanner’s wife. The older lads were probably their two eldest sons, Jacob and … Elias? Elijah? I forget.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I don’t think I’d have gone at all if it hadn’t been for your aunt Nancy, telling me so many times I shouldn’t. And I don’t think I’d have knocked at the door if it hadn’t been for Pudding. She’s quite fearless, isn’t she?’

  ‘About a lot of things, yes. I suppose it comes from so long being teased by her companions. I imagine she’s had to develop a thick skin.’

  ‘What on earth possessed her parents to call her Pudding? Surely she can’t have been born fat?’

  ‘Goodness, that’s not her real name. Just a nickname from early days that has hung on ever since. Rather a pity for her. No, her real name is …’ Alistair frowned. ‘Do you know, I’ve quite forgotten it? It’s something very grown-up – perhaps that’s why it never took. Does it begin with an L? It’s no good – you’ll just have to ask her.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  Irene realised then how many times she’d said It doesn’t matter since moving out of London. She glanced at the clock as Alistair turned out the lamp; it was a little after midnight. The witching hour – she hadn’t called it that since she’d been a child. As soon as she’d turned seventeen, most of her witching hours had been spent out, at the Embassy Club or some other night spot; with her parents and then with friends – groups made up of young marrieds, young hopefuls, her cousins and a schoolfriend or two. Crammed elbow to elbow at tables that encroached onto the dance floor in the middle of the huge room; snatching a course of dinner and washing it down with gin and tonic before getting up to foxtrot again, to visit another table, to watch and be watched while the band played up on their balcony, all but lost in the haze of smoke. Talking, shouting to be heard above the din; dancing and laughing with that mad energy, that frantic need for joy, that swept through England after the Great War. Unemployment wasn’t an issue for the members and guests at the Embassy, but the shortage of young men was. It gave the single women an edge of desperation, of constant questing, and made the remaining young men feel hunted – which some of them relished. It made some young women, the shyer ones, too terrified to even talk to a man, since it would be immediately assumed that she wanted to marry him.

  Irene had been one of this latter group. She was shy to begin with, anyway. Added to that her parents’ continual mania that she be married to the first young man in whom she took an interest, and she determined to show an interest in none of them. Irene’s mother, who approached fashion as a matter of life or death, decided that her lack of confidence stemmed from not being thin enough for the dresses coming across from Paris, and put her on so strict a diet that Irene passed her days in a daze of dizziness and detachment, weak with hunger. Her mother watched her so sternly whenever she did eat that Irene soon found she couldn’t at all, in her presence. Many nights, she felt she didn’t have the resources left to make any effort at overcoming her shyness. The very last softness disappeared from her body, leaving a boyish shape with knobbly knees and arms like pipe cleaners, and a bloodless face in which her mascaraed eyes bloomed like black flowers. She took up smoking; it helped her not to think about food. When she didn’t have the energy to dance, she simply sat; when she didn’t have the energy to talk, she stayed silent, watching the room with the dispassion that was all she could muster, hoping that nobody would attempt to engage her. And they did try – because she looked the part, and because of who her parents were, and because they mistook her fatigue and fear for a glamorous kind of ennui. So she sat there, night after night, draped in silk and strings of beads, smoking through a tortoiseshell cigarette holder
and wondering how and when it would all end. But that was life, and that was what passed for enjoyment, and to be anywhere else – to be at home – felt like stepping off and leaving the whole world to turn without her. Like dying.

  The first time Serena and Fin came to the Embassy was on Irene’s invitation, in 1920, after they’d met at the costume party – Serena as a peacock; Serena just as vivid without her feathers. Irene had no idea what Serena saw in her as a friend. Whether it was her connections, or the way the Paris fashions hung perfectly on her starving body; or whether she, too, mistook exhaustion for a fashionable disdain that she envied. Or perhaps Irene was a blank canvas onto which Serena might paint colourful images of herself. She towed Fin around behind her, always holding his hand, taking him from group to group, table to table: a husband, a rarity, as a dress accessory. And then he touched Irene’s arm for the first time, sitting side by side on an upholstered bench, late in the evening, well after midnight. The witching hour. Beached together to one side of the shifting sea of people – the maelstrom of the dance floor, the high-tide line of tables all strewn with the detritus of a five-course meal and too much to drink. Irene hadn’t had a thought in her head that she knew about, other than that it was entirely comfortable to have him there, with the sleeve of his jacket just brushing her bare shoulder, giving her gooseflesh. Not really noticing him, as people generally seemed to not really notice him. She remembered a vague sense of there being safety in numbers; of it being unlikely that she would be approached while he was there. She noticed the discomfort of the sequins on her dress more, cutting into the skin on the undersides of her arms. Did he speak before he touched her? It seemed likely, and she just hadn’t heard him. His touch was to get her attention.