by Celina Grace
I braced myself but Verity didn’t say anything. She sort of slumped out of the room, without even stopping to pick up her discarded hat. Mrs Watling tutted and bent down to retrieve it, dusting it off.
“I’m sorry,” I said, although why I was apologising I didn’t know.
Mrs Watling put the hat on the dresser, out of the way. “Funerals are terribly hard,” she said, without anger. “Particularly when it’s a young one. Such a terrible waste.”
Verity’s return and the bad mood she brought with her cast a pall over the evening. Mrs Watling, Doris and I served up the dinner for the servants, washed up the dishes and tidied the kitchen, preparing it as usual for tomorrow, but we didn’t talk much as we were doing it, and Doris didn’t do her usual trick of singing the popular music hall hits in her off-key warble. I think the only words we said to one another after nine o’clock were ‘goodnight’.
I climbed the stairs on weary legs, Voyage of the Heart in my hand. I wanted to read some more before I went to sleep, but I felt so tired I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to stay awake. For some reason, I had expected Verity to be with Dorothy still, so I jumped when I walked into our room and found her curled up on the bed.
“Oh, V…” As I got closer, I could see she had been crying, although she was dry-eyed now. I wanted to give her something to make her feel better – what, I wasn’t sure of. A chocolate bar, a sweet, a drink – just something. But I had nothing to give. I patted her on the back instead.
She rolled over onto her back and gave me a wan smile. “Sorry, Joanie. I was very snappy and horrible to you earlier.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“I was.”
“Well, anyway. It doesn’t matter. It’s been a hard day.”
Verity briefly closed her eyes. “Oh, Joan, you have no idea. It was horrible. Aldous’s parents were there, distraught, of course, and the vicar kept skirting around the fact that he’d killed himself, like it was this big, shameful secret – which I suppose it is – and everyone was there, thinking about it but not being able to say anything or talk about it or anything—“ she stopped and swallowed, as if it hurt her. “And Caroline turned up with her fiancé, looking like a fashion plate and brought all the newspaper men with her and sobbed like it was going out of fashion…”
I waited for her to say more but she didn’t. “The press were there?”
“Of course they were. It’s got it all, hasn’t it? Scandalous suicide of handsome young actor, involvement of beautiful famous young actress who’s about to marry that stuffed shirt MP. Tie in the murder at the Connault. Sprinkle in a few more semi-famous names. It’s the story that’s got it all.” She rubbed her face hard and let her hands drop back down to her side. “I hope Tommy’s going to be all right. He was three sheets to the wind before the funeral even started.”
“Oh, dear.” It was a most inadequate remark but what else could I say? “How’s Dorothy this evening?” I asked, cautiously.
Verity heaved herself off the bed with a groan. “Quiet, thank God. Subdued. Just as well, I don’t think I could have taken any more drama.” She went over to the dressing table and sat down to begin unpinning her hair.
I started to get undressed, my thoughts far away. For a moment, I almost forgot Verity was in the room. Then I was startled by her asking me a question.
“What’s that?”
Verity had stopped unpinning her hair. She was staring at her reflection in the mirror as if mesmerised by it. “I said, don’t you ever wonder – don’t you ever worry that this is it?”
“What do you mean, this is it?”
“I mean, this is it. For your life. This is all that’s ever going to happen. That you’re just going to be a servant for the rest of your life, until you die.”
Her melancholy tone worried me. I don’t think I’d ever heard her speak in quite such a way before. “Well, I suppose I do. Sometimes. But—“
“But what?”
I sat down on the bed, catching her gaze in the reflection of the mirror. “Well, I – I’ve got ambition. I don’t want to be a servant for the rest of my life.”
“Nor do I,” said Verity, with emphasis. “But what else can we do? Get married?”
“Do you want to?” It seemed funny then, that neither Verity nor I had ever really talked about getting married.
Verity snorted. “It wouldn’t matter if I wanted to or not. When do we ever meet anyone anyway? Any men? There’s no bloody time to meet anyone, whether I wanted to marry them or not.”
“Well—“ I had to pause. She was right of course. Apart from our evenings out, we had no time to meet any men, suitable or otherwise. And the men in the household were either ancient or not interested – at least not interested in someone like me. I thought, with a touch of bitterness, that at least Verity had prettiness and vivacity on her side. What did I have, except for a few cooking skills? You’ve got nice hair, I told myself, in a desperate attempt to find something positive to say about myself. But what man ever fell for someone who just had nice hair – and no other alluring attributes?
I had always assumed I would get married and have children one day, because that was just what you did, if you were a girl. I tried to think of someone of my class who wasn’t married, and did something else instead. I discounted people like Dorothy. When you’re wealthy, you can do as you want. But was there anyone I knew, in my social sphere, who wasn’t married and yet did something that was interesting?
“What about Gwen?” I said, hearing the doubt in my voice even as I mentioned her name. “She’s got a career, hasn’t she? And she’s not married.”
That was a pathetic example, even I could see that. You could tell that Gwen, nice as she was, was in no small way terribly bitter about being single. You just had to listen to her little digs at Caroline to see that.
Verity snorted again but didn’t bother to respond. She yanked the few remaining pins out of her hair with bad grace. “I feel like swearing, really swearing,” she said, after a moment’s silence.
“Well, what’s stopped you before?” I asked.
“No, I mean, really swearing. Those actors are a bad influence.”
“Well, don’t really swear. You won’t feel any better for doing so.”
“Maybe.” I could see her staring moodily at her reflection again.
In an effort to get her mind off the subject, I fastened on the closest thing to hand. “I’ve been reading Tommy’s play, you know, Voyage of the Heart. It’s wonderful.”
“Oh yes?” I could tell Verity wasn’t really listening to me.
“That’s it,” I said, somewhat desperately. “That’s what we’ll do. We won’t bother getting married. I’ll write plays and you can act in them. I always said you’d be a wonderful actress.”
There was a short, loaded silence. Verity’s eyes came round to meet mine in the mirror.
“What a wonderful idea,” she said, slowly.
Of course, the second I’d made it, I started backpedalling immediately. “Well, it sounds good, I’ll grant you but—“
“You’d be a brilliant playwright. I’ve read your stories, they’re marvellous.”
“But – but—“
“But, what? Joanie, it’s a marvellous idea.”
“But – I don’t know how to write plays.” I’d forgotten that I’d vowed just a few days ago that I was going to look into how I would go about writing professionally.
Verity thrust her hands into her hair and shook it out, a fountain of red-gold over her shoulders. She turned to me, her eyes sparkling, her dark mood of just moments before obviously gone. “Joanie, I always said you’re a genius. What a marvellous idea. You can write the plays, we’ll take them to Tommy and he can find a director and then I’ll act in them.” She got up and then cast herself upon her bed, giggling. “We’ll both be famous. Just think of it!”
I started to laugh too. This was the Verity I knew, impulsive and spontaneous and full of enthusiasm for the
future. “Oh yes. It’ll be easy as pie, I’m sure.”
“Well, what have we got to lose?”
I laughed harder. “Our jobs?”
Verity’s giggles died away. “Oh well, yes, I suppose so.” She sat up, the inner light inside her suddenly quenched. “I suppose you’re right.”
I couldn’t bear to see her cast down again. “It’s not a stupid idea, V. It’s just – you took me by surprise, that’s all.”
We stared at each other. I think we both knew the conversation wasn’t finished but the exhaustion that we’d both been fending off suddenly hit us. Verity dropped her gaze, yawning. “I’m all in, Joan. Let’s sleep. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”
“All right,” I agreed. I got up off the bed to continue undressing. “It’s been a strange day, V. Let’s not make any hasty decisions right now.”
“No, you’re right.”
I pulled on my nightdress. I had that unsatisfactory feeling of a conversation cut short, of a discussion that we should have been having suddenly cut off. After a moment, I picked up my washbag. “You can turn off the light, if you want,” I said. “I’ll be quiet when I come back in.”
“Very well, Joanie. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Verity got into bed with a sigh and switched off the lamp. In the blackness that followed, I stood for a moment, temporarily blinded. In my head was the swish of the red velvet curtains of the stage and the roar of applause from the crowd sitting in the darkness beyond the footlights.
Chapter Sixteen
Of course, Verity and I didn’t get a chance to talk at all the next morning. Dorothy was off for a luncheon date with some of her girl chums and Verity had to go with her. We barely had time to give each other a nod before she was out the front door, and I had no idea when she’d be back.
Things had been so fraught and busy I’d almost forgotten about my conversation with Ethel, the girl at the rooming house of Guido Bonsignore. That was something I had to tell Inspector Marks. But how on Earth was I supposed to go and see him when my next afternoon off wasn’t for three days? I’d taxed Mrs Watling’s patience to the limit with our impromptu trip to see Tommy, the week before, and there was no possible way for me to get to Scotland Yard without seriously endangering my position.
It made me snappy and irritable. Poor Doris got the rough end of my tongue more than once, and I could sense Mrs Watling giving me nervous, sideways looks as we prepared luncheon for the servants. As was usual, I made an effort to bite down on my bad temper, but even so, I had to walk into the larder a few times to bury my face in a teatowel and scream out my anger and frustration in a choked-off sort of way.
After lunch, I grew calmer. I’d been thinking about what I had to do and once I’d decided, it made all my histrionics and bad temper seem rather foolish. Before I could prevaricate, I found Inspector Marks’ card, walked to Mr Fenwick’s telephone, and calmly dialled the number.
There was a bit of a kerfuffle before I actually managed to get through to the inspector himself, and by then, my temporary confidence had deserted me. When his familiar voice spoke down the line, I had to stop myself from stammering and stuttering in relief.
“It’s Joan – Joan Hart. Inspector. Sorry.”
“Miss Hart. How are you?”
I stuttered out something about being fine. “I – I—“
The inspector’s voice was warm and kind and I felt myself begin to relax as he spoke. “Do you have something to tell me?”
“Yes. Yes, I do, but I’m afraid I can’t get out – I mean, I don’t have any more time off so I can’t come and see you—“
I was becoming incoherent again. Thankfully, I heard him say, “That’s quite all right, Miss Hart. I know what’s it’s like for you working girls. I’ll come to you. Are you free this evening?”
“No,” I said in confusion. “Not really. I mean I have to—“
“I’m sorry, I meant, will you get into trouble if I call around to see you this evening? About nine o’clock?”
“Oh.” I could feel the heat in my cheeks. “No, that would be fine. I’ll tell Mrs Watling I’m expecting you.” That made me blush even harder.
“Very well. I’ll look forward to seeing you then.”
“Goodbye,” I said, scarcely able to talk, and put the telephone receiver back in its cradle. I walked back to the kitchen as if I were in a dream.
Somehow I got through the rest of the afternoon. Dorothy only wanted a simple supper that evening, which helped. Pea and ham soup, which was nice and easy, lamb chops with accompaniments and a simple fruit flan for dessert. Mrs Watling and I made a stew for the servants and there was enough of the soup for us all to have a bowl of that as well.
Although it had been a fairly calm afternoon, there was still enough to do to keep me from thinking about what Verity and I had discussed last night. In the cold reality of day, it seemed even more fantastical. Surely I, a lowly servant girl, wouldn’t be able to write a play? Much less have it performed by real actors? I helped Doris clear the dinner table and carried the dirty plates into the scullery for her to wash, working mechanically, not really thinking of the task in hand. Could I do it? Where would I start? What would I write about? And when on Earth was I ever going to get the time?
By the evening, I was mentally exhausted from the thoughts fireworking around and around in my head – not to mention my growing anxiety about my upcoming meeting with Inspector Marks. I told myself that I really did have something important to tell him, and I wasn’t making the poor man come all the way across town on a wild goose chase. By the time it got to half an hour before he was expected, I realised I hadn’t even mentioned that he was arriving to Mrs Watling.
“Oh – um, Mrs Watling? Inspector Marks will be popping in this evening, about nine. He wants to talk to us.” I had no idea why I’d just said ‘us’ instead of me. Perhaps because it sounded a little less embarrassing.
“Inspector Marks? What on Earth does he want to talk to us about?” Mrs Watling, who’d been sitting dozing off in her armchair by the range, snapped awake again. When I saw how much of a panic she was in, I felt bad that I hadn’t mentioned it before. I should have broken the news a little more gently.
“Please don’t worry. I think it’s me he wants to talk to anyway. It’s probably to do with the theatre case.”
Mrs Watling had a fluttering hand to her chest, as if to calm her racing heartbeat. “I’m sure I don’t know why the police have to keep bothering us. You’d hope that would all be finished with at long last, now his Lordship’s case is over.” Her hand stilled a little and she gave me a sideways glance that was at once suspicious and curious. “Hold on a minute, Joan. The Inspector’s coming to see you?”
Something in the way she said it made me shuffle my feet. “Well, yes, I suppose so.”
“Is he married?”
I knew exactly what she was trying to imply and tried to laugh it off, ignoring the rising heat in my face which I knew she would have seen. “He just needs to talk to me about the case, that’s all. Nothing more.”
“That’s not what I asked. Is he married?”
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “But—“
“It’s just that you’re so young, Joan. Don’t have your head turned by a man, even if he is a police inspector. You’ve no female relatives, and I feel it’s my duty to keep an eye on you, to make sure you don’t find yourself in any trouble.”
The unworthy thought popped into my head that Mrs Watling just didn’t want to lose her hard worker to marriage. Not that I had any expectations in the direction at all, but… I tried to smile and look unbothered and I said, as firmly as I could, “Mrs Watling, I’m sure the inspector is here purely and simply in a professional capacity, that’s all.”
As if on cue, I heard the doorbell upstairs go, and despite my efforts to remain calm and unflustered, I jumped a little, saw to my annoyance that Mrs Watling had noticed and turned sharply away to re
fill the kettle, mostly to have something to do with my hands.
I could hear Mr Fenwick’s footsteps overhead and then a double set of footprints approaching the door to the basement at the end of the hallway.
“I’ll be in my parlour,” Mrs Watling said, heaving herself to her feet as the footsteps approached closer. “With the door open,” she added in a dark tone.
As soon as I set eyes on Inspector Marks, my nervousness vanished. Partly it was the kind smile that I received, partly it was something inside me that just settled, as if I’d been rushing around in circles for hours and then all of a sudden, a peace and calm descended. I did have one moment of hesitation, where I wasn’t sure whether to shake hands or not, and covered my confusion with reaching for the full teapot.
“Now, Joan,” said the inspector. “I’ve only got a bare half hour, I’m afraid.”
“That’s quite understandable, sir. I’m very grateful that you’ve come here to save me a journey. Very grateful indeed.” I handed him a steaming cup of tea, hesitated, and then added, “I’m sure you must be wanting to get back to your family.”
The inspector smiled rather sadly. “I’m afraid I don’t have one, Joan. Not one of my own. My wife died several years ago.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I exclaimed. “Oh, I’m so very sorry, sir. That must have been terribly hard for you.”
“It was.” He sipped his tea briefly and I got the impression he didn’t want to talk about it anymore, so I sat down myself opposite him and picked up my own teacup. Then, because I just couldn’t leave it at that, I said impulsively, “I know what it’s like to be all alone in the world, sir. I grew up in an orphanage.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Our eyes met through the rising steam from the cups and I felt again that flash of warmth as we silently understood one another.
“Besides,” I added, in the interest of fairness. “I’ve got my good friend Verity, Miss Hunter. So I’m not all alone, exactly.”
