Quite suddenly Jay decided to go. It was horrible here, and nobody took any notice of him, nobody cared how miserable he was. Grandma Beck and Billy, who only had one proper leg and was always kind to him, they’d care. They’d let him stay if he could only get there, he knew they would. But – could he get there? Dorothy certainly wouldn’t take him. Nobody would. If he was going to go he’d have to do it on his own. He was sure he could remember how to get to the station. Down the main road for quite a long way – he’d often looked down it when they went for walks, remembering the journey up to Hampstead that horrid day – and then there was a station at the bottom. He was sure he could find it. But then he’d have to find the right train. How would he do that? Trains went all over the place, it would be awful to get on the wrong one. Then he remembered Dorothy asking the men who worked at the station where the trains went and where she got them. He could do that. He knew the station name: it was Beck something, like Grandma Beck. Fancy having a station named after you; one day he’d have a Jay station, all his own. With his own trains. He would live there, if he could. As long as it was near some fields and some streams.
He looked cautiously into the kitchen; Dorothy was singing to herself, and cutting up carrots for his lunch. That settled it really. Jay hated carrots. He went to fetch his money box, emptied the contents into his pocket, because you needed money for the train, he could remember that, and then walked very quietly through the hall and out of the front door, pulling it quietly shut behind him. Once clear of that, he ran as fast as his sturdy little legs could manage down the street towards the main road.
Sylvia felt very low. Low and not at all well. At least these days she didn’t have to do anything much if she felt ill; the children got themselves up and dressed and walked to school, and as long as she gave them their breakfast, she could go back to bed for a few hours. Frank had some temporary work, with a builder: just mixing cement and humping bricks; he only got two pounds ten shillings a week, but it was better than hanging about at home feeling sorry for himself. It was awful about Frank: he’d been such a clever boy, could have got a job as a clerk, his teacher said; now he’d spent two years fighting for his country and been thrown on the scrapheap, as he put it, for his pains. It was wrong: it was terribly, terribly wrong.
‘Now then. Here’s to the right jacket.’
‘The right jacket,’ said Celia.
‘Think there’ll be any further trouble over it?’
‘Oh yes, I told you. But don’t worry. I’ll see it through. Somehow.’
‘I’m not worried,’ he said, ‘not in the least. I know that Meridian is in very safe hands.’
‘Good,’ she said lightly.
‘Now then. Let’s order and then we can begin our conversation. It’s so nice here, isn’t it? So – discreet – rather like a good gentleman’s club. Do you come here with all your lovers, Lady Celia?’
‘I don’t have lovers,’ she said firmly.
‘None?’
‘None.’
‘Never?’
‘Never.’
‘I find that very hard to believe.’
‘You must believe it. It’s true.’
‘But you are so desirable. How could anyone resist you?’
‘Quite easily it seems,’ said Celia laughing, ‘and besides, if you are to take a lover, you have to feel desire. I have only experienced that for Oliver.’
‘Indeed?’ he said, and his gaze moved thoughtfully over her face,
‘well, I find that rather intriguing, I have to tell you. I shall have to think about that. Was he your first lover?’
‘Sebastian, that is a very impertinent question.’
‘I know. I apologise. You don’t have to answer it, of course.’ She sipped at the champagne; she felt confused, somehow nervous. Which was ridiculous.
‘So – how old were you? When you and he were – conjoined?’
‘Just nineteen.’
‘Nineteen. Married at nineteen!’
‘Yes,’ she said briefly, alarmed at where this might be leading. She had no wish to reveal the slightly complex details of her marriage to Sebastian Brooke.
‘And how old are you now?’
‘I’m thirty-three. Another impertinent question.’
‘I always think,’ he said, ignoring her, ‘that is the perfect age for a woman.’
‘Why?’ she asked, amused.
‘Still very young. But – the bud has definitely opened. Not quite full bloom, though: wonderful things still to be revealed. I wonder what flower you would be.’ He sat back, smiling at her. ‘Not a rose, too predictable for you. A tulip perhaps, tightly self-contained things, tulips.’
‘Do you see me as self-contained?’ she said, pleased.
‘I do. But you know, once a tulip begins to open, it blooms very fast. I await your blooming with great interest, Lady Celia. I intend to be there as it happens.’
‘You do talk absolute nonsense, Sebastian,’ she said, laughing.
‘I know. I can’t help it. Now then, I want to talk about me. As I said. There are a few things I think you ought to know. The first is that I am married.’
The road was much longer than Jay had remembered. On and on it went, down and down the hill; even after it joined another road, where he had thought he must be nearly at the station it went on as far as he could see. And it was terribly hot. And the cars were really noisy, hooting all the time. And when he had to cross the road, which he was sure he would, in fact he had just reached a place where he either had to cross or go in a completely different direction, not straight down any longer, he was afraid they wouldn’t stop for him. It was a bit frightening. But it was still better than sitting at home, with Dorothy, eating carrots.
‘Oh, dear heaven. Where is he? For the love of God—’ Dorothy ran up the stairs for the third time since she had discovered Jay was missing. She had been up and down the street, calling him; she had asked the neighbours; she had checked the cellar, the attics – as if a four-year-old could pull down the loft ladder and climb up it – every bedroom several times, twice round the small garden, peering in the bushes: all a lot less likely, she knew, than the fear, too dreadful to contemplate, that he had been abducted. But the moment she faced that one, she must face the next two: phoning the police and then, of course, phoning Miss Lytton. At the thought of that, combined with the thought of what might have happened to Jay, Dorothy felt so frightened she nearly fainted and actually had to sit down and put her head between her knees. But it began to look as though it would have to be done. She would just make one last trip down the street calling him and then . . .
‘Married!’ she said stupidly, ‘married! But Sebastian—’
‘I know. I know. I should have told you. I kept putting it off. I – just didn’t want to – I never do.’
She thought of all the times she had been curious that he had never married, wondered why not, imagined all kinds of romantic reasons for it.
‘Like you, she was very young,’ he said, ‘as was I. She was eighteen, I was twenty-one. We were married in nineteen hundred and three. Just a year before you. I absolutely adored her; she seemed quite, quite perfect. She was pregnant,’ he added, draining his glass, refilling it. ‘Come along, you must drink up, Celia, or I shall have it all.’
‘You can have it all,’ she said. ‘I don’t want any more.’
Why was she so upset? It wasn’t as if—
‘Very well. Anyway, she lost the baby. Quite early on. And I discovered she wasn’t perfect. Also quite early on. She—’
‘What’s her name?’ asked Celia.
‘Millicent. Such a silly name, don’t you think? I always hated it. It used to worry me, even when I was in the first flush of love for her. Millicent is too long, spinsterish, Millie is dreadful, a servant’s name. Anyway—’
‘So where does she live?’
She kept asking these questions, hoping while denying she was hoping it, that he would say she had died, that the
y were divorced, that he had left her long ago, that she had taken a lover . . .
‘She lives in Suffolk. In a very nice house near Bures. I don’t suppose you know that part of the world?’
‘My nanny once took me to Frinton. I don’t remember much about it.’
‘Just as well. Horrid place, Frinton. Anyway – she lives down there. And I go and visit at the weekends.’
‘Do you have any – other – any children?’
‘No,’ he said flatly, ‘it didn’t happen again. For some reason. It used to worry me, but—’
‘But do you – that is—’
She had no right to be asking these questions, it was nothing to do with her. Absolutely nothing.
‘I don’t still love her, no,’ he said, and there was a touch of amusement in his eyes, ‘if that’s what you mean. But I am – fond of her. And she is fond of me. And until now I have been rather dependent on her. Well, I still am. For the time being.’
‘You mean financially?’
‘Yes. She’s got quite a lot of money. And I haven’t got any at all. Unless you count the five hundred and fifty pounds you gave me.’
‘I didn’t give it you,’ she said.
‘No, of course not. But you know what I mean. Anyway, I can’t even think about leaving her.’
Celia looked at him, and somehow managed to smile: a cold, dismissive smile.
‘I’m sure that must be very reassuring for her,’ she said, ‘I’m very glad you told me, Sebastian. And as you say, it was something we definitely needed to know. Shall we order now: just one course, I think, I really don’t have very long.’
‘Oh stop it,’ he said wearily, and for the first time since she had met him, he looked less glossy, less self-assured. He reached out and tried to take her hand. ‘Do you think I’m enjoying this? Do you think I wanted to tell you? It took all my courage.’
‘I can’t imagine why,’ said Celia. She pulled her hand free, ‘you aren’t admitting to some crime. Would you excuse me, I am just going to the lavato ry.’
She walked across the restaurant, desperate not to appear upset, or even concerned, shrinking from the reason she felt both those things. Felt them very strongly. Absurd. Quite absurd.
‘Now where do you think you’re going? Eh?’
It was a man: quite a kind, nice-looking man. Carrying a rolled-up umbrella, wearing a hat, and with very polished shoes. Jay always noticed shoes, because they were down at his level. The man smiled at him. ‘Are you all right? Not lost, or anything?’
‘No,’ said Jay firmly.
‘How old are you?’
‘Four.’
‘Four! Little bit young to be out on your own.’ He squatted down to Jay’s level, smiled at him. ‘Where’s your mother?’
‘At work,’ said Jay.
‘At work! Well, who’s looking after you then? Or should I say, who isn’t looking after you?’
‘Dorothy.’
‘Dorothy. And who is Dorothy when she’s at home?’
‘She looks after me,’ said Jay.
‘And does she know where you are?’
‘Oh – yes.’
‘Really? And she’s quite happy for you to be out on your own on this busy road, is she?’
‘Yes,’ said Jay.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Jay. Jay Lytton.’
‘Right, Jay. Well now, it looks to me as if you must be going somewhere. You had that sort of a look about you. Want to tell me?’
‘I’m going to see Grandma Beck,’ said Jay. There was no reason why he shouldn’t. It wasn’t wrong. And if the man thought he was going somewhere sensible, maybe he’d just leave him alone.
‘Right. And where does Grandma Beck live?’
‘In the country.’
‘In the country. Uh-huh. And you know your way there, do you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, good for you. Do you have to cross that nasty road?’
‘Um – yes,’ said Jay, trying to sound positive.
‘Like me to help you across it?’
That wouldn’t be a bad idea. It was a very big road. Maybe he should accept.
‘Yes please,’ he said.
‘Right. Take my hand. Come on.’
‘Gone!’ said LM, ‘how can he be gone? Are you sure?’
Such an absurd thing to say: Dorothy would hardly have phoned her, gasping with terror, if she hadn’t been sure.
‘Yes, Miss Lytton. I’m sorry, Miss Lytton, I just—’
‘Have you told the police?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what did they say?’
‘They said they’d come and take a statement. Told me to look again in the house. Asked where he might be.’
‘Do they know how young he is?’
‘Yes. I told them. Oh, Miss Lytton—’
‘Don’t start snivelling,’ said LM, ‘it won’t help. How – how long was he gone before you noticed?’
‘Not more than ten minutes, Miss Lytton. Definitely. We’d been looking at a book and I said I had to go and make the lunch and he—’
‘Yes. yes, all right. Dear God, he’s said he was going to run away often enough. Obviously he has.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Well, use your brain, Dorothy. What else could he have done?’
‘He might have been – have been—’ her voice faltered.
‘What? He might have been what?’
‘Kidnapped,’ whispered Dorothy,
‘Oh God,’ said LM. ‘Dear God in heaven. Look – I’ll come home. See the police myself. I’ll get a cab. Just stay there, Dorothy. Don’t leave the house, it’s important.’
‘No, Miss Lytton.’
‘Under any circumstances.’
LM stood up; normally so calm in a crisis, she was in the grip of a hot, sick panic. She must tell Celia; tell her the police might phone, that Dorothy might phone, that anything might happen. She ran down the corridor to Celia’s office. She wasn’t there.
‘She’s gone to lunch with Mr Brooke, Miss Lytton.’
‘Oh, I see. Well – oh God.’ LM heard her voice shake, pressed her hand to her forehead.
‘Is anything wrong, Miss Lytton, can I—’
‘My son has disappeared,’ said LM, ‘that’s what’s wrong. Jay has disappeared.’
‘Thank you for lunch,’ said Celia, ‘And I appreciate your telling me about your wife. I must get back to the office now and sort out the – the difficulty with your jacket.’
She smiled at him; it was extraordinarily difficult. Their lunch had lasted a little over half an hour, eaten over a laboured conversation. They were standing in the Strand; the traffic was heavy. Sebastian put his hand on her arm; she shook it off.
‘Please Sebastian. I want to get back.’ She was desperate to get away from him; from the new person he had become to her, no longer a dashing, romantic bachelor, with a somehow mysterious past, but a slightly seedy figure, concealing a marriage of convenience to a rich wife he did not love. It hurt: it hurt horribly. She stepped off the pavement, in order to cross the road; a taxi screeched to a halt.
‘Look where you’re going, lady.’
‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘so sorry,’ and then realising that a taxi was exactly what she wanted, opened the door. ‘Paternoster Row, please.’
She would feel all right once she got back to the office. Where life was simple, where she was in control, where she was safe. Sebastian got in beside her. She looked at him.
‘Please get out.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘no I’m sorry I won’t.’
‘Get out!’
‘No.’
She realised now that she was crying; furious with herself she dashed the tears away.
‘Sebastian, please please will you get out of this taxi and leave me alone.’
Sebastian looked at her and then put out his hand and wiped away one of the tears. He smiled at her very gently.
‘It’s nice you’
re so upset,’ he said.
LM sat weeping in her taxi as it made its way to Hampstead. She blamed herself entirely: not Dorothy. She had no business leaving Jay with her, leaving him with anyone. Jay, her precious, beloved child: all she had left of Jago, and of the strong, strange love they had had for one another. Jay, just a little boy, a sad, lonely, little boy, four years old, torn up from a life and a place he loved without scarcely a thought, abandoned to a strange, friendless life, with nothing to do, no one to do it with. And so wretched that he had run away, small and helpless as he was, in an effort to get back to where he had been happy. While she had been pursuing some pointless, senseless, selfish life of her own which offered him absolutely nothing at all.
She had been very wicked: wicked and irresponsible and treacherous. And this was her punishment. Dreadful, harsh, cruel: but absolutely just.
The man was pulling Jay along now; he hadn’t let go of his hand when they had crossed the road, had gripped it much more tightly, was walking fast, much too fast for Jay to keep up. He was half running, and gasping for breath, struggling to get his hand free, pulling and tugging, but of course the man was much, much stronger than he was, and his grip was very hard, and tight.
Lots of people were staring at them, and every so often, if someone stopped, the man said something like, ‘He’s a naughty boy, ran away from school this morning, taking him back to his mother,’ or, ‘We’ve got a train to catch, going to miss it if we don’t hurry. Excuse us, sorry, so sorry.’
After a bit, Jay began to cry; a lady coming towards them said to the man quite sharply, ‘You shouldn’t pull him along like that, he’s much too small,’ and the man said, ‘I know, I know, but we have to get to my mother’s house for lunch, nearly at my car, then he’ll be all right, won’t you, Jay?’
No Angel Page 40
