She turns to Toby. I forgot to tell you before. I said to him, why not join us in the pub later on?
Sally, really, Toby says: you are a slave to your senses.
Well, he said yes, anyway, Sally counters: he should be along soon.
Maria revives. I’ll wait for him to arrive. Another punter for me to interview. Excellent.
Madeleine leans towards Rose: can I come with you, next time you go collecting waste food from the supermarket skips? Scavenging, skipping, whatever you call it? I’d really like to help.
She waits for Rose to say: you’re too old, you can’t climb fences, carry heavy crates, can you run away fast enough, won’t you feel scared?
Rose nods. Sure. But you realise you could be arrested? It involves trespass, stealing. Madeleine says: I’ve done trespassing before. I mean it, count me in.
Toby says: another round? Madeleine, you’re coming back with us for supper, aren’t you?
She says: I need to go to the supermarket first, buy a bottle of wine. Anthony exclaims. No need to bring wine, we’ve got plenty. Madeleine insists. I need to stretch my legs. Don’t wait for me if you don’t want to. I can catch you up.
Anthony says: no, we’ll wait.
TWENTY ONE
Joseph
The fog began to thin. It fled away in white wisps. By the time Joseph reached the low white palisade marking the edge of the common, it had dissolved completely, revealing the full moon. He pulled down the damp wool scarf masking his nose and mouth, stuffed it into his coat pocket. His legs ached from walking so tensely, balancing from one careful footstep to the next. He panted, holding on to a strut of the fence, feeling he’d run an obstacle course. The London atmosphere of soot and dung scorched his nostrils.
He plunged forwards again, just as the moon vanished behind low clouds. Darkness hung over the humped furze bushes flanking the stony path. The rain had stopped for the moment, but the cold air felt full of more to come. Somewhere ahead a bonfire sizzled and smoked, smelled of wet leaves, its plume of darkness, streaked with white, rising into the darker sky. It served as a beacon, pointing towards the common’s far edge, where flaring lights and thumping hurdy-gurdy music marked the site of the fair. Nobody about on this stretch of muddy ground. The wetness in the atmosphere changed to drizzle. Net of water landing on his face. A wind got up, icy and stinging, scouring his ears.
A woman’s outline appeared in the distance. Dark silhouette, buoyant movements. Mrs Dulcimer? It must be. She was making towards him, cape flapping out, hood flying behind her, the wind ballooning her skirts, she was trying to hold them down but they were tossing back over her hands, she was springing along through the wildness of the weather, trampling over gravel and mud, fighting into the gusts. He shouted her name, but the wind tossed it away.
Why was she on her own? Had she not come up with the young ones she’d walked out to meet? Perhaps they’d chosen a different route home and she’d abandoned all idea of finding them.
He hastened forward.
TWENTY TWO
Madeleine
The full moon has vanished behind heavy clouds. She hurries into the dark main road. Smell of petrol fumes, bitter on her lips. She passes the first mini-supermarket she comes to, and the second, needing to walk hard, to shake off something that clings to her back, a coat of ice she wants to shed, leave as a trail of water behind her. Was that really Emm, back at the burial ground? What should she do? Go to the police? What could the police do, if she did go? Probably nothing.
Just keep moving. Pools of light under the street lamps interrupt stretches of shadow. She courses along the deserted pavement, past shut-up offices and shuttered coffee bars. Lines of buses swish by. Ambulance sirens howl on-off in the distance.
The Elephant and Castle roundabout, doubled, a figure-of-eight, looms ahead. Enormous cube of dimpled steel at its centre, bracketed by advertisement hoardings. Concentric rings of traffic seethe around it, spin off into the side boulevards, as though seized and whirled by centrifugal force then flung out again. No jaywalking possible here: if you tried to dart through you’d be hit, crushed flat.
To cross these torrents of traffic overground, pedestrians have to negotiate safe passage in stages, wait for long minutes at a series of red lights. Easier to dive down into the many-tunnelled underpass mirroring the road layout above. Madeleine dislikes taking the underground route, preferring to stay in fresh air. Polluted air, she corrects herself. Hence the moon’s misty shine earlier, its brilliance dimmed by exhaust fumes.
Rain starts to pelt down from the dark sky. Water soaks her shoulders, drives at her knees. She pulls up the hood of her jacket. Her long silk skirt clings to her legs, wraps them in chilliness. She splashes along, shivering. A passing bus, dashing close to the kerb, sends up a spray of filthy-looking water. She jumps aside, cursing. Stupid to wait at the pedestrian crossing for a green light. She hurries through the dark deluge to the arched entrance to the underpass.
Rain falls against her mouth. She bends her head against the driving wet, skids down the concrete slope’s long curve. Slippery leaves underfoot. Cold metal handrail. Her fingers dislodge raindrops, which flurry and slide, little streams of water under her palm.
She enters a short passageway that abruptly branches in two. If she turns right, she should come to the exit leading to the top end of Walworth Road. Plenty of late-night shops there selling wine. Then she can hop on a bus, be back at the pub in the twinkling of an eye.
A long, dimly lit tunnel stretches ahead. Low concrete ceiling, puddles underfoot. Smell of tobacco, a tang of urine. She turns a corner. Again the passageway divides. She plunges into another dingy alley. Ten yards in she hesitates. Has she gone in the wrong direction? She presses on, curious to find out where she’ll end up, whether or not she’s lost.
Surely she has never walked along this stretch before? The green-tiled walls are patterned with clumsily painted scenes of Victorian street life, in faded, flaking colours. They run along the gloomy vaults like pages in an old-fashioned children’s comic. The legend underneath, a flourish of curly black script, provides a clue: Walworth as it used to be. On the right-hand side, bonneted, ringletted women in crinolined skirts, holding up parasols, pace arm in arm with whiskered men in toppers and frock coats. Hearty and red-cheeked. A nursemaid in a frilly apron pushes a baby carriage. A small boy in a jaunty cap flourishes a twig broom. Some tiles are cracked, some missing, revealing the ridged concrete of the wall behind.
The images on the left-hand wall, the legend explains, depict Walworth Common. The Elephant and Castle roundabout has been built on top of it. Walworth Common as it used to be: furze bushes, hillocks, a stream. Grazing sheep. A windmill. A tree-shaded pond. A horse drinks, while the carter lounges alongside.
Now, the painted legend indicates, Madeleine’s looking at images of the Hallowe’en fair formerly held on this site. Little pagodas of striped canvas, a trussed pig on a spit over a fire, Morris men jigging, girls in pinafores, boys in short jackets chasing and playing.
The run of illustration ceases. One grey tunnel debouches into another. She reaches the round central hall, its outer walls, gleaming with damp, pierced by openings to other passages. Long shapes on the ground, at the angle of the wall, homeless people bedded down for the night, slumped quiet and still, blankets hauled up around their ears. Here and there a coverlet twitches, a dog sighs.
Which way to go? Surely there should be signposts down here, directing pedestrians towards the exits giving onto the Old Kent Road, the Walworth Road, the tube entrances, the bus stops for Kennington or Camberwell. They seem to have been removed. Some programme of refurbishment must be taking place. None of the overhead lights seem to be working. Have they shorted, cut out? Somewhere ahead a low flame wavers. A candle, perhaps.
She’ll have to go past the people sleeping on the ground. Invade their small spaces of privacy. Their night school of dreams. She mustn’t disturb them, wake them. She advances as softly as she can.
Something scratches, scuttles, shoots off. Streak of black in the grey shadows. A rat? Just far away enough for her to flinch rather than screech, wake the nearby sleepers. Are they really asleep? Or are they lying awake, quaking, watching out for the scurrying vermin?
Water drips somewhere, pattering into puddles. Sour-smelling wind gusts up out of a grating. She’s shivering. Sodden jacket heavy on her shoulders. No gloves. Rain inside her shoes. The hood of her jacket has fallen backwards, her piled-up curls drip wetness down her neck.
TWENTY THREE
Joseph
She seems so far away still. A small figure beating her way towards him through the gloom, her cloak flapping like wings. Come closer, come closer. He has no golden lantern to summon her: she is no feathery-winged moth. In this darkness they may miss each other altogether, swerve away, wander all night. Both of them lost.
TWENTY FOUR
Madeleine
The atmosphere changes. Very cold. A kind of buzzing. Her own heart pumping blood. The air fizzing, electric.
A male voice whispers behind her. Distorted; echoing in the tiled vault. A sort of sigh.
I’ve found you. So here you are at last.
She jerks. Freezes. Hardly dares breathe.
Emm. He’s followed her from the pub. All this time he’s been following her.
She dives her hand into her pocket, closes it over her penknife. She forces herself to turn round. Impeded by her wet skirt wrapping her shaking knees. Movement inside the dark mouth of the tunnel opposite. A man emerges from the shadows, advances. His boots creak and slap on the wet floor. Her skin tingles. Her scalp constricts.
Not Emm at all. Someone en route to a Hallowe’en fancy-dress party. Got up in Dickensian costume: tall hat, an overcoat with flapping skirts. Big beaky nose, in a thin, intelligent face.
He halts at a little distance from her. He says: I couldn’t wait for you any longer. So I came out to look for you.
She tries to speak. Her lips shape words that won’t break from silence. The air snaps and bristles with static, so full that she can’t push words into it.
They stare at one another.
TWENTY FIVE
Joseph
He moves towards her. Even in the darkness there’s no mistaking that half-swaying, half-hurrying walk, that toppling pile of curls, those curving cheekbones, that full mouth.
He calls out. I’ve found you. So here you are at last.
It seems to take hours before he reaches her, before she reaches him. She halts at a little distance from him. A shape in dark clothes. Her face in shadow. He says: I couldn’t wait for you any longer. So I came out to look for you.
She says nothing. Has she heard him? She just gazes at him. Seems surprised, as though he were the last person in the world she expected to see. Her lips part, move. He can’t hear what she’s saying. He steps closer.
She’s shivering. Water sheens her wool-covered shoulders. He wants to stretch out his hands, brush it away. She lifts her own hands, wipes water off her face, smooths her tumbled hair. She’s lost her bonnet somewhere. She pulls up her hood.
What’s happened? he asks: are you all right? Tell me.
She looks back at him. Puzzled, half-frowning.
TWENTY SIX
Madeleine
She’s shivering. She lifts her hands, wipes water off her face, smooths back her tumbled hair. She pulls up her hood.
What’s happened? the man asks: are you all right? Tell me.
She looks at him. She feels her brows constrict in a frown.
TWENTY SEVEN
Joseph
Mrs Dulcimer, rain-swept and tousled, smelled of herself: rose-carnation pomade, a hint of vanilla sweat. She spoke jerkily. Still catching her breath. Her contralto voice sawed up and down. I was just in sight of the fair, no one about, when some fellow appeared from behind the bushes and blocked my path and accosted me. Soft-voiced. Very polite. Excuse me, madam, just a moment of your time, if you will. Let me pass, if you please, I said, but he didn’t move. Held up his hands and smiled a little and shook his head. Dressed as a clergyman he was, with white bands, a black coat, a black hat, all complete. No gloves. He held what looked in the darkness like a small crucifix. White hands, soft and well-kept, with very clean fingernails. He had green eyes, which gleamed oddly, as though he’d been crying. Asked me for alms for the poor, for the homeless folks who’d be sleeping rough later on near the fairground and risked being chased away by the constables. Spun me a line about how he was going about picking up strays and trying to find them shelter and would I spare him a penny or two? I didn’t like the look of him, he kept giving me sly little glances to see how I was taking his tale. He was aiming to swipe my purse, I supposed. Again I told him to let me pass. He changed his tune, declared I was one of his strayed sheep, called me a poor vagabond lady, his poor sister fallen into the muck, a fly-by-night needing rescue. Dear girl, he called me: his dear Magdalene. I told him to get away, to leave me alone. He began wheedling me then, asking how much I charged, saying he’d a nice cosy place to take me to. I cursed him. He wouldn’t budge but menaced me with what I still thought was his cross. He stepped even closer, calling me a foul name. When I saw what he was actually holding I got in first, I swiped at him, I damaged his face for him I’m certain, he screamed, I pushed him aside and made off, but he came after me, swearing at me for a nigger whore, shrieking he’d fetch the police to me. So I ran. And then missed my turning in the dark and took the wrong way and got lost but now here I am.
She stepped away from Joseph. She put one hand into the pocket of her cape. She brought it out again, showed him what lay in her palm. Neat, mother-of-pearl-handled; short dagger-like blade glinting and silvery.
She said: it wasn’t a cross he was holding. It was a knife. Luckily I had my own knife with me. As I always do when I’m out walking on my own.
She dropped the knife back into her pocket, shook out her wet skirts. Let’s be off. If they get home before we do, the young ones will be wondering what’s become of us. Doll and Annie know where I hide the spare key, but even so. They’ll be wanting their supper. God knows, I could do with mine.
TWENTY EIGHT
Madeleine
Traffic rumbles overhead. Striplights come on, bars of weak yellow. The atmosphere cracks, settles again.
You OK there?
The whisper comes from the direction of the makeshift beds laid along the tiled wall. Mattresses formed of piled layers of brown cardboard packaging. Someone has pushed back his blanket and sat up. Dark profile turned in her direction. He sounds very young. His thin hand clutches the edge of his coverings. You lost? You need some help?
Madeleine glances behind her. The man in the frock coat has vanished.
The boy peeps at her. Spiky black hair. Hollow cheeks. He wears a blue nylon sports top dull with dirt. Older than she thought at first. Seventeen, perhaps.
She says: thank you. I’m looking for the exit to Walworth Road.
Shhh! Don’t talk so loud. You’ll wake him. Poor old Rev.
One cardboard pallet along, a body, half-covered by a blanket, sprawls on a sleeping-bag. Head sunk in a stained pillow. Bristle of grey-brown hair. Face turned away to one side. A raw red gash crosses his cheek, blood beading its edges. An open wound like a split, emptied red pod. Her toes curl in her shoes, her stomach twists.
She forces herself to look again.
Emm.
He smells of blood and alcohol. Black overcoat glistening with wet, black scarf wound round his neck. White dog-collar, red-rimmed, half torn off. His hand, clutching a red-sodden handkerchief, has fallen to one side. An uncapped brown sherry bottle lolls nearby.
The boy murmurs: he’s only just stopped bleeding, poor old bugger. I found him just now, staggering about a bit further along. I brought him back here so he could lie down.
What happened to him? Madeleine whispers: shouldn’t he go to hospital, get that seen to?
The boy shrugs. I�
��m leaving him be. He’s all done in.
Asleep, Emm looks so harmless. Harmed. The boy’s wary eyes catch at Madeleine. He told me before he passed out, he was set on by some crazy woman. He goes around at night, see, telling people about the church refuge down the road in Kennington, trying to help them find shelter. Only some of them are vicious, off their heads, you mustn’t go near them. This bitch had a knife.
He puts out a grimy hand, picks up the empty brown bottle, shoves it under his own pillow. He says: he didn’t want the hospital and he didn’t want the refuge either, he wanted a drink. Then he fell fast asleep.
He contemplates the inert body. They don’t let you in the refuge if you’re pissed. And I can’t get in because of my dog. We’re better off here, both of us.
He leans over the sleeper, puts his face close.
He’s still breathing. I’ll get him to the hospital in the morning. Too far for him to manage tonight. Poor old lad.
Madeleine crouches beside the sleeping Emm. His thick, sweetish breath seems tangible as felted wool. His lips open, slacken, drool collecting at one side of his mouth. He begins to snore. Bubbles of wet sound.
She glances at the red scars on her thumb, her fingertip. She studies his red wound. He’s crumpled up, pierced, the air almost all gone out of him. No fight left.
I’ve met him before, she says: I know him.
The words tip out of her. I didn’t know he was still a vicar. He told me he was about to retire. I don’t know where he lives now. You have to move out once you retire, don’t you?
The boy shakes his head, gives her a patient look. He says: he lives in the church refuge, or else down here. I’ve known him for months, ever since his wife threw him out, and I can tell you he’s never been a vicar. He wears that outfit because he likes it, that’s all. The people at the refuge understand. They’re used to him.
The Walworth Beauty Page 33
