by Jess Foley
‘It doesn’t matter, Mabel,’ Abbie said. ‘It’s no secret. I’m catching the train into the West End of London.’
‘Whereabouts in London?’ This again from Florence.
‘To Victoria – then I shall get a cab to St James’s Park.’
‘Mama says,’ said Mabel, ‘that you’re meeting your friend there.’
‘Yes, that’s correct. Her name is Jane. We’re from the same village in Wiltshire. We haven’t met for rather a long time and I’m very much looking forward to seeing her again.’ Abbie moved to the window and looked out onto the drive and the front lawn, immaculate and green in the early April sunshine. The house was a tall, early-Victorian building, standing halfway up Bedford Hill. To the right at the hill’s foot was the village of Balham proper, while at the top spread the green stretches of Tooting Bec Common. ‘I’m not likely to need an umbrella, am I?’ Abbie asked vaguely, then shook her head, answering herself. ‘No, I think not.’
‘Can we go with you?’ Florence asked. ‘I’d like to go into town. And Mabel would too.’
‘I’m sorry, Florence,’ Abbie said. ‘Not this time.’
‘Maybe some other time?’
‘Maybe some other time.’ She smiled at them. ‘We’ll see.’
She had been two weeks now in the Hayward household, and was getting to know her young charges. After several days when they had set out to test her, they had proved to be fairly agreeable children, reasonably well behaved, and not greatly taxing – and in any case she was not exactly a novice when it came to handling children.
Glancing at the clock she saw that it was almost two thirty. She moved back to the glass for a final check, then picked up her bag and crossed to the door. With Mabel and Florence following her down the stairs she stepped into the hall just as Mrs Hayward appeared from the drawing room.
‘You’re off now, are you?’ the woman asked, her hands fluttering to her hair.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Mrs Hayward was a small, rather plump woman in her mid-thirties, with a round face and dark curls. Abbie could look at her and see exactly what her two daughters would look like when they had matured – though they appeared not to be like her in their personalities. Perhaps, she thought, they took after their father in that respect; though she could do no more than guess; Mr Hayward spent so little time at his home that she had only seen him on a few occasions.
That the girls were unlike their mother in their ways, however, was all to the good as far as Abbie was concerned. Mrs Hayward seemed to be incapable of relaxing. She always appeared to be harassed by one thing or another – whether it was her daughters, her servants, or the general vicissitudes of her rather humdrum life. She was one of those women who, no matter how uneventful their lives, always manage to find it a strain. Perhaps, Abbie thought, it was not so surprising that Mr Hayward spent so much time away from home, for surely he could find little there in the way of relaxation.
Now Mrs Hayward’s flickering smile fought with a frown as she said to Abbie, ‘You won’t be late back, will you?’
‘No, I shan’t,’ Abbie replied. ‘I’ll try to get here between six and half past.’
‘Good. I shan’t be able to manage the girls without you. They’re such a handful.’
Looking from Mrs Hayward to the two quiet little girls, Abbie wondered briefly how Mrs Hayward would have coped had she had two boisterous sons to raise – perhaps a couple of boys cast in Eddie’s mould.
At Balham Station Abbie took the train to Victoria and from there walked along Buckingham Palace Road, past the Palace itself and on to Birdcage Walk. A few yards along she came to a stop. She did not have to wait long. Just three or four minutes after her arrival she turned and saw Jane coming towards her. With a little cry of pleasure she hurried forward, while at the same time Jane quickened her own steps. A few seconds later they were clasping one another in a warm embrace.
‘Oh, Abbie,’ Jane said, ‘it’s so good to see you again!’
‘And you!’ Abbie said. ‘And you haven’t changed a bit.’
They drew back, looking at one another and then, linking arms, strolled away. They went into the park where beside the lake they found a vacant bench and sat down.
‘Oh, Jane,’ Abbie said happily, ‘I’ve been waiting for this moment for weeks. Ever since I made my decision to come here.’
‘I’ve been looking forward to it too,’ Jane said. ‘It’s a shame we couldn’t arrange it earlier – but as you’ll learn, when you’re in service your life is not your own.’
‘Oh, yes, indeed,’ Abbie said. ‘I’ve learned that already.’
‘Oh, dear, that doesn’t sound so good. Do I infer that you’re not altogether happy with your situation?’
‘I expect I’ll get used to it in time. I hope so, anyway.’
‘What are your girls’ names?’
‘Florence and Mabel. Oh, they’re no trouble.’
‘Is it their father who’s the problem?’
‘He’s hardly ever there. No, it’s Mrs Hayward. She’s such a fusser. And I don’t seem to get any time to myself. She always wants something done. She has maids, of course, but if it’s to do with the girls or anything that personally concerns herself she calls on me. I never expected such a loss of freedom. Teaching in school was very different.’
After a while they decided to go in search of some refreshment and from the park they made their way to the Strand. Near Trafalgar Square they found a teashop where they sat down at a table and ordered tea and pastries. As they waited for the waitress to bring their order Abbie said, ‘So, what has been happening to you outside of your work? How is your social life?’
‘My social life? Oh – it ticks along, I suppose.’
‘You make it sound very unexciting. Is there no one special? You haven’t mentioned anyone in your letters for some time now.’ With a chuckle Abbie added, ‘You must make an effort. At this rate we’ll both end up old maids, and we can’t have that.’
‘No,’ Jane said, smiling, ‘that would never do.’
Abbie said nothing for a few moments, then, taking a deep breath, she said, ‘Jane, I – I want you to tell me what you think. Tell me as a friend, I mean.’
‘What about . . . ?’
‘As you’re aware, you’re not the only person I know in London. I do have another friend here.’ A pause, then she went on, ‘You realize that I’m talking about – about Mr Gilmore. You remember him, don’t you?’
Jane nodded. ‘Yes – of course . . .’ She looked suddenly very perplexed. ‘Abbie –’ she began, then stopped.
‘Yes, of course you remember him,’ Abbie said. ‘You came to his house when I was staying there the Christmas before last. Anyway, I – I wrote to him. Telling him I was coming to London.’
The waitress appeared with a tray and began to set out the tea and pastries. When she had gone Abbie continued, ‘I hesitated before writing, I don’t mind telling you. I mean – not knowing whether I was doing the right thing. I still don’t. But after all, we were engaged to be married and it was only through circumstances beyond our control that we – I was not able to go through with it.’
Jane, eyes lowered, poured the tea. She handed Abbie a cup. Abbie sipped from it, then went on, ‘Well – he wrote back saying he looked forward to our meeting. And I wrote again last Tuesday, telling him that I was getting settled in. I haven’t heard back yet, but I expect to very soon.’ She looked down into her cup, then raised her eyes to Jane. ‘Do you think I’m being terribly foolish?’ She gave an awkward little laugh. ‘Not to mention somewhat forward?’
When Jane did not answer, Abbie said, ‘What do you think? Tell me what you think.’
Mechanically stirring her teacup, Jane said, ‘Well – I don’t know. What is it you’re hoping for? What do you hope to get out of it – eventually, I mean?’
‘Oh, Jane, when you put it like that it sounds so – I don’t know – so calculating. But after all, it’s not so long since
– since we ended our engagement. Just over a year, that’s all. And – he truly cared for me, Jane. He really did.’ She looked keenly at her friend. ‘I suppose I want to find out if he still does. Care for me, I mean.’ She looked at Jane’s downcast face and said, frowning, ‘What’s up? Is something the matter?’
Jane did not answer.
‘What’s up?’ Abbie said. ‘You’ve hardly said anything – though I suppose I haven’t given you much chance, have I?’
With a distracted shake of her head, Jane said, ‘Oh – Abbie – can we get out of here?’
‘What? Why – yes, but . . . What’s wrong?’
Jane was taking coins from her purse. ‘I just – just want to get outside. Do you mind?’
‘Of course not.’
Jane beckoned to the waitress and paid the bill. Then together she and Abbie went out into the air. Side by side they stood on the pavement while the pedestrians and the carriages passed by.
‘What’s wrong?’ Abbie said. ‘Do you feel ill?’
‘No – I simply felt I – I had to get out of there.’ Then quickly Jane added, ‘Let’s walk for a minute, shall we?’
‘If you like.’ Abbie slipped her arm through Jane’s and together they walked along the street and then crossed over into Trafalgar Square. ‘I mustn’t be late,’ Abbie observed as they reached the fountain. ‘Mrs Hayward gets into a panic when I’m not there. God knows what she did before my arrival.’
Jane said nothing, but walked with her head bent, her lips set. At the foot of some wide steps Abbie drew her to a stop, withdrew her arm and said, concern in her voice, ‘Jane, what is it? Tell me what’s wrong.’
Jane lifted her hands, bent her head and covered her face. ‘Oh, God . . .’ Her words were muttered, her tone full of anguish.
Abbie laid a hand on her arm. ‘Jane – what is it? Please – tell me. I’m your true friend. There’s nothing you can’t tell me.’
‘You say that now,’ Jane said without looking at her. ‘Oh, Abbie, I’m so afraid you’ll hate me.’
‘Hate you?’ Abbie looked astonished. ‘Are you mad? How could I possibly hate you? I love you. You’re my friend for life. You know that.’
Jane shook her head. ‘Oh – Abbie . . .’
‘Jane, look at me.’
Jane shook her head. ‘I cannot.’
‘Dear God, Jane, tell me what it is.’ Abbie paused. ‘Is it – something to do with me?’
Jane nodded.
‘With you and with me?’
Another nod.
‘What, then? I can’t think of anything that –’
Jane broke in: ‘It concerns a third person, too.’ A moment of hesitation. ‘Arthur.’
‘Arthur?’ Abbie looked bewildered. ‘You mean my Arthur? My Mr Gilmore?’
Jane said nothing; did not move.
‘What – what about him?’ Abbie said. And now she suddenly felt her heart beating harder in her breast. ‘You’re going to tell me something dreadful, is that it? Is there some awful news about him?’
Jane looked into Abbie’s eyes, then lowered her gaze. ‘Forgive me, Abbie.’
‘Forgive you? What are you talking about? Jane, what is there to forgive?’
They stood in silence, untouched by the sounds all around, the cooing of the pigeons, the voices of the children who played beside the fountain.
Jane sighed, took a breath and said, ‘I love him.’
‘What?’ Abbie stared at her.
‘Arthur. I – I love him.’
‘You – love him? Arthur? Is this – some kind of joke?’
‘No.’
‘You love him? Do you mean this?’
Jane nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘You’ve seen him? You’ve met him here in London?’
‘Yes.’
Abbie’s mouth was so dry she could barely form her words. ‘Does he know how you feel?’
Jane nodded again. ‘Yes.’ A pause. ‘He – he loves me too.’
Abbie ran her tongue over her lips. ‘I can scarcely believe you’re saying these words.’
‘Oh, Abbie – Abbie . . .’ Jane reached out towards her, but Abbie drew her own hand away.
‘So,’ Abbie said, ‘how long has this been going on behind my back?’
‘Oh – don’t say that, Abbie. We –’
Abbie interrupted, saying: ‘It obviously didn’t begin yesterday. When did it start?’
‘– Last summer. I was in Hyde Park with Anne, my employer’s daughter. And Arthur was there also. We met quite by chance. And the next week he was there again. And the week after that too.’
‘How romantic.’
‘Oh, Abbie – I didn’t plan it.’
‘No? You didn’t go there hoping to see him again?’
Jane said nothing to this. Abbie nodded. ‘I see. After that first time you hoped he’d be there.’ She paused. ‘Didn’t you?’
‘I never wanted to hurt you.’
‘But you never once mentioned it to me – in your letters. You wrote about everything else, but not about that – the most important thing that was happening to you.’
‘How could I?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Well – I was afraid to. I was afraid of hurting you.’
Thank you. I’m touched.’
‘Yes, I was afraid,’ Jane said, ‘even though I knew it was over between you both. You had told me that and so did he. He hadn’t heard from you in a long time. After all, you’d made your decision, and he thought he’d never see you again.’
‘You believed it was all over between us, yet you were afraid to mention the fact that you were seeing one another.’
‘Well – how could I know how you would respond? Though eventually, of course, I knew you would have to know. One or other of us would have to tell you.’
‘That’s very considerate of you.’
‘Abbie, please – don’t hate me.’ There were tears in Jane’s eyes. Abbie watched dispassionately as they brimmed over and ran down her cheeks.
‘You’ve betrayed me,’ she said. ‘After all we meant to one another. You, of all people.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘It’s the truth.’ Abbie shook her head. ‘And you let me tell you how I’d begun writing to Arthur again – that I was renewing our friendship.’ Her own tears, of hurt and anger, were close to the surface. ‘Did it amuse you? Will you tell Arthur about it later and have a good laugh together?’ Abbie took a step away and stood looking out over the square. ‘You’ve betrayed me – and humiliated me into the bargain. I can never forgive you for it.’
‘Abbie . . .’ Sobbing, Jane stepped closer to Abbie’s side. She moved as if she would touch her shoulder but stopped and let her hand fall back to her side. ‘I love you, Abbie,’ she said. ‘And I would not have hurt you for the world. But I thought it was over between you and Arthur. And as I said, he thought so too. God knows I didn’t plan to fall in love with him. Nor did he plan to love me. It just – happened. Please, try to understand.’
‘I understand only too well.’
Abbie stood there for a moment longer, then turned and walked away.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Abbie’s preoccupation did not ease over the following days, but grew stronger. She went through the hours in the schoolroom with Mabel and Florence efficiently enough, but it was as if she were working in a fog; not for many minutes at a time did she find herself free of her disturbing thoughts.
On Thursday evening when the girls were in bed she sat alone in her room thinking over the situation. She could not continue as she was and just try to reconcile herself to it. Something would have to be done. In the end, after wrestling with the problem, she decided she must see Arthur and talk to him.
She sat down to write to him that same evening and, after several attempts, finished a letter asking him to meet her at Victoria Station on Sunday afternoon at three o’clock. There would be no time for him to write back so she would simply go
there in the hope that he would appear. She would wait for him for one hour, she wrote, after which time she would return to Balham. As soon as the letter was finished she left the house, hurried down the hill and posted it.
She had done the best thing she could, she told herself as she walked back up the hill. If it was indeed true that Arthur had turned to Jane then he must have done so purely in the belief that he had no future with Abbie herself. Knowing that he could have would surely make all the difference.
Sunday arrived wet and squally. After lunch – of which she could eat little – she left the house and made her way to the station while the rain-spotted wind whipped at the skirt of her coat and threatened to turn her umbrella inside out.
As she sat on the train bound for Victoria she looked at her watch a dozen times, feeling as if she would never get there. But at last the train drew in to the station and came to a halt. She got down and saw Arthur standing at the end of the platform. He came towards her as she passed through the ticket barrier and briefly took the hand she offered in his.
‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘for coming to meet me.’
For a moment or two they stood in silence facing one another while the other travellers moved about them.
‘Arthur,’ she said, ‘we have to talk.’
‘Yes, of course. Let’s go and have some tea somewhere.’
At a nearby hotel they sat in a secluded corner of the lounge where they were served by a maid in a crisp, starched uniform. As Abbie poured the tea Arthur asked how her journey from Ballham had been. She replied that it had been quite agreeable, and asked whether he had been waiting long.
‘Not so long. Fifteen minutes or so.’
A moment’s silence, then Abbie said, ‘Arthur, what are we doing? We’re sitting here indulging in small talk as if there’s nothing at all on our minds.’ She glanced at a couple who sat some feet away at the next table, assured herself that they would not overhear her, and added, keeping her voice low, ‘As you must know, I met Jane last Sunday. She’ll have told you what was said. I had no idea that you and she had been seeing one another. The news came as quite a surprise. She had never mentioned it.’
