by Juliet West
Icy raindrops strike my face. I look up to the murky sky, but there are no stars, only the blank heavens. I shouldn’t be here. I turn back towards the bridge. I should stay at home tonight. Every night. A respectable wife and mother.
18
Something invades my dream: a hand pressed to my forehead, then fingers tugging gently at my braided hair. My eyes flick open and there is Alec, bending over me with a smile. His nightshirt hangs lopsided over his thin shoulders.
‘Sleeping Beauty,’ says Alec. He whispers so as not to wake the children. ‘You’ll be late for work. It’s gone five.’
Usually he wakes me with a tap on the bedroom door. What is he doing in here? I pull the blanket up to my chin and Alec takes a step back, runs his finger along the windowsill as if he’s checking for dust.
‘Not like you to sleep so heavy,’ he says, looking at his finger, then wiping it on his sleeve. ‘Up all night, were you, busy practising your letters?’
My head feels muzzy, and my limbs are dead weights. I can’t have had more than two hours’ sleep.
‘Don’t know. Just a rotten night.’
‘I’ll leave you to it, then. It’s icy this morning. Tap’s frozen.’
The only way is to jump straight out of bed, get moving and try not to think about the cold, but I can’t do it. My head is pounding, and when I try to move, every muscle aches.
At six Jen comes in.
‘You’re not going to work, then?’ she says. ‘You’ve been peculiar all weekend.’
‘I can’t get up.’
‘What is it, a cold? Well, you won’t mind if I steer clear.’ She turns towards the door. ‘I’ll send Mum in.’
I doze again, dream of an omnibus journey and a schoolhouse in a field, a bell ringing, children running down a hill in the sunshine. I leave the other children and run to the shade of an oak tree where a dead mole hangs over a high branch. I want to reach up to the mole, stroke its beautiful fur, but the tree is too big to climb, and when I look around, I realize the field has disappeared and I am surrounded by the high walls of the workhouse. The workhouse children are laughing, holding their thin bellies.
‘Up you get, Alice, else you’ll miss the whistle.’ Mum is leaning over the bed. ‘Get your things on and leave Mummy in peace.’ She walks round to my side of the bed and puts a cup down on the floor.
‘Nice cup of tea for you. So you’re not going in? What your Mrs Stephens is going to think I don’t know. Alec will call in with a note. He’s down that way this morning.’
I try to thank her, but I can’t manage more than a groan. Mum tucks the blanket back around Teddy, then shepherds Alice from the room. Teddy breathes in with a delicate snore and pushes his toes into the backs of my knees. If only I could be alone for a moment. Just an hour or two. A proper sleep to clear my head.
On Wednesday I drag myself to the cafe. The walk feels twice as long and it must be after six when I push open the side door, because I can already smell the stock boiling. I unbutton my coat and reach for the first hook on the wall, where I usually hang it. But on my hook is a hat I’ve not seen before, green felt with a spray of red fabric flowers, and underneath it a grey coat trimmed with ribbon.
Mrs Stephens comes out into the hall. ‘Oh, you’re here, then,’ she says, almost as if she’s disappointed. ‘Thought I heard the door.’ She lowers her voice. ‘Now listen, there’s a Miss Wilton come to help out. A sweet girl, very dependable by all accounts.’
So Mum was right. One day sick and now I’m for the chop.
‘I’m sorry about Monday, Mrs Stephens. I’m right as rain now. Won’t happen again. Just a silly fever, something and nothing . . .’
She waves her hand as if to shut me up.
‘So you says now, but I had no way of knowing, Mrs Loxwood. The note didn’t say when you’d be back. And the chap what brought it, he dashed off before I could ask.’
‘He was supposed to tell you – Alec, my sister’s husband – he was going to say I’d be in Wednesday unless you heard otherwise.’
‘Like I said, he just left the note.’
I start to put my coat back on, and it’s as much as I can do not to cry. Mrs Stephens looks me up and down and narrows her little eyes so that they’re nothing but piggy specks.
‘Don’t get the wrong idea, Mrs Loxwood – it’s not the sack, for heaven’s sake. I ain’t that cruel. Come on, hang up your coat. Fact is, I need a bit of extra help. There’s my aunt going doolally in Hackney and I ought to visit her more often. Poor dear’s got no one but the next-door neighbour, and she’s after the money, such as it is. Miss Wilton could be a godsend. You’ll get on fine, I know.’
In the kitchen, Miss Wilton is slicing onions. She stops briefly when I walk in, looks up and says hello. Her eyes are swimming, but she’s managing not to cry. I recognize her face, and her voice is familiar too, high-pitched but husky, like a little girl with a sore throat.
‘Ices at the Queen’s,’ she smiles.
‘Sorry?’
‘You won’t place me without the uniform; no one does. You know – “Ices, toffee, sherbet lemonade.”’ She calls it out just like in the interval and yes, I can see her in the red and gold uniform, smiling over a tray of ices.
‘The Queen’s, that’s it. You still work there? I’ve not been in a long time.’
‘Most weekends. It’s not so busy now, of course.’
Mrs Stephens interrupts, and from the look on her face she’s blaming me for the chit-chat. ‘Mrs Loxwood, if you can write up the new prices before the rush.’ She hands me a list and a piece of chalk. ‘They’ll huff and puff, but you can tell them straight if I don’t increase my prices, I might as well give the whole thing up. Milk will be dear as port wine at this rate. Any troublemakers, you refer them to me.’ I collect the boards from around the cafe: two displayed in the window and two up on the walls, wipe them clean and lay them out on the counter. I feel dizzy leaning over to write, trying to concentrate on the words, the fancy strokes from Barter’s. BUNS ¾d. Dor stood at this counter not two weeks ago. ‘Sugar on top ’n’ all!’ Is that right, less than a fortnight ago she was in here, chatting away, stirring sugar in her tea?
‘Lovely handwriting, I’ll say that for you,’ says Mrs Stephens, leaning over to inspect my progress. It’s as if that’s all she can say for me. I look at the piece of chalk and imagine it stuck up her snouty nose.
‘Shall I make a start on the potatoes, Mrs Stephens?’ calls Miss Wilton, so polite and willing with her little girl’s voice. Butter wouldn’t melt.
The customers love a new face, of course. You can hear the cash tips jangling in her apron pocket. Smug isn’t the word. They’ll soon tire of her, so let her get on with it and enjoy the glory. Not that I’d swap places. Fair game, that’s how some customers see Miss Wilton. A pretty girl, and a single girl. Vernon Cridge doesn’t waste any time – snakes his hand towards her arse as she clears his plate, but she twists sideways and he gets an elbow in the lughole for his trouble. Seems she can look after herself. That’s good.
At lunchtime I stay in the kitchen stacking dishes. Mrs Stephens is ladling out soup.
‘Pea and ham for Mr Blake,’ she calls.
The shock of his name, like a maroon crack through the silence.
She places the bowl on the counter and Miss Wilton hurries to collect it.
‘Tall man facing the window,’ says Mrs Stephens. ‘He wants two slices with it.’
Miss Wilton carries the soup carefully to Daniel’s table. I hover near the counter. She sets the bowl down and they exchange some words. He looks up at her and smiles. He doesn’t even turn to see if I’m there, just picks up his spoon and starts to eat. He hasn’t asked for me, then. I keep busy in the kitchen, washing pots and pans in scalding water straight from the copper. The cut on my wrist is healing, but the hot water seeps under the scab and the wound begins to sting.
‘Leave the pots for now,’ says Mrs Stephens. ‘Table of four just come in.’
I have to walk past Daniel’s table, but he doesn’t look up. He has finished his soup and he’s writing something, scribbling with a pencil on a scrap of brown paper. A note for me? He’ll press it into my hand when I clear his table. I’ll need to be quick to get there before Miss Wilton.
A whiskery old boy dithers over his order. Shall it be the liver or the pie? he asks me. Which would I recommend? And it’s all looking a bit pricey, sweetheart. He’ll have to dig deep . . . Finally he decides. As I take down the order, Daniel gets up and leaves.
I’m at the table first. I pick up his bowl and plate. There’s no sign of a note. Nothing tucked under the salt cellar, nothing under his mug.
It’s what I wanted, isn’t it? I told him not to speak of what passed between us. I brushed him off, refused to shake his hand. I can’t blame him for respecting my wishes. I should be grateful.
At the end of the shift Miss Wilton asks where I’m heading.
‘Canning Town.’
‘I’m Stepney.’
I suppose she’ll want to walk up the road together. She straightens her hat and her brown hair squashes around her ears. We step out into the damp afternoon. In her basket is a bag of leftover buns; all I got from Mrs Stephens was half a loaf of yesterday’s bread.
‘I’m Nettie, by the way,’ she says. ‘You know, when Mrs Stephens isn’t listening. You don’t have to worry about “Miss Wilton”.’
‘Righto.’
‘Listen, I hope I’m not stepping on your toes.’
The poor girl looks worried and now I feel guilty for being so sour.
‘It was a surprise to find you there, that’s all. I never knew Mrs Stephens was hiring. And to tell you the truth, I ain’t feeling too good. Got a cracking headache.’
‘Oh. I hope you feel better soon.’
‘Thanks. See you Friday.’
I should have told her my name, I realize, as I turn onto Manchester Road.
There’s a fog settling and it’s colder than ever. The Thames could freeze at this rate; there might already be ice in the water. I shove my hands into my coat pockets and my glove catches on a piece of paper. A note.
19
At the base of the apple tree, the earth is rimed with frost. He almost slips on the icy ground and the pruning saw jabs into the bark, lodging itself in the trunk. There is a gash in the bark and he curses his carelessness. With a deep breath he kicks his heel at the earth to roughen the icy surface. Now he works methodically around the tree, cutting out any dead wood with the saw, then trimming back the side shoots with the sharpest secateurs. The shoots are green and fleshy inside, satisfying to slice through. He stands back to admire the shape of the tree, its branches curving upwards like the smooth sides of a wine glass.
Next the smaller pippin, then the Conference pear. When he has finished, he stacks the brash in the covered woodpile at the side of the house. Woodlice scurry in the crevices between the flagstone path and the wall.
The ground is too hard for digging. He surveys the flowerbeds, the snowdrops fading now, and the hellebores with their muted pink flowers, nodding down as if they daren’t admit their beauty. He bends to pick a hellebore, drops it into his jacket pocket on top of his tobacco tin. If he’s careful, the petals won’t crush.
In the church nearby, the first hymn starts. He pulls the watch from his waistcoat. It’s still too soon.
He cleans the pruning tools with a rag, padlocks the shed and walks up the garden towards the house. Lady Tolland is sure to be away for at least another fortnight, with the weather so bitter and the threat of more snow. But he won’t risk the library today. All the outstanding books are returned, in any case. Everything is in perfect order.
Two men are setting up a refreshment kiosk just outside St Mary’s Gate. Daniel looks at his watch again. Half past ten. A cup of tea would calm him, but he decides not to stand around until the kiosk opens. He’ll climb the hill now and wait.
Greenwich Park is almost empty. He takes the hill at a steady pace, scanning the pathway ahead and the frosty swards that slope up to the observatory buildings at the top. When he reaches the observatory, it is still only a quarter to eleven. He wanders towards a bench, but it is wet with thawing frost, and anyway, he would prefer to stand. He takes off his gloves and lights a cigarette.
The sky is overcast but curiously bright. To the north, the city is laid bare: he can see the dome of St Paul’s, milky in the winter haze; Tower Bridge; the cranes and the chimneys rising from the Isle of Dogs. To the east, there are the factories, the crumbling tower of a burnt-out silo. And everywhere the rows and rows of dreary houses, their Sunday-morning rituals, the peeling of a million potatoes. He can almost smell the wet starch, the mouldering eyes flicked carelessly into the bucket.
A nanny passes with a large perambulator, two babies sleeping inside. He touches his cap, but the nanny looks away. Three stray dogs appear and bound down the avenue towards the bandstand. They look thin, hunted; one of them has a bald patch on its flank. A park keeper tries to chase the dogs off, but he has a limp and cannot run. The keeper abandons the chase a hundred yards from the observatory and leans against the trunk of a chestnut tree as he catches his breath. When he notices Daniel watching, he straightens up from the tree trunk, rights his braided cap and walks towards him, grimacing with every tread of his right foot.
‘Can I ’elp you, sir?’ says the park keeper.
‘No, thank you.’
‘I see.’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘Loitering outside the Royal Observatory like the world owes him a living.’ The park keeper addresses this comment as if to a colleague who may be standing nearby. ‘I know your sort. Other side of the gates, if you don’t mind. Why, the king himself sometimes drives out on a Sunday.’
Daniel takes a last drag of his cigarette but decides not to drop it on the path. Got to keep on the right side of these people, he thinks; they reckon they’re higher than the law. He keeps hold of the cigarette, though it is burning close to his fingers, and starts to walk back down the hill. When the park keeper is out of sight, he flicks the cigarette across the grass.
‘We’re both early, then.’ The voice comes from behind him. He spins round and she is there, not quite smiling. She must have approached from another path, the one that strikes off to the west.
‘Hannah.’
‘I got your note.’
‘I gather . . .’
‘A talk, you said?’ She is wearing a straw hat with a black ribbon, and in her hands she twists a white handkerchief. She seems hesitant, defensive. But she is here.
‘I just thought, well, wondered how you were.’
She shrugs. ‘I’m fine, really.’
‘You’ve been to Greenwich Park before?’
‘No, never.’
‘It’s better in the spring.’ He gestures to the avenue of leafless chestnut trees. His limbs feel awkward, something stiff and artificial about every movement, every word. ‘The chestnuts are a grand sight – you can imagine.’
‘I didn’t know it was such a big place.’
‘There’s a flower garden, and the Wilderness,’ he says. ‘What about the Queen’s Oak? Would you like to see that?’
She nods. ‘But I can’t be long. My sister’s cooking.’
They take a narrow path eastwards towards Queen Elizabeth’s Oak. A sparrowhawk shrieks in the sky above. Daniel wants to offer his arm, but Hannah’s body seems so closed in, so clamped together, that he is sure she will not take it.
When they reach the oak, she stares up and he notices the white skin taut around her throat. The oak is immense – fifty, perhaps sixty feet tall – its lifeless black boughs held up by a mass of clinging ivy.
‘They say Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn danced round it, and Queen Elizabeth used to picnic here.’
She swallows, still gazing upwards, and he is transfixed by the delicate movement of her throat, the way the light seems to soak into her skin.
‘But it’s dead,’ she says. Sh
e grasps the tops of the iron railings that enclose the tree, peering up still further so that her hat clings precariously to her head. Ivy curls through the railings, skimming her coat, her long black skirt. ‘Funny to think it’s been around so much longer than we have.’
‘And it’ll be here long after.’
‘Will it?’
‘“Had we but world enough, and time, this—”’
‘I know the poem, thank you.’ She loosens her grip on the railings. With her ungloved hand she pulls at an ivy leaf until the stem breaks.
She knows the poem. He feels breathless. It was a little forward of him, perhaps. Too direct. But something has to alter the mood, snap them out of this wretched polite conversation: the Sunday dinner and the chestnuts and the fascinating history of the ancient bloody oak. She is examining the ivy leaf in minute detail. Watery sunlight filters through the cloud-bleached sky and her dark hair glows a reddish shade, light as amber. Why has she bothered to come? He watches the back of her head, the gold chain at the nape of her neck, the hairpins pushed neatly into plaited coils. It occurs to him that this is the first time he has seen her in sunlight. No . . . there was a day last year, when they crossed on the swing bridge. He had been reading a newspaper, pretended he hadn’t noticed her, though of course he had. He had noticed everything about her.
‘Hannah, listen.’
She turns to face him and her eyes offer a silent challenge. Beautiful, but inscrutable. Listen, he had said. Listen to what? He cannot think of anything to say. A dull panic presses upon his chest.
He takes a step towards her. ‘I am sorry about Dor. Truly.’
‘Don’t speak about her. It’s bad enough I’m here.’
He feels the pressure again, a pain around his heart. It is the saddest thing. They are the same, wreathed in loneliness.
