—
Superintendent George Moth shuffled through the papers on his desk and took out the report of the raid on the radical bookshop. All such tactics were supposed to be cleared with his signature on a piece of paper before being put into action. He knew what he should do, which was to kick up a rumpus and haul the maverick inspector over the coals: quite apart from the insubordinate act, the raid had been a fiasco.
It was Saturday morning and he had no need to be in his office, but the alternative was to be at home where he would feel compelled to spend the day trying to do something to persuade Esther to snap out of her misery. He could hardly bear being near her, she made him feel helpless and hopeless. Somehow she had fallen back into her old role of keeping house but, whereas in the years before she married she had brought the breath of life to the house, she now smothered it with her alienating grief.
There seemed to be nothing that he could do. He had known instinctively how to deal with his own grief over Anne, work and work and, after a few weeks of painful celibacy, some urgent couplings with Effee Tessalow – ungentle because she was not Anne – until he found that he could go for a day without feeling the stab of self-pity and misery.
But Esther was not a man. Her whole life had been domestic and, until Bindon’s wounding, had been happily so. Being a woman, she was unable to leave, as he had been able, the place from whence stemmed all the minutiae that fostered heart-ache.
George Moth had never been able to decide whether he was a good father to his children. He wished to be, he wished most desperately to be good now that Esther needed him. He had wished to be when Jack had gone off to war. It was that desire to make the lives of his children as bearable as he could that had prompted him to make the first move of reconciliation with Jack after their row at Mere and the subsequent silence between them. But Esther was not a man. George Moth would have known what to say to Jack in similar circumstances. He did not know what to say to his daughter. To enquire after her health sounded as though she was getting over a cold instead of the violent death of a mad husband.
For some reason he now found it more difficult to swamp himself with his work than he had that other time. Then, he had been a detective-inspector, always with a reason for tramping the streets, always with an interesting, suspicious death to deal with, a trail to follow, a hunt to be organized, an arrest and a case to be made. Now that he had risen to a superior rank, he was more desk-bound.
He had never understood why he had been selected for work in the Special Branch. Surely his superiors could not have known that his son had more than a passing acquaintance with one of the Listed Persons. Did they know now? George Moth doubted it, for whenever a report on the Islington nest came before him, the woman was referred to as Ruby Bice or Red Ruby.
And if they did uncover that piece of information? As he felt at the moment, he hardly cared whether they covered up their own inefficiency with a reprimand or blamed him for not giving notice of it and reduced his seniority.
He read the report again, seeing between the lines how that clever mob, two of which he had weekended with at Mere, had made the police raiding-party appear like a music-hall turn. He put the report into a folder and the folder into his private cabinet.
When he was ready he would speak unofficially with the inspector, tell him that he was a fool and that he might have jeopardized some more important surveillance of the department’s. What he was doing, in fact, was to try to see that Otis did not come to anyone else’s notice. The trouble was, in planting a young constable with local connections right in the path of the Islington nest, there was always the danger that the man’s allegiance might topple over into his home camp. After all, a good many men in the ranks of the police had little reason to be loyal to the Force. Their wages put them on the poverty line, their hours were long and unsocial and the work often harrowing, boring or dangerous. But, as like himself, there were always idealistic young men ready to believe that it would all soon change.
He had tried to persuade Esther to have Otis visit her, thinking that he might get some guidance then about how to handle Esther’s grave situation. For grave it was and worrying to live with one’s daughter and see her slowly starving – emotionally and physically. But Esther had seemed to loathe the idea. ‘Not Otis Hewetson. She is so…? When I saw her at the interment she was so… so full. I’m sorry Father, but not now.’
George Moth guessed that he knew what Esther meant. Otis was ‘full’ – of life, of ideas, of passion, of enthusiasm. And her body was as wholesome as her mind. She had looked splendid. Her bright hair and healthy complexion had glowed against her long jet ear-rings and the black velour of her hat. Her voluptuous body had looked healthy and softly taut beneath the silk of her jacket and skirt. Dreadful as the occasion had been, George Moth had kept looking at her, finding her figure a haven for his strained eyes. He had wanted nothing more than to turn his back from the awful, awesome, hole-in-the-corner burial. Painful to him, and mercifully uncommented upon, was the contrast with that of that other soldier’s ignoble suicide, when the ignoble Sir Norbert Clermont was interred in his own, consecrated, tomb. George Moth’s heart had broken for his pathetic daughter.
He felt around at the back of a deep drawer, pulled out a bottle of malt whisky, stood it on his desk, thought better of it. If he went there at midday, then she might have returned to Lou Barker’s.
—
HM MINISTRY OF WAR, WHITEHALL, LONDON.
THE MINISTER REGRETS TO INFORM (NEXT OF KIN) ………………………………
OF ………………………………
THAT ………………………………
WAS ………………………………
ON ………………………………
THE REMAINS ARE/WILL BE/HAVE BEEN ………………………………
Not wishing to be subjected to Lou Barker’s quizzical gaze, George Moth went to the side entrance and quickly up the stairs that led to Otis Hewetson’s door, but found her locking up. She was smartly dressed and carried an overnight bag.
‘Oh! Superintendent Moth. I am sorry, I was just about to leave.’ Her voice was thick and the rims of her eyes pink from crying.
‘Oh.’
Otis saw that he was not merely a disappointed casual caller. Of all people to arrive at her doorstep and of all moments to arrive.
‘I am on my way home. We have had bad news…’ The lump in her throat stopped her and tears began flowing again.
‘Here.’ He took her key from her and reopened the door. ‘You can’t go like that. Come. Sit down. I shall make you some strong, sweet tea and then I shall find you a cab.’ Picking up her case, he guided her inside. He deposited his hat and cane, and she sat on the edge of the bed and dabbed her eyes. Efficiently, he got out two cups and put the kettle on a gas-ring.
For the first time in years, Otis Hewetson felt glad to have someone to tell her what to do. Her first thoughts might have been: Of all people… But, of all people, he was one of the very few in front of whom she did not feel obliged to hide her feelings – Pa was one and Uncle Hewey was the other. She drew a letter from her bag and handed it to him.
‘A note from my pa, you can read it – it’s my Uncle Hewey…’
He did so, it was brief. Whilst he could not cope with Esther’s distracted grief, he found it easy to gather Otis into his arms and tell her to cry it out, and that it was all right, and he would take care of her.
At the feel of his firm breast within the woollen cloth of his jacket, at the feel of his bodily warmth, his bristling side-whiskers against her cheek, at the smell of his cigar-smoke-permeated lapel, his lavender hair-oil and coal-tar soap, at the gentle touch of his lips against her neck as he rocked her comfortingly, she felt the flood-gates of her grief break and she sobbed into the starched white cotton of his shirt-front as he held her close.
‘Poor Otis. What a damned thing. You were very close, weren’t you?’
Recovering no
w, she blew her nose and mopped her tears. ‘He was more than my uncle, he was my brother, my friend, and he was a second father. He loved me, he spoilt me, he could make me do things that my ma never could. Oh, George, I did love him, he was such fun. I just cannot imagine him as a corpse. He didn’t want to go back, he thought it was so awful and unnecessary, but he had such loyalty to his men.’
George Moth smoothed away trails of her hair, and for a, moment he was back again, smoothing back tendrils of Anne’s fine blonde hair. He pressed Otis gently to him, she was warm and soft and vulnerable. For all her career, her independence, her conversion to radicalism, she was as feminine and womanly as Anne had been.
If only one could go back.
He would go back to that evening in 1910, when he and Anne had been getting ready to go out to see a play. How Anne had loved a play. She had lost a little weight and had asked him to retie the laces at the back of her corset. Looking over her shoulder whilst facing the mirror, he had glimpsed her small breasts, and she, having caught the look in his eye, had drawn him down to the llama-skin rug where she had given herself to him, he still wearing full evening dress. When he had got up again, they discovered that llama hairs were scattered over his black suit from shoulder to ankle. They had been late for the play because of the time it had taken them to pick off the hairs. All evening, each time they had caught one another’s eye, they had exchanged smiles, felt smug and separate, they had been a couple. That was the time she had conceived Kitt. That was the time when the trigger of his heart-eating loneliness was depressed. That was the time Anne’s doom was sealed ready for the bullet to be released in Southsea nine months later. How he missed her.
The kettle boiled furiously. He drew a few inches away. ‘I will make your tea.’ His voice came out unexpectedly thick. He coughed.
She shook her head. ‘Not for a minute.’
He reached over and turned down the gas jet.
He was such a large, broad man that, as he bent over to lower her head to rest on the pillow, her entire field of vision encompassed only him. It was as though she was observing another person, seeing that the woman was in an emotional state, noticing that she was vulnerable to the strong man who was being caring and gentle with her. She observed too that the woman had wanted him, and had waited a long time for her full-blooded desire to be satisfied.
His face was close: she noticed that individual hairs in his whiskers were white, and there were small broken veins in his cheeks, but until now she had never noticed that his eyes were almost green. In herself she observed that uncontrollable glands were working overtime so that she had to swallow, she was aware of the raising of her breasts, the tightening of her thighs and the shortening of her breath.
She observed that Otis Hewetson wanted most desperately to be made love to and that, at that moment, it would not have mattered very much who the man was. That it was George Moth seemed somehow inevitable. If she was to make the journey from virginity to womanhood, then why not with him?
She pulled him to her and kissed him on the mouth. She felt his hands on her body, drawing off her clothes, felt the bed sag as he braced his weight on his arms, heard the soft, dull sound of him unbuttoning, felt a most luscious warmth of his flesh approaching her own.
With a sudden movement like an unsprung coil, she flicked herself away from him and rolled on to the floor. For a second she thought that he was about to descend upon her and take her anyway.
‘No!’
For long moments neither of them moved, then she rose and pulled her clothes to rights. Slowly, in heavy silence, he turned away from her and did likewise. The room was humid with steam and the kettle rattled emptily. She turned off the gas-ring and automatically poured what water there was into the pot.
Facing him she said, ‘I am sorry, George. I…’
‘There are names for girls like you.’
The silence was heavy with suppressed emotions. He breathed heavily.
‘I had no intention of playing the coquette.’
‘Coquette! Have you any idea…?’
He indicated that he would like to use her comb.
She fingered the teacups, not knowing what to do or say. She really had wanted him. No… she had really wanted the ultimate comfort of what she felt was a missing part of herself. To be joined with a man at that moment would have been to fit the last piece of a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle. The satisfaction, the relief would be great. As great, perhaps, would be the regret after it was over, when the only remaining great experience would be death.
‘Are you angry with me?’
He heaved a breath and slapped his knees. ‘Angry? I don’t know. I can’t think. Yes. I’m angry.’
‘I am sorry.’
‘I wanted you. Most men would not have let you off so easily. They’d have finished what you started.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t keep saying so. You saved your honour,’ he frowned. ‘Isn’t that it? Saved your honour from a lecherous old man?’
For long seconds she was silent. ‘I did want you.’
He looked sharply at her, but she was not mocking him. Suddenly the anger seemed to disappear from his voice. ‘Old enough to be your father.’
‘I don’t see you like that.’
‘Do you want me to go?’
‘I feel a little awkward – you understand? I must go home.’
‘I suppose that it is I who should be saying “sorry”.’ He picked up his hat and cane. ‘I intended… I really only wanted to comfort you.’ He shook his head. ‘No, that’s not true, at first I wanted that… then I desired you. Very much. I make no apologies for desiring you, only for taking advantage of the situation. You have everything, everything any man could wish to find in a woman. And I have wanted you for a long time.’
Absently, she poured tea into one of the cups. A kind of normality began returning. ‘You have comforted me. I feel able to go home now and comfort my pa. He will be devastated, quite devastated. Hewey was years younger – like a son. I believe that I was crying for Pa’s loss as much as for my own.’ She sipped the tea: it tasted bitter but good. At last she let her eyes reach his and was surprised to see that he was unchanged. ‘Why did you come?’
‘It doesn’t matter now. You have your own troubles. But I should be glad if you would come and visit Esther.’ Somehow they had agreed on this strange formality to cope with the situation: no matter that it might be ludicrous, it did work so long as they avoided looking at one another.
‘Of course. I should have gone to see her before this, but I have so many commitments. I am trying to teach French to a few children – out of school hours. It is not the kind of thing that is popular around here, but I keep trying.’
He smiled to himself. French to little North London terrors? She really was so naïve, believing that she could change the world, change people by giving them what they didn’t even know they wanted.
She said, ‘If you want to have some of this tea… I have missed the buses that connect now, there is not another for forty-five minutes. Tell me about Esther, is she still badly grieving?’
When he had finished telling her how bereft she was, Otis saw how serious Esther’s condition might become, but half an hour had passed and she had to leave. ‘I shall come directly after this weekend. We must do something to get her out of this. I think for a start you should get a companion to live in. The nurse is not enough, Esther needs a capable older person. Someone who can stand in for her mother.’
‘She would never agree.’
‘I have an idea. I don’t know if it would work out or whether she would…’
‘Anything.’
‘Ask Esther if she would like Nancy Dickenson to come and stay for a while. I think that she will agree, and I believe that I may be able to persuade Nancy to come.’
She refused his offer of a cab, so he carried her bag to the omnibus depot. When she boarded she kissed him lightly on the cheek and said, ‘Forgive me. It wo
uld have been good. I hope that I shall not always fly away like that at the last moment. But – well, my career is vital to me. I will make sacrifices to protect it.’
—
The physician intended kindness.
‘You must forget it, my dear Mrs Blood. Do not think of it as a baby, as a child. You lost a foetus which was unformed and but a few inches long. Spontaneous abortion is by no means uncommon. If you had gone full-term it may well have been born defective.’
Esther stared at him, her lips tight-drawn into an acquiescent smile. His words had no meaning: at least, what meaning they might have had was rejected by her own interpretation of what had happened to her.
Bindon was dead and she had been carrying inside her all that was left of him, a piece of his very tissue. That one time when he had loved her, he had given her the last of his life-force. Part of him had sought out the part that she carried and made it a whole being. Together they had made that tiny nucleus of the new baby. Of Tim! Bindon’s son, Tim.
‘Believe me, dear lady, you will recover more quickly if you will only make an effort. One understands the entirely beneficial grieving period for a husband, but it is not natural to grieve for something that was not yet a formed human…’
How could you know, you have never felt the struggle of the father’s element to reach its destiny. I knew at the very moment that I had conceived; I felt the changes happen within hours. I knew that Tim was inside me. I felt his soul enter and knew his name was Tim. He was not a foetus, an unformed human.
Goodbye Piccadilly Page 26
