‘Where are we going, Grace?’ Flat as a pancake.
Why’s he asking her? For two years she hasn’t been able to see beyond a half-dozen fields.
‘Wherever you’re taking me.’
‘I don’t know where you want to go, Grace.’
She stops walking and he stops beside her. She turns to look up at him, under his hat. It has stopped raining, but she can feel warm wet lines running down her face. ‘With you,’ she says. ‘I want to go with you.’
Tonight, he says, we’ll stop at the village. Gowden? she asks, though it is the only village around here. There’s an inn there, he says. The King’s Arms. But Grace doesn’t like the thought of going into the village. Can you afford it, Michael? He doesn’t reply.
Don’t be silly, Grace Campbell, she tells herself. What’s Miss Beatrice’s sister going to be doing wandering about the village at night, and not that she’d recognise Grace anyway.
‘Don’t you think it’s too close, Michael?’
‘It’s as far as we’ll get tonight.’ Don’t worry, he continues, I’m here now. There’s something about Michael that makes her not worry. Nonetheless, as they approach the King’s Arms, they see a couple of slight figures walking away in the dark. Grace turns her head in the opposite direction. You never know, she thinks.
As they reach the inn, a pack of uniforms, bandages and crutches hobble out of the door and start to climb into a couple of cars.
‘Back to the monarchy of Matron,’ one calls out, and the others chuckle.
‘Those who can walk, do so,’ says a voice that sounds as if it is used to being obeyed. ‘We need space,’ he continues, ‘to pick up the two ladies who were with us this evening.’
‘They were insistent,’ says another, ‘that they wished to walk. Good Lord, who’s this? Joseph and the Virgin Mary? No offence, my good man, but you do look like refugees.’
‘What’s up with you?’ Michael asks Grace when they’re in their room. They are to share a bed, Baby between them like a married couple. ‘Can’t you calm down now,’ he asks, ‘now that you’re free of them?’ Now that she’s free? Of course Grace can’t. Freedom’s one thing for a man like Michael, for Grace and Baby it’s simply uncertainty. ‘It’s just,’ she tells him, ‘that I haven’t been anywhere new in so long.’
Bread, soup, she is managing that. ‘You must eat,’ he tells her. ‘I’ve not come all the way here for you to starve to death. We have to go on tomorrow.’
When she’s eaten, she can’t keep her eyes open. ‘Get into bed,’ says Michael. ‘I’m going downstairs to see if they’ll still give me a drink.’
‘Take the key, Michael,’ she says. Still, her head is full of worries, but her eyelids are too heavy to think them through. As he makes for the door, he hesitates and turns to her.
‘What’s his name, Grace?’
Her stomach tightens.
‘The child’s name, Grace.’
‘Edward,’ she replies.
A week now, and Grace still isn’t used to seeing that this is how Michael lived. She never came here, they just met out somewhere, and now she can see why. To think where she was living all that time she was in London. Not that her room was anything but plain, but at least it was white instead of grey, and she didn’t have her washing hanging in the corner.
It’s her doing Michael’s clothes now, and a struggle it is, for his and Baby’s whites seem to be absorbing the colour of this room. What would Ma have said, to see them living so? Coming down south was supposed to be the opportunity of their lives, but their home was a palace compared to this. Let’s hope Ma can’t see them from wherever she is up there. Though at least she’d be pleased to see them together, Grace and Michael. And that’s how it will be, Grace knows that.
He’ll go back to the law and rise to head clerk. She’ll keep house for him and, yes, she’s found the will again: she’ll have a business of her own and stay as far from the kitchen as Ma would have wanted. Baby will grow, and make up for the fact they’ve no other children between them. And how would either of them want a husband or wife then?
The landlady looked a little queer at first when Grace and Baby arrived and mumbled something about Piccadilly Circus. Then her eyes ran over Grace’s face again, and back to Michael’s, but when Michael asked for a camp bed, she calmed down. Michael’d given a wedding band to Grace, and the landlady looked a little tender when she spotted it on her finger and said, ‘So you’re still wearing it, love?’ Grace nodded. Michael hadn’t yet asked who Baby’s father was. That first night in Pimlico he just passed Grace a letter written to him by Mrs Wainwright. She was returning to Michael’s unit a letter that Michael had sent to Grace at Park Lane more than a year ago. Mrs Wainwright explained that Grace had departed suddenly, leaving no forwarding address, and that Mrs Wainwright would be grateful for news of her as they were all concerned. Further, she had to pass on the sad news that Grace’s friend Joseph was reported Missing In Action two weeks since. Would Michael be good enough to pass this on as he saw fit? With many thanks, Elsa Wainwright.
As she read this, Grace’s head spun. She pictured Joseph, and it was as though he was disappearing out of sight. She didn’t know what to feel, for she’d so long put out of her mind that she would ever see him again. But nobody would see him again, would they? She imagines him lying there quite still, his arms unable to give one of his hugs again. Then came the shakiness and tears.
Michael watched her read the letter, then sat down right next to her, wrapped an arm around her and squeezed. ‘I’m here now,’ he said.
They do the same every night, and that’s what they’re doing this evening. She and Michael have a chair each by the stove, and baby asleep on Grace’s bed. There have been few words, their thoughts echoing around the room. We have each other, thinks Grace. It’ll be what I wanted and we’ll make a happy life. Thank the Lord that we’re both still here.
There’s a sadness to Michael that makes Grace’s stomach tight. It’s almost as if he’s not pleased to have her here. It can’t be that, she tells herself. She may have given him woman and child without as much as a by-your-leave, but she’s looking after him and that gives her ground to hold. This is the way it has to be, she wants to tell him. Family comes first. For Grace isn’t giving Michael up, not ever.
Then there’s a knock at the door and it breaks her thoughts. It is a gentle, reluctant-to-disturb-you knock. Michael stands up, equally gently, straightens his trousers and walks to open it.
‘Michael,’ Grace says. ‘You don’t know …’ for she’s still scared that the Blunts will have found her, and be standing there, sticks in hand.
‘Stop worrying, Grace. You’ll be all right. And the boy.’
Still, she stands up, too, and crosses to the corner of the room shielded by the open door. How long will she do this for? She hates this, when he opens the door. No, nobody snatches anything from Michael, she tells herself. One of his looks and they’ll back away.
Then she hears the voice. Hullo. It’s a woman’s voice, and cut-glass, and Grace wonders what a woman like that is doing coming to see her brother. A woman like that, though, think what she could offer Michael, and a worry comes into Grace, her ears turn razor sharp. The voice doesn’t go far. Just, ‘Hullo, how are you? I’ve come to …’ And it stops, as though it was going to say more.
But there’s something about that voice, isn’t there? Hard on the outside, soft in the middle, she hasn’t heard it for more than two years now but she’s half dreamt of doing so, of being back in those gold and coloured rooms, thick oil paintings all over the walls. It’s the voice she felt worst about leaving, and now she’s come to find her. My word, Grace hadn’t thought anyone back there, let alone Miss Beatrice, might care about her that much. And how had she found her? It was Michael, wasn’t it? Said he’d written back to Mrs Wainwright with this address, just the day before he received Grace’s letter, just in case Grace went back there. So now she’s here, Miss Beatrice, and what�
��s she going to say to Grace? That she’s getting married and can Grace come to be her lady’s maid? A little surge of excitement rises in Grace, she starts to smooth down her apron and straighten her collar, readying herself to come round and bob to Miss Beatrice.
Grace hasn’t quite stepped out when Baby cries, or rather whimpers, and her dream wavers. Miss Beatrice would never have her if she knew. But what’s to stop Grace saying he’s a nephew, and going back to his mother before the day is out. She’ll find someone to take him. It’ll be the best thing for Baby; she could have him taken in near enough to see on Sundays, and think of the future she could give him, on a lady’s maid’s wage.
As Baby cries, Grace, though she can’t see a thing from behind the door, is waiting for the exclamation, the how divine, what a cherub, waiting for it, a little hesitant for she doesn’t want Miss Beatrice to look at Baby too closely. That’s not what comes. Instead she hears a gasp and an ‘Oh my God, Michael. Oh my God.’ Then soles and heels clatter down the stairs as if they’re being chased by the Devil, which must be Michael, because he’s vanished down after Miss Beatrice. Grace is left listening to Baby’s cries mount as her mind races as to how well Miss Beatrice must know her brother to call him by his first name. She stares at the empty doorway and realises she is now hoping that, for all she’s thought about Miss Beatrice, she will never see her again.
When Michael comes back into the room and sits down heavily and quickly in the chair nearest the door, and puts his head in his hands and shakes, Grace hopes that even more.
1923
28
BEA’S TAXI IS PASSING THE BRITISH MUSEUM WHEN IT occurs to her to buy some flowers to take to lunch after all, even though they are unlikely to be much of a match for what she could find in her own garden. But Bea’s garden is three thousand miles away, in New York, at the house by the Hudson in which she had spent a year of her childhood. It has been hers for all of four years, since one of Mother’s aunts died and left it to Bea, along with the funds to live in it. Bea finds it a little sad not to be there in May of all months, but she will be back there soon.
She has spent the winter in Cairo, and is now passing through on her way back, staying with the still-campaigning Celeste, whose friends are growing stranger. Next time Bea will stay at Claridge’s. She went to see Edie in Paris where, having given up on farming in Kenya, she is now living a nocturnal life fuelled, it appears, by champagne, cigarettes and God knows what else. Tomorrow Bea goes north to Clemmie’s where, Clemmie has written, garden and children (including Edie’s Archie) are all growing strong – but not Tom’s mind.
This afternoon, Bea has decided, she will visit Park Lane, or rather drive by. On her last trip through London the traffic jammed not a hundred yards away. There she was, in a juddering taxi, in sight of the house – and of the demolition ball that was swinging into the side of it, right where that lengthening crack had been. As the ball smashed on to the stone, Bea winced and turned away, but looked back to see the wall split along the line. All the house’s secrets were suddenly opened up to the world outside. The ball swung again and, just as Bea had once imagined, the dining room exterior collapsed. The walls inside, Bea could see, were bare. Then the traffic moved on.
They’ve built a hotel there now, Clemmie told her.
Bea raps on the taxi window to stop, and steps out in front of a delightfully pretty shop. The window frame is painted a grey-blue, with the name Museum Flowers curled across the top in navy, and outside are bunches of freesias, lilac, stock, all her favourites, and good ones too. A crowd of magnificent hydrangea heads fill what must be two buckets. She was wrong about not finding a match for her own garden. These are exquisite. Even the roses are of such a delicate salmon pink that she hesitates over them for a moment – but not roses, not today. Bea walks into the shop and stands at the counter watching the florist, who has her back to her as she finishes a bouquet. Bea watches her work, catching flashes of fingers and ribbon and scissors. I wonder what she’s like with hair, she thinks.
By the time the florist returns to the front desk, Bea has wandered behind the central plant display.
‘Can I help, madam?’ the florist calls.
‘The sweet peas are perfectly lovely.’ Bea always surprises herself when she speaks in England. Although back home she is told that she sounds starkly British, her voice has softened enough so that she sounds quite American over here. ‘They remind me of the borders in Sussex,’ she continues, ‘when I was a child.’
‘Oh, Sussex,’ says the florist, sounding a little surprised. ‘They come from Sussex, madam. How many would you like?’
‘Oh, two dozen, blue and white. Don’t make too much of a fuss in wrapping them. Shall I pick some out?’
‘I have some here, madam.’
Bea circumvents the potted palms and returns to the desk. As she approaches she notices that the florist is looking at her strangely and Bea, in return, is feeling a little disturbed that she knows this woman from somewhere and she can’t quite place her. Her mind starts to run through the continents she has visited. But don’t be ridiculous, Beatrice, you haven’t met this woman in Cairo. France, though, it could have been, in the war. She’s just old enough to have been out there with Bea, if she had been able to pay her way on the ambulances. The woman is now avoiding Bea’s gaze, but this makes Bea all the more curious until at last she says, ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’
The woman flushes down the side of her face and neck that Bea can see.
‘Yes, I know you,’ says Bea. ‘Where do I know you from? Good God, it’s Grace. The vanishing maid. I’ve found you. How extraordinary.’
‘I’m sorry, ma …’ The florist is flushed pink from her collar, and she dips her head and bobs and stammers out, ‘Yes, Miss Beatrice.’ Then, ‘No, sorry, it’s probably Mrs or Lady now.’
No, Bea thinks, just Miss, and thirty years old. However, an independent life is just what Bea once said she wanted. And if you have a house and land yourself, then you are not so clearly looking for a husband.
Before Bea has time to find a reply, a small boy runs in from the back of the shop. He is no more than five or six years old and near white-blond curls flop onto his face. Bea stops speaking. The boy stops and looks up at Bea. Bea holds her breath as her mind tumbles back twenty years and more, to small ponies and nursery pillow fights and knees scraped green by bushes and trees.
Grace is staring at this little boy as though she too has seen a ghost, but the ghost runs over to the far side of the counter and wraps his arms around Grace’s legs. Having squeezed them tight, he steps backwards and points to his chest. ‘Look at what Uncle Mikey gave me, Mummy.’
Beatrice cannot help but look, too. It is a campaigning rosette. Michael Campbell, it says, Independent Labour Party.
She doesn’t know which to be more stunned by. There are too many connections being made at once to make sense of them, and her head is spinning as she struggles to remember whether she ever knew Grace’s surname.
Uncle Mikey. Grace is looking straight at Bea, reading the confusion and shock that is clearly showing on her face. As Bea puts her good hand on the counter to steady herself, she sees Grace turn to hush the little boy as though she is brushing his words away into a corner.
Almost five years have passed but Bea now has her answer, all her answers. Her stomach clenches. If it was not to be five years ago then how, how could it be now?
Bea needs to leave this shop, Grace and little Edward as soon as she can. She opens her purse and takes out the money to pay for the sweet peas and turns to go. She hesitates, and pulls a card case out of the clutch bag not yet under her arm and takes a card out and presses it down on the counter.
‘For the boy,’ she says, ‘if ever …’ Then she takes a deep breath and adds, ‘There’s no need to pass on …’
Grace nods.
Bea picks up the sweet peas and walks back out on to the London street.
HISTORICAL NOTE
&nb
sp; Park Lane is a novel but its story is inseparable from its historical setting:
Mrs Pankhurst held rallies in Campden Hill Square and Glebe Place, and the evening and afternoon unfolded exactly as described here. The Suffragists and Suffragettes disliked each other and the WSPU’s HQ was in Mrs Pattie Hall’s flat in Maida Vale, though not necessarily in Lauderdale Mansions. When the flat was raided by the police in May 1914, stones and machetes were found there. Lloyd George’s house was bombed, and the Cat and Mouse Act was continuously being passed over in favour of the question of Home Rule for Ireland. The Gretna Green rail disaster was the worst rail crash in the United Kingdom, involved five trains, and a total of 226 people died. And Dartmouth House, now the English Speaking Union in Mayfair, was a nursing home run by the Countess of Lytton who, as Pamela Plowden, had been Winston Churchill’s first great love.
The first Sir William Masters, Bea’s great-grandfather, was inspired by Thomas Brassey, regarded by many as the greatest railway builder the world has seen. And the Brasseys, like the fictional Masters, lived in a house on Park Lane which was sold at the end of the First World War. The Brasseys’ house had attached to it an Indian Durbar Hall that was filled with ethnographical trophies brought back from travels abroad. The family were ardent, and influential, Suffragists – in particular one Muriel Brassey, who was tiny in stature but huge in character. She had a daughter (rather than a daughter’s friend) who ‘bolted’ to Kenya, but that is the subject of another book …
London, October 2011
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This is my first novel. It has been an immensely enjoyable but very different writing experience from non-fiction and I should like to thank my talented editor Lennie Goodings for all her guidance along this new path. She is not alone at Virago and Little, Brown in her help. Vivien Redman copyedited the manuscript with great care, along with Mari Roberts and Jenny Page. Susan de Soissons, Judith Greenberg and Naomi Doerge have helped launch Park Lane into the world. Thanks, too, to Victoria Pepe for her views. The encouragement of my agent, the wonderful Gill Coleridge, has been with me from the start and thank you also to her assistant Cara Jones. In the US, both Park Lane and I have been equally well agented by Melanie Jackson, who has again delivered me into the talented hands of Vicky Wilson and I am thrilled to be working with her once more. As I am with the immensely capable Andrea Robinson and Russell Perreault of Vintage, both of whom worked with me on The Bolter. Finally, Park Lane could not have been written without the support and love of my friends, and my family. Thank you George for helping me find the time and space to finish. And thank you Luke and Liberty. I promise I will try to write a children’s book before you are too old to read it.
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