The Thief of St Martins

by Caron Allan

  Guy gave Imogen a playful punch on the shoulder, and they shared a laugh. June was hanging back, and once again, Dottie wondered if she was torn between her desire to be act like a good wife, and the desire to just put her arm through Guy’s and enjoy herself. Leo, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, marched off back up the slope, calling over his shoulder, ‘I’m frozen. I’m going in.’

  The remaining four of them turned back towards the house, but walking in a leisurely manner, they made no effort to catch him up.

  As her cousins chatted and bickered gently, Dottie looked around. If she squinted, she could almost turn the scene of fading flowers and grassy slopes with their heavy coating of frost into a snowscape. The white of the frost on the grass, the grey-brown of the branches and trunks of trees and shrubs, and the bright contrast of the red berries, now being gobbled by magpies indeed made a beautiful scene. As they approached slowly, a magpie flew to a branch overhanging the path. Another joined it, squawking for its share of the fruit. Some berries fell with a splat onto the path, red juice leaking onto the frost and making a tiny lurid puddle of crimson.

  ‘Such jealous creatures,’ June commented, ‘they always want what belongs to someone else.’

  At the sound of her voice, the birds took to the air, scattering still more berries to the ground, creating a burst of blood-like juice across the silvered paving stones. Down on the grass behind them, the geese brayed and honked.

  It was early evening. Outside on the terrace, Imogen shivered. Not that it was cold, but the trees with their long shadows stretching forth like dark grasping fingers to reach her, and made her feel cold and afraid. Norris had promised to take her away from here. It was an alluring thought. Did animals in the zoo feel like this? The door of the cage just barely ajar, and such a small, small movement would push it wide enough to slip out and be gone. She wanted to go to Norris now.

  She hugged herself and thought longingly of the wrap she had left on the back of the sofa. But she wanted to stay outside as long as possible. Then:

  ‘Imogen, what on earth are you doing out there? We’re going in to dinner, and I need you to fetch a handkerchief from my room. I think I left it on the dressing table, next to my jewellery box.’

  ‘Yes Mummy, of course,’ Imogen called, her voice devoid of any indication of her reluctance to enter the house. She turned and went obediently in, shutting the door on her thoughts and the terrace.

  ‘What a fearful bore you are, Imogen,’ Guy drawled. He laughed, and leaned to light his cigarette from Leo’s match. Their mother was already by the door, impatient to go through to the dining room. The two men caught each other’s eye and laughed at her, just as they had since boyhood. Imogen said nothing. She never said anything. She crossed the room to the hall. She counted the steps as she always did. Twelve, then the first turn, six more, then another six, then twelve. Thirty-six. She counted the steps it took to go from the head of the stairs to her mother’s door. Thirty-seven. That was seventy-three so far. Then across the room to the dressing table. Twenty-two. That made ninety-five. There was no handkerchief on the dressing table’s beautifully polished surface. She pulled out the top drawer to reach for a new one. The envelope surprised her. She took that, and a handkerchief.

  It was another forty-nine steps to her own room. Which made—she wrinkled her nose as she added the two numbers in her head—one hundred and forty-three. No, one hundred and forty-four. She opened the envelope. She drew out its contents, and when she saw what she had in her hand, she gasped. It only took a few seconds for her to make up her mind. She put the envelope under her mattress for now; she would put away safely later. She went back to the top of the stairs. Her heart was pounding, but she ignored it. Ignored her shaking hand. She must focus on the steps. Another fifty-one, that made it one hundred and ninety-five. She began to go downstairs again. She went slowly, counting under her breath as she went. By the time she reached the bottom, and said to herself, ‘Two hundred and thirty-one,’ she was calmer.

  She slipped past the staff who were serving the meal, held out the handkerchief to her mother who took it, saying only, ‘You were quite an age. I can’t think why it takes you so long to do the least little thing.’

  Imogen slipped into her seat without a word.

  At bedtime, Imogen followed Dottie to her room, clearly wanting to talk. Inwardly Dottie sighed. She’d been looking forward to the quiet of her room as a refuge from everyone else, but Imogen needed a friendly ear and some sympathy—both things she got precious little of from her family.

  ‘What if I can’t get Mummy to change her mind about Norris? I’ll be on the shelf, a spinster, living with my parents until they die and I’m left all alone.’

  It was a miserable picture, Dottie had to admit, and a cold hand seemed to close over her heart. It must be the secret fear of so many single women, she thought, herself included. Everywhere you went, every book or newspaper or magazine you read, every radio programme or film at the cinema shouted the same message of the ideal life for a woman. Wasn’t it every woman’s hope to have her own home, her own family, and to know love?

  She reminded herself that she had Gervase. The cold hand did not leave her. To Imogen, in a bright voice, she said, ‘You won’t be alone, you won’t be a spinster, you have a dear man who loves you. Nothing can change that unless you let it.’

  Imogen stared at her. ‘That’s so true...’ Her whispered words came out slowly, as if they were still being revealed to her. ‘That’s...’ She got up. Her face bore and expression of wonder that gave Dottie terrible misgivings. Now what have I done, she thought.

  Newly decisive, Imogen said, ‘I’ll telephone Norris now. I’ll tell him I want to meet him tomorrow at our usual place. I’ll bring him into the house, we can talk to Mummy, make her see reason. If she gets to know him a little better, she will see how wonderful he is. I’ll talk to Daddy, he might be able to...’

  Not sure what to say to this, yet not wanting to snatch away Imogen’s hope or dash her new strategy, Dottie said, ‘Your father seems to think you and Norris are well-suited. He might be able to help you with your mother.’ She almost felt like crossing her fingers behind her back as she said that, because if there was one thing she’d observed of Lewis Cowdrey it was that he was an unusually passive man.

  Imogen’s eyes were glassy, her attention only half on what Dottie said, the other half inventing dream scenarios of her wedding to Norris and picturing herself dancing with him in the moonlight, her long flowing gown swirling about her, the heady scent of roses filling the air. ‘Yes!’ she said, but not to Dottie. ‘Yes, we are well-suited. He is a dear man. He does love me. Yes, that is what I must do.’

  She turned to Dottie, seeing her properly now, and kissed her on both cheeks, gripping her hands far too tightly. ‘Oh thank you! You’ve made me see what must be done!’

  She hurried to the door, opened it, and before disappearing through the gap, she shot Dottie one last radiant smile. ‘Thank you!’ And she was gone.

  Oh dear, Dottie thought, still sitting on the edge of the bed. Have I done something good or something truly awful? She waited for a moment, but heard no sound. Whether or not Imogen went downstairs to telephone to Norris, she couldn’t tell. She was glad Imogen was no longer sunk in despair, but it was alarming to see her veer too far in the opposite direction. She thought her cousin would do something too impetuous, something all too likely to trigger another painful scene between Imogen, Norris and Cecilia within the next few hours.

  She got ready for bed and waited in her room. She didn’t hear Imogen come back upstairs. She went to the door and opened it. She looked out. She couldn’t see or hear anyone or anything. On an impulse she went along to the top of the stairs. There was a light on downstairs in the hall, and as she leaned forward, she could see the light was on in the back hall too. So perhaps Imogen was still telephoning.

  Dottie hesitated. She couldn’t see or hear anyone. She decided to go down and see if Imogen
was there. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to urge her to be patient and hold back from phoning right now. It would probably be better to talk to Cecilia about it and give her time to get used to the idea rather than trying to press the matter too quickly.

  But there was no one in the back hall, where the light was switched on, although a strong draught was blowing in from the back door along the little corridor that led to the kitchen. If the back door was open, was Norris already here? Or had Imogen gone outside to meet him in the rose garden as she often did?

  On Dottie’s right was the door to the morning room. A slip of light showed at the bottom of the door, illuminating the wooden floor boards and the tips of Dottie’s shoes. She heard a soft murmur of voices. She couldn’t quite remember, but she had a feeling there was a telephone extension in that room. That must be where Imogen was, then.

  She was about to turn and go back upstairs when Cecilia’s voice shocked her, ringing out with, ‘That’s the end of it. I’ll have nothing more to do with you. It’s a disgraceful way to carry on, and I’m ashamed to call you my child! There’s nothing more I have to say to you; I’ve already said all I have to say. I want you out of this house first thing tomorrow.’

  There was a soft murmuring response. Dottie was frozen to the spot, her hand on the wooden panelling of the wall beside the door. Never had she heard such rage in her aunt’s voice, or such venom. It shook Dottie, and her first instinct was to get away.

  Her aunt’s voice rose again, and it was shaking with anger. ‘Oh really? You don’t care what I think? Well, you shall care! I’m leaving you nothing in my will. You are never to come to this house again, or to contact your siblings. As far as I’m concerned, you are dead to me. I will no longer support you. For the first time in your life you will have to find your own way, you’ll get nothing from me. Nothing!’

  Surely her aunt couldn’t be talking to Imogen with such fury? At this, Dottie turned and scurried away from the door, in case someone should open it, and she should be caught there. Coming into the main hall, she bumped into one of the staff in her rush.

  ‘Do excuse me,’ Dottie said, and ran up the stairs to her room.

  Her ears were burning with embarrassment at having listened at the door. But as soon as she had heard her aunt’s voice, it was as though she became rooted to the spot. Poor Imogen—to have such words directed at her by her own mother. Dottie shook her head. Imogen would be in a terrible state when she came back to her room.

  Taking off her slippers and her wrap, she began to get into bed, half-expecting at any moment to hear a tap on her door, and a distraught Imogen there to fling herself into Dottie’s arms, sobbing. Dottie waited for half an hour, but Imogen didn’t come.

  She didn’t know what to do. Her mind was still on what she’d overheard, and the astonishing, almost horrifying fury of her aunt.

  She got into bed and picked up her book. Ten minutes later she realised she’d read the same paragraph several times and not taken it in. She kept looking up, her head cocked on one side, listening. She pushed the covers back and sat on the edge of the bed.

  Perhaps Imogen was too upset to come and talk to her? Or she might have assumed Dottie would be asleep by now. Had she gone straight to her room to cry herself to sleep? Outside the geese were making a fearful racket. Presumably they had been startled by something. Dottie felt sure she would never get used to the noise they made.

  After a few more minutes, Dottie went to her bedroom door, opened it and looked out. The hallway beyond was in darkness. No light was coming up from the hall. She hesitated for a moment. Then she tiptoed along to Imogen’s room and tapped on the door.

  The air was cold. After a cold day, the temperature had dropped still lower. It felt truly wintry for the first time that season, and Dottie couldn’t help but remember all the late-summer flowers in June’s beloved garden, clinging to their fading splendour. The heavy frost would be the end of them. Dottie shivered and wished she’d thought to put on her warm wrap. And her slippers.

  There was no response to her tap on the door. Carefully and quietly, Dottie opened the door and put her head round it. Keeping her voice low, afraid of attracting attention, she asked,

  ‘Imogen? It’s Dottie. Are you all right?’

  There was no response. She didn’t want to put the light on, that seemed like an intrusion. If Imogen was red-eyed and weeping, she would not welcome the glaring light. Dottie listened.

  The wind on this side of the house was louder, and with the geese still complaining, it was difficult to be sure, but she thought she could just make out the sound of Imogen breathing. Dottie called out again, very softly. Still no reply. Was it possible that Imogen was already asleep? More likely, she just couldn’t face anyone after what had happened. She softly called Imogen’s name again, but there was still nothing. Dottie withdrew and returned to her room.

  She stood in the darkness looking out of the window. She could see the treetops thrashing in the wind. Certainly it was far stronger now. Dark clouds fairly tore across the sky, driven onward by what was rapidly becoming a gale. Things fell over on the terrace below her; thin branches rattled against the window. Looking at the lawn beyond the terrace, she could see it was light and almost glowing. Icy crystals of frost covered it. It seemed the late-arriving winter was going to be as unforgiving and harsh as the weather experts had predicted.

  Dottie reached behind her to pull the counterpane about her shoulders. She stayed by the window, thinking. If Imogen had come upstairs as soon as Dottie had left—and let’s face it, Dottie thought, no one’s going to wait around to be yelled at even more after what Aunt Cecilia had already said—then it was just about possible that Imogen had fallen asleep after a really good, exhausting cry in the three-quarters of an hour or so that had elapsed since Dottie had run back upstairs. Just. Which was all to the good, as it meant that Imogen would be well-rested for what would doubtless be an uncomfortable family breakfast in the morning.

  Dottie felt quite dismayed at the unwelcome prospect of seeing everyone at the breakfast table. She’d better get to bed, or she’d oversleep. The last thing she wanted was to be on the receiving end of her aunt’s wrath—again. As she took half a step back to run to push back the curtains and go to bed, she thought for a moment she saw a figure on the edge of the drive, to one side of the house, amongst the rhododendrons. She paused and looked again.

  Yes, there was definitely someone. But all she could make out was the pale shape of the face, and a vague dark outline of a shoulder and an arm, mostly hidden by the tall shrubs. Was it Imogen? She couldn’t tell. She couldn’t even make out whether it was a man or woman.

  As she watched the shape moved and was gone, melting away as a shadow in the night. After a moment she heard a door banging shut somewhere downstairs.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was marginally warmer just here. The little outcrop of trees on this side of the sloping lawn sheltered the spot from the wind, and she could almost forget it was midwinter. The early morning sun threaded weak pale rays through the clouds and lit up the space all around her. A willow tree on the verge of the water had dabbled its long fronds into the water and now they were stranded, locked into the ice that the night had brought.

  Dottie seated herself on the stone corner of the pavilion platform. She closed her eyes and tipped her face to the sun, longing to feel warmth on her skin. The small stone structure of the pavilion, a fashionable homage to the Greek style so popular for the last thirty or forty years, guarded her back like a watchdog as she turned to look into her deepest thoughts.

  One more day. One more day and she could return to her home, her parents—truly, they were her parents, not because that was how she had always thought of them, but because now, with the knowledge of everything that had taken place—or as much as she’d ever know, she saw the real love they had given her—they had taken her in, clothed, fed and housed her, they had schooled her and paid her bills.

  But more than tha
t, they had filled her life with love. They had sat with her overnight during her childhood illnesses, they had bathed and soothed her grazed knees, wiped her tears, held her when monsters haunted her dreams. She remembered both her parents lying on the carpet with them to do jigsaw puzzles and to colour pictures. She had a fleeting memory of clattering about the house in her mother’s shoes, of draping herself with ropes of beads and hats and scarves, she and Flora together, running about the house laughing, her mother and the cook and maid running after them, then standing in her father’s study whilst he took a picture to capture that moment. Neither she nor Flora had been capable of keeping still for the requisite amount of time, and the resulting photo was somewhat blurred, yet still held its place in one of her mother’s scrapbooks.

  They had loved her every bit as much as they loved Flora, she saw that now. Even when she had been sick, fractious, teething, naughty, and during the awful, fidgety, hurrying adolescent years of sulks and door-slamming.

  How many times had she and Flora rolled their eyes at their mother, or complained to one another behind her back? How many times had they grumbled over her strictures and her attempts to train them to be decent, hard-working, responsible young women? Or her attempts to help them to meet nice eligible men with whom to spend their lives?

  She had to bite her lip. She didn’t want to cry, not here, not now. Later when she was in her room, perhaps. Or when she had got home. And when she got home, she would tell her mother how grateful she was. If only she were there now... More to the point, if only she had never come. Far better to have remained in ignorance of her origins and enjoyed what she had. Though now, she had to admit, she saw more clearly exactly what she did have.