Autumn Leaves
Page 35
“Fox claimed he never got the signal. But how could he have failed to get it, when he was expecting it? Stranger things have happened, of course, and I’ll never really know… but I think it was punishment, for getting you help, Tom, followed by remorse when I turned up injured. I would have been permanently scarred without those days in the hotel, but I wouldn’t have needed those days if he had been more professional, if he had searched for me when I failed to return.
“After that he became more subtle. He didn’t need to threaten my life, he just had to intimate that my life was his for the taking. Which it was, until I left in 1918. That’s how I know this is a summons. It’s an old game and one I know well. Here is your life, he says, come and save it.”
The sky darkened until it seemed indivisible from the fields, the endless gray disturbed only by a crow crying its loneliness, a rabbit running in fear, a tractor as it coughed its last. I stared out the window until the last light died and all I was left with was my reflection in the glass. I saw Bertie and Tom watching me, Bertie with pity, Tom with fury, both with love.
“I have to go to London. I have to play the game to the end.”
“And you’re near the end, yes?” asked Tom.
“I have a feeling this is just the beginning.”
57
“london, dear old london”
This train ride was full of memories. I had only ever taken it with a full heart—going home to my mother’s funeral, or leaving Sydney behind, or to and from the war. It wasn’t transport, it was a journey of the soul, and each ride meant the difference between life and death.
We were all quiet, with tiredness, with tension, with the kind of emptiness that always found me after battle. Soon the farmland turned to coast, the clack of wheels replaced with the relentless pounding of waves as we boarded the ferry. All I could think of was my mother. How had she felt about this crossing? When she was young, was it a return to her gilded cage or was it another part of her bohemian adventure? How had she felt about it as a mother, when this crossing was the first step away from her true life and back to Australia and me? I must have looked appalling, as Bertie nodded to Tom, who took off my hat to massage my head, while Bertie took off my shoes to massage my feet. I fell asleep quickly and didn’t wake until the clangs and yells and big-city buzz of Victoria Station.
London was much as it had been a few weeks ago, as it always was: ever-changing, secure only in its sense of being the center of the world. A spiky place, a place where around every corner was someone waiting to overset my life, whether that was Fox, my aunt Petunia, my editor, Tom’s editor, or more besides whom I had never met but could tell me that my mother was not who I thought she was, that Tom would suddenly be whisked off to the other side of the world, that I was never allowed back to Paris. I loved hearing the newspaper boys and flower girls, I wanted a sweet bun and a hot cup of tea, but other than that I didn’t want to be here. It was the antithesis of home.
“I’m coming with you to Westminster,” said Tom, looking firmly out the window at the steel of the station. The train squealed as we pulled into the platform.
“Yes, you need backup,” said Bertie.
“It’s best if I’m by myself.”
“You can’t be serious, Button.”
“Kiki, are you going to turn up to Westminster at dawn, scruffy and smelly, on the off chance that Fox is walking around with your mother’s diary?” Bertie raised an eyebrow.
“I have to go alone.” The train screamed as it let off more steam, a fog outside the glass. “Tom, Bertie… trust me.”
Both men looked at me, Bertie appraising in his pressed caramel check suit, Tom glowering in his worn navy one. The conductors rattled along the corridor, opening our cabin door with a brisk apology, forcing us out and onto the concrete platform with everyone else.
“We trust you, Kiki darling.” Bertie straightened his shoulders and put on his hat. “Very well. I’m going home to my little boat for a moment of peace before I go in to see Sir Huffandpuff Himself and beg for a darkroom… and an assistant, as I’ve never in my life developed a photo.” He kissed me on both cheeks. “But come and see me when you’re done. We can look through some of the photos of the Casati party and write the copy together. Tom—share a cab?”
Tom looked at me for a long time, his posture as tired as his suit. “I’m just supposed to leave you here at the station? After all that’s happened in the last few days?”
I pulled down his face to kiss each cheek.
“Go with Bertie. I’ll call you at work in a few hours.”
I watched them walk off down the platform, Tom looking back over his shoulder every few steps. I would have to follow them of course, there was only one way onto the concourse, but I needed to give them some distance. I needed the distance from them in my mind, to prepare myself for the thing I most dreaded: Fox. How else was I going to do it—get the diary, ask why he has it, berate him about Tom—except face-to-face? It was not a face I wanted to face, and my fear of him made me perversely want to run to him, to stand in front of his face, and my fear, and slap it. I couldn’t have Tom or Bertie nearby when I did this. I had to do it alone.
Travelers clipped along in a very British manner, purposeful even when they were only walking to sit and wait. Trains grunted and huffed away. The station was all action, gearing up to the main part of the day when dozens of trains would leave Victoria for all over the country. I was wearing my favorite high red brogues, I couldn’t seem to take them off. I strode toward the entrance, my thoughts flicking over details of the day’s organization: I would check my suitcase into the luggage room, I needed the toilet and a cuppa, I had no idea where I was going to stay tonight, or if I would be finished by lunchtime and be on the train home this afternoon…
“Miss Button?” A man in a smart gray suit approached me, light gray eyes in a pale face, wreathed in gray smoke.
Who knew that I was here? Was this one of Charlie’s fascist friends, come to take revenge? I kept walking.
“I have been asked to give you this.” He gave no name, but before he opened his coat, he stubbed out his cigarette, his black, gold-tipped Sobranie. I stopped at the sight of it. No, it couldn’t be, Fox couldn’t already know I was here… The man held out a little package wrapped in brown paper and string. It looked very much like a book, it weighed about as much as a book, but before I could ask him about it, he nodded and left.
Surely that couldn’t be it, that couldn’t be everything. I looked in the direction he was walking. A broad-shouldered man stood by the station entrance, his overcoat perfectly fitted, his steel hair slicked perfectly in place, a scar on his cheek—Fox. No; the world paused for a moment, it held its breath. Then I grabbed my suitcase and ran toward him. The man smiled ever so slightly as I hopped, skipped, jumped through the crowds. He turned on his heel in a military manner and turned round a corner. I had no time to apologize to the people I knocked with my bag, I could only clutch the parcel and head after him. I found the spot where he had stood, I turned the same corner—was that him, that silver helmet, that upright bearing? I plunged after the man but it wasn’t him—another gray head under a gray hat turned down the stairs to the Underground. I pushed forward, my suitcase flailing behind—but I caught his profile and it wasn’t Fox either. I whirled around, I moved quickly to every corner and behind every cart, I ran up the street and then down again, but I couldn’t see him. If it had been Fox, he was now gone.
Why was this the thing that made me want to give up? It was all I could do not to sit in the gutter and cry. It took all my presence of mind to head back into the station, to turn my frustration to action and work out what to do next. Fox had seen me, I was sure of it, and I had seen him as well. I closed my eyes and clutched the parcel. Where would he go now? I headed straight to the public telephone booth and rang reverse charges.
“I’m sorry, miss, but he won’t be in the office today or for the rest of the week. May I take a message?”
“Yes, this is Greef… Miss Button, excellent to hear from you again. He is not here at present… No, I couldn’t say where he was, but I will take… As you wish, Miss Button. I hope to see you again soon.”
He wasn’t at work, or at his club, or his home in Mayfair. He had disappeared, vanished somewhere, I felt, just so he could reappear and terrorize me once again. How did he know just how much to give and to withhold to keep me on tenterhooks, ready to do anything for him if only to relieve my frustration? My clothes were sticky from the sweat of sudden running. My feet hurt from skipping on hard floors in high heels. My head hurt from sleeping on a train, from too many cigarettes, from holding back tears. My leg throbbed, my wound seared, my throat was raw. There was nothing I could do now, except what that bastard had given me permission to do.
I could only read the diary.
58
“along the road to gundagai”
I left my bag at the station and walked to the river. The pub I walked into was very surprised to see a brightly dressed, tear-stained young woman come through the dim doorway, order a pint, and light a cigarette at the bar, but I was far from caring what they thought. I wanted a drink, I wanted a view of the river, I didn’t want any fuss. The publican insisted on giving me a plate of bread and cheese and pickles with my pint—“You’re skin and bone, miss”—which I thanked him for but didn’t eat. I took my necessaries to the window with the best view, opened it to let in the cold air and salty tidal smell of the river, and opened the package.
It was the diary and more besides. The more besides fell out of the leaves of the diary as soon as I opened it. First to fall out were the heaviest: photographs. They made me gasp: here was my mother, in an enormous hat on the ferry in Sydney. I knew it was Sydney, I recognized Circular Quay in the background, and the ferries as being the same ships I had seen from her terrace all summer. I had never seen my mother look so old and tired, so gaunt that her wrists were like twigs. This must have been taken just before she died. She sat at the prow, writing in a book; it must be this exact diary. My assumption was confirmed by the second photo, my mother a blur as she rushed out of shot, but in perfect focus was the diary, left on the ferry seat. So, that’s how Fox got the diary; he had a spy in Sydney.
The next photograph was of me, on the balcony of my mother’s terrace by the harbor. I was in a petticoat and dressing gown that were obviously stained. My hair was lank and down past my shoulders, I was as thin as water, barefoot and smoking. If that’s how I looked, no wonder my aunt had had a fit when she came to collect me. No wonder everyone went on and on about my weight. It was obvious to even the most casual observer that I was sick, though I hadn’t seen it then and I could barely see it now, not even with the bread and cheese in front of me.
There were two more photos of me. In the first, I couldn’t tell if it was taken on the same day or months later, as I was still wearing that stained slip and dressing gown and nothing else. I was sprawled in an armchair, cigarette dangling from my fingers as I read. The photo was taken through the window, so I could see that the floor was covered in notebooks: my mother’s diaries. The next must have been taken just before I returned to Europe, as I was dressed in a coat and hat, my new brogue heels shining in the winter sun, suitcase at my feet. I was waiting to board a ship, gazing into the middle distance.
I stared at the photos. I had never seen a candid photograph of myself. I had even been told that these were impossible to take, as I was always moving, laughing, talking, dancing. My mother’s death had made me still, so that I found a position and stopped, frozen long enough for a surreptitious photo. I had no memory of anyone with even the smallest camera. I had no memory of seeing anyone interesting at all. Whoever the spy was, he knew his business.
There was no message on the back, no line of spidery Fox handwriting to entice, threaten, or bewilder. I suppose there didn’t need to be, the fact of the photos said it all: he spied on me wherever I went in the world, I was never out of his thoughts, I couldn’t hide. I suppose, with this diary, he was even trying to hint that he knew what I was thinking, but I wouldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe it, as all this effort—the diary, the photos, the missions in code—was tinged with an unreality, a nightmarish quality. It reeked of denial; specifically, a refusal to see that the more he pushed me, the more I pushed back. The more he tried to entangle me, the more I resisted. Did he want it to be like it was in the war, when he dogged my every step, when he was in my every thought, when he dictated my every action even when he wasn’t there, as he somehow lived inside my mind? I looked out the window at the water; ferries moved up and dinghies moved down, the boats modern but the actions of the sailors and watermen ancient. My beer was soft on my tongue. It wasn’t like that now; it would never be like that again. He had scarred me and the scars had toughened me. I would never be a hostage again, as I saw him for what he was. However much he followed me, however much he tried to haunt me, he would always be foreign, alien, wrong. He could never be inside my mind again, so he could never fully triumph over me. My cigarette smoke was bitter as I listened to the traffic.
The next bit of more besides needed a bit of shaking to get out from between the pages. It was a letter, dated early 1921, from my mother’s censorious older sister, my aunt Petunia.
Dear Cordelia,
I hope you’re well in your antipodean hideaway. This is only a short letter to inform you that once again I have had to protect your reputation. At the National Gallery, of all places, I met Lady Emerald when I was caught in front of the Impressionists, such as they were. Lady Emerald asked after you, wondering, “Will Cordelia finally take up with that Impressionist, Russell, now that he’s moved back to Australia? He’s married, of course, but we all know that she has never had much respect for the marriage state.” Naturally, I said what I could, that the rumors were all lies, that you didn’t know a painter called Russell or any painters at all, anymore, that you were very firmly married… but, of course, we know that isn’t true, don’t we? We know that you knew a painter called Russell, that you had no respect for his married state then and little for your own now, with your endless trips away from your husband. That, despite the years, fundamentally you have not changed. Well, Lady Emerald didn’t believe me but I did what I could and I hope you thank me for it. I don’t know where she heard that Russell—whom no one has ever heard of—has moved back to Australia, but probably from one of her sycophantic American friends. Lady Emerald didn’t mention where in Australia Russell would reside but I can’t imagine that there are too many people who would make your mistake and think that a sheep farm in New South Wales would be anything like the Home Counties. I’m sure you can ask around and find out where he is, if you still believe you’re in love with him.
My Robert has just started work in a bank and is an excellent prospect now for any sensible young woman. This rules out girls like Katherine, of course, who has chosen to spend her time going to parties in Paris. Cousins they may be, but a match, never. William has been elected to treasurer of his club and spends more time with his books now that he has retired. I would ask you to send my regards to Reginald, but I couldn’t know that my regards would ever reach him. When did you see him last?
As ever,
Petunia
I had never liked Petunia, but after this letter I resolved never to see her again. My mother must have kept this letter as it alerted her to John Russell’s return to Australia. They would once again live in the same country, twenty-seven or so years after their affair. I flicked to the back of the diary—yes, there it was in my mother’s handwriting, Russell’s address in Watsons Bay. I finished my beer, slightly acid at the bottom of the glass, the tidal smell of the river stealing over the traffic to join me at the table.
Did she meet him before she died? The only way I could know what happened was to read this, h
er final diary.
June 10, 1921
A summery winter, the chill in the air that creeps under the sun, that edges the warmth out of the rays. The harbor glitters, cold and inscrutable.
June 11, 1921
A wild storm last night. Tiles fell off the roof as the rain pummeled it. The wind keened and wailed and slipped past every bolt to enter the house and tear my hair, claw my eyes. The garden is a single large puddle.
This morning the city is panting, bruised and spent. The winter dawn limps forward, it must go on, it must rise against all inclination, against all desire. The water is flat steel and boatless. Not one seagull screams for its supper.
June 12, 1921
A letter to follow the telegram: X would like to see me.
Delie (he has always called me Delie),
I know you still love the smell of turpentine, so why don’t you come and visit my studio? It’s a shack at 22 Pacific St Watsons Bay, a Pacific Belle Île. Next week, maybe Tuesday? I’m all alone as Caroline goes off to Melbourne for some event or other, I can’t stand that sort of thing, as you know. I love solitude but it is tiring. Please come.
Roo x
I’ve written it out as I can’t believe it. He is here he is here he is here. Does the sun shine more brightly? Is Sydney somehow in summer, a northern French summer, perhaps, full of poppies and rosemary? I think those seagulls are the big British ones that coo like a ship’s horn. I think those voices are cockney, are Breton, are nothing like the Australian drawl. I think they must be, yes, I can smell coffee and croissants in the air. I can smell wine and gentle French honey.