The Beloved Girls

by Harriet Evans

  ding

  The street lamp went on behind them, bathing the square in electric light, capturing the four of them for the quickest sliver of a second, frozen at that place and time. Always, to the end of his life, Simon could recall the scene. Hester’s black silk shirt. The Galloping Major’s hat. Miss Inglis’s arm, thrust through his.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Hester, holding out her hand. ‘You must be Miss Inglis.’

  ‘Oh, call me Eileen,’ said Miss Inglis, nonplussed. ‘Lovely to meet you, Mrs Raverat.’

  ‘Hester.’

  ‘H-Hester.’ Eileen wiggled forward, staring frankly at Hester, and Simon inwardly shuddered. He looked up to find the Galloping Major watching him, cigarette in his mouth. Simon knew then he hated this man on Hester’s doorstep.

  He remembered suddenly how he’d shot a thief they’d met on the road up to Vesuvius. The sound of crumbling stone, of walls cracking under the heat of lava, came from behind them. The smell of sulphur hung so heavy in the air sometimes it was hard to breathe. It made you cough and choke. The man had leaped out from behind a plume of smoke, it seemed, and as Simon stood there, aghast, the Galloping Major had coolly pointed his pistol at him and fired. He’d done it most efficiently, then put the gun away, moving the dead, emaciated man out of the road with his boot – quite gently, but with a boot all the same. Then he’d smiled, stepping over the brains – ‘One less dago, Lestrange,’ he’d said, though Simon was his superior.

  Desperately, Simon tried to block out the song, playing in the back of his mind again, and the sight of Hester’s ravaged face, her slack mouth. She had been worse and worse lately. He knew he must stay calm, to help her. He felt now that there was a precipice, he stood close to it.

  ‘Well, old man,’ said Simon, intensely awkward. ‘It’s awfully good to see you. I’m sorry if you were expecting a drink. But I was just showing Miss Inglis where I live. I have to walk her –’

  ‘Eileen, please,’ said Eileen, proffering her hand to him now. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  ‘Hunter,’ said the Galloping Major, and, yes, that was how he introduced himself, that stiff clicking together of the heels, like the Nazis. ‘Charles Hunter.’

  Hunter. He’d almost forgotten his name. Charles Hunter.

  ‘You from round these parts?’ Eileen said, as they shook hands. He could see Eileen sizing Hunter up and suddenly he knew she would find him wanting. It was good to know.

  ‘Me? Oh, no. I’m from the other side of the country. Different world altogether. But I’m down here often, doing business. Antiques, don’t you know. Seeking out treasure.’ He gave Miss Inglis a leering smile – the younger the better, Simon remembered. Miss Inglis was in her twenties. Too old for the Galloping Major.

  ‘Do come in for a drink,’ said Hester, to fill the silence. ‘Both of you. Please.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the Galloping Major. He stared up at the tall house, and Simon knew he was appraising it, wondering what treasure he could winkle out of poor, ruined Hester.

  ‘No, I’ll be off,’ said Miss Inglis. She shook Simon’s hand. ‘Mum worries if I’m too late. Goodbye, Simon. No, you don’t need to walk me. The bus stop’s just there. Thanks for an interesting evening. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ She stared up at Hester, almost hungrily. ‘G’bye,’ she said, awkwardly, ignoring Charles Hunter altogether, and she trotted back down the narrow street to the King’s Road.

  ‘In we go,’ said Hester. Over the Galloping Major’s head Simon frowned at her – she glared back at him, clearly feeling he was to blame for it all. Both of them stepped back to allow Charles Hunter in first. The door closed behind them, and the square was quiet again, the buzz from the electric lamp the only sound.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Every other Wednesday afternoon Mr Agnetti left Durrant’s early, to go into Soho and meet up with old friends, those he had been interned with in a prison camp on the Isle of Wight during the war. It seemed remarkable to Simon, but he harboured no ill-will towards the British for this treatment. ‘They had to be sure of us,’ he’d say, buttoning up his coat with swift precision. ‘Isn’t that so, Miss Inglis? We were lucky to be left alone. We were proud to serve in the camps.’

  Miss Inglis, who had been two when war broke out, and whose Scottish father had died parachuting into Greece, would nod politely.

  The shop was heavy with silence after Mr Agnetti had gone. Simon would sometimes look up from a ledger book or his card file to find Miss Inglis staring at him, her cheeks very slightly flushed. Then she would swallow, and look away.

  Today, Simon was busy at the typewriter, labouring over what he hoped was a letter of constructive criticism to a supplier in Warminster about the stitching of some cotton gloves. He had persuaded Mr Agnetti to switch from his long-established supplier in Derbyshire to these people, and it was all rather awkward. Mr Agnetti, normally so mild-mannered, was annoyed and had pointedly asked several times that Simon write the letter and post it today.

  It should have been a simple matter but Simon could not seem to order his thoughts. He was sleeping badly, the last week or so. It was too hot. His new life wasn’t new any more, the golden sheen worn off, the dull metal underneath plain to see. He didn’t know what to do, how to help. The previous day, damned Charles Hunter had been round at Hester’s, valuing furniture.

  The Galloping Major had even got his foot in the door with Hester’s husband. He’d been round to price up a bible box at Digby Raverat’s house, at Hester’s insistence.

  ‘It’s mine, and he stole it,’ Hester kept shouting. ‘He’s no right to it, it’s been in my family for aeons. It’s very valuable. Very valuable. Elizabethan.’ She’d lowered her voice: she was more and more convinced Digby’s spies were everywhere, bricked into the walls, hiding behind railings. ‘Charles saw Sylvia. He saw her, introduced himself, gave her my love.’

  The Major had been invited back to the Chelsea cottage. Digby Raverat said he was a sensible fellow. Had had him look at a portrait of Hester’s grandmother he said was by Sir Edward Horner and worth a bob or two. He’d brought a book for Sylvia – Daddy-Long-Legs.

  The whole thing made Simon angry, and it was ridiculous, when to him the Galloping Major was such a thin, insubstantial person. It was very strong work indeed to accuse an old army comrade of dishonesty, but Simon knew that, like the other chaps you found all of a sudden up and down the King’s Road, tweed jackets and moustaches and country gent accents to the fore, Hunter was no antiques expert.

  ‘Oh, I know he’s a bit of a cad,’ Hester had said, impatiently, a few days before. ‘But at least he’s got a plan, Simon, darling. He can help me.’

  Angrily, Simon fiddled with the typewriter ribbon, his fingers clumsy. He had to get this letter right, not only to show Mr Agnetti he was right, but to make himself feel like less of an utter damned fool . . .

  Mr Agnetti had only been gone for five minutes when the door of the shop banged open, and a fresh July breeze swept into the stuffy interior. It was so sudden that Miss Inglis, halfway up a ladder in the back room fetching some new stock, gave a small squeak. Simon, who had been laboriously deleting ‘unaceptable’, looked up.

  ‘Sylvia,’ he said, with surprise. ‘Why – hello, my dear. How are you?’

  He had not seen her for several weeks. Digby Raverat had been more difficult than usual about letting Sylvia visit her mother. There had been an incident. Hester refused to talk about it, but she had had Sylvia for the day and taken her to Fantasie, a coffee bar on the King’s Road that was all the rage, then to Bazaar, where she’d bought Sylvia a jumper.

  Sylvia swore she hadn’t said a word about it but Raverat did and he was furious. Sylvia was only supposed to visit her mother, not leave the house. This was breaking the rules, and Digby made sure his solicitor reminded Hester what happened if she didn’t stick to the terms of the proposed divorce agreement he had put in front of her. Namely, that she would lose all access to her daughter.

  ‘Just a
damned jumper. Nothing sexy. She’s twelve, she’s starting to be interested in clothes,’ was all she’d say, that evening, nursing a large gin and vermouth and what appeared to be the beginnings of a black eye. ‘He wants to pretend he’s living in Belgravia. It’s not like that here, it never has been, it’s a place for people to create, not to ossify . . . Oh, Simon –’ and she’d winced, touching the cheekbone. ‘Christ, that hurts.’

  He’d given her his steak from the fridge, reluctantly, it had to be said, and he hated himself for this meanness. But Simon was growing tired of it. Of her, of him, of it all, the wretchedness of it, the unhappiness, sheer bloody misery of knowing Hester woke up every day in hell, that sweet, sad Sylvia did too, that they were both being broken by this man.

  The previous week, he’d glimpsed Sylvia’s small, pale face at the window as he walked to the Phene with the Galloping Major. He was incapable of shaking the man off. Simon wasn’t really sure where he lived, and attempts to inveigle other old army friends to come and drink with them were always unsuccessful.

  They’d strolled past the cottage, where the fresh spring flowers in the garden had given way to yellowing grass and dead roses.

  Sylvia had leaned up against the window, almost as if she was waiting for passers-by. Her face had lit up, and she’d waved cheerily at him. He’d winked and waved back, doing his silly walk where he pretended to be going downstairs, and she’d laughed – he could hear her laughing.

  ‘Ah, Sylvia,’ the Galloping Major had said, turning to look at her. ‘Pretty thing. Some good pieces in that house, if only her oafish mother could pull herself together. We’d make a killing.’

  Simon crossed the road, patting his companion’s elbow as he did to chivvy him away, and quickly changed the subject.

  Sylvia stood in front of him now, panting, her pale cheeks flushed, the strap of her coral sundress slipping over her thin shoulder.

  ‘Sylvia. What’s the matter?’

  She leaned over the counter, struggling for breath. ‘I’m sorry, Simon. I didn’t know who else to ask.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ He pushed the typewriter away. ‘Is it your mother?’

  She nodded. ‘She’s in Harrods. I left her . . . You have to come and talk her round. I’m –’ She gave a great sob, as if gulping in air to help her breathe. ‘I’m s-so sorry. But she’ll ruin everything if you don’t. She’s lost it. She’s taken something – drunk something – but I can’t get her to leave, and she’s making a scene. I just went round to see her because she telephoned . . . and she dragged me out to Harrods . . . said we’d buy something, have some fun . . .’

  Simon’s heart hardened against Hester, only for a second. He thought of Durrant’s, left without anyone out on the shop front, and what Mr Agnetti would say if he knew. ‘I can’t leave the shop, old girl. I –’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Sylvia covered her small face with her hands. ‘B-but someone will call my father. You have to come and get her home. You – you must, Simon.’

  Simon hesitated.

  ‘Go,’ a voice behind them said, with repressed excitement. ‘I’ll be perfectly fine here, honestly.’ Miss Inglis appeared in the doorway from the stockroom.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  She put one small, cold hand on top of Simon’s. ‘Yes. Go, Simon.’

  He looked down at it. ‘Thank you – Eileen.’

  ‘I won’t tell him, don’t worry. We’ll sort it out later.’

  Sylvia was tugging at his arm. ‘Oh, Simon, please come. Let’s run.’

  She was in the toy department when they arrived, having run up the stairs, past the chilly sedateness of the Food Hall and the giant china fruits, the men in white serving ladies in furs, then the perfume counter, where heavy fragrance hung in the air. They ran through the outfitting department, far grander than Durrant’s, a whole floor of discreet, dull greys and navys and browns, up the winding stairs, the traffic on the street below rumbling through the open windows.

  Hester was walking around in a circle, taking tiny pigeon steps, and flapping her arms up and down like wings. No one else seemed to be taking a blind bit of notice; that was the extraordinary part of the whole thing.

  She looked up and saw them, and gave a big smile, her neat white teeth shining. ‘Mummy’s here!’ she said, proudly. ‘Darling girl. You’re back.’

  She ambled towards them, and stopped at a stepped series of golden scalloped shelves held up by golden pillars. Each shelf had a bed of cotton wool upon which rested dolls of increasing size and opulent dress.

  ‘Doll heaven,’ she said, fingering the silvery wings of a stiff porcelain-headed angel, the velvet epaulettes of a stern-looking drummer boy. ‘Beautiful.’

  ‘Hester,’ Simon said quietly. ‘What’s going on?’

  She shrugged, her arms floppily exaggerating the gesture. ‘We thought we’d come out and buy my little girl a present, didn’t we?’

  He looked at her, and saw she really was out of it; stoned, or drunk, he wasn’t sure. This was a new development, the dope she was taking.

  Simon didn’t know what to do. It was all wrong, all of it. Everyone was in the wrong place. Sylvia shouldn’t be dashing from shop to shop, panting, her unbrushed hair hanging in streaks over her hunched shoulders as she stood watching her mother in a toyshop full of things for little children. She should be at home in the cosy kitchen at the back of the house in Wellington Square with the old range and the large radio on the dresser, drawing. She loved drawing. And Hester shouldn’t be here, fingering these gaudy lifeless dolls. She should be there too, boiling her daughter an egg, looking over her shoulder at her work. Sipping from a cup of tea, scarf tied around her hair, overalls on having just painted another room ready for a new lodger.

  There was a life for them – it was tangible, just within reach, and he could see it. It was cosy, and calm, full of possibility. He didn’t care whether he was part of it or not – that didn’t matter.

  He took Hester’s arm, gently. ‘Hester, my dear. You shouldn’t have brought Sylvia here.’ She stared at him, with blank eyes. ‘We need to take her home. I’ll do it, now. You go back to Wellington Square.’

  Hester swooped her arms up and down again, clucking, and then laughed.

  ‘Hester.’ He shook her arm. ‘Digby. Remember? He’ll be home from work at six.’

  ‘My – oh. Yes.’ She screwed up her face, with a superhuman effort it seemed. She put her hands to her cheeks, then looked around, and picked up one of the teddy bears, a soft marmalade-coloured animal with a large burgundy bow, and squashed it under her arm. ‘My girl Sylvia.’ She went over to her daughter, stroked her dark head. ‘I’m so sorry. It’s all wrong, isn’t it? But it’ll be right one day. You’ll see. One day.’

  Sylvia put her head on her mother’s arm, cautiously, uncomfortably. Hester patted her awkwardly. He saw how she blinked, swallowing, trying to recover herself. She handed the bear to her daughter. ‘Here. Mummy’s bought you this.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Sylvia. She held the bear rather awkwardly and looked at her mother. ‘You bought it? It’s for me?’

  ‘Yes! Of course. He’s my present to you. He’s called . . . let me see. Wellington Bear.’ She smiled, her beautiful dark eyes shining, and mother and daughter looked at each other. ‘Almost Wellington Square. He’s a reminder of me. Of your old room, and home. You’ll be back there soon. I promise.’ She swallowed the last words. ‘You need a teddy bear when you’re growing up. Sometimes more than when you’re a child, you know.’

  ‘Do you?’

  Hester started stroking her daughter’s hair. Her face was completely white, as if she knew it was over, that she had made the final mistake, and the minutes were now ticking away.

  Sylvia nestled her head against her mother’s chest, eyes darting around the shop.

  ‘You do.’ Hester kissed the bear’s head, then her daughter’s head. Her long black eyelashes fluttered against Sylvia’s hair, the firm, expressive fingers clutching her wrist. />
  Simon’s head was pounding, a cramping pain at the front of his forehead that stretched over his right eye and over his face. He could hardly see.

  Hester took Sylvia’s hand. ‘Come on, darling. You must hurry back now. I’ll see you soon.’

  ‘Promise, Mummy? You’ll speak to Daddy?’

  ‘I promise. I know I haven’t kept my promises before but now . . . Yes, darling.’

  ‘Come on, Sylvia,’ said Simon. ‘We’d better get going. Bye, Hester. I’ll see you back at the house. I’ll fix you a drink and we’ll have – have a nice supper. Yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Off you go. Hurry!’ And so Simon pulled Sylvia away, hurrying towards the lifts.

  But as they waited, Sylvia looked up at Simon with a nervous smile, leaning into him.

  ‘She’s drunk,’ she whispered to him. ‘And I don’t think she’s paid for that bear – has she?’

  ‘I’ve paid for it,’ said Hester, loudly, reappearing behind them, and they both jumped. She smiled at one of the doormen. ‘What, did you think I was just marching out of here with a stolen bear?’

  The doorman touched a gloved hand to his black top hat and nodded at her. ‘Mrs Raverat. Very nice to see you again, ma’am. And Miss Raverat, of course.’

  Simon ushered them all through the door and down the stairs instead, unsure what to do next.

  ‘It’s a villain’s name, isn’t it?’ Hester was babbling. ‘Raverat. I’ve always hated it. Sylvia, when you do something with your life, don’t call yourself Raverat, will you, darling? Let’s think of a much better name for you.’

  ‘Will you be all right?’ Simon said, as they emerged into the humid July evening. Fumes – coal tar and petrol – hung stickily heavy in the air. He felt he shouldn’t be abandoning her like this.

  ‘I’ve taken up enough of your time already.’ She tossed her cropped hair, a flash of the old Hester, and put her hand on his arm. ‘Dear Simon – hey! Let me go! Let go, I say!’