The Right Sort of Man

by Allison Montclair

  “Good morning, Lady Carolyne,” said Prudence, curtseying quickly.

  “Good morning, Madam,” said Albert.

  “Well?” huffed Lady Carolyne. “Must I repeat my question?”

  “Begging your pardon, Ma’am,” said Prudence. “We were trying to figure out the best route to Brixton.”

  “Brixton? Why on earth would anyone want to go to Brixton?”

  “I have some business there, Lady Carolyne,” said Gwen.

  “You?” said Lady Carolyne suspiciously. “What manner of business?”

  “I am visiting a client.”

  “A client? Do you actually mean that this ridiculous enterprise of yours requires you to travel to Brixton?”

  “It’s to celebrate an engagement,” said Gwen blithely. “She invited us, and we like to show the flag at these successes. It’s good for business. I could scoop up half of the bridesmaids as future prospects if all goes according to plan.”

  “An engagement party in the morning?” scoffed Lady Carolyne. “Unheard of.”

  “I don’t disagree, but she works evenings, so she had to make it early,” said Gwen. “In any case, Prudence and Albert were helping me with the route. Do you know which bus would get me there the easiest?”

  “Never been on a bus in my life,” said Lady Carolyne. “I don’t approve of them. I don’t approve of people who take them. If you wish to travel to this party, have Albert take you in the car.”

  “No,” said Gwen.

  “No? Why not, for Heaven’s sake? What is the point of having a car? What is the point of having Albert, for that matter?”

  “That’s a good point,” said Albert, grinning.

  “I won’t waste the petrol for this when there are other perfectly good means of getting me there,” said Gwen.

  “I would not describe our system of public transportation as either good or perfect,” said Lady Carolyne. “Not to mention that you will be exposing yourself to all manner of filth and disease—”

  “Goodness!” exclaimed Gwen. “I’m not going to the tropics, I’m going to Brixton!”

  “It might as well be the tropics,” sniffed Lady Carolyne.

  “It is to the south,” observed Albert.

  “You’re not helping,” whispered Prudence.

  “Lady Carolyne, I don’t mean to argue with you,” said Gwen. “My mind is made up. I will be perfectly safe. I will pay my respects to the ladies, have some tea and cakes, leave a few flyers, and be back at my office by noon. You need not concern yourself with me.”

  “I do not wish to concern myself with you,” returned Lady Carolyne. “But you insist on making yourself a concern. Very well, go to Brixton. Keep dabbling in your little business venture. It matters not to me. Albert, you may bring the car around at eleven.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” he said.

  “And Gwendolyn?”

  “Yes, Lady Carolyne?”

  “We will be discussing another matter later. Spare me some time this evening if you have no other pressing social engagements.”

  “It shall be my great pleasure,” said Gwen, wondering what was in the offing.

  Lady Carolyne turned and strode from the room, revealing in her wake a vertical display of Japanese ideograms whose meaning was understood by none in the household but which no doubt was disapproving.

  “Anyway, I’d take the 159,” said Albert as if there had been no disruption.

  “Thank you, I shall,” said Gwen, rising from the table. “I will see you tonight.”

  She was at her dressing table, in the midst of applying her lipstick, when there was a soft tap at the door. She turned to see Millicent, the upstairs maid, peering at her.

  “Begging your pardon, Ma’am,” said Millicent timidly.

  “Yes?”

  “I was overhearing what everyone was going on about, and forgive me if I’m wrong, but if it is the jail you’re going to, then there’s a better route.”

  “Let’s say for the sake of argument that I was,” said Gwen, smiling. “How should I go?”

  “You should take the tram,” said Millicent. “The Number 20. You can get it right out of Victoria Station, and it will take you down Brixton Hill to Jebb. There’s a stop there.”

  “Thank you, Millicent. That would save me a bit of a walk, not that I mind the exercise.”

  “I used to visit my uncle there,” said Millicent. “He was—well, I don’t like to say, and that was—”

  “There is no need to explain any further,” said Gwen.

  “I like the trams better, anyways,” said Millicent. “It’s because of the electrics—there ain’t any fumes like you get with the buses. And it’s quieter—you can sit up top, and the city rolls right past you like a movie.”

  “One must get a lot of thinking done,” commented Gwen wistfully.

  “Well, maybe in short bursts, but the clangers will keep you from doing it too long. But it’s the best way to get there, if you’re asking me.”

  “Thank you, Millicent. I will give it a try.”

  Millicent turned to leave, then turned back.

  “Is it a gentleman friend?” she whispered hopefully.

  “No, Millicent,” said Gwen. “And don’t spread any rumours.”

  “All right, Ma’am.”

  So her morning walk was to Victoria Station, which brought up memories of taking the boat-train to Dover and Calais when she was young. And later on her honeymoon, blissfully, ecstatically ensconced in a private room on the train to Rome, arriving without seeing one whit of scenery.

  A blast of a car horn brought her back to her purpose. She took a direct route to Victoria, avoiding her recent tendency to make sudden turns and explore streets she had never seen, or had seen but didn’t know exactly where they were before. These small, tentative deviations from her path gave her a tiny sense of adventure, a secret rebellion against the straightforward course that her life had taken.

  This deviation, however, was not a small one. She was amazed, somewhat appalled, yet also delighted at how easily she had lied to her mother-in-law this morning. The very idea of deceiving this overbearing overlord of her existence would have caused her panic a few months before, yet there she was, rattling off her improvised story without a moment’s hesitation. She never knew she was capable of lying so fluently.

  It was the positive influence of Iris, she decided. Another benefit to working with her on a daily basis. She was nowhere near Iris’s league when it came to invention on the spur of the moment, especially when an unhappy customer or an irate merchant called, but she was improving. She was still bubbling over their confrontation with Parham. She felt that they had scored their share of points in the encounter, even if they ultimately were forced to capitulate to his demands. And if they succeeded—

  Succeeded in what, exactly? Exonerating Dickie Trower? Was that really her intent?

  Was this trip necessary?

  Bulldog Drummond, Iris called her. Well, Drummond wouldn’t hesitate if he were in Gwen’s shoes.

  She briefly pictured Ronald Colman as the intrepid hero wearing her heels and laughed to herself at the image.

  She reached Victoria Station, then walked around it to where the trams came in. The Number 20, Millicent had said. Gwen located the stop and stood on the queue with others bound for Brixton. The tram pulled up, a cheerful red and white double-decked affair with an advert for Saxa Salt plastered on the side between decks. The door opened and a stream of passengers hurried off into the early morning. Gwen waited until the rest of the queue had clambered aboard, then purchased a ticket from the conductress who stood outside the doorway.

  “I’m going to Jebb Avenue,” Gwen whispered. “Could you let me know when we come to it?”

  “We all have our crosses to bear, don’t we?” replied the conductress, winking at her sympathetically. “Plenty of seats up top, Madam.”

  Gwen climbed the narrow steps to the upper deck, clinging to the rail with a death grip until she found
her footing. She took a seat by a window. The doors closed, the bell clanged, and the motor engaged with a low rasp that rose in pitch like a hand-cranked siren. The tram bumped through a series of switches, then they were off, barreling down Vauxhall Bridge Road, the rest of London peeling away as they rose towards the crossing of the Thames.

  She had never seen the river from this vantage, looking over the walls to see its broad expanse curving away on both sides. She wanted to press her nose against the glass like a schoolgirl. Why had her parents never taken her on the tram before, even on a lark?

  She felt giddy with discovery. There was the Chelsea School of Art, where she and her friend Marilyn had daringly taken Life Drawing classes without telling their parents exactly what that entailed. And the Tate—even from here, she could see the wartime damage. She hoped that the paintings had been removed before the bombs hit. She had a mental image of a sullen group of landscapes and portraits, queued up to board a train to the country where they would be condescending to the local village paintings.

  She was saddened when the tram descended to the south bank, plunging her back into the streets of—which neighbourhood was this? She consulted her map quickly. Lambeth, she supposed. Yes, the sign at the turn said South Lambeth Road. She tried to think if there was ever an occasion for which she had come to Lambeth. She couldn’t think of any.

  The tram bells rang with frequency once they were in South London, interrupting her train of thought. Her tram of thought, she corrected herself. The upper deck seating allowed her to peer over the temporary wooden walls thrown up in front of burnt out storefronts and abandoned houses. Some buildings showed their façades bravely to the passers-by, with nothing but ruins behind.

  Some days, she felt the same way.

  She tried to distract herself with a brief fantasy that Ronald Colman was on the seat next to her, beginning an inappropriate flirtation in the relative privacy of the upper deck.

  The clangers went off, the tram jerked to a halt, and Ronald vanished like mist.

  There was more bomb damage to be seen, and the upper deck provided glimpses over the temporary fences erected to block the views from the sidewalks. The randomness of the attacks was very much in evidence—one theater stood completely intact next to the remains of another, its stage still standing, waiting for an audience that would never come. Adverts clung hopefully to crumbling walls—Bisto, the meat-flavoured gravy powder! Ovaltine gives health and vitality! McNish Whisky!

  There was no new whisky to be had yet. The daily papers carried adverts from the distilleries urging patience to their customers and bidding them to wait for the start-up for new production, once there was sufficient grain available to divert to less essential goods, although Lady Carolyne might beg to differ as to the relative necessity of whisky.

  A few arcing turns brought them to Brixton. Quin and Axtens, Ltd., a department store, had once taken up an entire block at the corner by the turn. Now, it was just a set of walls and vaguely Romanesque columns. SMARTEST DESIGNS AND BEST VALUE proclaimed a surviving sign.

  Maybe again, some day.

  The columns forced her into a memory of walking through the Roman Forum with Ronnie, their first emergence from the hotel where they began their honeymoon proper. Where he leaned her against a column and kissed her, and said, “Our love will outlast all of this. I promise.”

  She would never go to back to Italy, she thought. Not even if there were a thousand years of peace.

  The conductress poked her head up the stairway.

  “Your stop’s coming, Madam,” she said.

  Gwen collected herself and moved forward, glancing back for a moment to see if Ronald (she thought that they must be on a first name basis by now) was still there, maybe with one hand up, giving her a rueful wave. But the seat was empty.

  The tram lurched to a halt, and Gwen descended the stairs.

  “Thank you,” she said to the conductress.

  “Wipe your face, dearie,” replied the woman. “They need us looking proper cheery, no matter what, right?”

  Gwen put her fingertips to her cheeks and felt the tears.

  “Thanks again,” she said, stepping onto the street.

  The tram set off, its bells clanging merrily away. Her heart strings remained unzinged. She pulled out her handkerchief and wiped her cheeks.

  It was a short walk down Jebb Avenue to the prison, the brick walls looming some twenty feet over the sidewalk, festooned with barbed wire at the top. She could hear shouts echoing from inside, the sounds of men marching to nowhere. Prisoners being exercised in the yard, she guessed. Like they were horses in a stable.

  The entrance was a large, wooden door, arched on top, set into several layers of brick. A smaller door set into it was opened by a guard, and she was admitted to the gatehouse area. A large metal gate separated her from the main courtyard. In the distance, she could hear the marching prisoners more clearly, the shouted commands of the keepers: “By the left march!” “Four, all correct, sir!”

  She saw a sign for visitors, and went to sign in. The guard looked at her with studied blandness.

  “Who are you here to see, Ma’am?” he asked.

  “Dickie, or I suppose Richard Trower,” she said, stammering slightly. “I believe that he came in yesterday.”

  He consulted a list, running his finger down it, his lips moving silently.

  “Indeed he did,” he said, stabbing at a name at the bottom. “You’re right quick off the mark. Fine, wait for your escort. Trower’s in A-Wing. We have to call a matron to search you first.”

  “Search me? Do I look dangerous?”

  “No, Ma’am, and that means you could be carrying all manner of contraband. Step inside there.”

  She went into a small room with a chair in one corner and waited. After what seemed an eternity, a uniformed woman with a bored expression stepped inside.

  “Right,” she said peremptorily. “Coat off, handbag open. Turn to the wall.”

  Gwen complied, blushing furiously as the woman ran her hands down her sides, then up her legs.

  “First time here, I take it,” commented the woman.

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “The girls visiting their men usually wear something more—well, they like to put on a bit of a show, if you know what I mean.”

  “Do they?”

  “Oh, yes,” said the woman. “Quite the spectacle in a few cases. You must be a do-gooder.”

  “I try my best,” said Gwen.

  “Good for you,” said the woman with no indication of meaning it. “You can put your coat back on. Follow me.”

  There were corridors, and locked doors, and more corridors and locked gates. Finally, she was led into a small waiting room where three other women sat on wooden benches. They looked at Gwen, craning their heads upwards to register how much closer to Heaven her blond tresses were than theirs.

  “Well, you’ll ’ave no trouble seein’ ’im,” said one, and the others cackled.

  “I’m sorry?” said Gwen.

  “Oh, you’ll see,” said the woman. “First time, love?”

  “Yes,” said Gwen.

  “What’s ’e done, then?”

  “Nothing,” said Gwen firmly. “It’s all been a terrible mistake.”

  “Oh, love,” said the second one sympathetically. “It’s just the latest mistake.”

  “Mrs. Corcoran?” called a guard, standing at the far door.

  “Time for me fifteen,” said the first, standing up, adjusting her clothes, and throwing her shoulders back. She waited until the guard turned to lead her inside, then quickly unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse and followed him, turning her head to throw a wink at the others.

  “How long ’as yours been ’ere?” asked the third woman.

  “Just since yesterday,” said Gwen.

  “Married, are you?” she asked, glancing at the ring.

  “Yes,” said Gwen. “I mean, no. Not to him.”

  “
Oooh, it’s like that?” said the second woman.

  “No, it’s not like that at all,” said Gwen. “He’s a—”

  She was about to say “client,” but there had been enough misunderstandings for one brief encounter.

  “He’s my cousin,” she said. “Aunt Mary was too distraught to see him, so I’m representing the family.”

  “Oh, that’s nice of you,” said the third woman. “I wouldn’t visit my cousin if they were ’angin’ ’im the next day.”

  “But you’d go to the funeral,” said the second woman.

  “Just to make sure ’e was dead,” said the third, and the two of them snickered.

  It didn’t take long for the first woman to emerge, surreptitiously buttoning up her blouse.

  “See you next week,” she said to the others.

  “Ta ta,” they returned.

  The guard brought each of them in after Mrs. Corcoran left. Finally, it was Gwen’s turn.

  “You’re new,” said the guard as he brought her to another room. A metal door with a sliding viewing grille was set into the wall.

  “Yes,” said Gwen. “What do I do?”

  “Leave your bag on the table,” instructed the guard. “You go in. You stand away from the mesh. You do not attempt to put anything through the mesh. Try it, you’ll end up in the women’s wing over there. Once the doors close, you have fifteen minutes, not a second more. Understood?”

  “Understood,” said Gwen.

  He pressed a button on the wall. She heard a buzzer go off in the distance. Then a green light went on, and he opened the door.

  “I’ll be watching,” he reminded her.

  “I know,” said Gwen, and she stepped into a small, dank room with thick stone walls, only a bare, yellowed bulb providing light.

  There was a wall in front of her that stopped at about five feet. Over it, a window looked into a room symmetrical with the one she was in. The window was covered on both sides by wire netting, held in place by thick, metal staples. There was a small wooden step stool in front of it, but Gwen didn’t require it to see into the other side. That must have been what Mrs. Corcoran had meant.

  A door opened in the opposite room, and Dickie Trower walked in. He looked through the window, his pupils widening as they became accustomed to the change in the lighting. His jaw dropped as he saw his visitor.