Authors: Sarah Rayne
A Dark Dividing (42 page)
Roz did not dare wait to see any more: when the flames picked up the petrol on the first floor the whole house would go up like matchwood. With Sonia still held against her shoulder, she kicked the main door closed, and went as quickly as possible down to the drive and out on to the road.
She paused for a moment, waiting for the fire to take hold of the house properly. That was when she would know that her plan had succeeded. She stood in the deep shadow of a tree halfway along the road, watching. Please let it burn, and please let it burn
fast
—
As if responding to this last frantic thought, angry flames shot upwards into the night sky, and showers of sparks cascaded over the adjoining gardens. There was a soft whooshing sound as the fire caught stronger hold, and the timbers and old bricks began to burn in earnest. The smell of smoke and heat was filling up the entire night, and there were shouts and running feet as people came out of their houses to see what was happening. Roz stayed where she was for another moment, taking everything in. Somebody would certainly have called the fire brigade by now and the fire engines would get here quite soon, but by the time they had doused the fire and been able to get inside, the two bodies in the upstairs flat would be so badly burned they would be barely recognizable.
She turned and began to walk away, in the direction of the town. It was quite a long way, and Sonia was heavier than she had expected, but she did not mind. She would have carried Sonia for a hundred miles if she had to.
In the event, she carried her to the high street, which was still quite busy at this hour of the early evening, and went across to the big taxi rank on the far side of the town. She was an ordinary Saturday-afternoon shopper with her daughter, and—wouldn’t you know it!—her daughter’s pushchair had been caught by a motorbike while they were in a shop, so she had to get a taxi home. She was anonymous and ordinary, and she was one of at least a dozen fares the taxi-driver had had that day.
She would pack her things tonight, along with the things she had bought for Sonia, and in the morning she would telephone St Luke’s to say that a family illness had called her away, and that she would not be at work on Monday morning. After about a week, she would write to the personnel department, tendering her resignation on family grounds, offering to forfeit her month’s pay in place of working her notice. St Luke’s was such a large place, it was no big deal if one of the junior nurses left unexpectedly.
She would also write to the agents she had interviewed about letting her house. She could send them a set of keys by registered post, and give them her bank details for payment of the rent they collected. Other than this, there was quite a lot of her aunt’s money, and also her parents’ money, all stashed in a deposit account, and the interest on it was quite good. Roz thought she could live off that, together with the rent from the house, reasonably comfortably. It would not be riches, but it would be enough for the next few years; certainly enough to rent a house somewhere. And when Sonia was a bit older, Roz could probably go back into nursing if she had to. When Sonia was a bit older… She tried the phrase out again in her mind. It felt good to look down the years and see herself with Sonia, her very own daughter, the two of them living comfortably and happily together. They would have a nice house, and Roz might even take driving lessons and try to afford a little car. It would be very useful to have a car, particularly if they lived in the country.
Roz knew she was perfectly safe and she felt entirely confident about everything. It was not very likely that a connection would be made between the macabre loss of a small baby’s corpse from St Luke’s Hospital, and the charred bones found in the remains of a fire in an old house at least twelve miles away. And even if it was, it would not matter because by then Roz would be out of reach. Her house would be occupied by respectable tenants, and she would be living many miles away. Under an assumed name? Yes, why not? She would open a new bank account and one connection that would certainly never be made was the one between the rather prim, rather mouselike Nurse Raffan who had never, so far as anybody knew, even had a boyfriend, and the brisk young single mother with her tiny daughter, living in—
A smile curved her lips. Living in a place called Weston Fferna, the place where once her great-aunt had lived, all those years ago. Because life’s a circle, and that’s where I want to be—in that place where all those tales happened. All those tales, told by an ageing woman to a small fearful child who hated the darkness and the sadness of the stories, and who was frightened by the grisly song about the hanged man in the moonlight, but who could not avoid listening.
Roz knew she had meted out a just punishment tonight, and she thought she had redressed the balance for her aunt’s childhood. She had got Sonia for herself, and as far as that bitch, Melissa Anderson, was concerned, Sonia was a heap of charred bones inside a burned-out flat. Melissa would believe Sonia to be dead—she would grieve for Sonia of course, but she would not be able to instigate any inquiries because she had already told people that Sonia had died in Switzerland after the separation. She would be hoist with her own petard, and serve her right.
But Melissa would never know the truth about what had happened to Sonia. No one would ever know the truth about what had happened to Sonia Anderson.
T
HERE HAD BEEN times in the house in Bolt Place when Floy’s Tansy had been afraid she was going to die and no one would ever know the truth about what had happened to her.
After she had been in London for a while she found that the men always came to the house at night, just as they had done in the workhouse, so that when twilight started to fall you began to feel panicky and fearful, just as you always had done. It was terrible to find that you had not left this twilight-fear behind you after all: that it had followed you all the way to London. In stories twilight was the time when good things happened: it was a purple and violet word, full of soft scents and magic and secrets. But twilight in the house in Bolt Place was not like that in the least. It was a creeping, oozing darkness, it was black goblin-juice bleeding into the sunshine, showing up the dirt and the decay of the houses, and the poverty of the people.
The men who came to the house were mostly navvies and merchant seamen on shore leave, or men from one of the nearby street markets or abattoirs. They left their rancid body-smells in the rooms and the beds—Tansy hated this. The children in the workhouse had been taught strict cleanliness—it was next to Godliness, Mrs Beadle had said. Once a week they had had to scrub themselves at large stone troughs in a long room, and there had been bars of lye soap and bits of flannel to dry yourself on afterwards.
But the withered house did not have a bathroom of any kind; there was a pump in the yard and an earth closet at the far end of the cat-ridden garden, but these had to be shared with eight other houses and the woman who let the men into the bedrooms and took money from them said she could not be tramping up and down stairs with jugs of hot water for tarts and moppets, her back would not stand it. So most of the time it was impossible to wash the smells away; Tansy hated that, but sometimes the older girls took her to a public baths where you could immerse your whole body in water, and even wash your hair. It cost twopence each to do this, but if you were careful you could easily take twopence—sometimes a bit more—out of a man’s pocket while he slept. Tansy became quite good at this after a while, because she had small, deft fingers.
Harry, reading this, felt the nod that Floy was giving in the direction of Dickens, and also Henry Mayhew. He read how, after a while, Tansy began to adopt the ways of the other girls; how she started to redden her lips with a crushed geranium petal and streak her eyelids with kohl, and he had a sudden heart-breaking image of Tansy, probably no more than eleven or twelve, already beginning to adopt the ways and the appearance of a whore.
Once, when one of the men was very drunk and sick over his own boots, one of the older girls managed to take as much as six shillings without getting caught, and six shillings was quite a lot of money. It was enough for a music hall for all of them, with a jellied-eel supper afterwards. It had to be a Sunday night, on account of the men not usually coming to Bolt Place on a Sunday, and somebody said the acts were not quite as naughty as they would have been on other nights, but it was a good outing, all the same. Tansy had been a bit bewildered at first by being in such a huge room, with so many people laughing and singing and drinking, but the others said it would make the return to Bolt Place, and the smelly rooms and rumpled beds, easier to bear, and so it had done.
But Tansy knew that even though the smells could be washed away and the men who came to her room most nights could be partly forgotten in a furtive outing to a music hall, her sins and her guilt were building up, and she was still beyond the sinful ivory gate. She was a thief and a harlot, and she was well along the path to the gall of bitterness and the bond of iniquity, and one day there would be a reckoning. It might not come until after she died, but it would come, as sure as sure.
And even if there was no reckoning in this life—even if the reckoning and the punishment were being stored up for her in the next life—she knew that the memories and the images of these years would stay with her for ever.
Extract from Charlotte Quinton’s diaries:
10th August 1914
It’s quite astonishing how the memories and the images stay with one down the years, so that even when one thinks they have been successfully tidied away, they occasionally jump out to disturb one in the most painful way.
Viola and Sorrel are memories that have been very constant indeed, of course; Edward has never understood that, and I have tried not to be tedious or lachrymose about my lost babies. Perhaps if there had been other children, I might have been able to forget them—
no
, not forget them, never that, but perhaps I could have
accepted
their loss a little better. But I have not conceived again, and there does not seem much prospect of it now—I have to remember I am thirty-six after all. A dismal prospect,
I
think, but—A mere girl, says Edward indulgently. He is still quite fond when he remembers to be (which is usually on Saturday nights when it is not necessary to get up early for his office the following morning).
On the other hand, his mother (who appears to be positively indestructible and has never been fond in her whole life) points out that in Biblical calculations thirty-six is halfway to three score and ten, and therefore I am a middle-aged woman who should behave more circumspectly.
Someone (and I think it was George Eliot) said that happy women have no history. Perhaps bored women have none, either. My life has been a bit too full of ghosts to be happy but it has certainly been boring, so much so that for the last few years I have scarcely bothered to record anything in my diary. Occasional accounts of charity committees (Edward’s
mother
, oh, how that evil old witch tries to regiment my life!), and luncheons with the wives of Edward’s business colleagues or weekends at their homes.
These last are nearly always in houses considerably grander than our own: Edward possesses a keen sense of the social register and is v. discriminating about which invitations we should accept. These things are important in business, he says; you would not understand, Charlotte. Personally, I would not give a
hoot
where we went or how humble the company, providing people interesting or hospitable, but this is what Edward wants and I do my best to conform. And have to say, it has been extremely pleasant to stay in the houses of the wealthy, and to be part of grouse shoots and lavish dinners or trips to race-meetings, especially in the years when Edward VII was alive, disgraceful old goat. I was seated next to him at dinner on two separate occasions (!) and have to say his style of conversation was v. racy—what Mamma would call rather
warm
—although not if Alexandra was present, of course (which was not often, poor soul). And if one has to have one’s rear end stroked beneath the table while playing after-dinner bridge, suppose it might as well be stroked by the King of England as anyone else!
In complete contrast George V seems an amiable, honourable man, although will reserve judgement on May of Teck who looks a bit starchy and unapproachable.
But now, with German troops violating the neutrality of Luxembourg—which Edward says is an act of outright aggression if ever there was one—and the refusal of von Bethmann-Hollweg to pledge respect for Belgian neutrality, war has been declared between this country and Germany. We are at war—it’s rather frightening, rather awe-inspiring to set those words down.
Edward says it will be all over by Christmas and probably it will, but I think I am going to start writing about this war, and about what is happening in the world. (
So
good for the character to think of things bigger than oneself—I can hear Mamma saying it!) Edward is inclined to look indulgently on the idea, and has even asked if I am hoping to become another Paston or Pepys—should not have suspected Edward of even knowing the names of Pepys or the Pastons, for to my certain knowledge he has not opened a book (except account books) for the last seventeen years. People are full of surprises.
Edward’s mother is not full of surprises, though; she thinks any war a great waste of time and human life, and considers that writing about it is an even greater waste. I would be better employed in doing something useful, such as knitting balaclava helmets for our brave boys on the battlefields, as she and her mother did when we fought the Boers and the Zulus.
Cannot help thinking knitted helmets not much use to our brave boys in the kind of war currently being predicted, and would much prefer to do something more active than knitting anyway. Did not say so.
Charlotte Quinton’s diaries:
10th September 1914
Once I wrote in these pages it would take a social revolution or an upheaval of unimaginable magnitude to alter people’s outlooks and women’s standing in the world. Now I think we may be seeing the beginning of that upheaval.
The German cavalry has already reached Ypres and Lille in France, and that makes the war suddenly seem frighteningly close. I have
been
to Lille for heaven’s sake, in fact Clara Wyvern-Smith took a house there one summer and Edward and I were invited for a couple of weeks, although Edward v. grumpy most of the time, since he does not like Abroad. Personally, I always believed Wyvern-Smith’s real goal was the seduction of Edward VII—he was always rather partial to France, particularly after he met Sarah Bernhardt, and he stayed at Wyvern-Smith’s house more than once.
(NB. Would not be surprised if Clara W-S had achieved her aim, because let’s face it, Edward VII never took much seducing.)
Asquith is predicting huge losses in men in this war, and there is much talk of what they call trench warfare, which sounds terrifying, and of the need to raise a large British army, which sounds terrifying in quite a different way. Edward is not sure that Asquith is the right man to lead the country: mark his words we shall see the Chancellor of the Exchequer, David Lloyd George, moving into the war arena before long! A good thing too, what we need in wartime is a Prime Minister with some fire and stamina, although in light of recent events, perhaps a pity Mr Lloyd George must needs have modelled this National Insurance arrangement on the German plan.
Edward quite vehement, but suspect he is secretly rather relieved that he is too old to be regarded as fit for active service. So easy to go around saying, My word, I wish I could be over there fighting those Huns, when you are forty-nine next birthday.
Edward’s mother is knitting for dear life, and my Mamma is organizing charity events to raise money for all the poor young war widows that will shortly flood the country. Caroline and Diana are helping her—Caroline’s husband will probably be sent to France with his regiment quite soon, so unless she goes back to live with Mamma at Weston Fferna while he is away, may have to invite her to move in here for a while.
Meanwhile, I am secretly making inquiries about the war work that the Queen is setting up for women but have not yet told anyone about this.
Charlotte Quinton’s diaries:
20th September 1914
Am becoming more and more convinced that the social revolution really is beginning. The signposts are more than half visible, not least of which is Mrs Pankhurst’s current activities, although when you consider the matter, unthinkable that Mrs Pankhurst would
not
be in the forefront of any social revolution. The indomitable lady was doggedly conducting her campaign for Women’s Votes from her current sojourn in prison—think this time it was for complicity in bomb outrage on Lloyd George’s house, an act I never wholly understood since Lloyd George appears to me something of a social reformer on his own account what with Old Age Pensions and National Insurance and so on. Should have thought he and Mrs P practically soulmates.
But immediately war was declared Mrs P informed the government that she was prepared to cease all her militancies, and put the services of her Women’s Social and Political Union at the country’s disposal. The government have accepted—cannot decide if this indicates they value the energy and intelligence of the female sex in general and Mrs P in particular, or if they are just grabbing at any life-rafts that are offered. But whichever it is, they have released all ladies who were in prison for suffragist offences.
Edward views this with disapprobation, but thanks God Women’s Votes unlikely to be allowed in
his
lifetime. Ladies do not understand politics, he says, and does not know what the world is coming to. I reminded him of the famous quotation about war educating the senses and calling into action the will (Emerson?—must look up exact line in public library), upon which he said I had clearly been wasting my time reading radical literature again instead of giving my mind to my proper duties, and why had he no clean socks in the correct drawer?
In the face of Mrs Pankhurst’s dedication had been starting to feel quite ashamed of my own tranquil life, but then this morning I received a letter in reply to my request for war work. It seems that ladies all over England want to help in this war, and the Queen is very keen to harness all this energy, in fact she strongly believes there is a place for today’s woman in a war. (Am rapidly revising my image of a starchy ice-queen!)
It would, says the letter, be extremely generous of me to devote some of my time to the war effort, and my offer is most gratefully accepted. Convalescent homes—partly hospitals, partly rehabilitation centres—are being set up wherever seems appropriate for the wounded men sent home from the Front, and there will be several in London. Nursing is not at present a problem, but there is a sad lack of people prepared to cope with the practicalities of administering these places. The letter does not quite say it is a rather mundane area of work and not one in which heroines are likely to be made (one inevitably remembers Florence Nightingale in the Crimea), but it implies it, with a faint air of apology.
Have never grappled with administration of anything on this scale but have run this house and the servants for fifteen years, and also served on innumerable charity committees, so feel this is something I could usefully manage. Do not think I am the stuff heroines are made of anyway, so have agreed to give two hours a day to helping run a large East End centre which has been converted from an old music hall into a hospital.
Edward is appalled, but he has just been given an appointment in a minor War Office department (something to do with the accounting systems for supplying the troops with food, right up Edward’s street, of course), and he is too taken up with the importance of that to give his mind to what I am doing.
My Mamma and my sisters are twitteringly anxious about the entire project, although I suspect Caroline of being slightly envious. I always had great hopes of Caroline as a kindred spirit, but she has married a dull and conventional Army officer (just as I married a dull and conventional keeper of balance sheets), and as a result has become rather staid and matronly. And Diana’s two daughters are worthy and dutiful pillars of the local church, just like Diana.
Edward’s mother is shocked to her toes at my venture, and does not scruple to say that it will end in disaster. She cannot think what Edward is doing allowing his wife to go off to such a place, since ladies do not fight wars by working in East End infirmaries, in fact ladies do not fight wars at all, and all we can hope is that I will be dealing with officers rather than common soldiers. Came away from her house in a rage and said several
truly
unladylike words on way home. Felt much better for it.
Ordered several sets of new clothes—hobble skirts clearly impossible for this kind of venture, so have ordered what they are calling tailor-made outfits—plain jackets and skirts, v. practical and not at all unflattering, especially since jackets can be worn over rather fetching silk or cotton blouses. Felt even better for that, and do not see why wars cannot be fought with some semblance of style.
But clearly I have neither sympathizers nor supporters for this venture. Do not care, however; I am going ahead with it and am setting off for the disused music hall in London’s East End first thing tomorrow morning.