The Tiger in the Well (15 page)

There was a cab outside the door. Two men were standing on the step, and one of them was a policeman.

Sally felt something clutch her heart. They couldn't have found her already, surely. . . . She shrank back and took a step down into the area of the nearest house, watching through the railings.

Mrs. Molloy's shape was visible inside the lighted doorway. She looked at something the policeman was showing her and shook her head. The other man moved up a step and seemed to be arguing, but again Mrs. Molloy shook her head. Sally couldn't hear a word they were saying, because of the rumble of traffic in the street behind and the constant heavy drip of moisture all around. It was like watching three tiny figures in a peep show.

Oh, keep them out, Sally was saying under her breath. . . .

Then the two men turned away, the policeman speaking over his shoulder. Mrs. Molloy shut the door with a bang that Sally did hear as they got into their cab.

The driver shook the reins, and the cab came away from the curb and headed down toward her. She retreated farther down the steps, conscious of the lighted kitchen window behind her, and drew the high collar of her cloak across her face.

As soon as the cab had turned the corner and disappeared from sight, she ran out of the area and flew along the pavement, slipping on the wet stone, grabbing the railing to get her balance again, and ran up the steps to hammer on the Molloys' door.

"It's me!" she called through the letter box. "Mrs. Molloy— it's me—"

She heard the lady's footsteps. A moment later the door opened, and Sally burst into the little hall.

"Is she safe.? She's still here.?"

"Good Lord, miss, what d'you take me for.?" said Mrs. Molloy. "I wouldn't let 'em in, don't you fear. But he said they'd be back in half an hour with a search warrant. You'd best—"

"Half an hour.? I must go. I'll take her now. Could you help me—could you put her outdoor clothes on.? I'll go and throw some things in a bag, and perhaps Mr. Molloy could call a cab—"

"But where are you going to go, miss.?"

"I don't know. Anywhere. I'll think about that in the cab. Please, Mrs. Molloy, in case they come back sooner—"

The lady, stout and firm-hearted, nodded agreement, but her face was full of doubt. Sally hurried up the stairs to her first-floor bedroom, seized the carpetbag she'd brought with her from Orchard House, threw in some clothes, some washing things, some shoes, and then her writing case from the bedside table; and finally a little package wrapped in oilskin, which dropped heavily into the nest of clothes in the bag. In it was the pistol.

She looked around, but she hadn't brought much with her anyway. Her purse—here it was; her checkbook, her keys.

Holding the bag shut, she hastened downstairs to find Mr. Molloy, mufflered and bowler-hatted, coming in through the door.

"There's a cab waiting, miss," he said. "It's a four-wheeler; it's a bit brisk for a hansom, and if you're going any distance ..."

"Bless you," she said. "Is Harriet—.?"

"The missus is seeing to her. It's a big adventure for her, I suppose. Though I don't know, they take a lot for normal, kids do, not knowing what normal is anyway. Nothing surprises 'em. Where you going to go, miss.?"

"I honestly don't know. But I'll write as soon as I can and let you know where I am."

"Don't you worry, miss, we won't giye you away. You could stay here if you wanted, you know."

"If they're going to come back with a warrant, they'd find us sooner or later."

A door opened, and a little shape came through, followed by Mrs. Molloy carrying a large paper bag.

"Mama," said Harriet, and then added in a muffled voice as Sally bent swiftly and embraced her, "Bikkits! Look."

She twisted impatiently out of the embrace and took the bag.

"I put some fresh-baked in," said Mrs. Molloy. "You never know, eh.^"

"Let me take your bag, miss," said her husband.

Mrs. Molloy stooped to kiss Harriet, who absently re-tumed the embrace while clinging tightly to the biscuits. She was so bundled up in her hat, coat, gloves, and boots that she could hardly waddle. Sally picked her up and put her own hat on with one hand, before snatching up her astrakhan purse-muff and hooking its cord swiftly around her neck.

"I pottied her and changed her diaper just a little while ago," Mrs. Molloy said in a whisper. "She won't need changing yet. Here, don't let me forget, they're all nice and aired, and there's all the washing things in there as well. ..."

She picked up a big linen bag bulging with folded diapers and gave it to her husband, who just appeared in the doorway again. Sally wanted to say a hundred things, but there was only time for one.

"Thank you," she said. "I don't know what I'd have done. . . . ril write to you tomorrow. Good-bye."

Harriet, peering out regally from under the brim of her fur hat, realized what was happening and transferred the biscuits to her left hand so as to wave good-bye with the right. Then, in a confusion of looks and thanks and clumsy movements, Sally and Mr. Molloy got the linen bag down and into the cab and Harriet seated inside next to the window.

'*Where to, ma'am?" said the driver.

"Oh. Er—Charing Cross," said Sally.

She shut the door and sat down, taking Harriet on her lap. The driver called softly to his horse and released the brake, and the cab rolled away. Sally leaned forward, looking back and waving for as long as she could, until the cab turned the comer and the warm little doorway vanished.

BOOK

TWO

\

Yniters Street

She found some lodgings in Villiers Street, a nar-row little place beside Charing Cross Station. The lady of the house was German; she displayed no interest at all in anything but Sally's money. Sally paid a guinea in advance for a week's rent of a bedroom and parlor. Coals and candles were extra, and Sally paid for them; washing was to be sent out; meals could be provided by arrangement. Sally arranged them.

"Your name, please.''" said the landlady, having noted down all the points they'd agreed on. They were standing in the chilly, dimly lit hall, with Harriet watching suspiciously, still clutching her bag.

"Mrs. Marchbanks," said Sally, off the top of her head. She kept her left hand in the muff: she must buy a wedding ring. What did widows wear.^* She'd have to be a widow; anything to be inconspicuous. There was so much to find out.

"Does she make wet the bed.'*" said the landlady.

"Oh, no. That is—not usually. Sometimes."

"I give you an oilcloth. Put it on the mattress, please. Come this way."

Carpetbag under her arm, linen bag of Harriet's things in her hand, Harriet on her other arm, Sally followed the landlady up the narrow stairs to a second-floor door. The landlady put down the lamp she was carrying on the window sill and took a key from a bunch, unlocking the nearest door.

"Here it is," she said. "I get you the oilcloth. Do not forget, please."

Sally entered the cold little parlor and sat Harriet on a sofa.

"There is only one bed," said the landlady. "She will have to sleep with you. I get some candles and fire. You wait."

She disappeared. Sally put down her carpetbag and went to the window. Villiers Street gleamed wetly in the light spilling from the pub next-door and the half-dozen street lamps; up to the right, the Strand was busy with the trundle of wheels, the clop of hooves, and the crying of two rival newspaper sellers outside the station. It was noisier here than in Islington, noisier by far than the near-total quiet of Orchard House.

"Mama," said Harriet. "Dark."

Sally turned and sat down, taking the child on her lap. She unfastened the fur bonnet and took it off, smoothing down the fair curly hair that was almost as stiff as her father's had been.

"Yes, it's dark, but the landlady's bringing some candles for us, and then we'll make it light. And we'll have a fire to keep us warm, and we'll have some biscuits, shall we.''"

"All bikkits."

"We'll keep some for tomorrow. And then we'll put you to bed."

"v4//the bikkits."

"We'll see. Look, here comes the fire. ..."

Harriet craned around to look at a lanky boy with a red nose who brought in a coal scuttle and a bucket containing a few hot coals and put them in the hearth. Without taking any notice of Sally or Harriet, he produced a candle from his waistcoat pocket, fitted it into the candleholder on the mantelpiece, and struck a match. Once it was lit he shoveled a few lumps of coal into the fireplace and then emptied the bucket onto it. He stirred the red coals into the rest and drifted out again.

"I hope that'll catch," Sally said. "I haven't got any matches. He might have brought some wood. ..."

She got up and arranged the fire more purposefully. The

room looked a little more welcoming in the candlelight, though not by much. Harriet settled back in the sofa and tugged off her glove so she could put her thumb in her mouth.

"Tired, litde one.?" Sally said.

"Mmm."

"Don't go to sleep yet. Wait till we've got you undressed and in bed. Won't be long."

Presently the landlady came in with more candles, a little bundle of kindling wood, and a stiff oilcloth. She agreed to provide some milk for Harriet and some tea and bread and cheese for Sally; and five minutes later, the fire was burning brightly, the candles were glowing, the curtains drawn, and the door shut.

While Harriet sat at the table with her milk and biscuits, Sally took a candle into the bedroom. It was chilly, and the bed felt as if it hadn't been aired; there was a smell of dampness. Sally took off the blankets and sheets and brought them to warm in front of the fire, and then unfolded the stiff, crackling oilcloth and laid it over the mattress. *

"You'll have to grow up quickly, little one," she whispered.

There was a chamber pot under the bed, a bathroom and water closet on the next floor down. Sally took the jug from the washstand in the bedroom and brought up some hot water, and then took out their washing things.

Harriet had finished the milk, and when Sally undressed her she found that she was still dry, which was a mercy. She was very sleepy; her cheeks were flushed, and she was chewing her thumb. Sally sat her on the pot and then washed her and put her nightdress on and brushed her hair, and then made the bed again with the sheets a little warmer now.

When she carried her to the bed, Harriet suddenly began to cry—desperate, howling sobs.

"What is \x?. What's the matter, dear.?"

"Lamb! Lamb!"

Since the loss of Bruin, her woolly lamb had become her necessary bedtime toy. And they'd left him at the Molloys'.

Sally sat down on the bed and held Harriet close, rocking her gently as the child pressed her face into Sally's shoulder.

"Hush, darling, hush. Listen, we'll write a letter to Mrs. Molloy and ask her to give Lamb to the postman to bring here, shall we.^ We'll put the letter in the post tomorrow. We're having an adventure. Lamb's . . . Lamb's staying to look after Mr. and Mrs. Molloy for tonight. Because he's such a brave lamb. But look"—an idea came: she put Harriet down so quickly that her crying stopped from sheer surprise—"look, here's a mouse!"

Hoping she could remember how to do it, she swiftly took a handkerchief from the bag, shook it open, and folded it over, twisting and pulling and knotting until there was a rough-looking thing with two ears and a tail. Her father had shown her how to do it when she was young.

Harriet took it and clutched it to her chest with one hand, the other thumb still firmly in her mouth. Sally kissed her and laid her down on the crackly sheet and blew out the candle. A little light came through the open parlor door, and Sally could just make out the glint of tears on Harriet's cheeks. A wave of such powerful tenderness overcame her that her own eyes filled with tears and she felt a lump in her throat.

After a moment she controlled it and stroked Harriet's head and quietly sang a nursery rhyme.

"Lavender's blue, dilly, dilly. Lavender's green, When I am king, dilly, dilly, You shall be queen ..."

She remembered lying ill with her father sitting patiently in the darkness beside her, his deep voice singing those old songs, telling her stories, making her well again, keeping her safe. She'd never known her mother. He'd been father and mother to her, as she would have to be mother and father to Harriet.

Presently the child was asleep. Sally tucked the blanket around her and tiptoed into the parlor.

The fire was nearly out. She knelt and attended to it, feeding it a screw of newspaper, a stick or two, a fresh coal. When it was safe she stood up again and looked at her hands. There was no water to wash them in without going downstairs again; she brushed them on her skirt and sat down wearily at the table, pushing her hair out of her eyes with a wrist.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then she brought the candlestick a little closer, took a small exercise book and a pencil out of the carpetbag, and began to write.

25 October 1881

I don't know what to do. I don't know enough about washing her and feeding her, and I certainly don't know how we're going to manage, but many women do, after all. I'm so used to Sarah-Jane doing it all {Mem: Send her money for a month—should be over by then.''), and I just didn't realize how much there was to do and think about.

What am I going to do.**

We've got £10 or a little more in cash. I must go to the bank tomorrow and withdraw some more and open a new account in another name. And buy a wedding ring. Don't widows wear it on the other hand or something.^ Who can I ask.'' Why don't / know.'' I think we can live easily enough—^we'll find somewhere nicer than this—but I mustn't— must not —have any contact with Orchard House or the Molloys or the shop or the office or anyone. Except letters.

Am I going to have to stay like this for the rest of my life.''

Especially no contact with the lawyer. Will he be appealing against the decision.'' Can you appeal.'' I suppose I could write to him. But I think I've burned all my bridges there.

What I must do, since I can't prove H. is not his daughter, is find out why he's doing it and what's behind it. Behind him.