Bleeding Heart Square Part 4

He rang the bell. When Fenella let him into the house, she led the way into the sitting room, where there was a very small fire.

"How are things?" he asked.

"Pretty grim. I never thought I'd say this but I wish Miss Marr was still here. Or rather, I wish her rent was."

Miss Marr had replaced Rory as the Kensleys' lodger until an encounter in October with a dead mouse under her bed had resulted in a bitter parting of the ways, accompanied by dark threats of a private action against Fenella under the Public Health Act.

"Let's not talk about her. You look tired. Do you want some tea?"

He shook his head. "Listen, I went to Bleeding Heart Square yesterday."

Fenella sat down abruptly and stared up at him. "Why?"

"I know you don't like the idea. But there's no harm in it, surely?"

"It makes me feel like a vulture."

"But darling, that's absurd. Miss Penhow is your nearest relative. Of course you want to find out where she is. She may not even know your father's died."

"I don't think she wants to get in touch with us. I think my father was so rude the last time she saw us that she's decided she's better off without us. I can't say I blame her."

"But your father was her half-brother. That must count for something." Rory sat down opposite her. "Anyway, things have changed since you saw her last. Your mother's died. Quite apart from anything else, you've lost the income from the annuity. And now Miss Marr's gone, too."

"I'll find another lodger. It has to be the right sort of person, that's all."

"And what's going to happen when the lease comes up for renewal next year? You haven't a hope in h.e.l.l of finding the money. Not as things are."

She turned her head toward the fire. "I'll manage. Perhaps I can sell something."

"What have you got left to sell?" he asked. "You've already sold the car, and that was the only big a.s.set you could dispose of. I thought I'd have a word with that chap Serridge. He must have some idea where she is."

"I don't want you talking to him."

"But if your aunt-"

"And I don't want to think about Aunt Philippa. All right?"

Her voice had risen, and so had her color.

"Two can live cheaper than one," he said, changing his line of attack. "We could get married now rather than wait."

"No. It wouldn't be fair to you."

"Let me be the judge of that." He offered her a cigarette.

She leaned toward him, cupping her hands around the flame of the match. "Rory-it's not just that it wouldn't be fair to you. It's also that-well, you know, we need time to get to know each other again. You've been away for so long. All we've had are letters."

He felt numb. "You want to break the engagement?"

"No. Yes. Look, I don't know what I want-that's the point, can't you see? And then there's Mother. I-I have to grow used to the fact that she isn't here. It was easier with Dad, somehow. But Mother...I don't know, her dying came as rather a shock."

"I can wait," Rory said desperately. "Have as long as you need."

"You'd go mad. So should I. Look here, it's not as if we've ever been officially engaged. I just want us to have a breathing s.p.a.ce. It doesn't change anything, not really."

Rory thought it changed everything. A moment before he had been engaged. Now he wasn't.

They smoked in silence. Embers rustled in the grate. The only light came from the standard lamp. He wanted to make love to Fenella more than ever. She might even let him if he kept on asking, he thought, but would she say yes out of pity? As a way of saying sorry? Or-and this thought shocked him-because she didn't much care one way or the other?

He threw the cigarette end into the heart of the fire. "I'm definitely not going back to India. I posted the letter yesterday morning. I'll find something here."

"Still in journalism?"

"Or advertising. I've got a few leads."

"Will your father help until you get a job?"

He shook his head. "He couldn't, even if he wanted to. He's got my sisters to think of. Anyway, he's only got his salary." He paused. "I'm looking for new digs. Somewhere more central."

"Will you be able to manage?"

"For the time being."

He had saved a little from his salary in India. His grandmother had left him a hundred pounds when she died last year. He had enough for a few months in London, if not enough to marry on.

"But I can't stay where I am. It's not convenient, and anyway Mrs. Rutter's idea of a square meal is tinned tongue and green slime. I don't suppose you'd consider...?"

Fenella stood up abruptly. "No. I'm sorry. It wouldn't be decent for you to come and live here, and you know it."

"I could pay rent. I could-" He broke off and ran his fingers through his hair. "Sorry. It just seems so d.a.m.ned stupid. These conventions."

"You wouldn't say that if you were a woman, Rory. Can you even begin to imagine what people would say?" She looked at the clock on the mantel.

"I'd better go." He cleared his throat. He wanted to tell her about Narton and the flat in Bleeding Heart Square, despite what the Sergeant had said. He should also mention the improbably smart young lady who had been at both the house and the cafe.

But she was already on her feet and moving toward the door. Rory felt light-headed when he stood up, as if unhappiness made one dizzy.

"Are you all right for tomorrow evening still?" she said.

"Yes. I suppose so."

"I've got tickets."

"I'm surprised anyone's willing to pay."

"It's a good cause. And the speaker's jolly good. I've heard him several times before."

"I'll call for you about a quarter past seven, shall I?"

The smell of cooking in the hall reminded him of Smithfield market yesterday afternoon, of meeting Sergeant Narton, of raw meat and blood.

Fenella touched his arm. As he turned back to her, she stood on tiptoe and her lips brushed his cheek.

He wound his scarf around his neck. I'm imagining things, he thought. I'm imagining the smell of unhappiness.

4.

YOU SEE NOW Serridge was desperate for money. But it was more complicated than that.

Tuesday, 14 January 1930 Major Serridge came to tea this afternoon to show me his engraving. The presence of a bluff military man caused quite a stir among the old tabbies in the dining room, especially the six of them at the table in the bay window, which they treat as their personal property. I thought Miss Beale stared in really quite a rude manner. I know for a fact that she has been here for nearly 20 years. She celebrated her 75th birthday in September. So she must have been about my age when she came to live at the Rushmere. It quite chills the blood to think about it. But to return to Major Serridge. We had a most interesting conversation. He has served all over the Empire. He was even in China-he spoke very feelingly about the famine they are having at present, and said it was the children he felt most sorry for. He left the Army for a few years but he was soon back in uniform for the Great War. But when I asked him if he had been on the Western Front, he winked at me and said that he wasn't allowed to talk about it, even now. I suspect he was in military intelligence. After tea the Major showed me the engraving. It's not his, in fact, but belongs to a man who also lives in my house-some sort of scholar, I understand. It had the date 1778 at the bottom. It showed the splendid palace of the bishops of Rosington which once covered all the land now occupied by Bleeding Heart Square, Rosington Place and several of the surrounding streets. It was a great Gothic building with cloisters, a great hall and a private chapel. Only the chapel now remains, and it's just beside my house! There was a grand gatehouse, too, which Major Serridge believes must have stood roughly where the Beadle's Lodge now stands at the bottom of Rosington Place. The whole area is still part of the See of Rosington and is known (rather quaintly) as the Rosington Liberty. Something else happened today. I don't want to make too much of it, but it brightened my day. The Major paid me a compliment, which meant all the more because it was so obviously unforced and unplanned. He asked me why "a young lady like yourself" was living among all the old p.u.s.s.ies at the Rushmere-and then he looked quite embarra.s.sed and apologized, saying that he hadn't meant to seem impertinent. I said I wasn't offended at all (!), and indeed I wasn't, though not for the reason he thought!! Several residents are rather younger than I am (in chronological terms, at any rate!!), including Mrs. Pargeter, who claims she's not yet forty (!!!). I find that very hard to believe, and I'm sure she dyes her hair-no one can convince me that that bra.s.sy color is natural. I happened to mention her to Major Serridge, in fact, and he said, "Who? The one sitting by herself? I don't want to seem rude, but she reminded me of something my dear old mother used to say, mutton dressed up as lamb." Isn't it strange? Exactly the same words had pa.s.sed through my mind, just before he spoke them! The Major also complimented me on my dress-I wore my new afternoon frock, the one with the charming floral pattern. He said what a pleasure it was to meet a lady who dressed as a lady! Then he apologized again! Partly to ease his embarra.s.sment, I said how hard it was to find a good seamstress for repairs, etc., since the war-someone who had an eye for things, too, who knew how things should be done, and who didn't charge the earth-and he said that, as it happened, one of my tenants, a Mrs. Renton, was reckoned a very superior needlewoman and had worked in Bond Street in her time...

Now you realize it was more complicated than you had thought. It wasn't just that Philippa Penhow wanted Joe Serridge. It wasn't just that she wanted a man, any man. It was also that she was terrified of staying where she was with all the aging women, of growing older and dying at the Rushmere Hotel.

The first time Lydia encountered Marcus Langstone, he had been with his family, but she had only the vaguest recollection of his parents and his older brother. Marcus she remembered very clearly because of what he had done.

She had been five years old, which meant he had been eleven, almost twelve, and his brother practically grown-up. It must have been quite soon after Lord Ca.s.sington had taken the lease on Monkshill Park. Lydia remembered how big everything had seemed that first summer, not just the house but the gardens and the park. To a five-year-old, it was a place without limits, more like an entire country than a home.

The Langstones arrived in the afternoon. Lydia did not meet them until teatime. Nurse scrubbed her face and hands and brushed her hair so hard it hurt. She was introduced to the visitors and sat by her mother. Adult conversation crashed and roared above her head. She drank her milk, ate her bread and b.u.t.ter and wanted to escape. She avoided looking at anyone so there was less chance of their noticing her. Once or twice, though, she glanced up and caught Marcus looking at her. He was a tall, handsome boy, with blond hair and regular features. He reminded her of a picture of the young Hereward the Wake which Lydia had seen in the Book of Epic Heroes in the nursery bookcase. She thought him very handsome.

Her mother said to her, "I'm sure Marcus would like to see the gardens and the park. Why don't you show him round, darling?"

The prospect of being alone with a strange boy filled her with fear. There was nothing to be done about it, however, and a few minutes later the two of them were walking along the path that led from the house toward the monument and the lake. On their right was the high, sun-warmed wall of the kitchen gardens, pierced at intervals by doors. They walked in silence, with Marcus in the lead. At the far end, where the wall ended, there was a belt of trees. Marcus stopped, so suddenly that Lydia almost cannoned into him. Hands on hips, he stared down at her.

"What's that?"

He nodded at a small shed that leaned against the outer wall of the kitchen garden at right angles to the main path. It was almost completely shrouded in trees.

"I don't know," Lydia said.

Marcus thrust his hands into his pockets. "I'm going to find out."

He swaggered into the trees without looking back to see if she was following. She padded after him, feeling that, as his hostess, she had a duty to look after him. There were nettles here and they reached her bare legs. She ran into a spider's web hanging from a branch of a tree and screamed. Marcus glanced back.

"Don't be such a baby," he said, and carried on.

At the end of the path, the tiled roof of the shed sagged and rippled. It was muddy underfoot, and the air felt damp, which was strange because it was a sunny afternoon. In memory, at least, it seemed to Lydia that the little spinney tucked against the north wall of the kitchen gardens had its own climate, its own atmosphere.

Marcus kicked over a fragment of rotten plank lying across the path. Woodlice scurried frantically. There were gray, slimy things, too. Lydia a.s.sumed they were leaves, or roots, or even a special sort of stone. Marcus picked up a twig and prodded one of them. To Lydia's horror, the shiny object slowly curled itself around the tip of the stick. The thing was alive. Lydia opened her mouth to scream but no sound came out.

"Slugs," Marcus said, and trod on it. "Do you know what they like to eat?"

She stared wide-eyed at him and shook her head.

"Human flesh," he whispered. "Children for choice. The younger the better, because they taste nicer."

Lydia screamed. She couldn't help herself. She couldn't move. Her mind had no room for anything except a terrifying image of her own naked body covered with those gray, shiny things, browsing on her, nibbling at her, just as the sheep and the Highland cattle browsed and nibbled at the gra.s.s of the park. One of the slugs was moving toward her, and another, and soon they would be climbing up her legs and- Marcus s.n.a.t.c.hed her up, lifting her under the armpits. In an instant she was high in the air and her face was level with his. He held her for a moment at arm's length.

"They'll eat me," she whispered. "The slugs will eat me."

He stared at her, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Then he hefted her over his shoulder as if she were a sack of potatoes and walked toward the shed. He kicked open the door. Lydia could see down the back of his Norfolk jacket and the line of his long legs to his boots. It was such a long way to the ground. She was safe up here. The slugs couldn't get her.

Marcus lifted her from his shoulders. She shrieked with joy and fear as her head turned through 180 degrees. He set her down on a broad and dusty shelf fixed to the brick wall at the back of the shed. There was a sieve on one side of her and a pile of flowerpots on the other. In the gloom below, Lydia made out the outlines of the machines the gardeners used for mowing the gra.s.s. There were wheelbarrows, too, and rusting machinery whose purpose she did not know.

"Don't move," Marcus told her. His face was level with her chest now. "I won't be a moment."

She couldn't have moved even if she had wanted to. She was far too high above the floor. If she jumped off, she knew she'd break every bone in her body, and probably kill herself, and get her dress filthy as well so that Nurse would smack her too.

Marcus returned, his body almost filling the low doorway. He held out his hands to her, the fingers curled into fists.

"Look," he said gently.

Lydia stared at his big handsome face. He was smiling at her. He turned his hands over and uncurled the fingers. On each palm was a glistening slug. They looked even larger than the others, and they were moving.

"I can feel their mouths," he said. "I think they're hungry."

She began to cry.

"It's all right. Don't worry." One by one, he flicked the slugs onto the caked mud floor of the shed. He wiped his palms on his trousers and showed them, pink and empty, to her. "I'm going to make sure you're all right," he said as gently as before. "I'll look after you."

His kindness made her cry even harder.

"We have to make sure that none of them climbed up you while we weren't looking."

At the time, the logic of this had seemed impeccable. She screwed her eyes shut. She felt his hands on her legs. He gripped her knees and held them apart. She whimpered as he pushed up her skirt.

"We have to look very carefully," he said in a voice that was suddenly hoa.r.s.e, and almost a whisper. "They like it especially here, you see, that's where they really like to eat. So we'd better see if they've got underneath."

It was sheer bad luck that Malcolm Fimberry chose that moment to open the door. Lydia was standing on the doorstep, a latchkey in her hand, and in another moment she might have escaped from Marcus. Her husband was standing there, bareheaded in the rain, and he looked all wrong in Bleeding Heart Square, like an elephant at the North Pole or a racehorse pulling a plough. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this situation and he didn't know what to do.

Fimberry didn't see Marcus at first. "Mrs. Langstone!" he cried. "Been shopping, I see. Let me help you with that basket."

Marcus lost his paralysis. Here at last was something he understood. "No need for that, thank you." His arm shot out and he scooped up the shopping basket. "After you, my dear."

Lydia allowed herself to be herded into the house. Fimberry flattened himself against the wall to allow them to pa.s.s. He was wearing a raincoat and carrying his hat and umbrella so he had obviously been on the verge of going out. Nevertheless he shut the door and pretended to be examining the circulars on the hall table. Marcus towered over him-indeed he towered over everything-and the hall shrank because he was inside it. He sniffed, and Lydia wondered whether there was still a trace of Mr. Serridge's rotten heart in the air.

She climbed the stairs, conscious that Fimberry was watching and listening and that Marcus's heavy footsteps were ascending behind her. She led the way into the sitting room. He put the basket on the table and pushed the door shut with his foot.

"You can't live here," he said in a voice that sounded more surprised than anything else. "It's no better than a slum."

"There's nothing wrong with it," Lydia said. "This is where my father lives. How did you find me?"

He dropped his hat on the table and peeled off his gloves. "You've no idea how worried we've been. How could you, Lydia?"