Bleeding Heart Square Part 6

"Old Howlett's got the only key," he said. "Sometimes he keeps the door locked just to show who's top dog."

"You don't like him much, do you?" Lydia said.

Her father held open the wicket for her. "It's not a question of liking or not liking. Howlett's a fact of life. You want to keep on his right side. Rosington Place and Bleeding Heart Square count as a private jurisdiction, you see. It's a sort of legal oddity-Fimberry knows all about it. In theory even the police can't come in unless they're invited."

The door beside the chapel opened. They glanced toward the sound. A tall young man came out. Lydia caught her breath. He smiled and touched his hat to her before walking rapidly down Rosington Place toward the lodge.

"Who's that fellow?"

"I think his name's Wentwood, Father. He's interested in the attic flat. Mrs. Renton told him to come back today when Mr. Serridge is here."

She stepped through the wicket. In Bleeding Heart Square, a man was standing at the entrance to the public bar of the Crozier and shouting at somebody inside. A mechanic working at the garage at the far end whistled at Lydia. There was a little pile of excrement, possibly human, in the angle between the gate and the pillar supporting it.

Ingleby-Lewis followed her through the wicket and closed it carefully behind him, shutting out the seedy respectability of Rosington Place. "Serridge," he said thoughtfully. "Yes, he'll have to talk to him. And you haven't met Serridge, either, have you?"

Later that morning, while she was tidying the shelves on the left of the fireplace in the sitting room, Lydia came across an old writing box. It was a portable writing desk, a solid mahogany affair, its corners reinforced with bra.s.s. When she lifted it onto the table to dust it, however, she discovered that it was less robust than it looked. The lid slid off and fell to the floor with a crash. At some point in the box's history, the hinges had been broken. The fittings inside had vanished as well.

But the box wasn't empty. It held a jumble of pens, paper, pencils, envelopes and inks. The paper was no longer white but turning yellow and brittle with age. Some of the nibs were spotted with rust. Lydia's eyes rested on a small sheet of paper, blank apart from seven words at the top: I expect you are surprised to hear- She pushed aside the sheet. Underneath it was a sheet of foolscap with more writing on it, a long column of names-all of them the same: P. M. Penhow.

There was a knock on the door. Lydia dropped the lid clumsily on top of the box. When she opened the door, she found Malcolm Fimberry standing very close to it on the other side. He stared at her through his pince-nez and smiled. His lips were moist and very brightly colored, almost red. He was trembling slightly.

"Mrs. Langstone. I do hope I'm not disturbing you."

"What is it?" Lydia said, knowing that she must sound rude. Mr. Fimberry was the sort of person to whom you found yourself being rude without meaning to be.

"I heard the noise upstairs-I'm just beneath, you see-so I knew somebody was in. I thought perhaps Captain Ingleby-Lewis was here."

"He's not, I'm afraid." Lydia realized that she was still carrying the cloth she had been using for dusting. "May I take a message?"

"Yes-no-you see, it's rather delicate. I lent him ten shillings some time ago, and I wondered whether it was convenient for him to pay me back now. He...he said he would pay me at the end of the week-that was last month-but he must have forgotten, and after that when I happened to mention it, it wasn't convenient, but perhaps if you were to have a word with him..."

He broke off and lowered his eyes. He seemed to be staring at her chest. She registered the fact that he hadn't shaved and that the stubble on his chin was more ginger than the hair on his head. She also saw that the breast pocket of his tweed jacket was in need of repair and that he hadn't changed his collar for some time.

"It must have slipped my father's mind," she said. "I'll give you the money now."

"Thank you, Mrs. Langstone, you are very kind. I think I saw you and your father near the chapel this morning, didn't I?"

"Yes."

"It's a very interesting building, of course. Did you know that I work there, by the way? In an honorary capacity, that is."

She found her purse and counted out ten shillings in silver. His fingers touched hers as the money changed hands.

"Father Bertram calls me his a.s.sistant s.e.xton." He gave a little laugh that was unexpectedly high and girlish. "Perhaps you would allow me to give you a guided tour. There are so many interesting stories a.s.sociated with the old place."

"That's very kind. Actually at present I'm rather busy and-"

"It needn't take up much of your time, Mrs. Langstone. You see, because it's on the doorstep, one can pop in for ten minutes here and ten minutes there. Oh, you would enjoy it, I promise you. Such a lot of history, so many strange yarns."

There were footsteps on the stairs, and the small, shapeless figure of Mrs. Renton appeared.

"You left your kettle boiling, Mr. Fimberry," she announced. "Must be almost dry by now."

"Oh-yes, thank you. Goodbye, Mrs. Langstone." At the head of the stairs, he turned back. "Thank you, Mrs. Langstone," he murmured.

"Has the Captain heard when Mr. Serridge will be back?" Mrs. Renton asked Lydia.

"Today at some point. That's all I know. By the way, I saw that young man this morning, Mr. Wentwood-the one who came about the flat. He seemed to have been looking round the chapel."

"Then him and Mr. Fimberry should have something to talk about," Mrs. Renton said. "I'd best be getting on. At least it's not smelling yet."

Lydia blinked. "What isn't?"

"The parcel in the hall," Mrs. Renton said. "Mr. Serridge's new heart."

5.

JOE SERRIDGE plays Philippa Penhow like a fish. He knows just what to say, and how, and when. But the fish makes it easy for him. The fish wants to be caught.

Wednesday, 29 January 1930 Major Serridge called again this morning-he wanted my advice about the choice of wallpaper for his room. "It needs a lady's eye," he told me. He added that of course it had to be an artistic lady! I offered to pay for it, but he was quite obstinate-he didn't want to put me out, it was for his benefit, etc., and he insists on bearing the whole cost himself. He wasn't able to stay long. When I went with him to the door, there was a beggar outside with a poor, half-starved mongrel, and the Major said he would go after the man and make sure he gave the dog something to eat. How typical of his warm heart! I told him about Aunt's dog Susie, and he told me about a dog he had when he was a little lad. Then he said, "Long before you were born, I'll be bound!"

That afternoon there were Fascists on the streets. In twos and threes, they patrolled Holborn and Clerkenwell, handing out leaflets and selling copies of the Blackshirt. They were very smart, like athletic chauffeurs, and attracted a good deal of interest from young women and even from St. Tumwulf's schoolgirls. Some were young, little more than boys, but others looked as if they might have fought in the war. All of them were very polite. Lydia found it hard to distinguish one from the other. One noticed the uniforms, not the faces, just as one did with members of the Salvation Army.

Marcus had been interested in the movement since Mosley had founded the New Party, the predecessor of the British Union of Fascists, in 1931. It wouldn't have been difficult for Sir Rex Fisher to recruit him. Fisher wasn't just a party member-he was said to be one of the Leader's closest advisers, and a personal friend. He was also a war hero, with a Military Cross or something, which must give him additional glamour in Marcus's eyes. Marcus was almost grovellingly keen to impress people who had had a good war because he himself had done nothing much except step into the shoes of his dead brother.

A hint of fog hung in the air and it caught the back of the throat, the promise of worse to come. But even the weather failed to dent the enthusiasm of the Blackshirts, though some of them were pink-nosed and peaky in the cold. On her way back to the flat, Lydia accepted a pamphlet advertising a meeting to discuss "Fascism and Empire" to stop them pestering her.

She loitered outside the window of a Lyon's Corner House. Two shopgirls came out, and with them came a waft of warm, sweet and smoky air. A cup of tea would be a penny. Two buns would cost another penny. She could afford it easily at present, but she forced herself to turn away and walk back to the flat. A cup of tea and a slice of toast at the flat would cost even less. She must learn to be economical. She no longer had money for luxuries. She had nothing more than she had received from Mr. Goldman that morning, together with two more pieces of jewelry and a Post Office savings book containing seventeen pounds and a few odd pence.

In Bleeding Heart Square, Lydia found her father in front of the sitting-room gas fire with an unlit pipe clenched between his teeth. "That husband of yours. I happened to be in the Crozier at lunchtime, and he looked in to have a word."

Lydia felt weary, cold and footsore. She sat down opposite her father.

"He says there was a misunderstanding and you rushed off. Bit impulsive, wasn't it? Throw away a whole marriage for that?"

"Marcus had just knocked me over, which may have had something to do with it."

Ingleby-Lewis looked away from her. "He didn't mention that. I-ah-I'm sure he regrets it."

"So do I."

Her father peered into the bowl of his pipe as though hoping against hope to find a marriage counselor inside. "Ah. Still. Hmm. All the same, you must keep it in proportion, my dear. We men are rough brutes occasionally, you know, and we can lose our tempers. Regrettable, of course, but there it is."

"Is that what you did to Mother?" Lydia said, finding comfort in a vicarious anger against the only male available. "Hit her? Is that why you had to leave her?"

Ingleby-Lewis turned the pipe round and round in his hands. "No. I'm not proud of my record in that department but not that. No, the long and the short of it was, we weren't getting along very well. But that's nothing to do with this. Point is, you've got a perfectly decent husband and a very comfortable home of your own. I'm sorry about the-ah-unpleasantness, but these things do happen, you know."

Only if you let them, Lydia thought.

"You take my advice: go back to Marcus, and the next thing you know you'll have a baby on the way."

"But I'm not sure I want a baby. And certainly not with him."

Lydia picked up her hat, turned and left the room. She went into her bedroom. She removed her shoes and climbed into bed fully clothed. She lay there, staring at the ceiling. She shivered.

Somebody came into the house. There were footsteps on the stairs. Her father had a visitor. She heard men's voices, rising and falling, one of them much deeper than her father's.

She couldn't stay in bed all day. It was a coward's way out. In a moment, she would get up and go back to the sitting room.

Her fingers played with the hem of the sheet, feeling its chilly roughness on her skin. It was made of old linen, she thought at the same time in a remote part of her mind, quite good quality, though much worn. She registered the fact that there were unexpected ridges of st.i.tching underneath her fingertips and automatically glanced down to see what they were.

Exactly what one would expect: a laundry mark. Crazy capitals in faded red thread. Suddenly the letters a.s.sembled themselves into a name. PENHOW.

Mr. Serridge was a big, broad man with sloping shoulders, a tangled beard and a deep voice that was almost a growl. He looked ten years younger than Captain Ingleby-Lewis and was probably about the same age. He was also three inches taller. His hand enveloped Lydia's.

"h.e.l.lo, Mrs. Langstone." He stared down at her. "Pleased to meet you. You don't look much like your dad, do you?" He smiled. "Take after your mother, I suppose. Ha! I bet you're glad about that."

"My daughter's staying here for a few days," Ingleby-Lewis said warily. "In the little room next to mine. That's all right, isn't it?"

Serridge was still staring at her, making no effort to disguise his curiosity. His manners were offensive, Lydia thought, but it was clearly pointless to take offense. Serridge seemed not to care what anyone thought of him. He was carelessly dressed and his dark hair, streaked with gray, needed cutting. He must have been handsome once, but time and hard living had taken their toll.

"Your father tells me you've left your husband, Mrs. Langstone."

She nodded, knowing her color was rising.

"None of my business, but you've never been to see the Captain before, have you?"

Lydia raised her face. "You are perfectly right on both counts, Mr. Serridge. He ran away from his family responsibilities when I was two years old."

He grinned at her, and sucked his teeth. For the first time she felt the man's charm sweeping out from him, an invisible fog to cloud the emotions. Beneath the charm was an unsettling hint of calculation.

"I'm sure she'll only be here for a day or two," Ingleby-Lewis said. "Not a problem, is it?"

Serridge frowned and glanced at Lydia. "As far as I'm concerned, she can stay for as long as she likes."

"What?" Ingleby-Lewis said. "Eh?"

"You heard, William." He grinned at Lydia again. "The place could do with a woman's touch. Do you think you could make me a cup of tea, Mrs. Langstone?"

Lydia said warily that she would see what she could do. As she was crossing the landing, she heard the doorbell. In the kitchen, she filled the kettle and put it on the gas ring. Mrs. Renton was talking below, and a man was replying. Lydia recognized Mr. Wentwood's voice. Through the open door of the kitchen she glimpsed his tall, bony figure coming up the stairs. He gave her a smile and a wave.

Mr. Serridge came out onto the landing. He had a small, pink bald patch on the back of his head, and he was so large that he blocked her view of Mr. Wentwood entirely.

Mr. Wentwood. How odd to think that a man who could live anywhere in the world would want to live in Bleeding Heart Square.

The attic flat cost twenty-five shillings a week, unfurnished, and for an extra five shillings Mr. Serridge agreed to bring up some furniture from the cellar. All the necessities would be there, he a.s.sured Mr. Wentwood. Shared kitchen, shared bathroom on the floor below, both with water heater. The electricity had recently been installed, at considerable expense. That was metered, naturally, as was the gas supply.

"I was rather hoping I could move in within a day or two," Mr. Wentwood said as they came down the stairs to the first floor and paused on the landing. "I'm out in Kentish Town and it's not very convenient."

"Convenient for what?" Mr. Serridge said.

"Looking for jobs."

"Oh-so you're out of work, are you?"

"I'm just back from India," Mr. Wentwood said. "I've a number of irons in the fire."

"But no regular income, eh?"

"Not at present. But I do have savings. There won't be a problem."

"There'd better not be, Mr. Wentwood. I tell you what. You pay me a month's rent in advance as a returnable deposit, and you can move in on Monday. I'll need references, naturally. All right?"

"Absolutely, Mr. Serridge."

"Rent day is Sat.u.r.day."

"I'll write you a check now, shall I?"

"I'd prefer cash, if you have it. You know where you are with cash, I always say."

Mr. Wentwood looked embarra.s.sed. "Of course." He took out his wallet.

"Four weeks at twenty-five bob a week," Serridge said cheerfully. "A five-pound note will do nicely." He turned to Lydia, who was a.s.sembling cups and saucers in the kitchen. "And now, Mrs. Langstone. All the talking's made me parched. What about that tea?"

The speaker addressed his audience as comrades. His name was Julian Dawlish, and he wore very wide flannel bags, a gray pullover and muddy brown shoes. Horn-rimmed gla.s.ses gave the only touch of stern angularity to a round, smooth-skinned face.

The international situation was very bad indeed, he told them in a high-pitched, well-bred voice, because of Herr Hitler and Signor Mussolini, who were now revealing themselves in their true colors. Even in England's green and pleasant land, Fascism was on the march, grinding the poor and the vulnerable beneath its jackboots. But all was not lost. There were gleams of hope in Spain and a positive beacon of light in Russia. If the workers of the world united, there was nothing they could not achieve.

Mr. Dawlish's talk was followed by questions from the floor which had a habit of turning into lengthy statements. The meeting trailed away a little after nine o'clock. Afterward, tea, orange squash and stale biscuits were served. The audience stood about smoking, chatting and relishing the fact that they were no longer sitting on chairs designed for children.

"Shall we go?" Rory said. "I'm dead beat."

"All right." Fenella glanced toward the knot of people around the speaker. "I was going to ask the time of the next meeting, but they'll put up a notice."

They joined the trickle of comrades slipping out of the church hall. In Albion Lane, the pavements shone with rain.

She took his arm. "It was interesting, wasn't it?"

"It was a lot of hot air. I don't believe that chap's done a day's work in his life. Silly a.s.s."

"I think what Mr. Dawlish says makes a lot of sense. He can't help his background. In a way that makes what he does for the cause all the better."