Andrew Taylor - Bleeding Heart Square

‘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 hell of finding the money. Not as things are.’

She turned her head towards 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 asset 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 colour.

‘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 leant towards 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 space. 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 damned 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 towards 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 Smith-field 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.

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 he 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!