Andrew Taylor - Bleeding Heart Square

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 jewellery 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 counsellor 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 stitching 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 assembled 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.

‘Hello, 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 offence. Serridge seemed not to care what anyone thought of him. He was carelessly dressed and his dark hair, streaked with grey, 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 colour 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 assured 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.