Andrew Taylor - Bleeding Heart Square

‘She’s settled in much better than I thought she would,’ Ingleby-Lewis said. ‘I mean, she’s not enjoying it, slumming it with her old father. But she’s putting a brave face on it. Plucky girl.’

‘It can’t go on.’

‘Of course not. But I can’t just throw her out.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I can’t,’ Ingleby-Lewis said, his voice suddenly sharp. ‘After all she is my daughter. Flesh and blood and all that. She is causing quite a stir in my place.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Serridge — my landlord — he’s taken quite a shine to her. It’s he who found her the job. Even Mrs Renton downstairs, who disapproves of most of the human race — I wouldn’t say she likes Lydia exactly, but she is being quite kind to her. As for that fellow Fimberry, he goes around with his tongue hanging out at the very thought of her.’

‘Who’s this?’ There was no mistaking the anger in the other man’s voice.

‘Fimberry. Nervy chap. He’s got the room on the left of the front door, opposite Mrs Renton’s. He’s meant to be writing a book. He’s always hanging round the chapel in Rosington Place.’

‘He’s dangling after Lydia? Making a nuisance of himself?’

‘Let’s say he’s getting rather fresh. Don’t worry, I’ll give the fellow his marching orders.’

‘I must go. Would you give Lydia this for me?’

‘Of course. You’re sure you haven’t time for another drink?’

The conversation continued but less audibly than before. Other voices drowned it out. When Rory left the Crozier ten minutes later, Ingleby-Lewis was no longer in the bar. He walked across the cobbles of Bleeding Heart Square and let himself into the house. Mrs Renton was standing in the doorway of Fimberry’s room.

‘Good evening,’ he said.

‘Settling in all right?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

‘Could you do me a favour? I promised Mr Fimberry I’d do his curtains. But he hasn’t taken them down. I need a longer pair of arms.’

Rory went into Fimberry’s room. The electric light was burning brightly. It was almost as cold in here as it was outside. The room was sparsely furnished and anonymous. The only touch of individuality was the books that filled almost the entire wall opposite the window from floor to ceiling. They were housed in two bookcases around which had grown a precarious network of shelves consisting of unpainted planks resting on bricks. It looked as if the slightest vibration would bring the entire erection crashing down.

Rory stood on a chair and unhooked the curtains from their rail. Afterwards, while Mrs Renton was folding them, his eyes drifted over the spines of the books. Most of them were historical or topographical; almost all of them were old. They made the room smell like the seediest sort of second-hand bookshop, full of dead and decaying words that no one in his right mind would ever want to read.

He turned away and looked out of the uncurtained window. There was enough light to see a tall man in a dark overcoat standing on the corner by the Crozier. A cigarette glowed briefly as he inhaled. For an instant the skin of his face was as red as the devil’s.

When Lydia let herself into the house, Mr Wentwood was climbing the stairs. He glanced back.

‘Evening, Mrs Langstone. You all right? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Lydia said, though in a sense she had seen a ghost: Marcus had been hovering in Bleeding Heart Square and had tried to speak to her. She had turned her face away and walked resolutely past him. She followed Mr Wentwood up the stairs. ‘How’s the job-hunting?’

‘No luck yet.’ He paused on the landing, as if ready to talk. ‘Still, I’m having a day off tomorrow. I’ve got to run down to the country.’

‘Lucky you.’ Lydia nodded goodbye, wondering if he would be taking that girl with him tomorrow. She went into the flat’s sitting room. Her father was dozing in the armchair in front of the fire.

Without opening his eyes he said, ‘There’s something for you on the table. A parcel.’

Lydia’s stomach lurched. For a split second she glimpsed the possibility that someone might have sent her an uncooked heart. But this parcel looked very different from Serridge’s — it was about the shape and size of a brick and it hadn’t come in the post. She examined the superscription — only her name, no address — and recognized the large, square handwriting.

‘Marcus,’ she said. ‘Has he been in the house again? I saw him outside.’

‘I happened to bump into him in the Crozier,’ Captain Ingleby-Lewis said, his eyes still closed. ‘He asked me to give it to you.’

She stripped off her gloves and took off her hat. It was too cold to remove her coat. A car drew up outside the house.

The parcel had been professionally wrapped. Marcus could no more wrap a parcel than he could have performed an appendectomy. She undid the string and peeled back first the brown paper and then a second layer of tissue paper beneath. Finally she found what she was expecting, a box of chocolates from Charbonnel et Walker. Marcus was convinced that the road to a woman’s heart was paved with expensive chocolates. There was also an envelope with her name on it. Inside was a sheet of paper with the address of his club at the top.

My dear Lydia ,

I don’t want to pester you but I do miss you frightfully. I do wish you’d come back. Everyone goes through these sticky patches. I’m awfully sorry about what happened, and swear it won’t happen again. We ought to give it another try, don’t you think?

I couldn’t stand rattling around in Frogmore Place all by myself. So I’ve shut up the house for the time being and I’m living at the club .

The only other bit of news is that I had a long chat with Rex Fisher, and he arranged a private meeting with Mosley himself. Sir Oswald isn’t at all what I’d expected — and, by the way, he says I have to call him Tom now; all his friends do — I’ve never met anyone like him, in fact. He’s a real leader. The sort you feel you could follow to hell and back. Anyway, old thing, the long and the short of it is that I’ve decided to join the Party. I wanted you to be one of the first to know. I’m going to work directly with Rex. He’s got a special role in mind. All rather hush-hush .

Do thinkabout what I said. It’s just not the same without you, old girl .

With my best love ,

Marcus

A car door slammed in the square below. Lydia crumpled the letter and dropped it in the waste-paper basket. She threw the box of chocolates after it. The noise made her father stir in his chair but he kept his eyes resolutely closed.

Lydia went into her bedroom, where she hung up her coat and put away her hat. She stared at her pale, set face in the damp-stained mirror over the washstand.

‘Damn it,’ she said aloud. ‘Damn, damn, damn.’

She returned to the sitting room. Mr Serridge was in the hall, shouting for Mrs Renton. She retrieved the chocolates from the waste-paper basket, ripped off the pink ribbon that fastened the box and removed the lid. The smell of good chocolate rose to meet her. Her mouth watered. She began to eat.

Sunday, 16 February 1930

We walked in Kensington Gardens this afternoon. I could not help watching the nurses and their charges. If I had married Vernon all those years ago, one of those little children might have been my grandchild. What an extraordinary thought! All that is impossible now, of course. I have made my bed and I must lie on it .