Andrew Taylor - Bleeding Heart Square

She thanked him and went to lunch. Food made her feel a little more cheerful. After all, she had a roof over her head, a meal inside her and clothes on her back. She also had a job of sorts to go to. It all depended on one’s perspective: she had more than most people on this crowded planet. And because she had taken a late lunch, at least it would be a short afternoon.

Three hours later, as Lydia was putting on her hat before leaving the office, Miss Tuffley’s bright face loomed behind her in the mirror.

‘Hard luck,’ she whispered, nudging Lydia’s shoulder. ‘His nibs wants you in his room.’ She rubbed some of the condensation from the window next to the mirror. ‘Ugh. The fog’s getting fouler and fouler.’

Lydia went through to the private office where she found Mr Shires standing at his desk and putting files in his briefcase.

‘Ah, Mrs Langstone. Shut the door, please.’ He strapped up the briefcase. ‘I’ve considered your request this morning, and I’m inclined to look favourably on it.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Lydia said, surprised.

‘Mind you, I’m not saying we are prepared to act for you in this. But I shall take it a stage further. See how the land lies with Mr Langstone, hmm?’

‘As to the cost, I-’

Mr Shires held up a small pink hand. ‘We shall leave that to one side for the moment. We like to help our employees where possible, and in the circumstances there’s a chance we may be able to oblige Mr Langstone to meet our costs. But we shall see, eh? Let’s not cross our bridges before we come to them. Leave it with me for the time being. Let me see, you’re not coming in tomorrow, are you, but we’re expecting you on Friday? If I’ve time, we’ll have a word about it then.’

He dismissed her for the evening. The outer office was now empty. Lydia ran down the stairs feeling more lighthearted than she had for some time. She had clearly misjudged Shires. He wasn’t such a bad old stick after all.

Outside the pavements gleamed with rain and the gathering fog reduced the street lamps to fuzzy globes of moisture. She found her way to Bleeding Heart Square as much by touch as by sight. As she let herself into the house, she heard the whirr and clack of Mrs Renton’s sewing machine in the room by the front door.

There was a letter for her on the hall table. She picked it up and went upstairs, ripping open the envelope on the way. It was from Mrs Alforde. She had replied to Lydia’s letter almost by return of post.

Captain Ingleby-Lewis was not in the sitting room. Lydia put down her handbag and scanned the contents of the letter, which was dated that morning.

My dear Lydia ,

Thank you for your note. It’s sweet and generous of you to apologize but the more I think about it, the more I think it was foolish of me to take what your mother said entirely at face value — I should have known better. The truth is, I’m a meddlesome old woman with too much time on my hands .

Will you do me the great kindness of letting me make a fresh start? My time is rather taken up with your poor dear godfather — he often becomes agitated if I am not around — but tomorrow is Thursday, and therefore his day for Sergeant Stokes. Stokes was with him for most of the war. For some reason — it seems perverse to me — Gerry finds his company soothing .

As it happens I have to run down to Rawling for a funeral tomorrow morning but I hope to be back by teatime or a little later, and I could pick you up if you are free. (I have a little motor car now, which has transformed my life!) Alternatively, if you would like a day in the country you could come with me, and we could talk on the way. I could drop you in Bishop’s Stortford or Saffron Walden and show you where to find a decent lunch. But of course this may not be convenient, or you may feel enough is enough! Whatever you decide, I shall quite understand .

I hope to hear from you — perhaps telephone me this evening if you would like an excursion tomorrow?

With affectionate good wishes from us both ,

Yours sincerely ,

Hermione Alforde

Lydia put the letter away and went into her bedroom, where she took off her hat and coat. She picked up Miss Penhow’s skirt and the accompanying letter from the bottom of her chest of drawers and took them downstairs. She knocked on Mrs Renton’s door. The old woman’s wrinkled face brightened when she saw Lydia.

‘Hello, dear. I was just going to make some tea. Would you like a cup?’

Once the kettle was on, Lydia said, ‘I’ve something I want to show you.’

Mrs Renton eyed the skirt. ‘A bit of sewing?’

‘In a way.’

‘I’m afraid I’m rather busy at present.’

Lydia laid it on Mrs Renton’s table. ‘It’s not for me, though.’

Mrs Renton lifted up the skirt, feeling the material, running her fingers along the seams. She frowned.

‘Do you recognize it?’ Lydia asked.

‘I’m sure I’ve seen that tweed before.’ She turned a bewildered face to Lydia. ‘It’s not Miss Penhow’s, is it?’

‘Yes.’

‘She showed it me just before she went away to the country. She wanted it altered. But she decided to wait until the weather was warmer.’

‘There’s a letter with it.’ Lydia handed the note to her.

Mrs Renton read it, and when she had finished she dabbed her eyes with her apron. ‘For a moment I thought she must be back. Miss Penhow, I mean. But this letter’s years old, isn’t it? Poor woman.’

‘I didn’t realize you knew her,’ Lydia said.

Mrs Renton glanced at the door as if to confirm it was shut. ‘Mr Serridge introduced us. I did some sewing for her while she lived in Kensington. Made her a nice little silk tea gown too. And then she married and moved away, and I didn’t hear from her again. Where did that skirt come from?’

‘Someone found it at Rawling. That was where she moved to.’

‘Does Mr Serridge know?’

Lydia shook her head.

‘It might be better not to mention it. They say she left him. You wouldn’t want to open old wounds.’

‘You must have wondered what had happened to her.’

‘None of my business,’ Mrs Renton said. ‘That kettle must be boiling.’

Friday, 11 April 1930

The Vicar called this morning. He is a Mr Gladwyn, a clergyman of the old school. I must confess I have been rather worried about church. I don’t feel I can take Communion at present. After all, in a sense Joseph and I are living a lie, though of course God knows the truth and understands. Still, I felt a little awkward with Mr Gladwyn. Not that I had a great deal to do with him. He and Joseph got on very well. They talked mainly about cars — Mr Gladwyn plans to buy one soon and wanted to pick Joseph’s brains about them. Joseph took him for a spin in our Austin 7 .

Now the weather is better, I have begun to explore the farm. I have been finding the house rather claustrophobic of late. It’s partly because we see so few people, but mainly (I expect) because I’m used to towns and lots of comings and goings. Here there is so much silence. Sometimes I see countryfolk in the distance and once or twice have exchanged waves. I have not had any conversations with them yet .

This afternoon, I brought my diary with me. Sometimes I feel a little self-conscious about writing my diary in the house — Joseph is always asking what I’m doing. So today I am writing this al fresco, as the Italians say .

It’s very odd that I have had no letters since we moved. I wish I knew what it was best to do. I feel stupidly worried a lot of the time and I don’t quite know why. I tell myself not to be silly. But the worry is there when I wake up, sitting like a weight in my stomach, and it’s there when I go to sleep. Sometimes I don’t sleep very well either. My heart is heavy. I wish I could stop feeling. If only I could tear my heart from my breast and take away the pain for ever .