Andrew Taylor - Bleeding Heart Square

‘If I’m sure of one thing,’ Lydia interrupted, ‘it’s that I’m not going back to Marcus. Ever. I thought I’d made that clear. And why.’

She stared at Mrs Alforde until the older woman looked away.

‘Seems a nice enough chap to me,’ her father said. ‘Mind you, I’m not married to him, so I suppose I can’t say.’ He smiled approvingly at Lydia. ‘You must do as you please. I like a girl who paddles her own canoe.’

‘William,’ Mrs Alforde said quietly but with unmistakable menace. ‘Would you mind if I finished, as we discussed?’

‘Of course not. Mustn’t let my tongue run away with me, eh?’

‘We are agreed that your living here is simply out of the question,’ Mrs Alforde went on, with a hint of regality attached to her choice of personal pronoun. ‘But we accept that you don’t want to go back to your husband. However, there is a simple solution. You must come and stay with Gerry and me while this tiresome legal business is sorted out. There’s a perfectly good spare bedroom at the flat. It would be so much more — more comfortable for you. It’s not as if we’re strangers. After all, Gerry is your godfather and a sort of cousin too so it’s quite suitable.’

‘But I’m living with my father,’ Lydia said. ‘Surely that’s even more suitable?’

Mrs Alforde stared at Captain Ingleby-Lewis, who sat up sharply, as though she had prodded him with a stick.

‘My dear Lydia, Hermione — Mrs Alforde — is quite in the right of it, I’m afraid. Much as I like having you here, it’s not really ideal for either of us.’ He ran his finger around his collar. ‘I’m sorry, my dear — it’s all agreed: you have to go.’

Lydia stood up.

‘What are you doing?’ Mrs Alforde asked.

‘I’m going out,’ Lydia said. ‘I’m not sure when I’ll be back.’

Wednesday, 23 April 1930

Shakespeare’s birthday. I was quite sure that today would be the day. Yet here I am, sitting on a fallen tree trunk on the footpath at the bottom of the meadow .

Scribbling amp; crying amp; it’s raining .

This morning I gave Joseph a skirt for alteration to take to Mrs Renton when he was next in Town, so he’d think everything was normal. But then a telegram came for him amp; he went out, saying he wasn’t sure when he’d be back amp; leaving the skirt behind. Lunch was late, amp; Amy brought bread amp; cheese in though I had ordered lamb cutlets amp; I’m sure I smelled them grilling. Amy said the master had eaten them last night. I KNOW that’s a lie .

After lunch she carried the mirror from the spare bedroom up the attic stairs. When I asked her what she thought she was doing, she said the master told her that she could take it. I know what she’s up to. She wants to try on the finery he’s given her amp; prance up amp; down in front of the mirror amp; admire herself .

I felt so angry I didn’t need to be brave. I put on my hat amp; coat, put my purse into my pocket amp; set off without giving myself time to think. I marched down to the barn amp; collected this diary. I walked across the meadow (not caring about the mud) amp; set off on the footpath to Mavering. I know the path gets there eventually — I remember Rebecca talking about it .

But it has begun to rain, one of those violent April showers. I’ve a nasty blister on my left foot. I am sheltering under a tree. I took out my purse to count my money. I know I had thirty shillings in notes, as well as some change .

But the notes amp; the silver have gone. All that is left is a handful of coppers — certainly not enough for the rail fare. That wicked, wicked girl has pilfered my money. I shall have to …

You close the book. You don’t want to turn the page.

The lavatory was not entirely dark because there was a light shining in the yard between number forty-eight and the house that backed on to it. Rory had found a stub of pencil in his jacket pocket and a couple of creased envelopes in his wallet. He tore an envelope apart and laid it on the window-sill. A faint, diffused light penetrated the frosted glass. He could hardly read the words he wrote.

Not that it mattered. He scribbled faster and faster. He forgot about writing for Berkeley’s . He forgot about editors and readers and his hope of future commissions. The only thing that counted was the need to get the words on the paper.

I have been working in India for five years, and found myself on my return in an unfamiliar political landscape. When I went to a small British Union of Fascists meeting on Saturday afternoon, I had few preconceptions and no political axe to grind. When I left the meeting less than an hour later, dragged out by a pair of Blackshirts, the arguments against Fascism were beginning to impress me. After the Blackshirts had imprisoned me, after they had beaten me and threatened to frame me as an armed troublemaker, the force of those arguments had become overwhelming. I suppose I should be grateful to the British Union of Fascists. I may not know much else about modern British politics but I am now able to say, with utter and absolute certainty, that I am anti-Fascist .

Sir Rex Fisher, the British Union’s Deputy Director of Economic Policy, was the principal speaker. His purpose was to-

A key turned in the front door. There were voices in the hall. Rory pushed the envelopes into his pocket and stood up, his weight on one foot like a stork. When the hall lights snapped on, his first thought was that it must be the Biff Boys or the caretaker. But he heard Lydia calling his name and relaxed.

She had brought with her both Julian Dawlish and a taxi driver. The latter, an undersized man with an elderly bowler hat squashed on his head, ran an experienced eye over Rory and said, ‘Been in the wars, have we?’

‘Hurry,’ Lydia said. ‘Howlett may see the lights.’

The driver and Dawlish helped Rory along the hall and into the back of the taxi waiting in Rosington Place. Lydia and Dawlish squeezed in beside him. The sky had filled with the dim, unearthly radiance of a London dusk. The rain was falling steadily.

Dawlish looked out of the window towards the chapel. ‘There’s someone over there.’

‘It’s all right — it’s Mr Fimberry.’ Lydia wriggled in her seat.

Dawlish rapped on the partition with his knuckles. ‘Drive on,’ he mouthed to the cabby.

‘He’s picking something up,’ Lydia said, puzzled.

As the taxi drew away from the kerb, Rory glanced out of the window at the forlorn figure of Malcolm Fimberry on the chapel forecourt. ‘At least he’s rescued something from the wreckage.’

‘What is it?’ Dawlish asked.

Rory was still watching Fimberry, bareheaded in the rain. He was cradling something. ‘It’s his skull,’ Rory said. ‘What’s left of it.’

Fenella was waiting for them at Mecklenburgh Square. The four of them sat in the front room of the basement and drank strong, sweet tea flavoured with whisky.

‘I’m so sorry, Wentwood,’ Dawlish said. ‘I had no idea this would happen. I assumed they wouldn’t have the slightest idea who you were.’

‘Somebody made a mistake,’ Rory said. ‘Nobody’s fault.’

‘On the contrary,’ Lydia said. ‘It was my husband’s mistake and his fault too. With the full support of that ghastly organization he belongs to. What on earth do they think they’re playing at?’

Nobody answered.

Rory lit a cigarette. It was painful to smoke because his lips were swollen and split. ‘Is there a typewriter I can use?’