Andrew Taylor - Bleeding Heart Square

There was silence in the big, warm bedroom with its smells of perfume, coffee and Virginia tobacco. Lydia heard Margaret Narton’s voice: That’s how they do it, folk like that — they take their pleasures and they make other people pay for them. And you keep on paying, don’t you? That’s what I felt when Serridge came sniffing around our Amy. He broke my heart, and then he broke hers, and that broke mine all over again but far worse than the first time. Then Amy died, and the baby too .

Lady Cassington stood up and went over to the bedside table. She took another cigarette, lit it and sat on the edge of the bed. As she blew out smoke, she asked, ‘Have you finished, darling?’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Do be sensible. It wouldn’t have made it better if I had. Not for me. And certainly not for you. It was just one of those silly things that happen when one’s young. And marrying Willy Ingleby-Lewis was the best way to deal with it. If you ask me, people talk too much.’

‘So Serridge really is my father? You admit it?’

Her mother shrugged bony shoulders. ‘That Narton woman’s right. There is a likeness if you look for it.’ She ground out the cigarette in the ashtray. ‘He was very good-looking then, you know, and very charming when he wanted to be.’

‘What would you do if I told Fin?’

‘Darling, now don’t be so absurd. It would be too Lady Chatterley for words. Have you read the book? It’s quite dreadful, of course, and really rather dull, but it would so upset Fin to have something like that in his own family. Anyway, he’s never done you any harm. Quite the reverse. He’s very fond of you.’

Lydia stared out of the window, wondering whether she would ever again sit in this house she had known for most of her life and look down on Upper Mount Street. One shouldn’t be frightened of change, she told herself, because it was going to happen anyway, whatever one felt about it.

Lady Cassington was pursuing a line of thought of her own. ‘Did you say the Narton woman is only forty-five? She must have been even younger than I was when — when — ’

‘Serridge likes them young,’ Lydia said coldly. She stopped, remembering Rebecca Proctor’s words: He likes the younger ones, madam . It was a moment of illumination, as though someone had come into a dark room and flicked the switch on the wall by the door, allowing Lydia to glimpse a possibility out of the corner of her eye.

Her mother looked curiously at her. ‘What is it, darling?’ ‘Nothing,’ Lydia lied.

‘Nothing at all.’

On her way out of the house, Lydia went into the library to say goodbye to Fin. He was sitting at his desk, an enormous Second Empire piece which he claimed had once been owned by a French duke. He liked to sit there in the mornings, basking in its garish splendour, writing letters, reading the newspaper and pretending to be a man of affairs.

‘I’ve come to say goodbye,’ Lydia said.

‘Are you going already? I hoped you’d be staying to lunch.’

‘Not today, I’m afraid. Will you give my love to Pammy?’

‘Of course.’ He screwed up his eyes and looked at her. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes and no.’

‘Anything I can do?’

She shook her head. ‘I want to tell you myself: I’m divorcing Marcus.’

‘Your mother won’t like that. I suppose there’s no chance-’

‘No, darling,’ Lydia said. ‘Not the slightest. It’s all right, though — you needn’t worry.’ She bent down and kissed him. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

At the door, she turned back. ‘By the way, I went to a Fascist meeting on Saturday.’

‘Really?’ His face brightened at the change of subject towards the comfort of the impersonal. ‘Was it interesting?’

‘Absolutely fascinating. What I hadn’t realized is what unpleasant people the Fascists are. They’re bullies, Fin. Perhaps that’s why they appeal to Marcus and Rex.’

He frowned. The doorbell rang. She smiled at him again and went into the hall, where Fripp was already at the door, holding it open for Marcus. He was wearing a patch over one eye and there was a dressing underneath the other. One side of his face was badly bruised. When he saw Lydia, the skin around the bruises lost its colour, giving his face a mottled appearance.

‘Hello,’ Lydia said. ‘I’m just going. Fripp, will you bring me my things?’

‘Lydia,’ Marcus blurted out, careless of the fact that he was within earshot of Fripp. ‘I had a letter from some damn-fool solicitor this morning. He claims he’s-’

‘You’re to leave Mr Wentwood alone, Marcus. Do you understand?’

‘You can’t expect me to-’

‘I don’t want to talk to you, Marcus. Go and see my mother. She’ll tell you what to do. And she’ll also tell you what I shall do if you don’t cooperate.’

Fripp, his face impassive, held up her coat. She pushed her arms into the sleeves.

‘Where are you going?’ Marcus demanded.

‘I’m going to enjoy myself,’ Lydia said.

It did not take Rory long to assemble his belongings. He took them downstairs and stacked them in the hall, then knocked on Mrs Renton’s door and paid what he owed for the sewing she had done.

‘I’m sorry you’re going, Mr Wentwood,’ she said. ‘But if you’re not happy somewhere, I always say it’s wise to move on, and sooner rather than later. Mr Fimberry’s leaving too. Father Bertram has found him somewhere else to live.’ She looked up at him with a sudden, searching glance. ‘I wonder how long Mrs Langstone will stay.’

He nodded without committing himself to an opinion. ‘I’ll leave my things out here and go and have a bite of lunch. Would you mind keeping an eye on them? I’m being collected at about half past two.’

A door slammed above their heads and heavy footsteps crossed the first-floor landing. ‘Willy,’ they heard Serridge say, ‘I thought you’d be in the Crozier by this time. What’s up with you? You’ve got a face like a funeral.’

Rory nodded to Mrs Renton and let himself quietly out of the house. He turned left into Charleston Street. In Hatton Garden, as he was waiting on the pavement for a break in the traffic, he glanced to his left and saw Lydia coming out of one of the shops. He walked towards her and raised his hat.

‘Hello — I didn’t expect to see you here.’ He grinned. ‘Idiotic thing to say, I know. You could have been anywhere.’

She smiled back. ‘I’ve been to see Mr Goldman.’

‘Is he all right?’

‘Gloomier than ever but quite happy. I’ve just sold him a ring that used to belong to my great-aunt.’

‘I hope he gave you a good price. In the circumstances.’

‘He gave me what seemed to him a fair price, which is probably not the same thing. Anyway, I feel rich and I want to celebrate. Let me take you to lunch.’

‘I can’t let you-’

‘Yes, you can. Don’t be gentlemanly about it. You gave me supper last night after all. How’s the ankle? Can you walk as far as Fetter Passage?’

She pushed her arm through his and they crossed the road together. The Blue Dahlia was already busy. The manageress nodded when she saw them and pointed to a vacant table in the corner.

‘It’s liver on the menu again,’ Rory said.

‘I’m having the hotpot.’

They sat down, chose what they would have for pudding and ordered. As they waited for their lunch, the excitement drained away from Lydia, leaving her listless and silent. When he poured water into her glass, a few drops fell on the table. She made liquid circles from them on the marble top, moving her finger round and round.

‘What is it?’ Rory said gently.

She looked up. ‘I want to tell you something,’ she said. ‘Only I’m not sure I’m brave enough to do it.’