Edith, page 25
Edith wilts back into her seat. Denis takes her handbag, roots about, and pushes a handkerchief towards her. She holds it to her mouth.
‘Shut the bleedin’ window,’ says the driver. ‘What if she spots a copper and lets out a yell?’
Edith forms prayer peaks with her hands, begging Denis to leave it open. The breeze is making her feel less queasy.
‘She mightn’t be finished throwing up,’ says Denis. He whispers to her, ‘He’s not a bad skin, really. Try and breathe in the air. It’ll help.’
By and by, she gasps out, ‘Who was that? In the factory?’
‘I’m not allowed to say, ma’am.’
‘He’s insane.’
‘Mad as mischief,’ Denis allows.
The drive is smoother now. Her stomach begins to settle. ‘How on earth did you get mixed up with him?’
‘I was sent.’
‘They used you to get to me, didn’t they? How did they know to use you?’
He wriggles in his seat. ‘I might have said we were friends.’
‘Friends? Really?’
His eyes slide away to the side.
‘Is this how you treat your friends?’
He doesn’t answer. Finally, he says, ‘Camel is a man wouldn’t give this’ – he snaps his fingers – ‘for either me or you. But he knows what he’s about. He’ll show the English what’s what.’
‘He’s a killer. I don’t know how you can have it on your conscience, getting tangled up with him.’
Something in the clench of his jaw tells her Denis has made his choice. She doesn’t know what happened to change his mind – war steals some part of a man’s soul, she supposes.
‘You look to your conscience and I’ll look to my mine,’ he says.
All at once, the smell of vomit on her handkerchief revolts her and she hurls the scrap of linen out of the window. ‘What happened to his face?’
‘He was a pilot. Shot down by his own side – friendly fire, they call it. A miracle he survived. Managed to land his plane but as soon as it touched the ground it went up in flames.’
‘Was he in the Royal Air Force?’
‘Well, he wasn’t fighting for the Germans.’ He hesitates. ‘Whatever he told you to do, I’d do it, Miss Somerville.’
‘You heard him. I’m to go home and speak to nobody.’
His eyes turn as distant as a bird in flight.‘Going home’s no hardship. This place is too flat altogether. I grew up in the shadow of a mountain. Spoils you for anywhere else.’
She’s only half-listening, thinking back over her encounter with Camel. He ran a risk, letting her go. A man with his scarring is easily identified. It’s almost as if he has a death wish. But she certainly doesn’t. Edith has no intention of making a return trip to a police station.
Denis is still gabbling about his damned mountain.‘It crouches over the village, guarding us. Never looks the same two days running. I like it best when there’s a cloud of mist wrapped round it, blue as Our Lady’s gown. Sure, the mountains on the moon is nothing compared to mine.’ His voice thickens. ‘I hope to God I’ll see that mountain again.’
You don’t deserve to, you stupid boy, throwing in your lot with killers like Camel. For a moment, she thinks she was unguarded enough to speak her thoughts. She checks Denis’s face. No, she can’t have said it. Steady there, Edith.You’re not out of the woods yet. ‘It wasn’t very kind of you to take me to him.’
‘I know, Miss Somerville. The things I’ve done. Sometimes, when they come to me, I feel my head will bust open like a rotten cabbage.’
‘Has it never occurred to you that you could give them the slip, here in London? It’s a big place. Easy to lose yourself in it.’
‘I can’t. It’s hopeless.’
‘Nothing is hopeless.When you’re as old as me you’ll know that, Denis.’
‘I can’t desert my comrades. This is a fight to the finish. And with men like Camel on our side, we’re bound to win.’
‘Win what, exactly?’
‘Our country’s freedom, of course.’
Edith feels blunted, incapable of another word. Men and their causes. If she had the energy, she could tell him he’d be no better off in a republic. That what’s happening in Ireland is a playing out of romance versus reality.That the dream of patriotism is being exploited by lies and propaganda. But he wouldn’t listen.
The motor car pulls over, its engine running. The driver turns his head. ‘This is it.’
‘Time to get out, Miss Somerville,’ says Denis.
‘Where am I?’
‘King’s Cross station.You’ll be able to find your way from here. See? The fog’s lifted.’ He turns the door handle and helps her to the running board but stays inside. ‘Best of luck to you, now.’
‘Luck is always temporarily on loan from someone else, you know. Sooner or later it runs out.’
He makes a helpless gesture with his hands. Edith glances back at him. He’s shrivelled up inside his skin.
‘This is a murdering world, so it is, ma’am. But God save Ireland.’
The driver crunches the gears, and the vehicle pulls away, its door swinging shut.
A chilly twist of night air nicks her hat brim, making it flap. Her skin pimples.There are just a few foggy tatters now. By the light of the moon, profligate in its radiance, Edith can see railway arches. A row of houses with muslin curtains at the windows. A queue of motorized hackney cabs. Unexpectedly, she feels ravenous for a pot of tea and lashings of hot, buttery toast. She waits for a motorcycle to splutter past, leaving an evil cloud in its wake, before crossing the road to the hackneys.
‘Netherton Grove, Chelsea,’ she tells the cabbie.
Edith’s knows she’s had a narrow escape. Something precious has been restored to her.
Life.
1 A precipice in front, wolves behind.
twenty
‘Edith, were you insane going out in the fog?’ It’s Boney, who has parked herself in Mabel and Boyle’s house.
‘My dear, thank goodness you’re home safe. Dame Ethel and I have been worried sick about you.’ Tension is visible in Mabel’s pursed-up mouth – partly as a result of Boney’s thunderclap presence, Edith guesses.
‘I’d sell my soul for a hot bath. Might I have one, do you suppose, Mab?’
‘Of course. I’ll send Doris up to draw it for you right away. Do si down, Edith.You look all done in.’ She melts away to issue instructions.
‘Tell her not to stint on the bath salts. Lavender if you have them. Good for rheumatism,’ Boney calls after Mabel. ‘I say, you’ve been sick all over the front of your blouse, Edith.’
‘Putrid, isn’t it? I took a funny turn.What are you doing here, Boney?’
‘I came to invite you to the highlight of the music season. But when I saw how worried Mrs Somerville was, naturally I stayed to support her. I’m directing the overture to my Cornish opera, The Wreckers, at the Royal Albert Hall next week. They had an unexpected gap in their programme and asked me to oblige. Queen Mary may attend – I’ve been in touch with one of her ladies-in-waiting about it. My sister met her at a supper in Lady Shelby’s.’
‘I’m afraid I won’t be here next week. I have to go back to Ireland as soon as possible.’
‘Nonsense, you can’t possibly leave. I won’t hear of it.’
‘Boney, I don’t have the energy for a row.’
‘You’re overwrought, Edith. Nobody’s rowing.’
‘You are.’
‘I really do need you at the Albert Hall next week.’
‘And I simply can’t be there, I’m afraid.’
The door opens and Mabel’s head appears through the gap. ‘Your bath’s ready, Edith. I’ve left a glass of brandy beside the soap dish.You look like you could use a pick-me-up.’
‘You’re an angel, Mab.’
‘Shall I come up and keep you company while you bathe, Edith?’ asks Boney.
Mabel’s eyebrows are scandalized.
‘Would you mind not, dear?’ says Edith. ‘I’m too exhausted to concentrate on a word anyone says.’
‘Quite right,’ says Mabel. ‘Edith, don’t trouble to come downstairs afterwards. I’ll send you up some supper on a tray.You can have it in bed.’
‘But I need to talk to you about my overture.’
Edith waggles three fingers in farewell.
‘I’ll come over in the morning. Directly after breakfast,’ Boney tells her back.
—
Later, checking on Edith in bed, Mabel remarks, ‘I thought she meant to stay the night, invited or not.’
‘Dame Ethel Smyth no sooner thinks of something than she does it.’
‘You look worn out, Edith. I wish you’d stayed home today.’
‘Me too, Mab. But I was safe as the Bank of England, waiting out the fog with Mr Tring in Tothill Street. He was kindness personified. I think I could sleep now, if you don’t mind.’ She makes a mental note to send Mr Tring a telegram in the morning. She never turned up for their appointment – although he may have been unable to keep it, too.
‘Not at all, my dear,’ says Mabel. ‘I’ll take your tray. Sleep tight.’
Exhausted though she is, Edith finds herself unable to drop off. Camel’s face is planted in her mind. That single, awful eye. The way his mouth coiled into a sneer. She clicks on her bedside light, fetches paper and a pencil, and props herself up against pillows. An automatic writing session is bound to help. Habit helps her to enter a state of trancelike stillness. Soon, she is communicating with Martin.
‘That swine has me in a bit of a funk,’ Edith says.
nowonder hes a loathsome skunk high ti me you returned to drishane
This is exactly what Edith wants to hear, although it feels as if she’s being cowardly. ‘But what about Flurry’s Wedding?’
you can make copies at home and send it to other theatre managers one swallow doesnt make a summer nothing canbe read from one rejection
‘Will I be safe in Ireland? Will that monster come after me?’
he was born to dangle on the endofaroperoperope skippingskippingskipping rope mope soap
And nothing else is forthcoming from Martin that evening.
—
True to her word, Boney is back in Chelsea next morning.To spare Mabel, Edith takes her walking as far as Brompton Cemetery, where there are seats near the main avenue. A morning in bed to recuperate would have been preferable, but Edith has decided to leave London on the Irish mail that evening, and there are errands to run before she goes. The eight forty-five train from Euston connects with the overnight sailing from Holyhead to Dublin. Mabel received her decision without comment, apart from promising some Scotch eggs and ham sandwiches for the six-hour train journey through England and Wales, and volunteering Doris to help pack her trunk. Boney is being less cooperative.
Edith rests on a bench beside a barbered patch of grass, watching a woman in deepest mourning attend to a grave. Boney is too agitated to sit. She rampages around, crushing early primroses underfoot – her feet hitting the ground as decisively as drumsticks against goatskin.
‘This may be your last opportunity to see me direct my own work, Edith.’
‘There’ll be other triumphs I can share.’
‘Not like this. I insist, Edith. I absolutely insist on having you in the audience.’
‘You won’t miss me with Queen Mary there.’
‘I’d always miss you, whoever was there. Change your plans. Do, please.’
A shadow touches Edith and she flinches, until she realizes it’s only a man walking past to join the mourning woman – her son, perhaps. He takes her arm and they walk along the central avenue towards the chapel.
‘Edith?’ says Boney. ‘You aren’t listening.’
‘Yes I am.You want me to change my plans. But I can’t.’
‘You must.’
‘The world doesn’t revolve around you, Boney.’
Ethel crashes down on the bench beside Edith. ‘Don’t you understand? I’ll never conduct again.This is probably going to be my last time. You see, it’s not just one of my ears troubling me now. Both of them are booming and singing.’
‘You mean your other ear has started acting up?’
‘Not all the time, but often enough. Soon, I’ll be as deaf as a post.’
Edith is appalled. Poor Boney. Her refusal to stay must seem heartless. For once, that vivid face beneath its tricorn hat looks vulnerable. She touches her friend’s arm.‘I’m so sorry, dearest.’
‘That’s why next week is madly important. I’m going to storm the gates of heaven with my music. If it’s to be my last performance, by jingo it will be my finest. If I have to bow out, it’ll be with a bang and not a whimper.’
‘Good for you. I’m proud of you, you splendid thing.’
In a small voice, Boney says, ‘Except I’m not splendid. I couldn’t admit this to anyone else. But I’m frightened.’ She lays her head on Edith’s lap. ‘I’m staring defeat in the eye. But I won’t go down without a fight.’
Edith pats her back.‘You’ll be magnificent.’
‘I am, usually. But these stupid ears are liable to let me down. With no warning. I could be standing in front of the orchestra, baton in hand, royalty in the box behind me – and bong! Deafer than deaf. Dearest, life has never seemed blacker. I’m feeling utterly desperate. I can’t bear to lose you, too.’
Edith is in a quandary. Is there any way to explain why she has to leave London? Not without revealing she was abducted – and Boney will react to the news by trooping straight off to Scotland Yard, with or without her. Her conscience pricks about the field marshal. But he’ll be fine, surely. He must have protection. A phalanx of it.When she went to the police about the whistler, she ended up kidnapped.There’s no telling what might happen to her if she goes to the authorities about Camel. Sir Henry Wilson will be fine.
Boney lifts her face from Edith’s knee, eyes moist. ‘Say you’ll stay with me, Edith. Help me to face whatever lies ahead. You’re so stout-hearted, you’ll infect me with your pluck.’
‘Oh Boney, if only you knew how spineless I am.’
‘Well then, move into Coign with me, why don’t you – there’s plenty of room for two – and we can be spineless together.’
Edith recoils, but tries to hide it. She eases Boney’s head off her lap. ‘Oh look, your hat’s crooked. Let me fix it. I wish I could stay for your overture. Believe me, I do. But it can’t be helped.’
‘You force me to tell you about the surprise I was planning for you.’
‘Surprise?’
‘I mean to dedicate the concert to you. I was going to announce it from the stage.’
‘Oh, Boney.’
‘Now will you stay?’
‘I can’t. I simply have to go back home to Ireland.’
‘Why now?’
‘I have my reasons.’
‘Give me one good reason. Just one. I’ll shut up if you do.’
‘I’ve spent long enough away from Drishane. My duty is there.’
‘Drishane is your brother’s show. Why should you have the trouble of it?’
Because he doesn’t know how to run it. Because it feels as if she’s the only Somerville interested in saving the house for the next generation. Because apathy will root out the family more thoroughly than the IRA, if they’re not careful.‘Do we have to go through all this again?’
Boney’s mood pops as abruptly as a soap bubble. She springs to her feet and begins prowling about again. ‘You’re living in a fool’s paradise. Don’t you know the wonderful life you could have if you shrugged off Drishane, and your family, and Ireland? I thought we meant something to one another.’
‘Of course, we do. But don’t you understand? Drishane, and my family, and Ireland are mostly what make life wonderful for me. It wouldn’t be the same without them.’
‘Ireland? Wonderful? With murder gangs roaming the countryside?’
‘Drishane is a safe place.’
‘If it’s safe, how come your unspeakable countrymen order you about at gunpoint? How were they able to stroll in and steal your horses and jewellery?’
‘That was last year. Old grievances are settled now. There’s a treaty. Listen, Boney, I really must get going. I’ve ever such a lot to do if I’m to catch the boat train. I want to go to Fortnum’s for Bath Olivers and madeleines, I need to order flowers for Mabel and I saw a tortoiseshell moustache comb in Regent Street that’s perfect for Cameron. Plus I have to send a telegram to Drishane.’
‘You treat your family as if they’re semi-divine. Spend your money on yourself, why don’t you?’
‘On what? I need nothing.’
‘We could travel.’ Boney halts in front of Edith and stands there, rocking on her heels. ‘If you won’t come and live with me in Coign, at least let’s take a trip, dearest. Remember what fun we had in Sicily? We could go to Egypt and see the pyramids together.You’ve never travelled by dromedary, have you? There’s nothing to match it. Please, Edith, say you’ll come away with me. Somewhere far, far away. Just the two of us.’
Boney is keyed up, unpredictable. Her urgency unnerves Edith. ‘I couldn’t possibly.’
‘You’ve changed.You’ve forgotten what it’s like to be spontaneous.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’
‘What’s the last spontaneous thing you did? See?You can’t remember. You think of yourself as an artist, but you’re a Victorian maiden-miss – conventional to your fingertips. It’s not experience you lack, it’s emotion.’
‘And you have too much.You’re emotionally extravagant.’
‘I’m offering you a lifeline, if only you knew it.’
‘You’re hectoring me.’
‘I’ve never hectored anyone in my life.’
‘You’re the high priestess of hectoring!’
‘Is it any wonder, when you try to leave me in the cloakroom for months on end, like a forgotten umbrella? I deserve more. I demand more!’
Edith measures out her words. ‘Stop it, Boney. Just stop it. I’m sorry about your ears, honestly, I am. But I see rocks ahead for us if you insist on pursuing this ridiculous line.You always want more than I can give you.’
