Shadows on the Nile Page 10

  ‘Do you know something, Tabitha? That I don’t? Did Tim tell you he was involved in something?’

  Tabitha looked away. Jessie felt her heart pitch sideways and she waited. After a long silence during which she watched her friend’s face, Tabitha turned back to her and her expression had changed. Jessie didn’t like it. It was caring and tender.

  ‘Look, Jess,’ she said softly, ‘you’re getting too obsessed. I hate to see you like this. Even at the club tonight you couldn’t relax.’

  But Jessie would not be sidetracked. ‘Do you know something?’

  Tabitha sighed. ‘Not really.’

  ‘What exactly does that mean?’

  ‘It means just that. Not really. Tim told me last time he came to the club that he was …’ she hesitated.

  ‘Was what?’ Jessie pressed.

  ‘Was involved in something with your father.’

  ‘Involved in what with my father?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘Did he give any hints?’

  ‘No. But I’m sure it’s nothing much or your father would have mentioned it.’ Tabitha paused, a frown creasing her pale forehead. ‘Wouldn’t he?’

  Jessie placed her cup of cocoa firmly on a side table and stood up. ‘Excuse me while I go to my room and kick something.’

  ‘It’s eight o’clock in the morning and it’s Sunday. This had better be good, Jessica.’

  There was a light drizzle, enough to dampen her father’s dressing gown and spatter his spectacles as he stood in the doorway. He opened the door wider and stepped back into the hallway. It smelled strongly of flowers, the same musty floral scent as at a funeral, and Jessie saw a huge bouquet of bronze-tinged chrysanthemums in a vase on the hall table. She wondered who had sent them.

  ‘Pa, I have to talk to you about something.’

  They remained in the hall, making no move towards the drawing room. As if she were a stranger who had barged in off the street. Whenever she entered this house, the moment her foot touched the Afghan rug in the hall, it sent her tumbling back into her childhood. This was where the past lived. Trapped here. She rubbed shoulders with it each time she stepped over the threshold, aware that it was a solid presence that walked up and down the stairs, its heart beating, its breath smelling of rhubarb and custard. Its voice murmuring Georgie’s name.

  Her father stood stiff and sombre, his grey eyes examining her face, a distance of far more than a few feet of woven carpet stretching between his paisley slippers and her wet shoes.

  ‘What is it now, Jessica?’ he asked in a quiet voice. ‘What has got you all riled up this time?’

  She ignored the barb, just added it to the nest of barbs that lay hidden away inside her where no one could see. She kept her tone neutral. ‘I heard that you and Tim are involved in something together.’ She saw something flicker. So it was true. ‘Wouldn’t it have been better to tell me? Before sending me off into the bullring?’

  ‘You exaggerate,’ he said.

  ‘Do I?’

  He removed his spectacles and wiped them clean on a folded handkerchief from his dressing-gown pocket. He was gaining thinking time for himself. What was it he had to think about? What were her father and his blue-eyed boy engaged in that was not meant for her ears? She waited, keeping her words inside her head, knowing that her father had never been able to abide a silence. As a child, it had been her only weapon against him, but now the hallway started to fill up with it until they were drowning in it.

  ‘It has nothing to with his disappearance, Jessica, I assure you.’

  ‘Can you be certain?’

  ‘Yes, I can.’ His words carried conviction. He would have made a good politician.

  ‘So tell me, what is it that you have involved him in?’

  Light footsteps sounded on the stairs and they both looked up to see Jessie’s mother descending. She was fully dressed in a pleated skirt and white embroidered blouse, her fair hair arranged in an elegant twist at the back of her head – clearly what she’d been doing since the doorbell rang. Her face was powdered, her lashes heavy with mascara. Catherine Kenton was not one to enter the fray of life without her armour on, but at the sight of her daughter a crack appeared in it. Her blue eyes widened with alarm and her feet hurried down the last stairs.

  ‘Any news?’ she asked urgently. ‘Is Timothy …?’

  ‘No, nothing. Not yet.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I just came to ask Pa a few questions.’

  ‘At this hour?’

  ‘I have other things to do today – like searching for Tim.’

  There was a slight pause. Her words sounded melodramatic on a quiet Sunday morning in a leafy suburb of England, not at all what she intended. She turned back to her father and he realised that she was not going to go away until he told her what he’d been doing with Tim. He tightened the belt of his dressing gown.

  ‘Timothy was helping me set up meetings and arrange publicity for the BUF, that’s all.’

  ‘The British Union of Fascists?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Oswald Mosley’s new party?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She recalled the pamphlets in his workshop. ‘No,’ she said softly, shaking her head. ‘Please don’t drag Tim into …’

  ‘Timothy makes his own choices, young lady. He recognises the party’s worth and the strength of its aims to put this country back on its feet.’

  ‘Jessica,’ her mother interrupted sharply, ‘will you join us for breakfast?’

  Jessie caught the look her father gave her mother.

  ‘No, thank you, Ma. I have to get back.’

  They walked her to the door faster than she expected. ‘What does Tim do for the BUF?’ she asked her father.

  ‘Oh, anything really. Just lends a hand.’

  That was it. No more.

  She smiled at her mother and for once, because she looked so tight with worry, Jessie kissed her powdered cheek. It smelt of freesias.

  ‘I’ll let you know as soon as I learn anything definite,’ she promised. She glanced back around the hall, remembering waiting behind the door for her father all those years ago, a letter in her pocket. Her gaze fell on the chrysanthemums. ‘Nice flowers,’ she commented.

  Her mother nodded. ‘From Sir Oswald, actually. And his wife, Lady Cynthia, of course.’

  So correct. Yet the whole world knew that Mosley was having a blatant affair with Diana Mitford, who was married to one of the Guinness family. As Jessie walked to her car through the drizzle, she wondered what had prompted Oswald Mosley to send her mother flowers.

  Jessie swung into the drive at exactly two o’clock and parked next to Sir Montague Chamford’s elegant cream automobile. His tall figure was standing beside it, polishing the high arch of its front mudguard with his handkerchief till it gleamed in the thin afternoon sunshine. She recognised it as a Rolls-Royce by the Spirit of Ecstasy mascot that was poised on the tip of its long bonnet. He informed her it was a 1922 Silver Ghost and had belonged to his father.

  The present Sir Montague, dressed in tweeds, spent the first part of the journey through the country lanes chatting with animation about the car, expanding on its charms. Discussing its silent engine, its huge reserves of power which were delivered in what he termed ‘an unruffled manner’, his enthusiasm was infectious. His long-boned face softened as if he were talking about a lover who set his pulse racing.

  ‘She has a magnificent seven and a half litre engine, with two spark plugs fitted to each of the six cylinders.’ His fingers ran around the steering wheel, stroking it fondly. His nails were spotless today. ‘Phosphor bronze and nickel steel are used in the construction of the timing gears,’ he informed Jessie, ‘which are all ground and polished by hand. They are a thing of beauty, I assure you.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

  He raised a dark eyebrow. ‘Am I boring you?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  He concentrated on manoeuvring
the long gear stick as they bowled through the streets of High Wycombe, a town of furniture manufacturers north-west of London, where heads turned to admire the Rolls-Royce as it passed.

  ‘Do you hear that, Coriolanus?’ Sir Montague called out to the sheepdog on the rear seat. ‘We have a sceptic in our midst, I do believe.’

  The dog pushed its wet nose against its master’s ear from behind, as though whispering something private. Sir Montague laughed, but when Jessie didn’t join in he glanced across at her, his eyes checking her face and then her hands tight on her lap.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Of course. I’m fine.’

  ‘Not frightened? Of mediums?’

  ‘No.’

  But it wasn’t true. Jessie was nervous. Not of the medium herself but of what she might say, of what revelations might tumble out of Pandora’s box.

  After a moment’s awkwardness, Sir Montague shifted easily to stories of picnics in the car with his parents and outings to Oxford for punting. ‘Never could get the hang of the dratted pole,’ he grimaced, ‘and always ended up in the bally river.’

  He paused for her to laugh, but she didn’t. She didn’t want this man beside her to try to amuse her, to entertain her with unlikely stories of getting dunked in the Isis, to think she was so easily blinded by charm and chatter. She held him responsible. Firmly and unforgivably responsible. She blamed him for Tim’s disappearance. It might be unfair of her, it might be grossly unjust, but if it hadn’t been for Sir Montague and that burnt mansion of his, Tim would be walking on Putney Heath with her on this Sunday afternoon, teasing her and throwing bread at the ducks. That cold certainty had lain with her on her pillow all night, and now sat like a fist in her throat, blocking her words.

  So, no. She couldn’t laugh at his stories or pin a smile on her face to please him. Nor did she want to be riding in a car called a Silver Ghost. The irony of it surely had not escaped him. Travelling to a medium … in a Ghost.

  Oh, Tim, where on earth are you?

  Give me a clue, like in the old days when we would hide from each other in the park. Don’t leave me like this.

  Sir Montague blasted the horn and overtook a coal wagon with a wave. His hands were strong and capable, at odds with his beanpole figure which seemed as if it might blow over in the wind. On either side of them as they drove along the A40, the fields lay brown and barren, ploughed into ridges.

  ‘Heading for Oxford, are we?’ she queried.

  Just a simple question. But it caused him to stare ahead blankly through the windscreen for a moment, as though it meant more than she intended.

  ‘Not far now,’ he said vaguely and she was glad when he drifted into silence.

  13

  Georgie

  England 1922

  ‘I envy you, Georgie.’

  We are playing chess. I am winning. I always win.

  ‘Why?’ I ask.

  ‘Because you don’t have to do maths homework.’

  ‘What is wrong with maths homework?’

  ‘It’s like chewing on broken bottles.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just an expression. Ignore me.’

  ‘You are lazy today.’ But I never ignore you. ‘Show me how to do your maths.’

  I take your queen’s bishop and you groan.

  ‘It’s hard,’ you warn me.

  I grin. ‘Good.’

  I stop delaying your king’s demise and put an end to the game. After that day, I do your maths homework every Saturday while you read The Maltese Falcon and smoke cigarettes.

  You don’t want to work today. You are tetchy – a word I know because you say it to me. Don’t be tetchy, you complain when I sit on the bed with my back to you and watch the rain with my ears closed to your words.

  Today it is you who are tetchy.

  It makes me nervous. I am seated at my desk and write out the Greek alphabet in long smooth columns. It is very beautiful, though nowhere near as beautiful as the hieroglyphs of the Egyptian alphabet that I have taught you. That’s what you are fiddling with half-heartedly. I want to snatch the pencil from your inept hand.

  ‘You are lazy today,’ I say.

  You make a noise and jump to your feet. It startles me. You stand with your back to me.

  ‘What colour are my eyes?’ you ask.

  ‘The colour of their iris pigment.’

  ‘And what colour is that?’

  I panic. I put my hands over my ears.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say.

  ‘You should know. I’ve told you before that you should look at me when I speak to you.’

  ‘Why?’

  You sigh. ‘For heaven’s sake, Georgie, this damn place is making you worse.’

  Silence.

  I stand and stalk over to the door. I open it and stare at your shoes. They are brown and handsome. ‘Get out.’

  ‘Georgie, don’t …’

  ‘Get out!’ I know I am shouting.

  You go.

  ‘I killed a bird,’ I tell you.

  You put down your book. You are reading Shakespeare and finding it hard.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I killed a bird when I was five.’

  I don’t know why I tell you. Why now? I think it is because the sun is on your hair, burnishing it the colour of a finch’s gold crest. Or is it because after all these years I cannot keep my crime inside me any more, shut away in the dark?

  ‘How did it happen?’

  You are interested. I hear it in your voice, that catch in your throat when you are really interested. You can never disguise it.

  ‘Does our mother still keep songbirds?’ I ask.

  ‘Gosh, no. I’ve never known her to keep birds.’

  ‘She used to. She must have got rid of them all after I was …’

  We leave the end of the sentence unsaid. But I play with possibilities in my head. After I was … abandoned? Locked away? Incarcerated? Take your pick.

  ‘So how did it happen?’ you ask again.

  ‘Jessie and I were left with the nanny. I forget which one, they were all …’ I search for the right word, ‘… despicable.’

  You grunt. That means you are not sure what I say is correct, but you were not there. I was.

  ‘Ma had left us with her while she had lunch with a friend. The birdcage was in the morning room and I used to watch the birds sing by the hour. I was fascinated by the way their throats vibrated and I longed to see how such a tiny creature could make all that noise. So I fetched a penknife Pa had given me for Christmas, caught the little finch and slit it open.’

  ‘Christ, Georgie! You were a little monster.’

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘What did Ma say?’

  ‘She never knew. When I saw the tiny innards of the creature, its miniature heart and lungs, the bones of its throat no thicker than pins, I started to cry. Jessie found me under my bed with the bird slit open in my hand. She put me to bed, closed the curtains and told everyone I was sick.’

  My throat grows tight at the memory. The air won’t go through it.

  ‘Didn’t Ma miss the bird?’

  I swallow. I can hear the finch’s song, needle-sharp in my ears.

  ‘I didn’t find out until later that Jessie told Ma that she had accidentally let the bird out of the cage and it had flown out of the open window. She was punished.’

  ‘The cane?’

  ‘Yes. Six of the best.’

  Six of the best on her soft young palm.

  ‘What did you do with the dead bird?’

  ‘Jessie buried it in the garden.’ I am shaking uncontrollably.

  You come over and you put me to bed and read me the story of Cleopatra.

  Today is a bad day. My head is crammed full of darkness. I have closed the curtains in my room because the sunlight hurts my skin and makes my hands twitch. I sit on the floor in the gloomiest corner beside the wardrobe and I place a blanket over my head. It is better this way. Alo
ne in my world of darkness.

  I am not like other people. I know that. They are all out there playing a game they call life but I do not understand the rules. I get it wrong. Again and again. It is better this way.

  ‘Georgie?’

  I hear your voice. I have a feeling I have been hearing it for some time but without being aware it was there.

  ‘Georgie? Come on out from under that blanket.’

  You start to sing to me. Old nursery rhymes. ‘Three Blind Mice’ and ‘Hey Diddle Diddle’. Only one person has ever sung to me before and she has nothing to do with me now. Wants nothing to do with me. My hands are wet and I realise I am crying silently. I wipe my face on the rough wool and jerk the blanket away, I am so eager to see you. The light hits my eyes with the force of a cricket bat.

  ‘Hello, Tim.’

  You are there. In the chair. Seen from down here at this angle your legs are longer than the door. That amuses me. I am interested in angles, how they change things, alter the way we see things. You once said to me that the only thing wrong with me is that I am looking at the world from a different angle. I want it to be true, so that if I move my feet, the angle will change and I will see the world like everyone else. But it doesn’t happen. I have tried. I can tell from the way you are sitting, slumped in the chair, that you have been here a long time. It is not a comfortable chair. You are wearing a bright green jumper. I rise to my feet and sit in my usual place on the edge of the bed, smoothing the cover flat all around me.

  ‘Your hair needs washing,’ I say.

  It’s true. It curls in dusty blond clumps on your head but I hear you utter a sigh that gallops up from your lungs.

  ‘I’ve been busy, Georgie.’

  You speak very quietly. To protect my ears. You have explained to me in the past that kindness is doing things like that for people. Making them happy. I remember now that you say I must not make what you call ‘personal remarks’ unless they will make someone happy. I try again. I want you to be happy.

  ‘Your legs are long.’

  You smile. ‘Better.’

  I risk a quick look at your eyes and am startled by their greyness. Where has the blue gone? What does it mean? I want to crawl under your skin and find out all the things I cannot understand about you.