Park Lane Page 17

  It is noisy in here, and the few couples dancing are nonetheless taking up the entire room, making standing anywhere in it hazardous. Mother leads the Prime Minister and Bea briskly across it, and through the doors to the museum on the far side, Mother closing them behind her. Candles flicker on almost every surface and a handful of empty champagne glasses are scattered about. The room feels halfway between a Greek temple and a saint’s shrine, the portrait of Great-grandfather hanging in pride of place.

  ‘Have you seen our Durbar Hall before, Mr Asquith?’

  ‘Not looking like this, Lady Masters.’

  ‘It’s the candles, I tried ecclesiastical ones.’ She walks him over to admire a pair. ‘Bought without so much as a raised eyebrow. I must appear the very image of a verger.’

  Mother keeps walking, giving him no chance to break away, and gets straight to the point.

  ‘This Cat and Mouse of an Act to discharge the hunger-strikers until they are fit enough to take back is a mistake.’

  ‘It will save lives, Lady Masters. How can you declare that a mistake?’

  ‘Balderdash. Mr Asquith, for a man of your perception your vision appears worryingly short. The prisoner released may escape death in jail, but to keep on taking her back as she starts to recover will surely destroy her health and, in the end, take her life, even if she does not pass into the next world while actually in the government’s capable hands.’

  Mr Asquith stops and turns to face Mother. He is angry now, thinks Bea. His eyes are as hard as nails and his throat is flushed.

  ‘Lady Masters, are you suggesting we give in to the militants and their violence?’

  Mother remains wholly unruffled. ‘No, I am trying to point out that if the violence grows you will appear to give in to them. And peaceful means must win, Mr Asquith.’ She pauses in the centre of the room. ‘Have you seen this map? The first Sir William Masters united the world. I wonder what he would think of it now. I fear for this world once violence is seen to work – this century already feels heavy with physical anger. We are not so far from the barbarians ourselves, I think. And, in our case, barbarians wielding machines.’

  ‘Is there a trace of the Luddite in you, Lady Masters?’

  ‘Perhaps. The children I see across the street in the park remind me of men and their motors and mitrailleuses. Have you travelled, Mr Asquith?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Have you seen one of these before?’ Mother has stopped in front of a glass display case of feathered instruments. She opens the case and draws one out. It is about a foot long, one end looking like a razor-edged spoon ending in a point, the handle covered in red, green and yellow feathers.

  ‘No, I have not, Lady Masters.’

  ‘It is a tool used to gouge a man’s eyes out. It would be interesting in the National Gallery, don’t you think? Ah, not a flicker. Don’t worry, Mr Asquith, I am not about to take the eyes out of the nation’s statesmen. Neither in flesh nor portraiture.

  ‘Now hopefully there are a few more in the ballroom. Shall we return? For the tango? Ah, you have heard of that one. Mr Asquith, don’t look so horrified. I am teasing you. Now, look, you have a close colleague come to your rescue. The politician who turns down all honours offered.’

  As they enter the ballroom a slender, mild-mannered-looking man is fast approaching. His face is oval rather than long, soft around the jawline and cheeks. Above them glow the reddish hints of his remaining, greying hair.

  ‘Just the fellow,’ Mother says to him as he joins them, ‘though I sense your leader thinks he has well exercised the conversation. What a pleasure it is to see you. Mr McKenna, do you know my youngest daughter, Beatrice?’

  ‘I haven’t had the pleasure, Miss Masters.’ He bows to her.

  ‘Nor I.’ The words patter out as they have innumerable times before, without any connection to Bea’s brain, which feels as if a minor explosion has been set off in it. Where are this man’s horns, his claws? Where are Mother and the Prime Minister to save her? They have both dissolved into the crowd.

  ‘Is this not a terrific evening?’

  ‘Yes.’ Where is she to look? She can’t meet his gaze, she can’t stare at the floor. Avert your eyes shyly, girl, it comes to her. Slightly down and to the side.

  ‘Or do these social fripperies bore you? You have the air of a woman with more depth than that, Miss Masters.’ He knows, thinks Bea, he knows. He must have a list of everyone at Lauderdale Mansions. He must have a note of everything said there yesterday afternoon. Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Beatrice, she tells herself, but ridiculous is what this situation surely is. How can he not see it in her?

  ‘Are you,’ he continues, ‘a supporter of your mother’s cause? A good deal better than the other crew, don’t you think? But none of it, I must say, is much of a pleasure from my end of things.’

  Bea holds her breath as he speaks. Is this some subtle challenge, a way of warning her off what she is about to do? She composes herself, ready to deny even her name, and looks straight at him to find him smiling at her with such genuine kindness that she almost flushes again. It dawns on her both that he cannot possibly know, and that, for the first time this evening, she is being asked what interests her. Bea’s mouth opens but no words come out. Please, she thinks, go on talking, or something, anything. But thank God the orchestra strikes up a new tune. Surely he will go to dance with his wife. But he cannot, of course, leave Bea unless she is talking to somebody else.

  ‘Ah, a waltz,’ he says. ‘Now that I can do. I risk a loss of dignity were I to have a go at one of those new-fangled things. And Mrs McKenna appears otherwise engaged.’ He turns to his right and a young woman barely more than Clemmie’s age is fully engaged in steering what must be a delicate line in conversation between a society portraitist with a certain reputation and the Bishop of London.

  ‘May I have the pleasure, Miss Masters?’ Bea’s attention swings back to Mr McKenna. ‘I have heard that you dance beautifully.’

  Right now, Bea feels as if she must have at least two, if not three, left feet, but there is nothing she can do except nod and smile.

  He escorts her on to the dance floor. Why the waltz? She would rather have a dance where you don’t spend the entire time so clutched in the other’s arms that it used to be banned. But the waltz it is, and up against McKenna she is, in a mix of chiffon and wool and starch crushed between them. She wants to pull in every muscle of her body, make herself as taut as a fishing line, but the pair of them would be over like skittles if she did and, well, she doesn’t want ever to be seen dancing like a poker.

  He dances well, too. She didn’t expect that. But then, he’s been dancing for a long time. He spins her around gently. Not so as she gets that rush into her head when a cavalry officer is taking it fast. Still, her head fizzes. There’s only so many times you can be turned around before your balance threatens to leave you, that’s what she’s telling herself. Not that her head is spinning because she’s dancing with a gentleman whose home will tomorrow be burnt with her help.

  When the music stops, he beams at her and says, ‘Miss Masters, the rumours are true.’

  The compliment tightens itself around her throat.

  Before the band strikes up again, she is rescued by Edward, who swoops in announcing that he needs to steal his sister. Bea looks back as he whisks her away. Mr McKenna is still looking at her. He gives a little bow, and Bea feels her insides twist. Might she have warned him? But now it is too late. Much as it is always a delight to be rescued by Edward, Mr McKenna, thinks Bea, is utterly charming, and she feels a little bereft.

  Within seconds Edward has her surrounded by Edie and friends, quaffing ices at a supper table put up in the red drawing room. Edie has had more than the single glass of champagne that Miss Wolffe recommended to her pupils, and there is no sign of her husband.

  ‘Where’s Tony?’ Bea asks as she squashes on to the other half of her friend’s chair.

  ‘God knows,’ Edie replies. ‘I
have successfully lost my husband, and here’s to that.’ She raises a glass. ‘Somebody else swept me on to the dance floor hours ago and I haven’t seen Tony since. No doubt he’s on the balcony flirting with the debutantes, only you haven’t a balcony, have you? Well, it’s rather twee to wonder where one’s husband is, especially at a dance. I shall simply have to hope that he’s worrying about me, and hasn’t a clue who I’ve been dancing with. Chin-chin!’

  Bea wraps an arm around her friend’s back and squeezes it.

  Next to Edie is a rather beautiful young man, eyes as dark-ringed as Edward’s, and on the receiving end of much attention from Clemmie, who is on his far side, and has an expression on her face that manages to combine seriousness with amazement.

  ‘Bea-Bea, you must let me introduce Peter. He’s a friend of Edward’s. He has been telling us how he once played cards for forty-eight hours at a stretch! Tom says he simply wouldn’t last it, couldn’t stay awake for so long.’

  ‘I’ll be blowed if I ever have to,’ says Tom, who is sitting beside his wife. ‘Enough to drive a chap mad.’

  It is somewhere near four before Mother announces that their duties as hosts are over. Bea’s head is still ringing and she is unclear as to how the last few hours have passed. She has also waltzed, she thinks, with the newspaper baron and her neighbour at dinner. There has been a bunny hug, a grizzly, a turkey trot and the new foxtrot. The effect of the one or two extra glasses of champagne that Bea has sipped her way through over the past half-dozen hours is now fading and her feet are beginning to ache. A few guests linger, but Bea leaves them to Edward and sneaks upstairs, quite exhausted. Luckily her corset is easier to escape than pull tight. Bea unhooks her front, her eyes closing as her fingers work their way down what must be two dozen tiny hooks. She climbs into her bed. But as her head touches the pillow, she realises she cannot sleep.

  15

  WHEN GRACE COMES DOWN IN THE MORNING, IT LOOKS like a riot has passed through. Candlewax has hardened on to table tops and cigarette ends have been trodden into the boards. Ashtrays, where used, have overflowed and the debris of food and stained, crumpled napkins litter the rooms. Almost every surface is packed with glasses. The rooms stink. Several chimneys’ worth of cigars and the like have been smoked in here.

  It’s just as Susan, sitting upstairs with an ankle the size of a prize marrow, said. ‘It’s a rare sight; see what they really are, do you?’ Yes, thinks Grace, she can see. To clean a room is to take pride in it and now weeks of work, every stroke of her duster, all those elbow-pushes of polish have been swept aside in a few hours. As she looks around her, she wants to cry.

  It doesn’t help that it’s only six, an hour earlier than usual, even though none of the family, she’s been told, will appear before noon. The orchestra broke her sleep until four, waking her each time the music started up again after a pause. Not as though she could sleep; not with Mrs Wainwright’s words yesterday evening running through her head. Inventory, she said. Make sure what should be there, still is.

  Grace puts her tray down beside a regiment of glasses. All those ones half full, and more. And the cost of it, she’s heard, Lord knows why they pay all that. She picks up a glass and the liquid in it tilts from side to side. She sniffs it: it smells sweet, and rich, like those that drink it, Michael would say. She holds it up in front of her so that the daylight shines through. Does Miss Beatrice drink this, she wonders.

  Grace lowers the glass. She glances behind her. Then she raises the glass to her lips and, as she sips, the gas from the glass tickles the insides of her nostrils. Her sneezes splatter the liquid over her hands. She licks it. Nectar, yes. The room is still empty. She takes a swig now, and her mouth buzzes, her nostrils filling with gas again. She had expected alcohol to taste more bitter but this does not, and she’s thirsty, she’s had no breakfast, not even a cup of tea. As she drains the glass, she hears footsteps behind her and she swings round, forgetting to put the glass down first. It’s Mary, eyes wide open.

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Drink it.’

  ‘Drink what?’

  ‘The champagne. She’ll smell it on your breath, Mrs Wainwright. They’ll all smell it on you.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘They will.’

  ‘I didn’t drink it.’

  ‘You’re flushing. That’s the alcohol.’

  ‘I’m angry.’

  ‘Because I said you drank it? Well, you did. I saw the glass there. Right at your lips.’

  ‘I was smelling it.’

  ‘You wait, it’ll go to your head and you’ll knock something over. Don’t say I didn’t tell you.’ Mary leans in close. ‘I can smell it on you now.’

  Grace can smell it on herself, over her hands, cuffs even, where it splattered. But who’s to say she didn’t spill it? Who indeed? In any case, why should she care? She considers throwing a whole glass over herself, nobody would think she’d drunk some then. She laughs and the mess in this room seems bearable, the morning seems bearable.

  Grace is still smiling when Joseph appears. He passes her without looking and heads straight for the doors to the saloon.

  ‘Joseph,’ she says. ‘Good morning.’

  He slows and stops, swivelling around on his heels to face her.

  ‘Good morning, Grace,’ he replies. And smiles.

  Something gives in Grace. Part of her just falls away and she feels as full of tears as she feels full of herself.

  ‘Joseph,’ she says. ‘It’s not that … It’s really not that …’

  He looks back at her as though he doesn’t know what to think. So Grace finds her arm going forward, something in her pushing it out towards him. Joseph is as still as death. Then he walks over to her and puts a hand on each of her shoulders, looking like he might cry himself.

  ‘Do you mean that, Grace? Do you mean that?’

  Grace thinks she nods.

  They stop at twelve. Dinner, then they’ll have an hour after. Grace tells Mrs Wainwright that she’s not feeling well. You look a little pale, Grace, she says. Grace feels pale. The past two hours it’s felt like the ceiling’s coming down on her head. May she be excused dinner, she asks? She’d just like to put her feet up. No, she’s not hungry at all. Mrs Wainwright nods. But we can’t have this too often, she says. And I want you up again at two, we’ll be doing the inventory then.

  Inventory! thinks Grace, and her heart starts beating like soldiers on the march. Lord help her, all it’ll need is for somebody to check the books, and they’ll know. No matter that there’s more taken out; she’s no room for reason right now. All she can think of is a voice saying, ‘Mrs Wainwright, one’s missing,’ and she’s near ill with the thought.

  Grace runs upstairs. When she’s in her room she takes her overcoat out of her cupboard. She counts the minutes until they’ll all be at the table. Then she goes back down, soft as velvet on the wooden stairs, coat over her arm so it doesn’t look like she’s going out.

  Twenty minutes it’ll take her. Not even that if she walks fast. Hyde Park Corner, Belgrave Square, along a bit and into Elizabeth Street.

  It’ll still be there, won’t it, it hasn’t been so long now. Well, it has to be there, just as Grace has to get it back before Mrs Wainwright’s inventory. Grace can’t count on it, can she, Mrs Wainwright, and Lady Masters and the lot of them, thinking that a guest last night filled his pocket with an old book like that.

  If the bookseller recognises her, he hides it. Lets her stand there and explain the book she’s looking for. Signed copy. Does he have one?

  He hesitates, looks straight at her. Well, Grace looks straight back, doesn’t she. Then he walks over to a cabinet and takes a key out of his pocket. He brings back a book that looks the same as she can remember it, if she’s remembering quite right.

  ‘Careful now,’ he says, as she reaches out towards it.

  She picks it up and opens the front pages and sees the signature. It’s the same
book, and relief floods into Grace. Thank the Lord she hadn’t yet sent any of that five pounds home.

  Tucking it under her right arm, she reaches into her pocket with her left hand and brings out the five-pound note she’s been carrying with her. She puts it on the counter and turns to go.

  ‘Young lady,’ he says.

  ‘Yes,’ Grace replies over her shoulder.

  ‘I think you’ll find the door’s locked. Unless you have another twenty pounds to pay for that book.’

  16

  GOOD GOD, THE CLOCK ON BEA’S BEDSIDE TABLE SAYS noon. Bea thinks she can remember seeing it at six, seven, eight and nine this morning. But she must have slept better than that, for her mind is electric, not in the slightest tired, but it’s been like that since midnight.

  In her head she can see a freshly dark-oak panelled and wallpapered drawing room. The sweet-smiling Mrs McKenna, who can be barely a couple of years older than Bea, is arranging her ornaments and photographs, picking up each one and admiring it before placing it. She moves on to the pale sofa, where she straightens a couple of cushions that have fallen out of place and as she walks to the door she turns and surveys the room. She nods to herself and smiles.

  But the McKennas don’t live there yet. Forget about the drawing room, Bea, the place is half built, and not a soul in it. Still, there’s years of work put into it, of Mrs McKenna planning where the guests sleep, the children, how the main rooms should run into each other, but will not now. Oh, come on, put it out of your head, and think of what you are fighting for. And McKenna, last night he may have been a man as decent and kind as any other but this morning he’ll be signing a force-feeding warrant. And he’ll be ordering the release of one woman and the rearrest of another.

  Bea, don’t funk it. Don’t even think of it. Just think of those bruised necks, of Emmeline and what they’re doing to her now. He is a monster, you just couldn’t see it last night. And, and, even if he isn’t, then something, something, has to change, and this is simply the only way to do it.