The Girl Below (12 page)

That was when I gave up on vacuuming, or any other sort of housework. Instead of cleaning Peggy’s flat I tried to clean myself in the decrepit bathroom. In place of a proper shower there was one of those hose devices that was meant to fit snugly over the bath taps, but instead sprayed water all over the bathroom. England was the only place I’d been where such devices were still in use—not only in use but overused and repaired, with duct tape and lengths of string. At least I wasn’t using it in winter when showering under it would lead to hypothermia.

By the time I had dressed, it was almost eight, and I made Peggy a cup of tea and knocked on her door. When there was no reply, I called out to her, “Peggy? It’s Suki. Are you awake?”

I thought I heard shuffling, and tentatively pushed open the door, but when I went in, her hospital bed was empty and she wasn’t in the room.

Back out in the hallway, I noticed a rattling sound from behind the door that had been wedged shut the night before, as though someone was trying to force it open from the other side, and by the time I got there Peggy had squeezed herself halfway out.

“Good morning,” she said. “I appear to be stuck.”

“Let me help you.” With a little undignified shoving and pulling, I got her through. Once she was out, I tried to open the door all the way, but it was still stuck. “Is there a wedge under the door?”

“A wedge?” she said, quite bewildered. “Whatever do you mean?” Her hair was wrapped in a turban, and a pink satin bathrobe fishtailed behind her—the 1930s movie star, waiting for her lover to drop round for cocktails and barbiturates. She saw the cup of tea I was carrying and brightened. “Is that for me? How lovely.”

I took her by the arm, and sat her down in a nearby chair, where she gulped her tea and asked for another, “With a spoon or two of sugar.” At the end of that cup, she said, “One more. I don’t quite feel strong enough to get up just yet.”

I was amazed that she could get up at all. Only a few months earlier she’d been on her deathbed, written off by her own nurse. Since then she’d filled out, and no longer resembled a living skeleton. But it was only after her third cup of tea that she finally revived enough to really notice me. Then she said, “Oh, you’re not Amanda.”

“No, I’m Suki. I came to visit you a few months ago. I used to live downstairs with my parents—Hillary and Ludo.”

“Why are you here?” she said, as though she hadn’t heard me.

“I’m going to help you for a bit while Amanda’s away. She’s coming in later to say good-bye.”

“Forty years on my own, I think I can go to the lavatory by myself. What did you say your name was?”

“Suki. Suki Piper.”

“Aha,” she exclaimed. “I knew your sister. She wore little pink glasses and was always dancing. Do you know she came to stay with us once and wet the bed?”

“I think you’re talking about me,” I said. “I don’t have a sister.”

Her face fell. “Oh dear. I’m so sorry. I just remembered what happened to her.” She took my hand. “Forgive me.”

“Forgive you for what?”

“I forgot your sister died of cancer.”

“She didn’t. But my mother did. Hillary.”

“Hillary had cancer?” She looked confused. “But I saw her a few months ago and she was fine.”

“That was me too, not Hillary.”

Peggy stared for a moment at the stuffed birds in their cage. One was hanging upside down from the perch, its feet bound by twine. “I think I might need an extra cup of tea this morning,” she said.

I was relieved to discover that I had only to escort Peggy to the door of the lavatory, but she insisted on going in alone. To conserve energy, she spent most of her time in a wheelchair, but could walk short distances when it suited her. At half past ten I found her in the kitchen, answering the siren call of her midmorning whiskey. The liquor brought a splash of color to her cheeks, and contrary to what I’d expected, she was much more lucid afterward. “This is our little secret, you hear?” she said, stashing the bottle in an old-fashioned flour bin. “It’s almost all gone, but I shall send you out later to replenish our stores.”

I did not appear to have a say in the matter. Soon after, Pippa arrived amid a bustle of plastic shopping bags, and put away groceries on low shelves where Peggy could reach them—cans of soup, mainly, plus a few packets of mouse-colored biscuits. Mother and daughter air-kissed on both cheeks, their skin not actually touching. Pippa had dyed her hair, I noticed, as did Peggy, who grabbed a swatch of it. “It looks a little brassy,” she said. “Did you do it yourself?”

“Mmm-hmm,” said Pippa, noncommittal.

“It’s the wrong shade for your complexion. Brings out the red in your face.” Peggy puffed out her cheeks to demonstrate. “You must always go to a salon. I have told you this before.”

“Thank you,” said Pippa, straining to be courteous. “Remind me to consult you next time.” She noticed that her mother’s cardigan was fastened incorrectly, and rebuttoned it while Peggy huffed discontentedly. In a schoolteacher voice Pippa added, “Why doesn’t Suki wheel you into the drawing room while I make us all morning tea? You can show her your photographs.”

At the mention of photographs, Peggy perked up. “Don’t push too fast, or it makes me feel giddy,” she said as I steered her out into the hallway. The wheelchair slid easily along the tiled floor, and it was an effort to slow the pace to one that suited Peggy. “I’ve always imagined having a wallah to do this,” she announced as we reached the end of the hall. “Like the maharajahs did in India. I don’t think they minded at all, the wallahs. In fact, I think they rather enjoyed it. So much better to be civilized than living in the jungle eating bananas, don’t you agree?”

She was too old to be dissuaded from her colonial fantasies, so I opted to play along. “Where to now, memsahib?”

She pointed to the far wall. “Over there.”

I had been in the drawing room dozens of times but had never scrutinized the wall of photographs directly opposite Madeline, probably because Madeline herself had always distracted me from doing so. “Did you get rid of the statue?” I asked, hopefully.

“Get rid of Madeline?” said Peggy, outraged that I had even asked. “Of course not. She’s like a daughter to me.” She had stopped in front of a photograph of herself in a feathered headdress looking young and haughty, a small, impish boy trying to climb up her leg. “You remember dearest Harold, don’t you?” she said. “Such a sweet little boy. Liked to hang around backstage, waiting for Mummy to finish.” She pulled me closer to the photo so I could get a better look, then pointed to another picture of Harold in a suit and graduation gown. “So terribly bright. Do you know he graduated from Cambridge with a first class honors? Isn’t he handsome?”

I nodded, though I didn’t agree. Harold had shadowy, deep-set eyes, and his mouth was soured by a sneering expression. “I didn’t know you were an actress,” I said.

“Oh yes,” she said, sweeping her arm over the entire wall. “As you can see, I worked with all the greats. It was a marvelous time. Of course, they’re all dead now. And I’m almost there.”

Most of the photographs were black-and-white studio poses, with autographs scrawled across them, and there was only one other shot of Peggy, standing next to a short, dapper man.

“Is that Harold and Pippa’s dad?” I asked, recalling that their father had been an actor.

“Heavens, no! Their father was a scoundrel. You won’t find any photos of him here. I burned every single one.” Peggy stroked her finger across the photograph glass. “That’s Laurie,” she said, swooning at his name. “He
should
have been their father but he died.”

The man in the photo was intriguingly effeminate, with kind, amused eyes, and he and Peggy looked to be sharing a joke. I asked if he had died in the war, but Peggy ignored my question.

“You can stop gawking now.” She pushed off from the wall, obliging me to follow the wheelchair as it careened in the opposite direction. “I should like to sit by the window.”

On our way past the chaise longues, I examined the dark patch of wood where Madeline’s dais had stood. Long scratch marks on one side showed the direction she’d been dragged in but the marks stopped abruptly, as though she had been lifted up off the floor.

As we neared the windows, Peggy’s reptilian hand gripped my arm. “Ahh, Hillary, I do so love the sun! What a gorgeous day.” She nodded her head around the room, surveying her kingdom. “Tell Pippa to brew the tea for longer. She always makes it too weak.”

Pippa appeared in the doorway with tea and biscuits, a formal arrangement on a tray. “Last time you said it was too strong.”

“Well, it was,” said Peggy, surveying the tray. “Is that shortbread?”

“Yes.”

“You know I don’t eat biscuits.”

“So don’t eat any.” Pippa poured a splash of milk into each of three teacups.

“I prefer not to have things like that in the house.”

“You don’t normally have
any
food in the house, Mummy. Only grog.”

“Not anymore,” said Peggy. “You won’t let me.”

Pippa sighed. “And I’m sure you’ve found ways to get around that.”

Peggy shot her an indignant look. “Just what are you implying?”

“Nothing, Mummy, nothing at all.”

For half a minute, everyone sipped tea as starchily as ladies in an Edwardian costume drama. The sun obliged our charade and added its summery warmth, but it was too bright for Peggy and she held her hand up to her face.

“Hillary, do be a darling and fetch my sunglasses,” she said to me, an order, not a request. “They’re in my room, on the dresser, I should think.”

I stood up to obey. “The room you got stuck in this morning?”

“I believe I said, ‘in
my
room,’ didn’t I?”

“You did.”

“Stop it, Mummy,” said Pippa. “She isn’t your servant.”

They continued to bicker as I left the drawing room. In the hallway, I came to the door of Peggy’s room—her original bedroom—and tried to push it open but met with the same resistance I had the night before. I was bigger than Peggy and wasn’t sure if I’d be able to squeeze through the gap, so I pushed a little harder to see if the door would give way. Inch by inch, whatever was behind the door slowly moved, until the gap was wide enough for me to fit through.

The room was dark, unnaturally so for such a bright day, and I stood still, just inside the door, while my eyes adjusted. I didn’t think I’d ever been into Peggy’s real bedroom before, and it was both larger and messier than I expected. Clothes and shoes sprouted from every piece of furniture and lolled about on the floor—not really clothes at all, I saw on closer inspection, but costumes: piles of slippery silk and feathers and winking diamantes. No wonder I had never been allowed in here as a child—it was little-girl heaven, a giant dress-up box filled with vintage treasures. I would have broken things, accidentally on purpose, just like I had ruined my mother’s treasured locket.

So overwhelmed was I by all the finery that I forgot to look behind the door to see what had been blocking it, and when I finally did look, I wished that I hadn’t. There was Madeline, parked next to the bed, kneeling beside it, in fact, close enough to be petted by whoever was sleeping there. Her granite head was being used as a hat stand, and a satin undergarment was draped from her shoulder, but the indignity made her no less menacing. I should have guessed it would be her behind the door, but instead I felt ambushed, as though Madeline had won the first round in a blindfolded parlor game.

In different circumstances, I would have taken hours to find the sunglasses, handling as many gowns as possible along the way. But with Madeline watching, my hands were paddles, swiping blindly at things and sending piles of necklaces and garter belts flying in all directions. I was so flustered that after a time I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for, and had displaced so many of Peggy’s things that it looked like the dresser had been savaged by a dog. Finally, I saw a pair of ridiculous sunglasses—huge and round, like dinner plates—poking out from the top drawer, and I grabbed them in my shaking hands and fled.

Out in the hallway afterward, my reaction at seeing Madeline seemed about as credible as being strangled by a psychotic feather boa, and I recovered almost as soon as the door was shut. I’d had a panic attack; that was all.

“You took your time,” said Peggy when I returned. “But I suppose a little snooping won’t hurt anyone.”

Pippa laughed. “She wasn’t snooping—have you seen the state of your room? I’m surprised she found anything in there. I’m surprised you can even find the bed.”

Their sniping sounded gentler than it had when I’d left, and I guessed a truce between them had been reached. Either that or they’d worn each other out. I handed Peggy her sunglasses, which obscured most of her face and made an indentation on her papery cheeks. She looked glamorous though too, a skeletal version of Jackie O in her Greek phase.

“You look ready for our bon voyage now,” said Pippa.

“I don’t know why you’re so excited,” said Peggy, looking out over the top of her sunglasses. “It’s one of the lesser Greek islands.”

“Which means it’s unspoiled.” Pippa wiped a dribble of tea from her mother’s chin. “You’ll absolutely love it. Ari’s family can’t wait to make a fuss over you.”

“What makes you think they won’t put me to work in the taverna like the rest of you?”

“We’ll only be working some of the time,” said Pippa. “The rest is a holiday.”

“And what if I get sick again?” Peggy’s mouth turned down at the corners. “I don’t suppose they have proper medical facilities.”

“Don’t be so morbid. It’s the middle of summer.” Pippa wiped a finger of dust off the windowsill. “It’ll do you good to get away from your museum.”

“Harold will look after me. I’ll ring him tonight in Australia.”

“Canada, Mother. He lives in Toronto, remember?”

“Well, they’re both part of the Commonwealth,” said Peggy. “And there’s no need to shout.” She tried to take a sip from her cup, but it slid out of her hand and smashed on the floor in a pool of milky tea. At the calamity, Peggy started, and Pippa put out a hand to steady her.