The Lost Life (13 page)

‘Yes.’ Catherine cannot conceive of how anything could get back to her friend, but she can also see that
Miss Hale is in no condition to receive such assurances, and so lets it pass. She is thinking and talking the way people do when they’ve got themselves in a state. And so, while one part of Catherine is nodding and saying yes, another part recognises that Miss Hale is in a state and that what seems perfectly reasonable to her (this insistence that the letter be hand-delivered) isn’t quite adding up. And although this sceptical side of Catherine will surface with greater clarity later on, at this particular moment it is Miss Hale’s state of mind that preoccupies her. The distinct possibility that Miss Hale has got herself worked up and is not thinking things through clearly is pushed aside for now. For Catherine is one of Miss Hale’s girls, and this is no time for quibbles or lessons in logic. Like the age itself, it is a time for taking sides.

‘Yes,’ Miss Hale hums, as if to say she chooses her girls well. ‘I believe you do,’ she continues. ‘Besides, they would stamp the letter at the post office, and this woman will then know where it came from, and then where she may possibly find her husband. And he, of course, poor man, does not
want
to be found. That is the last thing he wants, and if I were to bring it upon him I would never forgive myself — whatever words of forgiveness he may
offer.’ She stops abruptly, as if the last words have been wrung from her. ‘So you see it must be delivered by hand. She may have her suspicions as to where he may be found — and in whose company — in among the many towns in this popular spot, but suspicions and knowledge are two separate things.’ Miss Hale stares out the window a moment. ‘You may also be wondering why I don’t go myself. That, however, would be to reveal myself,’ and there is, to Catherine, more than a hint of someone tired of being in the shadows because she can’t reveal herself, tired of being the woman no one speaks of because she’s not here, tired of the game. ‘Besides,’ she goes on, ‘sometimes things are best said in letters. People can get in the way.’ She looks down at the letter in her hands. ‘You will knock on the door. If she is not in, speak with Janes.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘He’s the servant. Have you got that?’

‘And if she is in?’

‘Then, if you can, bring her reply back with you. Though I don’t hold out much hope. Still, it must be tried. Heaven only knows, we must try.’

There is a long pause and Miss Hale, whose carriage is always upright, especially when seated,
slumps a little in her chair, as if to say that this whole wretched business is completely beneath her, beneath Catherine, beneath anybody with any sense of dignity, which, it is implied, the woman for whom the letter is intended clearly lacks.

‘You may accept or decline, the choice is yours.’

‘I’ll do it,’ Catherine says, in a manner that suggests she thought it was already decided and was never in doubt.

‘You don’t need to think it over?’

‘No.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Positive.’

The relief is immediately evident on Miss Hale’s face. ‘Thank you, Catherine. Thank you. You have my gratitude.’ And, just in case Catherine does not understand the significance of this, she adds: ‘And, Catherine, I do not give my gratitude lightly.’ She nods firmly, as if to say that with her gratitude comes her word, and with her word … everything. She then passes the letter to Catherine who notices immediately that the address on the envelope is the same she noticed in the letter this morning — the address to which T.S. Eliot should return, which is his home, and which he abandoned.

‘You will need to go to London,’ Miss Hale informs her, her voice matter-of-fact. ‘Can you leave first thing in the morning?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve no appointments?’

‘Appointments? Of course not.’

‘You’ll be gone the whole day.’

Catherine nods.

‘What will you tell your mother?’

‘I’ll think of something.’

‘Remember, not a word of this.’

‘Not a word.’

Miss Hale then hands Catherine a second sheet of paper. It contains, Catherine sees immediately, a map and instructions. She will, Miss Hale informs her, need to travel to Paddington Station (adding that Catherine has more than likely made the trip before and probably doesn’t need to be told). ‘At Paddington you take the Underground. If you get confused, ask someone. You must take the Inner Circle, Catherine. The Inner Circle. And you get off at Baker Street. The map will guide you from there. It is walking distance. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you need me to explain it again?’

‘No, it is perfectly clear.’

Miss Hale gazes at her steadily for a moment, then nods. A nod that once more suggests that she, Miss Hale, chooses her girls well. And it is then that Miss Hale’s tone changes completely, almost as though a thought has just occurred to her. ‘Your young man leaves soon, does he not?’

‘Yes.’

Miss Hale smiles faintly. ‘When the days are few, the days are important.’ She glances quickly in Catherine’s direction. ‘Perhaps we can find a way to make up for the lost time.’

Catherine can’t imagine what she means, but replies, ‘That’s not necessary.’

‘Naturally, I will pay for your tickets and any expenses.’ She then hands over what Catherine knows is more than enough money. And there is also an unstated recognition, that, with money passing from one hand to another, with the exchange of notes, a contract has been sealed, and Catherine has the distinct sensation of becoming — what do they call it? — a hired hand. For the money brings with it a certain grubbiness. And, as Catherine registers this sensation herself, she sees in the eyes of Miss Hale the same thought, and with it
the sentiment that the whole grubby business is beneath them both.

What Catherine didn’t tell Miss Hale was that she had, in fact, never been to London. In their travels together, from city to town, in the different places her mother had taught and to which she had been taken, she had never been to London. In accepting the responsibility of delivering the letter, she had no intention of saddling Miss Hale with the concern, and possibly guilt, of knowing that her messenger had never been to the place to which she was required to go. It was also a matter of pride. For Catherine had long prided herself on being an independent spirit, and to decline Miss Hale’s request out of sheer faint-heartedness went completely against the grain. Besides, she had the instructions and a map. The getting there would not be difficult. The difficulties, she feared, would begin
when
she got there.

She told her mother that evening that she would be gone the whole of the next day. Her mother asked where and Catherine told her.

‘London? But, you’ve never been there.’

‘Well then, it’s time I went.’

When her mother asked why, Catherine lied (one of the few times she had ever lied to her mother) with a clear conscience. She mumbled something about books. Books she had to have, but which, unfortunately, could not be obtained locally. And so she had to go. ‘Besides,’ and here she managed a smile, ‘it really is time I saw Foyles.’

But Catherine was a bad liar (for which she had always inwardly complimented herself) and her mother wasn’t smiling back. Catherine may have lied with a clear conscience, but she had lied badly and her mother saw it was a lie straight away, and Catherine saw that she saw. She also saw her mother giving her the quick once-over, belly, face and eyes, and Catherine knew what her mother was thinking, or at least the possibility that she was entertaining. Her mother, she felt sure, was remembering the grass stain on her dress the week before and wondering just how long this sort of behaviour had been going on, and equating grass stains with sudden trips to London (for the flimsiest of reasons) and coming up with the inevitable conclusion. Just to set the record straight, for the sake of her own reputation and to
sooth her mother’s anxieties, she was about to correct what, she felt sure, was the conclusion her mother had reached. But then she stopped herself, for she also realised that to do so would necessitate a conversation that would inevitably lead right back to the very question she wished to avoid: namely, why she was going to London. So she let it be.

To Daniel, a little while later, she simply told the truth — and insisted, upon pain of death (which she would personally administer), that he never tell a soul. Had she read the letter? This was Daniel’s immediate question. Of course not! Did she know what was in it? No, she explained, she didn’t. Miss Hale had not chosen to tell her — it was, she assumed, personal — and Catherine had not sought to know. It was, Catherine explained, a matter of trust. No, Daniel corrected her, it was a matter of common sense. The letter could say anything and she could, quite conceivably, be drawn into a messy, if not nasty, situation. But that, Catherine replied resolutely, was all part of the trust. She might have mentioned the tobacco tin, the guilt, her subsequent unquestioning acceptance of Miss Hale’s request (and that it was all
his
fault, anyway), but didn’t.

Now, in the all but deserted high street, Catherine kisses Daniel on the cheek, almost a peck, almost, she notes, in the way that Miss Hale might kiss her friend, or her friend Miss Hale. She has, she says with an apologetic grin, things on her mind, to which Daniel replies that he prefers her when she has only one thing on her mind. With a bigger grin on her face, she leaves, arranging the time and place that they will meet when she returns. And, as she goes, she is pleased to see concern in his eyes — concern that she might have got herself into something just a little over her head. But he also knows that she prides herself on her independent ways, and so he leaves his concern in his eyes where she can read it without need of speech or reply.

Nonetheless, when Catherine falls onto her bed she can’t rest, let alone sleep. She can’t rest because she knows Daniel is right and she is pronouncing herself a fool for ever agreeing to Miss Hale’s request. She doesn’t want to go. She’d do just about anything rather than go. And as soon as she fully registers her response to being dragged into something she’d rather have nothing to do with, anger rises up in her. Anger at herself. Anger at Daniel. And yes, anger at Miss Hale for ever asking
her in the first place. She, Catherine, would never ask this of anybody, she feels sure. For that would be to take advantage of someone’s affections. And one doesn’t take advantage of someone’s affections because that’s how one loses them. But Miss Hale has, and perhaps underlying the whole episode is the assumption on Miss Hale’s part that Catherine’s affections aren’t worth much. And the moment she thinks this, she decides she will not go. Miss Hale can do her own dirty work. Not Catherine. And if Miss Hale doesn’t like this, she can go and jump in the nearest river with rocks in her pockets! It is a rotten feeling. Rotten! And the best way to get rid of the rotten feeling is to just not go. It’s too much and Miss Hale had no right to ask. But the moment she thinks of not going, she remembers Miss Hale’s eyes that morning. She remembers her whole manner — that of a desperate woman who wasn’t thinking rationally any more but didn’t realise it. Desperate enough to ask a virtual stranger to do this, and, in so doing, open up her most private self to scrutiny. She can’t go. She must go. She’ll go.

Paddington Station, she notes as she gets off the train the next morning, is not nearly as ugly as everyone has said it is, and does not, as someone famous once said, resemble hell at all. She likes the smoke and the noise and the people. She’s put in mind of French impressionist paintings, of stations with exotic names and steam engines and mist. It doesn’t exactly look like that, but she’s got no doubt that a good painter could make it look like that. But she also knows there’s no time for this type of dreamy thinking. There’s a job to be done, and the sooner the better.

The signs to the Underground are easy and a holiday mood comes over her. But as she descends, the place takes on a vague resemblance not so much of hell as another world, and a faintly alarming one of shadows and dark figures. You must take the Inner Circle, Catherine. The Inner Circle. Miss Hale’s words go round and round in her head as she scans a large map showing her all the lines and all the stations in the city, and, as her fingers follow the line from Paddington to Baker Street, such a short distance, two stops, she smiles faintly at the simplicity of it all. Why do they make such a fuss? Feeling as though she’s lived here all her life rather than having just arrived, Catherine heads for her platform.