The Past and Other Lies (24 page)

As they left the station, crossed Kew Road and entered the gardens through Victoria Gate, the first black clouds began to gather and the sun dipped behind them. Bertha looked up at the sky and decided she could risk a comment about the weather.

‘I hope it doesn’t cloud over?’ she said, making it a question because she felt sure Mr Lake would hold some firm opinion on the matter.

‘I believe it already has,’ replied Mr Lake, keeping his eyes firmly on the path ahead, and Bertha felt foolish because obviously it had already clouded over, anyone could see that, and now he must think her a perfect idiot. She must be more definite in future. More alert.

Future? They were only going to be here for a couple of hours. Less if it rained.

‘I’ve never been to Kew before,’ she said, because she hadn’t and this was something he could not call into question.

‘Then you are in for a treat. Spring is always the best time to view the flowerbeds—the daffodils, the wisteria. Maybe early azalea and rhododendrons. Follow me!’ And he set off down another path with such long strides that Bertha had quite a job keeping up. I thought he said we would stroll, she thought to herself as they sped around the pond, whirled through the Rose Garden, dashed past the Azalea Garden and shot out into the Bamboo Garden, where Bertha had to pause to draw breath.

‘I need to sit down,’ she said, putting words to action and dropping herself and the Dorothy bag down onto the nearest wooden bench and resisting the temptation to pull off her shoes and rub her fast-blistering heels. She had an idea no man liked to see a lady pulling off her shoes and rubbing her blisters in public. She was beginning to realise she might possibly have worn the wrong shoes. However, it was too late to worry about such things and, as Mr Lake made to sit down beside her, she took the opportunity to enjoy the view.

They were sitting on Riverside Walk, their bench overlooking a tributary of the river. A signpost pointed towards the Herbarium, the Orangery and Kew Palace and Bridge, and in the other direction to Old Deer Park and Richmond. A large number of young, springtime couples strolled arm in arm along the river. The couples, she noticed, or at least the young men who formed one half of these couples, were dressed in light slacks and brightly coloured jerseys, or wide-legged Oxford bags. Some even wore plus-fours and tartan knee-length socks. Those who wore jackets wore them unbuttoned and showed a large quantity of jauntily coloured knitwear beneath. Aside from Mr Lake, there was not a single dark suit, fob watch, collar and tie or waistcoat to be seen.

Bertha sank lower on the bench lest someone should see them and take them for father and daughter. Why wasn’t he wearing a small, neat wristwatch? Why didn’t he at least undo his waistcoat?

It seemed inevitable that every passing couple must surely turn and stare and perhaps snigger but no, all the young people strolling past were far too engrossed in each other to notice the stuffy couple sitting silently on the bench staring at the river.

Mr Lake hitched up his trousers an inch, crossed his legs and moved the picnic basket, which was lying on the bench between them as a sort of barrier, one inch to the left and then one inch to the right.

‘And is that why you became an employee of the telephone exchange, Miss Flaxheed?’ he said, and for a moment Bertha was so baffled by this question that she offered no reply. Then she remembered the conversation about trains and communication.

‘Oh, no, I got a job there because my friend, Elsie Stephens, told me they were advertising. Elsie worked at Western Exchange at Kensington, and she transferred to West Western when it opened two years ago,’ Bertha explained. ‘I was working at the bakery in the high street before that. And before that at Hanson’s Shoes for Ladies in Ealing,’ she added, as though becoming a telephone operator was a natural progression.

Mr Lake nodded wisely and fell silent.

And was this to be the sum total of their conversation? Bertha wondered, panic-stricken. She ought to ask him why he was working at the post office yet this seemed impossible, like asking a vicar why he had become a vicar—you just didn’t. But she must say something.

‘And have you worked long at the post office, Mr Lake?’ she inquired, and on balance it seemed like a safe enough question: polite, not too intrusive, yet displaying a respectful interest in his affairs. She relaxed for a moment, not the least bit concerned with what answer he gave but relieved at having done her bit for the conversation.

‘Long enough,’ replied Mr Lake.

Surely he was going to say more than just that?

Then, ‘Shall we have tea?’ and Bertha nodded.

The small wicker basket was turned around, the buckles undone, the lid lifted and the first drops of rain began to fall. Mr Lake surveyed the contents of the picnic with a critical eye so that it occurred to Bertha someone had made it on his behalf.

The drops of rain quickened and became a fine spray that covered Mr Lake’s hat and collar and the sleeves of his coat in a shower of tiny glistening diamonds.

‘Sardine? Or ham and shrimp paste?’

‘Um...’ Bertha tried to think. ‘Sardine.’

She was carefully handed a square of soft white bread, the crusts cut off, containing between the slices a thick layer of mashed sardine.

‘Thank you,’ she said, waiting until Mr Lake had selected a sandwich for himself (ham and shrimp paste) and taken a bite. She took what she hoped was a dainty nibble and then, because this might look as though she disliked the look of the sandwich, and was being very rude, she took a second somewhat larger bite, and suddenly found her mouth quite full.

‘Well. This is very pleasant,’ declared Mr Lake, leaning back and dusting the raindrops from his left trouser leg.

‘Mmm.’ Bertha tried to swallow and nod at the same time.

They munched silently for a while, then Mr Lake delved into the basket and came out with two bottles and a little packet wrapped in brown paper.

‘Now, lemonade. And I have flapjacks, Bakewell tart or mother’s home-made gingerbread.’

Mother’s home-made? Did that mean his own mother had made it at home, or was it just a figure of speech? She couldn’t risk it.

‘The gingerbread, please.’

He smiled approvingly and handed her the packet from which she carefully selected a slice of moist, dark-gold gingerbread.

‘Mm, lovely,’ she said through a mouthful.

‘Yes. Although it’s really my Aunt Daisy’s recipe, and rumour has it she got it from a housekeeper who once worked in the kitchens at Windsor Castle.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

The rain had eased off and just as Bertha was thinking of looking skywards and commenting on the fact, it came down again in a sudden flurry that blew straight in under her hat and wet her face.

‘The rain. Perhaps we’d better...?’ she suggested.

‘We’ll head for the Palm House,’ agreed Mr Lake, getting up, repacking the basket and offering her his arm in such haste that Bertha had to jump up and grab her bag. She was still clutching the partially eaten gingerbread and she had to transfer it swiftly to her other hand in order to take his arm.

They scurried along the path in the direction indicated by the signpost as the rain became heavier and began to drip down the back of Bertha’s neck. Really, it’s rather romantic, she thought, stepping into a puddle, and losing half her slice of gingerbread. Mr Lake strode rapidly, his breath growing louder and heavier, the wicker basket banging against his legs. The sleeve of his jacket was cold and damp beneath her hand.

Ahead loomed the vast iron and curved glass structure of the Palm House. It was certainly magnificent, particularly as the rain was now driving down on them and the Palm House seemed to offer the only shelter. Making for the entrance, they eventually drew to a halt, Mr Lake grabbing the door handle and gallantly standing aside to usher her in.

Bertha stood, catching her breath, aware of a rush of moist hot air that clogged her lungs as Mr Lake came in after her, closing the misted glass door and shaking the raindrops from his collar.

The glass of the Palm House was completely fogged up so that she could see nothing of the outside. A narrow gravel aisle led down the centre and fenced off on either side were vast green leaves and stalks and tendrils that thrust upwards in a way that was almost claustrophobic. Half a dozen other couples, in various states of dampness, also stood around shaking off the rain and steaming gently.

‘This is exactly why I am not a postman,’ announced Mr Lake in a loud voice. Bertha smiled painfully at one or two of the young people who had turned to regard them.

‘Well, no harm done,’ she said, which was an appalling platitude; if Mr Lake was a younger version of Dad, then she was turning into her own mother. ‘Shall we walk?’ she suggested to smother this discomfiting thought and, boldly taking his arm, she set off down the aisle away from the crowd in the entrance.

They stepped in unison and the gravel crunched noisily beneath their feet so that they sounded like a whole platoon of guardsmen drilling. Above them the rain pattered down on the glass roof and on either side the foliage rose above them, each giant frond dripping with fat beads of moisture. The air was so thick that Bertha felt the need to draw more and more of it into her lungs to catch what little oxygen there was.

‘A bench!’ exclaimed Bertha, seeing a little seat up ahead and making a desperate bid for it, whereupon she sank down and fanned her face with her glove.

‘That’s better,’ said Mr Lake, settling himself down beside her. ‘Very pleasant,’ and he nodded approvingly at the array of orange and pink and white flowering orchids that surrounded them on three sides.

Bertha had never seen an orchid before. The heads of the flowers appeared to rear thirstily out of the foliage, their long tongues snaking towards her, sucking up what little air there was. They were monstrous. She hated them.

‘Did you ever consider the postal service, Miss Flaxheed?’

The question echoed noisily inside Bertha’s head.
Had
she ever considered the postal service? Well, yes, many times when she had had occasion to post a letter, but she felt sure this was not what Mr Lake meant.

‘There are a great many opportunities in the post office for young ladies, more so than teaching and nursing, I expect,’ continued Mr Lake, ‘and more so than the telephone exchange, I wouldn’t wonder. Not just counter service either—there’s telegraphy, sorting clerks, the savings bank.’

Bertha stared at him in some consternation. Had he brought her all the way here to offer her a position at the post office?

‘My dear old father was in the postal service, you see,’ he went on. Bertha nodded faintly. ‘Joined as a boy messenger in the sixties and in those days, well...’ And here Mr Lake paused to raise his eyebrows, shake his head and utter a loud ‘Hmmm!’ so that Bertha understood that being a boy messenger in the sixties was a decidedly dicey business. She bit her tongue rather than ask why. ‘No job for a respectable lad in those days, Miss Flaxheed, but I shan’t embarrass you by going into that.’

‘Oh no, I shouldn’t be embarrassed,’ Bertha assured him.

But Mr Lake would not be drawn on the matter. ‘He enlisted soon after. Royal Engineers. Fought in the Zulu War in ‘79, then when he left the army he became a postman. Auxiliary, though. Not what we class as an established position, you see. Very hard it was, for a man like my father.’

‘Yes, indeed it would be,’ agreed Bertha, though she had never met Mr Lake Senior, and therefore had no idea what this meant.

‘Fifteen years he did it, and they never did make him established. He reckoned it was on account of his being an ex-soldier. Employers didn’t like them, you see—thought they were trouble.’

He fell silent. Bertha waited in case there was a further revelation to come but a careful sideways glance at her escort showed that he had resumed his contemplation of the orchids.

Well! thought Bertha, not a peep out of him all afternoon and then a potted family history tumbles out of him all in a rush. She ventured a reply.

‘You forget, Mr Lake, that I
am
employed by the post office,’ she retorted boldly, because was she not a fully trained and experienced telephone operator at the West Western Telephone Exchange, and had not all the telephone companies come under the auspices of the General Post Office more than ten years ago? Mr Lake was not, she smiled to herself, quite so knowledgeable as he presumed to be.

He turned and looked at her in surprise and she saw that a bead of moisture had settled on the bridge of his nose.

‘Ah, you are referring to telephone communications which, I do concede, is now a part of the GPO. But it is, I am sure you will agree, merely a means of frivolous gossip for the wealthy minority.’

Bertha did not agree.

‘What about Dr Crippen?’ she retorted hotly.

Dr Crippen had been the first man to be arrested as a result of a wireless message from ship to shore, a fugitive from justice in transit in the Atlantic, no less! And what of the
Titanic?
Hundreds of passengers’ lives saved because of a wireless distress call!

But Mr Lake appeared unmoved by Dr Crippen and the
Titanic
.

‘Consider,’ he said, ‘there are some quarter of a million telephone subscribers, Miss Flaxheed—well, I need hardly tell
you
—compared to a population of some forty-two million. It will hardly replace the postal service as a means of doing business, I would venture. No, the future lies, Miss Flaxheed, with the postal service.’

Bertha pursed her lips and smothered a frown. The bead of moisture had travelled down to Mr Lake’s left nostril and he reached into a pocket, pulled out a large white handkerchief and wiped his nose.

‘I believe the rain has eased off. Shall we go?’ said Bertha, standing up abruptly and not waiting for a reply.

As she turned towards the exit she saw a rather nice-looking young man standing by himself a little way off near the door by which they had entered. She hadn’t noticed him before and wondered how long he had been standing there watching them, for watching them he most certainly was, and as Bertha caught his eye he gave her a smile. Quite a cheeky smile too, one that might just have been accompanied by a wink.