We That Are Left (22 page)

‘I'm impressed by your intrepidity, Miss Shackleton,' Mr Cardoza said as the waiter poured the champagne. ‘I thought of sending a dog sleigh for you.'

‘I wish you had. The train was Arctic.'

‘I had to think of the dogs. The tundra is one thing, the New Forest quite another.'

‘You're not fond of the New Forest?'

‘Fond of it? I'm not at all convinced it exists. I don't believe in the country.'

Neither do I, Jessica thought. From the moment she had stepped out of the train into the smoky screech of Charing Cross Station she had felt thrillingly alive. The raw wind and the coal stink and the heaped-up banks of dirty snow had only exhilarated her further. She had walked along the Strand with a swing in her step, revelling in the honks of motor cars and omnibuses, the shriek of trains, the deafening clang of a speeding fire engine. Her mood had been so gay that she had even smiled at the blue-lipped soldier shivering outside the hotel with his wretched face and pinned-up sleeve, and dropped a sixpence into his tray of bootlaces. For all the luxurious hush of the Savoy Grill she could feel it still, the filthy relentless vitality of London coursing through her.

She did not say that to Mr Cardoza. ‘You mustn't say that,'
she admonished him. ‘Every time you say that, a little field dies.'

Mr Cardoza grinned. It flattered and unnerved her, the way he looked at her, his amused eyes holding her gaze. Boys of her own age snatched looks, their eyes ducking away from yours as though they had stolen something and were afraid of being caught. Also they stared at your breasts. Mr Cardoza did not ogle her. He just looked at her steadily, a smile playing on his lips, as if he could see inside her head and what he saw amused and delighted him. When he lifted his glass, smiling at her over the rim of his glass, she was tinglingly aware of the surface of her skin, the waxy weight of lipstick on her lips, the movement of breath in the back of her throat.

‘I don't believe in the country,' he said. ‘I don't believe in the country.'

‘Now look what you've done. That's the whole of the New Forest coated in tarmacadam.'

‘And without even breaking a sweat. If only the Irish were so efficient. Give me a week and you'll live in London without even having to move.'

‘You shouldn't make promises you can't keep.'

He laughed. ‘You don't have a place in town?'

‘We did. It's been sold.'

‘A pity.'

‘It's a disaster. Before the War, my mother would have lain down her life for that house. Now that she only cares for the Other Side, she wants to bury me alive in the country. When I die of boredom I shall haunt her relentlessly.'

‘So you don't believe in the country either?'

‘I want to live.'

‘Amen to that.'

After the precipitate departure of the Yorkshire Melvilles, Lettice had written to Eleanor. She had thanked her for her kind hospitality and begged her to know that Evelyn had every sympathy for their pain and distress.

If his words seemed monstrous it is only because the facts themselves are monsters. Evelyn is no more than their unhappy messenger. He has said again and again that he would not be in this position for all the world but, since what is done is done and cannot be undone, he must act as he has always acted, with honour. We can wish and wish but the truth remains the truth, however cruel and unjust, however bitter, as you, dear Eleanor, know only too well.

Eleanor read the letter in the morning room. When she had finished she tore it in half once and then again and dropped the fragments on the tea tray. It was easy enough to piece it back together.

Jessica posted her reply that afternoon. She said she was sure Lettice would understand that her mother was still too upset to write. Things had been very difficult for both of her parents in recent months and particularly for her mother, what with all the awful business with Mrs Waller. Without that comfort, without even the comfort of a grave to visit, it was not surprising that she had come to regard Ellinghurst as a kind of shrine.

However, Jessica could not help wondering whether, if Lettice were able to arrange an introduction to one of Sir Oliver Lodge's mediums in London, if Eleanor were once again able to make contact with Theo on the Other Side and with someone who could be trusted, it might help reconcile her just a little to a future without Ellinghurst. She did not want her mother to know she had written, of course, it should be Lettice's idea, that was the whole point, but if there was anything Lettice could do, it might help to repair a little of the damage. Certainly it could do no harm. The same afternoon, she telephoned a bookseller in Southampton and ordered a second-hand copy of
Raymond
for her mother.

It was easy enough to be first to the post. Her mother never came down before breakfast. She undid the string, careful not to tear the paper. The book was inscribed on the frontispiece:
With deepest sympathy, from Muriel
. Jessica took out the bookseller's
bill and put it in the fire. Taking the sketch of the sleeping man that Guy Cockayne had sent her from her pocket, she slipped it between the pages. Then carefully she tied up the parcel again and put it back with the rest of her mother's letters.

She refused to feel uneasy. Eleanor had given her no choice. She had no intention of lying, not directly. And it was hardly even a lie, was it, to create an atmosphere, an environment for belief? It was like a wild flower meadow. A farmer could offer the land but what grew there was a matter for the wind and the bumblebees and the nature of the soil. Eleanor would believe what she chose to believe. It was not a crime, to give a grieving mother hope.

It turned out that Eleanor already had the book. Her copy was fat with turned-down corners, the spine worn. Some of the pages were coming loose. She brought it down to the morning room, holding one next to the other, then opened the newer copy.

‘But I don't know a Muriel,' she said, frowning. She turned the pages but the sketch did not fall out. Jessica had to leave the room. She was afraid that if she stayed she would give herself away.

The next day the letter came from Cousin Lettice. Eleanor returned the letter and the book to her. It had never occurred to Jessica that Eleanor would presume the book was a gift from Lettice. For two days she was in despair. Then Lettice telephoned. She told Eleanor that she quite understood if she did not want an introduction to Sir Oliver, but that she did not like to be accused of buttering her up. Whoever had sent the book to Eleanor it was not Lettice.

She returned the book. This time, when Eleanor opened it, she found Guy's sketch. After that it was easy. Sir Oliver and Lady Lodge invited Eleanor and Jessica to lunch with them at their flat near Sloane Square, after which they would meet anonymously with a Mrs Leonard at her home in Maida Vale. Mrs Leonard, Sir Oliver explained, had been engaged exclusively for three months the previous year by the Society for
Psychical Research, during which time she had conducted sittings with seventy of their researchers. The resulting report had demonstrated solid and scientific evidence of spirit communication.

Jessica declined the luncheon invitation. She hoped that the Lodges would not think her rude, but, having given the matter consideration, she felt that Eleanor would find it easier to speak freely without her daughter present. Jessica would be happy enough entertaining herself at an art gallery or doing a little shopping. It meant she had to go to the sitting, of course. There was no way out of that. Without the sitting there was no reason to go to London and without going to London there was no possibility of lunch at the Savoy. Sometimes, when opportunities presented themselves, you had to seize them with both hands, however high the price.

Mr Cardoza leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled against his mouth, and smiled at her. She smiled back. Following the maître d' to their table, she had looked at the sleek men like seals and at their elegant, slender companions with their cigarettes and their ruinously expensive dresses, and she had wished she had not come. She had felt clumsy and provincial and about fourteen years old, a schoolgirl taken out by her uncle as a treat. She did not feel like a schoolgirl now. In the glow of champagne and cut-glass chandeliers and Gerald Cardoza's amused attentiveness, she scattered light like a diamond.

‘So let me guess,' he said. ‘I'm a school friend. No. An old governess.'

Jessica's smile flickered. ‘Do you have a hanky tucked in your sleeve and breath that smells of licorice?'

‘Or am I Victoria and Albert? I've the gravitas for royalty, don't you think? And I'm always happy to eat for two.' His smile was droll, teasing. Jessica frowned and took a sip of champagne. She had always hated being teased. The champagne went down the wrong way. She tried not to cough.

‘You're not suggesting I lied to my mother?' she said stiffly.

‘Didn't you?'

‘Of course not,' she lied.

‘So she allowed you to lunch with me? Without a chaperone?'

‘I'm not a child, Mr Cardoza. I do as I please.'

‘Is that so?'

‘It most certainly is.'

‘I see.' He smiled. It was plain that he did not believe her. ‘And what exactly do you please?'

‘Apart from champagne?'

‘Apart from that.'

‘I want you to give me a job,' she said. She had surprised him. The realisation emboldened her. ‘When we met at Mrs Carey's funeral you said your magazines for women were hopelessly old-fashioned. Maiden aunts, you called them. You said that it was time the old frumps were scared out of their stays.'

‘Did I indeed?'

‘You did.'

‘And what has that to do with you?'

‘I want to do some scaring.'

Mr Cardoza laughed. ‘You're not serious?'

‘Oh but I am. I am a very serious young woman.' She looked at him. ‘You're not suggesting I might have had another reason for lunching with you, are you?'

‘It never crossed my mind. So tell me, Miss Melville, what experience do you have of magazines?'

‘None whatsoever.'

‘How compelling.'

‘I thought that was the whole point. A completely new approach.'

‘I suspect it's not quite that simple.'

‘I'm a quick learner. And I would be fearfully grateful.'

His eyes flickered.

‘Truly,' she said softly, holding his gaze. ‘I would hardly know how to thank you.' She expected him to say something. Instead, he went on looking at her as though she were a
sculpture he was examining or an exhibit in a glass case. Then he picked up his drink and drained what was left.

‘Unfortunately I'm only the proprietor,' he said. ‘The editors choose their own people.'

‘But you employ the editors.'

‘In a manner of speaking, yes, but—'

‘So you could encourage them, couldn't you? If you wanted to. It's just I can't help thinking it might be rather fun. If I were here in London, and not stuck in the back of beyond.'

She leaned in towards him, her chin resting on the flat of her hand. Mr Cardoza went on studying her. He did not smile. There were yellow flecks like crystals of coffee sugar in his brown eyes. Everything about him was fixed, distinct, the broad lines of his jaw and brow, the squares of his fingernails, the deep creases in his cheeks and between his eyebrows. She thought of the gawky, self-consciously chivalrous Hampshire boys who could be manipulated like chess pieces and she knew she was playing with fire. Her skin prickled as she waited for him to lean closer, to say something she might not know how to answer. Instead, to her confusion, he laughed.

‘You know something, Miss Melville?' he said. ‘You may have the body of a pedigree Persian but your instincts are pure alley cat.'

Still laughing, he raised a hand to the waiter. Jessica was abruptly aware of the hum and rattle of the restaurant around them, the proximity of the other tables. She had the uneasy feeling that she had made a fool of herself. She stared at the tablecloth as she waited for Mr Cardoza to ask the waiter for the bill, to make some excuse about an appointment he had to keep. Instead, he asked for more champagne.

‘I'll be drunk,' she protested but he only smiled and held out a brimming saucer. She took it. Very lightly, almost by accident, he brushed the inside of her wrist with the back of his fingers.

‘A toast,' he said. ‘To the future.'

‘To the future,' she echoed, taking a sip. Her nose prickled with the fizz of it, her skin too. ‘Whatever it may hold.'

She was late. As she hurried up the steps the frigid air clung to her cheeks, thick with her own exhalations and the sour tang of fog. Beside the front door there were several bells, each one labelled with a number. She rang them all, one after the other. She could hear the music of them, somewhere inside the house.

A man opened the door. He wore a battered tweed jacket and a vague frown, half hidden by his spectacles.

‘Mrs Leonard?' she asked and he nodded and led her down a long, narrow hall that smelled of gravy and furniture polish and through a door at the end to a small parlour. Her mother was already there, standing at the window. The glass caught the reflection of her face, a pale oval floating like a moon against the grey sky. She did not turn around as Jessica unbuttoned her coat.

‘You're late,' she said.

‘Sorry.' Jessica sprawled in a chair. ‘No taxis.'

It might have been true. Since the War, Mr Cardoza said, taxis had been scarcer even than decent chocolate. In the confined space of a taxi cab the lines of him were even more definite. He sat with his legs apart, his gloved hands resting on his thighs as they made their way around Trafalgar Square and up the Mall towards Buckingham Palace. Jessica crossed
her legs away from him, her face turned towards the window, a warning not to touch that only heightened her awareness of the nearness of his upper arm, the light brush of the hem of his cashmere coat against the side of her knee. When the elderly engine coughed it jolted them both. Jessica held the strap above the door to stop herself from falling against him. She wondered what she would do if he tried to kiss her, and if he was wondering the same thing.