When Nights Were Cold (25 page)

‘I can't see your face.' His voice was thick. But I saw his, clearly now. Then, like a blind man, he ran his fingertips over my face, my neck, the loose strands of hair under my shawl. ‘Are you too cold? We can go back.'

I rubbed my nose against his. ‘I'm not cold enough,' I said.

Ah, the cold. Frank, I remember your fingertips, the soft skin between the knuckle and the nail, the way you kneaded my spine. I had forgotten but your hands were often speckled with oil paint, green, mauve and blue. I liked to rub at it with my fingernail.

Scott and his men were dead. It was on the front of every newspaper. I spread the pages out on the dining-room table and read them all thoroughly, though the information was more or less the same in each. It happened just as I had imagined it, as Frank and I had played it by the fire. Three of them, including Captain Scott, stayed in the tent and died there. Titus Oates had left them and died outside in the blizzard. They had fought for the Pole, found that they had lost it, then lost their lives. They had been dead for months. I sat in the garden for an hour, let the cold breeze nibble at my skin. Oates's death made me think of Hooper, weakened and lonely. I never cared much for Scott, out of some sense that he belonged to my father whereas I had Shackleton, but now I cried for him.

I thought again of my night on the mountain when I had become separated from the others and fell. I remembered the strange feeling of being alone with the whole universe, somewhere before birth and after death, and yet alive. It was distant, now, and strange to me, as I had come to think of the whole journey as a prelude to Hooper's death, but it was not like that at the time and need not have ended as it did. I thought of Parr and her odd way of being our captain. I wondered how Scott and his men had spoken to each other in the final hours, if they had spoken. As I asked myself these questions, Hooper fell and fell, turning, falling further, shrinking up so tiny that she never had to stop.

‘More rest, Mrs Farringdon, and if you feel strong enough a stroll in the garden once a day but no more. I'll give you a stronger dose for the pain.'

I was outside my mother's room. The door was an inch or two ajar and I could see Dr Sowerby standing over the bed, waving his long, black-sleeved arms around.

‘There's something else. I'm worried that my daughter has lost her mind. She no longer takes proper care of me and seems to live in a dream. There has been much tragedy, of course, losing her father and so on, but she is behaving in a very odd manner. And now I worry that she's going to try and sell the house with me in it.'

I stepped back a little so that they could not see me. I had thought that she meant Catherine, of course, until she mentioned the house. Surely Catherine had not also thought of selling.

‘I'm sure she could not do that.'

‘And there are rumours about her –
behaviour.
The servants were gossiping over the garden fence and I heard it all. It was shocking. She seems to be meeting somebody in secret, a man I presume.'

‘I had better examine her.'

‘I don't want to frighten her, but I worry about the future. If the servants and neighbours are going to talk and what with all the discussion in the newspapers and everybody knowing that she was mountaineering without my knowledge . . . You must be able to prescribe something that would quieten her a little, knock the edges off.'

‘If she is suffering a mental disorder, then there are treatments that we might consider but she must see a specialist. A good spell in hospital would certainly be in order. I must say, she struck me as being rather agitated when I last spoke to her.'

‘Oh, I hope it will not mean a sanatorium, not for long. I need someone to look after me and we've only got one servant now, but I fear I have lost her anyway.'

‘Is your daughter here?'

‘I expect she is in the attic being strange. She takes food up there and I hear her bleating away. She was very disturbed after the mountaineering accident and that in itself was a sign that she was already . . . I mean, she is mad, isn't she?'

‘I couldn't say without a full examination.'

‘No, but now that I think of it, she has been going to pieces for years. Her sister is not much better, but she is a quiet girl who will always find things to do in the home and take flowers to the family graves, so I put up with her. Grace is altogether more alarming. She has a look sometimes, as though she resents me, wants to hurt me, but I'm her mother. It's distressing. It must come from her father's side. His sister was never quite right. I wanted Grace to stay here and help me but if she's determined not to do it, I think it might be better if . . .'

Dr Sowerby came towards the door so I swung back into the alcove on the landing.

‘Your older daughter is quiet but has always been so, hasn't she? A docile girl. She is probably affected by her over-excited sister returning with all her demons. I'll come tomorrow morning, so be sure that Grace is here.'

He shuffled downstairs with his bag in his hand, and did not notice me. I packed a few clothes into a suitcase, then added my mountaineering clothes and tent. Parr's broken axe was too long to go in so I wrapped it in a cloth and fixed it to the side of the case with a leather strap. I hurried to the station.

But there is somebody in the kitchen and he – I do not know why but I am sure it is a
he
– has been quiet for some half an hour.

Hello out there. Hello?

Nothing but the drip of the kitchen tap. Yet, if I listen closely, perhaps I can hear something more, a rustle and swish, like somebody turning the pages of a newspaper. If it is the man who jumped over the fence, I could speak to him without telling him anything. I could trust myself to do that, I think. I wonder if I dare ask for a little company in this lonely night.

Chapter Twenty-One

‘Grace, this is not the answer.' Frank passed me a towel and called for his housekeeper to bring me tea. My clothes were damp from the rain and I moved closer to the fire. The room was small, packed tight with overflowing bookcases, and smelled of wet sheep. The smell, I realized, came from my woollen shawl. I let it drop to the floor and kicked it under the chair.

‘I had no choice.'

‘You've the rest of your life to consider. I won't be responsible for ruining you.'

‘Ruining me?' As soon as Frank had opened the door, I knew it was a mistake to have come. He had looked down the hall and stairs before letting me into his flat, as though it would be shameful for his neighbours to see me.

‘You can stay here tonight, for a few nights if you like, but . . . Have your family discovered the nature of our relationship?'

‘No, no. At least, they don't know that it's you.' I ran the corner of the towel between my fingers. I was tired, wet and had to think of something to make him my Frank again. ‘I thought we would go away together. You said . . .' I tried to kick my suitcase away from him so he would not see that I had brought the ice axe.

‘My dear.' He managed a tight smile, still standing before me. ‘One day we shall go away together but I can hardly drop everything and go tomorrow, can I? I'm just beginning my career. I have no money yet. Look how small my rooms are. Look around you.'

His flat was small but very clean and cosy with books and furniture that gave it the mood of an old library. I would have loved such a place.

‘No, of course not. I didn't expect that you could leave immediately but—'

‘And I didn't expect you to come here. Really, Grace, not when you can be safe at your mamma's house.'

I said nothing.

‘You really think she'd let the doctors put you in an asylum? I can't believe it. You must have misheard, or she spoke in a moment of haste. You just have to tell the doctor that you are perfectly well and there is no need for any treatment. He will say that he's glad to hear it and that will be the end of the matter. Grace, I do love you and we'll think of something but, for now, please go home. They don't know you're here, do they?'

I shook my head. ‘It was a little hasty, I know, but if you had heard him—'

‘So it's going to be the devil of a mess. Perhaps we'll get married one day, but these are not the circumstances in which to make that decision. And, to be honest, I'm rather alarmed by you myself.'

‘I wasn't thinking of marriage, just that I could stay here for a while until – I don't know.'

‘You haven't given it any thought. How will it look that you just ran off? How will I look? You're giving them grounds for saying that you're mad. Do you understand? You must see reason and go home now, my Grace. If you don't, you may prove that they were right.'

‘Of course.' I tried to smile. ‘I'm sorry I troubled you.' I blinked back tears and the overwhelming knowledge that Frank did not want me here.

‘Look, I have something for you.' He went to his bookcase and took a volume from the top shelf. ‘I saw this in the shop and thought of you immediately. I was going to bring it the next time I came to your house but you may as well have it now.'

I took the book. I just had time to imagine what it could have been, the tales, maps, poems, stories that Frank might have thought the perfect gift for me.

It was a textbook for learning Pitman's shorthand.

‘I thought that you could study it on your own. You're not going to teach but you need to work and this will give you your way in. Then you can stay with your family but have some routine and a little income and you'll soon be back on the right path.'

I flicked through the pages, a blur of strange symbols and half-written words. Was I supposed to thank him for this?

‘I must go,' I said. With the book still in my hand I rushed to the front door.

He offered me his umbrella but I refused it, which was foolish. The rain was harder now. It beat down on Russell Square and the plants in the garden bent and buckled under the weight. I pulled the brim of my hat over my ears as I stood on Frank's doorstep and sobbed. Nobody would hear my pathetic convulsions above the rain and traffic so I wept with abandon.

Locke would be at her parents' beautiful house in Kensington now, or perhaps at the theatre. I blew my nose and wiped my face. Locke would surely let me stay with her but then what? The lights in the houses around the square burned happily away and spoke of cosy evenings, of friends and families around fire. I had no place in London any more and I was no longer sure of my friendship with Locke. If Frank would not travel with me, it was no matter. I had my things for the mountains and I would use them.

Parr lifted a jigsaw piece between her finger and thumb, held it to her eye, then snapped it into place in the puzzle on her table. The picture on the box was something commonplace, a thatched cottage with pink and blue flowers around the door. Her hair hung loose down her back, thick and crimped. Her face seemed a little fatter, more relaxed. There was a faint scent of violets in the room.

When she had done two more pieces, she set the puzzle aside to talk to me.

‘I have to place a certain number of pieces before I can allow distractions. It's just the way I've always worked. What's wrong? You're a wreck, Farringdon. Sit down and we'll get you a drink.'

‘Parr, let me come with you to South America.' I pulled off my shawl as I sat down. ‘I can't pay for the passage yet, but I'll find the money somehow before we leave or, if you could lend me some, I promise I would repay you. It's urgent. I absolutely have to get out of London immediately.'

I explained my predicament and she listened, with quick, impatient nods.

‘I'm awfully sorry for you, but I don't see what I can do. I'm leaving next week and everything's arranged. I suppose you could join me there later, if you're desperate to escape, but how will it help? It's just a trip and you'll have to come back afterwards.'

‘It will take me away, give me time to decide what to do next.'

‘You're too impetuous. You need to find a job, a room to rent, then earn money and establish a life for yourself.'

‘But you invited me.'

The doorbell rang and the maid announced a woman's name. Parr excused herself. ‘It's the neighbour and she's like a runaway steam engine when she starts talking. I'll keep her in the other room so you don't get trapped with her. Oh, here is my article about our trip. You must read it. I hope it will put paid to the idea that we were naive and inexperienced.'

Parr passed me the journal. A lace bookmark drooped from the middle. I slipped my finger between the bookmark and the page as Parr stepped into the hall.

The piece started well enough but, as I read further, I became uneasy. Parr's account of our adventure was not at all the way I remembered it and some details were much exaggerated. Her description of the ascent and our night in the storm was barely true. She made it sound as though it was all a disaster with her three helpless companions, and it was she who kept us alive and safe. There was no mention of her fall, of our dispute regarding navigation, or the early signs of Hooper's illness. The final sentences shocked me.

I let the journal fall to my lap. I swallowed and swallowed and I thought I might be sick. The sweet violet smell was intense now and I put my handkerchief over my nose and mouth to breathe. Parr's account was nonsense. Hooper had been ill and Parr had known it. How could Hooper have sung and talked when she could barely see or hear? Parr had dragged her on and on. We all had. There had been no singing. It was ludicrous. I read the article again and could only think that Parr's intention was to protect Hooper's family, somehow. By suggesting that their daughter's final moments before the accident were jolly and fine, ecstatic even, she might have given them some dry crust of comfort. I blew my nose, rested my head in my hands. Well, it was probably much better for them than the truth. Locke's version would be far worse. Perhaps it was the right thing to have done.