‘Killing gets nobody anywhere,’ said Alwyne. ‘We’re seeing that nowadays, are we not? On an epic scale.’ He sucked on his cigarette, holding it with his stained fingers. ‘What did your father’s death do for you? Well, blow me down. It gave you Neville Turk!’
Ralph felt his bravado drain away. Alwyne was treating him like a baby. And now he had said it aloud, his plan did indeed sound footling. He hated Alwyne with a fury.
‘Steal all his money then,’ said Ralph.
‘And how shall I do that?’
‘He’s up to something, I know he is. I saw him on Monday, hiding a lot of meat. Whole carcasses. He hid them under the viaduct.’
Alwyne nodded. He didn’t seem surprised. ‘Our friend the butcher’s making a killing. You should see his investments.’
Ralph stared at him. ‘What investments?’
‘Munitions, armaments, shipbuilding. Share prices have gone through the roof. Oh yes, our butcher’s a canny little chappie.’ He chuckled. ‘Unlike his meat, there’s no flies on Mr Turk.’ He dropped his stub into his empty bottle. ‘And that’s just the legal side.’
Ralph gazed at Alwyne. Behind him, damp had soaked through the wallpaper and hardened into a sort of treacle. ‘And what’s the other?’ he asked.
‘Let’s just say he’s on very close terms with the Meat Allocation Officer. Godfather to his daughter, that sort of thing.’
‘What’s he doing with him?’
‘I think the polite word for it would be profiteering.’
Ralph gaped. ‘You mean he’s committing a crime?’
Alwyne nodded. ‘He’d be looking at six years, at least. More, I suspect, once they saw the sums involved.’
‘How do you know the sums?’
‘I’ve seen them.’
‘How?’ Ralph asked.
‘I’m blind, aren’t I?’
Ralph gazed at him, puzzled. Alwyne gave him a small smile. ‘Amazing what a chap will leave on a table, when he’s opening his post and needs to pop to the lavatory. And there’s just a sightless mutile de guerre in the room, listening to Paganini.’
*
Eithne swallowed her pride and made enquiries amongst the neighbours. She was on nodding terms with some of them, but knew few by name. By and large, they were a common lot. The house next door, for instance, was in an even worse state of repair than her own and occupied by a number of villainous-looking families whose children ran wild and who were visited on a regular basis by the police. Mrs Baines, however, three doors down, was a respectable woman and recommended a girl called Daphne. Apparently, Daphne had been in service for some years with a family in Tooley Street who had recently moved away, and she was now looking for a position.
Daphne, it transpired, was a middle-aged woman of forbidding appearance. Her demeanour implied that it was she who was doing the favour. Eithne refused to be intimidated but in fact surrendered to the woman’s demands for five pounds a month and two days off a week. The creature, sensing Eithne’s desperation, was taking advantage of the situation and Eithne was powerless to resist. Oh Winnie, she wailed, come back to me!
After their interview, Eithne showed the woman her living quarters. She found herself apologising for the state of Winnie’s room. She hadn’t inspected it for some time. It looked decidedly shabby, with its stained walls and smell of mould. Seeing things from an outsider’s eyes was always something of a shock.
‘It could do with a lick of paint, couldn’t it?’ she said brightly. ‘My husband has plans for the whole house, in fact. Putting in the electricity was just a start. He wants to run the plumbing into the front bedrooms, which will save you a lot of trouble. No more jugs of water, no more slops!’ She smiled encouragingly, but there was no response. ‘He’s going to smarten up the place. Oh yes, he has a lot of ideas up his sleeve.’
She still didn’t know the nature of these plans, but Neville would no doubt tell her in due course. You’re sitting on a gold mine, he had said, that first day in the kitchen. A sudden thought struck Eithne: did he marry her just to get his hands on the house?
This wasn’t true, of course. Their passion wasn’t based on bricks and mortar. If Neville had wanted a woman of property he could have found one with more substantial assets. Eithne had been in society with him often enough to notice the galvanising effect he had upon members of the opposite sex, most of them wealthier than Eithne’s wildest dreams. He had hinted, too, about such conquests in the past.
Besides, he had enough money himself. The source of this remained a mystery to her, but she suspected some wise investments. Her husband had a canny head on his shoulders.
What a contrast he made to her dear, departed Paul! Eithne could hardly remember the beaky-nosed typesetter, with his sloping shoulders and general air of bemusement. It was hard to believe that only two years had passed since his death. Her marriage seemed to have happened to another woman, in another life. She remembered him with fondness but sometimes, if truth be told, a week could pass without her thinking about him at all.
*
Daphne was to start work in the morning. She emerged on the dot of seven, dressed smartly in black, with white apron and cap. For some reason this filled Eithne with misgiving. She helped her with the breakfasts, and then prepared to leave the house.
‘The vacuum cleaner’s a blessing,’ she told Daphne. ‘It’ll cut the work by half.’
Hurrying out of the door, she made her escape.
*
Ralph was walking back with the shopping. He took his time. His reluctance was caused by the presence of that alien woman in the house. They had only exchanged a few words but already he had taken a dislike to the new maid. She smelt of mothballs; tall and gaunt, she felt like an invader in his home. He longed for Winnie. What was happening to her? Would he ever see her again?
It was a drizzly day. He took the long way back, past the pickle factory in Mercer Street. The cobblestones were greasy; another horse had fallen. It lay across the street, blocking the traffic, its head resting on the pavement. Its eyes were glazed; only its nostrils, opening and closing, flaring crimson, betrayed its distress.
Ralph thought of the tender-hearted Winnie; the way she sat on the stairs, crying, when she talked about the horses being led away. Men were spreading sacks on the road, to help the animal up.
Ralph walked on. Now they had engaged a maid he would have to start work at the butcher’s shop. The thought filled him with dread. Didn’t they know he was a vegetarian? That his abhorrence of meat extended to an abhorrence of Mr Turk? In fact, was caused by it? It seemed the cruellest of punishments.
Not that his mother minded. She was too blinded by passion to see the pain this inflicted on her son. Ralph realised he was muttering to himself, like the cripples who sold matches in the street. He too had a grievance. Now he had talked to Alwyne, the whole thing had taken on a deeper importance. How could Ralph take orders from a criminal? A man who had not only evaded the war but was profiting from it? Him and his Wolseley!
Ralph turned the corner and saw Lettie, stationed in her usual position outside the pub. She beckoned him over.
Stepping nearer, Ralph noticed her pigtails. They looked as if they had been rubbed in dung. Did nobody care for the girl? He knew he should feel sorry for her. The little girl’s life had been a hard one. For some reason, however, he had always felt wary of her; even more so now, since the incident in his bedroom.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ Lettie said.
‘What about?’
Her sharp little eyes glinted at him. ‘You give me sixpence a week, and I promise not to tell.’
The dog nuzzled against her. Lettie, her eyes fixed on Ralph’s face, gave Brutus her hand to lick.
‘I’ll give it to the Crutch Fund,’ she said.
‘The Crutch Fund?’
‘For the limbless men. I danced for them and they liked me.’
She held his gaze. Behind her the door opened. Voices roared and two men staggered o
ut. Lettie moved aside. They stumbled down the street.
Lettie waited. Her peaky face was too adult for her child’s body. She reminded him of Jenny Wren, old before her time.
‘I bet you won’t give it to them,’ said Ralph.
Lettie wiped her nose with the back of her hand. She didn’t care. There was no way he could argue with that. Ralph knew he was beaten.
*
Alwyne said: ‘Some hatched-faced harridan’s been banging around in here.’
‘She’s called Daphne,’ said Ralph. ‘She’s the new maid.’
‘Felt like lifting up her skirt with my stick, to see her armour-plated combinations.’ Alwyne chuckled. ‘No man would breach those fortifications and survive.’
Ralph sat down in a chair. Its rush seat had broken. ‘I’ve just seen Lettie,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to pay her sixpence a week or she’ll tell people you’re not blind.’
A moment passed. Alwyne rubbed the back of his hand across his beard. ‘Well I never,’ he said. ‘That girl’s got an interesting future ahead of her.’
‘I said yes. I think we can trust her. I know the type.’
‘You do, do you?’
Ralph nodded. In fact he did trust the child. He was still so close to childhood himself that he remembered its cast-iron bargains. How uncomplicated life had been then!
‘We’re going to seal it in blood,’ Ralph said. ‘She’s coming to my room this afternoon. We’re going to cut ourselves with Mother’s nail scissors.’
‘And who’s going to pay the sixpence?’
‘You are, of course,’ said Ralph. ‘This whole thing’s your fault.’
How strange it was, Ralph thought, to be cowed by a little girl and yet boss about a grown man! Truly these were curious times.
Alwyne scratched his hair. Black and greasy, it hung to his shoulders. With no Winnie to cut it, sooner or later it would reach his waist. His beard, too. Time would pass, his hair would grow and he would still be stuck at page fifteen of his magnum opus. Lettie would dance around him as he toiled, draping him with cobwebs. Ralph felt queasy; he was living in a fairy story – the hairy man, the cunning elf, the magic sixpence. In a moment he would open his eyes and his father would be smiling down at him. Wake up, little lad. You’ll be late for school.
Ralph was stuck in his seat. His bottom seemed to be wedged in the hole. Alwyne was shaking his head.
‘Things have come to a pretty pass when a man of forty finds himself blackmailed by a ten-year-old.’
‘Not just her,’ said Ralph.
Alwyne looked at him, his eyebrows raised.
Ralph said: ‘I want you to get proof that Mr Turk’s a criminal.’
‘And why should I do that?’
‘You owe it to us.’
‘I do, do I?’
‘For everything we’ve done for you,’ said Ralph. ‘That I’ve done for you. For all the times I’ve fetched you things. The way I’ve been nice to you even though you weren’t nice back. For the way you’ve cheated.’
‘Goodness me.’ Alwyne felt for his cigarettes. ‘And how do you propose I do this?’
‘Find out things. Look at things. You can do it because people think you can’t. You can pay me back for pretending to be blind.’ Ralph’s voice rose. ‘It’s better than killing him. We can send him to prison! Everybody will see what a bad man he is. We can destroy him.’
Ralph sat there, wedged in his chair. A moment passed.
Alwyne shook his head. ‘I can’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘They’ll find me out and all hell’ll break loose.’
‘They won’t. I’ll protect you.’
‘What about your mother? She’ll be destroyed too. Don’t you care about her?’
‘She’s better off without him.’
‘I wonder if she’d agree with that,’ said Alwyne.
‘He’ll go to prison and it’ll all be like it was before.’
Alwyne gazed at him through the smoke. ‘Dear boy, do you really think it’s that easy?’
‘All right then. I’ll tell.’
‘Don’t do that,’ said Alwyne. ‘I need to write my book.’
‘Your book!’
‘I need to stay here, in peace and quiet, and get on with my work. It’ll be a great deal more important than telling tales on a common little shopkeeper. I promise you that.’
Alwyne said no more. He sat there, sallow-faced and stubborn, sucking on his cigarette.
Ralph extricated himself from his chair. ‘Blast you to hell!’ he said, and left the room.
How could Alwyne let him down like that? His only ally had revealed himself to be a thoroughgoing coward. Anything for a quiet life. How could the man live with his conscience?
Still, what could be expected from a fellow who lied to save his own skin? Who let others go to war and be butchered on his behalf? In a way Alwyne was as bad as Mr Turk. Worse, in fact, because he had poisoned Ralph’s mind with images which burned into it like acid.
Soldiers lay dead in the mud, their guts spilt. Limbs were scattered around. Amongst them stepped a man. It was Mr Turk. He moved from corpse to corpse, bending down and stealing their watches.
He, Ralph, would kill them both – Mr Turk and Alwyne. The world would be well rid of the two of them. So he’d be caught – who cared? He had nothing to live for any more. And at least nobody could call him a coward.
In the hallway Ralph came face to face with a figure. It took him a moment to recollect who she was.
It was Daphne, the new maid. She was dressed in her hat and coat.
‘Where’s your mother?’ she snapped.
*
When Eithne came home Daphne was waiting in the parlour. She wore her outdoor clothes. Her suitcase sat on the floor.
‘Mrs Turk,’ she said, ‘I wish to terminate my employment.’
Eithne put down her hatbox. She had been shopping at Swan and Edgars. ‘You can’t,’ she said. ‘It’s laundry day tomorrow.’
‘I started at the top,’ said Daphne. ‘I always start at the top, of course, and work down. I found a man there, in bed, in a state of indescribable filth. A child was with him, playing on the floor.’
‘That’s Mr Spooner. He’s not too well.’
‘On the floor below I found an old lady who suffers from incontinence.’
‘That’s only happened recently.’ This was true. Eithne had only discovered it in the past week or so, after the departure of Winnie. It was Winnie who had dealt with all that.
‘Not just the sheets and the mattress. That would be bad enough. The whole room was permeated. I’ve never smelt anything like it. Even the armchair.’
Daphne’s hard, virgin’s face glared at Eithne. She didn’t even have the decency to call her madam.
‘There was no way I could attempt to clean the back room. A sort of tramp seemed to be living there –’
‘That’s Mr Flyte –’
‘– in a room I can only describe as a pigsty. I’ve never seen anything so disgusting.’
‘That’s because he’s blind.’
‘The insolence of the man! I won’t repeat what he called me, I’m a respectable woman. Suffice it to say that nothing would induce me to stay here a moment longer. I’m only surprised you didn’t see fit to warn me.’ She stood up, clutching her collar around her throat as if she might catch germs. ‘Good-day.’
*
Neville hadn’t gone home for dinner. The new maid needed to find her feet. She was going to have her work cut out, as it was, without cooking a midday meal. He sat in the bar of the Waterloo Hotel, one of the local establishments with which he did business. He was eating a sandwich and reading the newspaper. The day before, a major battle had taken place.
A BRILLIANT SUCCESS read the headline. ENEMY TAKEN BY SURPRISE. TANKS’ GREAT AID. Troubles are multiplying for the Germans. Today, with French co-operation we launched the first offensive on a large scale that we have made this year, recallin
g the great attacks of the Somme, the Battle of Arras, or that of Flanders. It was admirable in its organization and execution, taking the enemy completely by surprise …
This was the turning-point; Neville felt it in his bones. August the eighth, 1918, would go down in history. The British were heading for victory. With the Yankee muscle behind them, they were finally beating back the Boche. The Germans were mortally weakened; at last the Allies had the strength to push ahead with their advantage. It was just a matter of time.
Neville sensed these things; he had a nose for which way the wind was blowing. Trust your instincts was his motto, whether it was the feel of a carcass or the offer of shares in the Titanic – an offer which, heeding his inner prompting, he had wisely turned down. His mother had recognised this, bless her soul. She knew that business thrived on anticipation, not reaction. And now was the time to get moving.
At three o’clock, Neville had a meeting arranged with his bank manager. Harold Smyllie and he went back a long way; they had undergone their Initiation together and their relationship was based on the deepest trust. If the end of the war was indeed in sight Neville had some important matters to discuss. A large loan would be needed, but Neville had every confidence that Harold would see his way to oblige him. The fellow knew that matters could be arranged to their mutual advantage, with substantial benefits all round. It just required boldness of vision.
It was Eithne’s possible reaction that made him hesitate. She was a stubborn woman, and surprisingly resistant to change. He had noticed this, in the weaker sex. Though Eithne chafed at her present circumstances she dug in her heels at any prospect of progress. It could be damned annoying.
To be fair, it wasn’t just the women who had succumbed to the general paralysis. These four years had drained people of vim. He could understand this in the case of those who had lost loved ones – he, too, had shed a tear when his mother died. With nobody to bring home the bacon, families were suffering hardship, there was no question about that. He saw this every day: customers pleading for credit and feeding a family of ten on a sixpenny wrap. The sense of stagnation, however, was all-pervading. It was as if everyone had fallen into a coma for the duration. Perhaps they believed that if the war were lost, what would be the point?