Spare Brides (46 page)

‘Left yesterday. Although he was paid up to the end of the month. Fair and square about his money, I’ll say that for him. Although that’s all I can say.’

The insinuation was far too clear, far too much. Lydia shot up the stairs, not believing the stupid, evil woman. She’d flung open his door, expecting to find him in all his glory. White shirt open and flowing, dark trousers held up with braces, bare feet and a big smile. Eyes that never took no for an answer. ‘Hello, Lid.’

The attic room was deserted. Abandoned, empty. The landlady might have given every impression of being lazy, but she, or at least someone – perhaps Edgar himself – had worked efficiently to obliterate all traces of his existence. There was still a chair near the chimneypiece, but there was no tartan rug hung over the back of it. A clean green plate, saucer and cup, a knife and fork were piled neatly next to the deep stone sink, but there was no sign of the delicate yellow and gold cups and saucers, or the tiny silver spoons, the candlesticks or the gramophone. There were no books. The two splintered wooden chairs and the small table remained, but the dusty, yellowing newspapers had been removed. The bed had been stripped and the mattress lay, grubby and exposed; no signs of the love it had absorbed, the passion it had hosted. Lydia inadvertently shivered a little to think how they’d used it; it wasn’t clear to the nosy, lingering landlady whether her tremor was disgust at the meanness of it all, or desire. Lydia could smell rotting vegetables again, because there were no bunches of roses to mask the stench; there was no scent of heady, sweet loving.

She could not misunderstand the barren wasteland.

The cat appeared from nowhere and rubbed up against Lydia’s stockinged legs. He nuzzled his head into her calf with force. Lydia, desperate, was prepared to interpret his actions as affection rather than hunger. She bent down and petted obligingly, then scooped the cat up. She held it close. ‘You too? He left you too?’ she whispered.

‘Left in quite a hurry, did the officer. He said he’d come into a bit of unexpected money.’

‘May I have his forwarding address, please?’ Lydia tried to remain efficient and detached, but it was agony.

‘Didn’t leave none.’

Lydia had begun to sway. She held the cat tightly to her, too tightly; it miaowed and struggled to be set down. She didn’t notice until it scratched her arm and then leapt from her, a mass of protest and anguish that she’d tried to domesticate it, if only for a few minutes. Her stomach churned; she felt a slackening in her jaw and anus. Everything seemed loose and detached.

‘Are you all right? You’ve gone a bit peculiar-looking.’ Lydia was certain that the landlady wasn’t genuinely concerned. She was enjoying the drama and was particularly happy that the victim was a well-to-do sort whom she’d no doubt judged as no better than she ought to be.

‘I need some water.’ Lydia staggered to the stone sink and turned the dripping tap. The water gushed into the green cup and on to her fingers; it splashed on her dress.
No glasses, I’m afraid.
His words came back to her, so vivid, so real that she turned with a jolt, expecting to see him.
We managed with so little in the trenches, I got used to it. Besides, I don’t spend much time here.
She stumbled to the bed and sat down on the browning mattress. She put her hand on it. Their sweat, their stickiness. And others’, too? Who? How many must there have been?

‘He can’t have gone.’ She coughed, trying to encourage her voice to have some conviction. She looked up at the landlady with defiance.

‘Well, this empty room says differently.’ The landlady remained at the open door. She clearly wanted Lydia to leave. Lydia could not. Instead she lay down and inhaled the thin mattress. Nothing. He wasn’t there. It smelt of dust. She let out a howl. The sound came from deep within her gut and her history. She pulled herself into a tight ball, fists clenched, knees tucked into her belly, head pulled into her chest. Like a foetus. Vulnerable. The howl reverberated around the frail walls of the house, out through the open windows and into the street. She wondered how far it would travel: at least to France; maybe further, maybe to the Baltic.

With each step that Lydia took towards the great house of Clarendale, she remembered something Edgar had said to her; something inconsequential, like the fact that John Charles Robinson became curator of the V&A in 1853, or something enormous, like the fact that rats gorged themselves on human flesh until they lit up like lanterns. Worse than remembering what he’d said, she felt something he had done to her. The arousing scratch of his whiskers, the gentle touch of his fingertips, the important feeling of him inside her. That could not stop. It must not. Where was he? He’d crept so close, and then run away.

Unwillingly she remembered that after lovemaking, when there was nothing and no one to dilute them – just the essence of them – he’d often closed his eyes. Avoided her, tried to shut her out. She’d always thought that, with time, she’d get him to give up that habit.

Lydia hadn’t eaten all day, and she felt sick, woozy and disorientated. She didn’t know if it was shock and disappointment, or the baby. Oh, her baby. She put a defensive hand on her belly. How was she to protect this baby now? There had been a shift in her thoughts and focus regarding becoming a mother. Before Edgar, she’d believed that having a child was her duty. She’d longed for it in the way one might long for one’s horse to win on Derby Day. She had not felt a deep, unrestrained longing. She had needed a baby to alleviate the menacing, unsound but genuine fear that without one she was nothing. She had not anticipated any extreme intimacy with a child; she simply hadn’t wanted to be blamed for dashing Lawrence’s dreams and birthright. She looked back at the woman who had harboured these detached and clinical thoughts and didn’t recognise her; was almost repulsed by her.

This baby was vitally important. More important than anything, certainly than herself. What she felt for it was tender, grand and enormous. This baby was everything. It was Edgar’s child.

Where had he gone? Why would he go? It was madness. It was hell.

She couldn’t face knocking at the grand entrance of Clarendale Hall. She knew she must look a fright. Her dress was streaked with perspiration and the day’s grime; her face was awash with mascara tears. She decided it would be simpler and more discreet if she simply sneaked around the back of the house. A patio door or a window was likely to be open. She knew how it would be. Net curtains, in folds like a gown, fluttering in the night breeze. An orange light flooding from the drawing room. Picture perfect; the jaws of hell. She would slip in and go to bed without being noticed. She could face Lawrence and the consequences of her note tomorrow.

Her own distress was so virulent and raw that it didn’t cross her mind that Lawrence might be up late, perhaps agonising over her letter, the one that stated her intention of leaving him, starting a new life. Or perhaps he’d be drinking more whisky than was good for him, maybe sitting head in hands in the drawing room, lit only by candles. She certainly didn’t expect to see his shadowy figure move quickly from one side of the room to the other, darting towards Sarah, arms outstretched, to cradle her face in his hands and then draw her towards him in a passionate kiss. A kiss that went on and on.

S
ARAH COULD NOT
sleep. Lawrence’s kiss, strong, engulfing and welcome, had left an imprint that robbed her of the ability or even the need to rest. The kiss, his kiss, had been quite unlike the disappointment on the dance floor with the stranger. Lawrence was not Arthur – no one ever could be – but his kiss did not seem like a compromise or a letdown. His firm and fine lips had fitted; they had not clumsily clashed teeth. His fingers framed her face tenderly and yet with a manly assurance that had thrilled. Sarah was awash with glee and excitement for moments at a time, until she remembered that Lawrence was a married man. He was married to her friend.

Part of her was astonished to find that she immediately comforted herself with the fact that her friend had a lover and was expecting a child with that other man. It seemed so selfish to be thinking this way, but she couldn’t help herself. She wished she’d kept the letter. Yet she took some pleasure in the fact that Lawrence had kissed her not knowing his wife was abandoning him. He had kissed her because he wanted
her
.

Lawrence was a gentleman. He’d pulled apart. Eventually, not too suddenly. Obviously reluctantly. And he’d apologised. Sarah knew he was apologising for the impossible position he’d placed her in, but she got the feeling that he wasn’t absolutely sorry about the kiss. The kiss had not tasted of regret. There was no re-enactment of the scene that Sarah had witnessed in Sir Peter Pondson-Callow’s study between Lydia and Edgar Trent. Lawrence had not tugged at her undergarments, or clasped his mouth on her nipples. Although she wanted him to.

She did.

She knew she shouldn’t. But she did. The confusing mix of contradictory emotions was almost enough to make her want to stay hidden in this room for ever. She could not face what she had done; she could not decide what to do next. And yet the morning sun illuminated the pretty floral curtains in a way that made her want to fling them open, throw the window wide, inhale the sweet fragrance of the freshly mowed lawns and hear the birds singing. She wanted to run downstairs and eat her breakfast with relish. She thought perhaps she’d taste the food again. For so long now she hadn’t much cared what she ate – eggs were all the same as porridge or kippers – but now she thought she fancied grapefruit and toast. She anticipated the citrus sharpness that would contrast with the sweet preserve.

She wondered what to wear. She hadn’t anticipated staying and hadn’t packed an overnight bag. When Lawrence had suggested she stay, the maids had found her a nightdress and toiletries but all she had to wear was yesterday’s dress. She wished she had something a little prettier. An audacious and unreasonable thought crossed her mind: she could sneak into Lydia’s room and borrow one of her innumerable dresses. No one would notice, not if she picked something Lydia hadn’t worn for a while. That wouldn’t be difficult; Lydia had so many frocks, she was able to rotate her garments at leisure. It wasn’t exactly wrong, Sarah tried to tell herself. If Lydia were here, she would certainly allow her to borrow a dress; she’d often done so before. Although, admittedly, in the past Sarah had never been motivated by a desire to look lovely so she could seduce Lydia’s husband. It was probably erroneous, yet a delicious and rare sense of mischief flooded through Sarah’s body. Lydia had left her clothes and left her husband; she didn’t want them any more. It would be silly to waste them. She swung her legs out of bed and, still barefooted, sneaked out of the room and along the corridor. For the first time in many years, Sarah felt glad to be alive.

L
YDIA WOKE FROM
her groggy, interrupted sleep to the noise of the birds singing in the garden. They sounded like screeching sirens. She’d slept badly. The skin underneath her eyes stung. She’d cried quietly most of the night. Her stomach felt hollow and she knew she ought to go and find something to eat. If she didn’t, she’d probably have another awful bout of morning sickness. Yet she could not get out of bed. The very thought was too much for her.

She was at last in tune with her generation. Despair crept through every vessel in her body. Grief-stricken and struggling, she wondered what it was all about. It was a world where people no longer were forced to rise to the challenge of patriotism or faith, nor indeed did they have to fall for it. Theirs was a life that lurched from wild jazz parties and exciting love affairs to mass unemployment and abandoned women, a land where no one rose for anything at all, not even breakfast. Lydia felt uninspired and futile.

She could hear the dogs barking and scampering around the house, unaware of the human pain, their claws clicking on the flagstones, eyes and noses wet. She missed his cat’s peaceful indolence. The household waited. Each wrapped in the labyrinth of their own drama.

When the door to her room squeaked open, she wanted to hide under the covers. She expected Dickenson, which would have been bad enough; it was Sarah, which was significantly worse.

Sarah stumbled. ‘Lydia, what are you doing here?’

‘I live here.’ As Lydia said it, she felt like a fraud. She did not live here; well, at least she almost hadn’t. Did she mean to come back?

‘I thought you’d left.’

‘I see.’ Lawrence had clearly told her everything; Lydia could imagine the scene. Intense and charged. Culminating in an illicit kiss. She wondered when and how she would tell her friend that she’d seen her kissing her husband. Perhaps she’d leave it to Sarah to broach the subject. She wondered how much she cared.

‘Did you change your mind?’ Sarah came into the room and sat on Lydia’s bed. She’d done as much so many times before since their girlhoods that it didn’t seem peculiar.

‘No.’

‘Then what?’

‘He did. Oh God, Sarah, he’s left me.’ Lydia gave in to another burst of tears; even though part of her had sworn that she’d never turn to Sarah for succor again, she was not able to resist. She had scant options and was in dire need of some comfort. Sarah crawled closer to her friend and took her in her arms. She held Lydia as Lydia quaked and gulped. ‘What am I to do?’ she sobbed.

Sarah sighed wearily. Once again she felt the colour drain out of her life; fleeting opportunities collapsed and she was forced to pack away her own needs. She’d only allowed herself to hope momentarily. She could stem the flow. She was obliged to. She thought of Lawrence’s dark, thoughtful eyes, which never lost their kind expression of involved interest, and she knew she had to turn away from them. She was surprised to realise that because she’d suffered much, additional pain was at once unbearable and frothy. ‘You must stay here with Lawrence,’ she said.

Lydia, who was so much more used to saying what she actually thought nowadays, cried, ‘But I don’t want to.’ A thought occurred to her. ‘And he won’t want me to.’