The Jeweller's Skin (22 page)

It was good, after the war, to have routines.  That’s what Walter Skelton thought, hefting his sack of letters out of the sorting office, getting out his bike.  After Japan.  He didn’t talk about that.  Now he could work again he was glad of it, the weight of the sack every morning on his bike, the effort of getting started up the slope.  ‘You know they’ve given you the loonies’ round?’ someone said, his first day back at work; but he liked it.  The loonies’ round meant out in the country lanes, the friendly gate-porters, sometimes a chat.  Once or twice he let the nurses tease him, and stood, smiling, embarrassed, remembering life before.  It was rare that he came across a patient.  There but for the grace, he thought on many mornings.  After Japan, that’s how some of them had gone.

Strange chap, Des Wyburn thought, watching from the porch as Walter rode off up the drive.  Something odd about him: too anxious to please.  He tossed the bundle of letters between his hands.  It wasn’t his job to take in the post; that miserable woman, the Assistant Clerk, she was meant to log all the letters in.  Still, since he’d been passing.  There were lightbulbs needed, in old Bosanquet’s office, and down the hall outside the store cupboards.  ‘Here you are, my dear,’ he said to Miss What’s-her-name, as she hurried towards him in her horrible green skirt.  ‘Save you the trouble.’

It was an important job they’d given him.  Not difficult, of course, but responsible.  John Arthurson had been a delivery boy, for almost a year before his nerves got bad, and that had been harder, finding the addresses, and then some people when you did find them..  Not like that here.  But it showed the doctors had got faith in him.  Probably they’d see how he was doing, if he could take the responsibility, and if he did all right they’d let him home.  It was like that these days, they didn’t keep you in.

Two fat letters for Matron.  He knocked on doors and mainly, at this time, ten or just gone, they were in their offices.  ‘Morning, Matron,’ he said respectfully, and put the brown envelopes on the desk beside her.  One for Mrs Da Costa, who ran the laundry.  Funny name, but she didn’t look that foreign.  Perhaps she’d married a soldier in the war.  A whole bunch together for Dr Bosanquet, fastened by Miss Carrington with a rubber band.  He quite wanted to look but it wasn’t professional. 

And there was Cook, just coming from the kitchen.  He thought she looked worried.  ‘No bills today, Mrs H,’ he said cheerfully, and remembered he’d said the same thing the day before.  ‘Very well,’ she said in that odd way of hers, and didn’t go into her office after all.  ‘Thank you, John.’  She reminded him of his Auntie, who’d brought him up.  Probably like Auntie she worked too hard.

Dr Whitchurch was sitting two or three yards from her, in a battered leather wing-chair in his office.  His physical presence took all of her attention: not only the sturdy shoulders and large hands, but the sense of himself, how energetic and at ease he was.  He had pushed up his shirt-cuffs; his wrists were strong, with a matting of dark hair.  His thighs in the good grey suit looked muscular, like a runner’s.  She felt herself sit straighter in her chair.

He had been speaking; she hadn’t been listening.  A broad stretch of sunlight lay across her lap, and the Persian rug, which he must have brought in to cheer up his office, and the left arm of his expensive suit.  She looked briefly into his face.  He was waiting for her to give him an answer.  He said, and it must have been a repetition, ‘All I need from you is a simple explanation.’

He is a young man, she thought.  He sees a middle-aged woman with greying hair.  The realisation made her suddenly tired.  Concentrate, she told herself, concentrate.  If you say the wrong thing he is going to sack you.

‘Dr Whitchurch.’  She looked away from him, at the back of the leather photograph frame on his desk.  ‘I am sorry, I do not have an explanation.’

‘Mrs Humphreys, please.  I am asking you why you failed to report for work.  You must understand - ’

She wanted urgently to stop talking, to give up on speech as she had thirty years before, to let him fire her and not to have to argue.  He would stand up, angry, righteous, energised, and shout at her, and she would cower in her chair, and go to her room, weeping.

She was filled with shame. Reluctantly, defeated, she found some words.

‘Well.’  He leaned forward; she must be whispering.  ‘What I can tell you.  I went to Epsom, to the library.’

Do I have to explain?  There was a way she could tell it to silence him, her family missing in a war-damaged country; but she couldn’t do that.  ‘I needed to look for some information.’

‘And.. ?’

‘And that is all.’  She allowed herself one excuse.  ‘Reading in English, it is difficult for me.  Slow.’

It was not good enough, she could tell that.  In any case he had probably decided before she came in.  I can’t go back to the kitchen, she thought, agonised.  To be humiliated in front of all of them.  Shaw, and June, and the patient Betty Dunlop.  I will ask if I can leave straight away this morning.  She wondered again if what had happened was the same as in the kitchen, when she’d lost several hours out of the day; but hadn’t she been reading the whole time?

He had stood up and walked over to the window.  Freed from his gaze, she looked around the room.  A painting hung over the mantelpiece, a beach scene in bright colours.  He must have brought it in himself, she thought.  Why did I never think of buying a picture?

He turned, silhouetted against the long window.  He is torturing me, she thought, making me wait.  Or perhaps he must get his courage up to do it.

‘Ms Humphreys.  You are telling me you were reading and forgot the time?’

She bent her head.

‘Miss Shaw was very perturbed.’

‘Yes, she has told me.’

He muttered something, and came back to his chair.  She saw him settle his shoulders against the cushion.

‘Well, Mrs Humphreys, I do not think..’  He seemed to change his mind.  ‘You will understand that this is very irregular.  It could have had very serious consequences.’

She managed to say, ‘I have worked here nearly twelve years.  I have never - ’

He interrupted.  ‘Precisely.  I do not need to tell you, Mrs Humphreys, if you were an inexperienced member of staff..  However, in view of your good, your excellent service..’

She felt herself droop with amazement and relief.  ‘You are not.. ?  You do not want me to leave?’

‘Leave?  Good Lord, no.’  But he had been thinking of it, she was certain; he had almost made up his mind.  ‘Shall we just call it an unfortunate mistake?  I am sure you will never let it happen again.’

She shook her head.

‘Well, there we are.  In fact I had hoped to speak to you, Mrs Humphreys.  Not about that, of course; another matter.’

She tried to imagine what he was interested in.

‘You know, I favour the modern approaches.  We have scientific ways to assist patients, that our predecessors couldn’t have dreamed of.  I hope to be able to make some changes here.  With Dr Bosanquet’s approval, of course.’

The
new approach
again.  Still she must be careful.  ‘I would like also.  The meals to be better, more appetising.’

‘Exactly,’ he said, though he looked taken aback.  ‘Mrs Humphreys, forgive me, but I am very interested.  Dr Bosanquet has told me, in confidence of course..’

She sat back, dizzy, and closed her eyes.  There was a smell of furniture polish and something that might be his shaving-soap, lavender.  So it was not the lateness but her history. 

There was a flash across her closed eyelids, Madame Taté the French interpreter, beside her bed when Violeta was just born, carefully smoothing down her blue kid gloves.

If Violeta had never written to her.

He had stopped talking.  I am so tired, she thought.  I do not want to go through this any more.

After a while she said, ‘Yes, it is true.  I did not think it was necessary to tell them.  When I started work here, it was already eighteen years.’

He looked puzzled.  He has dark blue eyes, she thought.  I do not think I have ever seen that colour. 

‘No, Mrs Humphreys, I merely thought..  I would be interested to discuss with you..  The history of our asylums is fascinating.’

With a great effort, an old woman pushing herself up with the strength of her fore-arms, she got to her feet.  He looked up at her, bewildered, for a moment, then stood.  ‘Mrs Humphreys, please.  I did not want to offend you.’

‘No,’ she said.  ‘I must go back to the kitchen.  Excuse me.  The lunch.’

He held out his hand.  ‘I do beg your pardon.  I understand you may not want to discuss it.’  He shook his head slightly.  ‘Well, never mind.  I hope we will work productively together.’

She walked back through the building.  A woman patient in too-large uniform ran out from a ward onto the corridor, growling in her throat like an angry dog.  She stopped a few yards from Narcisa, where the curve of the corridor hid her from the ward door.  After a moment she caught Narcisa’s eye.  ‘Look at this,’ she said, and pulled up her skirt, to show a purple bruise across her thigh.  Then she let the cloth fall, and ran on again, though soon, it was clear, she would reach the locked door to the men’s section, and have to turn back.

She came out of the station and looked around.  The building was at the top of a slope, above the street.  Opposite her were the upstairs windows of small shops, and a pub.  A woman with a high black pram pushed past.  A small boy rode a bicycle too large for him furiously up the steep slope, leaning forwards, and freewheeled down the other side, waving both hands.

She turned back to the station and looked for a map. A kind of panic was rising up inside her.  Nothing out there was familiar to her, nothing; as if the name, Richmond, had been detached and stuck on arbitrarily to another town.

Of course, she thought, facing the framed street-map: I was always on foot, coming over from Mrs Pilgrim’s.  I never would have come as far as this.  The agency was no more than five minutes’ walk.  She set out again, down the slope and to the left, past low-ceilinged shops with little in the windows, a grocer’s, a newsagent’s, one with a stack of faded knitting-wool and patterns.

On impulse she turned off the main street towards the river.  There was a green; she thought she remembered that, with narrow old houses round the edges.  On one cottage the lilac was in flower, pale mauve, as high as the front wall, a few great flower-heads drooping across a window.  She stopped to look; it was so extravagant and unruly.  A face appeared at the upstairs window, pale, half-hidden by the flowers, and gazed down at her. 

She walked on, along the side of the green, and down a lane between high mossy walls.  There was the river smell, like damp vegetation, sweetish, and the cooler air off the water.  A man pushed a cart towards her, the high wheels clanking loudly over the cobbles.  At the end of the lane was that shimmering light she remembered, and trees on the far bank; and now as she walked more quickly the blue-brown water.

On the towpath she stood and stared, suddenly calm.  The tide was in, the water within a foot of the embankment edge.  The sky, a high, light blue with shreds of cloud, was reflected and broken up on the riffled surface.  A boat came slowly up beneath the bridge, a man in a dark hat standing amongst crates.

She walked along, beside a high wall with green plants spilling down the old brickwork.  The feeling of those weeks came back to her slowly, when she had only just left the asylum; her nervousness and the gradual exploration, first down to the river nearby at St Margaret’s, then further, into Twickenham and here.  Once she had come with Mrs Pilgrim to a department store.  She remembered a drawer with bright scarves, neatly folded.

She strolled on.  The air was warm, with that lift off the water every now and then.  I wonder what happened to Mrs Pilgrim, she thought.  Did she marry again?  Now she would be, what? sixty at least: still neat, quiet, the thin face with the shadows under the eyes: a more lined version of the same young widow.  What would she feel now about her husband, killed in France in the first war, forty years back?  I could go and visit her, Narcisa thought.  I could walk there now, go and knock on the door.

Instead she sat on a bench and watched four mallards weaving to and fro from the bank.  The deep green of the males’ heads glowed in the sun.  I should prepare for this interview, she thought.  I am an experienced hospital Cook, now considering the other possibilities open to me.  I was also a housekeeper for twelve years.  Though I don’t have references from Miss Grey and Miss Ainsworth.  Would they still be alive?  It was possible.

She stood and brushed the back of her coat, and walked back through the streets to the town centre, an odd sense of lightness threatening to subvert her.

*

The agency was in an upstairs office, above a cobbler’s shop just off the High Street.  I could bring my shoes here, she thought as she rang the bell.  There was a long pause; then shoes clattering on stairs, and a thin woman in a mauve tweed suit stood in the doorway.

‘This is the Petersham Agency?’

Narcisa followed her up a steep flight of stairs.  The lilac-coloured skirt swung improbably.  It was good cloth, Narcisa thought: it hung well.  The woman’s shoes, too, were elegant, black court shoes, an attractive cut to the heel.

Face to face the woman looked like Jessie Pilgrim: the same wavy brown hair tied back in a bun, the same thin features.  Narcisa caught her breath.  It can’t be, she reminded herself; Mrs Pilgrim is in her sixties now, remember.  She half wanted to ask.  Could it be the daughter?

She made herself speak.  ‘I am working as a Cook in a hospital.  Now I think I would like a change.’  It sounded more frivolous than what she’d planned.  ‘I am very hard-working, very conscientious,’ she said, aware of stumbling over the sibilants.  ‘I have also worked as a housekeeper.’

The woman – Miss Flowers, she had introduced herself – took notes, and looked thoughtfully at Narcisa.  Well, she is taking me seriously, she thought.

‘Mrs Humphreys, may I ask your age?’

‘I am fifty-five.  Nearly fifty-six.’

Miss Flowers wrote.  ‘Some of our clients prefer the mature person.  But tell me, do you have plans for retirement?  At what age, I mean?’

‘I have never thought about it.’  She felt ashamed.

Miss Flowers looked up at her speculatively.  On the desk beside her was a green glass vase, with purple tulips bending extravagantly out.  ‘It is only that an employer would not like to take on a person for only four years.  Of course, things may happen; you would not be compelled to stay longer.  But someone available for only four years, that might be a problem.’

‘I suppose,’ Narcisa said after a pause, ‘I will retire when I do not want to work.  Or am not capable.  But that is not yet.’

The woman smiled.  ‘That is rather how I see it.  One needs some interest;  something to make demands on one.   Now, another question.  Do you wish to find another residential position?’

‘Residential?’

‘Living in.  As I imagine you do at the hospital.’

Narcisa drew in a long slow breath, considering.  ‘There is suitable work that is not living in?’

‘Certainly.  A number of ladies now prefer to have cooks on a day basis.  Or if you prefer not to be in a private home, there are schools, gentlemen’s clubs even.  Are you willing to travel?’

‘I will find rooms near to where I work.  Yes, if it is possible, I would like not to live in.’

‘Perfectly possible.’  She wrote and sat back.  ‘I must say, Mrs Humphreys, I admire your drive.  It is a major step to change jobs, and even more if it means finding a new home.  May I ask, is there some reason for this change?’

Ah, she is not stupid, Narcisa thought.  After a while she said, ‘No reason concerning my work, no.  I believe that the hospital has found me satisfactory.  Perhaps there are other reasons; it is hard to say.’

‘I quite understand.  Now, Holywell Hospital.  I have not heard of it.  Perhaps..?’

‘It is an asylum.  A mental hospital, that is what they call it now.’  She watched Miss Flowers steadily writing something.  ‘This is a problem?’

‘Not a problem, no.  We will have to be a little careful, that’s all.  Unfortunately some people can be a little ignorant; I am sure you have seen this?  But really, cooking is cooking, after all.’

Very well, Narcisa thought: let her be careful.  She felt a peculiar confidence in this woman.  She was honest; she would do her best for her.  Perhaps she could telephone someone straight away, set up an interview that afternoon.  No, I must be careful too, she told herself.

Miss Flowers was watching her with calm blue eyes.  Narcisa picked up her handbag.

‘Thank you.  You have been very helpful.’  But that was too easy; she wanted to say more.    ‘I was not sure that anyone will employ me, and you are saying yes, they may.  Is that right?’

Miss Flowers nodded.

‘Now I want to think about all this.  To decide..’  But what did she have to decide?  ‘..if I will move, what kind of place, all this.’

If Miss Flowers was disappointed, she didn’t show it.

‘I will come back here in perhaps one week?’

‘That is very sensible, Mrs Humphreys.’  She waited till Narcisa had stood, before doing the same.  ‘Here is my card.  You can telephone; do you have the use of a phone?  Or write to me, when you are ready.  Or of course come in again, if you would like to discuss anything further.  I will look forward to it.’

It seemed as if she might mean it.  Out on the High Street, Narcisa found a draper’s shop, and used the rest of her clothing coupons to buy cloth, a dress-length of lavender poplin, with polka-dots.

*

She was up early, energetic, and went down at quarter to six to unlock the kitchen.  The trolleys were laid ready, the teapots lined up.  A pale light came in at the high windows, and made the stacked white crockery glow faintly.  She hesitated a moment, then reached for the light-switch.She was filling the kettles when June Ragless came in. 

‘It’s all right, June.  It is just that I came down early.’  She stood aside for the girl to take over; but she was standing awkwardly beside the table. 

‘Actually, Cook, can I have a word?  I wanted to talk before the others come down.’

Miss Fleming: had the domestics been gossiping again?  There was something about June’s face; she might have been crying.

‘You would like to go to the office to talk?’ 

She looked at the clock. ‘It’s all right, Cook.  Miss Shaw won’t be down just yet, will she?’

And Peg knows, of course.  Though if it were that, wouldn’t Peg have come too?  She watched June sit opposite her at the scrubbed table, smoothing down her skirt with both hands.

‘Very well, June.  Tell me.’

‘It’s Donald.  My fiancé.  We’re going to get married.’

So that was it.  But the tone of voice was wrong.  ‘Congratulations.  You must be very happy.’

‘Oh, I am.’  The smile came and went, quickly.  ‘I mean, I’m really lucky.  He’s ever so kind and considerate.  And he says his mum can’t wait to have a daughter.  She’s really nice, his mum.’

‘So you will live with them?  In the North?’

‘Preston, yes.  Well, we’ll have to at first.  Live with his mum and dad, I mean.  But he’s got a good job, we’ll be able to get a house.’

So June is leaving too.  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you will be missed here.  You are very good at your work, I hope you know that?’

‘Oh, thank you, Cook.’  She was very pretty, June Ragless, with her wide-apart blue eyes and curly hair.  Still there was something puffy about her face.

There was a pause, June looking at the dresser.

‘To be honest, Cook, that’s the thing I mind.  Moving up North.  My mum’s down here, in Tulse Hill, and my sisters.  There’s four of us, I’m the youngest.  I even, well I wondered if I should.  Get married, I mean.’

She felt something heavy inside, that had to settle.  Then she said, ‘It is a big decision.’

‘It is, isn’t it?  I mean, I do love him.  But it’s not just my mum, it’s here too.  I’m not just saying it, I love my job.  One day I’d like to be in charge of a kitchen.’

The weight of the girl’s gaze was too much for her.  ‘You will be able to find a job like this in Preston?’

June shifted; there was a look of disappointment.  ‘They won’t let you, not if you’re married, will they?  And in any case, Donald wouldn’t let me.  You know how it is, he says, You won’t have to work.  I say I really like working but he, I suppose he doesn’t believe me or something.’  She paused.  ‘I don’t know, Cook, I suppose it is the right thing?’

She sat still for a moment.  ‘I think it is very difficult.  But if you love Donald..  And you will want to have children, yes?’

June was kicking at the table leg, looking down.  Narcisa looked around her.  The kettle she had been filling was still on the draining-board.  One of the others was starting to steam.  She stopped herself getting up to turn the gas off.

‘There’s something else.  Maybe you know.  It’s Peg.  Oh lord, I hope you’re going to understand.  It’s just that, well, I’ve always hated sleeping on my own.  Me and my sisters, we always shared.  Well, that’s no excuse.’

There was something from her days as a patient that tensed inside her; but she chose to ignore it.  ‘June, there are many girls here who do the same.’

‘I know.’  She looked up, her face suddenly shadowed.  ‘Only Peg, I mean poor Peg, she can’t stand it.  About Donald.  She wants - well, she wants me to stay here.  She says we could go on like we are, and I could keep working, well, both of us.  And Donald doesn’t know, he’d kill me.’

She was watching Narcisa’s face, intent, hopeful. Narcisa said, ‘June, I am not the person to ask advice.  I have made decisions’ - but it’s only one, she thought - ‘that I have regretted very much.’

The girl looked down at her hands.  She seemed to be considering whether to speak.  Come on, Narcisa told herself, give her something.

‘But I think you have already decided, no?  You have arranged the wedding?’

‘Not the day yet.  But it’s going to be June.  June wedding for June, that’s what he says.  I just don’t know.  Cook, do you think I’ve been really selfish?’