Walking in Pimlico (18 page)

I was taken by surprise. It had never occurred to me that Helen would ‘cut’ me, could be so thoroughly cruel. But, then, I reflected as she ranted on, she is her mother’s daughter.

‘Have you seen my card? It is already full,’ she was raging. ‘Every dance. I’m sure you don’t even have a card, Phyll.’

It was true. I had relied upon the Shoveltons. For the first time in my life, I had fallen upon the generosity of others, thinking that they might introduce me to their acquaintances as the dear friend of Helen Shovelton of Steppingstones,——shire, and Canterbury-square, London. I imagined I was clever enough to vault those chasms of class and family and discover a new path to respectability and wealth. My appearance, my pretensions to refinement and the carefully plotted history, much rehearsed, were my passport. But here was Helen destroying my dreams as completely as she was rending to pieces the bonnet she had snatched from the table.

‘All my partners are wealthy and handsome. Mr Newman will partner me for four dances. And he is
very
wealthy. And Captain Harker. He is
very
handsome. I shall probably marry one of them, though I can’t decide which.’

She paused for breath, and I sense the approaching hiatus.

‘I can’t bear to look at you, Phyll, you ugly creature. You’re so – plain. Your skin is coarse, and your hands are rough, and I hate your hair. You think no one notices your hairpieces, but
I
do. I know you have to wear five or six, and they don’t match. And the pins show.’

I instinctively put my hand to my hair. I wanted to remind her of our afternoons of pleasure when she whispered that she would never leave me, and we had planned that she would disguise herself as a boy-servant and we would sail to the Indies or the Americas where no one would know us, and live together happily for ever. I wanted to remind her, but I didn’t. It would have been of no use.

Helen continued in the same vein, a veritable tirade of venom, her pale face beginning to show the ugly red marks of fierce passion as she paced the room.

‘You’ve never told me anything about your family! Daughter of an Irish lord?’ Her laughter was hard and broke my heart. ‘How
preposterous! I know
that
was a story and so were the others. French governesses and dressmakers! Ha! Your family are probably butchers or – or—’ (The poor thing struggled to imagine an occupation of which she had no comprehension!) ‘Or omnibus drivers! Or you don’t even know who they are. I expect you’re an orphan or a charity child or something worse.’

I instinctively reached for her, but this inflamed her foul temper even further and she stamped her foot and clenched her little fists and screamed as though she were in agony.

‘Leave me alone! You watch me continually. Everywhere I turn, you are there. I hate your moonish face and the way you grab my hand all the time. Get away from me!’ she screeched. ‘Leave me alone! I hate you!’

She was quite beside herself, and I really thought she would dash her head against the wall or break something, so passionate was she. Gifford appeared, standing open-mouthed in the doorway, as Helen, in a final paroxysm of rage, rushed at me and would have slapped my face had I not caught her wrists. She struggled like a fly in a web, all the while protesting and calling for John. But I was stronger than she, and reluctant to let her go for fear of feeling her nails in my face, yet not really knowing how to resolve the situation. Eventually her passion subsided and a simmering mutinous scowl took its place. I released her and noted with alarm the deep red marks left by my fingers upon her wrists. But though the storm had lessened, there was still an ugly squall; Helen had not finished yet, and stepped back the better to look at me.

‘I had thought we could be friends, perhaps for ever, and that you would be at my wedding, like a real sister. But I know that can never be. I’ve seen you talking to the servants, even the pot-boy, and sometimes you use words that are low, and there are other things that make me hate you. John thinks so too.’

She pushed her own pale and twisted features into mine.

‘I never want to see you again! If you ever speak to me, just one word, I will tell everyone who you really are!’

Before I could speak, she had stamped out of the room, pushing Gifford out of the way and slamming the door hard enough to send a picture hurtling from the wall. Gifford mutely gathered it up and with a look I could not decipher – though it was certainly not pity – left me to my misery. Perhaps I should have known, ever since our first afternoon together in Springwell, that I could only be simply an amusement and that she no longer loved me, if indeed she ever had. But even though they were said in a temper by a spoiled child, her jibes and insults pierced my usually impenetrable armour. I had thought myself impervious to the assaults of this world, but here was a new and terrible pain, and I felt it so exquisitely that I almost cried out.

The room, with the scent of Helen lingering in the air, was oppressive and stifling, so I fled outside, intending to walk myself into calmness. The pock-faced Boots, a dead-eyed youth of thirteen or so, was standing at the door of the hotel, contemplating with a grim countenance the lowering sky, while on its silver leash Tippy tugged at his arm, eager to be out. It was doubtless the Boots’s least favourite duty, his daily trial – walking the ugly little creature upon the Parade, where he would suffer the taunts of his fellows and the smirk of any passing maidservant or below-stairs girl. Many times I had watched him taking the route around the back of the hotel, in order to perform the hated task without running that gauntlet of derision, so when I pressed a shilling into his hand, took the leash and told him to ‘foot it’, he wasted no time in scuttling away. Tippy was also in a hurry, and tugged valiantly, hoping to reinspect the scents and puddles it regularly visited when, on its walks with the Boots, it was allowed to be a dog rather than a doll. But I steered us in the opposite direction, away from the shops, hotels and lodging houses, heading out of the town, and, though it was unfamiliar
territory, the dog still bounded along at my side with touching excitement. Approaching walkers obliged me to scoop it up and I tucked it under my cape, where its body wriggled and squirmed to be released, but when I crossed the river by the ironwork bridge and plunged into the wilderness, I released it, and Tippy was once more sniffing eagerly and darting in and out of shrubs and grass.

I was not sure exactly where I was going, but the cold fire that seethed in my chest and stomach and the pain of Helen’s stinging words told me what I wanted to do. Tippy and I made brisk progress along the river path, until, following a scent, the dog pursued a fork, a narrow track, and I followed after it. I would let it do the work. Here was not entirely unfamiliar territory, for we traversed paths that had been pointed out to me on one of our companionable walks. Companionable! These were occasions on which Helen took the opportunity to flaunt at me her admirers, always glancing over her shoulder to ensure that I was watching or listening, and taking pleasure in my agony. It was along here that Helen had allowed Mr Newman to catch her about the waist, and when that same gentleman had presented her with a sprig of forget-me-not, which she wore pinned to her breast until it had quite withered.

Now the dog was rushing here and there as we went deeper into the woodland, past standing pools and outcrops of rocks, and as the canopy of trees closed in the air grew cooler and damp, and even the birdsong seemed hushed. But we tramped on, Tippy and I, until a pool came into view, black, still and overgrown. The dog was consumed with curiosity, for I am certain it had never in its short life been exposed to such a variety of scents, and it ran back and forth, snuffling and snorting at every turn, with its pink tongue hanging out of its mouth. It was thirsty, and tottered to the edge of the pool and began to drink with little gurgles and laps.

I stood behind it and, as it turned to look at me, I pushed the dog into the water with the tip of my boot. Perhaps it had never swum
before, for it seemed to gasp and panic and flailed before me, all legs and mouth, desperately paddling. Its puckered face was thrust above the water’s surface, and for minutes it thrashed around, now and then disappearing and then reappearing with a snort. But the creature laboured towards the edge and then struggled to haul itself out, slipping back over and over and having to begin the struggle again. The grass was wet and the sides of the pool steep and muddy, but it eventually found a gentler slope and, with a tremendous effort (for it was tired), almost pulled itself out. Almost, for I waited until the dog had its forefeet upon the grass, and then pushed it back in again. It dipped under the water for so long that I thought it had drowned when suddenly it strained to the surface, gasping and choking. Its eyes were black and fixed, but it paddled to the edge of the pool where I allowed it to almost save itself again, before I nudged it back. The creature’s tenacity was surprising, for although its strength was failing, and each time its struggle to dry land was more arduous and I thought it must soon give up, over and over it dragged itself back, clinging to life. Finally, however, the battle was lost and it legs seemed to freeze in motion. The struggle ceased and it fixed its liquid eyes upon me. I am not completely without pity and thought, for a brief moment, that I might, I should save it. And then, like a bad taste, Helen’s words came back to me.

I turned about and walked away.

Helen was inconsolable when Tippy was discovered missing. The Boots was summoned by the manager, was harangued, given no opportunity to explain, and dismissed. Apparently, he had appealed to me – ‘Miss knows. She took it.’ – but no one listened to him, and I was never questioned. Various of Helen’s gentlemen were sent out looking for the dog, and could be seen combing the back streets of Springwell and calling for it. ‘Lost’ notices were pinned everywhere, with a fulsome description and the promise of a reward of five pounds ‘for the safe return of a much loved companion, Tippy’.
Days later, early morning walkers discovered the animal, floating in the pool, and its body was brought back to the hotel.

Helen grieved, but would not look at the remains. She had the velvet collar washed and perfumed, and this she preserved in a box inlaid with mother-of-pearl, presented to her by one of her gentlemen. She was miserable and red-eyed and laid so low by the death of the little dog that I almost pitied her. But the rage was still dull and aching within me and I wanted her to suffer.

Miss Marweather – a journey

T
hough there was the immediate satisfaction of revenge, it could hardly be sustained when the object of my anger was absent. Helen, having summoned an aunt for the sake of decency, left one morning for some dismal north Derbyshire town, and did not return. Gifford, through her connections, learned that it was Mr Newman’s invitation that had been accepted and that Helen had repaired to the hills and the rain to mourn her dog and, I supposed, be courted by the rich manufacturer. She left no note of farewell, no letter of explanation, no communication at all. We might have been strangers. And indeed I might have been a stranger to the entire family, for John Shovelton had already left, a hurried departure one evening, which I only realized when I saw him, astride a horse, with his bags in a cart following, on top of which his manservant was uncomfortably perched. I was taking the air before the damp evening closed in, and lamps were lit along the length of the Parade.

A week later, on that same walk, Gifford panted up behind me waving a newspaper in one hand and an envelope in the other. The latter I had anticipated for some days – a bill, ‘to be settled immediately’, from the manager of the George. He had been trying to catch me and I had managed to avoid him, for I had no means of
paying. Every pound was spent and all that remained in my purse were a few shillings. But more interesting was the newspaper. Gifford indicated a long column entitled ‘Whitechapel murderer – latest news’, under which the sterling efforts of C Division, headed by Inspector Gould, to apprehend and bring to trial the brutal murderer of Bessie Spooner were detailed. But what stopped me in my tracks and forced me to sit and study the article was the announcement that ‘John William Henry Shovelton, of Canterbury-square, eldest son of the late Mr John Archibald Shovelton and Mrs Henrietta Shovelton, was arrested yesterday afternoon at half past two o’clock, and taken to the C Division Station House for questioning.’

I almost cried out! Here was revenge sweeter than any drowned lap-dog! How exquisite! And it roused me from the lethargy that was ready to engulf me.

Now there was business to be done.

‘Start packing our bags,’ I told Gifford. ‘But leave the trunk. I’ll deal with that.’

She wanted to know where and how we were going and when I would not say, stormed back to the George with many a sullen backward glance. I carried on with my walk, needing that activity and interval in order to think. Pausing by the river, I sat and re-read the article, but soon realized that it revealed very little, that arresting Shovelton was probably a last resort and a sop to those East End agitators who had been increasingly noisy as the passing months produced no culprit, no arrest and no conviction. And I pondered the connection between this latest development and the sudden disappearance of Professor Moore. It was a coincidence, certainly, and perhaps something more, a consequence of Yates’s midnight excursion and that comedian’s natural instincts, but not yet a pressing concern.