to have a word.’
Lydia felt weary, cold and footsore. She sat down opposite her father.
‘He says there was a misunderstanding and you rushed off. Bit impulsive, wasn’t it? Throw away a whole marriage for that?’
‘Marcus had just knocked me over, which may have had something to do with it.’
Ingleby-Lewis looked away from her. ‘He didn’t mention that. I — ah — I’m sure he regrets it.’
‘So do I.’
Her father peered into the bowl of his pipe as though hoping against hope to find a marriage counsellor inside. ‘Ah. Still. Hmm. All the same, you must keep it in proportion, my dear. We men are rough brutes occasionally, you know, and we can lose our tempers. Regrettable, of course, but there it is.’
‘Is that what you did to Mother?’ Lydia said, finding comfort in a vicarious anger against the only male available. ‘Hit her? Is that why you had to leave her?’
Ingleby-Lewis turned the pipe round and round in his hands. ‘No. I’m not proud of my record in that department but not that. No, the long and the short of it was, we weren’t getting along very well. But that’s nothing to do with this. Point is, you’ve got a perfectly decent husband and a very comfortable home of your own. I’m sorry about the — ah — unpleasantness, but these things do happen, you know.’
Only if you let them, Lydia thought.
‘You take my advice: go back to Marcus, and the next thing you know you’ll have a baby on the way.’
‘But I’m not sure I want a baby. And certainly not with him.’
Lydia picked up her hat, turned and left the room. She went into her bedroom. She removed her shoes and climbed into bed fully clothed. She lay there, staring at the ceiling. She shivered.
Somebody came into the house. There were footsteps on the stairs. Her father had a visitor. She heard men’s voices, rising and falling, one of them much deeper than her father’s.
She couldn’t stay in bed all day. It was a coward’s way out. In a moment, she would get up and go back to the sitting room.
Her fingers played with the hem of the sheet, feeling its chilly roughness on her skin. It was made of old linen, she thought at the same time in a remote part of her mind, quite good quality, though much worn. She registered the fact that there were unexpected ridges of stitching underneath her fingertips and automatically glanced down to see what they were.
Exactly what one would expect: a laundry mark. Crazy capitals in faded red thread. Suddenly the letters assembled themselves into a name. PENHOW.
Mr Serridge was a big, broad man with sloping shoulders, a tangled beard and a deep voice that was almost a growl. He looked ten years younger than Captain Ingleby-Lewis and was probably about the same age. He was also three inches taller. His hand enveloped Lydia’s.
‘Hello, Mrs Langstone.’ He stared down at her. ‘Pleased to meet you. You don’t look much like your dad, do you?’ He smiled. ‘Take after your mother, I suppose. Ha! I bet you’re glad about that.’
‘My daughter’s staying here for a few days,’ Ingleby-Lewis said warily. ‘In the little room next to mine. That’s all right, isn’t it?’
Serridge was still staring at her, making no effort to disguise his curiosity. His manners were offensive, Lydia thought, but it was clearly pointless to take offence. Serridge seemed not to care what anyone thought of him. He was carelessly dressed and his dark hair, streaked with grey, needed cutting. He must have been handsome once, but time and hard living had taken their toll.
‘Your father tells me you’ve left your husband, Mrs Langstone.’
She nodded, knowing her colour was rising.
‘None of my business, but you’ve never been to see the Captain before, have you?’
Lydia raised her face. ‘You are perfectly right on both counts, Mr Serridge. He ran away from his family responsibilities when I was two years old.’
He grinned at her, and sucked his teeth. For the first time she felt the man’s charm sweeping out from him, an invisible fog to cloud the emotions. Beneath the charm was an unsettling hint of calculation.
‘I’m sure she’ll only be here for a day or two,’ Ingleby-Lewis said. ‘Not a problem, is it?’
Serridge frowned and glanced at Lydia. ‘As far as I’m concerned, she can stay for as long as she likes.’
‘What?’ Ingleby-Lewis said. ‘Eh?’
‘You heard, William.’ He grinned at Lydia again. ‘The place could do with a woman’s touch. Do you think you could make me a cup of tea, Mrs Langstone?’
Lydia said warily that she would see what she could do. As she was crossing the landing, she heard the doorbell. In the kitchen, she filled the kettle and put it on the gas ring. Mrs Renton was talking below, and a man was replying. Lydia recognized Mr Wentwood’s voice. Through the open door of the kitchen she glimpsed his tall, bony figure coming up the stairs. He gave her a smile and a wave.
Mr Serridge came out onto the landing. He had a small, pink bald patch on the back of his head, and he was so large that he blocked her view of Mr Wentwood entirely.
The attic flat cost twenty-five shillings a week, unfurnished, and for an extra five shillings Mr Serridge agreed to bring up some furniture from the cellar. All the necessities would be there, he assured Mr Wentwood. Shared kitchen, shared bathroom on the floor below, both with water heater. The electricity had recently been installed, at considerable expense. That was metered, naturally, as was the gas supply.
‘I was rather hoping I could move in within a day or two,’ Mr Wentwood said as they came down the stairs to the first floor and paused on the landing. ‘I’m out in Kentish Town and it’s not very convenient.’
‘Convenient for what?’ Mr Serridge said.
‘Looking for jobs.’
‘Oh — so you’re out of work, are you?’
‘I’m just back from India,’ Mr Wentwood said. ‘I’ve a number of irons in the fire.’
‘But no regular income, eh?’
‘Not at present. But I do have savings. There won’t be a problem.’
‘There’d better not be, Mr Wentwood. I tell you what. You pay me a month’s rent in advance as a returnable deposit, and you can move in on Monday. I’ll need references, naturally. All right?’
‘Absolutely, Mr Serridge.’
‘Rent day is Saturday.’
‘I’ll write you a cheque now, shall I?’
‘I’d prefer cash, if you have it. You know where you are with cash, I always say.’
Mr Wentwood looked embarrassed. ‘Of course.’ He took out his wallet.
‘Four weeks at twenty-five bob a week,’ Serridge said cheerfully. ‘A five-pound note will do nicely.’ He turned to Lydia, who was assembling cups and saucers in the kitchen. ‘And now, Mrs Langstone. All the talking’s made me parched. What about that tea?’
The speaker addressed his audience as comrades. His name was Julian Dawlish, and he wore very wide flannel bags, a grey pullover and muddy brown shoes. Horn-rimmed glasses gave the only touch of stern angularity to a round, smooth-skinned face.
The international situation was very bad indeed, he told them in a high-pitched, well-bred voice, because of Herr Hitler and Signor Mussolini, who were now revealing themselves in their true colours. Even in England’s green and pleasant land, Fascism was on the march, grinding the poor and the vulnerable beneath its jackboots. But all was not lost. There were gleams of hope in Spain and a positive beacon of light in Russia. If the workers of the world united, there was nothing they could not achieve.
Mr Dawlish’s talk was followed by questions from the floor which had a habit of turning into lengthy statements. The meeting tailed away a little after nine o’clock. Afterwards, tea, orange squash and stale biscuits were served. The audience stood about smoking, chatting and relishing the fact that they were no longer sitting on chairs designed for children.
‘Shall we go?’ Rory said. ‘I’m dead beat.’
‘All right.’ Fenella glanced towards the knot of people around the speaker. ‘I was going to ask the time of the next meeting, but they’ll put up a notice.’
