Bleeding Heart Square

Rebecca turned back to Rory. ‘Not God, sir: goat. He’s lost his goat.’

Robbie pulled at Rory’s sleeve, dragging him towards the wall.

‘There now,’ Rebecca said comfortably. ‘He must have taken quite a fancy to you. He wants to show you his Golgotha bones.’

The boy reached up and very carefully lifted down a small skull, not much larger than a lemon. Its lower jaw was still attached, and along the top of it ran a high, vertical ridge of bone like the crest of a Roman helmet.

‘It’s his badger,’ Rebecca explained. ‘It’s his favourite now the goat’s gone.’

‘God,’ Robbie said. He lifted the badger very carefully back onto the wall and pointed to the space beside it.

‘That’s where it was,’ Rebecca said. ‘You’ve got lots of others though, Robbie, haven’t you? Show Mr Wentwood your sheep.’

Robbie lifted down two skulls, one a ram’s with sawn-off horns and the other much smaller, a lamb’s. There were cats too, and birds, most of which Rebecca could identify. ‘That’s a magpie, that’s a pigeon, that’s a starling.’ Finally there was a frog, this one a full skeleton with brown, leathery tatters of skin attached to it, its long, graceful rear legs trailing into the air.

‘He collects them?’

‘Yes. I got one or two for him from the keepers up in the Hall woods, but most of them he finds himself. He had this great big skull of a billy goat. Lost it the other week, and he won’t stop going on about it.’ She patted the boy’s head. ‘Nasty-looking thing, mind you.’

‘God,’ said Robbie, spraying spittle over the frog.

‘No, dear. Goat. And if you ask me it looked more like the devil.’

16

You like to think that in those days Philippa Penhow had moments of happiness.

Saturday, 5 April 1930

Here I am, sitting at my desk in the window of my own morning room looking out at my own garden! For the first time in my life, I am the mistress of my own establishment. How strange and delightful — I have always lived in other people’s houses — the first with Mother and Father, then with Aunt, and then at the Rushmere.

We moved in only yesterday, in a great rush, and my heart sinks when I think of everything there is to do. This room and our bedroom are reasonably habitable, but everywhere else needs redecorating. I have two maids to keep in order — Rebecca, a nice sensible sort of woman who once worked at Rawling Hall and knows how things ought to be done, and Amy, a rather flighty young thing — I can see already that she will need a good deal of instruction and supervision. When I was giving my orders to Rebecca after breakfast, Amy came running into the kitchen like an excited child. She was holding a dripping skull in her hand! A goat’s skull! One of the farm workers had been clearing a ditch and he had found it in the water. He left it on a tree stump in the orchard. These simple country folk have a very strange sense of humour, I must say.

The sun is out, I’m in my new home, my spirits are high. But I must confess that yesterday evening I felt a little low. Joseph was very preoccupied. He spent much of the day driving our new car up and down the drive, practising the gears, etc.

I had expected that he would share my excitement at being here. I must sound very foolish but I had hoped for a loving word or a gentle touch. I’m sure my Joseph is as happy as I am, but men find it hard to show their feelings. And of course he has a lot to worry about. I thought he drank rather a lot of brandy after supper. I went up to bed, expecting him to join me. He did not, however. This morning, at breakfast, he said he had not wanted to disturb me, as he had stayed up late with the accounts, and so he dozed on the sofa in front of the fire. He said that old soldiers can sleep anywhere.

He may have to go up to London on Monday on business. I thought perhaps he might invite me to come with him but as yet he has not. I expect it has not occurred to him that I might like to come. Perhaps I shall mention it.

On Saturday Lydia caught a tram down from Theobald’s Road to the Embankment and walked along the river. It was a fine, cold afternoon and the water swayed and sparkled like shot silk. Here at least was a sense of space. Lately, as the city became increasingly oppressive, closing round her like one of its own fogs, she had begun to dream about the countryside. She wanted trees, rivers, muddy fields and broad, empty skies. Rory Wentwood had gone down to Hereford for the weekend, and she envied him.

The walk took longer than she had expected, and she was footsore by the time she turned up from the river towards Sloane Square. Alvanley Mansions was a large block of flats perhaps thirty years old. It was a solid, dull place of red brick, with gleaming brass letter boxes and scrubbed steps.

She enquired for the Alfordes at the desk, and the porter directed her to the lift.

A middle-aged maid showed her into a drawing room at the front of the flat. The room was so full of things that for a moment Lydia failed to notice the people. You could hardly see the wallpaper because there were so many pictures, hung seemingly at random in order to squeeze as many as possible onto the wall. Then Mrs Alforde rose from a desk tucked into the corner beside an immense glass-fronted display cabinet crammed with china. And Colonel Alforde tottered out from the shelter of a high-backed sofa, his left arm outstretched, and his right arm hanging awkwardly by his side.

‘My dear Lydia. Very glad you could come.’ His left hand shook her right.

Mrs Alforde was short and plump, whereas her husband was long and thin. She shook hands vigorously, as though operating a pump handle. ‘You’ve got quite a colour in your cheeks, dear,’ she said in a tone which made it hard to distinguish whether it was intended as a compliment or a criticism.

‘I walked up from the Embankment.’

‘A nice afternoon for it.’ Colonel Alforde settled her in a chair. ‘Hermione tells me you’re staying at Bleeding Heart Square. Can’t say I can place it. Where is it precisely?’

‘Near Holborn.’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever known anybody who actually lives in that part of the world.’ Alforde chewed the ends of his long, grey moustache. ‘Still, it must be very … very central. And your father? How’s he keeping?’

‘Very well, thank you,’ Lydia said, and added another lie: ‘He sends his regards, of course.’

Both Alfordes looked disconcerted by this news. ‘Not seen him for a while,’ the Colonel said at last. ‘Used to run into each other a good deal before the war.’ The muscles around his mouth trembled. ‘Things were different then. Everything was very different.’

The maid brought the tea. Alforde’s good hand trembled so much that he spilled his over his waistcoat. Mrs Alforde dabbed at him with a napkin; her passionless efficiency suggested that this was a regular occurrence. He ate nothing, but pressed cake on Lydia as though she were a hungry child.

‘And how’s that husband of yours?’ he asked. ‘Nice young fellow.’

‘He’s very well, I believe.’

‘I hear he’s joined the Fascists. They seem a pretty sound outfit. A lot of ex-servicemen so they understand discipline. And they realize the importance of avoiding another war and the importance of the Empire. This Mosley chap has the right idea. Of course he knows first hand what war was like. I met him once in France, you know. Quite a young firebrand in those days, a little too reckless, but he’s settled down since then. No more war, that’s the important thing. No more war.’ He began to speak more slowly, like a clockwork motor running down. ‘No more war.’

Mrs Alforde patted his shoulder. ‘There, there, dear. It’s all right. Nobody is going to be silly enough to have another war.’

He looked at his wife with wide, panic-stricken eyes. ‘You can’t be sure of that. And the next time nowhere