But she had told him to go, hadn’t she? She only had herself to blame, losing her temper with him like that. Yet he had taken her at her word. How could he have done that?
And there came the answer that had eluded her till now. Ronnie had been a sponger from the start – a sponger with a silver tongue, beguiling her, stupid fool that she’d been.
From somewhere came a spark of her old self, the self that had made its way when she’d first come to London, a girl alone, knowing nothing but her soft, comfortable upbringing, the one who had so innocently fallen for another silver tongue and ended up pregnant, spurned by her family; the old self that had confronted her father all those years ago, had angrily told him his fortune and had never laid eyes on him since, nor ever cared to. She had made her own way in the world no matter that she’d made mistakes, felt things had sometimes got on top of her. But looking back she had fared moderately well, had become stronger if not as strong as she would have liked. But she had confronted obstacles, surmounted them and come out somewhere on top hadn’t she? She had made money by her own brain, maybe with a little help here and there. The fact that she was broke didn’t mean that life was over. And yet…
There came a slow awareness of her life stretching ahead of her as she grew older, her face becoming lined, her body bowed, no one to grow old with her, no one to care, her wonderful soirées, marvellous parties not even a memory in people’s minds as they went on with their lives. What had been the point of it all?
As if in a dream Madeleine crossed the room and began dragging a chair to the centre of it. There, beneath the chandelier she stood beside the chair and took off the sash of her dressing gown. There was no other place in this room to do what she intended. She was alone in the house. By the time Mrs Crossland arrived, it would be over.
She would tie one end of the silk sash around her neck, climb on the chair and fasten the other end of the sash around one of the gilt arms of the chandelier in the middle of this room where she had held so many of her lovely parties. One leap and it would all be ended. No more worry, no more fretting, no more aching heart, no more loneliness – so simple, so quick.
If she stood on tiptoe on the chair she would just about reach up to the chandelier. Hopefully as she kicked the chair aside, the jerk would break her neck, this feeling of emptiness would be over, this aching knowledge of having been betrayed – over.
For a moment she stood poised. Betrayed? No, in her need to have someone love her she’d allowed herself to be deceived. Not so much made a fool of but having been a fool. From somewhere came a spark of fury. Why was she bowing to the actions of some worthless little swine who had run out on her after all she’d done for him? She was better off without him. So, she had been hurt, was that reason enough to be doing what had been in her mind?
She suddenly felt so angry that it shot through her as if touched by a fire. If she did what she had been intending to do, who would have been the winner? Certainly not her. So she’d be facing life alone from now on. Maybe something would come along.
There came a sudden thought: any minute now Mrs Crossland would be letting herself into the house to begin her cleaning. If she found her lying here, dead…
Slowly she let the silken sash fall to the ground and as if in a dream placed the chair back in its place by the wall. It was then she heard the front door open and close. Mrs Crossland. But there were voices. Ronnie? He’d come back. Relief sweeping over her, she made for the door.
Mabel Crossland took her key from her purse to open the door of her employer’s lovely home, her mind miles away thinking of her daughter’s birthday, hoping she would be back home in time to greet her coming in from her shift at the switchboard of the big company where she held a job despite all the savage unemployment of late. She already had a lovely birthday spread and a big cake. There would be Dad, her grandparents, who lived with them, her brother Sidney, and her two aunts who lived just down the road.
She was smiling, visualizing the warm fire glowing and her house full of people as she made to put the key in the lock, when a sudden movement from behind startled her.
She turned to see a man about to mount the steps in her wake, a taxi at the kerb on the point of drawing away.
Hardly giving her time to gasp, he exclaimed: ‘Is this Mrs Ingleton’s home? Mrs Madeleine Ingleton?’ His tone sounded urgent.
‘And who are you?’ she demanded, standing her ground.
‘I need to see her.’
Mabel Crossland stood rigid, defensive. ‘I don’t know you, sir.’
For an answer, still standing on the bottom step, he hastily fished in his inside breast pocket and drew out an envelope, waving it at her. He was tall, good-looking, well dressed. The blue eyes beneath the trilby were filled with an expression of urgency. ‘She wrote to me some while ago but I have been away. My name’s Ingleton. Maybe she has mentioned me.’
‘Not that I know of,’ Mabel Crossland said tardy,
