Chapter Fifteen #2
And yet with such intensity of love comes the fear of losing it – and lose it I will. That is inevitable.
We lie entwined, our hearts gradually slowing down, the sweat drying on our skin, the afterglow enduring in the rosiness of our cheeks and the sparkle in our eyes. He kisses my forehead. I put my hand on his chest. I take a breath. We won’t have another moment like this.
‘There is something I need to tell you,’ I begin, lifting my head out of the crook of his neck and propping myself up on my elbow.
He looks at me, and his lips curl into a small smile. He winds a tendril of hair around my ear. ‘You’re crying,’ he says, and his face clouds with concern.
I nod. How do I begin? What words do I use? How can I explain what is really unexplainable?
‘Eddie?’
And there it is. Eddie. The name pulls me down like a cold stone.
He sees Eddie. He is only ever going to see her.
My courage fails me. I press my lips to his, but he’s alarmed now. He takes my face in his hands and gazes at me worriedly. ‘Eddie, what is it?’
My voice must get past the lump in my throat. I’m wilting in the face of too great a challenge. I simply cannot do it. Not now. Not ever.
So, I don’t. I take the coward’s way. ‘I love you, my darling, and I always will.’
His expression relaxes with relief. ‘You don’t regret it?’
I shake my head, and tears of defeat blur my vision as the opportunity passes like a ship sailing over the horizon that will never come back. ‘It was beautiful.’
We return to Seacombe. The rain has stopped, and valiant shafts of sunlight find holes in the purple cloud and transmute to gold the yellow fields of rape.
We hold hands across the gearbox, and every now and then he glances at me and smiles with affection and pleasure.
He knows not the heaviness in my chest, and I hide it well.
Eddie has no reason to be sad. But I feel as if my heart is in tatters.
This soul connection I feel is mine alone. Why did I ever think otherwise?
He drops me off at Eddie’s house. Before I climb out, he takes my hand and squeezes it. ‘I love you, Eddie Skipton.’
‘And I love you right back, Cavill Pengower.’
The house is as quiet as a tomb. Cook, Nancy and Mrs Crocker have, on my instruction, taken the day off. I’m glad. I don’t feel like talking to anyone. I’m relieved I’m alone. I need time and space to process what has just happened. What I failed to do. And what the consequences of that might be.
I hang my hat on the hook in the hall. I notice a telegram in the silver tray on the console table and open it.
It’s from a woman called Sylvia. I have no idea who Sylvia is, but she’s coming to meet me tomorrow to talk.
Best not meet in the house. I will be at Betty’s at ten.
My stomach clenches with anxiety. Where is Betty’s?
I stare at my reflection in the mirror. ‘Where is Betty’s?’ I repeat out loud. Eddie’s beautiful eyes gaze back at me. I wish she could help me out here, but her consciousness is elsewhere. She can’t hear me or help me.
‘Best not meet in the house.’ Well, that implies there’s someone in the house Sylvia doesn’t want to bump into. Could it be that Sylvia is Eddie’s sister, Nessa’s mother? I cling on to that hope. If she is, then I can learn more about Nessa and what’s in her head. I just need to find Betty’s.
I put my hat back on and head out into what is gradually becoming a placid evening.
The wall of cloud is heading inland, leaving the sky over the sea washed to the palest of blues.
There’s a gusty wind, still damp from the rain, and I wrap my coat about me and jump over a puddle that’s collected in a hole in the road.
Everyone in my path either smiles or nods in greeting.
Eddie must be well known in Seacombe, or perhaps people are just polite.
It’s a small town, after all, not like London where everyone is a stranger.
It’s not long before I reach the high street.
It’s quiet compared to a modern high street.
There’s a classic Model T Ford parked on the curb, but besides that one vehicle there are only horses pulling carts slowly over the cobbles, people on bicycles, and others going about their business on foot.
I notice once again the absence of yellow lines on the street, and the pavements are clear of signs, bollards, traffic lights and the other paraphernalia that clutters modern towns and makes them look so ugly.
It’s peaceful, charming and innocent, and almost sepia in colour, as if I’m looking at everything through a subduing lens.
It’s not long before I find a newsagent.
I head inside and search for a map of the town.
I find them displayed on a rack on the counter – no Google Maps in this time.
The newsagent, a balding man in a beige overall with steel-framed glasses perched on a bulbous nose above a tidy thatch of a moustache, smiles at me warmly.
‘What can I get you, Mrs Skipton?’ he asks in his West Country drawl, and I’m taken aback because I didn’t expect to be known in here.
‘I need a map of the town for a friend of mine,’ I reply confidently. I always think one can get away with anything if one is confident.
‘Indeed,’ he says as I reach for one.
‘Beautiful day, isn’t it?’ I add, placing it on the counter.
‘Didn’t start off that way. Thought the rain would never stop.’
I laugh. ‘I agree. It didn’t look optimistic, did it?’
I open Eddie’s purse and hand over some coins.
I have no idea what the value of money is, or indeed, what the coins mean.
The newsagent frowns. He takes a couple and gives the rest back.
I feel I must say something to justify doing such an odd thing.
‘Coins are very fiddly,’ I say and drop them back into the purse.
He chuckles. ‘Especially those little coppers!’
I change the subject quickly, so as not to look like an idiot. ‘My friend is meeting someone tomorrow at Betty’s. I need to explain to her how to get there.’
‘Then it’s a good idea to give her that map. Betty’s is a little off the beaten track, isn’t it?’
‘That’s what I thought,’ I reply, confident now that I’ll find it. ‘Well, thank you, and have a good day.’
He frowns again. I don’t suppose people say ‘have a good day’ in 1923!
I walk home with a sense of achievement. I turn my thoughts to Nessa and what I’m here to do. Tomorrow is Monday. The fire happens on Wednesday. That gives me only three days to work out what motivates Nessa to remain in the world after death, when it would be so much more pleasant to leave it.
As for Cavill, I cannot imagine ever managing to tell him the truth. I had an opportunity and I blew it. I don’t think I’ll be given another. I suppress the rising sense of defeat and shame, for I’m nothing but a coward, and walk on with purpose.
That evening, I dine with Nessa and Lavinia on cold meats and potatoes which Cook has left out for us.
Both girls comment on the fact that there are no servants in the house.
‘It is so unlike you, Skippy, to give everyone the day off.’ Nessa grins at me playfully and arches her eyebrows.
‘What were you up to while we were rehearsing?’
I smile sweetly. ‘I don’t know what you’re implying, my dear, but it sounds highly inappropriate!’ They both laugh. ‘Actually, I went to Hartismere with Mr Pengower to look at the sets Lydia has made. They were packing them into a van to take to the theatre.’
They are suitably distracted. ‘Goodness, how exciting!’ enthuses Lavinia.
‘Are they magnificent?’ Nessa asks.
‘They are fabulous!’
I’m surprised they don’t comment on me going with Cavill. Perhaps Eddie and Cavill have been business associates for long enough now for it to be acceptable to spend time alone together.
‘Gilda is a shockingly bad actress,’ says Lavinia, returning to what is clearly their favourite subject. ‘Poor Mr Bentley is having to work extra hours to coach her.’
‘One cannot make a silk purse out of a pig’s ear,’ says Nessa meanly. ‘He’s wasting his time.’
‘Lady Macbeth is not an easy part,’ I tell them. Of course, I have no idea as I haven’t seen the play.
‘Rubbish, Skippy. It’s only challenging if one is not up to the job. Gilda should try something else, like gardening, or painting.’
Lavinia laughs heartily at that ludicrous suggestion. ‘Can you imagine her getting her pretty white hands dirty in the garden, Nessa?’
‘I suppose not,’ she concedes. ‘Still, she should accept defeat and step off the stage.’
‘That will never happen,’ says Lavinia seriously. ‘She must be pushed.’
At that comment, the hairs stand to attention on the back of my neck. ‘Now that’s not kind,’ I tell her. ‘Let’s play a game.’
‘Snakes and Ladders,’ Nessa suggests, getting up and dropping her napkin onto the table. ‘One doesn’t have to think too hard about that.’
The girls set off up the stairs to the drawing room, their heads together in secretive whispers.
I know they’re plotting something, I can feel it in that space beneath my ribcage where intuition dwells.
But what? I feel rather sorry for Gilda, having these two snapping at her heels.
Sure, she’s not a great actress, but this is amateur theatre, and her husband is the boss.
Gilda can do what she likes. Isn’t it just meant to be fun?
I think of the fire, and wonder, with an uneasy feeling building in my belly, whether the fun gets out of hand. Didn’t Lelia say that Nessa herself started it? Could it be that a prank to hinder Gilda goes horribly wrong?