The Tiger in the Well

  With a curious glance at her, he left for an inner office. Sally felt alarm bells ringing in her heart. She looked around; Harriet was playing quietly, counting the rings on the turned mahogany leg of the table beside her. The doorman, resplendent in his uniform, stood benevolently by, lifting his cap as he opened the door to a lady going out. Would he stop her if she had to run out with Harriet?

  "Miss Lockhart?"

  The manager was standing behind the counter, together with the embarrassed-looking cashier. He was a middle-aged, balding man with a condescending smile; Sally had only spoken to him on two occasions before, neither of them in the last year.

  "I want to draw some money out of my account," said Sally. "Is there anything the matter?"

  "I think I should speak to you privately," he said. "Would you be kind enough to come into my office?"

  Sally thought: this is bad news. He's going to tell me something bad. The cashier exchanged a glance with the manager and then went and spoke to the doorman, as if he were sharing a joke.

  She picked Harriet up and followed the manager through the door at the end of the banking-hall. He sat down behind his desk before he spoke. Sally sat opposite, Harriet on her lap, feeling frightened.

  "What is it, Mr Emes? Why can't I have my money?"

  "There is no money in your account," he said. "In fact, the account is now closed."

  She felt her jaw drop. It really does drop, she thought foolishly, and then gathered herself.

  "I beg your pardon? What's happened to my money? There was two hundred pounds in that account. Where is it now?"

  "Your - ahem - your husband came in as soon as the bank opened this morning, with documents from the court empowering him to. . . I was not in a position to, you understand. . . He was accompanied by his solicitor, and--"

  "You gave him my money?"

  "His money. In the eyes of the law, a wife's personal property is the husband's, to dispose of as he will. Unless there was a marriage settlement, that is to say. And the solicitor--"

  "But I'm not married to that man! I never have been! He is not my husband!"

  Harriet was looking up at her, wide-eyed, alarmed. Sally stroked her hair automatically.

  "Miss - er -Miss Lockhart, there was no possible doubt. The solicitor had all the necessary papers. I was astonished when the - ah - information first came to me, as you can well imagine. But I have taken every step I could to make sure I was doing the right thing--"

  "You mean you knew about this before? Well, why in Heaven's name didn't you tell me?"

  "You were not here."

  "But my money -" Sally swept her hand across her face and found herself helplessly shaking her head.

  "Legally, his money. I must remind you of that. The bank has done nothing wrong."

  "You let that man - that stranger - walk out with all my money?"

  The shock was too much for anger. She sat there breathless and dazed.

  "Hardly a stranger, I think," he said. "It is a well-established principle of law that the husband--"

  "How long has he been preparing this?"

  "Naturally the bank would not part with a client's money on the spur of the moment. We have had notice of this for some time. It required only the production of the necessary papers for the formalities to be completed, and with yesterday's court order--"

  Sally stood up. In the middle of her shock, she had remembered the cashier and the doorman. Was he giving the man a message? Parrish's office was only a street or two away; he might be hurrying there at this very minute. She gathered Harriet up and held her close.

  "You've behaved abominably," she said to the manager. "I can't find the words or I'd tell you how disgusting you are. You allow that man - that thief - to steal all my money - you hand it over the counter to him, and you don't even warn me about it - you squalid little cheat, you coward. . ."

  His pinched face looked as mean as a rat's. His cheeks gleamed sweatily, but his smile was as bland as ever. She turned swiftly and walked out. The cashier was standing in the entrance to the bank as if watching for someone; the doorman had gone. She'd been right. As she marched towards the door, the cashier made a halfhearted movement as if to stop her going out, and she stood still.

  "You lay a finger on me," she said clearly, "and you'll regret it as long as you live. Now get out of my way at once."

  People turned; Sally was conscious of astonished faces, craning heads. She took a step towards the cashier, and he fell back. She opened the door and went out, and a minute later she was two hundred yards away in the crowded anonymity of the Strand.

  And Harriet was tugging at her hand. She wanted to whisper something. Sally bent down and listened, but she couldn't hear what the child was saying. She picked her up, but there was still a roaring in her ears; she just kissed her swiftly and walked on. Harriet fell silent. Normally Sally chatted and Harriet burbled, and though it wasn't really a conversation, they were conversing all the same. Sally, tight-lipped and tense, wasn't talking this morning, so Harriet wasn't either.

  It wasn't ten o'clock yet, she saw from the clock over a tobacconist's shop. Perhaps she should sit down, have a cup of coffee, talk to Harriet, calm herself a little.

  That was a good idea. There was a tea-shop, just over the road. Within five minutes they were sitting at a corner table, and Harriet was clutching a large glass of milk while Sally watched the waitress pour some steaming coffee from a silver jug.

  "Could you bring me a newspaper?" she said.

  "Certainly, ma'am," said the girl.

  Ma'am again. She'd have to get used to it. She was Mrs. . . Oh, Mrs Jones. And she was exhausted already, and it was only ten o'clock. And all that money. . . She was trembling. What could she do? Well, there was enough left in her purse to find another lodging-house and last for a couple of weeks. And that would give her time to write to Margaret and arrange to sell some shares.

  "Mama?"

  "Yes, dear?"

  "I want Lamb."

  "Yes, I know. As soon as we're in our new house we'll write for him, remember?"

  "What new house?"

  "Well, we didn't like the house we lived in last night, so we're going - thank you," to the waitress bringing the paper. "We're going to look for another one. A nice one."

  "And Sarah-Jane," said Harriet firmly.

  "Well. . . Not at first. But soon. Soon, I promise. We've got to find a nice house. And we will. But Mama's got to look in the paper to see where to go."

  "Why?"

  "Because. . . Because that's where you have to look. In advertisements. Now hush while Mama looks."

  Harriet subsided, though she was far from satisfied. She pulled off her gloves and ran her fingernail along the raised pattern in the tablecloth. The smells here were nice. She couldn't remember not liking the house they'd lived in last night. She couldn't remember much of it at all, though she remembered her own proper bedroom with the rocking-horse and Bruin's lair that Uncle Webster had made, and the doll's house. She suddenly wanted the doll's house very much.

  Then Mama made a coughing sound, like the cough she made when she got a crumb in her throat. And her eyes were big and wet, and her face was hot. Harriet watched, interested.

  The story Sally had seen read:

  MISSING

  FLIGHT OF WIFE AFTER COURT'S JUDGMENT

  Following a decision in the High Court yesterday, a wife and child have vanished for the second time.

  Mr Arthur Parrish, a commission agent, of 27 Telegraph Road, Clapham, brought the action against his wife, suing for custody of their child. Mrs Parrish had left their home some months before.

  Custody was granted yesterday by Mr Justice Hawke. Almost at once, however, it was found that Mrs Parrish and her daughter Harriet, aged two, had flown from the address where she was known to be staying. Their whereabouts are still unknown.

  Mrs Parrish is twenty-four years old, with fair hair and brown eyes. She may be using the name of Lockhart, which is the name s
he assumed when she deserted the matrimonial home on the previous occasion.

  Police have instituted a search, and have taken out a warrant for her arrest on a charge of abduction.

  Sally thrust the paper away and looked around blindly with eyes that she had to mop. How many people had seen this? And what was wrong with the laws of England, that they let a woman be hunted for kidnapping her own child?

  Fiercely she reached out to Harriet and lifted her on to her lap, hugging her. Harriet wriggled around to look up into her face.

  "Mama?"

  "What is it, little one?"

  "Want a bun. Effant bun."

  "Oh -" Sally found herself laughing, and mopped her eyes again. "An elephant bun. Like the ones we gave the elephant, yes? Well, what have you got to say?"

  "Please."

  "That's better."

  Sally called the waitress and asked for a bun and some more coffee. Thank Heaven for tea-shops, she thought. If you had a few pennies, you could stay there as long as you liked and they brought you food and drink and newspapers.

  She looked out at the crowds passing. It wasn't possible that anyone would recognize her, was it? Perhaps they should go abroad after all. Perhaps she should dye her hair.

  When Harriet had finished, Sally paid the bill and gathered the bags once more. Harriet came placidly, taking it all for granted.

  She thinks I know what I'm doing, Sally thought.

  Miraculously, an empty cab appeared as soon as they were outside. She hailed it and asked the driver to take them to Bloomsbury. Within a minute they were bowling along the southern side of Trafalgar Square, and Harriet was clinging to Sally's hand and watching the horse's gleaming back, glossy with damp, and the reins leading down from the driver's seat above and behind them, shaking to the right as they turned out of Cockspur Street and up into the Haymarket.

  Why Bloomsbury, Sally couldn't have said, except that she'd found safety there once before, in the photographer's shop. Harriet had been conceived there on the night Fred died. Bloomsbury was safe, somehow. She wondered that she hadn't thought of it before.

  She paid off the driver in Russell Square, and she and Harriet stood there like newly disembarked passengers.

  "Which way shall we go?" she said.

  "Go home," said Harriet.

  "We're going to find a house," Sally said. "That'll be our home. Where shall we look first? This way? Across there? Down that street? You choose."

  Harriet considered. The square was very big. Sally picked her up so that she could see more, and she pointed to a street on the east side.

  "All right," said Sally, "we'll look down there. Be a good girl and keep close while we cross the road."

  The bags were getting heavier. Harriet trotted obediently beside her as they moved down the street she'd chosen: tall brick houses, classically simple, but all rich-looking. There was nothing for them there.

  Sally turned down a narrower street, and then into a little court closed off from traffic by a gate. It was called Wellcome Passage.

  "This looks nice, Hattie-face," she said. "Let's knock on a door. Which one shall we knock on?"

  Harriet pointed. Sally knocked. A young maid-of-all-work answered, peering round the door at them both as Sally said, "I'm looking for lodgings. Do you know if anyone in this court keeps rooms to let?"

  "Mrs Parker at Number Five, ma'am," said the maid. "I dunno if she's got any spare rooms, mind. Just over there."

  Number Five was a shabby-looking place, tall and narrow like all the other houses thereabouts, with a battered-looking front door and a knocker that hadn't been polished for years. But it was smooth with use, so the house wasn't unvisited, and the windowsills were crowded with flowers.

  Another maid, older this time, less tidy, less curious, came to the door.

  "Yes'm, there's a room free, 'm; I'll get Mrs Parker, 'm. Come in out the damp."

  The narrow hall was crowded with an umbrella-stand and a bicycle, and the walls were crowded with pictures - bad watercolours clumsily framed. The house smelt of cabbage.

  After a few minutes the lady of the house, a little round bustling woman with bright eyes, came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron.

  "Good morning," said Sally. "I believe you have a room to let? I'm looking for lodgings."

  "Yes. . . Yes," said Mrs Parker dramatically, standing back and gazing at Sally as if measuring her for a costume. "Oh, yes." Her voice was deep and dramatic, with a touch of cockney. "We have met before."

  "Have we? I don't think--"

  "On the plane of souls. As an adept, I recognize the signs. You are young in the spirit, my dear, so you probably wouldn't. What name are you going by in this incarnation?"

  That question was uncomfortably close to the mark. Sally blinked and then remembered. "Oh -Mrs Jones. And this is my daughter Harriet."

  Harriet was poking at the bicycle pedal. Sally picked her up in case she made it fall over. Mrs Parker gazed intensely at Harriet, who stared back stolidly.

  "She has a wise soul," said Mrs Parker. "And you - you have a young soul. You are troubled, my dear. You have secrets. Come this way. . ."

  She led the way up two flights of stairs. The place was unevenly clean, with varying patches where it smelt intensely of furniture polish or cigar smoke. On the second landing Mrs Parker unlocked a green-painted door.

  "The Green Room," she said. "The colours we see in the physical world are emanations from the infinite, you know. Their vibrations act on the soul. For you, Mrs Jones, I should really prescribe blue, only a commercial gentleman's got the Blue Room for six months. You won't come to no harm in green, though."

  The room was shabby but comfortable. There were more dire paintings on the wall - they looked like imaginary landscapes, with lots of green in them.

  "Er - how much--"

  "A guinea a week," said Mrs Parker. "With meals, twenty-seven shillings and sixpence. Coals and gas extra, washing sent out."

  "There's only one thing. My daughter -" she put Harriet, who was starting to wriggle, down on a chair and went on quietly - "well, she sometimes -"

  "In here," said Mrs Parker, opening the bedroom door and showing Sally through. "Bed-wetting?" she went on. "One of the minor inconveniences of the physical world. Don't you worry about that, my dear. We'll slip this india-rubber sheet over the mattress. Admiring the paintings? My son Rodney does 'em. He guides my hand, that is to say, him being in the spirit world. Our meals here, Mrs Jones, are strictly vegetarian, you won't mind that I'm sure, and they're taken in the dining-room. How long was it you wanted the room for?"

  "Oh - a week. To start with. I've just come to London, you see. We shall be looking for a more permanent place. . ."

  "Widowed?" said Mrs Parker cheerfully.

  "Harriet's father died before she was born."

  "He sees her now, my dear, he sees her now. Luncheon in twenty minutes. Lizzie will make up the fires and the beds. I'll trouble you for a week's rent in advance."

  Sally paid for the week's rent and meals, and for coal and for the gas she'd be using in the lights; and discovered that as well as all the spiritual privileges on hand, she and Harriet would have exclusive use of the bathroom and lavatory next door, there being no one else on this floor.

  "I do believe in the desirability of hygiene in all kinds of personal affairs," said Mrs Parker at the top of the stairs, nodding briskly to a lanky youth emerging from a door at the foot of them.

  "Oh, so do I," said Sally.

  When the lady had gone, Sally went back into the bedroom and took off her hat and gloves. Harriet was playing with the wardrobe door, looking at herself in the mirror that backed it. Sally sat down on the larger of the two beds in the tiny room and, overcome by weariness, lay back and closed her eyes.

  Only a minute later, it seemed, Harriet was shaking her hand.

  "Mama! Mama!" she was saying.

  Someone was knocking at the door. Sally struggled up and hastened to open it.
<
br />   "Mrs Parker says luncheon is being served," said the maid wearily.

  "Thank you," said Sally. "We'll be down directly. Come on, Hattie, let's wash our hands."

  As the maid slumped off downstairs, Sally hastily took off Harriet's coat and hat, brushed her hair, took her to the lavatory, washed her hands and then - remembering - took the rest of her little stock of money from her coat pocket and tucked it into the bosom of her dress. Then they hurried downstairs.

  Luncheon consisted of curried vegetables, potatoes, and batter pudding and jam. Harriet refused to eat it, making Sally uncomfortable: should she insist and make a scene? Should she allow her to leave it for the sake of peace? She found herself feeling, among all her other emotions, ashamed that she knew so little about her own daughter's eating habits. Sarah-Jane Russell had taken charge of all that sort of thing so efficiently and so discreetly that Sally had hardly noticed that she herself was doing nothing. She was noticing now, with a vengeance.

  She made Harriet eat up all her batter pudding, which entailed staying at the table after the others had left. When they'd finally done, she set off back to their rooms, only to meet Mr Parker on the stairs.

  He looked around conspiratorially, stuck his tongue in his cheek, and leaning close, said quietly, "Any time you want a meat pie - nice little shop around the corner - got an interest - I sometimes slip out for a meat pie of an evening - don't tell Mrs P - bring you back one, if you like."

  Twinkling with his immense hidden enjoyment, he went on down.

  Sally found that the beds had been made up, and as Harriet was yawning, she decided to let her sleep for a while. She found the handkerchief-mouse at the bottom of the carpet-bag and remade it, and Harriet clutched it to her at once, closed her eyes, and fell asleep.

  Sally went into the parlour, shut the door, and sighed with such a deep weariness that it turned into a yawn that felt as if it would never end. Then she sat down, took out her exercise book, and wrote:

  Moved already. I can't write about the other place; too beastly. This is shabby but friendlier. Oh and the money. . . For an hour or so I haven't even thought about it. But for him to take it like that - and the manager to let him get away with it, planning it for days, not telling me

  She broke off there. She was crying with anger. She rubbed her eyes roughly and went on:

  No good crying. I've got three pounds and six shillings, and food and lodging paid for for a week.