The Tiger in the Well

  "Do you know where she went?" Cicely asked.

  "Haven't the faintest idea, and I'm cold, besides," said the maid.

  Cicely looked around undecidedly.

  "I'll wait here," she said.

  The maid shrugged and shut the door.

  Cicely felt even more anxious. Those men upstairs - they'd come in the other cab, which was waiting, as hers was, to - what? To take them away? To take Miss Lockhart away?

  She could see both drivers, at the end of the passage, watching her: hers sourly, the other with a twitchy kind of eagerness. She beat her fists together softly and looked the other way. The dull grey afternoon was closing in on the little passage, with a chilly mist in the air around the roofs. Suppose Miss Lockhart had gone for good? How long should she wait? How long would the cabbie wait?

  But as it happened, it was only a minute later when Miss Lockhart came around the corner. She had a basket on one arm and a small child on the other, and she looked tired. She saw Cicely with a start.

  "Oh! Miss Lockhart! Thank goodness--" Cicely began.

  "Cicely - what are you doing here? Did Miss Haddow get my message?"

  "Yes - she sent me because Mr Patten, you know, the client, he arrived just as she was about to go and she said I was to come quickly -Miss Lockhart, there's two men up in the house waiting for you. I thought I'd better wait outside in case. . . Oh, and Miss Haddow is coming. She said to wait in the British Museum and to leave the house. I suppose because she knew about those men, perhaps. You're to wait for her in the Assyrian Room. I've got a cab. . ."

  "Oh. . . Oh, thank you, Cicely. We'd better do that, then. Come on, Hattie-face. . ."

  "Mama," said the child, and whispered something.

  Miss Lockhart nodded, and handed Cicely the basket without a word. Grim-faced, she took the child to a narrow gap between the houses, lifted her skirt and petticoat, and let her relieve herself into the gutter. Cicely felt her head swim. She nearly fainted with embarrassment and mortification. In fact, for a moment she scarcely felt real at all. Knowing that Miss Lockhart had had a child was shocking enough, but to let her do that in the open street -

  She didn't know what it was costing Sally.

  A minute later they were all three in the cab, Harriet on Sally's lap, swinging out of Russell Square and down towards the entrance of the British Museum.

  Cicely explained as well as she could what had happened. Sally nodded. It was clear enough. That meant she'd have to move yet again. How much longer could Harriet keep this up? How much longer could she?

  She looked pale and tight-lipped. And tired. The child sat on her lap, cheeks flushed, thumb in mouth, head leaning on her shoulder, gazing at Cicely with wide dark eyes like her mother's.

  The cab rolled to a halt, and Sally got out and lifted Harriet down and then took the basket from Cicely.

  "The Assyrian Room?" she said. "I hope she comes soon. They close in twenty minutes. But - thanks, Cicely."

  She smiled briefly and hurried through the gate. Cicely collected herself and slid open the panel behind her.

  "The City again, please," she said. "Corner of Cornhill and Gracechurch Street."

  As they rolled away she found herself trembling, but she didn't know whether it was shock or shame or cold. She did feel shame, though she hadn't the least idea why; she felt as if she'd suddenly seen how much more grownup Miss Lockhart was, even more than she'd thought before, and how being grownup meant having to cope with things that she couldn't even have put a name to without blushing. Miss Lockhart seemed less goddess-like now - distinctly so. She seemed older and more tired and even lined, perhaps. Not ideal at all. Holding the child over the gutter like that. . . And yet more real, somehow. Stronger. How extraordinary things were when you saw behind them. . . And she'd forgotten to ask how much to tip the driver; well, she could hardly have bothered Miss Lockhart with that, in the circumstances. She'd have to grow up a little herself.

  Sally let Harriet walk to the steps, but then picked her up and carried her to the entrance. The attendant at the door said, "Closing in fifteen minutes, ma'am."

  She nodded. "Can you tell me where the Assyrian Room is?"

  "On the left, ma'am. Just carry straight on through."

  She put Harriet down again, but she protested.

  "Hattie, you've got to walk, darling, because Mama's arm's tired--"

  "Don't want to!"

  Sally looked around. The attendant was eyeing her unfavourably, and so was a man at a desk just inside the entrance.

  Arms aching, she carried Harriet through the Greek and Roman galleries, the cold white statues looking chilly and complacent; through the Egyptian Room, past colossal stone gods and pharaohs and obelisks, which had never looked so alien to her as they did now; and into the Assyrian Room. Huge cruel faces with spade-shaped beards, a gigantic bull, figures marching flatly sideways along slabs of stone for some brutal boastful purpose forgotten thousands of years ago. . .

  There was no one else here. She put Harriet down, then put the basket down too. There were some new washing things in it - soap, a good towel; and a bag of ginger biscuits. Harriet was looking fretful and flushed. Sally gave her a biscuit, hoping no attendant would come and throw them out for defiling the Assyrians with crumbs. Why didn't they put a seat in here? Harriet stood leaning against her legs, one arm around her, the other hand holding the biscuit. If they were at home now, Sarah-Jane would know what to do: she'd give her a glass of milk and put her to bed, since she had a touch of fever, Sally thought.

  She'd have to assume that she couldn't go back to Mrs Parker's, because someone would be watching for her. So she'd lost all she had - clothes, Harriet's clothes, everything except what was in the basket, and what they stood in.

  As she saw the enormity of what she was trying to do, and the way luck was playing against her, she felt overwhelmed by fear and by weariness. How she longed to sleep, and sleep safe! And how Harriet longed for it too: the poor little thing was leaning into her, hardly able to hold the biscuit. Sally bent down and picked her up, holding her tight, letting her head rest on her shoulder. Harriet closed her eyes at once. Sally thought: I mustn't lean against anything. I must stand upright. If I stand up and don't lean till Margaret comes, we'll be all right.

  She walked slowly up and down in the dim light that filtered down through a dusty glass roof. The cruel old stones loomed on either side, their carvings of slaves and battles and lionhunts like the memory of a bad dream that wouldn't go away.

  The biscuit fell from Harriet's sleeping fingers. Sally stooped, keeping her back straight, and dropped it into the basket, letting Harriet settle more comfortably into her arms.

  More to herself than to the child, Sally whispered, "All right, little one, we'll get through. We'll be back in our home soon and everything will be all right. We can play with Lamb and Sarah-Jane and Jim will come home and Uncle Webster and you can sleep in your own bed again. . . Oh, where is Margaret? They're going to close soon. . ."

  She wandered to the door and looked down the long passage with its ghostly old statues. A lady and gentleman were walking slowly along, examining inscriptions; a young man was sketching; an attendant looked at his watch. There was no one else in sight. Then the attendant put his watch back in his pocket and spoke to the lady and gentleman, who nodded and turned their slow steps towards the way out. The young man put his pencils away.

  Sally withdrew, hoping that she'd be overlooked and that they'd have somewhere to shelter, even if there was only a floor to sleep on; but after a minute or so the man looked in and said, "We're closing now, ma'am."

  Her heart didn't sink; it could hardly sink further. She nodded and picked up the basket, and set off back through the obelisks, the pharaohs, the Venuses and Minervas.

  Outside, she stood at the bottom of the wide steps and felt like weeping. Harriet was lying awkwardly; her feet ached; she felt dirty and sticky and dusty, and cold, and afraid. She began to walk heavily towards the gates.
>
  A cab rolled up and stopped. Margaret got out, thrust some money at the driver, and turned and saw Sally. They ran towards each other.

  "Oh, thank God--"

  "What's been happening?"

  "Have you got--"

  "Let me carry--"

  Confused words tumbled over each other, and then Margaret had the basket and Harriet was awake again; hot, heavy-eyed, thumb in mouth.

  "We'll have a cup of tea," said Margaret.

  She led the way around the corner and into Duke Street, a quiet little thoroughfare with an inviting teashop on the corner.

  "I'm spending more time in teashops. . ." Sally said, but didn't know how to complete the sentence. She let Margaret take charge and order tea and crumpets, and sat back exhausted.

  Margaret explained why she'd been delayed. And it was serious. She'd dealt with Mr Patten easily enough, but there'd been another man there - with a writ.

  "A writ? What sort of writ?"

  "I didn't look at the details - I wanted to get here quickly. The main point is that Parrish has taken out an injunction to stop you getting at your money. Your shares, everything - you can't touch them. And he's applied for some authority or other to allow him to dispose of them himself. Oh, Sally -"

  "He can't," said Sally, and her voice was so faint that she herself could hardly hear it. "He's already taken all the money out of my bank. . ."

  "What? You mean this fanatic's lied and perjured himself and now he's doing all this to you as well - how much have you lost?"

  "Two hundred pounds. . . I was going to sell the, I don't know, Grand Trunk of Canada perhaps - just for some cash - but. . . And there's the partnership - if he can do this, it might make that uncertain, legally - oh, Margaret, I'm just so afraid. . ."

  She spoke quietly, but Harriet didn't seem to be listening. She was sipping her milk carefully, intent on not spilling it. Margaret reached for Sally's hand and squeezed it.

  "Stop being frightened and drink your tea," she said. "We'll decide what to do in a minute. Harriet, would you like a crumpet if I cut it up for you?"

  Sally breathed deeply until her hands had stopped trembling, and then sipped her tea.

  "If only I knew why," she said. "I thought if I got my money I could - I don't know - rent a place and keep secret, keep hidden, or something, and then start to fight back, and find out why he's doing it - but he's too quick, Margaret. He's shut me out of this new place now, and they were so kind, and - I daren't go home to Twickenham, they'll be watching it and now I can't get at my money. . ."

  She had to stop.

  "What's your solicitor doing?" said Margaret. "This is intolerable persecution. He ought to be able to have it stopped."

  "He can't. All we can do is tell the truth. If Parrish lies, and keeps on lying, and has documents to back him up, and if it all seems to hang together as it does, then. . . I mean the judge was bound to. . . It's just my word against his, and he's a respectable man, isn't he? A churchwarden, and all. According to the court, I'm an immoral woman living in God knows what den of terrible vice with two unmarried men. What else would you expect? I thought you could hide in London, but, my God, it's like living behind glass. . ."

  Margaret took out a notebook and a little silver pencil.

  "Immediately," she said, "you need the following: money, shelter -"

  "And a bath," said Sally.

  Margaret wrote it down in the neat shorthand she'd acquired after university.

  "And in the longer term you need -"

  "Time to investigate. Safety - I mean I need to know that -" she nodded at Harriet - "is safe. It's too difficult to trail her about, poor lamb; I've done nothing but look after her all day long and feed her and all that sort of thing. I mean that would be all right, I suppose, but not if I'm going to fight. I can't do both. So I need that: time and safety, really. Money. It comes back to that."

  "That's not too bad, then," said Margaret. "We'll find an hotel for you tonight. You could stop with us, except that my cousins are there at the moment, and there isn't room. Tomorrow I'll--"

  Suddenly Sally gripped her hand. "Out there," she said. "Those three men. . . Is that Parrish? The one in front?"

  Margaret glanced up, and then swiftly took a handful of coins from her purse and thrust them into Sally's hand.

  "Go out through the kitchen," she said. "There'll be a back entrance. Just go, get away, now."

  Sally snatched up Harriet, who was too startled to protest, and darted for the kitchen door. She heard a man's voice behind her, raised in a cry, and heard Margaret calling loudly for the police, and then she was through the door and in a tiny kitchen where a young woman was buttering teacakes at a table.

  "Excuse me," said Sally. "Emergency. Does this lead to the street?"

  The girl was too dumbfounded to do anything but gape. Sally shoved at the door, and found herself looking out at a dark little courtyard with high walls. Harriet, frightened, had begun to cry.

  Sally shifted her quickly from right arm to left, and reached into her basket, putting her back against the wall.

  The kitchen door burst open again, and the serving-girl screamed. The man in the doorway lunged forward - and then stopped short, looking at the pistol in Sally's hand.

  "Yes, it's loaded," said Sally. "And I'll fire it too. Put your hands in the air and walk through the door again. Miss - hold it open."

  They did as she said. She didn't recognize the man: an ordinary moustached face, with ordinary clothes. He backed slowly through the door, and Sally followed.

  The teashop, full of nervous interest a moment before, had fallen silent. Behind the first man stood two others - Parrish himself and one she didn't know. Margaret was standing, as were two other customers, nervous and wide-eyed. As they saw her pistol, two more stood up and backed against the wall.

  Silence for a moment, and then Parrish said, "Sally, my dear, this isn't the way to--"

  She turned on him like a tiger, her finger tightening on the trigger. She felt the blaze in her eyes, and he fell back a step before it.

  Sally said, "Where's the manager?"

  "I am the manageress," said a woman in black at the cash-desk.

  "Have you got the key of the door?"

  "Yes, I have."

  "Come outside with me, please. If you move," she said to Parrish, "or if either of these men do, I shall shoot you dead. You. Parrish. I'll kill you."

  Parrish and his men stood and watched without moving as the manageress detached a key from the bunch at her waist. Sally couldn't look at Margaret. She backed out towards the door, still covering the men with her pistol.

  "Come outside with me," she said to the manageress. "Everyone else is to stay where they are."

  The woman did so. The men locked inside rushed to the door and rattled the handle; the customers peered nervously through the streaming windows.

  Sally put Harriet down, took the key, and dropped it into her bag. "And the rest, please," she said, thinking that there might be a duplicate on the bunch. The manageress handed them over without a word, and Sally threw them as far as she could down the street, and heard them splash into the mud somewhere in the darkness.

  "I'm very sorry," she said. "There was no other way out."

  The men were beating on the door. Carefully letting down the hammer, Sally put the pistol back in the basket and gathered up Harriet before hurrying away around the corner. One or two bewildered passers-by had stopped to stare. It wouldn't be long before those men smashed a window and climbed out, she thought; get a cab, run, hide, do anything. . .

  An omnibus came trundling along, heading for Holborn. She pushed her way through the crowded pavement and pulled herself and Harriet up on to the open platform at the rear, and then jostled past the men coming down the steps from the upper deck and, ducking her head, shoved inside and sat down, taking Harriet up on her lap.

  She watched through the window, but there was no sign of pursuit. Shop-windows were lit now; New Oxford S
treet was crowded with shoppers, businessmen going home, newspaper boys, flower girls. The afternoon had gone, and darkness covered everything.

  "All the way, please," Sally said to the conductor, handing over fourpence. She took her ticket and sat back, beginning to tremble again now she was relaxed.

  She smoothed Harriet's hair under her bonnet with an automatic hand.

  "We'll hide, won't we, Hattie?" she whispered.

  "Want to go home," said Harriet.

  Sally couldn't answer. She sat still, holding her daughter close, as the stream of traffic bore them to the East End.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE GRAVEYARD

  Sally and Harriet stayed on the omnibus till it stopped. Harriet was asleep, Sally stiff and cold and desperate for sleep herself. She picked up the basket, settled Harriet more comfortably in the crook of her left arm, and stood up.

  "Where are we?" she said to the old conductor.

  "Whitechapel Road," he said, "near the London Hospital. We don't go no further. This is the end of the line."

  She climbed out and stood on the busy pavement, getting her bearings. It was early evening, and the road and pavement were crowded; the air was full of the rattle of traffic, the smell of fried fish, the flare and dazzle of naphtha lights. Harriet rubbed her eyes. Sally put her down for a moment, and she clung to Sally's skirt and cried. Sally was looking in her purse. She had three shillings and sevenpence, and that was all.

  Minute to minute, she thought. Don't look too far ahead. There'll be a pawnbroker's not far away; what can I sell?

  She wore very little jewellery. She had a locket on a chain which Frederick had given her, and she wasn't going to part with that, but she had no earrings or brooches or bracelets. The only thing saleable was her father's gold watch.

  All right then, pawn it, she told herself. He'll keep it for a year and a day, he's not allowed to sell it before then, and long before that's up, this'll all be over and you can go and buy it back.

  And there was always her pistol. . .

  No. She'd needed that this afternoon, and she might need it again. A watch she didn't need, not in London, where every tall building sported a clock, some of them agreeing with each other.

  "Come on, let's go and see the pawnbroker," she said to Harriet, taking her hand. She looked along the street for the three brass balls, and sure enough, there they were, only a hundred yards away.