The Girl on the Cliff (21 page)

‘I’ll be back in a few days to check for a reply,’ said Mary as she counted out her shillings and handed them to the girl.

‘You know you can have them delivered to your home if that’s more convenient,’ commented the girl.

‘I’m … moving and I’m not sure of my new address,’ Mary replied quickly. ‘Anyway, it’s no bother to use my own feet and come and collect it.’

‘Whatever suits you.’ The girl shrugged and moved on to the next customer.

Mary left the post office, readying herself to move on to a new life with her beloved Anna.

Elizabeth Lisle took the reply to her telegram into her husband’s office.

‘Mrs Grix is organising everything for Anna. She says that there are no costs to pay for the funeral as we had already paid this term’s fees. Any monies remaining after that, she will forward to us. It is to be held in a week’s time and she will inform us of the exact spot where Anna is buried, so that we may go and visit her when we return to England. She will post Anna’s death certificate to Cadogan House.’

‘Death certificate … the poor child, I –’

Lawrence watched his wife sway a little and immediately rushed to her side. ‘My dear, I understand how
stressful this must have been for you, especially under the circumstances.’ He sat her down in a chair and held her hands in his. ‘What is done is done, and as you rightly said, I did my best for Anna. I must move on and not upset you further by talking of it. And –’ he indicated his wife’s stomach – ‘think of life, not death.’

‘Anna, pet,’ Mary said as they sat toasting crumpets over the gas fire, ‘I’ve spoken to your headmistress and she knows you’ll not be returning.’

Anna’s face lit up with joy.

‘Oh, Mary! That’s w-wonderful.’ Then she frowned. ‘And have you t-told Uncle and Aunt about this?’

‘Yes, and they agree.’ Mary took a deep breath. She hated herself for lying, but knew Anna must never know what she had done.

‘You see? I told you that Uncle wouldn’t have me stay there if I was unhappy. So when can we go b-back to Cadogan House?’ Anna bit into the buttered crumpet Mary handed her.

‘Well now, that’s the thing, pet. As you know, the house is being closed up while your Aunt and Uncle are living in Bangkok. And even though they love you, they don’t feel they can afford to run a house the size of Cadogan House just for one little girl to live in. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, of course I understand. So where am I to l-live?’

‘Well now, they’ve suggested that you might want to stay here with me.’

Anna looked around the small room, her privileged upbringing suddenly betraying itself in her eyes. ‘You mean, l-living here always?’

‘Well, my friend Sheila next door is getting wed next
month and moving out of her flat. Her landlord said that we could be having that if we want. It’s got two bedrooms, a sitting room, a kitchen and its own bathroom. I was thinking we might take a look.’

‘All right,’ Anna agreed, ‘and it means we don’t have to leave the p-poor man who stands outside by the lamp post.’

Mary glanced at Anna. ‘You’ve noticed him, then?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Anna nodded. ‘I’ve spoken to him. He looked so sad and l-lonely, all by himself out there.’

‘You
spoke
to him?’

‘Yes.’ Anna was busy devouring her crumpet.

‘And did he answer?’

‘He said the weather was getting even c-colder.’ Anna wiped the butter from her mouth. ‘Does he have a home?’

‘He does, pet.’

‘So he’s not an orphan like me?’

‘No, he’s not an orphan.’

‘So, where am I to go to school?’ Anna returned to the conversation.

‘Well now, I was thinking that we might go back to the old days of teaching you from home. Especially if you want to continue your ballet lessons.’ Mary dangled the appropriate carrot. ‘A school might not be too happy to let you have afternoons off to do that. But, of course, it’s up to you.’

‘Can I go b-back to Princess Astafieva?’ asked Anna. ‘I do think she’s a very good teacher.’

‘Unfortunately, the Princess isn’t well just now, but I’ve been making enquiries and we have a wonderful teacher just five minutes from here. His name is Nicholas Legat
and he used to be Anna Pavlova’s partner!’ said Mary encouragingly.

‘Anna Pavlova …’ Anna’s eyes were wide at the thought. ‘The greatest ballerina that has ever l-lived!’

‘Yes. So, I’m thinking in the next couple of days we’ll go down to his studio to see if he’ll take you. How about that?’

‘Oh, Mary,’ Anna clapped her hands together. ‘I can hardly believe two weeks ago I was in that dreadful place thinking I’d n-never be able to dance again.’ She threw her arms around Mary. ‘And here you are, like my guardian angel, c-come to save me.’

‘Ah now, pet, you knew I’d never let you come to any harm.’

‘When you didn’t write to me at school, I thought –’ Anna bit her lip – ‘I th-thought you’d abandoned me.’

‘Well, everyone felt it was better if I let you be while you settled in.’

Anna eyed her. ‘You mean you were t-told not to write by Aunt?’

‘Yes, but only out of your best interests.’

‘Mary, you’re so kind about everyone, but we both know that Aunt h-hated me.’ Anna kissed her on the cheek. ‘And whatever you are to me, I don’t think there’s a girl in the world that c-could have a better mother.’

Mary eyes welled up with tears, wondering whether Anna would agree with that if she told her the truth about what she had done. ‘Well now, pet, that’s enough of that. But as you’ll be living with me for at least the next few years, it might be easier if you took my surname.’

‘W-well, as I don’t seem to have one anyway, I think it
would be wonderful to be called the same as you,’ agreed Anna.

‘You know, too, that the nuns named me “Benedict”, so I have no real surname either. I’d say we both start again,’ Mary smiled, ‘and make one up!’

‘Can we really do that?’

‘I wouldn’t see why not.’

‘How exciting! Am I allowed to ch-choose?’

‘Of course you are, as long as it’s not after some unpronounceable Russian ballerina that no one can get their tongue around!’

As always, when Anna was thinking, her index finger went into her mouth and she chewed it. ‘I know!’

‘Do you, pet?’

‘Yes! I was thinking of my favourite piece of b-ballet music,
The Dying Swan
, and that my name is Anna, the same as Anna P-Pavlova. So, I would like our surname to be “Swan”.’

‘Swan …’ Mary tested the name on her tongue, then turned to Anna. ‘I like it.’

A day later, it was Anna Swan who walked into the studio of Nicholas Legat. And Mary Swan, her mother, who took her. Anna was immediately accepted into his class and began to take three ballet lessons a week.

Within a month, the two of them moved to Sheila’s old flat in the building next door and Mary set to work to paint and brighten their new home. She produced pretty floral curtains from her sewing machine for Anna’s bedroom, and treated herself to some duck-egg blue chintz for the small sitting room that would double as her sewing
room. As she hung them and stepped back to admire her handiwork, Mary thought of the new house in Dunworley that was to have been hers all those years ago. But that dream was gone, so she poured her home-making energies into the cramped space that would be the nearest thing to it she would ever have.

‘You are a miracle worker,’ Anna declared when Mary proudly showed her the finished bedroom. ‘And I love you. Can we ask Nancy and Mrs Carruthers around here for t-tea? I’d love them to see our new home.’

‘I’m so sorry, Anna, but they’ve both moved out of Cadogan House and I’ve no idea of their addresses,’ Mary replied calmly.

‘Oh, but I think it’s terribly rude of them not to let us know, don’t you? They were our f-friends, after all.’

‘I’m sure they’ll be in contact when they’re ready, pet,’ Mary answered guiltily.

The two of them settled into a routine. Mary did her best to make sure Anna sat down at the small desk in the corner of the sitting room to work at her lessons. She used the local library to source books on history and geography and encouraged Anna to read as much as she could. She was aware it was hardly the kind of education a girl such as Anna should be receiving, but it was the best she could do. Besides, she knew the child’s mind was elsewhere.

Three afternoons a week, Mary walked with Anna across Colet Gardens to drop her at her ballet class. Mary glanced behind her nervously as she entered and exited the building. It was something she would do for the rest of her life. She knew it was the price she must pay for her actions.

When the idea had first come to Mary, she had thought that perhaps the best thing to do was to spirit Anna abroad. But as she’d worked out the details, Mary had known it was not an option. Anna had no birth certificate, passport or, in fact, any official papers detailing who she was, so they were trapped in England. She had also considered moving away from London, but she had to think of her income. Besides, she thought, in a small town or village, the two of them would be far more noticeable. In a big city such as London, they had more hope of remaining anonymous. And the fact that so much of Anna’s childhood at Cadogan House had been lived inside its walls and she’d met few people during her time there, made the chances of Anna being recognised small.

However, Mary kept far away from their old Chelsea stamping grounds, comforting herself that, as Anna grew into a young woman, few would ever associate her with the little girl who had suffered such a tragic and early death.

As for the future … Mary could not think about that. She had done what she believed was right to protect the child she loved. And if there was one thing she had learned from the loss of Sean and her hopes and dreams along with him, all you could do was to seize the day.

One balmy spring evening, when Mary and Anna had been living their new life together for three and a half months, Anna came into the flat accompanied by a visitor.

Mary looked up from her sewing machine in surprise. For there, standing shyly by Anna, was the young man who stood outside under the lamp post.

‘Mary, this is Jeremy. He’s my friend, aren’t you, Jeremy?’

The man looked down at Anna nervously and nodded.

‘I said to Jeremy that he should c-come in and meet you. I said you wouldn’t mind. You don’t, do you, Mary?’

‘Why, I … no, of course I don’t.’ Mary felt flustered as Jeremy’s dark, haunted eyes fell upon her. ‘Jeremy, come and sit yourself down and I’ll be making a brew.’

‘Th-Th-Thank you.’

Mary went into the kitchen and busied herself with setting a tea tray, hearing Anna chatting away comfortably next door. Her high-pitched voice was interspersed with the odd deep grunt from Jeremy.

‘Here we are then,’ Mary said as she set down the tea tray on the table. ‘Jeremy, will you be taking milk and sugar?’

‘B-Both.’ After a long pause, there was a ‘Th-Thank you kindly.’

Mary poured the tea and handed it to him. As Jeremy took it, his hands shook, making the cup clatter against the saucer. She removed it from him gently and set it down on the table next to him.

‘Isn’t this nice?’ commented Anna. ‘Much b-better in here than it is out there.’ She indicated the lamp post. ‘And besides, I said to Jeremy that my mother didn’t have any friends either. So I thought you could b-be each other’s friends.’

Jeremy nodded, glancing at Anna. Mary caught a glimmer of emotion in his eyes and read that this strange, sad man was obviously fond of his young friend.

‘Well now, it’s very thoughtful of you to be thinking of me, Anna. Isn’t it now, Jeremy?’

‘Y-Yes.’

Mary busied herself pouring her own tea, and sat in
silence, wondering what on earth she could say to him. Asking what he did with himself seemed daft, when she knew he spent most of his time communing with the lamp post outside their window.

‘Th-Thank you f-for the
coat
,’ Jeremy said, the effort of saying the words visible. ‘K-Kept me w-warm.’

‘See?’ said Anna. ‘He speaks like I do sometimes.’ She patted his hand affectionately.

‘Well, ’tis nice that you two have been talking.’

‘A-Anna t-tells me she l-loves dancing,’ ventured Jeremy. ‘L-Loves Tch-Tchaikovsky’s
Swan Lake
.’

‘Yes,’ Anna said eagerly. ‘And Mary has said that as soon as we get enough money, we can buy a gramophone like we used to have at Cadogan House. Then we can b-buy the record and you can come and l-listen to it, Jeremy.’

‘Thank you, Anna.’ Jeremy picked up his tea cup gingerly and put it with shaking hands to his lips. He gulped the contents down, relieved the liquid had made it to his mouth. Then he placed the cup back on the saucer with a clatter. ‘And th-thank you for the t-tea, Mary. M-Mustn’t b-bother you for l-longer.’

‘You don’t bother us, does he, Mary?’ Anna said as he stood up.

‘No, not at all.’ Mary walked with Jeremy to the door of the flat. ‘Now you feel free to come in for a brew whenever you’d be wanting to.’

‘Th-Thank you, M-Mary.’ Jeremy smiled at her with such gratefulness that Mary instinctively reached out her hand to pat his thin one.

‘We’ll be seeing you again, I’m sure.’

A couple of afternoons later, Anna appeared in the flat with Jeremy, who was carrying something under a blanket.

‘Jeremy says he has brought us a present! I can’t wait to see what it is.’ Anna flitted around excitedly as Jeremy asked Mary where he should place the bundle.

‘Put it on there.’ Mary indicated the sideboard, and Jeremy did so. With a flourish, he removed the blanket to reveal a gramophone and, placed on the spindle, a pile of records.

‘F-For you and Anna.’

‘Oh, Jeremy!’ Anna clasped her hands together in excitement. ‘What a wonderful p-present. Isn’t it, Mary?’

‘Well now, it is, but this is only to be borrowing, isn’t it, Jeremy?’ Mary underlined.

‘N-No, it’s for you. T-To k-keep.’

‘But these machines cost a fortune. We can’t –’

‘You c-can! I h-have m-money. W-which record, Anna?’

As Anna and Jeremy discussed whether it should be
The Sleeping Beauty
or
Swan Lake
, Mary recognised the glint of determination in Jeremy’s eyes. Even in his broken state, she saw a glimmer of what he might have been before the war destroyed him.