Under the Dragon's Tail (5 page)

CHAPTER SIX

A
nnie was relieved when Burns answered the door, not Meredith. In spite of her bravado, she hadn’t been looking forward to another encounter. The butler gazed down at her disdainfully.

“Mrs. Pedlow is expecting me,” she said and handed him her calling card, one of the new ones she had printed just the last week.

He glanced at her in surprise. “You’re Miss Brogan?”

“Have been all my life unless you know something I don’t.”

“She is indeed expecting you.”

He didn’t need to finish the sentence. His expression said it all. Why somebody like you is calling on Mrs. Pedlow, I cannot imagine.

“Madam is in the gazebo. She asks you to join her there.”

Annie was used to servants despising her and she’d long given up either fighting or placating. However, in spite of herself she still cared. She gave a haughty lift to her chin, sending the scarlet feathers bobbing.

“Where?”

Burns pointed. “Go across the grass and around by the porch. You’ll see her.”

Annie did as he said, irritated as her good boots sank into the soft earth. She lifted her skirt high above her ankles, aware that the butler was watching her.

The white gazebo was tucked into the far corner of the garden, and as soon as Annie rounded the porch, Maud saw her and stood up. Today she was dressed in a lilac-flowered muslin gown. The sleeves were full to the elbow, and the bodice was of white satin, embroidered with jet and green sequins. Annie would have felt honoured by such a presentation except she had the suspicion Mrs. Pedlow dressed like this on every occasion.

In spite of her fine apparel, she looked haggard, and the pallor of her skin emphasized the lividity of the birthmark.

“Please sit down, Miss Brogan,” she said and ushered her into the shade of the gazebo.

Annie took one of the wicker chairs. She smiled.

“You could have knocked me over with a goose feather when you came through the door. What a surprise after all these years.”

Mrs. Pedlow made no acknowledgement to this remark but said coldly, “May I offer you some refreshment? Our cook does make a very pleasant lemonade.”

Annie was put out by her tone. She had been prepared to be friendly, but hurt, she became snooty.

“Pleasant lemonade would be…pleasant.”

The other woman stiffened but she poured the drink. Annie accepted the glass and took her time sipping. She could feel Mrs. Pedlow’s tension, sensed she was waiting for something, but Annie’d be damned if she took the lead. Let her do it. With ostentatious delicacy, she replaced the glass on the wicker tea trolley.

“I think it’s going to rain, don’t you? Very unpleasant, I must say.”

Her hostess clasped her hands tightly in her lap and not looking at Annie, she said, “Sarah will be back soon, so we can’t waste time. We both know why you came here. Perhaps we could get straight to the point.”

“And what point is that, ma’am?”

“Please, Miss Brogan, I really don’t have much time.”

“Pity that. I thought we could have a nice chat. About old times. However…” She began to unbutton her gloves. “Given that we’re in a hurry and all that, do you mind if I ask you a quick question?”

“What is it?”

“What happened to your baby?”

George and Freddie were sitting at the kitchen table. They could have gone into the parlour but they were
like song birds who have been caged too long and don’t fly to freedom even when the door is opened. Dolly never allowed them anywhere but the kitchen and their own room.

George had found a cigar butt on the street and was trying to get it to light, dropping matches recklessly on the floor.

“You’re gonna get it if she sees that,” said Freddie, and he gazed around uneasily as if Dolly was watching them. George punched him on the arm.

“Get it through your loaf, you nocky fool, she’s not going to give it out again. Ever. She’s gone to the grand silence, Fred. She’s a stiff. Worm fodder.”

This didn’t soothe the younger boy who was biting back tears. He swung his legs against the wooden chair.

“What’s going to happen to us then? And Lil? I wish she’d come back.”

“Don’t fret about the dummy. She’ll be back, she’s bunked off before.”

“And us?”

“We’ll be all right. Better than before, you’ll see.”

Freddie looked doubtful but he knew better than to argue. George puffed hard on the stinking cigar and managed to get a glow. He drew in a deep breath, coughed a bit, and sat back the way he’d seen the men do when he looked through the windows of the Yeoman Club down the road. He swung his dirty, callused feet onto the table.

Freddie waited, then he said in almost a whisper, “Do you think it was what Lil did as killed Mrs. Mother?”

“Not likely is it? You saw with your own eyes that Missus got up. She was walking around after, wasn’t she? Look!” He indicated a bruise on his forearm. “She could pinch good as ever.”

“Why’d she die then?”

“She fell. She was drinking like a soldier since the afternoon. She fell down and cracked her head.”

Freddie wriggled his buttocks on the chair. He always itched. The cigar had failed again and George gave up in disgust.

“Come on. We should get up the wooden hill.”

The other boy shifted restlessly. “We can stay up now. Nobody’ll mind. I want to wait for Lil.”

“No, we’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.”

“Like what?”

“Like we’ve got to see about a funeral.”

“How do we do that?”

“Bloody hell, I don’t know. We ask somebody.” He smiled ferociously, his eyes turning. “We’re family now, it’s up to us. I said, come on.”

Truth was that George was tired out and in need of retreating to his own lair, but had no intention of going up by himself.

He lit one of the porcelain oil lamps. Another thing they hadn’t been allowed to touch.

“Here, you carry this. I’ll bring the candle.”

In a circle of light the boys left the kitchen, Freddie leading the way. At the foot of the stairs, he halted and shrank against George.

“What if she’s going to come back?”

For answer George kicked him on the ankle. “Keep going, you silly coon, or you’ll get it from me worse than any ghost.”

But it was the lights that gave him courage and the necessity of being hard in front of Freddie.

Once in their squalid bedroom, they closed the door quickly as if they could ever shut out spirits.

“Can we leave the light burning?” asked Freddie.

George had every intention of so doing but he pretended to hesitate just to torment the younger boy.

“All right, you yellow belly. Anything to stop you bawling.”

He turned down the wick of the oil lamp, leaving the candle stub lit. Instantly the room was filled with shadows. Both boys undressed hurriedly and jumped into bed.

“Can I sleep close, George?”

“Only if you don’t fart or fidget.”

“I won’t, I promise.”

“And if you piss in the bed, you’ll get it but good.”

“I won’t.” He pressed into George’s bony back, his arms folded against his chest. They lay for a few moments then he said, “George, can I tell you something?”

“Better be good. You’re spoiling my shut-eye.”

“Somebody came here in the night.”

“What d’you mean?”

“A woman came. I heard her. You were dead asleep but she was knocking like a thunder and woke me up.”

“Probably Lily.”

“She wouldn’t knock on the front door.”

George hesitated, not wishing to concede the point. “So what are you getting at, our Fred?”

“This woman. She and Mrs. Mother had a roaring good dustup.”

“I didn’t hear anything.”

“The house could fall down and you wouldn’t wake up,” said Freddie, making a tentative joke. “They were yelling like a pair of teamsters, they were.”

George shrugged. “So? Missus was always having a barney with somebody.”

“What if the woman clobbered Mrs. Mother? Sent her off.”

George grinned. “Good on her if she did.”

“Should we tell the blues about it?”

“Tell the frogs? Have you lost a slate? It’s nothing to do with us, is it? We were tucked up with Lethy, weren’t we?” He thumped the other boy again. “Weren’t we?”

Freddie clasped at his arm, weighing one fear against another.

“There’s something else.”

“What? You’re getting up my snout with your mithering.”

“There was another person as came.”

“What d’you mean?”

“I heard somebody else. A bit after.”

“Must have been that same woman come back.”

Freddie shook his head. “Seemed different. Mrs. Mother wasn’t fumy. They went into the parlour. They was talking soft. No row, not like the first one. Mrs. Mother laughed. You know how she did.”

He imitated a sort of mirthless cackle. George well knew what he meant. Such a laugh was always followed by some punishment, swift, capricious, and severe. He remembered and unconsciously touched a deep scar on his chin where Dolly’s ring had once caught him.

“George?”

“What? Spit it out for Christ’s sake.”

“Just after that I heard a big bump. Real loud like something fell.”

“You’re a dolt, my lad. We know she fell. That was the sound. Her idea pot kissing the fender.” He paused. “Did you hear the cove leave?”

Freddie nodded. “A bit after I heard footsteps in the hall and the front door opened.”

“How much after?”

“I don’t know.”

George raised his hand to slap the other boy. “Do I have to knock some sense into your thick head? How much after? An hour? Two minutes?”

“Don’t hit me. I’m trying to tell you, honest I am. It was soon.” He struggled to express the concept of time elapsing. “Five or ten minutes perhaps.”

“Was there a carriage outside?”

“Didn’t hear one.”

George rolled onto his back and laced his hands behind his head.

“Did you hear Missus after that?”

“Not a peep.” Freddie paused, trying to find his courage. “Do you think this cove did for her?”

“’Course not. How many times do I have to repeat it?” He punched the other boy with the knuckle of his forefinger. “She fell. The copper didn’t think she’d been done in, did he? We’d be sitting in the clink answering questions, wouldn’t we? Like happened to Lily.”

Freddie shivered. “I think we should tell them.”

“Tell them what?”

“That I heard somebody.”

“No.” For George, deceit was as instinctive as a blink. “It’s nothing to do with us,” he continued. “You was probably dreaming if truth be told. You know how you are. We won’t say nothing. No need. Let the bluebottles do their own work.” Suddenly, he squeezed Freddie’s chin in his hand. “Cheer up, you little gawdelpus. It’ll be all right. Look.” He slipped his hand into a hole in his pillow and fished around. “See.”

He pulled out a small bundle wrapped in newspaper. Inside were several bank notes, mostly one-dollar bills. He flapped them under the other boy’s nose.

“Smell good, don’t they.”

“Where’d you get those?”

George explored the pillow again and removed a leather thong that had a small brass key attached to it.

“Where’d you think?”

“You pinched her money?”

“Not pinched, took back. By rights this money is ours considering all the work we’ve done for her. I just claimed our just wages.” He fanned the bank notes. “There’s almost fifty dollars. We can live like kings.”

Freddie’s dark eyes widened and George smiled.

“Now come on give us a kiss and go to sleep.”

Such unencumbered friendliness was so rare that Freddie wanted to cry. George turned onto his side, pulling the boy close against his back.

“George?”

“What now?”

“Say it really was some cove who did for Mrs. Mother, what if they come after us?”

“Us? Don’t be so nocky. We’ve done nothing. Lots of coves have had quarrels with Missus, wanting the dosh they lent her. She never paid anybody back, remember? It’s nothing to do with us.”

“What if that cove thinks we know something?”

“But we don’t, do we? We don’t know anything.”

He made it clear the talk was over, and Freddie didn’t want to risk spoiling the momentary softness. George was probably right. Nobody had a reason to come after them. Nevertheless, he inched closer and lay with his eyes open for a long time, watching the candle flicker and finally go out.

CHAPTER SEVEN

M
aud Pedlow woke with a start, the fear that sleep temporarily had held at bay broke through into consciousness. She lay unmoving, watching a patch of sunlight tremble on the ceiling. Walter was snuffing beside her and she didn’t want to wake him, didn’t want his intrusive curiosity. He’d complained several times in the last few days that she was in a pet, liverish, moody. None of this was spoken with sympathy or an invitation to unburden herself.

Carefully she got out of the bed, soft and stale from the night. She looked down at her husband. His mouth was slightly open, his hands folded across his chest, and he hardly seemed to breathe as if even in sleep he
was wary of the world. She moved away and reached for her wrapper. The touch of the satin was a momentary comfort but she glimpsed her reflection in the standing mirror and the silver grey and lace gown seemed drab and ghostlike.

Maud had long given up regretting her marriage. She was thirty years of age when Walter proposed to her, and she was quite aware of her choices. There had been no other suitors willing to brave the bastion of her disfigurement, and her father was not wealthy enough to sweeten the lure. Walter was a widower, one year older than her own father, and she found him humourless and crotchety. However, he had social position and money, her father was ailing, and she knew that trying to live on pretensions and a tiny income with her mother was a bleak prospect. She accepted Walter’s offer of marriage at once.

At the bedroom door she paused. Downstairs she could hear the household stirring as the servants began their chores for the day. The tea cups clinked on the breakfast tray, the shovel clattered in the ashes of the stove. A male voice, probably Meredith, laughed and was answered by a burst of high-pitched giggling, quickly suppressed, from the young maid, Susan.

“Do your duty,” her mother whispered to her timidly the night before her wedding. “You can’t afford to be haughty.” That was the only instruction as to conjugal life she received, but she was grateful to Walter, wanted
to love him. She was quite prepared to be affectionate and do what married women were required to do.

On their first night together he had fallen asleep, and she assumed he was being considerate of her inexperience. The second night, he mounted her without preamble, penetrated her painfully and quickly, but complained about how difficult it was. They had attempted relations only once after that, unsuccessfully. Walter sometimes liked to lie beside her and take his own pleasure while looking at her naked body but even that was not often. Maud soon settled into the common rut of wives with inconsiderate husbands. She busied herself with a round of dining engagements and took undue pleasure from expensive clothes. She was always in search of new medical discoveries that could repair her face but found none.

There were no candles lit in the hall sconces, but the morning light had crept in sufficiently for her to make her way to the nursery tucked away on the third floor. Hoping the latest maid, Betsy, was not yet awake, Maud hurried up the stairs and entered Sarah’s room. The child was sleeping but as Maud came over to the bed, she turned restlessly, kicking away her quilt. The room was warm and close and Maud frowned. She had asked Betsy always to keep the window open, winter or summer, but the girl said too many flies came in and at night she closed it. Maud gently pulled the quilt all the way off and placed her hand on Sarah’s forehead, smoothing away the fine hair that was sticking to her cheek. She yearned
to stroke the soft skin, trace the delicate arch of the dark brows, but she was afraid her touch would burn.

She had been married for nine years when she first met Henry Pedlow, Walter’s nephew. He was living in Vancouver and came to Toronto en route to taking a position with a pharmaceutical firm in India. Walter was away at the time, on the circuit, but dutifully she invited Henry to stay at the house.

Before two days had elapsed she was passionately in love with him.

He was dark-haired, rather plump, with soft brown eyes that gazed on her in admiration, not seeming to notice the purple naevus, the swollen and pulled lip. He made her laugh, noticed every new gown, and seemed content to be in her company all day long. The night before he was due to depart, she had virtually asked him to be her lover. “You can stay,” she had said, stumbling over her words, ashamed that she was so awkward because of course he was already staying, sleeping in the room next to hers. But he understood and had responded with warmth, kissing her deformed mouth, which no one else in her life had ever done.

When he left the following morning she remained in her room for a week, refusing food, not wanting to move from the place of memory. It was only Walter’s return that made her stir. She had no wish to offer explanations for her behaviour.
They hadn’t even known he was back in Toronto. There had been no telegram or letter, just a knock at the door less than a month ago. Fortunately, Walter was at his club and Sarah was doing lessons in the nursery. Maud was alone, reading in her sitting room when Burns announced him. The shock had rendered her motionless and it was only when she realized the butler was eyeing her curiously that she regained some control and was able to greet him. He too was very contained, apologizing for not giving her notice. She barely heard his excuses, as if her ears had got stopped up with cotton. He continued to prattle on about the voyage over from India, the disagreeable climate there, the savagery of the natives. Maud said almost nothing, staring at him. Initially she was unable to find the semblance of the young man he had been. He seemed wizened, too old for his years, as if his flesh were losing a battle against the dominance of the Pedlow frame. He had grown a full moustache and his hair was longer than it should have been, but neither gave the impression of vitality. It was only when she saw his slender hands that were so agonizingly familiar to her that she truly remembered, that her body remembered, and the impulse to kiss again the soft, full lips was so strong she had to stand and walk to the window.

Suddenly the door to the adjoining room opened and Betsy came in.

“Oh I beg pardon, madam, I…is there anything wrong?”

Maud stepped back and whispered angrily, “The child is too hot, give her a cool sponge-down as soon as she wakes.”

The maid knew better than to protest. It was not the first time Maud had come into the nursery at the oddest hours, and Betsy was well aware she was one of a long line of servants who had proved unsuitable to take care of the little girl.

Maud hesitated, not wanting to wake Sarah at this early hour but wanting her to be up, hungry for her welcoming smile. But the maid was watching her and she left the nursery, her need squeezing at her chest.

The church bells were ringing through the city, peal after peal until only the deaf or the incorrigibly slothful could lie abed. Episcopalian were more prevalent, closely followed by the Methodist chimes and trailed by the Roman Catholic. Sinners from all denominations stirred as they were called to prayer.

William Murdoch had been up for over an hour doing his exercises. On Sundays he didn’t ride, but before Mass he stripped to his singlet and drawers, pushed back the drugget on the floor of his sitting room, and did knee bends and push-ups until his muscles screamed for a respite.

Hands behind his head, he did four more squats, grunting with the effort. “Seventy-seven, seventy-eight, seventy-nine, eighty.” With a gasp he collapsed on the floor. Done.

From the next room he heard Enid singing a Welsh tune that was rousing and vigorous, like a gospel hymn. He paused for a minute to listen to her but the thought of how different their beliefs actually were depressed him and he jumped up. He had ten minutes more of exercise to do before he had to wash and change into his Sunday clothes. Mrs. Jones was now singing a rather plaintive tune in English about being in the hands of Jesus. Murdoch started to run vigorously on the spot until the noise of his own breathing drowned out the song.

The leaves of the willow tree danced in the breeze, and the movement of light and shadow across her face woke Lily. She shivered. The cave where she had slept was dank, and the night had been uncomfortably cold. She didn’t have enough room to stretch her legs out straight and they felt cramped and stiff. She sat up as well as she could and eased herself cautiously to the opening of her hiding place in the riverbank. She had no way of knowing if people were close by and she moved carefully until she peeked through the curtain of willow branches. The sun had disappeared behind clouds but there was enough warmth to feel good on her cold face and hands. There was nobody on the opposite bank and on this side of the river there was no path at all so she didn’t fear anybody coming that way. She, herself, entered the hide-away by edging sideways close to the riverbank. She’d found the hiding place last summer when, after another
beating by Dolly, she’d run off. An old willow tree had fallen into the river, and where the roots pulled out of the ground there was a hollow. The branches hid it from view and when she had crawled into the cool gloom, like a she-fox coming home, she felt safe.

She bent down and splashed water over her face and neck. Hunger had kept her awake at first, but this morning that had gone and she felt nothing except thirst. She cupped her hand and lapped the river water. For two days she had sat by the opening, crouched within the leaves, watchful. The birds were her warning, whether they suddenly took flight or continued their usual coming and going around her. Yesterday she had felt bolder and ventured out looking for wild berries. She tried not to think, but suddenly the memory would lump into her mind. Not just of the big policeman in his helmet whom she’d seen coming up the path of her mother’s house but the other men in uniform from before. Their faces red and angry, shaking their fists at her when she wouldn’t walk down the cold corridor to her cell. She tried frantically to make them understand, she wasn’t being bad, wasn’t defiant, but her sounds only seemed to anger them the more. Her mother had made it clear with gestures and a crude drawing that Lily was going to be hanged. That the gallows was in that room at the end of the corridor. But before she died, Lily would be tortured, hot pokers would be thrust in her eyes and she’d be put on a rack and stretched until all her bones were broken.
Her mother had shown her a drawing in an old book. “Just like this,” she thumped the page with her finger.

First women, stiff and forbidding in their dark dresses and aprons, came to take her but she fought so fiercely, they sent for the men. Two big guards roughly subdued her and dragged her into the cell. They didn’t know, because she couldn’t tell them, why she struggled so desperately. Finally, they tied her into a chair and put a cloth tight about her mouth to silence the screaming. After a while the matron sent for Dolly. She was shamed into soothing her daughter, and although she managed to pinch her when the matron wasn’t looking, she did communicate to Lily that she wasn’t going to be tortured and hanged. Yet! That if she was very, very good and did everything she was told she would be let out. And just possibly, her mother, whom she had disgraced, would take her back.

These were the memories that Lily tried to keep away. Now, her mother was dead. It was her fault and if the men came again and the judge with his white hair, she would be forced back to that place and Dolly would not save her this time. She trembled and moaned as she wiped her eyes with her wet hands.

The waiter had knocked two or three times before Henry heard him.

“Your breakfast, sir.”

Henry looked at his watch, which he’d placed on the
bedside table. It was almost noon. He had slept a deep, drugged sleep that left him feeling thick-tongued and sluggish. The waiter called again and he forced himself to sit up.

“Leave it outside,” he shouted with a rush of anger.

He wasn’t hungry, rarely was these days, just perpetually thirsty, his throat always burning. He reached over to light the lamp on the bedside table. He kept the curtains closed. He didn’t want the sunlight, didn’t want a reminder that life was going on outside his room, that people with futures to think of were walking on the street, talking, laughing with each other.

He got out of bed slowly and went over to the washstand. He tilted the mirror so he could get a better view, tugged off his blood-spotted nightshirt, and contemplated his naked body. For a long time now, this had become his morning ritual. It was foolish, morbid really, because what he saw was the inexorable progress of his disease. Abruptly he dropped to his knees and clasped his hands together in prayer. He went to church on a regular basis but it was perfunctory, polite behaviour and he knew it. However, this morning he longed to reach a God who had long seemed indifferent.

“Our Father which art in Heaven, forgive me for what I have done. I am a sinner. You have punished me, Lord, and I will try to accept Your punishment as it is just. I repent. You who see into my heart, forgive me I beg, but as it be Your will and not mine. Amen.”