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So, when I was conceived, my Captain Jack was distinguished only by the fact that he had the good fortune to marry a woman from the merchant class. With her money he could order my measurements from architects, adjust and fashion me completely to his taste. When he returned from his voyage, Jack gave his wife a perfunctory kiss, looked in on the infants bawling in the nursery at Deptford, then hurried along the Thames to climb the hill that led to my cradle. The builders were waiting to cut the first trench, spades poised. Jack bounded across the heath, waved his pocket handkerchief as his Blue Peter, and they set off, digging deep in the soil.
Chapter 3 (#ulink_b320528d-40aa-5a5d-b7fd-5ea4ea8990c6)
Jonah, Present Day
‘So Jonah, we have a call here logged to the emergency services at 23.53. The caller identifies himself as you. Is that correct?’
Jonah sipped his water. ‘Yes. I made the call.’
The senior of the two police officers in the interrogation room flicked through the transcript of the brief conversation. Seen across the table like this, it looked like a script. ‘You said that you feared you’d hurt someone. Is that also correct?’ The inspector wouldn’t have been cast though in this role if this were a drama; he looked too scruffy and had several piercing holes in each ear. A director would’ve put him on the other side of the table with Jonah. ‘You requested the police as well as an ambulance. Please answer for the record.’
‘Yes.’
‘And can you tell us what you meant by that?’
‘I don’t know.’ The events were an ugly mess, like dropping a plate of spaghetti Bolognese and trying to retrieve the pasta strand by strand. Why was he even thinking of food? Jonah hadn’t slept since they arrested him. How many hours ago? God knows. He ran his hand over his face. This place was scarily familiar. He’d sat in numerous sets exactly like this one recently but none had the same smell as the real thing, the smell of sweat and some cheap industrial floor cleaner. TV sets weren’t around long enough to get the odour infused into the walls.
‘Jonah? Can you answer the question please?’
‘Sorry: what did you ask?’
‘I asked in what way you hurt her?’
He had a sudden jolt of realisation. These people would know. He wouldn’t be left speculating as he had been in the police cell. ‘Is she OK?’
The officers exchanged a look, debating between them if this was something that was better kept from him or not.
‘Please. She’s a …’ what was she exactly? ‘… she’s a friend.’
The scruffy man, Detective Inspector something, nodded to his female sergeant. Jonah had already forgotten their names. Nothing was sticking in his brain, wiped clean of everything but her scream.
‘Her respiration was compromised,’ replied the sergeant, a fresh-faced woman with sandy hair tucked back behind her ears, ‘she’s still in a coma, still critical, and we’ve no word yet as to whether she’ll survive.’
He’d heard the ambulance men discussing it. They hadn’t realised at that time that he was the chief suspect and instead they’d been impressed to meet the actor who played them on TV. They’d talked to him like he was one of them for real. They told him as if he already knew: interrupted breathing leads to oxygen deficiency which in turn could result in brain damage. He probably had known that, but he just hadn’t been thinking, only reacting.
‘Will you let me know the minute she wakes up?’ he asked.
‘There’s no certainty she will. We’re still trying to establish exactly what took place. This might turn into a murder enquiry. Are you prepared for that?’
He bit his ragged nail. ‘I still want to know.’
‘Why, Jonah? Are you afraid what she might remember?’ The inspector leant forward, body language intended to dominate.
Wishing his brain would stop note-taking on movement as if he were studying for a future role, Jonah shook his head. What he’d meant was that he wished to apologise for losing it with her, but he didn’t want to make anything that sounded like an admission of guilt. His frantic words on the emergency call were bad enough without adding that. ‘I just want to know that she’s OK.’
‘I wouldn’t wait until she can tell her side of the story, if I were you,’ said the inspector. ‘Tell us the truth now, hiding nothing, and your cooperation will be taken into account when the CPS comes to consider your case.’
He hadn’t really expected to walk out of here without some charges, not with his record, but he was hoping they would let him go on bail. ‘It’s complicated. I’m not exactly sure what happened.’ Jonah scratched at the spiderweb tattoo on his knuckles. He wondered if he should call a lawyer now. The last one that had been appointed for him by the courts had been a disaster so he’d not gone there yet, but from the seriousness of their expressions, he should reconsider the wisdom of talking to them alone.
‘Then start at the beginning. Tell us what your relationship with her was like.’
‘I wouldn’t say we had a relationship.’ He gave it the double meaning that the inspector hadn’t, mainly to stall while he considered the lawyer question some more.
‘Help us to see what went on in Gallant House, Jonah. At the moment, I have to say, things aren’t looking that good for you. We’ve got your call, there’ll be forensics, so dodging these questions is not going to help.’
‘I’m not sure anything is going to help.’ Jonah said this under his breath.
‘Sorry, I didn’t catch that.’
He gave the inspector a bleak smile. ‘Nothing. I’m just really tired. Not thinking straight. Gallant House? That all goes back to Bridget.’
Chapter 4 (#ulink_aa4b1340-78c5-5e4b-adc3-248a0d656248)
Jenny, One Year Ago
Bridget Whittingham was exactly as Kris had described when he rang Jenny to say that he’d fixed up the interview. Tall, thin, with fine-boned neck, wrists and ankles, Bridget moved like the dancer she had once been, her arm unconsciously leading her as she swept from room to room. Her auburn hair – Jenny assumed this was dyed – twisted into a soft peak on top of her head like a Mr Whippy cone. Not that Bridget looked the sort to buy that kind from street vans with blaring tunes. Jenny imagined Bridget’s ice cream came from hushed artisan shops that made flavours that included elderflowers or Madagascan vanilla pods.
‘And this is the drawing room.’ Bridget opened the door onto a high-ceilinged chamber. The walls were covered in an astounding plum flock wallpaper patterned with stylised peonies tumbling from urns. It was only saved from being overpowering by the white panelling that reached waist height. Chairs and sofas with well-turned wooden arms competed for attention in dusky pink upholstery like Victorian children come down from the nursery for their daily parental inspection. Family portraits hung in heavy gold frames; those pictured looked either faintly amused or terribly bored to be gazing down on a room that appeared not to have changed for a century. It was like walking into Schmann’s Symphony No. 1, thought Jenny. She’d played it recently with its nineteenth century lush inner tensions somehow resolving into harmony.
‘It’s still as Admiral Jack intended – the first owner. I redid it on my marriage to freshen it up and I have to say it’s held its colours quite well. North-facing – I suppose that accounts for it.’ Bridget’s tone was very BBC Radio Three, gently refined and pitched low for a woman, fit for commentating on the Proms. She would’ve been shocked by Jenny’s Estuary English if they’d met before Jenny lost her voice.
Jenny didn’t know if she should be appalled or impressed by the room. She was certain she would be too afraid to use it in case she damaged one of the vases on the side tables. Where were the ropes and reverential guide steering a party past a glimpse of historical old England?
‘Of course, we don’t use this much – just high days and holidays.’ Bridget adjusted a blind. With a tilt of her head catching the light just so, Jenny was suddenly aware of the skull beneath the skin, the high cheeks, eye sockets. She disliked these moments when her brain went x-ray on her. Bones, we’re just a collection of fragile bones. ‘We prefer to gather in the snug,’ continued Bridget.
Jenny shook off the disturbing vision. She was quickly learning that posh people had a different language. Drawing room, she’d met before in nineteenth century literature but snug was a new one. She decided to wait to see what it meant rather than show ignorance.
Bridget took her towards the back of the house through a generous hallway tiled in geometric patterns and into a room half the size of the first. This one looked out on the garden; south-facing French windows were partly shaded by a vine that clambered over the wrought iron balcony. New leaves were just unfurling.
‘That’s a Black Hamburg vine, sister plant to the famous one at Hampton Court, or so my husband claimed.’ Bridget opened a window to let in the sound of birdsong. ‘How anyone would know is beyond me as I’ve not found anything about it in the family archive but it does bear some passable black grapes in good years.’ Seeing Jenny approach, she added swiftly. ‘Don’t go out on the balcony, please, dear: I can’t swear to the soundness of the structure. The wretched thing is listed but far too expensive to repair. I’m afraid I’ll just have to let it moulder elegantly until it rusts entirely to nothing.’ Her gesture indicated the intricate wrought iron structure that ran across the back of the house. ‘It’s debatable if it’s the vine keeping it up or the other way around.’
Jenny smiled politely as if she understood the headaches in keeping a listed house going. Bridget was quite something, like a dinosaur left over from an earlier age found unexpectedly still roaming the earth.
‘You see that it’s much more comfortable in here compared to the drawing room.’ Bridget patted the top of the old television set. It looked like an antique rather than something capable of streaming Netflix. ‘The sofas I admit are a bit lumpy but I hate to throw anything out.’
The grey couches with winged armrests did indeed look like warty Indian elephants reclining on sisal matting. Bridget had attempted to liven them up with ruby red scatter cushions but they still looked a little sad, their best circus days over. The walls too had once been white but now had faded to a buttercream colour.
‘There’s nothing that you need worry about harming in here,’ said Bridget. ‘You can put your feet up on the sofa and no one will tell you off. That’s why it’s called the snug: it’s the place you come to feel comfortable. Now let’s go into the kitchen. I’ll make us some tea and you can tell me about yourself.’ She led the way past a console table with its black Bakelite telephone. It looked like it was expecting to receive a call from an earl or a duke, certainly not some telephone marketer sitting in Swansea or Bangalore. Jenny had to hope Bridget bent enough to the modern world to have a mobile as she didn’t do calls, only messages.
Bridget put a kettle on the hot plate of the Aga. The kitchen was surprisingly rustic for London: a long dresser displaying willow pattern china and lace-edged creamwear plates; scrubbed oak table; blue and white Delft tiles. Jenny had been awed by the drawing room, not sure about the snug, but the kitchen was a case of love at first sight. She could be very happy here, its neatness keeping the chaos of life at bay. She waved to the room and gave Bridget a broad smile.
‘I know what you mean, dear: this is the heart of the house. Now, tell me about yourself. Kris said you’re a violinist with the London Philharmonic, is that right? And he also said you don’t talk?’
Jenny nodded to both questions.
‘Is that can’t or won’t?’
People rarely asked her that. Jenny pointed to her throat. There was a white scar across her larynx that should answer for her.
‘What, no sound at all?’
Jenny shook her head. Long ago, when she was recovering, they’d tried to make her talk. All that had come out were ugly grunts and Jenny had freaked out; she’d felt like her voice had been eaten by a monster. She’d felt safer with silence.
‘You poor dear. An accident, was it?’
Jenny shook her head.
‘Illness then. I’m sorry. Does it still pain you?’
Jenny nodded. She let Bridget keep her assumption that illness had taken her voice; it was easier than the full explanation. That particular horror was better left locked away, her ugly Jack-in-the-box.
‘How terrible for you. You’re getting good treatment, I hope?’
Jenny nodded.
‘So how do we communicate?’
She got out her iPad. Who else lives here?
‘Oh, what a clever little device. At the moment, just myself and Jonah. He’s been with me about a year. He’s a darling. Making his way as an actor. Recently he’s joined one of those hospital soaps. Tells me he’s spends all his days rocketing around London in an ambulance, talking urgently into the radio. He’s got the lingo down pat.’
He sounded normal enough but she would reserve judgement until she met him. She’d thought Harry would make a good flatmate, hadn’t she? Any plans to take in more people? She didn’t want a repeat of her current situation.
‘Not at the moment. Not that there isn’t room; I just think three makes a good number, don’t you?’
Jenny smiled. Perfect.
‘I’ll show you your bedroom.’
You don’t want references or a deposit?
‘Oh no. Kris’s recommendation is good enough for me. If you’d be so kind as to arrange for monthly payments into my account – I’ll give you the details when you leave – that’s best for me. Then we can forget the sordid detail of the rent and just pretend we all live together like a family.’
Jenny was beginning to think Bridget was too naive for this world. I’ll do that as soon as I leave here. I promise. With the minimal rent being charged, she’d be stupid not to.
‘No need to promise. You’ve the kind of face I know I can trust. There are very few house rules – nothing that’ll bother you, I’m sure; just ones to make sure we all get along well together, like tidying up after yourself. Are you originally from England? You don’t mind me asking, do you? Not very politically correct, I’ve been told. It’s just that if you had an accent I wouldn’t know, would I?’
It was tricky writing while mounting the stairs. Jenny paused to tap out her answer. I’m from Harlow. You couldn’t get more prosaic than that Essex new town. But my dad’s from Lagos. He’s an academic. Currently at Princeton teaching literature. That was Dr Jerome Lapido: always somewhere else. At Jenny’s age of twenty-nine, it shouldn’t matter, but she still hadn’t let the abandonment go.
‘And your mother?’
Music teacher for the county music service. Her mum, Diana Groves had given her life to making Essex girls and boys just that little bit more musical. Driven by missionary fervour to convert her pupils to the same love for music as she had, she worked tirelessly. Jenny had thought it a thankless task until her mum explained that her reward was when she saw their eyes light up with joy when they discovered their own skill in playing a masterpiece or even just a nursery rhyme. With this as her motivation, Diana had more success with her students than one might think from the generally low cultural reputation of the county in the media. Jenny often met past pupils in her line of work who credited her mother with inspiring them as players and helping with the more practical task of getting them into music school. Harry had been one of Diana’s protégés, coming for tuition in music theory when he needed the extra help.
‘So that’s where you get it from!’ Bridget had the pleased expression of someone finding the missing puzzle piece. Was it a sign of a snobbish assumption that a girl from Essex wouldn’t be in classical music without some extraordinary explanation? That was too common for Jenny to waste time feeling offended. TOWIE had a lot to answer for. She’d be more offended if it were because she was mixed race – a fact that still surprised some old timers who didn’t recognize that society had changed. She chose to counter it by keeping on turning up in the second desk of violins. At the beginning of her career, with all that she had been battling, each rehearsal, every concert, had been an act of courage and defiance, but it had got a little easier as time passed. The music made it worth it and one day no one would question her right to be there.
‘You must tell your mother that she’s welcome to visit you at any time. And your father, of course. As you’ll see there’s plenty of room in yours.’ Bridget guided Jenny into a pretty front bedroom on the first floor, explaining the top floor was just attics. ‘You have a bathroom through there all to yourself.’
With a swoop of joy like a lark ascending, Jenny saw heaven before her. It was a huge house with only three people and she wouldn’t have to share even so much as a bath mat!
‘The mattress is new. Do you like the four-poster? I know it’s a little twee but Kris was always amused by it. I thought it might do for a daughter one day but sadly we weren’t blessed with one.’
It was perhaps a little early for Bridget to be telling her this kind of personal information but Jenny was used to the strange effect her silence had on people. They felt obliged to fill the gap and ended up divulging more than they planned. Sometimes that was very awkward, almost a burden as she shouldered the secrets of others; at other times, like now, she didn’t mind. They would be living together after all. Bridget was right: it was a bedroom fit for the missing daughter. The wooden bed had thin finial posts that held up a light square frame. Over this were draped net curtains, rather like a wedding veil. A sprig of lilac lay on the pillow. It was the kind of bed Jenny had dreamed of owning as a child but would never have fitted in her bedroom in Harlow.
It’s like a fairy tale.
Bridget laughed, a tinkling sound partly smothered by the hand she placed over her mouth. ‘Isn’t it? I’m afraid I have romantic tastes. Now what’s that lilac doing there?’ She moved it to join the others in a glass vase on the dressing table. ‘You should see my own room. I’ve gone the full satin curtain route in there. My husband thought I was insane. It was the late eighties, you know, and we were all terribly modern then, shoulder pads, permed hair, God forgive us. I was out of step with the times by about a hundred years, according to my husband. Do I take it you approve?’
Jenny poked her head into the bathroom with its clawfoot bath and black and white tiles, vanity unit and large mirror. She’d miss a shower but she was hardly going to complain about that when she had it all to herself. She mimed applause.
‘I’m pleased you like it. Yes, you’ll do very well here, I think. When would you like to move in?’
Jenny tapped her watch, indicating now.
‘Then come as soon as you can, dear. We look forward to having you.’
There was one drawback: it was around ten minutes on foot from Gallant House to the station down roads bordering the heath but Jenny decided not to care. The long dark walk in winter and fear of attackers lurking in bushes was a problem for another day. Sitting on the train heading home, she was still reeling. A beautiful house in mature gardens, an ancient vine, an overgrown tennis court, even a mulberry tree: she would be living in a Grade A daydream. She’d even possibly – maybe – be able to carry on as a professional musician and have only one job. It felt too good to be true.
Then she remembered the single jarring note: the sprig of lilac. If Bridget hadn’t put it on her pillow, that left the absent Jonah as culprit. That didn’t seem an appropriate gesture when they’d never met.
She didn’t want her perfect house spoiled. She was leaping to conclusions. There had to be a cleaner to keep a house that size in such good order; she might put flowers on a pillow to welcome a newcomer without it being odd, mightn’t she?
Chapter 5 (#ulink_f789ed6a-ba1d-5462-a51b-9fb7ec61a2e0)
Harry rapped on the flimsy folding door, making it rattle on its sliders. ‘Jenny?’
She looked up from her suitcase and signed ‘What?’.
‘I just wanted to apologise for Saturday.’ He was holding one arm awkwardly behind his back.
Her answer was a shrug. Her flatmates had tried to clear up; someone had tackled the bathroom and they had filled the wheelie bin to overflowing. Two days later the house had moved from unspeakable to merely foul.
‘I realised how it must’ve seemed to you. It wasn’t planned. We didn’t leave you out on purpose.’
Really? She could’ve bought the unplanned part but all it would’ve taken was a text for her to feel included. But what did that matter? She was moving to paradise.
‘I heard that you’re leaving. You don’t have to do that. We had a house meeting …’
Without her?
‘… And we agreed we’ve been pigs. We don’t even have the excuse of being students anymore. We’ve drawn up a rota.’ Like she hadn’t suggested that a million times. ‘So, please, don’t go. This is from us.’ He presented her with a bunch of mixed flowers which looked like they’d been culled from the derelict garden and a local park. The forget-me-nots were already wilting.
She took them. What else could she do without being a complete cow? She laid them on the windowsill and got out her iPad.
‘A new room at lower rent? Are you sure?’ Harry read more of her typed explanation. ‘Do you even know the woman? There has to be a catch surely? Are you going to be doing the cleaning or something else for her? Walking her dog?’
She shook her head.
Harry fiddled with the tie of her dressing gown which hung by the door. He was always restless. Even after they’d made love, when both should’ve been feeling mellow, he used to play with her hair, twisting it into braids or bunches. He couldn’t stop touching things. She missed people touching her. ‘I worry about you – that you might be taken advantage of.’
