‘Instead, I am giving you both a two-month suspension. Miss Wyn Thomas, you will pack your things and leave tonight. I have booked you a ticket for the last train and I will, of course, bill your father. Miss Morgan, you will leave tomorrow on the eight-fifteen train.’ She snarled her lips into something resembling a grin. ‘You appreciate why I am putting you on separate trains?’
Margo nodded. Blood was dripping from her chin onto her bosom – too terrified to make a move to wipe it away, most likely. She looked like she had a pistol trained on her.
Miss Cameron licked her lips with a small darting tongue-tip and picked up her teacup again. ‘Bettina. Miss Roundpenny was looking for you for a reason.’ A long whistling sip, the liquid forced through the gaps in her teeth. ‘I received a telegram from your mother today. A friend of yours, a Master Bartholomew Dawes, has been taken ill with Spanish flu.’
Bettina made a small noise and gripped the desk edge, before quickly returning her hands to her lap.
‘It is quite serious.’ Was that a trace of pleasure in her tone? It was – it bloody was!Witch. ‘He’s been brought home and is supposedly near death.’ She returned the cup to its saucer once more. Bettina stared at it, at the gleaming whiteness of the china. ‘You have my sympathies. Now please, get out of my sight.’
Chapter 5
October 1922, Longworth House, Sussex
Bart opened his eyes. His face was pressed into the pillow and he could smell his rotten breath infused in the fabric of the slip. He’d been having the most depraved dream: he was on Brighton Pier at night and overhead turquoise Zeppelins drifted, benevolent as clouds, smiling almost, as if they had human personalities; and behind him, a man he couldn’t see but who he knew to be Lord Kitchener was sliding cricket stumps up his arse, one at a time, one after the other, as if feeding blocks of timber into a wood-shaving machine, and then the stumps turned to sausages, a linked line of sausages. He laughed weakly through cracked lips. Kitchener, of all people. Really.
He felt a hand on his cheek and flinched. His mother. She loomed over him, smiling with glistening, tragic eyes.
‘Mother?’
She nodded. Tears spilled down her cheeks, tracking a clean line through her face powder.
‘Who let you… Mother? Am I—’
‘You’re home, darling.’
He screwed his face up. ‘Rodge was just here. He was just here.’
She shook her head. ‘You’ve been in delirium, darling. I thought you might die.’ She stroked his cheek with the back of her fingers, her clusters of sharp jewels tickling. ‘Dr Spielman said I should prepare myself.’
‘Bloody hell – sorry, Mother. Jesus.’
‘First your sisters, then your father, then you… I thought, well, I thought I shall be all on my own.’ Her chin crumpled. ‘I thought I was going to lose you.’ A dignified sniff and a small, tight smile. ‘But I haven’t, have I?’
He sat up and looked around the room. The curtains were half open, allowing a block of fresh white sunlight in. He was in the day nursery, where he’d spent many boring hours as a baby and then a child. Outside, close by, he could hear the gorgeous snip-snip of the gardener pruning the hedges, and, further off, the singing of the canaries in his mother’s prized aviary. A pale, red-haired nurse stood near the door, clutching her hands and smiling sentimentally. As if she gave a fart. Lucille placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Try not to exert yourself, Bartyboy. You’re very weak.’
‘I’m thirsty.’ He aimed this at the nurse and she nodded and came over to the dresser, where a jug of water sat on a tray, next to some glasses.
‘Who won the match?’ he asked his mother.
‘What match?’
‘The cricket match.’
‘Honestly, Bart! I thought my only child was dying and I was supposed to enquire after a cricket score?’
‘Could you find out?’ The nurse brought him a glass and held it for him as he drank.
‘I don’t see why not, if you promise to rest. Now, why don’t we let Nurse Cooper here give you a wash and change and then we’ll see about some broth.’
He nodded, glancing mistrustfully at the nurse. He’d never got on with nurses. They were, more often than not, condescending and domineering and they always poked and prodded too hard with bony, rough fingers. And if I wish to feel violated, he thought, all I need do is close my eyes and think of dear old Kitchener.
The next time he woke up, Bettina was sitting next to the bed.
‘Afternoon, gorgeous,’ she said, bending down to kiss his forehead. He held on to her in a clumsy hug, loose wisps of her hair sticking to his bottom lip. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed her.
‘Your breath is like a brothel full of dead rats,’ she said.
He opened his mouth wide and exhaled into her face.
‘Damn you, Bart,’ she said, struggling to get away, but laughing. She sat back down in her chair. ‘You’re all skin and bones.’
‘I’ll put it all back on in a flash, you watch.’
She looked around, her eyes lingering on the empty toy trunk and the small purple bookcase, also empty. ‘You always hated this room.’
‘Still do.’
‘I used to love it. I always preferred your toys to mine.’
‘I don’t know why she brought me here,’ he said. ‘There are plenty of other rooms in this house I might’ve stayed in. I have a bedroom.’
Bettina shrugged. ‘She thought her baby boy was dying. I imagine it made perfect sense to put you here.’
‘I was never going to die of the flu. It’s too boring.’
She glanced at the door. ‘I can’t stay long.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘I’m under house arrest. They’re only letting me out to see you.’
He grinned. ‘What have you done?’
‘Oh, I can’t really say.’
‘Can’t or won’t?’ He thumped the bed next to him. ‘Come up here with me.’
Another nervy glance at the door. This should be good. Venetia and Monty were seldom strict with her – she must have done something truly atrocious. He thumped the bed again. ‘Come on. Tell old Barty the trouble.’
She climbed onto the bed and they lay opposite each other, face to face, bodies slightly curled, like two mandarin segments.
‘It’s really quite embarrassing.’ She fidgeted around and placed her pressed-together hands under her cheek, like a child at bedtime.
‘I’ve been suspended from school.’
‘Well, that’s a result. You hate school.’
‘Don’t jest, Bart. It’s really serious.’
‘What did you do?’
She rolled onto her back. ‘I’m afraid you’ll think less of me.’
‘Never.’ He moved closer to her – her hair smelled of pears. ‘You could murder someone in cold blood and I still wouldn’t think less of you. Unless it was my mother. Please don’t murder my mother.’
She did a hiccupping sort of laugh.
‘Now bloody well tell me, won’t you?’
She sighed, her eyes on the ceiling. ‘You remember that gift you sent me?’
‘Oh my dear God. You didn’t get caught drinking it, did you? You fucking bungler.’
She turned her head so they were nose to nose. ‘I did. But that’s not even the worst of it. Well, it is according to the house mistress. It’s grounds for expulsion according to her. But for me it’s not the worst. I was planning not to tell you the whole story actually. It’s just…’ She shook her head.
‘You’re deliberately eking this out for dramatic effect,’ he said.
‘I am not! It’s just a hard thing to say. Do you remember my talking to you about Margo?’
He nodded. She’d told him during the last summer holiday all about her new best friend and all their worldly conversations. He’d felt jealous. He’d had to stop himself making cutting remarks about this girl, not because he didn’t want to be mean, but because Bettina was shrewd and would see the jealousy behind his words. He didn’t like his jealousy to show itself. It was an especially ugly emotion.