Half of the Human Race Page 10

  ‘Would you be kind enough to assist me?’

  He looked momentarily disconcerted. ‘In there?’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

  The hushed, unpeopled chamber, mingling a floral perfume with detergent, held for Will an air of trespass. A continuous line of mirrors tracked their approach to the sink, where he plucked a cotton flannel from the stack and hovered around Connie.

  ‘Please, allow me,’ he said, removing her hat, tipping her head back and gently pinching the bridge of her nose with the cloth. ‘This should staunch the flow.’ Connie’s eyes watered with the pain, but she submitted to it as quietly as she could. After a minute or two Will removed the flannel, ran it under the tap and wiped the crusted blood from around her nose and lips.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, squinting at him. He gazed back at her.

  ‘What on earth happened to you?’

  Haltingly, she recounted the incident on the Strand, the windows, her misidentification and pursuit by the police.

  ‘Should you not simply explain the mistake to them?’

  Connie shook her head. ‘They’ll arrest me first. I wonder, would it be possible for me to slip out the back?’

  ‘You wait here. I’ll go and reconnoitre,’ he said. Connie felt reassured by the military seriousness of his tone. Once he had left the room, she turned to the mirror to take stock. Her nose was pinkish, swollen, throbbing. Her eyes were smudged as if from weeping. The front of her blouse was polka-dotted with blood. Her whole body felt damp with sweat. What a fright! Will returned a few minutes later, his brow knitted with concern.

  ‘Well, the place is overrun with policemen – back and front.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ she said, a tremble in her voice. ‘What shall I do?’

  Will put his hands on his hips, hoping that the posture lent him an air of command. ‘What we’ll do is … find a way out.’ He went over to a lavatory stall and held open the door for her. ‘Wait in here a moment.’ Seeing her uncertain look, he added, ‘I’ll be back, don’t worry.’

  She heard his footsteps retreating across the tiled floor, and then out. Locked in the dark, she thought now about Lily. It was her absolute unflinching determination that had taken Connie by surprise. A window-smashing suffragette: her own best friend. It didn’t matter how close you were to someone, people would always be a mystery to one another. She suddenly tensed at the approach of voices, echoing off the lavatory tiles. They were muffled and male, two or possibly three of them.

  ‘… said he saw her come in here …’

  ‘… must’ve done – look at this.’ The glove. Connie knew at once – she had left it there by the sink without noticing. The voices had dropped to a mutter. She held her breath as she pictured the scene outside. A bloodstained glove, only one stall in the row occupied … She was cornered. A light knock sounded on the door.

  ‘Um, ’scuse me, miss?’ came a man’s voice. Connie, now seated, swallowed hard – hesitation would damn her – and called out in a tone of high, matronly outrage, ‘Do you mind?’ She had recalled to life the voice of Miss Dolan, her headmistress – but did it sound like a sixty-year-old lady to them?

  ‘Beg your pardon, ma’am.’ The voice was all deference; the footsteps backed away, then receded from earshot. Connie, her heart pounding still, laid her head against the cool marble wall. It occurred to her just then that her schooldays hadn’t been entirely wasted.

  Will, meanwhile, had just turned the corner when he saw two policemen emerge from the Ladies and come down the corridor. He busied himself with a boot button as they passed. So they had gone in and found – no one? Mystified, he sidled back into the room, and found the stall door closed, exactly as before. He knocked and called her name. The lock snapped back, and there she was, pale-faced and trembling.

  ‘I thought you’d bolted! How did you …?’ he said.

  Connie heaved a sigh. ‘A small talent for mimickry. Since I was a girl.’

  Will shook his head in wonder. ‘Impressive …’

  ‘Thank God you told me to hide in there,’ she said, edging out past him. She looked around for the nearly incriminating glove, but of course they had taken it. In the mirror she saw Will holding what looked like a lady’s hat and coat.

  ‘What have you got there?’

  ‘Your disguise. I’m afraid you’ll have to leave that one behind,’ he said, pointing to the felt navy cloche that Connie was wearing. It was a new one, though she had to concede that its flame-coloured silk band might draw attention. Will hung it on a hook inside the door, and handed its replacement to her. It was black silk, with a long veil. He held up the arms of a coat for her to try.

  ‘Did you – take these things?’

  Will gave her a dubious look. ‘Well I didn’t have time to go and buy them. There was nobody minding the cloakroom …’ She looked appalled, so he said, ‘Fine, I’ll send them back once we’re done with them. But for now …’

  Connie collected herself, and tried on the hat and coat. They were quite a good fit. He straightened the veil over her face, and gave her an appraising look.

  ‘Hmm. Not bad. You could pass for a young duchess just returned from a spa in Baden-Baden.’ For the first time that afternoon, Connie laughed.

  Will returned a smile. ‘Right. Button up that coat – best not to show those bloodstains.’ Connie did as he requested, and checked herself in the mirror. He was now crooking his arm in invitation.

  ‘You’re coming with me?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course. We’re two guests at the hotel on our way out for the evening.’ His cleverness would save her yet, she thought. The police had pursued a single woman into the hotel; they would not suspect a couple coming out.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, patting his forearm. They stepped out of the Ladies and down the corridor, arms linked, and paused just before they entered the foyer. Policemen were still posted there, watching people as they exited. Will dipped his head towards her ear.

  ‘Slow march,’ he whispered. ‘Nice and steady.’

  Connie felt horribly self-conscious in her borrowed – stolen – finery, but she feigned nonchalance as best she could. They were halfway across the foyer when Will, in a moment of insane boldness, addressed a passing policeman.

  ‘What’s going on, Constable?’

  ‘We’re looking for a young woman, in connection to some damage of commercial property.’ He leaned in chummy conspiracy towards Will. ‘More window-smashing, I’m afraid.’

  Will shook his head sorrowfully. ‘D’you hear that, my dear?’

  Connie, her powers of improvisation exhausted for the moment, merely nodded. The policeman seemed about to move on when another came alongside them. With a creeping horror Connie recognised him as the one who had first given chase. He was staring at her interestedly.

  ‘Miss … if you’d be good enough to show your face.’

  Will gave an incredulous laugh and said, ‘What on earth is this about?’

  The man was not to be cowed. ‘Just doing our job, sir. Miss – please?’

  Connie tried to compose her features as she slowly lifted the veil. The policeman’s expression had changed. He had recognised her, she knew it.

  ‘Could you tell me your whereabouts this afternoon?’

  Connie’s voice felt dry in her throat. ‘I’ve – I’ve been here. At the hotel.’

  The man looked disappointed in her. ‘I think we both know –’

  Will interrupted him. ‘Constable, your colleague mentioned something about windows being smashed. I can assure you –’ he paused to gesture at Connie ‘– this lady would no more vandalise property than I would!’

  ‘Why would you say that, sir?’ There was an insolent disbelieving note in his voice that infuriated Will, but he answered with perfect calm.

  ‘Why? Because she happens to be my fiancée.’ He gave the policeman a brief, challenging look, then took Connie’s arm. ‘Come, my dear, or we’ll be late for the theatre. Good evening, officers
.’

  As they walked out, Connie felt the policeman’s eyes on her. Will’s hand pressured her arm, and she heard him say under his breath, ‘Slow march, and don’t look back.’

  They reached the Strand, and Connie fought the impulse to break into a run. At her side, Will flagged down a cab. They climbed in, and once settled, they looked at one another. She had been so impressed by Will’s sangfroid that it surprised her to see him puff out his cheeks in exaggerated relief.

  ‘That was a close one!’ he said.

  Connie, almost faint from the ordeal, said, ‘What about your friends – your evening?’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ he said. ‘It was just a dinner in the grill room. I won’t be much missed.’

  He leaned back into the seat. They were returning along the Strand, and could see from the car’s window the aftermath of disruption. Shopkeepers were sweeping up carpets of broken glass, and policemen had set up barriers in order to redirect the flow of pedestrian traffic.

  ‘What an awful nuisance they are,’ Will said, gazing at the littered pavements.

  Connie felt herself bridle at this, but replied, in her lightest tone, ‘Well, they wouldn’t need to be if the government weren’t so pigheaded.’

  Oh dear, he thought, with a guarded look. Connie saw it, and, unwilling to let the mood of euphoria dissolve between them, clapped her hand to her chest.

  ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am. You absolutely saved me!’

  Will modestly held up his hand in a gesture of denial. ‘Glad to be of assistance, Miss Callaway –’

  ‘Please, it’s Constance,’ she said, and paused momentarily. ‘After all, we are now engaged to be married.’ They both laughed, perhaps more heartily than the jest deserved, because it had resolved a lingering awkwardness between them. Will, constrained by the recollection of their unhappy encounter last summer, was still bracing himself to raise the subject.

  Their journey had been diverted into the Charing Cross Road, and Connie was beginning to wonder if the best way of thanking her rescuer might be to get out of the cab and leave him in peace. Yet she had no wish to part company; nor, it seemed, did Will, who took advantage of the lull to say, ‘I don’t know about you, but that little escapade has put me in a rare hunger. Would you care for a bite to eat?’

  ‘Rather!’ Connie replied, but as she glanced out of the cab she saw another file of policemen hurrying down the street. ‘Though I’m afraid of being seen around here.’

  Will smiled inwardly at the idea of Connie’s photograph being pasted like some outlaw’s on a WANTED poster, but seeing her face clouded with worry he decided not to tease her. ‘That’s all right. I was thinking of a place just round the corner from me, near Baker Street.’

  It took them another twenty minutes to get through the West End, where evidence of a concerted campaign marked one shop after another: glass twinkled on the pavements and boards were being erected to cover the broken windows. ‘Good Lord!’ cried Will as they passed a long suite of shattered picture windows on Regent Street, though he refrained from further comment. The cabbie, however, on depositing them in Marylebone Road, muttered something about the necessity of ‘slingin’ ’em all in prison’. As they walked away, Will turned to Connie and pulled a face that indicated an ironic sympathy.

  ‘That won’t be an uncommon view,’ she said drily.

  ‘Would it be your own?’

  She paused before answering. ‘Well, I do feel sorry for the shopkeepers. After all, it’s not their fault women don’t have the vote. Some of them might even be in favour of suffrage.’

  ‘I don’t suppose they will be now.’

  They had stopped outside a small restaurant lit from above by gas lamps bracketed along the wall. Through the glass door they could see that the place was heaving, and Will, having briefly consulted within, reported back that there wasn’t a table to be had.

  ‘Oh,’ said Connie, feeling suddenly depleted by the adventure of the previous hour. Will must have sensed it, for he now said, ‘You look rather tired. May I suggest we repair to my rooms?

  Connie smiled. ‘Gladly. Do you perhaps have any biscuits?’

  ‘I’m sure I can find some,’ he said, amused. They turned into Devonshire Place and were soon outside his flat. It was a tall red-brick mansion block with mullioned windows. Connie looked up.

  ‘The top floor, did you say?’

  ‘Don’t worry – there’s a lift.’

  At the top Will gestured her out of the lift’s iron-wrought cage and across the corridor. Connie knew that a single lady visiting ‘bachelor rooms’ unaccompanied was still considered, in some circles, highly improper. But her father had never concerned himself over chaperones for his daughters – whether out of trust in their good sense or out of affectionate negligence she wasn’t sure. The rooms she stood in now were very different to Brigstock’s poky hideaway on Mornington Crescent. Where the latter had barely any furniture at all, Will’s sitting room looked almost cluttered with it: a pair of club chairs conversed with an enormous sofa; a drinks trolley waited obediently in the corner; above the fireplace hung the portrait of a mutton-chopped worthy gazing blandly into the middle distance. The facing wall was adorned with cricketing memorabilia, plaques and shields and team photographs. Will returned from inspecting his larder with a packet of Jacob’s crackers in his hand.

  ‘Not really biscuits, I know,’ he said apologetically, ‘and possibly not the freshest either. But I do have some cold chicken. I could nip out and buy some bread.’

  ‘That sounds lovely,’ she said.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea before I go? Or something stronger?’

  Connie eyed the drinks trolley. ‘A sherry?’

  ‘Of course!’ Once he’d poured her a tot, he checked his pockets for money and told her he’d be back directly. She heard the door slam, and holding her sherry, she wandered over to the bookcase. With an inexplicable stab of disappointment she inferred that Will was not a great reader. There were tubby volumes on the law – remnant of college days, she presumed – a set of Encyclopaedia Britannica, an assortment of history books, some biographies, a small selection of classical texts. A set of Jane Austen was the single concession to fiction. The uniform coating of dust indicated how often their owner picked them up. The one redeeming feature, as far as Connie judged, was the blocky rows of Wisdens, a duplication of her father’s shelves at home. On a side table in the hall, a packet of unopened post squatted expectantly. She surveyed the kitchen, then ventured further and looked into the bedroom. A lugubrious wardrobe inlaid with a thin slice of mirror. A mahogany dressing table, where sleek monogrammed brushes rested on their stiff bristles. Above the bed, a single cricket bat hung crosswise, like a trophy. On the bed, a huge travelling trunk lay open, its contents half unpacked. Or was he about to leave? The flat rather puzzled her. It was orderly enough, but it held a curious air of impermanence, as though its occupant were only passing through rather than settled there.

  She heard the key clink in the latch, and quickly scurried out and back into the sitting room as the door swung open. Will entered carrying a loaf wrapped in striped paper and held it up with a look of triumph.

  ‘I’ll just be half a sec,’ he said, and disappeared into the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with a tray on which a plate of chicken sandwiches, a large hunk of cheese and a dusty bottle of claret were balanced. ‘I’m rather used to these pot-luck suppers,’ he explained, as they sat facing one another, plates on their knees. The sandwiches weren’t at all bad.

  Connie dabbed her mouth with a napkin. ‘Do you – live here all the time?’

  ‘Off and on. I only recently got back to town, actually. From South Africa.’

  ‘Playing cricket?’

  Will swallowed a mouthful of wine. ‘For Western Province. They offered me a contract last year – and I had nothing else to do in the winter.’

  ‘You had a good season at M—shire, I noticed.’

  ‘
Eventually, yes,’ Will admitted. ‘It began rather badly, as you know. My deplorable batting …’ They both sensed the moment had come. ‘And you’ll also recall my … deplorable behaviour.’ Connie said nothing, but tweaked the side of her mouth in an expression of wry acknowledgement. ‘You were quite right, of course,’ he hurried on, ‘what you said. I was just shocked that –’

  ‘– that you should hear it from a woman?’

  Will looked away. She was gratified to note that he was blushing. ‘I really was the most arrogant – I’m sorry.’

  ‘Well,’ said Connie, with a faint smile, ‘you’ve certainly earned forgiveness today. And how is Mr Tamburlain? Still thriving?’

  Will frowned at this. ‘Not exactly. He didn’t have a good season, by his standards. The reflexes are slowing. You know he’ll be forty-four the week after next?’

  ‘But he wants to carry on playing?’

  ‘Oh, by Jove, yes. It’s just that he’s not been his old self. His mother has been ill, and they’re rather close, you know. I’m going down to see him, in any case, for his birthday.’

  ‘To cheer him up,’ said Connie approvingly.

  ‘I’ll certainly try,’ he said.

  They talked for a while about cricket, and the forthcoming season. It would be an important one for Will, who had picked up a rumour from the Priory that the captain, Dodds, was about to quit – and that Will was being mooted as his successor. The possibility of this was undeniably flattering, yet aside from Tam he hadn’t breathed a word of it to anyone. Until this evening.

  ‘Captain!’ said Connie, wide-eyed with delight. ‘Oh, how marvellous!’

  Will held up his palms in panicked admonition. ‘Only a rumour. Even if old Dodds does move on they won’t necessarily pick me as replacement.’

  ‘They’d be mad not to,’ she said firmly. ‘You’re the best batsman they’ve got, including Tam.’

  It pleased him to think she was right. Last season he had topped the club’s batting averages, and while he would never admit it himself, he was beginning to eclipse Tam as their star player. Age would finally cede the laurel to youth. But more than that, it was an awareness that his supper companion this evening had advanced from an object of curiosity – a woman crazy about cricket – to a focus of admiration. It had dawned on him first back at the Savoy, watching her struggle to command her nerves in the ladies. Other women would have cracked – men, too, come to that. She did not. Now, with the glow of a second bottle of wine dappling her cheeks, and his own senses pleasantly blurred, he was more enamoured than he had first thought. It didn’t even bother him that she smoked.