he realised, something inside that would explain her to him. And when he left Granitefield, he could not bear to jettison them. He saw them as a good-luck charm, an illicit gift. And he felt absurdly grateful to her as if she had offered him her very soul. And now, he realised, too late, how he had betrayed her. Standing as he always had on the threshold of her life. Holding the hand of a child who could have been his. He felt like a spectre, a man cheated by a death that had not occurred. His own.
âThatâs the last weâll see of him,â Stanley declared, âI showed him, didnât I, Pearl?â
Pearl nodded weakly.
Irene imagined the scene. Stanley, meek at first, then suddenly enraged, towering over a sprawling Charlie Piper, his arm raised weakly against Stanleyâs boot. Irene had seen this transformation before. Stanley might be slow to anger but once he was ⦠But she saw how useless his aggression was in the midst of this intricate mess. But then, Stanley didnât know. How could he understand the enormity of his crime?
As soon as Stanley told her, Irene knew they were doomed. She felt the cold creep of implacable recognition of one who has come face-to-face with death. Stanley thought he had seen Charlie off. Irene knew better. She knew that Charlie would work it out somehow. He would do it out of pride and curiosity. He was used to being well-liked; he would genuinely want to know what he had done wrong. When he collected debts on the wards, Irene remembered, he would be perplexed if patients grumbled about coughing up (coughing up, Charlie would grin, get it?) He had made a deal with them, after all. He might not come back here for an explanation, Irene knew, but he would find it elsewhere. Her heart sinking, Irene considered the neat inevitability of it. Charlie Piper delivering her to her fate.
She readied herself for flight. From the attic she retrieved the suitcase she had brought from Granitefield. When she opened it, a cloud of dust billowed forth, releasing with it the pungent smell of must, sharp and green. Stealthily she packed for Pearl and herself; she had no plans, no idea where she would go, escape her only ambition. As she put Pearl to bed that night, she lingered longer than usual in the childâs room. She remembered Stanley hanging the wallpaper, birdsong on a summerâs night, the windows thrown open to dispel the smell of drying paint and paste. She gazed at the army of soft toys and rag dolls sitting in a row against the bed-head, a pillow of fur around Pearlâs head. Her small shoes abandoned, pigeon-toed, on the mat, her dress splayed in a fan across the chair. She sat on the edge of the bed as Pearl snuggled into the crook of her arm, already drowsing. She read from
The Sleeping Beauty
, the longed-for child, the grateful parents, the wicked witch ⦠but she stopped short of the handsome prince. Pearl was already asleep, mumbling softly, already leaving her for another world. Tomorrow, Irene would tell her. She would recount the days of stolen happiness, the picnics on the windswept hills, the seaside outings paddling in the shallows, the day she first walked, tottering down the street after Stanley as Irene let go of the reins, the trip to the Causeway, Stanley and Pearl picking shells on the head-land, the pride Irene had felt pushing the baby carriage out into the sun by the front door, her first words. She would have to know the dangers there had been too ⦠the polio that had nearly crippled her, the day she nearly drowned ⦠Whatever happened, Pearl must know these things. Her history. But it was too late tonight. Irene rose and kissed Pearl on the forehead, inhaling the tactile warmth of the childâs skin and her milky smell, the soft shudder of her breathing already becoming a memory, a loss.
It was noon, a Sunday morning, the shocked stillness of the Sabbath. Three constables stood at the door of Number 24, Jericho
âThatâs the last weâll see of him,â Stanley declared, âI showed him, didnât I, Pearl?â
Pearl nodded weakly.
Irene imagined the scene. Stanley, meek at first, then suddenly enraged, towering over a sprawling Charlie Piper, his arm raised weakly against Stanleyâs boot. Irene had seen this transformation before. Stanley might be slow to anger but once he was ⦠But she saw how useless his aggression was in the midst of this intricate mess. But then, Stanley didnât know. How could he understand the enormity of his crime?
As soon as Stanley told her, Irene knew they were doomed. She felt the cold creep of implacable recognition of one who has come face-to-face with death. Stanley thought he had seen Charlie off. Irene knew better. She knew that Charlie would work it out somehow. He would do it out of pride and curiosity. He was used to being well-liked; he would genuinely want to know what he had done wrong. When he collected debts on the wards, Irene remembered, he would be perplexed if patients grumbled about coughing up (coughing up, Charlie would grin, get it?) He had made a deal with them, after all. He might not come back here for an explanation, Irene knew, but he would find it elsewhere. Her heart sinking, Irene considered the neat inevitability of it. Charlie Piper delivering her to her fate.
She readied herself for flight. From the attic she retrieved the suitcase she had brought from Granitefield. When she opened it, a cloud of dust billowed forth, releasing with it the pungent smell of must, sharp and green. Stealthily she packed for Pearl and herself; she had no plans, no idea where she would go, escape her only ambition. As she put Pearl to bed that night, she lingered longer than usual in the childâs room. She remembered Stanley hanging the wallpaper, birdsong on a summerâs night, the windows thrown open to dispel the smell of drying paint and paste. She gazed at the army of soft toys and rag dolls sitting in a row against the bed-head, a pillow of fur around Pearlâs head. Her small shoes abandoned, pigeon-toed, on the mat, her dress splayed in a fan across the chair. She sat on the edge of the bed as Pearl snuggled into the crook of her arm, already drowsing. She read from
The Sleeping Beauty
, the longed-for child, the grateful parents, the wicked witch ⦠but she stopped short of the handsome prince. Pearl was already asleep, mumbling softly, already leaving her for another world. Tomorrow, Irene would tell her. She would recount the days of stolen happiness, the picnics on the windswept hills, the seaside outings paddling in the shallows, the day she first walked, tottering down the street after Stanley as Irene let go of the reins, the trip to the Causeway, Stanley and Pearl picking shells on the head-land, the pride Irene had felt pushing the baby carriage out into the sun by the front door, her first words. She would have to know the dangers there had been too ⦠the polio that had nearly crippled her, the day she nearly drowned ⦠Whatever happened, Pearl must know these things. Her history. But it was too late tonight. Irene rose and kissed Pearl on the forehead, inhaling the tactile warmth of the childâs skin and her milky smell, the soft shudder of her breathing already becoming a memory, a loss.
It was noon, a Sunday morning, the shocked stillness of the Sabbath. Three constables stood at the door of Number 24, Jericho
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