'She'll come to a bad end, that one,' Herbert said, shaking his head.

They were all mad for it, her father, Mr Reagan, even Gilbert Boyd who'd stolen a diamante hair-clip of his mother's to give her, just so he could poke about inside her one wet Sat.u.r.day afternoon. They'd give you anything to do it with them and then when you did they called you all the names under the sun.

She'd been locked in her room for days now, food shoved round the door at regular intervals as if she was in a condemned cell or something. If they could, they'd sell her into slavery rather than service. It was ridiculous. They kept telling her what a bad daughter she was, but had they no idea what bad parents they'd been? She couldn't forgive them. She could feel the wheals where Maude had hit her with the belt. Knew that all this had to stop. Now.

'I got her an interview, Mother for a position,' Herbert said excitedly over a tea of kippers and bread and b.u.t.ter. 'Scullery maid big house in Norfolk, what d'you think?'

'I think you're very clever, Herbert.'

'Where is she?'

'Locked in upstairs still,' Maude said proudly. 'I'll take her up her tea.'

Violet Angela picked up the plate of kippers and hit her mother in the face with them and ran full tilt down the stairs, slamming into Herbert, blocking her way at the bottom. 'Not so fast, milady!' he grunted as he grabbed hold of her, but she dodged and swerved and got past him and sprinted for the front door.

But she hadn't done yet. Later, much later, when the whole world was asleep, Violet Angela slipped in at the back gate, opened the outhouse door where the tools were kept and picked up the heavy woodchopping axe. She tiptoed up the stairs to Maude and Herbert's bedroom. They lay sleeping on their backs. Ugly. Vulnerable. Maude snoring like a trooper. She had a hair-net on, like a bonnet, and her teeth were on the bedside table. A dribble of saliva trailed down Herbert's silver-stubbled chin. Violet Angela imagined lifting the axe and letting it fall down under its own heavy weight, cleaving Herbert's head in two on the pillow without him even waking up. His brains splattering the wall, splattering Maude's face. Maude waking up drowsily, opening her mouth to scream at the sight of her husband's brains spilt everywhere, Violet Angela stopping her scream with the axe.

She could do it, Violet Angela thought, feeling the weight of the axe in her thin arms, but she wasn't going to risk going down just for killing them. Instead she took the rent money out of its hiding-place in the tea-caddy and left the axe at the foot of the bed to give them a fright when they woke up.

Same man every Friday afternoon. He always got the table, table 2, by the window, even when it was really busy. 'How does he do that?' Mavis asked and gave a little screech as she scalded herself on the hot-water jug. 'Three teas, three teacakes, one fruit scone, table 16,' Deidre muttered to herself as she rushed past. 'He looks like an oily sea-lion to me.'

"E's a villain,' Mavis said, 'that's a well-known fact.' It was raining cats and dogs, 'and b.l.o.o.d.y great stair-rods,' said Deidre. It was grey and miserable outside, bright and steamy inside, but the rain brought melancholy with it wherever it went. 'I've had no tips today,' Violet said. 'Three teas, one coffee, two Eccles, one Jamaican finger, one coffee j.a.p, table 8.' Deidre said, 'You wanna go to the flicks tonight, Vi?' The man at table 2 made a little gesture, almost imperceptible, to Violet.

'Nah, don't feel like it, let me get him.'

'Who?'

'The sea-lion.' Violet tripped over in her black and white, white broderie cap pulled low on her forehead, thick black stockings. Violet could see something in the sea-lion's eyes, knew it might be good for her. He was like a sea-lion, blubbery in an overcoat, old-fashioned really, 'Good afternoon, sir, what can I get for you today?'

'What's your name?'

'Violet.'

'What a pretty name. How old are you?'

'Eighteen, sir,' Violet lied sweetly. She was only sixteen.

'Imagine that,' he said with a smile and raised a small plump hand and touched her on the forearm. 'My name's d.i.c.kie Landers, sweetheart have you heard of me?' and Violet said, 'Yes, of course,' although she hadn't. 'If you work very hard,' he said, half-closing his lazy eyes, more salamander than seal, 'I'll tip you very, very well, my dear,' and out of sight of the rest of the tea-shop, he reached out and stroked her thigh, just in case she was in any doubt about what he meant. She wasn't.

d.i.c.kie installed Violet in a flat in Bayswater, nothing fancy a living-room, a bedroom, a scullery and her own WC, gas fires in the old-fashioned hearths and a gas water-heater over the sink. He called himself an 'entrepreneur', which, as far as Violet could see, meant that he had his fingers in lots of pies, and most of them very shady, if you could call a pie shady. He stayed at the Bayswater flat most of the time and bought her a lot of nice things. What did it matter? Violet thought. You did it for boiled sweets, you did it for a new dress, you did it for a roof over your head. And d.i.c.kie Landers was powerful, he even got her a new ident.i.ty after she'd had a spot of bother with the law.

'Easy,' d.i.c.kie said, handing her a new birth certificate.

'Who am I then?' Violet asked. Eliza Jane Dennis.

'She was real,' d.i.c.kie Landers grinned, 'little girl, died before she was two.'

She made a mistake, falling pregnant and not managing to do anything about it, beyond gin and hot baths and jumping off the table. d.i.c.kie was furious and sent her to an 'acquaintance' of his, a struck-off surgeon, but he was so sleazy and his instruments so terrifying that, unusually, Eliza turned coward and left and had to pay the consequences four months later in the shape of a little boy. d.i.c.kie took him from the hospital and when she asked what he'd done with him, d.i.c.kie lit a cigar and laughed. 'Sold him back to the baby shop, sweetheart,' he said and when he saw the grimace on Eliza's face he patted her hand, rather awkwardly because d.i.c.kie wasn't too comfortable with emotion, and said rea.s.suringly, 'Very respectable couple, a doctor and his wife, Dr Lovat.'

He took her out to the theatre ('That's you,' he laughed when they saw Pygmalion), to night-clubs, to restaurants, even to the opera. There wasn't anybody that d.i.c.kie Landers didn't know, from high court judges to common criminals. d.i.c.kie himself was an aristocrat amongst criminals. He owned a West End club called the Hirondelle. The club was where he did 'business', reaching over the tables to murmur things in willing ears, rubbing his greasy fingers together to ill.u.s.trate what he meant, leaning back and laughing expansively, stretching the stiff shirt of his evening suit. Eliza perched on a stool at the bar, drank gin, learned who was who. And what was what. She learnt to do all kinds of things, things that nice girls didn't know about, wouldn't have believed if they'd been told. 'But then I'm not a nice girl, am I?' Eliza said to her mirror.

Eliza wasn't just one of d.i.c.kie's girls any more, she was special. 'You're special, darlin',' he laughed and hired her out only to his best customers ('top whack'). Eliza learned to talk properly, learnt from films and from the aristocracy who slummed it at the Hirondelle, draping themselves on the arms of semi-criminals, wishing that Daddy could see how wicked they were being. 'I've made you into a lady,' d.i.c.kie Landers said to her and Eliza laughed and said, 'Darling, you've made me into a high-cla.s.s tart, that's all.'

'If you say so,' d.i.c.kie said, running his hands up her back.

'I'm just like this b.l.o.o.d.y war,' Eliza sighed, 'a phoney.'

A nice town house in Knightsbridge ('top whack'), the owner in America for the duration. 'Got the lease, legal and proper,' d.i.c.kie said. 'G.o.d, I love this war, you know that?' d.i.c.kie smelt of money. Eliza went to the house two or three times a week. It was always someone high-ranking, an English general, a visiting American here in secret, a Free French officer, a Polish colonel. d.i.c.kie was working for the government, he thought it was a great joke. 'You're doing your bit for the war effort, really, that's how I look at it,' d.i.c.kie said to her.

Eliza was getting fed up with this life, she wasn't going to give up the money but she wasn't going to open her legs for it the rest of her life. Was she?

Sometimes, not often, faces became familiar. A little runt of a politician who couldn't manage it, a fat Belgian, an admiral who only wanted to dress up in her clothes. There was an English colonel, Sir Edward de Breville, very upper-crust, who was a big-wig in the War Cabinet ('top whack,' d.i.c.kie said, 'give him anything he wants'), he always brought her stockings and whisky and called her his gorgeous trollop. He said she reminded him of someone. 'That's what they all say, darling,' Eliza laughed. He kissed her ear and said, 'If my wife were dead, which unfortunately she isn't, I would marry you.' Sir Edward didn't have any children, except for 'some little by-blow by a nursemaid' that he paid the upkeep on. 'You'd give me a son and heir, I bet,' he said. Sometimes Eliza daydreamed about taking d.i.c.kie's gun and going down to the de Brevilles' house in Suffolk and shooting Lady Cecily in the head. Then Sir Edward very handsome and very, very rich might really marry her. But then gentlemen rarely married their wh.o.r.es and d.i.c.kie would never let her go, she was his golden egg-laying goose and he'd probably kill her before he'd let her go. Life wasn't fair, it really wasn't.

The shelter was cold and damp and smelt of wet earth. It was completely dark. At first Eliza thought she was the only person in there and when she heard a slight shuffling she wasn't sure whether it was a rat or a person. She flicked her cigarette lighter open, the gold monogrammed one that d.i.c.kie had given her, and in the yellow haloed flame saw a man in uniform shrinking into the corner of the shelter, his cap pulled down. Eliza said, 'Good evening,' and he mumbled something in reply. A distant thud of bombs outside. 'I don't bite, you know, darling,' she said and lit a cigarette, 'Want one?' 'Thanks,' he said hoa.r.s.ely. 'Why are you so shy, darling?' Eliza asked as he came reluctantly closer to take the proffered cigarette. She expected there were government warnings about flirting in air-raid shelters, but she enjoyed it.

'Ever hear of Frankenstein's monster?' he asked, taking the cigarette.

'Why, is he in here with us?' she laughed.

'Yes,' the man said and pushed his cap back on his forehead. He flinched away from the lighter flame when she held it up to his face. One side of his face was livid and swollen, the skin stretched tight and shiny over the flesh. The shrunken eye had been dragged downwards by the scar tissue. 'Shot down on fire,' he said apologetically. In the flickering light she saw ginger hair, pale gold eyelashes and russet freckles that charted his unscarred skin. He was just a boy. A line of bombs thudded closer and the boy looked as though he was going to cry. Very gently, as if he was a wild animal, Eliza reached out and stroked the scarred skin. She extinguished the lighter and said, 'Well, all cats are grey in the night, darling.'

Afterwards, after he'd pushed her up against the brick wall of the shelter and moaned his grat.i.tude to her, drowned out by the noise of the docks being blitzed, he kept apologizing because she was crying, and he 'felt an awful heel', and he was sorry because he'd 'never done it before with anyone', but Eliza sniffed back her tears and said, 'That's all right, neither have I.' Because really, she thought, it felt like the first time tender and loving and, well enjoyable, which wasn't how she usually thought about it at all. 'Top whack, darling,' she murmured sweetly into his hair when he was finished.

'Where've you been?' d.i.c.kie said when she came in. 'I thought that b.l.o.o.d.y raid had got you.'

'Don't be silly, darling, just doing my bit for the war effort.'

One of d.i.c.kie's sleep-dead arms was pinning Eliza to the bed. She moved it as she leant over to get her cigarette pack. She slid up the bed and rested on the pillows. The room was lit by moonlight, dull silver patterns moved around the walls as the net curtains billowed. Eliza searched for a match. She'd lost her lighter in the shelter. It was time to get out of this whole sordid business, become a normal person. She wanted a man who loved her, protected her, children she could dote on. An ordinary life. She dragged hard on her cigarette and thought about the ugly, scarred boy. She could still feel his cool hands on her, still smell the damp bricks of the shelter, still feel the liquid warmth of him inside her.

She was awake when the siren went off. She was dressed. She had on a suit, a coat, a hat and her best pair of shoes. But that was all she was taking with her. She needed a grand gesture, walking out in the clothes she stood up in. So she made sure they were expensive clothes.

She jumped at the siren but then thought that, on the whole, she couldn't really care less if she was blown up by a bomb. d.i.c.kie rolled over and said, 'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l,' but it was already too late.

The whole house shook and then again, even more violently. The noise was unbelievable, Eliza felt the house falling down round her ears, she couldn't breathe, she kept trying to take in lungfuls of air but all she could take in was dust. The shock-wave of the blast was still vibrating in her chest, she knew she was going to die she wasn't dead. The front wall of the house had gone and she was on the ground floor, where a few minutes ago she'd been on the second. Far away, at the back of her head, Eliza could hear bells ringing and people shouting. She could smell burning. Someone was walking through the dust towards her. For a moment she imagined it was the ugly red-haired boy come to rescue her and she smiled. But it wasn't, it was someone else. He s.n.a.t.c.hed her up and carried her out of the house, straight out where the front wall had been, and placed her on the pavement. 'Are you all right?' he asked, his voice full of concern. Eliza put out a hand and felt the cloth of his RAF greatcoat. He took it off and wrapped her up in it, very tenderly. 'My hero,' she said. She looked down at her feet, she'd lost a shoe. 'My shoe,' she said helplessly, 'I've lost my shoe.' She'd heard of things like this, escaping death by a cat's whisker and being obsessed with irrelevant things. It was shock, she was in shock. 'I'll get it,' he said, and moved as if he was in a dream. 'Would you?' she smiled. 'They were so expensive, darling.'

Her rescuer disappeared back into the building, came out with the shoe. Two firemen brought out d.i.c.kie Landers and no-one cheered. He was very dead. 'Did you know him?' her rescuer asked, taking off his RAF cap and wiping his brow. 'Never seen him before,' she said. He offered her his arm, 'Can I take you for a cup of tea? There's a cafe round the corner.' It was nearly dawn.

'The age of chivalry is alive and well,' she laughed, tears in her eyes, 'and is called?'

'Gordon, Gordon Fairfax.'

'Wonderful,' Eliza murmured.

And now there was a problem. He was the problem. She'd never meant to take him as a lover, never meant to be unfaithful to Gordon. The Widow and Vinny, of course, thought she was out committing adultery every night, but she wasn't, this was the first time. Really. But it was a big mistake, she had to stop it. She didn't even like him. He wasn't a nice person, he wasn't ... kind.

It had just been a game really, she was bored and he was there, so nearby, so keen. And the s.e.x with him was so ... dark, there was a certain attraction in that. Gordon was so ... wholesome. And that had been so wonderful at first, she had really loved him. Such a hero. But he couldn't keep on being a hero, more's the pity. She got restless. That was why she'd taken a lover, a little bit of fun, a little bit of power. Now it was a game she couldn't stop. She hadn't realized how inflamed he was by her, how obsessed. How mad.

He wouldn't let her go. She couldn't tell Gordon, couldn't tell anyone. She wanted to tell Gordon, wanted him to look after her, the way he always did. She was choking, she had to get some air. Maybe she could just leave, walk away and leave the whole sorry mess behind?

She loved Gordon, really she did, but he got on her nerves. He was so b.l.o.o.d.y good. And he made her feel so b.l.o.o.d.y bad. He followed her everywhere. Really, in her heart, she thought that the only person she'd ever truly loved apart from Charles and Isobel, it went without saying was that scarred red-headed boy in the air-raid shelter. She didn't even know his name, had only been with him for half an hour. Less. She'd half-expected Charles to be born with scar tissue on his face, was relieved when he wasn't. An invisible hand squeezed her heart when she thought about her children.

The old witch was driving her mad, a pair of witches, come to that. It was Gordon this and Gordon that, they had to get away from this house, live their own lives. Maybe she should kill the old witch, and Vinny too. This was ridiculous. She was going mad.

A picnic, it's half-term, after all, and we've done absolutely b.l.o.o.d.y nothing all week. We'll take the bus into town and meet Daddy at lunchtime and give him a surprise.

Gordon and Eliza were having this tremendous row. He just wouldn't leave her alone, would he, chasing after her in the wood, when she needed to be on her own. 'You're having an affair, aren't you?' he shouted, his words echoing in the silent autumn air. 'Be quiet,' she said sharply, 'the children will hear. Leave me alone.'

'I don't understand you, I don't b.l.o.o.d.y understand you.' Gordon was weeping. Eliza hated him when he was weak. He pushed her up against a tree.

'Stop it,' she hissed at him.

'Why should I b.l.o.o.d.y stop it? Admit it, you're having an affair.'

'You're hurting me. Gordon!' He was hurting her, he had his hands round her throat, pressing her windpipe, she began to struggle, he was frightening her. 'Admit it,' he growled, his voice unnatural. He let go of her throat. 'Admit it, you've been unfaithful, haven't you? And before me,' he said suddenly, 'were there a lot of men? There must have been a lot of men, weren't there?'

'Yes,' she spat at him, 'there were absolutely hundreds, I've no idea how many!'

He slapped her face, 'Liar!' and she kneed him hard in the groin so that he crouched down on the forest floor, gasping. Immediately Eliza felt sorry, gave him her hand, pulled him up, said, 'Oh, Gordon,' sadly, 'you're such a fool.' She wanted to tell him everything, sink onto his breast, feel the shelter of his arms around her, find redemption in this awful world. She leant her back against a tree and said blankly, without emotion, 'I was a wh.o.r.e, a common or garden wh.o.r.e who got paid for it. I f.u.c.ked anyone who paid me, darling.' She could hear her voice, knew her tone was all wrong, couldn't do anything about it, she was so tired.

Gordon grabbed hold of her hair either side of her head and crashed her head backwards against the tree. She sank down on to her knees, on to the carpet of golden leaves and Gordon ran off through the trees, wildly, like a mad disciple of the great G.o.d Pan.

Eliza struggled to sit up. Her head hurt horribly. The back of her skull was bruised and sore. She didn't have a watch on, didn't know what time it was. She was cold. It would soon be dark. They shouldn't have fought like that. Gordon would come back soon and find her, look after her again like he always did, gather up his family and take them home. She would explain to him properly, he would forgive her. She'd tell him about Herbert Potter and Mr Reagan, and d.i.c.kie Landers, tell him about her ghastly adulterous lover who wouldn't let her go.

Eliza started to cry. She felt tremendously sorry for herself. It was growing darker and she was suddenly frightened. She shouted Gordon's name. Someone was approaching through the trees, 'Gordon, oh thank G.o.d,' she struggled to her feet. But it wasn't Gordon.

'Oh it's you,' she said coldly, trying to pretend she wasn't frightened. But she was. 'What are you doing here? You've followed me, haven't you? This has to stop-' Eliza's voice grew more high-pitched, terror crept over her, she broke out into a cold sweat, he was mad, unhinged.

She tried to pull herself together, to placate him. 'Come on, let's go back and find the path, let's be sensible, Peter, darling please...' Eliza wasn't very good at pleading, she knew it was no good. He had one of her shoes in his hand. She looked down at her feet in surprise, she only had one shoe on. He lifted the shoe up, it had a very thin heel, her heart was fluttering, it was trying to escape from the cage of her ribs, she was clammy all over, her body felt as if it was going to shut down with fear.

Her feet wouldn't move, she had to move, she turned and started to run but he was on top of her, hitting her with the shoe on the back of the head. 'If I can't have you,' he said breathlessly, 'then n.o.body will, you b.l.o.o.d.y wh.o.r.e.' She cried out and dropped to her knees and started to crawl away. She looked back. He was lighting his pipe, very calmly, as if he was in his living-room at home. Eliza thought maybe that was the end of it, maybe he'd got rid of his anger now and would leave her alone. She crawled further away, further into the forest.

She was beneath a tree, kneeling on a carpet of leaves and acorns. A golden leaf drifted down past her eyes and brushed her cheek. Eliza struggled into a sitting position, her back against the stout trunk of the tree. For a moment she couldn't see him, but just when she thought he must have gone, he stepped out from behind a tree. The aura of madness around him was a sulphurous yellow and he was grinning like a skeleton. 'I am older than you, you know,' he laughed, 'and I do know more.'

'Please,' Eliza whispered. She was shivering uncontrollably. She was so very cold. 'Please don't,' but he grabbed hold of a handful of hair and yanked her head forward and began to hit her skull again with the heel of the brown shoe, grunting with the effort. Again and again he hit her, long after the trees around grew dim and Eliza had slipped into blackness. Then he walked away, discarding the shoe like an old piece of paper.

And that was the end of Eliza. Or Violet, or Violet Angela, or little Lady Esme. Or whoever she was.

Of course, she wasn't really the de Brevilles' daughter. After the wedding a doctor in Paris told Lady Irene that she would never be able to have children. Although she didn't know it at the time she was already suffering from the disease that killed her. Sir Edward was so besotted by his new wife and his new wife was so distressed at the idea of being childless that he went out and got her a baby. He would probably have lived to regret corrupting the de Breville bloodline, but then he didn't have to, it was taken out of his hands, Esme was taken out of his hands.

He bought her in Paris. You can always buy children. Gypsies probably- PRESENT.

THIS GREEN AND LAUGHING WORLD.

I feel the touch of someone's lips on my forehead and the sound of someone whispering in my ear, so quietly that I can hardly hear the words You go to sleep now, darling.

Another hallucination.

I drift out of a heavy drug-induced sleep. 'Where's the woman in the other bed gone?'

'Who?' the brown-haired nurse says absently, preoccupied by a syringe she's about to jab me with.

'The woman in the other bed.' The bed is neatly made and empty.

The nurse furrows her brow. 'There hasn't been anybody in that bed.'

'I've seen you taking her temperature and talking to her.'

'Me?' the nurse laughs.

From my bed I can see the top branches of a tree waving around in the breeze. The branches are covered in new leaves. Can it be spring already? How long have I spent in the underworld?

'What's the date?' I ask the red-haired nurse.

She frowns. 'April twenty-third, I think.'

'April twenty-third?' Can I really have lost that much time? 'Really?'

'I know,' she says with a smile, 'we lost you for a couple of weeks there, didn't we?' She fills up the water jug on my bedside locker, smoothes the sheets and looks at my chart and says, 'That's right you came on the first of April, that's over three weeks you've been here now.'

'The first of April?' I repeat, puzzled, but she's gone and I'm soon asleep again. I think I must be catching up on all the sleep I've been deprived of over the years. Or maybe I'm turning into a cat.

When I wake up there's a student doctor investigating my chart and trying to look as if he knows what he's doing. He smiles encouragingly when he sees I'm awake. 'What year is it?' a familiar question somehow I mumble at him. He looks disconcerted, '1960.'

'April twenty-third, 1960?'

'Yes.'

It's still happening then. Or is it? I fall asleep, I just cannot keep my eyes open.

'How did I get here?' I ask a staff nurse when she brings me my lunch.

'In an ambulance.'

Eunice and Carmen come. 'You look a lot better,' Eunice says and studies my chart as if it means something to her.

'How did I get here, Eunice? What happened?'

'A tree fell on you.'

'A tree fell on me?'

'That old elder by your back door, it was rotten and your dad was chopping it down. It fell the wrong way or something. It was really windy.'

'It was your birthday too,' Carmen adds sympathetically, trying to inhale a sweet cigarette.

'They thought you were going to die,' Eunice carries on, 'they had to give you the kiss of life.'

'Better than the kiss of death,' Carmen says, nodding her head sagely.