Where had she come from? She had stared at me with the most piercing blue eyes I’d ever seen. I stared back. She looked angry. No; she looked afraid, I realised. She had the palest skin, but her round cheeks had a pinkish glow. She failed to conceal a nasty-looking black eye under a long bleached fringe. The whole effect was like that of an angel fallen on hard times. I had wanted to keep on talking to her, but what could I say? Have you seen a missing bookshop? Is it possible that your house has consumed it? Are you free for dinner? When she slammed the window and turned away, still clutching her jumper over her chest, I could see a vast tattoo all over her back. Not a design as such, but lines and lines of tiny script, like the Dead Sea Scrolls.
We had only spoken for a matter of moments, but I was certain that she was the most intriguing woman I’d ever met. Annoyingly however, she stayed true to the pattern of most women who met me and took an instant dislike to me. Still, maybe she knew something about the bookshop, so I would have to dig deep and find any modicum of charm to get her on side.
Two hours later I found myself back at the B&B, standing in a narrow hallway made narrower still by the claustrophobic wallpaper and the framed portraits of at least five popes. Orange flowers seemed to leer out at me and the swirling brown carpet offered no respite.
‘Are ya back for your tea, love?’
Nora had the look of Hilda Ogden but with the thickest Dublin accent I’d ever heard. She was the kind of person who’d seen it all. Standing with one arm folded and a cigarette held in a limp hand, she looked as though nothing would surprise her. I envied people like that. If there was a nuclear explosion right now with bricks and mortar falling around our ears, Nora would probably still be stood there with her cigarette, rollers in her hair, wondering who’d made that racket and then getting on with frying some eggs for tea.
‘No thanks, Nora. I ate pie and chips at the pub.’
I had never met anyone so concerned with my diet and most of our conversations ended with anxiety over my weight – there generally being not enough of it for her liking.
‘Oh good, that’ll stick to your ribs.’ She nodded approvingly. ‘And you’ll have the full Irish in the morning,’ she told me, in no uncertain terms.
I nodded politely and began heading up the stairs to my room with the frilly curtains and shiny bedspread, but despite the decor, the house had felt immediately like home. Not my home, of course. But the concept of being at home. Perhaps it was Nora’s way of making you feel as though she’d known you for years. As though you were part of the family, which, from what I could tell, consisted of three Jack Russells and a husband called Barry who remained safely out of sight.
‘He lives in that shed,’ she’d said, as she showed me the shared bathroom on my first night, replete with an avocado suite. The sound of a hammer hitting wood had echoed up from the backyard. ‘If I could just get him to sleep out there,’ she had said, with an indulgent sigh.
‘There’s a letter for you by the way,’ she said now, fishing it out of a pocket in the front of her apron. ‘From the council. Looks official. I didn’t read it,’ she added hastily, confirming that she had.
Chapter Four
OPALINE
As the gangplanks were lifted and handkerchiefs fluttered in the air, my heart was a mix of excitement and trepidation. Having spent a cold and sleepless night on a mail train to Dover, I had countless hours to question the wisdom of my decision to escape to France. There was just enough time to send a telegram to Jane and I bitterly regretted not having the chance to say a proper goodbye to the one person I would miss. I knew not what lay ahead of me, but was keenly aware of what I was leaving behind. My mother would doubtless be distressed at my departure, if not for the loss of a daughter, then surely for the gossip and notoriety that would befall our family name. I was bringing shame to them both, but I had no choice. It was their pride or my future and I could not, would not, sacrifice myself on the altar of their expectations. I had enough schooling to get by, or so I thought, and would soon realise that the university of life was an altogether harsher education.
As I stood on the deck, I put my case by my feet and looked out at the horizon. Many of my fellow passengers had already installed themselves on reclining chairs to avert seasickness, but not I. I held on to the railings and began imagining all of the adventures that lay ahead, without a practical thought as to how I would survive alone in a foreign country. A blur of activity caught the corner of my eye and before I knew it, someone was making off with my case. I cried out but my voice was lost on the wind and while he ran, I stumbled along the smooth wood of the deck. Quick as lightning, another man brushed past me and chased down the gangway and apprehended the thief – a young boy of twelve if he was a day. He brought him back by the scruff of the neck, the case in his other hand, and in a heavily accented voice, asked me what I would like to be done?
‘I, um, well …’ I mumbled, embarrassingly. The whole event had left me in shock.
‘I shall report him to the ship’s captain, if mademoiselle so desires,’ he said, with a touch of dramatic licence. I was immediately conscious of his height; he was well over six feet tall, and his dark features were very striking. Black hair, dark eyes and brown skin. He was unspeakably attractive.
‘Mademoiselle?’ he repeated, with a slight smile sparkling in his eyes.
‘Um, yes, yes, of course.’ I turned to see the boy, whose features had suddenly taken on those of a persecuted lamb. ‘And what shall happen to him?’ I enquired, taking my case back.
‘He will be removed from the ship and taken straight to the prison, I assume,’ the man said, rather dispassionately.
‘Oh.’
‘It is entirely your decision, Mademoiselle.’
‘Well. I have my possessions back now, so I suppose there’s no harm done. And you won’t do anything like this again, will you?’ I asked, looking at the youngster, who I now noticed was not wearing any shoes and his clothes seemed two sizes too small for him. He shook his head vehemently and like a wild creature, disappeared into the crowd as soon as the man loosened his grip.
‘Mademoiselle is too generous,’ he said, watching the boy escape. ‘Allow me to present myself; my name is Armand Hassan,’ he said, bowing slightly.
His name sounded so exotic and intriguing, giving him an instant allure. He was dressed well, but with an air of casual elegance, as though he couldn’t help but look well, no matter what he wore. Yet there was something dangerous or secretive in his eyes that stirred a feeling of mistrust in me.
‘Miss Carlisle,’ I replied, offering my hand and realising too late that I had already given a complete stranger my real name. I had to sharpen my wits and fast.
‘Enchanté, Mademoiselle Carlisle, and may I say what a beautiful name you possess. I hope I will have occasion to speak it. And often.’ He brought my gloved hands to his lips and I swore I could feel the warmth of his breath through the fabric. I quickly averted my eyes and hoped that my cheeks had not flushed. I had hardly left England’s shores and already I was succumbing to the charms of a foreign accent like some ingénue. I had to get a hold of myself.
‘Yes, well, thank you very much, Mr Hassan, but I must get on,’ I said, realising too late that I was on board a ship and had no pressing engagements to speak of.