Powerscourt had an enormous white towel in his arms. He picked Olivia up. A pair of blue eyes, rather like her mother’s, peered up at him, trusting, clear, unfathomable. Powerscourt often thought she had been here before. He wrapped her very tightly in the towel.
‘First of all,’ he said to Olivia, ‘we have to make sure the parcel is wrapped up very tight.’ He made a number of folds in the towel and tucked the ends very firmly in position. Olivia had disappeared completely. She looked like a small white mummy, awaiting final incarceration in some dead Pharaoh’s tomb.
‘All right in there, parcel?’ asked Powerscourt, suddenly worried that she might suffocate.
‘Parcel all right,’ reported the small package.
‘Now we’ve got to put some string round it.’ Powerscourt’s fingers made a series of loops round the package, pausing occasionally to fasten imaginary knots.
‘Address now,’ he said. He began to write heavily with his finger on Olivia’s back. ‘Lady Cynthia Macleod, Beauclerc House, Thame, Oxfordshire. I think we’d better write it on the front of the parcel as well.’ He turned the towel over. There was a yelp from within.
‘Tickles,’ said Olivia Powerscourt with great delight, ‘tickles.’
‘Now we have to put the stamps on,’ said her father. He stamped his fist all around the package, finishing with a final triumphant flourish on the top of her head. ‘Now you have to be handed over to the postman. Please Mr Postman, could you take this parcel for Oxfordshire. It’s got all the stamps on. “Yes, sir,” says the postal gentleman, “we’ll take care of it for you.”’
Powerscourt now threw Olivia around, explaining that she had joined all the other parcels in London at a great sorting office.
‘Warwickshire, Devon, Dorset, Norfolk.’ He threw various imaginary missives round the bathroom. ‘Ah,’ he put on another voice, ‘this one’s for Oxfordshire. Put it in the train up there.’
‘Twain, twain, am I on a twain, Papa?’ said the little girl. Like her brother she was very excited by railway travel.
‘Chuff . . . Chuff . . . Chuff . . . Chuff.Chuff.Chuff.’ Powerscourt did his best to reproduce the noise of the mail train on the London to Warwick line. He made screeching sounds.
‘The parcel’s reached the station now, Olivia.’ He threw her on to an imaginary platform. ‘Now Grandmother’s postman gets the parcel. Clip-clop. Clip-clop.’ Those horse noises again. Powerscourt was glad he didn’t have Thomas on his back this time. ‘Knock knock.’ Powerscourt beat his fist hard on the panels of the bath. ‘The postman is knocking at Grandmother’s front door. There’s no answer. Knock knock. Where can the butler be? Ah, here he comes. “Parcel for Lady Macleod,” says the postman. “Thank you so much,” says the butler. But where is Grandmother? The butler cannot find her.’
Powerscourt walked up and down the bathroom searching for an imaginary Lady Macleod.
‘“Did I hear someone at the door?” says Grandmother. “Parcel for you, Lady Macleod,” says the butler.’
Powerscourt handed the package over. He sat down again with his little daughter on his lap.
‘“Who could be sending me a parcel like this?” says Grandmother. “I suppose I’d better open it. What a pity Olivia isn’t here to help me – she does like parcels so.”’
Powerscourt began to unwrap the towel.
‘It’s so well wrapped,’ he said, in his best grandmother voice, ‘whatever can it be? Not another jumper surely.’ There was a squeal of delight from inside. ‘What was that noise? I must unwrap the rest of this quickly. My goodness me, I think it might be a person in here. I hope they’re all right after all that journey in the trains and things.’
With a final flourish and a roll of imaginary drums on the side of the bath, Powerscourt opened up the towel.
‘What a nice surprise! It’s Olivia! How wonderful to see you!’
All that travelling had left the little girl completely dry. Her father looked around for a nightdress. She was still snuggling up to him very tight. Olivia looked at him with her most entrancing look. She’s practising on me, thought Powerscourt. She’s been practising on me since she was four days old. Olivia, he felt absolutely sure, wanted something, something she felt sure a devoted father would provide.
‘Papa,’ she said, ‘again. Again. Do it again.’
24
By half-past six on the Monday evening after the cricket match Richard Martin had still not come home. His tea was on the table. Richard always liked to have his tea once he came in, hungry from a long day in the City. Sometimes they had to work late at the bank, but Richard always knew well in advance. Only that morning he had said he would be home at the usual time.
His mother made another pot. He’s gone too far this time, she said to herself he really has. If he thinks that Sophie Williams is more important than his own mother, then he’d better think again. Rufus, the dog next door that Richard used to take for walks, was barking loudly. You could hear it through the walls. Mrs Martin tried to think of who could help her in the chastising of her wayward son. His grandfather would never do it, he had always been soft on the boy, especially since he lost his father. One of her sisters might be pretty fierce but she didn’t think Richard would take any notice.
Sophie Williams was worried too. Richard usually met her at seven o’clock by St Michael’s church with the dog. Tonight he was not there. Always in the past he had kept his word, always he had been reliable. By eight o’clock she knew he was not coming. She wondered if she should call on his mother. Perhaps Richard was ill. Sophie knew what Richard’s mother thought of her. She knew she might not receive a warm welcome at Number 67 if she rang the bell. Suffragists must have courage above everything else, she said to herself, courage in the rightness of their cause, courage in the prosecution of the battle against the monstrous regiment of men. Richard’s mother was just another poor woman, brainwashed by male propaganda.
At half-past eight she rang Richard’s doorbell. Mrs Martin was wondering if Richard had lost his key.
‘Miss Williams!’ said Richard’s mother. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
‘I was worried about Richard,’ said Sophie, still standing on the doorstep.
‘He’s not come home for his tea,’ Mrs Martin explained. ‘I thought he was with you.’
‘I sometimes see him when he goes to walk the dog, Mrs Martin. But I didn’t see him tonight. I was worried.’
Mrs Martin wondered if she should pursue these evening meetings with the dog. But it was obvious that the girl was as worried as she was.
‘Come in, Miss Williams. Come in. We’d better have a cup of tea.’
Lord Francis Powerscourt was pacing up and down his drawing room. Lucy was sitting by the fire with the letters from the Blackwater strong box beside her. She was making notes in a little book, a German dictionary by her side.
‘Can you do them all at once, Lucy, and then tell me what they say? I don’t think I could bear hearing them one by one and then waiting for the next translation.’