Some of Isabella’s fondest memories were of the simple garden at the cottage where she lived with Elijah. He had given her an area in which she could grow whatever she wanted. She had been so proud of herself when she’d dug up her first potato. She had cradled it in her grubby hands as though it were the most precious of jewels. She had run to the back door to show her father. But in her excitement, she had tripped over a watering can and hurt her knees on the brick path.
She hadn’t cried though. She had wanted to be strong for Elijah. He had suffered enough as it was, what with losing the woman he loved as well as what he’d experienced in the war. On seeing her bloody knees, Elijah had held her to him, then lifting her up, he’d carried her through to the small kitchen and sat her on the wooden draining board. With tender hands, he’d cleaned her grazed knees with TCP, found a plaster, and then wrapped her in his arms to give her another hug.
‘What a brave girl you are,’ he’d said. ‘Just like your mother.’
It wasn’t often he spoke of Allegra, but when he did, it was with loving admiration. She was a woman of great spirit, he would say, wild at times, fickle too, as difficult to pin down as quicksilver. It was her courage that Elijah often referred to, particularly her courage as an unmarried young woman to keep the baby she was expecting.
Isabella wished she had more of her mother’s spirit right now and that she didn’t feel so hopelessly feeble. Or so maudlin, fearing that she might die here all alone, her emaciated corpse undiscovered for days on end.
With these thoughts of death spinning around inside her head, Isabella suddenly remembered poor Hope. The last she’d heard from Romily was that Hope still hadn’t regained consciousness. Her delirious mind as clouded as the smog outside, Isabella tried to remember when that last update was. It seemed an age away. Was it before London became shrouded in smog? No, it was after and when she’d received that unexpected letter of apology from Ralph. She couldn’t believe how contrite he’d sounded as he asked for her forgiveness. She wanted to believe it was genuine. But with Ralph you never could tell.
Another painful coughing fit took hold of her, and when she’d recovered from the convulsion that tore at her chest, she closed her eyes and immediately fell into a deep sleep. But not for long. She was woken by the sound of knocking.
Knocking at Death’s door, she thought woozily as the noise continued, growing in volume and persistence. She opened her eyes and realised that the knocking was at the door of her flat. Still half asleep, she dragged herself from her bed and went to see who it was, grabbing her dressing gown as she went. Perhaps it was a fellow member of the cast, or even the director, bringing her grapes and sympathy.
She placed her eye against the peephole of the door and jumped away in shock.
‘Isabella, it’s me: Max. Are you all right?’
‘I’m really not fit company,’ she croaked, her voice strained and hoarse.
‘I’ve come bearing gifts to make you feel better,’ he said.
‘How did you know I was ill?’
‘How about we have this conversation on your side of the door?’
She hesitated. If there was one person she didn’t want to see her, it was Max. Suave and handsome, and very different to the usual men she dated, Max was a dangerous temptation. So far she had resisted his allure, telling herself he was too old – he was twice her age for heaven’s sake! But on the several occasions he had taken her for dinner, each time after watching the play she was in, he had stirred within her the strongest of desires. He dazzled her with his charm and wit. He spoke of art and books, and a world of travel to places she had never imagined visiting – South America, India, deserted islands of the Polynesian coast. Afterwards he would see her home and linger on the doorstep outside the mansion building where her flat was. It had taken a lot of willpower not to invite him up, settling instead for a kiss on the cheek.
‘Isabella?’
‘I can’t let you in,’ she croaked, ‘not when I look so dreadful.’
‘Put your vanity aside and let me in, you silly girl. I’ve come to mop your brow, not seduce you.’
Accepting that it would be churlish to send him away, she tied the belt of her dressing gown around her waist, as though for protection, and unlocked the door.
And there he stood, a vision of dreamy perfection in his charcoal-grey overcoat, a burgundy coloured woollen scarf around his neck, and smelling divinely of cologne. In one hand he held a bouquet of flowers and in the other, a basket of what appeared to be fruit. He stepped inside and pushed the door shut behind him.
‘They told me at the theatre you were unwell,’ he said, ‘that this bloody smog had knocked you for six. And I can see they weren’t exaggerating. You poor, poor thing.’
His sympathy was too much. ‘Don’t,’ she said, ‘I’m not in any condition to be on the receiving end of kindness. I shall start blubbing like a baby.’
‘I have seen a person cry before, you know. Now then,’ he said all business-like, ‘point me in the direction of the kitchen and I shall put this lot in there, and then I shall settle you back in bed. After that, I shall make you something to eat. When was the last time you ate?’
‘I . . . I don’t remember. And I’m not really hungry.’
He tutted. ‘Don’t fight me, Isabella, you don’t have the energy.’
What resistance she still possessed vanished under his firmness, and before she knew it, she was sitting up in bed, the sheets and blankets straightened, and the pillows plumped and positioned for maximum comfort.
‘There now,’ he said, a short while later and placing a tray on her lap. ‘A mug of tomato soup and a round of cucumber sandwiches cut into tempting triangles, the crusts removed. The best remedy I know for reviving an ailing patient.’
‘How did you manage all this,’ she asked, staring at the tray, while he put a fresh jug of water and a clean glass on the bedside table. As muddle-headed as the fever had made her, she could have sworn he’d have had as much chance of finding gold bars in the kitchen as anything fresh and wholesome to eat.
‘I came prepared,’ he said, ‘like Little Red Riding Hood with a basket of nourishment.’
‘More like the Big Bad Wolf,’ she said.
He dragged the velvet-covered stool over from her dressing table and placed it next to the bed. ‘Is that how you see me?’ he asked, when he was seated.
‘I’m not sure how I should see you,’ she replied. ‘Or how you want me to consider you?’
He smiled, causing starbursts of lines to deepen around his eyes. ‘Drink your soup while it’s hot,’ he said. ‘We’ll discuss weightier matters when you’re better.’