Two for Sorrow

(untitled)

by Josephine Tey

First Draft

Anstey Physical Training College, Birmingham, Wednesday 14 June 1916

Lizzie knocked loudly on the door of Celia Bannerman’s office and went straight in without waiting for a reply. Miss Bannerman was at her desk, and made no acknowledgement of any interruption until she had finished the letter she was writing. The arrogance of her unhurried progress across the page sickened Lizzie, and she could barely contain her anger; eventually, the teacher looked up at her and smiled.

‘Miss Price—what can I do for you at this time of night?’

‘Don’t you mean Miss Sach?’ Lizzie was gratified to see that her words had temporarily ruffled Bannerman’s composure, and she pressed home her advantage by throwing the letter down on the desk in front of her—Gerry’s letter, which she had waited all day to open, holding on to it as some sort of salvation from the misery of her daily life, only to find that its contents destroyed the very fabric of her existence. She waited impatiently while Bannerman read it through, taking her time and going back over some of the earlier paragraphs, and wondered how she could ever have trusted or respected the woman in front of her.

‘Geraldine shouldn’t have told you any of this,’ she said calmly when she had finished. ‘It was irresponsible and reckless of her, and I’m sorry you’ve had to find out in this way.’

‘Of course she should have told me,’ Lizzie shouted, incensed by the lack of remorse in Celia Bannerman’s voice. ‘Don’t transfer all your shortcomings on to her—she’s not to blame. It looks like she’s the only person in my life who’s ever told me the truth, and thank God she did. At least there’s someone I can trust.’ She paused, then said more quietly: ‘I assume by your attitude that it is all true? And you knew all the time?’

‘Yes, it’s true, and I know how hurt you must feel, but …’

‘You have absolutely no idea how I feel—none of you. You all think you’ve been so clever, managing my life for me and treating me like a child, but this is where it stops. You can keep your precious school and your career—I won’t stay another day in this bloody prison.’

‘Stop being ridiculous, Elizabeth, and calm down. Where on earth would you go?’

‘To find Gerry. We’re going to be together—she’s got money, she’ll look after me until I can find a job.’

‘That won’t be possible, I’m afraid,’ Bannerman said, and there was a coldness in her voice now that frightened Lizzie. ‘This is the last time you’ll be hearing from Geraldine.’

‘What do you mean? What’s happened to her?’

‘Nothing, as far as I know, but your parents’—Lizzie looked scornfully at her for using words which no longer applied, but she carried on oblivious—‘your parents and Lady Ashby all agree that your relationship with Geraldine isn’t … well, appropriate. I have to say, I think they’re right.’

Lizzie stared at her in disbelief. ‘You really think you can keep us apart, don’t you?’ she said, snatching the letter and holding it up to Bannerman’s face. ‘But she means what she says in here, you know. She loves me.’

The older woman laughed softly. ‘Oh, my dear, you’re so young, but you must understand—Geraldine Ashby has responsibilities. Money doesn’t solve problems in the way you think it does. It creates them.’

‘Don’t fucking patronise me,’ Lizzie said, shocked by her own anger, but Celia Bannerman continued her relentless denial of everything that Lizzie had ever taken for granted, slowly eroding her confidence and her ability to fight back.

‘Geraldine has no more control over her origins than you do. She may think she’s free to do as she likes at the moment, but her future is already mapped out for her, and it doesn’t include the servants’ daughter.’ She paused, making sure that she had Lizzie’s attention. ‘And it certainly could never include the child of a convicted murderer. I’m sorry to have to speak to you in this way, but, since you’ve raised the subject of your past …’

Before she could hear the rest of the sentence, Lizzie stormed out of Bannerman’s office. Fighting back tears, she ran down the corridor, past the notice board where she had collected the letter that morning, and back to her own room. On the landing outside, a group of third-year girls paused in their conversation to look at her, but no one said anything and Lizzie shut the door behind her, relieved for once to have made herself too unpopular to bother with. She tore open the top drawer of her desk and rifled through it, desperate to find the only thing which could convince her that her past and her future were more tangible than she now believed them to be. The pile of letters and photographs was tucked right at the back, and her instinctive decision to hide them as if they were something to be ashamed of seemed to Lizzie to underline the truth of Bannerman’s words.

When she left the room again an hour later, she thought only of Gerry. In all the years she had known her, Lizzie had never questioned their love; now, by analysing what it meant to her, she had let it slip through her fingers, and the loss of innocence was more painful and more final than any revelation about her mother could have been. Since coming to Anstey, she had understood what it was to miss someone: Gerry’s absence was like a constant fog over her life; it was there when she went to bed and when she opened her eyes again in the morning, and it lifted only when she saw the handwriting on an envelope. To miss someone with hope was bearable, but to have that dark ribbon of grief stretching endlessly ahead of her with no prospect of a reprieve was more than she could bear. As she opened the door to the gymnasium and walked quietly across the floor, she hoped that Gerry would forgive her.