68
According to Ken's last letter the house was on West Street. It was one of his father's properties. He couldn't resist it he said, even though its too few kitchens and too many rooms attracted students, because Leslie was once (a great deal of her still was) a West.
It lay in Kingsport's old town, Ken had neglected to mention that bit. It surprised Una that there were actual trees lining the street, as her cab drove by them. There was an old stone church in the middle of the street, dwarfed by the large house next to it. That had been divided up into apartments too, but it used to belong to a rich merchant family in the olden days, her cab driver told her. Opposite what she came to find was her house was a small sort of green, though at the time of the year it was thick with snow. In the midst grew an ancient, leafless oak.
"That's the Gossip tree."
Una was searching through her purse, making sure for the third time that she would have the exact amount for her fare. She looked up, her wide, almond eyes blinking quickly in the reflection of the cab's rear view mirror.
"Sorry?"
"In the olden days, folks used to come to that church from miles around - there's s'posed to be some relics buried in the floor. Bones or something. Anyways, after, they'd go to that big mansion for alms and gather round that tree-"
"Gossiping?"
The driver guffawed. "The priest there tried to call it the Alms tree, but the name never stuck. It's a really old church, really old. You a church-goer, Miss?"
Una frowned. "Isn't everyone?"
"Not me. Sunday's one of my biggest days. Saturday night, that's when the la-de-das like to hit the town, and it's me that's driving 'em home every Sunday morning." He parked outside an old, narrow townhouse. "Fifty cents, please, Miss." He peered out his window and looked up. "Hope your room ain't at the top. Those sort of places have really steep stairs. You want help with that trunk?"
There were ten stone steps leading up to the front door, which was wider than usual, almost the width of the hallway. This was tiled in yellow and rusty red, and needing a good polish, Una noticed. The front room, with a tall dusty bay window and the curtains pulled tight, had a greasy brass plate on the door that read 1A. Una walked further down the hall, Ken's letter rustling in her sweaty hands as she walked past the stairs, by a door with no plate, and another door marked W.C.
She read over the letter again, checked the instructions against the writing on the final plate marking the last door situated at the back of the house. This was it: 1C.
"This yours, then?"
Una made the world's smallest nod.
"Got the key?"
"N-no, the Ford's agent said it would all be unlocked. Someone's supposed to be coming around later with the keys and the paperwork."
The cab driver muscled past her, and working the door handle with his elbow dumped the trunk inside the door. He stood there waiting. Una gave him seventy cents, but she couldn't tell from the driver's face if she should have given him less or more.
The room had been plumbed with a sink, which was nice. There was a smallish window furnished with a skimpy, faded curtain, and another door with glass in it leading outside. Una peered through it, her heart was beating fast and she breathed in deep, taking in the closed-in musty smell. Not for much longer, she would make this room her home, but for now they needed to get acquainted with each other.
Through the glass in the door there appeared to be what looked like another room. A conservatory of sorts, the wooden white frames peeling, the flower boxes filled with desiccated weeds and dried out earth. Not for much longer, not for much longer. The refrain sounded reassuringly in her head. It was a good space, she could dry her washing there on rainy days, and set up a trellis table for her sewing projects. Back to the room, she turned and saw an ornate radiator that someone had painted pink. A narrow, unmade bed, topped with a meagre mattress was wedged in the corner. None of it was a patch on the Blake's cosy little place, but at least here she wouldn't have to share a room with all those visiting Missionary girls. And it was much closer to college.
She was sitting upon the bed and reading Ken's letter for the umpteenth time because she hadn't brought any linens with her, or crockery, or towels. She couldn't see any in the room and Ken did say all that sort of the palaver was being provided. In the midst of her rising panic came a nasty buzzing in her ears, a static pulsing sound like cicada song but mechanical and droning with it. The sort of sound that enveloped her the day she was told that Walter had died. She hadn't been able to make out another word her father was saying, nor feel his arms around her.
"Bloody hell!" she heard a voice down the hall. "Isn't anybody there?"
Una attempted to drop the letter and found it was stuck to her hands.
"Hallo, hallo?"
A woman's voice, well educated and concise despite the cussing. Peeling the paper from her fingers Una left her room and walked swiftly down the hall. It must be the agent.
"Ah, there you are, Miss Meredith, don't you remember me? May I still call you Una?"
Una nodded, a great big one this time, slow and deliberate, for she needed time to put a face to the name. There stood before her a very pretty young woman, about her age. Big, blue fearless eyes (though tired with it) a pointed nose, and a lipsticked mouth. It was hard to tell the colour of her hair which was hidden under her close fitting hat. The latest style but slightly soiled by a smudge of train smuts on the violet brim.
"You don't remember me, do you. I suppose it has been five years." She tugged off her hat revealing signature hair the colour of sun-bleached wheat.
"Persis?"
"That's the one - may I come inside, it's perishing out here - would you help with my things?" She gestured to the pile at the bottom of the steep stairs. "I wouldn't normally ask but I've got a bit of a nip in my back."
...
Final chapter to follow...