—

…I know that this is not the way. I cannot think what else I can do… forgive me.

Esther thought that Bindon seemed to be a little more his old self. Since Easter, he had more colour in his cheeks and he had stopped talking as though he was not long for this world, which was surely a sign that his depressed state was lifting. He had started taking Baby on his knee and even come to watch her being bathed. She had asked him whether he would care to have a spell in London, and he said that he would, and that they might have a night at the opera. Opera was one of his passions.

She wrote to her father ‘…I feel that he has turned the corner. A month in London, with a bit of gaiety and colour, may just do the trick. When Jack came down to visit soon after Bindon returned to Mere on sick leave, Jack said that he felt like killing ten Germans for every soldier who was suffering as Bindon was suffering. I love Jack for doing this. I only pray that he will not be caught in the bombardment of some foreign village as Bindon was. If you do not mind, we shall travel as soon as we have seen to the domestic arrangements here. Dearest Father, how Kitt and I look forward to being with you again at dear Windsor Villa. Bindon asks me to send you his regards and Baby sends you a kiss.’

On the first night of their return to London, Bindon was miraculously cured of the impotence that had affected him since that day months ago when he was sitting in that medieval town in Flanders, writing an imaginary letter to Esther. When shells had burst all around him, when his leg had been crushed, his gas-mask stolen from his face, and his lungs burnt by a whiff of toxic gas.

Although he did not know it then, his return to virility impregnated Esther. Esther knew. She lay on her back with her legs tightly together, her pelvis raised on her fists, helping the little tadpoles of the illustrations in Human Biology to swim onwards to the new baby who had been waiting there for months for its finishing touches.

She decided that they should remain in London for a few weeks longer than planned so that she could consult the doctor who had attended her when she was carrying Stephanie. Then they would all return to Mere – Esther, Bindon, Stephanie, Kitt and Baby. There she and Bindon would spend the seven waiting months caring for one another. She visualized them walking The Cobb, Bindon playing with Kitt, herself with her protruding figure that Bindon would proudly ignore on their walks but at night would eagerly include in his caresses; pushing Stephanie in her bassinet; then, later, Stephanie toddling along the promenade, or stumbling on the shore holding Nursey’s hand, and herself wheeling the new baby in the sunshine.

What visions Bindon had of the future he did not relate to her. There can have been no sea, or fat babies, or talkative little boys, no sunshine. No sunshine.

For the second time in a few months, Bindon Blood was seared by a dreadful man-made chemical. If it was traditional that an officer and gentleman use his own weapon to end his life, then Bindon Blood perhaps did not see himself any longer in that role. When he swallowed the Lysol, it was at Wapping, a fair distance from the warmth and comfort of Windsor Villa.

The stevedores who discovered his body would have liked to see what the envelope in the corpse’s pocket contained, but it was addressed to Inspector George Moth of New Scotland Yard. ‘I know that I should not do this. Ask Esther to forgive me. Music is lost for ever and I can think of no other way to be rid of thoughts of decomposition and filthy corruption.’

George Moth knew, from his own experience of sudden and terrible death in the midst of renewed happiness, what havoc the grief and shock would wreak upon Esther’s life. Looking at the suicide’s distorted handwriting on Post Office purchased stationery, he felt crushed at the thought of having to face his daughter, who had said confidently that the worst was now over. He longed for the comfort of Anne’s lovely body and soft upper-class voice.

As he often did, he went first for an hour or two’s comfort with Effee Tessalow. Discreet and safe but with the low accent and voice of the music-hall girl she had been. He shrank from going home to Esther with his tragic news until he had talked to a woman and, as always, Effee was the woman.