A Silver Lining (20 page)

He had broken into the heroine’s house, tied up her mother, eaten everything in the kitchen and then climbed the stairs to the heroine’s bedroom ...

Her thoughts froze as she heard it again: a mocking sound that set the hairs on the back of her neck crawling. It seemed to come from up ahead. The ornate fountain? She darted into a doorway and studied the grey stone edifice. A figure swayed out from behind it. Stumbling clumsily, it staggered towards her.

‘Rent day tomorrow.’

‘I know, Bobby.’ Quickening her pace she dodged him and crossed to the left-hand side of the road. To her dismay he followed.

‘You want me to reduce it for you?’

‘No thank you, Bobby.’ If she remained polite, carried on walking, he might leave her alone.

‘Go on, you know you can’t pay. The reduction I’m offering would be more than worth your while.’ He reached out and clasped her arm.

‘You’ll get your rent!’ She snatched her arm away but he lurched forwards. Wrapping both his arms around her waist he fell on top of her, dragging them both to the ground.

‘Let me go!’ She fought with every ounce of strength she could muster, kicking out at his legs, lashing him with clenched fists. He rolled on top of her and started to laugh, with the inane cackle of the truly drunk. She heaved him off and attempted to rise, but his hand had closed like a steel vice round her right wrist, pinning it to the pavement.

‘If you don’t let me go, Bobby, I’ll scream. And after last time you know I will,’ she hissed, terror muting her voice to a whisper.

He struggled to his knees and peered up and down the deserted street. ‘I don’t see anyone who’ll hear you, so go ahead,’ he slurred. He sat back on his heels, his eyes rolling as he strained to focus on her. ‘Come on, Alma,’ he wheedled. ‘Be a sport. You know you want it. Everyone knows girls like you miss it when it’s taken off them suddenly. After all, how long is it since Ronnie Ronconi left? Five ... six months?’ He tried to dive on top of her again, but she moved quicker than he did, rolling away from him at the last moment. He landed heavily on his knees.

‘Alma!’ he chanted, laughing again as he closed his fingers even tighter around her wrist and carried her hand to his mouth. ‘Alma ...’

Desperate to get away, she sank her teeth as hard as she could into the soft fleshy part of his hand below the thumb.

‘You cow!’ He released his grip just long enough for her to regain her feet. She raced forward and he flung himself after her in a rugby tackle. She crashed heavily to the ground, and this time she did scream. Long, loud and clearly, a piercing echo that resounded around the deserted buildings as her head and chest connected painfully with the pavement.

An explosion of black burst in her brain. Through a thick mist she watched helplessly while Bobby, still laughing, locked his hands around her ankles and dragged her by her legs along the pavement into the doorway of Heath’s piano shop.

‘Leave me alone!’ She struggled to pull her clothes down, conscious he was able to look up her skirt. ‘Leave me –’

A hand materialised above Bobby’s head. Even in her confused state she realised it couldn’t be Bobby’s because both of his gripped her ankles. She watched spellbound as luminous white fingers sank into Bobby’s black curls. His head jerked back sharply, his grasp on her ankles relaxed, then finally loosened.

He rose slowly, infinitely slowly into the air above her, like a marionette being manipulated by a dark, shadowy puppeteer. He swung away, his legs dangling ineffectually above the ground.

Heaving for breath and shaking in terror, Alma crawled to the display window of the shop behind her. She tried to stand, but a sharp pain in her ribs felled her to her knees.

The pane of glass at her back shuddered in its frame as she stumbled against it. The fingers had formed a fist. It connected with Bobby’s jaw and he shot backwards, landing with a dull thud on the ground beside her.

The only silhouette that remained standing was thickset, stocky, with wide shoulders and a cap pulled down low over its face, but she could see the white blond hair escaping its confines.

Chapter Twelve

‘Are you all right?’ Charlie was bending over her, his hand extended. She took it and tried to pull herself up, but she tumbled back again, sliding weakly over the tiled floor of the piano shop porchway.

‘I ... I ...’

The dark street whirled in a kaleidoscope as he scooped her into his arms and carried her through the open doorway of the shop next door.

‘I was working late. I heard a noise outside,’ he explained as he looked around for somewhere to put her.

The shop was no longer the series of grimy, filthy rooms Charlie had shown to William. The walls, floors and work surfaces were clean and shining; the atmosphere eye-stinging, redolent with the mixed odours of paint, varnish and turpentine. In the corner was a pile of dustsheets, dry, if none too clean. He lowered Alma gently on to them, but she locked her hands around his neck, clinging to him, refusing to allow him to move away from her.

‘You’re safe here with me, I promise you,’ he murmured soothingly, recognising the terror in her eyes. He reached around to the back of his neck and prised her fingers apart. Then he went into the kitchen to fetch his coat. ‘You’re shivering.’ He laid it over her.

‘You always seem to be coming to my rescue.’ She tried to smile but a grimace froze on her lips as pain shot through her head.

‘You’re hurt.’ He returned to the kitchen and looked around. He and William had worked hard to clean the place up but there was precious little in it that was any use to him now. He spotted two mugs they’d used to drink lemonade because they hadn’t wanted to waste coal by lighting the stove just to make tea. Lifting one down from the window-sill, he rinsed it under the tap and filled it with cold water. As an afterthought he pulled a clean handkerchief out of his overall pocket and soaked that as well before returning to Alma in the shop.

Sitting on the floor next to her and propping her against his chest he helped her to drink.

Still dizzy and disorientated she hung on to him in an effort to steady herself. Charlie gently but firmly disentangled himself from her grasp, and placed the wet handkerchief over an angry red mark on her forehead.

‘Your skin isn’t broken, only swollen,’ he reassured her.

She held the handkerchief over her temple. It was cool, although it smelt nauseatingly of paint.

‘This is your shop?’

‘Yes.’

‘You were painting it now, at this time of night?’

‘I hope to open next month, and as I work most days that only leaves the evenings.’

‘Is that why you haven’t been in the café?’

He nodded.

‘I tried to get a message to you about the job,’ she mumbled. She closed her eyes. Everything was swimming around her in a turgid, chemically tainted atmosphere.

‘You’re all right now,’ he said, and for the first time in her life she actually believed the platitude. She leaned against him and allowed herself to relax. He smelt clean. A combination of bleach, soda and honestly-won sweat. She would be able to stand him touching her. But not Bobby.
Never
Bobby. She opened her eyes and lifted her face to his, expecting a kiss. Charlie looked at her for a moment, then moved away.

‘I’ll be back in a moment.’

‘Don’t leave me,’ she pleaded, hysteria mounting at the thought of being left alone.

‘I have to go outside.’

She watched, feeling very small, alone and abandoned as he went to the door.

The pavement outside his shop was empty. He looked into the doorway of the piano shop. That too was empty. Whoever had attacked Alma hadn’t stayed around. He returned to the shop, this time closing and locking the door behind him. Alma was still lying, white, frightened and tearful where he had left her on the dustsheets, his coat spread over her like a blanket.

‘I’ll lock you in and get the police. I won’t be long.’

‘No.’ Her hand shook as she put the mug of water he’d given her on the floor.

‘The next person he attacks might not be as lucky as you.’

‘He won’t attack anyone else.’ She wanted him to come to her and take her in his arms, so she could feel warm, secure and comfortable again.

‘Do you know who he is?’

‘Yes.’ Charlie was keeping his distance. Did that mean he didn’t like her? But he’d offered her a job. Too confused to analyse the situation, she only knew that for the first time since Ronnie had left her for Maud, she had felt safe in a man’s arms. She even felt safe now. Charlie’s presence in the room was enough, even when he wasn’t physically close to her. ‘He’s my rent man,’ she replied, wanting to explain everything. Suddenly it seemed very important that Charlie knew the truth, not the rumours being spread about her. ‘Since I lost my morning job in the tailor’s I’ve had trouble paying my bills. He wants me to make up the difference with something other than money,’ she said baldly.

‘He attacked you. He deserves to be punished.’

‘By who? The police couldn’t care less about people like me.’

‘He broke the law.’

‘A law that says everyone should pay their debts. All he’d have to say is he threatened me with the bailiffs for not paying my rent and I attacked him.’

‘I saw different.’

‘He’d only make even more trouble for me if I went to the police. Please, my mother and I are lucky to have a roof over our heads as it is. Can’t we just drop the subject?’

‘How much do you owe him?’

‘Why do you want to know?’ she demanded, suddenly suspicious. A few moments ago she would have done anything he’d wanted her to, but that had been when he’d held her in his arms. Now, as he interrogated her across the empty shop, he didn’t seem to be the same man. Was he going to proposition her, coldly, unemotionally as Bobby had?

Other women got caresses, kisses and promises. Was there something about her that made all men want to treat her like a worthless slut?

‘If you’re going to work for me, I should know what trouble I’m taking on.’

‘Damned sure I’m going to take the job, aren’t you?’ She closed her eyes, wishing the ground would swallow her up. Charlie was her only hope of leading a decent life.

He’d saved her from Bobby and his odious intentions, and here she was throwing the opportunity he offered back in his face.

‘No,’ he answered quietly.

‘Tomorrow I’ll owe two shillings and sixpence on my rent,’ she capitulated. ‘But as well as the rent, there’s our tab in Hopkins’ shop. It’ll only be a matter of time before they stop our credit, and as if that’s not enough, I owe Laura two pounds seventeen shillings and eight pence.’

Tears started in the corner of her eyes. The whole lot didn’t amount to five pounds. But on an income of thirteen shillings a week it might as well have been fifty-five.

‘You can move in here as soon as you like.’

‘If I do, I suppose I could sign notes ...’

‘I’ll lend you what you need to settle your debts against your future earnings.’ Charlie still made no attempt to move from the door.

‘Why would you do that?’

‘You are going to work for me aren’t you?’ he asked, weary of fencing words.

‘That still doesn’t explain why you’d want to help me beforehand.’

‘I told you last time I saw you. You’re a good worker.’

‘And because I jumped in Ronnie Ronconi’s bed you want me to jump in yours?’ She was glad she’d found the courage to ask the question outright. For once in her life everything was open and above board.

‘The last thing I want or need at the moment, Miss Moore, is a woman in my bed. But thank you for the offer.’

She had expected a reply along the lines of, ‘Seeing as how you brought up the subject, I’ll take you up on that.’

His rebuff left her speechless.

‘I’ll lend you ten pounds. That should be enough to cover your debts and keep you and your mother until you get your first wage packet from this shop.’

‘I don’t need that much.’

‘Let’s say ten pounds just to be on the safe side. That way you can pay off everything you owe and have a little to spare. You can pay me back at two shillings a week.’

‘But that will take me –’ her head ached as she frantically added up the figures –’a year to pay back, and that’s without interest.’

‘There won’t be any interest, now, if you feel up to it, I’ll take you home.’ He walked towards her and gently pulled back the handkerchief. A huge lump had broken out on the surface of her forehead. Red and swollen, it looked extremely painful.

‘That hurts,’ she protested.

‘I’m not surprised. But better out than in.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If the swelling occurs on the inside it can cause dangerous pressure, which could do considerable damage.’

‘I didn’t know that.’ She bit her lip hard.

‘Can you walk?’ he asked, aware of how the sight of the two of them, alone in his shop at this time of night, could be misconstrued.

‘I think so.’ She rose stiffly to her feet. ‘Here’s your coat.’

‘Keep it around your shoulders. It’s cold outside.’ He didn’t offer her his arm, but he watched carefully as she stumbled to the door. He switched off the light and locked the door behind her.

‘I hate owing anyone money,’ Alma murmured as he walked alongside her up Taff Street.

‘You seem to have little option at the moment.’

‘When I’m straight, I’m going to save every penny I can so I’ll never get in this mess again,’ she said vehemently.

The effort of speaking made her feel dizzy again and she clutched at Charlie’s arm. He lent her his support, but she still felt a distance she was convinced hadn’t existed earlier when he’d carried her into the shop. She glanced up at his face. His eyes didn’t even seem to be focused on the surroundings. They were looking inward with an expression that further chilled her icy body.

She couldn’t know that he was back in another time, another place. Walking out on a cold night just like this one, with a young girl clinging to his arm. One who, like her, had red hair and deep green eyes that a man could look into and lose his soul.

‘What are you thinking about, Feo?’

She had been wearing a thick black wool coat and a bright red hand-knitted scarf. He’d had to bend down to kiss the tip of her frozen nose.

‘You’re not my mother,’ she’d protested.

‘I don’t want to be your mother. But I want to make sure that you’re around to share that future I’ve been dreaming about.’

‘When we’ll have our own house ... just like my brother Dmitri and his wife,’ she began, laughing at him a little.

‘Not like Dmitri. Ours will be grander.’

‘Grander?’

‘Grander,’ he repeated, refusing to acknowledge her scepticism. ‘It will have a veranda downstairs and a balcony upstairs that you’ll be able to sit out on and pick cherries from the trees that I’ll plant all around the garden. There’ll be stoves in all the rooms, not just the kitchen, with flues going up into the bedrooms to keep them warm.’

‘I won’t need flues. I’ll have the feather bed my grandmother is making us, and,’ she arced her eyebrows, ‘you to keep me warm Feo.’

Her smile bewitching, mischievous. Her lips beneath his, warm, enticing.

‘Masha ...’

‘The others won’t be back from my uncle’s name day for hours. The barn is warm; we could go in for just a little while.’

‘Don’t you know what you’re doing to me?’

‘Spring will soon break, then we’ll be married.’

‘A few weeks.’

‘In which to practise.’

‘Masha!’ He’d pretended to be shocked.

‘Come on Feo, you’re wasting time. The barn is dry...’

Dry and warm, just as she’d promised. Smelling of hay and the chickens that nested between the bales. And her hair, sweet, fragrant loosed from the bond of the net she wore. He wanted no woman in his bed. None except Masha ...

‘This is it?’

Charlie looked about him and realised Alma had led him to her front door.

‘Thank you for walking me home.’ She removed her arm from his and handed back his coat. ‘Won’t you come inside?’

‘I don’t think so. It’s very late.’

She hesitated, her hand on the doorknob.

‘Are you afraid to go in?’ he asked intuitively.

‘I know it’s silly of me. It’s just that Bobby collects my rent. He knows where I live.’

‘Do you want me to check your house?’

Although he’d visited her before, she was torn between a desire to keep her poverty private, and her fear of Bobby. The fear won.

‘Please, come in, just for a moment.’ She opened the door and walked down the passage.

Charlie closed the door behind him and instinctively reached out and felt for an electric light switch, then he saw the faint, brief flare of a match, followed by the soft glow of a candle through the thin curtain up ahead. Alma pushed aside the curtain, and he followed her into the kitchen.

‘The back door is in the washhouse.’ She lit another stub of candle from the flame of the one she held in her hand.

He took the candle she offered, lifted the latch and checked the washhouse thoroughly before opening the back door and looking into the yard, outhouse and coalhouse.

‘Nothing out there. Do you want me to bolt the door?’

‘Please.’

He did as she asked, then followed her back into the cold kitchen.

‘I’ll stay here while you check the upstairs,’ he said, handing her the candle.

Charlie stood, gazing out of the small kitchen window, listening to her footsteps as they echoed over the flagstones in the passage. They paused for a moment, and he heard her checking the empty front room before walking up the uncarpeted staircase.

After Russia he’d believed himself immune to the wretchedness poverty trailed in its wake. Now he knew he wasn’t. The house even smelt of poverty, an odour compiled from shame and the humiliation of not having two halfpennies to rub together. The last time he’d stood in the kitchen he’d noticed only the obvious: the lack of fire, cushions, rugs, small comforts that those who had the luxury of work took for granted. Now he had time to study the room at length without Alma’s eagle eye watching him, he was appalled by its bleakness.

The battered and patched tin bucket in front of the stove contained barely half an inch of small coal. There was no sign of wood, only newspapers. The scrubbed surfaces of the pine-topped deal table and breadboard were devoid of the smallest crumb. He couldn’t even smell food, and he had a shrewd suspicion that if he were to open the doors of the pantry and dresser they’d be bare.