Blue Moon (38 page)

‘That’s gorgeous,’ cried Ruby. ‘I love that blue kiss you’ve made in the corner.’

‘It’s a place mat,’ said May.

‘I can see that,’ said Ruby. ‘It’s really lovely. What did your teacher say?’

‘She liked it,’ said May, a little pink glow of pride rising on her cheeks.

Ruby hugged and kissed her. Their relationship had improved a lot since May had finally understood that Nelson was never coming back, and she was a lot nicer to Ruby these days. ‘You’re the best and the cleverest sister in the world,’ said Ruby, and May giggled.

‘Sit up now,’ said Bea, putting the hot plates onto the table.

May slid from Ruby’s lap and pulled out her own chair.

‘Aren’t you going to put your dinner on your place mat?’ Ruby asked. She lifted the plate and May arranged the mat underneath. ‘You said you had two letters, Mother.’

‘You remember I said I had Mabel’s address book,’ said Bea. A cloud of steam enveloped her as she tipped the cabbage into a colander standing in the sink. ‘Well, I wrote to George Gore’s widow to offer my condolences. I mentioned you-know-what, and she’s written back to say she wants to see us.’

A plate of sausages, cabbage and mash appeared in front of Ruby and May.

‘Where does she live?’ asked Ruby.

‘York,’ said Bea, ‘but she doesn’t want us to go there, thank God. She’s coming here.’

‘Here?’ cried Ruby. For a split second the thought of it horrified her. Where would they sleep? Would she have to postpone her wedding?

‘I mean they’re coming to Worthing,’ said Bea
patiently. ‘They’ve booked a guesthouse, and she’s bringing the children for a week during the summer holidays.’

Conscious that May was all ears beside them, they ate their meal making small talk about school dinners, the price of potatoes and when Ruby’s new job would actually begin. After dinner, May was sent to the scullery to have a wash, while Bea and Ruby did the washing up.

‘Did you ask Mrs Gore about the bullet, Mum?’

Bea shook her head. ‘All I said was that it was a terrible coincidence that three of the pals had survived that awful war, only to die within months of each other.’

Ruby looked thoughtful. ‘I don’t understand why Jim is so sceptical about it,’ she said. ‘The more we delve into it, the clearer it seems to me. Someone has got it in for them.’

‘But we don’t really understand why,’ said Bea. ‘If it was to do with the war, surely they would have done what they wanted to years ago.’

Ruby nodded vaguely. ‘You said you had two letters, Mum?’

‘When I was going through Mabel’s address book,’ said Bea, ‘I came across another familiar name. Colonel Blatchington.’

Ruby caught her breath, recalling the letter Linton had given her the day he was taken into hospital:
The officer in charge, Captain Blatchington, was standing by to shoot him in the head with a revolver, if he was still alive
.

‘Do you think he’s the same person?’ she whispered.

‘It’s a very unusual name,’ Bea remarked.

‘But you said Colonel Blatchington,’ Ruby cautioned.

‘The war was over sixteen years ago,’ Bea said. ‘Plenty of time for promotion.’

‘I was two years old,’ said Ruby wistfully. ‘Mum, I get the feeling that this is about more than what happened in the barn. Uncle Jack wasn’t there, was he?’

‘But he was part of the firing squad that shot Victor,’ said Bea. Ruby nodded. ‘I wrote to the colonel,’ Bea went on, ‘telling him about Linton’s passing, and of course I mentioned Nelson as well.’

‘And?’ said Ruby.

‘He sent his condolences,’ said Bea.

‘Oh.’ Ruby felt totally deflated and disappointed.

‘But,’ said Bea, clearly enjoying her little bit of drama, ‘he said that he has Percy in his office, and he complimented me on my hard-working and trustworthy son.’

Ruby’s face broke into a wide smile. ‘Oh, Mum, that’s amazing! I wonder if Percy knows the colonel had a letter from you?’

‘I should think so,’ said Bea.

‘Do you think he will write?’

‘Probably not,’ said Bea. ‘You know how stubborn Percy can be.’ She wiped the draining board with a cloth and threw the washing-up water away. ‘But I know where he is and that he’s safe. That’s enough for me.’

May was back. ‘Can I have a story?’

‘Did you clean your teeth?’ her mother asked.

‘Yes,’ said May, baring her teeth for inspection.

‘I’ll do the story, Mum,’ said Ruby. ‘You have a sit-down.’

Mounting the stairs behind May, Ruby smiled to herself. Her mother was right. Percy might still be angry, but at least they knew where he was. She’d ask Mum for the address and then leave it a couple of weeks, before writing to him herself and asking him to give her away at the wedding.

CHAPTER 33

Percy stared in fascination at the glass and wrought-iron dome. He had never seen such an amazing building in his life before. His gaze wandered along the mosaic frieze at the top of the brickwork, just under the roof; someone at the Black House had told him it depicted sixteen different skills. He couldn’t remember them all, but he knew the sculptures represented all walks of life, from brick-makers and farmers to engineers and musicians. Careful not to miss his footing as he looked up,
Percy wandered around part of the building, trying to read the inscription:
Opened by Her Majesty, the twenty-ninth of March in the year MDCCCLXXI. Thine O-Lord is the greatness and the power and the glory and the victory and the majesty …

Pausing by one of the many doors, Percy flicked a speck of dust from the sleeve of his shirt and smiled to himself. Only five months ago he was bobbing around the Worthing lump – a range of underwater chalk cliffs that rose well over ten feet, about five miles off the Worthing coast – trying to catch cod and herring, lobsters and crabs. Just look at him now. This was the Royal Albert Hall, for goodness’ sake – the place where the Italian world heavyweight boxer, Primo Carnera, had knocked out Reggie Meen in 1930. The place where leading artists from all over the world had played, sung and performed since it opened, way back in the Victorian era. Now inside the hall itself, Percy turned his eyes towards the three tiers of seating, and ‘the gods’ above them. Tonight it was his turn. Oh, not to perform, but to be part of the vast organization that would facilitate Oswald Mosley and the leading members of the BUF. Tonight, at 7.30 p.m., their illustrious leader would make a grand entrance, bathed in the smoky-blue beams of the arc lights and heralded by a fanfare, and preceded into the hall by six of his most trusted men carrying flags. Percy would be one of them.

A young man, no more than seventeen or eighteen, hurried towards him. ‘Excuse me, sir.’ Percy turned and the Blackshirt stood smartly to attention and handed
him a letter. Glancing down, Percy recognized the writing instantly, but he couldn’t look at it now.

He was well aware that the Communists and left-wing Labour Party members had pledged to hold a counter-demonstration, but the men under his leadership were more than capable of dealing with any trouble. He had taken great pains to train them in the art of being polite but firm. There was, he told them, no need to descend into violence. Violence never solved anything. And he should know. All his life he’d faced Nelson’s belt and the lash of his father’s tongue. The only thing it had achieved was to create in Percy the desire to get even. People were already flocking to Oswald’s clarion call in droves, but if they got beaten up, or if they saw others being bashed about, they’d stay away. They came from all walks of life – the rich and famous rubbing shoulders with ordinary people. He’d met people he’d only read about in the newspapers, like Sylvia Pankhurst and Mary Richardson, the widely known suffragettes of a bygone age. The latter had become head officer in charge of the women’s section, which she guarded like a bulldog.

Percy only occasionally threw an adoring glance at a BUF girl. The women’s uniform was rather masculine, with its black shirt and tie, black belt and grey A-line skirt; and although many of them plastered their hair with Gripfix, so that it would stay tidy no matter what, sometimes – just sometimes – a softer beauty shone through. The truth of the matter was that he was beginning to feel not only slightly disillusioned, but also lonely.

Behind him someone dropped something with a clatter, bringing him back to the here and now. The letter was still in his hand.

He tapped the envelope on his palm. The writing was Ruby’s, although the original address had been crossed out and redirected to the Black House. What was so important that she should try to get in touch with him again? Could it be that his mother was ill? The last time he was home she had seemed far from well. If she was dead, he could do nothing about it, and he could do without the interruption of a funeral. And if his mother was dangerously ill, and Ruby was imploring him to go home, he didn’t want to see her anyway. He was still too angry. The feeling of betrayal was still too keen.

‘Anything I can do for you, sir?’

Percy started as a much older man came and stood by his elbow. He smiled and shook his head. As the man turned to go, Percy took one last look at the envelope, then folded it in half and thrust it into his pocket.

Rex Quinn always felt he had a sixth sense when it came to Bea Bateman. He had planned to return to Worthing later in the year, but increasingly he felt that he should arrange to go back sooner. It hadn’t been easy, leaving her to her grief. He hoped she had made a good life with Nelson and the children. He recalled the astonishment he’d felt when she’d chosen to go back to her husband all that time ago. Nelson always seemed a rather churlish sort of fellow. When he’d arrived at
the hospital, everybody thought he was on his last legs, but the man obviously had the constitution of an ox. He’d not only made a full recovery, but he’d gone back to France as well.

Rex had been brought up as a God-fearing Congregationalist and, as such, he’d made a valiant attempt not to see Bea again. He’d read and reread the story of David and Bathsheba in the Old Testament, and determined in his heart that history would not repeat itself. King David had lusted after Bathsheba and had sent her husband back into the seat of battle, where he was certain to be killed. Rex had no say in what happened to Nelson once he was fit, but, to his everlasting shame, he wasn’t sorry to see him shipped back out to the trenches again.

He and Bea had enjoyed a wonderful spring and summer together in his home. Little Percy had enjoyed playing on the beach and they’d eaten strawberries and made love in his conservatory, sometimes under the stars. The disaster began when first of all Bea discovered she was pregnant, and then her husband announced that he was to be repatriated back home. Rex had begged her to stay with him, promising a good home for her and the boy, but she’d told him that she knew her husband only too well. She couldn’t leave her child, and Nelson would never allow her to take Percy with her. Rex had wanted to keep in contact with her, but Bea wouldn’t hear of that, either. Nelson, she told him, was vindictive. If he ever found out who the father of her child was, that man was as good as dead.

Rex had been terrified that Nelson would beat Bea, or do her such harm that she would lose their baby, and so it was with enormous relief that he heard she’d been safely delivered of a little girl. He’d only seen Bea once more after that. It was about nine years ago, when he’d bumped into the whole family in Hastings. Bea had tried to look casual, but Rex always feared she might have given the game away, because although he’d been polite, Nelson seemed on edge the whole time. Rex had never married, for Bea was the only woman he would ever love. But he’d heard sometime later that Bea and Nelson had gone on to have another child. He was glad for her and hoped she was happy.

He reached for the telephone and dialled the number of an old friend. After several minutes of chit-chat about nothing in particular, Rex became more direct.

‘Look here, old man,’ he said congenially, ‘I need a bit of a break. Do you think you could come here for a fortnight as my locum in August?’

Albert Longman felt like a traitor. It was several weeks since he’d left Worthing. He had successfully avoided bumping into Lily, but as soon as he’d heard on the grapevine that Ruby was actually going to marry Jim, he couldn’t bear to stay away. He’d tried to put her out of his mind, but he couldn’t. He would have to go back and see Dr Haydon again. Even as he stepped off the train, he knew he should have done this a long time ago.

The hospital was a forbidding Victorian building, but
there had been some recent redevelopment on the site. A noticeboard stood to one side of the driveway:
Graylingwell Hospital for the Mentally Ill
.

Albert rang the bell and a woman came and unlocked the door. He explained that he had an appointment with Dr Haydon and was shown in. Walking briskly, the woman led him down a long corridor where a domestic was polishing the linoleum floor with an electric buffer. A few people shuffled about; some had vacant expressions and appeared to be drugged, while others greeted him cheerfully. Of those who passed the time of day, Albert was struck by their accents. Some were obviously middle- or maybe even upper-class. Oddly, it comforted him to realize afresh that mental illness was no respecter of class or status.

The corridor seemed endless, but at last he was shown into a small office and asked to take a seat and wait. Dr Haydon came in a few minutes later and Albert stood to shake his hand.

‘I hope this visit isn’t what I’m thinking it is,’ said the doctor.

Albert shook his head sadly. ‘I’m afraid it is, Doc. I just don’t know what to do.’