Entwined (4 page)

CHAPTER 3

Leaving the house the following morning, I again had the feeling that we were being watched and instinctively grabbed Simon’s hand.

“You alright, lass?”

“I don’t know,” I said, shifting my eyes nervously from one side of the street to the other. “I feel as though we are being watched.”

“No one’s watching us, Corran. The man is gone. It’s over. We have no reason to fear him anymore.”

I knew my husband’s words to be true, only I couldn’t shake the thought that we were not alone on Skeldergate Bridge, nor at the top of Ouse Bridge or as the city came into view. My mind toyed with the Stag’s warning that killing Angus hadn’t been the end.

“I’ve told you, Corran. He is not here,” Simon barked, growing impatient with my paranoia. “Come, let’s get in,” he said, taking my arm and ushering me into the shop.

Common sense prevailed, and in the end Simon’s reassurances rose above my fears and I relaxed in the company of my family.

Duncan and Rose were dusting off old trinkets to be stored away for later sale. As we entered the room they both stopped what they were doing and smiled up at us.

“Is there anywhere we can get a cordless electric kettle?” I asked, thinking that it would be rather nice to have such a modern device at hand.

“The kettle’s there,” Rose explained, nodding in the direction of a small shelf.

One mug, a kettle, a small jar of coffee, some creamer, a box of cubed sugar and a spoon were untidily abandoned on a narrow lop-sided shelf. A small sink caked in lime-scale hung precariously on the wall to the left of the shelf. I lifted the mug and peered inside, wrinkling my nose in disgust at the thick layer of mould at the bottom.

“I usually grab a coffee from Costa or Starbucks. There’s a loo through there,” Rose said, pointing at a battered door. “But I wouldn’t use that either. If you’re desperate try a pub, but I’d keep a wide berth of
that
one,” she said, nodding her head in disgust at the toilet door.

My eyes caught a glimpse of a box, just visible under a small table.

“What are these?” I asked, dragging the heavy weight into view.

“They’re records. People used to use them to listen to music. They’re popular with pensioners.”

“Pensioners?” Duncan asked.

“Oh man, I keep forgetting you guys aren’t from around here. Yeah, a pensioner is an old person, someone who has finished working. You know, retired.”

I nodded, thinking I’d like to see how the round disks worked, but there would be time enough for that.

“See here, this is a gramophone. Turn the handle, put the record here and then lower the arm onto the disk - and hey presto you have sound,” Rose said, pointing at the relevant parts on a large machine with a flower-shaped horn coming off it.

“And this?” I asked, pointing to a rectangular shaped item with mesh covering on one side and intriguing knobs along the top.

“That’s a wireless. It’s like an old-fashioned TV, without the pictures.”

“Old fashioned to you, perhaps,” Simon smirked.

“I keep forgetting. Sorry,” Rose apologized.

Simon cast his eyes around the shop, resting them momentarily on our portrait.

“What do we do now, Pa?” Duncan asked, taping up the cardboard box at his feet.

“Take that picture down and burn it, or return it to Rose,” he said.

“It’s not mine,” Rose said quietly. “You guys should have it back.”

“Aye, well, whoever it belongs to it doesn’t belong on this bloody wall, so let’s get the damn thing down,” Simon said, lifting the frame off the wall.

“How do you think Giorsal came to have it?” I asked, taking the frame off him and wedging it up against some boxes.

“I have no idea,” Simon replied, “But I’d like it burnt… If Rose has no wish for it.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s a portrait of us. If Rose recognized us then others will too, just get rid of it,” he snapped.

“You can’t burn it, Simon,” I protested.

“Why?”

“Because it’s our history, it’s all we have left from when Duncan was a baby. If you burn it, we’ll have nothing to remind us of his childhood.”

“Since when did we need a portrait to hold onto memories?” Simon asked, with a bewildered look about his face.

“Well, we don’t
need
it, but I’d like to keep it,” I said softly.

“Fine,” he snapped, “Just make sure it is out of sight.”

“Pa, we have cleared a lot of the stock now. Is there anything else you want doing?”

“Aye lad, you can come and help me in the store. Corran, you can make a start on that mess,” he said, nodding at the counter, “and Rose, I think you’d better get over to Barley Hall.”

“You sure you guys are going to be OK? I mean, here in this shop on your own?” she asked.

“Go lass, we will be just fine,” ordered Simon.

As Rose turned to leave the shop, I grabbed her in a hug. “See you tonight, sweet. Don’t worry, we will be fine, and you know where we are if you need us,” I said squeezing her tightly.

“Ta, Corran. Keep safe, hun,” she whispered.

“And thank you for your help with the stock,” Duncan called from behind one of the boxes they had packed.

“My pleasure,” Rose smiled, as she pulled the door closed behind her.

“Do you think she will be alright?”

“Aye. Stop worrying all the time, it’s not good for the baby.”

“Is this more information you’ve got from books?” I asked, with the hint of a tease in my voice.

“Actually, it is. Too much worry is not good for the mother or the baby, and what is not good for the baby and the mother is certainly not good for the father. So spare me the grief, lass, and stop worrying.”

“Is there anything you haven’t seen on the television or read since we got here?”

Duncan laughed. “Pa’s better informed than most folk who were raised here.”

“Nothing wrong with being informed, lad, nothing wrong with it at all,” replied my husband gruffly. “Now if your mother has quite finished, we’ve work to do.”

Trudging my way through the mountain of scattered paperwork, it became increasingly obvious that Angus hadn’t been interested in the buying or selling of antiques as a business. Storage of trinkets, perhaps, but making a business out of antiques? I don’t think so.

Startled by the bell on the door, I drew a sharp, surprised breath. An elderly woman with thinning gray hair stood in front of the door.

“Are you open, duck?” Her voice was thin and breathless, her body frail and aged.

I nodded. “Can I help you?” I asked, wondering why she had referred to me as a duck.

“I’m looking for a present for my husband’s birthday. He’s eighty-six next week, you know,” she replied, with a croaky tremble.

“Does your husband like music?” I asked, remembering Rose’s earlier advice.

“Oh yes, duck. He sang with Geraldo at the Tower.”

“The Tower?” I asked, perplexed by why anyone would want to sing at the Tower of London.

“Yes, Blackpool Tower. It was quite a venue after the war.” Her eyes clouded and moistened with memories. “But I won’t bore you with my ramblings.”

“No, not at all. Quite the contrary. I’d love to hear your stories.”

She shuffled weakly across the shop to the counter.

“Would you like to sit down?” I asked, offering her the only sturdy looking chair in the room.

“Don’t mind if I do,” she said, cautiously lowering herself on to the worn cushion.

I dragged the box of records to the side of the chair.

“What’s your name?” she asked softly.

“Corran. What’s
your
name?”

“Maggie.”

“How about this one?” I asked, pulling a black disk in a brown paper sleeve from the box.

“I’ve not got my specs,” the old lady said, squinting at the sleeve. “Would you mind telling me what it says?”

“It says ‘The Music Shop, Hugh Robertson, 23 Pavement, York,’ ” I said, reading a rectangular stamp on the brown paper cover.

“Oh my,” she sighed nostalgically, “that place has been gone for years. They used to service my Fred’s gramophone when we were first married. Tell me what the record is?” she asked.

“Well it says ‘Decca’, I said, reading the big letters printed in the centre of the disk.”

“No, duck, not the record company, who’s the vocalist?” she said patiently.

“Well it says ‘Come Back to Sorrento’ and underneath that it says ‘Gracie Fields, Vocal, with Orchestral Accompaniment conducted by Phil Green’,” I said, hoping I had answered her question.

“That will be the B side. What’s on the A side?” she asked.

I stared at her not understanding the question. She reached out and gently turned the disk in my hand over.

“The other side, duck. There was always an A side and B side. I suppose you youngsters know only your CDs and iThings.”

“Oh, sorry,” I said, feeling my face flush with embarrassment, “It says, ‘Now Is The Hour, Gracie Fields, Vocals, with Orchestral Accompaniment Conducted by Phil Green’.”

“How much do you want for it?” she said softly.

“You know, Maggie, I don’t have the faintest idea. How about we call it a gift from me to you?” I said, pushing the disk into the old lady’s trembling hands.

I looked up as Simon and Duncan both emerged from the storeroom, covered in dust and carrying a large cardboard box.

“I didn’t realize we had a customer,” Simon said. “I hope my wife has taken good care of you.”

“Yes, thank you,” Maggie said, moving to stand.

Simon dropped the box and took the old lady’s hand, helping her gently out of the chair.

“You are both very kind,” she said, making her way to the door.

With a tinkle of the bell Simon held the door open for the old lady. She shuffled out onto the pavement clutching the record as she went.

“What a lovely lady,” I said, when my husband closed the door.

“Aye, she seemed nice enough. What did she buy?” Simon asked.

“Well… Nothing, really. I gave her one of those records that Rose was telling us about.”

“What made you do that, woman? This is supposed to be a business!”

“I didn’t know how much to charge her.”

Simon nodded. “I’ll arrange a stock list with guide prices,” he finished resolutely.

“Ma, we’ve got something to show you,” Duncan said, shifting excitedly from one foot to the other.

Simon lifted the box and deposited it carefully on the counter top.

They both stood grinning at me, their faces flushed with exertion and excitement.

“Simon, I’m not in the mood for games. What is it?”

“Go on, Ma, just take a look,” Duncan pleaded.

Sighing impatiently, I stretched onto the tip of my toes. Reaching to lift the flaps of the box I tilted it slightly towards me.

“Where on earth did you find it?”

“It was just in there, Ma,” Duncan said, nodding in the direction of the store. “No key, no safety box to guard it, just thousands of pounds crammed into this flimsy box.”

“Don’t tell me this is where the fool stored his money?” I said, raising my brows.

“It would seem that is exactly what he did, Corran.”

“What should we do with it?” I asked.

“By rights, half of it belongs to Rose. She was engaged to marry the man,” Simon replied, tapping his fingers impatiently on the counter top. “I suppose the rest is ours to keep.”

Duncan turned to his father, his mouth breaking into a broad grin.