I'll Get By (7 page)

‘
I promise, mother.
’

It had been a rainy April day, the park opposite scattered with daffodils. A man had stepped from the cab and kissed her red mouth. Nick had cleared a space in the misted window and watched as her cabin trunks were loaded into the cab. Then she’d turned to look up at the window and her mouth had wrinkled and puckered, as though she’d grown old before his eyes. She’d blown him a kiss.

He’d realized then that she was leaving for good, and turned his back on her. At that moment he’d never wanted to see her again.

He closed his eyes as the memory began to fade. She’d been wearing a diamond ring, and for a moment the sun had emerged from behind a cloud and it had gleamed with cold fire.

Three months later his father had taken time out from his busy schedule to travel to the school. He’d cleared his throat and said, ‘There was an accident dear boy . . . the car your mother was in. It went off the road into a ravine. They had been drinking. Perhaps it’s just as well . . . the scandal, you know.’

He’d been in the middle of exams, and was angry with her for dying before she’d proved she loved him by coming back. ‘You could have telephoned,’ was all he found to say.

His father had a woman with him, small, with bright hair, pert breasts, and the same red mouth as his mother. She was about eight years older than Nick.

‘This is Jane. We’re going to be married when you come home for the hols.’

Jane took it on herself to teach Nick the facts of life during the first week of his holiday. She learned that blood was thicker than water when word just happened to reach his father’s ear via an anonymous letter.

Opening his eyes, Nick gently smiled. Ah yes the scandal . . . something not to be tolerated at all. It was all done quite gentlemanly . . . a birching from his father followed by a quick trip to a professional lady with many tricks, and honour was satisfied. The woman and her belongings disappeared overnight, never to be mentioned again. He wondered what had happened to her.

‘I’ll have a quick look at the burglar after breakfast so I can keep an eye out for the cad. People are silly leaving their valuables where they can easily be found.’

‘Quite . . . I hope you’re free the day after tomorrow, Nick?’

‘I’ve joined the martial arts class at my club.’

His father’s head popped up again. ‘I’ve heard of it but never known exactly what type of art it is.’

Nick tried not to grin. ‘It’s actually the art of self-defence. It’s a method of defending yourself by disabling your opponent with a series of kicks, holds and throws if you’re attacked.’

His father gave a huff of laughter. ‘Yes, of course it is. I was making a joke. Martial arts . . .?’ He laughed and slowly shook his head to cover his embarrassment. ‘A good one, what? It certainly had you fooled. Personally I’ve always thought a good jab to the stomach with my stick does the trick just as well. It disables the buggers by robbing them of breath, you know. Not that I’ve ever had to use it.’

Nick did know.

Folding the newspaper his father threw it on the table and pushed back his chair. ‘Right, I’m off then, I’ve got an appointment with my tailor before my meeting with the bank’s board of directors. In case we don’t see each other for a day or two don’t forget your luncheon engagement, Nicholas. I’m very keen that you should get this position . . . especially when I went to so much trouble to set it up. Apparently, Colin Foggerty’s son is after it. Wasn’t he at school with you?’

Michael Foggerty was short and plump. He was friendly, but had a rather ingratiating manner. ‘Foggerty comes from Irish stock. Doesn’t his family still have property there?’

His father chuckled. ‘So he does, Nicholas. How sharp of you to remember. Be sure to work that into the conversation with Bethuen. He has definite opinions where the Irish are concerned.’

And unfortunately, none of them were good. Nicholas sighed and reached for the newspaper before the door was completely shut. With some distaste he delicately lifted a blob of rough-cut marmalade from it with the blade of his knife and flicked it at the portrait of his mother, which hung over the fireplace. It landed somewhere on the former countess’s scarlet gown, where it blended perfectly.

Turning to the page where the felon was featured, he chuckled. On consideration, far from being exposed by this poor likeness, Nicholas should feel insulted, since it was nothing like him.

Amused, he began to compose a letter to
The
Times
, drawing himself up to his full height and spitting out in a pompous manner:

The thought came again. He could hand it back to the owners. That would present a greater challenge than stealing it in the first place, since they would all have changed their locks. His almost photographic memory gave him an instant recall of what had been gathered from whom.

He could always use the post office for delivery. In fact he could be his own post office. He smiled to himself as the idea took hold . . . after all it was almost April Fools’ Day.

A maid came into the room and began to busy herself with the dishes on the buffet. She was square and solid, a middle-aged spinster with nobody to care for except her employer’s family.

Where did she go for her annual fortnight’s holiday? he wondered. Did she take the train down to Bournemouth to spend her time in a genteel, but dull hotel? There, she’d sit at a table for one in a conservatory that impersonated a dining room. It would have potted palms instead of curtains to give it a tropical look, and beach sand gritting the threadbare carpet. Would she hire a striped deckchair for tuppence, and breathe in enough sea air to last her another fifty weeks while she dreamed of retirement and read an Agatha Christie novel from behind a pair of sinister-looking smoked glasses?

The scrape of his knife against his plate brought the maid whirling round and she nearly dropped the dish she was holding. ‘Oh . . . I beg your pardon, sir. I didn’t see you when I came in. I’ll return later.’

He felt a sudden surge of pity for her. He had no intention of putting the routine of the household out so he could indulge in a few more flights of fantasy. ‘There’s no need, Anna. I’ll have another cup of coffee to drink while I’m doing the crossword. If I move to the fireside you can get on with whatever you want to do. Pass my compliments to the cook, if you would. My bacon and eggs were exactly as I like them.’

Her face turned pink with pleasure. ‘It’s the cook’s day off, so I did the breakfast today, sir.’

He’d learned that a servant travelled a long way on a word of praise for fuel. ‘Well, good for you, Anna.’

‘Thank you, sir. I’ll try not to disturb you. Will you be in for lunch?’

‘Not today. I’m going to mess around on my boat; the brass needs polishing. I dare say you’ll be glad when I’m out from underfoot.’

Anna tittered. ‘Oh no, sir. You’re such a pleasant gentleman, and no trouble at all.’

‘Glad to hear it.’ Taking a pencil from his waistcoat pocket he slid into a leather wing-backed chair, there to be fully absorbed for the fifteen minutes he’d allowed himself to ponder on the harder of the clues. The time limit proved quite a challenge, but he beat his own record with seconds to spare.

When the long clock in the hall chimed nine he swallowed his lukewarm coffee and rose. Time to get on, he supposed, and wondered what James Bethuen had in mind for him.

One thing he was sure of, although the man wasn’t the fool his father had made him out to be, he wasn’t far off.

They had forgotten to set the alarm clock.

Not that it mattered to Meggie, but her aunt and uncle were scrambling around in panic, snatching gulps of tea and tearing bites from the bread she’d toasted under the grill and spread with butter and marmalade. An apple was placed in each hand as they headed for the door. It was more nutritious than what they’d eaten so far.

‘Eat them in the car,’ she said.

‘I’ll drop you off at the station,’ Leo told Es, because from there they’d be travelling in different directions. He kissed Meggie on the cheek as he went past and grinned. ‘Thanks, Mum.’

Her aunt grabbed up the handbag Meggie held out for her and did likewise.

‘Don’t forget to comb your hair, Aunt Es,’ Meggie called after her, and make sure you both eat a good lunch.

‘No . . . we won’t forget. What are you going to do today?’

‘I’ll do the immediate chores first then go to the markets to do some food shopping. This afternoon I’ll do the ironing.’

‘I feel guilty leaving all this work.’

‘Don’t feel guilty, since I’m responsible for some of it. Off you go now else you’ll be late.’

The pair gazed at each other and laughed.

The Morris engine was a bit reluctant to wake up, too. After it offered him a couple of sluggish dry coughs Leo stuck his head out of the window and called out, ‘Wake up you cantank-erous old cow else I’ll heave your rusting arse into the scrap yard.’ The engine spluttered with indignation then fired.

‘Leo’s got a wonderful way with engines,’ Es told her from the passenger seat, and they both giggled when he snorted.

Giving a last wave when the car reached the corner she went back indoors.

Silence descended when she closed the door. She could smell smoke.
‘Holy Moses . . . my toast!’

She made a dash for the kitchen, pulled it out from under the grill and threw the charred, smoking mess out of the back door, flapping as much smoke as she could out after it with the tea towel. Mostly though, it had risen to the high ceiling, where it hovered like a drifting grey cloud of bad breath. From experience she knew the smell would linger for several days.

It had been the last of the bread, and the carter hadn’t been yet. Neither had the milkman. She sighed and ate a cracker spread with marmite, washing it down with the lukewarm remainder of her aunt’s leftover tea, to which some hot water was added to weaken the strong brown brew.

After dressing, she went into a flurry of housework. There came the hum of the milk float and the chink of milk bottles on the doorstep. She got there before the blue-tits pecked through the top to help themselves to the cream, placing the two bottles on the larder shelf.

Not long afterwards a horse plodded down the road, and she bought a couple of loaves from the cart to place in the bread bin, and a bun with a sprinkling of shredded cheese melted on top to supplement her meagre breakfast.

‘Nice weather for March innit, missus?’ the carter called out. ‘Not much wind and rain abat lately.’

She nodded, though she thought the sky to be dull and overcast, and the temperature fairly cold.

She smiled at him before she closed the door, not bothering to correct him about her single status, because in her apron and with a scarf tied turban style around her hair to keep it tidy, she felt like a mother who’d just got her children off to school and was rushing through her chores so she could go out for morning coffee with her girlfriends.

An important-looking envelope came through the letterbox, hit the floor with a thud and skidded across the hall. It was in reply to her request for information after reading an article about the Women’s Royal Naval Service. Quickly she read through it. They were taking the names of women who were offering their services should they be needed.

She filled in the form, listing name, age, educational qualifications and skills, including all the hobbies she could think of . . . driving, typing, flying, cryptic crosswords, dancing, writing fiction. Before she could change her mind she signed the form, placed it in an envelope, and dashing to the post box at the end of the street she watched it disappear into the square red mouth, just before the collection van came around the corner.

Back home, she turned the radio up loud and waltzed around the room in practice for the weekend dance date, until a sudden thought brought her to a halt. She didn’t have any girlfriends. She just didn’t seem to attract females. Susan, once her best friend at school, had started work as a junior shop assistant in the children’s book department at a Bournemouth bookshop. There, she earned a wage of twelve shillings a week, and had started going out with a ‘crowd’.

Being by herself didn’t bother Meggie, since she was content with her own company most of the time, and her own thoughts. All the same, it would be nice to have a friend she could talk to – one who understood the odd flights of fancy she indulged in. Susan hadn’t been able to do that. She had turned into a prim little miss who thought it was weird that Meggie even thought silly things. Her aim was to meet a nice boy, then get engaged to be married.

The telephone rang.

She pinched her nose and assumed a nasal whine. ‘Good morning. Margaret Elliot speaking.’

‘Ah, you’re home, Margaret . . . good. It’s Rennie Stone. I wondered if you’d be free for lunch today. By the way, what’s wrong with your voice; do you have a cold?’