Meet Me at the Pier Head (25 page)

‘Very easily.’

‘I’m twelve years older than you.’

‘I know you’re geriatric, but I don’t care. The elderly are deserving of attention.’

He laughed again. ‘Careful, or your attention will land you in detention.’

‘Any time. So tell me, how long did you study for your School Certificate, Mr Quinn? I’ve been trying to work it out, and you must have moved at the speed of sound when the war
ended.’

‘I didn’t study. I just took the exams and passed.’

‘After living a nomadic life in America and being a rear gunner in the RAF?’

He shrugged. ‘I went to some schools and I found libraries, too. My memory was photographic for a while.’

‘Like Rosie’s?’

He nodded.

‘Degree?’

‘First with honours, then a master’s, then a doctorate.’

‘In how many years?’

‘Four. Are you interviewing me?’

‘I am, Dr Quinn. After all, you and your posse grilled me for long enough.’

‘That posse is your Board of Governors, Portia.’

She stroked his face. The man clearly had no idea of his own genius. Tia had been crammed at prep school, force-fed at Roedean, and polished at St Hilda’s College, Oxford, but this man had
walked his own walk with no privileges and probably without much money. To achieve so much against all odds would have needed an unusual brain and a massive amount of determination. There was
cleverness in his books, too, intelligence, wit and complicated plot. He was a completely self-made man, an admirable example of humanity. What happened to him in America?

‘What?’ he asked, noting the strange expression on her face. ‘What?’

‘I’m proud of you, and of Tom Quirke. You did the whole lot by yourself, hardly any help. Some of us had every advantage . . .’ Her voice died. ‘Tell me, Teddy. Tell me
about the genetic business and who hurt you and who killed your mother.’

He inhaled deeply. ‘I will tell you if and when things are clearer between us. There’s no point in heaping my woes on your shoulders unless this . . . relationship of ours develops
into something serious. You don’t need to hear it, and I don’t want to relive it during hours of wakefulness, because dreaming it’s bad enough. I may write it for you, give
myself time and a chance to get it all in the right order.’

They stayed together in near silence for a length of time neither cared to measure, since it didn’t seem to matter. He carried on combing her hair with his fingers, while Tia continued to
wonder about his troubled past. When night began to cast its shadows, he picked her up and carried her into her bedroom. ‘You’re heavier than you look,’ he complained.

‘I have a big brain.’

‘Really? I look forward to seeing the results of that. There’s been little evidence so far. Your taste in men is questionable.’ He placed her on top of the covers and stretched
out beside her. ‘You may be safe from conception right now, Portia, but just messing about, no more than that. OK?’

She smiled at him. ‘I’m fit for nothing more,’ she giggled. ‘I have a very wearing neighbour, you see.’

He kissed her. It was the only way to stop her talking . . .

Maggie Stone was in the kitchen when Theo crept in like a thief through his own front door. She smiled broadly, keeping her face angled towards the window. There would be
wedding bells soon, unless she was very much mistaken. Losing the grin before turning round, she spoke. ‘Hello, Mr Quinn.’

He paused, guilt etched into his features, a hand rising to smooth his hair. Some people were out of bed earlier than necessary, and they were all named Maggie Stone. ‘It’s Theo or
Ted when I’m at home, Maggie. No need for formality here.’

‘Oh, all right.’ She looked him up and down. He bore a strong resemblance to a pile of dirty washing on legs; she tried hard not to react. ‘It’s a good idea going for a
walk before breakfast, like. Gives you a bit of an appetite.’

He glanced down at yesterday’s crumpled clothing. ‘I’ll just get a shower,’ he told her before dashing down the hallway.

Maggie carried on cleaning; she was determined to find a way of repaying Mr Quinn’s kindness. She’d had a rude awakening at six o’clock in the form of an excited granddaughter
who was going shopping with Miss Bellamy. Rosie had rattled on for ages about welly-boots, sandals, gym shoes and shiny black ankle-straps-for-best shoes. ‘Are you coming with us?’ the
little girl had asked.

‘Not in that car, love,’ Maggie’s reply had been. ‘I’m not having you travelling on a parcel shelf. No, I’ll get my hour of rest like the doctor said I
should.’

Rosie continued excited, but at least she was excited in a different room. Maggie’s little princess didn’t seem to miss her mother, and Maggie understood only too well the reasons
for that. Rosie had never had a real mother. Rosie’s mother was a mess, and God alone knew with certainty who or where Rosie’s father was.

Maggie gazed once more through the kitchen window. All that grass with flowers in beds, sheds to shelter in, a greenhouse and a vegetable plot. Would she ever have a place like this where Rosie
could play? Would Sadie come out of her coma all right, or would she need constant care? For the moment, Maggie was all the child had to depend on, but would the authorities allow a tired, anaemic,
middle-aged woman to take care of a five-year-old? The doctors suspected that Maggie had weak bones, too, so what would happen to her grandchild?

She pushed the worries to the back of her mind, because she, too, intended to go out. ‘Sod the bloody hospital,’ she mumbled. ‘I’m going to see my daughter, and just let
them try to stop me.’ What if Sadie came out OK and went back on the game? Bugger these negative thoughts; she was going to clean the sitting room. Sitting room? The best the Lady Streets had
to offer was a bit of space in the middle of the kitchen.

Oh well, never mind. As long as things with Sadie weren’t too bad, a week in a place called Chaddington Green was on the cards. There was even a possibility of visits to Ramsgate, Deal or
Broadstairs so that Rosie could play on a beach. Mr Quinn and Miss Bellamy were such kind people, and they made a lovely couple. ‘Mind, I won’t buy a hat just yet,’ she whispered
under her breath. ‘I might not get an invitation, anyway.’

‘Talking to yourself, Maggie?’

She swung round to see a shiny, clean-shaven and all-dressed-up-for-school Mr Quinn. He still didn’t look quite right, though, as he wore a plain white pinafore over his shirt and
trousers. ‘Yes, I was,’ she replied.

‘It’s the only way to be sure of an intelligent audience. Would you like a bacon butty?’

Maggie grinned. His accent clung like a limpet to some of his consonants, and ‘butty’ sounded a bit like ‘buddy’. ‘I would, thanks,’ she said.

‘No cleaning yet,’ he warned, wagging a finger at her. ‘I’m the boss, so I’ll tell you when to clean.’

She fixed him with a steely eye. ‘If you think I’m going to park meself on me backside all day while Rosie’s gallivanting, you’d best think again. I’m going to see
Tom and Nancy, cos they visited me when I was in the ozzie. Then I’ll go and find out about me daughter. I’ll see if that fracky ward sister will let me anywhere near our
Sadie.’

‘Fracky?’ He raised an eyebrow.

‘Short for fractious, I think.’

Theo grinned. These bloody Scousers were always a step or three ahead of him with ready answers, plenty of cheek and a wisdom that seemed to be born in them, because even their young led him a
merry dance from time to time. ‘I’ll go cook,’ he said.

Maggie followed him and sat on a stool, watching as he made his way through the preparation of breakfast. She couldn’t remember when she’d last seen a man having a hand in producing
a meal. ‘You’ll make somebody a great wife,’ she told him.

‘Mom taught me the basics,’ he said, ‘and I can read. Anyone who can read a recipe can cook. Would you like to try one of my cheese dreams?’

She nodded. ‘Go on, then, as long as it’s not poisonous.’

He lit the burner under a frying pan.

‘There’s nothing in that pan,’ she said, ‘no fat, no nothing.’

‘I know.’

He buttered two slices of bread and put cheese between them, leaving the butter on the outside of the bread. When the sandwich hit the hot pan, it sizzled, and he flipped the whole thing over
with a fish slice so that the other side fried quickly. ‘Now we go low to melt the cheese,’ he said, turning down the gas.

‘That’s simple, but clever,’ Maggie exclaimed.

‘Just wait till the bacon goes in.’ He grinned at her, peeled back the top slice and inserted strips of well crisped streaky bacon. ‘Get a knife and fork, Maggie. Two of the
things you Brits do well are bacon and Cheddar cheese. And, of course, your shop-bought cakes and pastries are great. America has you beat when it comes to steak, though.’

Maggie cut through the cheese dream; it was delicious. ‘You’re not just a pretty face then, Ted.’

He crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth.

‘Stop it, I’ll choke. You look like something that fell off the back of a circus.’

He made monkey noises and pretended to scratch his armpits.

‘Behave yourself. You’re supposed to be in charge of a school.’

He stopped and sat on the second stool to eat his toast. ‘When you’ve finished, get your coat and I’ll drop you off at the Athertons’ house. I’ll pick you up at
lunch-time and take you to see Sadie.’

Rosie bounced into the kitchen in her new pink suit.

‘You’re a beautiful girl,’ Maggie told her.

‘I’m having breakfast with Miss Bellamy. I’m having dinner and tea with her, too. And I’m getting shoes and sandals and wellies and—’

‘We know.’ Maggie felt slightly uncomfortable about accepting charity, though she soothed herself with the knowledge that Rosie would be the real recipient. ‘You go up and see
your teacher. I’m off with Mr Quinn to visit Tom and Nancy. She’s on the last piece of your cardy, by the way. It’ll be ready before we go on our little holiday.’

Rosie’s eyes almost brimmed over. She was going to Kent, which was, according to Miss Bellamy, the beautiful garden of England. She was going to the seaside, and to woods and fields and
wild ponies and deer. She was going to see a massive house with eighteen bedrooms and holes in the walls where priests used to hide. ‘I’m happy,’ she said, sniffing away her
tears. ‘I’m all excited inside.’ She ran out through the front door.

‘Thanks,’ Maggie said gruffly. ‘I wish you and Miss Bellamy were her mam and dad.’

‘So do we,’ he muttered to himself, though he could tell that Maggie had heard him.

‘You look good together, you and Miss Bellamy.’

‘Do we, now?’

She nodded. ‘She’s lovely.’

‘Yes, and she’s a bossy madam, a bit of a dictator. Or would that be dictatress?’

‘No idea.’ Maggie swallowed the last bit of her cheese dream. ‘Women got bossy while you lot saved us from Hitler. We made planes, we made bullets, we made bombs, we made
dinners and we made do. We dug back yards up, got two tons of topsoil and grew spuds. We hatched little fluffy chickens in our kitchens, fed them, ate their eggs, then ate the chickens. Women are
tough, Ted. We became the makers of decisions. Thank Germany and Japan for that.’

Surprised, Theo raised both eyebrows. She was right, of course. Maggie was yet another of those females who hid a wealth of knowledge and opinion behind a pronounced accent and under day-to-day
drudgery and worry. ‘Do you read?’ he asked her.

‘Course I do. I go to the library and borrow. See, if you look at that Jane Austen, the girls sat about sewing ribbons on hats or staring cow-eyed at the men they fancied. There was no
going about and saying “How’s about it, then, lad?”, because women had to pretend to have no brains in them days.’

She lowered her tone. ‘Her upstairs,’ she raised a hand towards the ceiling, ‘she’s what they call liberated. We’re not inferior to men, like, but we’re
different, that’s all. And it’s only the . . . the embroidery that’s different. Underneath all the trimmings on the hats, we’ve the same spirit with the same . . . er . . .
the same rights. She’s a cracking girl, Ted. I know she talks funny, but so do you and so do I. You could do a lot worse and no, I won’t say nothing to nobody.’

He already liked Maggie, but now she was warming his heart. While women like this one were in the world, the planet was safe enough. ‘Where were you educated, Maggie?’

‘Myrtle Street and the seniors down the bottom of Ivy Lane.’

She reminded him of himself, since he’d gained most of his knowledge outside school, in libraries, in his parents’ trailer, reading in cornfields and talking and listening to the
elderly on benches outside saloons. There was wisdom to be had from the aged, if only youth would stand and listen for a while. ‘Come on, Maggie, get your coat. I’ll be in detention if
we hang about here. The headmaster’s what you might call a stickler.’

She laughed and went to get her coat and bag. Mr Quinn was a character, well fit to manage Miss Fancy Nancy upstairs, God love her.

Theo went out to start his car. He found himself looking forward to the proposed trip; Tom Quirke could spare a week or two, surely? But he did have a niggling worry, and he needed to talk to
his passenger.

As they reversed out of the driveway, Maggie waved at her grandchild. Rosie was standing at Miss Bellamy’s sitting room window, grinning and waving goodbye. She turned to Tia. ‘Can
we go soon? I’ve never been proper shopping in town. Mam never paid for nothing. I had to hide things under my coat, cos I’ve got an angel face, she always said.’

Tia joined the little girl and waved at the couple in the car. He’d been rather good at messing about . . . She stopped waving and turned to face Rosie. ‘Your mother had you
shoplifting?’

Rosie thought about that. ‘Not a whole shop, because it wouldn’t have fitted under me coat. Bars of chocolate, socks, knickers, just small things, they were. It’s all right, I
don’t do it no more.’

‘Good. Because it’s wrong, Rosie.’

‘I know, but you have to do what your mam tells you.’

There was no arguing with that. And she’d almost missed it altogether, because she’d been basking in delightful memories . . . ‘Come on, Rosie. Breakfast, then town, and we pay
for everything.’