Meet Me at the Pier Head (3 page)

But like a rogue elephant, Theo kept his own company. He wasn’t available. The decision had been made at the end of the war, and he didn’t need to flick through his paragraphs of
reasons. He was off the market. It wasn’t easy. A reasonably good-looking bachelor of thirty-eight with his own property and car was a desirable item on a woman’s shopping list, but he
was not for sale.

He raised his head and stood up as Claude Debussy’s wistful piece reached its final notes. From the side window, he watched Miss Portia Bellamy as she talked to some of the children. Her
car, parked behind his, was the twin to his pre-war MG, though his was racing green while hers was red. Similar tastes, similar attitude to classroom work, similar humour with a U in it.
‘God,’ he whispered. ‘Into the valley of death rode the six hundred and one. Sorry, Alfred Lord Tennyson.’ He would manage; he had to manage . . .

When she had finally left, Theo went for a word with Jack Peake, school caretaker. ‘Don’t tell anyone about Colin and the football, Jack. I made a promise. See if you can fix the
downspout. If you can’t, we open fire on the Education Department on Monday morning.’

‘Got your gun loaded, Mr Quinn?’

‘I sure have, Mr Peake. Organize a posse and bring my lasso.’

He left the building and drove home, picking up the mail as he walked through the hall of his rather imposing house in Allerton. After throwing assorted envelopes on the kitchen table, he set
the kettle to boil. Oh yes, he was becoming thoroughly English, though he seldom poured milk into his cup. Tea in America was usually iced and taken only on stifling hot days. Britain didn’t
do many hot days; had Noah lived here, he would have built an ark every summer.

This evening’s meal would be quick – jambalaya. So he rolled up his sleeves, picked up his mug of tea and went to fetch the lawnmower. If the front lawn suffered any more neglect, it
might become habitat for a tribe of pygmies. In fact, they’d be able to erect two-storey edifices and still be invisible.

It would be necessary to begin with a scythe, and that meant hard work and sweat on an evening as untypically balmy as this one, so he finished his tea and went inside to divest himself of
decent clothes. He pulled on a pair of khaki shorts and a short-sleeved shirt which he left unbuttoned, and emerged almost naked from the waist up. Bringing down the tone? No, he was bringing down
the grass.

Damp and hot after all the scything, he began to mow. Feeling proud of his one-year-old Victa, he made fast work of the front lawn before resting on a flat stone at the edge of his rockery. The
slugs were back, so bang went another hosta. Gardening was a fight for survival, and slugs were damned tough.

After so much physical effort, Theo felt too warm for jambalaya. He didn’t relish the idea of dealing with heat, so the chorizo, chicken, rice and tomatoes would wait their turn. A
sandwich should suffice, surely? He had ham, salad and beer in the fridge, and a young woman gazing down at him. ‘Miss Bellamy?’ Acutely aware of his state of undress, he leapt to his
feet. ‘Are you following me?’ he asked, humour trimming his tone.

‘No,’ she answered smartly. ‘I’ve been sent.’

‘I see.’ He rubbed dirty palms down his shorts. ‘By whom?’ he enquired.

She pulled a handful of papers from her bag. ‘Hang on a mo,’ she said. ‘I’m a little flustered. Let me find the whom.’

He managed not to grin. Seeing her flustered was extremely amusing.

‘Here’s the whom,’ she murmured, a slight smile visiting her lips. ‘There are two of them, a Maitland and a Collier. They’ve written to you – it says so in
their letter to me. I registered with several letting agents before I came up to Liverpool.’

‘Ah.’ He remembered the unopened mail on his kitchen table. ‘The flat was completed just recently; in fact, the paint may still be wet.’

‘Shall I go away, then?’

His mind was breaking all speed limits. This was awkward. ‘Well, I may already have a tenant, but I’m unsure. He’s thinking about it.’
She’s beautiful. Seeing
her at school will be enough . . .

Tia turned away from him and looked at the house. The man was distracting, dark hair, eyes the colour of plain Swiss chocolate, good musculature, tanned skin. ‘You own the whole
house?’

‘Yes.’

‘How many rooms?’

‘Eighteen in all; nine up and nine down. The upper flat is self contained, with the entry door up the side of the house.’

‘You live on the ground floor?’

‘I do.’

‘Alone?’ she asked.

He arched an eyebrow. ‘Yes.’

‘Oh. Er . . . may I look at the accommodation?’

She’s so damned pushy.
‘Of course. I’ll follow you up. The keys are on my hall table – do go in and get them. There’s a metal Liver Bird attached to the
key ring. The door’s black and halfway down the right hand side of the building. I’ll just . . . er . . . yes.’

It was her turn to raise an eyebrow. ‘See you later, then, after you’ve just yessed.’ She got the keys, came out of the house and stood for a moment looking at him. He was an
oddity, friendly one minute, guarded the next. Did she want to live above the boss? More to the point, would he like living below her? ‘Would my being tenant here bother you?’ she
asked.

Forthright, isn’t she?
‘I have no idea,’ he answered truthfully. ‘I must go and yes myself into a shirt and trousers.’ He needed a shower, but there
wasn’t time. This forward young woman made him feel slightly inadequate, as if she had his measure, as if those violet eyes could penetrate through to his innermost secrets.

Tia entered the small ground-floor hallway of the upper flat. She climbed the stairs feeling like a seven-year-old on Christmas Day. It was stunning. Victorian mouldings remained throughout; he
had been faithful to the age of the house. The place upstairs was spacious, with three bedrooms, a dressing room lined with wardrobes, bathroom, kitchen, living and dining rooms, and even a
sunroom-cum-office at the back. She loved it immediately.

Theo, on the stairs, listened while she scuttled about, heard her exclaiming to herself as she discovered fireplaces, chandeliers hanging from original ceiling roses, picture rails, old
cupboards preserved in recesses. What should he do? Lie to her about a friend moving in? Tell her that the board of governors might object to a single woman living under the same roof as a single
man? And would the talcum he’d applied conceal the smell of sweat? He should have opened his mail . . .

‘I want it,’ she said as soon as he entered the living room. ‘Did you do all this?’

‘More or less,’ he replied. ‘People these days are quick to pull out old fireplaces and built-in cupboards and cornices. They board over panelled doors, too.’

‘Silly.’

‘Absolutely.’

Tia sighed. ‘You’re not going to let me have the flat, are you? I’m quiet most of the time, and I’ll wear Gran’s engagement ring. Simon’s following me up here
from Kent, so he can be my intended.’ She frowned. ‘Actually, he intends to be my intended, though my unbearable father doesn’t approve because Simon’s half
Jewish.’

‘And what are your intentions?’

‘He’s not on the shortlist. In fact, he’s not even on the long list, and I’ve told him that.’

Theo shook his head. ‘There’s a long list?’

‘Of course there’s a queue. I’m Roedean and Oxford educated, I’m easy on the eye, I know how to use cutlery and have all my own teeth, and I’ll be a very wealthy
orphan when Ma and Pa shuffle off.’ She winked at him. ‘Please, Mr Quinn. You’re my mentor if I get the post, so why not look after me, make sure I’m safe in and out of
school?’

He raised his hands in a gesture of defeat. Portia Bellamy promised to be entertaining, at least. She’d even winked at him. ‘Right. Pass the interview, accept the job, and I’ll
think about it. But I’ll have to advise the governors about your wish to live here. Some people remain as Victorian as my house.’

She squealed like a delighted child. ‘Can I see your flat? I just love this house. It’s so much more homely than Bartle Hall.’ She felt a small stabbing pain in her chest
– she shouldn’t be unfaithful to her now decrepit childhood home.

They entered his domain. ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ he urged her. ‘I’m going to have a quick shower – that garden was hard work.’ He left her to it and
dashed off to clean up his act. Roedean and Oxford? He stank as if he’d arrived via a farmyard and a boxing ring. Jeez, women didn’t half complicate life.

When he returned ten minutes later, Miss Bellamy, no longer elegant, was on hands and knees beneath his dining table. Strands of her abundant hair had slipped their moorings, and she was trying
to coax Tyger out of retirement. ‘He’s difficult,’ he advised her. ‘A one-person cat.’

She raised her head and banged it on the underside of Theo’s solid furniture. ‘Bugger,’ she exclaimed softly.

‘Did you learn that at Roedean?’

Tia emerged, a grimace attempting to conceal her beauty. ‘You’d be surprised, Mr Quinn. We had our own curriculum to follow.’ She clambered to her feet, one hand rubbing her
head, the other releasing the rest of her hair, which tumbled over her shoulders. ‘Bugger,’ she repeated. ‘A Roedean girl’s education takes place outside the
classroom.’

‘Midnight feasts?’

‘And the rest. The trouble is, it’s difficult to get past the guards. They have machine guns, tanks and landmines. Limbs and lives have been lost; the four tunnels we were digging
collapsed and buried ten of us. It’s like a concentration camp but with stiffer rules. Well, at least I’ve made you laugh.’

She flopped onto the sofa. ‘Water,’ she begged. ‘Oh, wait a minute. Why is one door locked?’ She pointed towards the hall.

‘Body parts,’ was his cool response.

‘Human?’ she asked.

‘Of course.’ He strode off to the kitchen. It was almost as if she was in charge of every situation; yes, she was a true product of a top public school, composed, alert, well groomed
and horribly competent. She was going to get on his nerves, wasn’t she?

Tia accepted the glass of water and ice. ‘Thank you.’

He tried not to look at her. With her loosened hair, she looked wild, wanton and truly beautiful. ‘I’m going to have a sandwich,’ he told her. ‘Will you join
me?’

She glanced at her watch. ‘No, thanks. I have another place to see in case you turn me down. Perhaps I’ll be safer if you do refuse to house me.’

‘Oh?’

She shrugged. ‘Body parts. I might go to pieces if I move in here. I’d hate you to see me in pieces.’

Theo found himself grinning; she was almost as much trouble as Colin Duckworth. ‘I’ll see you Wednesday afternoon, then, Miss Bellamy.’ He stood up and held out his hand, but
she was busy tying back her hair.

‘I look a mess,’ she declared as she studied her reflection in the over-mantel mirror.

‘You look fine. Go and mither someone else, please.’

‘Mither? Your English is good for a foreigner.’

‘Thanks.’

She completed her struggle with the abundant and disobedient mane of hair. ‘If I live upstairs, might my sisters be allowed to visit me?’

He shrugged. ‘It will be your home, so treat it as such. It’s big enough for a family.’

She shook his hand firmly. ‘I have as much to learn from your children as they have from me. After all, once I’ve done napkin folding and a ten-course place setting, I shall be out
of ammunition.’

‘You don’t fool me, Miss Bellamy.’

‘Hmm. We shall see about that.’

He walked her to the door and watched as she folded herself into the sports car. She pointed to his green version. ‘Snap,’ she called before roaring off towards some other innocent
landlord. The legs were as good as the rest of her. Oh well, sandwich and a drink, then off to speak to the Chair of Governors, a local councillor with sense and backbone. ‘Do I need a no or
a yes?’ he asked Tyger. ‘Do we want her here, wise one?’

The cat, aged and almost toothless, chewed languidly on a tasty morsel of ham. Inherited with the house, Tyger had decided of late that his hunting and running days were over. He swallowed the
ham, yawned and fell asleep on his owner’s knee. ‘I’m gonna miss you,’ Theo said. The cat didn’t mind if his master spoke Americanese. It would soon be time to say
goodbye to this picky-choosy-with-food feline who had adopted the new resident of Crompton Villa six years ago. ‘I remember you when you killed birds and frightened small dogs. You were my
boss, Tyger.’

The cat’s engine began to run, a loud purring that reminded Theo that there was no pain just yet. ‘Hang in, boy. I have an errand to run.’

Delia Bellamy ducked into the tiny entrance to the priest hole and slid home the panel. The place stank like old books, though nothing was stored in any of Bartle Hall’s
secret hides. She banged her head, an elbow and a hip. ‘The bloody priests must have been dwarves,’ she muttered. ‘Jules? Are you in here?’

‘Shush. Come and listen. Pa’s gone super-Shakespearean, the tragic, wounded hero with a knife in his back, all
et tu Brute
. Is Tia here yet?’

‘No, she’s still on her way back from the frozen, pagan north. He’s smashed my drums. If he’s gone tragic, he’s definitely Lear, the mad old monarch. I should sue
him, and I might just do that. I’m twenty-three, not twelve, and I might change my name to Goneril or Regan.’

Juliet waved her small torch. ‘Come here and listen to him,’ she whispered. ‘He is completely delusional. I’m very worried about him, and about Ma, too.’

Delia edged her way into the cramped space next to her younger sister. Their father was just feet away in his study, and he was beyond angry.

‘Notice?’ he roared. ‘Notice? Why wasn’t I told she’d handed in her notice? What? Yes, I know she’s twenty-six – she’s my daughter, damn it. Why
wasn’t I informed? I’m aware that she’s an adult, for God’s sake. Where is she? Where is Portia? I demand an answer.’

Delia blew a very damp raspberry.

‘Stop it,’ Juliet breathed. ‘He’ll hear you.’

‘I don’t care; he broke my drums.’

‘I’ll break your neck if you don’t shut up.’