Meet Me at the Pier Head (40 page)

Maggie wondered who hadn’t been interviewed by her granddaughter.

When Rosie had left the table, the remaining three looked quizzically at each other. ‘She’s organizing us,’ Tom chuckled.

‘You’re right, love. I must make her a red cardigan.’

Maggie blinked rapidly as she remembered the frightened little girl who had run for Tunstall’s baccy after spending half the night in a dark shed. ‘I know this sounds terrible, but I
don’t want Sadie to have her back. If my daughter’s head is buggered, she won’t be fit to have her; if she gets back to normal and goes on the game again . . .’

Tom patted her hand. ‘Sadie neglected her while the bad bugger knocked her about. You have a strong case, love.’

‘And anaemia,’ Maggie muttered.

Their little imp returned with ‘bro-chewers’ containing photographs and literature. ‘A king called Charles landed here after hiding somewhere. Another king called Henry cut
people’s heads off. There’s an archway built for him somewhere.’ After announcing that anybody who cut people’s heads off didn’t deserve an archway, she led them to
the white cliffs of Dover, Bleak House, another house once owned by Dickens, eighty miles to London by train, and to various beaches and harbours in Kent. ‘And there’s lovely
countryside,’ she concluded.

Tom and Nancy chewed on bacon.

‘Who’s Charles Dickens?’ Rosie asked.

‘A writer,’ Maggie told her.

‘Where does he live now?’

‘He’s dead, love.’

‘Is he?’

Maggie nodded.

‘Well, that’s a shame, Nana, cos I wanted to talk to him. He knew all about Broadstairs.’

Nancy swallowed her bacon. ‘That’s right, Rosie. He was a very clever man. He wrote
A Christmas Carol
.’

‘Did he? Which one? “Silent Night”?’

Nancy chuckled. ‘He wrote a story called
A Christmas Carol
.’

Rosie frowned. It was becoming clear that she had a lot to learn.

Richard Bellamy shaved off his moustache and used brown dye on his hair. The result was rather patchy, but he certainly looked different. He dressed in casual clothes, cavalry
twill trousers, open-necked shirt, fawn cardigan and brown shoes. A panama hat completed the picture before he prepared to sally forth in search of lunch. Thus far, this hotel’s food had not
kept up with his Epicurean standards.

Liverpool. Why on earth would anyone choose this place after living a good life in the garden of England? Why would Portia work in a worn-out Victorian building after teaching daughters of the
elite in a college for young ladies? Why teach infants and juniors when she was trained to work with older children? Had Simon Heilberg accompanied her on her travels? So many questions, no
sensible answers.

Leaving the hired car behind, he strolled towards the city. Even as far north as this, England was enjoying good weather. Donning his hat, he ambled forth in search of a decent restaurant or a
public house where food was on offer. There was thinking to be done, because he felt sure that Portia would know where Isadora was. Surely someone living near Myrtle Street would know where Portia
was living? After all, his oldest daughter left a mark wherever she went.

He hadn’t believed the caretaker. The eyes had held secrets, while the mouth had opened and closed rather rapidly before lies had dripped from the man’s lips. Joining the line of
thinkers at the Pier Head, he stared at calm water, bright blue sky and a future that threatened to contain little promise.
We came as a pair, as Richard and Isadora. We worked well together.
Yes, I’m guilty of philandering, but I never abandoned my real family. Oh, what a mess.

The man next to him was weeping quietly. A woman standing at Richard’s left side was staring blankly into the water, as if the solutions to life’s problems swam just below its
rippled surface.

She glanced at Richard. ‘You all right, lad?’ she asked.

‘Thank you, yes. And you?’

The woman shook her head. ‘Me boy died,’ she said. ‘Measles went to his brain. His legs died first, and they cut them off, like. But it never stopped it. He was only
twelve.’

‘I am so sorry,’ he said.

‘We come here and talk to strangers when it gets too much in the house with the family all suffering. Know what I mean? It’s easier telling somebody you don’t know.
You’re not from round here.’

‘Kent,’ he told her. ‘My wife left me. I think she’s somewhere in or near Liverpool.’

She touched his hand. ‘Pray for my lad, and I’ll pray for you.’

Richard watched as she walked away, her shoulders rounded, her steps small, because she had to get home but didn’t want to go there. He could have stood at the Thames embankment for hours,
and no one would have spoken to him. Was this enough to entice Portia to move north?

Isadora was not in Canterbury, of that he felt sure. Had she been there, the press would have tracked her down. Delia was of no fixed abode, while Juliet was not answering her phone, so God
alone knew where she was. Lunch. Yes, he had come out here to find something worth eating.

He found a newsagent and bought several papers, including gutter press publications. The Bellamys were no longer front-page news, thank goodness.

In the most popular and noisiest newspaper, he found a small headline.

Fury filled his chest and his stomach, threatening to scream out through his mouth. God, the bitch knew how to play her cards well. She knew how to play the drunk well, too. She
was dumping him, his name, their joint history on stage and film. Could she cut any deeper? Oh yes, she could steal his daughters, too.

He marched into a public house and ordered a double whisky. There was a menu on the bar, and he picked it up. Ah, they had a full beef dinner including Yorkshires and vegetables.

‘Dining room’s through there, sir. We’re open till two.’

‘Thank you.’

He stayed for a while in the bar, where he perused the latest article relating to the collapse of his marriage. Isadora and her agent were clearly intent on taking no prisoners. What the hell
was this? Isadora Films? She was planning her own company? Christ, what next?

He read on. She intended to use new writers, new actors, young crew. Furthermore, she would be signing up to star in a series of silly comedy films, because she didn’t want to leave
England, and the funds would be useful for other projects and for . . .
what
? A children’s home? Had she lost her mind completely?

Angrily, he screwed up the newspaper and walked through to the dining room, where he opted for a small table near a window. More furious than ever, he threw back the last of his whisky and
picked up the wine list. Isadora held the purse strings. Soon, he wouldn’t be able to track down a decent burgundy, as such luxuries would be beyond his shortened reach. Yes, he could have
saved, no, he hadn’t saved.

Then he heard the laugh and almost froze in his seat. Diagonally opposite him, in another corner, Juliet sat with . . . God, no! She was with Simon Heilberg – did that man intend to work
his way through the whole Bellamy family? This was too much. In a trice, he crossed the floor, dragged the unprepared doctor from his seat and slammed him against the wall. With a sickening thud,
Simon’s head made contact with the hard surface, and he folded on the floor, unconscious.

Juliet leapt to her feet. ‘Police and ambulance,’ she cried before dropping to Simon’s side. Other diners jumped up, some leaving the battle zone, others remaining to see what
might happen next. The manager ran in from the bar, calling over his shoulder, ‘Mike – nine nine nine, police and ambulance.’ He threw Richard into a chair. ‘Move, and
I’ll bloody deal with you, mate.’

Shaking, Richard stayed where he had been thrust by the muscle-bound master of the establishment.

The manager knelt next to Juliet. ‘Let’s keep his airway in a straight line, love.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘I’m a nurse. Recovery position, I think.’

Between them, they rearranged Simon’s limp body.

Juliet stood up, steadying herself by placing a hand on the helpful manager’s shoulders. In an unprecedented show of anger, she spoke to the remaining diners. ‘This article here is
my father. You have all witnessed his attempt to kill my . . . the man I love. He may be successful, because Simon is out cold.’ Tears threatened, and she had to pause for a few moments
before continuing.

‘Pa was bound over recently in the sum of three hundred pounds because he attacked my nanny, the lady who raised me and my sisters.’ Slowly, she turned to face Pa. ‘If Simon
dies, I’ll hang you myself. As things stand, there isn’t a court in this land that will let you mix with normal humanity. For the rest of my life, I will not speak to you,
ever.’

The police arrived, and removed Richard after listening to Juliet’s claim. They promised to enquire and keep him under lock and key until the answers came. His rights were read, and
suspicion of causing actual bodily harm was mentioned before he was shoved out of the dining room.

‘Where’s the ambulance?’ Juliet wailed. The bell clanged outside before her last word was fully formed. When the ambulance staff rushed in, the manager led her and all the
other diners into the bar. ‘Free lunch for all of you whenever you like – get your tickets from Mike.’ He pointed to the barman. ‘A small cognac for this young lady,
please.’

Dazed, angry and tearful, Juliet found herself riding in the ambulance with her beloved. He lay on a hard board with a surgical collar round his neck. ‘Are his pupils dilated?’ she
asked. ‘Are they equal? What’s happening?’

She was told to hush. ‘Take it easy, miss. Looks like a fractured skull, but calm down. He’s breathing well, and that’s always a good sign.’

Juliet closed her eyes and prayed. There was nothing else she could do.

‘What are you doing now, Portia? Will we need the fire brigade?’ Theo rearranged his pillows and propped his upper half into a vertical position. She was leaning
perilously off her side of the bed. ‘You’ll fall,’ he said just before she fell. Sighing in an exaggerated fashion usually reserved for the likes of Colin Duckworth, he pushed
back the bed covers and moved across into her territory. ‘What the hell are you up to now, Baroness Tia? Is this part of some exercise routine? Do we get fifty push-ups and ten minutes’
running on the spot in the nude? It should be an interesting display.’ He laughed. ‘Talk to me.’

Tia continued to lie in an untidy, crumpled heap on the floor. She had taken a pillow with her, and she was beating her head against it. ‘Bugger,’ was her sole bequest to the
conversation. She pummelled her pillow with both fists.

‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘If you landed on your head, you mustn’t have felt a thing. You’re a fortunate girl.’

She stood up, gloriously naked and completely unashamed. ‘I’ve lost my thread now. You are always making me lose my thread.’

‘Ah, you were sewing. Are you embroidering a badge of office for me? Was I so wonderfully successful in the sack? Will you stitch it to my Boy Scout’s sweater?’

‘You’re not wearing a sack, and the Scouts wouldn’t have you, I’m sure.’ She could be as childishly obtuse as he was. ‘No. I’m taking notes. And losing
one’s thread means a breakdown in a train of thought.’

‘So you’re playing with trains? I didn’t know you had a train set. Is it a Hornby? Do you keep it under the bed?’

Portia Bellamy rearranged her features in an effort to appear calm and as unamused as Queen Victoria. ‘I was about to make a comment in my notebook about body parts,’ she said
without a smile. ‘I thought it might help Tom Quirke with his writing. The pen is mightier than the sword, but if one omits the gap between pen and is, one has a body part.’

He burst out laughing so hard that the bed shook. His glee proved infectious, and she threw herself on the tangled mass of sheets and blankets, and laughed with him. She was happy. She was happy
because she was his, and she wanted to feel like this for the rest of her life. ‘We’re silly, Mr Quinn,’ she managed eventually.

‘Thank God,’ he answered, wiping his eyes on the sheet. ‘Did you mark my pen is?’ he asked, grinning widely. He pondered yet again on the fact that he loved her
vulgarity. Even when she was coarse, she somehow managed to remain refined. Impossible? Yes, she was. ‘Well, the marks, Portia?’

‘Gave it an A plus for presentation and an A for performance skills.’

‘Where’s my second plus?’

‘It’s probably under the bed where I dropped my notes. Shall we search? It’s a very small plus, and it could be anywhere.’

He simply could not deal with the woman when she was in so feisty a mood, which was most of the time. ‘No, we need food. I’ll go rustle up brunch and, when we’ve eaten,
we’ll have round two. You get the buckets and the gum shields while I find hand strapping and gloves. Oh, and a towel in case you want to throw it in.’

Tia sat on the edge of the bed and watched as he swung out his legs and stood up. ‘Teddy?’

‘Yes, ma’am?’

She swallowed hard before continuing. ‘What does A K mean?’ It was there on his back, stark white scar tissue where he’d been stitched.

‘K is for Klan. Not sure about the A. It could be Atlanta, Arransville, Auguston – no idea. There were plenty of hick towns, but the sheriff and his deputy didn’t come from any
place beginning with A. Maybe it’s for amalgamated, I’m not sure. Where Klan numbers dwindled, chapters re-formed.’ He turned to face her. ‘Poached or scrambled, baby?
Don’t cry.’

‘I’m not crying. My eyes are leaking.’

‘Dry them on the sheet.’

‘The evil things they did to you—’

Theo tutted and blew her a kiss. ‘Shush, it’s over, kiddo. I survived that
and
the Battle of Britain.’ He pulled on a robe and went downstairs. ‘I’m a
tough cookie,’ he called over his shoulder. He loved her and couldn’t bear to see her upset. Perhaps, when new love grew older, he would be able to comfort her without resorting to his
own tears.

Tia sat in the middle of the bed. Her sweet, tender and gentle lover could be heard talking to his dog about farm animals and how to resist chasing them. ‘Eat your breakfast, Mickle. And
steer clear of geese and swans,’ he was saying. ‘They are dangerous. As for farmers with guns, they can be lethal.’