Meet Me at the Pier Head (41 page)

Lethal? He was so right, Tia mused solemnly. The most dangerous animal on earth was human. How could grown men carve letters into the flesh of a ten-year-old boy? And the stripes on his back
were still there, so the whips must have torn at skin and sunk into his body. Such a slight child he had been, too.

Furthermore, which breed of animal incinerated a woman because of darker skin and curly hair? ‘I will have your children, Theodore Quinn. In twenty or thirty years, no one will care about
colour and quadroons and octoroons and mulattos, because it won’t matter.’ She had vague memories of being told by someone that after the Second World War, before American servicemen
were shipped back home, the question of a possible colour bar in Britain had been aired. And it had been dropped, of course, though a few extreme right-wingers continued to champion the cause.

Was it true that in southern states, coloureds and whites had to sit in different parts of a bus, that they were segregated during childhood and sent to all-white or all-coloured schools? Was
that the land of the free, then? Was it the home of the brave? Oh yes, as long as they were Caucasian.

‘What are you doing?’ Theo called.

‘Cogitating.’

‘Do you have a licence?’

‘Get cooking and I’ll show you my qualifications.’

He laughed and returned to the kitchen.

Tia managed a grin. The only problem with the main part of Rose Cottage was its size; a person could scarcely think without being overheard. She pulled on underwear, a skirt and a blouse. Her
hair she left loose, because he loved it, called it a golden waterfall, as the sun had bleached it with blonde streaks. Theo was an unexpectedly romantic soul; he was also the lover she had sought
for some time. And they had three clear and private days together after today.

Although now fully clothed, she suddenly felt shy when she joined him at the kitchen table. It was something about the way he looked at her – no, he looked through her, as if he read her
mind, her heart and her soul. God, she was thinking like some pathetic, elderly and disappointed writer of sixpenny novellas.

‘You are beautiful,’ he said.

‘So are you. This is splendid; I’m starving.’ He had made toast, fluffy scrambled eggs and crisp bacon. ‘I like being here with you,’ she said. It was a massive
kitchen which had once been a piggery. Although it lacked the charm of the original house, it was a place big enough to contain a large family. This was the only part of Rose Cottage that offered a
bit of privacy, since the dining area was at the far end of the piggery, well away from the main part of the building.

‘I like your blush,’ was his reply.

‘I do not blush.’

‘I like your pink cheeks, then.’

‘Shut up, Mr Quinn. I am pink because the weather is already warm. And before the day really heats up, we should take Mickle out and show her the size of the Bellamy estate.’

Theo frowned. What had happened to round two?

‘Rose Cottage is mine now,’ she told him. ‘I have the deeds. Ma bought a brand new flat for Juliet and she’s looking for a London pied-à-terre for Delia, so I got
Rose Cottage. She’s planning to take on Bartle Hall and sell the farms to tenants. A very astute businesswoman, my mother.’

He offered what was left of brunch to Mickle, who sucked it up like a vacuum cleaner before asking for more. ‘I suspect that you got the best deal, Tia. It’s beautiful. Real old
England,’ he said as he followed her into the living room.

Tia remembered fondly her mother’s instructions when most of the third room upstairs had been converted into a bathroom, leaving space in which only a single bed could be housed. The bath
itself was plonked – Ma’s word – in the middle of the room. It had clawed feet and brass taps and it made rude noises when emptying. The washbasin was massive, easily big enough
to provide a bath for a six-month-old baby, while the lavatory tried to hide coyly between two stout, vertical oak beams.

‘You like Rose Cottage, don’t you, Teddy?’

‘It’s wonderful.’ This was his favourite room. Doors were oak planks held together by diagonal stretches of the same material, walls and ceiling were lumpy between vertical and
horizontal beams, while the floor, covered in places by faded rugs, was flagged and worn. Logs were stashed under an oak settle, and the fireplace had an oven attached to it. Ancient pewter plates
and tankards sat on a rack near the ceiling, and a wooden pulley clothes-dryer was currently parked high in the air until required. ‘I could live here,’ he said. The kitchen was big
enough to contain him and Tom Quirke. ‘I could work here.’

Tia laughed. ‘I wish you’d seen Ma when she got the cottages electrified. “Discreet” was her constant cry. Until we got used to it, we needed an oil lamp or a candle to
find switches and sockets hidden in cupboards or between shelves. We got many a bump in the dark, especially if she moved furniture. She paid for the mains to be laid between the village and here.
There’s no gas on the estate. We depend on coal, wood and electricity. Come on, I’ll show you some decadent splendour. You are going to love Bartle Hall.’

Isadora was at war with a chicken, and she wasn’t winning. The giblets, removed by a butcher, lay in a white enamel dish on the drainer; from these innards, she was
supposed to produce gravy. On the kitchen table sat the offending bird in a roasting tin. In spite of repeated basting, it was a bit burnt on the outside, while a skewer used to test the inside
continued to produce blood. She had read the book. The theory was twenty minutes per pound, plus twenty minutes added on at the end. ‘Joan?’ she called in desperation.

Joan Reynolds entered the arena. ‘Yes?’

‘It won’t cook. I’ve done everything according to the book, but it’s raw inside and crisp outside.’

Joan arrived at her friend’s side with a cleaver.

‘It’s already deceased,’ Izzy said.

‘I’m going to cut it into small pieces and cook it on the hob. Go and sit down, Izzy. I’ll deal with this.’

‘Why am I such a failure in the kitchen?’

‘You can’t be good at everything. You stick to acting while I fry chicken.’

Isadora returned to Portia’s sitting room. Everyone else could cook. All her daughters were capable of producing meals, but she was an out-and-out failure. She picked up a newspaper and
read about Americans and Russians trying to land on the moon within a decade. ‘Silly children,’ she muttered. ‘Why can’t they work together and share the technology? And why
can’t I roast a chicken?’

She put down the paper and wondered how Portia and Theo were faring. They were made for each other – even she knew that, and she was hyper-protective when it came to her girls. Simon
seemed to have become fond of Juliet, while Delia had met a possible partner, so all was well. Except for him; except for Richard being here, in Liverpool. ‘He’d better stay away from
me today,’ she breathed. ‘Doing battle with a dead bird is enough.’ She picked up Tyger. ‘Theo will be back, sweetheart, and you shall have some chicken today. If it
doesn’t kill you, it will be fit for us to eat.’

The phone rang. She put down the kitten and walked across the room. ‘Hello? Ah, Juliet . . . what?’ She paused while her youngest daughter sobbed the story into her ear. ‘When
did this happen?’ Isadora was suddenly grateful for the chair Portia had parked next to the telephone table.

She sat down, feeling a great deal older than her years. ‘Calm down, my love. Concussion? Is he unconscious? Which hospital? Right. Joan and I will be there – I’ll phone for a
taxi. Where’s your father?’ Isadora waited again. ‘Good. I hope they throw the Bible, the Qur’an and the
News of the World
at him. Walton Hospital. We’re on
our way. Stay strong, baby.’ She replaced the receiver. ‘Joan?’ she called.

Joan appeared in the doorway, a smudge of flour on her nose. ‘What’s the matter?’

Isadora took a deep, steadying breath. ‘Richard has put Simon Heilberg in hospital. Concussion. He woke up, but Juliet says he’s rather confused.’

Joan wiped floury hands on her apron. ‘Where’s Richard now?’

‘On his way to hell, I hope.’

‘Seriously, Izzy.’

‘In a cell. He’ll probably get a suspended sentence at least, because he’s already bound over to keep the peace. Or they may lock him up – I don’t know. Turn
everything off in the kitchen, wash your face and grab your bag while I telephone for a taxi.’

The two women clung to each other in the back of the cab. Both had known Simon Heilberg for many years. He came from a lovely family, his father a GP, his mother a district nurse, his older
sister already a consultant paediatrician in London.

Isadora closed her eyes for a few minutes.
Richard didn’t like Simon even before the boy reached his teens. When Portia and Simon were seeing each other, my husband hit the roof and
maintained his position aloft until this very day. Richard is a right-wing freak. We will all be discovered now by the press, and there’s nothing I can do about that. O God, please make Simon
well.

They reached the hospital and found Juliet waiting for them at the front entrance. While Joan paid the driver, Isadora leapt out and ran to her daughter. ‘How is he?’ she asked.

Juliet dashed scalding, fresh tears of relief from her cheeks. ‘It’s going well, Ma. They’ve done the X-rays. A small hairline fracture. But his brain hit his skull, and
he’s rather confused, though they think he isn’t bleeding. Pa was arrested. Simon’s dad’s on his way here; somebody is with him to share the driving. Dr Jones will run the
practice while Dr Heilberg’s away.’

Joan and Isadora followed Juliet to a small room near the double doors to Men’s Surgical. The patient in the bed smiled broadly when they entered. A nurse was adjusting his top quilt when
the three women arrived at the bedside. She looked up. ‘Who’s Juliet?’ she asked.

‘I am.’ Juliet took a step forward.

‘Good. He may have something to say to you.’

Simon remained silent.

‘He just proposed to you. Well, he proposed to me, but he called me Juliet.’ She patted his hand. ‘Juliet’s here now, Doc. I can’t marry you because I’m
already wed with three children, and my husband’s an amateur boxer – he’d put you in a real coma. You’d better ask her instead.’ The nurse smiled at everyone on her
way out.

Simon frowned. ‘Concussion?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’ Juliet sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Do you remember what happened?’

‘Some of it. We had no lunch.’

Isadora’s relief made her sag against Joan, who put an arm round her waist to steady her.

‘I want to go home.’ Simon tried to sit up.

‘You know the drill,’ Juliet reminded him gently. ‘Twelve hours at least on coma chart. I’ll stay with you. I’ll even do your stats if they’ll allow me. Just
rest. It’s your turn to do as you’re told.’ She turned to the other two women. ‘Will you bring me some clean underclothes? And toiletries, toothbrush and so forth, because I
won’t leave him.’

Isadora nodded before addressing Simon. ‘You remember me, I hope.’

‘Yes,’ he sighed as he drifted off to sleep.

‘Should he be sleeping?’ Joan asked anxiously.

‘He’ll be watched,’ Juliet promised. ‘Sleep isn’t coma. Thank you for coming, Ma, Joan. He’s going to be fine, I think.’

‘And your father?’ Isadora whispered.

‘No idea,’ was the response. ‘After what he did to Nanny and Simon, I find it difficult to care about him. He isn’t a good man.’

Joan, knowing that Juliet, a Christian, must have searched her soul before delivering that statement, hugged the youngest of her charges. ‘Life gets hard sometimes, my princess. Your dad
is what he is, and it’s a little late for change.’

‘I can’t forgive him for this, Nanny. Always, I tried to look for goodness in him; always, I’ve made the effort. But I saw the devil in his face when he crossed that room and
tried to kill Simon just because he has a Jewish name.’

Isadora changed the subject. ‘Would you like one of us to stay with you while the other goes to fetch your things?’

Juliet reassured them that she was fine, that Simon would be well very soon, and apologized for panicking earlier. ‘But I must stay with him.’

A thought occurred to Joan. After bidding Juliet goodbye till later, she ushered Isadora into the corridor. ‘We’re still within visiting hours. Let’s find out whether
Rosie’s mother is here,’ she suggested. They enquired at the main desk and were directed to Geriatrics. ‘But she’s young,’ Isadora whispered to her companion.
‘Why is she with the elderly?’

Joan tightened her lips and made no reply, though she knew the answer.

As soon as they reached the ward, Joan spotted Sadie. She was still in her twenties, yet she did not look out of place with her lank hair, vacant eyes, colourless complexion and hands plucking
at her skirt.

Isadora stopped abruptly. ‘She didn’t know us before the suicide attempt, so she certainly won’t recognize us now.’

But Joan walked on. ‘Hello, Mrs Tunstall. We’ve been taking care of Rosie.’ Isadora caught up with her companion.

Sadie stared blankly at the two women. They stood looking at her, and she didn’t like that, so she rose to her feet, turned her chair and sat with her back to them. She was waiting for
food. All she wanted was food. Eating was her sole pleasure, and they never gave her enough.

Isadora’s eyes scanned the ward. Everyone except Sadie seemed to be at death’s door – surely this couldn’t be the right place for so young a person?

Joan seemed to read her friend’s mind. ‘It’s either this or a psychiatric hospital, Izzy. Who will explain this to Rosie, and who will tell her?’

‘Maggie will, Joan. Come along, let’s pack a bag for Juliet.’

‘I was provoked,’ Richard insisted. ‘He’s with my youngest daughter now, after trying to ruin the life of my eldest.’

Constable Marsden spoke to Sergeant Dunn. ‘He was provoked, sarge. Can we spell that?’

‘I am a great fan of Laurel and Hardy, officers, but your comedy lacks wit, wisdom and custard pies. Do you know who I am?’

The constable advised the man under caution that he might have been recognized immediately as Richard Bellamy except for the hair. ‘So, according to police in Kent, you assaulted a Miss
Joan Reynolds in Chaddington Green just a few days ago. Is that the case?’