Tara (38 page)

There was a single light in the car-park and it shone on to Needles' and Tony's faces. Needles' small eyes had all but disappeared in a deep frown, and his usually jovial mouth drooped at the corners. Tony seemed to have shrunk.

'What about that slag?' Tony thumbed towards the stolen van. 'It's all 'is fault. Shall we dump 'im 'ere?'

All three were thinking the same thing. Ginger was boastful, there was a strong chance that by tonight the whole of the East End would be sniggering about this robbery. Ginger might well make out he was the only one who didn't lose his bottle and he'd shot the man so they could get away. Such talk was dangerous; it could get all four of them nicked.

'No.' Harry shook his head. 'We give him a good verbal bashing, promise we'll kick 'is 'ead in if he squeaks. But right now we've gotta get 'elp for the old chap. Please God don't let him be badly hurt!'

Harry was gone less than ten minutes but, when he walked back into the car-park, the stolen van had gone with Ginger in it.

'What 'appened?' He ran over to his van, where Tony and Needles were sitting.

'When we got out the van he must've thought we was goin' to do him over,' Needles said glumly. 'He drove off like the 'ounds of 'ell were after 'im.'

'Fuckin' 'ell,' Harry exploded. 'A bloody loose canon careering around town!'

Harry got in the driving seat and started it up. There weren't many times he wanted to cry, but this was one of them.

' 'E shot the geezer,' Tony said softly.' 'E's got the coats and the van. It's 'is funeral now, 'Any. Let's just get 'ome.'

Harry didn't go to bed when he got in. It was almost five in the morning and in an hour he'd be picking George up. The three of them had gone straight to the Regency Club in Dalston in an attempt to create an alibi. To ask anyone to lie for them would be an admission they'd been up to something, but they knew the owner well enough to know that he'd cover for them if necessary.

Harry sat in an armchair, watching the dawn come up. His flat was a small serviced apartment on the third floor, a tiny, functional and austere place which he'd never felt enthusiastic enough about to turn into a home.

He wasn't thinking about himself now, but of the effect this would have on his father. He recalled all the times he'd been warned not to look for easy money, to keep out of fights and not to mix with villains. How could he possibly tell George about this?

With luck he could keep Tony and Needles out of it. Needles had small kids, Tony's dad was out of work and he had to help support the family. The old man had only seen two men; if he could just find Ginge before the police did, then he could mark his card.

Later he scrubbed the bottom of his boots until there was no trace of mud on them, and rolled up the oilskin coat and his gloves to dump them later. But all the time his heart was sinking further. Why on earth had he taken Ginger along? He never played poker with people he didn't know, all his life he'd gone by the code of never taking anyone on trust. Yet now, as the sky gradually lightened, he saw he was to blame entirely.

George once told him that, if a man assumed the role of leader, it was his duty not only to look out for his men, but also to set the ground rules at the outset. Harry had failed on both counts.

The rain had blown itself out as he drove towards Bethnal Green to pick up George. The sun was peeping through the clouds and, when he stopped to buy the morning paper and found nothing in it about the robbery, he thought perhaps the gods had decided to smile on him just this once.

Tara was in the kitchen as he walked in, wearing a frilly pink gingham housecoat. She turned and smiled at him.

'Want a bacon sandwich?' she asked. 'I'm just making one for Uncle George.' She looked as fresh and pretty as the morning.

'Just a cup of tea will do.' He sat down at the table and, without thinking, put his head in his hands.

'What's up?' she asked softly, putting one hand on his shoulder.

'Just tired.' He forced himself to smile. 'Bin up all night playing cards, so don't waste your sympathy on me. Tell me 'ow you're doin'. I don't see enough of you these days.'

It was getting on for two years now that she'd been in London working for Josh. She'd never gone back to school. Although in the first few months he had taken her out dancing and introduced her to his friends, since then he had distanced himself from her.

Both George and Queenie were very protective. They wanted her to make friends of her own, and certainly didn't want her running around with shady characters. Besides, she was immersed in her work.

'Everything's wonderful.' Her mouth curved into a wide smile.

Tara was eighteen now. At the end of the summer holidays a year and a half ago she had persuaded her mother and gran, with Josh's help, to let her stay and work permanently. That first dress she designed was one of many that Josh had subsequently made up and sold. He gave her a small percentage on each of her designs, she had a wardrobe full of samples to wear herself and she had money in the bank. But although she was happy with her job, she could see her limitations.

She knew next to nothing about the costing and manufacturing side of the business. Josh gave her very little credit for all the hours she put in and she was still a long way from being given a free hand. But, as her mother had pointed out, if she left now and went somewhere else she would have to start at the bottom again.

'You've done brilliant.' Harry gave a weak but encouraging smile. 'But a pretty girl like you should be thinking about 'aving fun, not workin' all the bleedin' time.'

'I don't work all the time.' Tara tossed her hair back from her shoulders. 'I go out with Angie and her friends. I go down the Rising Sun with George and Queenie.'

'What, no boyfriend?' Harry raised one eyebrow questioningly. He kept his ear to the ground where Tara was concerned and he knew she had enough admirers to go out every night of the week if she wanted to.

'No-one special.' She giggled. Twice she had briefly thought she was in love, but both times it had fizzled out after a couple of weeks. 'Boys don't like ambitious girls.'

Harry grinned. He'd heard her put blokes off countless times because she was engrossed in her work, and it made him happy.

Tara poured the tea and stirred some sugar into Harry's.

'What about you?' she asked. 'What's happened to that girl Janet?'

She had been so jealous when he brought the small blonde girl round once for Sunday dinner that she'd found it impossible to stay in the room with them. She knew this was entirely unreasonable, but Harry was very special to her.

'History.' He smiled wickedly. 'She was boring!'

'I've got to go and get dressed.' Tara sensed he had something on his mind and she wished she had the time to dig deeper. 'Why don't you come home to the farm with me one weekend? Mum and Gran would love to see you.'

A lump came into Harry's throat. Right now he could think of nothing better than being alone with Tara in Somerset. But he couldn't make any plans until he knew whether that nightwatchman was all right.

'Maybe in a few weeks,' he said. 'Give us a hug, babe?'

He didn't get up and Tara moved over to him and put her arms round him.

'Have you done something wrong?' she whispered, as his head nestled against her.

Harry gulped. She smelled beautiful, of soap and talcum powder. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin housecoat and her hands caressing his head were so soothing.

'Just bin a bit of a prat,' he murmured, wishing he could stay in her arms all day and forget what had happened. 'Nothing for you to worry about, babe.'

She wanted to question him further but she could hear George's feet on the stairs. She bent and kissed his forehead.

'Come for that weekend,' she whispered. 'Soon!'

'That nightwatchman's died!' Mabel was sitting in her rocking chair reading the newspaper.

The kitchen smelled of onions and herbs and although it was only two in the afternoon it was gloomy because of the rain belting down outside. Amy was mincing leftover cooked meat for a cottage pie. She broke off from turning the handle and looked at her mother questioningly.

Mabel had begun to take a great deal more interest in the outside world since Tara left home. She not only read the newspapers, but studied farming magazines. At long last they had a milking machine, electricity in the out-buildings, a washing machine, refrigerator and vacuum cleaner to make life easier. Even the changes in her appearance, which started when Amy had the breakdown, had been maintained. Her white hair was always cut and permed, she no longer slopped around in men's trousers and boots. In a tweed skirt and navy blue sweater she looked just like every other middle-aged woman in the village.

'What nightwatchman?'

"The one that was shot last week out at Tilbury,' Mabel took off her glasses and looked at her daughter. 'Didn't you read about it? Two men robbed a warehouse and the old man tried to stop them getting away. They shot him and left him lying in the rain. He died last night in hospital. Poor old chap!'

Amy sighed. 'What's the world coming to? Once it would've been just a cosh over the head or tying him up. Why did they shoot him?'

'Greed, what else.' Mabel folded the paper and rose from her chair. 'I hope they hang him when they catch him.'

Amy put the last piece of meat through the mincer, and glanced out of the window.

'It's still raining,' she said in irritation, unscrewing the mincer from the table and shaking the last few bits into the dish of meat. 'I wanted to go for a walk this afternoon.' She had felt on edge all morning, though she couldn't exactly say why, other than that she'd been cooped up in the farmhouse for days.

'You aren't made of sugar.' Mabel looked round at her daughter and noticed she looked pale. 'Put a raincoat and boots on and go anyway.'

'You don't mind?' Amy knew there was work to be done in the dairy and the stable needed mucking out.

'Why should I?' Mabel said. 'I'll see to the butter and grade the eggs. You work too hard as it is.'

Amy stood on the wooden bridge at the end of Dumpers Lane and gazed reflectively at the river beneath her. This place made her think of Paul because it had always been his favourite.

Trees crowded around her, the drumming of rain softened by the canopy of leaves. The river was high today, cascading over stones, brown with churned-up mud. She could smell wild garlic and damp earth and the undergrowth was shiny with rain. To her left was the spooky old mill, the river gushing through the tunnel beneath the house. To her right a narrow footpath led through the trees to the village.

She wondered what Paul would have been like now. Sometimes she stopped to speak to his friend Colin and found it hard to come to terms with a burly teenager in jeans and a leather jacket, instead of the little freckled-faced boy in shorts he had once been. It didn't hurt to think about Paul now. She could see him here so clearly, with his fishing net and a jam jar with string tied round the top, wading in with his tongue darting in and out between his lips as he tried to catch sticklebacks.

Her thoughts turned to Tara. She had all the chic of a city girl now, hair regularly trimmed, false eyelashes and impeccable make-up. They didn't see her often, just for a few days at Christmas, a week in the summer and odd weekends. There was nothing for her here now. Her mind was always on fashion, her conversation all about Josh, Angie, George and Queenie.

At least that affair with Simon Wainwright hadn't affected her too deeply. She'd had other boyfriends, by all accounts, and often made Mabel and Amy laugh with stories about the lengths she went to to avoid them once they were cast off.

Amy had been so anxious in the first few months after Tara left. London, and particularly the East End, was a dangerous place for a young girl, though George and Queenie assured her that Tara's life revolved around her work and, even when she did go out, she never gave them cause for anxiety.

But it was hard to find herself no longer a mother. All those years of looking after children, and now she was obsolete. Of course there was the work at the farm, more than enough for anyone, but it wasn't the same as running after children. Sometimes, like today, she felt terribly alone.

She walked on back through the woods towards the village. The rain was getting heavier and she could feel it creeping right down to her underwear. She knew she ought to go home, but she was loath to spend another afternoon cloistered with her mother.

The High Street looked desolate in the rain. Aside from the brightly lit Co-op, the shops had a bleak, closed-up look about them. Rain gushed down the gutters, spilling out like a river across the road at one point. Even the windowboxes of the cottages up on the raised walkway had a bedraggled air.

'Amy!' The shouted greeting made her look round. Gregory Masterton was coming round the corner, almost dragged along by Winston, his golden labrador. Greg was as wet as the dog, in a yellow oilskin, thinning hair plastered to his face. 'Fancy a cup of tea?' he called, his jolly red face breaking into a wide smile.

Amy didn't think twice. 'I'd love one,' she called back, and ran across to meet him.

They had become close friends since Paul's death. Greg was the one she poured things out to, with whom she shared her anxiety about Tara and even her irritation at her mother. Sometimes she felt that without him, she might have slid back into depression.

'Hello, Winston.' Amy patted the wet dog, smiling at his exuberant expression. 'Did you drag your dad out in this?'

'What's your excuse for wandering in the rain?' he asked as they walked up the High Street towards his house. 'Escaping the troll?'

They always shared the joke about Mabel being a troll who lurked under the bridge waiting for unwary travellers. Mabel hadn't entirely lost her caustic tongue and sometimes she treated Greg like a young farmhand.

'I suppose so.' Amy smiled. 'It's this rain. I want to do the garden, anything rather than be stuck in the house. Do you think it's ever going to stop?'