Tarnished (7 page)

They both laughed.

‘Do you know what I fancy?’ Doll said, twinkling her eyes up from behind her glasses. ‘A drop of sherry. With a cherry in. Cherry in me sherry.’

Peg went to the cocktail cabinet and swung down its horizontal door. The shiny interior, with its peppery smell and neatly arranged bottles and glasses, was as familiar as an old friend. She poured two small glasses of treacle-sweet sherry from the decanter, topped them with cherries speared on wooden cocktail sticks, and carried them over to Doll.

‘What’s this?’ Doll said.

‘Sherry with a cherry. Like you ordered, madam,’ Peg said, bowing slightly as if she were a waiter.

‘Did I? Well I never. A cherry on a sherry! Well we can’t put them down on the surface. It’s ever so precious,’ Doll said, stroking the tiny bit of free space on her wheeled table. ‘You’ll have to get a mat for the glasses. From the cocktail cabinet.’

Happy to humour her – she was in no rush and quite enjoyed Doll’s capriciousness when it dealt with stuff rather than memories – Peg went back to the cabinet and rummaged in its two drawers.

‘Nothing here, Nan,’ Peg said.

‘They’re there. You’ve just got to look. Try the little wotsit behind the potato wine.’

Among all her confusion, Doll still retained some extraordinarily sharp laser beams of particularity. Peg lifted aside the bottle of potato wine Doll had made over ten years earlier and, just as she had said, there was a wotsit – or, rather, a cardboard box – full of identical drinks mats emblazoned with the word ‘Flamingos’ and a cartoon of a bright pink snooty-looking long-legged bird.

‘I never knew that was there,’ Peg said. But she recognised the flamingo mats; they were like a cocktail stick of clarity piercing into the fog of her childhood. ‘We used to have these out at Christmas,’ she said, setting two down on Doll’s table.

‘That’s not the right place,’ Doll said, repositioning one of them. ‘That’s better. Yes, well of course, we’ve still got loads left. We used to have the serviettes too, but I don’t know what happened to them. He brought them back for me. Never look a gift horse.’

‘Who brought them back?’ Peg said, pausing briefly, sherry glasses in hand.

‘Pass me that drink, come on. I’m gasping, dear.’

‘Sorry.’ Peg handed the glass to Doll, who downed it in one.

‘Lovely,’ she said, wiping her lips with the back of her hand.

‘Who brought the mats back?’ Peg went on, picking up the one meant for her own glass and examining it.

‘My Raymond brought them back, of course. From his club. You know. The one down London Bridge. You know.’

‘Club?’

‘You know, Jeanie.’ Doll tapped the side of her nose, then picked up a mat and showed Peg the reverse, where an old 01 London telephone number swooped above the legend TOP BIRDS FOR TOP GENTS. ‘Flamingos.’

‘He had a club?’ Peg said.

‘You know, just off Tooley Street. Remember? It’s been a while since we was there, though.’

Peg’s heart raced. She had scoured the real- and cyber-world for her father, and all the time her first real concrete clue to where he might be had been sitting in her grandmother’s cocktail cabinet, behind her grandmother’s potato wine.

‘Do you think you could find it on a map?’ she said, quickly fetching Frank’s old 1960s
A to Z
from the glass-fronted bookcase. She found the page with London Bridge on it and held it open for Doll, who put on her readers – placing her normal glasses just so on her table – and peered at it.

‘There, look. It’s marked anyway. That green cross,’ she said, stabbing a knobbly finger at a biro mark on the page.

‘No way,’ Peg said, smiling.

At last, things were beginning to look up.

With sherries drunk, glasses washed up and put away, and Jean visited, Peg finally left the bungalow. She studiously ignored Mrs Cairns, who came out of her front door as she passed, her nagging gears clearly engaged and ready for action.

The unfamiliar sensation of a springy step carried her all the way to the station, fuelled by the knowledge that she had a Flamingos drinks mat and the old
A to Z
in her rucksack.

She had a lead to her father. At last she had a lead. And she knew where she was off to in the morning . . .

As she stepped out into the road, a white van cruised past. All she could see of the driver in the dark was that he was bald, big and black. But those three features stirred something inside her and she paused for a minute, trying to work out what on earth it could be.

Seven

The shabby, cut-out flamingo cast a supercilious eye down on her. The door he straddled with his long legs was locked and unresponsive to her knocks. He seemed to be mocking her for the naive hope which had propelled her to this grimy alley off Tooley Street.

Perhaps she should’ve come the night before, straight from Tankerton. Nightclub: the clue was in the name. But it had been late, she had wanted to get back to see Loz, and, with her DMs, hairdo and lack of ID, she wouldn’t have got past the doorman anyway.

Besides which, this place looked as if it was not only closed, but closed down.

She sat heavily on the dog-end-littered steps and put her head in her hands. Having made the mistake of allowing herself a shred of hope, she had really thought she was on to something. The cold of the concrete bit into her, and she shivered with uselessness.

‘Are you all right, love?’

Peg looked up and saw a middle-aged woman peering down at her, puffing on a cigarette. Swamped by a big puffa coat, she was too skinny and had a front tooth missing. But above their sunken dark circles, and beyond a taint of sadness, her eyes were warm and brown. Motherly, Peg thought.

Like my mother’s eyes?

‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Peg said, embarrassed at being caught out at a low ebb. She rubbed her cold, blue fingers together, regretting that she hadn’t brought gloves with her. ‘Thanks.’

‘Well you’ll have to move, girl, because I got to get in there.’ The woman ground her cigarette into the pavement and gestured at the doorway with a bunch of keys she had pulled out of her canvas shopper.

Peg jumped up, propelled partly by a small leap of hope. ‘Are you something to do with Flamingos?’

The woman stood back and looked Peg up and down. ‘Yes. But I can tell you here and now, if you looking for a job, don’t bother. You’re not the Flamingos type. Not by a long shot.’

‘Oh no,’ Peg said, touching her shorn head and smiling. ‘I’m not looking for a job, thanks.’

‘What you want then?’ the woman said, one hand on the door. ‘I gotta get in there and get it clean for tonight.’

The woman was nearly as tall as Peg, and behind her air of damage there was a remnant of something more commanding about her – something that made Peg feel she could trust her. Besides which, she was the only thing standing between her and a wasted journey.

‘I think my dad works here. Or used to.’

The woman looked at her through the corners of her eyes. ‘So?’

‘I haven’t seen him since I was little and now my nan’s really ill and I want him to see her before—’ Peg didn’t know why she was telling all this to a complete stranger, but the relief of doing so brought the tears to her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, trying to force them back and failing. She hugged herself and stamped on the icy pavement.

The woman sucked her teeth and glanced up and down the alley.

‘Look, it’s freezing out here. Come on in and I’ll make us both a cuppa and you can tell me all about it. And you can give me a lift with the bar shutters. They’re a bastard to do on your own.’

She led her in and along a black-painted corridor.

‘My name’s Carleen,’ she said as she switched on lights to reveal a ticket booth.

‘I’m Peg.’

‘Nice.’

They went down a narrow flight of stairs and Carleen snapped on several rows of fluorescent lights to reveal a vast black room set with tables and chairs all pointing towards a podium with a pole and a backdrop of greasy slash curtain. Dusty red velvet alcoves lined the room, and a shuttered-up bar ran along the wall to their right.

‘Shit heap innit,’ Carleen said, surveying the dingy basement, which, although the tables and bar were mostly clear of empty bottles and glasses, had the air of the morning after a party. The sharp smell of old wine and the dun stink of damp walls enhanced the effect.

‘Like me these days, looks a lot better in dimmer light.’ Carleen cackled. She wound her way through the tables, picking up a stray champagne bucket as she went. ‘Bar staff should’ve cleared that away,’ she tutted.

‘Come backstage,’ she said, unlocking a black door flush with the wall. ‘Far cosier. Jeeze, these girls are such a mess.’ They were in a sort of dressing-room-cum-green-room with a wall of mirrors above a long table littered with black or sparkling underwear, make-up and hair-styling equipment. ‘Mind you, I wasn’t too tidy myself back in the day.’

‘You used to be a dancer?’ Peg said.

‘I was the best.’ Carleen flashed a gap-toothed smile. ‘Don’t look so surprised.’

‘I wasn’t, I—’

‘But there comes a time you got to give it up.’ She flicked the switch in a kettle on the side of the dressing table and dumped teabags into a couple of mugs. ‘So this dad of yours. Was he like a barman or something?’

Peg shook her head. ‘I think he was the boss.’

Carleen rolled her eyes. ‘They
all
think they’re the boss, honey. What’s his name?’

‘Raymond. Raymond Thwaites.’

Carleen whistled softly.

‘You know him?’ Another stirring of hope made Peg catch her breath.

‘Well of course, I know him. He’s the gaffer. Always has been. Knew him quite well back in the day, if you catch me.’

Peg put her hands to her mouth. ‘Where is he? Is he coming in today?’

‘Let me get this straight,’ Carleen said, eyeing Peg. ‘How long is it since you saw him?’

‘Why?’

‘I just want to know.’

‘I haven’t seen him since my mum died. When I was six.’

‘Not at all?’

‘Nope. And my nan and gramps brought me up. But I need to contact him because—’

‘Yeah. I know. Your nan’s sick.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you got no idea where he went?’

‘No.’

‘Jesus.’ Carleen sighed heavily and poured boiling water into the mugs. ‘You got a fuck of a lot of catching up to do, girl.’

Peg frowned. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Not really for me to say, though, is it. You’ll have to ask him when you see him.’

‘But can you tell me where he is?’

Carleen handed a mug to Peg and levelled her gaze at her. ‘You look a bit like your mum,’ she said.

‘You knew my mum too?’ Peg said, her heart leaping.

Carleen nodded. ‘A bit.’

‘What was she like?’

‘Kind. Nice. Good-looking. Great dancer. The best. After me, of course.’

‘Dancer?’ Peg thought of the pole on the stage in the club room next door.

‘Yeah, she worked here,’ Carleen said, and Peg tried not to think of the slim brown arms that used to hold her instead wrapping themselves round that pole for hungry male eyes. ‘That’s how she met him. She took him off me, if you must know.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘What you apologising for, girl?’ Carleen laughed, her tired eyes misted with memory. ‘I was so jealous. But you know, you get over it. She was such a sweet thing, you couldn’t hate her for long. When he married her, though, we all thought she was so lucky. Can you believe it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Nah, it’s just . . .’ Carleen shook her head, as if trying to dislodge something from her mind. ‘Well, she got ill, didn’t she.’

Peg nodded. They both stood there, leaning against the dressing table and peering into their steaming mugs.

‘So do you want to know where your dad is or not?’ Carleen said at last, breaking their impromptu moment of silence.

‘I need to find him.’

‘He’s in Spain.’

‘What?’

‘He’s what you call arm’s-length. I don’t think he can come back here anyhow.’

‘Why not?’

‘Reasons. You need to ask him that.’

‘Do you know his address?’

Carleen shook her head.

‘Well I’ve got him narrowed down to one country in the whole world, I suppose.’ Peg peered gloomily into her mug. ‘It’s better than nothing.’

‘Don’t be so downhearted, girl. I don’t
know
his address, but I know how to
find
it. Follow me.’

Carleen unlocked a door at the back of the changing room and led Peg into a small office.

‘The Flamingos nerve centre,’ Carleen said. ‘Best not to know all the deals going on in here. But they still need it cleaned, and Charlie the manager’s mostly an idiot. Or must think I’m one.’ She jiggled a mouse on the desk and the computer screen sprang to life. ‘See? He leaves it on and he’s still signed in. Useful for me if I want to do a bit of surfing, but still an idiotic thing to do. Especially when ‒’ she clicked a couple of times through to the email software ‒ ‘there’s stuff of a highly confidential nature. Like Raymond’s address. I know about it because the idiot couldn’t work out how to buy plane tickets online, so I had to help him. And he never clears anything out, not a thing.’

She stood back and let Peg read the email, which dated back four years and concerned the hiring of a club dancer called Brandi for an event at a house called Casa Paloma Blanca, including a full itinerary and directions from Malaga airport.

‘That’s his house. It was for his wedding.’

‘He’s married?’

Carleen nodded. ‘He wanted the best dancer from each of his clubs.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah, I know. For a wedding. Tacky, innit. Brandi said the kid was there too, watching like.’

‘Kid?’

‘Raymond’s kid.’

Peg was stunned. Having clung on to Doll’s stories of the heartbroken king, she hadn’t imagined that he’d have a new wife, let alone another child.

‘Oh honey,’ Carleen sighed. ‘You’re going to be doing a lot of finding out if you contact him. You sure you’re doing the right thing?’

Peg nodded.

‘I mean sometimes it’s best to let things lie, you know?’