That'll Be the Day (2007) (17 page)

All manner of businesses occupied the dockside, Leo’s own wasn’t involved in manufacturing but with distribution. He stood now beside dusty stacks of timber, the smell of seasoned wood mingling with that of the normal dockside smells of rope and warm tar as he examined the bill of lading on his foreman’s clipboard, checking the cargo, destination, order of loading, and weight.

‘Everything seems to be going smoothly.’
 

‘Aye, boss, it should reach Liverpool in time for the evening tide.’

‘Excellent!’

Leo loved his work and enjoyed good relations with his workforce. Oil, cotton, electrical goods and foodstuffs regularly appeared on their export lists. The other day they’d shipped out a large consignment of Austin Seven cars to the West Indies and Panama. But then he was responsible for importing and exporting goods to every corner of the world from Canada to New Zealand. Each day was different, and brought a new challenge.

Helen didn’t share his passion for the place. He never even brought her here, but then she’d never shown any inclination to come. She rarely asked him about his day, or took the slightest interest in his work.

There was little sign of a slowdown in trade which made Leo very content. He should be getting back to his office but he stood for a moment or two longer watching a tug progress unimpeded beneath the swing road bridge, going about its regular dredging duties. Ships couldn’t be too large in order to negotiate the locks on the Ship Canal.

His mother had always loved watching the ships, but then Dulcie was entirely different from his wife, working in the firm’s office beside his father throughout the war when most women of her age would be content to stay at home with their knitting. Leo wished Helen could see this other side to her personality, this puritan work ethic that had been in both his parents. Something he’d always admired and respected as a boy, and still did. He supposed it was all too evident in himself too.

Helen filled her life with other matters, largely social functions and committees. So long as she didn’t attempt to rope him in on these, or reorganise his life to suit her, Leo really didn’t mind in the least what she did with her time.

How he was ever going to get it through to her that these high-flown ambitions she held for him were a non-starter he really didn’t know. In the end, he would simply have to put his foot down and refuse to go along with it, though he dreaded the tantrum which would surely erupt as a result.

The thought reminded Leo that he should ring her to explain he might be late home tonight. He wanted to see this latest load of timber safely dispatched and then he had a great deal of paperwork to catch up on. He pushed open the office door, making a mental note to do something about the flaking paint and found the phone was ringing even before he reached it.

His secretary took the call and seconds later held the receiver out to him. ‘It’s your wife.’

Leo thanked her, feeling guilty over the familiar sinking feeling that came into his stomach as it always did these days whenever she rang him. Her voice came over loud and clear, resounding in the quiet office.

‘Darling, I’m
so
glad I caught you. I do hope you’ve remembered we’re having the Barfords over for supper this evening? Anyway, I didn’t have time to pick up the wine and champagne after my hair appointment, so could you do that for me, then dash over with it.’

Leo was instantly irritated. He’d quite forgotten about the Barfords, if indeed he’d ever known they were coming. Or maybe he simply hadn’t listened in the first place when Helen had told him. With so much work to do, he really didn’t have time for social chit-chat today. ‘Helen, I’ve told you a million times that I can’t simply drop everything I’m doing to run errands for you.’

‘But I need it
now
. The champagne has to be put on ice, and you know how small our refrigerator is. If you would only agree to buy me a decent large one, these sort of problems might not arise.’

He recognised this as an excuse to make another dig at him, a way to manipulate him into doing as she asked by accusing him of being an inadequate provider. However much money he lavished on Helen, or allowed her to spend on the house, she could always find fault and think of a way she could have managed better if only he’d been more generous.
 

‘Sorry, you’ll just have to pop out and get the wine yourself, I’m far too busy.’

Her voice rose several decibels. ‘Why do you
hate
me so much? I’m sure you run errands for
her,
for your
mistress
!’

Leo tried to move away from the desk but it was too late, his secretary must have heard Helen’s screeching voice down the phone as she was so obviously trying not to react to it. Other heads turned and stared at him in open curiosity, but then they were all familiar with his wife’s constant demands and always found them entertaining.

Leo sighed, raising his eyebrows in comic resignation for the sake of his embarrassed staff. ‘Would four o’clock suit you? I have an appointment with a new client around then and could possibly fit in a dash to the wine merchant.’

‘If that’s the best you can do, then I suppose it will have to.’

The sound of the phone going down seemed to echo around the small office like a clap of thunder. Leo thanked his secretary, though for what exactly he wasn’t sure, the unexpressed sympathy in her eyes perhaps since she was never fooled by his pantomimes.

The smile slid from his face as Leo returned to his desk, and Helen’s call seemed to put him in a foul mood for the rest of the morning. No wonder no one came near him, being naturally wary of the black mood which generally descended after one of his wife’s calls.

By four o’clock Leo’s temper was worse than ever as he abandoned some tricky accounting in order to dash to the off-license on Deansgate before it closed and collect the champagne. Why couldn’t Helen attempt to be more understanding and cooperative? Not only would he have to be home early this evening, but he’d wasted half his afternoon as well. What an infuriating woman she could be.

He was driving back along St. John’s Place, far faster than he really should, when he saw the boy. He’d clearly been set upon by three bullies, all much bigger than himself, although the child was doing his utmost to stand up to them and give as good as he got. Nevertheless, Leo could see at a glance that it was a hopeless task. He couldn’t be more than six or seven and the boy’s puny little fists rarely connected with their target, the three bigger boys pushing and punching with fierce gusto, tossing him between them like a rag doll.

Leo could recall being bullied himself as a young boy, until he’d thankfully grown sufficiently tall to make his oppressors think twice before taking him on. Any minute now they’d fling the boy into the road right in front of Leo’s jaguar.

He screeched to a halt, flung open his door and leaped out to put a stop to the unfair battle.
 

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? Pick on someone your own size, you great bullies.’ Long before he reached them, the three had turned tail and run, leaving their young victim sprawled senseless on the pavement. Even as Leo bent down to check on his pulse and gently probe several shiners that were already appearing on his small pale face, a woman ran up and fell to her knees beside him.

‘Tom, are you all right, darling? Oh, please speak to me Tom. Oh, my God, they’ve killed him!’

‘I don’t think so,’ Leo reassured her. ‘But he is unconscious. Ah, good, he’s showing signs of coming round already. Excellent! All right, son, don’t try and move for a minute till you get your bearings. You’ll be feeling a bit woozy I should think.’

Frantic with anxiety the young woman was half gasping, half sobbing, in addition to being clearly out of breath from having run to save her son. ‘Who were they? How dare they pick on someone so much smaller than themselves?’

Leo put a gentle hand on her shoulder to calm her. ‘He’ll be fine, don’t fret. Boys, even small ones, are tougher than you might think. But I agree that it was an unequal contest, and bullying should always be stopped. I suggest you speak to his headmaster tomorrow.’

‘No, Mum, don’t do that.’ The boy seemed now to be sufficiently recovered to speak. ‘They’d only hit me again if you told on them.’

‘Oh, Tom, you’re alive,’ and she burst into floods of tears, hugging him and smoothing his soft brown hair from his ashen face, smothering him with kisses.

Leo waited until natural relief and emotion had spent itself and the woman turned to him with moist eyes. ‘I haven’t thanked you yet for helping. That was very remiss of me. Tom owes his life to you.’

‘I doubt the fight would have gone that far, and young Tom here was making quite a fist at holding them off all by himself. Are you one of Barry Holmes’s young stars?’ Leo asked him with a grin.

It was the woman who answered. ‘Oh, indeed yes. He attends regularly with his father, every week, and would never miss a session.’

‘Well, it looks as if it has stood him in good stead. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of, lad, because you lost the battle. There were three of them after all, and you gave them quite a pasting.’

A touch of pink crept into the boy’s cheeks and he managed a small smile. ‘I did, didn’t I?’

‘You certainly did. They’ll think twice before tackling
you
again.’

A shadow of doubt flickered across the child’s face, one his mother saw too as she helped him gingerly to his feet. ‘I think I’ll just pop into the doctor’s and make sure there are no other injuries.’

‘Aw, Mum . . .’

‘No, don’t argue Tom. I intend to have you fully checked over.’ Back in control of her emotions she turned to face Leo and held out a hand to him. I really don’t know how to thank you enough.’

Leo got up from his crouched position and stretched to his full height. He found himself smiling warmly at her, his earlier bad temper having completely dissipated. She was petite and slim, her face bare of make-up and all the lovelier for that, with the kind of gently smiling mouth he had a sudden and unexpected urge to taste. Her shoulder-length dark hair flew about her head in a tumble of wild curls and she lifted one slender hand to push it back from her face in an attempt to tame it. But what he felt most in that moment was a jolt of recognition, as if he’d met her somewhere before.

‘Do I know you? You seem very familiar.’

‘My husband is Sam Beckett. He has the ironmongery shop inside Champion Street Market.’

‘Ah, of course.’ He thought it rather curious that she should identify herself by naming her husband, as if she had no identity of her own. Not something Helen would ever do. But that must account for her familiarity. He’d seen her around the market, nothing more than that.
 

Yet Leo knew, as he took her hand in his and savoured the small warmness of it, that there was a great deal more to it than that. ‘Leo Catlow,’ he said, and they smiled into each other’s eyes.

In that moment it came to him that this was the woman he’d been waiting for all his life. The trouble was, he’d found her far too late.

Chapter Eighteen

Lynda was taking her turn on the stall while Betty enjoyed a late breakfast of toasted crumpets in Belle’s café. She was hammering the hard stems so that they would properly take up water, filling up the black galvanised buckets with clean cold water, stripping off the leaves from below the water line. Each day it was growing warmer and keeping the flowers fresh demanded endless spraying with cool water at intervals throughout the day. The daffodils were flown in every morning from Jersey and the Scilly Isles to Covent Garden and from there came by train to Manchester. Some flowers, such as tulips, were grown in Lincolnshire, miniature roses in pots travelled down from Scotland, and primroses and violets came from the woods of Devon and Cornwall. Lynda cupped a hand around a sprig of lavender to draw in the full aroma of its scent.

Lavender for distrust. Betty was no nearer to trusting Ewan, her ex-husband, but did
she
feel the same way about him? Lynda asked herself. Was she too beginning to have doubts over the wisdom of having her father come to live with them?

Lynda had naturally been thrilled when first Ewan had announced his intention to stay on for a while, if surprised by the sudden decision. He didn’t even ask if her mother minded. This hadn’t troubled Lynda at the time, but now she recognised it as a lack of respect on his part.

She’d always known that Ewan Hemley wasn’t an easy man. Lynda thought of him as an eccentric, a free spirit, and at first had been annoyed by her mother’s lack of patience with him, and by their constant back-biting.

But even she was beginning to find his manners and general behaviour disturbing. There was something not quite right about the man, something not particularly pleasant, and Lynda’s earlier irritation with her mother was beginning to fade and change to one of sympathy. It couldn’t be easy to have your ex-husband show up after all this time, let alone march into your home and attempt to take over.

 
‘Come on, chuck,’ Ewan would say. ‘Come and sit on your old dad’s knee. Lynda had done so because she’d always longed for a father, to be part of a proper family and assured of his love.

Yet she was becoming increasingly uncomfortable over these excessive displays of affection. After only a few moments of feeling his hands on her back, or his tobacco stained fingers twisting in her auburn curls, Lynda would experience the slightest sensation of a shiver running down her spine. Now why was that?