The Great Betrayal (3 page)

That same afternoon, on her way home from shopping, Lydia decided to try her father with the photographs. Seeing the members of the family in black and white might jog his memory and make him feel more confident. She was hoping that being less vague and more ‘in control’ might restore some of the good humour she recalled from times past. Dour he certainly was and often had been, but her mother had explained that some people did not know how to be happy. At least Lydia knew that he had once loved her.

She found him in the potting shed, scraping soil from a stack of flower pots, and coaxed him back into the house with the promise of a pot of tea and biscuits.

When she judged the time to be right, she said, ‘Shall we look at the photographs, Adam? You like that, don’t you?’

Delighted, he abandoned his colouring book and hurried importantly to the sideboard to collect the album.

Lydia said, ‘If we can’t remember all the names, Grandpapa will have to help us.’

The boy settled beside her on the sofa, and Lydia was pleased to see her father edge his chair a little closer to them.

‘Here we go!’ said Lydia, opening the album to reveal the first photograph. ‘Now who are these people, Adam?’

He pointed with a stubby finger. ‘That’s Grandpapa, and that’s Grandmama but now she’s gone to heaven.’

Lydia said, ‘Let’s ask Grandpapa if you are right,’ and looked at him enquiringly.

With feigned reluctance he leaned closer and nodded. ‘That’s me and . . .’ He closed his eyes. ‘I ought to know her name,’ he muttered. It’s . . . It’s . . . Estelle?’

Adam looked at his mother for approval.

‘Nearly right,’ she told them. ‘Grandmama’s name was Elspeth.’

‘Elspeth?’ George repeated. ‘But that’s what I said. Elspeth. Yes. Of course it was. Taken two months after our marriage.’

‘Well done!’ said Lydia, and Adam, taking his cue, clapped his hands.

She turned the page to a formal portrait of herself and her brother, taken on Robert’s eleventh birthday. ‘And these two children are . . .?’

George leaned closer, frowning. ‘So that’s where he got to,’ he said, speaking to himself. ‘Robert! Yes, of course. That’s Robert. He’s in the album.’ He glanced up at his daughter. ‘Where did he get to? I never see him these days.’

Adam said eagerly, ‘He was my uncle, but he was only little in the picture, and then he was knocked down by a big, big horse and . . .’

George gave a strangled cry and struggled to his feet. ‘That’s enough, young Adam,’ he said harshly. ‘You never knew him like I did! He was a wonderful boy. Wonderful, d’you hear me? Something about a horse . . .? Yes, that was it. Knocked down in his prime! Such a waste.’ His face crumpled.

Dismayed, Lydia closed the album with a snap and whispered to Adam to replace it in the sideboard. She turned to her father and said gently, ‘Robert had a happy life, Father. We shouldn’t mourn him. He wouldn’t wish it. He—’

George steadied himself with one hand on the mantelpiece and glared at his daughter. ‘Don’t try to tell me he’s gone. I know better. He’s . . . he’s around. You’ll see . . . Robert. Yes, that’s it.’

Sensing the change of atmosphere, Adam closed the sideboard door and looked towards his mother for reassurance.

She said, ‘Father, you have a wonderful grandson! If you would only take the time to get to know him, Adam would . . .’

He waved the suggestion away with a sweep of his free hand. ‘His father’s a spy!’ he said. ‘Don’t try to fool me.’

She bit back a reproach, telling herself that he scarcely knew what he was saying and was not to blame for his cruel outburst. As he wandered out into the passage, still mumbling angrily to himself, Lydia, with tears in her eyes, swept Adam into her arms and hugged him.

Two

The next morning the postman brought a letter from Lydia’s husband, and she rushed upstairs to read it in private. Later she would read carefully selected passages to her son and father. Seating herself by the window, she kissed the envelope, tore it open and drew out the enclosed letter.

‘Only two sheets!’ she murmured, disappointed, but she then reminded herself that two pages were better than none at all and that John was a very busy man.

‘A wonderfully understanding wife!’ she echoed, drawing a little comfort from the compliment.

Lydia smiled. Her son’s attempt had consisted of a very small yellow engine surrounded by billowing blue smoke.

Lydia let out a deep sigh of contentment. He was coming home and he loved her and was anxious to see his son. What more could she ask of him, she wondered happily.

Lydia folded the letter and pressed it to her heart. Not long to wait, she told herself, and their little family would be complete again.

A few moments later she went downstairs, where Adam was crawling along the floor, pushing a painted wooden boat, and her father was reading
The Times
. The latter glanced up as she came in, his face alight with interest, and she was reminded how he used to look when he was younger, before the deterioration had set in.

‘Would you credit it?’ he demanded. ‘Another armed robbery – this time at Glazers in Oxford Street. Jewellery valued at over a thousand pounds!’ He shook his head. ‘
Over a thousand pounds
! The audacity of it. The sheer effrontery of the thieves. They do say the police have a lead, but then they always say that.’

Lydia raised her eyebrows. ‘Do they think it’s the same gang?’

He consulted the article. ‘Yes. Same
modus operandi
. I’d like to get my hands on the blighters. There were three men: one to drive the getaway car, one to hold up the staff at gunpoint and one to grab the stuff. They didn’t shoot anyone this time, but they used a gun to knock one of the customers to the ground and he’s in a poor way in hospital with a fractured skull.’

Adam looked up. ‘What is a hospital?’

His grandpapa smiled. ‘A place where you go if you’re ill.’

The boy turned to Lydia.

She said, ‘You go to stay there in a cosy little bed and the doctors and nurses make you better again.’

‘If you’re lucky!’ George growled.

Lydia gave her father a warning look, then remembered her letter from John. As soon as she began to read an edited version for her son’s sake, her father stood up and threw down his newspaper. ‘I can’t listen to this nonsense,’ he told her. ‘Can’t believe a word he says! Never could. I warned you.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ she snapped, her joy evaporating. ‘Please don’t start that again, Father.’ Her voice rose slightly. ‘Poor John has done nothing to deserve your constant criticism.’

‘How could he? He’s never here! Last Christmas he disappeared in the middle of the Christmas dinner!’

‘He was called away on urgent business.’

‘So he said – and you chose to believe him! I’ll be in the garden if you want me.’ Scowling, he pushed himself to his feet.

Adam looked at him. ‘But Grandpapa, it’s raining!’

‘I like the rain.’

Lydia gritted her teeth. ‘If you must go in the garden, please take an umbrella, Father.’

‘I’ll do nothing of the sort. I’ll get wet – but that’s my business. My choice! You seem to forget I’m not a child. I’m your father!’

Lydia bit back another sharp reply, but then forced back the words and smiled at her son. ‘Come and sit with me, Adam, and I’ll read you what Papa says about that picture you drew for him. The engine. Do you remember?’

He beamed as he scrambled on to the sofa beside her. ‘The one with all the smoke? Did Papa like it?’

‘He liked it very much, Adam.’

‘I can draw him another picture. I can draw a house and a tree, and I can put Snip in the picture.’

‘I’m sure he would like that, Adam. Your papa is coming home soon, Adam, and you can tell him all about the puppy.’

As the door closed behind her father, Lydia closed her eyes briefly, torn between relief and guilt. She knew he could not help his irritable state of mind – his growing confusion must be terribly trying for him – but his hostility hurt her. If John were ever to become truly rich, which she doubted he would, a kindly nurse to help with her father would be a real blessing.

That same afternoon Dolly sat opposite her beloved in Bert’s Caff, listening with disbelief as Don outlined his plan. She sipped her tea without tasting it as her new life unfolded, word by word. In her wildest dreams she had never expected him to actually marry her, but she had hoped they would live together with their baby. Now he was promising to make her his legal wife, and the idea was almost too exciting to bear.

‘You mean . . . get wed in a church and everything?’ She stared at him. ‘This isn’t a joke, is it? You wouldn’t be so cruel . . . would you?’ Her heart was racing as she tried to imagine herself standing outside the church with their friends around her. Mrs Jenny Wickham! No, what was she thinking? She would be Mrs
Donald
Wickham.

‘No, Dolly, this isn’t a joke,’ he said gently. ‘But there won’t be a church because that would cost too much money and I’m trying to save up so that later on we can find a little flat and be on our own away from Mansoor Street – maybe an airy attic with a nice view across the rooftops.’

Dolly felt quite faint at the thought of it. She had expected to move in with the two brothers and would have settled for that. A place of their own! She wanted to throw her arms around him and hug the living daylights out of him but restrained herself. There was more to know, and she wanted to hear it all. She looked trustingly into his eyes as he continued.

‘I have a very good friend who has promised to marry us – a quiet, private affair with just Sidney as best man . . . His name is Reverend Willis Burke, and he has conducted several other weddings. He is not going to charge us the full rate because partly the ceremony will be his present to us. Isn’t that splendid of him?’

‘His wedding present to us? Oh, that is so kind!’ Dolly liked him already. ‘Will he – you know . . . Will he wear all the right clothes? The long dress and stuff? I mean, will he look like a reverend?’

‘Certainly. He
is
a reverend. Everything will be just as you imagine except for the church and all that silly hymn singing. There’s a small room over the Rose and Garter on Clarence Street which he uses for these private affairs.’

She had the feeling that he was watching her closely and did not want him to think she was in any way disappointed but she knew the Rose and Garter, and Clarence Street was hardly where she would have chosen to hold their wedding. But . . . beggars can’t be choosers, she told herself.

Don took hold of her hand. ‘Then afterwards we can pop down for a drink and—’

‘Can my ma come? And my sister and . . .’

He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. The licensing laws only allow weddings on the premises if they are entirely private and discreet. No crowds. No rice or rose petals. They’re just trimmings, anyway. A private wedding is a very staid affair. Simple and elegant.’

‘But my ma . . .’ Her voice wavered.

‘No, Dolly!’ His tone had changed. ‘I’ve just explained that a private wedding has to be exactly that.
Private
.’ He shrugged, and his expression hardened. ‘Look, Dolly, if you would rather skip the wedding it’s fine by me. I wanted to please you, that’s all. I don’t give two damns!’

Dolly gasped. She stared at him, stricken. ‘No! No, everything’s fine, Don. Fine and dandy.’ She forced a smile, terrified that the dream wedding was about to be snatched away. ‘Truly it is, Don.’ She gazed at him beseechingly. ‘We can tell everyone afterwards. Explain that it was private and everything.’

‘Good girl. I knew you’d be sensible. We’ll be man and wife, and that’s all that matters. The baby will have a mother and father. It’s arranged for two o’clock on Saturday.’ He smiled. ‘Promise me you’ll be there!’

‘Oh dearest Don, most certainly I’ll be there – in my best bib and tucker!’ She was recovering from her fright. But whatever was she going to wear? she wondered, immediately anxious. Maybe she would confide in her sister and borrow the white silk rose from her straw hat. She could pin that on her Sunday best dress . . . But would her sister be able to keep the secret? She was something of a blabbermouth . . .

‘You must tell no one, Dolly,’ he was urging. ‘The reverend was most particular about that. If word gets out, he’ll be pestered from noon ’til dusk by other folk wanting the same – and he’ll blame us!’

Suddenly, his eyes darkened again. ‘There’s one more thing, Dolly, that you must accept. The day after the wedding I am away again on business all day so . . .’

‘On a Sunday?’ A wave of regret swept through her at the prospect. ‘But if you tell them you’ve just got married . . .’