Tara

by Lesley Pearse

  Tara looked into those dark blue eyes and wanted to believe him.

  'I hope you're right, Harry,' she said softly. 'Please be right!'

  Chapter 10

  August 1961

  'Bloody 'ell!' George's rosy face drained of colour as he watched the six o'clock news.

  'Harry!' He backed towards the door, his eyes glued to the television screen. 'Come 'ere. 0uick!'

  Harry raced down, three steps at a time, wearing only a pair of Y-fronts, his face covered in shaving foam.

  It was Saturday evening. They had all just got back from the market and Queenie was out in the kitchen preparing a meal.

  Harry was getting ready to go out for a few drinks down at the Blind Beggar with his mates, and maybe he'd go somewhere later and pull a bird.

  'What is it?' Harry was irritated at being interrupted and he was afraid there was a lecture coming about getting into bad company. To his surprise his father was staring at the television, his face grey. He had taken off his waistcoat, his braces were loose around his hips and his stomach bulged over his loud checked trousers.

  'Murder,' George said grimly.

  'That's Sceptre Road!' Harry gasped as he recognised the street on the television.

  Harry perched on the arm of the settee as the journalist at the scene of the crime spoke.

  'At midday today the body of Father Glynn of St John's Church, Bethnal Green, was found by a young couple who'd gone to the parsonage to discuss their forthcoming marriage.' He waved towards the old house behind him. 'When they got no reply, they walked in the unlocked front door and called out, thinking the priest might be in the garden. They discovered Father Glynn lying dead on his study floor, the victim of a brutal murder. The police haven't officially released the cause of death, but here in Bethnal Green it is widely believed that the old priest was knocked out, then strangled. Burglary seems to be the motive, though that has still to be confirmed.'

  'No-one would turn over that place.' Harry looked at his father and frowned. Did George think this was the work of one of his mates? 'What would they expect to find in there?'

  'Shush!' George silenced him as neighbours were interviewed. They were all in deep shock. One by one they spoke emotionally of the old man's kindness, the ever-open door, his total involvement in the community he'd adopted as his own, his sense of humour and understanding of his parishioners.

  "There was no sense in killing him,' one woman sobbed. 'Father Glynn was a saint, he'd give his last crust to someone in need.'

  'What sort of maggot would kill an old priest?' Harry sighed. Violence was an everyday occurrence around here, but it was always between men of equal age and size and almost always stopped short of death. He got up from his seat and made his way back towards the door.

  'You don't understand.' George put out his hand to stop his son. "That was the priest who told me where Mabel Randall was.'

  'Yeah!' Harry stared at his father for a moment. Slowly, realisation dawned in his eyes. 'You don't think... ?'

  George nodded. 'I'd like to be wrong, but I got this feeling in me gut the moment I 'eard the 'eadline. Maybe someone told MacDonald the old girl worked for the priest and 'e went round there to find out where she went.'

  'Oh, shit.' Harry's face went as pale as the shaving soap. 'You don't think Father Glynn told him?'

  'Don't be thick,' Arry boy.' George winced. 'Why d' yer think Bill killed 'im? You can bet a week's wages that Father Glynn wouldn't put a woman and kids in danger. I expect 'e gave MacDonald a lecture an' all about laying into them, Bill got angry and hit 'im, then panicked and finished 'im off.'

  'It might not 'ave bin him,' Harry said. 'Everyone says 'e's gone up North. Look, let me finish shaving and get dressed, then we can decide what to do.'

  Harry, dressed ready to go out in a clean white shirt and grey trousers, sat at the kitchen table deep in thought while Queenie dished up pork chops and chips. George sipped a glass of beer, his pale blue eyes cloudy with anxiety. All three of them had discussed the murder, but they were still undecided about what ought to be done.

  'I don't believe even Bill MacDonald would kill a priest,' Queenie said firmly.

  She and George had been married just a fortnight before. They had a small reception in the room above the Blind Beggar and a brief four-day honeymoon in Ramsgate. All three were sad that Tara, Mabel and Amy hadn't been able to come, but there had been no real improvement in Amy and neither Mabel nor Tara felt they could leave her.

  'MacDonald is capable of doing anything,' Harry said quietly. Only a few days before he'd heard a couple of old mates of Bill's talking about a job they'd done together a few years earlier. There had been an old lady in the house and she had caught them red-handed. Both the other men merely wanted to rip out the phone so she couldn't get help easily, but Bill had punched her in the jaw and tied her to a chair. Later they read in the press she'd been tied up for two days before she was discovered. He had heard other things, too, which turned his stomach, but he had no intention of putting anyone off their tea.

  'The days when villains was like Robin 'ood is long gone.' George sighed.

  Until tonight he hadn't had a care in the world. Marrying Queenie had felt like the best thing he'd ever done, and he couldn't be happier. But even a lovely new wife couldn't prevent him from having an acute attack of panic at something as close to home as this.

  'We'd 'ave heard if MacDonald was around again,' Queenie argued.' 'E ain't a man that can creep around unnoticed.'

  'Unless 'e wants to,' George said darkly.

  Silence fell again as each one remembered just how devious MacDonald could be. Both Queenie and George had known MacDonald all their lives. They had shared in the celebrations when he came back from the War and sadly watched his slide downhill. In their position in the market they were privy to tales that even Amy didn't know.

  'On the other 'and 'e could have found their address after he killed the priest,' George said glumly. ' 'E could be on 'is way to Somerset now!'

  It could be devastating for Amy. Aside from the trauma of having MacDonald turning up on the doorstep in her present state, she could be in mortal danger. If he'd killed an old priest, he probably wouldn't think twice about hurting her or Tara.

  'Harry should go down to Somerset now.' Queenie's double chin wobbled with fright. 'Just in case, George.'

  'Me old darlin's right.' George looked hard at his son. 'Take some tools and make out like you've come to mend the barn and stuff. We can't warn Mabel 'cos they ain't on the phone, but I don't think she'd turn you away. If MacDonald turns up, well, we'll know then he got it out of Father Glynn, won't we? You can get right round the nick and get 'im locked up. But if 'e don't show, then no 'arm's done. They ain't none the wiser.'

  Harry nodded in agreement. Even as he finished shaving he had made up his mind he was going down there, and now his father had offered the perfect excuse.

  'We should speak to the old Bill, though.' Harry frowned. 'I mean, Bill MacDonald ain't a man who'll slip naturally into the frame. Killing a priest for the church collection ain't 'is style. While they ponce around, MacDonald could be leaving the country.'

  George didn't answer for a moment. Grassing was something totally alien to him. Even though he hated MacDonald for what he'd done to Amy and himself, his whole life had been ruled by a code of never squealing on anyone.

  'Just think of little Tara.' Queenie patted his hand. 'It ain't wrong to tell tales when a kid's gonna get hurt.'

  Harry flashed an appreciative smile at Queenie.

  She was a big woman in every sense – voluptuous curves, larger-than-life personality, big-hearted, with a wonderful sense of humour. She could get up in a pub and belt out a song, drink anyone under the table and hump her boxes of fruit and veg down the market like one of the men. Yet she was entirely feminine. She could rock a baby in her arms as tenderly as its own mother, she was always the first to offer help to anyone in trouble and her affection, once given, was never wit
hdrawn.

  Now they were married Harry wondered why the pair of them hadn't realised what had been under their noses for the ten years since she was widowed. They were made for each other.

  'I'll see to it,' George assured him. 'I know the right ear to whisper in without ever givin' away where Amy and Tara are. While you're down there, try and get Mabel to get the phone put in. I'll pay for it, but three women like that shouldn't be cut off with no way of getting 'elp.'

  'Who on earth's that?' Mabel put down the coal scuttle as a car came up the side lane. It was after eleven and she was just topping up the Aga before going off to bed. Amy and Tara were already asleep and the only reason Mabel hadn't joined them was because she had been doing some accounts.

  Peering out of the tiny diamond-shaped window in the back door she recognised the tall, slender youth as Harry by his silhouette against the car's interior light. Despite knowing who her visitor was, she still waited until he tapped on the back door before opening.

  'What time of day is this to call?' she snapped.

  He towered over her in the porch, his big shoulders filling the door frame, and even in the dim light she saw tension in his angular face.

  'Dad sent me.' Harry blushed at her sharp tone. 'He thought you could use some help around the farm, mending the roof and stuff. We would have rung, but you aren't on the phone.'

  Mabel pulled her dressing gown round her tightly and beckoned him in. She peered closely at him, and it occurred to her that he might be on the run from the police.

  'I came as soon as we closed the stall.' Harry grinned. 'I would have been 'ere hours ago, but I took a wrong turning.'

  She knew he was lying. A boy his age would have been out on the town on a Saturday night and, besides, smart lads like him didn't get lost.

  'Just tell me the truth.' She closed and locked the back door, then shut the door through to the hall.

  Harry wanted to lie as his father had told him to, but Mabel was too sharp. He stood there with his bag in his hand wishing he'd stopped at the pub until tomorrow morning.

  'Well, boy, don't just stand there like some half-wit. Out with it! Are you in trouble?'

  Harry hesitated. He had expected her to grumble about the late hour, but he hadn't considered she might think he was on the run.

  'Dad didn't want me to tell you the real reason.' Harry lowered his voice to little more than a whisper. 'But it looks like I'll 'ave to now. Father Glynn was murdered in his parsonage. We think it could 'ave been MacDonald.'

  The colour drained from her face, she swayed and Harry rushed forwards to catch her arm.

  'I'm sorry.' He held her tightly and hoped she wasn't going to faint. 'We knew it would be a shock. But one of us 'ad to come, just in case 'e got your address.' He helped her to a chair, and gave her a glass of water. 'Dad will see they pick 'im up,' he assured her, sitting down beside her at the table. 'But we didn't want the police rampaging round 'ere unless it's absolutely necessary. Did we do wrong?'

  She seemed to have lost some weight since Paul died and grief had made her facial lines deeper. For a moment she just sat there, digesting the shocking news.

  'No, you did right' She patted his hand in an uncharacteristically affectionate gesture. 'Father Glynn was a good man and a friend to me when I most needed it. Maybe it wasn't MacDonald who killed him, but we should be prepared just in case.'

  Harry was always inclined to forget Mabel had lived in Whitechapel for years, but right now he was reminded. She hadn't lost that East End mentality when dealing with family matters, or her distrust of police and social workers.

  'How are Amy and Tara?' he asked, as Mabel got up to make him tea and a sandwich.

  Mabel looked round at Harry as she put the kettle on. She was surprised that a twenty-year-old lad could be so sensitive, and suddenly she was glad he was here. It seemed odd to see a man so smartly dressed in her kitchen. His grey suit, white shirt, polished shoes and striped tie were all symbols of the city. Yet his bony face, that resolute chin and the muscles rippling beneath the expensive clothes all suggested the kind of masculine strength this place was short of.

  'Tara's terribly sad,' she replied. 'She tries too hard to please, trying to do the jobs Amy used to do and some of mine.'

  'And Amy?'

  Mabel sighed deeply. 'She's better in many ways. She answers when she's spoken to now. She washes, dresses and everything. But if Tara and I weren't here she'd just sit doing nothing all day.'

  'Can't the doctor do anything?'

  'She's still on tranquillisers.' Mabel frowned as if she didn't approve. 'I sometimes think they just keep the grief in. She still won't go out of that door.'

  Harry looked at the back door and understood entirely. The spot where Paul died was so close.

  'If I fixed the front door and porch Amy might be tempted to go out that way,' he suggested. 'It's worth a try, isn't it?'

  Mabel spread mustard on some ham and added the top slice of bread, pressed it down and cut it in two.

  'Anything's worth a try.' She pushed the sandwich towards him. 'But I don't know where to put you, Harry. Paul's room is just as he left it, but – ' She stopped, a tear rolling down her cheek.

  It was almost three months since Paul's death. For George and Harry back in London, grief and horror had been overtaken by preparations for the wedding. Even on the drive down Harry's thoughts had been of MacDonald rather than Paul. Now Mabel's stricken face reminded him that time had stood still for these three women; that the wound was still raw.

  'I'll just sleep in the dining room in my sleeping bag.' Harry touched her arm gently, understanding she couldn't bear to see him in there, not yet. 'It's better for me to be down here anyway.'

  'Not a word to Tara or Amy about this.' Mabel sniffed and wiped a tear away with the back of her hand. 'I'll tell them I wrote and asked you to come and do a few odd jobs.'

  'Harry!'

  Tara's shriek of delight as she discovered him outside pulling down the old porch made his uncomfortable night worthwhile. It was just after seven, but Harry had risen when Mabel came down for the milking.

  'Hello, princess,' Harry returned her warm hug. 'Dad thought I should combine a holiday with a spot of hard labour and get this place shipshape before winter.'

  She wore a pair of faded cotton shorts and a pink scoop-necked blouse, and all at once Harry was struck by her new adult shape. Tara had become a woman while he wasn't looking; she had full breasts, a tiny waist and long shapely legs that went on forever. All at once he felt tongue-tied.

  'Mum's not getting any better.' Tara's bright smile faded and her wide mouth slumped into dejection. 'I don't know what we're going to do.'

  Tara couldn't adequately describe her real feelings. Sometimes it overwhelmed her so much she would go off somewhere alone and just cry and cry. Other times she wished everyone could forget as she did occasionally, and that made her feel guilty.

  But worse still were the times she felt anger at her mother for sitting there so silently. She wanted to shake her and remind her she had a daughter, too.

  'It's early days yet.' Harry guessed a little of what was going on in her mind. 'Now let me go and dump this rotten wood and sort out some bricks for the porch. We'll catch up later.'

  Harry had dug foundations for the new porch and was just filling the trench with some cement when he became aware of Amy watching him.

  She was standing at the bottom of the stairs, wearing a white blouse buttoned up all wrong and a full summer skirt with big pink roses printed on it.

  'Hullo, Amy!' He made a point of not making too much of it, not even breaking off from working. She had lost weight, her skin looked so thin it was almost transparent and her eyelids had an odd purple tinge. 'Beautiful day, ain't it, shall I get a chair for you out here?'

  The front garden looked beautiful, the grass a little long and daisy strewn, but the flowerbeds a mass of bright colours. Hollyhocks and foxgloves had replaced the earlier delphiniums and there were clum
ps of lupins, snapdragons and dog daisies.

  She didn't reply, just stared at him, so Harry went by her into the sitting room and carried out a high-backed wicker armchair he'd noticed earlier.

  'There we are.' He patted an extra couple of cushions into it, moving it back into the dappled shade of a cherry tree. A curved flowerbed bright with huge dahlias hid the chair from the road. 'We can chat while I work.'

  In the old days she would've quizzed him about his work, his friends and would certainly have wanted to know every last detail about George and Queenie's wedding. Now he wasn't even sure she knew who he was.

  'It's pretty, ain't it.' He turned round to face her and held out a hand. 'Come on, it's lovely, and no-one can see you if that's what you're scared of.'

  She came forward hesitantly, looking around like a frightened deer.

  'We'll have to stop gassin' if anyone comes along,' Harry joked as she gingerly sat down. 'Otherwise they might want to come in and join the party.'

  Once she would have laughed, but now she just looked at him curiously, her head on one side.

  'When Tara comes back I'll ask 'er to bring you some tea.' Harry moved back to his work, picking up the first brick and a trowel.

  'Are you comfy?' he asked a few minutes later.

  'I'm fine,' she replied in a low voice. 'Don't worry about me, it's nice watching you work.'

  Something about her tone made Harry feel very odd. He had the distinct impression she thought she was with someone else.

  As Amy dozed in the sunshine she was with someone else, and way back in time. The smell of flowers as she came down the stairs had brought a hidden memory sharply back. She let her head loll, closed her eyes and remembered.

  She had a white rose pinned to her chest. It was an artificial silk one Mr Cohen had given her to finish off her blue dress and Flossie dabbed it with musk rose perfume that made it smell like the real thing.