Tara

by Lesley Pearse

  It pleased her that he didn't consider her a pushover, that he was too gentlemanly to pull off her clothes and his own on their first evening together, but all the same she wanted him. Wanting didn't quite cover it, she was burning for him, desperate, but how could she say so without appearing promiscuous?

  'I don't want you to go,' was the best she could offer, kissing him with fevered lips.

  'I must, babe.' He wriggled away from her slightly. 'We've got plenty of other nights, haven't we?'

  It was next morning, when she woke up with a raging thirst and a headache, that she had misgivings.

  'Thank heavens he didn't take advantage,' she thought to herself as she lay holding her head. Sober, she could see things that hadn't even crossed her mind last night. Angie's hurt, maybe even putting her job in jeopardy, not to mention the callousness of taking a lover the very first night Harry was in jail.

  She couldn't concentrate on her work that day. She was making up some samples, but she kept making mistakes and having to unpick things. Each time she heard one of the girls go into the shop kitchen, she started, expecting Josh to come up the stairs.

  Yet as hard as she tried to forget, images kept coming into her mind and she could feel his lips on her breasts, taste his kisses, and she knew she wanted him.

  He rang late in the afternoon, hurriedly from a phone box.

  'Are you all right today?' he asked. 'You put a lot of drink away.'

  'Just a bit of a headache,' she said, wondering if she should try to cool things down, or encourage him.

  'I don't know when I'll be able to get round again,' he said. 'I've had a bit of a problem getting more material for the velvet jackets. I might have to go up to the Midlands.'

  He left it at that. No date, no promise to come round, leaving her without the opportunity to turn him down.

  That evening Amy phoned and the moment Tara heard her voice she knew she'd been crying.

  'I don't know what to say,' she said in a weak plaintive voice. 'I can't believe Harry would hurt an old man.'

  'I'm sure he didn't, Mum.' Tara felt sick now, she'd forgotten all those people back home reading about it and recognising it as the Harry Collins they all liked so much. 'George say's he's shielding someone.'

  'But he was at the robbery,' Amy said. 'No-one can alter that.'

  Tara tried to get her off the subject, asking about Greg and Gran, but still her mother kept coming back to it.

  'We just have to believe in him, Mum,' Tara said. 'And hope the man that did it comes forward.'

  After she'd put the phone down Tara put her head on her arms and cried. She was so confused. Harry's face danced before her, bringing back all the good memories. But even if he wasn't a murderer, he was a thief, and he was going to prison. She couldn't even think about loving a man like that.

  As the run-up to Christmas grew more frantic, Tara had little opportunity to dwell on either Harry or Josh. There was no time for designing now, just helping in the shop, filling up the rails from the stockroom, supervising, displaying, rushing to the bank for change.

  Josh baffled her. He only breezed in and out to collect the takings, or bring more stock. Sometimes he could spare five minutes for a coffee upstairs in her flat, but even though he always pulled her into his arms and gave her one of his thrilling kisses, she could feel the tension pent up inside him.

  'I'll make it up to you soon,' he said one afternoon, sliding his hand up under her sweater and tweaking her nipple. 'What are you doing for Christmas?'

  'I have to go home,' she said, wishing it wasn't necessary as she was beginning to feel she had no place there any longer.

  'Could I come with you?'

  Tara was stunned. 'You don't really want to?' she said disbelievingly.

  'I do. I'd like to meet your family and see your home. Christmas isn't different to any other day at my parents, but if I'm in London they'll expect me to turn up. I could drive us down on Christmas Eve after we've closed.'

  'I'd have to speak to Gran.' Tara immediately got a mental picture of her Gran sounding off about Jews and wondered if it was such a good idea. But on the other hand it would prevent Mum and Gran from going on about Harry all the time.

  'Gran's a bit batty.' She slid into Josh's arms. 'Don't blame me if you have a terrible time.'

  'I've got a way with ladies,' he whispered, pressing himself hard against her. 'Or so I'm told.'

  To Tara's surprise both Gran and her mother seemed to welcome the idea of Josh when she telephoned them. They both agreed to stick to the same story about the flat in Acton and Mr Manning's heart attack. Even when Tara warned Gran not to make her usual disparaging remarks about Jews, she only chuckled.

  'I know when to keep my lip buttoned,' she said.

  Gran didn't mention Harry, but then she'd already made her feelings known in a letter. To her there were no grey areas, Harry was guilty of robbing the warehouse, so it followed he'd killed the watchman too.

  When Angie phoned one evening and said she'd jacked in her job, Tara was shocked.

  'But why?' she asked. 'I thought you loved it.'

  'It was crappy money, and I'm fed up with Josh,' Angie said light-heartedly. 'He hasn't been near me since he opened the Church Street shop. I'm not wasting any more time on him. I'm going to work for a new boutique in Carnaby Street. I might even get a flat over your way, too.'

  She spoke of people's faith in Harry in Bethnal Green.

  'Everyone knows he didn't do it,' she said. 'His mates'll put the frighteners on the bloke what shot him, don't worry.'

  It was one less thing to worry about. At least she didn't have to concern herself about hurting Angie. But as Christmas came closer and closer, there was no time to dwell on anything other than work.

  The shop was packed with noisy, over-excited young people. Soul music played at full volume, coloured lights flashed over the central display of one green and one red velvet mini dress. It was the last Saturday before Christmas and it seemed as if the whole of London's youth had descended on Kensington to buy something to wear.

  Tara stood by the side of the cashier, folding and packing the garments, keeping one eye open for shop lifters.

  "That's the last of those!' Susie, one of the temporary staff, put down the white crepe mini dress trimmed with fluffy feathers at the neck and wrists on the counter. 'We must have sold hundreds!'

  "They've been going well in Bethnal Green, too,' Tara replied, mentally making a note to ask Josh to get some more.

  'That was mean of Josh sacking the manageress there,' Susie said. 'She's been working for him since he started.'

  'She left to work in Carnaby Street.' Tara looked sharply at the girl. Her eyes showed no sign of malice.

  'Where did you hear that?'

  'My cousin Rose works there,' Susie said. 'She told me. Josh accused her of wearing clothes from the shop and sacked her instantly. Rose reckons that wasn't the real reason, though. She thinks he's got another bird, and doesn't want the new one to find out he's been sleeping with Angie.'

  Tara ruminated on this news for the rest of the afternoon. It was quite in character for Angie not to admit the truth; she didn't like to lose face, not even with an old friend. But Josh's behaviour was far more puzzling. He had known Angie borrowed clothes right from the outset. Why get funny about it now? Unless of course Rose was right and he wanted to remove the last obstacle in his way to getting her.

  It was the deviousness of it that bothered her. What sort of game was Josh playing, and why?

  Tara got into bed early on Sunday night. Saturday night had been a real laugh. Miranda had stayed behind after work and they'd had a couple of bottles of wine, while they chatted. She had been wrong about Miranda. She wasn't snooty, not once you got closer, it was just the way she'd been brought up – private school, rich parents with a big house in Barnes.

  Later, when they were very drunk, they staggered off to the Zambesi club in Earl's Court wearing tinsel and mistletoe in their hair. There were
n't anywhere near enough girls to go round, and the Australians and South Africans who had made the club their own were practically fighting each other to dance or buy them drinks. She had vague memories of snogging with some huge Australian and telling him she'd fallen in love with him, then running off to catch a taxi with Miranda while he was in the toilets.

  But on Sunday when she woke around twelve she felt like a balloon with a slow puncture, all the joy disappearing leaving her flat as a pancake. She halfheartedly did the button holes on a sample jacket, took her washing to the launderette and cleaned her flat, then crawled into bed to cry.

  'Let Josh come for Christmas,' she said to herself joylessly as she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. 'But keep him at a distance. Don't trust him!'

  'Try and find out who grassed me up,' Harry whispered to George through the grille in the visiting room. 'I've heard the name Joe Spikes mentioned a few times in here, too, try and get a starting price on him, where he's come from, his form, the works.'

  'Where's he supposed to hang out?' George asked.

  'I dunno, one bloke said he's come from over the river, Catford, Deptford. Thinks he might be part of the Richardson crew. I got this whisper that he's got some grudge against me. He could have leaned on one of the lads.'

  George looked nervously round him. He hated coming to Brixton. Seeing his son through this grille was torture, the haunted look in his eyes, the way he kept biting his lip. There was nothing he could do either, not even squeeze his boy's hand.

  In the waiting room the heat was stifling. Flustered mothers struggled with small babies, toddlers grizzled because they were tired of waiting. You could tell the women who'd been through this countless times, boldfaced and loud-voiced, ten minutes with them and they'd tell you every last thing about their old man. It was a sordid, dirty place, like lifting a manhole cover and finding a whole underworld you never knew existed.

  'How's Tara?' Harry put his hands on the grille, as if trying to sap something of his father through the wire. 'I've put up that picture of her in my cell. It helps.'

  'The shop's packed out all day every day, but she seems 'appy enough.'

  'Has Josh moved on her yet?'

  'Don't ask me questions like that, son.' George frowned. 'I don't know the answer, anyway it ain't any good brooding on such things.'

  'She's such a kid still,' Harry looked gloomy. 'I don't trust Josh, he's such a fuckin' smoothie. I just can't bear to think he might be screwing her.'

  'Well, use your loaf then.' George moved closer to the grille. 'Give your brief enough to clear you of the shootin', at least. You'll still get a year or so for the robbery, but you could use the time inside studyin' summat useful. I'll stick by you this time because you're my boy. But get in the shit a second time and that's it as far as I'm concerned.'

  Harry looked at his father and felt a lump in his throat. George was a diamond. He never pulled a fast one on anyone, never lied or cheated.

  'Did I ever tell you 'ow much I value you?' Harry said softly, wishing there was no grille and he could hug his father. 'I'll make you a promise here and now, I'll never let you down again. I'm through with thieving.'

  George's eyes misted over. 'Glad to hear it, son.' His voice was gruff with emotion. 'Now tell me what else you've 'eard about this Joe Spikes. And while you're at it, what about birds you've dropped. One of them could be at the bottom of it.'

  Chapter 20

  'Push the other one away, idiot!' Tara sat back on a bale of straw laughing hysterically at Josh's attempt to feed the calf from a bucket.

  'Don't just sit there laughing,' he shouted over his shoulder. 'Help me!'

  It was Boxing Day morning and Tara was attempting to un-citify Josh. With her hair tied up in bunches, wearing old jodhpurs, boots and a donkey jacket, she looked as if she'd never lived in a town.

  He had already failed miserably on feeding the pigs, by turning to run when the big sow Mildred put her front trotters up on the sty wall to roar out an ecstatic greeting. He could do no more than pat Betsy gingerly on the nose as Tara took in her oats. Now even feeding a couple of pretty black and white calves seemed beyond him.

  The calves were penned with willow screens in the back corner of the barn, the floor ankle-deep in dirty straw. In an ancient jacket and trousers of Gran's, Wellingtons borrowed from Stan, with his curly black hair and olive skin, Josh looked more like some poor tinker than a businessman.

  The calves had moved in on him the moment he appeared with the bucket of skimmed milk, elbowing aside the screens and both trying to get their heads in the bucket at the same time.

  'Be firm with them,' Tara called out as he nervously edged further and further back. 'Slap the little one on the nose and hold your ground.'

  But Josh couldn't co-ordinate holding the heavy pail and he seemed reticent even to touch the animals. Tara got up to intervene, but before she reached him his boot landed on some manure, he skidded and toppled back. The milk flew up into the air as he fell backwards, the pail clonking down on to his chest.

  Tara shrieked with laughter. Josh was spreadeagled on the straw, soaked in milk, and the two calves were advancing on him, limpid dark eyes glistening at their spilled breakfast.

  'Get them off me,' he yelled, covering his face with his hands as two long tongues flicked out to lick him. "They'll trample me to death!'

  Tara shooed the calves back into their pen with one expert tap each on each rump, and put the willow screen back.

  "They're six-week-old babies, not charging rhinos.' She was convulsed with laughter, but held out her hand to haul him up. 'Somehow I don't think you're ever going to get the hang of this.'

  Josh wiped the milk off his face once he was vertical again, but he hadn't noticed where his hand had been and now he had a smear of manure right down one cheek.

  'It's horrible in here,' he said petulantly, his face a picture of misery. 'It stinks, it's dirty, but I wouldn't mind it so much if you weren't enjoying my discomfort.'

  'Oh, don't be daft. Can't you take a joke?' Tara took a step forward and wiped his face with a handkerchief. 'Go and change. I'll feed the calves.'

  'He's no country boy,' Mabel said with a smirk as Josh disappeared up the stairs, wearing only his shirt and socks, leaving the mucky trousers, boots and coat in the porch.

  'You and Tara have a cruel streak,' Amy said reprovingly, having seen the whole thing from her bedroom window. 'If Tara had just helped him with the calves he'd probably have enjoyed feeding them.'

  'To each his own.' Mabel looked round from the vegetables she was preparing in the sink. 'I'll say that for Harry, he could handle everything here.'

  Amy put the kettle on the Aga then turned to her mother, hands on hips. Mabel had been very jolly and amenable for the last few days, but her tone suggested she might be lapsing back into her usual prickly ways.

  'Well, that is a turn-up,' Amy said sarcastically, knowing the only way to deal with her mother was outright confrontation. 'We've finally found something we like about Harry!'

  'I only speak as I find.' Mabel pursed her lips and looked at her daughter defiantly. 'You know I don't really believe Harry killed that man. But he was thieving and he deserves to be punished.'

  Amy shook her head in amazement.

  'Mother, you're the most aggravating woman I've ever met,' she said. 'You've refused to allow me even to mention his name. You were rude to George when he telephoned. Now you say you don't believe he shot the watchman. Couldn't you have come down off your high horse for long enough to write Harry a Christmas card?'

  'If I've been hard, it's only for Tara's sake,' Mabel said waspishly. 'If I showed the slightest softness towards him, Tara might take that as approval. Besides, Harry knows me better than anyone and for your information, Miss Perfect, I did write to him, soon after he was nicked.'

  'You did?' Amy's jaw fell open.

  Mabel leaned back against the sink, a smug smile on her lips.

  'I told him what a disappointment he
was to me. But I did say, too, that I knew he wouldn't take a gun to anyone. I also offered to help him get back on bis feet when he gets released.'

  For a moment Amy just stared in surprise, but slowly something dawned on her.

  'You mean working for you, here?' She threw back her blonde hair from her face.

  'Well, if Greg Masterton sweeps you off, I'll need help,' Mabel retorted. 'And the way things are going with Josh and Tara, she won't be coming back here either.'

  'Mother, Mother.' Amy burst into laughter. 'I think you are the most contrary, cunning, obstinate woman I've ever met, but I love you anyway.'

  Amy was still smiling as she went into the sitting room to tidy up and put more coal on the fire. All this time she and Greg had wondered how they could ever broach the subject of them marrying without Mabel flying off the handle. But in fact her mother was already making plans, albeit cock-eyed ones. She probably knew, too, that whenever Amy was missing in the afternoon or evening she was with Greg in his house, making love.

  Since that first clumsy attempt back in the summer, their love affair had become so beautiful and fulfilling. Only yesterday Greg had suggested they become engaged and put a stop to the gossip about them. But Amy wanted to wait until after Harry's trial. It didn't seem right to be planning a joyful occasion when someone you cared for deeply was in so much trouble.

  'I doubt if he'll take you up on the offer, Mother,' Amy said to herself as she swept up the pine needles. 'But he'll appreciate the thought behind it.'

  Josh looked at himself in the bathroom mirror thoughtfully as he waited for the bath to fill. The milk had penetrated right down to his pants, he had straw and muck in his hair, and he doubted he could wash the farmyard smell off.

  He was angry, not so much with Tara for showing him up, but at himself.

  'You shouldn't have come here,' he whispered to his reflection as he drew a comb through his curls to remove the straw. 'You've blown it.'