Tara

by Lesley Pearse

  Harry pulled over the bedspread, tossed a few cushions on it, then limped off to the bathroom to put his clothes on. The bell rang again just as Tara was going out into the hall, tucking her T-shirt into her jeans.

  'Miss Manning?' the older of the two men asked.

  'Yes.' Tara felt a pang of fear. 'What is it?'

  'Could we come in to speak to you?' he said in a gentle tone she knew meant something unpleasant. It's about Joshua Bergman.'

  She stared wide-eyed as they described how a neighbour had rung Chelsea police to report that Josh was back in his house late last night.

  'We called soon after but we could get no reply and in fact we believed the neighbour was mistaken,' the younger of the two officers said. He was very fair, with almost white eyelashes and pale blue eyes. The older man had gingery thinning hair, with a freckly complexion and a missing front tooth.

  'Spare her the blow-by-blow account,' Harry said, putting his arm around her and holding her tightly. 'Is something wrong?'

  'We gained entry at ten this morning.' The gingery one looked faintly irritated by Harry's attempt to speed their report up. 'We found Bergman dead on his bed. He had taken a fatal overdose.'

  Tara could hear what they were saying, but she couldn't believe it. Josh's last words to her had been that she had given him the courage he needed.

  'But why? We talked yesterday. He was going to come to you and give himself up. I don't understand.'

  She hadn't told Harry about him being here. Not because she wanted to hide it, but because his presence had put it right out of her mind. Now she felt him bristle.

  'I'm sorry, Harry. I should have told you he was here when I got back from Folkestone. It's just we had other things on our minds.'

  'It's OK.' Harry hugged her. 'Let the officers explain.'

  'From the letter he left I'd say he just couldn't cope with anything any longer,' the older man said.

  'He left a letter? What did he say?' Tara wanted to cry, but she forced herself not to give in to it.

  'You'll be able to see it later.' The blond officer looked faintly embarrassed now. 'Much of it concerns his feelings about you and the business. I suggest you come with us to the station; we do need your help with some of our enquiries.'

  They were ushered into a small room on the first floor of Chelsea police station. It smelled of stale cigarettes and the windows were frosted so interviewees couldn't even be distracted by the view. But Sergeant Baldwin was kind. He went over how Josh was found, showed no surprise at all that Josh had been hiding in her flat prior to her return to London and even less that Josh had failed to give himself up.

  'He was probably more frightened of being without his heroin than the actual process of law,' he said gently.

  'I should have rung you last night to check he had come to you,' she said brokenly. 'It never occurred to me he would take his life.'

  'Tara.' Sergeant Baldwin's voice was firm. 'I can tell you now that it wouldn't have made a scrap of difference. If someone intends to take their life, they find a way. It would perhaps have been worse for you if he'd flung himself under a bus when we arrived to arrest him, or hung himself in a cell. At least this way you know he died peacefully, the way he'd chosen for himself.'

  'But it's such a waste, he had so much talent.'

  Baldwin shot her a look that suggested he saw no real loss in one more drug addict dying by his own hand, but he reached across the table and patted her hand.

  'Don't fret about this,' he insisted. 'You and Mr Collins have both suffered enough, and from what Bergman says in his letter I suspect he'd been trading on your talent for too long. Would you like to see it now?'

  Tara looked at Harry. He had been silently supportive, his hand in hers, but she was a little afraid that Josh's last words to her might hurt him.

  'Go on,' Harry urged. 'Maybe it'll reassure you he did know what he was doing.' Sergeant Baldwin handed her the letter. Just looking at Josh's beautiful copperplate script made her eyes prick with tears. She remembered him telling her he was taught it by a Rabbi after school because his father said you could tell an educated man by his handwriting. But as Tara began to read the letter she could no longer hold back her tears. Here was the real Josh, a man who had never really belonged anywhere. It was simply marked 'To whoever finds me'.

  'I have decided to end my life because I see no further purpose to it. My business is close to failure, I have disappointed my parents. I am a criminal and a heroin addict. I have lied, exaggerated and hyped my way through life, spread my little talent very thinly, and used people rather than befriending them.

  I regret most of the shabby stunts I've pulled on people, all the deals which left others with a sour taste in their mouth, and all those women I treated so badly. As I sit here, so terribly in need of a friend, I can't think of one person who I haven't used and discarded, and I know I deserve what's come to me.

  But of all the people I used and hurt, Tara Manning is the one who concerns me most. I want it known now that she was always the creative force behind Josh shops. It was her talent as a designer that made my fortune, and yet I stifled her, gagged and blindfolded her so she would never realise just how bright a star she was.

  Why? Simple jealousy, that's all. I had been to art school, I had the right background, but I didn't have that spark of brilliance she has.

  There isn't much time to make restitution, but I did call on my solicitor Mr William Bennett of Bennett and Legett of Chancery Lane this afternoon, and made a will.

  I wish to apologise now to everyone I hurt. To my parents, who will perhaps never understand. To Harry Collins, who I think might. But most of all to Tara, who not only gave me her best but in the end pointed me in the right direction.

  Sing no sad songs for me.

  Joshua Bergman'

  Harry just held Tara while she cried, waiting patiently for the sobs to subside, offering her a handkerchief and smoothing back her hair.

  Sergeant Baldwin cleared his throat and shuffled one or two papers round on his desk in faint embarrassment.

  'Of course the solicitors Bergman spoke of will get in touch with you in due course, but I'm sure you'd like a rough idea now of what's in the will?'

  Harry looked up quickly, eyes bright with interest. 'You know?'

  'The gist of it,' the policeman said. 'We were only checking them out to make sure he hadn't deposited any large sums or even drugs in the solicitors' safekeeping, and of course to discover how Bergman seemed at the time. Anyway, he didn't deposit anything. He was absolutely normal in every way. He told Mr Bennett he was on his way to us, asked him to recommend a brief, and wanted a simple will drawn up before he did so.'

  'How sad,' Tara whispered. 'Imagine thinking all that out, trying to put everything right.'

  'And they told you what he put in his will?' Harry asked in some surprise.

  'Yes, in case it helped our enquiries. Apparently Bergman wanted his solicitors to have this letter and the contents of his will publicised so there would be no quibbling or doubts as to his intentions.'

  'Well?' Harry leaned forward impatiently. 'He left his entire estate to you, Miss Manning.'

  It was only when they got back home that the full impact hit her. Grief at losing a man who had been so important in her adult life. Guilt because maybe she'd failed him, and anger because he'd laid a burden at her feet she didn't feel strong enough to lift.

  'Why leave me his business?' she sobbed. 'How did he expect me to handle it if he couldn't?'

  'I expect he assumed you'd be sensible enough to get professional advice,' said Harry, sitting up in bed and hauling her up till she nestled in his arms. 'But you aren't alone in this, babe, you've got me to help. We'll get a report on the shops, find out which ones are draining away profit, which ones make it. Maybe you'll have to shut up a couple of them, sell the leases and use the money to update the remaining ones.'

  Tara was silent for some time. She lay curled up against Harry, deep in thought
. He made no attempt to break through the silence, aware she was working her way through the events of the day.

  'You know how back home in Somerset they have this idea all the women in our family are jinxed?' she blurted out suddenly. "That's what all this is. Another bloody jinx.'

  Harry shook his head. 'Not so. You've underestimated Josh, sweetheart. I reckon he knew you could turn it around. He was another gambler, but he left the tables this time while he still had a good hand. We're picking up that hand, babe, and we're going to win, not just for us, but for Josh, too.'

  Chapter 38

  August 1970

  'Doesn't she look beautiful?' Tara turned to Harry and Queenie, her eyes glistening as Amy walked up the aisle on George's arm.

  The church was bright with flowers. The end of each pew had a posy of trailing ivy, marigolds and gyp-sophila, there were baskets of roses around the pulpit and huge arrangements of delphiniums and carnations on every available surface. But Amy outshone the flowers, radiant in palest pink silk, with a headdress of pink rosebuds. The long dress was simple, her hair hung loose on her shoulders as she wore it most days, but it was the joy in her face that turned her into an object of wonder.

  As Amy reached the front pew she looked sideways at Tara and smiled. Greg looked round from his position at the altar rail, his face beatific.

  Harry's hand stole into Tara's and squeezed, reminding her that soon it would be them at the altar.

  Tara could hear the choir singing the special wedding anthem after Greg and Amy had made their vows, yet her mind was wandering back over the events of the past weeks.

  It was hard to believe that since that painfully sad service for Josh at Golders Green crematorium she had found the strength to be totally ruthless with his empire.

  She had expected animosity from his parents, but they were too shattered by their son's death to care about his business. His father kissed her on both cheeks, wished her well and told her to do whatever was necessary.

  Under Josh's accountant's direction she analysed each of the four shops' profitability and came up with the answer that she could keep only Church Street Kensington. The leases of the other three were sold, and staff given final wage packets. The warehouse in Fulham was sold at auction, bringing in enough to pay off Josh's debts. Finally she gave up her own flat and moved back into the rooms above Church Street.

  In all this she couldn't have managed without Harry. Not only did he listen patiently to her worries, but he was quick at grasping figures, astute at assessing people's characters, and he could handle estate agents and prospective buyers better than anyone she'd ever met. But where he really came into his own was with the renovation of Church Street, not only saving a fortune by taking on men to work under his direction, but leaking an artist's impression of the new shop to a Sunday paper and persuading them to do a profile of Tara.

  Josh would have loved the way the media swarmed around them. Tragic irony, perhaps, that he had to die to achieve this kind of coverage, but then he was the one who preached capitalising on each and every opportunity.

  She and Harry were hot news, a story that had it all – kidnapping, drug-smuggling, murder. It had a handsome gambler of a hero, a beautiful, talented and brave heroine. They felt themselves duty-bound to give it a truly happy ending, by surpassing everything Josh had done.

  Everything was just about perfect, except for the guilt!

  It didn't make any difference how often she told herself she was withholding the information about her father to protect her mother. She knew the truth. She couldn't face the fact she had shot her father.

  The congregation rose for the hymn 'Love Divine, All Love Excelling'. It was time to follow Amy and Greg to the vestry to witness the signing of the register, along with Reg Beamish, the best man, Harry, George and Queenie.

  A shaft of sunshine danced on Amy's blonde hair as she sat at the desk.

  'Allow me to be the first to congratulate you both.' Reverend Williamson held out a hand first to Amy and then to Greg.

  He and Greg had many shared interests – fishing, dogs and cricket. But while Greg was round-faced, tubby and jovial, the vicar was tall and painfully thin, with gold-rimmed spectacles and a lugubrious manner.

  'I wish you love and happiness,' he went on, a warm smile lighting up his long face. 'This is a whole new chapter in your lives.'

  Harry watched as Tara embraced her mother. As always he marvelled at their beauty. Tara was taller, her red-gold hair and peachy skin so much more dramatic than Amy's English rose complexion. Tara's long pale green dress complemented Amy's pale pink, like two flowers in a garden.

  Queenie moved forward to kiss Amy. She too looked beautiful, but like a dalia next to primroses. From the hot pink picture hat to her pink and white polka dot dress and jacket, she was as glamorous as a film star. Harry smiled at his stepmother, loving her for the happiness she'd given his father. George had dressed with restraint today, in a pale grey suit and a sober tie, but even quietly dressed his red, beaming face gave away his true nature.

  'Be happy,' Harry said as he kissed Amy. He moved to grasp Greg's hand, but it turned into a hug. Harry felt great admiration for Greg. His quiet strength, his patience, kindness and sense of humour set him apart from other men.

  'Hurry up and do it.' Greg grinned, his pale eyes glistening with unshed tears as he returned the embrace. 'I can recommend it!'

  It was as Amy put her bouquet on Paul's and Mabel's joint grave that Harry realised Tara was brooding again.

  At six in the evening it was still warm, the huge yew tree casting a long shadow across the churchyard. The four of them had walked up to the church after the reception in the Crown and, despite the emotional nature of the trip, both Amy and Tara were in high spirits.

  Harry had never been to a wedding reception with such a good atmosphere. The food was good, the wine flowed freely along with conversation and laughter, yet on several occasions Harry noticed Tara withdrawing into herself.

  It had happened many times since his discharge from hospital and each time she laughed away his concern, insisting she was only thinking about the shop. But he knew on this occasion she'd left business back in London, so it seemed safe to assume the thing that was troubling her was here, connected with her mother.

  He and Greg sat down on the old decapitated market cross steps in a patch of sunshine, while Tara and Amy crouched down by the grave.

  'Something's bugging Tara,' Harry blurted out without really thinking.

  Greg looked round at him, his jolly face serious for a moment. 'I know.' He nodded. 'Amy's noticed it.'

  'Has she got any ideas?' Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. 'I mean, Tara claims she's only thinking about business, but I know it's not that.'

  Greg shrugged. 'She thought it was Mabel's death until yesterday evening. They went into the farm to see Stan, and Amy asked her if she was frightened to go back in there. Apparently Tara just laughed and said "He won't come back".'

  'He won't come back!' Harry repeated. 'Paul? Or the murderer?'

  'I don't know.' Greg shook his head. 'Amy tried to keep her talking but she just clammed up.'

  Harry and Greg broke away from one another then as the women came back to join them.

  'Time we were going.' Amy smiled at Greg, blonde hair gleaming in the sunshine. 'Otherwise we won't get there before dark.'

  'Fancy a walk?' Harry asked Tara.

  Greg and Amy had left for their honeymoon in Porlock over an hour earlier, and Queenie and George were nodding off in their armchairs. Greg had invited them all to stay for a holiday. Harry and Tara couldn't manage more than a weekend, but it was apparent George and Queenie felt quite at home. Winston was taking advantage, stretched out on the settee with one eye open, as if daring them to chase him off.

  'Where to?' Tara asked as they went out into the hall. 'Down to the lake?'

  'I thought we'd go to the farm,' Harry tossed over his shoulder casually. 'Just look around and s
ee how we both feel about it now.'

  Tara shrugged her shoulders. Moving back to the farm hadn't been mentioned by either of them since Harry was in hospital. They had both been too busy winding up Josh's affairs, and thinking no further ahead than the wedding.

  'We can't get rid of it even if we want to!'

  'All the more reason to go and look, then.' Harry followed her out and pulled the door shut behind him. 'We should make some long-term plans, it's not fair to Greg and your mother to leave them all the responsibility without putting them in the picture.'

  Tara didn't reply for a moment, just tucked her hand into his arm as they walked across the gravel drive into the High Street. She had changed her clothes since the wedding reception to a long Indian skirt, a cheesecloth top and sandals.

  'Gran shouldn't have left it to me,' she said suddenly as they turned towards the farm. 'Mum deserved better treatment.'

  'I think your gran was a clever old bird,' Harry replied. 'By keeping it till your thirtieth birthday she made sure you and your mum had time to consider everything. The way land prices are going it will have increased in value by then, and meanwhile it still provides a living and a home for Amy if she needs it.'

  Tara stopped on the bridge just before the farm and rested her arms on the parapet.

  'You don't get views like that in London,' Harry said, stopping beside her.

  The river wound its way through the meadow, going round the back of the farm. As far as they could see fields and trees stretched on to infinity.

  "They say it cures warts,' she said.

  'What?' Harry asked.

  'The water down there.' Tara pointed out a hol-lowed-out place down on the stone balustrade. 'I don't know if it works, I haven't ever had one to try.'

  'What about secret troubles?' Harry leaned over, dipping one finger in the water collected there and dabbing it on her forehead. 'Would it cure those?'

  A guarded look came into her eyes. She wanted to tell Harry everything, it was too big a secret to keep to herself, but something always stopped her.