What Tomorrow Brings

by Mary Fitzgerald

  ‘I will stay,’ said Jacob after a few minutes’ consideration. ‘But only if I can be of use. The other evening I saw you looking at the books from the factories and shops that your manager sent. Perhaps another eye, cast over the figures, might help?’

  I could have hugged him. ‘Oh yes. Thank you, Jacob. I have no idea what I’m looking at.’

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘First, I will look and then we will look together, so that I can teach you. Then your business will truly be yours.’

  My business. It was often the last thing I thought about, but I realised, once again, that I had to take a serious interest in it. It was the basis of my fortune and I knew I couldn’t be like Daddy and retreat from the world. I had to learn how it worked and what I needed to do to keep it going. I leant against a rock, with Max lying peacefully in my arms, and thought about my life. How different it was from two years ago. So many things had happened, I had a daughter, I was responsible for Max, my mother had left and my father had died. And now Xanthe was dying. It was almost too much. It left no time for me, for love.

  I thought about Charlie then and, with a catch in my heart, wondered where he was. I hadn’t heard from him since I left him at that airfield in Portugal. My mouth was suddenly dry and I prayed that he was safe.

  Geoff had asked about him that day when I went to give him my resignation. ‘Seen old Charlie, lately?’ he asked, but I’d shaken my head.

  ‘Not since before I went to Lisbon,’ I lied.

  ‘God, I wish he was still writing for us,’ Geoff groaned. ‘Wilf is good, I won’t deny that, but’ – he waved his pipe towards the pieces of writing that littered his desk – ‘Charlie was something special. He made foreign news come alive.’

  ‘I thought so,’ I agreed. ‘But he’ll be back, after the war.’ He didn’t say anything. Soldiers were dying every day.

  Surprisingly, Monica had asked about him too, as I cleared my desk. Where was he? she asked, because he didn’t seem to be in the regular army any more.

  ‘How would I know?’ I shrugged.

  ‘Oh, I just thought you might, seeing as how you’re so close.’ She tapped a red-painted talon on my desk. ‘It’s a surprise that you’re leaving,’ she said. ‘But I suppose you have so many other calls on your time. I know you don’t need the money, but with your little girl to look after, as well as your sister . . .’

  ‘What about my sister?’ I’d looked up sharply.

  ‘Oh,’ she flushed. ‘I understood that she wasn’t well.’

  ‘And who did you understand that from?’ I glared at her.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She looked suddenly nervous. ‘I heard it somewhere. But, if I’m wrong, I’m sorry.’ She waited for a few seconds and then glanced at me with narrowed eyes. ‘Am I wrong?’

  I ignored her and left the office. Thank God, I thought, as I walked down the stairs, I never have to see her again.

  Now, sitting on the beach, I thought about that conversation. How on earth did she know that Xanthe was sick? It was very strange. Then I remembered that, as a gossip columnist, she had a web of informants everywhere, in all the police stations and possibly in all the hospitals. Someone at St Thomas’ had probably contacted her and, in exchange for a few pounds, given her the name of a notable patient.

  ‘Penny for them,’ said Alice, coming to sit beside me. Marisol was on the sand in front of us, putting shells and shiny pebbles in her tin bucket.

  ‘Not worth a penny,’ I smiled. A fishing boat was setting out from behind the headland and I watched it, and watched Kitty as she walked out of the sea and picked up her towel.

  ‘Thinking of him?’

  ‘Charlie? Yes, I was, as well as other things. I was praying that he’s safe, wherever he is.’

  ‘I’ll join in that prayer,’ Alice nodded. ‘I’m right fond of him, but that’s not who I meant.’

  She meant Amyas and he was someone I refused to think about. He was a traitor.

  ‘No.’ I didn’t realise that my voice sounded so cold until I saw the change in Alice’s face.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Seffy,’ she said. ‘It was wrong of me to be so forward.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I answered. ‘Now, come on, we must go up for lunch.’

  August melted into September and the sunset came earlier every evening, but we lingered, not yet ready to leave this beautiful place. I thought that I would never leave. Why should I? I was happier here than anywhere. But then I thought of Xanthe, who was getting weaker, and knew that soon she’d have to go into hospital. Back in London, I supposed. But the peaceful surroundings had, like a drug, invaded our senses and none of us was ready to return.

  A strange routine had developed, and with it a stranger friendship. Every lunchtime Jacob would take Xanthe a pink gin and talk about his business of buying furs. He’d expanded from which furrier was the best, to telling her about his travels in Russia and Canada and how he’d chosen the pelts. She seemed fascinated and listened, lying back on her pillows, while he spoke of mink and ermine, silver fox and his and her favourite, sable. But one day, he brought up a book with her drink. ‘Today,’ he said, ‘I think we have learned enough about fur. I shall read to you.’

  I was listening outside her room, still nervous because she hadn’t lost her ability to be spiteful. Indeed, if he was a second late with her drink, she would ring her bell and demand the presence of ‘that old Jew’, whose name she never learned; nor did she think for an instant that her offensive nomenclature would stop him from coming to her.

  ‘A story? What story?’

  ‘A romance,’ said Jacob. ‘About a princess and a commoner and a fight for the throne.’

  ‘All right,’ she said reluctantly, and lay back while he started to read The Prisoner of Zenda. She loved it, listening intently for the half-hour that he spent with her and eagerly looking forward to it the next day. When that was finished, they went on to King Solomon’s Mines.

  I listened to the radio all the time. The news was terrifying. I heard about the non-stop bombing raids on London and listened while the announcer calmly listed the number of planes which had been destroyed. He always said ‘planes’, never pilots, but I thought about the families who would never see their young men grow to maturity. When I took Kitty to the cinema one afternoon we saw a newsreel of the destroyed buildings in London and the stoical people carrying on their business in the midst of the rubble. I thought briefly of my flat and my father’s house and wondered if they’d been damaged, but I guessed not. Someone would have told me.

  Then, different pictures came on, of the King and Queen and the two princesses, who always seemed to wear matching jumpers and skirts. They were shown walking through a garden, the princesses hand in hand and with little dogs jumping around their feet. The cinema audience gave little mutters of appreciation and Kitty whispered, ‘They look nice. Not like very important people.’

  Finally, in the middle of September, we heard the gravelly voice of Winston Churchill announce that the Battle of Britain was over. The Luftwaffe had been defeated and the threat of invasion diminished. Jacob and I looked at each other after hearing it.

  ‘This is not the end,’ said Jacob. ‘Far from it.’

  ‘But it is a victory. Let’s celebrate that.’ I poured us a couple of whiskies, and when Alice came down, I poured her one as well.

  ‘I think about those young men who are dead,’ said Alice. ‘Only slips of boys, they were. It’s very sad.’

  We were quiet then; a celebration didn’t seem right. Finally Alice said, ‘Mrs Penney says there’s a barn dance at the church hall on Saturday night. Why don’t you go, Miss Seffy? Take Miss Kitty. You too, Mr Weiss.’

  ‘I am too old for dancing,’ Jacob chuckled. ‘No, I will look after the children and Xanthe. You go, Miss Weaver. You, Kitty and Seffy. Who knows? You may catch the eye of a fine young man.’

  ‘Catch his foot, more like,’ Alice laughed. ‘But, if you’re sure you don’t mind, I would like to go.�
��

  On Saturday, I helped Xanthe eat some supper and then took her to the bathroom. She was very weak and quiet.

  ‘I’m going out to the village for a couple of hours,’ I said when I’d got her back in bed and put on her bedside light. ‘Jacob is staying in the house and all you have to do is ring your bell if you need something. He says he’ll come and read to you.’

  ‘All right.’ Her breathing was quite shallow and I could hear her chest rattling. She didn’t seem to have enough energy to cough and I was relieved. I was terrified about what would happen if she did.

  All the village was at the barn dance and as soon as we got into the hall, Kitty darted off to find Carol, while Alice and I stood by the door, feeling rather awkward. Not for long, though. ‘Miss Weaver.’ It was one of the fishermen that Alice spoke to when she’d walked the children by the harbour. He was in a tight suit, with a sprig of gorse tucked into his buttonhole and gave Alice an awkward little bow. ‘It’s a Valeta waltz,’ he mumbled. ‘D’you know how to do it?’

  ‘I do, lad.’ And she followed him on to the floor and cut a fine figure in her chartreuse frock and high-heeled shoes. I’d never seen her wear them before and worried that she’d fall over, but she was very graceful.

  Dr Jago took my hand for the Dashing White Sergeant, whirling me round until I felt dizzy. ‘My God,’ I said, after the music stopped, ‘I haven’t done that since I was at school.’

  ‘You haven’t lived, Seffy,’ he laughed. ‘You should give up London and come down here permanently. Make a life for yourself.’

  ‘I’m thinking of it,’ I grinned and followed him to the trestle table where the fruit punch was being served by his wife.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages, you’re all grown up.’

  ‘I’m heading for thirty, Mrs Jago,’ I protested. ‘I’ve been grown up for years.’

  ‘There’s grown up and then there’s grown up,’ she said, giving me a friendly smirk. ‘It’s time you got married.’

  I laughed and wandered over to where Alice was deep in conversation with some of the village matrons. In the months that she’d been here, she’d made many friends, and had become part of the local scene. I envied her.

  It was hot in the hall so I went outside to breathe in the cool air. The lighthouse beam was flashing over the village, lighting up the granite stone cottages and the white-painted façade of the pub. The sea slapped against the harbour wall and clouds were flitting across the golden harvest moon. The good weather was about to break, I thought. Things were changing.

  I was about to go back inside when the beam from the lighthouse illuminated the pub again and, in that instant, a familiar face stared down at the cobbled square from an upstairs window.

  It was Monica Cathcart.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  FOR A SECOND I froze and then, before the lighthouse beam could come my way again, slid back into the shadow of the village hall, trying to collect my thoughts.

  Monica Cathcart?

  What the hell was she doing here? Nothing good, I was sure.

  I looked again at the pub, its Lobster Pot sign swinging in the strengthening breeze, and then looked at the cars parked around the side.

  I spotted Dr Jago’s Sunbeam and the van that Mr Penney used to take the catch to market twice a week and one or two rusting old vehicles, which surely belonged to the young farmers who had come along to the dance, but there, amongst them, was a newer car, a gleaming maroon Bentley, which had attracted a few curious villagers. People glanced at it as they walked towards the hall and a couple of youngsters, bored with just staring, had climbed on to the bonnet and were daring each other to stand up. Some of their less daring friends and older lads, who were smoking outside the hall, were watching and calling out encouragement. A door opened and Alan Williams, the landlord, came out of the back of the pub, carrying a crate of empties.

  ‘Clear off,’ he shouted, dropping the crate. ‘You young buggers! I’ll be on the blower to your pa, Johnny Roche, just see if I don’t.’

  The youngsters scampered away and when the older boys drifted back to the dance I took the opportunity.

  ‘Mr Williams,’ I called.

  He looked around and then spotted me as I stepped, momentarily, out of the shadow.

  ‘Miss Blake?’

  ‘Can you come over here for a sec,’ I pleaded. ‘I don’t want to be seen.’

  He didn’t question me, but wandered over as though he was going to look in on the barn dance. When we were side by side in the shadow, he said. ‘Well now, Miss Blake. What is it?’

  ‘That car,’ I said, pointing to the Bentley. ‘Did it bring visitors to the pub?’

  ‘It did,’ he nodded. ‘Two ladies. A Miss Cathcart and a Miss Porter. Mind, they didn’t drive. A man drove them, but he’s not staying. I don’t know where he went.’

  He stared at me with some concern in his pale blue eyes. ‘They asked about you, Miss Blake. Wanted to know where your house was.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ I breathed.

  ‘I didn’t tell them, so don’t you worry. I said I didn’t know. You’re one of us, aren’t you, and anyway I didn’t like the cut of their jib. Especially that Miss Cathcart.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Williams,’ I said. ‘They’re people I want to avoid.’ I looked up at the window, where I’d seen Monica. ‘I saw Miss Cathcart looking out just now but I don’t think she saw me.’

  ‘She’s taken a bottle of gin up with her and I dare say she won’t be awake for long. You go back to the dance and enjoy yourself.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Williams.’ But I knew I was going home.

  ‘I’d watch out, though,’ he said, as he turned to go. ‘It won’t take them long to find you. Not in this village.’

  I slipped back into the hall and found Alice. ‘I’m going home,’ I said. ‘D’you mind walking Kitty back when the dance is over?’

  ‘No, of course not. But shall we come with you? Are you not feeling well?’

  ‘It’s not that. I’m a bit worried about Xanthe, but you stay and enjoy yourselves.’ I saw the fisherman with the sprig of gorse in his buttonhole weaving his way through the crowd. ‘Your beau’s on his way again.’

  ‘I’ll give him beau,’ said Alice with a rueful grin. ‘He’s full of beer and acting the giddy goat.’

  I walked home quickly, up the steep lane from the village, using my torch to light the way. For some reason that I couldn’t work out, I was frightened. Monica Cathcart was a horrible woman and a dreadful gossip and I knew she’d been keen to find out about Xanthe. She’d obviously come down here to learn more. But why bring her pal Jane Porter, and who was the man who’d driven them and wasn’t in the pub?

  A weasel suddenly ran in front of me, scaring me senseless, and the torch clattered from my hand and fell into the undergrowth on the edge of the road.

  ‘Damn,’ I said, scrabbling around in the grass and weeds to retrieve it. The bulb had broken so I had to walk the last few yards without a light. Rounding the final bend, I saw the house, a chink of light showing from the hall window where the curtains hadn’t been pulled close enough. Then, with a gasp, I stopped, for in the driveway, beside the garage, was the shape of a man outlined against the white-painted doors and caught in the light of the moon, as the clouds raced by. I knew him. It was Karl, the American from Lisbon. Now I was really terrified.

  I slipped back along the lane, until I got to the fence which surrounded our garden and hoisted myself over it. I ran back to the house and, as I’d done often as a child, climbed up to the veranda via the ironwork trellis which supported it and stood outside my bedroom window.

  The house was dark and silent, almost as if it was empty. Quietly I opened the long window and slid in, walking quickly across the room. I stood beside the door for a moment, listening for sounds of life. There were none. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door to the landing. The lamp was on and, softly, I walked along the corridor until I came to the nu
rsery and pushed open the door. I could have wept with relief when I saw the two children safely asleep in their cots, Marisol on her side with her toy rabbit clutched to her face and Max on his back with his arms flung out.

  Thank God, I breathed. Now for Xanthe.

  Her door was open. Looking in, I saw she was sitting up against her pile of pillows, her head turned to one side and her eyes closed. Jacob was in the chair beside her, a book on his knee. They were both very still. My heart was beating so loudly that it surely could be heard. Jacob looked up and put his finger to his lips.

  ‘She sleeps,’ he whispered.

  I beckoned him with an urgent gesture, and Jacob, survivor of an internment camp, asked no question, but followed me down the stairs.

  In the hall, Jacob looked at me. ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘You look worried.’

  I didn’t know what to tell him. Karl could still be outside, or could even be breaking his way in, to take Max. I gave an involuntary shudder and Jacob reached out and took my hand.

  ‘Tell me, Seffy. I can see that something bad has happened.’

  ‘I think we could be in danger,’ I said. ‘I saw a man outside who may be trying to take Max, and two women have come to the pub. They might be involved.’

  He frowned. ‘This sounds very strange to me. Who might want to take Max?’

  ‘I’ll explain later.’ I looked at the door and wondered if Karl was about to break in. Jacob saw my face and walked towards the door.

  ‘Don’t open it!’ I hissed and he paused.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘We act. First we lock all the doors and then we telephone the police.’

  How strange, I hadn’t thought of that. Previously, my adventures had all happened in countries where help from the police had not been an option.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said, and went to pick up the phone. I called the police and after briefly explaining the problem and being reassured that they were on their way, I took a breath and tried a different number. It was the one which Charlie had given me for his office in Whitehall. The switchboard operator told me that Captain Bradford wasn’t there and that she couldn’t give me any further information.