Vintage Crime

by Martin Edwards

I’m afraid I won’t be able to send the photographs with the rest of her things. It’s just as well really because I’m sure they would have depressed you as much as they did me. That cork board disappeared before the police came, and when I asked about it the girls all said none of them had seen it. It was such a muddle that night. Everyone shouting and screaming and running every which way. And when the police and ambulance finally arrived, a good twenty-five minutes after I phoned, I was the only one left to talk to them. The girls and their customers had scattered to the four winds and left me to cope on my own.

  They don’t want the police in Dock Road any more. It isn’t like the old days when people wanted to see the constable walking down late at night to try the warehouse doors at the end of the road. People used to say hello then, and many’s the time we saw him chatting to customers outside the Prince of Wales of a warm evening. Nowadays nobody wants to know. It’s the same with the ambulance men, although what on earth the ambulance men could have done to harm them I’ll never know. Maybe they are allergic to uniforms.

  I called the ambulance myself. As soon as I saw Selina at the bottom of the stairs I went back in my room and phoned. There used to be a phone in the hall, but I had it taken out for obvious reasons. You can’t trust these girls even with a telephone, and I can’t tell you the awful things I overheard in my very own hall.

  I must confess that it was only the ambulance I called. The police came on their own. I may be a silly old woman, but I am not senile and I know the trouble I would be in if I had called the police to this house. My life wouldn’t have been worth living. The girls and their boyfriends can be quite vindictive if they think anyone is getting at them. Especially the boyfriends. You might think I am a coward. But you don’t have to live here. I do. Which is why I never mentioned the missing camera or the photos. I do hope you understand and that you don’t think I am keeping them from you. I am an old woman, and I’m not very brave any more. In the old days I would have had my poor Arthur to turn to. But now I’m by myself in a house I can barely call my own. Things go on here which I can’t alter. I should be able to, seeing as it’s my house, but I can’t.

  I would have liked to send you everything Selina left, no matter how depressing. After all, her property should be yours by right. I would also like to be able to vouch for the honesty of all my lodgers, but I can’t do that either.

  I am very careful with my own things, and I always keep my door locked even during the day whether I am in my room or not. I advised Selina to do the same but I don’t think she listened to me. I am not often listened to in my own house.

  Nowadays I am especially careful on the stairs. I mean if a healthy young lady like your sister can have an accident then think what could happen to an old woman like myself. It is quite dark on the landing and anyone could miss their footing. There used to be a light there, but I got so tired of replacing the bulb.

  I hate to think what you must be imagining about me and my house, but you must understand what I mean by not being able to vouch for the honesty of the lodgers. Fancy stealing light bulbs! If you can’t trust a girl with a light bulb, what chance has a camera got, I ask you?

  You see, in a way your sister died for the want of a light bulb. I do feel bad about it, very bad, but at the same time I can’t really blame myself. No sooner did I put one in than it went missing again. How many times can an old lady climb a stepladder on a gloomy landing at the top of a long flight of stairs? I wouldn’t want to fall and break my neck the way Selina did. In the old days I would have asked one of my lodgers to do it for me. Some of them were ever so obliging. But I couldn’t ask those girls to do it. The stepladder might go missing too and I need that stepladder to dust around the top of the wardrobe where I keep my old hats. I know they are in plastic bags, but even so, nice things get ruined no matter how hard you try to protect them.

  But I mustn’t go on about my hats, must I, when this is supposed to be a letter of condolence. I am most awfully sorry about your sister. I miss her too. And as I said at the outset, I do hope you have someone to talk to about it. It will make your loss much easier to bear.

  Yours faithfully,

  Rose Bratby (Mrs.)

  Turning Point

  Anthea Fraser

  If I hadn’t been so vulnerable it wouldn’t have happened; but Clive and I’d been having one of our periodic bad patches, and to add to my misery Jamie, our youngest, had just started boarding-school. It seemed I was at one of life’s turning points, and needed to stop and consider what lay ahead.

  On the face of it, it didn’t seem promising. I’d given up my job when we married; Clive’s income was more than adequate, and as I’d always been a mother-hen rather than a career girl I was only too happy to stay home. In any case we’d started a family almost at once. Now, though, with all three children away at school and Clive busy with trips abroad and business entertaining, time would hang heavy. I needed an interest of my own.

  And then, coming out of the library, I saw the poster. In a blaze of red and gold, it announced an exhibition in a nearby town by the artist whose biography I’d just finished reading.

  Fate! I told myself, little realising the danger in submitting to it. For here was a chance to get away for a few days and sort myself out. My mind raced eagerly ahead. I’d find myself a B&B, visit the exhibition, and, since Sandham was on the coast, perhaps spend an hour or two on the beach. And maybe by the time I came home I’d have some idea what I wanted to do.

  “I’m going away for a few days,” I said casually over dinner that night.

  Clive looked up in surprise. “To your mother’s, you mean?”

  “No, to Sandham, actually. There’s an exhibition on by a Mexican artist, Sancho Perez. I’ve just read his biography, and I’d like to see it.”

  He regarded me suspiciously. “Is this tit-for-tat? Because I’m off to Brussels?”

  “Nothing so childish. I simply need a break and you’re not free to come with me. And you’re not interested in art, so it wouldn’t appeal to you anyway.”

  “When are you going?”

  “Tomorrow; it’s only on this week.”

  “So you’ll be back at the weekend?”

  “I don’t know; I might stay on a few days, since you’ll be away.”

  Clive shrugged, losing interest. “Fine, if that’s what you want.” And he reached for the cheese.

  So the next morning, quite excited at the prospect, I packed swimming things, jeans, an assortment of shirts and sweaters, and a solitary dress in case I visited a restaurant. I also tucked in some paperbacks as insurance against loneliness. Thus provisioned, I reckoned I could last up to a week in Sandham if it took my fancy. And if I didn’t like it, I’d come home.

  But I did: I liked it very much. It was a pretty, grey little town tucked into the shelter of some cliffs to protect it from the strong east winds, and at the end of the summer it had a clean, fresh feel about it.

  Most of the holiday-makers had left with the start of the school term, and already beach cafes and amusement arcades were boarded up. But the inhabitants of the town, who had been skulking in their gardens during the summer invasion, were beginning to reappear, breathe a sigh of relief, and take up their normal lives again.

  There was a long promenade, with old-fashioned shelters positioned along it where, doubtless, the local youth conducted their love affairs. Bordering it were colourful gardens, bright now with chrysanthemums and dahlias and late-blooming roses, and seats where you could sit and look at the view, or read, or doze in the still-warm sunshine. The art gallery, smug behind its stone façade, overlooked a square boasting a variety of shops, some selling buckets, spades and cheap souvenirs, others dealing in designer clothes. And on one of the headlands an imposing hotel stood sentinel, its grounds sweeping in a series of terraces down to the sea.

  “Why in heaven’s name don’t you stay at the Grand
in comfort?” Clive had asked, when I’d mentioned my intention of a B&B.

  “Because I don’t want to have to dress for dinner and sit in solitary splendour.”

  Again he’d shrugged, as though despairing of me, and said no more.

  Though it was late September, there were still plenty of bed-and-breakfast signs in evidence. I selected a tall, whitewashed house on the front, with a long path lined by seashells. It proved a good choice. Its owner, a Mrs. Carlisle, was delighted to welcome a guest at the end of the season, and her home was spotless – brass shining, furniture gleaming with polish, linen crisp and smelling of the salt winds that had dried it. I felt immediately at home.

  The next morning, refreshed after the best night’s sleep I’d had in months, I set off to view the exhibition – and it was all I hoped it would be. The large, rather austere rooms leading out of each other were exploding with colour – hot pinks and purples, acid greens and yellows, deep shadows and blazing sunshine such as this grey English town could never have known. Peasants dozed in doorways under large-brimmed hats, naked children played on white sand, girls clapped their hands, buildings shimmered in the heat. All the vividness, the vibrant life of Mexico was pulsating in the canvases, reaching out to ensnare the passer-by and fill him with undefined yearning.

  I spent the morning alternately wandering round or sitting in a bemused, colour-washed daze consulting my catalogue and trying to get my tongue round the titles of the paintings. And when I finally left, satiated for the moment, it was with the intention of returning when I was ready to take in more.

  Outside on the pavement I stood for a moment, drawing a deep breath and reacclimatising myself to the muted tones of an English autumn. Then, unbelievably, I heard my name called.

  “Melanie – as I live and breathe!”

  I spun round as the voice echoed down the years, rekindling in that first instant all the forgotten hopes and dreams of my romantic teens. It couldn’t be – but it was.

  “Philip!” I said, glad of the support of the warm stone wall behind me. With the sun in my eyes it was hard to see the blurred figure striding towards me, which added to the unreality.

  “What a fantastic coincidence!” he was exclaiming. “Whatever brings you here?”

  He had reached me now, and, with his hands on my shoulders, was staring down at me with a wonderment matching my own. And now that he was between me and the sun, I could see the face I’d thought never to see again: older, of course, than I remembered, but as strong, as ruggedly good-looking as it had ever been, and the eyes as piercingly blue.

  “God, it’s been years! I can’t believe it, running into you like this. Let’s have a coffee, and you can tell me what you’ve been doing with yourself.” He took my arm and led me down the road to one of the few cafes that remained open, where, seated opposite each other, we exchanged cautious smiles.

  “It’s really great to see you,” he said. “Do you live round here?”

  “No, I came to see the art exhibition.”

  He glanced at my wedding ring. “Your husband with you?”

  I shook my head. “He’s not interested in art.” I added hesitantly, “And you – are you married?” As I asked the question, I remembered that I’d once hoped he would marry me. My face grew hot, but Philip didn’t notice. His eyes were on the coffee as he swirled his spoon in his cup.

  “No; I tried it briefly but it didn’t work. I’m not the marrying kind, Mel, as you might remember!” He grinned at me ruefully, and I weakly forgave him all those nights of heartbreak.

  “So my mother warned me!”

  He laughed. “Mothers always know best. So – what have you been up to for the last fifteen years?”

  “Bringing up children for most of them – twins of thirteen and a boy of ten. He’s just started boarding-school.”

  “Poor little devil,” Philip said carelessly.

  Since he was obviously not interested, I didn’t elaborate. “And what about you?” I asked instead. “What have you been doing?”

  “Oh, this and that. Making a fast buck when the chance offered.”

  As footloose, apparently, as he’d been at twenty. “No staying power, that lad,” my father had observed. “Don’t get involved with him, Mellie, he’d only bring you heartache.” Perhaps fathers also knew best.

  “How long are you here for?” Philip was asking, possibly to forestall further questions.

  “It depends on the weather, really. My husband’s away so there’s no rush to go home.”

  “You’re at the Grand, I suppose?”

  “No, just a boarding-house; I wanted somewhere informal. Are you on holiday?” It seemed an odd choice for someone as restless and mercurial as Philip.

  “Sort of, a short break.”

  I wasn’t sure I believed him. “I’d have thought you’d have gone for the bright lights,” I remarked.

  He looked up then, and there was an expression in his eyes that I couldn’t fathom. “Sometimes I prefer the shadows,” he said. Then he smiled quickly. “Specially when I’m with a pretty woman! What do you say, Mel? You’ve no immediate plans, have you? Shall we spend the day together, for old times’ sake?”

  I could hardly have declined, could I, when he knew I was alone in a strange town. And to be honest, I didn’t want to. There was a touch of the old magic about Philip – perhaps, for me, there always would be. So coffee stretched into lunch, and afterwards we went for a long, exhilarating walk over the cliffs, where the gulls were screaming and where, out on the headland, the wind tore at our hair and clothes, catching our words and flinging them to the wide blue sky.

  We talked constantly, not of personal matters but of the world in general: art, music, politics. Whatever his lifestyle, Philip proved knowledgeable on a variety of topics and was an entertaining companion.

  We stopped for tea at a village along the coast and caught the local bus back to Sandham. Philip proposed dinner at an Italian restaurant he’d discovered.

  “No need to dress up, it’s quite informal,” he assured me. “I’ll meet you outside the art gallery at eight and we’ll have a drink somewhere first.”

  * * *

  It was dusk when I closed the front door of Bay View behind me and set off down the path. The first stars were pricking through and a golden sickle of moon hung over the sea. But there was a hint of chill in the air; the wind we’d encountered on the cliffs had, in diminished form, followed us back to town and I pulled my jacket closer as my thin dress swirled round my legs. I should have followed Philip’s advice, and kept on my jeans and sweater.

  As I turned the corner by the gallery I saw him under a street lamp, his hands deep in his pockets. He looked up at the sound of my footsteps and, straightening, came towards me with a smile.

  “Let’s see about that drink,” he said, slipping my hand through his arm. We walked quickly, heads down against the wind, and turned into the lighted doorway of the Three Pigs. Loud laughter came from the public bar but Philip guided me to the saloon, where more subdued customers sat at tables and talked in quiet voices.

  He brought the drinks over and sat down. “Here’s to old times,” he said, raising his glass. It was not the toast I’d have chosen, but I nodded and drank, the cold liquid making me shiver.

  The two-hour break had, I realised, dissipated our ease with each other and we were constrained, strangers again. It would have been wiser not to have met this evening; an afternoon together was all that was called for in the circumstances. Perhaps, though, he’d thought I expected it. The idea made me uncomfortable.

  Philip was frowning into his glass, his face withdrawn and older than it had seemed earlier. Then, suddenly conscious of my gaze, he looked up and smiled.

  “Sorry, Mel!” he said, with a swift return to his easy manner. “I’d some business to attend to after leaving you, and my mind was still on it.
”

  I smiled back, reassured. Another fast buck, no doubt. My eyes drifted past him to the bar. It was L-shaped, and in the mirror I could see the reflections of the men in the public bar on the far side; and of one man in particular, tall and red-haired, who was staring intently at my own reflection. As our eyes met in the mirror he moved quickly back out of sight.

  Philip was saying, “You do like Italian food, I hope? If you’d rather go somewhere else—”

  “I love it,” I answered, turning back to him.

  “Good. Drink up, then, and we’ll be on our way.”

  The wind was waiting for us, undeniably cold now, sending leaves scuttering in the gutters and unlatched gates banging. Scraps of paper swirled through the air like birds, swooping and dipping above our heads as we hurried up the road.

  “And it’s only September!” Philip commented. “Imagine it in winter.”

  I was glad to reach the shelter of the restaurant, warm and welcoming with its candles and lamps. Philip ordered a bottle of Chianti and we settled down to study the menu, relaxed and at ease again.

  The meal was delicious, a mouth-watering concoction of lamb, garlic and olives. The waiter kept refilling my glass and the empty bottle of wine was replaced. I could feel my inhibitions slowly dissolving, all the restrictions, disappointments and responsibilities of everyday life slipping away until I was a different person entirely from the rather dull woman Clive would have recognised. In short, I felt young again.

  Over coffee, Philip unwrapped a handful of amaretti and put a match to each flimsy paper in turn, watching as it curled into a spiral and took off to float up to the ceiling. Like children, we made bets with each other as to which colour would rise the highest.

  I was laughing at the game when I happened to glance towards the window. The lower half was covered by net curtains, but above them darkness pressed against the glass. And as I looked, I could have sworn that someone moved swiftly aside, someone who had been standing looking into the lighted room. Briefly I wondered if it was the man from the bar, but dismissed the idea as ludicrous. My senses, blurred by good food and wine, were playing tricks on me.