by Rosie Dean
I backed away from her. ‘I could really eat something sweet. Do you have any biscuits?’
She followed me into the kitchen. ‘You don’t have to talk to me about Josh,’ she said quietly. ‘But I really wish you would.’
‘What’s to tell?’ I said, pulling the biscuit tin out of the cupboard. ‘Oh, good. My favourites.’
She dropped the subject and followed me back into the sitting room, where I tucked into the best part of a packet of chocolate malted milks. I was rambling on about how I needed to find a new job, away from creepy Ostler and pompous Graham, and I needed to move into a flat on my own, which I could keep tidy and not share with an ever-constant stream of Sacha’s boyfriends (three, since she’d dumped Marcus). Then, just as I was about to launch into a gripe about men’s filthy habits, Mum moved from her armchair and came and sat on the sofa next to me, put her hand over mine and said softly, ‘But Millie, do you never think about starting a family?’
Well, that took the wind out of my sails, I can tell you. I looked down at the wedding ring on her finger, the one I knew Dad had had engraved with the words, Dolores – My Love, and I couldn’t say a thing. Not one word. I felt the rise and fall of my breath just before a torrent of emotion burst from me with all the suddenness of projectile vomit. I was wailing, snivelling and running with tears and snot.
Mum wrapped her arms around me and pulled me to her cushiony bosom, uttering soothing words of Spanglish over my head.
‘It’s so hard!’ I wailed. ‘I need to have my independence. But it’s so lonely.’
She crooned indistinguishable words and stroked me.
‘Of course I want babies. But what if I never find someone who’ll be a great dad and want to share my life?’
‘You will. I know you will.’
‘But what if the man I marry isn’t Catholic? You’d hate that, wouldn’t you? He might even be an atheist or…or…a politician!’ I snapped. ‘Which is pretty hypocritical, isn’t it? I mean, you married out of the faith, didn’t you? What if the man I marry likes wearing horse-hair underpants and is a card-carrying member of the Sealed Knot…does it matter? So long as he’s good and kind and makes me happy, isn’t that the most important thing? Well isn’t it?’ I demanded, pulling back and staring through my sore, watery eyes at her equally damp and bloodshot ones.
She smiled and another tear slipped over her cheek. ‘That’s all I wish for you too, cariña. You know my faith is important to me. But that is my faith. I realise I can’t force it onto you if you don’t choose it. But I can’t promise not to pray for your happiness, either.’
I swallowed and caught a breath. ‘I know.’
‘I really don’t want to interfere but when you become a mother – and I know you will – you’ll understand, just as I came to understand my own mother. It must have torn her heart in two when I refused to go back to Spain, but I couldn’t see it when it mattered, I was too in love with your father. Only when Katarina was born and they put her in an incubator did I understand. But by then, it was too late.’
I nodded. Her mother had died suddenly while Mum was expecting Trina, and her father had died before I was born. We three children only knew our Spanish grandparents through an album of old photographs.
‘I only want the best for you.’
I looked at her, at the creases in her brow and the dark crescents beneath her eyes. I reached my hand out to stroke her cheek. ‘Me too. For you.’ She tilted her head and, as I looked into her eyes, I truly understood how lonely she must feel without Dad. I missed him enormously but she had lost the man she’d planned to spend the rest of her life with. I swallowed. ‘There’s something I want to tell you.’
She nodded.
‘This stuff about marriage and children…I thought…I wished…’ Finally, I breathed. ‘I thought Josh would have been perfect.’
She closed her eyes and, for a moment, everything seemed to be held on pause. When she opened them again, they were full of tears and she whispered. ‘Me too.’
‘I so want him to be a good person, Mum.’
‘Oh, he is. I know it. I feel it.’ She clasped my hands to her chest.
‘But Mum…
‘Have faith, querida.’
Oh God, I said to myself, please let him be found innocent. I’d lost count of the number of prayers I’d made to the Almighty, this summer. Maybe turning into my mother was inevitable.
Chapter 36
In the light of my recent disappointment, I began trawling job sites and classified ads for tempting new challenges, rewrote my CV and fired off a bunch of applications. I wondered if, by applying for jobs in London, I’d be tempting fate. If Josh were cleared – no, when Josh was cleared – it would put me nearer to him. But maybe, if I applied for jobs over a hundred miles away, that would secure his freedom. Trouble was, that would also take me away from Hamlets and I knew, without me, the group would fold.
I called Serena for a progress report on Josh’s case, the sub-text being, how’s Josh? I could have phoned Rupert but, each time I got his voicemail, I felt like an old nag asking for news – yet again. She had nothing specific to tell but thought progress was being made.
‘What kind of progress?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know but Rupert said things were beginning to move.’
‘So we could get a court date, soon?’
‘Maybe.’
‘How’s Josh?’ I asked.
‘Pretty good, considering. He’s just taking a week’s break, which he really needs.’
‘Has he gone away?’ I asked, as nonchalantly as possible.
‘Not far. He had to stay in London. He’s on a spiritual retreat with the brothers of St Francis.’
A monastery. With monks. That didn’t bode well.
‘That’s nice,’ I managed. ‘Say hello from me, next time you see him.’
The Hamlets’ Summer Show was on the first weekend of September, just when the sun had returned to the skies to perform its swansong. The theatre’s auditorium was air-conditioned but unfortunately, not the dressing rooms. At thirty degrees, they smelled of grease paint and deodorant-under-duress.
To avoid contamination by alcohol, we had a parent checking bags at every entrance, and even posted them by the open windows. Lulu’s mother was especially vigilant. But, even in the absence of booze, Thursday’s dress rehearsal was full of hiccups. I was just reminding the boys of their dance steps for the first act finale, when my phone trilled into life.
‘I thought she said phones had to be off,’ grunted Daley.
‘I did,’ I said, walking to the front of the stage where I’d left my phone. ‘But I’m a grown-up, and this might be important. Now, get back to your starting positions!’
I ignored their murmurs of disapproval as I answered the call. ‘Hello.’
‘Millie?’
At the husky sounding voice, my heart thumped in my chest, like a mallet on a kettledrum. ‘Josh?’
‘It is. Hi, how are you?’
‘Why are you calling me?’ I whispered, and jumped off the stage. ‘I mean, you’re breaking the conditions of your bail.’
‘No, I’m not, not any more.’
‘Huh?’ I said, stumbling into the shadow of the auditorium. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve been cleared of all charges.’
After so many weeks believing he was innocent, I still couldn’t shake the fear he might be convicted. ‘But…but we haven’t even been to court.’
‘We don’t have to, not yet. They found out who really did it.’
I swallowed. ‘Was it Lex?’
‘Close. It was his business partner – or mostly his wife.’
‘Lex is married?’ Could I have been more blind?
Josh chuckled. ‘No. His partner’s wife.’
‘Bronwen?’
‘It’s a long story. The important thing is, I’m off the hook.’
‘Oh my G…goodness. That’s fantastic news. It’s…it’s so great. Not
that I ever doubted you…’ I said, guiltily remembering the frenzied excavation of my mother’s plant pot.
‘I know you didn’t. Your photograph was crucial. Without that – hey – I owe my freedom as much to you as anyone. And for that, Millie, I will be eternally grateful.’
Josh would be eternally grateful. To me. I couldn’t say anything because my throat was closing up. If I attempted to speak it would come out sideways. Instead, I leaned my head against the wall. Behind me, Bob hit the piano with the opening bars of the boys’ song.
‘Anyway,’ Josh continued, ‘that’s mostly why I rang, to say thank you.’
‘You’re welcome,’ I managed, as the boys belted out their first line.
‘Sounds like you’re with the Hamlets.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I won’t keep you. Maybe we can catch up some time.’
‘Yes. Of course.’
‘Bye,’ we both said, and that was it. The finale to months of angst played out in a brief phone call.
I leaned against the wall of the auditorium throughout the entire song, finally gathering myself together during the final few bars.
‘Right!’ I bellowed, striding towards the stage. ‘Sounds good from back there, but let me see it again, from the top!’
As, once again, they criss-crossed the stage, I sat in the front row with my heart pulsing in my chest while my mind skittered from one thought to another.
Crap. Crap. Crap.
Why couldn’t I have responded more eloquently to the news; shown a little more concern? He’d think I didn’t care. He might even think I’d moved on, lost interest.
When the boys struck their final poses, I stood up and clapped. ‘Good. Take a break, everyone. Back in ten.’
I hurried through the auditorium, through the foyer and into the cloying evening air. I held out the phone and saw it trembling in my hand. Why was I even worried? Josh would understand. Nobody could have held a conversation with a bunch of teenagers bellowing in the background. I would phone him back, apologise and move the conversation forward…suggest a date to meet up…invite him out for lunch. That was the adult thing to do. A celebratory lunch…dinner, perhaps. He could even come to the Summer Show, now he was free.
I pressed the recall button.
It rang.
It rang some more.
‘Hello, Franciscan Retreat, this is Walter speaking.’
‘May I speak to Joshua Warwick, please. My name’s Millie Carmichael.’
‘Joshua? I’m afraid you’ve just missed him.’
Like I said before, crap.
‘Do you have a number I can contact him on?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t. Perhaps you could catch him at the Welkom Shelter, next week?’
‘Good idea, thank you.’
I hung up and skimmed my contacts for Rupert’s number.
Voicemail.
‘Rupert, please call or text me with Josh’s mobile number. Thanks.’
Serena was next. I left the same message for her, too.
I called the vicarage. No reply, no answer-phone.
Some of the cast had come out on to the theatre steps for a fag. Usually, I’d give them a lecture but tonight I just ran back into the theatre, trying to dissipate some of the adrenalin in my system.
I needed to work out my next move. Why did it have to happen this weekend? I’d be at the theatre all evening and most of tomorrow.
My phone rang again, it was Rupert.
‘Thank you so much for calling back.’
‘You’ve heard the good news, then?’
‘Yes. It’s the best. Is he coming back to Marshalhampton?’ I asked, not caring how desperate I sounded.
‘Not sure of his long-term plans. He’s off to Southampton to see his grandparents, this weekend, he wanted to tell them in person.’
‘Of course.’ I felt a pang of shame. ‘They’ll be so relieved. Like the rest of us.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Rupert, Josh didn’t have time to tell me what happened – why Bronwen and Charles were involved. Do you know?’
‘Ah, yes. It was all to do with Bronwen’s son. Some years ago, Josh shopped him to the police for selling dirty drugs.’
‘What? She was getting her own back?’
‘Dylan was her only son and from what we know, her income dried up when he went to prison. In January, he came out on parole and they had the idea that if they could frame Josh, he’d go down for the original murder and Dylan would be free to pick up his old contacts and start bringing in the cash, again.’
‘Murder?’
‘Josh’s friend died from the dirty drug. At the time, Dylan was only seventeen so he didn’t get a life sentence. His mother’s been married twice since and changed her name from Thelma to Bronwen, so it took a while for the police to connect them. Charles Crowe explained his own presence in the village was down to his affair with Evonne Marshal – which Evonne corroborated.’
‘Geddaway! Vonnie and Charles? Was she in on it, too?’
‘No. Charles wasn’t even in on it, to start with.’
‘Blimey. So was Dylan the other guy in the picture with Charles?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about Lex?’
‘Seems he didn’t know anything about it – not even his mother’s affair.’
Serena had been right. Lex was far too wrapped up in Lex to be aware of other things going on around him.
‘So this Dylan has definitely been arrested?’ I asked, fearing again for my own safety.
‘He has, along with the Crowes and another chap you might know – Marcus Georgoulis.’
Of course. ‘What did he do?’
‘He was the hired hand. Helped Dylan mug Josh and put you two in the crypt.’
No wonder the bastard had been so smarmy to me. And no wonder he’d been so keen to use my laptop – he must have been setting it up to crash.
‘What was his connection?’
‘Money. The guy was in debt and Crowe knew it. There’s quite a little underground gambling scene in the home counties.’
‘Wow.’ I knew so little. ‘Rupert,’ I began, ‘About Josh…’
‘Yes.’
‘Is he okay?’
‘I think so. His faith is strong but it’s been tested these last few months. I think he’ll need a little time to regain some sense of normality.’
Time. I’d been through months of worrying and waiting already. How much more time did a girl have to wait? Actually, what was I waiting for?
‘Rupert, can I have Josh’s mobile number, please?’
‘Sure, I’ll text it to you.’
Moments later, as I stared at the number in Rupert’s text, I felt as though I was floating on a warm lake of inner calm. Josh was innocent and he was free. So, in a way, was I. And what happened next was up to me.
When I entered the flat that night, Sacha was deep into an early episode of ER. You’d think she’d have enough of all that stuff in her day job but she found the young George Clooney hard to resist.
I grabbed two glasses from the cupboard and carried them to the coffee table, along with a bottle of Cava I’d bought from the off-licence.
‘Detox over is it?’ she said, barely dragging her eyes from Dr Ross, as the cork shot from the bottle.
‘Yep. Here.’
She looked up as I poured the wine. ‘Wow, Millie, what are we celebrating?’
I sat down beside her and spilled the whole story. When I got to the bit about Marcus, she wailed with shock.
‘The slimy shit! Oh, Millie, I had absolutely no idea. Honestly.’
‘I know.’
‘I was way too preoccupied with what was in his trousers to even consider what was going on in his head.’
‘It’s okay. It doesn’t matter now.’
‘I’ll drink to that.’
As we chinked glasses, I felt tears of happiness welling up. I sniffed them back in but it was too late. A wave of emotion broke
over me. I didn’t know it was possible to cry so much with happiness and relief. It must have been infectious because Sacha joined in.
‘I never realised he meant so much to you,’ she snivelled. ‘Oh, Millie, this must be the real thing.’ As she hugged me, she murmured into my shoulder, ‘Please tell me it’s not just because he looked cute in a dress.’
I shook my head. ‘Josh is the first guy who actually made me feel valued – other than my dad. Even if he had been found guilty, I know I would have continued fighting because I felt he was a good man…is a good man. He’s kind, he’s funny and he’s someone I actually admire. Every time I thought he wouldn’t be in my life, it really, really hurt. The things he values are good, and being around him…well, it makes me want to be a better person.’
‘Millie, please don’t get any better, it’s killing me. Have you noticed, I’m adding fizzy water to my wine on weekdays? My liver’s in shock.’ She sat up. ‘So, what happens now?’
‘I guess we’ll still have to go to court when they prosecute Dylan and…’
‘Not that. I mean, you and Josh.’
‘Ah. Good question. I have a plan…’
Chapter 37
At ten o’clock on Monday morning, I sat at my desk, took a deep breath and phoned Josh. After three rings, his husky tones were in my ear.
My heart-rate tripled. ‘Hi Josh. It’s Millie Carmichael.’
‘Millie. Hi, it’s good to hear from you.’
I clenched my fist around the phone and swallowed.
Who dares, wins.
Shit or bust.
Tits and teeth.
‘Millie?’
‘The thing is…I have to come to London, to see a client, it’s just a couple of tube stops from the Welkom Shelter. I wondered if I could pop in and say hello. Have a chat. No worries if it isn’t convenient.’
‘Sure, when are you coming up?’
‘When are you free? I mean, I haven’t fixed the meeting yet.’ That’s the non-existent, fantasy meeting with my imaginary client. A bit like my earlier, non-existent photography exhibition. ‘I was going to work it around you.’