The October Cabaret

by Nancy Buckingham

  “Yes, I think I do.”

  Ben took me to the bar of a nearby hotel, and I went to the powder room to clean up. I didn’t hurry, wanting to get a secure grip on myself before I emerged and faced him again. I felt badly shaken, as much from meeting up with Ben as from the accident itself.

  I had first met Ben Wyland during the second week of our stay in Brighton six years ago. Uncle Maynard had taken my parents and me to a sale of antique silver and plate at the Auction Rooms of Wyland and Partners, thinking we might find it interesting. Ben, just down from Cambridge, had entered the family firm with a view to learning the business, and was acting that day as a steward. When he and I happened to come face to face in a doorway, Ben gave me a long look of approval that set my pulses scampering. From then on, the proceedings couldn’t hold my attention, and I kept a constant watch out for him as he moved around the salesroom ... a tall figure in a striped shirt, with thick dark hair—I couldn’t decide if it was brown or black—that curled enticingly into his neck.

  Uncle Maynard, having bought a Queen Anne porringer, some opera glasses, and a set of salvers, wasn’t bidding for the next few lots. I murmured an excuse and left my seat to wander to the window, thrown open on that warm day to a vine-shaded courtyard. Within half a minute Ben had found occasion to be there too.

  “Hallo. You’re with Mr. Pennicott, aren’t you?”

  “I’m his niece.”

  “One up to him. My name’s Ben Wyland. What’s yours?”

  “Tess—also Pennicott.”

  We encountered each other a couple more times that morning, and before the last item came under the hammer we had made a date for that same evening. And the next evening, it turned out, and the next and the next. My departure for Canada still seemed aeons away then, but I guess at the back of both our minds must have been the thought that we hadn’t much time.

  To describe those few weeks as an idyllic summer isn’t pitching it too strong. The weather was glorious ... seeming so cool and refreshing to me after the fiercer heat out east. My parents, intent upon enjoying a lazy interval while Dad built up his strength, were undemanding of my company. Every single evening, it seemed, I spent with Ben. Within three days I had decided he was the most exciting male I’d ever met. Within a week I knew that I was hopelessly in love with him. But what did Ben think of me? This was my first anxious thought as I woke each morning, the last as I drifted into sleep long past midnight, and every other moment in between. I could never feel sure, no matter how often I fed him suitable openings, no matter how thoroughly I sifted each treasured word he had spoken to me for a clue. In countless ways he was everything that a girl could hope for in a man; yet, tantalisingly, I never felt I knew Ben wholly.

  All too miserably soon came our last evening together.

  Ben drove me to a country inn where we dined on a lakeside terrace, music drifting faintly from somewhere across the darkening water. Our meal over, we wandered along a woodland bridlepath where the heat of the day’s sun was still trapped beneath the arching branches of oak trees, and the honeysuckle breathed out its soft sweet scent.

  Afterwards, as we lay together in the bracken, close in each other’s arms and gazed up at the stars, I believed in my brimming joy that Ben had finally declared himself.

  A plane droned high overhead, reminding me again that tomorrow my parents and I were due to catch a plane for Canada. The prospect no longer dismayed me, because I wasn’t going now. Mother and Dad would understand ... they would have to understand. I was remaining en England, to find some sort of job. To be with Ben.

  He leant across and kissed me again, and I felt his tongue twine with mine. Then he sat up and started to pull on his shirt. Crashing through my dreams, he said, “I had some great news today, Tess. One of the firm’s partners is spending a year in Australia to set up a branch in Sydney, and I’m to go as his assistant.”

  I jerked up and stared at him. “You’re going to Australia? But.... but why, Ben?”

  “Because it’s a fantastic opportunity, that’s why. The experience will be a terrific help when I come back into the business here. Besides, I rather fancy the idea of Australia.”

  I might easily have broken down into tears like a thwarted child ... after all, at eighteen I wasn’t much more. Instead, a cold numbness took hold of me. I can remember saying in a faint breath of a voice, “Ben ... what do you think of me? Honestly and truly.”

  “What a question, Tess. Haven’t I just shown you what I think of you?” He laughed shakily. “I’ll tell you this, darling... after tonight, I shan’t be able to forget you in a hurry.”

  So I did go to Canada next day. But through the years, I was the one who couldn’t forget. Each man who came into my life - and there were quite a few - was only a pale shadow of Ben. How could they compete with him?

  I glanced into the mirror over the washbasin, and met my eyes. The question I had asked myself earlier was answered. Ben Wyland was the magnet that had drawn me back to England, to Brighton. I had come all this way across the Atlantic, I had met him again. So what now?

  I stood up, slung my bag over my shoulder, and headed back to the lounge.

  Ben was sitting at an alcove table.

  “I got you a bloody mary,” he said. “I hope that’s right, Tess. It was always your favourite, I seem to recall.”

  “Only because I thought it sounded sophisticated,” I laughed, as I sat down opposite him. But I was ridiculously pleased that he’d remembered. I lifted my glass to him and took a sip. “How are things with you, Ben? Are you still with the family firm?”

  “Yes, they haven’t fired me yet. Actually, I’m one of the partners now. How about you, Tess? I was sorry to hear that your father had died. I intended to write to you at the time, but you know how it is.”

  “Dad never really recovered from his illness,” I explained. “He had a couple more coronaries, then the doctors suggested major surgery. But unfortunately he didn’t make it.”

  “How did your mother come through?”

  “It was a very bad patch for her. But she’s married again now. Mitch had lost his first wife rather tragically in a hotel fire, and ... Anyway, he’s a nice man, and I’m very happy for them. It was meeting him that decided Mother to stay on in Canada, and of course I was still at McGill. Otherwise, she was talking of returning to England and making our home here.”

  Ben nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose you’ve come over now to settle up your uncle’s affairs. Sad about him, wasn’t it? I used to meet him from time to time at auctions and so on, and he always seemed to be bursting with health, despite his diabetes.”

  “Yes that’s right, and I find his death hard to understand. It wasn’t the least bit like Uncle Maynard to be careless.”

  Ben took a swig of his lager. “Still, these things happen, and he had a good life while it lasted. How long are you planning to be in Brighton, Tess?”

  “I’m staying permanently,” I said, and watched keenly for his reaction. “I’ve decided to take over Pennicott’s Emporium.”

  Far from looking delighted, Ben looked dumbfounded. “But you can’t, Tess. What do you know about antiques?”

  “I can learn, can’t I? And I’ve got Pearl Ratcliffe to help me.” I might as well make use of that doubtful pleasure as an arguing point.

  “Pearl Ratcliffe? Oh, you mean the woman who was your uncle’s assistant?”

  “Yes. She’s going to continue working for me on the same part-time basis.”

  Ben was shaking his head at me. “I don’t like the sound of it, Tess. You could come a real cropper. Now if you were to sell, you’d have a nice little nest egg.”

  “Why is everybody so anxious to get rid of me?” I burst out.

  He turned a sharp look on me. “Who’s ‘everybody’?”

  “Well, you, and Pearl. And Peter Kemp, who was Uncle Maynard’s lawyer. You’re all advising me to sell.”

  “So why not take the advice? If you put the business on the market, yo
u’d soon get a good offer.”

  “I’ve already had one, Peter tells me. A very generous offer, too.”

  “Oh, who from? Anyone I know?”

  “Peter went professionally coy on me and wouldn’t say. Still, I’ve refused it, so that’s academic.”

  Ben started to make some comment, then glanced at his watch.

  “God, is that the time? I was supposed to have shown up for an important appointment twenty minutes ago.” His glance was apologetic. “Will you think me unspeakably boorish if I leave you? D’you feel up to getting yourself home?”

  “Sure, I’m okay,” I said with a false bright smile.

  “Look, Tess, how about having dinner with me tonight?”

  “Well... er...”

  He grinned coaxingly. “We’ll catch up on all the news, and I’ll have another go at persuading you to change your mind about selling.”

  “That’s exactly what Peter did, over dinner last night.”

  “The way you keep on about Peter,” he muttered sourly, “I’m not getting a picture of some fusty middle-aged character with a bald head and a paunch.”

  “He’s your age,” I said, suddenly feeling a lot happier. “And extremely good-looking.”

  Ben studied me closely, his eyes asking questions I refused to answer.

  “So... about dinner?” he said after a moment. “Okay if I pick you up at seven-thirty?”

  “Make it eight o’clock,” I told him, and marvelled at my self-control.

  Chapter Four

  Heading back to the Lanes, hurrying because I’d been out longer than I’d intended and Pearl might be getting impatient, I remembered that my shopping still wasn’t done. I stopped off at a little corner grocer’s and bought a few basics... a cottage loaf, some butter, cheese and eggs, and a few crisp green apples. Carrying a plastic bag, I dived into a chemist’s shop for some shampoo. I chose a herbal sachet, and handed it to the girl behind the counter together with the money.

  “You’re Mr. Pennicott’s niece, aren’t you?” she said, with a friendly smile. “The one who’s taking over his shop?”

  “That’s right, Tess Pennicott.”

  “I thought so. I noticed the open sign on my way to work this morning, and I saw you inside. The reason I asked is that a few days before your uncle died he left a roll of film to be developed, and I’ve got the prints here.” She rummaged in a drawer. “I don’t know if you’re interested ...”

  “Oh yes, I’d like to have them,” I said eagerly, and gave her the extra money.

  This was a pleasant surprise - somehow a very personal sort of contact with Uncle Maynard. I hoped the snapshots might include some of himself, because I had nothing recent. I knew that Mother would be glad to have one, too.

  There was a young man with Pearl when I arrived back. I caught a flash of startled movement as I entered the shop, and two faces turned to stare at me. He was around twenty and good-looking, with dark hair in a shortish Afro style, and he was wearing jeans and a denim jacket. He gave me a slow, lazy grin that was half sexy, half defiant. Pearl acknowledged me with a brief nod, and I got the distinct impression that I’d interrupted some kind of quarrel.

  Annoyed at being made to feel like an intruder, I went straight upstairs to dump my shopping. I lingered a few moments, and when I went down again the young man was gone. I gave Pearl a chance to explain who he was. But she didn’t, so I asked pointedly, “Did that chap buy anything?”

  Again that resentful look, as if it was none of my business. “No, he was just a time waster... no intention of buying anything.”

  “Do we get many like that?”

  Instead of answering, Pearl took over the attack. “You looked a bit flustered as you came in just now. Did something happen while you were out?”

  Suddenly I didn’t want to tell her about the accident. I didn’t want to put myself in a position that would call for expressions of sympathy from Pearl. So I gave an offhanded shrug.

  “I’d been running, so as not to keep you hanging about. You see, I bumped into an old friend and we got chatting.”

  I could tell from the look in her eyes that she knew I hadn’t told her the truth—or not all of it. We were declared enemies now, and I wished I had the nerve to say straight out that I’d changed my mind about her helping me in the shop.

  “Well, now that you are back,” Pearl went on, reaching for her handbag, “I might as well be off. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Yes,” I said unenthusiastically. “Goodbye.”

  As soon as she had gone, I slipped the door catch and turned the sign to CLOSED, etc. I wasn’t sure whether or not my uncle used to shut up shop while he had his lunch. But I needed a break. And if it meant losing the odd customer, that was just too bad.

  Upstairs, I made myself some coffee and cut a cheese sandwich. But when I sat down at the table by the window, I suddenly felt a kind of nausea at the very thought of food. I began to shiver, my hands shaking so much that I couldn’t hold the mug steady. Obviously, a state of delayed shock.

  I sat there in a cold sweat, fighting to get control of myself. But my mind insisted on reliving every moment of the accident. I could still feel the imprint of a hand on my back, suddenly increasing into a deliberate thrust that sent me floundering into the road.

  Ben seemed to think I was imagining it all. But he was wrong. I knew that I’d been deliberately pushed. By whom, though? It could only have been, I told myself sternly, some hooligan out for kicks, and I was his chance victim. I couldn’t really believe that someone wanted me killed or even injured. Who here in Brighton, England - or anywhere else, come to that - could conceivably wish such diabolical harm to Tess Pennicott?

  And yet... why did I have this irrational feeling, a feeling almost amounting to conviction, that I had an enemy? I tried hard to dismiss the thought as hysterical. But it kept returning. And hovering in my mind, superimposed on the scene of the accident, was the image of two people in the shop downstairs, heads together. Two people deep in some argument, startled by my sudden entrance. Pearl had lied to me about the young man—I knew that for sure.

  I remembered now the determined way she’d packed me off to call on Vera Catchpole, issuing precise instructions as to the route I was to take. Just her bossy way? Or was it all part of a plan she’d worked out with the young man ... that he should follow me and await his chance to push me under a car or something? Someone in jeans and a denim jacket would have blended into any crowded street scene, and I’d never have spotted him. And when he’d seen that his plan had misfired, had he hurried back to report failure to his accomplice? Was that what the two of them had been arguing about?

  This was crazy. I’d work myself up into full-blown paranoia if I didn’t take care. I found a bottle of brandy in a corner cupboard and poured a stiff one. When I felt slightly calmer I took the plate through to the kitchen, checked my face and hair, and went downstairs.

  Just in time, fortunately, to open up to a customer who was on the point of turning away. A big, bluff man who addressed me cheerily in a broad Yorkshire accent.

  “Happen you’ve got something or other in pewter, lass, that I might take a fancy to?”

  “I hope so. You’re very welcome to look round.”

  He was in no hurry and together we went through everything in the shop. In the end he bought a set of six quart tankards, a Bavarian peg beer mug, and a few assorted plates. Chatting to someone so resolutely down to earth did me a lot of good, and even if I did have to give way here and there on price, it was a nice confidence booster to chalk up such a respectable sale on my first real encounter with a customer.

  I had a couple of other callers. A foxy little man like a jockey tried to con me into buying a cheap brass ashtray that he’d probably light-fingered from a pub round the corner, with a story that it had been left to him in his godmother’s will. He was quite indignant when I told him no deal, not even the price of a drink. And I got another dose of indignation from a woman
who might have been his vixen, she was so sharp-faced. No lace-making bobbins, when she’d promised her sister to pick some up in the Lanes on her day trip to Brighton. What sort of antique shop did I think I was running?

  A quiet spell followed. I put the time to good use educating myself with the help of some trade directories and magazines that I found in a drawer.

  The bell above the door pinged again and I glanced up to see a short, roly-poly man entering, his paunch protruding as he came towards me on surprisingly light feet. There was something vaguely familiar about him.

  “Good afternoon,” I said. “Can I help you?”

  He took a step closer, smiling and fingering his bristly little moustache. “So you do not remember me, Tess?”

  His marked French accent brought memory flashing back.

  “I’m so sorry ... you’re Monsieur Duvillard, aren’t you?”

  “The same.” He gave his stomach a not unfriendly pat with both hands and smiled regretfully. “Alas, the last few years have not treated me kindly. But for you, not so. You have emerged a lovely young woman. No longer a child.”

  “I was all of eighteen when I was here last,” I reminded him.

  He brushed that aside with a gesture that was as French as his accent. “I am sad about your uncle, Tess. Maynard was my very good friend, you are aware?”

  I nodded. “You miss him, I expect.”

  “Ah, true. Maynard and I... since my good wife died so long ago, we found companionship together. Most evenings, your uncle would come round to the bistro for a meal. And later, when things were quiet, I would join him and we would share a bottle of wine. Often we played chess together. Though how long that would have continued ...” he added with a little sigh.

  “Why do you say that, Monsieur Duvillard?”

  “You must call me Gervaise,” he said, and didn’t answer my question. Instead, he turned aside and picked up a little Wedgwood jasperware vase, and stood thoughtfully fingering the white relief figure of a dancing nymph.