I’m close to panicking, and it seems like minutes pass when really it’s only moments. Then I see Sammy watching me from the lane. He’s standing near to my car, smoking a cigarette. Good. It’s time he learned just how deep a hole he has dug for himself by helping me.
“Sammy.” I keep my tone mild, welcoming. “Come here for a minute, will you?”
1966
Cara let herself in through the back door of The Quiet Woman. Her stomach churned at the thought of facing Nancy, but it had to be done. She needed a dress for the dinner party, and all her clothes were in her room at the pub. Guy had gone home to get changed and they had agreed to meet in the village square before walking to Eric Black’s house.
She crept up the stairs, thinking that Nancy might be in the bar, serving the lunch time crowd. So it gave her a fright when Nancy’s bedroom door opens. Nancy emerged, tying up her dressing gown. “Oh, it’s you, Cara.”
“Yes. Sorry. I need my clothes.”
“Well, you know where they are.”
Cara’s heart dropped. Nancy’s mood has not improved since the morning. “I do. Erm … haven’t you opened the pub today, Nancy? It’s nearly two o’clock.”
“I’ve had other things on. It won’t hurt them to go one session without drink.”
“I suppose not.” Cara did not know what else to say. This was not like Nancy at all. She always worked hard, and as far as Cara remembered, had never missed an opening time. Even when she was ill, she insisted on making sure the customers were served.
Before going into her room, Cara looked back at Nancy and said, “Whatever has happened between us, I’m still your friend, you know. If there’s anything I can do.”
“Thank you, Cara, but I really do think it’s time you moved on.”
Feeling as if Nancy had plunged a dagger in her heart, Cara almost staggered a little. “Okay, if that’s what you think.” She swallowed back a lump in her throat that threatened to choke her.
“No, I mean it. You always were too good for this place, and I’ve held you back. It’s time you followed your dream. I realised that last night when I saw you enjoying yourself so much with Guy Sullivan. This will never be that sort of pub, Cara, but I can see why you’d be attracted to that type of life, of champagne cocktails and gorgeous men.”
“I’ve never thought I was too good for the pub, Nancy.”
“No, pet, I know you haven’t.” Nancy voice softened. “But you do need to do something more with your life than be a barmaid. You don’t want to end up like me.”
“I’d be very proud to be like you.”
“No, you wouldn’t, pet. You only say that because you don’t really know me. Come here.” Nancy held out her arms, and Cara accepted her hug.
“Why are you saying this?” Cara started to cry, feeling as if she was saying a permanent goodbye to her friend. It felt like the end of an era, but there was something more. Nancy was not just saying goodbye. It seemed as though she was severing all ties, not just with Cara but with the world. “If it’s about last night, I can’t say I’m any sorrier that I am.”
“There’s nothing to apologise for, Cara. I over-reacted. But I can’t have you living here right now, so it’s best you go. I’m sure you’ll find another job.”
“Actually,” said Cara, “I’ve already got one.”
“That was quick.” Nancy seemed a bit put out. Had she hoped that Cara would struggle without her as a friend and mentor?
“I’m helping Guy to find his sister. He’s paying me.”
For some reason, Nancy backed away, as if she had been given an electric shock. “I see. What brought that on?”
“Well, he wants to know what happened to her. Actually, we think we do now.”
“Oh?”
“There was a piece in the local paper about an unnamed woman being hanged as a German spy in nineteen forty-six. It matches her description.”
“Well, there won’t be much more work for you to do then.”
“He still wants to know why she came to Midchester.”
“If they think she was spying…”
Cara shook her head vehemently. “No, she wasn’t a spy. She didn’t even like the Nazis. She’s from a good family who got away from Germany when they realised the way things were going.”
“When you think about it, Cara, that’s a good cover story.”
“What are you saying, Nancy? That you think Guy is lying?” Cara felt her temper flare.
“No, I’m only saying that he might not know everything about his big sister.”
“Well perhaps he didn’t, but he knows she wasn’t a spy. She spent most of the war in an internment camp, with him and his parents, and her little girl. There aren’t many opportunities to spy when you’re in those conditions.”
“Alright, Cara, calm down.” Nancy raised a hand in supplication. “I’m only saying that there may be other things Guy might not want to find out.”
“Why? What do you know?”
“Me? I don’t know anything. I’m just speculating, pet.”
Cara wanted to believe her, but she could not help suspecting that Nancy knew more than she was saying. She would have been a teenager when Greta came to Midchester in nineteen-forty-six. Had she seen her and was keeping it quiet for some reason? “I’d better get my things then,” said Cara, feeling somewhat deflated. She had hoped that things would be put right with Nancy, but their relationship was even more strained than it had been when she left in a huff that morning.
Going into her room, Cara threw some clothes into a suitcase. She could not carry everything, so it would mean having to come back. She wondered if she should hand her keys back to Nancy. She had no right to them anymore.
When her suitcase was packed, she went out and crossed the landing to Nancy’s bedroom. She was just about to knock when she thought she heard voices. One of them was a man’s.
Tiptoeing down the stairs, Cara left the pub for what was to be the very last time.
***
Guy was finding it hard to remember why he was at Eric Black’s dinner party. Cara sat opposite him at the table, dressed in a silver crocheted A-line dress. She had teased her light brown hair into a beehive, and put black kohl around her eyes, accentuating the blue. He wondered if she knew just how stunning she was. At that moment, he felt she could grace the cover of any magazine, giving Twiggy and Jean Shrimpton a run for their money. He would quite happily spend the rest of his life just looking at her. No, not just looking at her. Talking to her too. She was funny and clever, with no idea of the affect she was having on him or any man.
But for some reason she looked pensive tonight. She had been fine when they arrived, until she was introduced to the other guests. One particular guest in fact. A man called Tony Weston, who had come with his wife, a pale, plump woman called Sandra. Sandra Weston kept giving Cara waspish looks. Guy wondered what the story was there, other than that Tony could not take his eyes off Cara. But as Weston was not the only man there to be stunned by her beauty, Guy could hardly blame him for that.
Weston was in his thirties, with a beer gut and hair full of dandruff. He was getting the red nose that typified a heavy drinker. There were signs that he had been a good-looking man at one time in his life, but those looks were quickly fading.
Guy managed to drag his own eyes away from Cara and peruse the rest of the people assembled. There were several local councillors and their wives. Guy had been introduced to them and had promptly forgotten all their names.
He turned his attention to their host. Whether Eric Black was Frederick Schwartz or not, Guy could not tell. There was nothing about him that he recognised, but that might have had a lot to do with Black’s attire. Despite it being a formal dinner party, with every other man dressed in a smart suit, Black was dressed in jeans and a tie-dyed shirt. His hair, or what was left of it, was shoulder length. His sideburns ran down to his chin, spreading out like black and grey mould. He wore several strings of beads around his nec
k. The look would have suited a man thirty years younger, but on a man in his fifties who wanted to make his name in politics, it looked inappropriate.
The house, an art deco building, had been decorated in the latest fashion, with lots of black and chrome, and plastic chairs that one stuck to when bare legged. Sheepskin rugs hung on the walls, whilst abstract sculptures were dotted around the floor. The paintings were mainly Andy Warhol, alongside photographs by David Bailey.
“Of course,” Black was saying to one of the other guests, “until you visit India and drink in the spirituality, you are not a whole person. The things Barbara and I saw over there…” At that he glanced at the woman at the other end of the table.
Barbara Price had been introduced as Black’s assistant, but there was clearly more than that to their relationship. Guy remembered the tale Cara had told about the couple living in ‘sin’ above the shop who had been hounded out of Midchester. He wondered if that would have been the case if the young couple had been as rich as Eric Black. In Guys’ experience, the wealthy could ignore any number of social mores and would never be ostracised.
Mr. Black and Miss Price were lovers, of that Guy was convinced. Miss Price was as striking as her lover, albeit in a different way. She was of statuesque build and almost a head taller than Black, with a slender but muscular body. She wore a powder blue kaftan, which was decorated with a sequined peacock applique. Her hair was cut in an asymmetric style, with half a heavily lacquered fringe covering one eye. Despite being around Black’s age, she carried the latest fashions off with more aplomb than he did.
“Have you ever been to India, Mr. Sullivan?” she asked, caressing her wine glass with long fingers. Her nails were painted black.
“Yes, I visited a few years ago.”
“What were your impressions of it?”
“I thought it had an awful lot of very hungry people and that the only ones making money were those who spouted quasi-spiritual crap to gullible Western travellers.”
Someone choked on their drink, and there were a few gasps. No-one said anything. Guy had realised early in his career that a famous actor could get away with saying just about anything.
Guy realised he was being a bit harsh, and that it was unfair to use his fame as an excuse to misbehave, but something about the dinner party irked him. Black was clearly a big fake, but someone else in the room was too. They were just better at hiding it. Something dark and malevolent hung in the air, yet he could not trace its source.
“I hear the Beatles are going over there,” said one of the other ladies. “They’re getting a little pretentious if you ask me.”
“I agree,” said Guy. “It’s Mrs. Abercrombie, isn’t it?” He remembered her because they had only just been talking about her and her supposed sister, Miss Watson, that afternoon.
“Yes, that’s right, but do call me Agnes. And this is my sister, Lilian.” Guy immediately warmed to Agnes. She had a full, matronly body and bright, intelligent eyes. Lilian Watson was the polar opposite. She was bird-like and fragile looking. There was no possible way they could be sisters.
“Cara told me you were her headmistress. Tell me; was she very naughty at school?” He winked at Cara who was looking at him with mock horror. But it seemed to relax her. She gave him a dazzling smile.
“I’ll have you know I was a good girl.”
“She was a good girl,” said Lilian Watson, primly. “At least she was when she was in my class.”
“Unlike her brother, Freddie,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “But he turned out all right in the end. Ended up at Oxford, didn’t he, Cara?”
“Yes, that’s right. He still teaches there.”
“I remember Freddie,” said Barbara Price. “He is a handsome boy. Has he ever married?”
“No … er … no, he’s never married,” said Cara. “He lives with his friend, Ralph. I mean, they share a house.” Her voice faded at the end of the sentence. She looked from Mrs. Abercrombie to Miss Watson as though mentioning her brother and his friend had brought them to mind. Guy wanted to put his arms around her and tell her that it did not matter that Freddie wanted to live with Ralph.
“Renting is so expensive,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, kindly. “That’s why my sister and I share.”
“Yes.” Cara nodded. “And it’s even more expensive in Oxford.”
“So,” said one of the other men at the table. “You don’t think there’s anything new to learn about spirituality from visiting India, Mr. Sullivan?” He had been introduced to Guy as Reverend Andrew Cunningham. He was a strikingly handsome man in his forties, and what one might call ‘trendy’ for a vicar. He was accompanied by his wife, Meredith, whom Guy had already met briefly on the night they found Carl Anderson dead. She was as beautiful as her husband was handsome and they seemed to make the perfect couple.
“I’m not against travelling to broaden the mind, Reverend. I just don’t think the answer to the meaning of life can be found at the bottom of a hashish pipe.”
The reverend grinned. “No, I absolutely agree. I used to work in the East End of London, before I got this cushy gig. I found that drugs cause more problems than they solve.”
“Of course, I am anti-drugs,” said Eric Black. “But I still think we’ve much to learn from the East. I met a man who gave me the perfect diet to counter my diabetes, but my own doctor is too set in his ways and won’t allow me to follow it. ”
“You’re diabetic?” Guy frowned, struggling to remember if he ever knew that about Frederick Schwartz. “How long have you had diabetes?”
“I’ve been insulin dependent all my life. Unfortunately it meant I couldn’t join in with the war effort, though I did my best in the Home Guard.”
“In Midchester?”
“No, not Midchester. I was born and raised in Newcastle. I didn’t come here until … oh when was it? The end of Forty-five, I think. The war hadn’t officially ended by then, but it was all over bar the shouting as they say. That’s when I met Barbara, and we began the newspaper together.”
“That reminds me, Mr. Black,” Cara said. “We were looking at old newspapers in the library today.” Guy and Cara had discussed before arriving that they would be honest about what they were doing, to see if there was any reaction.
“Yes,” Guy said, “as you know I’m trying to find my sister, Greta.”
“Oh yes, I had heard,” said Black.
Guy searched his eyes for some sign of guilt, or even recognition, but either Black was a very good actor, or there was nothing to see.
“We found an article in the paper,” said Cara. “It was your paper. About an unnamed German woman who had been hanged as a spy. It appeared around December, nineteen-forty-six. Do you remember it?”
Black was silent for a while. “No, not really. We publish hundreds of stories every year, as you know, Cara. Which reminds me, I’m still waiting for your expose on Mr. Sullivan here.”
Everyone laughed at that, but Cara looked stricken. She glanced at Guy, horrified. “It wasn’t an expose,” she said.
“I know that,” Guy said, smiling back at her.
“I’m just teasing,” said Black. Was he, thought Guy. Or was he just playing for time? “Actually I think I was away that month. Can you remember, Barbara?”
“Hmm, let me think. It was a long time ago. I’m not sure you were, Eric.”
“Oh yes, I definitely was,” said Black, emphatically. “You must remember.”
“Do you remember the story, Miss Price?” asked Guy.
“I told you, it’s Barbara,” she said with a provocative smile. “Let me think. No, I don’t remember it, but let me have a look at our own copies and maybe when I see the wording it will ring a bell. We have lots of freelance journalists, like Cara here, so it might have been written by one of them. Sometimes we just get stuff in from news agencies, and we cover it without paying too much attention. Was there a by-line?” The by-line was the name of the reporter who had written the story.
Cara s
hook her head. “No. I checked.”
“That’s odd. Normally it would say who had written it, or where it had come from. Mind you, if Eric was away then, I might have brought in a temporary editor. I tend to get rushed off my feet.”
“Who was that?” asked Guy.
“Oh, now let me see. No, no, I can’t remember. As I say, it all depends if Eric was away or not. But, I’ll find out for you. I’m sure you want to get to the bottom of this, Guy.”
“Yes, I do. My sister was no spy.”
“Oh, I’m sure she wasn’t.” Barbara’s patronising tone annoyed him. It suggested that she believed every word of it. “I’m sure it was just a dreadful mistake on the part of the authorities.”
“It must have been hard for you, not knowing where she was all this time?” Meredith Cunningham said, in sympathetic tones. At least she did not patronise him. “And then to read that…”
Guy nodded in agreement. “Yes, it’s been hard, especially for my niece, Brigitte.”
“I don’t know if this helps,” said Reverend Cunningham, “but they would keep records and maybe even belongings at the prison where your sister was kept. Perhaps you could find out more that way. If they have personal affects, you might be able to identify them as hers. At least then you’ll know for certain.”
“Yes, thank you, Reverend. But there was no mention of where she was imprisoned. In fact, I get the impression that it was all done very quickly and with little ceremony.”
“It will be on record somewhere. The court files will certainly be available, unless they’re locked under the Official Secrets Act. London is the place to go, I should think. I’ve got an old friend who works in intelligence. Maybe he can help you. I could give him a ring if you like.”
“That’s very kind of you, Reverend. Yes, I’d like to try that, if it’s no problem. What do you say to a trip down to London, Cara?”
“If you want me to come with you.”
“Of course. You have all the best ideas.”
“Well, that’s all settled then,” said Eric Black. He looked down at his food and frowned.
Bonfire Memories Page 9