by Weaver, Pam
Cousin Lily leaned over her aunt and put a piece of cake in front of her. ‘There you are, Aunt Bea. It looks fantastic.’
Her pretty locket swung out in front of her and Bea froze. ‘Where did you get that?’ she whispered angrily.
Lily’s face coloured and she straightened up. When she’d put on the locket that morning she hadn’t given a thought to the fact that Bea would be at the wedding. Turning on her heel, she headed for the kitchen again. Bea followed. Luckily the room was empty.
‘I asked you where you got that locket,’ said Bea. Her face was flushed and angry.
‘I’m sorry, Aunt Bea,’ said Lily, clearly embarrassed. ‘I didn’t think you’d mind. That man gave it to me.’
‘What man?’
‘The man who gave me that letter after the inquest.’
Vinny came up behind them. ‘What letter?’
‘He didn’t give it to you, did he?’ said Bea, ignoring her sister. ‘That locket is mine. You were supposed to pass it on to me, weren’t you?’
‘What’s going on?’ asked Vinny.
Bea held out her hand and Lily, her face a picture of misery, handed the locket to her. ‘I wasn’t going to keep it,’ she said. ‘I only borrowed it.’
Bea raised one eyebrow. ‘You shouldn’t have taken it at all,’ she said tartly. ‘I’m very disappointed in you, Lily.’
‘Will someone please tell me what’s going on?’ Vinny insisted.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Lily, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. ‘I didn’t think you’d mind.’
‘You never even asked me,’ said Bea, turning to leave.
Vinny turned to her daughter. ‘Lily, what’s this about?’
Outside the kitchen door Bea held the locket close to her chest for a few seconds, before composing herself and stepping back into the wedding reception. Behind the door Lily and her sister were having harsh words. Bea was more than a little annoyed with Lily. Holding her locket for the first time in eighteen years, Bea was experiencing an acute sense of loss, but she took a deep breath. No, she mustn’t cry. She wasn’t going to let anything spoil Ruby’s wedding.
By six o’clock they had cleared the trestle tables to the side of the hall. Then the men brought in a barrel of beer, which gave everyone a bit of fun when Silas Reed tapped it and sent a fountain of frothy amber liquid all over himself. As the evening wore on, and other members of the fishing community, friends and neighbours joined in the dancing, the wedding party became very merry and, later, a little mellow.
Bea stayed behind with the other women to help clear up, giving Ruby and Jim time to settle into their little room without embarrassment. May was exhausted, but excited to be up so late. At 10.30 p.m., the time they were to vacate the hall, everything had been put away, wiped down and swept up. Friends and neighbours helped Bea carry the leftovers back home and, to lessen the risk of encouraging mice, she spent a few minutes putting everything into a tin or the meat-safe, or under a cover. She’d put the wireless on as soon as she’d got in to save Jim and Ruby’s blushes. With May washed and tucked up in bed, she then made her way to her own room.
She took the locket from her handbag and held it up to the light. She knew it was worth a fortune. It came from Boodle & Dunthorne, a bespoke jeweller in Liverpool, and Rex had given it to her shortly after she’d had their baby. That was the last time they were together. Bea turned the secret catch and saw the picture of her baby for the first time in eighteen years. Ruby’s innocent stare turned back the years, and Bea pictured herself looking at it while Rex was with her. On the opposite side was a little curl of Ruby’s dark hair. Bea touched it gently and, feeling the tears running down her cheeks, wiped them away with the heel of her hand. She’d made Rex take the locket with him.
‘Give it back to me when we are free,’ she’d told him. Oh, why had that silly girl kept it for herself? … If only Lily had given it to her straight away, she might have got to the Savoy before Rex left Worthing. He might have even made it to his daughter’s wedding and walked her down the aisle.
As she got ready for bed, Bea comforted herself that if – no, when – he came back to Worthing, the hotel’s management had promised to give Rex a letter that she had persuaded them to keep in the safe. Dog-tired, even though she felt frustrated and upset, Bea slept soundly.
Percy had woken up with a problem. Apart from the fact that he wanted to keep on seeing Rachel, he had to find himself a job and somewhere to live. The sickening violence he’d seen at the Royal Albert Hall had left him profoundly shocked. He hadn’t said anything to them that night, but his friends in the Black House were actually boasting about what they had done.
‘I was with Smith and his mates,’ said one man. ‘As soon as that fellow in row C started shouting, the four of us jumped on him.’
‘I saw you,’ said another man. ‘I would have helped, but just as we were coming over, some young chap stood up and shouted, “Hitler means war,” so we had to shut him up good and proper.’
‘Did you tell him to leave?’ Percy asked.
The steward laughed. ‘Don’t you worry – we gave him the full treatment.’
‘I told you to ask people firmly to leave, and then escort them off the premises,’ said Percy tartly. ‘Those were Mosley’s clear instructions.’
‘Oh, we were very firm about it,’ laughed Smith.
Percy frowned. This was descending into anarchy. He wasn’t stupid. Yes, the Blackshirts had already gained a reputation for being a bit rough, but he had hoped that, with strong leadership, his team at least would set an example. It was obvious now that it was never going to happen. While it was true that he had left the building to see if Rachel was all right, the meeting had already descended into a shambles long before he went. Hecklers were being treated with brutality. From what he had seen, there was never a tap on the shoulder and a polite request to leave quietly. What made it worse was that, once a man had his arms pinioned, he was in no position to avoid the punches of everyone and anyone who fancied throwing one. Percy had felt from the word go that the movement had its flaws, but all this violence was getting out of hand. Ruby had once told him that he was too headstrong. ‘You get too passionate, and then you forget everything else,’ she’d said. ‘Take things a little slower.’ Well, today he would take her advice. He was supposed to attend a meeting to discuss the strategies of the night before, but instead of going along there, he dressed in civvies and headed for the hospital.
Bea was up early the next morning, helping Ruby to make a packed lunch using some of the leftovers from the wedding breakfast. The happy couple were heading out to Eastbourne on one of Cecil’s coaches for the day. By eight o’clock the pair of them were running down the road hand-in-hand. They had to be at the Dome by eight-fifteen and would be out all day.
Bea watched them go with a little concern. They had been rather quiet at the breakfast table. Of course they were tired from yesterday, but it was more than that. She knew Ruby well enough to know when she had something on her mind. Was everything all right in the bedroom department? Had Jim disappointed her? He seemed nice enough, but you could never really tell. She had only known two men, in the biblical sense. One had been rough and unkind, while the other had been a caring and gentle lover. Chalk and cheese. Bea sighed and hoped that Jim was kind to Ruby.
She made herself a cup of tea and, with May still fast asleep, dozed a little in the chair. The locket was around her neck and it comforted her to feel it every now and then. She decided she would take May to the beach. She could miss Sunday school for once. It was funny, but even though the sea was right on the doorstep, they hardly ever found time to enjoy it. What was that old saying about coals to Newcastle? She and May could take the last of the sandwiches, and there were a couple of sausage rolls as well. She yawned. Every day she spent an awful lot of time in the Magic Memories booth, taking orders and selling Jim’s seaside snaps, but she never ventured out onto the pebbles or to sit in a deckchair. All that seemed v
ery inviting today, and it wouldn’t be long before May came thundering down the stairs.
She heard someone shuffling their feet outside the front door. Oh no – she didn’t want visitors now. She was tired. Perhaps it was her sister, come back to see if there was anything else waiting to be done. There was a soft knock on the door and Bea called out cheerfully, ‘Come in, it’s open,’ at the same time thinking: Go away …
She kept her eyes closed as the visitor came in. ‘There’s some tea in the pot,’ she said, sure it was Vinny. ‘Help yourself.’
When the person who had entered the room didn’t speak, Bea opened her eyes. She took in her breath and gripped the arms of the chair in disbelief. The room was suddenly filled with the sound of soft laughter.
‘Hello, Bea,’ Rex smiled. ‘You look as beautiful as ever, even with your eyes shut and your mouth wide open.’
She rose shakily to her feet as the blood pulsated in her head and her chest tightened. She could hardly breathe. He opened his arms and she came to him. Touching his chest, she said, ‘Is it really you?’
‘Yes,’ he said huskily. ‘It’s me, my darling. I’ve come to collect you, and this time I won’t take no for an answer.’
She moved slowly into his arms, savouring the moment as he enfolded her. She could feel his breath on the top of her head, and his arms felt warm and protecting. As he pressed her to him, she could hear his heart beating wildly in his chest. They stood in silence together for several seconds. Bea closed her eyes again and was intoxicated by the smell of him. He released her and they stared into each other’s eyes. Then he bent his head and gave her the lightest, gentlest kiss, which sent all her senses to the moon and back. They looked at each other again and then his next kiss was far more eager. The third was hungry and full of the promise of what was to come. Bea melted in his arms until a child’s voice behind her said, ‘Mummy, what are you doing?’
CHAPTER 37
Victor’s widow always woke with a feeling of contentment, which quickly vanished. She rolled over the bed to look at her husband’s picture. She reached out and pulled it to the edge of her bedside table. He looked so handsome in his uniform, and she was becoming more and more aware of how young he looked. Her hands were becoming wrinkled with age and a couple of the veins stood out. She was growing older, while he had remained twenty-nine for the past twenty years.
They had been together for ten years and she had loved every minute. They’d married in St Mary’s in Ferring and lived in the village, where he worked as a sexton for the parish. He’d been born and brought up in Worthing and didn’t want to move too far from home. She was his senior by five years, but she had the passion of a much younger woman. To be frank about it, she adored sex. She could never get enough of it. Victor used to laugh when she’d beg him not to stop. ‘Keep this up, gal,’ he’d joke, ‘and you’ll have me in an early grave.’
She never refused him, and they had had their moments in some wonderfully romantic places. The most daring had been in some farmer’s barn in Wisborough Green. It was a country walk with a difference and they had nearly got caught. The farm dog had barked below the loft where they lay naked on the straw, and would have given the game away had not its master, waiting outside with a pony and trap, called sharply for it to come. They had giggled like naughty schoolchildren scrumping in an orchard. How she’d loved the sense of risk and abandon.
While she had enjoyed the lovemaking, she wasn’t so happy about the consequences. At first, Victor withdrew before ejaculation. It was much better when he stayed inside her, but then her son came along. She still wanted her husband, but as she got bigger, he was afraid it would hurt the baby. The result was that she resented her child even before he was born. He was a weak child anyway, stupid and whiney. She did what she was expected to do to nurture him, but her mind was always on her lover.
Her life would have been perfect if it weren’t for the war. Damn the Kaiser and his cohorts. Damn Kitchener and his war poster. She’d been utterly devastated when Victor had come home to say he’d joined up alongside the lads from Sunny Worthing and, if that wasn’t bad enough, after his basic training was sent to France. She’d carried on, writing a letter to him every day, and longing for the time when they could be together again. Then came the official letter:
Madam,
I am directed to inform you that a report has been received from the War Office to the effect that your husband was sentenced, after trial by court martial, to suffer death by being shot, for desertion, and the sentence was duly executed on May 29th 1915.
I am, Madam, your obedient servant, Lt-Col F. Faber
Shot for desertion? Victor didn’t even die at the hands of the enemy, but was shot by a firing squad made up of his own countrymen. She had been poleaxed. For days she couldn’t function, and she was eventually sent to Graylingwell Hospital, which was doubling up as a military hospital at the time. The civilian patients were eventually moved on, but not before she had met a few injured soldiers walking in the grounds. It was then that she discovered the awful truth. Not only was her husband shot by the British Army, but the men who made up the firing squad were his own pals – the very men who had persuaded him to go to war in the first place. His greatest and most serious misdemeanour had been smashing up his rifle.
At first she was numb. That was followed by a rage so strong she felt as if she was drowning in it. Over the years it had settled down, only to become like the magma in a volcano – still there and hot, waiting for the moment when it was time to erupt and spew out hellfire and judgement.
Her son had grown up by the time she came out of hospital in 1922. Everyone was thrilled when she ‘recovered’. Someone from Hastings had looked after the boy, and he was working. Her release came at the same time that the war memorial was unveiled in Alexandra Park by the Earl of Cavan. Other men would be honoured, but as a convicted man, her own darling would never be remembered. Although she hid it well, the anger she still felt convinced her that she was far from ‘cured’, and for nearly ten years she had done what was expected of her, even though the desire to dance on the graves of those who had taken her husband never went away. Jack Harris was the first. He’d been hit by a lorry but the others lived on.
When she got the job in Worthing she was elated. No one there knew her now. She had put on nearly four stone and her hair was white, but she could relive the memories of a happier time. A neighbour had persuaded her to visit Mrs Knight, but nothing ever happened in her seances. But then, when she least expected it, Victor had come to her. She still remembered the thrill when he’d spoken to her the first time.
Her son kept asking questions, of course. Checking up on her, he was. She didn’t want him hanging around, but he was a persistent little sod. She was glad in the end, as his ability to track people down came in useful. Some of the firing squad had died in the war and then, one by one, the accidents kept happening. She didn’t care, of course. Why should they have long and happy lives when Victor was in his grave?
Chipper Norton was next. Victor had told her what to do. She’d been looking out for him for several days and when she overheard someone talking in the post office as she queued for a stamp, she was delighted. ‘Me and the wife are off to Portsmouth with Chipper Norton and his missus to celebrate. It’s a coach trip – very reasonable. You should come. There’s plenty of seats left.’
‘Umm,’ said the friend. ‘I might just do that. Which coach company is it?’
‘Southdown,’ said the friend.
In her position it was easy enough to take a day off work, so she had booked a ticket straight away. She’d spotted the friends booking up a trip around the harbour and had bought a ticket for that too. Chipper was leaning against the rail of the ship, looking out to sea. Little did he realize that the piece of rail doubled as the gate where they put up the gangplank. She would never have thought of the idea but, at Victor’s suggestion, she’d stood beside Chipper and released the catch. Of course she could never tell a
nyone what really happened, but as he cried out and fell, he would have seen her smile. It was so satisfying to watch him sink like a stone into the murky water, his raincoat billowing out and, as it took on water, sucking him under the waves. She’d held her breath as the rescue attempt got under way, but it was to no avail. Chipper was well and truly dead by the time they pulled him out, and when she told them that she’d seen him playing with the catch like Victor told her to, and how she’d warned him to be careful, they believed her.
Victor had planned Nelson’s demise very carefully. In common with other fishermen, he was very superstitious about having a woman on board. During a stroll or two along the seafront he’d pointed out that there was a tarpaulin at one end of Nelson’s boat, which covered the fishing gear. At the last minute she’d changed her mind and decided to go to his house with a knife, but she had been surprised to hear Victor’s voice as she waited in the shadows. She wasn’t really concentrating, but he’d spoken to her all right: ‘Go back to the beach, Freddie, and get into the boat.’
She’d had to run like the wind to get to the boat before Nelson did and hide herself, but she’d managed it. She heard later that Nelson and his son had fallen out that night. He was alone in the boat and, when she stood up with the white sheet over her head, he’d been so startled and terrified that he’d got himself tangled in his own nets, in the panic to get away, and toppled over the side. He might have managed to scramble back on board, but once he’d realized that she wasn’t a ghost, she’d panicked and pushed the weighted nets overboard with him. She was no sailor and had a bit of a job getting back to the shore, and had to abandon the boat a little way out. The water was terribly cold and the swim to shore almost finished her off, but the tide was coming in and she made it. When she got home, she wondered whether to tell their son everything, but something told her that she must keep her secret.