by Anne Doughty
‘Stop where you are, or you’re dead,’ the Boss shouted, startling her with the vehemence in his tone. One of the two figures dumping paper on her floor jerked his head up to see what was happening and in that split second she saw his eyes. Given they were the same eyes she saw every time she applied make-up, there was no doubt as to who it was.
‘I told you we had no money, William,’ she said crossly. ‘Why don’t you and your friends go home before the police arrive? Some of the guests will have phoned by now,’ she said, looking directly at the Boss.
‘Nah,’ he sneered. ‘Ye don’t get us with that one, honey. We’re more experienced than that. The new UVF, that’s us, in case you don’t know. We’ve been trainin’ for a year an’ now we’re goin’ to get the funds we need for proper equipment.’
Clare sensed a movement behind her and heard the sound of liquid being poured from a bottle. Before she had even thought what she could do about this new threat, the entrance hall was lit up and the chandelier tinkled again as a car swung round the turning circle and braked sharply at the foot of the steps.
‘I expect that’s them now,’ she said, totally amazed at her own presence of mind.
William and Billy made a mad dash for the hall doors, almost falling over each other as they tried to get through them at the same time. Clare’s guard wasn’t far behind. The Boss paused only to ignite his ‘gun’ and throw it on the carpet behind her.
There was a sudden whoosh of flame as the doors swung closed behind them. Clare caught up the roses from the centre of the table, grabbed the vase in which she’d arranged them the previous day and splashed the water into the midst of them. Then she gathered up a pile of glossy magazines sitting beside the abandoned roses and dumped them on the small flames that survived.
Coughing and gasping for breath, she turned to find a large man she’d never seen in her life before, coming quickly towards her.
‘Clare, are you all right?’ he demanded. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t catch them. They took me unawares for my mind was on other things. I’m Eddie Running and I was hurrying to catch you before you went to bed. I have a message for you from your friend Charlie.’
Seventeen
‘Clare, are ye all right?’
Clare turned away from Eddie Running to see Sam Rogers moving towards them at a totally unexpected speed.
‘I smelt burnin’,’ he said quickly, as he cast his eye over the scatter of magazines on the wet floor. ‘ARP in London during the Blitz. You never forget the smell,’ he added, as he inspected the charred carpet.
‘Sam, this is Eddie Running. He appeared just at the right moment,’ Clare explained, suddenly feeling she would like to sit down.
‘Away and settle yourselves, the pair of you,’ said Sam, looking them up and down. ‘I’ll bring a cup o’ tea. I know where everythin’ is for I go in an’ pass the time a’ day with the girls.’
Clare glanced towards Headquarters, the floor deep in paper, then led the way to the sitting room. Empty and dim, only the pale gleam of the newly-risen moon made the heavy furniture visible. She dropped down quickly on the big sofa in front of the fire.
‘Eddie, could you switch on some of the lamps, please. I feel a bit shaky. It’s probably those fumes from the paraffin.’
To her great surprise, Eddie laughed. He turned on the nearby lamps, looked her straight in the face and said, ‘You’re as white as a sheet. D’ye not think maybe you’ve had a wee bit of a shock?’
‘I might have had a worse one if you hadn’t turned up,’ she replied, smiling weakly.
‘Would you mind if I asked you a few questions while it’s still fresh in your mind.’
‘You sound just like a policeman.’
‘That might be because I am a policeman,’ he said, with a laugh. ‘CID since last year,’ he explained, a hint of satisfaction in his voice.
Clare wondered why Charlie had never told her his nephew was a policeman. Perhaps he thought she’d guessed. He was certainly the right height and build for the job.
‘I saw four of them,’ Eddie began helpfully. ‘Couldn’t miss them, they nearly ran me down. One was taller than the rest. Did you get a look at any of their faces or had they all covered up?’
‘No, I didn’t get a look at any faces, but I saw the eyes of one of them. I’m afraid it was my brother. He thinks we’re rolling in money because there’s a chandelier in the hall. He’d gone for the cash box in my desk, but it was empty. The taller one was acting Boss. He called one of the others Billy. My brother is William Hamilton. Eddie, I really don’t want this reported, at least not till I talk to my husband.’
‘Right. Don’t worry about that for now. Let’s just see what we can put together. Did they have any badges or distinctive markings?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Two of them had black masks and William and the Boss had grey balaclavas. Oh yes,’ she added quickly. ‘Boss Man said they were the UVF. That they were getting the funds they needed.’
‘Clare, that is very helpful. We already know there are paramilitary groups forming. The Ulster Volunteer Force is one of them. There are others too and I’m afraid that sooner or later they’ll have money for guns unless we can stop them.’
‘Here ye’s are now,’ said Sam, bringing in a loaded tray. ‘I brought mugs, they hold more. And I found the scones. Clare, you need something sweet an’ I know you don’t take sugar. Eddie, will you see she eats one of those while I go an’ have another look at that bit of carpet an’ lock the door till you go,’ he ended, putting the tray on the sofa between them.
Eddie poured tea and handed her a plate with a scone well-covered in strawberry jam. ‘Doctor’s orders. They look very nice. I think I’ve had the same ones at Charlie’s,’ he said quietly, as she drank her tea gratefully.
‘June is a great baker. I always take Charlie whatever’s going when I go on Wednesday afternoons. It was wee buns today, because there’s a children’s party on Friday,’ she explained, as she took a bite of Sam’s jammy scone.
‘I hear all about Drumsollen,’ Eddie replied. ‘I’m afraid all the disturbances have been bad for business,’ he continued, making light work of his own scone. ‘I’m surprised so many big firms are willing to come and set up new factories here, but then there are good incentives and they have their own security. As for yours, I’m afraid you’ll need to keep that door locked in future and ask your guests to ring, unless you want to give them a key.’
He paused and watched her closely as she licked her sticky fingers. She glanced up at him and remembered he’d said he had a message from Charlie.
‘I’m so sorry, I’ve kept you back,’ she began. ‘Will your wife be waiting up for you?’
‘No, don’t worry. I rang her from the hospital and told her I was coming to see you,’ he said reassuringly.
‘Hospital?’
‘Charlie had a wee turn early this evening,’ he began steadily. ‘He was sitting on the sofa when I arrived, a kind of grey colour, so I took him straight to the Infirmary. They decided to keep him in for tests, so I waited till they had him settled and sat with him for a bit. He said you’d been to see him in the afternoon and I was to tell you if they kept him in for a day or two, he’d give you a ring. He said there was a call box patients could use. He’d seen it when he came to visit Billy Robinson after he fell off the tractor.’
Clare smiled and told Eddie how pleased Charlie was with his new phone and how he rang her now and again, saying he was just ringing to see if it still worked.
Eddie smiled and then looked down at his hands.
‘Clare dear, there’s no easy way to tell you this,’ he began again. ‘Just as I was saying Cheerio, Charlie had another heart-attack. It was very quick. I called the nurses, but he was gone before they got to him.’
‘Oh no,’ she said, her heart leaping to her mouth. ‘Oh no, not Charlie too.’
‘Clare, did you know Charlie had cancer?’ Eddie went on. ‘They thought it was one lung, but they
did a second X-ray to make sure. He had an appointment a couple of weeks ago and the results are not long back. It was in them both.’
Clare shook her head silently. He hadn’t told her he had cancer. She hadn’t told him they had their date for leaving. No bad thing, either way, when you came to think of it.
‘No, I didn’t know,’ she said slowly. ‘He mentioned an appointment, but he didn’t tell me what it was. Now I think of it, that wasn’t like him.’
‘Did you know what age Charlie was?’ Eddie asked, his voice steady and strangely comforting.
‘Yes, I do. Or rather, I can work it out,’ she said counting on her fingers. ‘He was ten years younger than Granda Scott, my grandfather, who died in September 1954. Granda was seventy-nine then and this is ’65. Charlie must be eighty. Goodness, he didn’t look eighty, did he?’
‘He didn’t do so bad then, did he,’ Eddie continued gently. ‘I didn’t think he was that old either. He wouldn’t even tell me when his birthday was, never mind how old he might be.’
‘A bit of vanity perhaps,’ Clare said smiling. ‘I can’t believe he’s gone, Eddie, but I’ll not wish him back to suffer.’
Eddie nodded and looked relieved.
‘I have one request, Eddie,’ she began, without a tremor in her voice. ‘After the funeral you’ll want a party. We’re rather good at parties at Drumsollen. Ask as many as you want, there’s plenty of room. No charge. You can bring what you want to drink, or give me a list and I’ll see if I can get it cheaper from the Cash and Carry. What do you think?’
‘I think that’s a great idea,’ Eddie declared, as he was forced to brush tears from his own eyes.
‘How long did you say you were planning to stay?’ asked Clare, as she walked down the steps on Friday evening.
‘Here, you carry the small ones,’ said Jessie, not bothering to reply. She dumped a bulging grip and a rucksack full of painting materials at Clare’s feet and then manhandled two suitcases from the back of her new estate wagon. ‘Harry wanted to know if I was leavin’ him when he saw me loadin’ up,’ she went on, dropping the cases uncere-moniously to the ground.
‘And what did you say to that?’ Clare asked, smiling to herself.
‘Told him not to be so daft. Where else would I get my painting stuff cost price?’
To Clare’s great surprise, Jessie came over and put her arms round her. ‘Are ye badly cut up over Charlie?’ she asked abruptly.
‘Not as bad as I might be,’ Clare replied, honestly. ‘I keep remembering the cancer and that it had got into both lungs,’ she said, wincing. ‘I think if I’d had the choice I’d rather leave like he did.’
‘When’s the funeral?’
‘Not till next week. There’s another nephew in Canada couldn’t get a flight any sooner. Come on in. You must be tired after the drive and humping all that stuff.’
‘Clare, what in the name of goodness is that smell?’ Jessie demanded, as she followed her into the entrance hall. ‘Horrible. It’s like raw onions,’ she complained, turning up her nose and making a face, as she dropped her suitcases.
‘It is raw onions,’ Clare said. ‘Not my idea and a long story. I’ll tell you the story, if you tell me what’s in those suitcases.’
‘Bronagh,’ Jessie replied shortly. ‘Yer always talkin’ about her an’ I think she’s a good sort m’self. D’ye know what size she is?’
‘Fourteen, but she’s on the cuddly side rather than the other. Why?’
‘These are all my sixteens and fourteens. Some of them’s never been worn. I only bought them to please my mother-in-law when she was tryin’ to help me,’ she explained. ‘I hadn’t the heart to wear them when I was bad and now I’m back to a twelve. She wouldn’t be offended, would she?’ she ended, suddenly anxious.
‘No. Bronagh’s too sensible for that,’ Clare replied, shaking her head. ‘Besides, she has two sisters she has to provide for. If anything’s the wrong size she’s a great hand with a needle. She’s taken in trousers for me before now.’
‘Great. Well that’s settled. Now, what about your onions?’
‘Did you not notice the new carpet?’ Clare asked, looking down.
‘Doesn’t look new to me,’ Jessie retorted. ‘More like something Harry used to sell before he decided on pictures and antiques.’
Clare laughed aloud, convinced now that Jessie was completely restored to her old self. Sharp as a pin, as June would say, and a great eye for colour and design, as Harry had observed years ago.
‘You’re quite right, Jessie dear,’ she said laughing happily. ‘This is one of Harry’s. He found it for us right back when we first opened and we had it in the best bedroom. Perfect match for those lovely old curtains.’
‘So why did you bring it down?’ Jessie asked suspiciously. ‘What happened to the one that was here?’
‘It had a brief encounter with some paraffin oil and a cigarette lighter and four boyos from the Portadown UVF,’ she replied, grinning. ‘I will tell you the whole story, but you mustn’t say a word to anyone except Harry till I’ve told Andrew. I couldn’t tell him on the phone for one of the boyos was William and I don’t want him ending up in jail.’
‘Huh. It’d be the best place for him,’ said Jessie unsympathetically. ‘Sure, don’t you think he was behind the paint as well?’
‘Yes I do. But what would you do if it was your brother?’
‘Well John’d hardly be at that kinda thing and him a policeman himself, would he?’
Having agreed that June’s onion recipe for getting rid of the residue of burnt paraffin and charred carpet was worse than the original smell had been, they shut the door of Headquarters firmly behind them and talked all evening as if nothing had ever come between them. As the fire burnt low, they began to speak again about Charlie.
‘D’ye know what I mind best about yer man?’ Jessie asked. ‘Those dahlias of his. The ones he gave us the night my father shot himself and Aunt Sarah sent us out looking for flowers to spread around the stable floor after they washed the blood away. D’ye remember that? We got honeysuckle out of Robinson’s hedges and then we went to Charlie an’ he cut dahlias an’ gave us wee roses with hardly any stem, but a lovely perfume. You poured water on the cobbles and put the wee stems where the water lay an’ they kept fresh till after his funeral.’ She paused and looked straight at her friend before she continued. ‘Ye know, I told that psychiatrist fellow about that night an’ he asked me the funniest question. He asked me did I ever think I would shoot myself. I told him not to be daft. Sure, where would I get a gun? But I told him I often thought of walking in front of a car. An’ d’ye know what he said?’ she continued, barely pausing for breath. ‘He said, That’s good. Now we know what the problem is. You’ll be all right now.’
She laughed again and went on. ‘To tell you the truth, I thought he was off his head, not me, but then he kinda explained that if we have a shock, a really bad one, it can get stuck somewhere in your mind and it can send out messages and we can’t stop it. And if we don’t understand about this we think it’s real. Once we know the messages aren’t real we can just say, Piss off, and it goes.’
Jessie burst out laughing again. ‘Clare, if you’d seen yer man in his Savile Row suit and the old school tie, an’ the accent you could cut with a knife, an’ a straight face saying, Piss off, ye’d have split yerself. I thought I was goin’ to disgrace m’self laughin’.’
‘So, have you walked in front of any good motor cars recently? Mentally speaking, of course?’ Clare asked.
‘No, not one. It’s gone away. It’s gone clean away. Mind you, so it ought to have, given what he charged, but Harry says it was cheap at the price. He’s always been very good like that,’ she confessed, with unexpected gentleness.
At the end of the evening, they agreed that the smell of onions in the hall was fading, but they’d be really glad when it had gone. Clare climbed into bed feeling that, yes, she had indeed lost one old friend, but, to her great joy, anothe
r old friend had been returned to her.
Jessie went off after a late breakfast, her sketch book full of studies for the watercolours now to be her parting gift. This being June’s monthly Saturday morning off, she had the whole house to herself and a long list of chores that needed doing. Andrew wasn’t due back till late afternoon, so she tried to think which ones it would be most useful to have done before then. At the same time, she felt an equal and opposite desire not to do any of them.
She compromised by vacuuming as much of the dining room as she could get at, the tables still displaced after the children’s party, and then tackled the large cardboard boxes into which she and Bronagh had piled the disordered papers in Headquarters.
It was a wearisome task sorting them out, for Billy and William had not only emptied all the drawers, they had kicked the piles apart looking for hidden cash. As she worked away steadily, Clare thought of the archaeologists who patiently reconstruct the history of a site, assigning each item to the correct level, even after various upheavals.
Totally surrounded by paper, thirsty and dispirited, she suddenly felt more than just alone. She felt lonely and a prey to sad thoughts. Could it be their Grand Plan and their high hopes of September 1960 had been merely an extension of the joy of being together, rather than a real possibility? She looked at the piles of paper she had managed to reorder. Bank Statements. Invoices for major items. Income Tax Returns. What had it all added up to? An empty house where the faint odour of onions reminded her of a young man, so obsessed by his own fantasy of stacks of cash just waiting to be picked up, that he could put her at risk in the way he had by telling the Boss Man how easy it would all be.
What if Eddie Running hadn’t turned up when he did? She could have tackled two of them and William was a coward, but three of them was a real risk and she couldn’t be sure the ‘gun’ was a fake. How would Andrew have felt had she been shot, or beaten, or burnt?