The Best in Blountmere Street (The Blountmere Street Series Book 2)

by Arnold, Barbara

  Bill takes my case with one hand and places his other on my arm. ‘Before we go upstairs to the others, there’s something I want to say.’ He relinquishes the case, but not my arm. ‘I know you're practically an adult but I'm here to look after you, so if there's anything you need, please come to me.’

  I don’t answer him directly, but say, ‘Before she died, Mum told me that you were my ... that you were my father. Is it true?’

  ‘I'm so happy to have you back, Paula.’

  ‘So, are you?’ I ask.

  ‘You're where you belong,’ he replies.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I kick off my shoes. They are pointed, perilously high, pinch my toes and make the arches of my feet ache, but they are fashionable. All the other directors' secretaries at Legoli and Spiraton, Hatton Garden Diamond Merchants wear them.

  ‘Gosh, it's hot on the Tube, especially in this weather. Sometimes I wonder how one more person can possibly squeeze into the carriage.’ I blow my breath upwards to dislodge my fringe from my sticky forehead.

  ‘Aunty Paula, look what Dadda Bill's just bought me. Her name's Susan.’

  ‘As if she hasn't enough dolls. All of them bought by Bill, of course.’ Mrs Addington laughs.

  ‘He's going to buy me a dolly's pushchair for my birthday.’

  ‘You'll have to be patient. Your birthday’s a few months away yet.’ I lift Maria onto my lap.

  ‘Angela won't be in for tea. She’s out doing some measuring. Bill says you and he will probably eat out, so Maria and I will have a bit of salad. It's a relief not to have to cook in weather like this,’ Mrs Addington says.

  ‘It's good Maria likes salad. A lot of children of her age hate it,’ I reply.

  ‘There's no one like Maria. She can do all sorts of things other children of her age can’t. Just wait until she goes to school; it won’t be long now, then she’ll show them.’ Bill enters the Addingtons’ front room, plucks Maria from my lap and lifts her above his head. ‘The cleverest child in the world, I'd say.’ He’s dressed in beige slacks and a navy blue open-neck shirt. So different from Les, I muse.

  ‘Had a good day?’ Bill asks me.

  Why does he come upstairs to our flat the minute I step through the door and ask the same question?

  ‘Fine,’ I say, tickling Maria's bare feet.

  ‘I thought you and I might pop along to Marquins for a bite to eat. It'll save Dolly having to cook.’

  ‘I'm going out with Herbie tonight.’

  A shadow passes briefly across Bill’s face, but I don’t see any need to apologise. What was there to be sorry about? If Bill springs things on me, what can he expect?

  ‘Can't you put him off?’

  ‘No, I can’t. Anyway, I don't want to.’

  Sensing the tension between us, Mrs Addington makes her way to the kitchen.

  ‘What time do you have to meet him?’ Bill asks.

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘If we leave now, we'll be back by then. It's only up the road. What d'you think?’ Bill looks at me like a dog pleading to be taken for a walk.

  ‘Sounds all right.’ Eating out had been unheard of by Mum and Les. A fish and chip supper with a side plate of bread and butter when we’d been on holiday in Devon had been the extent of our dining out experience. Recently, especially when Angela works in the evening, Bill’s begun taking me to one restaurant or another for dinner. I tell Angela and Mrs Addington it’s because Bill sees himself as a sort of honorary parent; the same role he takes with Maria, no different. They understand, the Addingtons say. After all, who would’ve guessed that sanctimonious Lily Dibble had passed her child off as someone else's?

  ‘We can go to another restaurant if you don’t want to go to Marquins.’

  ‘Marquins is fine.’

  ‘Sure, you’re not too tired?’

  ‘Of course I’m not too tired.’ Bill’s solicitude irritates me.

  ‘How are things going with that job of yours?’ Bill asks for the second time that evening, as we sit at our usual table in the corner of Marquins, surrounded by fading pictures of Italy.

  ‘I told you, fine.’ I reply, twisting spaghetti around my fork. At home we only ever had spaghetti out of tins. The other stuff was for Eyeties and nancy boys, Les had said. I glance across at Bill. He’s neither Italian nor a nancy boy.

  ‘Your mother would have been proud of you.’ Bill smiles indulgently at me.

  The real Mum might have, not the bogus one. The real one would have said “Works for a diamond merchant, my Paula. She was going to be a botanist, but diamonds were what she settled for. Got her head screwed on the right way has Paula. A very clever girl, you know. She could even have been a mannequin for the Woman's Weekly.” The bogus one would have sneered I was a jumped up two-a-penny typist.

  ‘You look so like her, you could actually be her.’ Bill looks at me as if he is seeing me for the first time.

  ‘I know. You've said.’

  It‘s usually at this stage he begins to recount his memories of when Mum had been a young woman: of the time when she had made him a birthday cake, about her first job when he had waited for her every day at the underground station before the first light of morning. Reminiscences of childhood games they had played together. Recently, however, his focus has been more on me.

  ‘Any chance of a promotion, yet?’

  ‘Not really. Anyway, I'm happy as I am.’

  ‘But you deserve to be at the top. You should be the managing director's personal secretary. You'd be far more efficient than any of the others there.’

  ‘Don't be silly. As far as secretaries go, I'm average.’

  ‘You're being modest.’

  ‘No, I'm being truthful. What was it Mum used to say about telling the truth and shaming the devil.’ I pause. ‘Although she didn't tell the truth about you and me, did she?’

  ‘I guess she had her reasons.’ Bill lowers his gaze to the menu then beckons to a waiter.

  ‘Would you like a dessert?’ he asks me. His eyes are still on the menu.

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘By the way, I'm thinking of getting a record player. What d'you think?’

  ‘If you want one, why not?’

  ‘It would be nice to play a bit of music. And you could always use it and listen to some of your jazz. I'll buy you some records.’

  ‘Angela would really like some rock and roll,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, yes, Angela.’

  ‘And we could get some nursery rhymes for Maria.’

  ‘Maria would love it.’ He hands the menu back to the waiter without ordering dessert. ‘What about you? Would you like a record player?’

  ‘I suppose.’ Why did it always come back to me?

  At two the following morning, Angela’s frantic knocking on my bedroom door rouses me from a deep sleep. I jump out of bed, open the door an inch or two and peep through the crack.

  ‘Quick, Paul, Maria’s real sick.’ Angela speeds down the stairs. I put on the dressing gown Bill bought me for Christmas and race into Maria’s bedroom. Mrs Addington is already sitting by the side of Maria’s bed mouthing a prayer and dabbing the little girl’s forehead with a wet flannel.

  ‘The doctor’s on his way. I’ve told him he’d better get a move on.’ Angela is back in the room. She strokes Maria’s hand. The child groans and her eyes roll backwards until all that is visible are the whites. Her lips are foam-flecked.

  ‘We’ll soon have you better, love,’ Angela comforts.

  ‘Honestly, Paul, she got sick so quickly you wouldn’t have believed it. One minute she was running all over the place as per usual, the next, she went all droopy. Now look at her.’ Angela lets go of her daughter’s limp hand and paces up and down. ‘I wish that doctor would hurry up. Come on, come on,’ she urges, as Bill enters the room. He stands over Maria and murmurs. ‘Please God, no.’

  It seems hours before the doctor arrives. Even before he examines Maria, the doctor whispers to Bill to phone for an
ambulance. We wait and watch Maria struggle for each breath, her little chest heaving, her arms and legs thrashing.

  ‘She’ll be all right. She’s a fighter,’ Bill assures Angela, but he has his arm around my shoulder.

  Once the ambulance comes, they lift the little girl on to a stretcher and balance it carefully down the stairs with Angela following. Mrs Addington presses a small suit case into Angela’s hand, and I suddenly realize we are all still in our nightclothes.

  ‘I’ll make a cup of tea,’ Dolly says as we stand over Maria’s empty bed. ‘Let’s go and sit in the front room. We’ll be able to hear the phone from there.’

  We sit in silence. Bill holds my hand tightly in his. From time to time, he strokes it. With one breath, I urge the telephone to ring. With the next, I urge it not to.

  When it eventually rings in the shop below, Bill leaps to his feet and bounds down the stairs. I follow him. He answers it and says yes and no several times. Alternately he nods and shakes his head. ‘I’ll be there,’ he says finally.

  ‘That was Angela ringing from the hospital, Maria’s got meningitis and Angela needs a few things at the hospital. I’ll take them and stay with her for as long as she needs me.’ Bill kisses the top of my head. ‘Don’t worry, my love, Maria’ll be all right.’

  But Maria’s condition worsens and for the next two days, Mrs Addington and I rarely move far from the phone.

  ‘I feel so helpless.’ Mrs Addington’s face sags in sallow folds as we tidy up cuts of material in order to occupy ourselves. The normally busy shop is quiet as if it, too, waits for an outcome.

  Mrs Addington tucks a piece of uncombed hair into a clip. ‘We’re so lucky to have Bill. I don’t know what we’d do without him.’

  I make a non-committal sound, much like one of Les’s grunts.

  ‘There’s not too many who’d be so generous to folk who aren’t family or even close friends. It’s a bit of a mystery, really.’ She looks at me searchingly. ‘Your Mum had a good friend in him.’

  Why did she say “Mum” and not “Mum and Dad”?

  I walk to the shop window and look out at The Common. If I’d been asked the time I wouldn’t have been able to give even a near guess.

  Mrs Addington and I nap in one of the armchairs in the shop when we can no longer keep awake, whatever time of the day or night it is.

  ‘Maria’s been such a blessing to us,’ Mrs Addington says waking from a doze. ‘I can’t begin to think what Angela would do without her. I don’t know how either of us would cope, or Bill. Please God spare her.’ Mrs Addington voices yet another prayer.

  ‘He’s heard your prayers before. He’ll hear them again,’ I assure her, while inside my faith quails. How could someone as small as Maria take on death and defeat it? And how will any of us survive if we never again hear her footsteps tip-tapping up and down the stairs, and her high-pitched voice and laughter is stilled forever.

  I hoist myself from my chair as if I’ve suddenly become a great weight. ‘Why don’t I get us something to eat?’ I glance at the watch Bill has recently bought me. ‘Goodness, it’s almost tea time and I thought it was only morning.’

  ‘Will that young man of yours come tonight?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Calling Herbie “my young man” sounds strange. He’s just Herbie: bombsite Herbie, Tube train Herbie: telling jokes and cheering you up Herbie. Just Herbie.

  ‘I know this sounds a little fanciful, because both of you were so young when he … when he was taken from us, but I always hoped that one day you and Tony might …’ Mrs Addington shakes her head in disbelief. ‘D’you know he’ll be twenty-one at the end of the year.’ She pauses. ‘I’m thinking of taking Bill’s advice and writing to the Salvation Army. They look for people who’re lost, don’t they? Perhaps Bill’s right and Tony’s been put on one of these child migration programmes you hear about where they send children to Australia. Of course, I don’t believe it for one moment. They would have told us if that’s what they were doing. Anyway, can you imagine Tony in Australia? It’s ridiculous, but Bill keeps telling me that lighting candles for the boy’s all very well, but I need to do something more practical.’ She shudders a sob. ‘If Maria … if she dies … he won’t ever have seen her.’

  ‘We’ve got to keep trying,’ I say with more resolve than I feel.

  Early the next morning, Bill returns with the news Maria has survived the crisis and the doctors are confident she’ll make a full recovery. His face is grey and patchy, his eyes red-rimmed.

  ‘Praise the Lord!’ Mrs Addington clasps her hands together and casts her eyes upwards. Then bringing her eyes earthward again, she declares, ‘This calls for a celebratory cup of tea,’ and hobbles up the stairs.

  ‘I’m sorry I’ve been away from you for so long, my love. I’ll make it up to you, I promise,’ Bill strokes my hair. ‘How about you come upstairs and play the piano for me? I love it when you play. You’re so good to come home to, Paula.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Summer evenings on The Common, after the sun has set and the sky has purpled, never cease to give me pleasure. A breeze carrying the last of the day’s heat lightly ruffles the trees, while stars and street lights shine pinpricks of brilliance. A couple, arms entwined, oblivious to everything but each other, pass Herbie and me.

  ‘I’m glad we came here and didn’t go to a coffee bar.’ I balance myself in the crook of my favourite tree. It’s gnarled and has probably been there for decades. Tonight Herbie reclines on the ground at the foot of the tree instead of wedging himself next to me, as he usually does.

  ‘You’re quiet,’ I observe. Instead of regaling me with stories and impersonations of the people he works with, Herbie’s hardly spoken.

  ‘Is work all right?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Are they still wanting you to take more exams?’

  ‘Of course. So are my parents.’

  ‘It would be good for you to get another promotion. It'll give you ... ’

  ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, there are other things beside promotions.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think … ’

  ‘It seems to me thinking isn't one of the things you do much of, especially about us.’

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  Herbie sits up and stares in front of him. ‘Isn't it? I’ve waited over two years for you to acknowledge I’m even here, but you’re blind to everything but yourself and your own feelings.’ Abruptly, he gets to his feet. ‘Or is it that you prefer someone older?’

  ‘What's that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Come on, I’ll take you home. I need an early night.’

  ‘I don’t understand. I never meant … ’ I dislodge myself from the tree and run to keep up with him.

  ‘Forget it.’

  Outside the shop, he walks away without even kissing me on the cheek.

  Back in my bedroom, I tear off a sheet of paper from my writing pad and take my fountain pen from my handbag. I pause. I’m not sure how to word a notice enquiring about accommodation. In addition, I don’t really know what to do with it once I’ve written it. I suppose I can place it in Legoli and Spiraton's staff magazine, although I’m not sure I want to work there much longer either. I’ve been content to get a job and live at the Addingtons’ for the last two years. I’ve given little thought to the future, beyond what I’ll do the following week. From time to time, I dream of being a secretary in New York or a receptionist in some lavish beach resort, but they’re hardly plans for the future, more fantasies.

  Living with the Addingtons works well. At least I think it does. There hasn't ever been any tension that I’ve detected, although if Herbie’s to be believed, I’ve become insensitive to people’s feelings; unaware even that I use them. But I have to go.

  I screw up the paper. I’ll wait a little longer until I know it’s the right time to move. As for Herbie, he’ll get over it.

  Angela ladles shepherds pie on to the plates.


  ‘More please.’ Maria asks.

  Angela smiles. ‘You certainly can have more.’ She turns to Bill. ‘Who would have thought it wasn’t that long ago we were sitting by her bedside thinking she was going to … ’ Her voice trails away, and she takes hold of Bill’s hand. ‘What would I have done without you?’

  ‘Like a rock, was I?’ Bill laughs lightly.

  ‘That’s exactly what you were, and more.’ Angela ruffles his hair in what seems to me more than an act of friendly affection.

  The next day, I pick up my handbag and take from it the postcard with a picture of “Glorious Devon” on the front. Although I only received it this morning, already it’s the fourth time I’ve read its ten lines. Damielle, John and young Christopher are doing well. Mrs Heathman dotes on her grandson. If the weather keeps up, the harvest will be a good one. He tells me nothing about himself and mentions nothing about us, only the usual advice to look after myself. As always, he’s ignored my enquiry about visiting him. It’s signed, “Yours, Les”.

  I put the letter back, fling on my coat and with my bag on my arm I make my way down the stairs and into the shop.

  ‘I'm just off to do a bit of shopping,’ I tell Angela, as I move a chair blocking the doorway.

  ‘Isn’t Bill taking you?’

  ‘He offered to give me a lift, but I told him I'd get the bus.’

  Angela continues snipping at a piece of green velvet. ‘I forgot he doesn’t like you exerting yourself.’

  ‘It’s not that. It just seems pointless to take him out of his way.’

  ‘I suppose.’ The snipping continues. ‘You’ve gone up a couple of sizes since the first time you bought a bra,’ Angela suddenly remarks, putting the scissors down and studying my chest, causing me to tug my cardigan around myself.

  ‘For pity’s sake, don’t be so prissy.’

  ‘I’m not being prissy. I don’t like having attention drawn to me.’

  ‘If you don’t like it, you're good at getting it – attention. You do it in a quiet way, but you get it all right.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Nothing. Take no notice of me. I’m a sour puss today.’ Angela folds the piece of material she’s cut and places it over the back of an armchair. ‘You going out tonight?’