by Daisy White
I sigh. “Yes, I do. They’ll come and give me another telling off.”
Johnnie smiles happily. “And we will ignore them as usual, because most of the time the police are a useless bunch of lazy bastards.”
I rinse bubbles off the last mug and stack it neatly in the wooden drying rack, biting my tongue. Johnnie is a poofter, which doesn’t bother me at all — at least not since the initial shock of finding out — but it is of course very illegal. Earlier this year he was having an affair with the local policeman, Inspector Hammond, but that ended badly, so I can see why he has problems with our police force. I think of Kenny’s wink earlier when he mentioned Johnnie and the police, and wonder how many of Johnnie’s friends suspect. As long as nobody can prove anything he’s safe, but he does like to take risks . . .
In between clients, I manage to snatch a few moments to look at the list Kenny gave me yesterday. Running my eyes over the names, I am delighted to spot two women who are regular customers. I hope I’m less likely to get the door slammed in my face if they actually know me first. Annie Simmons must be the neighbour who took Beverly in when she came out of prison. Only one man on the list of fifteen names. Interesting. I shove the paper back in my pocket as Mary joins me on the reception desk. The spark is back in her eyes.
“Sorry, Ruby. I know it isn’t your fault, and I know I just need to keep going and I’ll get better as a mum.”
Relieved, I give her a quick hug, not caring that the salon is full of inquisitive clients. I whisper quickly in her ear, “You don’t have anything to feel sorry about. You’re doing your best, you’re a great mum and we will get through it together. Shall I come with you to pick up Summer today? If you’re still interested, a couple of the names on this list have addresses near to Angela’s house. She might even know them.”
Mary’s pale face brightens a little. “Yes, I’d like to help. We could take Summer with us. I . . . I don’t want to go straight home.”
“Then we’ll stop at the Co-op on the way back and get some sausages. I’ll make dinner tonight,” I suggest. “Onion gravy if you want, too!”
“Come on, stop gossiping, you two, Clara needs a shampoo, and Ruby, you can give Miss Bexhim a trim while I watch.” Eve puts a towel in Mary’s hands and herds me off to the chair nearest the window. A tall, willowy woman dressed in a blue spotted dress puts down her magazine.
“Miss Bexhim, this is Ruby, one of our trainees. She is going to give you a trim if that is still alright?”
The woman nods sharply, silver spectacles trembling on the end of her pointed nose. “As long as she does a good job and I am entitled to the discount you offered.”
“Yes, of course.” Eve hands me the comb and scissors and I shove my numerous problems to the back of my mind.
Just before five the telephone rings and Mary passes the receiver to me, whispering that it is the police.
“Hallo?”
“Hallo Ruby, this is WPC Stanton.”
“Yes?” My heart is thumping hard, hoping for good news about the Beach Girl.
“Ruby, I just wanted to you to know that despite our best efforts we haven’t been able to discover anything about the girl you rescued. Believe me, we have tried! She will be going to Alice’s Farm tomorrow.”
“That’s an orphanage?”
“It’s up on Dyke Hill Road, and yes, some children there have been orphaned. If the girl would speak, we could probably solve her case within hours, but she won’t. The staff at Alice’s will look after her and let us know if she does start to talk.”
“Oh.” A thud of disappointment. “Thanks for letting me know. Just one other thing — can I visit her at Alice’s? I feel a bit . . . responsible for her, I suppose. I know the others do too.”
Silence for a heartbeat, but then her crisp tones come back over the telephone line, “I don’t see why not. I would perhaps leave it a week or so until she has settled in, but I’ll let the manager know. Miss Smith, she’s called. Goodbye, Ruby.”
“Bad news, darling?” Johnnie says, as I head for the back room, and another round of tea and biscuits.
I explain, and he says that Alice’s Farm isn’t a bad place, and what else could the police do?
I shrug, because actually I’m not sure. But I do know that I’m going to get the bus up to Alice’s Farm and visit the girl again as soon as I’m allowed to. Not because I think I can get her to talk, but just because I feel like I owe her something. To keep in touch, at least.
After I’ve dished out the tea to various customers, I telephone around to let the others know what has happened. Victoria and Pearl are working, but James agrees we should go and visit Alice’s Farm, although I know he’s already thinking of the next story if she does start talking.
By the time we're finished for the day the sunshine has gone, and the sea fog is rolling in across the promenade, billowing up Ship Street and shrouding the salon in salty gloom. When I go outside to stack the chairs and tables and collect stray mugs I spot Florrie, who works in the ice cream shop opposite, doing the same thing. She points at the sky and gives me the thumbs down signal before scuttling inside.
“Bye, ladies, I’ll see you all on Monday. I’m taking a little trip up to London. Ring me if you need me!” Johnnie waves and dashes across the road, blue striped umbrella held aloft to protect his sleek blonde hair.
Catherine and Eve hurry away to pick up various children, and I pull out my list. Mary slumps on a chair by the window, drawing swirls in the condensation with a shaky finger. I cast another worried look in her direction, and quickly try to hide it.
“Stop looking at me like that! I’m fine, honestly. I just need to try a bit harder with Summer and I’m sure she’ll be over this stage soon . . .”
“OK. Look, there are three people on Kenny’s list who have telephone numbers but no addresses, so are you OK if I call them before we get the bus?”
Mary glances at her watch, “Yes. It goes in fifteen minutes so make sure you don’t have a really long conversation . . .”
Five minutes later, and any optimism I may have had is replaced with gloom as dense as the fog outside. One woman slammed the phone down when I explained my mission, another said she quite understood but she hoped Beverly Collins rotted in hell, and her daughter was obviously dead so I was wasting my time. I had high hopes for the third, who was quite interested and chatty until she suddenly announced her husband was home, she had to go, and please not to ever mention Beverly Collins to her again.
Despondent, we lock up and walk briskly down to the bus stop. A policeman cycles past, rain dripping from his helmet, and a few shivering families are queuing down on the seafront for fish and chips. I lean our shared umbrella towards Mary as the rain cascades down, making rivers in the gutters, and swirling dirt and rubbish into little whirlpools in the road.
“Did that WPC Stanton say anything else about the Beach Girl?” Mary asks.
“No.”
“Well, maybe we could take Summer to see her again, because I’m sure I noticed something in her expression when she looked at the baby. That sort of pinched blankness went for a moment. Maybe she has a little sister at home?”
“Mmmm . . . It would be worth a go.”
We march along the promenade, arm in arm, clutching wet bags and occasionally wiping rain off our faces with a soggy sleeve. The sea is almost invisible behind a thick grey cloak of cloud, and the beach is all but deserted. The pier seems to be floating above the water, its struts hidden in the greyness. A few lights flash through, but it looks like most of the traders have given up and gone home. Even the Ghost Train and the dodgems are deserted. Other groups huddle underneath the pier, smoking, hoods pulled up. Cars flash past, soaking our legs with icy spray, and we walk a little faster.
Chapter Ten
“Do you think anyone will talk to you about Beverly’s case?” Mary asks, as we sink gratefully down onto the seats in the bus, breathing in the muggy smells of damp coats and wet shoes.
“I hope so. I can’t tell Beverly that I’m giving up after a week. That would be pathetic. Something will turn up. Maybe Kenny will get some more information . . .” I rub the steamy window and frown at the downpour. “Why didn’t we bring coats today?” We’re both shivering, and huddled together for warmth. The bus is now crowded with other workers heading home, and full of gossip. I imagine I catch Beverly’s name a couple of times, but mostly the talk is all about the Profumo affair and the train robbery in Berkshire. Apparently the mail train was carrying over two million pounds. My head spins just thinking about that amount of money.
“I bet you could buy a whole country with that. What would you do with the money?” Mary whispers to me.
“Not sure. Buy a house?” I consider her question idly, although actually I’m more interested in Christine Keeler.
All too soon the bus trundles to a stop, and we are back out on the streaming pavements, walking up White Oak Road, counting the house numbers.
“Shall we stop and see those two on the way up? I really don’t want to cart Summer around in the pouring rain, and weren’t they 98 and 104? That’s nearly at the top of the hill anyway.” Mary takes over umbrella duties again as I fumble with the damp scrap of paper.
“OK. Annie lives at 98, which is opposite the house Beverly used to live in, and Stan Macrae at 104. We can ask Annie about the others on the list too. No point in wasting time with people who aren’t likely to talk to us, and she should know who they are.”
Fifteen minutes later I bang on the door of a faded red-brick terrace house. My heart is pounding, and I’m not sure what to expect. A big part of me is convinced the door will be slammed shut when I start asking about Beverly, but Annie was her neighbour. She and her husband spoke out for her when she was arrested. Not only that but she took her in when she came out of prison.
The door opens and a large blonde woman in a polka dot dress peers out. Her small beady eyes are dark and her eyebrows are black, but the hair is a triumphant riot of yellow curls. She studies us for a second, then — thankfully — smiles. “You must be Ruby Baker. You’d better come in. Beverly said you were a pretty girl.”
We obey her thankfully, and stand dripping in her hallway until she emerges from the bathroom with a couple of towels. She ushers us into the kitchen, tutting in a maternal way over our soaked clothes and wet hair.
“Thank you for seeing us,” I begin, sinking down onto an orange bench seat, trying to arrange the towel under my damp skirt. “This is my friend Mary. She has a baby we need to collect, so I’m afraid we can’t be long . . .”
“Not a problem, loves. Beverly told me you might pop round. She’s in Rottingdean now with her Aunt Sarah. My husband drove her over last night. Nice woman, Sarah, and she was always loyal to Beverly, even when she was younger and first got herself into trouble. She still owns the house opposite, but of course she had to rent it out to other tenants. Bev’s uncle passed away when she was a lot younger, but he was a smart cookie, and he made a lot of money. All because he bought a couple of houses off that John Stocker, not to mention the post office in Rottingdean and coffee bar in Eastbourne. He rented them out, just like Stocker did. Sarah sold the others when he died, but kept the house in White Oak and the post office.”
“Beverly didn’t tell me that,” I tell her, slightly confused by this sudden flood of information.
“No? Maybe she wants to see how much investigating you are really doing! She isn’t stupid, our Beverly. But that’s just family history really, and nothing to do with Ella’s disappearance.” Annie sighs, and flicks open a drawer to reveal a large brown paper bag. “Anyway, since you made it this far, I can give you this. I’ve got a few others I can look for but I want to keep the ones with my Martha in. These are the best ones of Beverly and Ella.” Her deft, podgy hands delve inside and carefully display the contents on her white kitchen table.
Fascinated, Mary and I lean forward. There are photos of children playing, couples dancing, a street party, a baby’s christening . . . In each photo I can recognise a small pretty woman as Beverly. In most of the pictures, her long brown hair hangs to her waist in a mass of curls, but in the pictures with the baby it is caught up in a sleek ponytail. Most of the photographs are black and white but a couple are in colour, including the last one in the pile.
“That’s Ella just before she went missing.” Annie picks up the slightly faded photograph of three children grinning, their backs to the Downs, and the remains of a picnic at their feet. The little girl is in the middle, flanked by two blonde-haired boys. Her hair is brown and curly, just like her mum’s. She has that same direct stare too, though her eyes are blue instead of dark brown. Even at four years old the little face is Beverly’s in miniature. She is beautiful. With the pink dress and grubby bare legs, she looks just like any happy four-year-old enjoying a summer picnic.
“Ella was such a happy little thing. She hardly ever cried, even when she took a tumble.” Annie’s voice cracks a bit with emotion and she clears her throat. “It was such a normal day when she went missing. Martha told me the kids were playing out in the road, Stan was fixing up their swings in the playground, and it was the start of the school holidays so lots of kids were on their bikes too. I left for work early but I remember the ice cream van was there because Martha said they all had a cone. Such a sweet couple who used to run it. The children loved them . . . It was like one of those perfect summer days you read about in books, and somehow by the end of it, Ella was gone. Martha went off to visit a friend in the next road after that, but she didn’t remember anything about Ella. That’s what it was like, you didn’t have to look out for anyone especially because you knew the whole estate looked after their own.” She glances down at the photograph and sniffs again, pulling out a hanky from her skirt pocket.
“How long after the photo was taken did it happen?” Mary asks, her voice blurred with emotion. I feel it too. This innocent little girl, so happy and loved . . .
Annie bustles around, setting two mugs of tea and a bowl of sugar in front of us. “I know you’re in a hurry, but get that down you. A month later she was taken. It was just over the road, and I’ll never forget that day. I was out at work and I came home, picked up my kids from Gwen on the corner, and when I got back I found Beverly on my doorstep. She was in pieces. She loved that child more than anything, and after her bastard boyfriend buggered off to America she worked all hours to keep Ella fed and clothed. Her parents never bothered to visit. You know they both passed away while she was in prison? They never found the car that hit theirs. They were coming back from a day out in Eastbourne, and the accident happened on the cliff road . . .” She shakes her head. “The only person who ever helped Beverly was her aunt — she was the one who lent her that house when she found out she was pregnant.” She looks hard at both of us, black eyes serious. “Beverly would never have hurt Ella. That child was her whole world.”
Aware of the time, I glance at my watch and leaf through the rest of the pictures. There are newspaper articles too, carefully clipped and pasted onto cardboard, and a little poster, worn away at the creases, with a picture of Ella.
“We handed those out to half of Brighton, but whoever took her got her right away, I reckon. If she was still down this way she would have been found long ago. Look, this is her on the beach. See that scar on her cheek? That was when she fell off the sea wall and onto some glass. Funny, I said to Bev, that she ended up with a scar on the same cheek.”
“How did Beverly get her scar?” I ask, then feel myself flush as I realise how rude my question sounds. But Annie isn’t bothered.
“Some loony bitch in prison cut her face soon after she was locked up.” Annie frowns. “After that I just kept hoping someone would find Ella and she would be let out. Crazy, the kind of things you hope for. I wrote to Beverly every week, and I used to worry until I got her letter back saying she was safe. Prison is a terrible place when you're innocent.”
“Can we take these away to
look at, please?” I’m half expecting her to say no, but she nods briskly.
“Anything that will help find Ella. I want them back, mind. If Doug — that’s my husband — or my boys can help at all, you let me know. My daughter’s away in France with some friends of hers . . . I’ve got a telephone now so here’s my number. Pop everything in this bag to protect it from the weather.”
We do as she suggests, and unexpectedly, she gives us both a hug. “Anything you need. I mean it. I was so sorry for Bev when she heard about that girl on the beach. We both really thought it might be Ella and then she . . . well, she was back where she has been these last ten years. In hell, she calls it.”
“Well, we have got a list of people who are connected to Ella’s disappearance. Could you maybe have a really quick look and see if you think any of them might speak to us? There are a couple more addresses in White Oak — one up this road and another near the infant school, I think.” I offer Annie the damp piece of paper. “The crosses are the ones I already phoned.”
Annie scans the sheet with narrowed eyes and reaches for a pencil from a pot on her hall table. “I’ll just scribble a note by any I recognise, shall I? That’ll be useful . . .”
“Oh great, thanks!” Mary and I lean in, watching her write, and soon I’m fighting to keep my face straight, suppressing giggles.
The woman who told me Beverly could rot in hell is ‘A real bitch, always jealous of Bev because she was pretty, and convinced she was after her fella. Married to Reg who likes his drink and works down the market.’