by Daisy White
Beverly brushes a hand across her forehead. “So you think I was right? But we’re still back to why, aren’t we? Why would someone go to all that trouble to get me into trouble?”
“And enough trouble to get you shut away in prison for ten years,” I tell her soberly. “Are you absolutely sure you never witnessed a crime or saw something you shouldn’t have when you were younger?”
She shrugs. “Not that I can think of . . . I was such a good girl until I met Barry.” She laughs but her eyes are full of pain, suddenly. “Oh, there was something. It’s funny because my aunt and I were turning out some old boxes of my parents’ things yesterday, and it reminded me.”
“Go on.”
“It’s just a bit of family history. Oh, alright . . . The only time I remember getting into big trouble, before I got pregnant of course, was when I found a box of old documents under my parents’ bed.” Beverly gives a wistful little smile. “I was a nosy child, and the cat had run upstairs and into the room. My mum yelled at me to get him back, but when I poked around under the bed and found the box, I looked at that instead.”
“How old were you?”
“Ten or eleven I suppose. No, ten, because it was just before my uncle died. Anyway I got the papers out and started reading them. I remember some old photographs pasted onto cardboard, and my parents in their wedding clothes. My mum had a frilly dress and a big hat . . .”
I’m wondering where this is heading. She seems lost in the past. “So what was in the papers?”
She comes sharply back to the present. “My mum was in Elm Grove before she was married. I wouldn’t remember the date if I hadn’t just been looking at that same box yesterday! She was in Elm Grove in 1923, and the date on the wedding photographs and marriage certificate was 1925. I spent a long time just staring at the papers, and of course as a child I never really understood why Mum was so upset that I had seen them. There was a note from a doctor that said due to her ‘circumstances’ and ‘emotional state’ my mum had been put into Elm Grove until after the birth of her baby.”
I do a swift calculation. “She had another child before she married your dad, then.”
“Of course. How old do you think I am?” Beverly smiles, then sighs. “You don’t know what Elm Grove was, do you?”
“That’s the hospital, isn’t it? But surely if she went in to have a baby a year is . . .”
“No, it wasn’t the hospital then. It was the workhouse.”
I blink at her, shocked. “She had a child in the workhouse? How awful. I mean . . . why was she there?” My knowledge of workhouses is limited. I’ve heard older people speak of them in hushed tones, but I suppose I always assumed it was somewhere you could get help if you found yourself homeless.
Beverly is shaking her head sadly. “She never told me herself. It was my aunt who explained why they were so furious with me for seeing that. I was too young to understand, but of course when I was older I was curious about the baby. It was never spoken about, and I didn’t dare ask again. But when we were talking yesterday my aunt said that one of my mum’s employers at the time ‘took advantage’ of her and she lost her job, then her parents threw her out. She was working as a maid in one of the big houses, so God knows who it was . . . It makes it worse that when I got pregnant, under different circumstances, my mother could never forgive me. Perhaps she was terrified history was repeating itself.”
“Did your aunt tell you what happened to the baby?” A seagull lands next to my foot, flapping clumsily after a dropped food wrapper. I wave it away and it takes flight again, the wrapper clamped firmly in its pink beak, scattering a crowd of small girls.
“Horrible things, aren’t they, these gulls? Yes, she did tell me. It was given up for adoption. My aunt said that my mother was ‘in no fit state to take care of the baby’, and she showed me some of the other documents from the box.” A frown creases her brow. “My mother was listed as being in the ‘lunatic’ ward. That scared me a bit. I imagine everything had just got too much for her. If she was alive now I’d tell her that I understand why she was the way she was with me and Ella. It was too much of a sharp reminder of everything she had suffered. I tried to talk to them so many times after I got pregnant, tried to tell them Barry and I were happy. And we were for a bit, until he buggered off. Aunt Sarah had rows with my mum about what she called her ‘stubborn pigheadedness’ and even my uncle refused to speak to my dad after it all happened.”
“Did your aunt and uncle have any children of their own?”
“No. Aunt Sarah just said it hadn’t happened for them. She was always wonderful with Ella, though. I did try and trace the baby once, mum’s other baby I mean. It was after I found out I was pregnant and it sort of reminded me. I suppose after Mum and Dad throwing me out I was curious to see if I could find a half brother or sister anywhere. But there was nothing in the records at the Town Hall, or the hospital. It could have been adopted anywhere, and although it was mentioned in the doctor’s notes in that box, there wasn’t a birth certificate or anything. It might even have died.”
It’s such a sad, bleak little story, adding an extra layer of tragedy to Beverly’s life, that I find myself distracted, as she clearly is, by another lost child.
Remembering the purpose of our meeting, I gather my spinning thoughts together. “OK, but apart from that, you don’t remember anything else you saw, or got in trouble for seeing?”
“No. Really nothing. Sorry.”
“I won’t give up,” I tell her firmly.
We start to walk back to Brenda’s Cafe. “Are you sure you don’t just want me to telephone with a report? It would save you a trip into Brighton if I can just call you every Wednesday,” I suggest.
“I’m not sure. I wouldn’t be able to speak in private if my aunt was here. To be honest, I prefer a proper meeting.”
“Fine. Just one last thing, Beverly . . . I’m sure you have seen the papers, and you mentioned poor Susie Stocker of course, but what about the attempted kidnapping on the beach?” I can’t say it if she hasn’t already thought of it, but of course I’m remembering her rush to the police station when Beach Girl was found.
This time, Beverly shrugs. “I didn’t pay that much attention, to be honest. I assumed it was a silly mix-up when I saw the papers — two girls messing around, wasn’t it? I know what you're thinking, but I made that mistake first time around. That poor little soul . . .”
I take a deep breath, relieved to have got the thought out in the open. “OK. The police would have contacted you anyway if that had anything to do with Ella. But don’t you think it’s odd that all around the time of your release from prison, these things start happening?” I tick them off on my fingers, “Laura Grieves admits she lied about Ella, then a girl appears on the beach. Ten days later there's a dead body washed up and a kidnapping involving two girls? It’s almost like someone is trying to send you a message.”
Beverly stares at me. “What more could they possibly do? I’ve lost my daughter and I’ve been in prison for ten years. Surely that must be punishment enough for . . . well, anything! See you next week, Ruby.” She dashes away tears and walks briskly away.
Bugger. I really screwed that up. Bemused by her response, because I’ve never seen her that emotional before, I turn for home. The heat is intense, rising from the baking hot pavements, slowing my steps to a weary plod. I narrow my eyes against the sun’s glare. My brain is whirling, and sweat drips into my eyes as I force myself to walk faster, hoping inspiration will hit. It doesn’t, but there are definitely too many missing children dancing around my brain.
Chapter Sixteen
The baby wakes us at five, but once again she's managed to sleep through. Mary seems far more confident, and I begin to wonder if it was just lack of sleep affecting both of us. I might try and speak to Pearl again tonight at the Hippodrome, just to make sure there isn’t anything else I can do.
Mary chatters away and Summer burbles along in baby language as we go through ou
r morning chores. I add a sweep of bright red lipstick and beam into the mirror. It’s going to be OK. We head out into bright sunshine, and Mary gives me a quick hug before she runs off with Summer to catch the bus.
In the distance, the sea is calm and flat, and an early morning haze of wispy clouds stretches across the sky as it arches over the town towards the Downs.
The morning routine in the salon takes a good hour, and Mary rushes back in, ten minutes before opening time, carrying the paper and a packet of biscuits.
“Are you going to see Hector and Eva tonight?” Catherine says, sipping her first mug of tea. “Johnnie mentioned something yesterday, but I didn’t take much notice. My neighbours are going, and Tommy’s taking his girlfriend.”
“I am, but Mary’s staying at home,” I tell Catherine, frowning into a bowl of peroxide. The smell hurts my throat and makes my eyes sting, so I give it a quick mix and hope for the best.
“Oh, can’t you get someone to look after Summer? I’ll have her if you like!” Eve suggests sweetly.
“Thanks, Eve, but I’d like a quiet night in, actually. I’ll just listen to the radio and do a bit of washing. Summer’s started trying to sit up and I expect she’ll be crawling soon!” Mary chatters away happily, flicking through the newspaper. “I think I’m still catching up on my sleep. We’ll probably take her to the beach again at the weekend, won’t we, Rubes? She loved the sea. Oh look, the Herald is still running a story about that girl on the beach. They seem to have forgotten about the dead woman.”
“I never would have thought Susie Stocker would’ve ended up like that. She was so pretty — all the girls I knew wanted to look just like her. Of course, most of them wanted to end up marrying a rich man too!” Eve shakes her head in mock disapproval. “Let’s have a look then . . .”
We all peer at the inky pages of the local paper.
BEACHSIDE DRAMA
As we reported yesterday, the body of Mrs Susie Stocker was washed up on Brighton beach just hours before a sixteen-year-old girl allegedly attempted to kidnap four-year-old Maisie Watson. Several people are currently helping police with their enquiries. Bystanders told our reporter that the unnamed teenager attempted to take Maisie Watson (4) and was leading her across the road when Maisie’s brother intervened.
The girl has told police she was on a day trip to Brighton with her father, when they became separated in the crowds. The pair are said to be from London. There is no further comment on the kidnapping attempt from police, but we understand they expect to have the matter cleared up shortly.
It was a record weekend for incidents. On Sunday evening three young men, also from London, were drowned when their hired fishing vessel was overturned by a freak wave.
Police are urging anyone with information on the incident to come forward and report to Brighton Police Station. Police are also advising locals and holidaymakers alike to take care on the beach after a rising number of accidents already this summer.
“Dreadful news. If it isn’t bodies on the beach, it’s kidnappings. I heard the police still have the girl at the police station. That WPC Stanton is taking care of her, because she doesn’t seem to have any family, and she isn’t quite all there in the head,” Johnnie says, biting the end of a pencil as he stares at the appointment book. “Probably a bit loony, poor love.”
“I bet WPC Stanton was delighted to get yet another stray girl off the beach to look after,” I say. “I expect she’ll end up at Alice’s Farm as well.” I can't help the sarcastic remark, but really I'm worried. I must get up there to see Beach Girl. It’s been a week now since I was told to let her settle in. Perhaps Mary would like to go tomorrow night . . .
“Perhaps she just wandered off from one of those day tripper parties?” Catherine suggests. “I hope they find her father and get it all sorted out. They can’t possibly think she was actually trying to take that little girl away.”
Johnnie nods, catching my eye for a second. “It is rather odd. Rubes, you might want to have a chat with Kenny about that. Bad reporting, not writing the full story.”
“I suppose they don’t know the full story.” I look at him, but he just smiles like he knows something I don’t, and takes another sip of tea.
“And poor Susie Stocker is dead. Mary says you were in the water with her, Ruby? Must have been awful. I met her a few times at parties and things a few years ago. She was in her fifties, of course, but still beautiful in a rather Hollywood film star way; you know, all old glamour and red lipstick. She had lips like Ruby’s — that perfect bow — and she was thin and blonde. What more could you ask for? She certainly used what she had to catch John, but they were rather sweet together. He treated her like his little princess,” Eve says.
“Well, whatever happened in the end, they had a long time together so something must have been right.” Catherine picks up the brush and starts to sweep.
“True.” Johnnie turns his attention back to the appointment book. “Thank God we’ve got a wedding party in tomorrow. Bookings are a bit slow at the moment. I might get some posters done, or take an advertisement out in the paper. ‘Beautiful hair for half the price’ or ‘Summer specials at Johnnie’s.’ What do you think?” Johnnie smooths his hair back and hangs his tweed jacket neatly on the chair behind the desk.
“Great idea,” Catherine tells him. “I can put a poster up in the pub if you like. But what happened to all your models coming down from London?”
Johnnie pulls a face. “I’ve actually not been socialising in London for a while, darling. It gets a bit . . . claustrophobic up there. And my brother is back from his travels abroad. He really should have stayed in Paris, but no, the bank offered him a posting back here.”
I watch as my employer sips his tea before getting up to greet a young woman with his usual enthusiasm. It sounds like Johnnie has got himself in a bit of trouble. Again. He is always slightly disdainful when he talks about his rather grand family up in London. But then it can’t be easy being a hairdresser in a family of bankers and doctors.
Later, I’m taking a turn on the reception desk, greeting clients and answering the telephone, when I see Will lurking outside. He wanders past, smoking, and winks at me through the window before crossing the road to the bench next to the ice cream shop. I glance up at the clock on the wall, check nobody is looking, and hold up four fingers to Will.
I have to squint to see, but he gives me the thumbs up and takes out a newspaper, crossing one leg over the other. Today he’s in shirtsleeves and black trousers, so I assume he’s been working in that office of his . . .
The telephone distracts me. “Hello, Johnnie’s. Ruby Baker speaking, how can I help you?”
“Hello, Ruby. It’s Laura . . . Laura Grieves?”
My heart beats a bit faster, and I dismiss Will from my mind. “Oh, did you want to book a hair appointment?” Damn, I forgot all about my offer and I haven’t cleared it with Johnnie. I’m sure he won’t mind another booking, though, and Laura isn’t notorious like Beverly. There are quite a few things I want to ask Laura, once she’s stuck under the dryer . . .
“Yes, please. Is that still alright? You did say . . .”
She sounds a little nervous now so I hasten to reassure her, “Of course! We’re not too busy this week so . . .” I run my eyes down the appointments, “do you want to come in next Wednesday at either ten or half past two?”
We settle on ten o'clock and she thanks me again in her charming way. No mention of my visit, or the fact she slammed the door in my face. Interesting.
“Another booking, angel?” Johnnie is snipping away while his client reads a magazine, but he doesn’t miss anything.
“Yes. Actually, Johnnie, I meant to say . . . She’s a special client so I’ll speak to you about her later.”
His blue eyes glitter with amusement, and he points the comb in my direction. “Really? I’ll look forward to it. I suppose you’d like a quick break at four as well?” he asks innocently.
I meet his eyes. �
�If you don’t mind?”
His teeth show in that feline grin, and then he laughs. “Of course not. Just make sure you get the towels out first, please. Eve will be back soon, and then Mary can go after you.”
Will falls into step with me as I make my way down Ship Street, dodging women with heavy bags of shopping, and a boy on a bike.
“So how’s Ruby Baker’s investigation going this time?”
He’s laughing at me, and I smile ruefully back. “Not great, and I think Johnnie knows about us.”
His amber eyes darken for a moment, his expression watchful. “Knows about me, you mean? What does he know?”
“I didn’t say anything, but he just hinted. No more than that, and despite his spy system I’m sure he doesn’t know exactly who you are. He wouldn’t have been able to resist teasing me if he did.”
We cross the road and walk down onto the beach, shoes scrunching in the pebbles.
“As long as that’s all it is.”
I shoot him a sidelong glance. He’s very attractive, with that dark and brooding look that some girls love. But I can’t see him as a romantic interest. There is still something just slightly wrong about Will. His intense gaze, his habit of following me around and just turning up when he feels like it, these strange gifts he likes to offer . . . The question is, how do I get rid of him?
“I haven’t really got anything on the Beverly Collins case at all. A few theories, and lots of loose ends.” I give him a basic rundown of the past week, including Beverly’s account of her family documents. He nods, eyes narrowed against the cigarette smoke, and for a while we sit side by side, just staring out to sea. “So you see,” I finally say, "it's pretty obvious Beverly was set up, but by who? It would have to be someone so powerful they could blackmail a whole street of neighbours, including an eight-year-old girl. And then that would require a strong motive.” I shrug, breathing in the salty air, laying back and half shutting my eyes. “Not only that, but you will have noticed all the other stuff that has been happening around here . . .”