by Pam Weaver
CHAPTER 32
Jean was very excited. She had spent a large part of the morning making pictures for her mother. Ruby had done her hair up with ribbons and she was wearing a new dress. She looked lovely. The colour, an attractive crushed raspberry, suited her perfectly. When Bea’s car drew up outside the house, Jean could hardly contain herself. Having made sure that Lena was comfortable, Ruby gave them some time alone.
Bea sat in Lena’s kitchen, cuddling her grandson, while Ruby put the finishing touches to a meat-and-potato pie and an apple crumble.
‘This should do Lena and Jean for a couple of days,’ she said as she put them in the oven. As she cleared away the dirty things, Ruby told her mother about Jim’s Post Office book.
‘A hundred and thirty pounds!’ Bea exclaimed. ‘Where on earth would he get a sum of money like that?’
‘I’m guessing it was from his magazines,’ said Ruby.
‘Good heavens,’ said Bea. ‘I had no idea you could earn as much as that.’
‘They don’t pay a huge amount,’ said Ruby, ‘but Jim worked very hard. I’m only just beginning to realize just how hard. He had built up quite a reputation.’
‘Why didn’t he tell you?’
Ruby shrugged.
‘Married couples shouldn’t have secrets,’ said Bea.
‘No, Mother,’ said Ruby, giving her a knowing look. Bea had kept the biggest secret of all from Nelson, for most of her married life. Her mother had the grace to look embarrassed when she saw Ruby looking at her, and turned her head away. ‘I wanted to ask you a favour,’ Ruby went on. ‘Can you look after Michael for me next Tuesday? I have an appointment over in Rustington.’
‘Who do you know in Rustington?’ Bea wanted to know.
‘Actually, I’ve never met him,’ said Ruby. ‘It’s somebody Jim knew.’
‘Did you tell him you have a small baby?’ said Bea. ‘Can’t he come to you?’
‘If you can’t do it, Mother, just say so,’ said Ruby irritably.
‘I can do it,’ said Bea, ‘and I’d enjoy it. I’m just a bit concerned about you going over to Rustington to meet a complete stranger.’
‘I shan’t be on my own,’ said Ruby. ‘Imogen is coming with me.’
Michael was becoming fractious. Ruby finished wiping down the draining board and dried her hands, before holding her arms out for her son. As Bea gave him to her, he was frantically chewing his fists. He always seemed to be hungry these days. Was he getting enough from the breast? Should she think about giving him a bottle? He wagged his head eagerly until he found her nipple and latched on, and straight away she was listening to his loud swallows and contented gurgles as he gulped her milk. She fondled his arms and legs. They were well filled out and he’d put on quite a lot of weight. Perhaps she was giving him enough, after all. Nevertheless, she would talk it over with the district nurse the next time she came.
‘What’s happening with the WVS?’ Ruby asked Bea. ‘Now that we have peace, are they going to disband it?’
Bea shook her head. ‘It’s only been a month since Chamberlain came back with his piece of paper, but the smiles are already fading. Rex says the flow of refugees has become a flood.’
‘Before the Prime Minister came back home, Dad told me if Czechoslovakia went, Poland would be next,’ Ruby remarked. At the time it had sounded rather fanciful, but she wasn’t so sure now.
‘In all honesty,’ said Bea, ‘I don’t think Hitler will take a blind bit of notice of any agreements.’
‘Rachel feels the same way,’ said Ruby.
‘Rachel has good reason to,’ said Bea.
Ruby lifted Michael from her breast and sat him up to rub his back. A few seconds later he obliged her with a loud burp. ‘Good boy.’
‘Do you need any help with Lena and Jean?’ Bea asked.
‘I’ll take Jean back to mine after tea,’ said Ruby. ‘She can have her wash and sleep with us for a few nights – just until Lena feels she can cope.’
Bea nodded. ‘Where’s that husband of hers?’
Ruby shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
Later that evening Lena made her way slowly to Ruby’s house. She wanted to kiss Jean goodnight before she went to bed. Jean, smelling sweetly of Knight’s Castile soap and some of Michael’s Cuticura talc, was delighted to see her mother. She wrapped her arms around her mother’s neck. ‘Goodnight, Mummy.’
‘Goodnight, darling,’ said Lena. ‘See you in the morning.’
Jean hesitated by the stair. ‘Will you be here when I wake up?’
‘Yes, of course I will,’ said Lena.
‘Where’s Daddy?’
Lena glanced at Ruby, who looked away. ‘Daddy had to go away for a bit,’ said Lena. ‘I’m sure he’ll be back soon.’
When Ruby came back downstairs, Lena was still sitting in the kitchen. ‘Oh, Ruby, what am I going to do about Eric?’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Ruby. ‘Now, are you going to tell me what all this is about? Why was he afraid of going to prison?’
‘It’s a long story,’ said Lena.
‘And I’ve nothing better to do,’ said Ruby.
They curled up in Ruby’s sitting room, each with a mug of cocoa.
‘Eric and I were at school together,’ said Lena. ‘I think I loved him from the moment I set eyes on him.’ Her face took on a dreamy expression. ‘He’s two years older than me. We just wanted to be together.’
‘But your parents had a problem with that,’ said Ruby.
‘Not my parents,’ said Lena. ‘They died young. I was brought up by my aunt. She never had children of her own and, quite honestly, I think she only took me in out of a sense of duty.’ Lena sipped her drink, her eyes fixed on Ruby over the rim of the mug. ‘Looking back,’ she went on, ‘the only love I ever got was from Eric.’
‘I could always tell you loved each other very much,’ said Ruby.
‘I was fifteen when I got pregnant,’ said Lena. ‘My aunt was livid, of course, but Eric and I planned to marry when I was sixteen.’
‘But she wouldn’t give you permission,’ Ruby prompted.
‘Worse than that,’ said Lena. ‘She sent me away to have Jean, then she and Mrs West came to an arrangement. A private adoption.’ Her hand was trembling slightly. ‘Of course I refused to sign,’ said Lena, ‘but they took Jean away from me anyway.’
‘Could they do that?’
Lena shrugged. ‘All I know is that they did.’
‘Couldn’t Eric help?’
‘My aunt accused him of stealing something,’ said Lena. ‘My Eric never stole a thing in his life, but who was going to believe the word of a boy who’d got a nice girl into trouble, over the word of a well-respected and wealthy woman? No one, so he ended up in prison.’
Ruby leaned forward. ‘Oh, Lena, I’m so sorry.’
‘I managed to find out where Jean had been taken, but I had to bide my time,’ said Lena. ‘I had no way of looking after her – not with Eric gone. Then, as luck would have it, Mrs West was advertising for a nanny and I applied for the job.’
‘Didn’t she recognize you?’
‘When Jean was taken from me, I never actually saw her,’ said Lena. ‘I don’t think my aunt did, either. It was all very secretive.’
‘But how could you be absolutely sure the baby was your Jean?’
‘One of the girls from the baby-home was asked to carry Jean to the car,’ said Lena. ‘She knew the woman. She told me Mrs West used to come to the tennis club, where she did the teas. It wasn’t hard to check.’
‘So you got a job looking after your own baby,’ said Ruby. ‘Neat.’
‘Except Mrs West thought I was getting too fond of her, so she was going to give me the sack,’ said Lena. ‘Then, joy of joys, my Eric came back.’
‘And you snatched her,’ said Ruby.
‘What could I do?’ Lena cried helplessly. ‘She was my child.’
‘Well, it seems that everyone agrees with you now,’
said Ruby. ‘A solicitor followed up the newspaper reports, and it seems the private adoption never actually went to court.’
‘That’s because I never signed any papers,’ Lena said again.
‘Ambrose explained to us that all legal adoptions must go through the courts,’ said Ruby. ‘They have to, ever since a special Act of Parliament came in in 1926. And apparently,’ she went on, as she rubbed the tips of her thumb and fingers together, ‘when they confronted your aunt, it turned out that Mrs West had paid her a large sum of money.’
‘Paid her!’ gasped Lena.
‘I’m guessing this is why the whole thing is not being taken any further,’ said Ruby. ‘Mrs West has a clever lawyer. They would do anything to avoid a court case.’
‘So we can keep Jean?’ asked Lena breathlessly.
‘Why not?’ said Ruby. ‘She is your daughter.’
Tears sprang into Lena’s eyes. ‘Oh, thank you, thank you.’
‘It wasn’t me,’ said Ruby. ‘It was Imogen. And you need to know that it was Imogen who spooked you in Warwick Street. She feels terrible about your accident. She didn’t mean for it to happen, and it was her husband Ambrose who sorted everything out.’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ said Lena.
‘Perhaps you could find it in your heart to forgive her?’ suggested Ruby. ‘I know it’s no excuse for what she did, but if she hadn’t done it, none of this would have come to light.’
Lena nodded sagely. She left a little while later. Ruby stood at her door to make sure she got home safely. They waved each other goodnight, but as Ruby turned to go back into her own place, there was a movement out there in the darkness.
She hesitated. ‘Eric? Is that you?’ There was no answer, but Ruby had the distinct feeling that she was being watched. ‘It’s perfectly safe now, Eric,’ she called. ‘You can come back home now. Nothing is going to happen.’ She waited a few more minutes before calling into the darkness, ‘You’re not in trouble.’
But the feeling that someone was there had gone.
On the day she went to meet Sir Hubert Temple, the chauffeur-driven car came for Ruby just after lunch. She and Imogen sat in the back, like a couple of VIPs, and spoke in whispers as they sped through the countryside towards Rustington. Ruby was nervous.
They pulled into the driveway of a very elegant house just across the road from the beach. It had been built in the new Art Deco style, with gently rounded corners and a single turret to the left. The long Crittall windows had elegant arches and, when they stepped inside, it gave the whole place a light and airy feel. The outside of the house was white, and the interiors carried on the same theme. A grand piano stood in the middle of the massive lounge and the furnishings were obviously expensive. On the way down, the chauffeur had told them that Marama belonged to an industrialist-turned-film-producer called Joseph Arthur Rank, but that Sir Hubert had hired it for the winter months. That would explain why the telephone operator had been unable to find his name as a subscriber.
Invited to sit down, Ruby and Imogen perched on each end of a long sofa. Presently a man in his fifties, thin rather than slim, with a bald head and small, round glasses, swept into the room. He held out his hand towards Imogen. ‘Mrs Searle,’ he gushed. ‘Hubert Temple. I am so pleased to meet you at last.’
‘I’m Mrs Hayward,’ said Imogen, taking his hand. ‘This is Mrs Searle.’
‘Madam, my apologies,’ said Sir Hubert, turning to Ruby and shaking her hand. ‘Please, do sit down. It’s really good of both of you to come. Mr Searle said you would be along, Mrs Searle, but I expected you some time ago. Still, it’s of no consequence. You’re here now. And how is Mr Searle? He said he wasn’t too well when he telephoned. I trust he is feeling a little better?’
Ruby glanced at Imogen. ‘My husband . . .’ she began.
‘Mr Searle died,’ said Imogen bluntly.
Sir Hubert gave her a horrified stare. ‘My dear Mrs Searle, I am so sorry. What must you think of me, but really I had no idea.’
Ruby shook her head and raised her hand slightly. The door opened again, and Ruby was surprised by a familiar face. ‘Mr Balentine!’ she exclaimed.
‘You two have already met?’ said Sir Hubert, looking at Mr Balentine.
‘I first met Mr Balentine when he brought two German boys to my guest house,’ said Ruby, smiling at him.
They shook hands. ‘It’s nice to see you again, Mrs Searle,’ he said.
‘Balentine, sadly, this lady’s husband has passed away.’
‘Mrs Searle told me the last time we met,’ said Mr Balentine, searching Ruby’s face. ‘I am sorry, but it’s good to see you looking so well under the circumstances.’
He guided her back to her seat and Ruby introduced Imogen as she sat back down again.
‘Listen, Balentine,’ said Sir Hubert, ‘I have to make a few calls. Would you look after Mrs Searle and her friend while I’m gone?’ He turned to leave. ‘Fill her in.’
As he left, Mr Balentine sat in the easy chair opposite. Ruby was impressed by his appearance. He was dressed in a well-cut suit, complete with matching waistcoat. She thought back to the rather untidy man in a raincoat who had come to the guest house with Miss Bullock. They were two entirely different people.
‘I’m sorry Sir Hubert was confused over your loss, Mrs Searle,’ he said, clearly embarrassed. ‘I did mention it, but the Minister has rather a lot on his mind at the moment.’
Ruby dismissed his apology with a wave of her hand.
Mr Balentine was holding a folder. He opened it and took out some papers.
‘You seemed to be expecting me,’ said Ruby, ‘but I can’t think why. Until a week ago, I’d never even heard of Sir Hubert. Well, I passed the telephone to my husband one time when he called, but that’s it.’
‘Sir Hubert and I work with MI5,’ said Mr Balentine. ‘The British Secret Service. Your husband – your late husband – contacted us about some photographs he had taken. He explained that he couldn’t get about too well and that he would send you over with them.’
‘I have them with me,’ said Ruby. ‘Sir Hubert asked me to bring them, when I telephoned him. I didn’t even know they existed until last week.’
‘Was Jim working for you, then?’ asked Imogen.
‘No,’ said Mr Balentine. ‘He was concerned about some suspicious activity in Worthing and it was eventually referred to us.’
‘Franz and Albrecht?’ said Ruby.
‘We believe they were not all that they appeared to be,’ said Mr Balentine.
‘That’s exactly what Jim and I thought,’ cried Ruby. ‘For starters, they were so beefy.’ She glanced over at Imogen. ‘They were supposed to be schoolboys, but they were more like men.’ She frowned and, looking back at Mr Balentine, she said, ‘But hang on a minute. You were the one who brought them to us.’
‘We had been alerted by our London office.’
‘So is Miss Bullock . . .’
‘Miss Bullock is a council employee.’ He smiled. ‘Her opinions are her own, but don’t go seeing spies and secret agents lurking in every corner, Mrs Searle.’
Ruby blushed. ‘I’m sorry. I’m getting carried away.’
‘But we have the Munich Agreement now,’ said Imogen. ‘Surely there’s no need to worry that we might go to war with Germany.’
‘That’s perfectly possible,’ said Mr Balentine, ‘but we would be failing in our duty if we didn’t keep an open mind.’
‘How do you know we’re not spies,’ said Imogen.
‘Oh, believe me, Mrs Hayward,’ said Mr Balentine, with a mischievous grin on his face, ‘we have checked your credentials very carefully. Now about these pictures.’
Ruby took them from her bag and handed them to him. Mr Balentine studied them for a moment or two, then rang a bell and shortly afterwards a woman came into the room. He handed them to her. ‘Get these blown up, Elsie,’ he said languidly.
‘Look here,’ said Imogen as she left the room, ‘what�
�s all this about?’
‘I can’t tell you everything,’ said Mr Balentine, ‘but I can tell you this. We believe there is a plot to flood Britain with forged five-pound and ten-pound notes. We have already found several in the Worthing area, which is enough to make us believe there is a contact in the town who is already passing them on.’
‘But surely that would be a matter for the police, rather than MI5,’ said Ruby.
‘Not if the source of the plot is German,’ said Mr Balentine, ‘and the aim is to destabilize the whole country.’
‘In one of those photographs . . .’ Ruby began.
‘Franz is handing something to a passenger in a car,’ Mr Balentine finished. ‘Is that what you were going to say? The photographs are very small. However, if you would be so good as to hang on, Mrs Searle, when we’ve made the pictures a lot bigger, you might be able to recognize that person.’
‘I’ll try,’ said Ruby. She wondered if she should tell them about the other pictures she’d found, but in that split second she decided not to. They would most likely confiscate them, without showing her, and she had more right to know what they were than they did.
It was the smell of him that made the desk sergeant look up. The man standing on the other side of the desk was filthy dirty, but it wasn’t ground-in dirt, like that of a long-term tramp. He looked more like a man who had fallen on hard times. He looked cold. He looked hungry. The desk sergeant was tempted to wave him away; to tell him to ‘Clear orf’. Cleaning the man up – and he’d have to, if he didn’t want the cells stinking like a sewer – would take time. He’d have to go through the lost-property box to find something for him to wear, and he wasn’t sure they’d have much at this time of year.
‘What do you want, son?’ The desk sergeant noticed for the first time that the man’s face was streaked with tears.
‘I want to confess,’ the man began.
The desk sergeant sighed. He’d heard it all before. They’d confess to anything, just to get a warm bed for the night, but this was three-thirty in the afternoon. He pulled the report book towards him and picked up his pen. What was it going to be? Theft? A bit of ABH? Murder? The desk sergeant dipped his pen into the inkwell. ‘So . . . what have you done?’