Danny pulled gently at the alice band that held back her hair and pulled the long strands around her face. Then he smiled, and said, “Now that’s more like it. You don’t have to let them dress you as if you’re half-baked.”
They bought their fish and chips and decided to eat them out of the paper, something Bertha did not allow, down by the river. Although it was summer, the clouds were heavy over the hills, obliterating them in a grey shroud. The peculiar light and the humidity gave a hint of thunder. The first crack came at the same time as the rain began, quietly at first, then in a hissing curtain.
“I should have saved my hat!” Lillian wailed.
“Yes, it would have sheltered us both!” Danny tucked the newspaper-wrapped parcels in his coat and grabbed her arm, pulling her towards the back of the Main Street shops. The gate of Joe’s yard was open and they went in. The storage shed was padlocked but the back door of the shop only needed a push for them to get inside and shelter from the heavy downpour.
“We’ll get a terrible row for this,” Lillian said, but she was laughing.
When they had eaten their supper. Danny pulled out a cigarette packet and lit two Woodbines. He offered one to Lillian, and amid more merriment, she took her first puffs. Danny watched her innocent young face in the light of the small match-flame, shiny from the cold and the rain, but with eyes as large as a child’s at Christmas.
His evening had been well spent. The memory of the adventure would keep Lillian in happy dreams for weeks. The thunder rumbled around them for ten minutes, while Lillian puffed her way through the cigarette and asked for a second. As the rain slowed to a trickle, he stood to leave. Disappointedly, she stood beside him. Pulling the door shut he took her home.
* * *
Two hours later the rain had eased and Constable Hardy stepped out of his parents’ house, where he had sheltered during the worst of the storm. No one would know he hadn’t cycled around his route for a few hours, there wouldn’t be many bent on mischief on a night like this.
He saw the light flickering and at first thought it must be a bonfire. People were always burning rubbish in their back gardens, although after so much rain they hadn’t chosen a very good time.
He walked down the street, leaving his cycle against a lamppost, trying the doors, warning two young lovers that they ought to be home, and turned to walk back to his cycle along the back lane. Then he realised that the bonfire was in fact one of the shops on fire. He ran to his bicycle, and peddled as fast as he could to the phone box.
The fire engine arrived quickly but by then the interior of the shop was already well ablaze. Hoses sent streams of water glistening down the roofs of the adjoining properties as others flooded the inside of the shop.
When Joe arrived he saw that the plans to move into his and Charlotte’s “marble hall” had suffered another setback, one which might never be overcome.
It was five o’clock in the morning when, smoke-stained, red-eyed and weary he went to tell her.
“But it can’t be burnt!” she gasped. “Have you seen it? Are you sure it was your shop? Joe, how could it happen in the middle of the night? You say it was after six when you left there. No one else could possibly have got in and done this. Oh, Joe, what an awful thing to happen.”
“I won’t be able to move into our Marble Hall for months – if ever,” he said. “Charlotte, you will wait for me to get this sorted, won’t you?”
“Oh what a disaster.”
But the worst disaster was yet to come. Ned Hardy and an inspector asked Joe to explain how his shop, which he was desperately anxious to get rid of, had been set alight, and Joe realised they suspected him of arson.
Chapter Nine
The suspicions that Joe had deliberately set fire to the bicycle shop were unpleasant while they lasted. It began when Willie Walters repeated Joe’s words about the shop being like a bloody albatross around his neck and wishing something would happen to release him from its problems.
“But I didn’t mean something like this!” Joe insisted. “How can burning the property help me sell it, for God’s sake? Tell me how?” He explained about the cancelled wedding to reinforce his argument, but the investigators just looked at him stony-faced, then continued with their questions.
The police had found the burnt-out remnants of a box of matches and some burnt newspaper near the seat of the fire and Joe insisted he had not left them there.
“I use a lighter,” he said, showing it to them. “I don’t smoke but I carry a lighter. Whoever left matches there it wasn’t me!”
Charlotte cried with dismay when she saw the results of the fire. She told the police that Joe had been with her at Mill House earlier that day.
Harriet didn’t help, insisting that, as far as she knew, there were no immediate plans for them to marry, hinting that Charlotte had changed her mind anyway.
“Why did you leave a heater on, Mr Llewellyn?” the investigator asked with quiet insistence. “Mid-summer it is and the night was very warm, wasn’t it? Thunder if I remember right.”
“There was a patch of plaster that the purchaser insisted needed doing. I didn’t fancy paying for such a small job so soon after having the back wall replastered, so I did it myself.”
“The heater?” the man persisted.
“I put the heater on low to help dry it quickly so I could get the painting done and sell the bloody place!” Joe snapped. “That’s the seventh time I’ve explained all this. The man who is buying the property—”
“Was, buying the property,” the man smilingly corrected.
“Was buying the property, then. He kept finding things he wanted done before he would sign the contract. I agreed to the small repair in the vain hope of getting the matter settled. I have a shop all ready to move into. He’s kept me waiting for months with one stupid thing after another. This fire has ruined everything for me!” He felt his anger rising.
The questions and veiled accusations went on and when Joe was about to explode and hit someone, the man nodded, snapped his notebook shut and said, “Well, Mr Llewellyn, I think I can clear you of the suspicion of arson. As you say, there was more to lose than gain from such an accident. Now,” he went on, as Joe stuttered his thanks. “Now, do you have any idea how the fire could have been caused?”
“Someone might have gone in to shelter from the rain. That’s all I can think of. It’s happened before, see. I once found the back door open and evidence of someone having slept there.”
“And you didn’t change the lock? Reinforce the door? Really, Mr Llewellyn. I’ll have to look with greater care at your policy. Carelessness is not to be condoned. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I ignored such an admission!”
The man went at last, the police declared themselves satisfied and Joe began the messy job of clearing out the burnt building. Charlotte came to help.
* * *
Danny knew he had left a box of matches in Joe’s shop. He and Lillian had crouched close to the heater, and he remembered watching with amusement as Lillian’s fumbling hands took out a red-tipped match and struck it, her face screwed up with the concentration of lighting her second cigarette.
The box of matches had been there, close to the heater, but he did not have it when he reached home. His final cigarette of the day had been lit with a paper spill from the dying fire in Bertha’s living room. The heat must have caused the matches to blaze up and with plenty of oily cloths and combustible material, it would not have taken very long for the fire to take hold. He knew he was responsible for the blaze but did not own up. Best they were left thinking it was some poor old tramp.
He was confident that Lillian wouldn’t tell anyone they had been there. The evening was a secret and one she would enjoy keeping. Besides, she wouldn’t risk losing the occasional outing with him by letting anyone know. Poor kid, he sighed. She hadn’t had much fun in her life. Being taught to behave, to be quiet, and to keep out of sight as much as possible.
When he left at the
end of his leave he gave her a bag full of pennies, twenty-four all together, two shillings worth and enough for some more fish and chips or a few ice creams. He felt adequately paid just seeing her childish face bubbling with unacustomed pleasure.
She was on the verge of tears the morning he left to return to his ship. She helped him to heave his kitbag onto his shoulder and watched sadly as he set off to walk to the station. He was sorry to leave her, guilty almost, after adding a small amount of fun to her drab life. But forgetting Lillian, poor dab, the real regret was leaving Charlotte behind. He had that special feeling about her, knowing that they might have a future together.
It wouldn’t be hard to oust Joe Llewellyn from Charlotte’s life altogether! The man was a bumbling fool, messing about trying to please a buyer who was nothing but a time-waster. Joe should have found someone else to take on the shop and because he hadn’t, he, Danny Saunders, was in with a chance. The fire might not have helped Joe Llewellyn but Danny Saunders could benefit greatly!
* * *
Lillian spent hours daydreaming of Danny’s return. Everyone knew that he had been kind to her but no one had learned about the evening of the storm and how they had sheltered in Joe’s shop, eaten fish and chips and shared a packet of cigarettes.
Danny had explained that it was their secret, a private moment not to be shared. She sighed, her child-woman’s face intense with happiness. Her jaw dropped, the wet lips parted, the blue eyes stared into space as she saw again the events of that evening. Hers and Danny’s, a secret to be kept and enjoyed.
* * *
Rhoda gradually came out of her deep depression, helped by Joe as well as by Harriet. With her mother down helping Rhoda with the sale of her home and Joe spending his time between Rhoda’s affairs and his own, Charlotte was free to go to the factory.
Not knowing the routines thoroughly, she hovered around doing very little but gradually understanding the stages of the bookbinding processes. She couldn’t match the skills of the work force no matter how she tried. She persevered for a while but then gave up.
Besides the practical knowledge, she used Jack Roberts’ occasional absences to find her way around her uncle’s peculiar book-keeping system. Her father would be able to help, the accounts had been his special responsibility. But when he was home, at weekends, he refused to even allow her to talk about what went on at the factory.
“It has been in your uncle’s capable hands all the time I was away,” he said with his gentle smile. “I wouldn’t insult him by daring to interfere.”
That all was not well had been apparent for some time. Now, with her slowly increasing comprehension, she was able to at least stop some of the gaps. She wished Jack would allow her to work with him for a while so that she could understand at least the basics of his book-keeping. If she were even to consider running the firm one day, she needed to be fully conversant with the accounts, but Jack insisted that she had enough to do dealing with the factory floor.
“It’s marvellous having you see the work through and making sure there aren’t any hiccups causing delays,” he smiled. “It leaves me free to concentrate on what I do best, getting the bills out and the money in. Your father must be proud of you; your Uncle Peter sings your praises every day.”
Uncle Peter gave her a hug. “Valuable you are, Charlotte.” He gave a sigh. “And it seems no time since you were a little girl coming up here and having a ride on one of the trolleys.”
She looked around the empty workshop. It was after six on a Friday evening and everyone had gone home. With Joe doing some work on the damaged bicycle shop, Harriet and Rhoda at the cinema, her uncle settled next to the radio, her father enjoying his evening with his other family, she had taken the opportunity to spend a few more hours sorting the work and making notes for a few simple changes to the layout of the place for when she was able to do things her way.
She wanted so much to be in charge, to be able to tell the employees what she wanted done and when. She knew she could ensure that promises were kept, rebuild the factory’s reputation for first class work and reliable delivery dates. The dream filled her with excitement.
She was examining a discarded batch of booklets, dismay and frustration at the waste showing on her face. They had been ordered for a local train spotters club, intended to be offered for sale at their annual general meeting, to which many out-of-town members regularly came. They had failed to complete in time and now the order, both this year and future years, was lost to them.
She was about to drop them in the rubbish bin to clear the table for fresh work, when she heard a sound. The outside door was unlocked, footsteps were coming through the small entrance hall and the doors of the workroom were pushed open. Frightened, aware of the emptiness of the building, she instinctively ducked down behind the large guillotine.
She sighed with relief when she saw it was Jack. But something made her stay hidden and she watched from the safety of the heavy machine as he walked through the workshops to the office.
She was concentrating so completely on Jack, who was standing at the safe, turning the lock and heaving open the door, she was unaware of the main door reopening and Gaynor Edwards coming in. Jack slipped something into his inside pocket and when Gaynor reached the office door the couple embraced and Jack kicked the safe door shut with his foot. As the kiss continued, he bent down and gave the knob a couple of turns before lowering Gaynor to the floor and their combined breathing echoed loudly through the quiet room.
In a state of panic, afraid of being seen, Charlotte crawled between the tables and machines until she was only a few yards from the door. Taking a chance she ran, scuttling, almost on her knees. She went out of the door and around to the back of the building where she had left her bicycle.
Joe was sitting on the grass kerb, leaning on the gate when she reached the gate of Mill House.
“I’ve been waiting for you for an hour,” he said, kissing her damp cheek. “Where have you been, ghost hunting? You look as if you’ve been running for miles.”
Breathlessly and with some embarrassment, she told him what she had seen.
“He was meeting her, not going to do some work,” she explained.
Joe was beginning to wonder about Jack Roberts, who had been twice involved in a fight and who kept appointments with other men’s wives. Stalwart member of the community perhaps, but the man was beginning to show a dark side. He would love to know what had been taken from Peter Russell’s safe.
They went in and Charlotte prepared supper for when Harriet and Rhoda returned, mashed potatoes with some cheese and marmite added, browned under the grill. While she worked, Joe talked to Peter. She hoped Joe wouldn’t stay long. She wanted to think about a new order that she had found casually placed on one of the tables. Like so many others it would probably be lost amid the chaos. If she could be there every day, neglected orders simply wouldn’t happen. She decided to try again to get permission from her mother to spend regular hours there. It should be she running the business, not Jack, who was using his keys for other things!
Eric was helping Miranda with the Friday evening meal. This had become a ritual, a welcome home to Eric after five days at work, a celebration of the weekend just beginning. As usual, the sounds from the kitchen were reminiscent of a party.
They heard a long drawn out crash as plates and saucers and cups slid to the floor. Harriet stood up.
“Now what have they done!”
“Go and see, Mam,” Charlotte suggested. Her mother went towards the kitchen, wrenching open the door, and then stopped. Charlotte stared at Joe and her sister as Harriet’s rarely heard full-throated laughter rang out.
Petula, Harriet’s undoubted favourite, had slipped from her chair and pulled the table cloth with her: the resulting chaos, with the table contents spread across the room, the solemn little girl sitting in the middle of it, seemed so funny that Harriet forgot her resentment and her uneasy relationship with Eric and ran in to help.
Su
rreptitiously, Charlotte crossed her fingers, unaware that Joe was doing the same. If Harriet and Eric grew closer together. they might stand a chance of taking control of their own lives. Joe’s thoughts were of finally marrying Charlotte; Charlotte was thinking of running the factory.
Joe offered to walk Rhoda home. While Miranda settled the children into bed, Charlotte helped her mother and Eric wash the dishes, in water softened by soda and with a cloth rubbed with soap. Soon, she went to her room.
She found she was unable to think about the factory as she usually did. Besides the almost obsessional desire to run Russell’s, there was Danny to dwell on. He was due for another leave soon and she began to think about meeting him, listening while he told exciting stories about his travels. He made her laugh and forget her problems. She was excited at discovering things about him. She and Joe knew everything there was to know about each other. She gave a melancholy sigh. There were no more surprises to be had with Joe.
* * *
Harriefs main concern now was that no one learned about her youngest daughter’s suicide attempt, but the town’s information service worked as efficiently as usual.
Harriet overheard Bessie reporting the details to her friends in the queue for tomatoes at the greengrocers and knew it must have come from Joe. Without waiting for the following day, when Bessie was due to clean, Harriet stood tight-lipped and told her she was no longer required.
“Saves me giving notice that does!” was Bessie’s reply. “Don’t know how I’ve stood it so long. What with your complaining and the way you neglect that poor dear brother-in-law of yours. No wonder your Eric left you. Miracle is that he was brave enough to return. Desperate he must have been.”
Missing the Moment Page 14