by Jenny Holmes
He frowned. ‘I’m on late shift tomorrow, otherwise I’d come with you.’ He thought for a while. ‘You never know – she might have cooled down by then.’
Cynthia did her best to believe it. ‘There’s something else I haven’t told you,’ she confessed. ‘Mum and Dad are packing up and going to live with Uncle William.’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Blimey.’ Wilf quickly saw what this might mean and scratched around for a solution. ‘I could ask Mum if you can stay with us at the lodge for a while,’ he suggested. ‘That’s if you want me to.’
Laying her head on his shoulder and feeling sorely tempted, she soon decided against it. ‘It wouldn’t look right, would it? People would talk.’
‘Probably.’ Though the shrug of his shoulders suggested that he didn’t care if they did, he took her point.
‘It’s good of you, Wilf, but no ta. Let’s just hope you’re right about Millicent letting me stay on there with her.’
‘When I saw her at the pub, she was in a funny mood.’ Wilf was thoughtful again. ‘She was off-hand with me. And afterwards Alf told me she’d been huddled in a corner with Vincent Poole of all people.’
This piece of news startled Cynthia. ‘That can’t be right. He’s the last person she would want to talk to.’
‘I thought so too. But Alf saw it with his own eyes.’
‘Then she’s up to something.’
‘Yes, but what?’
‘Goodness only knows.’ Cynthia gave Wilf a quick peck on the cheek. ‘I have to get going.’
‘Me too.’ He stood up with her and together they crossed the road. ‘I’m with Alf, learning how to be a taxi driver. How about that?’
‘That’s champion.’ She smiled then leaned sideways for another kiss before running up the steps of the exchange.
Fondness almost turned his legs to jelly as he watched her go – quick and slender, her fair hair shining in the sun. ‘And by the way, Mum says come to the lodge for tea on Sunday,’ he called.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
‘It serves you right.’ Hetty held to her stubborn, often expressed view that Norma should have followed the rules and not helped Millicent to listen in.
It was Saturday morning and Douglas had called at Albion Lane to join Norma for an expedition to Clifton Street Market. Ivy and Ethel had set off earlier and had arranged to meet them there.
‘I’m right, aren’t I, Douglas?’ Hetty was determined not to let the matter drop. ‘She should have left well alone and not got involved with Millicent’s harum-scarum plan.’
‘Please, Mum – don’t go on.’ Norma got ready as fast as she could. ‘Will it rain?’ she asked Douglas as she glanced out of the window at a partly clouded sky. ‘Do I need a coat?’
‘I don’t think so,’ he replied. ‘Are you quite sure there isn’t anything you want from the market, Mrs Haig?’
‘No ta, Douglas. Ethel has my list.’ Hetty’s stern, pinched face melted into a smile. She told all her neighbours that she liked Norma’s fiancé very much indeed, thank you. So polite. Such a nice, respectable young man.
‘Ta-ta, then.’ Norma escaped from the house with Douglas close behind. ‘You!’ she exclaimed as they walked up the street. ‘You can wrap my mother round your little finger.’
‘What are you on about? I was only oiling the wheels.’ He, too, was glad to be out of the stultifying atmosphere of the house, holding hands with Norma and ready to stretch his legs along Overcliffe Road. ‘Have you heard anything from your union man yet?’ he asked as they reached the Common.
‘Not a dicky bird. I called round at Millicent’s yesterday. We decided to give him until Monday then we’ll make another phone call to see if there are any developments.’
‘How was Millicent?’ Douglas wondered. The air on the Common was always fresh and he appreciated the long-distance view of Brimstone Rock then layer after misty layer of hills stretching beyond.
‘If I’m honest, she wasn’t her usual self.’ Norma hadn’t been able to put her finger on it but had come away with new worries. ‘Normally I can say anything I like to Millicent, but yesterday she clammed up over the situation with Cynthia. I tried to talk about Clare as well but all she would say is that Clare’s turned down her request to visit and by all accounts still won’t give her version of what happened. That bothers me, Douglas.’
‘What – Millicent brushing you off or Clare not mounting any defence?’ Reluctant as he was to discuss the case, he regretted that Norma was still upset and he felt himself drawn in once more.
‘Both. Well, not so much Millicent – she’ll come round when she’s ready. But have you ever heard of someone in Clare’s position not being willing to defend herself?’
‘No, I’ve not come across it before,’ he admitted. ‘Sergeant Stanhope says to forget about it – we’ve done our job.’
Norma seized on this scrap of information. ‘So you talked to him about the case again? When? What did you say to him?’
‘It was after we got the fingerprint chap to examine the knife – he said the handle was wiped clean – no prints. To me that sounded like someone who knew what they were doing, not someone lashing out without thinking – I told the sarge as much.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He gave the impression that he still didn’t want to rock the boat, but I must admit it bothered me.’ As they got deeper into the discussion, Douglas gave freer rein to his feelings. ‘I mentioned the broken phone to him as well.’
‘And did your expert check that for fingerprints?’
He nodded. ‘The same – it was wiped clean, not a trace. Which means that when Clare put the call through to Millicent for the police and ambulance, she must suddenly have had a change of heart and smashed the thing on to the floor then wiped it clean …’
‘Exactly.’ Norma was elated by what felt like a breakthrough. ‘It doesn’t add up. They’ll have to think it through properly now, surely?’
‘Not unless the sarge points it out to Inspector Davis, I’m afraid. Or unless the inspector reads the fingerprint report and draws his own conclusions – that might make a difference.’
‘But it takes so long,’ Norma complained. ‘In the meantime, Clare is stuck in Armley, shocked rigid by what she saw. Can’t you do something yourself?’
With the entrance to the market already in view, he frowned and slowed down, weighing up the pros and cons of what Norma was asking. Against it was the risk of irritating the heck out of his superiors then being made to look a fool if Clare Bell eventually came to her senses and confessed. In favour of Norma’s request was his growing certainty that she, Millicent and Cynthia were right – there was more to Sidney Hall’s death than met the eye.
‘Please, Douglas …’
‘I’ll try,’ he decided, quickening his pace. ‘But let me work out how to play it, Norma. I’ll pick my moment then I’ll see what I can do.’
It was half past ten on Saturday morning when Millicent answered the door to Vincent Poole.
‘Are you busy?’ he asked without preliminaries.
It was a common or garden phrase but Poole’s deep voice always carried an aggressive undertone – an implied challenge. Millicent suspected he used his voice to make up for his scrawny stature and similarly his boxer’s stance to keep the world at bay. ‘Come in,’ she told him, glancing around to see who might be looking and noting Walter at his open door. She closed hers then waited for her visitor to speak again.
‘I’ll come straight to the point,’ he said. ‘I’ve done what I said and had a word with Mrs Parr.’
‘Your boss?’ Suppressing a shiver, Millicent feigned surprise. ‘And what did she say?’
‘She wants to see you.’ His answer was delivered deadpan.
‘When?’
‘Straight away.’
Her heart fluttered with a sense of impending danger but she managed to disguise the fear. ‘Right now, this minute?’ She spre
ad her hands in a show of alarm and glanced down at her blouse and slacks. ‘Look at me. I’m not dressed for going out.’
‘You look all right to me.’ It didn’t matter how she looked, he implied. He and his boss already knew Millicent could doll herself up and pass muster along with the likes of Margaret and Barbara. ‘Get a move on, will you? Best not keep Mrs Parr waiting.’
The flutter inside her chest strengthened. Until now she hadn’t really believed that Vincent would follow through their conversation at the King’s Head. She’d half expected him to go away and forget all about it, but no – here he was, standing in her kitchen without bothering to remove his cap, staring insolently at her and making it clear that he had no time to waste.
Millicent went to the mirror over the sink to run a comb through her hair and put on some lipstick. ‘How do we get there – in your taxi?’
Poole was already opening the door. ‘Yes. It’s parked out on Ada Street.’
She steeled herself. ‘Right, I’m ready.’
He led the way past the outhouses, across the cobbles and down the ginnel, making her run to keep up and hardly allowing her time to get into the passenger seat before pulling the car away from the kerb. He didn’t say a word as he drove her into town.
Millicent used the silence to breathe deeply in an attempt to steady her nerves. An old Bible story about Daniel entering the lions’ den flashed into her mind and refused to be banished back into the realm of Sunday-school sermons. Daniel hadn’t gone in willingly, she remembered – he’d been tricked by his enemies and thrown in by the king as a punishment. Angels had saved him from the lions’ ravenous jaws – proof to King Darius that the God of Israel was on Daniel’s side after all.
It was strange and ridiculous how much of that tale she was able to recall before Poole parked his taxi outside Sylvia’s Salon.
‘She’s inside waiting for you,’ he told her, deliberately brushing the back of his hand across her thigh as he leaned across to open her door. He waited for her to protest and when she didn’t, he looked at her with undisguised contempt.
Millicent controlled the urge to shudder. This wasn’t quite a den with a massive stone rolling across the entrance to trap her inside, but it was not far off. She got out and slammed the car door then crossed the pavement and entered the salon, hearing the ring of the shop bell and the click of the door behind her.
Phyllis Parr was perched on the stool behind the reception desk that Clare had once occupied. The jacket of her grey two-piece hung open to reveal a cream lace blouse and a long string of pearls. ‘Well, well,’ she said without looking up from her magazine. ‘If it isn’t our plucky telephone girl.’
‘You asked to see me.’ Millicent stood by the door, ready for anything. The salon had been redecorated in greys and pinks, with shiny black lino on the floor and modern sinks and silver hairdryers.
Mrs Parr closed her magazine and followed Millicent’s gaze around the room. ‘I know – it looks different to the last time you saw it. We decided to give everything a quick lick of paint and start all over again. It was worse upstairs in Clare’s room. Bed, mattress, rug – everything had to go.’
‘I’m not surprised.’ Millicent blocked the memory of blood everywhere, the sticky feel of it underfoot, the spreading crimson pool beneath Sidney’s body. ‘But you’d never be able to tell, not now that you’ve had it all redone.’
‘As I say, you were brave.’ Beckoning for Millicent to come closer, Phyllis Parr made an unblinking study of her face. ‘If it hadn’t been for you, Clare would probably have taken it into her head to run away. But she could hardly do that, once you’d arrived. And so, before we get down to business, let me say a heartfelt thank-you.’
Millicent felt seriously wrong-footed. She’d been expecting Mrs Parr to launch straight into a businesslike speech about what she required of her girls – how they should dress, what they should and should not say to customers, how much they should charge, and so on. But then again, perhaps there was something going on beneath the surface and she was being tested. If so, it was best to say as little as possible and only answer questions that were put to her directly.
Phyllis Parr stepped down from her stool and went to stand in the window with her back turned to Millicent. ‘I can only imagine what you must have gone through.’
‘I’d rather not talk about it, thanks.’
A frown flitted across Phyllis’s face. ‘Added to which, Vincent tells me there are problems for you at work?’
‘Yes – a few.’
‘Have they sacked you?’
‘Not yet.’
‘But they might?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘What for, may I ask?’
Millicent knew they were on thin ice and she felt it crack beneath her feet. ‘For poor timekeeping,’ she lied. ‘I’ve clocked on late a few times in the past month.’
‘Really?’ Mrs Parr glanced over her shoulder at Millicent. ‘Do they make you clock on like they do in the mills?’
‘There’s no actual clocking-on machine, no. But the supes expect to see you at your switchboard on the dot. If not, they issue a warning. Three verbals and a written warning get you suspended.’
‘Hmm. Good timekeeping is important in all lines of work, including mine. But I must say I was expecting something far worse than that – failing to charge the right amount for a phone call, making the wrong connection, being rude to subscribers, that sort of thing.’ As Phyllis Parr spoke, she came away from the window and began to circle the room, running her finger along surfaces as if looking for dust. ‘I’ve even heard of telephone girls leaving lines open during a call and listening in to private conversations. That can’t be true, can it?’
Millicent managed to keep her voice low key and natural sounding. ‘It does happen once in a while, I can’t deny it. But the supe would be on to that like a shot. All the girls know they would, so most of us wouldn’t take the risk.’
Phyllis Parr gave Millicent another hard stare then nodded. ‘I’m glad to hear it. In any case, my dear, let’s get down to brass tacks, shall we? You’re short of money and you don’t mind what you do to make ends meet – is that correct?’
‘Correct,’ Millicent echoed. Thin, thin ice and dark, cold water underneath. But it seemed she’d survived.
‘So if I send you to entertain a gentleman customer of mine, are you willing and able to do whatever he asks?’
‘Yes, I am.’ She hoped that this plain, no-nonsense answer gave the impression that she knew the ropes.
‘If we were to say this afternoon at four o’clock, would that be all right?’
Millicent gave a start as the shop bell sounded and Margaret walked in carrying a bag in one hand and a brown parcel in the other. The hairdresser took in the scene then stared hard at Millicent. Her eyes flashed what seemed like a warning but she didn’t say anything as she crossed the room and went upstairs.
‘Four o’clock,’ Millicent agreed, her heart pounding so hard she thought it must be audible.
‘Wear a decent dress – the type you would wear to a tea dance, considering the time of day. Look your best.’ Phyllis Parr reeled off a list of requirements. ‘Perfume and make-up, nylons, nice underwear. This customer is particular.’
Margaret’s footsteps could be heard mounting the stairs and walking along the landing.
‘Are you sure you can see this through?’ Mrs Parr needed reassurance. ‘Be in no doubt – the first time takes a lot of nerve.’
‘I can do it,’ Millicent promised. She felt better now that she’d trodden over the ice and reached the far bank. Phyllis Parr had quizzed her then accepted her. So far, so good.
‘Four o’clock at the King’s Head, then. Vincent will pick you up from home at a quarter to. He will drive you there and make all the monetary arrangements for you.’
‘What will I be paid and when?’ Millicent asked what any woman entering into this dark world would be bound to ask.
‘It’s
complicated. There are different rates for different services, depending on the amount of time required.’ Phyllis Parr fobbed her off. She buttoned her jacket and took her gloves from her handbag on the counter, putting them on with slow deliberation, pressing down between each finger in turn. ‘Let’s just say you’ll earn considerably more than your hourly rate at the switchboard. And for now, let’s leave it at that.’
Cynthia glanced at the clock above the door. There were five minutes to go before the end of her morning shift, then she would be free to rush off to help her parents with their house move. After that, she would stick to her plan to visit Heaton Yard. Would Millicent be in, she wondered, and how would she behave?
Ruth walked by on her way up to the general office, eagle eyed as ever. ‘No daydreaming – take your light,’ she barked as she swung out through the door.
Cynthia came to immediately and flicked a front switch. ‘Hello, caller. Which number do you require?’
‘This is Mrs Parr speaking. I wish to speak to Mr Poole on 612.’
As if a small jolt of electricity had passed through her body, Cynthia sat bolt upright then fumbled to make the connection. A jack lamp lit up. ‘Hello, Mr Poole. I have Mrs Parr on the line … Go ahead, please.’
Poised to slide back her headset then wait for the supervision lamp to flash, she held her breath.
‘Vincent?’ Phyllis Parr’s voice was harsh and impatient.
‘Yes. What is it?’
Driven by an irresistible urge, Cynthia kept her headset in place and prayed that Ruth wouldn’t choose this moment to return.
‘About the girl, Millicent.’
‘What about her?’
‘I’ve arranged for you to pick her up at a quarter to four and take her to the King’s Head.’
‘All right, if you say so.’ Underneath the usual belligerence, Poole sounded dubious.
‘Why, what do you think of her?’ Phyllis Parr wanted to know.
‘She looks the part, I suppose.’
‘But …?’