by Daisy White
Mary, however, is just as convinced that there is something sinister going on, and given our shared experiences I can sort of see her point. The child’s dress was old and worn, with a rip in the skirt. Even taking into account her recent experience, in the daylight we could see faded bruises on her stick-thin arms, and a red puckered burn on her leg. Clearly, however old she actually is, she has been having a rough time.
I pad over to the little wooden crib and carefully pick up Summer. Her red face is scrunched, her toothless gums exposed as she carries on screeching and waving her arms around. When she isn’t screaming her head off, she’s adorable. It’s just unfortunate she seems to be a bit of a night owl. I can just about cope with waking up at four in the morning, like today, but anything before that is the absolute pits, and poor Mary is exhausted.
“Here you go.” I hand the baby to her mother, who cradles her expertly, and leans back against her pillows, pulling her nightdress down. “Surely she can’t need feeding again?”
“Well, it seems to be the only way to shut her up!” Mary snaps, frowning with concentration. She looks up suddenly, mortified. “Oh God, I didn’t mean that . . . I just mean everyone keeps telling me she should be on the bottle and then she’ll feed less, but I’m sick of hearing it.”
“Sorry.” I wander over to heat up some milk. “Look, it’s half past four, I’ll do us some tea and toast.” The wooden floorboards are cold on my bare feet, and I shiver in my short pink nightdress.
There is silence while the baby suckles, and I stir the pan. Reaching down to the bottom cupboard, I collect mugs before hacking through half a loaf of bread. I need to go shopping again today. Mostly we just eat fish and chips, or sausage and mash with tinned peas, but it still costs more than a packet of cigarettes, which is what I’m used to having in the evening.
We haven’t been going out much since the baby arrived, and Beth’s party was the first time I’d been away from Mary and the baby in the evening since she was born. It was a blast — I’ve really missed the long, hot summer nights out with our friends. We’d grab a few glasses of beer, and maybe a hotdog down by the pier if we were starving, then move from the coffee bars to the Starlight Rooms or the Regent for some proper dancing. Last month the Beatles played at the Hippodrome, but Summer had a bad cold and I stayed with Mary to nurse her. Not that we could’ve afforded tickets anyway, but still . . . I sigh a bit louder than I mean to and hastily change it into a cough.
“I’m sorry, Ruby. I know how tired you are, and I know you’re trying to help, but sometimes I think I’m a really bad mum. All the time at the moment, actually. She shouldn’t be screaming all night now. She should have settled . . .”
I look at my best friend, with her eyes all shadowed, her yellow hair lank and greasy, the baby attached to her breast. A tear trickles down her pale cheek, quickly followed by another. Of course I don’t want to, but I immediately think of Mum. I never wondered what she was like before she had all her kids. I shove the thought away — she’s safe now, and happier than she has been in ages, though all that came at a price.
“I’m sure I’m doing something wrong, but when I asked the midwife she said it was normal to be emotional and some babies just cry lots.” Mary bites her bottom lip anxiously, shifting Summer to the other side.
“Oh Mary, you aren’t a bad mum! You’re the best, and we knew it was going to be hard. I mean, hell, I’ve had so many brothers and sisters to look after I know the drill backwards. But Summer is lovely, and besides, Pearl said it was probably just early teething, so we know there isn’t anything seriously wrong. It’s just because you need more sleep you’re feeling down . . .” I dump the bottle of milk on the work top, and carry a mug of tea over to the bed.
“Thanks, Rubes.” Mary takes the mug with her free hand and gulps the brown liquid, pulling faces as it burns her mouth. “I’m sure Pearl’s right, especially with her being a nurse and everything. The midwife at the hospital did say most of them start sleeping better at around four months . . . I suppose I just think that when Summer is crying I should be able to soothe her, and I can’t, except by feeding.”
“My sister Garnet was like that. According to Mum she was permanently attached to her breast for the first six months.” I pull a face of my own, covering my chest. “That’s got to hurt!”
Mary laughs properly, relaxing into her old self at last. The baby stops feeding, smacks her lips and studies us both with big dark blue eyes. She has a little rosebud mouth, and a soft down of hair, and like I said, when she isn’t making loads of noise she is pretty sweet.
By now the first streaks of silver dawn are starting to show through the dark night sky — sharp tears in paper that will eventually, hopefully, reveal a golden summer day. The flat is small, but the huge floor to ceiling windows give an illusion of space. Our little kitchen area is crammed with cutlery and piles of washing.
“Not worth going back to sleep now, is it?” I say, yawning again. We have to be at work by eight, but luckily we live above the hairdressing salon where we are junior stylists, so it doesn’t take long to throw on some clothes and stagger downstairs.
I have a quick cold wash and extract my pink and grey uniform from the pile of clothes next to my bed. My white-blonde hair is short, so I only need to run a comb through it and spritz a halo of hairspray. The baby watches placidly as I sort through my makeup, before painting on pink lipstick and a double coat of mascara.
“Here, I’ll watch her now, while you get ready,” I tell Mary, picking up a little knitted doll and making it dance around Summer’s head.
Mary pulls a face in the mirror, splashes her face in the sink, and pins her hair back in a plait. There is a mark on the front of her blouse but when I point it out she just shrugs. “It’s alright, the pinny will hide it, and I haven’t got time to wash it out.”
The morning sun is dancing across the sea by the time we slip out of our front door. I give the baby a kiss on her soft little cheek, and then Mary carries her off to the babysitter. Ship Street is empty apart from a few market workers carrying crates of vegetables to a van, and a brown-suited old man walking up from the promenade. He stops to catch his breath, leaning against a cobbled wall, smiling at me from under a mass of tanned wrinkles. I smile back and he moves on. I set up the chairs and tables outside the salon, arranging them at precise right angles, enjoying the warmth, the salt on my lips and the familiar Brighton smells of fish and dust.
Finishing my task, I push my hair back and pin a stray wisp of blonde into my fringe, shoving thoughts of the Beach Girl to the back of my mind. Every time the telephone rings at the salon I expect it to be the police telling me they’ve found her parents, or even that she’s started speaking again. But it never is. I suppose she’ll end up at the orphanage.
Kenny and James are both junior reporters at the Brighton Herald, so they did a great story on the dramatic rescue of ‘Beach Girl’. As they’d been right there, the editor didn’t have much choice but to let them write the front page, and inside, James did a double-page spread on how many people have drowned in the last two summers on Brighton beach. I’m not sure that was very helpful, actually, given that the paper is usually covered in adverts encouraging people to holiday here, but he was pleased with it.
Later the sun will heat the town up, and I’ll be thinking of iced drinks and a dip down at Black Rock swimming pool, or in the sea, but just now the gentle golden warmth is perfect. With the past firmly behind me, I can finally enjoy my new home. Who would want to be anywhere else?
For an hour or so I have the salon to myself. I get on with laying out clean towels, having a quick dust of the cherub-encrusted mirrors, and pouring out conditioner from the huge green glass bottles. The sharp, chemical smell makes me wrinkle my nose, and I have to concentrate hard to stop myself sneezing.
Glancing out of the salon windows as I sweep the floor an hour later, I see Mary hurrying back up the road, and Eve, one of the senior stylists, walking briskly down the
hill. I like being a hairdresser, and I love living in Brighton, but I still find it hard to believe that only a few months ago I was running away from a dark alley with bloodstained hands . . . Quite a career change, from murderer to washing people’s hair, but I like to think I’ve handled it well. I still get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach if I see a policeman on a bike, and my stepdad, George, sometimes visits me in my dreams, but I’m sure in a few years I will have forgotten all about it. Everyone has a few secrets to hide, don’t they?
“Are you alright, Mary? Did she settle OK?” I ask as my best friend stumbles through the door, closely followed by Eve.
While stout-bodied Eve glows with health, her cheeks pink from the sunny walk, Mary’s face is pale in the sun’s harsh brightness. She has a red spot on her chin I didn’t notice earlier, and she suddenly seems to have aged about five years in a week. We’ve been so busy with work and the baby, it feels like ages since I actually had a proper chat with my best friend. When we were attending teacher training classes, we used to dawdle home, even if it was raining, talking about everything. In fact, it was on one of those rainy walks that we decided it was time to leave Croydon . . .
“Oh dear. Did you have a bad night, girls?” Eve asks. The sound of her voice jolts me back to the present. She’s been at Johnnie’s salon ever since he opened it and although she makes us work hard, she has a heart of solid gold. Just now I see her direct gaze take in our purple-shadowed eyes and pale expressions. She hangs her thick wool coat on the hook and flicks through the contents of her handbag, frowning.
“Not great. Mrs Carpenter has taken her this morning, so I said to Mary she should have an early lunch break and get half an hour’s sleep if that’s still OK?” I stifle another jaw-cracking yawn.
“Of course, love. Oh, here’s the shopping list! I thought I’d left it behind. Have you tried gripe water for Summer? Works wonders. I’ll nip out and get you some later.” Eve smiles at us kindly, but Mary’s lip wobbles. “And don’t worry about crying all the time either. I did it for six months with my Alfie. Right in the middle of conversations, at work, even in the Co-op. It’s natural!”
“Thanks, Eve!” Mary recovers quickly, but with visible effort. She heads out the back to prepare the usual morning tray of tea, and I continue to scurry around, checking off extra jobs in my head. I wash a load of towels, hang them out in the courtyard, and flick through the appointment book.
“Morning, my angels!” Johnnie strides in through the door at ten minutes to nine, looking gorgeous in a mint green shirt, jeans and a dark green tweed jacket. His blonde hair flops across his cat-like blue eyes, and that lazy smile shows off perfect white teeth. “How’s my little goddaughter this morning?”
Mary dumps the laden tray onto the reception desk, and pins back a stray wisp of hair. “Mrs Carpenter’s got her until five, thank God. She had a bad night.”
“Oh, poor little love. And poor you. What would we do without darling Joyce to help us out? There is nothing that woman cannot cope with.”
“I suppose we’d still be keeping Summer in that old cardboard box next to the store cupboard like we did when she was first born?” I suggest, grinning at the memory.
“No news on the girl you rescued off the beach, I take it?” Eve says.
I shake my head. “The police are getting annoyed with me keeping on ringing up and asking about her, I think. The desk sergeant obviously thinks I’m a total ditz, but I did manage to speak to that nice WPC Stanton, and she said there isn’t a lot more they can do if the girl doesn’t tell them anything. She did say the doctors think she is about thirteen, and she seems healthy enough, despite the bruises and things. It’s so frustrating, and I feel sort of responsible, because I found her.”
“Darling, I think we all agree that her mother probably drowned. It is terribly sad, but if you hadn’t spotted her on the beach she would be dead too.” Johnnie sips tea, leaning against the wall, studying me through narrowed blue eyes. “I know you don’t like the thought of her going into an orphanage, but from what you say, it might be a better place for her.”
“They haven’t found a body, though,” I say stubbornly. “She might even have been on the beach by herself. You know, she might even have been staying with someone and wandered off and got lost.”
Johnnie shrugs. “At eleven o’clock at night? Sometimes they don’t ever find a body, or it gets washed up miles along the coast. With the storm, anything could have happened.” He’s running his eyes down the page of appointments now, suddenly jabbing a finger onto the page as he studies an entry near the top. “Bloody hell! Who booked in Beverly Collins?”
“I did. She’s got a trim and colour at nine. Why?” I study my employer’s face, confused by his interest. His eyes have that particular light to them that says gossip is on the way. “Is she one of your famous models from London?”
Eve interrupts before Johnnie can answer, her words shrill and tumbling over each other. “Why didn’t I notice that? Do you really think it’s her? I’m surprised she’s even back in Brighton. If I’d done what she had I’d take myself off abroad.”
Mary and I stand riveted by this unexpected scandal.
“What do you mean? Who is she?” I ask, glancing at the big pink clock on the salon wall. “She’ll be here any minute!”
The door bangs and we all jump, but it’s only Catherine, the other senior salon stylist. “Good morning,” she says, “sorry I’m late, I had to drop off Lily and Jean before the bus came past . . . Why are you all looking like you’ve been slapped round the face?” Catherine purses her bright red lips and studies us in amazement. Her round, slightly pudgy face is flushed with exertion and heat, but her peroxide curls frame her cheeks with crisp perfection. “Have I missed something?”
“Good morning, darling!” Johnnie smiles at her, then addresses the rest of us, arms firmly folded, eyes gleaming. “Miss Beverly Collins the murderer, assuming our first client today is one and the same, has just been released from prison. Her four-year-old daughter went missing ten years ago, but despite all the evidence, the body was never found, so Miss Collins was convicted on some lesser offence — child cruelty or something, wasn’t it, Catherine?”
“Beverly Collins? She’s coming here? I can’t believe she would have the nerve to come back to Brighton. She’d better watch herself — people haven’t forgotten what she did to that girl. I’m not doing that woman’s hair. It was in the paper last week, wasn’t it — that she was out, I mean? I’m surprised at you, Johnnie. Most people wouldn’t let her over the doorstep,” Catherine says, shedding her coat and bag out the back, and returning with a glass of green liquid disinfectant and a towel. “Shall I do the rest of these?”
“Yes. Sorry. But that’s so awful. Did she really kill her own child?” Mary did start sorting out the tools of our trade, but after Johnnie’s bombshell only has got as far as dumping a handful of brushes and combs onto the reception desk.
Catherine nods at us, her eyes narrowing in anger. “I can tell the girls are as shocked as I was when I read the paper. If justice had been done she would have hanged for it! I mean, there are ways and means of hiding bodies and there was never any question that she did it. All that blood in her house, and she tried to burn her daughter’s clothes too, if I remember rightly.”
Eve is just as bullish as her colleague when she wants to be, but she’s never one to turn away business. Now she sighs in a martyred fashion, “I’ll supervise then, Ruby, and do the colour. But do make sure she sits near the back. There’ll be a riot if she’s recognised. What on earth does she think she’s doing?”
Johnnie finishes his tea, and beams round at us, “Oh well, this is obviously going to be a rather interesting morning! Let’s get to work, my darlings.”
Mary is still staring at Catherine with her mouth open, and I probably look just as stupid, as a small, pretty lady with a mop of curly brown hair hesitantly enters the salon. She flashes us a terrified glance, and sidles towards th
e reception desk.
“I’m booked in at nine with Ruby Baker,” she tells Johnnie. “It’s Beverly Collins.”
Chapter Three
Her voice is surprisingly low and gruff. It doesn’t suit her pretty doll-like looks. I’m not sure quite what I expected a child murderer to look like, but then I know better than most people that murderers come in all shapes and sizes. Appearance is no indication of what lies beneath.
Beverly wears no makeup on her pale skin, despite an angry-looking scar running from her hairline to halfway down her right cheek. The toffee-brown eyes flicker over us before she turns back to smile at Johnnie.
“Right, Miss Collins, shall we get started then? Ruby, can you go through the style book first, please, and if there’s anything you aren’t sure about just ask as usual.” Johnnie makes a pencil mark on the reception book, and picks up the telephone, but his eyes remain on the unassuming woman by my side.
I lead Beverly towards the row of chairs by the salon windows. Sunlight is flooding in, creating a wash of pale gold and making the dust particles dance across the room. It highlights my new client’s delicate nose and mouth, and shows the wrinkles etched around them. Her skin isn’t just pale, it has a dull, slightly yellow tinge and the lines look like they belong to a much older woman.
“Right! Yes, of course. Come and take a seat and have a look through our style book . . .” I force myself into action, ignoring the flutter of nervousness in my stomach. Catherine is shooting her poisonous looks and Johnnie is beaming with pleasure as he talks into the phone. Scandal and gossip are his life blood, and owning a hair salon is a perfect way for him to indulge in both.