Dickie rubbed his mouth. ‘Look, we need some meat, son.’
Fred suddenly grasped the meaning of all this, and asked in a small voice, ‘You’re not going to kill it, are you?’
‘Well, its a bit injured where the wire’s cut in …’ Dickie looked into the horror-stricken face and donned a look of indignation. ‘No, of course I’m not gonna kill it! Here, you have it then. Put your can down.’
He handed the struggling creature to Fred who, finding it hard to handle, put it on the ground where it immediately ran away. Fred watched its white rump disappear into the undergrowth. ‘Never mind. It’s better to let things go free, isn’t it, Dad?’
In that one instant, the boy reminded Dickie of his brother as a child. He smiled his affection. ‘Tell ye what, Fred, I’ll go to the butcher’s and get some proper meat. You see if ye can find any mushrooms while I’m gone – but don’t go picking any toadies.’
‘Er … I need some toilet paper.’
‘What would I be doing carrying bumf round with me? Ye’ll have to use dockleaves.’ When they parted company Dickie went to check on the other snare which had been more efficient and strangled the rabbit. Whipping out his pocket-knife, he skinned and gutted it, then cut it up into un-rabbit-like pieces, wiped his bloody hands on the grass and took it back to the camp.
‘What’s that?’ asked Fred suspiciously.
‘It’s butcher’s meat,’ Dick impaled the pieces on a stick and laid them over the fire to cook. The mushrooms were cooked in the milk that remained in the can, and the unusual breakfast was pronounced a great success.
‘Ye know what I’m going to do today, Fred?’ Dickie wiped his greasy mouth on a handkerchief. ‘I’m going to send your mam a postcard and ask her to fetch the girls over here for a week.’
‘Ooh, that’ll be lovely! They’ll like our camp, won’t they?’
‘Ah well, it was fun but I think one night is enough for me, Fred. Your Nan has this house in Scarborough, we’ll go back there and see if there’s anybody in it. Then I’ll have a go at selling that picture.’ He got to his feet.
Freddie had been watching a swift skimming low over the grass. As he rose with his father, he asked, ‘What’s that bird called?’
‘No good asking me, I don’t know a wren from a turkey. We should have your Uncle Sonny here, he’d tell ye.’
‘I know already,’ said the boy. ‘It’s a swift.’
‘Then what did ye ask for?’
‘I wanted to know if you knew.’ He retrieved his coconut from its hiding place.
Dickie made a face. ‘Away now, let’s sort you out.’
Tidying themselves up as best they could they drove back along the cliff top. It was still fairly early when they arrived, which was lucky as the car ran out of petrol and they had to leave it parked rather conspicuously. The picture under his arm, Dickie kept his eyes open for police whilst proceeding on foot to Thomasin’s house. This was on the Esplanade, among a row of tall and elegant white buildings that looked out to sea. Though it was used by employees, its size and placement were not really for their benefit, in fact they were only permitted to use three of the rooms, the rest being restricted to the family’s comforts. Fred scaled the flight of steps to the front door and rapped several times. Dickie shushed him and looked round to see if anyone had heard, but there were no cries save those of seagulls. Leaning over to peer down into the basement window, Dick spied a flowerpot on a ledge and guessed, rightly, that it concealed the key.
Once inside he took a nap on one of the beds then later he and Fred had a proper wash and brush-up. With no servant to clean their dusty boots Dickie employed a corner of the bedcovers, and went out to find a buyer for the oil-painting.
The dealer offered him two pounds. Dickie gave a derisive laugh and tapped the painting, telling the man to take another look at the signature. The other peered more closely, then reiterated his offer. Cursing him as stupid, Dickie asked what sort of art expert did not recognise a work by John Feeney when he saw one; the painting was worth at least fifty times that amount. To his acute mortification, the dealer then maliciously informed him that this would be true were the painting a genuine Feeney but unfortunately, the signature was not authentic. This had been done by an amateur. Dick took a closer look and saw that the initial was not J but N; of all the paintings in his brother’s house he had to choose one of Nick’s! Refusing the pittance, he tucked the frame under his arm and left. Maybe there was some way he could alter the initial if he got truly desperate for money. Until then, he was damned if he would insult his family’s talents by accepting a measly two pounds. With the small amount left in his pocket, he purchased two postcards: one was sent to Nick to explain their absence; the other to Dusty, summoning help.
20
When Nick returned on Monday evening to find the fugitives departed and the keys to his father’s house gone with them, he went immediately to check on Sonny’s house, then telephoned Peasholme. Naturally, all were concerned, but Nick soothed them by saying that there had been no police visit and the guard had been removed.
Thomasin told him that they no longer had a sentry, either. What she was not aware of was that Nettleton continued to watch the family’s comings and goings from his room at The Black Swan. He had also ambushed their postman each morning before he delivered the mail, looking for any clue in the postmarks. Today a different man was on. Nettleton whistled, indicated for him to stay where he was and went down to meet him. This one was less cooperative than the other, saying that he could not hand the mail to anyone but the addressee; however, on receipt of half a crown he allowed Nettleton to shuffle through it. Aside from the letters there was a postcard franked in Scarborough. Nettleton dwelled over it for a second or two before handing the whole lot back and disappearing into the inn.
The postman, Joseph Kettley, went on his way. Before he could post the letters, however, the door was opened and a young woman came out. Joe saw first that she was exceptionally pretty, then that she had some disability. She was surrounded by a bunch of children, some of whom came running up to Joe, who greeted them cheerily.
Belle waited for him and accepted the letters. She thanked him but did not smile. Joe, wanting to stand and look at her, said, ‘It’s a lovely morning.’ Belle continued to dick through the mail and made affirmation without looking up. ‘A nice day for an outing. You their governess, then?’
Belle raised cold eyes at the impudence and was about to offer rudeness when she noticed the way he was looking at her, and also that he was quite attractive. ‘No, I’m their foster mother.’
‘Oh, I beg your pardon, ma’am.’ Joe’s eyes dropped automatically to her hand, but saw that she wore no ring.
Belle was about to excuse him, when she came across the postcard, flipped it over and saw, To Dusty and the girls, having a lovely time, wish you were here but you’d need plenty of money and a change of clothes. Her face darkened. She turned back to the house.
Joe wondered whether to tell her about the man who had intercepted her mail, but while he was still in the process of deciding, she had called to the children and ushered them into the house. He went back down the drive, hoping that she would be there tomorrow.
Belle threw the rest of the letters down and tore into the drawing room brandishing the postcard. ‘He’s in Scarborough!’
Dusty snatched the postcard and after reading it, declared, ‘I’ll have to go.’
‘You’re not taking the girls.’ For once, Belle had lacked the courage of her convictions. She knew that the right thing to do was to tell the girls that the adoption could not possibly go ahead … but she hadn’t. Neither had she told her aunt and Dusty had been too afraid to ask.
‘What d’you think we’re going to do?’ snapped her aunt. ‘Catch a fishing boat to America?’
‘He must be at my house,’ decided Thomasin, pushing herself out of the chair and limping over to a bureau. ‘He’s got no money to go anywhere else. I hope to God there’s
none of my employees there.’ Searching through her papers she unearthed the private detective’s report about George Ackworth, the employee whom she’d had imprisoned for theft two decades ago, which had been causing her endless guilt these weeks since her own trial. At least that had been one piece of unanticipated good news. Expecting George to be living either a life of crime or penury, she had been comforted to hear that he had been found in a very respectable district with a well-kept family and a good work record. Obviously some employer had given him more of a chance than she had. Asking herself why, then, she should still feel guilty, she put the report aside to find the book she was looking for, leafed through it, and to her relief found that none of her employees were recuperating at the moment.
Dusty elected to pack straightaway. ‘I’ll write when I find out what he’s up to.’ She went to tell the girls she would be going away for a few days, then put some clothes in a bag and got the manservant to drive her to the station in the Daimler.
Nettleton watched her go, rewarded himself with a knowing smile, then went upstairs to pick up his bag.
* * *
On arrival in Scarborough, Dusty made several detours before going to the house, just in case she was being followed. Dick and Fred weren’t in when she got there. This worried her but she decided to wait. Around noon she heard the door go and the sounds of voices, one of them saying, ‘If your mam isn’t here we might have to crack that coconut yet, Fred.’
‘She is here!’ Dusty sprang into the passage, almost causing heart failure. ‘And she’s ready to crack heads, never mind coconuts – what do you think you’re playing at?’
Dickie stalled her outburst by picking her up and swinging her round, his face shining with delight at her being here. After kissing him, she demanded again to hear his explanation.
‘Oh, we’ve had a lovely time, haven’t we, Fred?’ Dickie toppled into a chair, dragging her with him. ‘We thought it’d be even nicer to have us all together – where’re the lasses?’
‘Belle wouldn’t let me bring them,’ said his wife. When he swore she added, ‘You can hardly blame her, with the whole police force looking for you.’
‘Looking for a dangerous desperado, not a family man,’ argued Dickie.
She sat up. ‘Oh, so that’s why you wanted us here, simply to provide good cover.’
‘Ye silly wee bitch, ye know that’s not true – anyway, didn’t ye see the piece in the paper? They think I’ve skipped the country.’ He rubbed his hand up and down her back. ‘Well, if ye haven’t brought the girls, haye ye at least brought some clothes?’
‘Yes, and you could do with them by the smell of you both.’
‘How very genteel – and the cash?’
‘I’m hanging on to that.’ She left his lap to prowl the room.
‘Dusty, c’mon, I’m bustin’ for a ciggy – an’ there’s nothing in the place to eat. Himself is hanging onto that coconut like it’s made o’ gold.’
‘I want to keep it,’ argued Freddie.
‘I know! Ye’ve told me sixteen times but try telling my belly that.’
‘Sell the painting, then,’ retorted the boy.
‘What painting is this?’ Dusty looked at her husband who shrank guiltily and tried to bluff his way out. On extracting the truth, her anger was renewed, but she decided not to vent it in front of the boy. Pulling a coin from her bag, she told him, ‘Here, Freddie, run and fetch some pies for us, I’ll cook something later. Get a packet of cigarettes too.’
‘I want to go see the Punch and Judy show.’
‘Go find me a big lump o’ wood and we’ll stage one here,’ said Dickie, looking at his wife.
Fred was told he could see the show later, right now they needed something to eat.
‘Will you guard my coconut?’ He knew better than to trust his father.
Dusty promised she would. When he had gone she turned on Dickie. ‘The painting wasn’t the only thing you stole, was it? Nick told us that the stable door was open and the car had bolted.’
‘How can ye steal from your own brother?’ scoffed Dickie.
‘I think that’s my line, isn’t it?’
‘I just borrowed it,’ said Dickie. His wife asked where it was. ‘It ran out of gas so I left it parked a few blocks away. Can’t leave it there too long, though. I’ll fill it up later.’
‘I’ll have the keys to Sonny’s house if you don’t mind,’ said Dusty and held out her hand. When told they were on the dresser, she picked them up and put them into her bag, then looked around at the mess he and Fred had created. ‘Have you been staying here all the time?’
‘No, we camped out at first.’ He smiled. ‘That took me back a bit.’
‘What have you been living on, then?’
‘Rabbits, dead dogs, the odd vagrant who happened along – oh and two sherbet suckers. Don’t tell Fred about the rabbits. I had to call it “butcher’s meat” to get him to eat it.’ He noticed her preoccupation. ‘What’s up, aren’t ye pleased to see me?’
‘I’m just wondering what I’m doing here and how long we’ll have to keep scurrying about, looking over our shoulders.’ She put two half-crowns on the sideboard, telling him that was his pocket money, then came to sit on his lap again.
‘Nobody followed ye, did they?’
‘Do you think I’m stupid?’
‘Yes.’ Laughing, he ducked his head in expectation of a clout and was not disappointed.
‘You’ll be pleased to hear that Peasholme is no longer under surveillance,’ said Dusty. When he endorsed this, she laid her head on his shoulder and stroked him tenderly. ‘I wish the girls were here. I wonder what they’re doing.’
* * *
The night Dusty left, piercing screams filled the house. When they did not stop, Belle struggled her way out of the bedclothes, into a robe and along the landing. Faith was sitting up in bed, screeching, her blue eyes dilated in panic. Sally was trying frantically to calm her, whilst the rest of the children clustered round the bed in alarm. Belle told them all to go back to their beds, Sally too, then took hold of the child and tried to soothe her. But the rigid little body refused to be comforted. After each piercing shriek, Faith gulped in chestfuls of air. The more tightly Belle clutched the child to her breast and begged to know what had frightened her, the more impliant her body became. There was no alternative but to slap her.
Released from the hysteria, Faith allowed herself to be hugged, but still moaned and cried pathetically. Erin came to see what all the noise was about and told Belle to try and stop it as it was disturbing the entire household. Half an hour passed before Belle could get some sense out of the child who, between sniffs and sobs, told her, ‘Mammy’s gone!’
‘You silly sausage.’ Belle smoothed the wet mottled face. ‘She’s only gone for a couple of days. She’ll be coming back.’
‘Da-addy’s gone too,’ hiccuped Faith.
Stuck for words, Belle tried to reassure the child with cuddles. But Faith would not let go of the woman’s nightgown and the latter had to spend the rest of the night in this bed.
When, the following night, the same thing occurred, Belle saw that despite her own misgivings there was only one solution: in the morning she would take the two girls to Scarborough.
* * *
Those sun-baked days in August brought out a side of his wife that Dickie had never seen before. Whilst she had always paid a lot of attention to the children, this seemed especially pronounced now that they were here all the time. His initial delight at Belle’s arrival with the girls had evaporated when he had found Faith in his bed that night and every following night, too.
‘She’s frightened,’ Dusty had explained, cuddling the child between them. ‘She thinks we’re going to leave her. But we’re not.’ She had added a kiss to the last statement for the child’s benefit – in fact, thought Dickie, everything she did was for the children’s benefit. When Fred, jealous of his sister’s monopoly of their parents’ bed, had whined to be taken
in too, she had let him. And of course if he came then they couldn’t leave Julia out, could they? Dusty seemed to have lost the ability to say no; except to me of course, thought her husband malevolently.
The novelty of fatherhood was wearing thin. He began to feel pushed out, especially as he had not made love to his wife since the girls came. Whilst before when there was just the two of them she had done little things for him, had sat on his knee and talked to him, now she barely found time to give him a word in passing, so wrapped up was she in the children. Was this a foretaste of what life would be like when they finally went home to America? Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he would lie sleepless, thinking about this, would feel resentment at the crush of childish bodies between them. Dusty had always put him first. Now he came fourth in her affections. On top of this he had grown tired of building sandcastles and giving piggyback rides. He wanted to be by himself for a while.
Escaping the crowded bed, he dressed on the landing so as not to wake anyone. Then, after lighting a cigarette, he eased open the outer door and stepped into the night.
The silence was acute, with only the whisper of the sea to interrupt his thoughts. He headed towards the sound, down the steps, past the car that was now parked outside and leaned over the railings looking out across the South Bay at the reflection of harbour lights on the inky water. But the sea couldn’t solve his dilemma. Once the cigarette was finished he strolled back to the house and, unable to get back into bed, chose to sleep in another room.
* * *
Hardly had he closed his eyes than he woke to sailor-suited children clambering all over him, demanding to know what he was doing in this bed. With a bad-tempered curse, he roared at them to get out and hid his tortured head under a pillow. Within minutes Dusty was there to castigate him for making the girls cry.
‘How the hell d’you expect me to react with the little pilgrims jumping all over me?’ he yelled at her. ‘I can’t sleep with my own wife ’cause of the crush, I get out for a bit of relief then I can’t bloody get back in again! If this is what family life’s about then ye can stuff it!’ He replaced the pillow over his head.
Dickie (Feeney Family Sagas Book 4) Page 46