‘Do you have an appointment?’ the secretary asked, peering over her glasses, from which a gold chain hung down round her neck. Joe felt her eyes looking him up and down. He wished he had changed into something a bit smarter than the baggy shirt and trousers which he had pulled on when he got up that morning. He also wished that he had checked his hair in a mirror before coming in from the car. He had a feeling that it was sticking out at some odd angles. Sometimes he just couldn’t believe that he was old enough to be taken seriously as a father.
‘I’m afraid not,’ he said. ‘My name’s Joe Tye. My son, Hugo, started here this term and I’ve only just arrived back in the country from a trip. I’ve brought the payment.’
‘Oh, right.’ The woman relaxed as she realised he wasn’t there to complain or make work for her. ‘I can take that from you. Would you like a receipt?’
‘No, no,’ he assured her. ‘That’ll be fine. Is there any chance of seeing Hugo for a couple of seconds, do you think? Having been away…’
Through the windows he could see boys coming out onto the sweeping green lawns, some of them stopping to play games, others making their way to the woods beyond. The woman stiffened again and looked as if she was going to find a problem with that. She then seemed to recognise the look of pleading in his eyes and softened once more.
‘Let’s see if we can find him,’ she said.
She led him out of the office and through a set of French windows onto a terrace. Weeds were pushing up the ancient paving stones and the building towered behind them, grey and grim.
‘Anthony,’ she called to a large boy who seemed to be starting to grow a moustache. ‘There’s a new boy called Hugo Tye. Do you know him?’
‘The new boys are doing football trials,’ the boy grunted. ‘They’re in the changing rooms.’
‘Would you take Mr Tye over and see if you can find Hugo for him?’
The boy nodded and started walking. Joe assumed he was meant to follow. He thanked the woman and set off. He thought about trying to make conversation with the boy in front of him, but thought better of it. He had too much on his mind. He couldn’t work out whether or not he was making a huge mistake. Would this visit make Hugo even more homesick? He just knew that he couldn’t drive away without at least seeing his son.
The changing rooms smelt damp and rotten. The sound of excited little voices filled the fetid air. Anthony waded in amongst them, asking for Hugo. Joe saw his son emerging from a door that he assumed led to the lavatories. He was already changed for the trials, all his kit brand new and far too big for him, making him look like a cartoon as he clopped across the floor in his stiff, new boots, the laces trailing behind him, his shirt tails hanging out, almost obscuring his shorts. Joe felt a rush of emotion and wasn’t sure if he was going to be able to stop tears from coming to his eyes. Hugo looked so small and so lost, but at the same time he saw him as an independent being, someone with a life now completely separate from him and Fliss.
Hugo spotted him and, to Joe’s relief, broke into a grin. Running to get to his father, he stood on his bootlace and sent himself sprawling forward into a group of his fellows, knocking them all to the floor like skittles in a bowling alley. Joe wanted to wade into the mêlée and haul his son out, but held back, waiting until Hugo extricated himself and came over, followed by some muted abuse.
‘Hello,’ Hugo said, eventually, hugging his father tightly. ‘What are you doing here? I’m doing football trials. We had sausages for lunch. They were so gross but they made us eat them.’
Joe returned the hug. ‘I just had to deliver something to the school office,’ he explained. ‘So I thought I’d say hi.’
‘Okay. I’ve got to go now. I’ll ring you on your mobile.’
Hugo ran after the other boys who were making their way out of the door, his laces still trailing behind him, his shirt tail flapping. Just as he was about to disappear from sight he turned and Joe caught his eye. He felt as if he was watching a part of himself going for ever. Aware that other boys were staring at him and giggling, he turned and walked back to the car park.
Climbing into the car, he drove down the winding drive, past the walls of rhododendrons that had been allowed to grow wild, no doubt providing dense undergrowth for mock battles and elaborate camps. This would be a good place to spend a few years of your childhood, Joe told himself. Better than being trapped in the stifling atmosphere of Fliss’ Kensington house.
The phone rang as he joined the motorway, piloting the little car into the stream of traffic heading back towards London. Keeping his eyes on the road he wrestled it out of his pocket and struggled to switch it on with one hand. The noise from the engine, as it strained to keep up with the streams of powerful cars racing past, made it hard to hear the pitiful little voice over the airwaves.
‘Hello?’ it said, trying to work out if there was a human ear listening to it amidst the roar of engine and road noise.
‘Hello,’ Joe shouted back.
‘Joe, the American man?’
‘Yes.’
‘Doris calling you.’
An articulated lorry ploughed past, rocking the Fiat in the wind of its slipstream as Joe worked out it must be the Brighton Doris.
‘Hello, Doris,’ he said. ‘Sorry about the noise. I’m in the car.’
‘Joe. The doctor says I have tumours. He says I have growths the size of chicken eggs. He says I have to have an operation.’
‘What doctor?’
‘The doctor who looks after me. He says I must have lumps cut out, very quick or the cancer will spread through my whole body and I will die.’ She was crying now.
‘I’m so sorry, Doris. Is there anything I can do?’
‘I’m frightened, Joe. I have no family in England and my friend has gone away.’
There was the sound of shouting in the background, a male voice, then a small scream and the phone went dead.
Straining to keep his eyes and mind on the road, Joe tried to ring the number back. When he raised it to his ear the line was engaged. He hung up, dropping the phone into his lap. He was travelling on the Brighton road, but going in the wrong direction. He needed a slip road that would lead him round to the opposite carriageway. He could imagine what might be happening to the poor girl, could envisage the hideous Max, his face contorted in anger, beating her to the ground. She had called him for help and there was no one else in the world who knew she was in trouble. She was so many thousands of miles away from her home, he couldn’t ignore her plea.
The road seemed to grind on northwards forever beneath the struggling engine as he scanned the horizon for a sign telling him he could escape. Nothing came and the milometer kept clicking up, taking him further and further from Brighton. The phone rang again. He picked it up.
‘Who’s that?’ a man’s voice snarled into his ear. Joe said nothing, staring at the road ahead, praying for a sign. He was sure it was Max. He must have taken the phone off Doris and pressed redial. ‘Just stay the fuck away from her or you’re dead!’ the voice said and hung up.
A sign appeared ahead of him and he swerved into the left-hand lane. Thirty minutes later he was pulling into the end of Ditchling Avenue. The Panda nosed cautiously down towards number forty-two. There was no sign of anything happening from the outside. It looked like every other house in the street, just a little more run-down and rather more forbidding with its bars and curtains.
Joe parked the car and climbed out, his heart thumping. He wondered if he should make an anonymous call to the police, telling them that he believed a woman was being beaten up inside. He didn’t think they would be that interested. They would probably send an officer to investigate, but it would be much too little, much too late. He mustered his courage and sauntered up to the front door. He pressed the bell. It rang loudly inside, as if attached to a fire alarm.
There were some shuffling noises from behind the door and subdued voices. It opened a crack and an English girl’s face peered out. She was wearing
a large man’s fleece and tracksuit bottoms, both of which were covered in food stains. Her face was too thin to be pretty, her eyes too frightened.
‘Max isn’t here,’ she said. ‘He’s just gone out.’
‘I’ve come to see Doris.’ He was about to launch into the explanation which he had been preparing in his mind, about how they were old friends from Manila, but the girl obviously wasn’t interested.
‘She’s with Max.’
‘I lent her a book and she said I could have it back if I dropped by.’
‘You’ll have to come back,’ she said, trying to push the door shut.
‘If I could just pop into her room,’ he held the door with his hand, trying not to look too aggressive and alarm her. ‘I’ll be two seconds.’ He tried his most charming smile. ‘You can time me.’
The woman looked at him blearily for a moment and then obviously decided that arguing was too much of an effort.
‘Okay.’ She stood back and let him walk past. ‘Her room is at the top of the stairs. The one with the red door. If Max comes back I’ve never seen you before.’
‘Thanks,’ he said, already walking in. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’
As he made his way down the hall to the staircase he glanced into the rooms on either side. Every spare inch of floor was covered in mattresses and sleeping bags that looked as though they had only just been vacated. There was a smell of stale food, cigarette smoke and perspiration. He could hear sounds coming from a room down some back stairs.
When he turned the woman who had let him in had disappeared. She was obviously used to strangers coming and going in the house. There clearly wasn’t anything worth stealing. He climbed the stairs, past more rooms in a similar state, and found the red door at the top of the house. The old servants’ quarters, he assumed. He gave a light knock and let himself in.
This room in the roof was much neater than the others, and as spartan as a cell in a monastery. A small skylight in a sloping wall let in some daylight. There was a single mattress with an uncovered duvet neatly spread across it and a chair with an alarm clock on it. Beside the clock was a picture of a bunch of girls who looked as if they were part of the same family, presumably taken in Manila. The young girl at the centre of the laughing group looked like the Doris he had met in the shop. A cheap sports bag stood behind the door.
Squatting down he opened the bag. Inside were some neatly folded T-shirts and underclothes and a small notebook covered in fluorescent green fur. He opened the book and saw lists of names and telephone numbers. A piece of paper fell out onto the floor. He unfolded it. At the top was printed the Montgomerys’ address in Eaton Square. Below, scrawled in a child’s crayon, was the message: Try ring me evening. Sometimes can answer phone. Give me number. I call you back. We talk.
He put the book and letter back into the bag and stood up. Looking round the room once more, he decided there was nothing more to see and made his way downstairs. There was no one on the ground floor but he could still hear voices coming from the basement. He made his way down.
There was music playing and a wide-screen television flickered silently in the corner as a game-show host hugged some ecstatic contestants. Several people were sitting around a table drinking mugs of tea. A packet of biscuits lay open in front of them, and they were all munching. Above their heads another television screen showed a quiet street scene.
‘Hi,’ he said casually. One or two of them looked up. ‘Anyone know where Doris has gone?’
‘She was sick,’ a man in a woolly hat told him. ‘Seriously sick. She had to go to the hospital.’
‘Any idea which hospital?’
They all looked blank.
‘You want to wait? Max’ll probably bring her back here once she’s fixed up,’ the girl who had let him in suggested.
‘Nah.’ Joe didn’t fancy the idea of coming face to face with Max, who was bound to guess that he was the person Doris had called in her moment of distress.
‘Did you find your book?’ the girl asked.
‘Nah,’ Joe replied. ‘It’s not important. I’ll come back when she’s better.’
The group in the kitchen seemed to accept this as a goodbye and all went back to whatever they had been talking about when he came in. The picture on the television above their heads hadn’t changed and he realised that the street was Ditchling Avenue. Somewhere on the house there was a hidden camera watching everyone who came anywhere near the front door. He left the room, aware that as far as these people were concerned he was invisible.
As he walked back into the flat in Earls Court, Joe was aware of a disruption only a split second before he was pinned against the wall, his head banged painfully against the door frame and powerful fingers encircling his throat.
‘You bastard, I’ve a good mind to kill you,’ his attacker hissed, her spittle spraying his face.
‘Come, come, come, come,’ Angus fluttered in the background, trying to attract the attacker’s attention away from Joe. ‘This is no way to sort out any disagreement.’
‘I know everything about you.’ The woman pushed her face so close to Joe’s that he couldn’t focus on her. She looked familiar but he couldn’t work out why. ‘I know how long you’ve been after her. You should be fucking well locked up!’
‘For Christ’s sake, Mum, what are you doing?’
Joe saw Cordelia coming out of the room where the drummer used to live and he realised where he had seen this woman before. This was Rita. An older Rita than the one who had featured in the picture section of Len’s book, but definitely Rita. In the wedding pictures she had been beautiful. The beauty was still there but it had hardened, set in lipstick and eyeliner and bitterness.
‘He’s not after me. He’s just a bloke who works for Dad,’ Cordelia protested. ‘He’s a nice guy.’
‘No one around your father is a nice guy,’ Rita snarled.
‘He’s a writer, Mum. He wrote Dad’s book.’
‘I know who he is,’ Rita tightened her grip on Joe as she remembered the book. His eyes were beginning to bulge. ‘I’ve read the lies he told about me in that fucking book. I’ve had my lawyers read it too. I’m not letting these lowlifes walk all over me.’
‘Muuuum! Do you mind? This is where I live.’
‘Cordy!’ Rita let go of Joe’s throat, allowing air to get through to his lungs once more, throwing her arms around her daughter as Joe gasped for breath. ‘Why don’t you come and live with me? Your father stole the best years of your life from me and I deserve something. Why live in all this squalor when there’s a nice clean house with a bedroom all of your own waiting in Pinner?’
‘Squalor?’ Angus looked around him, aghast.
There was the sound of a key and the front door opened suddenly, sending Joe flying forwards onto Rita as she hugged her daughter.
‘Sorry,’ Annie said as she came in. ‘Why’s everyone standing in the hall?’
‘Mum, this is Annie,’ Cordelia said. ‘Another of my flatmates.’
‘Thank God,’ Rita said, ‘a woman.’
It was nine o’clock in the evening when Joe arrived on the Montgomerys’ doorstep and rang the bell. He had his speech ready for the butler and was surprised when the door was opened by a man in evening dress with a napkin in his hand, clearly having just been disturbed at dinner. He looked as though he were master of the house.
‘Hi,’ Joe said. ‘Mr Montgomery?’
‘Who are you?’ The man looked irritated at being disturbed. Joe could hear the sounds of a dinner party emanating from the dining room.
‘My name is John Weston. I’m a friend of Doris. Your Filipino. She asked me to pick up her things.’
‘Bloody cheek,’ Montgomery huffed. ‘You’d better come in. We’re in the middle of dinner.’
‘Sorry to disturb you.’
Montgomery didn’t bother to respond. He marched back to the dining room and boomed across the conversation. ‘Elizabeth. There’s an American here to pick up that Fili
pino’s belongings.’
‘Has Doris left you?’ one of the female guests asked loudly.
Joe appeared in the doorway behind Montgomery, just in time to see a look of panic flit through the eyes of the elegant Elizabeth Montgomery as she rose from her chair at the end of the lavish table. His eyes scanned the room. The table was lit by candles which made the cut glass and silver glitter. There was a scent of good food and wine in the warm air and he was fairly sure he recognised one of the men at the table as a senior government minister.
‘You sit down and eat, dear. I’ll deal with this.’ Elizabeth walked straight past Joe. ‘Come with me,’ she said, not moving her lips. Joe fell into step behind her. ‘I’m getting pretty fed up with all this harassment,’ she snapped as they started the long climb upstairs.
‘Harassment?’ Joe pretended to be puzzled. ‘I just came to collect Doris’ things. I couldn’t pick them up on my last visit because you told me I had the wrong house.’
‘You know bloody well what I mean.’ Her jaw was still clenched tightly as she spoke. ‘Ever since I had the temerity to lodge a complaint with the agency about that girl I have had nothing but trouble. First of all they send round a band of goons to take her away, then you turn up. Then that bloody Maisie woman rings me morning, noon and night telling me I need another of her dreadful girls, refusing to take “no” for an answer…’
‘What was your complaint against Doris?’
‘She was stealing.’ Elizabeth Montgomery lowered her voice to a hiss as they passed the children’s bedrooms.
‘Stealing what?’
‘Phone calls. When our itemised bill came in there were endless calls to Brighton, and other places. She’d even been calling home to Manila. She never once asked for permission. God knows it’s expensive enough keeping staff without them stealing from you.’
‘Would you have allowed her to make the calls if she had asked?’
‘There is a perfectly good public telephone around the corner. Or she could get her own mobile and talk herself to death for all I cared. Just not at my expense.’
Pretty Little Packages Page 7