A Winter Love Song

by Rita Bradshaw

  Once in the sitting room, he saw that Madge must have cleared up after her, and sure enough he found a glass in the sink and five empty stout bottles in the kitchen bin. Of course, one or even two of those could be Maria’s. He stood for a moment, contemplating, before opening the cupboard that held Maria and Juan’s stock of alcohol. Juan drank whisky, but alongside a couple of bottles of fine malt stood a dozen or more bottles of stout.

  The first one tasted like the nectar of the gods. He had thought about merely tipping them down the sink but then why waste good stout? And if ever he had needed a drink it was tonight. His insides were giving him gyp.

  The second bottle tasted just as good, and by the fifth Franco was aware of feeling a trifle light-headed. Of course it had been a long time since he’d had a drink, he told himself. Madge had seen to that. But the pain felt better for it. He might even be able to get a good night’s sleep.

  He put the empty bottles in the bin with the others before retracing his steps to the bedroom, and once in bed, settled himself comfortably under the covers. He’d done what he could to cover his tracks but the law had a way of sniffing out subterfuge and he’d never been a good liar. He had no idea what the morning would bring but for now he was warm and relaxed, the pain dulled to the point where he barely noticed it. It was enough. He was at peace.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Maria’s screams the next morning brought Franco out of the best night’s sleep he’d had since the accident, and for a moment his mind was so befuddled he couldn’t remember where he was – instead of the confines of the bed under the wagon’s roof he was in a large room. Then the events of the night before flooded in. He struggled out of bed – lying still in one position all night had made him even stiffer than normal – and without bothering to pull his dressing gown over his pyjamas, and bent almost double, he walked across the room and flung open the door. Juan had come running from his room and they almost collided on the landing.

  Maria was standing in the bathroom doorway with her back to them, still screaming, and it was Juan who shouted, ‘What the hell?’ as he reached his wife, swinging her round and bundling her along the landing. ‘Stay there.’ As Franco joined him, they both stared at the body in the bath. Juan swore, loud and long, before gingerly feeling the water. ‘It’s stone cold.’ He looked at Franco. ‘Has she been here all night?’

  ‘She must have been. I heard her come upstairs at some point after Maria and then go into the bathroom but I must have fallen asleep.’

  ‘Looks like she did an’ all,’ Juan said grimly.

  Maria’s voice came from behind them, choked with tears. ‘Is – is she . . .’

  ‘As a dodo.’ Juan raked back his hair. ‘Damn it, I don’t need this. I don’t want the law sniffing about.’ Turning to his wife, he growled, ‘I told you to move them bottles of stout, didn’t I, but no, you said. Looks inhospitable, you said. How many did she guzzle to get in such a state that this happened? What did she have before you came up?’

  Through fresh sobs, Maria gasped, ‘Two, same as me. An’ I – I gave her another one as I came up. She said – she said she wanted to sit a while.’

  ‘I bet she did.’ Juan was livid. ‘Go down and check the bottles. See if she helped herself once you were out of the way.’ Her face streaming with tears, Maria disappeared down the stairs, and as she did so, Juan repeated, ‘I don’t need this. I’m sorry, Franco, but I really don’t need this. I’ve got a couple of . . . delicate deals on the go at the moment, and the coppers with their hobnailed boots all over the place might put the wind up certain people. Know what I mean? I don’t want to appear insensitive but she’s gone, hasn’t she? We can’t do anything for her.’

  He waited for a reaction and Franco obliged. ‘You’re saying what, exactly?’ he murmured, trying to hide his elation. Never in his wildest dreams . . .

  ‘I’m saying that what is done is done. Bringing in the coppers won’t help her and certainly won’t help me. You’re her next of kin and it’s not as if she’s got any kids or anything, is it. I know there’s the granddaughter but she’d fallen out with her.’

  Maria had returned, stopping halfway up the stairs as she said, ‘There’s another few bottles been drunk as well as what she had when I was with her.’

  ‘Why did you leave her down there? You know what she’s like.’

  ‘It’s not my fault.’ Maria’s face crumpled at her husband’s rebuke. ‘How did I know she was going to drink so much? She hasn’t before.’

  ‘Yes, well, it only takes once, doesn’t it, as we know now. Damn it, Maria, I told you not to write and tell her when you saw her granddaughter on the television. Let sleeping dogs lie, I said. Don’t interfere. But no, you wouldn’t be told and now look.’

  ‘It’s not Maria’s fault, Juan.’ As Maria plumped down on one of the treads and began to sob again, Franco felt compelled to speak up on her behalf. ‘Let’s face it, Madge was old enough to know what she was doing.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe.’ Juan looked at his wife and his voice was softer when he said, ‘Go down and make us all a cup of tea and put a drop of whisky in it. We need something to steady our nerves. Hell, what a mess.’ He took a few cautious steps into the bathroom, pulled the plug to let the water out and then shot back to Franco as though he was afraid the body was going to sit up and object. ‘Come on,’ he said, pushing Franco fully onto the landing and shutting the bathroom door. ‘Let’s go and have a cup of tea and decide what to do.’

  Maria was sniffing and dabbing her eyes as they sat down at the kitchen table, and no one spoke until they had taken a sip of the hot tea liberally laced with whisky. Then Maria turned to Franco, her voice trembling as she said, ‘I’m so sorry, I had no idea she would drink so much, else I wouldn’t have left her down here.’

  Again Franco said, ‘It’s not your fault. Really, Maria, it isn’t. She’s . . . she’s had a growing problem with the drink but none of us could have foreseen this. And you know as well as I do that you can’t tell Madge what to do. If she wanted a bath last night, she would have had it come hell or high water, regardless of how drunk she was. And an accident is an accident. It’s no one’s fault.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Maria’s eyes filled up again. ‘She was very determined, wasn’t she?’

  Juan had obviously been feeling bad about his previous attitude to his wife because now he said, ‘Of course it’s not your fault, love. No one’s saying that. But this couldn’t have come at a worse time for me.’ He hesitated. ‘How do you feel about not reporting this, Franco? I mean, she’s gone. Nothing can bring her back, can it?’

  Franco took a big gulp of tea, relishing the taste of the whisky. ‘No, nothing can bring her back.’

  Maria looked at her husband. ‘But – but there’s the body. We can’t leave her up there.’ She shivered. ‘And what is Franco going to say to people about her dying? He can’t just go home without her, can he? What are folk going to say?’

  ‘I dunno, let me think.’ He passed Maria his empty cup. ‘Pour me another and no whisky this time. I need a clear head and you must have used half a bottle between the three of us.’

  Maria poured Franco another cup too, and when she gestured at the whisky bottle, he nodded. He couldn’t have described to anyone what he was feeling this morning but he was sure it wasn’t how you were supposed to feel if you’d murdered your wife. Serenity was totally out of place in this scenario surely? He took the cup from Maria with a nod of thanks, noticing that she added a good dollop of whisky to her cup again too. Poor Maria.

  It was a few minutes later and no one had spoken when Juan moved his chair back a little, stretching his legs as he said, ‘I know how this could be resolved with the least amount of bother but it depends on you, Franco. You’re her husband after all and I can’t force you to do what I’m suggesting.’

  ‘Which is?’

  Juan didn’t answer this immediately. What he did say was, ‘Like I said before, having the coppers involved could prov
e awkward for me. Some of my business associates would be unhappy if I brought attention to myself in that way.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘And it’s not our way, is it? The travellers’ way, I mean. We sort out our own problems.’

  Franco didn’t think it beneficial to point out that Juan was no longer part of that life, merely nodding in response.

  ‘Margarita’s death is tragic and I’m sorry for your loss but nothing we do or don’t do now can bring her back. We’re travellers –’ again Franco noted how Juan was labouring the point – ‘and the rules that most of them out there live by don’t apply to us. Now, I know that ideally you’d want a proper funeral for her but just listen to me for a minute, all right? See what you think.’

  Again Franco nodded. He had gone to sleep wondering if his next night would be spent in a police cell – anything was better than that.

  ‘What I’m proposing is this. I know a few people –’ Franco just bet Juan did – ‘and a certain associate of mine has a contact who works in a crematorium not too many miles from here. Probably better you don’t know which one in view of what I’m going to suggest. I know this person has done the odd favour or two for my colleague for the right price and he can keep his mouth shut. If I have a word with my man and explain our current predicament, I’m sure he could arrange for the bo– for Margarita to be collected and taken there. When the . . . job’s done, we can have the ashes back and you’ll have something to take home with you to the others. Of course it won’t be entirely her ashes – she’d have to go in with a bona-fide cremation, in the same coffin, I mean. But –’ he paused as Maria gave a strangled sob – ‘it’d be the best we could do in the circumstances. And she would be treated with respect, don’t worry about that.’

  Franco wondered how dumping Margarita’s body on top of another corpse and burning her without so much as a by-your-leave could be termed as treating her with respect, but he wasn’t about to argue.

  ‘Once you get back up north, the story’ll be that she died suddenly – a heart attack or something – which is partly true, and as you were staying with family and it’s a long way from the north-east, it was decided by all of us the best thing to do was to have a cremation here, so you could take her home and have a wake when you scatter her ashes with friends and family in the north. I’ll get a death certificate for you to take back that’ll look authentic –’ another contact, Franco presumed – ‘and I’ll give you enough readies for a wake that’ll keep everyone happy. What do you think?’

  Franco thought Juan was a genius. Warning himself that he was supposed to be the grieving husband, he said hesitantly, ‘I don’t want to put you in a difficult position, Juan. That’s the last thing I want but I don’t know whether this is right.’

  ‘Look at it this way, Franco. Margarita will still have a send-off once you’re back up north and no one there will be any the wiser. She’s dead – I hate to be blunt but she is – and does it really matter about the actual funeral? Not to her, does it?’

  ‘If you put it like that, then no, I suppose not.’

  ‘And this way it’s best for everyone. Think of all the palaver if the law got involved – there’d be the coroner’s inquest for a start and I wouldn’t trust any of them blighters as far as I could throw ’em. They trust travellers even less. They’ll be poking their noses into this and that and putting words in your mouth. Margarita herself wouldn’t want that, now, would she? Of course she wouldn’t. Far better we sort this ourselves, like our kind always does. What do you say, eh? Let’s keep it in the family, private like.’

  ‘I say do what you think best, Juan. I meant it when I said I don’t want to put you in a difficult position. You and Maria had us to stay out of the goodness of your hearts and now it’s brought all this trouble on your heads. I feel bad about that. And as you say, nothing can bring her back.’

  Juan let out a long slow breath of relief. He liked Franco as much as he had disliked Margarita, and the poor devil must have had a hell of a life at times. Margarita might have been Maria’s cousin, and he knew he shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but she’d had a tongue on her, that one. He couldn’t have put up with her for two minutes. ‘Have another drink, Franco,’ he said genially, ‘and I’ll go and make a couple of calls. We’ll all feel better when she’s – when it’s clear upstairs.’

  ‘What about Bonnie?’ Maria said suddenly. ‘You saw her yesterday, didn’t you? So she knows her grandmother’s here in London. Did you say you were staying with us? Does she know where we live? Will she come calling?’

  ‘You were never mentioned. And frankly, the way Madge went for her I wouldn’t be surprised if Bonnie never wants to see her again.’

  ‘Margarita told me the girl stole off her and she was going to get the money back with interest.’ She poured Franco a third cup of tea as she spoke and added more whisky. ‘Won’t Bonnie think it strange that Margarita lets it drop?’

  Franco worded his reply carefully. ‘The thing is, Maria, this stealing business wasn’t entirely true. I’m not saying Bonnie didn’t run off with a wad of cash, but a good part of it was what Madge was holding for the girl, from the sale of her father’s wagon and horse. And to be honest, Bonnie earned more than me an’ Madge put together, right from when John went missing. She was a huge draw even then, and Madge took every penny of her earnings. I suppose Bonnie felt she was entitled to the money. Of course, Madge didn’t see it that way.’

  Juan’s voice was very dry when he said, ‘No, she wouldn’t.’

  ‘But Bonnie made it clear she didn’t intend to give Madge anything so I would imagine she’ll assume her grandmother has given up if she hears nothing from her.’

  There was silence for a moment, and then Juan said, ‘I don’t like loose ends, Franco. Look, once you’re home, write to the girl. I can find out where she’s living before you leave. Tell her Margarita’s dead. You needn’t be specific. If there’s such bad feeling between them I doubt she’d want to know anyway. Wish her well or something and that can be the end of it.’

  It was exactly what he had intended to do and he had been wondering how to accomplish it. ‘I’ll do that, Juan.’ The whisky had covered the ache in his lower stomach like a warm blanket, and Franco could have sat in Maria’s kitchen for ever. It was sleeting outside and the wind was whipping the bare branches of the trees in the garden into a frenzied dance, but inside it was cosy and snug.

  As Juan disappeared to make his telephone calls, Maria got up from the table saying something about breakfast and that they all still had to eat, but Franco continued to sit quietly, mulling over in his mind how he would word his letter to Bonnie. He would tell her about Madge of course, he told himself, but he would start by begging her to forgive him for what he had done to her the night she ran away. He would make no excuses. How could he? There were none. But he would tell her that that night and the wrong he’d done her had haunted him ever since and would to his dying day.

  He drained his tea, sitting back in his chair again as his thoughts meandered on. And his dying day would be soon. He didn’t want to carry on as he was, less than a man and in the sort of pain he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. A bottle of whisky and a good few of his pills would do the job, but only after he was back home and had written the letter to Bonnie. Tied up the loose ends, as Juan had put it.

  He had never imagined he would depart this world without leaving part of himself behind in the form of sons and daughters, but getting hooked up with Madge had killed that dream. That was what he’d hated her for the most. Just one child would have done, a little lad perhaps who would have grown up big and strong, or a daughter he could have loved and spoiled. But he was as barren as any woman who was unable to bear young. All the seed he had expended when he was young and virile, all the women he’d had and nothing to show for it, not really. Nothing that mattered. A useless life.

  Juan walked back into the kitchen, sniffing the aroma of the bacon Maria was beginning to
fry before he said, ‘All done. Someone’ll be round later this morning. Maria, why don’t you go shopping with Franco once we’ve eaten? Get yourselves a spot of lunch somewhere before you come back, maybe go to the pictures. The New Victoria cinema’s showing a James Cagney film. You’d like that, Franco. And things’ll be tidy when you come back.’

  Tidy. He was talking about disposing of Madge with as much feeling as you would a piece of rubbish, but then why wouldn’t he? He hadn’t liked her, no one liked Madge. Even Maria – after her initial shock and tears – was cooking bacon sandwiches and had brightened up at the thought of a shopping trip and lunch out, followed by the cinema.

  ‘Though the mills of God might grind slowly, they grind exceedingly fair.’ Madge’s quote of the day before came back to him, and now when he nodded it wasn’t so much in answer to what Juan had said but to her voice in his mind.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Try and relax, Bonnie. We leave for Holland tomorrow, and there’s no chance your grandmother and her husband will turn up there. In fact, I’d be surprised if you hear from them again. And if you do, then I’ll deal with it.’ Art’s voice was reassuringly calm, but inwardly he was more than a little frustrated. He had fully expected Margarita Fellario to contact Bonnie within a day or two of their meeting outside Alexandra Palace, but that was a week ago and they hadn’t heard a word. He had explained the situation to a couple of the heavies who frequented the nightclub, and they were more than willing to muscle in on his behalf and frighten the living daylights out of the pair, but until Margarita made contact again they had no idea where she was staying. And what really made his blood boil was that he knew Bonnie was looking over her shoulder day and night – she was as jumpy as a cat on a hot tin roof.