The door opened slightly. ‘Polly? Are you in there, sweetheart?’
‘Come in, Frank. We were just talking about you.’
‘That’s OK, because I’m your best subject.’ He came in and closed the door. ‘Now, don’t get upset; we don’t want your milk curdling, do we?’
She blinked. ‘Eh? What are you on about now?’
‘Elaine has landed.’
She blinked again. ‘Elaine Lewis?’
‘The very same. Have we any garlic flowers?’
‘Oh my God.’
‘I’m pretty sure God wouldn’t want to be in the same room as her. She gets the local papers sent to wherever she’s based in this country, so she saw the announcement and drove here this morning. She says there were traffic jams, hence she missed the wedding. Sent a card to Christine’s cottage, but the place is empty, so Christine never received it. But the poor woman burst into tears of joy when she saw her girl entering the room. It was quite an entrance, too. She came, she saw, she conquered. Dressed like something from a Parisian fashion house. Very glamorous.’
‘Oh my God,’ she repeated before shifting the baby to the other breast. ‘What’s she wearing this time? Has she turned up dressed like the king’s breakfast as usual?’
‘Stunning. She’s just started working as a model, but only for the better magazines, not the sort you and I might catch sight of in Ida’s shop. When she walked in, Christine nearly fainted, and Richard had to hold her up. The silence was deafening. Elaine gave her mother a copy of her portfolio with all her European work in it, then tickets for Paris and the key to a flat she uses over there. Such drama. She outshone all of us, bride included. The whole thing has turned into a show with her as the only performer. Even her wedding gift is a celebration of herself, photos and permission to visit the place where she stays in Paris. Yes, it’s all a look-at-me job. Typical.’
‘Poor Christine.’
Frank smiled. ‘She’s over the moon. It seems she always advised Elaine to get a portfolio and do some modelling as long as she returns to law eventually. But, you know, I got the distinct feeling that very few of the guests were pleased to see Elaine. I’d go so far as to say they think Christine’s better off without her daughter on the scene.’
Polly mulled over the conversation she had overheard. From the remembered tone of Bob Laithwaite’s voice, there was more to Elaine than law and modelling. The half Polly had heard was not the juiciest part, but she would keep her mouth shut anyway. ‘So all the girls are going to look like country bumpkins while she shines. She always makes me feel as if I need a bath.’
‘You’re lovely, and so is Linda. It’s the difference between a living, breathing animal and a piece of glass-eyed taxidermy. And you both wear the glow of recent motherhood, so she can’t hold a candle to either of you. God forbid that she should ever breed.’
‘What’s she wearing?’
‘I think it’s called ivory. A bit darker than white. It’s shiny.’
‘Satin?’
‘Polly, I wouldn’t know satin from synthetic, would I?’
‘It’ll be satin. Fancy wearing near-white to a wedding. It’s all about her, isn’t it? This beautiful house and the garden are her backdrop and she’ll perform as the main attraction.’
‘And that will always be the case, because it’s the way she’s made. In a sense, she can’t help it, though I’m sure she knows the difference between right and wrong because of her intellect. We just have to be brave and keep smiling. I’ll stay with you until you’ve finished feeding Moppet.’
‘Her name’s Elizabeth.’
‘Yes, but she makes a lovely Moppet. You’re in a bad mood now, aren’t you?’
‘Probably. The idea of having the lovely lunatic back isn’t attractive. She’ll only break Christine’s heart all over again, and on the poor woman’s wedding day, too.’
‘She’ll be gone by tomorrow, has to be in Milan by Wednesday. Don’t worry about her – she’s here to celebrate herself and show off how well she’s doing. The look on my mother’s face said it all; I’m just glad she has no gun, or Elaine Lewis might have been on the receiving end of half a dozen pellets. Come on, put your bosoms away and get downstairs. This has to be faced, my love.’
‘I know.’
‘Let’s get it over with,’ he suggested.
When they arrived on the ground floor, Elaine, with her mother and Richard, was posing for photographs in the rear garden. ‘Good God,’ Norma whispered to Polly, ‘does she not tire of fashion shoots?’
‘Hush, Mother,’ Frank advised. ‘We must do nothing to spoil the day for Christine and Richard.’
‘No price on the instep of his shoes,’ Polly said.
‘You’ll never let me forget that, will you?’
‘No.’
‘One mistake. I make one mistake, and you turn it into a pan of eternally bubbling scouse.’
‘Here she comes,’ Norma warned.
The vision arrived and placed herself in front of Frank. ‘What a beautiful child,’ she exclaimed. ‘May I hold her?’
‘No,’ was Polly’s terse reply. Little Beth would be the one in need of a wash if this terrible woman touched her.
After a second or two of embarrassment, Frank stepped into the breach. ‘She’s just been fed, and we don’t want that dress ruined, do we, Elaine?’ He walked her towards the wedding cake and placed her in a corner. ‘Hurt Christine just once more, and I’ll separate you from your breath, you evil bitch. Stay away from me, my wife and child, my mother, my brother-in-law, his wife and their baby. Stay away from Bob and his fiancée, because he’s ready to wipe that false smile off your dead, unfeeling face. You are hated. Live with it.’ He walked away, determination advertised in his stride.
Polly whispered to Norma, ‘I know he’s smiling, but he’s just given her down the banks,’ she said.
‘Down the what, dear?’
‘Sorry. It means he’s given her a telling off. Look, she’s counting to ten.’
‘So she does feel things, then?’
‘Only if they’re about herself. The rest of us could lie down in front of a train, and she’d just send for a few mops and buckets and some men to clear the mess. She’s here to celebrate herself, not her mother’s wedding. Oh, Ma, I hope she never comes back for good.’
Elaine Lewis righted herself within seconds and returned to the garden. These bloody people. She’d driven all the way from London for her mother’s wedding, had booked into an expensive hotel where she’d changed her clothes and where she would spend the night, and Frank bloody Charleson had insulted her. She looked for Mum. Mum was in the arms of her new husband. ‘She’s forgotten me already,’ Elaine said under her breath.
But Bob Laithwaite hadn’t forgotten. What the hell was he doing here, anyway? She approached him slowly.
‘I’m a friend of Frank’s,’ he told her when she asked. ‘We were both treated badly by you. You broke your mother’s heart, never even bothered to let her know where you were. Be careful, by the way. Rumours from London’s Inns of Court do travel northward. Just make sure that your partners have a lot to lose. But you’ve already thought of that, haven’t you?’
He stepped back a pace, noticing that she seemed to have blanched slightly under the skilfully applied makeup. ‘Judges and members of the Cabinet need to conceal their little peccadilloes. Don’t worry, I won’t say a word unless you cause any further damage up here. But be aware – one false move in this area of the country and I’ll get the News of the World on to you. I know fashion modelling pays well, but I reckon the lions’ share of your income is earned when you’re on your back. Do we understand each other?’
‘Perfectly.’ She walked away and re-joined her mother. These people didn’t matter; she could buy and sell them twice over any day of the week. Even so, she would be in no hurry to revisit Liverpool. Blackmail was a dangerous game, and she had no intention of courting its attention.
After the funeral of poo
r old Matt Mason, Don Hall saved Gladys a sad chore by devoting time to the sorting out of Matt’s many effects. Good clothes and shoes went to the parish for distribution among the poor, the ancient mattress was burnt in the yard, while all paperwork was placed in a large biscuit tin with a picture of Buckingham Palace on its lid. Life insurance to the value of twenty thousand pounds was due, so Gladys would be comfortable for the rest of her life. Don was pleased about that. God alone knew what would happen to him in the future, but he was relieved for the woman he loved.
Gladys was going through what she termed a ‘gloom’. ‘Glooms’ happened after the death of a loved one and, according to Gladys, lasted for a minimum of six weeks. She was talking about bereavement, of course. ‘Thanks for doing all the jobs for me, Don. I’ll be hanging on to his books. Loved his leather-bound volumes, did Dad, Dickens most of all. We’ll get a nice bookcase for them, I think. And all his cufflinks, keep them, and his Book of Common Prayer, also his photos.’
‘Of course.’
‘And his war medals, too.’
‘I have them all, Glad. And I have the deeds to the farm. They’re framed and under glass; he kept them beneath his bed. The place is called Kingsmead, isn’t it? I’d no idea about that.’
‘Yes, that’s right. Kingsmead’s its real name from hundreds of years ago.’
‘Yet it’s known as Drovers.’
She nodded. ‘Wild boar got hunted in the woods for ages, and the kill was all piled up in the meadow. Kings or lords often led the hunt, then meadow was shortened to mead and stuck on the end after ‘‘King’’, because I suppose the king owned all the land in a way, especially when it came to hunting parties.’
‘So why Drovers?’
‘Well, when all the wild boar had been hunted, my ancestors allowed a path through the top of the meadow to be used by neighbouring farmers who drove herds to and from market. Drovers is the path, the farm was given the same name by locals, and it stuck. I doubt anyone could direct you to Kingsmead Farm, because that name’s long forgotten. It’s from the Middle Ages.’ She gazed through a west-facing window. ‘He loved sunset.’
‘I know he did.’
‘And Thackeray and Dickens.’
‘Yes.’
‘And the rides in his chair. He seemed to pick up no end every time you took him out. Fifty-four years, I had with my dad. There was nothing he couldn’t do. When Jed Finlay got a burst appendix, Dad even ran the forge. Yes, he learned to shoe horses so that Jed would have a business to come back to. He made butter, bottled fruit, taught me to read and write, mended roofs, replaced windows, rebuilt barns. And he helped any other farmer who had trouble. Dad was one of nature’s gentlemen. I don’t remember my poor mother, but I shall miss him till the end of my life.’
‘I know.’
She smiled at him. ‘He loved you, too, said he was glad I’d got somebody decent and capable at last. And I know you loved him.’
‘I did indeed. But look at it this way – he can have no more pain, so it’s a blessed release in one sense.’ He smiled and touched her face. ‘Will you be all right just now for a short while? I’ve a catch loose on a chicken coop, and the bloody foxes are everywhere.’
‘I’ll be fine, love.’
Love. She often used that term of endearment. He went out into the evening sun and watched its rays as they disappeared to illuminate some other horizon. Don had loved Matt. The old man had been like a new father to him, full of praise and encouragement, always grateful for a walk outside, a chapter from Dickens, a drop of whiskey in his tea. ‘You know now, don’t you, Matt? You know what I am and what I did. No excuses. I was drunk when I hit the boy, and in full withdrawal when I killed the monk. I didn’t take the pills, but that’s a reason born of my stubborn ignorance. Your daughter will never be hurt by me. We miss you.’
He checked the coops. ‘I’m sure one of those foxes carries a screwdriver,’ he muttered. ‘In fact, I bet the little devil has a full set of tools, saw included.’ He actually liked foxes, but they were daft. A fox entered a coop, killed a chicken for supper, then, when the others started flapping and squawking, he killed them just to shut them up. No way could a fox carry twenty corpses, yet he never learned to stay cool. ‘Keep quiet, girls,’ Don said. ‘In your case, it doesn’t pay to advertise. Just concentrate on laying eggs, and no squawking.’
He sat on a barrel. Things had died down, nothing much in the newspapers since Eugene Brennan had been resurrected from the dead. Strangely, the silence frightened him. Stuff was going on beyond the limited reach of his senses, and he could only sit and wait. Yes, he was a different man, a healthier and happier man, but the fact remained that his fingerprints belonged to Father Eugene Brennan, whose marks had been left in the monastery and in St Columba’s presbytery and church. The less he learned, the bigger the terror became. How would she react if or when they came for him?
Gladys. She was the best woman in the world, hardworking, dutiful, a good cook and not too demanding in the bedroom. He’d grown used to that business, but he wasn’t a natural lover. She didn’t seem to mind, though. The fact remained that he would have been adequate if he’d avoided ordination. Normal domesticity suited him. As for farming, it was his calling. How many sent for him rather than paying a vet? How many took his advice when it came to planning crops? ‘I wasted my life, and all to please Mammy.’
Don Hall scarcely drank, while Eugene Brennan had always been a dipsomaniac. A bottle lasted over a week these days, yet he’d shifted one a day when at his lowest ebb. He wasn’t yellow any longer, and the palms of his hands no longer glowed red like traffic lights on stop. Even his nose was paler. It was all down to Gladys, Matt and this beautiful part of Cheshire. He belonged.
But one urge dominated his psyche and his soul, and that was the need to confess. Guilt hung heavily on Catholic shoulders, as it was a weighty package placed there by teachers and priests when a child was still an infant. From the age of seven, Don had been aware of sin and its subdivisions. A venial sin might be eradicated by an Act of Contrition, but a mortal misdeed demanded a higher price, and he should pay it.
Yes, the hangman awaited him. The only person to whom he might confess was Gladys, and what would be the point of that? Unforgivable even by the ordained, he knew there was nothing Gladys could do to relieve him of the burden. He must continue to bear it alone.
He stood up. The coops were as secure as possible, while a grieving woman needed his support. She had to be cared for. The last words on Matt Mason’s lips had been ‘Take care of each other.’ A man’s dying wishes must be obeyed, and the taking care of Gladys was no onerous task. Don had to be strong for her sake until she recovered from bereavement.
He walked back towards the house and his daily dose of whiskey. She would have bottle and glass ready on a tray with his newspaper, and she might well have gone upstairs to run his bath. How much longer would he live the idyll? When would they come for him? Should he move on and save her from the grief ? Many questions, but few answers.
As dusk fell, Elaine gave her mother a post office box number for mail. ‘It’s the only way,’ she explained. ‘I move about so much, so a friend picks up letters for me. If you mark the envelope urgent, she’ll make sure I get the message as quickly as possible.’
‘Are you leaving already?’ Christine asked, her face displaying dismay.
‘I must, darling. Have to be in Italy next week, and I’ve a million things to do, calls to make, appointments to keep. Be happy,’ she ordered before turning to Richard Pearson, head of the Pearson Agency. ‘Look after her, please.’ He had probably been the chief of all the followers, and the smile she awarded him didn’t touch her eyes.
‘Of course I shall.’
Elaine had filled in the blanks. Another guest had told her that Richard Pearson was a private detective, and she still retained the memory of being watched and pursued. Christine had married the man who had shared with her a level of betrayal that was unforgivable. Bride and
groom knew that Elaine had been obsessed with Frank Charleson. On top of that, her first bed partner was here with a very attractive woman. Everyone present probably knew the whole story. But far worse than that was the fact that Lanky Laithwaite was aware of her current lifestyle. If he knew, how many more here and in London held the truth? She couldn’t stop, not yet, not until her bank balance became healthier. And there was the other thing – she needed sex like other people needed food. Being paid by the elite for her services added seasoning to the recipe.
She kissed her mother and, without awarding her stepfather a second glance, left the house in as slow and dignified a manner as she could manage. The urge to scream and rant bubbled inside her chest. She felt desperate almost to the point of no return, yet she managed not to explode. This was a feeling she’d experienced last year, when crazy thoughts about petrol and matches had skipped through her brain. She must remain calm, sensible and on the right side of her temper. But she also needed to be more careful in London.
What could Bob Laithwaite prove at the end of the day? That she entertained gentlemen with cocktails and dinner, that she enjoyed the company of intelligent conversationalists who might improve her chances when her modelling career was over and she returned to the law? Rumour? Did it have any real value?
A knuckle tapped on the windscreen.
She wound down her window. ‘What now?’ she asked. It was Bob Laithwaite, her second mistake, her first bedfellow. ‘What?’ she snapped.
‘Four little words,’ he said. ‘News of the World.’
Who would dare, she wondered. ‘Really? I have no idea what you mean.’ Would he go so far as to bring down members of the Cabinet, bigwig barristers, a judge or two? ‘Keep guessing, idiot, because you couldn’t be further from the truth if you tried. Yes, I entertain important people with their wives or husbands. Yes, my dinner parties are famous. Do you think I’d risk my own reputation and my own chances by walking on the wild side? When my looks fade and the modelling work peters out, I’ll have the right contacts.’
A Mersey Mile Page 34