He must have seen us waiting to cross the road because he tooted the horn on the side of the car and waved at us with a leather-gloved hand. Then he shot around the bend in the road and disappeared from sight.
“Goodness,” I said. “He must be rich if he can afford to own a car like that.”
“I wonder where he gets his money from?” said Billy.
I hoped I hadn’t appeared too taken with Mr Franklin’s car. I certainly wasn’t interested in him, car or no car. I decided to let the matter drop, but thought I would tell Ruby the next time I saw her. It was the sort of thing that would amuse her.
We crossed the road without further mishap and entered the park. The trees were bare and the flowerbeds lay fallow, waiting for the new plantings in the spring, but the park still possessed an eerie beauty. Due to the grey skies and brisk wind, it was mostly deserted save for a couple of war veterans being pushed around in wheelchairs and a group of children playing ball on the grass. Billy filmed me waving from the Oriental bridge. Then he filmed me walking up to the pagoda on the top of the island in the middle of the boating lake. I smiled at the camera and sat down on a large rock. I had to hold onto my hat to stop it blowing off in the wind. My cheeks were starting to burn from the cold. As we made our way back down the path and crossed back over the bridge, large, fat drops of rain started to fall from the leaden sky.
“Come on,” said Billy. “I’ll buy you a cup of tea.”
We ran to the café overlooking the bandstand in the middle of the lake. We ordered a pot of Earl Grey tea and a slice of fruitcake each and warmed ourselves as the rain grew heavier and lashed against the windows. Billy looked as if he had something on his mind. He cleared his throat and spoke. “I’ve decided that in January I’m going to send my films of Scarborough to British Pathé in London and see if they’ll give me an interview for a job.”
“And if you were successful,” I said, picking at my fruitcake with my fingers, “which I’m sure you would be, then I suppose they’d want you to move to London?”
“Yes,” said Billy. “That’s part of the plan.”
Even though I’d known for a long time that it was what Billy wanted to do, I still felt a sinking feeling in my stomach. I shivered despite the hot tea.
“Of course,” I said, trying to inject some enthusiasm into my voice. “It’s a wonderful opportunity. You’d get to travel the world.”
“The thing is,” said Billy, taking my hand in his, “it’s what I want to do for a living, but I don’t want to do it alone.”
My heart started to thump in my chest and the chatter in the café receded into the background. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black box.
“Lilian, we haven’t known each other for very long, and yet I feel as if I’ve known you all my life.”
I knew what he meant because I felt exactly the same. I put down the cup of tea because my hand was starting to tremble and I didn’t want to spill any.
Billy opened the box and held it out to me. Nestling inside was a gold ring with a perfect, dainty emerald set in the centre. “Lilian, will you marry me?”
“Yes!” I burst out, tears of happiness welling in my eyes. This was everything I could have hoped for. Billy slipped the ring onto the ring finger of my left hand and leaned across the table and kissed me. At that moment I was in Heaven.
~~~
The first job was to tell our families that we planned to marry. We decided that we would speak to Billy’s mother, Mrs Drinkwater, first. As soon as the rain eased off, we left Peasholm Park and headed straight for the little terraced house where Billy lived with his mother. I had only visited a handful of times and in all the months that Billy and I had been courting, Mrs Drinkwater had never shown me more than a cursory politeness, as if she didn’t expect the relationship to last. She was a widow in her forties but with her pinched features and grey hair tied back in a chignon she looked much older.
That afternoon when Billy invited me into the house, made sure we were all sitting comfortably in the little sitting room, and told his mother that he had some important news, she went deathly pale and I wondered if we would have to fetch the smelling salts.
“I see,” was her initial reaction to the announcement that we were engaged. She sat bolt upright in her chair by the fire and looked as if she had just swallowed a lemon. I twiddled the ring on my finger, not yet used to the feel of it on my left hand.
“You know I’m going to try and get a job with British Pathé in London, Mother,” said Billy patiently. She must have known this, but the news seemed to sour her expression even more if that was possible. “And Lilian is happy to come with me,” he added, taking hold of my hand and giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Leaving me here all alone in Scarborough,” said his mother with a sniff.
“But we’ll come and visit whenever we can,” said Billy. His words did nothing to placate her mood. She looked me up and down as if she couldn’t believe her son could have made such an error of judgement in choosing a wife. We forced ourselves to make conversation for another twenty minutes, and then Billy said we should go and see my mother and aunt.
“Don’t worry,” said Billy as we left the house. “She’ll come round. She just needs a little time to adjust, that’s all.”
I wasn’t so sure, but I didn’t want to spoil the day more than it had already been spoilt, so I smiled and said nothing. Fortunately the reaction of my own mother and aunt was much more encouraging.
To Billy’s surprise Mother threw her arms around him. “That’s wonderful news,” she said. “I’m so happy for both of you.”
“Yes, congratulations,” chimed in Aunt Ellie, beaming.
“This takes me back to the time I met your father,” said Mother, clasping hold of my hands. “He rescued me from a man who was trying to abduct me. Did I ever tell you that story, Billy?”
Billy looked startled. “No, I can’t say you did.”
“Well it’s quite a long story, so maybe we should save it for another day. But now we should celebrate your engagement.” She turned to Aunt Ellie. “Why don’t you fetch that bottle of sherry that’s in the pantry and we shall have a toast.”
“What an excellent idea,” said Ellie. She disappeared into the kitchen and came back a few minutes later carrying a tray with a bottle of sherry that normally only came out on Christmas Day and four small glasses. She poured everyone a generous measure of the golden brown liquid and Mother raised her glass and said, “To Lilian and Billy!”
“To Lilian and Billy,” echoed Aunt Ellie, and we all drank to the future, the warming effect of the alcohol dispelling the chill that had entered my heart following Mrs Drinkwater’s frosty reaction to our engagement.
CHAPTER FIVE
Fiona said she was just popping to the ladies and would be back in a jiffy. Dan was left standing on his own in the entrance lobby of York Crown Court as his mother tottered towards the loos in a pair of vertigo-inducing heels. He felt distinctly out of place in this neo-classical building with its pillars and marbled floor. He wished he was somewhere, anywhere, with Rose instead of here, at his dad’s trial.
He had tried to get his head around the legal system, but it was like trying to understand the rules to some arcane game. After being discharged from hospital, Ryan had appeared before the magistrate in York. Apparently anyone accused of a crime started out in front of a magistrate who was a bit like a judge but not as powerful. Dan hadn’t gone to the hearing in the Magistrate’s Court because at the time he was recovering in hospital from having nearly drowned when Max’s boat capsized. According to his mum that initial trial had only lasted about ten minutes. The magistrate had decided that Ryan’s case was serious enough to be transferred to the Crown Court where he would be tried by a proper judge and jury. The magistrate had, however, granted bail which was why his dad had been allowed to stay at home with a security tag around his ankle. The magistrate must have decided that Ryan wasn’t likely to do a runner with
one leg in plaster.
Dan shifted from one foot to the other and glanced at his watch. A quarter to ten. His dad’s case was due to start in fifteen minutes. Everyone around him seemed to be in a hurry. Black-gowned barristers swept past, lugging brief-cases bulging with paperwork. The lobby started to clear as people made their way to their respective courtrooms and that was when he spotted Charles Baker-Howard striding towards him. Immaculately dressed in an expensive-looking suit with gold cuff-links in his shirt sleeves, Baker-Howard set Dan’s teeth on edge. The guy was so polished you could practically see your reflection in him. Dan would have preferred someone with a bit of grit. Baker-Howard wasn’t carrying a bulging briefcase, just a slim black folder.
“Good Morning,” said Baker-Howard, extending a hand. Dan wished his mother would hurry up so he didn’t have to make small talk in her absence. “Just been having a word with the clerks. We’ve got Judge Fenton today.”
“Is that good?”
Baker-Howard pulled a face. “He’s known to be a bit tough.”
Great, thought Dan. Just what we need. Earlier in the week Baker-Howard had come round to the house and talked through what they should expect in the court. Apparently being tried in a Crown Court was a double-edged sword. Crown Court judges had greater sentencing powers than magistrates and could lock you up for longer, but the thing was to try and get the jury on your side. They were just ordinary members of the public and if you could win them over then you stood a good chance of going scot-free. Dan didn’t think there was much chance of that though, the case against his dad was too damning. Dan heard the click-clack of his mother’s stiletto heels on the floor of the lobby as she tottered back from the loos, her bright red lipstick freshly reapplied. She was wearing a black dress with a plunging neckline. Dan thought she looked like she was going for a job interview with an escort agency.
Baker-Howard greeted Fiona warmly, his appreciative gaze taking in her ample assets. Dan could have puked. The lawyer led them both into the court, a large wood-panelled room, smelling of age and polish. They took their seats near the front. A man and a woman in long black gowns and short wigs were seated on the first row, piles of paperwork on the desks in front of them. The woman was scribbling notes by hand, the man drumming his fingers on the desk and staring into space.
“Those are the barristers,” said Baker-Howard in a hushed voice. “She’s speaking for the prosecution. Bit of a dragon actually.” He gave a small chuckle. “The chap is the defence barrister. He’s newly qualified.”
Is that supposed to be reassuring? Dan wanted to ask, but he clamped his mouth shut, afraid that if he started on Baker-Howard he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from ripping the guy to shreds.
The room had two levels. At the back was a gallery with half a dozen rows of tiered seats, like in a theatre. “Public gallery, up there,” said Baker-Howard when he noticed Dan looking. “That’s where all the journalists hang out, plus anyone who enjoys a good courtroom drama.”
“Right,” said Dan. He hadn’t realised that just anyone could come and watch a trial. Quite a few people were taking their seats in the gallery, some of them with notebooks. The discovery of the cocaine in his dad’s Ferrari had been front page news in the local papers. Amusement Arcade Owner in Drugs Ring had been the headline in one evening edition. The writer of that piece had published details of Ryan’s family, mentioning Dan and Fiona by name. How the journalist had got hold of his facts, Dan had no idea. Maybe he’d paid one of the arcade’s now redundant employees who saw no reason to show loyalty to his disgraced employer. Whatever the source of the information, Dan had not appreciated the fame.
A door at the front of the courtroom opened and the members of the jury filed in, taking their seats in two rows of six. Dan scanned their faces, trying to decide if they looked like fair-minded individuals. But how could you tell? Six men and six women, picked at random, they held his father’s fate in their hands. If they found Ryan guilty then the judge would have no choice but to give him a custodial sentence. Baker-Howard had already explained that to them at some length. The jury looked to be made up of a typical cross-section of British society: a young Muslim woman in a brightly-coloured headscarf, a middle-aged white woman who wore her glasses on a chain around her neck, a black man in a suit, a couple of blokes who looked like they’d rather be down the pub. They all looked a little self-conscious, as if aware that their arrival had put them in the spotlight.
Please be kind to him, thought Dan, wishing he could send the members of the jury a telepathic message. It was a drag having his dad under house-arrest, always moping around the place, getting in everyone’s way, but the idea of him going to prison was infinitely worse. If he was locked up, how old would he be when he came out? Would he ever work again or would he become a sad, useless figure, shuffling around the house? Beside him his mother tapped her painted fingernails on her handbag which she clutched in her lap.
The hubbub of voices in the court reached a climax and then started to fall away until an expectant hush fell on the room. Dan felt his senses sharpen. It was about to start. An official gave the order for everyone to rise. Someone read out a proclamation, there were three raps and then the judge entered the court room, wearing a bright scarlet robe. Judge Fenton. Dan studied the judge’s face, looking for any sign of compassion but the lined-face was inscrutable under the weight of the long curled wig. He sat down in an elaborate chair resembling a throne, like a medieval king about to dispense justice to the revolting peasants. There was a shuffling as everyone else sat down again too. Dan was so transfixed by the sight of this elderly, slightly stooped figure who wielded so much power that he completely missed the moment when his dad appeared in the dock. Since the car crash his father had shaved off his goatee beard and cut his hair. Gone was his former bluff and swagger, the ageing rock-star look with leather jacket and mirrored shades. Now he wore a plain, slightly crumpled, grey suit that made him look like an estate agent or a used-car salesman. This incarnation is worse than the previous one, thought Dan with a sinking heart.
A man in a black robe swore in the members of the jury and then asked Ryan to confirm his name and date of birth. Then the charge was read out to him. Possession of a controlled drug with intent to supply. How did he plead? Guilty or not guilty?
Dan held his breath. There was no doubt that Ryan was, strictly speaking, guilty, but would he try to plead “not guilty” on the basis of ignorance or coercion? Ryan cleared his throat, then said, “Not guilty.” Somehow Dan had expected precisely this. Ryan was a gambler to the core and he had obviously decided to take his chances with the judge and jury. Well good luck to him, thought Dan. He’s going to need it.
And then the trial got underway. The prosecution barrister rose to her feet and called her first witness. It was Detective Inspector Crawford, the investigating officer who had first arrested Ryan whilst he was still in hospital. The Inspector confirmed in a loud, clear voice that over five kilogrammes of cocaine had been found in a box on the passenger seat of the wrecked Ferrari. A very large amount by all accounts. A murmur of disapproval went around the courtroom. The middle-aged woman in the jury pursed her lips and frowned. Dan imagined the journalists in the public gallery scribbling down all the details. Next to him, his mother clutched her handbag so tightly the knuckles of her hands showed white. Dan didn’t understand why Baker-Howard had advised his dad to plead “not guilty”. How could anyone argue with five kilogrammes of a class-A drug? Wasn’t it better sometimes to just admit you’d screwed up and say sorry?
The prosecution barrister finished questioning the Inspector and sat down with a satisfied look on her face as if the Inspector’s evidence was enough to condemn Ryan without further ado. Dan’s spirits took a nosedive.
But then the young defence barrister stood up to cross-examine the Inspector. He smiled at the jury and reminded them that there were two sides to every story. Then he set about demolishing the credibility of the evidence. He argued that Rya
n didn’t necessarily know what the box contained and that, anyway, there were mitigating circumstances. Ryan was in debt, about to lose his business and had been coerced into this role by a ruthless criminal who was still at large. What was the Inspector doing to bring the real culprit to justice? The Inspector, so self-assured when questioned by the prosecution, began to lose his nerve. He blustered that Max was presumed dead because no body had been washed up. The defence barrister went for the jugular.
“See,” he said, turning to the members of the jury, “this is the state of policing in this country today. Hardened criminals are left to go free whilst hapless victims are made to pay the price.”
It was an Oscar-winning performance in favour of Ryan’s innocence. The middle-aged woman in the jury was hanging on to his every word and nodding her head. Way to go! thought Dan, his hopes fanned back to life by the charismatic barrister’s alternative take on the situation. He was starting to understand why people enjoyed watching criminal trials: they were tensely fought games of attack and defence, argument and counter-argument, win or lose.
More witnesses spoke on both sides. The prosecution called on an expert witness, a professor from York University, to testify as to the purity, and therefore lethal nature, of the cocaine. The professor, a bearded, bespectacled man in his late fifties, was intelligent and articulate and the balance swung once more in the prosecution’s favour. So much depends on the quality of the performance, thought Dan.
Next up was Dave, one of the former employees at the amusement arcade. He entered the witness stand for the defence. He kept fiddling with his tie and mumbled incoherently when asked to confirm his name. Appearing straight after the professor, he came across as a bumbling idiot. Dan tried to catch his eye, thinking that a moment of recognition would boost Dave’s confidence and make his testimony more credible, but Dave stared fixedly ahead with all the confidence of a nervous schoolboy hauled before the headmaster. The young barrister tried to put him at ease by saying he’d worked at the amusement arcade for five years so he must have liked it there. Had Ryan been a good employer? Had there been any evidence of criminal malpractice at the arcade? Would he say that Ryan was a trustworthy chap?
Scarborough Ball (Scarborough Fair Book 2) Page 7