He stopped at an eye-catching window display. Inside the tiny shop, loud music played. Bright lights bounced off the equally bright materials of the dresses, jackets, blouses hanging in colourful array from rails which left scarcely enough room to pass between them. And, beside the door, a stand of rainbow-hued scarves fluttered in the wind.
There didn’t seem to be a proper shop counter and he looked around for an assistant, jumping as a voice said in his ear, ‘Sure you’re in the right shop?’
He turned to see a tall skinny girl, her height accentuated by the extremely short skirt and thigh-length boots, her eyes outlined in black, like the Egyptian wall paintings he’d seen in the British Museum.
‘I’d like to speak to the owner or manager, please.’
‘That’s me,’ the girl said. ‘Do you want a refund? We don’t do refunds.’
‘No, no. I’m enquiring about those scarves – the Helene design.’
‘We sell a lot of those – can’t get enough. There’s only a few left. You want a present for someone?’
Harry thought quickly. How could he get this girl to give him the information he so desperately needed? ‘Actually, it’s a business matter,’ he said. ‘Is there somewhere we could talk?’ He glanced across the narrow space to where another girl, almost identically dressed, stood chewing gum and watching them curiously.
‘Through the back.’ The first girl jerked her head and Harry followed her into a space even more cramped than the main shop. She pushed a pile of sweaters off the only chair and gestured him to sit, perching herself on the edge of a table.
‘Business, you said. Well, what is it? If you’re a salesman, where’s your samples?’
‘I’m not selling. Actually,’ he improvised. ‘I have a shop of my own.’
The girl’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
Harry thought quickly. ‘I’d like to sell some of those scarves. Could you tell me…?’
‘You trying to put me out of business?’
‘I wouldn’t be competing with you – my shop’s up north.’
‘You sound like a Londoner to me.’ She still seemed suspicious.
‘Yes – but I live in Yorkshire now. The girls up there don’t want to be left behind when it comes to fashion, you know. So whenever I come down to visit the family, I have a look round, see what’s goin’ on in the big smoke, yer know.’ Harry managed a laugh. He wondered where he’d got the nerve. But it seemed to be working.
The girl slid off the table and went across to a box in the corner, holding up one of the scarves. She smoothed it out and showed him the Helene signature with its flowing ‘H’. ‘I have to tell you, she only does a limited number of each design – that’s why they’re so expensive. And she told me on the phone she has more than enough orders.’
‘Well, it’s worth a try. Could you give me her address?’ Harry said, trying not to sound too eager.
‘I’m not sure about that, but I’ll give you her phone number.’
It was more than he’d hoped for.
The girl smiled and wrote the number down on the back of an old envelope.
He grabbed it, noting the exchange. ‘Great Withies,’ he muttered. Wasn’t that somewhere in Essex? He rushed out of the shop clutching the piece of paper.
Next morning, Ellie’s fears seemed foolish. Alex’s goodbye kiss was warm and tender and his protestations that he would miss her seemed sincere.
She knew that pregnancy brought strange fancies and imaginings and that was all it was, she told herself firmly as she watched his car back out of the garage and shoot down the gravel drive.
When he’d gone, Ellie felt a sense of relief, despite her concerns of the night before. She had two whole days to herself – Mrs Mills wasn’t due till Friday and George would be gone by midday. She was quite content on her own, so long as she kept busy. She couldn’t wait to get on with her painting – she had a feeling that this new design could prove to be one of her best yet.
As she crossed the lawn towards the studio, she heard the phone ringing. She hesitated, keen to get on with her work but changed her mind when she realized it might be a customer. She hurried back into the house and picked up the phone, but all she heard was the dialling tone.
Oh well, if it was something important they’d ring back, she thought. She’d have to ask Alex about putting an extension in the studio. It would save her running to and fro, or missing important calls. As she paused to pick up some fallen petals from the flower arrangement on the hall table, the phone rang again. She snatched up the receiver. ‘Great Withies 325,’ she said.
There was no reply, although she could sense someone on the line. ‘Who do you wish to speak to? This is Mrs Cameron.’
A long silence was broken by a sharp click as the person at the other end put the phone down. Ellie shrugged. Must have been a wrong number, she thought.
But as she entered the studio a prickle of unease ran up her neck. The fear that had been her constant companion in the days following her escape from London returned. Had her father found out where she was? And if he had, why should she be scared? He couldn’t hurt her now.
She uncovered her easel and contemplated the almost finished painting, methodically squeezing paint on to her palette and selecting a brush. But she couldn’t settle to work and the quiet of her surroundings weighed on her.
She was being silly, she told herself. But she couldn’t get the strange phone call out of her head. At last she abandoned attempts at working and went for a walk in the garden. George was still there, forking over the compost heap. At least she wasn’t entirely alone.
She leaned on the fence overlooking the unkempt paddock. In the early days of their marriage Alex had suggested they keep horses and he would teach her to ride. The thought had terrified her. Turning the stables into a studio was a much better idea she’d told him. Now, he’d started talking about putting in a swimming pool.
But nothing had come of it since the increased frequency of his trips up north and once more Ellie wondered whether he was having an affair. That was it, she thought. It must have been the woman – whoever she was – phoning earlier on. Of course she wouldn’t announce herself when Ellie had answered. She’d obviously been expecting Alex to pick up the phone. But he’d left early to deliver the scarves to Colchester.
Relief at solving the mystery dissolved the little lump of apprehension that had lodged in Ellie’s stomach. Now it was replaced by anger. How dare she phone here?
Harry replaced the receiver and leaned against the café wall, shaking. It was Ellie. He’d know that voice anywhere, despite her attempt to sound posh on the phone.
Why hadn’t he spoken?
Bob pushed a cup of coffee towards him. ‘Bad news, mate?’ he asked. ‘’Ere, it’s not Sid, is it? I ’eard he’s gotta go back in ’ospital.’
Harry answered with an effort. He was worried about Sid too. But Ellie was uppermost in his mind at the moment. ‘Tomorrow – for another operation. I’ll let you know how he gets on.’
He took his cup over to a table in the corner and sat down. It was half-term holidays and he’d got one of Maisie’s kids minding the stall for him. He should get back, but at the moment he just didn’t care about the business – about anything. All he could think of now was finding Ellie.
After talking to the Carnaby Street shop-owner, he’d dashed back to Bethnal Green to relieve Sid, sending the older man home to rest. He’d intended to ask for time off to go to Essex. It shouldn’t be too hard to find Ellie with all the clues he had.
But Sid had to go in hospital again and he couldn’t let his old mate down.
Finding Ellie would have to wait, although he’d given in to the impulse to phone the number he’d been given. It was almost a relief when no one answered. But a couple of minutes later he’d summoned the nerve to try again. When she’d answered he just couldn’t think what to say.
Cursing himself for a fool, he swallowed his coffee and hurried between the stalls to his
waiting customers. He hoped being busy would distract him but there were so many problems – Sid, Mary, and most of all Ellie.
Sid, after yet another operation, looked small and grey against the white hospital sheets. When Harry sat down beside him, he moved feebly and tried to speak.
‘You’ve been good to me, son,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘I don’t know how to thank yer.’
‘You just concentrate on getting better. Your customers miss you, keep asking when you’ll be back,’ Harry said, trying to sound cheerful.
Sid made a sound which could have been a laugh. They both knew he would never stand behind his market stall again.
Harry stayed for the whole visiting hour, holding his friend’s hand while he dozed and thinking over the good times they’d had. He didn’t know how he’d have got through those years before he’d gone in the army if he hadn’t had Sid to run to when things got bad at home. He’d guessed a long time ago how his friend felt about Mary and wondered how things would have turned out if she’d married him instead of Bert.
As usual his thoughts turned to Ellie. The magazine article said she was married. Was she happy, or was she making the best of things too? It didn’t matter either way. She would take her vows seriously, whatever her innermost feelings.
He gave himself a mental kick in the backside. How did he know how she felt? She’d kissed him a couple of times with a warmth that was far from sisterly and her letters had been full of love. He’d been longing to come home – to find out whether what he was beginning to feel for her was real. She’d been his little sister for so long and they’d always had a loving relationship. He’d always known there was something special about Ellie. Then, the last time he’d seen her, their affectionate parting had flamed into an intense passion. He’d known then that his love for Ellie was far from brotherly.
As he had so many times, he wondered what had made her run away. Perhaps, having thought of him as her brother all her life, she had been confused by the passion that had flared between them. If only he’d had time to make things right. He told himself it wasn’t too late. He’d find her one day. But, looking at Sid’s face creased with pain, he knew he couldn’t do anything about it yet.
The bell rang for the visitors to leave and Harry leaned over and spoke softly, not sure if Sid could hear him. ‘I’ll bring Mary next time. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, mate?’
He squeezed Sid’s hand and turned away, wondering if he’d ever see him again. He’d promised his old friend that he’d attend to all the formalities – after all, he was the nearest thing to family Sid had.
The funeral was one of the grandest the East End had seen for years. Sid had told Harry he wanted a good send-off with all the trimmings. And he got it too – no horses with black plumes like in the old days, but a shiny black hearse with purple satin curtains at the windows covered in flowers.
The church was crowded. Even Tommy Green came, surrounded by his minders, some of whom looked extremely uncomfortable at being in church.
Most of the market traders were there, and those who couldn’t leave their stalls stood respectfully silent, paying their respects as the cortège drove slowly along Roman Road towards the Bethnal Green cemetery. Afterwards, the mourners gathered in the Red Lion opposite Bob’s Café. A buffet had been laid on upstairs and the drink flowed freely.
As the afternoon progressed, the air of solemnity gave way to a party atmosphere. Sid had been well-loved, a man of warmth and humour. Harry found himself looking round more than once for his old friend. He should be here. It was his party, after all.
Harry knew most of the people in the room. But there were a few strange faces. When Sid realized he was dying, he’d given Harry a list of people to be notified, some distant cousins, old Army mates.
One of the strangers, a tall lean chap with a droopy moustache, came over to him. ‘You’re Harry Scott, aincha?’ He held out a skinny hand, its skin and nails engrained with black grease that no amount of scrubbing could remove. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you, son. Sid thought a lot of you. I’m Nobby – Norman Barnes, D Company, the Buffs. Me and Sid was together in the war.’
Harry shook the outstretched hand. ‘Sid talked about you too – but he didn’t like talking about the war. It was more the capers you got up to when you were off duty. Right pair you were by all accounts.’
‘Wish I’d kept in touch more. But you know how it is, when you’re running yer own business, yer time ain’t yer own.’
‘Garage, isn’t it?’ Harry asked politely. He would have guessed anyway from the state of the bloke’s hands.
‘Yeah. Sid told me you wanted to go in that line of work once? Still, I expect you’ll be taking over the stall now, won’t you?’
‘I don’t think so. It’s not really my line.’
‘Well, I’d offer to take you on at my place, but I’m thinking of packing it in. It’s all getting a bit much for me. It’s hard when you’ve spent half your life building something up, and there’s no one to pass it on to. Me son’s just not interested.’
Harry nodded sympathetically as Nobby drained his glass and set it down, handing him a small printed card. ‘If you’re interested, I could have a word with whoever takes over.’ He stuck his hand out again. ‘Nice meeting yer, son. Gotta be on me way. Give us a ring, or call in if yer ever passing – Barnes Garage on the Southend Road, just outside Grays.’
‘I might do that,’ Harry said.
When Nobby had left, Harry stared into his beer glass. He was missing Sid more than he could say.
Sheila touched his arm. ‘I’m taking Mum home,’ she said. ‘And then I’ve got to get back. The kids’ll be home from school soon.’
Harry leaned over to kiss her cheek. ‘I’m gonna miss ’im like hell, Sheila.’
‘I know. He thought of you like a son, you know.’ She patted his arm and left.
Gradually the room started to empty. But there were some, Bert among them, who would hang on till the last of the free booze was gone. These people weren’t Sid’s real friends. Harry had a quiet word with Stan, the landlord, telling him not to bring up any more beer.
‘I know Sid said to keep it flowing, and he left the money to pay for it. But whatever’s left in the kitty can go to the Victuallers’ for the kids’ next Christmas party,’ Harry said quietly.
Stan nodded understandingly. Sid hadn’t been a boozer, but he’d been a good customer over the years.
When everyone had gone, Harry thankfully left the smoke-filled room, pausing in the pub doorway to take a deep breath of fresh air. Bob had left the wake earlier to reopen the café and the traders were packing up their stalls. It looked like a normal day. But Harry knew nothing would be the same again.
Now that he was free of his obligations to his mate, he didn’t know what to do. Sid’s licence to trade in the market had died with him, so he was out of a job now. Not that he’d planned on running the stall for ever. He took Nobby’s card out of his pocket and studied it thoughtfully. Should he take up the bloke’s tentative offer of a job? He was too old to do a proper apprenticeship but he’d learned enough in the Army to get by. It seemed like a chance to do what he liked best – getting his hands dirty deep in the innards of an engine. Besides, he’d never be able to save enough to start his own business. That had just been a childish dream.
He crossed the road, scarcely looking where he was going. Bob waved from behind the café counter, but Harry didn’t feel like talking. He didn’t want to go home either.
He supposed he ought to take a look at Sid’s flat above Cook’s newsagent’s. There must be things to sort out before it could be let again. He hadn’t got the heart to start on it now but he’d pay another week’s rent to give him more time.
Mr Cook was serving a customer and Harry waited till he’d gone. He got his wallet out but the other man waved it away. ‘It’s all paid up till the end of the month. Don’t worry, Harry, mate.’
‘I’ll come back later in the week. Gawd k
nows what I’m gonna do with his things. I s’pose his good clothes can go to the Sally Ann, the bedding too. They’ll make good use of it,’ Harry said, passing a hand over his face. He’d get old Blakey, the totter from Mile End Road to clear the rest of the flat.
As he turned away, Mr Cook called after him, holding out a brown foolscap envelope. ‘Wait a mo, mate. Sid asked me to give this to yer.’
Harry shoved it into his pocket. It was probably a note telling him what to do with his stuff. He’d look at it later.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Alex had been away for three days this time and Ellie was sure it wasn’t business that had taken him to Manchester. He phoned her each evening, his voice solicitous as usual. If he was having an affair, it was impossible to tell. But despite the lack of real evidence, Ellie was tempted to accuse him of infidelity.
But what right had she, who’d been unfaithful in thought if not in deed? She couldn’t blame him, after all. And if it was just a sexual fling, she could forgive him. She wanted to keep her marriage intact – if only for the sake of the coming baby.
Surely they could make a go of things if they both tried hard enough? And if he wasn’t satisfied with her performance in bed, did it really matter if he sought his pleasure with someone else?
She thought of her mother, who’d struggled to keep her marriage vows, despite her obvious unhappiness. For the first time it occurred to her that the root of that unhappiness might be the same as her own. Maybe Mary hadn’t enjoyed sex with Bert, especially after being so happy with Jim Scott. It was a possible explanation for her father’s behaviour. Maybe, like Alex, he’d been driven to seek satisfaction elsewhere.
As the probable truth of this dawned on her, Ellie felt as if a load had been lifted off her. It hadn’t been her fault, she hadn’t asked for it. And with the thought came a wave of hatred. She would never forgive her father for the harm he’d done, both physically and mentally.
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