by Annie Groves
‘And he’s always been pleasant to you, ’cos he knows his manners,’ Grace returned pithily. ‘So his dad can’t be that bad, can he? He’s obviously brought him up properly.’ She barely paused before adding, ‘You’ve not even asked how Stephen Wild is, have you? Yet, know what? Every time I saw Chris’s dad he would always say to me, send yer mum me best, won’t you, luv.’
Shirley reddened. ‘You told me yesterday he’s well on the mend, and will soon be out of hospital. Can’t be asking about his accident all the time. Anyhow, I’ve never said anything bad about Christopher’s dad. His mum … now that’s a different matter,’ she finished in a mutter and, aware she was defeated, stomped off down the hall to the kitchen. ‘Could do with a bit of help getting tea ready,’ she called irritably.
Grace quickly pegged her coat on a hook on the wall then followed her mum into the kitchen with an urgent question hovering on the tip of her tongue. ‘Did you know Chris’s mum?’ she burst out.
‘Knew her alright,’ Shirley said with a nod. She stuck an old pot under the cold tap and half-filled it with water.
Grace was quiet for a moment while digesting that exciting news. Her annoyance at her mother was ebbing away on realising Shirley held useful information. When her mother thrust a peeler at her, and a colander filled with potatoes, she automatically started to prepare them. ‘Chris was only a baby when his parents split up.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Shirley replied, cutting into a cabbage and digging out the stalk. ‘Barely a year they were married and nobody believed that Christopher was a honeymoon baby, if you know what I mean.’ She gave her daughter an arch look. ‘Being as they took the trouble to get married – quite a lavish do it was – it surprised a lot of people when they divorced. But I knew it wouldn’t last.’
‘How did you know that?’ Grace speared a glance at her mother while halving the peeled potatoes and dropping them into the water in the pot.
‘Friend of mine told me that Pam Plummer was always more interested in Rob Wild than his brother, Stevie. Can’t blame her for that. We all had a pash for Rob Wild … regular heartthrob he was. Even when he was a young hound he had a business and a flash car and plenty of money. But Pam should have left him alone once she married his brother.’
Grace overlooked her mother’s farcical, selective snobbery where the Wilds were concerned. A comfortable lifestyle, with a hound of a husband, obviously trumped middle-class morals every time. She had an unexpected opportunity to find out more about Christopher’s mother, and that was far more important to Grace than taking her mother to task again for being a hypocrite. Just yesterday, when he’d brought her home, Chris had again seemed swayed towards resuming his search for Pamela.
‘How did your friend know Pam was still after Rob Wild?’
‘She made it her business to know,’ Shirley said with an emphasising grunt. ‘For a while, people reckoned that Vicky Watson had Rob Wild hooked. She certainly thought so, so she kept tabs on the opposition.’
‘Vicky Watson?’ Grace breathed. ‘You knew her?’
‘Yeah. Went to school together.’
‘Where is she now, do you know?’
Shirley shot a suspicious look at her daughter. ‘Why’re you so interested in Vicky Watson?’
‘Just … Chris mentioned her ’cos she was his mum’s bridesmaid.’
‘Yeah, she was,’ Shirley confirmed, with a smile of recollection. ‘That’s how she knew Pam liked Rob. Pam and Vicky were good friends for a while and confided in one another. But Vicky found out that Pam, even after she was married to Stevie, was chasing after Robert on the sly.’
‘And how did Robert feel about it all? Was he married then?’
‘He was involved in a really bad fight,’ Shirley said, putting down her knife to stare into space. ‘Nothing to do with Stevie being jealous or anything like that, ’cos Rob never showed any interest in his sister-in-law,’ she immediately explained, having seen the startled look in her daughter’s eyes. ‘Rob was beaten up by gangsters. Anyhow, as soon as he was well enough he surprised everybody and married Faye Greaves and nobody knew much about her as she’d lived in Kent most of her life. Vicky was not pleased about that, I can tell you.’
‘So where’s Vicky now?’
‘A few years later she got married to a fellow worked for the Water Board, and they moved to Clapham. David Green seemed a weird sort for Vicky. He was a lot older than her, and it was a surprise when they got together. But Vicky and me sort of kept in touch. I used to send her Christmas cards, then during the war it tailed off.’ Shirley placed the pot of potatoes on the gas stove. ‘Used to visit her sometimes and we’d go down to the Lyons corner shop and have a cake and a cuppa and a natter about old times.’
‘So you’ve got her address …’
‘Somewhere, I expect. I used to have lots of friends.’ Shirley pouted out a sigh. ‘’Course the war put paid to a lot of it … moving about … getting evacuated … you lost interest in people …’ She suddenly turned around to find she was talking to herself.
CHAPTER NINE
‘What’s so urgent that it can’t wait till after I finish work this evening?’
Apart from his wife, few people spoke to Robert Wild in that tone of voice and got away with it. But it wasn’t only Walter Purvis’s attitude that was pissing Rob off; he was also seriously narked because it had taken many weeks to get in contact with the crafty git.
Various toffee-nosed secretaries had told him that Mr Purvis was on holiday, or out on site, or in another department, or any other old pony Walter had told them to put forward as an excuse. The fact that the Council’s Chief Contracts Manager had been determinedly incommunicado had convinced Rob the man knew why he was after him. He gave him a hard stare. ‘Get in the car for a minute,’ he said icily. ‘I need to talk to you.’
Walter Purvis slid onto the passenger seat and dumped his battered briefcase down on the floor. ‘I’ve had to delay an important contract meeting on the second phase of Whadcoat Street to come here,’ he complained, shoving his poplin shirt over his paunch and into the straining waistband of his trousers. He knew enough about Rob Wild’s reputation for dealing with those who crossed him not to ignore his summons. It had arrived in an envelope that morning, addressed to his home rather than his office, and he’d been infuriated to receive it.
‘Delayed it, have you? That’s quite convenient,’ Robert drawled. Walter was already sweating from the July heat; Robert knew that in a moment the fat creep would be in a real lather. ‘What I’ve got to say is gonna have some bearing on your contract meeting so listen very carefully.’
Purvis frowned at him and shoved his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. From behind the wire-rimmed glass his pale eyes blinked rapidly. He was a middle-aged man of about the same age as Rob, but there all similarity ended. Walter was overweight, lacking in personal hygiene, and thinning on top. Hardly a model Lothario, as no doubt his despising wife would have testified, yet he unfortunately had a liking for lithe young men, and the high life, that wasn’t satisfied by the salary he drew. He thus supplemented it by taking backhanders in return for dishing out lucrative building contracts.
Robert had had a few illicit dealings with him previously. Those had gone very well and when Walter told him he was the only building contractor he trusted enough to accept sweeteners from Rob had tended to believe him. Walter was scrupulously careful in keeping everything under wraps and he paid him well.
Robert was now feeling annoyed that he’d been uncharacteristically naïve. It seemed Declan O’Connor had also cottoned on to Walter and the greedy bastard was trying to play both ends against the middle. Rob was about to impress on him it had been a bad move …
‘I thought we had an agreement that the first phase of Whadcoat Street demolition was all mine.’
‘It is,’ Walter said, perplexed. ‘Your brother started on it, surely, many months ago? Payments have been issued …’
‘Stevie’s started down the
re alright, and thank you for the cheques,’ Rob added politely. ‘Are you satisfied with the way things are going?’
‘Of course …’ Purvis looked apprehensive. He was starting to sense trouble.
‘So why get in the competition?’
‘What?’
‘A gang of pikeys have started work there too, just yards away. So do you want to tell me why my money suddenly isn’t enough, when we had a gentlemen’s agreement?’ Rob watched the fellow’s chins sag. He smiled. ‘Or perhaps you’re intending to return my envelope … you remember, don’t you? It was the one I gave you, stuffed with tenners.’
Purvis’s eyes swivelled to and fro as though he believed somebody might have overheard their conversation, even though Rob’s voice had been sinisterly soft. ‘I don’t know … I’ve no idea …’ He suddenly blinked rapidly. ‘It’s got to be Kennedy,’ he hissed. ‘He’s been brown-nosing and telling me had everything under control,’ he explained. ‘I recruited him some years ago when he was fresh out of college and brash as they come. He’s not changed much.’ In fact Walter had given him a job because he’d thought him easy on the eye. And that’s all he had done, look, because he’d never be stupid enough to pursue a young work colleague, no matter how fit and handsome he was. ‘I’ve been giving him a bit of a free hand for the past six months, and he’s been covering for me when I’m on holiday. If I hadn’t been seconded to another department to oversee it while some soppy prat’s gone off to have a nervous breakdown …’
‘Well, you’d better shift yourself right back where you belong, Walter, and sort this out, or I will, and then who knows what stones might get overturned …’ Rob suddenly realised the toffee-nosed sorts answering the phones hadn’t been giving him the runaround after all. But he felt not an iota of guilt on realising that Walter had probably just told the truth about the pikeys being nothing to do with him. He reached to start the ignition but the surveyor made no move to get out.
Walter wanted to stay and talk now. ‘What’s been happening down there?’ he asked nervously. ‘This Irish crew … have they been causing any trouble I should know about? Anything that might draw attention?’
‘Yeah, you could say they’ve been causing trouble: my brother’s in hospital, and there’s a brawl down there every bleedin’ day. So sooner or later the Black Marias are gonna be racing the ambulances to Whadcoat Street.’ Rob smiled sardonically. ‘’Course that’s nothing new for The Bunk, and I’d know ’cos I grew up there.’ He suddenly leaned close to Walter and murmured, ‘I paid you well for this contract, so I reckon I’m due some of my money back, don’t you? Let’s say twenty per cent for all the inconvenience.’
‘You said your brother’s in hospital,’ Walter burbled, blanching. The thought of handing back some of his commission, as he liked to call it, was a secondary concern; his mind was racing ahead examining dreadful scenarios that might expose him as corrupt and depraved and put paid to his career and his marriage. Arrest, court, the boys who might be called as witnesses, were all lurid images whizzing through his mind. ‘Did these navvies beat your brother up and put him in hospital?’ he gasped.
‘Might just as well have done. He had a fall off a ladder and it wouldn’t have happened if the thieving gits hadn’t been stealing all Wild Brothers’ equipment.’
‘You should have told me before,’ Walter complained in a high-pitched squeak. ‘I could have nipped it in the bud …’
‘Well, you know now, so sort it out,’ Rob announced before giving Walter a withering look. ‘Or believe me I will sort it out and there’ll be blood and guts all over the place … yours included, if your wife finds out about your habits.’
Walter shrank back against the leather upholstery, seeking protection from that image.
‘D’you mind?’ Rob asked, and nodded at the car door. ‘I’m meeting my wife for a spot of lunch …’
‘Who is it you’re after, dear?’ the old fellow asked again, cocking his good ear at Grace.
Grace raised her voice a little. ‘Mrs Green … Vicky Green.’ She was beginning to wish she hadn’t wasted an afternoon to come on a wild-goose chase, especially as her friend Wendy had felt obliged to type an urgent report for her so Grace could tell their supervisor everything would be covered in her absence.
Fifteen minutes ago she’d arrived at the Clapham address that she’d covertly copied from her mother’s notebook. The woman at the property had told her she believed the Greens had moved around the corner, close to Clapham Junction, just after the war. But it seemed the elderly occupant of this house was also on the point of sending her on her way. Grace glumly realised she was having no luck locating the woman who might know Pam Plummer’s whereabouts.
‘Ah … Mrs Green.’ The grizzled face nodded at her, and the old gentleman indicated the house to his right with his thumb. He shuffled back inside, shutting the door, leaving Grace staring at its coloured glass panel. She retraced her steps along the path and carefully latched the creaky wooden gate. She’d reached her destination and, after all her efforts, felt her courage oddly draining away. It was tempting to turn around and head home rather than explain her business to a stranger. And she realised her faintheartedness sprang from the fact that it wasn’t actually her business at all that had brought her here; it was Christopher’s.
When she’d set out she’d been fired with confidence and certainty, but now she was having second thoughts and wondering whether Chris would think she was interfering, rather than helping.
He had no idea she’d come here, or that she’d got Vicky Green’s address from her mum. Grace hadn’t told him about it because he’d been shilly-shallying about looking for his mother since his father had had a setback. Stevie had fallen on a wet floor in the hospital bathroom and ever since Chris had been unwilling to discuss Pamela.
Yesterday evening, when Grace had tried to gently impress on him again that it was the right time to do some detective work without upsetting Stevie, they had ended up bickering. She’d spent a restless night turning things over in her mind but had decided Chris would be relieved if she took the initiative and resumed the search. His father couldn’t then blame him for going behind his back. But now she was having second thoughts …
Grace surfaced from her reflection to see the old boy had lifted an edge of his net curtain and was watching her loitering on the pavement. He gave her a smile and again jabbed his thumb at number thirty-seven. Grace acknowledged him by wriggling a few fingers then, taking a deep breath, walked next door. She knocked and waited. She knocked again and felt a twinge of shame as her clenched hands began to relax because nobody was at home.
‘Who are you?’
Grace pivoted about to find a woman in a floral summer dress, a shopping bag in each hand, crossing the road to hurry towards her. On reaching the gate she struggled, juggling bags, to lift the latch.
‘Sorry …’ Grace burbled with a faltering smile. ‘Are you Mrs Green?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘Well … I do …’ Grace said, feeling intimidated by her brusque manner.
‘And who are you?’
The woman was standing close to her on the path now, her head with its fading blonde hair cocked to one side. Grace could see that once she’d been an attractive woman and, in common with her mother, she was making an attempt to hang on to her youth by using a lot of make-up.
‘I’m Grace Coleman and my mum used to know a woman called Vicky Watson who married a Mr Green …’
‘Shirley Coleman’s daughter, are you?’
Grace finally got a smile.
‘Well, well … haven’t heard that name for a good while. Sort of lost touch with Shirley.’ She looked Grace up and down. ‘Still in Islington, are you? I remember your dad joined up and the rest of you were off to Surrey to get away from the bombing.’
‘We live in Tottenham now …’
Grace watched Vicky turn the key in the lock of her front door then edge in sideways with her bulky bags.
‘Oh, no … no … she’s fine,’ Grace reassured the woman, and followed her inside.
‘Pam Plummer … now there’s another name from the past,’ Vicky said, putting down her cup. ‘I often wonder what happened to all those people I used to know in Islington.’
They were seated now, in a neat front room, in fireside chairs that had a square table wedged between them, holding a plate of rich tea biscuits.
Grace sipped her tea. ‘My mum told me you all knew one another from your schooldays. So I wondered if you kept in touch with Pam and have her address.’
‘Does Shirley want to get in touch with her?’ Vicky asked in surprise.
Grace hesitated, not wanting to lie, but not wanting to tell the truth either. She knew Chris considered searching for his mother a very personal matter. ‘Mum was going on the other day about once having lots of friends; I think she’s a bit lonely since dad died a few years ago. He got injured in the war and never really recovered,’ she explained, having noticed Vicky’s enquiring look.
‘Very sorry to hear that …’ Vicky murmured.
‘Anyway, I’ve been thinking about a street party for Coronation Day next June,’ Grace said brightly. ‘There’s less than a year to go now till the big day. I thought it’d be a great idea to have a get-together … and that it might be nice to find a few of Mum’s old friends.’ Grace knew that it was best not to mention that Matilda Keiver was involved, or that the party would be held in The Bunk. That news would be sure to make Vicky fire some very awkward questions at her. ‘Mum doesn’t know I’m here,’ Grace added carefully. If it came about that a reunion did take place at some time she didn’t want her fibs causing her mum problems. ‘So it would be a nice surprise for her if it goes ahead … ’Course I’ll let people know in good time …’