Red is for Rubies

by Linda Mitchelmore

  ‘And who might you be?’ A woman’s voice.

  Jonty jerked his head in the other direction, saw a woman over-dressed for the warmth of the day. Old-fashioned too.

  Lifting a hand to touch an imaginary cap Jonty said, ‘Good day to you madam.’ He took a stride towards the direction in which he’d last seen Grace. He was in no mood for conversation with strangers.

  ‘Not so fast,’ the woman said. ‘I asked who you were. I saw you coming out of The Gallery. Saw you going in, too. With the daughter. Name?’

  Oh God, not another bloody nutcase. Well, he practically had a degree in dealing with the deranged, didn’t he?

  ‘Jonty Grant.’

  ‘Hah! She hasn’t wasted much time replacing him, has she?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Jonty said. Was she meaning what he thought she was meaning? That Lydie had a new bloke so soon after Ralph’s death? Or did she mean Grace now that she was no longer with that chef bloke she’d been with for years? ‘Are you referring to Mrs Marshall, or her daughter?’ Jonty inflected as much ice into his voice as possible.

  ‘Mrs Marshall. Lovely husband she had.’

  ‘And you are?’ Jonty asked. He had to stop and see this through, defend Lydie, even though he felt like smashing seven bells out of this rude old biddy.

  ‘Margot Bartlett. I was a friend of Ralph Marshall’s. We had a little understanding and I was able to help with some controversial planning application.’

  ‘Ah, heavy emphasis on the word “friend” I notice, Mrs Bartlett. Or is it Miss?’ Jonty had a hunch it was the latter.

  ‘Miss Margot Bartlett, I’m on the town council. So, what’s she going to do now?’

  ‘By she, I take it you mean Mrs Marshall, and not the cat’s mother?’

  ‘Naturally. I don’t think you’re concentrating. Of course, if she hadn’t gone running off to wherever it was she’d run off to, all this might not have happened.’

  ‘It was a stroke, so I’m told,’ Jonty said. ‘And it could have happened at any time. And where Mrs Marshall goes or not is her business and nothing whatsoever to do with you.’

  ‘Hah. You didn’t see Ralph when he came back from that whore Marianne Knight-Taylor’s, did you? Well pleased with himself, he was. It’s my opinion that …’

  ‘Shut it!’ Jonty held up a hand towards Margot Bartlett. ‘Not one more word or I will forget entirely that I am a gentleman. And if I get to find that you’ve spread one word of your evil imaginings …’

  ‘I haven’t imagined anything, Mr Grant. I know what I saw. He’d been at it, that’s for sure.’

  ‘And you’d know, I suppose?’

  As sure as eggs are eggs, I’d bet my last penny that this woman is a trussed-up virgin, Jonty thought. A jealous, trussed-up virgin. He could simply walk away now, but what if this bitch rang the bell of Lydie’s flat and she told the same story all over again. Lies or not, he had to protect Lydie from that.

  ‘I’m a woman of the world, Mr Grant.’

  ‘And I’m the next Pope. Now listen, lady, you just get the hell out of here. Leave Mrs Marshall and her daughter well alone. I happen to know that Marianne Knight-Taylor’s brother is a crack solicitor so … I think you get my drift.’

  ‘You don’t scare me, Mr Grant.’

  Okay, Jonty, try another tack, old boy. This woman was a loose cannon if ever he saw one. He’d had enough experience of Becca with her delusions to know that Margot Bartlett was probably harbouring a delusion of her own.

  ‘No, but I think I detect a little female jealousy. Am I right? Ralph had bypassed your favours in favour of the lovely Marianne, right? You wanted to be more than just a friend?’ He had no idea if he was right, or not – not even a whisper of suspicion. ‘Am I right?’ Jonty spoke slowly, his diction clear, looking directly at Margot. He would have staked RED on the fact that Margot had wished she were Ralph’s lover, and in some twisted way she now believed that she actually was. Bloody hell, the woman was blushing. Keep going, old chap, keep going. ‘And it wouldn’t do your position on the town council the teensiest bit of good, would it, if it came out that you had used the casting couch on Ralph Marshall so he could get his planning permission, would it?’

  ‘Put like that, Mr Grant …’

  ‘That’s exactly how it’s being put, Miss Bartlett.’

  ‘Damn and blast that Marianne Knight-Taylor. I had Ralph in the palm of my hand. It was only a matter of time before he left his wife for me.’

  ‘Really?’ Ralph guffawed. Margot Bartlett wouldn’t know a double entendre if one came up and punched her lights out. No, he was right, Ralph hadn’t come within an inch of Margot in a sexual way – this woman was as delusional as Becca had been.

  ‘You don’t believe me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, it was rude of me to laugh. I was thinking of something else. I also think it would be the best for everyone’s sakes if you file your relationship with Ralph under happy memories and let it stay there. Marianne’s brother hasn’t lost a case yet, and slander is such a nasty offence. You get my meaning?’

  Jonty glanced up at Lydie’s bay window, hoping against hope the damned thing was shut and that she hadn’t heard a word of this screenplay being acted out on her doorstep. It was. And he couldn’t see Lydie standing there, looking out for Grace either.

  ‘I’ll be off then,’ Margot said.

  ‘Good idea. And we’ll keep this little conversation to ourselves, shall we?’

  God, she was blushing again, looking coy. Another one for the funny farm before too long if Jonty wasn’t mistaken. Whether the thing between Ralph and Marianne was true or not, Jonty had no idea. And he had no desire whatsoever at this moment to know, either way. He had a coroner’s officer to see, and then an undertaker to ring, and, no doubt, a ribbon of answerphone messages from Hugh sodding Harris. Now that Becca was dead, all Jonty could feel was relief at this moment; relief for Becca that she wasn’t living inside her head any more, in her own confused world. It had been a half-life for poor Becca for years. A lump came to his throat. Grief was threatening to make a fool of him in front of this strange – in every way – woman. God, he was going to miss Becca.

  ‘Good day,’ Jonty grunted.

  ‘Good day to you, Mr Grant. It’s been a pleasure meeting such a gentleman.’

  And then she was gone; back straight, shoulders down, head high. Jonty watched until she was out of sight. Gentleman? He certainly hadn’t behaved like one where Lydie was concerned.

  ‘If only you knew, Miss Bartlett,’ Jonty whispered, ‘if only you knew.’

  The upstairs phone – the number he kept for private calls, not business ones – was ringing off its rest almost. Jonty had heard it on the first ring but he was in the process of securing the kiln door, setting the temperature dials. And he didn’t need the distraction. The phone would have to wait. But whoever it was had staying power because the damned thing was still ringing. The dials on the kiln set, he took the stairs two at a time, pushed open the kitchen door and snatched up the handset. If it was that damn Hugh Harris, M bloody P calling again, he’d get another mouthful of expletives, that’s for sure. No way was he going to get Becca’s rubies back, or the money from her bank account. The first thing Jonty had done after leaving Lydie was to go to his solicitor, Joseph Todd. And good old Joseph had told him that Becca’s will was valid; that she’d left everything to Jonty. Not that he wanted Becca’s money, or even Becca alive again the way she’d been, but he sure as hell didn’t want Hugh to have it. And Hugh hadn’t been best pleased when Jonty had relayed the information – he didn’t think he’d be coming down for the funeral; his girlfriend wouldn’t like it. Well, wouldn’t you know – such a shame about some peoples’ sensibilities. Not. Jonty was ready for Hugh Harris. Bring him on.

  ‘Jonty!’ he snapped.

  ‘Jonts? You okay? Drew here.’

  ‘Okay? Not really.’

  Briefly, Jonty told Drew about Becca.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know what
to say. I’m sorry, of course, but …’

  ‘I know you are,’ Jonty stopped him. Then he changed the subject. ‘How’s Amy?’

  ‘A bit sore, I think, because she’s got a big scar down the right side of her head. But she can’t communicate that yet. She ran a temperature for a few days but apparently that’s quite normal. And she’s confused because I can’t stop with her at night. But she’s going to be okay. I’d hoped to be back before now, but …’

  ‘So, when are you coming back?’ He could do with Drew here to help out. He had a feeling Grace wouldn’t want to be working for him any longer. Not now. Not after her outburst at Lydie’s.

  ‘Um. Not just yet. A few more days. You see, I’ve been stopping in this pub. And there’s this girl. Single mum, Martha. She’s tiny and beautiful with café-au-lait skin. She’s got the most amazing chestnut eyes, and teeth like she’s in a Colgate advert, you know. We’re getting on well, and … well, curve balls and all that. I never expected to feel the way I do, given the reason I’m up here. I’ll be back for Becca’s funeral. God, Jonts, so sorry about that. How’s everything else? Everyone else? Grace, I mean.’

  ‘Let’s just say I’ve been thrown a few curve balls of my own. Grace will be fine. She knows that I’m her father now.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’m giving her time to get used to the idea.’

  But I could do with you here at the moment.

  But he couldn’t say that, could he? No, let the guy have his moment of happiness over meeting Martha. He deserved it. Drew had never put a foot wrong and yet stuff – the shitty kind – had happened to him, too, over Amy and then the feckless Mel.

  ‘But she’s back working with you?’

  ‘She was – got lots done, too, but she’s not here now. Stuff happened.’

  ‘Bertween you and her, or you and her mum?’

  ‘Bit of both,’ Jonty said. No need to go into detail. ‘I’m sure she’ll be at Becca’s funeral.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. She’d do that. She’s a lovely woman. You know, Jonts, there were moments when I thought that maybe Grace and I could have got together, but now … well, now, I feel like I’ve been hit by a double-decker bus in the romance department.’

  ‘I’ll dust the wedding hat off, shall I?’

  Drew laughed.

  ‘Knew you’d be pleased. Thanks, Jonts.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ He didn’t even have the strength to blast Drew for calling him Jonts, which he hated. He was so damned grateful that at least he would still have Drew working for him. What would Grace do with her life now? And Lydie?

  ‘See you, then.’

  ‘Soonish?’ Jonty asked. ‘If you can bear to be parted from the lovely Martha, that is.’

  ‘It’s going to be difficult. But for you? – for you I can do it. See you, Jonts.’

  The phone clicked to a purr in Jonty’s ear. Jonty smiled. Funny stuff, life. It wasn’t even feeling strange being in the flat with Becca gone because she’d been way out of it most of the time for years.

  Jonty walked back down the stairs to the studio. He walked a lot slower than he’d come up. A hand automatically went to his long, floppy fringe. His hair at the back was well past his collar now. Time to get it cut? Wasn’t it women who did that makeover thing, that moving-on thing? His clothes could do with some sort of re-vamp too. If he was going to start seeing Lydie again, he’d have to sort himself out – although he had a feeling tickling his heart that Lydie hadn’t noticed his hair or his clothes, or minded about his lack of socks – she’d only seen him, Jonty the person. But he wouldn’t think of seeing Lydie just yet. First he’d get RED out of its namesake at the bank. Make something of worth to leave his daughter. Make enough to buy Lydie the rubies he’d promised her and hadn’t delivered – yet.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  ‘You’ll be hopeless on your own,’ Justin said.

  ‘Just watch me!’ Grace said. She was sick to the back teeth with Justin’s nasally, whiny voice now. All her hurt had turned to anger.

  ‘So why are you running back to Mummy and Daddy, then?’

  ‘It’s only temporary.’

  ‘But the country, Grace – you won’t last a minute in the country. You’re far too high maintenance for the country.’

  Grace walked until the soles of her feet burned against the hard leather inners of her sandals. Every day now, after breakfast, she walked. Since Becca’s tragic death she was finding it difficult to be with her mum. And she didn’t want to be with Jonty either now. Grace knew she’d not chosen the best moment for her outburst about it being all too convenient for her mum and Jonty to get back together but she didn’t regret it. It was the truth. All she and her mum did was go over and over the same ground and it solved nothing. She knew her mum was hurting as much as she was, and while Lydie could put her arms around her and comfort her, Grace was finding it hard to reciprocate. What was she going to do with her life now? She’d rung Jonty now that she wasn’t working for him and seeing him every day – somehow she couldn’t even think about calling him Dad – to say she’d be at Becca’s funeral, whenever that was. But after that?

  She should never have come down to Dartmouth. Not that Justin had been right for a second about her not managing in the country – she’d started to quite like it. But now? She really shouldn’t have come – none of this would be happening if she hadn’t. Who knows what had made Dad have a stroke. Okay, he was overweight for his height, but far from fat. Although Grace had noticed her Dad had developed a pinkness on his cheeks in the weeks before he’d died. She’d put it down to the breeze that always blew up along the river, and the fact that her Dad was excited about his new venture. Had Mum noticed? And if she had, why hadn’t she done something about it? Cooked less steak and chips dinners perhaps?

  And in all probability she’d never have found out about her true parentage either, had she not come here. Do I thank Justin for dumping me for that, or not? Justin with his reluctance to make love to her, his fussing over the soap Grace bought, or the fragrance he used, the clothes he wore. Justin had started the ball rolling for this huge change in Grace’s life, hadn’t he? Or was it Dad for wanting a change of life, swapping buildings for paintings? Or was it her, for not wanting to do the same old restaurant scene when she’d answered Drew’s wacky ad? A pottery had sounded like the promise of a new, better life. Who bloody knew! Why the hell couldn’t people tell the truth? Like Mum hadn’t told the truth about moving to Dartmouth – she hadn’t wanted to move at all, or else why had she gone straight back to Bath and Granddad?

  Grace was crying now, barely able to see through her tears as she half ran, half walked, past cottages with bright hanging baskets outside, that merged into a mishmash of colour as she streaked past them. Where the hell was she going anyway? She’d never been up this way before. How long had she been in Dartmouth now? Three months that was all; months in which so much had happened Grace felt like she was being spun on the Waltzers at the Fair – she was so dizzy with it all. They’d arrived at the beginning of April and June wasn’t quite over yet. She hardly knew the route from the ferry to Brixham for God’s sake, and how far was that? Grace didn’t have a clue.

  What a backward step to go back to living with your parents! Only now she didn’t have the same set of parents, did she? She had a brand new set – Lydie and Jonty.

  ‘Oh, Dad,’ Lydie said aloud, remembering Ralph, missing his loud laugh, his awful jokes. ‘I’m going to miss you, and I don’t want to leave you here, but I’m going to have to. You always wanted to go to Italy, didn’t you? And now you’ll never go. Mum always turned the offer down. God, I could kill her for that.’

  The words felt better out than in.

  ‘You all right, Miss?’ a woman called from her doorstop.

  Grace glanced back at the concerned look on the woman’s face. But she couldn’t speak to her, she just couldn’t, so she waved a hand, struggled to smile, and ran on until she was out of breath and had to sto
p and lean against an ivy-clad wall. Somehow she’d almost arrived at Dartmouth Castle. There was a wooden arrow with ‘Ferry’ painted on it, so she followed the direction of the arrow until she came to a small slipway, and a wooden boat with an outboard motor tied up to a bollard. A young lad was sat on the bow smoking.

  ‘Ah, a fare?’ he asked. He smiled at Grace, a flirty sort of smile, and then his face changed and he became serious. ‘Oh, you okay?’

  ‘Not really,’ Grace said. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but this is a bad moment. Although it’s a good one, too.’ Grace knew what she had to do now. Move far away from here. Give her mother and Jonty space to do whatever it was they were going to do with their lives. But it would be without her around.

  ‘A mixed blessing sort of day? Hop aboard.’

  Grace felt in the back pocket of her jeans. She always had a ten pound note in there. But not today it seemed. Bugger.

  ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I need to get back to the quay at Dartmouth, but I don’t have any money. Sorry, sorry …’ She began to cry again.

  ‘Right. Okay. Fine. Jump in. No problem. I expect there’ll be punters over there wanting to come here so … Mad, isn’t it, everyone wanting to be some place else all the time? Me, I don’t want a thing except my boat and the river. Shut up, Sam,’ he told himself, then gabbled on, ‘Sorry, you’re my first damsel in distress.’

  Grace laughed then, a watery laugh, but a laugh all the same. The lad held out his hand, and Grace took it whilst hopping lightly into the boat. ‘Well, you’re doing just great. You carry on chatting, but I’m afraid you’ll find me a rotten conversationalist.’ The lad smiled back at her, lips pressed tightly together, embarrassed. He looked about sixteen.

  This was going to be the shortest trip of Grace’s life, but quite possibly the longest too.