Every day, food was brought to the cottage by Mrs Melia, a soul of discretion who entered and left by the kitchen door. She never forgot to bring titbits for Mickle, who came to expect treats every evening. They were a happy family, man, woman and dog, content in their precious cottage. But all too soon it was Wednesday evening, and the pretend honeymoon was over.
They sat on the small sofa with Mickle stretched out at their feet. Reality peeped over the horizon. Theo, in an effort to find a diversion, flicked through a magazine. ‘It says here that Faversham was once the explosive capital of Kent, because six factories produced gunpowder. So it wasn’t all hop fields and oast houses.’ He glanced at his companion. ‘Portia?’
She sighed. ‘Poor Maggie. Poor Rosie.’
‘Baby, we can only do what we can do.’
‘I feel useless,’ she said.
‘Isadora would never produce a useless daughter.’
‘Teddy, what chance do we have of saving Rosie from being sent away?’
‘We have your mother. Your mother is big guns.’
Tia managed a weak smile. ‘You’re my big gun.’
He chuckled. ‘Flattery will get you everywhere, sweetie. Let’s go to bed.’
Joan was cleaning Theo’s flat when the doorbell sounded. She put down the duster, patted her hair, removed her apron and answered the door. ‘Yes? May I help you?’ A very well-groomed young woman lingered under the porch.
Emily Garner blinked. ‘Is Mr Quinn available?’
‘Er . . . no. He’s still away.’
Emily introduced herself and told Joan that she was really looking for Mrs Margaret Stone.
‘She’s away, too. She’s taken Rosie to the seaside for a few days.’
‘And Miss Bellamy?’
‘She went with them.’
Several seconds passed while the intruder pursed her lips as if deep in thought. ‘Is Mr Quinn with them?’ she asked eventually.
‘I have no idea, Miss Garner. Miss Bellamy’s mother and sister have decided to join them, so there’s no one here except me and the cat. I understand that Mr Quinn’s family is in America, so he may have gone there. Mrs Stone, Rosie and Miss Bellamy were touring in Kent, I believe.’
The visitor went on to explain that she was concerned about Rosie, as her grandmother was not in the best of health, while the child’s mother seemed to have sustained irreversible brain damage after her suicide attempt.
Joan opened the door fully. ‘Come in, please.’ She led the elegant female into Theo’s living room. ‘It’s been a dreadful time,’ Joan commented. ‘That murder, Sadie’s terrible condition, Maggie’s anaemia.’
Emily agreed. ‘The police seem to have abandoned the search for the murderer.’ She paused. ‘Miss Bellamy’s mother is the Isadora Bellamy, I understand. Richard Bellamy’s behaviour has been widely reported. When he’s released, this house will not be a safe place for little Rosie. She may have to go into the care of the local authority.’
Joan sat on her anger and on an easy chair, motioning with a hand until the interloper sat opposite her. ‘Maggie can take Rosie back to her own house.’
‘Is Mrs Stone well enough for that?’
‘Yes,’ Joan lied. ‘She has medication.’
‘Do you have a contact number, please?’
‘No.’ For a reason she could not discover, Joan didn’t like this young woman, and untruths came easily. ‘They’re moving about all the time. Miss Bellamy has a vehicle, so—’
‘That sports car?’
‘A large van,’ Joan answered almost snappily.
‘I see.’ Emily Garner rose gracefully. ‘Are you the cleaner?’
‘No. I was nanny to Portia, Cordelia and Juliet Bellamy. I am now companion and dresser to Isadora.’ It’s Thursday, Joan. It’s ten o’clock. By half past eleven, the first step will have been taken. Please, God, make it work. Rosie must not fall into the hands of people like this creature, ‘If you’ll excuse me, I must get on, Miss Garner.’
‘Of course. Thank you for your time.’
Alone once more, Joan Reynolds picked up Tyger. There was something comforting about the warmth and playfulness of a young animal. She remembered holding ‘her’ girls as newborns, as toddlers, as teenagers with all the accompanying angst and enthusiasms. ‘Because of you, I couldn’t be with my family today, Tyger.’ Juliet had travelled with her mother, and Joan missed their chatter. ‘But I don’t mind, puss-cat. Someone must look after you.’
She cleaned, had a cup of coffee, cleaned again, made a pot of tea and some toast. Every second seemed as long as a minute; every minute was an hour. Portia would be with her mother and her sisters now. Simon Heilberg had stayed in Liverpool, as had his father, though Simon was now almost fully recovered. ‘We are always parents, no matter how old our children,’ she told the purring feline. ‘Even parents by proxy feel the pain and the joy.’
It would be happening soon. She stroked the kitten. ‘Please, God,’ she breathed yet again. ‘Let the plan work for all of them, but especially for Rosie.’
A single tear made its way down a careworn cheek. She suddenly felt homesick for that draughty old house and for the fields and villages of Kent. A clock struck the hour. ‘Now,’ she whispered. ‘It’s happening now, little kitty.’
In a waiting room within the impressive civic complex of Canterbury, Maggie sat reading Rosie’s holiday diary. The little girl had cut pictures out of her ‘bro-chewers’, and one of them showed Canterbury Cathedral. Having viewed it at closer quarters this morning, Maggie had to admit that she had never seen a building so impressive.
The diary was an interesting mess, because Rosie had been generous with glue, and some pages clung together like lovers. ‘You’re going to be special, Rosie,’ Maggie whispered to the sticky item. She looked up and saw Tom and Nancy at the other end of the room. They were gazing through windows at the splendid city. They’d been for a walk and had returned completely bewitched by medieval lanes so narrow that people in opposing doorways could almost shake hands.
‘Nancy found a smashing wool shop,’ Tom had said.
Nancy You’re-Right Atherton’s answer? ‘You’re right, love. I’ve spent all my wool money, but I got a lovely four-ply in mauve.’
Maggie smiled to herself. Rosie, Izzy, Tia, Delia and Juliet were getting ready in the Pack Horse Inn. Everyone had to be smart today. Theo was already here. He’d gone into the inner chamber to await the arrival of the rest of the party and to meet officials in charge of this morning’s business.
Struggling with her granddaughter’s innovative spelling, Maggie read reports on the Kentish seaside. The motto of Broadstairs meant Star of the Sea. Punch and Judy were funny, but Punch hit everyone with a stick, and there was a real dog in the story and sausages, too. The sand was too hot to stand in without shoes. Running a hotel wasn’t easy – too much adding up and were there enough potatoes and how many towels had been stolen this month? Then there was all that carpet, loads of sweeping and bed-making and sand everywhere. Rosie Stone was going to be a doctor with a car and a nice house.
Deal made Maggie grin. She whispered the text in an effort to help decipher it. ‘We seen France across the water and another castle put in Deal by that fat bad king who cut heads off called Henry. There were lots of people and the water was clean with loads of fishing boats and a man mending nets with a bald head,’ she read aloud while trying not to giggle. Spelling and so forth would come later, she supposed. All Margate got was a reference to a ‘bewtifull’ clock tower and a real windmill. Ramsgate fared better with very blue water, hundreds more boats, lovely churches and a shop where Rosie had acquired a straw hat.
The latest page was wonderful. I met a Jerman lady and a Jerman man. They was dead nice and very sorry about the boms and intrestin cos their langwij is a relashun of Englich they told me and got me ice cream. Maggie smiled again. Rosie loved ice cream, so the spelling of it was perfect. Keep her safe, Lord. Sadie’s brain is wrecked, so what we’re doi
ng here has to work.
She squeezed Rosie’s diary into her new handbag. ‘Come on, Tom, Nancy. They’ve given us padded chairs through there.’
They entered the larger room where Theo was talking to two officials at a large table.
Tom stared at Maggie. ‘Is this what it looks like? Is this a—’
Maggie nodded. ‘Keep quiet,’ she said.
‘She’s right,’ Nancy whispered. ‘If it’s a meeting about Rosie, we’d best shut up.’ Without her knitting, she was bereft, so she fiddled with a string of glass beads at her throat. Would mauve suit Maggie? Should she have chosen the beige? What sort of questions were these Canterbury folk going to ask about Rosie and her terrible life in the house next door to hers and Tom’s?
The door opened. Portia Bellamy, radiant in ivory silk and carrying cream roses, walked in with her mother, who wore blue. The two sisters followed; even Delia had been forced to wear a skirt. Between them skipped little Rosie in a pink organza dress, pink shoes, pink gloves and carrying a pink bag. She grinned at her nana. ‘It was a secret,’ she announced audibly. ‘We didn’t know till today. I’m the bridesmaid and the rings are in my handbag. I’m in charge.’ She waved at her small audience. From her wrist dangled a ribbon holding pink rosebuds arranged in the shape of a small sphere.
Nancy finally realized what was happening and burst into tears. She had nothing to mop her face with, not even a bit of knitting. Tom thrust a handkerchief at her. ‘Don’t start,’ he whispered. ‘You’ll have us swimming out of here, love.’
Tom, Nancy and Maggie walked behind the party and sat near the front of the register office. Little Rosie was in her element, in her favourite colour from head to foot, and guardian of wedding rings. Even her socks were pink. This was the biggest and bestest part of her whole holiday, and she would write it in her holiday book later. Oh, and she must ask the bride how to un-stick stuck pages.
Theo watched as his girl walked towards him. She was so elegant, so poised, so . . . so top-drawer English. The fight was over, and she had won, of course. On the eve of their wedding, she had instigated a ritual in which he had been forced to partake. He now knew that the smell of burning French letters was not pleasant. She would have his children, and to hell with what anyone thought or said.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her. The dress had no adornments and needed none, as its simplicity celebrated her figure, her taste and her very essence. That wonderful hair was up and woven in swathes around ivory ribbon. Perfect skin, perfect face, her mother’s perfect pearls at her throat.
He swallowed nervously. Did he deserve this beautiful creature? Then he saw her beaming smile and knew that he did, because she had agreed gladly to marry him. Perhaps the wedding might not have happened just yet, but the ill-fated Maggie was going to join Isadora in the battle for the Quinns to become foster parents for Rosie. Sense did not preclude love; nor did love stand at a distance from sense.
‘Hi,’ the bride mouthed at him. ‘You look wonderful.’
He saw the child in pink, noticed Delia, rather angular but smart in light grey, Juliet with a white Juliet cap and in a pale yellow dress, his stunning soon-to-be mother-in-law beautiful in blue. Smiling back at Portia, Theo spoke loudly enough for all to hear. ‘And you are wonderful,’ he said.
This was the point at which Tom’s handkerchief went into overdrive. Nancy mopped up the flood and, right on cue, Isadora wept quietly into a lace-edged square after handing her precious daughter to Theo.
Rosie tutted softly. Why were they crying? They had nothing at all to cry about; they should try being responsible for two solid gold rings in a small handbag. She sighed and concentrated on the proceedings. Many people were silly, and most of the daftest were grown-ups. The world was strange sometimes, and she should have used less glue.
Sixteen
Maggie and Tom signed as witnesses to the marriage. Nancy was in too soggy a state to act as signatory; her writing might have been rather shaky and tear-stained, and she had no knitting to calm her nerves. The glass necklace had been twisted towards every point on the compass, and she had bitten one thumbnail almost to its quick. Tom’s handkerchief was in knots, as was Nancy’s poor stomach. In a strange place with no wool, no needles, and with no opportunity to tell people they were right, she was as lost as the Babes in the Wood. ‘Lovely couple,’ she muttered repeatedly while rocking to and fro.
Tom tried but failed to calm his wife; her nerves were getting on his nerves.
While Maggie carefully penned her name on the licence, bride and groom glanced at each other, both pairs of eyes glistening with unshed tears. There was a sad side to this happy day. It felt as if Maggie were bequeathing Rosie to them, even though they and she knew that there would be many miles of red tape to disentangle in the future. But there was one huge certainty: everyone in this wedding party loved the child.
However, there would be confusion at school, because a Mrs Quinn was going to teach reception class, while the Miss Bellamy who had been appointed to the post no longer existed. Theo and Tia had discussed the situation in depth, but they had always reached the same conclusion. Both were good teachers; both adhered to the principle that a happy child learned quickly and usually managed to extend to his full potential. Together, they might just be a force for the good, so she would not move to a different school, and the staff at Myrtle Street must get used to their hasty marriage.
Rosie was skipping about the register office like the Queen of the May, though this was July, and she wore no crown. She looked at portraits of dead dignitaries, mayors and aldermen, most with facial hair. She didn’t like beards and moustaches, so she went to examine the marriage certificate instead. ‘What’s a spinister?’ she asked Theo.
‘Spinster,’ he answered. ‘A woman who has never been married.’
Rosie looked at Tia. ‘But you are married. You just married Mr Quinn. I know, because I was the bridesmaid and that man there told us that you are husband and wife. And thank you for my outfit – it’s lovely.’
Tia laughed. ‘But I was a spinster when I came in.’
‘Oh. Was Mr Quinn a spinster?’
‘A bachelor.’
Rosie chewed her lip. ‘Did you spin, Miss . . . Mrs Quinn?’ She giggled. ‘That was like a little poem.’
Tia beamed at her. ‘No, but that’s where the word began, clever girl. Unmarried women stayed at home and spun wool or cotton, you see. Thank you for looking after the rings. You are a wonderful bridesmaid. Now, we’re going home to celebrate and eat.’
The child raised her eyebrows. ‘Liverpool home?’
Tia placed a hand on Rosie’s shining brown curls. ‘Kent home, sweetie. My home.’
‘Priest holes?’
‘Yes, if you can find them.’
Rosie swallowed. ‘Dark? Like coal sheds?’
‘No coal. And you don’t need to shut yourself in.’ The bride squatted down. ‘If priest holes frighten you, we won’t do the hide-and-seek game. Oh, and you and Nana will sleep in a real four-poster bed, but don’t play with the drapes, because they’re old and falling to bits. Tom and Nancy will borrow Lilac Cottage while Mrs Melia – she’s our cook – stays with you in the big house, and my mother will sleep at Bartle Hall, too, as will my sisters, though Delia will have to get back to London soon. It will be fun, I promise. Don’t be afraid.’ Surely the child would be safe from now on? Teddy would house Maggie and Rosie at Crompton Villa or at another of his houses in Wavertree or Belle Vale, so—
Theo interrupted Tia’s thoughts. ‘May I borrow my wife, Rosie? We have to go.’ He led the party out, noticing that Nancy made a beeline for the van and her knitting. It was as if she had spent her life making security blankets in many different colours, because knitting was her prop. He smiled. Thank God for women like Nancy, since they redress the balance somewhat. Here comes my bride. She’s lively and probably can’t knit or be shy. There’s going to be fun, and I am one lucky son of a gun.
At the pavement
’s edge, a decorated Rolls-Royce awaited the newly-weds. Everyone else would be driven to Chaddington Green by Delia, for whom the converted ambulance was a dream compared to the skiffle van. ‘Does it have luxuries like a second gear?’ she asked her new brother-in-law. ‘And brakes?’
‘Yes, it does.’
‘Don’t all vehicles have second gear?’ Tia asked.
‘Apparently not. Enjoy the drive,’ Theo said.
‘Oh, I shall.’ Delia clapped. ‘I’m sick of double-declutching down to first in Ariadne. We need a new van. One of these days, she’s going to die in the middle of a traffic jam. She overheats, too. Probably menopausal.’
Theo chuckled. ‘Stop moaning and I’ll think about giving you this one. Her name’s Lily-Mae, and yes, she was an ambulance in her previous life. So she’s built to last.’
Delia’s face lit up like Christmas, and she jumped up and down in the manner of an overgrown version of Rosie. ‘You’re a prince, Theo,’ she exclaimed before kissing his cheek. She climbed into the vehicle. ‘Wagons roll,’ she shouted before closing the door.
Theo held his wife’s hand. ‘Delia’s lovely when she smiles, isn’t she?’
Tia paused on her way to the car. ‘She has a fabulous brain, too, starts at Imperial College London in October. Chemistry, I believe, but she won’t give up the drums. At the age of ninety, she’ll probably still be clattering about on her instruments even if she’s in a wheelchair.’
Delia blew him a kiss and waved a cheeky hand.
Theo shook his head. Would he ever get used to this multi-faceted family? A family. At last, he had a whole new nest of strong women, a sturdy structure into which he could lean for support. They all knew his history – well, most did. Richard Bellamy, who knew little or nothing, was currently on bail and living where the police and magistrates had parked him pending his appearance in Crown Court. When he finally found out that Portia had married a man of mixed race . . . The groom put a stop to that train of thought and helped his wife into the Rolls. He picked up the hem of her long skirt and swept it away from the door. ‘You look terrific,’ he told her.
Meet Me at the Pier Head Page 34