Hold My Hand

by Serena Mackesy

  “Well, if you want to… I'm sure she'll be pleased.”

  “Course she will. Never underestimate the materialism of a child.”

  “Oh, sorry,” says Bridget. “Mark's shouting. Got to go.”

  “Mark, is it?” teases Carol.

  “Shyattap,” says Bridget, but she sounds pleased. Entertained. Far, far happier than Carol can remember her sounding over they years they've known each other. “I'll talk to you soon. Call me and let me know how it went, won't you? I'll be wanting to know.”

  “Willdo. Don't wait by the phone, though. I'm not going to be getting a tri-band phone 'til next month at least. Got to save the pennies for a bit. And I won't be at home in civilised hours practically at all. But you'll text me that number, won't you?”

  “Right away. Bye.”

  “Byeeee!” calls Carol. Lets the phone fall shut with a click. Drops it back into her bag. Turns in through the hedge, and climbs the steps to her front door. Her keys, as usual, have worked their way to the bottom of the bag. She pauses, rummages while she hums the theme to Happy Days in her rich alto. Finds the fob and fetches them out as the phone bleeps to let her know she's received a text message.

  Doesn't notice, for a few moments, that someone is standing behind her.

  Jumps, whirls round, brandishing the keys.

  “Hello, Carol,” he says. “Been shopping?”

  Chapter Forty-three

  Mrs Peachment has to sit on the trunk, in the end, to get it to close, straining herself purple to tighten the leather straps. She is astounded that she has managed to distil her life into a single steamer trunk; it has been a labour of weeks, weeding out clothes and keepsakes, poring over photographs she may never see again, ironing everything as flat as flat so it takes up the least amount of space. There is so much she has had to leave behind. Ornaments and gramophone records, curtains and coverlets she thought she'd never have to live without. By the time she sees them again – if she sees them again – they will have faded with time and Cornish sunshine, will not be the same familiar objects. They will have had another life entirely.

  I'm in two minds. This war so saps one's vitality: the uncertainty, the constant sense that life as one knows is about to come to an end. Life will be pleasanter, less afraid-making, in Canada, though the fear for Malcolm, for the boys, will never go, however far I run. But oh, the eyes of my neighbours. I am a coward, a rat deserting a sinking ship: they may never forgive me for this. That's why I'm doing this midnight flit, telling nobody hereabouts, simply fading away into the crowds and leaving a handful of letters behind me. And at least I've got a legitimate excuse. No-one can say I shouldn't go and look after my poor little nieces, for heaven's sake. I didn't ask my sister to go swimming in the north Atlantic, did I?

  Should I go? Should I really take this opportunity, risk the cold Atlantic with its lurking dangers, to seek out the land of milk and honey, when my neighbours are living a life of drudgery and marrow jam?

  I'll send food parcels. Constantly. Hams and biscuits and maple sugar. I don't doubt anyone would do what I'm doing, if they had relations to sponsor them, let alone children in need. I've done my bit. Taken my part in the war effort. Organised rag drives and scrap drives and blackout patrols, coaxed and chivvied people into opening their homes, in the face, often, of the most obdurate unwillingness. It's someone else's turn. I'm tired.

  She gives the strap another tug. A cup of tea, she thinks. A nice cup of Earl Grey. I've still some left. I'll leave it for Patsy when she arrives to take the house over; she'll be glad of it.

  The telephone, sounding out through the house, jerks her from her reverie. “Bother,” she says out loud, to no-one, and hurries from the landing where she has been packing to the hall, where it stands on a Victorian whatnot she inherited from an aunt.

  “Meneglos 34.”

  “Take her away! Take her away now!"

  The voice, a woman's, is distorted by its own volume. It takes her a moment to work out what the shouter is saying.

  “Hello? Excuse me?”

  “I want her gone! Now! Do you hear me? Just come and take her away!”

  “Who is this?”

  There's a brief silence, as though her interlocutor is stunned at not being recognised. “Felicity Blakemore, you idiot! Who on earth did you think?”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs Blakemore,” says Margaret Peachment, calmly. Another sixteen hours, and she will never have to cope with this woman and her high-handed approach to her neighbours again. Another twenty-four, and she will be embarking from Portsmouth docks, her trunk stowed and a whole new life ahead of her. “Are you having some sort of problem?”

  “I want you to come here and take the filthy brat away this instant! I won't have her in the house a moment longer!”

  “Who are you talking about, Mrs Blakemore?”

  She knows perfectly well. There is only one refugee left at Rospetroc. She regrets, sharply, that she didn't take the time to get another half-dozen in situ before she hands over the reins to the coordinator in St Austell tomorrow. It would have been an enjoyable revenge.

  “You know exactly who I'm talking about! Don't even try to pretend you don't!”

  “Um…” she says, sounds vague and distracted, relishes the infuriation which beams down the line. “I have lots of people under my care, I'm afraid, Mrs Blakemore, not just you. You'll have to remind me.”

  A gasp of frustration. Mrs Peachment fails to suppress a smile. Twiddles the string of pearls inside the collar of her blouse.

  “Lily – Rickett –”

  “Lily… Lily… let's see… Ah, yes, I remember. And how is Lily getting on?”

  The voice rises to a shriek. “SHE… HAS… BEEN… EXPELLED… FROM… THE… SCHOOL! I cannot bear her here for one moment longer! She's been a complete menace since the end of the Summer holidays, nothing but impertinence and sullenness. She threw an andiron at Hughie's head and very nearly brained him. She slapped my daughter, twice. I get nothing but lip and rebellion, it's enough to try the patience of a saint, and now even the school won't keep her. Mrs Peachment, she set fire to the school. I cannot have her here a moment longer. I won't be able to sleep safely in my own bed!”

  “Set fire to the school?”

  “Yes! This afternoon!”

  I passed the school no more than an hour ago. I didn't see any sign of a fire. “Are you sure?”

  “Are you stupid? Of course I'm sure.”

  “Well, there's no need to take that tone,” she says.

  “There is every reason to take this tone! You will sort out the mess you have created, Mrs Peachment, or… or…”

  “Or what?” she can't keep the sneer out of her voice.

  “I'll… the relevant authorities… Your superiors. You're not as important as you think you are, Mrs Peachment.”

  It is her turn to gasp. “Well, I never –”

  “I know all about people like you,” continues Felicity Blakemore. “Puffed up with your own authority. Using this war to play your petty little power games. Well, I'm not having it. Do you hear me?”

  An idea is forming in Mrs Peachment's mind. No-one speaks to me like that, she thinks. I've worked my finger to the bone for this village, and she cannot speak to me like that. I'll cook her goose. The child's mother hasn't been heard of in four months. Women like that often disappear, when they find the opportunity. She's not going home any time soon.

  “Well, it's not as simple as you seem to think,” she replies. “I can't just remove a child in an instant. There's another home to find, paperwork to do… there is a war on, you know.”

  “I don't care. I've had enough. I've put up with her for over six months, now, and I won't put up with it for one day longer.”

  “Sorry about that,” says Mrs Peachment. Gloatingly.

  “I'm telling you, Mrs Peachment. I'm not asking. I'm telling you. If you haven't come and fetched her away by this time tomorrow, I'm putting her in the car and dumping her on your door
step. Do you understand me?”

  “Well, I hear what you're saying,” she says.

  “Do. You. Understand. Me?”

  “Oh, yes,” says Margaret Peachment. “I understand you very well.”

  A click, and Mrs Blakemore is gone.

  Margaret Peachment dabs at her temple with a small handkerchief which she has doused with the last of her eau de Cologne. Stands for a moment in the hall, fingers the tassels on the small lace tablecloth that protects the whatnot from being scratched by the telephone.

  “Well, we'll see about that,” she says, out loud.

  On the kitchen table, the refugee files wait, neatly bundled up with string, for the area overseer to collect when he receives his letter. He's a busy man, running the bank in St Austell by day and covering a huge area of the county by night; it will probably take him weeks to make his way over to Meneglos. Mrs Peachment fills the kettle, puts it on the hob for her nice cup of tea. Collects the scissors from the drawer by the sink, and returns to the table.

  “Yes,” she says. “We'll see about that.” Cuts the string.

  It doesn't take long to locate the Rickett papers. She's always been proud of the efficiency with which she has kept her records. And it'll stand me in good stead now, she thinks. Far harder to believe that someone's made a mistake when their punctiliousness is so clear for all to see.

  She holds Lily Rickett's life between thumb and index finger. Turns it over, studies it. Not much to it, she thinks: just two forms and an already-fading photograph. There will be duplicates, buried deep among hundreds of thousands in a ministry somewhere. It will be spring at least before they are located. A lesson learned for Felicity Blakemore.

  One of the world's unwanted children, not actually an orphan but as near as damnit. No-one's going to come asking for her, I can be fairly sure of that.

  The child glares sullenly at her, dirty face and gooseberry eyes. No, she thinks. No-one's going to miss you.

  The kettle starts to sing. Margaret Peachment goes to the stove to take it off the heat, and collects the box of matches on her way.

  Chapter Forty-four

  “Bridget?”

  “Yuh?”

  “I think I'm done here.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Well, in as far as you're not going to have everything trip every time you plug in the food mixer.”

  “Really?”

  “No,” says Mark, “I'm just saying it to wind you up.”

  She reaches the top of the stairs. “I love you and want to have your babies,” she says. “Can we try it out?”

  “Be my guest. What did you have in mind?”

  “Um… tell you what, how about I boil the kettle and run the hairdryer at the same time?”

  Mark spreads his arms wide. “Bring it on. Is that all you've got to throw at me?”

  “Oven as well?”

  “Chickenfeed.”

  All right. I'll see your oven, kettle and hairdryer and raise you a fan heater.”

  “Done,” he says.

  He comes up to the flat, stands in the corridor while she bustles about switching things on. I'm going to miss him, she thinks. Not just the company around the house, but him himself. He's a nice guy: it feels right, somehow, having him standing there with his sleeves rolled up and his hands on his hips. As though he belongs here.

  She comes back into the hallway and stands there by the light switch, looking at him. He's a nice-looking guy. There's no getting away from it. Not just in the fact that he's well put together, but in the way he is. When he smiles, you want to smile too. You can't help it. He's just one of those people.

  She gives him a high five. “You are a genius,” she says. “I will love you forever for this.”

  Mark grins. He's twinkling at me. My God, he's definitely twinkling.

  “Well, at least your friend can come down and not get the willies put up her.”

  Bridget laughs, because his phrasing is far more appropriate to Carol than he knows. “I think she might be a bit disappointed by that.”

  He frowns, then that big smile comes bursting from his face again. “Well, you call her and tell her I said so.”

  “I will, as soon as I can get hold of her. She's in the States, I think. Or Canada. Or sunning herself on some Caribbean beach between flights. Her phone's not picking up, anyway. She'll be pleased to hear about it, though. She's been bothered about the two of us, here with no lights.”

  “Me too,” says Mark. Pauses. Looks slightly embarrassed, then bustles on. “Right, well. I'd better be off, anyway. Tina'll be up with Yasmin later, if that's okay.”

  “It's more than okay. I just wish there was something I could do to pay you all back, that's all. I owe you such a lot, between the two of you.”

  “Bollocks,” says Mark, walking away. Turns, one hand on the newel post at the top of the stairs, as though caught by an afterthought, and says: “tell you what. If you want, you can let me buy you a drink.”

  “I think it's me that owes you several,” she says. “I should think I owe you a gallon of scrumpy, at least. How about tomorrow night? I'll see you in the pub?”

  Mark scratches his ear, looks awkward. Can't bring himself to meet her eye.

  “Well, actually, I was wondering if maybe we couldn't do it just you and me,” he says. “You know, a bit further afield.”

  Heat courses through her. A date. He's asking me on a date.

  She feels the rush of panic. I can't. I can't. It's been no time at all. I can't – he's – I swore I wouldn't trust a man again…

  Mark doesn't need her to speak to know what her answer's going to be. Churns with discomfort and disappointment, as she struggles and stammers in front of him. This is awful. I've blown it, completely. I shouldn't have. It's not like I'm in practice. I haven't asked anyone out since Linda, and I've blown it on the first try.

  “Don't,” he says, “it's okay. The pub'll be fine. We'll all go out. With Tina and the others, sometime.”

  She finds her voice. “I'm sorry,” she stutters. “I'm really sorry. It's just – I don't know if I – I'm still not used to, you know…”

  Her voice trails away and she stares at her feet.

  “It's okay,” says Mark. He's longing to get out of there, now, to flee the awkwardness that has descended between them. “Look, I'll get out of your hair.”

  “I – look, Mark, it's not that I…”

  “Don't worry,” he lies, “I'm not offended.”

  “It – I – you know about… and I'm not ready. I'm just not ready.”

  Shut up, shut up, shut up, Bridget. You're just making it worse.

  Mark lingers for a second, looks as though he can't make up his mind. Takes two steps down the stairs, turns back.

  “Bridget,” he says, “we've all been hurt. One way or another. There's not one of us has got this far without something bad having happened. Anybody who hasn't probably isn't worth talking to. That's all. I'm not going to say anything else. But one day we've all got to let the past be the past. 'Cause if we don't, it'll rule our lives forever.”

  Chapter Forty-five

  Kieran pauses for a moment before he goes up and checks his reflection in the plate-glass window of the bookies below the office. He's waited a whole week for the scratches to die down, and his skin looks almost normal now. Like it could have been a cat, or a bramble or something. It is essential that I remain absolutely chill, he thinks. I'm so close now, and this guy has to be on my side.

  Oh, Bridget, you're going to get yours. You're so going to get yours.

  He brushes his fringe to one side, floppy-style, turns up the collar of his jacket against the cold. Kieran's gone out and bought some nice-guy gear, specially; an Aran sweater and a canvas coat and a nice fake-cashmere scarf: Daddish clothes. All-I-want-to-do-is-take-my-kid-to-the-zoo clothes. I-do-DIY clothes. He looks the part. So much so that it's almost giving him a hard-on. Satisfied, he throws his cigarette into the gutter and presses on the buzzer. Wait
s for a moment and announces himself. Goes in.

  “How are you?” asks Steve Holden, getting up from his desk.

  “I'm okay,” says Kieran, shaking his hand. “Do you have any news for me?”

  “As a matter of fact,” says Steve, “I do. Piece of cake, as it goes.”

  Kieran sits down, tries to look hopeful, emotional, decent.

  “Oh, God,” he says. “Have you found them? Yasmin…”

  “Well, I think we're certainly on our way, now. It was a good thing, you managing to get hold of that number like that. Decent of your friend. You can never tell, can you?”

  Didn't take much, in the end, thinks Kieran. I wouldn't say decent. She fought quite a lot, as it goes, but of course, she fought like a woman. Still. She won't be interfering again, anyway.

  “So…?”

  Yes. Well, obviously I can't tell you my sources, but let's just say I have friends in retail. That's the thing, you see. Some computer records are easier to access than others.”

  Blah blah blah, thinks Kieran. Get on with it.

  He arranges his features into an expression of polite curiosity tinged with admiration. I suppose I have to give him this. The kind of person who goes into this sort of job is bound to be the sort of pub smartarse who likes to show you his workings.

  “Your phone records, see, the bills and the where-you're-calling-from, they're part of the highly-confidential list. The phone companies are governed by all sorts of rules, like the banks. Believe it or not, they still vet their employees and keep an eye on what they get up to. Now, you can get hold of those… if you're a policeman. If you get the paperwork done and get permission. But your common Joe, he needs passwords and security questions, even if he's working in the company itself. Even if he's in customer relations.”

  “Ooo-kay,” says Kieran, trying not to sound impatient, trying to sound like all of this is completely new to him. Rocket science. That's what it is, he thinks. At least, that's what this guy thinks it is, anyway.