by Roma Tearne
Then.
‘We’ve two kids,’ he said. ‘Two boys. Grand lads. Look.’
He held out another photograph, less creased, this one.
Small children,
young woman,
Bellamy.
Smiling up at the sunlight. Pride in his voice, brimming over like a net full of catch.
Things fell easily into place after that and Cecily remembered him with sharp clarity. Back-door begging, Cook had called it. She hadn’t wanted him there. She didn’t want caravan people working in Palmyra Farm, let alone coming up to the house.
‘Gipsies!’ she had said. ‘Tinkers! They’re all trouble, aren’t they, Mrs Maudsley?’
Bellamy’s face had darkened.
‘I was her real love,’ he said now, regret tucked discreetly out of sight.
‘Touch of the tar brush there,’ Cecily had heard Partridge say. ‘Your sister’s friend!’
Cecily hadn’t known what he meant.
Then.
‘Nonsense,’ Selwyn had said coming in, holding his hand up against Cook’s tirade.
Selwyn had been Bellamy’s champion in those days. No one knew why and behind Selwyn’s back Bellamy used to make rude gestures at Cook. He’d wink at Cecily before going in search of Rose.
‘Ah Rose! Rose!’ he said now.
Leaving what was best left unsaid.
‘His mother’s a good woman,’ Selwyn used to say, ‘She has a very hard time of it. And please stop calling them gipsies. They’re nothing of the sort.’
Liberal, upright Selwyn. Always for the underdog.
What changed you, wondered the adult Cecily.
What confusion led you astray?
Was it anger over the way your brother died?
Was it Kitty?
Was it in the end just the old story of a misguided man led astray by a woman?
Was there nothing more to it than that?
Weak, desperate Selwyn, she thought.
Now.
‘There’s enough prejudice in the world, already,’ she remembered her father had said. ‘Besides which, we’ll all be pulling against each other soon enough.’
‘Your father is a socialist,’ Agnes had told Cecily, after she had grown up. After it was all too late.
‘He’s before his time.’
Social List, thought Cecily, out of habit.
On August the 23rd the pact between Germany and Russia was agreed.
From Berlin, The Times correspondent noted that ordinary Germans felt that now at last they could do as they pleased and nobody would dare fight them.
‘The war will make equals of us all,’ Selwyn announced.
‘Not during it,’ Agnes said. ‘After, maybe.’
‘Oh after,’ Selwyn said carelessly, as though ‘after’ hadn’t mattered.
‘But there isn’t going to be one,’ Cecily reminded them.
‘With any luck,’ Selwyn agreed.
And then he had hired Bellamy, as he always did, to help with the harvest.
We all paid a price, Cecily thought, staring up at this thick set, middle-aged man. Bellamy had hated Tom from the very beginning.
‘You’re not his friend,’ he had told her that day long ago. ‘He’s soft in the head.’
‘He’s not,’ Cecily said and Bellamy had scowled.
‘Know something I don’t?’
There had been a fight in the orchard, she remembered. Captain Pinky had been present. What had he been talking about? It had been hot, of course. They had been watching a field mouse sitting on the stone wall, eating a grain of corn. It washed its face, and vanished and only the bees in clover remained.
That Monday they had planned to visit the ice-cream parlour again, not caring about Berlin. Apart from spying, Tom’s other obsession was ice cream. On the way whom should they meet but Captain Pinky? Up to no good, they had felt. Wearing a straw boater and looking as though he was going to the beach.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘Have one on me.’
And he had handed Tom that sixpence.
‘Tell me how many Italians you see when you’re there. Remember I’m doing a survey for the town census.’
‘Thank you,’ Tom said.
‘Can I count the people too?’ Cecily asked.
‘Of course.’
But he hadn’t given her anything and she had been miffed. But before she could question the unfairness, there had been a rustling in the bushes and Bellamy appeared. Hot, bothered, ready for a fight.
‘Hello,’ Captain Pinky said. ‘Spying on us, are you?’
‘You’re the rotten spy,’ Bellamy had said, coolly. ‘As you well know.’
Had they been on different sides? Cecily wondered now, amazed.
Bit late to ask that! said the voices.
‘Now look here, old chap,’ Captain Pinky said, still smiling.
The smile, Cecily saw, was a little overstretched.
‘And I saw you giving them money. Bribery, it is.’
For a moment Cecily felt a twinge of excitement.
‘You silly boy,’ Captain Pinky said, swinging his voice around. ‘I’m working for the British Government to protect the British people.’
It would have all been fine if Tom hadn’t laughed at Bellamy.
For a split second Bellamy looked confused. Then he turned slowly and with no warning, lunged out at Tom. Tom was caught off guard.
Legs flailing, moments later, both boys on the ground with Bellamy on top, and Cecily shouting at them to stop.
‘Keep out of this,’ Bellamy snarled and he punched Tom in the face.
Everyone was yelling.
Then Captain Pinky joined in the fray and tried to separate the villains but Cecily was in the way and a kick, aimed by Tom at the tinker’s son, landed on her head, sending her flying over the boys’ grunts into the dry abyss of thistles. And stones and cowpats. It was a rugger-mugger sort of scrum until Pinky Wilson saved the day with a swift, neat tackle, separating the boys while holding on to both.
Grimly.
Tom spat out blood.
Bellamy, saliva.
‘Look what you’ve done,’ he cried in fury. ‘Cecily’s bleeding.’
Captain Pinky grabbed hold of Bellamy, stopping him in mid-flight.
(Where d’you think you’re going young man?)
Tom stood limply beside Cecily who, even though her face was cut, was enjoying it all very much.
‘You’ve gashed your forehead,’ Tom said, peering at her with horrified fascination.
They all looked at her.
‘It’s colossally deep. It’s sort of white inside – I say! I think you’ve cut yourself to the bone!’
Cecily felt sick, but rather thrilled all the same. Who wouldn’t? It was pretty important to have cut yourself to the bone. She could not feel any acute pain as yet, only the bruised ache where her whole face had hit the ground. It was gratifying to have something to show for it. Instantly Tom rose sublimely to the occasion, tearing a strip off the bottom of his shirt.
‘No, no, wait,’ Pinky said. ‘I think we should take you back to the house, Cecily.’
But Tom was already binding the cloth untidily round her head.
‘The blood’s coming through…’
He sounded rather scared.
Captain P picked Cecily up easily and strode back to the house. Tom, a hero, trotting anxiously behind. They had forgotten about Bellamy, who disappeared as swiftly as one of his ferrets.
‘Cecily’s cut herself to the bone,’ Tom announced before Captain P could stop him.
Cook and Agnes stared and Carlo, sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for Rose, stood up in alarm. The sight of Carlo had turned on the tap of tears behind Cecily’s eyes. The cloth was blood-soaked and very gory. Everyone made a hell of a fuss. Carlo took her face in his hands and kissed it, gently. Sweetly. As if she were his little sister. And this made her cry more.
‘Poor little Cecci,’ Carlo said, wiping her eyes.
> Cecily cried all the harder.
Bellamy’s part in the events was discussed. Tom took his share of the blame manfully but Captain Pinky would have none of that. He explained everything first to Agnes and then to Cook and then later on once more to Kitty. He never once blamed either party more than the other, which was clever of him although Cook kept muttering about gipsies.
‘Where’s the wretched boy?’ Agnes asked.
She would have to tell Selwyn that this would not do. But where was Selwyn when he was needed?
‘I’ll find him,’ Tom said and ran out.
‘I’ll phone for the doctor,’ Cook was putting water to boil. The doctor would want to sterilise the wound.
Doctor Denys, stitching stitches into Cecily’s forehead as though he were a tailor, promised no more than a tiny scar.
‘That’s very important for you young ladies,’ he said.
‘What is?’ asked Rose drifting in, interested in Cecily for a change, thus making it a very interesting day, all round.
But later it was Rose, quietly and alone, who defended Bellamy when a first-class row broke out between Agnes and Selwyn.
That had been Bellamy then. Now he had his own fishing fleet. And a wife and two grand lads.
He stood watching Cecily as she remembered. Perhaps he was remembering different things. How Rose’s death had been made into quite a story by the newspapers, relieved to have something besides the war to write about. They had called it a Tragedy with Sex and Betrayal. Followed by Death. No one had asked his opinion. No one had asked if he had known the Victim. Or the Perpetrator. Or even if there had been any Collateral Damage. Staring down at Cecily’s beautiful, empty face, these might have been the things Bellamy was remembering.
‘The boys are doing well at school,’ he said, using words to hide behind.
Standing with her feet sinking into the beach, Cecily listened without hearing.
‘I don’t want them to work the sea, or live in a caravan. I want them to be respected. To study, to get good jobs.’
Cecily wondered what his wife was like. As if he heard her thoughts, Bellamy smiled.
‘You must come over,’ he said. ‘Meet the missus. She’s like you!’
There was another heavy silence and Bellamy took a further step backwards.
‘Tide’s out,’ he told her, uneasily. You staying up at the house?’
Cecily nodded.
‘Oh, okay,’ he smiled, again. ‘Come over.’
And he took something out of his pocket and pushed it into her hand.
‘I heard you were about,’ he said apologetically. ‘So I fetched it.’
Cecily was silent. Then he turned and hurried off, his footsteps becoming fainter as he walked away. When he reached the pile of nets, he turned and shouted something, waving his hand. Cecily shook her head, not understanding, but he had turned away again. He was whistling. The sound of it threw itself backwards towards her.
A tune from long ago,
A rainbow that had vanished.
Walking quickly back towards Palmyra House (she was too shaken to stay out any longer) Cecily realised what it was he’d said.
‘The quack was right,’ Bellamy had said. ‘It is only a tiny scar!’
Opening the front door with her right hand, she saw what he had put into her left hand. Her mind was a blank, her body trembling.
‘Time for another pill, perhaps,’ she said, aloud.
How many more years could she go on living in this way? I’ll make a cup of tea, she thought, sitting down, confused, at the kitchen table. No one had sat here in years. The black and white photograph was of Rose. And Cecily. It wasn’t large. There was nothing unusual about it. The black wasn’t very black and the white was creased and unshiny. But Rose was smiling and so was Cecily. Someone had scratched away the face of the boy standing next to Cecily. She could tell from his legs and how he stood that the figure was that of Bellamy. The white scratches over his face had almost gone through to the other side. Hate marked the image with vigour and something inside Cecily shivered. It had not been what she had expected but then she saw, faintly in the background, the figure of Robert Pinky Wilson, one foot in front of the other, trying to walk out of shot. Cigarette-tapping Pinky Wilson, blurred features, still recognisable. While walking towards them from the spinney, a fleeting glimpse of polka-dotted Agnes, out of shot but for her hem. And was that Lucio behind her? What on earth had they all been doing on that day, twenty-nine years ago? With the sun so high that no one noticed these things, they could only be seen with hindsight.
That day, when Franca, wearing her pastel pink dress, could no longer hide her feelings for Joe, and when Joe (who wasn’t even in the picture) plucked up the courage to tell her he loved her.
That day, or was it before, or even after the tennis court party, when Carlo told Cecily she was so tall now that she came up to his heart.
When the hoardings appearing all over England bore the slogan, ‘What Price Churchill?’ as though he was being auctioned off.
Going, going, gone, like the day itself.
Time running away like a shrew over a shoe.
Time running out like the tide.
Only three weeks before she died.
Rose Maudsley.
A Thing of Beauty.
Breaths of Heaven.
A living, breathing girl with a toothache smile.
Caused by eating too much ice cream.
15.
IN THE PANTRY in Palmyra House, there remained a solitary jar of Agnes’ plum jam gathering dust on a shelf. The hand that bottled it was long gone. Cecily stared at the writing. August 23rd 1939. Was it edible?
For some reason the sight of the jar brought Carlo to mind, sleeves rolled up, eating a piece of freshly baked bread. Jam oozing out, warm butter from the churn, Cook cross with everyone as usual, except of course Carlo.
Agnes had agreed to go up to London but she needed to finish bottling the yellow plums first. She felt harassed and wondered if she could really spare the time. It was Wednesday now. Six days to harvest, ten to the party, how many to a war? The thermometer was a steady eighty-five and the wireless was on again.
World shocked by Berlin-Moscow pact.
Lucio had important business in London and had offered Agnes a lift.
‘What sort of business?’ Pinky Wilson asked, popping in for a cup of tea and his usual morning chat.
Oblivious to Cook’s heavy sniffing.
Friendly gossip was what he called these chats.
Snooping was what Cook called it.
‘Oh, he edits a small newspaper,’ Agnes said. ‘For homesick Italians.’
Agnes had developed a song in her heart and her dimple had come out of hibernation.
‘Ah,’ said Pinky Wilson in what Cecily felt was a significant way.
Captain P was being as nosy as Tom.
‘Can I come?’ Cecily asked, after that man, had gone.
Her mother ignored her and it occurred to Cecily that everyone was cross these days.
‘When will you be back?’ she asked. ‘It will be a dismal day until you return.’
Agnes, who wasn’t in the least bit cross, laughed and laughed.
‘I’ll be back tomorrow,’ she said, ‘and if you are good and don’t fight with Rose I’ll bring you a present.’
Cecily opened her mouth to speak but her sister’s expression made her forget what she wanted to say.
‘It isn’t fair,’ Rose said, in a sotto voce sulk. ‘I want to go to London too. I hate this place. I shall die of boredom!’
Shocking liar, thought Cecily. From the way her hair was done, it was clear Rose had plenty of plans of her own for the evening.
Agnes was behaving like a dove released from a cage, and Tom was showing off again.
‘Britain doesn’t hate Germany,’ he said.
Cecily wanted to hit him.
‘True,’ Joe agreed. ‘All this talk of encirclement is nonsense. No one wants war
with the Germans!’
‘Then why are you going?’ Cecily asked.
‘I’m not, not really. Just preparing, as a precaution.’
Rose wasn’t listening.
On the news it was announced that the Imperial War Museum was closing. Tomorrow all its works of art would be evacuated.
Lucio was feeling harassed too. Aware that the presence of Fascist Italians in Britain could become a big problem, he wanted to nose out the trouble in advance. He could not confide in anyone in his family. Only his nephew Carlo cared about what was going on behind the scenes. In Lucio’s opinion, Carlo was the brightest Molinello of them all. He read all the Italian newspapers that Lucio brought home and helped distribute il Lotto amongst the Italian community. Sometimes he even attended events at the social club in Clerkenwell where, during innocent conversations with the children of friends, he gleaned pieces of information that might one day be important in ensuring the safety of the Italian community. So Lucio was proud of his nephew. Normally he would have taken Carlo with him on the trip but on this occasion he could not. This time he would have Agnes in the car with him.
‘It isn’t safe,’ he told Carlo, ‘something is bound to come out in conversation.’
Agnes was an innocent bystander, Lucio didn’t want to endanger her in any way. If she accidentally repeated some small thing to Anna they could all be put in danger.
‘In any case,’ Lucio said, pulling a face, ‘your father would have a fit if he knew what you got up to!’
Carlo had been ready to tail Robert Wilson. He had followed the man skilfully once before without being noticed. He was undoubtedly a natural. But now the plan, made many days before, would have to be abandoned. Carlo was bitterly disappointed.
Lucio had been keeping an eye on the Wilson man for some months, following him on his trips up to London. His presence at Palmyra House, his friendship with first Agnes and then Kitty, his gifts to the young girls, all these things worried Lucio for, through a network of contacts, he had found out that Robert Wilson was not the man he said he was. His boss was not Sir Dudley Stamp of the Land Utilisation Survey. His boss was Lord Halifax and possibly even the Prime Minister himself. These were rumours that Lucio desperately needed to investigate. He didn’t want to alarm anyone but his unease was growing.
