“Orright,” I growled. “I – mean, right.”
He held out his hand. “Goodbye then, Olivia. Nice doin’ business wiv you. Only do us a favour, eh? Give us a day’s grace before you go an’ spill the beans?”
I stared at him. “Well now, how on earth am I supposed to do that,” I said slowly, looking at his outstretched hand. “They’ll be back here tomorrow morning, Mac, first thing. You heard him say so yourself.”
“Ah, but not to speak to you, luv, to us. You could make yourself scarce for the day, couldn’t you? Not be there when they bang at the door? Have a pressin’ engagement?”
I could feel Lance’s eyes on me too now. I licked my lips. Could feel myself wavering for a moment. “Well, I suppose…I could try, but – ”
“Good girl,” he beamed. “You’re all right, Olivia. You’re straight and you mean what you say. I like that.” He offered his hand again and this time I shook it, albeit gingerly.
“Yes, but listen, Mac,” I said nervously, “I said I’ll try, that’s all. I’m not promising anything. I mean – I might not be able to get away, it may not be poss – ”
“Oooh, you’ll do just fine, luv, believe me. I knew I could count on you. Knew you wouldn’t let us down.”
“Well I – ”
“Arrivederci then,” he said briskly, giving a mock tug of his forelock and turning smartly on his heels. Lance fell in quickly behind him.
I watched, somewhat slack-jawed, as they went quickly back to the caravan, disappeared inside, and then I saw the door slam behind them. I stood for a moment, my mind racing, but with a nasty sickly feeling in my stomach, too. Finally I turned myself, walked slowly over the bridge, and on up the lawn to the house.
Dusk was falling fast now, and the fireflies were doing a last frantic dance in the low, flickering light. My own head was dancing fairly frantically too, and as I ducked under the blossoms of Madame Hardy covering the arbour, I realised, with a sudden start of horror, that Mac had very subtly turned the tables on me there. With his steely blue eyes upon me I’d promised – What exactly had I promised? I stopped still. To disappear for twelve hours so as not to blow their cover while Mac slipped the country? Good God! My hand shot out and clutched the wooden arbour, crushing petals, feeling thorns. Oh Lord, Olivia, that’s – that’s tantamount to harbouring criminals, isn’t it? Or at least aiding and abetting them? Well, it was certainly something dodgy, I wasn’t sure what, but on the other hand what else was I to do? I turned, gazed back at the caravan door. I’d more or less given my word, shaken hands even, and I’d feel such a heel shopping them first thing tomorrow, I’d – Well, I’d be a grass or something terrible, wouldn’t I?
I chewed my lower lip nervously. Should I go back and tell Mac I couldn’t do it? Couldn’t go through with it? I wasn’t altogether sure I could face those piercing blue eyes upon me again, though. Oh God, I thought, raking a hand through my hair, if only I wasn’t so thoroughly on my own here! I just longed to talk to someone about this, longed not to be so flaming independent, so very solitary, longed to wail, “Help!” I’m caught up in a murder inquiry here. What the hell should I do? What would you do? It struck me, in a flash, that Imo was literally only over the road; dear, smart, sensible Imo. Should I dash over and bend her ear? I blinked. What, in the middle of a smart cocktail party, Olivia? Muscle your way through the rattling jewellery and the clinking champagne glasses to tug at her sleeve, hiss in her ear? And what would she say? Well, you know damn well what she’d say: she’d say go to the police right now, of course she would! And Sebastian? I took a deep breath. No. No, I mustn’t even think about Sebastian. That way madness lay, and I certainly mustn’t involve him in this. Molly and Hugh I’d love to speak to, but they were both caught up with Millicent and the baby, and although they were both woolly-minded liberals I had a nasty feeling that even they might point me in the direction of the police station. In fact, anyone who didn’t know these boys, who hadn’t heard their story, who hadn’t seen Mac’s eyes fill up with tears just now, and who hadn’t seen Lance’s white, scared face, would say just the same. But I had. I had heard them, and I had seen them, and I knew Alf and I knew he wouldn’t hurt a fly, and d’you know, I just…couldn’t do it.
I turned back and walked quickly inside, perching on the first convenient chair that came to hand, just inside the French windows. I bit my thumbnail furiously for a moment, then got up and lit a cigarette. More thumb gnawing as I paced about the room, then – a thought. I stubbed my cigarette and hastened to the calendar in the kitchen. Maybe, just maybe, I had got a pressing engagement tomorrow? I mean, you never know, I might be incommoded at the dentist’s, be flat on my back at the gynaecologist’s or – ah, here, the 22nd, anything doing?…I gazed. Blank. Damn. Except – what was this, at the bottom, in pencil? I peered. “Claudia to Lucy’s for night.”
Ah yes, of course, I remembered now. Amanda, Lucy’s mother, of the disappearing child episode, was desperate to have Claudes back and prove her worth as a competent mother, so if Claudia was away all day and all night, I reasoned rationally, what would I normally do? What would any normal, right-minded mother do on a child-free day in the middle of the school holidays? Well, she’d go to London, of course, that’s what! Yes, I thought with a surge of joy, she’d spend the entire morning – nay, the entire day, in Harvey Nichols, of course she would! She’d have lunch, maybe take in an art gallery or two, have a leg wax, get her hair done – perfect! Oh golly, yes, perfect. My day was really taking shape! And it wasn’t even a ruse, I thought happily. I really, honest to God, might well have done just that had I glanced at my calendar in the morning and seen Claudes bolting down her cereal all set with her overnight bag. And if I could set off bright and early, I thought furtively, really bright and early, before Raincoat and C & A Suit had even got a toe on the doorstep, well so much the better.
I quickly lunged for the telephone and rang Amanda, who instantly thought I was cancelling.
“Oh God, Liwy, I’ll look after her,” she wailed. “I swear to God I won’t lose her!”
“Don’t be silly, Amanda,” I scolded. “I’m simply ringing to say could you possibly have her slightly earlier than we said? Like – ooh, I don’t know, sort of, breakfast time?”
“Of course,” she agreed happily. “Really, any time, Liwy. Drop her off in the middle of the night if you like.”
“Don’t tempt me,” I said grimly. “But rest assured, Amanda, you’ll be seeing me pretty bright and early tomorrow morning.”
I put the receiver down and noticed my hand was trembling. I stared. Well, it would, wouldn’t it? I thought, regarding it with interest. After all, here I was, an ordinary middle-class housewife, pillar of the local community, erstwhile member of the PTA, coolly, coldly and calculatingly working out the perfect strategy to give the police the slip.
27
The following morning the alarm went off at ten to six. I sat bolt upright, felt a bit sick, couldn’t think why – then remembered, and felt even sicker. Hand to mouth I leapt out of bed, showered quickly, got dressed, and went to wake Claudia, who was kipping deadly.
“Claudia. Claudes, wake up!” I shook her shoulder.
She moaned and rolled over on to her face. I pulled back the covers mercilessly.
“Claudia, get up! We’ll be late!”
“Geddoff!” She tried to wrench the covers back but I had them in an iron grip somewhere down by her feet.
“Up now, darling, with the lark! Be quick!” I trilled brightly.
She turned bleary eyes on her clock. “But it’s only six o’clock!”
“Yes, but you’re going to Lucy’s, and I have to go to London today, remember? Remember I told you I was going, darling?”
“No,” she muttered, dragging her legs around and stumbling out to the loo. “I don’t.”
I left her to it and dashed downstairs to the kitchen. Seizing the calendar from the larder door I wrote in bold felt pen ‘Shopping in London!’ Then I smud
ged it a bit with my finger. There. I stood back and admired my handiwork with narrowed eyes. Looked like it had been there for ever, decades even. Plunging my bare feet into wellies, I then flew out of the back door and raced down the garden, leaping a flowerbed brimming over with dew-soaked Alchemtlla mollis, dashing down the lavender path, across the lawn, under the cedar tree, and across the bridge to the caravan. I rapped on the door, holding my side and panting. No answer. I rapped again, harder. The door finally opened and Lance stuck out a very tousled, blond head. He yawned and rubbed his eyes.
“Olivia,” he muttered. “What’s happened?”
“Lance, I’m going to London,” I hissed. “I want you to know that, it’s very important.”
“Fine.” He nodded.
“So if the police come,” I urged, “it’s been arranged for ages, OK? I’ve been excited about this for weeks, OK, Lance?”
“OK, OK.”
“Mac’s gone, hasn’t he?” I peered past him to the sleeping form of Spiro on a lower bunk. “I heard his van go last night.”
“Yes, he’s – ”
“Don’t tell me!” I shrieked, clapping my hands over my ears and shutting my eyes. When I opened them again, his steady blue eyes were trained anxiously on me.
“Olivia, listen to me. Don’t worry about this, all right? Don’t panic. This has absolutely nothing to do with you. This is our own personal tragedy and you’ll be kept well out of it, OK?”
“OK? OK? Of course it’s OK,” I spluttered, “and of course I’m nothing to do with it. Jesus, I – I never imagined for one moment I was!”
I gave him what I hoped was a look of withering magnitude, but probably had more than a hint of frightened rabbit about it, then turned and bolted back up the garden, veering off left in a sudden tangent to glance round the side of the house and just make sure that a flashing blue light wasn’t cruising menacingly my way.
Ten minutes later I was hustling a sleepy and protesting Claudia out of the front door, down the drive and into the car. I was just running furtively round to the driver’s side, when abruptly – I heard a roar behind me.
“Hang on – I want a word with you, young lady!”
My blood froze. I shut my eyes and stood, sledge-hammered to the spot, awaiting the first stone, the first clink of handcuffs. Then I opened my eyes, and forced myself to turn, slowly, to see – Mr Jones, tearing down his path towards me, dressing gown flying, slippers flapping. Oh, thank you, God, thank you! Thou art a real brick!
“Mr Jones!” I cried.
“I’m soa, soa glad I’ve caught yew, like,” he panted. “Tried to get hoald of yew yesterday, but yew didn’t seem to be abowt. You see – I’ve heard all about your pickle!”
My heart stopped again. How the hell…? “But I’m not in a pickle, Mr Jones!” I gasped.
“Oh noa, noa, your chutney! Gwyneth told me, see. Says yew always swear by those Unwin’s green tomatoes yew grow, but I’ll bet you’ve never tried making it with one of these boyos, eh?” He held up a whopping great pair of plum tomatoes, hanging pendulously together, side by side.
“Gordon’s Bliss!” he hissed dramatically. “Bet yew’ve never even seen the like, ‘ave you now?”
I blinked. “N-no, you’re right, Mr Jones, never! How splendid, and – how kind. I’ll pickle them this evening, shall I?”
I made to reach out for the voluptuous orbs, chuck them in the back of my car and be on my way, but he was too quick for me.
“Oa, steady on now!” he twinkled, holding them aloft, “thought yew’d be interested, like! John Innes N°2 and plenty of bone meal is the secret, but not soa fast!” He lowered his pink, excited face to mine. “Fair dos, eh, girl? I’ve had my eye on that flat-leafed parsley of yours for some time now; wouldn’t mind getting me ‘ands on a sprig or two of that before yew pop these boyos in your chutney locker!”
“My…” I gazed. “Oh! Right! Yes, well, be my guest, Mr Jones. Heavens, take the lot, do, only I really must fly. I’m off to London for the day, don’t want to be late.” I jumped in the car. “Really, take the lot!”
He frowned. “Oooh, noa, noa, I wouldn’t do a thing like that. Wouldn’t dream of it, girl. I only meant – ”
But I didn’t hear the rest, I was away, leaving him standing in his dressing gown in a cloud of dust, clutching his vast tomatoes, whilst I roared off at breakneck speed to do business on the other side of town.
Ten minutes later, I was banging on Amanda Harper’s mock-Georgian, twin-pillared front door in an immaculate, sleepy little cul-de-sac full of frothy Austrian blinds which were still very firmly down. Claudia was beside me, yawning her head off and looking like a bag lady as she clutched her possessions in a Tesco’s carrier she’d had to grab hastily as I’d hustled her out. Finally Amanda appeared in her dressing gown, hair on end, mascara down her cheeks.
“Oh! Liwy. Gosh, I didn’t realise you meant sparrow’s fart.”
“Amanda, I’m so sorry. I know it’s terribly early,” I breathed, “but I’m off to London today, been looking forward to it for ages. Shopping trip, you know.”
She rubbed her eyes. “Blimey, at this hour? God, you’ll be there in half an hour, there’ll be so little traffic. I’m not sure the shops open at seven thirty, do they?”
“Ah, but I’ll get a good parking place,” I beamed. “So exciting. I’ve been – ”
“Looking forward to it for months,” said Claudia wearily, pushing past me with her arms full. “You’ve told us that about twenty times. She’s lost it,” she informed Amanda as she went on past her and trudged upstairs to find Lucy, whom she’d no doubt crash out next to on her bed. “She’s really lost it this time. We’re talking beyond Prozac.”
Oh God, was I overdoing it? I wondered, as I fled back down the path. Making too much of a meal of it? That would look even more peculiar. I must calm down. As Lance had said, this was absolutely nothing to do with me. Don’t panic. Nevertheless, as I roared up the Ml, every so often an image of Alf, kneeling, and holding a blood-soaked Vi in his arms, like Lear, sobbing over a lifeless Cordelia, would spring to mind and make me clutch my mouth with horror, and simultaneously put my foot down in an attempt to distance myself.
As a result, the speedometer hit 90, and I found myself in central London by seven forty-five along with all the early bird commuters. I parked in a Knightsbridge NCP, bought a paper, then had tea and toast in the Brompton Arcade, feeling I really should have a hat and dark glasses on in case someone recognised me and asked me why the devil I wasn’t at home, where I belonged. The minutes ticked by. As I sat at the little cafe table I peered over my paper, gazed around a bit, a little more adventurously now perhaps for a wanted woman, and looked at my watch. Eight fifteen. Good grief, only eight fifteen! What the hell was I supposed to do now?
“Um, what time do the shops open?” I bravely asked my Italian waiter, breaking my cover as he sauntered languidly up with my third cup of tea.
He shrugged, shoulders up around his ears somewhere. “Ees supposed to be ten, but you know, ees summer time, so…”
So – what, the shopkeepers have a lie in? I sighed. Excellent news. Well, the plan was to stay for late-night shopping and go home at about ten o’clock. At this rate I’d have to shop till I was vomiting. More tea was required. I ordered it and read the Daily Mail more minutely – from cover to cover, in fact – until I noticed that according to Patrick Walker’s replacement, Saturn was dominating my sphere and would undoubtedly be my downfall today. “Don’t expect to come up smelling of roses if you’ve deliberately deceived someone,” it warned grimly. I put the paper down with quivering hands, wondering if the deceived detective was even now banging on my front door, demanding to see the lady of the house, sniffing around to see which criminals I was harbouring today. Heavens, how brave those Resistance people must have been, with fighter pilots in the attic, whilst here was I, quivering with nerves at the thought of a brace of brickies in a caravan. Calm down, Olivia, just calm down. In an effo
rt to do so, I emptied the entire contents of my handbag on to the table and sorted it out methodically. This, in the event, was just as well, because it was during this little operation, that a plan was hatched. You see, as I sorted around amongst the ancient cough lozenges, the parking tickets, the sweetie wrappers and a very tired-looking tampon, there, nestling at the bottom of my handbag, I spotted two tickets. Two tickets to a concert at the Wigmore Hall.
I sat back and stared at them. Of course, Hugh had given them to me, hadn’t he, and I must have stuffed them in my bag. I took a sip of tea, turning them over in my hand. Yes, why not? Why not, in fact, spend the entire day preparing for this very event? Why not go to the hairdresser’s, buy a new dress to wear, maybe even have my nails done for the first time in my life, and then, looking drop-dead gorgeous – well, as near as damn it, anyway – swan off to the concert in the evening? Imogen would be there, of course, and we could probably sit together since Hugo would be conducting, and naturally Sebastian would be there too…
I took another sip of tea. It was colder than one would wish. I hadn’t allowed myself to think about Sebastian yet, you see. Since Johnny had gone, I realised I’d mentally put him up on a high shelf so I couldn’t reach him. Not out of my mind, because that was impossible, but out of reach, because that was where I knew him to be. But I missed him – yes, of course I did. I missed the easy friendship we’d had and his downright niceness but, more than that, something deeper, more visceral, something in my heart ached for him too. If I allowed it. Mostly I didn’t, but just occasionally I’d let it out of its cage, give myself a glimpse of him, at Hugh and Molly’s maybe, his face creasing up with sudden mirth as he chewed gamely on a burnt sausage, or hauling a dripping Claudia out of the river, or just the two of us together, cooking in his basement kitchen, giggling as we threw Maureen’s putrid casserole in the bin…
Olivia’s Luck (2000) Page 42
