Left on his own in the dust of the empty room, with whisky sour on his tongue, and the stink of the house filling his nostrils, Vic realised that he was panting. Annoyance of course, not fear. No man alive could frighten him. But it was unpleasant just the same. He sat on the chaise longue, thinking as hard as the whisky would allow. If he didn’t come across with the rings, the Skibbereen would have the place torn apart. Mentioning Friday had been a threat as well as a date. They’d all understood that. So he’d have to get rid of them first thing tomorrow morning. And everything else that hadn’t come the Skibbereen’s way. That case of nylons for a start and quite a bit of the tinned food. I’ll have to move it all out, he thought. I can’t sell it, or someone’ll snitch. But where could he take it? There were plenty of empty houses in the street but if the Skibbereen owned them all, there’d be no point in trying to hide anything there. No, when it came down to it, there was only one place he could go to. It cheered him to see himself distributing largesse, putting things right, reinstating himself.
I’ll go there tomorrow, he thought, finishing his nightcap. Or I suppose I should say, later today. When I wake up.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The first thing Heather did when she got home from work that afternoon was to open all the windows. It had been a very hot day and the flat was stuffy. Then she put the kettle on for a cup of tea and went back downstairs while it boiled to see if the second post had arrived.
‘Not yet,’ Mrs Connelly said, hobbling out of the front room to join her. ‘I’ve been keeping an eye out for her, so I have. I’ll give you a call when she comes. Don’t you fret.’
And at that very moment a shape appeared in the frosted glass of the front door.
‘Well there she is!’ Mrs Connelly cried. ‘Now wouldn’t you know it! Right on cue.’
But to their great disappointment, it wasn’t the postwoman on the doorstep, it was Victor Castlemain, carrying a battered old carpet bag and smiling broadly.
‘Hello!’ he said to Heather. ‘Long time no see. I’ve brought you some presents.’
Heather gave him one of her shrewd looks. She wasn’t at all pleased to see him after all the trouble there’d been. Even the sight of him was troubling her conscience. She’d believed him so readily the last time they spoke but now with Steve missing and Barbara’s misery so obvious, she was beginning to have doubts. Was he really Barbara’s second string? Maybe Bob was right, maybe she wouldn’t … And yet here he was standing on the doorstep as if he had every right to be there and he’d hardly be doing that if there hadn’t been something in it.
Her silence was rather disconcerting. ‘Is Barbara in?’ he asked.
‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d have wanted to see her again,’ she said rather acidly. ‘After the way she went on.’
Vic had forgotten about his last visit. Now he remembered it and felt uncomfortable. ‘Oh we’re old friends,’ he said, deciding to brazen it out. ‘Take the rough with the smooth an’ all that sort of thing. Is she back yet? I asked at the depot.’
‘Not yet,’ she said. And she made up her mind. Let him come in. Let them meet up again where me and Bob can see them and hear what they’ve got to say for themselves. Then we shall know what’s been going on. He’ll be home in a minute. Might even be back before she is. ‘Come in.’
He was encouraged. ‘I brought you a few presents,’ he repeated, carrying the carpet bag into the hall.
She was walking ahead of him up the stairs. ‘Oh yes.’
Her tone was too non-committal for him to gauge her mood. ‘Some more tinned stuff,’ he said, following her into the kitchen. ‘Thought you could use it.’ He took a tin of American sweetcorn out of the bag and put it on the table.
But he never got the chance to find out if it was welcomed, because at that moment Barbara came up the stairs like a hurricane. Her face was flushed by sunlight and exertion, thick hair bushy, green eyes blazing and she was wearing her clippy’s uniform with the jacket unbuttoned to reveal a very pretty blouse, white with little flowers embroidered on it. She looked so delectable it made him feel dizzy.
‘You got a nerve, Victor Castlemain,’ she said. ‘Coming here after what you done.’
‘’Lo Spitfire,’ he said, giving her the most charming smile he could contrive. ‘I brought you a present.’
She hung up her jacket. ‘Well now you can tek it away again,’ she said.
‘Don’t be like that,’ he coaxed. ‘Hain’t you glad to see an old friend.’
‘Not if thass you, I hain’t. You done enough damage last time you was here.’
‘Oh,’ he said grandly. ‘Thass all forgot.’ And he turned the charm on Heather. Let’s put this right straight away. ‘Forgive an’ forgot, eh Mrs Wilkins.’
Heather gave him a steady look and turned away from him to attend to the salad. It pleased her to see how cross Barbara was and how furiously she was attacking. But then again, this could be a lover’s tiff. Either way, it was best to keep out of it.
Barbara snorted. ‘Not by me it hain’t.’
Vic realised that he was screwing up his eyes with apprehension and paused for a second to rearrange his expression. This wasn’t going according to plan. Better get on with the presents. ‘I thought you could use some tinned fruit,’ he said to Heather’s back. ‘I brought a selection.’ He pulled the rest of the tins from the bag like a magician pulling rabbits from a hat, and laid them at one end of the kitchen table, enticingly, but neither of the women paid any attention. Heather was standing by the sink washing a lettuce, and Barbara was at the other end of the table topping and tailing a bunch of radishes. ‘Peaches,’ he offered. ‘You like them.’
‘Black market,’ Barbara said without looking up from the radishes.
‘Well,’ he allowed, ‘you don’t get food like that in the shops. I mean to say. Stands to reason.’
She snorted at that too. ‘Reason!’
He moved on, recognising that food wasn’t going to work this time. ‘Wait till you see what I got for you.’
She reached across the table to pick up a cucumber. ‘Shift yourself,’ she said. ‘You’re under my feet.’
‘Nylons!’ he said, opening the box.
She merely glanced at it. ‘There’s enough of ’em,’ she said.
‘Take your pick.’
‘I s’pose they’re black market an’ all.’
He’d expected a bit of a rough reception – after all he had hollered at her – but he hadn’t imagined she would block him at every turn. What was the matter with her? He was doing his best. Look at all the things he’d brought her. He smiled again, but she turned her back on him which left him smiling at the air and feeling foolish. There was nothing for it. He’d have to play his trump card. He’d intended to keep it for the really dramatic moment but he would have to play it now. It was the only thing he could do.
He took the solitaire from his pocket and held it up in front of her so that it sparkled in the sunshine. ‘What d’you think of that?’ he said.
She looked at it, her eyes widening. Yes, Yes. She’s impressed. She likes it. ‘Well?’ he asked.
Somebody was coming up the stairs. Heavy feet, trudging and knocking the treads. Oh not now! Not now! ‘Well?’
It was Mr Wilkins. Wouldn’t you know it? Mr Wilkins just at the wrong moment and both women turning to greet him, all smiles, and the ring lying on the table ignored.
The atmosphere in the room was so marked that Bob picked it up at once but before he could open his mouth to ask what was going on, Barbara took full command.
‘Right,’ she said looking straight at Victor for the first time since her arrival. ‘Here’s Mr Wilkins come home. Now we’re all here. We’ll wait till he’s comf’table an’ then you got some explaining to do, bor.’
Bob hung up his cap and took off his jacket and lowered himself into the comfort of his armchair to loosen the laces on his boots.
‘I brought you a few tins,’ Vic said, ingratiating h
imself quickly. But if he thought he could wriggle out of trouble by holding up tins, he was mistaken. Now that she’d opened her attack, Barbara was remorseless.
‘Not that sort of explaining,’ she said sternly and she put her hand on the tins as if she was going to push them out of the conversation. ‘You got some questions to answer.’
He was alarmed by the force of her attack but he had to face it out. What else could he do? He assumed a jaunty air. ‘Fire away!’
‘We’ll start with those ol’ pre-fabs,’ she said, picking up her knife and returning to the cucumber. ‘You told Mrs Wilkins I put our name down for a pre-fab. Hain’t that right?’
‘Our names were put down. Yes,’ he agreed and he essayed a smile at Mrs Wilkins. ‘We went there together.’
Oh no, my lad, you needn’t try that, Barbara thought. And she pounced on him, sharp as the knife in her hand. ‘Whose idea was that?’
He took refuge in vagueness. ‘Don’t remember.’
‘Oh what a load of ol’ squit,’ she mocked. ‘Don’t remember. I bet you don’t. So shut you up an’ let me remind you since you got such a bad mem’ry. That was your idea. You got the tickets an’ you wrote the names on the tickets. Mr and Mrs Castlemain. An’ you never said a word to me about it. Hain’t that right?’
What a fighter she is, Bob thought, admiring her, and wasn’t I right about her? I knew she wouldn’t play our Steve up. He looked across at Heather to see how she was taking it and was pleased that she was standing quite still at the sink, potato in hand, listening like a cat at a mouse hole.
Barbara threw the chopped cucumber into the salad bowl as if she were hurling a grenade. ‘Well?’ she insisted. ‘Hain’t that right?’
‘Probably,’ Vic said uncomfortably. ‘I don’t remember. That was weeks ago. Water under the bridge. That hain’t important.’
‘No?’ she said, giving him the coolest stare. ‘Hain’t it? Well, try this for size then, bor. Whose name you put down for a house?’
He was losing the argument. ‘I don’t know, gal. How d’you aspect me to remember that far back?’
She went on grilling him relentlessly. It was as if they were in a court of law and she was a barrister. He could almost see the wig on top of those dark curls. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ she said. ‘Since you got such a bad mem’ry. I’ll ask my mother-in-law to tell us what you told her. I’m sure she remembers.’
Oh yes, Heather remembered very well and it was a relief to speak out and challenge him. ‘You said Barbara told you to put down your name for a pre-fab. You said you didn’t want to do it and she made you. You said she wanted a second string to her bow. I remember the very words. No mother’d ever forget a thing like that. You said she wanted a second string to her bow in case our Steve got killed.’
The fury on Barbara’s face was so violent that the entire room was fired with it. Sunshine stabbed the windows with red shards of light, knives glinted, gas jets roared in the geyser, diamonds flashed their intermittent spotlights like sharp distress signals. Even the kettle boiled with such fury that its lid jumped up and down.
‘You rotten little toerag,’ she roared. ‘How dare you say such a thing. As if I’d even look at you after Steve. You! Tek a look at yourself, bor. You’re nothin’ but a cheapskate, a spiv, the lowest of the low. You don’t begin to compare with our Steve. Eleven months he’s been out there, fightin’ in all weathers, sleepin’ in the open, riskin’ his life day after day, never a word of complaint, a brave, wonderful man. An’ now he’s missing an’ we don’t know whether he’s alive or dead. An’ you dare to think I’d even look at you. Second string to my bow! You make me spit! You don’t begin to compare!’
He fought back frantically, forgetting to dissemble, beyond caution or discretion. ‘No I don’t,’ he shouted, ‘because I’m better in every respect. Better educated, better looking, richer. Much, much richer. I mean to say, what’s a soldier’s pay?’
He could hear Mrs Wilkins’ sharp intake of breath, was aware of the anger on her face, but it was Barbara who answered.
‘Death!’ she said, green eyes blazing. ‘Bein’ shot down. Thass a soldier’s pay. You hain’t fit to lick his boots. You hain’t fit to breathe the same air. An’ you think I’d leave him an’ set up home with you.’
‘Look!’ he tried. ‘I didn’t think …’
‘No,’ she roared. ‘You don’t think. Thass just your trouble. Always was. Look at that bloody ring! You thought you could buy me! Thass what you thought. You thought, I’ll wave a diamond at her. Then she’ll come a-runnin’. Well let me tell you somethin’, Victor Castlemain. I hain’t for sale! I belong to Steve an’ no one else. Even if he’s dead I shall go on belonging to him. Always! For ever an’ ever!’ She was weeping with anger and grief and the pent-up misery of all those weeks of waiting. ‘I’ll show you what you can do with your presents.’ And she grabbed the ring from the table and hurled it out of the open window.
He was horrified. ‘Thass worth money!’ he cried. ‘Thass over twenty pounds worth of ring.’
But she didn’t care about twenty pounds. She was cleaning him out of the house, removing every sign of his obnoxious presence, quick and strong and unstoppable, like an avalanche. First, three of the tins, crashing down one after the other, then the box of nylons, which sprang open in mid-air and distributed its contents as it fell.
It was wonderfully dramatic. The long stockings were lifted by the breeze and drifted down slowly and gracefully, turning in the air like silken pennants, landing gently all over the garden, on the lawn, on the path, on every shrub and plant, draped and curled like long buff ribbons.
Mrs Connelly, watching and listening at her kitchen door, was quite taken with them. ‘Will you look at that now,’ she said to her husband. ‘There must be hondreds and hondreds of the things.’
‘He is a spiv,’ Mr Connelly observed. ‘She’s right about that. If you ask me, those are stolen goods, so they are. I don’ wonder she’s shoutin’ at him. He’s a bad lot.’
Upstairs in the Wilkins’ kitchen, Barbara was hurling tins again, throwing them from the window with a bold overarm swing, like a bowler.
‘For God’s sake!’ Vic begged. ‘What if they land on the ring? You could smash it to bits.’
She didn’t care. ‘You come here’, she said, ‘puttin’ my family at risk, insultin’ my husband. You wanna think yourself lucky I hain’t a-throwing you out the window an’ all.’
‘All right, all right,’ he said, backing to the door. ‘I’m going. You win. Onny don’t throw any more tins or you’ll do me a mischief.’
She picked up another one and brandished it at him. ‘Good!’ she said, eyes blazing. ‘I hope I do!’
At which, recognising total defeat, he grabbed his carpet bag and ran, precipitating down the stairs, hurtling into the kitchen.
The funny old woman who’d let him in was standing by the door. ‘Just off!’ he said. ‘Something to find in your garden. Fell out the window. You don’t mind if I go an’ look, do you?’
She made a grimace at him. ‘I don’t know about that, at all, at all.’ But he was already out of the house and down on his hands and knees, grovelling about in the flower beds. He had to find it. Had to. He scoured the little garden, gathering the nylons, cramming the dented tins into his carpet bag, poring over every plant and combing every shrub with tense frantic fingers. Come on! Come on! It must be here!
He was aware that the old biddy and her husband were watching him from the doorway and that there were curious faces peering out of most of the upstairs windows but he couldn’t stop, even though he knew he was making an exhibition of himself. Twenty pounds was twenty pounds. And suddenly there it was, flashing fire among the wallflowers. Thank God for that! He picked it up, examined it carefully, polished it on his handkerchief, his legs suddenly weak with relief.
Heavy footsteps on the path behind him. The old feller? Mr Wilkins? Time to be off whoever it was. ‘I’m just going,’ he pro
mised. And turned his head to find himself looking straight into Tiffany’s long sardonic face. The shock sent him into a panic, his thoughts skittering in all directions like shards of broken glass. Christ Almighty! How did he get here? Has he come from the Skibbereen? Or is he on his own? What the hell am I going to do?
‘Quite right, sunshine,’ Tiffany said, smiling sourly at him. ‘Never a truer word. You’re coming with me. An’ we’ll have that nice little sparkler fer starters.’
Victor struggled to control himself and the situation. ‘That’s mine,’ he said, speaking softly, mindful of the listeners. ‘Legit.’
Tiffany didn’t bother to argue, although he spoke quietly too, his words hissing. ‘That’s ours. Illegit,’ he said. ‘Hand it over. Skibber’s orders.’
Victor’s heart sank to the depths, a cold stone. ‘He hain’t here, is he?’
‘What d’you think?’ Tiffany sneered.
Vic’s mind was still spinning, but now he was searching for an escape, remembering the Skibbereen’s warning. ‘See if you can’t find what I want. If you wanna stay healthy!’ He tried wheedling. ‘Look, Tiff. Give us a break, eh. I know I should have passed it over but it’s only the one. I mean to say, look at it this way. You could take it as part of my cut. I mean to say, I’ve earned it.’
Tiffany was as implacable as Spitfire had been. He held out his palm. ‘Give!’ he said.
‘No God damn it,’ Vic said. ‘I won’t. I nicked the thing. That’s mine.’
‘Tell that to the Skibbereen,’ Tiffany mocked. ‘He’ll be very pleased to hear that. I don’t think! An’ what’s all this stuff?’ He seized the carpet bag and pulled it open.
Avalanche of Daisies Page 40
