by Wendy Reakes
The sound of ticking made him wonder who kept the clock on the mantelpiece wound up. He glanced at his watch and compared the two. It had kept perfect time. He couldn’t imagine the decorators bothering with it and as far as he knew, no one had been there lately. Maybe Rose had popped in to air clean the toilets, but why would she bother to wind it up?
A tiny speck of dust from the ceiling fluttered past his eyes. He looked upwards. The ceiling light was directly above him. It was an art-deco three-arm chandelier with pink glass shades. He could see the dust settled on the brass swan-necks. He stretched himself upwards, not quite reaching it. Maybe he should use the step ladders and give it a good clean. More dust floated past his eyes.
Then he heard a sound coming from upstairs.
Gordon stopped and listened. It could be his mother’s old cat, but he could swear he’d just seen it outside in the garden when he came in.
Another thud. That was no cat!
Rushing towards the fireplace, he took the poker from its stand on the grate and walked into the hall, stealth-like with his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Placing one foot on the bottom step he waited to hear the noise again. He edged up to the next step, keeping his back against the banister and the poker out in front with its spear-head tip pointing north.
He stopped.
He hadn’t heard any noise since he came into the hall. Perhaps it was his imagination or an open window making something blow in the breeze coming through. Or maybe he was just hearing things. “Hello,” he called and waited for a response. “Hellooo!”
Then panic ensued.
Gordon went rigid. He pinned his back to the banister as he held the poker with both hands and fixed his eyes on the door at the top of the stairs. When it opened a figure stepped out of the bedroom.
“Daddy?”
“Teresa!”
Gordon Bentley stood alone in the sitting room, staring into an unlit fire as he waited for his daughter and her companion to join him. It wasn’t the first time something like that had happened. He’d caught her once when she was just fourteen. She’d smuggled a boy upstairs while he and Alice had been dining in the room below. Gordon had discovered them two hours later when he’d gone to find her. The boy had been one of those degenerate-lout types, who hadn’t even bothered to cover up when Teresa leapt screeching out of bed.
She had always been difficult. She was wild and reckless, spoilt, indulged and it was all his fault. But how could he help but spoil her? She was his only child and surely it was only natural to want to give her everything? He’d sent her to a private school, gave her the best of everything and even though her grades were always excellent, her renegade behaviour had been simply too much for him to bear.
He turned and watched her come into the room as her companion walked in behind her. Teresa propped herself against the chair near the door as the man stood with his legs apart looking as if he was processing a situation he had unavoidably been thrust into.
Teresa shifted her position on the chair and the man moved past her, towards Gordon. He stopped only a meter away. Gordon cleared his throat and wondered how they were going to play things. He figured he should get his name out of him. But before he could speak, he’d already volunteered the information.
“My name’s Jack. Jack Taylor.”
He was tall, six-feet-four, with large shoulders and brown blond hair stopping just above his collar. His blue eyes were vivid against the tanned skin of his face and fine stubble grew around his chin and his neck. In his large hand he clutched a leather jacket, casually hanging against the side of his leg. His other hand was tucked in the front pocket of his jeans. He seemed confident and unsure at the same time. His accent came from somewhere in the South-West, Bristol, Gordon guessed.
“How old are you?”
He frowned. “I’m twenty-five.”
“Do you know how old she is?” Gordon tilted his head towards his daughter still sitting on the arm of the chair.
“Yes, she’s twenty.”
“Wrong! She’s sixteen!”
“Nearly seventeen,” Teresa called from behind them. She seemed irritated that her age was being used to illustrate how young she was, instead of how old.
Jack turned to look at her. “You told me you were twenty.” His face was flushed when he turned back to Gordon. “Look I’m sorry. I didn’t know this was your house. She told me it was hers.”
“Really? And you swallowed that. How do explain the furniture, all covered in sheets?”
He shrugged. “She said she was redecorating.”
Teresa’s voice came from across the room. “Helloo! Would you mind not talking about me as if I wasn’t here?”
They both ignored her. “Look, I had no reason to think she’d be lying,” Jack said. “Besides I’ve only been here once, we normally go to my place…” Gordon could feel his eyebrows elevated on his brow in a permanent frown. Jack shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said once more, and then as if he had no other words to offer, he turned and walked out, closing the door behind him.
Three hours later as Gordon sat in his office contemplating his daughter’s future, the phone rang.
“It’s Jack Taylor,” the voice said.
They met in a pub in town. When Gordon walked in, Jack was already there, sitting at the bar with an untouched glass of whiskey in front of him. “What are you having?” Jack offered. Gordon thought he looked older now that he was on his own turf.
“A pint.” Gordon pulled out a stool. What was he even doing there? That daughter of his had put him in some predicaments in his time, but the recent episode had just about finished him off.
“Lager or bitter.”
“Bitter, of course. A pint of their finest.” They waited to be served before either of them spoke. Gordon picked up the glass from the bar. He downed half-a-pint and used his tongue to take the white foam off his top lip. “I was surprised to get your call.”
“I was surprised I made it.”
“So why did you?” Gordon looked at him from the side. Jack was looking straight ahead. He had strong features. Handsome guy.
Jack shrugged. “I know how I’d feel if I caught some bloke in bed with my daughter.”
“You were in bed with my daughter?” Gordon grinned like a guy on comedy night, as an expression of amusement mixed with doubt passed over Jack Taylor’s eyes.
“I wanted to say I was sorry for the trouble I’ve caused,” he said.
Gordon watched him for a moment. Despite everything he liked Jack Taylor. He had an air about him. Someone a man could trust. “Teresa had a part in it.” He took another sip of his drink. “You don’t need to worry. I’m not Al Capone. I’m not going to have your legs broken for getting caught with my daughter.”
“Capone didn’t have a daughter,” Jack said matter-o’-factly.
Gordon was taken aback. There was nothing Gordon liked more than a bit of trivia here and there. “He must have done. He probably had a Chicago-city full of kids. Bambinos!”
“Nope, he only had a son. Look it up.” Jack nodded to the barman for another round.
“So who are you, Jack?”
“Me? I’m no one. I’m just a lorry driver.”
“Oh, I imagine you’re a lot more than that.” Gordon answered. “Indulge me.” He liked the look of Jack’s face. He liked him. Gordon could tell the feeling was reciprocated. Jack looked like he was trying to figure out if Gordon was being ironic or not. He wasn’t. Jack Taylor had a lot more going for him. Gordon was sure of it.
“Well, I’ve got a few wagons and trailers…”
Bingo!
“I started my own business a couple of years back and I’ve got a contract here in South Wales, transporting steel. I’ve got some digs not far from where you live and I’ve been living there for about four months.” He took a sip of his whiskey. “I met your daughter when she was thumbing a lift out of Swansea. She was with another girl who looked younger than her…” Jack paused. “She said she was
her kid sister.”
“Teresa hasn’t got a sister.”
Jack shook his head. “Ever thought of putting her through drama school?”
“There’s a lot I’d like to do with my daughter, believe me.” Gordon threw a note on the bar to pay for the next round. He caught the barman’s attention and made a rotating action with his finger above their empty glasses. “In fact, Jack, I might have a proposition for you.”
Jack puckered his lips while Gordon thought things through. It could work, if he played things right. “I’ve got a friend who owns a distribution depot in Swansea. I know for a fact he’s looking for someone to go in with him, someone who’s already got an interest in the logistics side, someone who can work alongside him, get his hands dirty…If you know what I mean.”
Jack looked interested. “Go on.”
“The fact you’ve got a few lorries and a steel contract might persuade him to think about getting you involved. I can’t promise you anything, mainly because I’ve only just thought of it, but I could introduce you, especially if I look at increasing my own logistics needs with him.”
“Why would you do that?”
“I need more distribution. Things are getting pretty busy.”
“No, I mean, why would you introduce me to him? You don’t even know me.”
“Well, it’s like this, Jack my boy,” Gordon patted him on the back. “I’m looking for a husband for my little girl and I think you might be just the man to keep her in line.”
Jack sat back on the stool. “You’re right! You’re not Al Capone, you’re the bloody Godfather!”
Gordon was grateful for the opportunity to use his best Marlon Brando impression. “So, I make you an offer you can’t refuse, no!”
Chapter 7
1981
She dug herheels into the snow to prevent herself from sliding off the wooden bench. Her legs were outstretched and her hands were tucked behind her head as the sun kissed the skin on her face. Two boys on toboggans wolf-whistled as they glided past on the path towards Grindelwald. She opened her eyes and pulled her Ray-Ban sunglasses up over her head, watching them descend with a smile on her face, as she pictured them losing control of the sledge and landing face down in the snowdrift along the side.
Overlooking the Jungfrau Mountain, the lone bench was her favourite spot to while away an hour between shifts. It was a place she could find peace and solitude from the chaos of work and she needed that at least once daily. A deep ravine separated her from the Jungfrau’s mammoth size, where tiny avalanches of snow fell at intervals in the distance; the cracking, and ripping sounds echoing around the valley, sounding like ice cubes dropping into a glass. Even after a month, since she’d arrived in Switzerland, she still regarded the raw, rugged beauty of her view with awe and delight. It wasn’t a view anyone saw every day and she appreciated the poignant sentiment of that.
Despite the sun beating down on her, she pulled up the collar of her burgundy ski jacket on the back of her neck as an icy breeze rippled past her.
Nestled on the side of a mountain, the little village of Mürren, lying amid the peaks of the Bernese Oberland, could only be accessed by a vertical funicular railway, there to transport skiers and tourists up the sheer cliff face.
When she’d stepped off the train a month ago, just before the start of the season, she had taken her first glance at the place that was to be her home for the winter. Not a soul could be seen except for the occasional foreign worker as they too arrived to take their jobs in the Alps for the skiing season. She recalled -as if the images were imbedded in her brain- wooden Swiss chalets lining the roads with their tops blanketed in thick, startlingly white snow, looking as if they’d been trimmed along the sides with a hot palette knife. Enormous icicles, some the size of javelins, hung from every eave, and shutters were closed and doors frozen shut, all awaiting the occupants to throw them open in preparation for the new season. Two lower and upper roads channelled their way through the middle of the buildings, producing a scene from a fairy-tale book, whimsical, framed by the dark blue sky and snow topped peaks in the background.
At first glance, the Belle-View Hotel had looked like an imposing wooden structure, a chalet-style building with shuttered windows and balconies, offering guests spectacular scenes of the ever-changing landscape. When she’d approached the small entrance at the back of the building, a series of wooden steps, already cleared of snow, led to a glass-fronted patisserie. A figure stood on the top with his arms akimbo, wearing a white chef’s jacket over his normal clothes. His hair was short and black, his skin darkly tanned and his teeth were as white as the snow beneath her feet.
“Good morning,” he’d said in flawless English.
She’d climbed the steps to meet him. He’d appeared so formidable that for a moment she had to question her reason for being there; wondering about the new life she was about to embark upon. “I’m Katherine Killa.” She spoke in her most confident tone. “I believe you’re expecting me.”
“Ya, Katherine! We’ve certainly been expecting you.”
He’d ushered her into the building, into the lobby, where she’d tugged the rucksack off her back, allowing it to land heavily on the wooden floor. “We’ve never had a female chef here before,” he’d said. “This is something very new for us. A bit of a risk too!” Looking for reassurance that he’d made the right choice, he stared at her; a female in a normally male dominated profession. He wanted to know that she wasn’t going to break down and cry when anything went wrong. Katherine was used to the attitude from potential employers. She’d seen it often enough. Even at college they’d doubted her ambition to work in prestige kitchens. They’d preferred her to turn her hand to reception duties or to be a waitress perhaps. But she’d been adamant. She was made of sterner stuff than that. She was going to conquer the traditional male domains and she was going to do it better than the men. One day she’d prove it but for now, she needed to play the game as the men saw it.
“I understand!” She’d offered him a disarming smile.
“You are to have a roommate,” he’d said. “Another English girl. She arrived an hour ago.”
Katherine was relieved. She was to have an ally and an English one at that. Female!
They’d walked down steep concrete stairs to a darkened basement where several closed doors lined the walls of a long unlit corridor. At the far end, Herr Hüggler had opened the door to a room that was to be hers for the winter season. When she’d stepped inside, the glare from the sun outside the window dazzled her before she adjusted her vision to see a large room with two single beds covered in the fluffiest, thickest duvets she had ever seen. The only other furniture had been a little bedside cabinet separating the beds, a chest of drawers and a small dining table with two chairs. A small alcove in the corner of the room, shrouded by a colourful curtain, housed a sink with a small ornate mirror above.
A girl leapt up from one of the beds. She moved swiftly towards her as Herr Hüggler introduced her as her new roommate. “Francis Baker,” she’d said. “Call me Fran.”
Katherine had liked her instantly. She was just a little shorter than her with blond hair and blue eyes, a wide set face and a strangely bent nose. Fran had pointed to it as Katherine tried not to stare. “Broke it!” she announced. “When I was a kid and it was never set right. Terrible isn’t it? When I get enough money I’m going to get it done.” Her mouth stretched into a wide grin. Then they shook hands, their friendship already sealed.
That had been two weeks ago and she’d had the time of her life ever since.
Still sitting on the bench watching her view, she slipped her hand inside her pocket and pulled out a newly penned letter addressed to her home in South Wales. She intended to post it on the way back to the hotel. The letter told Annie and Rose about everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours, but more importantly she wrote about her concern for her mother, Annie, as she fought a serious bout of flu. It was all Annie had needed after tha
t last operation to remove the cyst on her spine. And now Katherine wasn’t there to help her through it.
As she wondered whether she should get back, her thoughts were interrupted by a deafening crack as another avalanche broke the snow on the mountain across the valley. The view was stunning. She couldn’t imagine ever getting used to it.
She looked at her watch. It was time to get back.
Chapter 8
Jack lookedsuspiciously at the envelope resting on the table. They were in a pub in the City where Gordon kept an office in Threadneedle Street. Jack was in town on business too, so they’d arranged to meet up for lunch in their regular haunt, The Hogshead pub.
Gordon tapped the top of the envelope as he stared straight into Jack’s suspicious eyes. “Open it,” he said, looking like he’d presenting him with an award.
Jack stood his ground. “Tell me what it is first.”
“For god’s sake, Jack! Why don’t you trust me? We’re friends aren’t we?”
Jack half grinned and half scowled. “No, I don’t trust you. Maybe it’s because you’re always trying to railroad me into doing things for you. Or maybe it’s because I know you’re a crafty bastard.”
Gordon laughed. “What about the business? You did all right out of that.”
“At a price!” Jack retorted.
That much was true! As promised, Gordon had introduced Jack to his friend and contact Keith H. Jones, who owned a distribution depot in Swansea. When he met Jack, despite the leverage Gordon must have used to instigate the meeting, the two men had hit it off from the start. With Jack’s three lorries and the steel contract and a little cash input, they’d merged the two companies within three months and Jack took a thirty-percent share in the overall business.
