by K. J. Frost
Amelie and Mother work like trojans, and by four o’clock as the light starts to fade, the last of the flower beds is finally cleared and we all stand by the door to the sunroom, looking down the garden and admiring their handiwork.
We only stopped for sandwiches at lunchtime, so Ethel’s made a hearty dinner of beef stew and dumplings. It’s perhaps not traditional for a Sunday, but she obviously decided we’d all be cold, and that we’d want something warming, and possibly flexible in terms of when we’d want to eat. As it is, everyone is so hungry, we’re sat around the dining table by six, tucking into a delicious meal.
“This is one of your favourites, isn’t it?” Amelie asks.
“Yes,”
“Together with toad in the hole, if I remember?”
My mother smiles. “Are you making notes, dear?”
“Yes,” Amelie replies with just the faintest touch of a blush and my mother stares. She was obviously expecting a denial and her reaction makes me laugh.
“Well then, you should know that he also likes any kind of steamed pudding, preferably with custard… lots of custard.” Mother rallies quickly, getting into the swing of things. “But he hates rhubarb, with a passion.”
“You do?” Amelie says, turning to face me.
“Yes,” I admit. “Is that a problem? Don’t tell me, it’s your favourite?”
She shakes her head. “No. I hate it too.”
“Well, that settles it. We’re made for each other.”
“I think we might be.” Amelie’s voice softens to a whisper, despite my mother’s audible chuckle, which we both ignore. “Is there anything else you don’t like?” she asks.
I think for a moment. “Liver.”
She nods. “And that’s it?”
“I believe so.”
“Well, you are easy to please,” she murmurs.
“Yes, he is,” Mother says, joining in again. “Basically, feed him nursery food, and he’ll be yours for life.”
Little does she know, I already am.
Once we’ve finished dinner, I walk Amelie home. As much as I think we’d both like for her to stay longer, she’s tired and she says she needs a bath, and we’ve got work tomorrow.
“Thank you for helping today,” I say, once we’re standing outside her front door.
“It was a pleasure,” she says sincerely. “I enjoyed it.”
“You might not be saying that in the morning, when your muscles are stiff and aching.”
“Maybe not, but I’ve had a lovely day anyway.”
“Hmm. So have I.” I lean towards her, but she presses her hand against my chest and I pull back, looking down at her, wondering what’s wrong.
“That’s not surprising,” she says, teasingly. “All you did was watch us work.”
“I know, but I had a marvellous view. Of you.”
“Rufus!” She slaps me playfully on my good arm, just gently. And she’s smiling, so I know she’s not offended.
“Sorry,” I reply, looking down at her and moving closer.
“No, you’re not,” she murmurs, her eyes twinkling in the moonlight.
“No. I’m not really.” I hold her gaze for a few seconds.
“Well, I suppose I’d better go in,” she says eventually, with some reluctance.
“Yes, I suppose you had.” She looks a little doubtful as she leans back and takes a half step away. “But only after I’ve kissed you goodnight.” She smiles again and brings her arms around my neck, then sighs into me as our lips meet.
“How are you feeling?” Thompson asks, holding the car door open for me, despite the rain.
“Bruised, uncomfortable, tired,” I reply.
He smiles. “What have you been up to then?”
I wait for him to join me in the car before replying, “Since I last saw you, absolutely nothing… but because of the bruising, I’m finding it difficult to sleep.”
“Perhaps that’s something Miss Cooper can help you with.” At the mention of her name, I’m reminded of this morning, of those few minutes after my bath – which had been aided and abetted by my mother – when I’d finally persuaded her to let me try and dress by myself. I was struggling with my shirt buttons, and working out that a tie was going to be completely beyond me, when I wandered over to the window and looked outside, noticing Amelie leaving her house, shrouded beneath an umbrella. I held my breath, wondering if she’d look up, and just when I was thinking she wouldn’t, she stopped and glanced at the house, her eyes dancing from window to window, until they met mine, gazing down at her. She smiled the sweetest, most perfect smile, and I blew her a kiss, which she returned, and then she waved and hurried on her way, I presumed to catch the bus, being as the weather is too bad to ride her bicycle to work.
“She’s doing more than enough already, thank you,” I reply, coming back to reality, then immediately regret my response, knowing he’ll misinterpret it, which he does.
“Oh yes?” He looks across at me as he starts the engine. “Is there anything you’d like to confess? Any advice you need from an old married man? Or any details you’d like to impart?”
“No. I really wish you’d get your mind out of the gutter, Harry.”
He shakes his head. “Why would I want to do that? Teasing you wouldn’t be nearly so much fun if I was saintly about it, would it?” He turns the car around and drives down Spencer Road.
“No. Probably not.”
“So, if Miss Cooper wasn’t mopping your fevered brow, what was she doing?” he asks, turning left onto Walton Road.
“She was digging up flower beds, if you must know.”
He glances across at me. “You really know how to treat a lady well, don’t you?” He shakes his head more slowly this time, a smile forming on his lips.
“It wasn’t my idea,” I reply as he turns right into Dennis Road.
“She volunteered?”
“Yes. Aunt Dotty’s been trying to dig up her garden for weeks now – you, know, for this Dig for Victory campaign – but what with one thing and another, she hasn’t been able to. My mother decided that yesterday was a good day to get started, and Amelie offered to help.”
“I hope you didn’t join in.” He nods towards my broken arm as he parks up outside the Coles’ house.
“No. I was relegated to tea-making duties.”
He laughs. “Good thing too.”
“Hmm. The problem is, I feel guilty. I promised Aunt Dotty that I’d dig up her lawn, only I’ve been too busy… and now…”
“Well, I’m sure it’ll wait a few weeks,” he replies.
“Yes, or she and my mother will go out and do it themselves behind my back.”
“Not in this weather, they won’t,” he says, looking out through the windscreen at the dark, swirling clouds and heavy raindrops, pattering onto the glass.
“No, that’s one saving grace.”
He turns, glancing at the Coles’ property before looking back at me.
“How do you want to handle this?” he asks, more seriously.
“That rather depends on Mrs Cole,” I reply.
“Well, let’s go and see what she’s got to say,” he says, getting out of the car. I open my door and climb out, just as he comes around to help.
“I can manage.” He nods his head, rather than arguing with me, unlike my mother, and then leads us both down the side of the house, towards the front door, knocking once I’ve caught up with him.
It takes a minute or so before the door is pulled open, and when it is, I have to try really hard not to swear.
“You?” Mrs Cole mutters, struggling to speak through her cut, but healing lip. There’s a large bruise on her cheek as well, and her eye is purple and inflamed. I’d say she was severely beaten, probably two or three days ago, judging by the looks of her, and that what we’re seeing now is nothing compared to how she would have looked then. The expression in her undamaged eye is one of pure fear and she leans out, looking down the garden path.
“We�
��re alone,” I reassure her.
“He’s at work,” she mumbles, tears filling her eyes. “But I wasn’t sure if…”
“I promise you, he doesn’t know we’re here.”
She raises her hand to wipe away the threatening tears and I notice further bruising to her forearms.
“He did this to you?” She pauses for a long moment, then nods her head. “Can we come inside?” I ask.
Again she hesitates, but finally relents, opening the door wider and stepping to one side, allowing us entry. Once she’s closed the door behind us, she turns.
“Come through.” She leads us down a short hallway and into a dining room. There’s a small round table in the middle of the room, with four chairs around the outside, a tiled fireplace on the far wall, with a few smouldering coals in the grate, and a large dresser behind us, featuring cups, plates, saucers, jugs, bowls and servers, all in the famous Willow pattern. Judging from the way it all sparkles, I imagine this to be Mrs Cole’s pride and joy.
A door to our right leads through to the sitting room, which overlooks the front of the house.
“Can I get you a cup of tea?” Mrs Cole offers.
“No, thank you,” I reply. She looks exhausted.
“Let me just go and turn down the oven.” She disappears through a door to our left and returns a few seconds later. “I’m baking bread,” she explains.
I nod my head. “Shall we sit?” I suggest, motioning to the table and chairs.
“Yes,” she replies. “I do apologise.”
“No need to.” We all pull out chairs and sit down.
“You’ve hurt your arm,” she says, looking at me and nodding towards my broken limb.
“Yes. I had an accident.”
“I see.” She lets her eyes drop to the table.
“Mrs Cole,” I say and she glances up again, the look of fear returning to her gaze. “I need to ask you where your husband was at between five-thirty and six, last Thursday.”
“Thursday?” she queries. “I thought that policeman was killed on Tuesday evening.”
“He was,” I reply. “But there was another incident on Thursday.”
“Thursday,” she repeats, her voice a barely audible whisper.
“Yes.”
“I… I assume he’s told you he was here?” she asks.
“Yes. He has.”
She shakes her head, very slowly. “He might have been,” she says. “I wasn’t here myself on Thursday, not until nearly seven. I left him a stew in the oven and went to visit my friend at Hurst Park. She’s just lost her mother, you see…” She looks up at me. “I’ve got no idea where Charlie was. He might have been here… he might not.”
“And what about on Friday?” I ask.
“At what time?”
“Any time between him finishing work and five-thirty,” I reply.
“I’m not sure where he was,” she says, gulping back her tears. She pauses and reaches up her sleeve for a handkerchief that has the letter ‘H’ embroidered in one corner in neat pink stitches, using it to gently wipe her eyes. “He was late home though,” she murmurs, staring at the table.
“How late?”
“He’s normally back by four-fifteen, or four-thirty at the very latest,” she replies. “And he likes his dinner on the table by five.” She glances up at me. “He likes it all done and put away by six so he can go down to the pub, or put his feet up and listen to the wireless before bedtime. And in the summer, he likes to get a few hours out in the garden some evenings.”
“But he was late on Friday?” I prompt.
“Yes. He didn’t come home until about a quarter to six.”
I glance at Thompson. “You’re sure about that?” I ask her.
She nods her head again. “Positive,” she replies. “His dinner was ruined by then, you see, and he… he…” Her voice cracks and she starts to sob.
“Is that when he hit you, Mrs Cole?” I get up and go to crouch down beside her.
She looks at me. “Yes,” she whispers. “He said it was my fault, but it was liver, and you can’t keep liver cooking forever, can you?”
I wouldn’t know, because as I told Amelie last night, I don’t like liver, but I say, “No, of course not,” because it seems like the right answer.
“He called me a stupid bitch and… and that’s when he hit me.” She closes her eyes and I imagine she’s reliving the moment. “He ripped my dress,” she continues unexpectedly, “and then he took his belt to me.”
Thompson’s chair grates on the wooden floor but I glance back at him and motion for him to keep still. He’s probably remembering that he was here on Saturday morning, and that Cole told him that his wife was out shopping, when in reality, she was almost certainly somewhere in the house, recovering from a beating and hiding her wounds from the neighbours, and passing policemen. He makes a visible effort to calm himself, although his eyes are still like thunder, no doubt reflections of my own.
“Mrs Cole,” I say, keeping my voice as soft as I can, and she focuses on me.
“Yes?”
“Is there somewhere you can go?”
“Go?” She looks confused.
“Yes. Is there a relative, or a friend who would take you in for a while?”
“You mean… leave Charlie?” She seems incredulous at the idea.
“Not forever no – not unless you want to – but I think it might be best if you had somewhere else to go for a few weeks.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that,” she says, shaking her head from side to side and twisting her handkerchief in her hands.
“Why not? I don’t know what’s going to happen next and… well, he may not stop at using his fists and his belt next time.”
She gulps, and then her head drops. He’s beaten the life out of her – quite literally.
“I could go to my sister,” she whispers and I can’t help the slight smile that forms on my lips.
“Where does your sister live?” I ask.
“In Brighton,” she replies. “Well, near Brighton, anyway.” Her face brightens and she tilts her head to one side, as though she’s thinking, but then her shoulders drop. “Oh,” she says, “but I haven’t got any money for the train fare. Charlie only lets me have enough to buy the essentials. There’s never anything left for me to put a bit away.”
“Don’t worry about that. Do you think you can manage to pack?”
Her good eye lights up. “Pack?”
“Yes. Right now.”
“But I just said… I don’t have––”
“Don’t worry about the money, Mrs Cole,” I repeat and, after a moment’s pause, she gets to her feet. I follow suit, looking down at her.
“You want me to pack now?” she asks.
“Yes. Right this minute. And just take what you can carry.”
She nods her head and, without another word, leaves the room.
Once the sound of her footsteps has faded, Thompson stands as well. “I was here…” he whispers.
“Yes. The day after the event. There was nothing you could have done by then, even if he’d been willing to let you in; which he wasn’t.”
“For obvious reasons.”
“This isn’t your fault, Harry.”
He purses his lips tightly. “You realise you’re going to have to hold me back from throwing the book, and a few other heavy objects at Mr Cole, don’t you?”
“I’ve only got one working arm,” I point out. “I’m afraid I’m not capable of holding anyone back.”
“Well, that’s a crying shame.”
He shakes his head and moves over to the wall, beside the kitchen door, leaning against it. “I already didn’t like Cole,” he says quietly. “I like him even less now.”
“We’ll deal with him later. At the moment, our priority is his wife.”
“Why did you tell her she only needed to go for a few weeks? Why not suggest that she leaves him permanently?” he asks.
“Because she doesn’t need to. I
f everything goes well, he should get a fairly hefty prison sentence, in which case, she can come back here and take up her old life, without him. Of course, she may get a taste for living in Brighton, and decide to stay there with her sister, but at least she’ll have a choice, and the freedom to make it.”
He nods, smiling. “Can I assume our next stop is going to be the train station?”
“You can.”
We stop talking as we hear footsteps descending the stairs, and Thompson pushes himself away from the wall, coming to stand beside me.
Mrs Cole enters, wearing a thick winter coat, with a woollen hat on her head, and carrying a small suitcase.
“Is that all you want to take?” I ask her.
“Yes,” she replies. “I’ve packed some clothes, and I can borrow what I don’t have from my sister. And I’ve taken the photographs of Doris. That’s all I need.” There are tears in her eyes again.
“You’d better turn off the oven,” I remind her, and she puts down her case and bustles through to the kitchen, returning moments later.
“He can work out what to do with the bread,” she says, with a more determined voice, pulling on a pair of woollen gloves.
I turn to Thompson. “Do me a favour?” I say to him and he nods his head. “Reach into my right hand inside pocket for me?”
“What am I looking for?” he asks, stepping in front of me.
“My wallet.”
He does as I’ve asked, going to hand me my wallet, but I shake my head. “Open it,” I instruct him, and he does, offering it to me. I pull out a couple of white folded notes and hand them to Mrs Cole, who stares at me, her mouth opening.
“I can’t,” she says.
“You can.” I press them into her hand. “I want you to.”
She glances down at the notes. “But that’s two pounds,” she replies, still aghast. “That’s a week’s wages for Charlie.” Her face pales as she says her husband’s name. “What if he comes after me?” she whispers. “He knows were Mabel lives.”
I doubt it’ll be a problem, being as I imagine we’ll have Mr Cole behind bars fairly soon, but I know she needs reassurance, so I reach into my outside jacket pocket myself this time, feeling for my calling cards and pen, then I sit down at the table, flipping over the card and writing down some details on the reverse, grateful that I broke my left arm and not my right.
