False Charity

by Veronica Heley

  There really wasn’t anything she felt like doing, anyway. She supposed she ought to tackle the ever-growing pile of post. There were people to see, return calls to make. The phone was ringing next door. She didn’t move.

  Oliver popped his head around the door. ‘That was Piers. Said you must have turned your mobile off. Said he’d got a rush job on but if you needed him, he’d come round for supper, late. I said you’d ring him if you got back from wherever it is you’re supposed to be at the moment.’

  Sensible boy. ‘Thank you, Oliver.’ She was touched by his thoughtfulness. She remembered that he was working just for bed and board. ‘Oliver, shall we pay a visit to your father, ask for your certificates? It shouldn’t take long.’

  She could hear him swallow, even though she had her back to him. He stammered, ‘I-it’s holiday t-t-time. He’s p-probably n-not there.’

  ‘Wouldn’t he have to go into school for a few days at least to talk to parents about their children’s exam results?’

  Silence.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Bea. ‘Let’s get it over with. I’ve thought of a line you could take. Tell him you’ve used his card illegally, but that if he gives you your certificates, you can get a job and earn enough to start paying him back.’

  More silence.

  Bea turned to face him. ‘You have told me the whole story, haven’t you? There is nothing else?’

  He shook his head, shifting from foot to foot.

  ‘You need to pick up your belongings, as well. You have your own laptop, clothes and so on?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Then let’s go and get them.’

  Mr Ingram, Oliver’s father, was headmaster of a small private school for boys aged eleven to eighteen, in a tree-lined Kensington square. The school itself occupied two four-storey terrace houses. Next to it was the house which he and his family occupied.

  ‘It’s sort of grace and favour,’ explained Oliver, taking his time about getting out of the car. ‘The Trust owns the school and the house next door, and they let Dad live there as long as he’s head.’

  ‘Is he a good headmaster?’

  Oliver shrugged. ‘His results are OK. He gets a lot of kids whose parents have come from overseas on short-term contracts, so they can afford the fees he charges. Most of those can’t speak English very well.’

  ‘Mixed ability?’

  Oliver nodded. Fidgeted with his collar. His breathing had sharpened. ‘Dad’s ultra keen on sports, which impresses some parents no end. My elder brother and his wife are already working for him at the school. I’m the runt of the litter, very much an afterthought, don’t really fit in anywhere, never have. I suppose we’d better try the office in the school first.’

  He mounted the steps to the front door rather as if they were the steps to the scaffold. Rang the bell. A disembodied voice asked for a name. Bea – following close on his heels – gave her name, thinking they would take her for a prospective parent. The voice said that the head was not there that day, and could they call back tomorrow.

  Oliver looked relieved. He would have returned to the car, if Bea hadn’t done an about-turn and marched up the steps to the family’s house next door. She pressed the doorbell. Chimes rang out. Not an appropriate sound for an early nineteenth century house.

  An over-thin fifty-ish woman with sculptured fair hair opened the door. She had a face like a well-bred sheep – if you could have a blue-eyed sheep – and was expensively if unimaginatively dressed. On seeing Oliver she gave a little scream, and clapped both hands over her mouth.

  ‘Mrs Ingram, I assume?’ said Bea.

  ‘It’s all right, Mother,’ said Oliver. ‘Really it is.’ She didn’t make any move to touch him, and he didn’t make any move to touch her. ‘I’ve just come to collect my things and have a word with Dad if he’s around.’

  ‘No, he …’ She looked back into the house, and lowered her voice. ‘He’s out, but your brother’s here.’

  A hefty looking young male appeared behind her. Much older than Oliver, possibly in his early thirties. Big, blond and blue-eyed. Tie neatly centred. ‘You! How dare you come here after what you’ve done!’

  Oliver seemed to shrink. He was a foot shorter than his brother, anyway. ‘Look, I can explain—’

  Bea decided it was time to intervene. ‘May we come in for a moment? My name’s Abbot, by the way. Oliver is working for me at the moment.’

  Oliver’s mother was reaching out to him, but not actually touching him. ‘What are those clothes, Oliver? They’re not very nice.’

  The older brother yelled back into the house. ‘Daffy! Come and see what the litter louts have dropped on our doorstep!’

  Oliver set his jaw. ‘Is my father in? I really need to speak to him.’

  ‘Out to you,’ said his older brother. ‘For good. Get going, or I’ll call the police.’

  ‘That’s enough!’ said Bea, exercising authority. ‘Will you tell Mr Ingram that his son needs to speak to him on a delicate matter. If he doesn’t want to meet Oliver here—’

  ‘He’s not entering this house again—’

  ‘—then he must appoint a meeting somewhere else. Urgently. And now, Oliver needs to collect his things.’

  Oliver’s mother began to weep. ‘Oh, why did you do it, Oliver?’

  ‘Do what?’ said Oliver through his teeth. ‘If he says I was accessing porn, well, I wasn’t.’

  ‘Why would he lie about it?’ An intense-looking, thickset woman joined her husband at the door. ‘What, has that cretin dared to—’

  ‘That’s enough!’ said Oliver, and if his imitation of Bea came out as a squeak, it was enough to hold the tirade for a moment. ‘He was – was mistaken. There’s no porn on my laptop. If you let me in, I can show you all the sites I’ve visited.’ He looked from one implacable face to the next. ‘I know you don’t want me around. I don’t want to be around, either. I’m happy to move out. I’ve found a job and a place to stay, but I need my clothes, my laptop and my exam certificates. Also I need to speak to my father about, well, business.’

  His mother was crying into a paper tissue which she’d fished out of the pocket in her jacket. ‘Oh, Oliver, he’s so angry with you, you’ve no idea, and he won’t speak to me about it at all, and if it wasn’t the porn then—’

  ‘He’s a lying little toad,’ said the elder brother. ‘He’s not coming in here again. That’s what he said and that’s how it’s going to be. We’re well rid of him, I say.’

  His mother held out her hands to Oliver, but only a little way, not far enough to touch him. ‘We’re giving your room to a new teacher at the school, so everything’s been packed up and put out for the dustmen, only they don’t come round till tomorrow, so it’s all still here if you want it.’

  Oliver was vibrating like a plucked string on a cello. ‘Oh, Mother! Don’t cry. I didn’t do it, honest. At least, I didn’t do the porn. But you know how it’s been, I don’t fit in and it’s best I leave.’

  She gulped, and wept. ‘But where are you going? Do you really have a job? Will you give me your address?’

  ‘Fantasy,’ said the elder brother, brutally. ‘He’s too much of a wimp to go for a job, or to hold one down.’ He eyed Bea up and down. ‘Got him as your toy boy, have you, love?’

  Bea spurted into laughter, shaking her head, but Oliver fired up, red in the face. ‘How d-dare you! Mrs Abbot is not that sort of—’

  Bea said, ‘If you’ve packed up Oliver’s stuff already, we’ll take it away with us. My car’s just there. But it would be a good idea for you to contact his father and arrange when they can meet, preferably on neutral territory, right? Here’s my card. You can contact him at that address. Come, Oliver.’

  She touched him on the arm, and he went with her to sit in the car. He was shaking. He put both his hands between his knees and clenched them tight.

  ‘You did well,’ said Bea, putting sincerity into her voice.

  He said, ‘I know his PIN number
s. I could empty his account in five minutes.’

  Bea tried not to smile. ‘I’ve no doubt you could, but you won’t, will you? You will “rise above it” as Noel Coward used to say.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  Bea felt tired. ‘An actor, writer, entertainer. Before your time. Remember that phrase, though. “Rise above it.” It’s useful when things get you down.’

  ‘I’m all adrift, don’t know where to put my feet, what to do next. Poor Mum. She always used to say I take after her younger brother, he was a businessman, very successful by all accounts, only he got killed in a car accident a couple of years back, or I might have gone to work for him. If I’d wanted to be a teacher and work for Dad it would have been all right, but that’s not the way I am.’

  ‘Do you want to go to university? With those results, you could.’

  ‘I want to work with computers, but above all, I want to get away from home.’

  ‘Don’t make up your mind yet,’ said Bea. ‘You could get away from home by going to university.’

  ‘Couldn’t afford the fees and Dad won’t pay up for me, will he?’

  Not after he’d stumbled across his father’s secret. Unless he blackmailed his father into paying the fees. But would that be a proper use for blackmail? It was a puzzle.

  The front door of Oliver’s home opened and several bulky black plastic bags were thrown out. Oliver went to retrieve them. Clothes and books, judging by the way he either picked them up or dragged them along to the car. Then he staggered over with a large cardboard box contained stereo equipment, and a printer. Lastly his mother came out with a laptop which she laid carefully down on the steps before waving to Oliver and retreating into the house. The front door closed behind her.

  Oliver brought the laptop to the car and opened it up. ‘I’ve been wondering if my father might have tried to put some porn on my laptop, to bolster his case against me.’ He booted up, set his fingers to work and sighed with relief. ‘It’s OK. Nobody’s touched it.’

  ‘No one else in your family is bright enough to work out what your password might be?’

  ‘Mixed up numbers and letters, some uppercase, some lower. They wouldn’t ever get that. Plus I change it frequently.’

  Bea turned on the ignition. ‘Home, then?’

  He nodded but didn’t speak. She was annoyed with herself. He didn’t have a home, nor any chance of getting one for months, maybe years. She’d be glad to see the back of noisy, bossy Maggie, but if Oliver could cut the umbilical cord that bound him to the girl, maybe she’d let him stay on after next week. Provided he paid her rent for his room. Which meant he’d have to get himself a job, and he still hadn’t got his certificates. But perhaps she ought to be arranging for him to go to university?

  No, no, she couldn’t take on all the woes in the world. She needed to get her own home straight, tackle the mail on her desk, reply to phone messages from friends, clear out Hamilton’s clothes, perhaps arrange a memorial service for him, wind up the agency. She wished she hadn’t said she’d go to this function on Saturday.

  Oliver said, ‘I wonder what colour Maggie’s hair is this time?’

  Maggie had treated herself to the golden look, all long flowing curls. She’d also had a facial and a manicure. She was wearing one of her micro-skirts, plus a skimpy, spangly top which left nothing to the imagination. This was a pity, because she really didn’t have enough of a bosom to wear that kind of thing. Being charitable, Bea said she thought Maggie looked stunning. Close to, Bea noticed for the first time that Maggie’s eyes were those of an anxious child.

  ‘Bravo,’ said Oliver, carrying his laptop carefully up the stairs as Maggie descended, treading with care in extra high heels. ‘You look amazing.’

  ‘Well done,’ said Bea, following with a bag of Oliver’s clothes.

  ‘Do you think I look like a model?’ Maggie tried to pirouette on high heeled sandals, but had to clutch at the banister to save herself from falling.

  ‘Indeed you do,’ said Oliver. But when he and Bea had reached the top floor, he voiced his concern. ‘Is she going to be all right, Mrs Abbot? She says she despises men, but I don’t think she knows much about them.’

  Bea was beginning to think the same thing. ‘She’s been married. Presumably she’s had some experience.’

  ‘Not sure she has,’ said the schoolboy-turned-elder-brother. ‘She married someone who was on the rebound from a long-term relationship. After a couple of months he went back to his old love, leaving Maggie stranded.’

  Bea sighed. Was Maggie yet another burden to take on? No. She couldn’t cope. ‘She’s free, white and nearly twenty-one. I’m sure she’ll have a perfectly lovely time.’

  Thursday, late evening

  ‘Where have you been?’ His mother had stayed up for him, apparently. Watching television, flicking channels.

  He kissed her cheek. ‘Clubbing. You’d like the girl. Pots of money in the background, big house in Kensington.’

  ‘Paid for the evening out, did she?’ His mother could be very acute.

  He shrugged. ‘She can afford it.’

  ‘I hope you gave her satisfaction?’

  He grinned. He’d taken her every which way but up, in the club, the cloakroom, in his car. And then on the settee in the office of some house that her aunt owned. She’d hardly been able to stumble to the door to let him out afterwards. Yes, she’d been given satisfaction all right. ‘She’s coming on Saturday with her aunt and various hangers-on. Mrs Abbot, Kensington.’

  ‘Don’t get too close to her. Remember that after Saturday we’ll be off and away.’

  He smiled as if he agreed, but it did occur to him that there was no necessity for him to disappear when his mother and Richie did. He could take his cut and say he needed a spot of holiday and would join up with them later.

  Suppose he did hang around London for a bit? It would do no harm to keep seeing a biddable young girl from a wealthy family. Unsophisticated, naïve, but anxious to please. A man could do worse than string her along. Her family would probably pay him well to leave her alone in the long run.

  He didn’t need to tell his mother all that was in his mind.

  ‘Dearest,’ he said, kissing her goodnight. ‘Sweet dreams.’

  Ten

  Friday, morning

  Bea didn’t sleep well that night either, though better than before. She forced herself to get up at eight, had a shower, dressed and went downstairs. There was a fresh stack of mail on the hall table. She made coffee and took the lot downstairs to Hamilton’s – to her – study, to add to the pile already there. Someone had already sorted the previous day’s post into junk mail and correspondence.

  For an hour she sorted mail, binning most of it. She tried to boot up the computer and had to call Oliver in to help her as this new one operated in a slightly different way from the ones she’d been used to. He was a nice boy, she thought. He hid his contempt for older women who weren’t up to date with computers pretty well. She settled down to her correspondence. She decided to get some cards printed for answering letters of condolence – or could Oliver contrive some for her?

  Oliver tapped at her door again. ‘Mrs Abbot, may I …? The thing is, I’m a bit worried about Maggie, and I wondered if you’d like to check on her.’

  ‘Mm? She came in late, didn’t she? I must have dropped off by that time. Let her sleep.’

  ‘Two o’clock. Yes. But …’ He clung to the door handle, then let it go and the door banged back, making them both jump. ‘I can’t be absolutely sure but when she dragged herself up the stairs, I think she was crying.’

  Bea swung her chair round to face him. He was nervous, but standing his ground. He was wearing a maroon sweatshirt over jeans, trainers. His own clothes, obviously. He was heavy-lidded, as if he hadn’t slept well, either. She wondered if he’d lain awake waiting for Maggie to return, and if he’d then stayed awake worrying about her.

  ‘I’m sure she’s perfectly all right,’ said B
ea, failing to convince either him or herself. She glanced at her watch. Nearly ten. ‘But perhaps I could take her up a cuppa.’

  He nodded. ‘And you haven’t forgotten that Mrs Max is coming round?’

  Bea set the printer going – yes, it worked! Good – and stood up. ‘I haven’t time for outings at the moment. See if you can get hold of her, tell her I’m too busy today. Now, let’s see if Maggie’s all right, shall we?’

  She made some more coffee and took it upstairs. Oliver padded after her. Bea tapped on Maggie’s door. A mumble from within enquired what time it was. Bea went in. This had once been Max’s games room, an untidy cave for an untidy adolescent. It was clean, neat and tidy now, all Maggie’s garish clothes hidden in the built-in cupboards and shelving along one wall. The outfit Maggie had worn the night before was on the floor. With her pants and bra. Both torn.

  Maggie was sleeping on Max’s old settee with one arm let down to make a bed. On hearing the door open, she lifted a heavy head from her pillow, and pulled the duvet over herself. Bea shut the door in Oliver’s face, and set the coffee down on the floor beside the bed. Maggie’s bright blonde hair trailed over the pillow but that one glimpse of her face told Bea that Oliver had been right to call her.

  Bea forgot that the girl had ever irritated her. She pulled Maggie into her arms, saying, ‘There, there.’ Maggie hid her face in Bea’s arm. Her eyes were puffy, and so were her lips. There were dark marks on her wrists.

  ‘Let me see,’ said Bea, pushing the covers back.

  Maggie moaned. ‘I’m all right.’ But let Bea look. More bruising. Bite marks.

  Bea drew in her breath. ‘You must be very sore. Was it just rough sex, or rape?’

  Maggie spoke through gritted teeth. ‘He said I was loving it, and in a way I suppose I did like it at the beginning, but he wouldn’t stop.’