by Daisy White
We sit in awkward silence for the rest of the journey, and although we stop to pick up some sausages, and I cook a hot dinner, Mary stays shrouded in her own personal gloom. When Summer starts crying, at around half past seven, I offer politely to help, but Mary shakes her head determinedly and, instead, puts the screaming child on her shoulder and walks around and around our little bedsit. Occasionally she pats the baby’s back, or shifts her to the other side, but Mary’s eyes still have that detached, unfocused look of a mechanical doll.
Chapter Eleven
After another two feeds and a nappy change Summer finally goes down in her cot at half past ten, only to wake up screaming again by twelve. Again I offer to help, but Mary declines, feeding the baby, changing her nappy, all with that blank, robotic expression. A wave of panic washes over me again, and I lie still under my sheets, thinking hard. I can’t help wondering if there is something seriously wrong with Mary. I suppose at the back of my mind, I’m wondering if having Summer has turned her a bit loony. Maybe I should try and get her some help?
I have no idea what someone who is mentally unstable looks like, but eventually I decide to have a chat with Pearl about Mary. Not to say that she’s gone all strange, just generally about coping with a baby. I close my eyes as Mary climbs slowly into her bed and the baby snores softly in her cot. Should I say anything? Would she even let me hug her? Probably not, instinct says, so I pretend to be asleep. I shut my eyes tightly, and don’t offer anything, even when she settles down with such a sad, tear-filled sigh that my heart jolts in sympathy.
It’s another wakeful night, and by five I give up all pretence of sleep. We go through our morning routine in near silence, with me hardly daring to speak in case I upset her, or just get that vacant stare.
I brush my hair, apply some makeup and finally tell myself to stop being ridiculous. This is Mary, for God’s sake, my best friend. Carefully snapping the top back onto my pale pink lipstick, I say casually, “So which babysitter is she going to today?”
“Oh, Angela again. I don’t know how she manages with so many of her own, but she says she just loves babies. Must be true because I don’t give her much money for a whole day,” Mary replies, shrugging on her uniform and reaching for her makeup bag.
I blink in surprise and look at her properly. The frightening blankness is gone, and although she is obviously exhausted, she seems to be herself again. I pass over a mug of sweet tea and Mary gulps it down. “Thanks, Rubes. Right, I’m off to drop Summer. See you at work.”
The rain seems lighter, and the fog has lifted today. Feeble fingers of sunlight penetrate the banks of grey clouds, drawing patterns on the wet road. I slide a window up, watching Mary walk quickly towards the sea, the baby snuggled on one shoulder. She’s hardly used the pram yet, and it sits blocking the hallway with its awkward bulk. Maybe when Summer gets heavier . . .
I whip quickly around the bedsit, tidying up, sweeping the floor and folding the clean dry clothes from yesterday into neat piles.
I wonder if Will is really working up at the market . . . Another secret I’m going to have to share with Mary soon, but I don’t want anything else to worry her at the moment. I know she’d be scared by the idea of Will being back. If I was asked, I suppose I’d say we’re friends now, but honestly we’re stuck with each other because of our shared experiences. Unless he moves away from Brighton, I can’t stop him from appearing out of the shadows for a chat. At least he doesn’t seem to mean any harm — the opposite, in fact. It’s a bit like having an unwanted guardian angel following you around.
By the time I step outside the rain has gone completely, leaving the day light and golden. The warmth has returned too, and I shrug off my cardigan before setting up the tables and chairs outside Johnnie’s.
I take Kenny’s list of names down into the salon and pin it up on the wall in the backroom. It’s a bit crumpled, but with mine and Annie’s pencil marks the list is getting frighteningly short. Making sure everything is set up for clients, I hastily wash a few more towels and peg them out on the line in the little courtyard, daring the weather to change again. Right, the list . . .
Annie, of course, is convinced Beverly is innocent, and she said she got home from work after Ella was kidnapped. Stan, the only man on the list, is in hospital. I’m sure Beverly mentioned him too . . . She said he was fixing the swings or something in the playground and he saw Ella that day. Ida, Ruth, Heather and Kate were all dead ends. Laura . . . Hmm. Laura Grieves is the young woman who came forward and admitted she had lied. The little girl playing out on the street with Ella Collins who swore her mother took her back inside. Do I dare try her? Her address is listed as being in East Street. Not too far to walk in my lunch break. Assuming she's in, and not out at work, I suppose. According to the reports from Kenny she was eight when Ella went missing. So she’s only just a bit younger than me now . . .
“Morning!”
“Hallo, Eve! I’m just making the tea,” I shout, and I hear her footsteps continue out to the backroom.
“Thanks, love. Thank heaven the rain has stopped. Tommy came home wet through from the market run last night, and the others’ school uniforms are in a right mess still. Oh . . .” She stops fussing with her coat and bag and stares at my scribbles. “I see you weren’t joking about Beverly Collins. On the case already?”
I hand her a mug of tea. “I’ve only just started. Mary and I spoke to her neighbour yesterday, but of course most people won’t talk to us at all.”
“Mmmm . . . I can’t say I’m surprised.” But I can tell Eve is curious, despite her reservations, and she runs a finger down my list of names. “Why don’t you talk to Laura Grieves? Nice girl. I know her mum. Well, I sort of know her. My friend’s neighbour, Amy, had seven girls, and Laura was her fourth. I think she lives in East Street with her husband now. Number ten! I know they’ve got a little girl called Marie. Go round and see her. Tell her I suggested it if you like.”
“Thanks, Eve!”
Well, that was odd. But then it was like that last time we set up Ruby Baker’s Investigation Bureau. Local people have local knowledge, I suppose.
It’s been niggling at the back of my mind since I woke up, but I don’t get a free moment to phone Pearl. I desperately need to talk to her about Mary and these moods she's having but I can hardly do it in a packed salon. Maybe I can fit in a call on my way back from seeing Laura. Although Mary seems to be bearing up OK today, and I can almost dismiss the incidents as my imagination. She’s smiling at customers, and shampooing vigorously, laughing with an old woman in a pink dress. But when I suggest a walk out to get some chicken and chips for lunch she shakes her head. “I need a quick nap, Ruby, just in case tonight is just as bad.”
“Of course. That’s fine. Shall I bring you anything?” At least she seems happy enough, and I smile back as though everything is fine between us.
“No, I’ll be alright, thanks. I’ll just make a cup of tea.”
So it's just me, haring down Ship Street, grabbing a newspaper full of chips to satisfy my growling stomach, and then trotting along the promenade to East Street. I’m going to be longer than half an hour, but I hope Eve won’t mind. We seem to be in for a quiet afternoon, judging from the appointment book.
East Street is a dark jumble of ancient buildings, stacked carelessly like child's blocks up the hill. Most of the houses have dirty windows and grubby paintwork. Huge dark beams criss-cross the brickwork, adding to the slightly gloomy feeling of the place.
Laura Grieves lives at number ten, and I tap slightly nervously at the door. The brown paint is peeling, and the place has the same general rundown feel as all the others in the street. My heart is racing, and I rub slightly clammy hands on my blouse. This is the girl who sent Beverly to prison . . . Maybe she isn’t at home after all. I bite my lip, anticipation turning to disappointment as the door remains closed. She must have gone out.
I raise my hand to knock one last time, thinking that at least I’ll get back to
work on time, but a bit despondent on Beverly’s behalf. But Laura is home, and she answers the door with a baby on one hip. She’s out of breath, laughing, and the child is squirming around trying to escape. Surprisingly, when I explain that Eve suggested I visit, she invites me inside straight away.
“This is Marie.” She smiles at the child, and puts her down gently on the bare boards on the living room.
The little girl is older than Summer, perhaps about two, and she immediately sits down and drags a doll over to her lap. Laura is blonde, with short, curly hair, green eyes and a mass of golden freckles. She looks far too young to be a mother, but a wedding ring gleams on her finger, and she happily points out family photos dotted around the room.
“So why did Eve say to visit? I mean, it’s always lovely to see people. Marie is great but not a good conversationalist yet. And you say you work at Johnnie’s? I’m saving up to get my hair cut there.”
She’s so transparently sweet, and genuinely friendly, that I'm almost tempted not to ruin her day by stating my mission. I wait until we’re both perched on her sofa, drinking tea, admiring the little girl’s doll collection.
“You can tell me to go if you like, but Beverly Collins came into Johnnie’s after she was released and asked me to help find her daughter, Ella. I know you were the one looking after her when she disappeared, and I can’t imagine how awful that must have been. But if there is a chance she might be still alive, I want to find her.”
Laura turns pale, fumbling for a mat to put her mug down on the little table. “Well, this is a bit of a shock . . . You’re actually working for Beverly?”
“Not really working. I just want to find out what happened to Ella.”
“Why should you care?” Her pretty face is harder now, and the green eyes are wary. “What's it to you?”
I consider my answer, aware I’m losing her. “My best friend had a baby girl three months ago — Summer. We’re bringing her up between us because Mary’s husband isn’t around. I never really thought about children, but I love Summer to bits and I see how Mary is with her. The idea that someone could take her away, hurt her, is terrifying, so I suppose I have a lot of sympathy for Beverly.”
Laura studies me for a long moment, stirring her tea with a slightly shaky hand. I’m starting to think she is going to throw me out when she looks up and gives a slightly strained smile. “I did wonder what might happen, stirring everything up after all this time, but it was my decision to go through with it. In the end it didn’t seem to matter — the police thanked me for coming in but they said Beverly was due to be released soon anyway. I feel really awful that I lied about Bev taking Ella inside with her.” Her dark lashes flicker downwards, hiding her expression for a second. “I was so scared, you see. I thought everyone would blame me for not looking after the kids properly.”
I hold my breath, willing her to go on, hardly daring to risk another question or two. “Did you like Beverly? Was she a good mum?”
“Yes, I did like her. She was a good mum, and she worked like a dog to support Ella. You know she didn’t have a husband? Some people hated that. A lot of people actually. They used to say she was a . . . you know, a slut,” Laura blushes over the word, “or they said she wasn’t a nice girl, and that’s what happens when you put it about.” She meets my gaze. “You know what? I never got that from her. Even though I was young, she just seemed to be really gentle, pretty and nice to talk to. If we fell over and she was around she’d pick us up, and once she had money for all of us to get ice creams from the van. Only once, though . . .”
“Laura, I’m really sorry to ask, but why did you tell the truth after all this time?”
The green eyes are childlike and guileless, and the smile is sugar sweet. “Do you know, I’m not sure . . . I had Marie and I suppose I started thinking about how Beverly lost her kid. I don’t know, but it was sort of haunting me. No special reason, but it took me ages to get the guts to walk up to the police station and tell them.” She drains her tea. “They were really nice about it, actually. Said I was only a kid back then and I couldn’t be blamed.”
Laura’s big eyes meet mine again, wide, innocent, almost pleading. I smile at her. “Thank you. I’m actually on my lunch break so I need to run back but if you think of anything maybe you can ring me at Johnnie’s — or even if you want to book a haircut. You get a discount with me because I’m only a trainee, but I promise I’ll do a good job.”
“Really? Oh great, I will then. If you see Beverly . . . will you tell her I’m sorry? Tell her . . . tell her I hope she finds her daughter.” Again that sincerity, but there is something behind her serenity. I would say Laura is relieved about something. And not just the relief of clearing her conscience, either.
“Yes, I will. Did you . . . I wondered if you saw the story in the papers about the girl who was rescued on the beach?”
“Poor thing. I hope they found her parents,” Laura says, quickly.
“No. They didn’t, and she is going to be moved to Alice’s Farm because they can’t find any family for her. I just thought it was a bit strange that there should be a lost girl found around the same time as Beverly comes back to Brighton. What do you think?”
She frowns at me. “I don’t know what you’re getting at, but I don’t know anything about any lost girls. Don’t forget to tell Beverly I’m sorry, will you?”
“I will tell her. You were very brave to come forward, Laura.” I hover on the doorstep, wondering if I dare ask one more question. I look down and fiddle with the clasp on my purse. “Just one last thing. Because there was so much evidence against Beverly, someone suggested that people might have been blackmailed into helping to convict her . . .”
Laura draws a sharp breath. Her freckles seem to spot like blood on her white face. All trace of charm is gone and her mouth is trembling, eyes huge and dark. “No . . . No, there was never anything like that. I never knew anything about it. I just thought I was going to get into trouble for not watching the little kids properly.”
She shuts the door with a bang, and I’m left standing on the pavement staring at the peeling paint.
Running back to the salon, I mull over the conversation in my mind, hardly noticing the other pedestrians blocking the pavements, or the traffic as I cross the road at the bottom of the hill. If I had to describe Laura, I’d say she was lovely — friendly and sweet, and very open. That was it. She was too open. I’m a complete stranger, even if I do work with Eve. I’m sure she must have had reporters at her door. Until I asked those last questions, everything she said rang true. Which leaves me with the uncomfortable thought that Laura could have been involved in the kidnapping itself. Much more involved than just being the scared child who lied to the police. She was definitely uncomfortable when I mentioned Beach Girl, too . . .
Does she know who took Ella Collins? More importantly — does she know where Ella is now?
Chapter Twelve
Saturday night and I’m at the roller rink, arms linked with my cousin, enjoying the speed, the sweaty crowds and the music pumping out across the packed space. James and Kenny are waving full glasses from the side and we nip around a heap of fallen skaters and come to a neat halt.
The boots are clunky and smelly, and I get more bruises here than the ice rink, but this is one of my favourite venues. It’s a place to forget the week, and remember you are only nineteen, even if you do have a noisy godchild who you just know is going to wake up the moment you get home.
Pearl, Victoria and I join the boys, jamming into the seats, gulping our various drinks (gin and orange for Victoria, as usual, and beer for the rest of us). Ted is sitting opposite with a naughty grin on his round face, and Kenny is laughing at something he has just said. It almost feels like old times.
I wipe sweat from my face, and wish I hadn’t worn my new black ribbed top. It shows off my curves (not as great as Pearl’s but acceptable), but is clearly not the thing to wear for exercise. On the other hand it does look good with my s
hort pink skirt. It was fun to be choosing an outfit for Saturday night again, fussing with makeup and spraying vast quantities of hairspray.
Shoving the little flicker of guilt away, I tell myself firmly that I offered Mary the chance to come out, or even come by herself while I babysat, but she turned me down every time. I thought I might be able to get Pearl on her own for a moment and chat about my concerns, but so far it hasn’t worked out. With her shifts, and my detective work, telephoning has been impossible.
“So how’s Mary doing?” As though she is reading my thoughts, Victoria leans back into her seat, arranging her blonde plait over one slim shoulder. She studies my face as she waits for an answer, fingers drumming lightly on the tabletop in time to the music.
“She’s doing fine — she’s a great mum! It’s hard, though, isn’t it . . . I mean, no sleep and sorting out babysitters for work, shopping, and, um . . .” Despite myself, my mind flicks back to the blazing row I had with Mary earlier. She still seems to be struggling, and I didn’t want to find her crying on the floor again when I got home, so when she brought Summer back from Angela’s, I offered to stay at home and help with the baby. Mary refused and insisted I come out, so I suggested we both go out or just pop down to the beach together. The sun is cooler and the shadows longer by late afternoon, and it might have helped Summer settle to sleep.
Mary ended up screaming at me, “My life’s ruined already, I don’t want yours to be too!”
Then she seemed to realise what she’d said, and without a word, grabbed the baby and marched downstairs, banging the door behind her. By the time I’d got dressed and run out into the street she was gone — vanished into the happy, colourful crowds. That was when I gave up and got dressed up. Then I waited, watching the clock tick towards half past eight, stubbornly determined not to go out until she was safely home. I want to help so much it hurts; I just don’t know how.
Part of me was frantic with worry, but I seem to be making it worse by offering to help at the moment. Maybe it makes Mary feel better if she can cope by herself . . . Trouble is, I don’t think she can. A full hour later, as I dithered between searching the streets for the pair of them and going out to meet Pearl and the others, she returned. Her face was set in that remote, blank expression I have come to know so well. Without a word, she changed and fed Summer, and then made some toast and settled down with a magazine. Troubled, but unwilling to start another row, I picked up my purse and went out into the warm, dusty streets.
