With shaking hands and burning with anger Oliver put the letter back in its envelope and pushed it deep into his pocket. His appetite had gone. He went to the fireplace and rang the servants’ bell. ‘Tell Master James that we shall be leaving in five minutes’ time,’ he told the footman. He returned to his room and hurriedly packed a leather bag. Perhaps his anger would cool on the walk to the station.
James was waiting for him in the marble hall but he had no patience with James’s sullen manner as they walked to the village station. ‘I thought we’d have taken the trap, Father,’ James began.
‘You’ll walk,’ Oliver spoke angrily. ‘Don’t annoy me again today, James.’
They boarded the train and travelled in silence, James glaring out of the window until they reached Middlefield, where Oliver took him to the London platform and, in a sudden need for conciliation, gave his son a five-pound note.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘I know I make you keep to your allowance, but I’m sure you’ll find a use for it.’
James, though an inch shorter than him, managed to look down his nose with disdain as he took the money. ‘Thanks,’ he drawled. ‘I’m overcome by your generosity.’ He turned on his heel and moved swiftly to the open compartment door of his train before Oliver could succumb to the wild temptation he had to hit him.
When he was seated, alone, in a first-class compartment, Oliver took the letter out of his pocket and re-read it, though he had understood it perfectly on the first reading.
He was in the blackmailer’s hands. He would have to pay. He would have this King watched, but that left the difficulty of recovering the books. The only other course was to report the matter to the police … and exposure of the truth.
Oliver folded the letter and put it in his pocket and grimly asked himself, as he had so many times, if the truth would hurt, and he knew that it would be a cruel blow to Edward.
It had always been a burden, this pretending to his eldest son of brotherly interest. At the beginning he thought that the hardest part in the deception would be when his son asked for his father. It had been easy though, for Oliver to tell him about Joe Wainwright, sharing with his son his remembrance of his own father. The difficulty was now, when every impulse in him wanted to guide and steer him and have his complete trust, to stand aside, to watch his son struggle through life without the comfort of a father’s hand.
And Oliver knew that he had denied himself the satisfaction of owning to two fine sons, for he was fiercely proud of Edward. No, he couldn’t tell him. He’d have to pay the blackmailer. Even if Florence could accept the truth … and how could he ask her to, now, when less than two hours ago he had compounded the lies. Their married life was finished … how could he tell her of an affair that he’d conducted so long ago and lied about for so long? And if he did, Lizzie would have to be told about her murderous father.
‘Damn. Damn!’ He beat his fist against the upholstered seat. ‘I must pay the blackguard. Pay him enough to keep a household going.’ He would not notice the loss but the knowledge did not lessen his frustration.
When the train pulled in at Manchester he walked down the station approach road and caught an electric tram to Deansgate. If he walked he would have to think and he liked the trams; the clanging bell the driver rang at a stamp of his foot, the dynamo whining as the speed increased, the sparking of overhead wires, the wooden seats with their reversible back rests and the noise and chatter of the passengers inside. The tram ride took his thoughts, for the moment, away from the letter.
He alighted and walked to the grassy site where Albert and the architect were deep in conversation. ‘What do you think of it?’ he asked his partner. ‘Do you think we should take the whole site?’
‘No, but I know we will,’ Albert said, ‘and no doubt we’ll ask ourselves how we managed without it twelve months after it’s working.’
‘Let’s take the plans back to the hotel.’
Oliver took the parchments from the architect and together he and Albert made their way to Piccadilly on foot.
‘You’re looking down in the mouth, Oliver. You’ve hardly spoken a word. What’s up?’ Albert asked.
‘Blackmail. That’s what’s up.’ Oliver kept pace with Albert through the crowded street. He couldn’t even confide in Albert for he’d never told even his closest friend that Edward was his son.
‘What have you done to give anyone a hold over you?’ his friend demanded. ‘Is it another woman?’
‘No. I’ve never been unfaithful to Florence,’ he replied.
Oliver knew that Albert, despite a happy marriage and a large brood of children, had not been able to resist the charms of a succession of women.
‘I’ve never been tempted,’ he added, as if to apologise for his fidelity, smiling in spite of himself at the expression on Albert’s face; half-envying, half-pitying. ‘Unlike you I never could take my pleasures lightly.’
But even as he spoke Oliver knew that soon he would have to find a woman. He’d look for a discreet liaison with a sensible mistress, under the new circumstances of his marriage. There were such women. He was not innocent of their existence. But he would not look for real passion. For the twenty years of their marriage he had made do with affection and tenderness, and had denied what he thought of as his baser appetites. Florence and he had come together quickly and infrequently and it had been enough. When he took a mistress satisfaction of his physical needs would suffice.
They reached the hotel, newly built and splendid. They crossed the circular entrance lobby, magnificent in pink marble, to the deeply polished mahogany desk where they were met by the hotel manager and led to a reserved place in the dining room.
‘We can talk in private here,’ Oliver said as they were shown to one of the plush-seated and high-backed cubicles. He lowered his voice across the narrow dining table as a waiter brought them the menu. Oliver quickly returned to the business that was uppermost in his mind. ‘I can’t tell you why I’m being blackmailed but it’s over the Southport connection.’
‘Your stepmother’s family? Leach?’ Albert asked.
‘You’re near enough,’ Oliver said. ‘Do you know of anyone who’d trace the blackmailer?’
‘Yes. I’ll give you his address.’ Albert ordered wine for them. ‘Do you have to pay? Have you told Florence?’
‘I can’t.’ Oliver answered. ‘She’d never agree to pay a blackmailer. You know what Florence is like for “doing right”.’
‘Yes. She’d want to meet him and convert him to her ways,’ Albert said, making Oliver smile. ‘She never sees bad in anyone, does she?’
‘No. Not even when it stares her in the ruddy face.’ Albert would know he was speaking about Laura Mawdesley.
‘Is the old woman still the same?’ Albert asked.
‘Worse. Florence believes that “poor Mama” is not well. She even supplies brandy to strengthen her.’ Oliver helped himself from the dish of hors d’oeuvres, catching Albert’s eye over the silver tray and grinning broadly for the first time that day.
‘It’d be funny if it weren’t true,’ he added. ‘It seems to have strengthened her all right. She’s got the power of ten men when she resists being steered to her carriage.’
Edward and Lizzie had been sitting in the kitchen for an hour when Mother came downstairs corseted and cloaked for the theatre, wearing a fuchsia pink evening dress, with bugle beads and pearls on the tight bodice.
‘You’ll be mistaken for one of the actresses, Mother,’ Edward said, knowing she would consider it a compliment.
‘Make sure Nellie has everything ready, won’t you?’ Dolly fussed. ‘There’ll be at least ten coming back and it’s all ready to dish up. Eeh, I wish you’d come with me.’
Edward took her arm and escorted her to the front door where he kissed her cheek soundly and squeezed her arm. ‘Don’t worry, Mother,’ he said. ‘Everything will be done. Enjoy yourself.’
At last she’d gone. The house was quiet again, save for the clic
king of cups and plates in the kitchen where Nellie and Bertha busied themselves preparing supper.
‘Shall we sit in the garden while it’s light?’ Lizzie asked.
‘Yes. Let’s go into the orchard.’ It had been a favourite hidey-hole since childhood, the little group of apple and plum trees, out of sight of the house, behind a thick wall of overgrown damsons and raspberry canes.
Lizzie went ahead, slender as a willow, and leaned against a tree that was hanging with blossom.
He took her hand and pulled her on to the cool, silky grass where she lay. He watched her, blinking at the bright sky between leaves overhead. ‘Shall we play at Think Dream?’ Edward spoke softly. It was their secret game from childhood, when they used to creep into one another’s rooms at night when sleep wouldn’t come, and hold hands, eyes tight shut, letting their thoughts and dreams merge.
‘All right. But we should stop this. It’s silly playing games at our age,’ Lizzie answered, letting go his hand. They closed their eyes, drifted into the Think Dream state and …
‘Summer,’ whispered Lizzie.
‘Dark,’ Edward answered.
‘Hair.’
‘Beautiful.’
‘Love,’ Lizzie added after a second’s hesitation.
‘You.’
‘Kiss me.’
‘Someone’s coming! Damn!’
Edward leaped to his feet, angry that the game was spoiled. Lizzie knew, she must know, that this was no longer a game they had played as children and that it would lead them down a path they both longed to tread.
He dared not speak of it, but he believed she knew as surely as he did that what he felt for her was no longer brotherly love. And he knew his passion was returned but that neither he nor Lizzie dared take the step that would make outcasts of them.
And why should we be outcasts, he thought angrily.
His anger evaporated when he saw Oliver striding down the garden path towards the orchard. Oliver, at forty-one, was so youthful it was hard to imagine the age difference between his brother and himself.
Edward loved and respected Oliver, wanted to please him by his efforts, to have his brother’s respect and love. He would one day deserve it. For wasn’t this the man who had sacrificed so much of his time and money on helping their mother after Joe Wainwright had died? Wasn’t this the man who wanted to give more, who had to be told that he’d done enough – that the love they bore him didn’t depend on what he could give to them – that now Edward was adult he must make his way unaided?
‘Hello. Good to see you, Edward. I thought there was nobody at home. Is your mother out? Hello, Lizzie. What are you doing down there messing up your pretty dress?’ Oliver gave Lizzie his hand. ‘Let’s go inside.’
They followed him to the kitchen.
‘How’s the studying?’ Oliver asked as soon as they were inside the cosy kitchen and he had seated himself at the still-laid table.
‘Not too bad,’ Edward answered. ‘There’s only Chemistry to put some more work into.’
‘When do you go back to London?’
‘Next month. Will you be down there on business soon?’ Edward handed the teapot to Lizzie who filled it for him.
‘Yes,’ Oliver replied. ‘Where’s Dolly?’
‘Mother’s at the theatre,’ Edward said. ‘Did you remember her birthday?’
‘Yes. I remembered. I’ve bought her a present.’ Oliver had begun to help himself to Lizzie’s scones. ‘These are delicious,’ he said. ‘Has your mother been teaching you to cook?’
Lizzie, Edward saw, was blushing.
‘Have you found a young man yet, Lizzie?’ Oliver continued. ‘You don’t spend all your time cooking and sewing, do you?’
Lizzie smiled. ‘I prefer it. I’m not much of a girl for parties.’
‘Dolly ought to take you around with her. She must know plenty of people with eligible young sons. How old are you now?’
‘Twenty-two. Don’t worry about me, Oliver. I’ll probably be swept off my feet one of these days.’
Lizzie glanced over to Edward and pulled a face – a help-me-out-of-this face. Edward made one back.
Oliver took his bag upstairs and unpacked in the bedroom that was always kept ready for him. It was not the room he and Rosie had shared. Dolly slept there. This room overlooked the garden. He went to the window and looked out on to the calm suburban scene, reflecting on the unchanging way of life of this prosperous town, wondering whether the red brick walls of the houses he saw around him hid deceptions from the world, as these walls concealed theirs.
He had not been able to take his mind off the letter all day and he was anxious to talk to Dolly about it. Now it seemed that he was to be frustrated again. Dolly was at the theatre and would be bringing her friends home for supper. He would have to wait until tomorrow to speak to her. He went to the washstand and poured cold water into the bowl, puzzling again over the letter-writer’s knowledge.
The exercise books had been kept here, in Southport. Had he really been so careless as to leave them in the house all these years? And why hadn’t Dolly burned them? He had left them here when Rosie disappeared. They should have been destroyed at the time. And the photograph the blackmailer spoke of – he remembered going with Rosie to the studio but had no recollection of ever seeing the photograph itself.
The cold water refreshed him. He cupped some in his hands and splashed it over his face. It was strange too, so long afterwards, to be reminded of the love affair with Rosie and the reason for the double life he had been forced to lead to keep his two families apart. Once only had he brought James to Southport but seeing the two boys together, seeing the strong family likeness, he had known that regular contact between them was out of the question. Nor had he been able to take Edward to Suttonford. Florence would not have gone on believing that Wilf Leach had fathered both children. Edward was so obviously a Wainwright.
He went again to the window, drying his face on a snow-white towel. For twenty years he had believed that only he and Dolly knew of the deception. Yet somewhere, a man who called himself King had uncovered the truth and threatened to expose the lie that his Southport family was founded on.
He saw Edward and Lizzie walking in the garden below, hand in hand, perfect companions, secure in the world of lies their security was based upon and he knew he could not allow it to be destroyed.
‘Damn,’ he muttered at last. ‘I’ve had enough of these thoughts.’ He tapped on the window and saw Edward and Lizzie, startled, drop hands and look up. He motioned them to come indoors and he ran down the stairs to meet them in the hall.
‘Let’s join your mother at the theatre,’ he said. ‘We’ll take the tramcar and watch the show ourselves, shall we? Who’s on tonight?’
‘Celia Bellman,’ Edward told him. ‘The singer. You’ve met her. She’s been to the house with Mother and her friends.’
‘I don’t remember her,’ Oliver said, ‘but Dolly knows so many theatre people I don’t try.’
There was a tram stop around the corner from their road and ten minutes later they were aboard a noisy car that would take them right to the door of the theatre. There were posters all along the route, advertising tonight’s programme and Lizzie excitedly pointed them out to him, usually too late for him to be able to read the names of the performers.
They were in luck. There had been a cancellation. A box remained unsold and they were ushered in to the tiny room of plush and gilt that overhung the stage. Dolly was on the front row. She waved exuberantly, opening her eyes wide in surprise at seeing them. The houselights went down as enthusiastic cheering greeted the conductor.
Oliver knew what attracted Dolly to the Variety shows. There was an eagerness in the crowd, a willingness to be entertained, that with the ascending waves of music reaching the box was a palpable feeling in the smoky air.
He began to enjoy himself, forgetting for a while the blackmailer’s threat. He laughed with Lizzie and Edward at the comedy turn, where a man, d
ressed as a dandy, with tails and top hat, kept tripping over his feet and tangling his legs with his walking stick as he attempted to persuade a pretty girl to dance with him.
This was followed by an animal act, then a juggler. Edward and Lizzie, sitting either side of him, made Oliver’s evening even more enjoyable as they whispered to him, telling him of the off-stage exploits of the actors Dolly had befriended.
Tea and biscuits were brought to the box at the interval, when they were joined by Dolly. ‘Happy birthday, Dolly.’ Oliver rose from his seat and gave her a peck on the cheek.
‘Are you staying for the party?’ she asked. ‘You’re not going back afterwards, are you?’
‘No. I’m going to spend a few days with you,’ he replied.
She returned to her seat before the houselights went out for the second half of the show, when the star turn, billed outside as Celia Bellman, was the last name on the programme. The lights dimmed, the master of ceremonies came forward and announced her.
‘At last, ladies and gentlemen … the little lady we’ve all been waiting for, a star of the London theatre, a sensation in New York and Paris, our very own North Country lass … Miss Celia Bellman.’
There was wild applause. The velvet curtains rolled slowly back and Celia Bellman, the star of the show, flung wide her arms in an inviting gesture and stepped towards the footlights.
She wore a dress of scarlet satin, low cut and daring at the front, trimmed with black frills, which swooped down the centre of her bodice and were caught into a high bustle at the back of her small waist. She revealed at least six inches of neatly turned ankle where the hem lifted at the front of her dress and was, Oliver thought, the most provocative little baggage he had ever seen.
Her hair, black and glossy, was held on top of her head with a scarlet confection of ribbon and flowers and her eyes, dark like a gipsy’s, were outlined in charcoal. Oliver saw every detail clearly. He was only feet away from her, so close he could have leaned out and touched her. Her cherry-red lips parted to reveal teeth that were very slightly crossed in the front, giving a hint of imperfection in the perfect, pointed face.
The Runaway Page 31
