Family Pride

by Family Pride (retail) (epub)

  He grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair and ran down the stairs after her, but he was stopped at the outer door by the stony-faced landlady.

  “I don’t know what that was all about, Mr Richards, and I don’t want to, but I think you should leave. By the end of the week if you please.”

  He didn’t argue and he didn’t try to catch up with Marigold.

  Her words screamed at him from the open door of his room rattled around in his head and he had no sleep that night. At first he was offended at her impertinence at telling him how he should live, but slowly he realised she was right.

  It was not until later the next day that he remembered Marigold’s slip of the tongue. She had almost said the man’s name, “G” she had said. He was certain of it. G, he frowned. George? Jim? Jeremy? Gerald? Jack? John? He concentrated on each one but shook his head. He couldn’t think of anyone with such a name who Marigold would know. It was as he tidied away his possessions, filling the few drawers and cupboards of his new abode that he found the pistol he had smuggled back home. He held it in his hands, felt the shape of it fitting comfortably into his palm. The feel of it gave him inexpressible comfort. He closed an eye and lined it up on the picture called “The Boyhood of Raleigh” on the far wall and smiled grimly. When he found out who this mysterious G was, the pistol would come in useful.

  * * *

  Fanny was unhappy. Bessie guessed it but said nothing. For a long time Gilly was too busy to be aware of her mother’s melancholy. When she did notice it, she guessed that Gerry was the cause.

  Gerry was distant, aloof, spending long hours away from the house without any attempt at an explanation. His secrecy extended to the business, too, and Bessie and Fanny found it impossible to look at the books or persuade him to discuss what was happening.

  Twice they had failed to deliver the bread that had been ordered for the busy industries near the docks, owing to the millers failing to deliver, Gerry had told her, although Gilly found the loft full when she went to investigate. Once the dough failed to rise and again, many customers had to be let down.

  Gerry blamed the war for the difficulties, but Fanny no longer believed him. She desperately wanted to, she longed for them to return to the closeness and trust of the early days of their marriage, a period, she remembered with dismay, that had been short-lived and, even then, fraught with doubts.

  She suspected he was seeing another woman but was too proud to face him with a direct accusation. Instead she tried to win him back with tolerance, her lack of questions and devoted care. She had lost weight and her face was lined and grey with lack of sleep – sleep lost waiting for him to come home.

  Gilly found her mother crying one afternoon and, although Fanny refused to talk about her worries, Gilly decided that the cure for most ills was a day at the shops. While the café was left in the care of Auntie Bessie she persuaded her mother to go shopping for new clothes. Clothes were rationed now and they had twenty-six coupons, a number of which had to given up for each garment they bought. But Gilly had been cautious and had enough to help her mother get a new coat and perhaps some shoes. She knew that Gerry had used her mother’s share as well as his own.

  At first Fanny refused to enter into the fun of the expedition but Gilly coaxed her by promising to treat her mother and step-father to the theatre in Cardiff. “You have to have an excuse to buy something new, Mam, and a trip into Cardiff is just what you and Uncle Gerry need.” She still called him Uncle Gerry, Dad did not come readily to her lips.

  They bought a brown, wide-lapelled coat and in a second-hand shop found a brown, orange and blue scarf to wear with it. To her surprise, Gilly managed to persuade her mother to buy some trousers, something slowly becoming acceptable. Having to part with a coupon for stockings, trousers made more and more sense. Gilly detected in her mother the need to improve her appearance to keep up with her fashion-conscious husband. The smart lace-up shoes in brown suede her mother admired were expensive but Gilly handed over the money willingly, she had learnt from Shirley Green how important it was to feel well dressed when your confidence had been slapped into submission.

  At a dry-cleaners they saw a display of re-blocked hats and there was one that caught their attention. Gilly pulled her mother into the shop and persuaded her to try it on. It was a narrow-brimmed brown felt with a tall crown, which had been folded slightly at one side and fastened with a Scottish brooch, an imitation deers-foot with a tartan ribbon and a touch of silver. Seeing her mother’s face light up as she stared at herself in the mirror, Gilly took out the last of the money in her purse and bought it.

  After a few words from Gilly, Gerry for once seemed amenable to the idea of taking his wife out for an evening. He dressed in one of his newest suits, looking with some distaste at the narrow trousers and complaining at the lack of turn-ups.

  Fanny was encouraged by Gilly to spend extra time getting herself ready. She made a special effort with her greying hair which, instead of being pulled straight back across her head, she wore tucked up at the front in two wings fastened with kirby grips, with the rest fastened back in a neat bun. Under Gilly’s patient guidance she added a touch of colour to her face and when she came downstairs to join an impatient Gerry, she looked smarter and more alive than Gilly had seen her looking for months.

  Across the road from Jenkins’ bakery a figure stood hidden in the shadow of an empty shop porch, patiently waiting for the door to open. It was not really dark, a moon was already riding the sky, touching the houses and street with its gentle light. As the door opened he perfected his stance, raised the gun in his hands and steadied it expertly, his finger beginning to put gentle pressure on the trigger.

  He saw two people come out and he eased his pent-up breath. This was unexpected. He had watched the house for several nights and it was always him who came out, alone. He had to make sure. Better to hold his patience until the next night rather than make a mistake. One figure went back inside and the other, clearly wearing a trilby, must be the one he wanted. His arms still, his eyes concentrating on the target, he waited until he was certain.

  “Damn,” Gerry moaned. “I’ve forgotten my key. Wait there, I’ll just slip back in and get it, save Gilly or Bessie moaning about having to wait up for us.” He was irritable, having been talked into spending the evening with Fanny. He was going to find it difficult to play the devoted husband even for a few hours. He wanted to be with Maisie who made him feel good and made him laugh and feel excitement as they discussed their plans for the future.

  He closed the door and Fanny moved out to the edge of the doorway, looking up and down the empty street.

  The shot exploded, splitting the silence of the night. The gun gave an almost imperceptable “ting”, as the reloading process took place. The bullet was still ricocheting off the walls of the porch as the second bullet was released. Fanny fell without a sound.

  Chapter Eleven

  Cyril went home feeling neither remorse, nor a sense of jubilation. He was glad the man was dead, he deserved to die for ruining two lives, three if you considered the baby.

  The new accommodation he had found was comfortable enough and he went in, ate the meal left for him, then fell onto the bed, the gun heavy on his hip, pushed into his pocket after the shooting and almost forgotten. The smell of the exploding bullets remained in his memory as did the sight of his victim, staggering back and collapsing against the shop door. Funny, the victim seemed smaller than life-size, as if deflated by the approach of death.

  As he brought the events to mind and re-lived them, a smile creased the solemn face, easing away the bitterness and giving it a more youthful look.

  So, after all his enquiries and hopes and disappointments he had found him and punished him. It was a pity that the man hadn’t seen it coming. It was over and the victim best forgotten, the less there was to haunt him the better. The smile faded. He knew the death would haunt him. You couldn’t kill a man outside the war zone and not feel the atavistic horror of
removing someone from this earth with cold intent.

  He slept without undressing, falling asleep within a few minutes of hitting the bed and not stirring until the next morning. He hid the gun, cleaned himself up and went to the estate agents to begin his day’s work.

  After checking through the mail he began sorting out the properties newly offered for sale, considering them, wondering if he could perhaps buy one, something small perhaps outside the town. He and Marigold could make a fresh start now the cause of the trouble was out of the way.

  But there was the baby. Marigold wouldn’t part with it, not now. Could he accept it? Watch it grow, all the while waiting for it to show features that were a replica of Gerry Daniels? Pushing the leaflets aside and dropping his head onto his hands he groaned and knew he could not accept Marigold unless she abandoned the child and that she would never do. Killing Gerry hadn’t achieved a thing.

  He didn’t see a newspaper until the evening. At five-thirty he walked home and as he passed the newsagents he went in and bought the local evening paper. Outside the shop he saw the headline written on the billboard announcing the murder and he was surprised. Somehow he hadn’t considered the death of Gerry Daniels as murder, not after having witnessed so many deaths during his war service. Killing was killing, getting rid of an enemy, hardly newsworthy when so much of it went on, even if the man had got himself shot in the street like the old nuisance of a dog that he was!

  His new landlady had his meal ready and as he ate the meatless dish of vegetables and bisto gravy, she mentioned the murder, referring to the victim as she. Cyril didn’t react, he wasn’t really listening and couldn’t rouse enough interest to open the paper and read the account for himself. It was something already in the past. It was over, why should he bother to read about something he had lived through and then put aside?

  It wasn’t until he went to have a drink with some friends that the truth became known to him.

  “Fancy that Fanny Daniels being murdered. You know her, Fanny Jenkins as was. What d’you think she could have done, poor dab, to get herself killed?” someone said, folding the newspaper over to pass it on for others to read. Cyril snatched the paper from the speaker and saw for the first time the result of his revenge. He stared at the words, not accepting what he read. Then the truth of what he had done hit him.

  He fainted and was carried through to the living quarters of the publican and his wife where he recovered quickly enough to stop them calling for a doctor. After a brief rest he went home, but he didn't go inside. Instead he spent the night walking the streets and wondering what to do.

  Through the deserted town he wandered, passing only fire-watchers, and a warden looking hopefully for a chink of light so he could bang the door and complain and break the monotony of his tour. Without any real intent Cyril walked right through the town, past the silent shops and the bleak, cold road over the railway sidings, to the beach. His leg ached abominably, blisters formed and broke and bled on his feet but he ignored the pain and walked on.

  The sandy bay looked lonely and strange in the light of the waxing moon. The wide curve of the beach was usually filled with noisy trippers, families having fun. Seeing it now, empty of people and washed by the moonlight was like seeing it for the first time. He became lost in its beauty, the scene changing before his eyes.

  After staring at its abandoned sands, shadowed by the promenade, and the silhouettes of the rocks of the two headlands, it seemed to be his own, something he had dredged up out of his own imagination; not real but a dream, a warm and beautiful place. The waves were far away and they were gentle, running onto the sand and receding with hardly a murmur.

  He felt the heat rising in his body and the water, deep, mysterious and exciting, called to him. Joyfully he removed his shoes and socks and pulled his trousers up over his knees and walked towards the white lacy edge of the water, the sand beneath his feet cold and somehow comforting to the sudden heat of his body. To be cooled was his only thought. To feel the water lapping up and up until he could relax in the comforting icyness and feel the fever leave him. His distraught face relaxed into a beatific smile.

  Walking dreamily he reached the water and imagined himself to be on a hot, sun-drenched beach about to slip into the blue tropical sea. The water touching his legs felt silky and soothing and he walked further into its welcoming depths with no pain and no limp. But as the icy coldness reached above his waist, a sensation of breathlessness brought him suddenly from the trace-like state and he gasped and looked around him as if in surprise. Backing away, he hurried up to the promenade. He half ran to the parade of shops, past the cricket ground and onto the road past the old harbour. The pain of his wound was a grinding ache now and as he walked it spread until it touched every part of his body. His feet were cut by stones and sharp pavements. He was almost home before he remembered his socks and shoes.

  Sitting in the darkness on the rocks that jutted out of the sand halfway up the beach, Ivor Jenkins was eating from a bar of chocolate. Sweets and chocolate were rationed now and he savoured every last lick. Bessie had given him her ration as his own was gone, and the chocolate she had also paid for, was melting slowly, deliciously, on his tongue.

  He watched as Cyril set off for a midnight paddle. Fanny would clout him if he did something like that. He smiled as he saw him hesitate after walking out for what seemed a long time, then abandon the idea, discouraged for sure by the coldness. He saw him set off home and wondered vaguely why he hadn’t put on his shoes. The sweets finished, the melting crumbs licked from his hot hands, he picked up Cyril’s shoes and socks and followed.

  For the rest of the night Cyril sat on his bed, his back against the wall, dosing briefly and nursing the heavy gun. He wanted to talk to Marigold but knew he couldn’t. There was no one he could talk to. In this, as in everything else, he was alone.

  * * *

  Gilly remained numb for several days. She was frightened at the emptiness of her life. Everyone was being taken away from her. There was no one who cared. But in the deep of the night it was Paul her heart cried out for, not Fanny. It was Paul who she needed to help her plan and live through for the future. There was nothing of Paul for her to hang on to, only his anger at Granfer’s accusation. There was no letter and not even a decent photograph to hold.

  In a daze she answered the police questions and even did as they asked and tried to think of someone who disliked her mother enough to kill her. Fanny had been a bit sharp now and then but never anything worse than outspoken. People didn’t get killed for speaking their minds, did they? It didn’t make any sense. It was so ridiculous she even laughed once or twice. Her Mam hated by someone? If only Granfer were here, she’d be able to talk about it to him and help sort out the confusion of it all. But then she realised that seeing his daughter murdered was something he was better to have missed. No, only Paul could help her and he was far away in more than distance.

  Several times she sat down to write to him. Surely he would understand her distress and write back, tell her he cared, soothe her with his concern? But the words wouldn’t come. How could she put it down in black and white? Tell him baldly that Mam was dead, shot in the street like some criminal in a gangster film?

  When she did write about it, she simply told him the facts, a clinical report. Her heart was racing with the horror of it and she had to make it brief. She was tempted to throw it away, try again later, but she pushed it impatiently into an envelope, wanting it done and finished with, and put it into the post box.

  Gerry seemed to need little comfort from the family. He sent for his mother to visit him for a part of each day, begging her to keep him company, much to her delight. Perhaps now they would be the close companions she had imagined for her old age. The police called frequently to interview him and to them he wailed and showed his grief and refused to talk about it, apart from telling them how he had left her on the step and gone back in for a key.

  It was at an interview when all the family were
present that the police offered the suggestion that it was Gerry and not his wife who might have been the intended victim. This seemed not to have occurred to him and his handsome face stretched wide-eyed and open mouthed he stared at the police officer.

  “But who, and why?” he asked finally.

  “Only you can answer that, sir. Do you know of anyone you’ve offended recently?” The sergeant watched Gerry intently, but Gerry only shook his head. “No – er – husband who might have cause to want you harmed?” he probbed. “Revenge, perhaps?” Again he watched as Gerry shook his head. But there was a deepening alarm in the bereaved man’s demeanour, a greyness on his skin and a tenseness about the dark eyes. As they all watched him, a premonition of approaching disaster seemed to fill the room. It was, Gilly thought, like the prelude to a violent storm.

  “Do you know anyone just home from the forces, perhaps on leave, who might hate you enough to do this?” The sergeant’s voice was quiet, little more than a whisper but it seemed threatening in the stillness.

  “No, there’s no one,” Gerry muttered, knowing that even with the police watching out for him, they wouldn’t be able to protect him. Cyril, it had to be Cyril Richards. The man must be mad. Best he got away, right now, and fast. Until that could be arranged, he would stay firmly indoors.

  When the policemen left, a pale-faced and trembling Gerry went with them to the door. “I think I want to go away for a while,” he said. “On my own, just for a while.”

  “We’d like you to delay any journey for a while, sir. It’s best if you stay at home until our enquiries are complete.” The voice was soft but Gerry knew that the request was really an order.

  “But what if he comes back for another try?” Gerry put out a hand to prevent the policeman from opening the shop door. “The man might be out there now, this minute, ready for another go!”