by John Harvey
Helen was hardly back at her car when Barbara Connors came hurrying towards her. 'Wait, wait. There was a Terry. But this was a long time ago, when she was still at school. Terry, yes. Terry Markham. He had quite a thing about her, as I recall.'
27
Beatrice had the next day off from school, an inset day, and Ruth had arranged to be free. 'We'll go out in the car somewhere. Take a picnic, maybe.'
'Mum! Do we have to?'
'You like picnics.'
'Yes, but you know...'
'Know what?'
'Cambridge, shopping—you promised?'
'I don't think so. Anyway, what for?'
'A new top, remember?'
'Oh, Beatrice, we can get that any time.'
'Yes, but we don't though, do we? I mean, that's what you say, any time, any time, but we never actually go.'
Ruth sighed. 'All right, next weekend. For definite.'
Beatrice's face registered disbelief.
'I just don't want to waste a whole day trudging round shops, that's all.'
'Okay, okay.' Beatrice sighed and stuck her head back down into her book.
Ruth plugged in the iron, lifted one of Andrew's shirts from the pile, shook it out then smoothed one side along the board with her hand. When they were first married, Andrew had prided himself on the fact that he did his own ironing, and from time to time mentioned it to friends as if it were still the case, whereas, as Ruth had once pointed out, borrowing from a local production of Hamlet she'd been hauled off to by Catriona, it was now something honoured far more in the breach than the observance.
'Spoken like a true librarian and a scholar,' Andrew had responded, smiling. 'A quotation for every occasion.'
But he had acknowledged it was true. And, besides, Ruth didn't really mind. In fact, she quite enjoyed ironing: one of those mundane tasks that didn't require too much concentration, allowing her mind to wander.
'This picnic,' Beatrice piped up, having just finished a chapter. 'Where're we going anyway?'
'Oh, I don't know. Take pot luck, shall we? See where the mood takes us.'
'Whatever.'
Dismissed, Ruth returned to her task. The A14 out of Ely and then the A12, if they didn't hit too much traffic they could be in Aldeburgh inside two hours and a half.
They woke to pale skies and drifting cloud, enough of a breeze to bring a little freshness to the air and the hope of some real sunshine later on. Ruth was up early, bustling around, sandwiches to make, a flask for the journey, bottles of water, camera, binoculars, sun screen.
'Pretty optimistic,' Andrew said, seeing the bottle of moisturising sun lotion, factor 20. 'Still, I hope you both have a lovely day. Think of me cracking the whip over my recalcitrant staff when you're skimming stones or whatever.'
Ruth lifted her face to be kissed.
'Beatrice,' Andrew called, 'see you later, sweetheart.'
'Bye, Dad.'
Thirty minutes more and they were on the road, Ruth with the car stereo tuned to Radio 4, more problems of the menopause under lively discussion; Beatrice opted to sit in the back, stretched out, with her iPod shuffle.
The weather seemed to improve the closer to the coast they came and by the time Ruth had parked the car there was barely a cloud in the sky.
'See,' Ruth said, looking up. 'What did I tell you?'
Beatrice treated her to one of those 'I care?' looks she'd been perfecting, but within minutes she'd taken her mother's hand and was chattering away about something hilarious, and, to Ruth, largely incomprehensible, that her friends had been up to at school.
'I think I could just fancy a cup of coffee,' Ruth said, pausing outside one of several cafés on the high street.
'I thought you brought a flask?'
'That was for emergencies.'
They found a seat near the window where they could look out past the striped awning at the passers-by, mostly, it seemed, visitors like themselves. Ruth treated herself to a cappuccino and a freshly baked scone with butter and jam, and Beatrice talked her way into a large hot chocolate with cream and sprinkles and a chocolate flake, as well as a piece of strawberry cheesecake.
They walked along the narrow path between the river and the sea, threading their way between brightly coloured fishing boats beached on the shingle, Beatrice ducking down every so often at the sight of a shell to add to her collection.
'Look! Look at this. Isn't it lovely?'
'It's beautiful.'
Ruth pushed the hair back out of her daughter's eyes and smiled.
'What?' Beatrice said, squinting towards the sun.
'Nothing. I'm just happy, that's all.'
'You're crazy,' Beatrice said, and, spinning away, she raced down towards the water's edge, small stones squirting out from beneath her flip-flops as she ran.
They ate their sandwiches in the lee of one of the numerous fishing huts, keeping a wary eye out for the more predatory of the gulls wheeling and gliding above. Once, in Scotland, a herring gull had swooped down and snatched a sandwich from Ruth's hand as she brought it towards her mouth, leaving her startled and shaken and holding an inch of crust.
A light haze was settling over the further reaches of the sea, so that the horizon had all but disappeared and sea and sky were one.
'Come on,' Ruth said, stuffing things back down into the rucksack, 'there's something I want to show you.'
From a distance, the steel constructions rising up from the shingle at the north end of the beach looked like giant fans and then, as they drew closer, like angel wings.
'What are they?' Beatrice asked.
'Wait and then you'll see.'
The nearer they got, the bigger they became, until they stood some twelve feet high at their tallest point and almost as wide.
'They're shells,' Beatrice said.
'That's right, scallop shells.'
'What on earth are they doing here?'
'An artist designed them, Maggi Hambling. A tribute to Benjamin Britten.'
'Who?'
'He's a composer. Was. Used to live near here. A lot of his music was about the sea.'
Beatrice shrugged and pressed her hand against the surface of the iron shell. 'It's warm.' She leaned her face against it and closed her eyes.
I love you, Ruth thought. So much. I really do.
'Look,' Beatrice said, 'there's writing round the top. What does it say?'
'Read it.'
'I hear those voices that will not be drowned.'
'It's from an opera,' Ruth explained. 'Peter Grimes'
'By that man?'
'Yes.'
'What does it mean?'
'What d'you think it means?'
Beatrice flapped her hands. 'I don't know.'
'Do you like it, though? The sculpture?'
'It's okay.'
'Some people don't. People who live here. They've poured paint over it and everything. They think it should be taken down or moved.'
'That's stupid.' Beatrice shielded her eyes. 'Can we go now?'
Halfway on their journey back towards the car, Beatrice let go of Ruth's hand and started lagging behind, head down.
'Come on,' Ruth said cheerily. 'Not far now. We're nearly there.'
By the time Ruth had reached the beginnings of the town, Beatrice was a good fifty metres adrift. She swung the rucksack down from her back and sat on a bench to wait.
When Beatrice caught up, she stood, swivelling first on one foot and then the other, looking anywhere but into her mother's eyes.
'What's the matter?' Ruth asked.
No reply.
'You don't want to tell me?'
A shake of the head.
'Come and sit here, then. Let's just rest for a minute before we get back in the car.'
At first it seemed as if Beatrice was going to stay put, but then, grudgingly, she went and sat beside her mother, close but not close enough to be touching, flip-flops trailing on the ground.
'Voices that will not be drowned,' she said eventuall
y. 'That's her, isn't it? Heather. That's why we came here, because of her. It is, isn't it?'
'Not really, no.'
'But you've been here before? With her?'
'Yes,' Ruth admitted.
'To look at that—that scallop thing?'
'No, that wasn't here then. But to Aldeburgh, yes. A long time ago.'
Beatrice turned away, back hunched.
'Beatrice, don't ...'
'I hate her,' Beatrice said. 'I hate her.'
Ruth reached for her and felt her body stiffen, before she turned, sobbing, and pressed herself against Ruth's chest.
'It's all right,' Ruth said softly, her face resting close against the top of Beatrice's head, smelling her little girl smell, the warmth of the sun in her hair.
'It's all right,' she lied.
28
The sign over the door read Terrence Markham: Bespoke Tailor. In the small window to one side a single three-piece suit was on display, dark blue with the faintest of pink stripes. No price shown. Helen didn't even want to guess.
The bell above the door gave a reassuringly old-fashioned tinkle when it opened. A range of suits, carefully graded from black to the palest grey, hung inside two open closets to the left of the small interior, rolls of material on shelves above and below; opposite, there were shirts and socks and, inside a case, a selection of ties, mostly striped, some bearing college crests.
The man who glanced up from behind the wooden table facing the door, where he was measuring a length of cloth, was five eight or nine, slender, bespectacled; his hair, for a man not yet quite forty, going prematurely grey.
'Good morning. How can I help?'
'I didn't think,' Helen said, looking round, 'places like this still existed.'
He smiled; it was a good smile, honest and open, Helen thought. You'd buy a custom-made suit from this man—if your bank balance could stand it.
'You mean,' he said, 'when anyone can go down to Asda at Burleigh Street or Coldhams Lane and get one off the peg for forty pounds and change.'
'Something like that.'
'A city like this, there'll always be somebody who can tell quality enough to want to pay for it. And be able to. Then, of course, there are the tourists, God bless them, looking for a taste of old English craftsmanship and eager to reclaim their VAT.'
Helen returned his smile. 'You've been here long?'
'Not so very long. Not this time, at least. But the shop, it's been here for years.'
'But not always a tailor's?'
'Oh, yes. Burns Brothers. They had two places in the old days, this one and another on Portugal Street. I worked for them as a cutter after I left school; then again until six or so years ago. Ran this shop for them, in fact.'
'And now it's yours.'
'Maurice, the older one, he died. Leonard decided enough was enough and retired to a place he had in Cyprus. Now, until the bailiffs come calling, it's all mine.' He smiled again. 'And that's a lot more information than you really need.'
'Not at all.'
'What is it, anyway? Something for your husband or boyfriend? A celebration? Birthday? Anniversary?' Another smile. 'Perhaps you're getting married?'
'Not this month.' Helen slipped her warrant card from her bag.
'Ah.' The smile disappeared. 'I wondered. Wondered whether someone would find out, put two and two together and try making five.'
'Five?'
'After that awful ... after Linda died ... I kept expecting the police to come round. Every time the doorbell rang, and maybe I'd be in the workshop at the back, I'd walk out here expecting to see two burly men in uniform—Come down to the station—you know, the kind of thing you see on TV. The Bill. And then when nothing happened I realised that perhaps nobody knew. So I just kept quiet. I thought it was for the best.'
'For you.'
'Of course for me. There was nothing I could do for Linda now. Nor Paul.'
'And Carl? The little boy?'
Markham raised his hands to his face. 'He's all right, isn't he? I mean, he's being looked after?'
'Yes. His grandparents.'
'He'll get over it in time.'
'You think so?'
'I don't know. I hope so. I can't imagine...' He shook his head vigorously, as if to chase out the thought. 'You know,' he said, echoing something that had already passed through Helen's mind. 'I thought at one time he might be mine. Carl. I thought he might be my son.'
'And that's not the case?'
'No.'
'You're sure?'
A different smile this time, wry and slightly sad. 'I'm sure. I even went so far as to ask for proof. The boy's blood type, DNA. He was Paul's son, not mine.' His voice was touched by regret. 'Otherwise ...'
For one moment, Helen thought he might be about to cry, but instead he took a handkerchief from his pocket—not a tissue, she noticed, but a genuine linen handkerchief—removed his glasses, blew his nose, put the handkerchief away and set his glasses back in place. Control restored.
'There are some questions I'd like to ask,' Helen said. 'Things to get straight. For the record.'
'You want me to come to the police station?'
'At some time, yes, to make a statement. Before the inquest.'
'And now...?'
They walked out on to Magdalen Street and into the grounds of one of the smaller colleges, one of the few where visitors were not charged for satisfying their curiosity about the architecture and generally admiring the view.
Helen thought about lighting a cigarette, but held off for fear some college by-law would be evoked and see them ejected.
Markham seemed to be examining the palms of his hands, the length of his nails. 'We were at school together,' he said finally. 'Linda and I. The sixth form. Different subjects, the same year. I had this stupid crush, followed her around like some demented puppy dog. No wonder she wouldn't give me the time of day.
'I left to study textile design, but, with one thing and another, it didn't work out, and when I came back to Cambridge I talked my way into a job with Burns Brothers. Leonard, for some reason he took a bit of a shine to me, taught me just about everything I know. Linda had gone off to university to do architecture and that was when she met Paul. They got married and went to live somewhere in the north-east, but there were problems—his family, I think—and they came back here.
'By then I'd gone cap in hand off to Italy, trailing after a woman I'd met when she was here at summer school. What a disaster that was.' He smiled ruefully. 'You'd think I'd learn.'
Some people, Helen thought, never did. Herself included.
'Then one day after I returned I was walking by the Backs and I bumped into her. Linda. Literally, almost. I was wandering along, mind somewhere else entirely, and she was reading a book. Like Life, it was called. I can remember it now. Short stories, I think. American. After we finished apologising to one another, we started talking, things we'd been doing, filling in the gaps, I suppose. When she said she had to be going I asked if she'd meet me again, a coffee or something, another time. I didn't think for a moment she'd agree, but she did.
'We saw one another once or twice—just talked, that's all it was, nothing happened—you know, nothing physical—but Linda was uncomfortable with it, I could tell, and when she said she couldn't see me again, I wasn't surprised. She asked me not to contact her and I agreed. Then the following April she phoned me, right out of the blue. Said she wanted to see me. I'd been doing my best to forget her and there she was, "Please, Terry, it's important." I didn't know what was going on. It could still have been April Fools' Day for all I knew.
'We met out well clear of the city, close to Wicken Fen. She said she'd been thinking about me. Trying not to. It was a little crazy. Out of hand. We ended up making love there and then in the car. It was as if ... as if something had been ... unleashed. That sounds melodramatic, I know, cliched, but that's what it was like. I'd never known anything like it.
'After that, we saw one another whenever we could.
Wherever. Sometimes, when I was looking after the shop and no one else was around, I'd put up the closed sign and lock the door and we'd go into the stockroom and make love there.'
'Paul, her husband, he didn't suspect?'
'I don't know. From what I could tell they were living pretty separate lives by then.'
'But it didn't last?'
Markham shook his head. 'Eight months or so. Not even a year. I met her and it was different again. She was cold, distant. She said she wanted to give her relationship with Paul another chance. I hadn't seen it coming; hadn't seen it coming at all. I got really angry, lost my temper, started shouting. Said she and Paul didn't have a relationship anyway. I accused her of playing games, making excuses, messing me around. Then I threatened to tell Paul what had been going on. She said she'd told him already. Told him she was sorry and promised not to see me again and he'd understood. They were going off on holiday. Egypt. The Red Sea. Make a new start.
'I handled it badly. Sort of fell apart. Leonard, he could see there was something wrong. He had a cousin in South Africa, the same line of business. Cape Town. Go and work for him, he said, a working holiday.' Markham smiled. 'I stayed four years.'
'Why did you come back?'
'My father, he was diagnosed with cancer. We'd never been close—Leonard, he was more of a father to me—but it was serious. He was dying. Things like that—close or not—they make you think, think about your life. I expect that's what made me want to see Linda again, just—I don't know—just see her, that's all. Some sort of unfinished business, I suppose. And they were still living in Cambridge, the same house as before.' He gave Helen a quick sideways glance. 'That's when I found out about Carl.'
'And you thought ...'
'Like I said, I thought he was mine. My son. He didn't even look like Paul, and besides—the sums, they weren't so very difficult—nine months, it's not hard to figure out. She swore Paul was the father and I wouldn't believe her. Not until she showed me the proof.'
'And then?'
'And then we talked. She told me she was going to leave Paul. There wasn't anything between them any more. She'd tried, but that was it. She was going to go somewhere like Australia, make a new start while she still could. A new life for Carl, somewhere better. This country, she said, it's falling apart. It's no place to bring up a child.'
