by Emlyn Rees
‘Ah, there you are,’ she heard her mother say, her voice lightening up. Rachel scowled, picturing Bill leaning down for her to kiss him. Sometimes her mother’s devotion to him made her sick. She heard her mother turn off the radio.
‘I’m starving,’ Bill said.
‘I’ve saved your supper. It’s in the oven.’
Rachel crossed her arms over herself and slunk down into the bath.
‘Do you mind,’ she snapped, as her brother barged in through the door.
‘But –’
‘Get out!’
‘Well, hurry up.’
As Bill retreated, Rachel lifted one of her lean legs out of the bath, pointing her toes, inspecting her shin as if she were a ballerina. Then with a smile, she took Bill’s cut-throat razor which she’d liberated from the outside lavatory and started shaving her legs. She had no intention of hurrying up. He wasn’t her father. He had no right bossing her about. For once, Bill Vale could bend to her wishes.
The rag-and-bone men were around early on Saturday morning. Rachel could hear the horse and the bell out in the high street before she heard Bill shouting for her to get up and help him take an old mattress out. She ignored him and put her pillow over her head. But then she remembered that she was going to the dance tonight. There was no point in winding up Bill, because if she pushed him too far, he might just scupper her plans.
Outside, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the birds were chirruping and chasing each other across the river. Bill was at the front of the shop, by the entrance to the lane, standing next to a slumped mattress, his shirtsleeves rolled up.
‘Oh,’ Bill said. ‘You’re awake.’
‘Sorry I didn’t come sooner, I thought I’d find half a carrot for the horse,’ Rachel said, brandishing the limp vegetable she’d taken from the compost bucket by the back door.
Bill didn’t have time to comment before Rachel was laughing and pointing across the lane to where James Peters was speeding out of his cottage, pulling on his braces, before racing out to scoop up the horse manure into a coal bucket for his rose garden.
‘Morning, James,’ Bill shouted, but he was too busy to reply.
‘We should sell that stuff in the shop,’ Rachel remarked to Bill, as she patted the giant shire horse and fed him the carrot. ‘We’d make a fortune.’
Bill laughed, holding up the mattress. ‘I can’t see Mum approving. Give me a hand with this, would you?’
Back inside, Rachel helped her mother get up, rubbing the small of her back for her where she’d seized up in the night. Then she helped her down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Bill had prepared fried eggs and bacon. Rachel flicked through the paper while they ate, and when Bill opened the shop shutters at ten to nine, everyone seemed to be in a good mood.
It was busy straight away, with the locals keen to stock up on weekend essentials before the tourist buses would inevitably start arriving. It was ten o’clock before there was a lull.
‘I’m going to do the deliveries,’ Bill announced, untying the apron he often wore in the shop. ‘There’s only a couple in town and one over at the Jones’s. I won’t be long. If Ralph comes with the dairy order, tell him to wait.’
‘I’ll go,’ Rachel said, racing from behind the counter and barring Bill’s way at the door. ‘Let me do it.’
‘You can’t. I need you to stay and help Mum. And when I say stay, I mean stay. No running off to the beach with Anne and Pearl.’
‘But if you’re waiting for a delivery, wouldn’t it be better if I went out on the bike?’ Rachel argued pleasantly. ‘Here,’ she said, going to pull the packages from Bill’s hand. ‘Let me.’
‘No,’ Bill began, pulling the packages back away from her.
Rachel turned towards their mother. ‘It’s not fair. He’s always saying I should do more and here I am offering to help and he won’t let me.’
‘Let her go, Bill,’ said Laurel Vale, polishing the counter. ‘It’ll be better if you’re here.’
‘Fine!’ he said, finally pushing the packages to Rachel so that she jerked backward. ‘But I want you back straight away. It’s all hands on deck today.’
‘You know, you really should stop being so distrustful.’
‘Then give me a reason to trust you,’ Bill hissed.
‘You two, stop it,’ their mother said. ‘Bill, that’s enough.’
Rachel felt stupid for being so intrigued by Emily Jones, but all the girls she knew were her own age and all their mothers were just that: mothers. Apart from the odd eccentrics in Stepmouth, there was nobody even vaguely out of the ordinary. Certainly no one modern, and Emily was like a breath of fresh air, a breath of hope from the outside world. The world to which Rachel felt she would one day belong.
‘Hey there,’ said Emily, her accent sounding fabulously exotic, as she greeted Rachel by the front door of the Sea Catch Café a few minutes later. ‘Where’s your brother?’
‘He’s busy today in the shop. You know, the weather. I came instead.’ Rachel dismounted and leant the bike against the wall.
Emily breathed in and sighed. ‘I don’t blame you for getting out. There’s a real taste of springtime, isn’t there?’
Emily was even more glamorous than she remembered. She was wearing a white fitted jumper and a blue skirt, but the way her clothes fitted her curvy body made her look like the model Rachel had been admiring on her pattern yesterday. Her blonde hair was curled up and she wore a pretty blue clip in the side at the front. Her lips were painted a deep pinky red and she was smoking a long cigarette with a gold tip – a brand that Rachel had never seen. Rachel had never wanted to look like anyone before, except, of course, Marilyn Monroe, but she was in the movies. Now she found herself longing to be like Emily.
Rachel handed the small bundle of groceries from the front basket of the bike to Emily.
‘I guess everyone will be busy today,’ Emily said, after she’d thanked her. ‘You should come with your family and eat here one time. I know we’re only a tearoom at the moment, but I’m going to turn it into a diner, or a restaurant.’ She pointed behind her to the interior. ‘I was thinking we could get a jazz band at nights. Make it a party place. What do you think?’
Rachel didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know what a diner was and she’d never been to a restaurant with her family. She never went anywhere with her mother, except to visit friends and to church. The only time they ever went on day trips on the bus, they took bloater paste and spam sandwiches with them. Eating in a restaurant with a jazz band seemed to Rachel to be the last word in extravagance. From her in-depth knowledge of the residents of Stepmouth, she knew for a fact that the town would be scandalised by such an establishment.
‘I think it sounds wonderful.’
‘The diner, or the restaurant?’
‘What’s a diner?’
Emily laughed, but not in a patronising way. ‘A diner? Well, it’s a sort of milk bar. There’s a fabulous one in New York I used to go to all the time. They have small booths where you sit and drink milkshakes and eat burgers. They even have little juke boxes for each table.’
‘I’m going to go to New York one day.’ Rachel had only meant to think it, not say it.
‘You’ll love it there,’ Emily said, as if Rachel’s admission had been the most natural thing in the world and entirely realistic. ‘You’ve got to go up the Empire State building. Oh, and to Macy’s. You won’t believe the shops. I can tell you exactly where to go.’
There was a pause. She could tell Emily was looking at her, but she was too embarrassed to meet her eye. She didn’t dare elaborate on her plans. Emily stubbed out her cigarette on the doorstep.
‘So, what are you doing later?’ she asked, conversationally, changing the subject. ‘I mean, what does one do on a Saturday night in this place? I still haven’t worked it out.’
‘I’m going to the dance. It’s only a local thing.’
‘Anything is better than nothing,’ Emily said. �
��What are you wearing?’
‘My mum’s made me a dress.’
‘Come on in for a second,’ Emily said, with a smile, as if she’d just had an idea. ‘I might have something for you.’
Rachel hadn’t been inside the café before, it being strictly the preserve of tourists. It was bigger than she’d imagined with red checked tablecloths adorning all the tables. One side was all windows which looked out over the river far below. Yellow and purple pansies flourished in all the window boxes. It looked vaguely Alpine, like a picture of a skiing lodge Rachel had seen in a magazine.
‘Ah, there’s my main man,’ Emily said, and Rachel followed her gaze, as a door opened in the back wall next to the service hatch. Rachel’s heart lurched. Because Tony Glover was standing in the doorway, wiping his hands on a cloth. He froze when he saw her.
‘Tony’s my saviour in the kitchen,’ Emily continued. ‘Honestly, I don’t know how I’d manage without him. I think one day he’ll be a fine chef. Do you two know each other?’
Emily didn’t know.
It struck Rachel now with such a force, that she stared at Emily, dumbfounded. Emily didn’t know. She didn’t know the history between the Vales and the Glovers. She had no idea of the millions of reasons why she and Tony must never be left alone together.
Should she say something? Should she shatter Emily’s illusions? Needing an answer, Rachel glanced at Tony. A shaft of sunlight beamed from the window between them, particles of dust shimmering in the air. When he met her eyes, she could see the question in them and she couldn’t breathe.
Once again, her preconceptions fell away and Rachel had the feeling back that she’d had after the fight, that something was being stripped away and she was looking at the truth. Because she couldn’t deny the fact that Tony Glover looked so normal, standing there. He looked like a real person. He didn’t look at all like a good-for-nothing scoundrel she knew him to be. He didn’t look like the town’s bogeyman. He looked like someone being employed by Emily. Someone who Emily liked, respected and trusted. And he also looked undeniably handsome as he stood by the window, the bright sunlight catching the side of his face.
‘Well? Do you, or don’t you?’ Emily asked again. She was looking between Rachel and Tony, clearly confused.
‘Sort of,’ Tony said. He rubbed the side of his face.
Emily nodded. ‘Good. Then you two can amuse yourselves. I’ll be back in a sec,’ she said, opening the hall doorway.
As Emily left the room, the air between Rachel and Tony seemed to be so charged that she could hardly speak. She tried to imagine that they really had been elevated to some Alpine resort, far away from Stepmouth and everyone they knew. It wasn’t difficult. Even without any words being spoken it already felt as if they were floating in their own bubble where all the rules they’d always lived by didn’t exist.
‘How’s your face?’ she asked. The bruises seemed to have cleared up.
‘Much better.’
‘Yes, well, like I said, sorry.’ She tried to make herself sound hard, harsh even, but instead, her voice had turned husky.
‘Don’t be. I got thrown out of home. But it was time I left anyway . . . time I set up on my own. So I guess you did me a favour. Mum, you know, she doesn’t approve of fighting.’
Rachel stared at him, as this revelation struck her. Tony’s mother, the harridan, the scandalous, shameless mother, had morals? She’d thrown her son out of home for fighting?
‘So where are you living?’ she asked.
‘In a shed up on old Dooley’s land. He gave it to my grandfather for saving his life.’
Another thunderbolt struck Rachel. There was a Glover who had saved lives?
‘He did?’
Emily burst back through the door and Rachel jumped.
‘There,’ she said, out of breath as she handed Rachel a small, square package.
Rachel ripped her eyes away from Tony’s, as she took the package from Emily. The square packet had black-and-white checks on it and a cartoon of a woman bending over. A clear cellophane window at the top revealed that inside were a pair of sheer ribbed nylons.
‘There. The best you can get,’ Emily said, smiling at Rachel.
‘I can’t,’ Rachel stumbled for words, astounded by the generosity of Emily’s gift.
‘Oh, go on. Your brother did me a big favour, the other day. He gave me chocolate to give to my mum. So I owe him a favour back, only I know he hates chocolate –’
‘What? He loves chocolate,’ Rachel interrupted. ‘It’s his favourite thing in the whole world. Did he tell you he didn’t?’
An enigmatic smile settled on Emily’s face. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘But thanks. I will get him some chocolate to pay him back. And in the meantime, these are for you. Every girl always needs new nylons. All the ones I’ve ever met, anyway.’
Rachel couldn’t find the words. They were the most beautiful nylons she’d ever seen. They would turn Anne green with envy.
‘Take them for your dance tonight. A girl’s got to have something a little special now and then to impress the boys.’ Emily winked at Rachel and glanced deliberately over her shoulder at the kitchen door. But Tony had gone.
‘Well? Say something,’ Emily said, excited at giving her gift.
‘Thank you,’ Rachel gushed.
Outside the café, Rachel took the bike and turned down the side alley. Once she was sure she was out of sight, she took the packet of cigarettes she’d been saving from her pocket. In the distance, she could hear the chink of the fishing-boat masts in the harbour and the distant sound of a car changing gear on Harbour Bridge. Close to, she could almost hear her own heartbeat.
She took a deep drag on the cigarette, thinking of how glamorous Emily had looked today. And then, despite herself, her mind was filled with the image of Tony, the sunlight on his face, his dark blue eyes boring into her. Tony Glover. She wished now more than ever that he was standing right here. She wanted to challenge him, to fight with him, to make him explain why seeing him just now had left her so jangled and confused.
Rachel closed her eyes briefly, exhaling the cigarette smoke, feeling the dizzy buzz in her head. But there was something else too: a softening feeling, a warm flush that spread through her stomach as she thought about Tony’s face.
She opened her eyes abruptly, feeling caught out. This couldn’t be. She couldn’t feel desire for Tony Glover. She simply couldn’t. She threw her cigarette away, shivering as she marched the bike back on to the road. She couldn’t admire his flesh and blood. She wasn’t allowed to.
Because Tony’s flesh and blood was bad. Bad through and through. It was Tony’s flesh and blood that had destroyed her family. Because it had been his brother Keith Glover who, with a balaclava over his face and a shotgun in his hand, had broken into Vale Stores in the dead of night and broken open the till looking for money. It had been Keith Glover who had turned upon the shocked appearance of her father in his pyjamas and had shot him at point-blank range. It had been Keith Glover who had coldly watched him fall dead to the floor, to reveal his terrified wife behind him. And it had been Keith Glover who’d then fired again before running, shattering Laurel Vale’s pelvis and paralysing her for life.
Chapter VII
Mallorca, Present Day
Laurie got out of the cab by the gates of Sa Costa and sighed happily at the balmy onslaught of noonday heat. The pretty young woman who’d been waiting for her on the dusty cypress tree-lined road, leant down and spoke through the window to the driver in rapid Spanish, before turning to Laurie.
‘Mrs Glover telephoned me. I’m Maria,’ she introduced herself, shaking Laurie’s hand. She had dark ringlets, a flowery patterned dress and fashionable sunglasses and Laurie felt every inch the Englishwoman abroad, blinking like a vole who’d emerged from a long winter of London drizzle.
‘I work in the Ararat office in Palma,’ Maria continued, as the cab driver popped open the boot and, sucking on a cigarette, walked
around the car to heave Laurie’s bags out. ‘I keep an eye on the place. I’m afraid the drive has just been resurfaced, so we can’t take the taxi up to the house.’
Maria must work with Sam, Laurie thought immediately, feeling an illicit thrill at this chink of knowledge into Sam’s world – a world that was so terrifyingly near, she could almost feel it. Perhaps Maria might even mention that Laurie had arrived in Mallorca . . .
Laurie checked herself, turning her attention to gathering up her bags. Was she crazy? Why was she even thinking this? She wasn’t going to give Sam bloody Delamere any of her brain space. That wasn’t why she was here. She wanted absolutely nothing to do with him. She was here at the invitation of her wonderful new aunt and nothing – especially not Sam – was going to spoil her new relationship with her family.
‘We’ll walk from here,’ Maria said, withdrawing one of the five-euro notes that Laurie was about to hand over to the driver. ‘Local prices,’ she explained. ‘For the family.’
Laurie put the money back in her purse, thinking yet again that Rachel’s influence seemed to have a tinge of the Mafia about it. She could only imagine what Tony must have been like, but Rachel was like the Godfather herself, getting her own way with such ease and grace that it was virtually impossible to contradict her wishes.
Not that Laurie had wanted to refuse her generous offer: the exclusive use of Rachel’s Mallorca villa for a couple of months in order to work. The timing of it simply seemed too fatalistic to resist.
And certainly, now that she was here, all her doubts seem to vanish into the hazy, Mallorcan air. As the cab drove away, leaving a cloud of dust, Laurie became aware of how quiet it was, the silence only broken by the twitter of birds in the trees above and the metronomic trill of the cicadas.
‘Mrs Glover, she is very kind to my family. We are very sad about Mr Glover. We are all very, very sorry,’ said Maria, as she unlocked a small ornate cast-iron gate, next to the big electronic ones. ‘It was a tragic loss for you.’
Laurie hardly heard her. She was more intrigued by the villa. Bougainvillea, the colour of raspberry blancmange, covered the wall along the small road, and beyond the gates she could see flowering cactuses and small palm trees lining the drive which twisted away, as if into a jungle. She was so awed that she realised too late that Maria was offering her condolences and giving her a look of unbridled sympathy.
