Chapter 7
All roads lead home.
Mirabelle slept only fitfully. It was still dark when she opened her eyes and for once she felt at peace. The winter dawn stole slowly over the horizon. The bedroom smelled faintly of orange bath oil. She had finished the last of the bottle the night before, that and the whisky, staying up late wrapped in Jack’s old dressing gown watching the moon, warmed through by the lazy hot water. Now she fumbled for her watch and squinted, trying to focus on the tiny figures etched on the face in gold. It was only just seven o’clock. Outside the long window the streetlamps flickered and a policeman on his beat crossed the road and stood staring at the ocean. She watched him for a while, then shifted her gaze and caught sight of herself in the ornate mirror propped next to the fireplace. She did not look like the frantic woman she had been in London, but Mirabelle knew that grief and shame lingered only slightly under the surface. Jack was under her skin. He was part of her. She wondered what advice she would give herself if she were a concerned friend. Whatever it was, she doubted she’d take it – good advice was easier to give than to put into action. She’d tried hard to be good in the years since he died, but nothing had made her happy.
In the bathroom she splashed her face with cold water, relishing the shock. Then she pulled her green tweed suit and fur-lined ankle boots out of her wardrobe. Even on good days she rarely bothered with breakfast. There was no question of eating this morning. Instead, at just past eight o’clock, she left her flat and turned down the Lawns in the direction of town.
First in the office, Mirabelle snapped on the lights. At this time of year the street outside appeared to exist in a permanent state of twilight. Getting back to a normal routine was what she needed, Mirabelle told herself as she looked round. Vesta’s solitary cup and plate lay washed beside the sink and a list of Bill’s calls for the day was propped on his desk. Several scraps of purple chiffon were folded neatly. Mirabelle pushed them aside and picked up a notepad covered in Vesta’s handwriting: notes the girl had made in the library. As expected, Vesta had made a thorough job of it. Mirabelle began to read, although she had already decided that she wasn’t going to proceed with her search for Philip Caine. Later she’d tell Mr Lovatt. Meanwhile, the results of Vesta’s research were interesting.
Bradley’s exploits had been reported in the Daily Telegraph and The Times alongside more dramatically expressed pieces in the popular press. His engagement was announced in September 1942 and the wedding had taken place three weeks later. After the war his name came up in the court circular now and then, or in connection with his local hunt, just as Mr Lovatt had said. His father-in-law had died in 1951, the same week, she noted, as Big Ben McGuigan. It was strange to think of these people leading their lives in tandem, huge events mirroring each other as they travelled in the same direction without ever meeting. Vesta appeared to have discovered nothing about Philip Caine, but perhaps she hadn’t started searching for him yet. Digging up information took time. Mirabelle put down the notepad and stood by the window, staring at the grey paving stones on East Street.
At nine o’clock Bill arrived with Panther at his heel.
‘Cold again,’ he said cheerily, stamping his feet. ‘At least it’s stopped raining.’
Vesta, it seemed, had neglected to tell Bill that Mirabelle had even been away. Bill pulled the morning paper from inside his coat and laid it on the edge of her desk as he picked up the list of calls.
‘Patcham,’ he told Panther, who wagged his tail enthusiastically. ‘Quite a sum outstanding in Patcham.’ He nodded as he totted up what was due.
‘What would you do, Bill, if there was a call you didn’t want to make?’ Mirabelle asked.
Bill looked up. ‘Lummy,’ he said. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You know. If there was something awkward. Something that felt wrong.’
‘But it’s my job. It’s not up to me, is it?’
‘It’s never happened then?’
Bill considered. ‘I don’t like it when they ain’t got nothing, know what I mean? Before Christmas I had to call to the flats at Carlton Hill. It was a couple. I doubt they was married. The feller owed two quid or something and when the girl opened the door half the floorboards were up. They were using them for firewood, see. You can’t get blood from a stone. They shouldn’t be giving people credit if they can’t pay for it. They was young too – no more than twenty.’
‘But you collected the money?’
Bill looked affronted at the idea he might have shirked his duty. ‘It’s my job, innit? Course I got it. Bit by bit. The bloke managed to get a job soon after and I called him on payday – weeks it took. I let him know I’d leave the girl out of it as long as he promised to get the money back. It was two, three shillings at a time, but he made it. They know they’ve got to pay. They know they’re in the wrong, see?’
Mirabelle nodded. ‘And if there was something uncomfortable that was personal? Someone you knew, perhaps?’
‘The force knocks all that out of you, Miss Bevan. When I was a copper, or even now, if I had to make a call to an acquaintance it’s bound to be worse for them than it is for me. In your personal life you get to do what you like, but at work there’s rules, isn’t there? You’ve just got to get on with it.’
Mirabelle lifted up the paper and looked at the headlines without reading them. Bill was right, of course. Bulldog Bradley’s bequest was a personal matter; it wasn’t mandatory. Wherever Caine had ended up, she didn’t need to get upset about it. She had a choice and she’d made the wrong one, but she was allowed to change her mind. Inside the offices of McGuigan & McGuigan things always ended up making sense.
The door opened and Vesta swept in, only ten minutes late.
‘Oh, Mirabelle! I didn’t think you’d be back so soon. I have great news. Charlie and I have set a date,’ she announced. ‘Spring, we thought. The last week in April. We reckoned we’d take a run down the coast for a few days afterwards. Charlie likes the idea of a honeymoon.’
‘That’s wonderful.’
Vesta delved into her capacious handbag and held up a list and more scraps of fabric – this time in an array of soft pinks. ‘The trouble is, I can’t decide between the peach and the rose petal.’
‘I’d best get off.’ Bill called Panther to heel and hurriedly swept out of the office. Vesta was oblivious.
‘I’ve seen a couple of things in Hannington’s but I hoped you might come with me to help choose,’ she continued. ‘There’s such a lot to organise. My mum’s finding it difficult. We asked her and Dad to come down for the wedding but she’s told the neighbours that she thinks I’ve run away and got married on the quiet. She’s embarrassed we’re not having a big party at church.’ Vesta raised her eyebrows. She loved her mother, but sometimes the relationship could be difficult. The Churchills had not approved of many of their daughter’s choices. When they first discovered she was working at McGuigan & McGuigan they’d tried to make her come home. And despite the fact that they liked Charlie, living in sin was unquestionably frowned upon.
When she heard the news that a date had finally been set, Mrs Churchill had been conciliatory but Vesta was well aware that this was because her mother was standing in a neighbour’s hallway – the site of the only telephone on their street. The Kellys had been the first to get a television, before the Coronation the year before. Now they’d had a telephone installed, their house had become a veritable Euston Station.
‘Whatever you think, Vesta,’ Mrs Churchill had said, partly into the mouthpiece and partly in the direction of Mrs Kelly who was standing not ten feet away.
Vesta knew she’d get it in the neck the next time she went home unless the wedding was over and she was Mrs Lewis, in which case it would be too late. For now though, Mrs Churchill appeared resigned, having decided it was better simply to let her daughter get on with it. The truth would just have to be manipulated to make it more palatable in the eyes of her friends and neighbours; that was all.
Mirabelle filled the kettle at the sink and put it on to boil. ‘Why don’t we pop up to Hannington’s at lunchtime?’ she offered. ‘We might as well make a start.’
Vesta beamed and turned to take off her coat. Mirabelle reached for the teapot. It felt good to be back. Later, she thought, she’d ring Mr Lovatt and tell him that she’d decided not to accept the terms of Major Bradley’s will. Perhaps there was a provision to donate the money to charity or maybe it would simply go to Mrs Bradley, to whom, she felt, it really ought to have been bequeathed in the first place. She toyed with the idea of laying her own bouquet of flowers on Jack’s grave at the weekend. That might help too.
‘Superintendent McGregor called yesterday,’ Vesta said as she poured the tea. ‘I think he wanted to take you to dinner.’
Mirabelle sighed inwardly. That was another decision she was going to have to make soon: what to do about Detective Superintendent Alan McGregor. Since the lunch at the Savoy two years before she had allowed him to take her out on several occasions – evenings which Mirabelle guiltily suspected meant far more to him than they did to her. She couldn’t continue to lead him on. It wasn’t good for either of them. She tried momentarily to decide whether she’d got herself into a pickle or simply into a rut.
‘I’ll call him later,’ she said.
There was plenty to get on with in the meantime.
Chapter 8
Courage and optimism can find expression in shopping.
Hannington’s had not yet put the spring collections on display. Mirabelle and Vesta walked through the main hallway, which was awash with perfume, and up the grand staircase. With one eye on the lush entrance to the fur department, located through a gold brocade curtain festooned with tassels, Vesta led Mirabelle to Evening Wear. A sorry rail of sale dresses languished to one side and a sales assistant was on her knees unpacking a box of full-length ballgowns. The girl sprang to her feet.
‘Sorry, madam.’ The apology was addressed to Mirabelle.
‘No, please. Miss Churchill is only looking today,’ she said, tactfully redirecting the assistant’s attention. ‘Vesta, I think what you need is a cocktail dress, if you’re absolutely sure you won’t stretch to something bridal.’
‘Absolutely.’ Vesta grinned. ‘But not too racy.’
Mirabelle picked out a slash-necked red dress from the sale rack, but Vesta shook her head. Mirabelle was disappointed – the girl would suit the cut, but then all the colours in the winter collections would probably be too vivid for what she had in mind. Glancing round, Mirabelle could see it was going to be difficult. Vesta sank onto a gilded chair and perused the rails from a distance.
‘There was a nice green one the other day, but it’s gone,’ she said sadly.
‘We’re looking for a softer colour, a peach, perhaps?’ Mirabelle told the sales girl. ‘I wonder, might there be anything in the stock room? Do you know the green dress that Miss Churchill is asking about?’
The girl nodded. ‘Yes, madam. It was sold. All the sale stock is on display. We’re at a low ebb, but the spring collection will be on the rails in the next few weeks. This is the first of it.’ She motioned towards the box she had been unpacking, which contained two dresses in a fetching shade of cream. Mirabelle caught sight of the pastel chiffon scraps Vesta had brought with her and came to a decision.
‘I wonder, do you happen to have anything from last season? Autumn, or even summer? As I recall there was a rather nice lemon colour, and a purple. You can’t have sold everything. What happened to the rest?’
The assistant hesitated. She looked around, but there wasn’t a manager in sight.
‘If you could let us see anything you have, we’d be most grateful,’ Mirabelle went on.
‘I’m not supposed to …’ The girl spoke in a whisper. ‘Usually the gowns go to the warehouse out of town, but what with the snow …’
Mirabelle’s tone was persuasive. ‘The thing is, Miss Churchill is getting married. And she wants a colour.’
Vesta held up her hand to display Charlie’s three-stone engagement ring on her finger.
‘The bridal department is upstairs.’
‘Miss Churchill doesn’t like white. Her skin tone, you see.’
The girl lost some of her poise. ‘What is it you lot wear then?’
Vesta shrugged. ‘Usually we wear white. Just like you lot. It’s the worst colour – I don’t want to look like an idiot. Do you have anything? Anything at all?’
The assistant paused as she made the decision. ‘It’s full length,’ she said finally. ‘It’s not a cocktail dress.’
‘Go and fetch it,’ Mirabelle encouraged her. ‘Let’s take a look.’
The girl disappeared behind a red velvet curtain.
‘I might have to have something made.’ Vesta picked at the chiffon scraps with fluttering fingers as Mirabelle cast her eyes over a display of evening bags. ‘That’s what you’d do, isn’t it? Get something made?’
‘Not these days. I don’t suppose I’ll ever need a wedding dress. Off the rail somewhere like Hannington’s can be wonderful, not to mention far more convenient.’
The assistant returned with a dress cased in a thin cotton bag. She undid the buttons and let the skirt cascade to the floor. Vesta gasped. It was a darker purple than she’d thought of – not violet or mauve, more a deep pansy. There was something regal about it. The assistant hung the dress in a changing cubicle and held open the door.
‘It’s a Ceil Chapman,’ she said. ‘American.’
‘Charlie’s American. He’s from Delaware.’ Vesta smiled as she disappeared inside.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Mirabelle said warmly. ‘Thank you.’
The girl blushed. They waited. After the initial sound of rustling silk and shuffling feet there was a long silence. The assistant bit her lip. Mirabelle checked the time. After another minute Mirabelle stepped forward.
‘Are you all right, dear?’ she tapped gently on the dressing-room door.
Silence. She pushed it open. Inside, Vesta was reflected on all sides, with tears streaming down her face. The dress was a perfect fit, nipped in at the waist and demure around the shoulders. She looked as if the gown belonged to her already and she’d been going to wear it all along. Mirabelle smiled, and reached into her handbag for a handkerchief. Vesta took it.
‘It’s far too beautiful,’ she sobbed.
‘Now, now. Nothing is too beautiful for you, dear. It’s your wedding day.’
Vesta heaved an anguished sigh and turned to inspect the back of the dress in the mirror.
‘It’ll be far too expensive,’ she said. ‘It’s from the States.’
‘Well, it’s last season – I’m sure we can do something. Why don’t you let me buy it for you – as a wedding present?’
That set Vesta off again.
‘I love Charlie. That’s the thing,’ she gulped.
‘You’re supposed to enjoy this, you know. I don’t understand why you’ve been fighting it.’
‘I am enjoying it. Really I am. Do you mean it, Mirabelle? It would be the best present in England.’
Mirabelle laughed. ‘A teapot is more traditional, but I prefer this by quite some way. Now stop crying.’
Perhaps she’d have dissolved into tears if she’d ever had to buy a wedding dress. She’d have chosen cream. The wedding would have been at the register office, it being Jack’s second time around. She’d have picked something knee length with a feathered skull cap, but there was no question what Vesta would be wearing down whichever aisle she chose – the purple dress was perfect.
She turned to the assistant. ‘We’ll take it.’
The girl shifted. ‘It’s got no price,’ she said. ‘It was in the sale but the ticket’s fallen off.’
Without hesitation Mirabelle reached into the inside pocket of her handbag and withdrew three white five-pound notes.
‘That will cover it,’ she said. ‘How you account for it is your business.’
The assistant blushed. ‘My,’ she said. ‘Thank you, ma’am. Would you like to have it delivered?’
‘No.’ Vesta’s face appeared round the changing-room door. ‘I don’t want to leave it behind.’
Coming out of Hannington’s and strutting down the drizzly street, Vesta couldn’t stop smiling. A boy in a red knitted hat wheeled a bicycle uphill and she moved the box to let him pass. As the bulky cardboard shifted she could swear she heard the dress crinkling amid reams of tissue paper.
‘I’ll need to hide it from Charlie, won’t I?’
‘You can leave it in the office,’ Mirabelle offered as they turned into Brills Lane.
The lighting was on the fritz again and the hallway was dull even compared to the natural light outside. The women took the stairs two by two and it wasn’t until they reached the top that they heard the telephone ringing. Mirabelle unlocked the door. Vesta rushed inside, flicked on the lights and stowed the Hannington’s box behind one of the filing cabinets while gracefully leaning over to pick up the receiver. Her voice sounded absolutely calm – not at all like a woman who had just bought a purple wedding gown and couldn’t bear to be parted from it.
‘McGuigan & McGuigan Debt Recovery?’
‘Miss Bevan?’
The woman’s voice at the other end of the line was crisp and to the point. She sounded smartly dressed, Vesta realised, although on reflection she decided not to tell Mirabelle that. She would only be told off for having a vivid imagination. Mirabelle had removed her coat and switched on the fire. The bar began to glow. Vesta hardly missed a beat.
‘Please hold and I’ll transfer you. Whom shall I say is calling?’
‘Mrs Caroline Bradley.’
Wide-eyed, Vesta paused. She covered the mouthpiece. ‘It’s the widow,’ she mouthed, and held out the telephone.
‘What widow?’
‘Mrs Bradley,’ Vesta hissed.
Mirabelle smoothed a loose strand of hair behind her ear before taking the call. Her chest had constricted but she was determined not to let it show in her voice. She took a deep deliberate breath as she lifted the receiver to her ear.
British Bulldog Page 6
