British Bulldog

by Sara Sheridan

  Feeling free, Mirabelle turned to the west and strode away from town. It’s my life and I really ought to be living it, she thought as the Georgian buildings slid into Victorian ones and then into a more modern Edwardian style. Soon there were clear patches between the houses and the street lighting became intermittent. The grand pendant lamps overhead were replaced by cheaper versions and up one or two of the streets she could swear she caught glimpses of old-fashioned gaslights. Mirabelle didn’t know this side of town. She usually stuck to her own area set back from the Lawns, walking between the flat and the office, and if, at the weekend, she decided to take a stroll, the bright lights and action of the town centre always appealed more than the peppering of residential streets that led away from it. Even when Alan picked her up in the motor, they drove to cosy pubs inland on the Downs or to restaurants to the east of the city, in Hastings or Eastbourne.

  She had walked quite some way when she came across a lighthouse. It was now so black she could hardly make out the harbor below it. Only the steady ripple of light on the water allowed her to see at least some of the shoreline. As she listened, the hiss and rush of water betrayed a straggle of boats moored below. There was nothing in the immediate area bar a row or two of fishermen’s cottages, whose windows were mostly dark. She must have walked miles. Suddenly her legs felt tired. She thought of Mrs Duggan and Mrs Bradley, in the dining room at Moorcroft, eating a dinner prepared by Mrs Duggan’s cook. Fish, surely – the most appropriate meal for a recent widow. Mirabelle touched her stomach and realised with some surprise that she was famished. Her fingers were so cold she could scarcely feel them. It would take a long time to get back to town. She hadn’t heard an engine for miles.

  Taking her chances, she continued along the road. Somewhere soon there must be a sign of life, if only she strode out. Twenty minutes on there was another scattering of dark houses. Away from the shoreline she heard a door slam and the sound of feet on paving stones. A murmur of conversation carried on the freezing winter air. Then the coast road veered suddenly inland and following it, Mirabelle was rewarded by the sight of a pub with its windows lit. The sign over the door said The Blue Dolphin.

  Inside, the room was warm and light. A huge fire blazed in the grate and the heat felt overwhelming at first after the long cold walk. The buzz of conversation didn’t abate as she came through the door and saw several people, mostly men, sitting at the tables. The air smelled of beer and something else – the buttery scent of baking. Behind the bar a red-faced man with an even redder scarf tied at his neck nodded as she approached.

  ‘I’m looking for something to eat,’ she said. ‘And a half pint of stout if you have it.’

  The man pulled out a glass and carefully filled it with creamy dark beer, checking the froth meticulously. Satisfied with his work, he laid the glass on the top of the bar.

  ‘We got pickled onions,’ he said.

  ‘I can smell something cooking,’ Mirabelle said hopefully.

  ‘That’d be Martha’s pie. That’s our supper. We don’t sell food over the counter, miss.’

  ‘Is there a café nearby? Or a restaurant?’

  The barman smiled. ‘No. There’s nothing like that. There’s a shop but it’s closed by now and mostly it sells tins, in any case.’

  Mirabelle tried to hide her disappointment. She picked up the stout and took a sip. It slid down her throat too easily.

  ‘This’ll do,’ she said, taking a seat at the bar. ‘I’ve walked here from Brighton. Tell me, where have I got to?’

  The barman looked bemused. ‘Shoreham-by-Sea. You’re six miles out of town at least. Cold night like this it’d feel far further. You didn’t walk all the way?’

  Mirabelle looked down at her shoes, which, without question, were not designed for hiking.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, trying not to think about how she might get back to town. There was clearly no point in asking if Shoreham-by-Sea had a hotel, or for that matter a taxi service. She took off her gloves and rubbed her hands together as the door opened and a girl came in. There was a murmur of welcome around the room.

  ‘It’s a perisher tonight,’ the girl said cheerily.

  The barman poured a tot of gin and added some water. ‘There,’ he said, laying it on the bar. ‘That’ll always keep an Adams going.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  ‘Give us a song, Mhairi!’ one of the men shouted.

  ‘Let me get my coat off first,’ Mhairi objected, undoing her buttons and laying the coat on a stool next to Mirabelle. Then she downed the gin in one before she moved towards the fire. The background hubbub of men’s voices faded to an anticipatory silence. Mhairi paused, her cheeks still pink from the biting cold. The hem of her dress was squint, one of her front teeth was missing and she was as skinny as a rake, but she looked regal somehow, and full of grace, as if she was in charge of the room – an impression bestowed by her bearing alone. She began to sing, unaccompanied – just her voice and the sound of the huge log crackling in the grate. The first notes hung in the air like the chiming of a bell and the girl built the melody from there. As she finished the final chorus the audience burst into enthusiastic applause. She scarcely paused before starting a love song and then a jolly ditty which had the whole room clapping, Mirabelle included. One man stood up and danced at his table. At the end the audience burst into raucous chatter and the barman laid another gin on the counter.

  ‘That was wonderful,’ Mirabelle said as the girl came over.

  ‘Thanks. It ain’t exactly Covent Garden.’

  Mirabelle tried to remember the last time she’d kicked up her heels without feeling weighed down. It had been a while, but here, sitting up at the shabby bar she felt strangely contented. Mhairi Adams hopped onto a bar stool.

  ‘I ain’t seen you here before.’

  ‘I walked from Brighton.’

  ‘That’s miles.’

  ‘I’m not sure how I’m going to get back.’

  ‘Got carried away, did you? Well, the trains is finished for the night. Ain’t you got a fancy man who’d come and get you?’

  Mirabelle paused, contemplating the remains of the glass of stout. ‘I suppose I have.’

  ‘Thought so.’ Mhairi smiled, eyeing Mirabelle’s outfit. ‘You look like you’d have someone reliable. Someone nice.’

  It transpired that Shoreham-by-Sea had a policeman. Constable Shearer was summoned and had no qualms about using police resources to put a lady in trouble in touch with Detective Superintendent McGregor.

  ‘Scotsman, isn’t he?’ the young constable checked. ‘I’ve heard of him.’

  Mirabelle nodded.

  ‘Go on then, Sam. I’m sure the lady doesn’t want to be sitting here till closing,’ the barman chided.

  Sam lumbered off in the direction of his police box. Mirabelle ordered another half of stout and Mhairi stood in front of the fire and sang three more songs. Mirabelle began to daydream about taking a holiday. It would be lovely to have a break.

  Almost an hour later, when McGregor arrived, Mhairi had produced a pack of cards and was four games of rummy up on Mirabelle, which meant four shillings. The girl was a capable player.

  ‘I hope that’s just friendly,’ the superintendent commented as he leaned on the bar. ‘Gambling in licensed premises isn’t allowed.’

  Two men sitting at a nearby table scooped up their dice, and Mirabelle smiled. It crossed McGregor’s mind that he’d never seen her look so happy.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  Mirabelle pushed a ramshackle pile of sixpences over to Mhairi, an action which the policeman pointedly ignored. ‘I was hoping for a lift home.’

  McGregor looked surprised. It would have been far more like Mirabelle to have called him because she’d discovered a body in the cellar or suspected that an old lady was being swindled out of her savings.

  ‘A lift?’ he said. ‘Right. Maybe we should just have one for the road, eh?’ He ordered two whiskies without waiting for Mir
abelle’s reply. Mhairi disappeared with her winnings, giving a meaningful wink as she slipped behind the bar and upstairs. Perhaps, Mirabelle mused, the lucky girl would be treated to a slice of Martha’s pie. She clinked glasses with the superintendent.

  ‘You’ve never asked for help before,’ he said.

  ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘No.’

  McGregor stared straight into her eyes and Mirabelle found she was blushing. The truth was, he’d been waiting for this for months now: a sign that Mirabelle might let him in.

  Outside, he held open the car door as she slipped into the front seat. He started the engine and let it run. The exhaust streamed a thick cloud into the pitch-black air and the windows steamed up. McGregor cleared them with the back of his hand and snapped on the headlights, revealing Constable Shearer, fifty yards away on his rounds. As the constable turned the corner, McGregor took his chance.

  Mirabelle didn’t start as the superintendent leaned in and kissed her. His arm slid across the back of the seat and scooped her towards him. He tasted of whisky and his skin was rough where he hadn’t shaved, but Mirabelle kissed him back. As he pulled away she sat there with a bemused expression. She hadn’t thought of Jack. Not for a second. And she didn’t feel guilty. Not a bit.

  ‘I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time, Belle.’

  ‘I won’t go any further,’ she stuttered, cursing herself for sounding young and stupid. Her fingers were trembling.

  ‘Of course not.’

  McGregor put the car in gear and set off towards Brighton. Neither of them said a word. Landmarks loomed in the darkness and disappeared as the car’s headlamps passed. Coming into town, McGregor sneaked a glance Mirabelle’s way. She was peering out of the window. As they approached the turn-off for Selborne Road she jerked upright in her seat.

  ‘Can we take a detour? Up there?’

  McGregor calmly turned the car and slowed the pace. ‘What are we looking for?’

  ‘Pull up here.’ Mirabelle pointed.

  The lights were still on at Moorcroft and the curtains had been drawn. The street was silent, every comfortable home locked up for the night. Mirabelle got out of the car and stood staring at the pavement, where it had happened. The cold sobered her as she loitered, waiting for the sky to fall in. But Jack wasn’t there. He wasn’t anywhere. Not even his ghost. In the house next door a light clicked off. A cat stalked past Mirabelle’s ankles and jumped across a low garden wall. The frozen air smelled of smoke from the silent, belching chimneys. Life goes on. The thought struck without warning, startling her, but there it was.

  Back in the car she smoothed her coat over her knees.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I was just checking on a friend.’

  McGregor touched her face lightly. ‘You’re cold.’

  ‘It’s a cold night.’

  McGregor nodded. He didn’t want to ask more. Mirabelle was always an enigma, and he had the sense that if he pushed her, she’d bolt. He turned the car back towards the main road and wondered if she’d let him kiss her goodnight.

  Chapter 11

  Information is not knowledge.

  Mirabelle wore her cashmere the next morning. The chocolate brown dress had been a gift from her mother when she went up to Oxford. It was old-fashioned now but very warm and she was glad to find it still fitted like a glove. Turning up East Street she strode out smartly for McGuigan & McGuigan. Vesta was already in. A pot of tea sat on the side ready for action and the office was warming up, the morning edge already gone from the air as the little electric fire did its job.

  ‘Well?’ Vesta asked. ‘How was the widow?’

  Mirabelle peeled off her coat. ‘I really don’t understand why Mrs Bradley came down. Perhaps in her bereavement she’s become irrational. She seemed worried about her good name. Or maybe it was Bulldog’s good name. Anyway, it doesn’t matter.’

  She poured milk into her cup and stirred meditatively. Vesta left her to think and leafed through the first post, sorting the envelopes into separate piles. She placed one stack on Mirabelle’s desk, kept the other for herself, and raised a letter opener. ‘Race you!’

  Mirabelle raised her eyebrows, but as she went to work with the knife she felt a certain satisfaction that she was keeping pace. In the event, though, Vesta finished ahead.

  ‘I’m sure I had more mail,’ Mirabelle objected.

  Vesta giggled and scrambled to remove the letters and invoices from the now open envelopes. Once more Mirabelle followed her lead, but only a few seconds into the task she stopped, her glossy red nails hovering over the third in the pile. She held the contents between her fingers – a handwritten letter on thick white paper that ran to two pages. The address written at the top in a clear if old-fashioned hand was the little road off Kensington High Street where Matron Gard held sway. Mirabelle tried to focus. She hadn’t expected this. Neither, it seemed, had Matron Gard.

  Dear Miss Bevan,

  I had not thought to be writing to you so soon but we have been extraordinarily lucky to find a trace of your Flight Lieutenant Philip Caine. He received care in the summer of 1944 in one of our hospitals near Longchamp, Paris. He had suffered wounds consistent with a shrapnel injury. It appears Flight Lieutenant Caine had taken part in the small amount of fighting that ensued when the Nazis retreated from the city. The hospital was run in tandem with the American service – in fact the running and resources were turned over to the American Hospital of Paris some time after VE Day. For this reason the record is incomplete and some papers probably reside in the care of the hospital. I am very happy to tell you, however, that Flight Lieutenant Caine was reunited with his friend Major Bradley and another man whose rank is unclear, a J.M.R. Duggan. Caine was released into their care on 27 August 1944 – around the time, I believe, of the city’s liberation. As far as I can make out, he was scheduled to return to Britain thereafter, although it seems he did not report for his transport.

  I hope this helps to lay Major Bradley’s spirit to rest.

  Yours sincerely, Mabel Gard

  Mirabelle read the letter twice. She turned the paper over in her hand. J.M.R. Duggan. John Melrose Richard Duggan. Jack. Her mind raced. Jack always said he’d never been to Paris. She certainly couldn’t recall him going during Operation Overlord – the invasion of Normandy that had paved the way for the liberation of France’s capital. Could there be another J.M.R. Duggan? Mirabelle felt light-headed. No, it was Jack. She knew it. Her heart was quivering. There was no reason to feel betrayed, she chided herself. After all, Jack didn’t have to tell her everything, and Paris was not so very far away, but still the revelation stung. Her mind moved on. Bradley’s letter had stated he hadn’t seen Caine since 1942, and yet here he was back in France tracking down his escape partner in a Red Cross hospital two years later. Mirabelle sighed. If Bulldog knew his friend had survived the liberation, why had he left her the bequest at all? If he wanted her to find Caine why hadn’t he told her about this?

  Vesta looked up from her own pile of mail, which appeared to consist mostly of invoices. ‘All right?’

  Mirabelle nodded. Without stopping to think, she reached for the telephone and dialled the international operator. ‘The American Hospital of Paris, please.’

  Vesta abandoned the papers in front of her and watched open-mouthed as Mirabelle began to speak fluent French. She couldn’t follow the words, but she recognised the names: Philip Caine; Matthew Bradley. When Mirabelle hung up Vesta practically jumped on her.

  ‘Where did you learn to speak French?’ she demanded.

  Mirabelle was staring at the middle distance as if she could see a ghost. ‘My mother was French.’

  ‘Do it again,’ Vesta insisted. ‘Say something else.’

  ‘I’ll bring you back a present, if you like. Un cadeau.’

  Vesta crossed her arms. ‘What do you mean? You’re not going away again, are you?’

  Mirabelle sounded weary as she handed over Matron Gard’s letter. ‘I’ve got
to go. I can’t just leave it like this.’

  ‘To Paris? On your own? Won’t that be dangerous?’

  Mirabelle laughed out loud. Without fail Vesta always made her feel better.

  The boat train left in the evening. Mirabelle packed her small crocodile skin case carefully and caught the three o’clock service to London, which upon examination of the timetable proved to be a quicker and easier journey than trying to make her way to Dover via the coastal route. It had been a long time since Mirabelle had been in France. Before the war, when she was a student, she had made the trip to Paris several times with friends. She smiled, remembering how each weekend had seemed to degenerate into a frantic, sleepless party fuelled by champagne and foie gras. Those were the days before rationing, she remembered ruefully, when the graduates of Oxford colleges were expected to go on to rule the world. Now some of them had. She recalled buying shoes on Saint-Germain-des-Prés and having clothes altered by a seamstress in the Marais who had known her mother. It probably wasn’t like that any more. After all the fighting it had seen, did Paris wear its scars London style – still painful, if crusted over? How had the war changed the gayest city in Europe?

  Arriving at Victoria with time to spare, she glanced at her watch and decided to leave her case in left luggage and call on an old friend. She hadn’t expected to see him again. Not after the last time. But it seemed it was a week to revisit the past. She hoped he’d forgiven her.