by Daisy White
Next to Stan’s name Annie scribbles, ‘In hospital — fell off ladder. Not all there in the head poor love. Worked for John Stocker.’
“These others, well, Laura would be good if you can get her to talk, but I doubt she’ll see you — the lying little cow. Bethany, she worked down at Brenda’s Cafe for a bit, but she didn’t really know Bev, and Marion . . . she would help you but I doubt she knows anything. Her and her husband moved out to Patcham in ’54. I think they had some kind of inheritance come in, because their new house had five bedrooms! Oh and Karen and Dave emigrated to Australia.”
Well, I guess that takes care of that, then. My head is spinning with all these names, and I’m still wondering if any of these lovely neighbours might be the very ones who broke into her house and left the blood and the bottles that helped to convict her. I catch Mary’s eye and she gives me a little smile but shakes her head. Nothing to break the case yet.
Finally Annie thumps the pencil back in the pot and hands me the sheet. “Right, all done. Now take care and let me know if I can do anything else. That poor girl . . . Little Ella. I’m sure she’s alive somewhere and she needs to come home.”
I’ve still got an emotional lump in my throat as we brave the downpour again, hoisting our umbrella high, and I can tell Mary is moved as well. She gives a quick sniff, and wipes her damp face on the back of her cardigan.
“I think with a friend like that, Beverly doesn’t need anyone else in the whole of Brighton to believe her. She amazing, isn’t she — Annie, I mean?” I say as we slosh up the road. “All the other neighbours must have given her hell for supporting Beverly. She had a brick thrown through her window too, after Beverly got out of prison and stayed at her house.”
Mary meets my eyes. “She is amazing. And you know what, we’ll bloody find out what happened to Ella, even if we get doors slammed in our faces every day. Nobody deserves to lose a child like that.”
We link arms and continue uphill, before picking our way around bits of broken car, a pram without wheels, and a rusty swing, to bang on Angela’s door.
“No use asking her about Ella, she only moved in two years ago,” Mary reminds me, plucking her child from the throng of noisy toddlers and babies on mats.
The lino floor is sticky with little footprints, and there must be about fifteen children racing around, but as usual Angela is beaming, oblivious to the chaos. She takes some money from Mary, and they arrange times for next week, while I breathe in the smells of a baking cake, mixed with sweat and cigarette smoke. It’s a combination that makes me feel slightly sick, and I’m almost glad to get back out into the gloom. We step around the scattered toys, one discarded nappy, and a naked plastic doll before we manage to escape out the front door.
Summer is crowing at the rain, and waving her little hands around as we walk back down the hill. Mary holds her close and I hoist the umbrella so it covers them both. The weather seemed to be clearing a bit up here, nearer the Downs, but as we head back towards the sea, splashing carefully downhill, the fog engulfs us once more. It’s like plunging into cold water, and Mary pulls Summer’s little coat over her head.
The baby is a bit fretful on the bus home, but I distract Mary by explaining that Ted is back and I’ve invited him to come and meet Summer. Mary’s face brightens, and the frown vanishes. “Poor Ted. You know I feel so guilty we all thought he was the murderer. Was he OK? I mean, I know he was in love with Linda . . .”
I think back to the beach, remembering Ted’s slightly ragged appearance, and the air of sadness that hung about him. “I think he’ll be alright. I mean, when Pearl dragged him over he just sort of fitted right back in. It’s probably not something you get over in a few months, though, is it? He did seem really happy that I asked him to come and see the baby, though.”
Mary smiles, smoothing Summer’s fine hair, flicking the droplets off her round pink cheek with a gentle finger. “When is he coming over, then?”
“Not sure. And he doesn’t have a telephone. I think they're all going to the roller rink at the weekend, so maybe we could find a babysitter and both go out for the evening. Or I can look after Summer and you can go.”
Mary studies me in silence for a moment, and her smile vanishes. She ignores my suggestion and again fusses over the baby’s little wool jacket. It’s like milk draining from a bottle, or the tide going out, as all her energy and fire vanishes. Her pleasure at Ted’s visit, her enthusiastic detective work, might never have been. The blank look is back in her blue eyes, and I can almost feel the waves of panic engulfing us both, even if I couldn’t feel her body suddenly go rigid next to mine.
Puzzled, I try again, “Mary? You don’t have to go out. I just thought it might be nice for you to have a break . . .”
That vacant expression is starting to get familiar. Her eyes are bright but unfocused, and her mouth is set. “I can’t just go out and have a good time like we used to. Summer isn’t a temporary thing, you know. I’m a mum now, and I need to act like one. You go out if you want but I'm just too tired.”
“OK, OK. Sorry.”
We sit in awkward silence for the rest of the journey, and although we stop to pick up some sausages, and I cook a hot dinner, Mary stays shrouded in her own personal gloom. When Summer starts crying, at around half past seven, I offer politely to help, but Mary shakes her head determinedly and, instead, puts the screaming child on her shoulder and walks around and around our little bedsit. Occasionally she pats the baby’s back, or shifts her to the other side, but Mary’s eyes still have that detached, unfocused look of a mechanical doll.
Chapter Eleven
After another two feeds and a nappy change Summer finally goes down in her cot at half past ten, only to wake up screaming again by twelve. Again I offer to help, but Mary declines, feeding the baby, changing her nappy, all with that blank, robotic expression. A wave of panic washes over me again, and I lie still under my sheets, thinking hard. I can’t help wondering if there is something seriously wrong with Mary. I suppose at the back of my mind, I’m wondering if having Summer has turned her a bit loony. Maybe I should try and get her some help?
I have no idea what someone who is mentally unstable looks like, but eventually I decide to have a chat with Pearl about Mary. Not to say that she’s gone all strange, just generally about coping with a baby. I close my eyes as Mary climbs slowly into her bed and the baby snores softly in her cot. Should I say anything? Would she even let me hug her? Probably not, instinct says, so I pretend to be asleep. I shut my eyes tightly, and don’t offer anything, even when she settles down with such a sad, tear-filled sigh that my heart jolts in sympathy.
It’s another wakeful night, and by five I give up all pretence of sleep. We go through our morning routine in near silence, with me hardly daring to speak in case I upset her, or just get that vacant stare.
I brush my hair, apply some makeup and finally tell myself to stop being ridiculous. This is Mary, for God’s sake, my best friend. Carefully snapping the top back onto my pale pink lipstick, I say casually, “So which babysitter is she going to today?”
“Oh, Angela again. I don’t know how she manages with so many of her own, but she says she just loves babies. Must be true because I don’t give her much money for a whole day,” Mary replies, shrugging on her uniform and reaching for her makeup bag.
I blink in surprise and look at her properly. The frightening blankness is gone, and although she is obviously exhausted, she seems to be herself again. I pass over a mug of sweet tea and Mary gulps it down. “Thanks, Rubes. Right, I’m off to drop Summer. See you at work.”
The rain seems lighter, and the fog has lifted today. Feeble fingers of sunlight penetrate the banks of grey clouds, drawing patterns on the wet road. I slide a window up, watching Mary walk quickly towards the sea, the baby snuggled on one shoulder. She’s hardly used the pram yet, and it sits blocking the hallway with its awkward bulk. Maybe when Summer gets heavier . . .
I whip quickly around the bedsit,
tidying up, sweeping the floor and folding the clean dry clothes from yesterday into neat piles.
I wonder if Will is really working up at the market . . . Another secret I’m going to have to share with Mary soon, but I don’t want anything else to worry her at the moment. I know she’d be scared by the idea of Will being back. If I was asked, I suppose I’d say we’re friends now, but honestly we’re stuck with each other because of our shared experiences. Unless he moves away from Brighton, I can’t stop him from appearing out of the shadows for a chat. At least he doesn’t seem to mean any harm — the opposite, in fact. It’s a bit like having an unwanted guardian angel following you around.
By the time I step outside the rain has gone completely, leaving the day light and golden. The warmth has returned too, and I shrug off my cardigan before setting up the tables and chairs outside Johnnie’s.
I take Kenny’s list of names down into the salon and pin it up on the wall in the backroom. It’s a bit crumpled, but with mine and Annie’s pencil marks the list is getting frighteningly short. Making sure everything is set up for clients, I hastily wash a few more towels and peg them out on the line in the little courtyard, daring the weather to change again. Right, the list . . .
Annie, of course, is convinced Beverly is innocent, and she said she got home from work after Ella was kidnapped. Stan, the only man on the list, is in hospital. I’m sure Beverly mentioned him too . . . She said he was fixing the swings or something in the playground and he saw Ella that day. Ida, Ruth, Heather and Kate were all dead ends. Laura . . . Hmm. Laura Grieves is the young woman who came forward and admitted she had lied. The little girl playing out on the street with Ella Collins who swore her mother took her back inside. Do I dare try her? Her address is listed as being in East Street. Not too far to walk in my lunch break. Assuming she's in, and not out at work, I suppose. According to the reports from Kenny she was eight when Ella went missing. So she’s only just a bit younger than me now . . .
“Morning!”
“Hallo, Eve! I’m just making the tea,” I shout, and I hear her footsteps continue out to the backroom.
“Thanks, love. Thank heaven the rain has stopped. Tommy came home wet through from the market run last night, and the others’ school uniforms are in a right mess still. Oh . . .” She stops fussing with her coat and bag and stares at my scribbles. “I see you weren’t joking about Beverly Collins. On the case already?”
I hand her a mug of tea. “I’ve only just started. Mary and I spoke to her neighbour yesterday, but of course most people won’t talk to us at all.”
“Mmmm . . . I can’t say I’m surprised.” But I can tell Eve is curious, despite her reservations, and she runs a finger down my list of names. “Why don’t you talk to Laura Grieves? Nice girl. I know her mum. Well, I sort of know her. My friend’s neighbour, Amy, had seven girls, and Laura was her fourth. I think she lives in East Street with her husband now. Number ten! I know they’ve got a little girl called Marie. Go round and see her. Tell her I suggested it if you like.”
“Thanks, Eve!”
Well, that was odd. But then it was like that last time we set up Ruby Baker’s Investigation Bureau. Local people have local knowledge, I suppose.
It’s been niggling at the back of my mind since I woke up, but I don’t get a free moment to phone Pearl. I desperately need to talk to her about Mary and these moods she's having but I can hardly do it in a packed salon. Maybe I can fit in a call on my way back from seeing Laura. Although Mary seems to be bearing up OK today, and I can almost dismiss the incidents as my imagination. She’s smiling at customers, and shampooing vigorously, laughing with an old woman in a pink dress. But when I suggest a walk out to get some chicken and chips for lunch she shakes her head. “I need a quick nap, Ruby, just in case tonight is just as bad.”
“Of course. That’s fine. Shall I bring you anything?” At least she seems happy enough, and I smile back as though everything is fine between us.
“No, I’ll be alright, thanks. I’ll just make a cup of tea.”
So it's just me, haring down Ship Street, grabbing a newspaper full of chips to satisfy my growling stomach, and then trotting along the promenade to East Street. I’m going to be longer than half an hour, but I hope Eve won’t mind. We seem to be in for a quiet afternoon, judging from the appointment book.
East Street is a dark jumble of ancient buildings, stacked carelessly like child's blocks up the hill. Most of the houses have dirty windows and grubby paintwork. Huge dark beams criss-cross the brickwork, adding to the slightly gloomy feeling of the place.
Laura Grieves lives at number ten, and I tap slightly nervously at the door. The brown paint is peeling, and the place has the same general rundown feel as all the others in the street. My heart is racing, and I rub slightly clammy hands on my blouse. This is the girl who sent Beverly to prison . . . Maybe she isn’t at home after all. I bite my lip, anticipation turning to disappointment as the door remains closed. She must have gone out.
I raise my hand to knock one last time, thinking that at least I’ll get back to work on time, but a bit despondent on Beverly’s behalf. But Laura is home, and she answers the door with a baby on one hip. She’s out of breath, laughing, and the child is squirming around trying to escape. Surprisingly, when I explain that Eve suggested I visit, she invites me inside straight away.
“This is Marie.” She smiles at the child, and puts her down gently on the bare boards on the living room.
The little girl is older than Summer, perhaps about two, and she immediately sits down and drags a doll over to her lap. Laura is blonde, with short, curly hair, green eyes and a mass of golden freckles. She looks far too young to be a mother, but a wedding ring gleams on her finger, and she happily points out family photos dotted around the room.
“So why did Eve say to visit? I mean, it’s always lovely to see people. Marie is great but not a good conversationalist yet. And you say you work at Johnnie’s? I’m saving up to get my hair cut there.”
She’s so transparently sweet, and genuinely friendly, that I'm almost tempted not to ruin her day by stating my mission. I wait until we’re both perched on her sofa, drinking tea, admiring the little girl’s doll collection.
“You can tell me to go if you like, but Beverly Collins came into Johnnie’s after she was released and asked me to help find her daughter, Ella. I know you were the one looking after her when she disappeared, and I can’t imagine how awful that must have been. But if there is a chance she might be still alive, I want to find her.”
Laura turns pale, fumbling for a mat to put her mug down on the little table. “Well, this is a bit of a shock . . . You’re actually working for Beverly?”
“Not really working. I just want to find out what happened to Ella.”
“Why should you care?” Her pretty face is harder now, and the green eyes are wary. “What's it to you?”
I consider my answer, aware I’m losing her. “My best friend had a baby girl three months ago — Summer. We’re bringing her up between us because Mary’s husband isn’t around. I never really thought about children, but I love Summer to bits and I see how Mary is with her. The idea that someone could take her away, hurt her, is terrifying, so I suppose I have a lot of sympathy for Beverly.”
Laura studies me for a long moment, stirring her tea with a slightly shaky hand. I’m starting to think she is going to throw me out when she looks up and gives a slightly strained smile. “I did wonder what might happen, stirring everything up after all this time, but it was my decision to go through with it. In the end it didn’t seem to matter — the police thanked me for coming in but they said Beverly was due to be released soon anyway. I feel really awful that I lied about Bev taking Ella inside with her.” Her dark lashes flicker downwards, hiding her expression for a second. “I was so scared, you see. I thought everyone would blame me for not looking after the kids properly.”
I hold my breath, willing her to go on, hardly daring to risk another questi
on or two. “Did you like Beverly? Was she a good mum?”
“Yes, I did like her. She was a good mum, and she worked like a dog to support Ella. You know she didn’t have a husband? Some people hated that. A lot of people actually. They used to say she was a . . . you know, a slut,” Laura blushes over the word, “or they said she wasn’t a nice girl, and that’s what happens when you put it about.” She meets my gaze. “You know what? I never got that from her. Even though I was young, she just seemed to be really gentle, pretty and nice to talk to. If we fell over and she was around she’d pick us up, and once she had money for all of us to get ice creams from the van. Only once, though . . .”
“Laura, I’m really sorry to ask, but why did you tell the truth after all this time?”
The green eyes are childlike and guileless, and the smile is sugar sweet. “Do you know, I’m not sure . . . I had Marie and I suppose I started thinking about how Beverly lost her kid. I don’t know, but it was sort of haunting me. No special reason, but it took me ages to get the guts to walk up to the police station and tell them.” She drains her tea. “They were really nice about it, actually. Said I was only a kid back then and I couldn’t be blamed.”
Laura’s big eyes meet mine again, wide, innocent, almost pleading. I smile at her. “Thank you. I’m actually on my lunch break so I need to run back but if you think of anything maybe you can ring me at Johnnie’s — or even if you want to book a haircut. You get a discount with me because I’m only a trainee, but I promise I’ll do a good job.”
“Really? Oh great, I will then. If you see Beverly . . . will you tell her I’m sorry? Tell her . . . tell her I hope she finds her daughter.” Again that sincerity, but there is something behind her serenity. I would say Laura is relieved about something. And not just the relief of clearing her conscience, either.
“Yes, I will. Did you . . . I wondered if you saw the story in the papers about the girl who was rescued on the beach?”
