‘Not really, no. Spent most of the evening going round the pubs checking for underage drinkers. Saw my first bar fight, at the Bishop’s Blaize, which was odd. At least I nearly did, but Sarge did his best to get me out of the bar before the fists started flying. I think he was trying to save me from the worst of it. One of them got quite a bloody nose, though, I did see on the way out. They took him up to the station.’
‘Oh, you don’t get too much of that round here. But when you do it’s usually those boys from up at the barracks. They just get bored, I suppose. Anyway, here’s your letter.’
I looked at the envelope, and, even though I’d never seen it before, I just knew it was Malcolm’s handwriting. It had been written very carefully, in tiny characters, and he had drawn faint pencil lines underneath each line of the address. Sure enough, the postmark was Redcar.
‘I’ll go upstairs now then. I’m shattered.’
‘Righto. Good night then.’
When I got into my room, I sat on the bed and pulled out the letter.
Dear Pam,
I said I’d write and so here it is. I feel like we parted quickly when you left. Life in Redcar is much the same, but without you in it.
I thought you might be interested to know that Sarge finally caught one of those dangerous dogs the other day. Turns out it had bitten clean through a small boy’s finger. They had to put the brute down in the end. The dog, not the boy.
I have a few days’ leave in two weeks’ time and have planned to visit you in Richmond. I can stay at a family friend’s farm nearby. Let me know that this is suitable.
Yours sincerely,
Malcolm
The letter was such an odd mix of formality, banality, forwardness and hesitation, I didn’t know what to think. It was hardly a love letter, but at least he’d kept his promise.
Dear Malcolm,
Thank you for your letter, which I was pleased to find. Thank goodness they finally caught one of those dogs. I spent so many days chasing them, without success, I was beginning to wonder if they existed at all. Though it’s always sad when one has to be put down. It was probably raised badly by the owner and …
I stopped writing for a moment. How we had ended up focusing our entire correspondence on dangerous dogs, I didn’t know. Oh well, it’s too late now, I thought, and concluded the letter hastily.
Anyway, further to your suggestion, yes. That’s my weekend off. We can meet in town on Friday evening and see a picture. If you like.
Yours,
Pam
I sealed the envelope and addressed it to Redcar police station. For a moment I did wonder about Jim, and where he was. Still in Germany? Back home by now? Married, even? He hadn’t written for nearly a year now, and I had almost forgotten what he looked like. Then Malcolm’s face came back into my mind, with his funny, serious, blue eyes. I wondered what went on behind them, and made up my mind to forget all about Jim.
When the girls got home from their school play rehearsal they were full of beans and leaping about the house. I went downstairs to fetch some water and say good night to them all. They were midway through demonstrating their dramatic enterprises when Caroline’s husband came home too, from his billiards night.
‘We have to have a sword fight!’ said Lily, brandishing an imaginary sword at her father as he came through the door.
‘Well, I hope you do better than that, or he’ll have your head off. Hello, love,’ he said, kissing Caroline on the cheek.
‘I have to die. Or at least pretend to die. And then really die,’ said Katy. ‘And Lily’s not taking it at all seriously. She keeps corpsing. That’s when you laugh uncontrollably, Mr Walker says.’
‘I do not!’ said the younger girl, as she leapt up onto the stairs and then down again in a giant star-jump.
‘You think it’s just a big game. But you’re embarrassing me. I want to do it properly. Mam, tell her.’
‘I’m sure you’ll both be wonderful. Now off to bed. You’re late!’
‘Mr Walker made us stay until we had completely rehearsed the whole of the first act word perfect!’ said Lily. ‘He said I was the best Mercutio he’s ever seen! But Katy kept forgetting her lines.’
‘I did not. You were putting me off. She kept pulling faces. She thinks she’s the clown of the class.’
‘I am.’
‘Mr Walker says …’
‘Mr Walker says …’ mimicked her sister.
‘I can help you both with your lines,’ I said, remembering back to the days I had been in theatre in Scarborough, and hoping to diffuse the situation. I thought it would be a nice way to get to know the girls a bit anyway.
‘Thanks!’ they both said in unison.
Caroline looked at her husband, relieved that the sibling bickering had stopped, for a while at least.
‘Well, I’m expecting great things then!’
As I got into the routine of police work, my time at Richmond began to fly by and, before I knew it, another Christmas was gone. Joe McGregor’s early lambs had been born and were scattered all across the hillside.
‘How’s Mrs McGregor?’ I asked Joe one morning on my beat, as I walked up the lane to the phone box on the way out of town.
‘Haven’t you heard?’ he said, leaning against the gate. ‘She were taken in. Last night. A high fever. I’m only here keeping an eye on the lambs, then I’m straight back to her bedside.’
‘Oh, Joe. I’m so sorry.’
‘Well. We never let things like this pull us down. We’re fighters, me and the missus. Well … she … At least I hope she is.’
A small lamb came trotting over and nuzzled up against his leg. He reached down and stroked its straggly back and it trotted off again.
‘That one was born just a few hours ago. You wouldn’t believe it, would you? How quickly they stand up and run about. I just hope he doesn’t freeze out here.’
That afternoon, after my shift, I went home and changed into my civvies, then popped into Mrs Philpot’s for a cup of tea.
‘Just the way you like it,’ she said as she came out of the kitchen with the nice hot brew. ‘I even saved you some sugar. When this rationing will end, I don’t know. But you must try my Beetroot Surprise. It’s something I used a lot during the first war,’ she said, and cut off a thick slice of a deep reddish-orange cake from the front of the counter.
‘What’s in it? Such a lovely colour.’
‘Carrots and beetroots – they give it a natural sweetness, some spices … and a secret ingredient which will go with me to the grave.’ She tapped her nose. ‘I learnt it from my old grandmother. We always had this big book in the kitchen. Leatherbound. So old the pages kept falling out and smothered in who knows how many generations of cake mix. But I’d never use anything else.’
I had to admit, it was the most delicious cake I had ever tasted.
After the war, bread, potatoes and even petrol were still rationed, but by the fifties it was mainly sugar and meat that were hard to come by. Mrs Philpot certainly had no trouble baking cakes, though, whatever the rations.
As I scraped the remaining crumbs from my plate, someone behind me put a hand on my shoulder and made me jump.
‘Miss Rhodes.’
‘Francesco!’ Last time I had seen him, we were tethering up Joe McGregor’s goats. ‘How are you?’
‘Not bad. Not good. I’m leaving the garage – and Richmond. Got a new job up in Leeds. More money. One pot of tea please, Mrs Philpot.’
‘Why don’t you join me?’ I said.
So Francesco pulled up a chair, still wearing his mechanics uniform, all stained with oil and grease, his dark hair flopping over his eyes.
‘Where did you learn about cars?’ I asked after a while.
‘My father. Always playing with this and that. Old engines. Even though he never did it for a living. I suppose I just picked it up that way.’
I was a bit concerned as I looked around that people might talk. It wasn’t usual to sit with young
men in cafés, alone, unless you were courting. So I drank my tea quickly, and was about to leave when Francesco spoke up.
‘Wait. Before I leave, don’t you want to hear the rest of the story?’
‘Story?’
‘The boat. That took my father and his people.’
‘Oh! Yes, of course.’ I clutched on to my tea cup, anxious to get away before someone saw us.
‘So you remember what I said? They, the police that is, came in the night, and took the men on the boat, all my father’s friends: my godfather, waiters, hairdressers, all Italians who had made a life here in Britain. Because Italy was the enemy now. You know what happened?’
‘No.’
‘Bombed and the boat sank to the bottom of the ocean. Hundreds and hundreds of people lost.’
‘My goodness. I’m so sorry.’
‘Rumour was they shot at the lifeboats so people couldn’t escape. But who knows the truth.’
‘And your father?’
‘Washed up on the coast of Ireland in a lifeboat. Taken in by a family there until he could find his way back home to us. He hardly spoke about it after that, only telling me that the sound ringing in his ears every night, until the day he died, was the sound of men crying “Mama” as they drowned.’
‘Would you like more cake?’ called Mrs Philpot from the kitchen.
‘No, thank you. I must get going,’ I told her. ‘Bye, Francesco. Thank you for your story.’ I pressed his hand. ‘And good luck.’
‘Goodbye, Miss Rhodes.’
I wanted to hear more, but I didn’t want the consequences, the whispering and gossip, that would surely come if I stayed chatting to Francesco all afternoon. So I stood up, collected my gloves and turned round to leave. And there, standing behind me with a grim look on his face, was Malcolm.
As planned, I had met up with Malcolm after my summer in Redcar. We had been to the pictures quite a few times now; when he visited he had stayed in a farm up the road. He had got into coming regularly now, but I wasn’t expecting him this week.
‘Hello, Pam.’
‘Heavens! You made me jump right out of my skin.’
‘Who’s this?’
‘Oh, this is Francesco. He’s … I mean, I had to go round and check him. Aliens. Sorry, I mean, that’s what, you know, Sarge said. He’s from Italy,’ I blabbered.
Francesco held out his hand. ‘Delighted to meet you. You are a friend of Miss Rhodes?’
‘You could say that.’
‘Of course. Francesco, this is Malcolm … he visits me. He’s a policeman too, in Redcar. By the sea.’
‘Don’t let me interrupt your little … whatever it is,’ said Malcolm, turning to leave.
‘No. Not at all. I was just going. Wasn’t I, Francesco?’
‘Yes. I mean no. I’m leaving. It’s my fault, I imposed myself on the young lady. I’m leaving town tomorrow.’
‘Italian, eh?’ said Malcolm, raising an eyebrow.
There was a bit of an awkward pause.
Then Francesco said, ‘Anyway, I must go and pack my things up, and say goodbye to the lads at the garage. Goodbye, Miss Rhodes. Goodbye … Malcolm.’
I sat back down, and Mrs Philpot came over. ‘More tea then?’
‘Yes, please!’
We sat at the table for a while. Malcolm was fiddling with one of the plants in front of us, and began pulling the leaves off absentmindedly.
‘Stop it. You’re destroying the poor thing.’
‘Sorry. Italian, was he?’
‘Who? Oh, Francesco. Yes. I told you. I know him through work. He helped me tether some goats. It’s a long story. Don’t worry.’
‘Goats! What do you get up to out here?’
‘It’s just work.’
One thing I had learnt about Malcolm, since we had been meeting up, was that he had a jealous streak. He did his best to hide it, but I could see it bubbling up like a poison if I spoke to the lads from the station when he was with me. Even the Inspector, sometimes.
‘How long are you staying?’
‘A few days. I wanted to see you.’
‘I’m on earlies tomorrow, but we can meet in the evening, if you like?’
‘Sure.’
For the next few days I was working, but on Monday I had the day off, so we went for a walk around the castle. It was a relief to be outside together. There was a chill in the air as we approached the looming building, though, and I realized that the last time I’d walked up here with a man it had been that night with Jim, when we hadn’t kissed, and he’d gone off to Germany so soon afterwards.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Malcolm suddenly as we stood at the foot of the castle. ‘You know. Life. Death. What it’s all for?’
‘What’s what all for?’
‘It. I mean, look at this castle. All those people who used to live here. Who built it, even. Slaves, who knows? All the money and the slaughters that went on, every meal, every breath. I just wonder what it’s all for, that’s all. When it comes to this. A big ruined castle. Nothing more.’
‘Oh. And what did you decide?’ I said, confused.
‘I haven’t yet.’
‘I think it’s quite a nice castle.’
I took his arm as we walked back down into town. Then, out of the blue, and for the first time, he kissed me on the cheek. It wasn’t a long kiss. It wasn’t even particularly passionate. But it was definitely real and warm and close, and my first. When we parted I looked into his eyes.
‘See you then,’ I said, suddenly giddy and shy all over again.
‘See you.’
‘So you’ll be going to York, to the assizes.’
As the Inspector came in to the office one morning and announced that I’d be going away again, for a week, I was in a dream.
‘Are you listening?’
‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. York. Assizes.’
‘You might find it easier to travel from your parents’ home in Scarborough each morning. They do have a house there, don’t they? It’s quite a trip from here. Nice chance for you to get back for a bit too.’
‘Yes, sir.’
I hadn’t seen my parents for months, as it became harder to fit in Malcolm’s visits and trips home along with all my shift work. I was looking forward to catching up with them all. I packed up my police things and said goodbye to Caroline and the girls. I’d miss the performance of the latest school play, which was a shame, as Lily was playing a lead part. But I gave them all a big hug and wished the girls luck, then set off back home.
As I arrived into Scarborough station, the first of the summer visitors were arriving, full of holiday cheer as they walked down to the beach with their buckets and spades and windbreaks. I walked past Marshall & Snelgrove, where I’d worked all that time back, and past the ice-cream shop where I had last seen Jane. It felt funny coming back, as though I was a stranger in a very familiar place. Everything was etched into my memory from growing up: the shape of the cliffs rising up on either side, even silly things like a post box with a big graze on one side, where a lorry had hit it one night, and the missing R on the theatre sign, which had never been replaced, so it read THEAT E.
Although I was familiar with the smallest details of the town, all the faces were somehow strange, as though they had been swapped while I was gone. There were new shopkeepers, and new children leaping about on the beach as I once had with my friends. Every now and then I would see a face I recognized, slightly older and wearier, but more often than not it was all new and strange.
‘She’s here!’ I heard Mam shout upstairs excitedly as I knocked on the door. Then there was a pattering of feet, and it opened. ‘You’re taller somehow,’ she said, and held my shoulders to get a good look at me. ‘Are you eating enough? You look thin.’
‘Yes. My landlady, Caroline, she’s a good cook actually. Always manages to get a nice piece of meat somehow.’
‘Well. I’ve got a surprise for you!’
‘Oh, Mam. I’m tired. Can it wai
t? I just want to flop and unpack.’ I started to walk up the stairs.
‘I’m afraid not.’
She signalled me to go into the living room and as I walked in, there sat Granny Steele, who we had lived near to as young children growing up, before we moved to Scarborough, but who I hardly ever saw now.
‘Granny!’ As I gave her a hug she smelled of powder puff and jasmine, and looked exactly the same as I remembered her all those years ago. She had lived in an ancient cottage in the village, which she always used to say had been in the family for years. When we stayed with her, we would go to bed by candlelight and watch the shadows flickering on the ancient stones, imagining who used to live there.
‘Happy birthday for next week,’ I said, remembering.
I had never been able to work out how old my granny was. It was something of a state secret, and I made it a challenge for myself to try to find out. She said she was born in the 1800s and could remember Queen Victoria. One day, at her house, I saw a picture of her and asked how old she was. Without thinking, she said she was twenty at the time of the photograph. Then I asked when the picture was taken, thinking that might be a way to find out, but she cottoned on too quickly and said she couldn’t remember. But when I turned the picture over there was a date on it: 1898. Which would have made her about seventy-five now. She looked well for it, too. She was quite short and stout, but this kept her skin looking young, and she had a big shock of naturally curly hair, formerly dark brown but now quite grey, and wore horn-rimmed glasses.
‘You look so well. Younger even,’ I said.
‘I feel it too. It’s the dogs. Keep me active.’
She always had two little terriers, and she always called them Bit and Bob. There had now been at least three generations of Bit and Bob, so it seemed like they were kind of immortal.
‘Coming here is the only rest I get. I’ve left them with the neighbours this week. Too much to bring them on the train. So what news have you got? I hear there’s a man on the scene.’
‘Oh. I don’t know. Yes. I suppose.’
That evening Mam and Dad told me what they’d been up to. They had bought another house in Scarborough, and business was going from strength to strength. After pudding, summer fruits and a big pile of fresh cream, which was a treat for Granny’s birthday, she produced a piece of paper from her handbag.
Bobby on the Beat Page 24
