We were all in Trev, since he lived on the road outside my flat. I’d picked them up from Kingsnorth, once separate from Ashford, but now being swallowed rapidly by the dormitory estates the government seemed obsessed with building. I stuck to country roads as far as High Halden, because I was totally unable to resist the crossroads known as Cuckold’s Corner. Then I joined what claimed to be an Aroad, but was really a glorified lane, with nowhere to overtake the heavy lorry that might just reach thirty if the driver sold his soul. I saw a chance to change the subject.
‘I thought the South East was supposed to be rich,’ I chuntered. ‘And yet – motorways apart – it doesn’t seem to have a single decent road. Haven’t you ever heard of dual-carriageways?’
‘It isn’t as though we haven’t asked for them,’ Meg protested.
Good: with a bit of luck I could keep her on roads and off dogs until she’d forgotten she was supposed to be feeling sorry for me. While I’ve never minded lying my way out of a spot, it’s always seemed to me easier to stick to the truth if possible, probably because it’s easier to remember. Since in general I had a very happy relationship with canines, I wasn’t too sure about Paula’s reason for my no-show at Crabton Manor. Still, she had to say something, and after yesterday I owed her.
‘A lot of very rich people do live down here, it’s true,’ Meg was saying. I must have missed a bit. She ran off the names of several former and current pop stars. ‘But they don’t shop locally – I mean, can you imagine someone like Mick Jagger popping into Paula’s mum’s salon and asking for highlights and a trim?’
I was hard put to imagine anyone popping into Paula’s mum’s salon – even Paula wriggled out of that.
‘And some incomers certainly can’t be described as assets to the community,’ she continued, warming to her theme. ‘There was that supermarket shooting last year – the gangland vendetta?’
I watched in my side mirrors the frantic attempts of the Jag – yes, latest series – to overtake me. Or perhaps he was just trying to hitch up on the tow bar.
‘That’s the one. Imagine being at the checkout when a murderer pushes his basket ahead of you.’ Helen supplied a satisfactory shudder, like a heroine in a silent movie.
I just sat very firmly on memories of the sort of things that happened in gangland vendettas.
‘And, of course, there was that kidnap at the hotel near Tenterden. But perhaps that doesn’t count, since the gang came down from London…’
And had been pretty incompetent, as I recalled. Even so, reducing such a vile thing to a matter for gossip made me feel uncomfortable. ‘You’ll have to remind me of the turn,’ I said. ‘It’s a while since I was here, and you know how hopeless I am with roads.’
‘If Paula heard you saying that, she’d be furious,’ Meg said. ‘You know how she hates people putting themselves down.’
Helen said languidly, ‘I wouldn’t mind going into Tenterden. I forgot to get myself any lunch.’
If ever there were a green signal, that was it. The van headed purposefully for the Waitrose car park, disgorging Helen and Meg – and then, yes, me too. Tenterden is one of those pretty little towns that I can’t resist. While the others went into the supermarket, I drifted to the High Street. I knew the shops were geared for the tourist market – a steam engine from the preserved railway whistled even as I locked the van’s doors – but I loved the wide village street, the quaint (and stupendously expensive) houses, and the immensely solid church, which looked as if you really could find sanctuary, if not solace, there. It wasn’t nine o’clock yet, and though Paula liked us to be at work by then, we could clip a bit off our lunch break to make up. Just to walk up and down made me feel more comfortable than I could ever remember feeling back in Brum. OK. I exaggerate. Like a lot of people I didn’t have an idyllic childhood, and in my later teens I was constantly looking over my shoulder. Me, and a lot of my friends. Here, though, the sun was shining, there was enough wind to blow a hint of the engine’s coal smoke into the town, and a wonderful sense of contentment and well-being. Maybe I even started to hum as I ambled along.
If I did, the music choked in my throat. Over by a swish dress shop was – No, I couldn’t, mustn’t believe it was –.
Gasping for breath, I leant a second against the nearest shop window. Antiques. The owner came out, ready to shoo me away, but was soon fussing round asking if I was all right. Half of me wanted to hug her, the other half wished she’d go away and leave me alone, lest her mother-hen act attracted the attention of that man. Even the shop itself might – he liked fine things.
It was him. Had to be. You don’t sleep with a man for nearly three years without recognising certain gestures, certain movements of the head. All that talk about criminals, and who should be almost within earshot but Clive Granville.
Gabbling my thanks to the shopkeeper, I pulled myself clear and dived into a newsagent’s. If I grabbed a paper I could put my head down in that and hope he’d not notice me. And I could buy things, not just the paper I was already queuing for. It was patchily damp from where I’d touched it.
I broke away from the queue, nipping to a stand of sun specs and another of baseball caps. Camouflage. That was better. Retreating to the back of the shop, as a final touch I rolled up my dungaree legs: now I looked like a rather shabby all-American girl (if that isn’t a contradiction in terms!) with my tan and perkily cut sunbleached hair. I was sure, however, that no cheerleader had ever gone for Joseph’s coat trainers like mine, dappled with a hundred odd colours.
The others would be waiting for me. What if they came looking for me, yelling my name? Not a lot of Caffys in Tenterden. They’d lead him straight to me; and I’d have led him straight to them. More potential victims. I’d left Birmingham not just to save myself but also to protect the few friends I had left. Now I had a brand new group of friends, family, more like, and he could sniff them out and punish them simply for befriending me. I couldn’t bear to think about what I ought to do – except that, in the short term, I’d better get back to them. So I paid up, and slipped gently from the shop into a waxing tide of elderly ladies. It was their shopping hour, just as it had been their shopping hour since William the Bastard had landed not all that far down the road. On one of my free weekends I’d actually walked to the site of Harold’s battle. Poor guy, it had probably been an old lady’s walking stick that had polished him off, not an arrow at all. Or being hacked with huge, heavy swords. I didn’t envy poor Edith Swan Neck, his mistress, her job of identifying him. I’d had to do it once or twice for friends, if not lovers, in the clinical privacy of a morgue, with the relevant bits sanitised as far as forensic medicine could accomplish. It wasn’t pleasant.
And I wanted to make damned sure no one had to do it for me. Which meant staying very much in one piece. It was hard to walk along trying not to have eye contact with anyone but making sure I saw Clive well before he saw me. I nipped sharply into the pedestrian way leading to the car park and was ready to heave a sigh of relief. But who should be looking into the very smart ladies’ shoe shop (come on, Caffy, is there any other sort in Tenterden?) but Clive himself. He and his female companion, a woman rather younger and even slimmer than I’d been when he selected me, were engrossed in a row of sexy sandals. I scuttered past, hoping, indeed praying, that Helen and Meg didn’t take it into their heads to yell greetings at me as I approached. Yes, they were turning towards me, and yes, their mouths were forming great round O’s. Perhaps I could convince them I wasn’t me. At least I had the paper to shield my face – I hadn’t meant to buy the Guardian, but that was what I’d picked up. It would have been Taz’s natural choice. But I mustn’t think about Taz now. I must think about quietly and unobtrusively weaving round the car park and returning to the van by the most circuitous route possible: once anyone identified me with it I’d had it, it was so easily identifiable.
‘Just say nothing, pretend not to be with me and go and open up,’ I told Meg, flipping her the keys.
She took one look at me and caught them, bundling me in ahead of her.
‘Don’t ask. Just start and drive off.’
I was halfway under a dustsheet already.
The bloody van wouldn’t start. Maybe that’s why Paula insisted the damned thing was a he, it was so sodding temperamental. Shit. Not like me to swear these days. Neither Meg nor Paula approved.
‘It’s no use,’ Meg almost wept, ‘I can’t do it. You’ll have to try, Caffy.’
If it didn’t start soon, it’d be under the bonnet time for me. Not where you want to be when you don’t want to draw attention to yourself. Not when Granville prided himself there was no motor he couldn’t tame. Motor or, of course, woman. By whatever means.
Just as kindly people were gathering round to help, I got it to fire. I should have handed over to Meg, of course. But I was so intent on keeping the engine ticking over, I stayed in the driving seat. And as I crept out of the car park, my eyes met, as if it had all been staged, the disbelieving eyes of Clive Granville. Despite the shades, he knew me.
I almost threw up. There was only one thing to do. Make sure he didn’t catch up with us.
I ruthlessly carved a Mercedes, driven, by its octogenarian owner, more in the fashion of a Reliant Robin, took to every side street I could find, and finally found myself going in exactly opposite the direction to the one I wanted. It was only after I’d completed a lumbering U-turn that Meg spoke.
‘Sorry,’ she said.
‘Not your fault,’ I said, truthfully. ‘I know Paula thinks it’s a bit cute to have a van only I can start, but it really isn’t funny. I can’t think why she doesn’t get the sodding ignition system sorted. Fucking stupid not to. She bosses us: why doesn’t she boss the garage?’
‘I know you’re upset, Caffy, but all the same …’ Meg sighed, because I’d sworn, I suppose. ‘And we don’t criticise Paula, remember, not behind her back, do we?’
‘Just shut it, Meg! Please!’ These were my friends. I should be yelling at fate, not them. I took several deep breaths. ‘Sorry.’ Another breath. If I talked normally maybe I’d feel a bit more normal. ‘Did you get some lunch, Helen?’
‘I didn’t fancy anything there,’ she whined.
‘But,’ Meg declared, ‘she can have my egg sandwiches – I’ve bought a baguette to replace them.’ Despite her increasing pudge, Meg wouldn’t miss lunch. Or fail to notice where the speedo needle was. ‘Careful, it’s that very sharp bend coming up.’
She was right. If I wasn’t careful I would roll the van and kill us all and save Granville the job. And no, I wasn’t exaggerating.
The place we were titivating was what looked like a Georgian farmhouse but was probably much older, a medieval manor with a false front, on a rise of ground called the Isle of Oxney. Maybe it had been an island once, when the marshes were still sea. Certainly the land to the southeast dropped away in what looked like old cliffs. From the house you could see Rye to the south and the vast spread of Romney Marsh to the east. Vast to me, at any rate, after my city upbringing (some might think updragging a better term), when the local park was terrifying because there weren’t any houses in it. Even on a perfect day like this there was a strong wind. The roof bore signs of very recent major repairs by someone who knew his job, there were new gutters and there had been a great deal of repointing. Someone had injected a damp-course. Not surprisingly, the paintwork had weathered badly, especially where it had to endure the combined attack of wind, rain and sun. My job would be to go up the ladder and strip and fill where necessary. Some of the windows would have to be removed and reputtied. Certainly the whole lot would need a fungicidal wash and very careful priming. I loaded pockets and pouches with the necessary and with Meg’s help hoisted the ladder. But I didn’t go up straightaway – I sloped off to tuck the van further under the trees. I didn’t think anyone could see it from the road now.
‘You expecting a hot day or something?’ Meg asked, puzzled, as I walked back.
‘A scorcher – didn’t you hear the forecast?’ Painters and decorators are as keen on weather forecasts as sailors and farmers are. Paula admitted, if pressed, to having an unrequited passion for TV weatherman Rob McElwee.
She drifted me away from Helen. ‘What’s really the trouble? Something really upset you back there, I could see that, but I didn’t want to say too much and worry Helen.’
‘I saw someone I don’t want to see ever again.’
‘Easy – tell him to push off.’ Meg thought that not swearing set her kids a good example. They’d confided in me that they thought she was pathetic not knowing the real words and wondered whether they ought to teach her.
‘Not so easy.’
‘Three of us!’ The way she lifted her chin you could imagine sparring with a bully’s mother in the playground – but not, of course, verbally.
‘Even with the whole of Duke William’s army behind me,’ I said miserably. But I couldn’t cough it all up, not now. Not now. Though I knew I’d have to say something about it all soon. I braced my shoulders. ‘Anyway, time to get up that ladder.’
If Clive had really clocked me, I’d have to leave Paula’s Pots. I didn’t want him to find me, for a start, and I certainly didn’t want to expose them to any danger. Being pressured by a drug baron wouldn’t faze either Paula or Meg, of course. Not in theory. Not until they learnt what being pressured meant. Helen would make a natural target. And there were Meg’s children. I had to go, there was no doubt about it. But I didn’t want simply to do a flit. I owed them some explanation. Paula had taken me on not on the basis of my personal CV, as she said with a mild smile, but because I’d been top of my college course and because she recognised a good worker when she saw one. I insisted she told the others in confidence about my past, all of it, but no one ever mentioned it, not even Helen producing so much as a feeble snigger. And I’d shown my gratitude by working every minute of every hour Paula paid me for, by reading all the trade mags and introducing any new techniques that looked useful, and signing up for courses in restoration, so I’d be able to assist Paula in her specialist work. I’d turned Paula’s Pots into my new family, and was far more loyal to them than my own folk had ever been to me.
And into this happy new life walks Clive Granville. Possibly. The more I smoothed in filler, moulded putty, the more I thought I’d been over-reacting. He couldn’t have recognised me. Not with my cap and new haircut and colour and the sunspecs. And he certainly wouldn’t have got more than a glimpse of me. He’d obviously got a new bird now. So even if he had clocked me he’d let me be. Surely he would. After all, he didn’t need me if he’d got a new woman. Perhaps he was just down for a holiday. Perhaps he didn’t plan to join fellow cons in what was once the garden of England and now seemed more like a hothouse for crime.
It was no good. I knew Granville better than that. I had to find the loo.
This owner had had whoever did the building repairs make sure the outside loo was not just operational but clean, with a water heater over a new washbasin. When you’re throwing up, it’s nice to do it in civilised surroundings. I blessed him, whoever he was, as I rinsed my mouth and told myself that letting go wasn’t going to help.
Paula always insisted we took proper breaks, however busy we might be. The only exception was if foul weather were promised, and missing our lunch would guarantee we could complete a job before it arrived.
In turn, Meg always demanded that we listen to the one o’clock news on her battered trannie as we had our lunch. ‘We may be labourers, but we can be educated labourers,’ she said. ‘Besides, it means I can help my kids with their homework,’ she added more honestly.
So even when the three of us were gathered together with our mugs and sarnies, we didn’t have the discussion I feared was on its way, from the way Meg kept looking at me. Before we started again, she said, almost as if she’d caught me out doing a Helen, ‘You’re very pale.’
‘Tummy bug,’ I lied briefly, heading up the ladder.
<
br /> We didn’t have our group talk till much later, when we were packing up, in fact, by which time Paula had parked up by the Transit and was inspecting the day’s efforts. And I started it, as I knew I ought.
‘I’m going to have to disappear,’ I said. ‘No, not just leave promptly. I mean, vanish.’
‘It’s to do with the man who saw you this morning. When I couldn’t start Trev. Oh, Caffy, I’m so sorry.’
‘He saw me when I pulled out of the car park – nothing to do with you at all, Meg. Really, truly.’
‘Forget about blame,’ Paula said. ‘Tell us about this man and why you’re so afraid of him.’
I said baldly, ‘I told you about me and drugs. It was him who got me hooked. It took me a long time to get off.’
‘And he was the one who got you back on them after rehab?’
‘Tried.’
‘That’s not all, is it? Because we all know you won’t start again on cocaine or heroin or whatever.’
It was strange to hear them referred to by their polite names.
‘Of course not.’
‘Well, then? Had he threatened you in some way? He has, hasn’t he?’
I looked round them seeing not just their faces but those of Taz, my social worker, and his colleagues, and of the staff at the rehab centre. ‘Not just me. My friends. People he finds me with.’
‘Threats!’ Meg started dismissively, as if putting backbone in her kids.
Paula said warningly, ‘It depends what sort of threats.’
For answer, I unclipped my dungarees and lifted my T-shirt. Maybe I should have done this when they first let me join them.
There.
CG. He’d carved the letters himself. Once they’d been raw and bloody. I touched the scars, flattening and only pink, with little sideways marks in places where they’d had to put stitches in.
Scar Tissue Page 3
