by Amy Myers
Georgia considered the merits of this approach, remembering all too clearly that creepy sensation of being followed in London, and of Greg Dale’s watching eye.
‘The teddy bears are meeting at Sandy’s home on Saturday,’ Cath continued, ‘to discuss the reunion concert next month. If we go and play with them, you could throw in your grenade.’
Georgia reached into her bag for her mobile. ‘I’ll consult the oracle right away.’
The oracle had agreed. On her return to Haden Shaw Georgia found Peter sitting smugly reading the daily newspaper.
‘We can,’ Peter said blithely. ‘In fact, it’s all arranged. I phoned Fenella as soon as you rang off. It turns out Fenella knows Janie through the Fernbourne Museum. She did some of the cataloguing for it. Small world, isn’t it?’
‘A useful one,’ Georgia agreed. ‘Is Janie coming then?’ She hoped to sound casually interested, but as usual it failed.
‘I could hardly say no,’ he shot back at her accusingly.
Diffuse the situation quickly. ‘I’m glad. Your car or mine?’
He considered. ‘Yours.’
She thought Peter was about to add something, but if so, he refrained. ‘What about our promise to Pamela to say nothing?’
‘I rang her too. I deserve a free dinner at the pub for that. I said we had other sources to confirm Tom had been here in July seventy-five, not seventy-four, as she had thought, but she needed coaxing before she agreed she could be brought into it. I got the impression she was—’
‘Annoyed?’ she asked when he broke off.
‘Apprehensive. It’s hard to see why unless she’s holding something back.’
‘Is there a risk in bringing this into the open?’ Georgia asked doubtfully.
A pause. ‘When did risk ever stop us? We have to do it, Georgia. I’m getting superstitious in my old age. I have the feeling that if we can’t find out what happened to Tom Watson, we’ll never know the truth about Rick either.’
He looked at her to see how she was taking this, adding, ‘I’m still trying to track down possible leads when I have the heart.’
‘So am I.’
‘I haven’t reached Mongolia yet.’
Georgia managed a laugh. ‘Then keep right on.’
There was nothing grudging about Fenella’s welcome, perhaps because Janie was with them, Georgia thought. Peter had been silent on the way over, leaving Janie to do the talking and Georgia the driving. The set look on his face had deterred her from asking what he was mulling over.
She was glad he had arranged for them to come towards the end of the meeting, with the plan of joining the Waves Ahoy! crew for lunch and social chit-chat afterwards. As she drew up, she could see at least a couple of dozen cars outside the house, and from inside came the sounds of laughter, singing and a piano being bashed rather than played.
‘Come in,’ Fenella greeted them. ‘The action is in the kitchen for you at present. Help yourselves to a drink, make your own instant, pour your own wine. Best to go round the back with the wheelchair,’ she told Peter. ‘There’s an entrance straight into the kitchen. If you go now, you’ll beat the scrum. Vic’s there if you need a hand.’
Peter turned the chair, and Janie followed anxiously as he manoeuvred it and set off for the kitchen. Georgia could see by the tension in his shoulders that something was still displeasing her father – something to do with Janie? Give him space, she wanted to cry after her, but no. Janie was right there, a hand on the wheelchair back, and when they reached the kitchen, she walked straight in to prepare the way. Vic Dale was more tactful. He stood back, waiting to see whether help was needed. He had obviously had plenty of experience with Sandy.
‘Glass of white, Peter?’ Janie asked, and without waiting for the answer, ‘I’ll pour one for you.’
‘Thanks.’
A brief exchange, but it depressed Georgia. Peter liked getting his own wine, his own food, and Janie still hadn’t realized that. Nevertheless, that must surely be a small matter compared with the companionship that Janie offered him. There was no doubt there was a strong rapport between them. The chemistry was there, even to Georgia’s observing eye, but the equipment for handling it seemed to be heading for trouble.
Georgia could see through the open doors that the meeting was being held in the large living room, with people spilling out on to the terrace. It looked informal as meetings go, although Harold was very clearly in command. Sandy was standing at his side with a hand on the piano top, so full marks to him for not using a wheelchair today. All eyes seemed to be on Harold, however, although he was talking quietly, both listening and consulting rather than lecturing his audience. Effective, Georgia thought, as she was sure that if he suddenly cried, ‘Enough,’ there would be an instant hush. He seemed to have a deft way of unifying a group that must have stood him in good stead in his career. She could see Cherry discreetly at the back of the room, clad appropriately in cherry red, eyes fixed on Harold. In repose it was possible to see in her gentle face the seventeen-year-old sweetheart of Tom Watson.
Mavis was sitting in the window seat, a sardonic look on her face, although not a rebellious one. Sandy was definitely Number Two, watching his producer for the next call for the Three Joeys. There were others whom Georgia did not recognize but who seemed to be contemporaries of Waves Ahoy! and so could well have been part of other acts. No sign of the Trents, however, except for Gemma.
Georgia wondered what Harold would do about the chorus line. Surely it would be too pitiful to try to recreate anything like it had been in Joan Watson’s day. Did Harold fill in with modern acts, as well as the home movies someone had mentioned? That would be one way of organizing the show, which Cath had told her was for charity in aid of the Benevolent Fund.
Watching them, Georgia found it hard to imagine that any secrets could remain amongst this group. It looked as if it were here solely to pay a tribute to the past rather than being bound up in conspiracy to cover up something that bore little resemblance to nostalgic reminiscences. As the meeting finished, the audience sprang instantly to life, silent faces becoming animated again as they made their way to the terrace where the buffet was laid out. Georgia was swept up in the crowd, aware of Janie again leading the way for Peter, but then her attention was diverted.
‘Georgia. How nice to see you.’ Cherry had sought her out. ‘It’s good of you to take such an interest in our doings. You will be coming along in August, won’t you?’
Georgia felt her face must be flushing with guilt, as Cherry swept on. ‘Harold had such a good idea for those of us who were in the chorus line. Such fun.’ The guilt grew. Cherry’s fun would not last. Half of her wanted to run like hell, to limit the damage Peter’s announcement would cause before it was too late. But it wasn’t possible. She was committed.
‘We’re going to use the old songs,’ Cherry chattered on, ‘but instead of kicking our legs up, we’ll be in a line with our arms round one another’s waists, just moving to the music like waves. Do you see? And all dressed in the same colour, blue probably, which suits us all.’
Georgia did see, and it could indeed be very effective.
‘We’ll have to rehearse, of course,’ Cherry said. ‘Harold wants split-second timing.’
She spoke of him almost objectively, despite the fact she had once been married to him. Such a long time ago, Georgia supposed, and Cherry had been married again since then, as had Harold presumably. But then Georgia’s own first marriage to Zac now seemed to involve a different person and era. Zac was in her objective category, as Harold was to Cherry. Whereas Luke . . . Never. Luke was present and Luke was her future.
‘Cherry!’ Harold came up to them at that moment and deposited a kiss on her cheek. ‘Think you can manage the rehearsals?’
‘Of course, Harold. Plenty of life left in me yet.’
‘Good. I should get some of that salmon mousse, if I were you. Running out fast. Darling, I need a word with Georgia here.’ A quick kiss, and he tur
ned away from his former wife.
Cherry looked rebuffed for a brief instant and then trotted off obediently to collect some food.
‘It must have been fun being in one of your plays, Harold,’ Georgia observed.
‘Not always,’ he joked.
‘The quiet voice can be deadlier than the roar?’
For a moment he looked taken aback, then, ‘Both work on occasion, I find. Or rather, found.’
‘It must be hard adapting from the West End to a retirement community, but I suppose you’ve directed all these folk before, and people don’t change in personality, despite the years.’
‘No.’ He eyed her thoughtfully. ‘That’s what worries me, and I have a feeling that Marsh & Daughter isn’t going to give up easily.’
‘Give up what?’ she stalled.
‘The Tom Watson story.’
‘Any reason we should – apart from our not wanting to hurt Cherry?’
He looked at her earnestly. ‘I don’t think you realize what you might be getting into.’
‘You’re wrong. I think we do. That’s why, as Peter must have warned you, we decided to talk to you all together.’
‘Sleeping dogs are much happier.’
‘Peter and I can’t judge that.’
‘Look what happened to Ken. Doesn’t that worry you?’
He was beginning to rile her. ‘Are you saying he was killed by a sleeping dog? If so, that would seem to belie your statement that they are happier. Far from it, I’d say.’
He shrugged. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Guilt can do damage. Look at the four knights who murdered Thomas Becket. But to do nothing – isn’t that worse?’ He glanced at her as if he’d thought better of what he was going to say next and muttered, ‘I suppose I should have another word with your father.’
Janie’s arrival gave him an excuse to leave, and Georgia’s heart sank. She was not feeling up to coping with Janie and hoped she was going to talk only about Tom Watson. She was wrong.
‘I wanted to ask you,’ Janie said hesitantly, ‘how you were getting on with the search for your brother.’
Georgia gritted her teeth, forcing herself to reply reasonably instead of shouting out that this was her business and Peter’s – and perhaps Luke’s. ‘It’s not leading anywhere yet.’
‘Peter said the police search took place all over France, not just Brittany.’
Every word brought the agony back more clearly. ‘Yes.’
‘But nowhere else?’
How long was this inquisition going on? ‘I don’t know. Anyway, Rick wasn’t in the habit of just wandering off without letting us know roughly where he was.’
‘But he did,’ Janie persisted.
Damn her. ‘That last time, yes. Where does one start looking though? Beijing? Sydney? New York?’
Janie wasn’t going to give up. ‘Did Rick leave belongings behind him at the farm where he stayed in Brittany?’
To Georgia’s horror, her mind went blank and her defences were gone. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know if I ever knew. And yet I must have done.’ Only fourteen years ago, and she couldn’t remember. She had thought every detail was indelibly stamped on to her memory. She forced herself to think back to the weeks she and Peter spent in Brittany hunting for him.
‘I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure.’
She remembered going to the farm; Peter was then on two active legs and ran up the stairs with her behind him to look at the room where Rick had slept. But then came a blank. ‘No. I don’t think so,’ Georgia managed to continue. ‘He was hitch-hiking so he wouldn’t have had much.’
Not much. Just one rucksack to carry belongings while he followed his dream. Images flashed through her mind: the Pied Piper, rats, the Giant Rat of Sumatra, Miss Blondie, Mozart. A magic flute. Rick had gone with Miss Blondie into the Pied Piper’s mountain and taken the magic flute with him. Tom Watson and Papageno. Georgia began to feel giddy and then sick, just as she had at Ken’s funeral. Rick and Tom were intertwining themselves in her mind. She felt herself swaying, and then Janie was grasping her arm, talking urgently to her.
‘Come away from the crowd for a few minutes.’ Janie led her quickly from the terrace and down into the garden, where Georgia took several deep breaths and gradually began to recover.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, aware her voice was trembling. ‘Sometimes it gets too much. I can handle it normally, but now – knowing we have a lead but being constantly frustrated is terrible.’
‘It’s bad. You must be thankful you have Luke and Peter to share it with. I could never share anything with my mother,’ Janie said matter-of-factly. ‘I had to pour it all into my novels.’
‘Are you writing again?’ Thank heavens, normality restored, as perhaps Janie had intended.
‘Oh, yes. It’s the only way. Keep going, keep going. It’s where to is the problem.’ Janie looked sad, but when she noticed Georgia’s attention on her, she flushed. ‘Maybe that’s what Tom Watson felt,’ she added.
As Janie left her to rejoin Peter, Georgia wondered what had made her raise the subject in the first place. Kindness? Fellow sympathy? Janie had both. If only she would use them at the right times.
As the party began to thin out, Georgia started to feel more and more on edge. Peter must have been leaving his ‘grenade’ until only the hard core, those who had known Tom or had been involved in his life story, remained on the lawn. Among them were Matthew and Pamela Trent, who must just have arrived. The die was about to be cast, she thought, if only because she could see Janie leaving Peter to join Fenella – at his request, she suspected. She was right, as Harold called the group to attention, and she listened to what followed almost as though it were a play in itself.
‘Waves Ahoy!’ Peter began without preamble. ‘That’s where this story began for Tom and Joan Watson. But it didn’t finish there.’
‘Of course not,’ Cherry cried out brightly. ‘I know—’ She was hushed by Harold.
‘Tom is thought to have committed suicide,’ Peter continued, ‘but we know that didn’t happen. Not in 1953, anyway.’
‘That’s right.’ Cherry’s voice was shrill with excitement. ‘Have you found him?’
‘No,’ Peter answered so that all could hear. ‘I’m afraid I think he is no longer alive, but I could be wrong. The truth is that to save you hurt, Cherry, Tom made another life for himself under another name in London.’
Everyone looked very still, which made this seem even more like a play, Georgia thought. But this was real, and it was worse than she had feared.
‘Tom did come back to Broadstairs for a day at least in 1975.’
Georgia heard the general intake of breath but her eyes were on Cherry who was very white. ‘He obviously did not want to hurt you, Cherry,’ Peter repeated, ‘and that’s why he made no attempt to see you. After all, you were married, and he might have thought you still were.’
Harold looked totally detached, Georgia noticed. He wasn’t looking at Cherry, far from it, although there still seemed to be feeling between them. What had attracted Harold to marry Cherry? She supposed she might have had a helplessness that would have appealed to a young man eager for power, and on Cherry’s side protection and a chance of leaving Broadstairs might have been irresistible.
‘But where is he now? Tom must be alive,’ Cherry cried out. ‘You know, don’t you? You have his address.’
‘Nothing has been heard of him since that visit,’ Peter explained. ‘It’s possible he died very soon after it.’
‘Nonsense. Of course he’s still alive,’ Cherry shouted indignantly. ‘I’ll advertise in The Times. Tom will want to come to the reunion to see me dance. He may not know we have one every year.’
‘The first question is,’ Peter continued gently, ignoring this outburst, ‘whom did Tom see when he came here? We know he met an old friend in London, which might have been connected with the visit. We know he saw Mrs Trent.’ He nodded at her, but she did not respond. ‘And we know he
met Micky Winton again. Ken may have discovered this, but it seems that Micky did not tell his son himself. Why not, I wonder? Did he come to see you, Sandy?’
Sandy shook his head. ‘I’d like to have seen the old blighter, but I haven’t set eyes on him since he vanished in October 1953. I moved away, so I reckon Tom didn’t know I was back in Broadstairs – otherwise he would have dropped in.’
‘I was living in London,’ Harold said. ‘So rule me out.’
‘Mavis?’
Georgia saw Pamela flinch, and no wonder. She must still be coping with the blow of finding out who her real father was.
‘No. Why should he, dear?’ Mavis replied.
‘Are you sure Tom came back?’ Cherry asked doubtfully.
‘It looks almost certain that he did.’
‘And he thought I was still married?’
‘Very probably.’
‘But I’m not. So I could advertise now. Yes.’ Cherry nodded vigorously. ‘That’s what I’ll do. Advertise. He’s out there somewhere.’
‘But I’m not. So I could advertise now. Yes.’ Cherry nodded vigorously. ‘That’s what I’ll do. Advertise. He’s out there somewhere.’
ELEVEN
‘What on earth did you say to him on Saturday, Luke?’ Georgia asked. Something must have sparked Harold Staines off to send what amounted to a threatening letter to Luke of all people. Why send it to Frost & Co and not the offending Marsh & Daughter? It was not only puzzling but somewhat sinister.
‘Nothing.’ Luke looked as much at sea as she was. ‘We passed a few idle words about the Frost list. How much he enjoyed our books and so on. There was nothing that could possibly have provoked this reaction.’ He passed the letter back to Georgia, who rapidly scanned it again.
‘I enjoyed our pleasant chat on Saturday. However, I understood that it is still your intention to publish in due course Marsh & Daughter’s book about Waves Ahoy! and the murder of Joan Watson. As the show’s producer, I am naturally concerned that such a publication might rake over old embers but would fail to reach any provable conclusion; this would cause great harm to those of us who still remember those days. The authors seem to be entering the world of speculation rather than re-examining the established facts, and although I applaud a positive approach in general, I fear that in this case they may be using a hammer to squash a nut and in the process injure some very frail shells. I do plead with you to discuss this matter very fully with the authors, both for their sakes and yours.’
