Scarborough Ball (Scarborough Fair Book 2)

by Margarita Morris

  It didn’t take the jury long. Barely twenty minutes later they were back in their places.

  The judge asked the foreman to stand. The black guy rose to his feet. He must have been a good six foot three and stood with the self-possession of a born leader.

  “Have you reached a unanimous decision?” asked the judge.

  The foreman nodded. “We have, your Honour.”

  “How do you find the defendant? Guilty or not guilty of the charge of supplying a controlled drug?”

  There was an infinitesimal pause, then, “Guilty, your Honour.”

  The judge nodded as if this was the correct answer. The foreman sat down, staring straight ahead of him. The middle-aged woman gave a satisfied nod of her head.

  Dan felt a sinking in the pit of his stomach. He’d expected it would come to this but a tiny part of him had still hoped, against all the odds, that his dad would get off by some fluke of the system. Ryan’s luck had finally run out.

  The judge turned to Ryan who was standing with his hands folded behind his back, looking straight ahead. The blood pounded in Dan’s head so that the voice of the judge sounded as if it was coming through water.

  “Ryan Grigson,” said the judge. “You have been found guilty of the charge of supplying a controlled drug. You were not the main perpetrator of the crime and your role was a lesser one. You were put under pressure and you have no previous convictions. Nevertheless this is a very serious offence. On that basis I am sentencing you to six years imprisonment at her Majesty’s pleasure.” The judge tapped his gavel on the desk in front of him and it was over. The policemen led Ryan away and the barristers started shuffling their papers together, loading them into their briefcases. Just another day’s work for them.

  Dan felt empty inside. The next time he saw his dad he would be behind bars. Did that make him the man of the house now? He dreaded to think how much wine his mother would drink tonight. Fiona looked stony-faced but resigned.

  Baker-Howard turned to face them. “Don’t worry,” he said. “He’ll be out in a couple of years if he behaves himself and doesn’t get into any scrapes with the other prisoners.”

  “He’s not a thug,” shouted Dan. How dare Baker-Howard suggest that his father might duff up the other inmates.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean...”

  But Dan didn’t stay to hear the rest of the apology. He turned and walked out of the courtroom.

  ~~~

  The next afternoon Rose and Andrea drove to Scarborough cemetery, stopping at a florist to buy some flowers on the way. They had a two o’clock appointment with the solicitor to sort out the final details of her grandmother’s will and Andrea thought it was a good opportunity to pay their respects first. The autumn sun was low in the sky and there was a cold breeze in the air.

  Rose knelt down and laid the flowers on her grandmother’s grave. “Love you, Gran,” she whispered. Then she stood back whilst Andrea fussed over some thistles that were sprouting up around the headstone and complained that the council didn’t cut the grass often enough.

  It seemed so long ago now, that day back in the summer when her grandmother had suddenly been taken ill with a heart attack, but Rose remembered every detail. They’d gone to Peasholm Park to watch the naval display on the lake, a re-enactment of war-time battles with model boats; the organist in the bandstand on the lake was playing a medley of film music; her mother was complaining about the lack of parking spaces; and then her grandmother had suddenly keeled over into Rose’s lap. Andrea had flown into a panic; first-aiders had run to help; an ambulance had arrived and paramedics had rushed her grandmother into hospital. But despite everyone’s best efforts, she had died a few days later. Now she was buried in the cemetery alongside other members of her family and Rose missed her dreadfully.

  Whilst Andrea pulled up the thistles and tidied the grass with a pair of dress-maker’s scissors that she produced, to Rose’s astonishment, from her copious handbag, Rose wandered amongst the gravestones. A lichen-covered headstone marked the spot where Mary and Walter lay buried. They were her great-great-grandparents and over the summer Rose had read Mary’s letters so she knew all about their whirlwind romance in the autumn of 1899 when Mary had come to Scarborough working as a lady’s maid to Miss Alice Hawthorne.

  Next to Mary and Walter’s grave was a headstone for Lilian, their daughter, mother to Rose’s own grandmother and to her great-uncle David. Lilian had died in 1986 at the age of eighty-two. Hard to imagine the smiling young woman from the 1920’s film lying beneath the damp earth. Rose decided that the next time she came to the cemetery she’d bring some flowers for Lilian too and maybe wear one of her necklaces as a tribute.

  “That’s better,” said Andrea, getting to her feet and dusting off her hands. She dropped the scissors back into her bag. “Right, we’d better hurry if we’re going to get to the solicitor’s on time.”

  Andrea tapped the solicitor’s address into the SatNav and they drove off. The solicitor had requested to see both of them which was why Andrea had arranged the meeting for half-term. Rose had no idea why she needed to be there.

  The SatNav directed them to one of the leafy Victorian streets off the Esplanade, the more upmarket end of town. Andrea managed to wedge the car into an on-street parking space that entitled them to stop for an hour. “I hope this doesn’t take too long,” she said as they walked along the street looking for number fourteen. “I don’t want a parking ticket.”

  A shiny brass plaque on the wall of number fourteen announced that these were the offices of Baker-Howard & Carmichael, Solicitors. Andrea rang the bell and a friendly female voice greeted them over the intercom.

  The door clicked open and Rose followed her mother into a large Victorian hallway, the walls painted a subtle shade of green and hung with oil paintings of the coast. The secretary, an attractive blond who trailed a cloud of expensive perfume behind her, led them up the stairs to Mr Carmichael’s office. She knocked on the door, then stood aside to let them enter. It was a high-ceilinged room with a real fireplace, the alcoves either side of the fireplace lined from floor to ceiling with leather-bound books. In the centre of the room was a large mahogany desk with chairs. An ornate ticking clock had pride of place on the mantelpiece. If it hadn’t been for the computer on the desk, the room would have resembled something out of a Dickens’ novel. Mr Carmichael rose from his chair behind the desk to greet them. He was an elderly man with wispy white hair who peered at them over the top of his half-moon glasses.

  “Good afternoon Mrs Jenkins.” He shook Andrea’s hand, then turned to Rose. “You must be Mrs Shawcross’ granddaughter. Is it all right if I call you Rose?”

  “Of course,” she said, shaking the hand that was offered her.

  “Splendid. Well please sit down both of you.” He gestured to two chairs in front of his desk. “I’m sorry you’ve had to give up part of your holiday to come here today,” he said to Rose. “I’m sure you’ve got more exciting things to be doing than visiting an old solicitor like me.”

  “That’s all right,” said Rose. She still didn’t know why she needed to be there, but she thought Mr Carmichael was delightful.

  “Is there much more to sort out with the will?” asked Andrea, fussing with the hem of her skirt which rode up when she sat down. “I didn’t think Mum’s affairs were that complicated.”

  “There are a few papers to sign,” said Mr Carmichael, sitting down opposite them and opening a leather folder. “But there is something specifically for Rose.”

  “For me?” asked Rose. What could her grandmother have left her that was so special it needed to be handed over in a formal meeting with a solicitor?

  Mr Carmichael pulled a sheet of paper from his folder and held it out to Rose. “Your grandmother wrote this to you. She gave it to me when I last saw her, about a month or so before she died. Maybe you’d like to have a read through whilst I go and fetch the object referred to in the letter?” He passed her the piece of paper and then left
the room. Rose recognised her grandmother’s handwriting and a jolt of love mingled with pain shot through her. She was aware of her mother fidgeting, trying to read over Rose’s shoulder. She did her best to ignore her and started to read the letter from her grandmother.

  Dear Rose,

  When you read this letter I will be long gone. I hope that you are well and enjoying life. I have had a good life and seeing you grow into a fine young woman has been one of my greatest joys.

  Rose choked back a tear and carried on reading.

  Families are complicated things. My own mother, Lilian, wrote a memoir shortly before she died. When she passed away she left it to me. I read it and then put it away, not knowing what to do with it. I didn’t even show my brother, David, fearing that it would upset him too much. But I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. The years passed and sometimes I forgot about it, but these things always resurface. In the end I entrusted it to my solicitor, Mr Carmichael, and now I have decided to leave it to you. You can read it and then you can decide what to do with it.

  With all my love,

  Gran.

  “What does it say?” asked Andrea. Waves of curiosity were coming off her like heat.

  “She’s left me a memoir,” said Rose.

  “A memoir?” said Andrea indignantly. “She never said she’d written a memoir.”

  “Not her memoir,” said Rose. “It was written by her mother, Lilian.”

  “My grandmother?” said Andrea, the disbelief in her voice mounting to epic proportions. “But she never did anything interesting with her life. What on earth did she have to put in a memoir? May I see that please?” She held out her hand for the letter and Rose passed it to her. Andrea fished in her bag for a pair of reading glasses and started to read her mother’s letter, a frown creasing her forehead.

  Mr Carmichael returned then, carrying a cardboard box file with reinforced leather corners. He sat back down and slid the box to Rose across the desk. “Here you are,” he said. “It’s been in safe-keeping for many years. Now it’s yours.”

  “Have you read it?” asked Rose.

  “Oh, goodness me no,” he said, taking off his glasses and pinching the top of his nose between finger and thumb. “That would have been a breach of client confidentiality. Although I must admit to having been jolly curious about it all this time.”

  “Thank you,” said Rose, picking up the box and laying it on her lap.

  Mr Carmichael turned to Andrea. “Now for the boring stuff, I’m afraid. There are some shares that need transferring into your name.”

  Whilst Andrea signed various pieces of paper that the solicitor put in front of her, Rose eased open the box file. Inside was a leather-bound notebook. Rose lifted it out and carefully opened the cover, inhaling the musty smell of old paper. The first page was dated 1986. Lilian had written this as an old woman from her nursing home. The opening lines caught Rose’s attention:

  The dead are calling me to account.

  Three days ago I received a letter.

  She quickly read the rest of the first page, her curiosity piqued by the mention of Ruby and Theodore Franklin. As David had said, Ruby was Lilian’s friend and she had emigrated to America, but something must have happened to Lilian and Ruby before then. Something involving the American Theodore Franklin. Rose thought of the good-looking American she’d seen on the film and the newspaper cuttings she’d found in the bottom of Lilian’s jewellery box. The book she now held in her hands might be the missing link that would explain what had happened. Rose smiled to herself. Here was something that promised to be far more interesting than the books she was supposed to be reading for school.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Once Ruby knew there was a good-looking, rich American at the Futurist cinema she started dropping by almost daily on her way home from work, feigning an interest in movies which she wouldn’t normally have cared tuppence for. I didn’t mind. I preferred watching films with Ruby rather than sitting there on my own. If the film wasn’t very good then we would have a giggle about it afterwards, especially since it was now her habit to loiter by the box office instead of going outside for a cigarette. Whilst I tidied away the ticket reels and bagged up the money, Ruby would stand expectantly, one elbow poised on the counter, in the hope that the renowned Theodore Franklin would make an appearance, notice her and whisk her off to some romantic liaison. Unlikely, I know, but that was Ruby for you.

  I couldn’t help noticing that on these occasions she took even more care of her appearance than normal, her cheeks rouged to a blushing pink and her lips glossy with red lipstick. It didn’t take long for Mr Franklin to notice her and it surely wasn’t a coincidence that he increasingly just happened to be passing through the foyer whenever she was there. He would put on an air of surprised delight, then stride purposefully across the floor to talk to her. Ruby played her part like a consummate actress, batting her eyelashes at him and laughing at all his jokes, even the lame ones. Stuck inside the box office, I cringed with embarrassment at her flirtatiousness, and pretended to be busier than I really was. It was on one of these occasions, on a bright cold day in mid-December, that Mr Franklin asked Ruby and me if we’d like to go for a ride in his motor car.

  “Ooh, yes please,” said Ruby, clapping her hands together in delight.

  “I don’t know,” I said. I was thinking that I’d quite like to go for a ride in a car, never having been in one before, but I didn’t want to go without Billy. That would have felt quite wrong.

  Mr Franklin seemed to read my mind. “Go and invite your young chap,” he said to me. “He can bring his camera along and take some pictures.”

  “All right then,” I said. “Just give me a moment.” I ran upstairs to the projection room where Billy was tidying away a reel of film.

  Billy was delighted to see me and welcomed me with open arms and a kiss. But when I told him that Mr Franklin had invited us to go for a ride in his car, he pulled away from me and frowned.

  “Why does he want to do that?” asked Billy.

  “I guess he’s just being friendly,” I said.

  “Wants to show off his flash car, more like.”

  “Well, maybe,” I agreed. “But wouldn’t you like to go for a ride nonetheless?”

  He smiled. “Yes,” he admitted. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to travel by car.”

  “Bring your camera,” I said. “Then we can have a souvenir of our trip.”

  Mr Franklin beamed at us when we came back downstairs, camera in hand. “Off we go then,” he said, leading the way out of the cinema. “What a glorious afternoon to go for a spin.”

  It was indeed a glorious afternoon. One of those cold winter days when the sun shines out of a cloudless blue sky and the air is crisp and bright. I buttoned up my coat and pulled my hat down low over my ears. I was feeling rather excited at the prospect of going for a spin.

  Mr Franklin held the rear door open whilst Billy and I climbed into the back seat. The car had a roof, but it was down, owing to the winter sunshine. Ruby sat in the front passenger seat. I had never seen her so excited as she checked her lipstick in the wing mirror and adjusted the fur collar on her coat so that it brushed her jawline in the way that most suited her.

  “Where to?” asked Mr Franklin, springing into the driver’s seat and donning a pair of leather gloves. “You’re the locals round here so you folks tell me where to go.”

  “What about Oliver’s Mount?” suggested Ruby. “I’ve always thought it would be fun to go up there in a car.”

  “Oliver’s Mount it is then,” said Mr Franklin, starting the engine. “Hold on tight.”

  As the car sprung forwards, I reached my hand out across the seat and my fingers found Billy’s. With my other hand I held onto my hat which threatened to blow off my head as soon as we were going faster than walking pace.

  “Top speed of sixty miles an hour,” shouted Mr Franklin, slapping the top of the steering wheel and turning his head to talk to u
s. The car swerved to the side as he spoke, startling an elderly couple out for a stroll on the prom, and I wished he’d keep his eyes on the road.

  Ruby gave Mr Franklin directions and I tried to relax and enjoy the ride. Oliver’s Mount is a big hill that overlooks the town and offers splendid views. The last time I’d been up there was for the unveiling of the war memorial, a solemn and moving service, quite unlike this frivolous excursion. Frank’s name is inscribed on the stone, alongside all the other Scarborough men and boys who lost their lives.

  Mr Franklin accelerated up the hill and took the hairpin bends so sharply that I was thrown from side-to-side. I gave up trying to keep my hat on my head and held it in one hand whilst gripping the seat of the car with the other. The wind made my eyes water.

  It was a relief when we reached the summit and Mr Franklin swung the car to a stop. I climbed out on slightly shaky legs, my cheeks burning from the cold.

  Mr Franklin strode to the edge of the hill where the best views of the town were to be had, Ruby trotting alongside. Billy and I linked arms and followed. “All right?” whispered Billy in my ear. I nodded. I was starting to recover, and the ride had been rather fun after all.

  “Gee, look at that view,” said Mr Franklin at the sight of the town spread out below us. The South Bay was an arc of golden sand, the sea was dotted with white breakers and in the distance on the headland stood the ruined remains of Scarborough Castle. He turned to Billy. “Why don’t you take a film of me and these two young ladies?”

  “Oh, yes, please do, Billy,” said Ruby. “It would be so lovely to have a film of this afternoon.” So Billy opened up the camera and told us where to stand for the best light.

  “How about I have one pretty lady on this side and the other pretty lady on the other side,” said Mr Franklin, moving to stand between Ruby and me.