At last, the cameras packed up and everyone could relax. The rest of the wedding breakfast went as smoothly as if it had been rehearsed. Mark proposed the toast quite wittily and Rigg was absolutely charming, smiling and handsome. He had a good voice for this sort of thing, rich, deep and expressive.
Waving his hand at the side table where the wedding gifts were displayed, he thanked his guests for ‘your presence here and your presents there.’ He informed them he was the luckiest man alive to be marrying ‘such a beautiful, wonderful girl’ and into ‘such a lovely, wonderful family.’
‘As an only child,’ he confided, ‘I can tell you it will be wonderful to belong to such a large family, all ready-made so to speak and ready to walk into. Three new brothers, three new sisters-in-law, three beautiful nieces and a very handsome nephew.’ He looked across to where the said pageboy nephew was smearing his face with ice-cream, and paused, raising his eyebrows so that the guests laughed. ‘Absolutely wonderful. Which is not to say my own darling mother didn’t give me the most marvellous childhood.’ He flashed an adoring smile at Margaret Toan, ‘Nobody could have been a better mother – nobody in all the world – and I don’t care who knows it.’
Then he paused, scanned the tables, smiled at his audience and made them wait for what was coming next. ‘It’s been a wonderful year for me,’ he said, ‘what with one thing and another. First a landslide victory for the Tories – and what a difference that’s making – and now this wedding. And to put the cherry on the cake – you might be interested to know – yesterday I signed contracts on my second jewellery shop. I don’t mind admitting to you that I’m very ambitious. Not over ambitious. I don’t think that could be said. But ambitious. We’re going to make our mark on the world, aren’t we, Alison?’ Beaming down at her. ‘Now we’ve got another Tory government, the age of the entrepreneur has arrived with a bang. There won’t be anything to stop me. All Maggie Thatcher’s got to do for me is to keep her promises – and I don’t think anybody can doubt she’ll do that – and I’m a made man. By the time I’m forty, I plan to own a string of oudets and to have made my first million.’ He spoke lightly and with humour but his audience did not doubt him. ‘Only my first mind. Others will follow because nothing is too good for Alison.’ He turned to his bride and raised her hand to his lips with a flourish. ‘My wife, Mrs Alison Toan, is going to be a very rich woman. I give you my word.’
He also gave a signal to one of the waiters and, after a short pause the young man stepped forward with a large bunch of red roses. Rigg took them, like a king accepting tribute, and held them out towards his audience so that everyone could see that the flowers were bound together with red ribbon and that entwined through the bow at the centre was a string of freshwater pearls.
‘For you, my darling,’ he said to Alison. ‘My first pearls for my first lady. For you to wear in our little love nest. Long may you be happy there.’ And to appreciative applause, he fastened them round her neck.
But he hadn’t finished yet. When the applause died down, he took a long envelope from his pocket, laid it in front of his bride, and waited while she opened it.
It contained two air tickets to Venice and reservations for a fortnight at the Cipriani Hotel.
‘Oh Rigg!’ Alison said, overwhelmed by his generosity. ‘What a wonderful honeymoon!’ And she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him with sheer delight while the wedding guests cheered and stamped their feet on the floor.
Down at the far end of the long table Alison’s old school friends were misty-eyed at the romance of it.
‘Wasn’t that lovely,’ they sighed to one another. The youngest of them, a girl called Sue, was so moved she was actually in tears.
‘Not particularly,’ Brad said in her brusque way. She held up her empty glass to a passing waiter. ‘Fill that up for me sunshine.’
‘Oh go on Brad!’ Sue protested. ‘It was a lovely speech. Like something on the telly. I wish they’d stayed to film it.’
‘Hm,’ Brad said, watching as the glass was filled.
‘You’re an old sour-puss,’ Sue said, gazing at the bridegroom with open admiration. ‘I think he’s a dream. He’s good-looking, he’s rich, he’s going to inherit a fortune when he’s thirty-five, he’s madly in love with Ali. I can’t see anything wrong with him.’
‘Well I can,’ Brad said, helping herself to her neighbour’s unwanted mints.
‘What?’
‘He’s got a cruel nose.’
Chapter One
March 1990
When Alison Toan pushed her double buggy round the corner into Shore Street that March afternoon, there was a strange man standing on the edge of the kerb, gazing up at her house.
Strangers were a rarity in Shore Street which, despite its name, was actually a quarter of a mile from the beach and not much of a street either, just a short, litter-strewn alley, hidden behind the prestigious Edwardian shops in the Selsey Road. Most people in Hampton weren’t aware of its existence. Why should they be? It was too inaccessible and too insignificant, nothing but one short terrace of fisherman’s cottages. But it was where Alison had lived for the six years since her marriage.
Built at the turn of the century, the cottages were small and plain with slate roofs and no decoration. Each had a front door and two sash windows giving out on to the street, and, occupying half of a very small backyard, a narrow kitchen with a bathroom above it which had been added at a later date as an hygienic afterthought. The south side of the street was a muddle of garages and dustbins belonging to the Selsey Road shops and usually lined with parked cars. The far end was blocked off by the walled garden of an old people’s home. Consequently, the nine families who lived on the north side of the street were thrown in upon themselves as though they inhabited an isolated village. They knew one another’s business, recognised one another’s visitors, and treated strangers with suspicion. It didn’t surprise Alison at all to see curious faces peering from several of the windows at the one now outside her front door.
He was a non-descript man, small, neat and buttoned-down, wearing a dark suit and carrying a brief case, and he’d obviously arrived in the blue Sierra which was parked further up the alley in front of the butcher’s garage.
Not one of Rigg’s friends, Alison thought, as she walked towards him. Not that she knew many of her husband’s friends, but those who did appear in Shore Street were expensively dressed and drove flashy cars like Volvos and Mercedes and BMWs. And he’s not trying to sell double glazing either. He’s too well dressed – and too sure of his authority. An office worker, she decided. Probably from the council, checking up on whether she’d paid the poll tax or something equally horrid. Well tough, she thought. You won’t catch me out. She always paid her bills and taxes on the nose, and her share of the mortgage too, no matter how hard it was to earn the money. It had been very hard sometimes, particularly in the four years since Jonathan had been born. But she’d done it. Always. It was a point of honour with her. So you’re wasting your time, Mr Council Official, if that’s who you are. She was none too pleased to see him, whoever he was. After a long day’s work at the holiday camp, all she wanted was a cup of tea and a chance to cheer the kids up.
It had been a bad day. Baby Emma had been so upset in the crèche that afternoon that they’d phoned through to reception with a request for Alison to remove her. Consequently Alison had spent the rest of the afternoon trying to attend to the campers with the baby climbing all over her lap and grizzling. Then Jon had been miserable when she picked him up from play school. Now all three of them were tired and grubby and needed their tea.
The stranger turned and smiled at Alison, as she trundled the pushchair towards him. He was assessing his subject, the way he always did on a visit like this one.
‘Mrs Toan?’ he said. He had a quiet, polite voice, a necessity in his line of work.
‘Yes,’ Alison replied and undid Emma’s harness to ease her out of the buggy.
‘Is your
husband at home?’
What a silly question, Alison thought, settling the baby on her hip. As if he’d be at home at this hour of the day. She waited for Jon to climb out of his seat and then collapsed the buggy with a neat nudge of her knee. But she answered the man politely. ‘He’s at work in Chichester. He runs two jeweller’s shops, Rings and Things in East Street or…’
‘Yes. Thank you,’ the man said. ‘We know where he works.’
‘Well that’s where you’ll find him.’
‘We haven’t been able to contact him at either of his shops, Mrs Toan. That’s why I’m here. What time do you expect him home?’
‘It all depends,’ Alison said, opening the door and shepherding Jon into the house. ‘He could be back for dinner or he could be late. He works long hours.’
‘Ah,’ the man said, hesitating on the doorstep. ‘I see. Well then … I wonder if I could beg a few moments of your time.’
What a nuisance, Alison thought. But it might be business and she couldn’t turn business away, no matter how tired she was. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said.
He followed her through the front door into the living room, wincing noticeably at the wreckage of breakfast things and discarded nightclothes they’d left behind when they rushed off that morning. Not for the first time since her marriage, Alison yearned for Rigg to be successful enough for them to buy a nice modern house with a hall, where casual visitors could be asked to wait. This house had no hall and no front garden and no privacy of any kind. You just stepped off the pavement straight into the one and only living room with all your debris exposed for any visitor to see.
‘Sorry about the mess,’ she said, picking up dressing gowns and pyjamas and hanging them over the banisters. ‘We were late this morning and I’ve been at work all day. You won’t mind if I get their tea while we talk, will you. It’s been a long day for them.’
‘No, no,’ her visitor said. ‘You go ahead.’
‘I gather you want to see my husband about something particular,’ Alison said as she hung up their coats. ‘Is it jewellery?’
‘No,’ the man said, bluntly. ‘It’s about his VAT. I’m from Customs and Excise. I’ve got a letter which I am instructed to hand over to him.’ He opened his brief case and took out a long buff envelope.
It was such a shock that for a few seconds Alison was speechless. To be visited by a VAT man was bad enough, but to be told he’d brought a letter that had to be delivered in person was worse. She lifted Emma into the high-chair and washed the child’s dirty hands with a damp flannel, letting chores occupy her until she could think of an answer. Finally she decided to make light of it. ‘Wouldn’t it go in the post?’ she asked.
‘Not this time,’ the man said sombrely. ‘He’s six months behind in his payments, Mrs Toan. We’ve sent him several reminders. We have to be sure this letter reaches him.’ He held it out to her.
Alison’s heart contracted with alarm. She took the letter and put it on the mantelpiece. Six months behind, she thought. It couldn’t be true. Rigg wouldn’t do such a thing. He was too good a business man. ‘There must be some mistake,’ she said.
‘Not on our side, Mrs Toan,’ the VAT man replied. ‘We don’t make mistakes.’
Despite his bland face and his quiet tone there was an air of confident menace about this man. It made Alison feel as if she’d committed a crime. She turned away from him and walked into the kitchen, to busy herself getting orange juice and biscuits for the children. To her dismay, he followed her.
‘You will be sure he gets the letter, won’t you, Mrs Toan,’ he insisted. ‘It’s a final demand. You understand that, don’t you?’
‘A final demand?’
‘I’m afraid so. The next stage in the procedure would be a summons, you see. I’m sure none of us would want things to go that far. Much better to get it all settled now, don’t you agree?’
This was getting more serious by the second. ‘Yes,’ Alison said, and, because she wanted to end the interview and get rid of him so that she could think what she ought to do next, added firmly, ‘I’ll see he gets it. Was that all you wanted?’
‘Nothing further,’ he said. ‘I mustn’t keep you. I can see you’re busy.’ And he allowed her to escort him to the door.
‘Who was that man?’ Jon asked, peering at his mother solemnly over the rim of his mug.
‘No one important,’ Alison told him in as light a tone as she could manage.
‘I don’t like him,’ the little boy said, frowning. ‘He’s nasty.’ Under his mop of thick fair hair his brown eyes were earnest with feeling.
‘Well he’s gone now,’ Alison said. ‘D’you want a wafer? There’s two each. Emma d’you want a wafer?’
Emma nodded her fair head and held out a chubby hand.
Alison’s heart was thumping despite her outward calm. She folded back the wrapping and put the biscuit into the baby’s fist. ‘Be a good girl while I get the tea,’ she said. She was aching for a cup.
But tea was only a limited comfort that afternoon. She sat at the pine table at the dining end of their one long living room, between Jon’s chocolate-smeared pine chair and Emma’s rickety high-chair, and drank two cups. Neither clarified her thoughts.
Despite his ease in company, his generosity, charm and good looks, Alison knew that Rigg often felt insecure. He never admitted it, but she could tell. He hated being wrong, especially if his mistakes were commented on. It made him touchy and bad-tempered. Part of her job as his wife was to smooth things for him, to protect him and put him at his ease. She was quite proud of her ability to handle him, even though she had to admit it wasn’t always successful. But successful or not, it made her feel good, aware of being a supportive, loving wife. Like her Mum had always been. Although, naturally, she never told anyone what she was doing, not even Brad. The whole point of the exercise was that it had to be private.
During the six years that she and Rigg had been married, she had gradually worked out a set of ground rules that made their life together if not exactly easy – it was too stormy for that – then at least as comfortable as their passionate natures would allow. One of the most important was never to worry him when he was at work. He was furiously private about his work, almost – if it wasn’t an unkind thing to think – secretive. Now and then, he came home in high good humour to tell her that he’d had a ‘fabulous day’ and that the takings had been ‘phenomenal’ but, apart from that, they never talked about business and he never explained where he’d been when he came in late. It was her fault really. Since the children had been born she hadn’t had the time to show enough interest in what he was doing.
Now she would have to break her own rule and contact him at work. He ought to be warned about this letter, just in case it was important. She picked up the phone, rather nervously, and dialled the number of his shop in East Street.
It was quite a relief when his assistant took the call, that funny blonde girl, Norrie, speaking in her false sing-song.
‘Rings and Thi-ings. How may I help you?’
‘Hello Norrie. Can I have a word with Rigg?.’
‘Oh it’s you Mrs Toan,’ Norrie resuming her usual voice. ‘He’s not here, I’m afraid. He’s not been in all afternoon. He came in this morning, about tennish, but he didn’t stay long. Just a few minutes, that’s all. I haven’t seen him since. Sorry. Have you tried Baubles?’
Baubles was the kiosk in one of Chichester’s miniature shopping arcades where Rigg had started his entrepreneurial career. His assistant there was a skinny young man called Kevin, who sounded fed up when he answered the phone.
‘Haven’t seen him for four days,’ he said. ‘Came in Friday and emptied the till. I’ve no idea where he is. I never know where he is. I told that feller from the tax office. No good asking me.’
‘Is he on a demo somewhere?’
‘No idea. Didn’t take any stock. Try Rings and Things.’
‘I have. He’s not there.’
‘Sur
prise, surprise.’
Alison thanked him and put the phone down quickly before she could be led into saying something that might be construed as disloyal. The bitterness in the young man’s voice had been too marked to be misinterpreted. The VAT man had been right. Rigg wasn’t at either of his shops, and, what was worse, neither of his assistants seemed to expect him to be there.
Oh well, she thought, there’s nothing I can do about it now. I shall have to wait until he gets home. Meantime there were the kids to feed, bath and put to bed, a meal to cook and the room to tidy, just in case he was early. Nothing infuriated him more quickly than an untidy room.
The letter stood on the mantelpiece like an unexploded bomb, while Alison did the chores. At midnight, when she finally went wearily up to bed on her own, its pale oblong was the last thing she saw as she climbed the stairs. It looked even more threatening by moonlight.
It must have been around three o’clock when she heard Rigg’s key in the lock but, by then, she was too tired and he was too drunk for conversation. He scattered his clothes on the carpet, fell into bed, grunted that he was ‘knackered’, gave her a moist kiss and fell asleep in the middle of it. Three hours later, when the kids came chattering into the bedroom to start their day, she knew better than to wake him.
It wasn’t until ten o’clock that he finally came scowling down the stairs, dishevelled and unshaven, scratching his head and grumbling for tea. Glancing at him, Alison felt a moment’s pure admiration for him, despite her anxiety. Even in his early morning state he was handsome, with those broad shoulders and that narrow waist and those long, long legs. His face was striking – broad and bold, with a bushy moustache, thick sideburns, streaky fair hair, and eyes that were disarmingly mottled brown under dark brows. How could she do anything but admire him?
Maggie's Boy Page 2
