She’d found herself a seat by one of the windows and was drinking a St Clements. And it was an Armani suit. If he could strike up a conversation with her he might be able to cadge a lift to Manchester. Which ploy should he use? Spilling the drink was probably the best. He edged through the crowd until he was beside her chair, waited until she was raising the glass to her lips and nudged himself forward, knocking against her arm so that some of the drink was spilled.
‘Oh I’m so sorry!’ he said, turning on the charm at full strength. ‘I do hope I haven’t spoiled your suit.’
She was mopping the spill with a tissue. ‘No,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘No harm done. It’s the table that’s suffered.’
On the strength of that smile, Rigg moved into action. He offered to buy her another drink, brushed aside her protest, returned to her table with a laden tray.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ she said.
‘It’s the least I can do.’
They talked generally for a few minutes, establishing that she was a dress designer called Carmen and that he owned a chain of jewellery stores.
‘Rather Ratty Ratner stuff,’ he admitted deprecatingly. ‘Not your style at all.’ And was rewarded with another smile.
‘I was thinking of having dinner here,’ he said, ‘I don’t suppose you’d care to join me.’
It was almost too easy. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It would be a pleasure, Rigby. I hate dining on my own.’
So they progressed to the restaurant, a candlelit table, an indifferent meal, plenty of wine – and a rather more intimate conversation. Soon Carmen was telling him that she’d had several love affairs – some of them rather good – but had decided never to marry – on principle. And he was confessing that he’d married young – we were both so in love, you see – and had been cut to the quick by his wife’s desertion.
‘I make mistakes for the best of reasons,’ he confessed. ‘Actually I’ve done a rather silly thing tonight.’
She was intrigued. ‘Have you?’
‘I’ve lent my car to a friend of mine. Did it without thinking of the consequences. Now I haven’t got any wheels.’
‘Why did you do it?’
‘He was a very old friend,’ he told her earnestly. ‘He’d broken down, you see, and he had to get back to Petersfield in a hurry. Wife expecting a baby.’
‘So how are you going to get home?’ she asked, looking at him over the rim of her wine glass.
‘Taxi, I expect,’ he said. ‘Not all the way, naturally, because I’ve got a long way to go. But to the nearest railway station.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Manchester.’
‘At this time of night?’
‘Trains still run overnight, don’t they?’
She laughed. ‘I can see you haven’t travelled by rail recently.’
‘You don’t think I’ll make it tonight?’
‘Not by rail, you won’t. Not to worry. I’ll give you a lift if you like.’
‘To Chichester?’
‘No. Better than that. To Manchester. You’re in luck. That’s where I’m going. And as you’ve been so kind to me…’
‘I’m the luckiest man alive,’ Rigg told her, giving her the full loving benefit of his fine brown eyes. And for the first time that evening he wasn’t lying.
Back in Hampton, a blue ambulance light flashed round and round the close where Margaret Toan had lived with her love birds for the last twenty years.
Her neighbours were at their gates, discussing the shocking news.
‘Me and Doris found her, you know. We were looking out the front room window and we saw the door open. And I said “That’s odd. I’ve never known Maggie Toan leave her door open before.” Didn’t I, Doris?’
‘And then we saw this pile of old clothes lying in the hall,’ Doris said. ‘And we went across and the poor thing had had a stroke. She’s paralysed all down one side, you know. Can’t speak.’
‘Poor Maggie,’ her neighbour sympathised. ‘What brought that on, do you think?’
‘I couldn’t say,’ Doris said, ‘but there was a pair of men’s shoes on the doorstep. So it might have been a cat burglar.’
‘Someone ought to tell her son,’ her neighbour said.
‘They’ll do that up the hospital,’ Doris said, as the ambulance men lifted their buckled stretcher. ‘Look. They’re taking her off now. I’ll just nip across and tell her I’ll look after the birds. At least that’ll be one less thing for her to worry about.’
‘I feel ashamed of myself,’ Rigg said, as the Peugeot touched ninety. The motorway was virtually empty. Eight distant tail lights shone before them like disciplined red stars, the road signs hung in the sky in well-ordered blocks of bright neon blue. There was nothing to do but hold the wheel, keep a foot on the gas and talk.
‘Do you,’ Carmen said, glancing sideways at him. ‘Why?’
‘Letting you do all the driving,’ Rigg said. ‘It doesn’t seem fair. Me sitting here like a slob and you doing all the work.’
‘I don’t mind,’ Carmen said. ‘I’m used to it.’
‘I could take over for you if you like,’ Rigg offered. ‘Give you a rest. We could stop for a coffee somewhere.’
‘You’re too kind for your own good,’ Carmen said. ‘Most other men would have fallen asleep and let me get on with it.’
‘Then they’d have been fools,’ Rigg said gallantly. ‘And they’d have missed out.’
‘You’re flattering me.’
‘No, I’m not. When you’ve got to know me a bit better, you’ll know I never flatter anybody. I always tell people the simple truth.’
Carmen wasn’t sure about all this. He could be shooting a line. She glanced at him again to check but he was looking at her with an expression of such transparent honesty she couldn’t doubt him.
‘Then you must end up in a lot of trouble,’ she said. ‘Most people can’t stand the truth at any price.’
Rigg allowed himself a sigh. ‘Too right,’ he admitted, with a doleful expression. ‘You’re talking about my wife there. I gave her every mortal thing a woman would want but she couldn’t take the truth.’
‘Some women are like that.’
‘She interfered with my business. Wanted to be my partner, you see. It didn’t work. She sold off three of my shops while I was out of the country. And my BMW.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘Debts I think,’ Rigg said, giving her the doleful expression again. ‘I didn’t like to ask. After all, she was my wife. You’re supposed to trust your wife.’
‘Not to that extent, you’re not,’ Carmen said briskly.
‘Well I don’t now. I’ve learned my lesson.’
‘Is that why you’re coming to Manchester? To start again.’
‘Got it in one,’ Rigg said. ‘You’re a very smart lady. In every sense of the word, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
‘I don’t mind you saying so,’ Carmen said. ‘We could turn off here if you’d like.’
‘I wish I’d met you ten years ago,’ Rigg said as they turned off the motorway. ‘When we were both in our early twenties and I hadn’t made such a hash of my life.’
The thought that, in his eyes, she looked a mere thirty two or so – even though she was actually forty six – was the most delightful thing he’d pushed her way that evening. An intriguing young man, she thought, as she drove into the next service station. ‘There’s a café here,’ she said. ‘We’ll have some coffee and then you can drive the rest of the way.’
He drove her to her door, put the car in the garage for her and escorted her to the doorstep.
‘It’s been a wonderful evening,’ he said. ‘And I really mean that.’
‘Where are you going to stay?’ she asked.
‘Somewhere in Manchester,’ he said, waving a vague hand, as if it didn’t matter.
‘We’re miles from the centre of Manchester, you know. It’s all residential round here. How will you ge
t there?’
‘I’ll find a cab. Don’t worry. I’ll manage.’
She made her mind up, rapidly, the way she always did. It was a risk to let a virtual stranger into her house, but it was daring too and undeniably exciting. ‘You can stay the night here,’ she said. ‘I can’t let you loose on the streets – not when you’ve been so kind to me.’
‘You’re a woman in a million,’ he said. The courtesy light was shining into his face, so he smiled at her most lovingly. ‘You’ve turned my life round this evening, do you know that. I was at my lowest ebb when I met you and now…’
‘Now?’ she asked.
‘You’ve restored my faith in women, my beautiful Kitty Cat. Well I tell you – if it wasn’t for the fact that we’ve only just met, I could kiss you.’
‘I don’t think it’s quite the time for that, do you?’ she said, looking in her handbag for her front door key. That was moving just a bit too quickly.
‘No,’ he said, back-tracking at once so as not to alarm her. ‘It isn’t. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It was presumptuous.’
He kissed her four days later, after he’d made himself indispensable around the house and told her the full tragic tale of how much he’d suffered in his short life – of his father’s death, his mother’s cruelty, his wife’s extravagance, his partner’s treachery. During the next two evenings, having roused her sympathy, he elaborated on the way his creditors had sent a private eye to Spain to harass him and described the agony he’d suffered at not being able to meet his commitments. By the time he got around to the terrible story of how his wife’s three brutal brothers had set upon him and beaten him up in full daylight on Hampton beach – because they blamed him for his wife’s extravagance – he was in Carmen’s comfortable double bed and had taken up permanent residence in her house.
Chapter Thirty-One
November came in gently, as if it was early autumn, with most of the leaves still colouring the trees and a September mildness in the midday air. To Brad’s disappointment the date on which an autumn General Election could be declared came and went and it was plain that nothing would happen until the spring. Meantime there was plenty of work to do at the hospital.
St Mary’s had originally been a small cottage hospital built beside the main road to Chichester to cater for the minor accidents and injuries common to all small rural communities and to patch up the cuts and bruises of the holiday makers. But the growth of rest homes and nursing homes in the town led to such an enormous increase in the elderly population that it had to be extended and converted to cope. Now the original white cottage is buried in a huge, new, redbrick building full of geriatric units and all the attendant services they require – rheumatology, neurology, physiotherapy, speech therapy, water therapy, a day care centre, a restaurant, even a chapel. It is well staffed – because care of the elderly is one of the few growth industries in the area – and it is always well supplied with flowers – because there are plenty of local funerals. To walk up its wheel-chair ramp and into its well-lit, flower-scented corridors is like stepping into another world.
Brad enjoyed working there, even when her old dears were fractious. It was rewarding to watch them as they gradually improved and there were always new people to meet and care for. In fact, several new patients had arrived that very morning.
‘Who’ve we got on our ward?’ she said, adjusting her cap as she looked round the day room. Now that she and Martin were back together, she was growing her hair. At the moment it was just a soft pale-yellow down, like a day-old chick, and because it was so short, her cap was constantly slipping off. But her bright blue uniform was as smart as ever and her smile was as red as her nails. She looked totally out of place in such a placidly elderly setting, like a neon sign on a church.
‘Ethel’s back,’ Staff said. ‘Arthritis. You remember her.’
Brad saw the old lady and waved at her.
‘The other one’s new to us. She’s come here to be rehabilitated after a stroke.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Still on the ward. Room C. She’s finding it a bit hard to settle.’
‘I’ll take her a cuppa, shall I? What’s her name?’
‘Margaret,’ Staff said, glancing at the white board. She had all the patients’ names written up afresh every day.
Brad looked at the white board too. Room C – Mrs Margaret Toan. ‘There’s a turn-up for the books!’ she said. ‘I know her.’
‘Well perhaps you can cheer her up then,’ Staff said, swishing off to attend to another patient. ‘She’s rather down.’
Maggie Toan, Brad thought. Fancy it being Maggie Toan! She remembered all that fuss over her stupid birthday – bloody red roses! – and had a sudden and vivid memory of the lady, swanning into Ali’s wedding in a mink stole and a picture hat, flashing diamonds.
But when she took a cup of tea into Room C, the woman lying in the bed wasn’t the rich bitch of her memory, but a shrivelled old lady, with a lopsided face and short, unkempt hair, dyed tatty blonde and growing out white at the roots. She looked up at her visitor anxiously and tried to smile with the side of her face that was working.
‘There y’are, darlin’,’ Brad said. ‘Nice cup a’ tea for you.’
Margaret took the tea in her good hand and tried to hold it steady while she sipped. It was difficult because the cup felt so heavy.
‘I’ll hold it for you, shall I?’ Brad offered.
‘Tha’ ’ould be k-k-kind,’ Margaret struggled, ashamed of her slurred speech. ‘I had a s-s-stroke, you see.’
‘There y’are,’ Brad said, supporting the cup and talking to her in exactly the same way as she talked to all her other old dears. ‘Don’t you worry. You’re doin’ lovely.’
That afternoon, when she got home after her morning shift, she phoned Ali to tell her the news.
‘I didn’t know she’d had a stroke,’ she said. ‘You could ha’ knocked me down with a feather.’
‘Neither did I,’ Alison said. ‘Is she bad?’
‘I’ve seen worse. They got her on speech therapy an’ things. She’ll have to go in a home though. She’ll never manage on her own. They got a social worker comin’ to see her at the end a’ the week.’
‘I can’t imagine Maggie Toan in a home,’ Alison said. ‘She’ll hate it.’
‘I feel a bit sorry for her,’ Brad said. ‘I know she’s been foul to you an’ the kids – an’ she must’ve been pretty foul to the Great-I-Am or he wouldn’t have turned out such a skunk – but you should see her, Ali. She’s pathetic.’
‘I suppose I ought to visit her,’ Alison said. She didn’t want to. The trouble was that ever since Rigg’s attack she’d felt weary and dispirited. She had to get behind herself and push, even to do the simplest things. The thought of driving to the edge of town and sitting in a hospital ward trying to make conversation with a woman who didn’t like her and probably wouldn’t want to see her, was more than she could cope with.
‘Can I have the last bis-tik?’ Emma asked, pulling at her mother’s skirt.
‘Share it,’ Alison said, ‘Half each. I’ll think about it, Brad. Shall I see you in Tesco’s on Friday?’
There was a surprise at the new firm of Kirkby and Griffiths that afternoon too. The third client to ring after lunch was Mr Harvey Shearing.
‘Mr Fehrenbach recommended you,’ he said. ‘He thought you might be able to trace the whereabouts of a client of mine, a man called Rigby Toan.’
Morgan grimaced at Barbara. ‘I could give you an address,’ he offered.
‘That would be most helpful. He hasn’t been in touch for rather a long time, you see, and there’s a little matter of a flat in Spain that has to be sold.’
The address was given.
‘If I needed service of documents,’ Mr Shearing said, ‘I assume you could arrange it?’
‘We could.’
‘Excellent. If I get no answer from my letter, I’ll be in touch.’
‘
Accordin’ to Mr Fehrenbach,’ Morgan said, probing for information, ‘the first dividend on Mr Toan’s voluntary arrangement was due for payment last month. Is that right?’
‘Precisely,’ Mr Shearing said. ‘And nothing’s come of it. As far as I know the flat hasn’t been sold and Mr Toan still has the deeds. That’s what I’m after. The Inland Revenue are getting restive.’
‘Right.’
‘I’ll give him three weeks,’ Mr Shearing said, ‘in case he’s travelling. If I don’t hear from him after that, I’ll get back to you. I’m beginning to think he’s rather a slippery character.’
‘Well, well,’ Morgan said as he put the phone down. ‘That was Rigby Toan’s insolvency consultant.’
‘And?’ Barbara asked.
‘I think we’re goin’ to have an official request to serve papers on him.’
‘He’s yours,’ Barbara said.
‘I hope so,’ Morgan said grimly. ‘It’s high time he paid his debts.’
It took Alison nearly a fortnight to summon up enough energy to visit her mother-in-law. And then it was only out of a dragging sense of duty and after she’d made arrangements to leave the children with her mother.
Brad was on duty in the day room and keeping all her old dears happy.
‘Slow down, Stan!’ she teased, as an old man inched his wheelchair towards her. ‘I can’t have you rushin’ about like that. You’ll do yerself a mischief. Can’t you keep him under control Nell?’
One of the old ladies giggled. ‘He’s too fast fer me gel,’ she said.
‘You wanna watch ’im then,’ Brad warned.
They all laughed and nodded, old eyes gleaming.
‘She’s a one!’ another old lady said to Alison. ‘Our ray a’ sunshine she is. Keeps us all on the go.’
‘I can believe that,’ Alison said. ‘Hello Brad.’
Maggie's Boy Page 34
