Meet Me at the Pier Head

by Ruth Hamilton

  When he returned ten minutes later, Miss Bellamy, no longer elegant, was on hands and knees beneath his dining table. Strands of her abundant hair had slipped their moorings, and she was trying to coax Tyger out of retirement. ‘He’s difficult,’ he advised her. ‘A one-person cat.’

  She raised her head and banged it on the underside of Theo’s solid furniture. ‘Bugger,’ she exclaimed softly.

  ‘Did you learn that at Roedean?’

  Tia emerged, a grimace attempting to conceal her beauty. ‘You’d be surprised, Mr Quinn. We had our own curriculum to follow.’ She clambered to her feet, one hand rubbing her head, the other releasing the rest of her hair, which tumbled over her shoulders. ‘Bugger,’ she repeated. ‘A Roedean girl’s education takes place outside the classroom.’

  ‘Midnight feasts?’

  ‘And the rest. The trouble is, it’s difficult to get past the guards. They have machine guns, tanks and landmines. Limbs and lives have been lost; the four tunnels we were digging collapsed and buried ten of us. It’s like a concentration camp but with stiffer rules. Well, at least I’ve made you laugh.’

  She flopped onto the sofa. ‘Water,’ she begged. ‘Oh, wait a minute. Why is one door locked?’ She pointed towards the hall.

  ‘Body parts,’ was his cool response.

  ‘Human?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course.’ He strode off to the kitchen. It was almost as if she was in charge of every situation; yes, she was a true product of a top public school, composed, alert, well groomed and horribly competent. She was going to get on his nerves, wasn’t she?

  Tia accepted the glass of water and ice. ‘Thank you.’

  He tried not to look at her. With her loosened hair, she looked wild, wanton and truly beautiful. ‘I’m going to have a sandwich,’ he told her. ‘Will you join me?’

  She glanced at her watch. ‘No, thanks. I have another place to see in case you turn me down. Perhaps I’ll be safer if you do refuse to house me.’

  ‘Oh?’

  She shrugged. ‘Body parts. I might go to pieces if I move in here. I’d hate you to see me in pieces.’

  Theo found himself grinning; she was almost as much trouble as Colin Duckworth. ‘I’ll see you Wednesday afternoon, then, Miss Bellamy.’ He stood up and held out his hand, but she was busy tying back her hair.

  ‘I look a mess,’ she declared as she studied her reflection in the over-mantel mirror.

  ‘You look fine. Go and mither someone else, please.’

  ‘Mither? Your English is good for a foreigner.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She completed her struggle with the abundant and disobedient mane of hair. ‘If I live upstairs, might my sisters be allowed to visit me?’

  He shrugged. ‘It will be your home, so treat it as such. It’s big enough for a family.’

  She shook his hand firmly. ‘I have as much to learn from your children as they have from me. After all, once I’ve done napkin folding and a ten-course place setting, I shall be out of ammunition.’

  ‘You don’t fool me, Miss Bellamy.’

  ‘Hmm. We shall see about that.’

  He walked her to the door and watched as she folded herself into the sports car. She pointed to his green version. ‘Snap,’ she called before roaring off towards some other innocent landlord. The legs were as good as the rest of her. Oh well, sandwich and a drink, then off to speak to the Chair of Governors, a local councillor with sense and backbone. ‘Do I need a no or a yes?’ he asked Tyger. ‘Do we want her here, wise one?’

  The cat, aged and almost toothless, chewed languidly on a tasty morsel of ham. Inherited with the house, Tyger had decided of late that his hunting and running days were over. He swallowed the ham, yawned and fell asleep on his owner’s knee. ‘I’m gonna miss you,’ Theo said. The cat didn’t mind if his master spoke Americanese. It would soon be time to say goodbye to this picky-choosy-with-food feline who had adopted the new resident of Crompton Villa six years ago. ‘I remember you when you killed birds and frightened small dogs. You were my boss, Tyger.’

  The cat’s engine began to run, a loud purring that reminded Theo that there was no pain just yet. ‘Hang in, boy. I have an errand to run.’

  Two

  Delia Bellamy ducked into the tiny entrance to the priest hole and slid home the panel. The place stank like old books, though nothing was stored in any of Bartle Hall’s secret hides. She banged her head, an elbow and a hip. ‘The bloody priests must have been dwarves,’ she muttered. ‘Jules? Are you in here?’

  ‘Shush. Come and listen. Pa’s gone super-Shakespearean, the tragic, wounded hero with a knife in his back, all et tu Brute. Is Tia here yet?’

  ‘No, she’s still on her way back from the frozen, pagan north. He’s smashed my drums. If he’s gone tragic, he’s definitely Lear, the mad old monarch. I should sue him, and I might just do that. I’m twenty-three, not twelve, and I might change my name to Goneril or Regan.’

  Juliet waved her small torch. ‘Come here and listen to him,’ she whispered. ‘He is completely delusional. I’m very worried about him, and about Ma, too.’

  Delia edged her way into the cramped space next to her younger sister. Their father was just feet away in his study, and he was beyond angry.

  ‘Notice?’ he roared. ‘Notice? Why wasn’t I told she’d handed in her notice? What? Yes, I know she’s twenty-six – she’s my daughter, damn it. Why wasn’t I informed? I’m aware that she’s an adult, for God’s sake. Where is she? Where is Portia? I demand an answer.’

  Delia blew a very damp raspberry.

  ‘Stop it,’ Juliet breathed. ‘He’ll hear you.’

  ‘I don’t care; he broke my drums.’

  ‘I’ll break your neck if you don’t shut up.’

  ‘You’d need a ladder to reach my neck, short person. Now, hush.’

  Richard Bellamy continued to berate the headmistress of the Abbey College. ‘Do you know who I am?’ he bellowed. ‘My girls are special. They’re precious; Portia in particular is singularly gifted. I asked you to employ her in your school, close to home, so that I might keep an eye on her. She could well have appeared in the West End, or even Stratford, and you’ve let her slip through your fingers.’

  Delia shook her head to rid herself of dark thoughts on the benefits of euthanasia. If Pa were a horse . . .

  ‘Where’s she gone?’ he roared. ‘You have no idea? Has anyone applied to you for a reference? Confidential? You are not obliged to disclose? Not obliged . . .? You are an idiot, madam. If anyone in my sphere asks about a good school for girls, I shall tell him or her to steer no daughters in your direction. You clearly have no sense of duty.’

  Delia and Juliet jumped when he slammed down the receiver and strode out of the study, its weighty door crashing in his wake. The trouble with Pa was that he never knew when to give up. Ma, on the other hand, appeared not to be sure when to start, but that was just one of the side-effects of her increasingly close relationship with gin. Living with Pa had driven a beautiful and talented woman to drink.

  Richard Bellamy’s career continued to stagger on. He blustered about on stage and screen under the direction of the few who remained impressed by his family name. The Dynasty was all that mattered; his daughters should follow in the footsteps of their predecessors, should fly the Bellamy/Duncan flag with pride.

  ‘I think he’s finally flipped,’ Delia mumbled. ‘I’m worried about Tia.’

  ‘Why?’ Juliet asked.

  ‘Well, he wrecked my drums, so what will he do to her, his star, his favourite? I’m afraid he might lock her up or have her followed. She shouldn’t come home. When is she supposed to be back? Didn’t she say something about getting here in time for dinner? We have to help her, Jules. She really wants to go back to Liverpool, because she got the job she wanted.’

  ‘How can we be of use?’

  ‘Er . . . we can dash through the gardens to the gate and stop her before she reaches the home stretch. After that, we’ll jus
t have to make it up as we go.’

  ‘We can’t book her in to stay at the Punch Bowl. Word would get out in minutes.’

  ‘She’ll have to sleep in the stables. If it was good enough for Jesus, it’ll have to be good enough for her. Oh, Jules, why couldn’t we have a normal family with an ordinary life?’

  Juliet giggled. ‘Tia and I are trying to break free by getting a career, but you’re playing right into his hands with your skiffling. Mind, Tia inherited his quick temper, so heaven knows how she’ll react when we tell her Pa’s on the warpath.’

  Delia wasn’t listening properly. ‘I can’t skiffle; he’s wrecked my drums.’

  ‘Buy more.’

  ‘I shall.’

  They crawled out of the hole into one of the many corridors that wound their way round Bartle Hall. It was a warren of a house, its older parts erected in the fifteenth century, the rest added on randomly for a further three or four hundred years. Pa had inherited the place, and his three daughters had enjoyed a wonderful childhood within its walls. Hide and seek had been brilliant, as had dressing up in Ma’s clothes, shoes and makeup.

  But the girls were grown now. Fiercely close to and protective of each other, they were almost a secret society. Portia, the eldest, had nominated them the Blyton Three in deference to the author whose works they had devoured hungrily in their formative years. Portia was on her way home, and her younger siblings fled the house and raced through the shrubbery until they reached the gates. They sat on the stump of an oak felled by lightning, each fighting for breath, each determined to save the firstborn sister. Almost automatically, they held hands.

  Inside the house, an angry Richard stood over his wife. She was spread out on a chaise longue, an empty glass lying on her chest. Isadora Duncan, she had been, sharing her name with a dancer who had died tragically in a freak accident. ‘God took the wrong one,’ he murmured. ‘I should buy you a long silk scarf and send you out in Portia’s sports car, see if we can recreate the other Isadora’s final performance.’

  He sat on a wicker chair, staring at the woman he had married, the wife who had failed to produce a son. She was snoring again, mouth slackened, hair like a rats’ nest, clothing stained and creased. No wonder his girls were wild; they’d had no female parent to guide and advise them. In the early days, she’d often been away at work, but now she was planning to drink herself to death. She was doing this with malice aforethought, knowing that her husband would be blamed for her long act of suicide.

  Filled with righteous indignation, he walked into his own dressing room. He usually slept here, as her snoring kept him awake. It occurred to him that he might move further away, perhaps to the other side of the house where Isadora could no longer disturb him. But with many rooms closed off due to the lack of servants, Bartle Hall was fast becoming a shell.

  ‘My father would have hated to see the decline of this place,’ he grumbled.

  Cursing quietly under his breath, he dressed for dinner.

  Meanwhile, Delia and Juliet waited for their sister. Juliet, smallest and youngest of the three, was blonde, pretty and, although quieter, almost as confident as Tia. Delia was different. Thin and quite ordinary, she shone when excited and had quite a few fans in the music business. Music was the love of her life, because it allowed her to be her own individual self. She considered herself unattractive, and had decided to do something unusual with her existence, so she had taken lessons and learned to drum. ‘I think we all have to get out permanently, Jules. Nanny will look after Ma, and Pa will carry on acting till he drops dead or stops getting work.’

  Juliet agreed. ‘I’ll nurse in Canterbury. Will you return to London?’

  ‘Yes. But first we have to save Tia. I’ve still got the group’s van, so I’ll follow her up to Liverpool with her stuff – that car of hers barely takes two suitcases. First of all, we must hide her. What about Rose Cottage? I know it’s been empty for a while and the roof leaks a bit, but she can manage in there for a couple of days. We’ll smuggle out the camp bed and some linen, take food for her, and pack all her clothes and so forth in the van. Oh, and we’ll need to hide the MG.’

  They chattered on about the planned adventure, each making a mental list of Tia’s belongings. Juliet, the quiet one, allowed Delia to gabble on. When push came to shove, Delia made all the noise while Juliet became the organizer. But Tia was their rock, and both would miss her. She was beautiful, kind, clever, witty and here. The open-topped bright red MG slewed to a halt, and both Tia’s sisters and best friends jumped up to greet her.

  Juliet reached the car first. ‘Tia! Tia, go along the back lane to Rose Cottage. I’ll sit on the rear shelf of your mad car and Delia can go in the passenger seat.’ She climbed in. ‘Come on, Delia. If we’re late for dinner, he’ll throw another fit .’

  Tia closed her gaping mouth. ‘What’s going on? What have I missed?’

  ‘Father’s flipped,’ Juliet replied. ‘He phoned the college and told Miss Monk that he should have been kept informed of your escape plan.’

  ‘God, it’s like bloody Roedean all over again. Does he know about Liverpool?’

  ‘No,’ the younger sisters answered in unison. Delia carried on. ‘I got back from London yesterday. I forgot to lock the back door of the van, and he pulled out my drums and smashed them with an axe. Then Jules got quizzed about midwifery and why did she want to do it. The point is, you’re his only hope. He’s always doted on you. Tia, he’s lost his grip on reality. Ma’s in a bad way, too, and that’s his fault, I’m sure.’

  Juliet intervened. ‘Never mind all that for now. Rose Cottage. Hide the car up the side. We’ll get what you need, and Delia will follow you to Liverpool with your things. If I can get time off, I may come, too. The Blyton Three go to Liverpool, eh? Good title.’ She tried to get comfortable in the not-really-a-seat behind Tia.

  Delia sat in the front next to the driver. ‘This is going to be a bumpy ride in more ways than one. Put your foot down, Tia. Jules and I will run back home in time for dinner, and we’ll see you later.’

  Little more was said. As soon as she reached the cottage, Tia was suddenly alone, because her siblings fled immediately to report for duty to the despot who was their father. She stood in a garden that had once been pretty; it was now wild and covered in rose bushes gone crazy, suckers everywhere, more thorns than blooms. This little house had been Ma’s retreat whenever she’d needed to get away from Pa. Nanny Reynolds had always accompanied her, but Ma’s newer escape came in a bottle, and both women remained at the Hall because Isadora’s main occupation was sleeping.

  Inside, Tia sat among neglected remains of her mother’s past – books on the shelves, shawls draped artistically across seats and tables, photographs of a young Isadora Bellamy playing Portia, Cordelia and Juliet. Across the chimney breast were oil paintings of her children, each named after one of the heroines hung over the dresser. Her crochet work sat on a low trolley whose bottom shelf supported a sketch pad and pots of water-colour paint.

  This was the last of Ma. This was a eulogy, a gravestone, a heartbreaking memorial for a destroyed, lonely and desperately unhappy woman. Tia’s anger bubbled to the surface. ‘He has to be stopped,’ she said aloud.

  She sat in a wooden rocker and began to weep. Richard Bellamy had crushed his wife slowly, mercilessly, and his oldest daughter lingered now among Ma’s remains. ‘I can’t stay, Ma,’ she sobbed. ‘And I can’t take you with me, because you’re too ill.’ It was like abandoning a child, a helpless foundling dumped on a cold and unforgiving doorstep.

  Tia dried her eyes. ‘The quality of mercy . . . droppeth like the gentle rain from heaven,’ she said, misquoting her namesake. Portia would not have sat here weeping; Portia would have made a fabulous speech on behalf of the threatened or afflicted. ‘Pa’s had his pound of flesh many times over,’ she muttered grimly. ‘I’m going in. Let’s hope there’s no carving knife on the table.’

  She dried her eyes and dabbed at her nose. A few minut
es were needed while she composed herself, as she was about to face Julius Caesar, Henry V, Richard III, Hamlet and the fool who lived in Bartle Hall together. ‘Your line of the dynasty is about to fade away, you bumbling, smug, self-satisfied braggart. My mother was beautiful and talented.’ Tia would take the photographs, the portraits and Ma’s framed watercolours to Liverpool – as long as Delia and Juliet agreed, of course.

  Anger sustained her while she reversed onto Rose Cottage’s dry, rutted approach road. Quickly, she drove up the main driveway to the Tudor frontage of her childhood home. Let him try. Just try to keep me here, you washed-up wreck of a man. I may even involve the police. I am my own self and I belong only to me. I cannot and will not be bullied by you, Bellamy. You will not trap me no matter how hard you try. You have no real power. Without my mother’s financial support, you would be deader than the dodo.

  She marched into the dining room like a guard changing duty at Buckingham Palace, spine straight, head held high, chest out, arms swinging. For a few beats of time, she reacted internally to the unexpected presence at table of her mother, but she did not pause, as she refused to allow her anger to dissipate.

  Richard rose to his feet. ‘Portia, darling! Where on earth have you been?’

  She stopped well within his reach. ‘Father,’ she snapped.

  He frowned. The word ‘father’ meant business. Even so, he bent forward to accept a kiss from her, but she stepped aside. ‘What’s the problem?’ he asked.

  ‘You are,’ she replied smartly. ‘You destroyed Ma’s life, and your daughters have all suffered because of your periodic attempts at rigid control. It stops now. None of us wants to act. Delia is a good drummer and Juliet’s going to remain a nurse. As for me – well, the further away from you, the better.’ She looked at her mother. ‘None of this is your fault, Ma.’

  Isadora blinked and raised her glass. ‘To my happy marriage,’ she slurred. ‘Which lasted for two years at the most.’ Staring directly at her husband, she nodded. ‘You, sir, are a bloody awful actor, the butt of so many jokes in the business, a terrible husband, a bad father and a total ass.’