Meet Me at the Pier Head

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘My father hurt you?’ Juliet was clearly incredulous.

  ‘Yes, Juliet, he did.’

  Juliet closed her eyes as if trying to block out thought.

  Isadora spoke. ‘Darling, he threw her to the floor at the Punch Bowl – how apt that name is – and was about to stamp on her. The locals tied him down. He was drunk; Joan and I were not.’

  The youngest of the Bellamy girls swallowed hard; it was indeed a bitter pill. ‘How will you stop him going back to Kent?’ she asked. ‘How will you keep him here?’

  Isadora smiled enigmatically. ‘Joan and I will cope if he isn’t imprisoned,’ she said. ‘He needs us far more than we need him, my love. It’s just a case of allowing him to believe that he’s getting his own way. We praise him and placate him.’

  ‘But how?’ Juliet asked.

  Joan gave the answer. ‘By pretending to negotiate, by pretending to be reasonable. He can stay in Theo’s flat, then we can keep an eye on him. He needs to be contained like the wild animal he is.’

  ‘I told him I thought Theo had gone to America,’ Jack said.

  ‘Good man. We’ll convince him that Portia is touring in France with a friend,’ Isadora said. ‘I don’t need to ask you to keep quiet, do I?’

  ‘No.’ Jack stood up. ‘My boss is a good man, and your daughter’s a lovely young woman, Mrs Bellamy. They need some time, too.’

  Juliet agreed, though she made no remark. Tia and Theo were clearly drawn to each other, and Juliet was glad for them and for herself, since she was now able to spend time with a man she’d loved for years. ‘Will you still divorce Pa?’ she asked her mother.

  ‘Yes, but like Mr Peake, I’ll take a detour up a few dark alleys. Whatever it costs in terms of time, we need to ensure that the visitors in Kent are not disturbed. Things may change after Thursday. I’ve arranged a meeting for Portia and Theodore. They will, I hope, take the first step towards securing a safe future for Rosie. She’ll be having X-rays and so forth, because we need to keep her away from her mother by finding evidence of old injuries.’

  ‘So what must we do now, Ma?’

  ‘Nothing. Someone will point your father in the right direction. He will come here looking for Portia, and we must manage him for a while.’

  Joan shivered. ‘Can’t we just put arsenic in his food?’ She winked at Juliet in an attempt to take the sting out of her words.

  Izzy laughed. ‘No, we must be clever, lull him into a false sense of security for a while. I know it may sound cruel, Juliet, but we need to get our priorities right. Theo and Portia want to keep Maggie calm and Rosie happy. In order for that to happen, your father must stay away from Kent. So I’ll pretend to consider reconciliation while Joan behaves as if he terrifies her. He’s easily confused and easy to please. The way to that particular man’s heart is not through his stomach – it’s via his narcissism, which needs regular massage.’

  Juliet shook her head. She disliked lies, hated dishonesty of any kind. But Pa had lived the dishonest life, so she had to appreciate her mother’s position in this situation. Two actresses and one journalist were purported to have given birth to Pa’s children. His professional life was suffering because he was unwilling or unable to keep up with trends in the job. Deep down, Juliet knew why; it was because he appeared to have no sense of humour whatsoever. When it came to laughing at himself or responding to jokes directed at him, he froze.

  Jack stood up. ‘I’d better get back,’ he said. ‘The lights on my old boneshaker don’t always work. If you have any problems, come and get me. You have my address?’

  ‘Yes, thank you very much,’ said Isadora. ‘See Jack out, Juliet.’

  ‘This is just day one,’ Joan said when the two women were alone. ‘It’s almost as if he timed it, as if he knows Theo isn’t here to protect us.’

  Isadora laughed, though the sound was far from happy. ‘You know I can manage him. Why do you think he went to pieces when I played the alcoholic? He needs a strong-minded woman behind him, not a dipsomaniac. We have to keep him here, Joan.’

  ‘For Rosie, yes,’ Isadora’s faithful companion said.

  ‘And for Portia and Theo. They are blinded by infatuation, and they need this time to decide whether or not it’s love.’

  ‘I think it is, Izzy.’

  ‘So do I. Oh, I do hope it is, Joan. He’s a very special man, and she’s a precious girl. They look right together.’

  Rose Cottage looked completely different. The outside sported a fresh coat of paint, and all ancient roses had been removed. Tia lingered for a while in the rear garden. It would be years before the house might live up to its name, because new roses seldom thrived where old ones had been recently removed. To compensate for this, tubs containing miniature roses and tumbling lobelia had been placed at each side of exterior doors front and back. The rest of the land was laid to lawn with little paths running hither and yon. The gypsy caravan remained, all freshly painted and colourful. ‘Rosie will love that,’ she said. ‘She’ll want to sleep in it.’

  Theo yawned, as did Mickle.

  ‘Am I boring the two of you?’ she asked.

  ‘No, I’m just exhausted, though I can’t speak for my dog. It was a long drive, I’m ashamed to say. As an American citizen, I know of people who drive over a hundred miles to work. Maybe living here has made me nesh.’

  ‘Nesh?’

  ‘Scouse to describe a moaner.’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s like a totally different language.’

  ‘Language develops almost of its own accord,’ he advised her. ‘Wales is near – perhaps that’s where we got the guttural sound at the end of words such as black or sock. Many incomers were Irish, and foreign travellers from all over the world moved to Liverpool. A Birmingham accent came from God alone knows where, and what about Cockneys? It’s the same in America, where accents change every couple of hundred miles or so.’

  She was laughing.

  ‘What?’ he demanded.

  ‘You. You’re a zealous lecturer.’

  ‘I’ll shut my mouth, then.’

  Inside the cottage, all buckets and bowls for collecting rainwater had disappeared. Mickle, presented with her famous blanket and an old bolster from Theo’s flat, settled down and fell asleep within seconds. All she needed was her master and, since he had chosen to travel to this place, it was good enough for her.

  ‘The roof’s been mended,’ Tia said, almost to herself. The little house was so pretty. Ma had made sure that everything would be ready for them. There was a new cottage-sized suite, and all soft furnishings were clean and fresh. ‘My mother’s a clever girl,’ Tia mused. ‘It’s a honeymoon cottage.’

  ‘We’re not married.’

  She laughed. ‘You just lost your lecturer status, Teddy Bear. You should be teaching me stuff I don’t already know.’

  She knows everything, Theo. She knows what she wants, and she wants to try you like a new shoe. Here you are with a box of French letters stashed in your case, because she’s going to put you through your paces. Are you ready?

  He got the feeling that Madame Guillotine might give him marks out of ten or a gold star if he came anywhere near top of the class. He wondered vaguely which part of his body might be removed by the sharp edge of her wit if he didn’t come up to scratch.

  ‘Light the fire, Teddy,’ she suggested. ‘It’s the only source of hot water, I’m afraid. I’ll dig about in the kitchen, see if I can find something to eat. We both need a good bath, I think.’ Having left the sitting room, she called from the kitchen, ‘Everything’s clean or new in here, too.’

  The fire had already been set. He grabbed a fancy matchbox from the mantelpiece and set the flame to light newspapers. It was a good flue, and the wood was burning within seconds. After claiming the small sofa, he lay down, bent his knees, put his head on a cushion and fell asleep almost immediately. Just before nodding off, he allowed himself a slight smile. She would not be pleased.

  But she was pleased.
She knelt by the sofa and stroked his hair, smiling when light from the fire illuminated the red-gold bits in his sideburns. I’ll have a bath tonight, and he can get clean in the morning. Just look at those disgraceful eyelashes, Tia; such a tragic waste on a chap. And it’s a strong face on a strong man who needs love; you have a lot of love to give, madam.

  What will happen on Thursday, I wonder? Oh, go and have a bath, you lovelorn loon. He’ll still be here in the morning. God, please make him want to be with me every morning. He has captured my heart. Look at it this way, God. If we take each other out of general circulation, we won’t damage any other people, and that has to be a good thing. Think about it, please. Oh, yes – Amen. I almost forgot that bit . . .

  When Maggie woke on her first morning in Broadstairs, there was no sign of her granddaughter in the bedroom or bathroom. A note on Rosie’s pillow announced, I gon for brEkfuss, lovE form ROsiE. Form was probably from, and Rosie would be mithering folk downstairs, making a nuisance of herself, no doubt. Oh, God. The child was probably interviewing the rich about how they got their money, or talking to the hotel staff, or running across the road to watch the sea. Running across the road? She was probably running the bloody hotel by now. Theo had warned Maggie that intelligent and gifted children were often unpredictable and that Rosie might be hard work from time to time.

  She threw on some clothes, dragged a comb through her hair and went down the stairs – she didn’t trust lifts. As she descended one of the sweeping staircases that led to the large reception area, she spotted her only grandchild perched on a stool between two young women at the reception desk. Early risers on their way out were stopping and handing keys to Rosie, who passed them on to one of the staff. Maggie failed to suppress a giggle. Little Lady Rose had been in town for five minutes, and she already had a job.

  As she got nearer, Maggie heard her clever-mouthed key-grabber talking to a guest. ‘I’m Rosie from Liverpool and I hope you have a lovely day.’

  ‘What is she like?’ Maggie mumbled to herself. ‘She’s showing me up something terrible – I’m ashamed.’

  The two young women on the desk were delighted with her. ‘Mrs Stone? She’s had us doubled over laughing. So sweet, and what a wonderful accent.’

  Rosie eyed her grandmother. ‘I’m not being a doctor any more; I’m going to have a hotel like this one. Your key, Mrs Stone?’ she asked, her expression deadly serious.

  ‘I haven’t got it, Rosie. I came looking for you, didn’t I?’

  The child shook her head slowly. ‘You can’t go outside. You can’t go out without giving your key in. It’s hotel pollisty.’

  Maggie sighed and spoke to one of the real receptionists. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘She’s a bit . . . precocious, I think the word is. Come on, Rosie, let’s get some breakfast. And it’s policy, not whatever you said, princess.’

  Rosie led her nana towards the dining room. ‘You have to get your own breakfast from the sideboard. That’s because posh people in posh houses do that. The other meals get served by servants, but you let the servants go and eat their brekky while you have yours.’

  Maggie chuckled quietly. When Rosie got her stately home, she would know how to run it. ‘What’s this?’ she asked, lifting the lid from a dish.

  ‘It’s kedgeray or a word something like that,’ Rosie replied. ‘I had some, and it’s horrible. There’s kippers further down, then bacon and eggs and porridge and toast and there’s two kinds of marmalade and some jam on the tables and—’

  ‘How many breakfasts have you had, Rosie Stone?’

  ‘Two,’ was the reply. ‘I had bacon and eggs with Mr and Mrs Beresford. They sell jewellery in London and I think she was wearing most of it. Then I had toast and jam with a lady called Miss Forrester. She’s a private sacristary for the Foreign Sacristary.’

  ‘Secretary,’ Maggie said.

  ‘Oh, right. I’ll just get some more toast. Tell me what you want, Nana, and I’ll fetch it for you.’

  Maggie watched her precious charge as she walked the length of an endless sideboard filling a plate for her grandmother. Everybody spoke to her; it was clear that word had spread and that people were looking out for a pretty little Liverpool girl in a red and white gingham dress and shiny red shoes.

  Tom and Nancy joined Maggie. ‘Hello, love,’ Tom said. ‘Is this our table?’

  ‘I think so. But our Rosie eats at any table she fancies. People like her.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Nancy pronounced. ‘Everybody likes Rosie.’ She placed her badge of office – her knitting bag – on the floor.

  After serving her nana, Rosie told Tom and Nancy what was available. She didn’t mention the kedgeree, but she went off to bring their bacon and eggs. At a hatch in the far wall, she shouted, ‘Tea for four, please, table sixteen,’ before returning with Nancy’s plate. ‘It’ll be a big pot,’ she told Tom. ‘Somebody will bring it for you. I’ll go for my bro-chewers. If you want coffee as well, tell that lad in uniform. He’s the only one not having his own breakfast. His name’s Alan, and he gets his breakfast when the dining room closes.’

  Maggie wondered who hadn’t been interviewed by her granddaughter.

  When Rosie had left the table, the remaining three looked quizzically at each other. ‘She’s organizing us,’ Tom chuckled.

  ‘You’re right, love. I must make her a red cardigan.’

  Maggie blinked rapidly as she remembered the frightened little girl who had run for Tunstall’s baccy after spending half the night in a dark shed. ‘I know this sounds terrible, but I don’t want Sadie to have her back. If my daughter’s head is buggered, she won’t be fit to have her; if she gets back to normal and goes on the game again . . .’

  Tom patted her hand. ‘Sadie neglected her while the bad bugger knocked her about. You have a strong case, love.’

  ‘And anaemia,’ Maggie muttered.

  Their little imp returned with ‘bro-chewers’ containing photographs and literature. ‘A king called Charles landed here after hiding somewhere. Another king called Henry cut people’s heads off. There’s an archway built for him somewhere.’ After announcing that anybody who cut people’s heads off didn’t deserve an archway, she led them to the white cliffs of Dover, Bleak House, another house once owned by Dickens, eighty miles to London by train, and to various beaches and harbours in Kent. ‘And there’s lovely countryside,’ she concluded.

  Tom and Nancy chewed on bacon.

  ‘Who’s Charles Dickens?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘A writer,’ Maggie told her.

  ‘Where does he live now?’

  ‘He’s dead, love.’

  ‘Is he?’

  Maggie nodded.

  ‘Well, that’s a shame, Nana, cos I wanted to talk to him. He knew all about Broadstairs.’

  Nancy swallowed her bacon. ‘That’s right, Rosie. He was a very clever man. He wrote A Christmas Carol.’

  ‘Did he? Which one? “Silent Night”?’

  Nancy chuckled. ‘He wrote a story called A Christmas Carol.’

  Rosie frowned. It was becoming clear that she had a lot to learn.

  Richard Bellamy shaved off his moustache and used brown dye on his hair. The result was rather patchy, but he certainly looked different. He dressed in casual clothes, cavalry twill trousers, open-necked shirt, fawn cardigan and brown shoes. A panama hat completed the picture before he prepared to sally forth in search of lunch. Thus far, this hotel’s food had not kept up with his Epicurean standards.

  Liverpool. Why on earth would anyone choose this place after living a good life in the garden of England? Why would Portia work in a worn-out Victorian building after teaching daughters of the elite in a college for young ladies? Why teach infants and juniors when she was trained to work with older children? Had Simon Heilberg accompanied her on her travels? So many questions, no sensible answers.

  Leaving the hired car behind, he strolled towards the city. Even as far north as this, England was enjoying good weather. Donning his hat,
he ambled forth in search of a decent restaurant or a public house where food was on offer. There was thinking to be done, because he felt sure that Portia would know where Isadora was. Surely someone living near Myrtle Street would know where Portia was living? After all, his oldest daughter left a mark wherever she went.

  He hadn’t believed the caretaker. The eyes had held secrets, while the mouth had opened and closed rather rapidly before lies had dripped from the man’s lips. Joining the line of thinkers at the Pier Head, he stared at calm water, bright blue sky and a future that threatened to contain little promise. We came as a pair, as Richard and Isadora. We worked well together. Yes, I’m guilty of philandering, but I never abandoned my real family. Oh, what a mess.

  The man next to him was weeping quietly. A woman standing at Richard’s left side was staring blankly into the water, as if the solutions to life’s problems swam just below its rippled surface.

  She glanced at Richard. ‘You all right, lad?’ she asked.

  ‘Thank you, yes. And you?’

  The woman shook her head. ‘Me boy died,’ she said. ‘Measles went to his brain. His legs died first, and they cut them off, like. But it never stopped it. He was only twelve.’

  ‘I am so sorry,’ he said.

  ‘We come here and talk to strangers when it gets too much in the house with the family all suffering. Know what I mean? It’s easier telling somebody you don’t know. You’re not from round here.’

  ‘Kent,’ he told her. ‘My wife left me. I think she’s somewhere in or near Liverpool.’

  She touched his hand. ‘Pray for my lad, and I’ll pray for you.’

  Richard watched as she walked away, her shoulders rounded, her steps small, because she had to get home but didn’t want to go there. He could have stood at the Thames embankment for hours, and no one would have spoken to him. Was this enough to entice Portia to move north?