Meet Me at the Pier Head

by Ruth Hamilton

  Isadora was not in Canterbury, of that he felt sure. Had she been there, the press would have tracked her down. Delia was of no fixed abode, while Juliet was not answering her phone, so God alone knew where she was. Lunch. Yes, he had come out here to find something worth eating.

  He found a newsagent and bought several papers, including gutter press publications. The Bellamys were no longer front-page news, thank goodness.

  In the most popular and noisiest newspaper, he found a small headline.

  ISADORA TO BE KNOWN BY

  HER FIRST NAME ONLY

  Fury filled his chest and his stomach, threatening to scream out through his mouth. God, the bitch knew how to play her cards well. She knew how to play the drunk well, too. She was dumping him, his name, their joint history on stage and film. Could she cut any deeper? Oh yes, she could steal his daughters, too.

  He marched into a public house and ordered a double whisky. There was a menu on the bar, and he picked it up. Ah, they had a full beef dinner including Yorkshires and vegetables.

  ‘Dining room’s through there, sir. We’re open till two.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He stayed for a while in the bar, where he perused the latest article relating to the collapse of his marriage. Isadora and her agent were clearly intent on taking no prisoners. What the hell was this? Isadora Films? She was planning her own company? Christ, what next?

  He read on. She intended to use new writers, new actors, young crew. Furthermore, she would be signing up to star in a series of silly comedy films, because she didn’t want to leave England, and the funds would be useful for other projects and for . . . what? A children’s home? Had she lost her mind completely?

  Angrily, he screwed up the newspaper and walked through to the dining room, where he opted for a small table near a window. More furious than ever, he threw back the last of his whisky and picked up the wine list. Isadora held the purse strings. Soon, he wouldn’t be able to track down a decent burgundy, as such luxuries would be beyond his shortened reach. Yes, he could have saved, no, he hadn’t saved.

  Then he heard the laugh and almost froze in his seat. Diagonally opposite him, in another corner, Juliet sat with . . . God, no! She was with Simon Heilberg – did that man intend to work his way through the whole Bellamy family? This was too much. In a trice, he crossed the floor, dragged the unprepared doctor from his seat and slammed him against the wall. With a sickening thud, Simon’s head made contact with the hard surface, and he folded on the floor, unconscious.

  Juliet leapt to her feet. ‘Police and ambulance,’ she cried before dropping to Simon’s side. Other diners jumped up, some leaving the battle zone, others remaining to see what might happen next. The manager ran in from the bar, calling over his shoulder, ‘Mike – nine nine nine, police and ambulance.’ He threw Richard into a chair. ‘Move, and I’ll bloody deal with you, mate.’

  Shaking, Richard stayed where he had been thrust by the muscle-bound master of the establishment.

  The manager knelt next to Juliet. ‘Let’s keep his airway in a straight line, love.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘I’m a nurse. Recovery position, I think.’

  Between them, they rearranged Simon’s limp body.

  Juliet stood up, steadying herself by placing a hand on the helpful manager’s shoulders. In an unprecedented show of anger, she spoke to the remaining diners. ‘This article here is my father. You have all witnessed his attempt to kill my . . . the man I love. He may be successful, because Simon is out cold.’ Tears threatened, and she had to pause for a few moments before continuing.

  ‘Pa was bound over recently in the sum of three hundred pounds because he attacked my nanny, the lady who raised me and my sisters.’ Slowly, she turned to face Pa. ‘If Simon dies, I’ll hang you myself. As things stand, there isn’t a court in this land that will let you mix with normal humanity. For the rest of my life, I will not speak to you, ever.’

  The police arrived, and removed Richard after listening to Juliet’s claim. They promised to enquire and keep him under lock and key until the answers came. His rights were read, and suspicion of causing actual bodily harm was mentioned before he was shoved out of the dining room.

  ‘Where’s the ambulance?’ Juliet wailed. The bell clanged outside before her last word was fully formed. When the ambulance staff rushed in, the manager led her and all the other diners into the bar. ‘Free lunch for all of you whenever you like – get your tickets from Mike.’ He pointed to the barman. ‘A small cognac for this young lady, please.’

  Dazed, angry and tearful, Juliet found herself riding in the ambulance with her beloved. He lay on a hard board with a surgical collar round his neck. ‘Are his pupils dilated?’ she asked. ‘Are they equal? What’s happening?’

  She was told to hush. ‘Take it easy, miss. Looks like a fractured skull, but calm down. He’s breathing well, and that’s always a good sign.’

  Juliet closed her eyes and prayed. There was nothing else she could do.

  Fifteen

  ‘What are you doing now, Portia? Will we need the fire brigade?’ Theo rearranged his pillows and propped his upper half into a vertical position. She was leaning perilously off her side of the bed. ‘You’ll fall,’ he said just before she fell. Sighing in an exaggerated fashion usually reserved for the likes of Colin Duckworth, he pushed back the bed covers and moved across into her territory. ‘What the hell are you up to now, Baroness Tia? Is this part of some exercise routine? Do we get fifty push-ups and ten minutes’ running on the spot in the nude? It should be an interesting display.’ He laughed. ‘Talk to me.’

  Tia continued to lie in an untidy, crumpled heap on the floor. She had taken a pillow with her, and she was beating her head against it. ‘Bugger,’ was her sole bequest to the conversation. She pummelled her pillow with both fists.

  ‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘If you landed on your head, you mustn’t have felt a thing. You’re a fortunate girl.’

  She stood up, gloriously naked and completely unashamed. ‘I’ve lost my thread now. You are always making me lose my thread.’

  ‘Ah, you were sewing. Are you embroidering a badge of office for me? Was I so wonderfully successful in the sack? Will you stitch it to my Boy Scout’s sweater?’

  ‘You’re not wearing a sack, and the Scouts wouldn’t have you, I’m sure.’ She could be as childishly obtuse as he was. ‘No. I’m taking notes. And losing one’s thread means a breakdown in a train of thought.’

  ‘So you’re playing with trains? I didn’t know you had a train set. Is it a Hornby? Do you keep it under the bed?’

  Portia Bellamy rearranged her features in an effort to appear calm and as unamused as Queen Victoria. ‘I was about to make a comment in my notebook about body parts,’ she said without a smile. ‘I thought it might help Tom Quirke with his writing. The pen is mightier than the sword, but if one omits the gap between pen and is, one has a body part.’

  He burst out laughing so hard that the bed shook. His glee proved infectious, and she threw herself on the tangled mass of sheets and blankets, and laughed with him. She was happy. She was happy because she was his, and she wanted to feel like this for the rest of her life. ‘We’re silly, Mr Quinn,’ she managed eventually.

  ‘Thank God,’ he answered, wiping his eyes on the sheet. ‘Did you mark my pen is?’ he asked, grinning widely. He pondered yet again on the fact that he loved her vulgarity. Even when she was coarse, she somehow managed to remain refined. Impossible? Yes, she was. ‘Well, the marks, Portia?’

  ‘Gave it an A plus for presentation and an A for performance skills.’

  ‘Where’s my second plus?’

  ‘It’s probably under the bed where I dropped my notes. Shall we search? It’s a very small plus, and it could be anywhere.’

  He simply could not deal with the woman when she was in so feisty a mood, which was most of the time. ‘No, we need food. I’ll go rustle up brunch and, when we’ve eaten, we’ll have round two. You get
the buckets and the gum shields while I find hand strapping and gloves. Oh, and a towel in case you want to throw it in.’

  Tia sat on the edge of the bed and watched as he swung out his legs and stood up. ‘Teddy?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am?’

  She swallowed hard before continuing. ‘What does A K mean?’ It was there on his back, stark white scar tissue where he’d been stitched.

  ‘K is for Klan. Not sure about the A. It could be Atlanta, Arransville, Auguston – no idea. There were plenty of hick towns, but the sheriff and his deputy didn’t come from any place beginning with A. Maybe it’s for amalgamated, I’m not sure. Where Klan numbers dwindled, chapters re-formed.’ He turned to face her. ‘Poached or scrambled, baby? Don’t cry.’

  ‘I’m not crying. My eyes are leaking.’

  ‘Dry them on the sheet.’

  ‘The evil things they did to you—’

  Theo tutted and blew her a kiss. ‘Shush, it’s over, kiddo. I survived that and the Battle of Britain.’ He pulled on a robe and went downstairs. ‘I’m a tough cookie,’ he called over his shoulder. He loved her and couldn’t bear to see her upset. Perhaps, when new love grew older, he would be able to comfort her without resorting to his own tears.

  Tia sat in the middle of the bed. Her sweet, tender and gentle lover could be heard talking to his dog about farm animals and how to resist chasing them. ‘Eat your breakfast, Mickle. And steer clear of geese and swans,’ he was saying. ‘They are dangerous. As for farmers with guns, they can be lethal.’

  Lethal? He was so right, Tia mused solemnly. The most dangerous animal on earth was human. How could grown men carve letters into the flesh of a ten-year-old boy? And the stripes on his back were still there, so the whips must have torn at skin and sunk into his body. Such a slight child he had been, too.

  Furthermore, which breed of animal incinerated a woman because of darker skin and curly hair? ‘I will have your children, Theodore Quinn. In twenty or thirty years, no one will care about colour and quadroons and octoroons and mulattos, because it won’t matter.’ She had vague memories of being told by someone that after the Second World War, before American servicemen were shipped back home, the question of a possible colour bar in Britain had been aired. And it had been dropped, of course, though a few extreme right-wingers continued to champion the cause.

  Was it true that in southern states, coloureds and whites had to sit in different parts of a bus, that they were segregated during childhood and sent to all-white or all-coloured schools? Was that the land of the free, then? Was it the home of the brave? Oh yes, as long as they were Caucasian.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Theo called.

  ‘Cogitating.’

  ‘Do you have a licence?’

  ‘Get cooking and I’ll show you my qualifications.’

  He laughed and returned to the kitchen.

  Tia managed a grin. The only problem with the main part of Rose Cottage was its size; a person could scarcely think without being overheard. She pulled on underwear, a skirt and a blouse. Her hair she left loose, because he loved it, called it a golden waterfall, as the sun had bleached it with blonde streaks. Theo was an unexpectedly romantic soul; he was also the lover she had sought for some time. And they had three clear and private days together after today.

  Although now fully clothed, she suddenly felt shy when she joined him at the kitchen table. It was something about the way he looked at her – no, he looked through her, as if he read her mind, her heart and her soul. God, she was thinking like some pathetic, elderly and disappointed writer of sixpenny novellas.

  ‘You are beautiful,’ he said.

  ‘So are you. This is splendid; I’m starving.’ He had made toast, fluffy scrambled eggs and crisp bacon. ‘I like being here with you,’ she said. It was a massive kitchen which had once been a piggery. Although it lacked the charm of the original house, it was a place big enough to contain a large family. This was the only part of Rose Cottage that offered a bit of privacy, since the dining area was at the far end of the piggery, well away from the main part of the building.

  ‘I like your blush,’ was his reply.

  ‘I do not blush.’

  ‘I like your pink cheeks, then.’

  ‘Shut up, Mr Quinn. I am pink because the weather is already warm. And before the day really heats up, we should take Mickle out and show her the size of the Bellamy estate.’

  Theo frowned. What had happened to round two?

  ‘Rose Cottage is mine now,’ she told him. ‘I have the deeds. Ma bought a brand new flat for Juliet and she’s looking for a London pied-à-terre for Delia, so I got Rose Cottage. She’s planning to take on Bartle Hall and sell the farms to tenants. A very astute businesswoman, my mother.’

  He offered what was left of brunch to Mickle, who sucked it up like a vacuum cleaner before asking for more. ‘I suspect that you got the best deal, Tia. It’s beautiful. Real old England,’ he said as he followed her into the living room.

  Tia remembered fondly her mother’s instructions when most of the third room upstairs had been converted into a bathroom, leaving space in which only a single bed could be housed. The bath itself was plonked – Ma’s word – in the middle of the room. It had clawed feet and brass taps and it made rude noises when emptying. The washbasin was massive, easily big enough to provide a bath for a six-month-old baby, while the lavatory tried to hide coyly between two stout, vertical oak beams.

  ‘You like Rose Cottage, don’t you, Teddy?’

  ‘It’s wonderful.’ This was his favourite room. Doors were oak planks held together by diagonal stretches of the same material, walls and ceiling were lumpy between vertical and horizontal beams, while the floor, covered in places by faded rugs, was flagged and worn. Logs were stashed under an oak settle, and the fireplace had an oven attached to it. Ancient pewter plates and tankards sat on a rack near the ceiling, and a wooden pulley clothes-dryer was currently parked high in the air until required. ‘I could live here,’ he said. The kitchen was big enough to contain him and Tom Quirke. ‘I could work here.’

  Tia laughed. ‘I wish you’d seen Ma when she got the cottages electrified. “Discreet” was her constant cry. Until we got used to it, we needed an oil lamp or a candle to find switches and sockets hidden in cupboards or between shelves. We got many a bump in the dark, especially if she moved furniture. She paid for the mains to be laid between the village and here. There’s no gas on the estate. We depend on coal, wood and electricity. Come on, I’ll show you some decadent splendour. You are going to love Bartle Hall.’

  Isadora was at war with a chicken, and she wasn’t winning. The giblets, removed by a butcher, lay in a white enamel dish on the drainer; from these innards, she was supposed to produce gravy. On the kitchen table sat the offending bird in a roasting tin. In spite of repeated basting, it was a bit burnt on the outside, while a skewer used to test the inside continued to produce blood. She had read the book. The theory was twenty minutes per pound, plus twenty minutes added on at the end. ‘Joan?’ she called in desperation.

  Joan Reynolds entered the arena. ‘Yes?’

  ‘It won’t cook. I’ve done everything according to the book, but it’s raw inside and crisp outside.’

  Joan arrived at her friend’s side with a cleaver.

  ‘It’s already deceased,’ Izzy said.

  ‘I’m going to cut it into small pieces and cook it on the hob. Go and sit down, Izzy. I’ll deal with this.’

  ‘Why am I such a failure in the kitchen?’

  ‘You can’t be good at everything. You stick to acting while I fry chicken.’

  Isadora returned to Portia’s sitting room. Everyone else could cook. All her daughters were capable of producing meals, but she was an out-and-out failure. She picked up a newspaper and read about Americans and Russians trying to land on the moon within a decade. ‘Silly children,’ she muttered. ‘Why can’t they work together and share the technology? And why can’t I roast a chicken?’

 
; She put down the paper and wondered how Portia and Theo were faring. They were made for each other – even she knew that, and she was hyper-protective when it came to her girls. Simon seemed to have become fond of Juliet, while Delia had met a possible partner, so all was well. Except for him; except for Richard being here, in Liverpool. ‘He’d better stay away from me today,’ she breathed. ‘Doing battle with a dead bird is enough.’ She picked up Tyger. ‘Theo will be back, sweetheart, and you shall have some chicken today. If it doesn’t kill you, it will be fit for us to eat.’

  The phone rang. She put down the kitten and walked across the room. ‘Hello? Ah, Juliet . . . what?’ She paused while her youngest daughter sobbed the story into her ear. ‘When did this happen?’ Isadora was suddenly grateful for the chair Portia had parked next to the telephone table.

  She sat down, feeling a great deal older than her years. ‘Calm down, my love. Concussion? Is he unconscious? Which hospital? Right. Joan and I will be there – I’ll phone for a taxi. Where’s your father?’ Isadora waited again. ‘Good. I hope they throw the Bible, the Qur’an and the News of the World at him. Walton Hospital. We’re on our way. Stay strong, baby.’ She replaced the receiver. ‘Joan?’ she called.

  Joan appeared in the doorway, a smudge of flour on her nose. ‘What’s the matter?’

  Isadora took a deep, steadying breath. ‘Richard has put Simon Heilberg in hospital. Concussion. He woke up, but Juliet says he’s rather confused.’

  Joan wiped floury hands on her apron. ‘Where’s Richard now?’

  ‘On his way to hell, I hope.’

  ‘Seriously, Izzy.’

  ‘In a cell. He’ll probably get a suspended sentence at least, because he’s already bound over to keep the peace. Or they may lock him up – I don’t know. Turn everything off in the kitchen, wash your face and grab your bag while I telephone for a taxi.’

  The two women clung to each other in the back of the cab. Both had known Simon Heilberg for many years. He came from a lovely family, his father a GP, his mother a district nurse, his older sister already a consultant paediatrician in London.