Scarborough Fair (Scarborough Fair series Book 1)

by Margarita Morris

  “Please take a seat, Mr Baker-Howard. Would you like some coffee? Do help yourself to a biscuit.”

  She’s nervous, thought Dan. And not without reason. The news that Ryan was being arrested on charges of drug trafficking had come as a terrible shock to both of them, even to Dan who already had misgivings that his dad was mixed up in some bad business with Max. One minute his dad was fighting for his life and, having successfully conquered that battle, he was now under arrest for dealing in cocaine. How unlucky could you be!

  No, not unlucky, thought Dan bitterly. Just incredibly stupid. Luck had nothing to do with it. The accident was the result of recklessness, not bad luck. It was bad luck there’d been a tractor in the middle of the road, for sure, but it was recklessness that had caused his dad to take the turning too quickly. The tractor driver, who was unhurt due to the fact that he’d been driving a much bigger vehicle at a very slow speed, had told the police that the Ferrari came tearing round the corner like a bat out of hell. Ryan hadn’t stood a chance. But why was he driving like an idiot? It had to be because of the box on the passenger seat. Dan found it hard to believe that his dad didn’t know what the box contained, and maybe that knowledge had made him jittery at the wheel. Fiona in particular had taken the news very badly. Quite a few pieces of crockery had hit the kitchen floor before she’d calmed down and phoned the lawyers.

  What really worried Dan was that he had been behind the counter at the amusement arcade when those guys had brought the box in. Dan had taken possession of it and stored it under the counter. Did that make him an accessory to drug trafficking? Was there such an offence?

  Doctor Wilson was insistent that his patient was still too fragile to be moved so Ryan remained in his hospital bed and a uniformed constable was on duty in the corridor to make sure he didn’t escape. Not very likely with a broken leg, thought Dan. The police had gone through his dad’s office looking for whatever evidence they could find. They’d confiscated Ryan’s computer and mobile phone.

  Dan didn’t know if he was expected to leave the room or stay, but as neither his mother nor the lawyer said anything Dan decided to just sit quietly in the corner and listen. This situation affected all of them, after all.

  Baker-Howard sat back in the best armchair and casually crossed one leg over the other. “I’ve just come from the hospital.”

  “Does he have a good chance of getting off?” asked Fiona.

  “I’m afraid the situation doesn’t look good,” said the lawyer. “He can’t deny the cocaine was in the car. It looks as if his best bet would be to plead guilty, maybe say that he was coerced into this or something, apologise profusely and hope that the judge will give him a reduced sentence for honesty. They like a repentant sinner. It makes their job easier.”

  And yours, thought Dan. It’ll save you having to plead his case if Dad confesses everything to the judge. There was something about Baker-Howard that Dan instinctively didn’t like. He hoped his mother had made a wise choice in picking him.

  “Oh,” said Fiona. “That doesn’t sound too promising.”

  “There is one thing that could help his case.” The lawyer reached for a biscuit and snapped it in half with his long fingers.

  “What’s that?” asked Fiona, perking up.

  “If he can lead them to the real criminals behind this operation then the judge would be more inclined to reduce his sentence, maybe even give him a suspended sentence for a first offence. I’ve explained this to him and he’s thinking it over at the moment.”

  It’s Max, thought Dan. He’s behind all this. He’s the reason that Dad almost got himself killed and is now facing a jail sentence. Why does Dad have to think it over? Why doesn’t he just shop Max to the police?

  Dan decided there and then that if his dad wasn’t going to snitch on Max, then he would.

  ~~~

  “I’ve always enjoyed the poems of Christina Rossetti,” said a voice at her shoulder. Rose turned from the buffet at The Fisherman’s Arms to see a tall, elderly man standing behind her. He was dressed in a well-cut, dark suit and when he held his hand out to shake hers she noticed a dolphin-shaped silver cuff-link in his shirt sleeve. “David Drinkwater,” he said, taking Rose’s hand in his. “I’m your grandmother’s younger brother. You read that poem beautifully, by the way.”

  “Thank you,” said Rose. “I was quite nervous.”

  “It didn’t show.” Rose had the feeling he wasn’t just saying that to be nice, but really meant it. She smiled at him. She didn’t remember meeting this man before but there was something about his manner, charming but relaxed, that put her at ease. If he was her grandmother’s brother then she supposed that made him her great-uncle. “Do you live in Scarborough?” she asked him, wondering why she hadn’t encountered him before now.

  “Sadly no,” he said, shaking his head. “I live in the centre of York.”

  “I like York,” said Rose. She hadn’t been there often but she had a memory of old, medieval streets, a Roman wall and a huge Minster.

  “Then you must come and visit sometime,” said David. “You and your mother would be most welcome.”

  “We will,” said Rose.

  David bowed slightly and then said, “You’ll have to excuse me, but I must go and catch my train. It’s been a pleasure meeting you.”

  Rose watched him go over to Andrea on the other side of the room and take his leave. She would have liked to talk to him for longer and wondered if they would ever visit him in York. She supposed it was unlikely. After David had gone, Rose picked at the food on her plate, not really hungry. She didn’t know most of the people there, except for one or two neighbours from Tollergate, and Rose found herself shaking hands with people whose names she immediately forgot.

  After an hour of eating and drinking and reminiscences of Janice as a young, vibrant woman in Scarborough, people started to make their excuses and leave. Soon Rose and her mother were the only ones left, surrounded by a litter of half-empty wine glasses and sandwiches that were starting to curl at the edges. The pub staff began to clear away the dirty plates and glasses. Andrea was sitting on her own at one of the tables, wine glass in hand, looking sad. Rose went to join her.

  “I tried to get her to come and live with us in London,” said Andrea suddenly, staring into the middle distance.

  “I know.”

  “She would never have come, though. Scarborough was her home.” Andrea set the wine glass down on the table. “You know, as a teenager growing up here I couldn’t wait to get away from the place. I thought it was boring and provincial and I wanted the excitement of living in London. But it’s not so bad here really.”

  “Scarborough’s a great place,” said Rose, surprising herself. She hadn’t really considered it before, but she’d grown very fond of the bustling seaside town in the last few weeks. Or maybe she’d just grown fond of one person who lived here? Either way, she found herself missing London less and less.

  “Come on,” said Andrea, reaching for her handbag and standing up. “We should go home.”

  They ordered a taxi and, when it arrived, sat in the back in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Rose had the feeling that her mother had something else on her mind beside the immediate concerns of the funeral and sorting out her grandmother’s will, but she knew her mother would tell her when she was ready. They let themselves into the house that now felt so silent and empty, but still contained so many reminders of her grandmother, from the ornaments on the mantelpiece to the lingering smell of lavender and Pears soap.

  “I’m tired,” said Andrea, kicking off her high heels and leaving them in front of the fireplace. “I’m going to lie down.”

  Rose listened to the creak of the stairs and heard her mother’s door click shut. She felt restless and was unable to just sit still. She roamed the downstairs rooms, still expecting to see her grandmother sitting in her favourite armchair, reading a book, or at the dining table, coffee cup in hand, scouring the local newspaper. She tipto
ed upstairs and gently pushed open the door to her grandmother’s bedroom. The smell of lavender was strongest in here and for a moment Rose stood, breathing in the scent and remembering. She sat down at her grandmother’s dressing table and picked up the ivory-handled mirror and hairbrush, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. How long had these been in the family? A century? Rose knew very little about her ancestors, other than what she’d gleaned from Mary’s letters. She should have asked her grandmother more questions about her own life, but it was too late now. Maybe David would tell her stuff, if they ever did visit him in York. She went back downstairs.

  The early morning fog had lifted and the day was now bright and sunny. Suddenly Rose felt hemmed in by all the memories. She wanted to be outside, to feel the sun on her face, to feel alive. Her grandmother would have understood. She scribbled a note for her mother to say she was going for a walk, then without bothering to change out of her black dress and pumps, she slipped outside and started walking up the hill towards the North Bay.

  It had been a week since she’d been here with Dan, running into the sea, kissing him, walking hand in hand along the sand. So much had happened since then, and none of it for the better.

  Dan. She hugged her arms around herself as she walked, thinking about him. Meeting Dan had been the best thing that had happened to her in a long while, but what was going to happen to them now? She didn’t know how he really felt about her. Was it just a holiday romance or did they have something more? But even then, how would they manage to continue their relationship when she was back in London? And now with his dad in hospital, he had other things to worry about.

  She’d walked further than she’d realised and found herself at the turning that led to the asylum. If she carried along this road she’d be out in open countryside, but she didn’t feel like going back towards the town just yet. She hesitated a moment, then turned down the path to the asylum, careful to avoid the nettles touching her bare legs. She arrived at the chain-link fence and stood looking at the old house. Its air of abandonment and isolation matched her mood perfectly. It looked even more dilapidated than last time. There was a hole in the roof that she hadn’t noticed before and one of the chimneys was broken off. She couldn’t believe she and Dan had been so foolhardy as to actually go inside. The place looked to her now like a death trap, as if it might fall down any minute. No wonder they were going to demolish it.

  There was a rustling in the undergrowth behind her. She jumped and spun around just as a dog leapt out from behind one of the bushes. The animal stood in the middle of the path, a scruffy medium-sized dog, some sort of cross-breed that Rose couldn’t identify. It had rough black fur, a long snout and pointed ears that folded over at the top. The dog took one look at Rose and bounded over, barking loudly.

  Oh no! Rose pinned herself back against the wire fence, her mind flashing back to the dog at the fairground. That incident had left its mark on her and although this dog didn’t look anything like as frightening, still you couldn’t be too careful. She knew you weren’t supposed to show fear in front of strange dogs, but that was easier said than done. The dog was standing in the middle of the path, blocking her exit. If it leapt at her it could easily bite her.

  “Hey, Lucky, come here boy!” A girl shouted from somewhere out of sight. At the sound of the voice the dog stopped barking and looked around. Then it turned back to Rose, obviously torn between obeying its mistress and sniffing out the intruder.

  “Good dog,” ventured Rose in a voice that sounded high-pitched and thin. The dog took a couple of steps towards her.

  “Lucky, I said come here!” A girl rounded the corner of the path and the dog trotted back to its mistress with its tail between its legs. Rose breathed out a sigh of relief. Thank goodness the owner had turned up and it wasn’t a wild stray. Her palms were clammy with sweat and she wiped them on the skirt of her dress.

  The girl, who looked to be about Rose’s age, walked forward, keeping one hand on the dog’s collar. In her other hand she held a plastic carrier bag that looked to contain a few items of tinned food. She was wearing ethnic-print cotton trousers and a tie-dyed top and her sandy-coloured hair hung in dreadlocks down her back. She wore a silver ring through one nostril.

  “Who are you?” asked the girl, scowling at Rose. “What are you doing hanging around here?”

  Rose wished it had just been the dog after all.

  ~~~

  I have become familiar with the daily routines at the asylum.

  We rise at six. Dorothy, the lady who talks to herself, is always the first to get out of bed. Sometimes the nurse in charge tries to put her back, but then she starts shouting and creating a fuss so it is usually best to leave her. She starts pacing the room and muttering to herself so it is impossible for the rest of us to get any rest after that time.

  We take it in turns to wash in a bowl of water. We line up in order of who has been here the longest. As the newest arrival in the dormitory I am last in the queue so that when it is my turn to wash, the water has gone cold and a grey soap scum is floating on the top. Then we put on our blue woollen dresses. Everyone wears the same. We are given fresh underwear weekly.

  When everyone is ready the nurse in charge escorts us down to the dining room for breakfast. We are not allowed to go on our own in case we try to escape and, anyway, the doors around the asylum are locked and can only be opened by keys which the nurses keep about their persons on long chains.

  We dine in a large room on the ground floor. The women enter through a door at one end of the room and the men enter through a door on the opposite side. The male and female sections of the asylum are in separate wings of the building.

  Breakfast is the same every day. A ration of coarse, brown bread, a small piece of butter and lukewarm tea served in a tin mug. Some of the women tear at the bread with their fingers and try to hide pieces in the pockets of their dress. Others spill their tea because their hands are shaking so much. For the first couple of days I couldn’t eat anything, I was in such a state of shock at finding myself in this place. But then I nearly fainted through lack of food and I realised that I must keep my strength up if I am ever to convince the doctors of my sanity and be released.

  If the weather is fine the nurses take us outside for half an hour to walk around the garden. It is a pleasant enough space with perennial flowers, rose bushes and lavender, but it is enclosed by a high brick wall to prevent anyone from escaping. From the garden the house looks grand and imposing. It would be a fine building but the effect is spoilt by the bars on the windows. It is a prison.

  The first day, Dorothy attached herself to me and gleefully pointed out some of the other patients. That one she said, indicating a woman with frizzy hair, was suffering from mania and was prone to fits of shrieking. Another one, grey-haired and pale-skinned, was, apparently, a victim of melancholy. Dorothy warned me in a conspiratorial whisper to keep away from a red-faced woman called Louise who was, she said, hysterical and apt to be violent. To me, they simply looked sad.

  Dorothy then asked me what my complaint was and I responded that I didn’t have a complaint as she put it. She shook her head at me and said not to worry, Dr Collins would soon diagnose my case and then I would have a condition just like everyone else. Then she laughed in a high-pitched shriek until one of the nurses came and slapped her on the face. After that she fell quiet.

  Dinner is served at half past twelve in the dining room. The fare is invariably boiled mutton, boiled potatoes and boiled cabbage. The smell of cabbage never clears from the air. The food is served on tin plates so they do not break when some of the more violent patients throw them onto the floor. This happens a few times every week.

  In the afternoon, if we do not have medical treatment, we may pass an hour or two in the day room where there are board games such as chess and packs of playing cards. There is an out-of-tune piano which some of the patients attempt to play but the result is always dreadful. There are a handful of books, however these are not to
my taste. They are all improving moral tales and terribly dreary, but that is what the doctors here think we need.

  Tea, at five o’clock, is the same as breakfast. More bread and butter and another mug of tea.

  There is a rota for the weekly bath. The ladies in our dormitory have their bath every Tuesday. It is the same routine as the day I arrived - get wet, lather yourself in carbolic soap and then endure the scrubbing brush at the hands of either Nurse Barrett or Nurse Cooper. The only difference is that we are all in the bathroom at the same time. Modesty is a long-forgotten memory in this place.

  On Friday evenings there is entertainment, or what passes for entertainment in these dreary walls. Sometimes the staff put on a play, usually a farce. It is hard to follow the dialogue because there is so much shouting from the audience. Other times visiting musicians or magicians come to the asylum. Last week a man brought a magic lantern to the asylum and showed us the German fairy tale, The Heart of Stone. It was a simple moral tale about the evils of pursuing material wealth. But the moving images were too much for some of the more sensitive patients and many of them, including Dorothy, screamed in fright when the projected images started to move. For my part, I was painfully reminded of an evening in happier times when I had witnessed a ghost show and other such marvellous illusions. I thought of Mary and George and wondered what they are doing now. Have they forgotten me? With every day that passes I fear that they will forget me and I will fade away to nothing. Some days I already feel as insubstantial as one of Dr Pepper’s Ghosts.

  ~~~

  Fiona saw the lawyer out of the house and then came back into the morning room.

  “It doesn’t look too good, does it?” said Dan. He didn’t want to believe that his dad would go to prison. What would happen to the amusement arcade if that happened?

  Fiona bent down to pick up the coffee pot. “Your father should have thought of that before agreeing to get involved in this business. I mean, what the blazes was he thinking of?”