by Marie Joseph
And if Beryl refused she would go back with her cousin to the house and somehow, some way, she would put it back herself.
Of one thing she was absolutely certain. The cuff-link had to be replaced. Because, in a strange paradoxical way, now that she held what could have been evidence of Gerald’s involvement in her hand, she was convinced of his innocence.
Thinking he was guilty was one thing; actually proving it, she was finding already, was another.
And if Gerald was a typical man, if he was anything like her own father, he would wriggle out of the shirt he had been wearing that day with the links still in place. How often had she heard her mother reprimanding her father for doing just that?
‘One of these days, Matthew, Mrs Wilkinson will put them out still fastened to your shirt for the laundry-man, and that will be that. Surely it’s only a small thing to ask. Quite honestly I don’t understand you, Matthew.’
But Gerald didn’t have a wife who nagged. Not yet. Gerald Tomlin might not be a murderer, but he was the kind of man to whom neatness and order were the equivalent of a second skin. The kind of man who would pull his shirt over his shiny red head, sit down on the shiny bedspread in that meticulously tidy room, then take the cuff-links out of his cuffs and put them in the leather box on the tall-boy.
Dorothy tiptoed across the landing, and closing her bedroom door behind her, leant against it, shutting her eyes as if she would shut out the terrifying supposition. For if he found the odd one missing when he lifted the round lid, if he checked . . . oh dear God, what would he do? Especially if there was any truth in what she had been convincing herself was not the truth? Her vivid imagination soared on black wings, into a nightmare situation where the smooth-tongued Gerald, smooth-tongued no longer, confronted a quaking Beryl, forcing her to admit that she had been in his room.
‘I swear I haven’t,’ Beryl would say, shaking with terror inside the brown woollen dressing-gown.’
And Gerald would think that the police had been, searching his room, searching for the cuff-link that was the twin to the one they had found buried by leaves beside Ruby’s dead body.
Now Dorothy’s imagination had run away with her, completely and terrifyingly out of even a semblance of control. How could she have thought a moment ago that Gerald was innocent?
‘I tell you, Gerald. I swear that no one has been in your room. How could they have been when I’ve been alone all evening?’
That was Beryl, thinking of the hell-fire awaiting her if she broke her vow of silence.
‘The truth, or I’ll . . . or I’ll . . .’
That was Gerald Tomlin, narrow-set eyes blazing, who having killed once, had nothing to lose.
His hands, those sinewy hands, with the ginger hairs sprouting sickeningly from between his knuckles, were reaching out for Beryl’s plump throat. Her poor, silly little cousin, whose death would lie irrevocably at Dorothy’s door. . . .
Dorothy screamed aloud as the door was pushed open, sending her almost sprawling on the carpet. Beryl had proved no heroine and Gerald was here, to demand an explanation! Dorothy felt the hair on her head gently raise itself away from her crawling scalp.
‘For goodness sakes! It’s only me. What on earth’s the matter with you, Dorothy? First you rush out of the house, dragging that poor boy with you, and now you behave as though I’ve just walked in with my head tucked underneath my arm.’
Margaret was smiling, very much the elder sister, teasing, patronizing, serene in her own cocoon of happiness, generously tolerant because of it. Her golden hair was sweetly disarranged, and at the corner of her smiling mouth her plum coloured lipstick was tellingly smudged. She walked over to the dressing-table and smiled at her reflection, well pleased with herself, and spoke soothingly over her shoulder.
‘I’m not going to split on you, our Dorothy. Surely you don’t think for one moment that I would? It’s not a crime having a boy in when Mother and Father go out.’ She went pink. ‘Though I do hope you know what you’re doing. Some boys would take advantage, you know. They’re not all as nice as Gerald, or as your Stanley. I wouldn’t have minded having a chat with him, the poor boy, shown him how sorry we all are. He must be going through a dreadful time just now.’
Dorothy said nothing. Her heart was still pounding as, carefully wriggling both arms out of the blazer sleeve, she took it off, holding it straight in case the cuff-link did the unthinkable and rolled out of the pocket and on to the floor. Then, with measured movements, she took a hanger from her wardrobe and put the coat away, closing the door, and turning the key in the lock.
‘What did you say?’ she asked.
Margaret twisted round on the dressing-table stool, still smiling.
‘Oh, never mind. But there’s no need for you to be in such a tiz-woz, honestly, love. We won’t talk about it if you don’t want to.’ She put her head on one side and spoke slowly, like a kindergarten teacher calming down a naughty child. ‘Now then. Tomorrow morning after church, Gerald and I are going over to the house to do some measuring in the kitchen. Why don’t you come with us? We can help Mother with the vegetables for the dinner before we go if we get up early enough.’
Dorothy sat down on the bed, and stared at the pointed toes of her black court shoes. ‘Is Gerald going to church with us then? I thought he was a non-believer?’
Margaret frowned. ‘Well, actually, he’s meeting me outside with the car, but he did go when the banns were being read, remember? And it isn’t that he doesn’t believe really, you know. It’s just that organized religion doesn’t appeal to him. He thinks that one can be as close to God in the middle of a field, or out on the moors.’
‘Or in the park?’ Dorothy heard herself say.
‘Well, yes, in the park if you wish.’ Margaret leaned forward, clasping her hands earnestly between her knees. ‘Look, Dorothy. That mention of the park came right up out of your subconscious, didn’t it? I’ve been reading a book about that sort of thing. From the library. You’ll have to try to forget that terrible happening in the park, you know.’
‘How?’ Dorothy glanced towards the wardrobe door, then quickly away again.
Margaret shook her head, more in sorrow than anger. ‘I know it must be difficult you being so friendly with that poor girl’s brother and everything. But terrible things do happen in life, and if we took them all to heart, then we’d never know a single moment’s peace.’ She looked lovingly at Dorothy sitting with shoulders hunched almost up to her ears. Genuine sympathy filled her heart and her voice, and even as she went on she heard herself modulating her voice in deference to her sister’s sadness. ‘You’re sensitive, like me. We’re a sensitive family. All the Boltons are sensitive. Even Father, though he does appear to be a bit gruff and outspoken on the surface.’
Dorothy lifted her head for a moment and stared at her sister in surprise. ‘But Father is the most sensitive of us all,’ she wanted to say, then saw it was no use. Margaret was blinking her eyes as if trying to remember a verse from a poem to illustrate her meaning. ‘Oh, God, please let her get up and go, and let her not read the evil thoughts that beset me,’ she prayed silently, but Margaret was obviously determined to have her well-intentioned say.
‘I’ve never told you this before, Dorothy, but reading that library book showed me how wrong it is to dwell on the sordid.’ She put up a finger and stroked a smooth cheek. ‘And, anyway, you get wrinkles if you think negative thoughts for any length of time. But once, a long time ago, when I was about seven years old, a girl who was in the same Brownie Pack as me died of diphtheria. She was called Elsie. Or was it Enid? No, it was definitely Elsie. Well, although Mother would have had a pink fit, me and another girl went to the house and took a bunch of flowers, and for some reason Elsie’s mother asked us in and took us into the parlour where the coffin was.’ Margaret’s placid face grew crumpled lines with the effort of making herself clear. ‘She, the dead girl, was dressed in her Brownie uniform, with her Pixie badge sewn above the pocket, and all th
e badges she’d earned sewn down her sleeve. There was a great big mirror on the wall, and the whole terrible thing was reflected in it. There were two little curtains pulled to over her face, but her hands were white and crossed over her chest, and the coffin was flanked by two huge vases of carnations. It was awful. Can you imagine? The smell was something I’ll never forget, sort of sickly sweet, and now you know why I insisted on no carnations in my wedding bouquet. The very sight of them brings the whole thing back, and all because I kept it to myself and dwelled. So you see I do know how you feel, but unless you put it out of your mind, or at least talk about it, it’s going to leave a nasty blot on your subconscious. Don’t you see?’
Dorothy nodded, clenching her hands until the nails bit into the palms.
‘I see,’ she said, ‘and I’ll try. Honestly I’ll try.’
Margaret smiled on her with sisterly affection. ‘And you don’t need to worry about Mother finding out that Stanley came round tonight when she was out. I won’t dream of telling, and Gerald won’t mention it. He’s more understanding than you think, you know. When we discussed it after you’d rushed out like that, do you know what he said?’
‘What did he sày?’
‘“Forget it,” he said. “They’re only kids. As far as I’m concerned,” he said, “there was no one in when we came back.”’ Margaret’s voice held more than a touch of pride. ‘Just think. He even smoked three cigarettes, one after the other, so that if Mother came back and smelt smoke, she wouldn’t get suspicious. That’s how considerate he is.’
She came over to where Dorothy sat dejectedly on the edge of the bed and touched her sister’s hair in a fleeting caress. ‘So stop looking so solemn, love. Just think of the nice things that are happening to us all, and about all the nice things to come. At the end of the summer I’ll be married and living in my own home; you’ll have left school, and although you won’t believe it now, you’ll go out with simply lots of boys before you decide on the right one.’ She walked over to the door and turned. ‘And somewhere there’s someone just as super as Gerald waiting for you, you’ll see.’
Dorothy nodded. If Margaret didn’t go away and leave her alone she felt that her head would drop clean off with the nodding of it. She stretched her mouth into what she hoped would pass for a smile. ‘All right, I’ll remember, Margaret. Good night.’
Then listening intently until she heard the bathroom door open and close, Dorothy unlocked the wardrobe and took the cuff-link out of her blazer pocket. Stared down at it with distaste and subdued a sudden urge to open the window and hurl it away, out of sight. What had she done? Oh, dear God, what had she done? Then, thinking she heard a noise, she quickly replaced it, and locking the wardrobe again took the key out and put it underneath her pillow. A quick and necessary dash to the toilet whilst Margaret was closeted in the bathroom, and then a swift undressing and a dive into bed, without washing or cleaning her teeth.
When her mother called out to her from the landing half an hour later, she pulled the sheet over her head and pretended to be asleep. But she knew that if it had been her father’s voice the temptation to talk to him would have overwhelmed her. Seeing his kindly face bending over her with concern she would have surely blurted out the whole mixed-up and unbelievable story from start to finish. Because then he would have sorted it out for her, the way he had always sorted things out for her since she was a child.
And when at long last she slept, it was to dream of Gerald, down on his knees in the middle of a field, praying to his own particular God, with his hands clasped in supplication, the red hairs sprouting sickeningly from between his knuckles. . . .
It was Church Parade the next morning, and when they arrived at the weathered stone church, the Guides and Brownies were already in their allotted pews at the front, with Philip’s Vera in her Guide Captain’s uniform at the end of a row, the navy-blue felt hat with its brim turned up at one side, squashed down over the whirls of plaits covering her ears.
Under her stern vigilance, the Guides sat straight and unsmiling in three solemn rows, but in front of them the Brownies held little whispered and giggling conversations together, their brown knitted caps bobbing animatedly.
Margaret, wearing a powder-blue coat with a matching hat shaped like a shallow dish with a feather going straight up at the side, glanced over at the Brownies and smiled at Dorothy. The smile said, ‘Aren’t they sweet?’ and was calculated to show that no grim memories were troubling her that lovely spring morning. She lowered her head over her hands for a brief moment, then turned and smiled at the pew behind. Even the large urn of well-spaced-out carnations and greenery by the altar steps did nothing to dim the brightness of her smile, Dorothy noted.
Margaret was happy and wanted everyone to share in her happiness. Gerald would be waiting outside the church for her in his red car after the service, and in six weeks’ time she would stand by his side and become his wife. Till death did them part.
Dorothy, reading her sister’s mind with accuracy, bowed her head in prayer.
‘Oh, God,’ she prayed. ‘Let me pass the cuff-link over to Beryl without anyone noticing. Give me a chance to persuade her how important it is that she puts it back. And please, God, forgive me for meddling. Forgive me for letting this awful imagination of mine run away with me, and let them find the man who killed Ruby quickly, so that Margaret’s Gerald will be shown to be innocent, and forgive me for thinking that he had anything to do with it. Let it be that I turned him into a murderer in my mind because I don’t want him to marry my sister. Like something out of Margaret’s library book, as she explained. And tell Grandpa Bolton, if he’s up there with you, to stop nudging me and putting thoughts in my head, and words in my mouth. For the sake of your son, Jesus Christ, amen.’
And watching her younger daughter’s apparent devotion, Phyllis smiled to herself, well satisfied.
The child was merely going through a phase, that was all. Adolescence was a difficult time, she mused, twiddling with a pearl ear-ring that was in danger of coming adrift. Like the menopause, adolescence affected some worse than others. She stole a sideways glance at her elder daughter. Margaret, bless her, now she had never been adolescent. Not a moment’s worry since she was born. Phyllis looked up at the stained-glass window above the altar, depicting the Good Shepherd with the lost lamb in his arms. The colours were beautiful, especially with the sun slanting through them like that. Yes, it would be a worthy setting for the wedding ceremony. Margaret’s train would look lovely as it fanned out behind her as she walked with Gerald to be prayed over after they’d been pronounced man and wife. That would be the moment when the choir in their red surplices sang Love Divine in charming descant. And how beautifully the red roses in Margaret’s bouquet would tone in with the surplices, and how wise Gerald was to have decided on pale grey for his morning suit. With his red hair it would be just perfect. Phyllis sighed with contentment, then narrowed her eyes as her sister Ethel walked past the end of the pew accompanied by her husband. . . .
What was Ethel thinking about, wearing a purple hat to a dusty-pink coat? Really, she had no idea of what went with what, no idea of style at all. Goodness knows what she’d look like at the wedding, and goodness knows, Phyllis thought with pleasant smugness, what Beryl would look like in her bridesmaid’s dress, even though she had given strict instructions to the dressmaker to go easy on the gathers round the second bridesmaid’s dress.
She started as she felt Dorothy plucking at her sleeve.
‘Where’s Beryl?’ she was whispering. ‘Why isn’t she with Auntie Ethel and Uncle Raymond? I saw her yesterday and she said she’d be at church this morning. Why isn’t she . . .?’
The row of worshippers in the pew in front stood up, and as the processional came slowly from the vestry, the rest of the congregation scrambled to their feet, searching for the right place in their prayer books.
And with anguish eating into her heart, and a mist of fear clouding her eyes, Dorothy stared down at the
familiar words, her imagination taking wings again, soaring to the high dome of the ancient church.
‘Oh, God,’ she prayed as the congregation sank to their knees, ‘don’t let Gerald find that the cuff-link is missing. Let him decide to wear one of his sports shirts with buttons on the cuffs today. And, dear Lord, if he should discover that it’s gone, make him think that he’s forgotten where he put it. And let him be innocent of any involvement with Stanley’s poor dead sister. Let him be hateful and slimy, and a liar with a sordid past, but don’t let him have been Ruby Armstrong’s lover. And let this be a lesson to me for allowing this terrible imagination of mine to run away with me. And if Grandpa Bolton’s up there with you, tell him to stop prompting me about Gerald. Tell him that our Margaret loves him, and that he’ll make her a good husband. Amen . . .’
The child is getting religious, Phyllis told herself, noticing the way Dorothy sank to her knees for the prayers, holding her hands piously over her face, and the way her lips moved during the reading from the Old Testament. She saw the way her younger daughter’s eyes fixed themselves on the gold crucifix above the high altar, and the way her eyes filled with tears during the intoning of the Creed.
She wouldn’t, she told herself bitterly, put it past Dorothy to do something absolutely beyond the pale, like wanting to turn Catholic. It would be just like her. And during the sermon she debated with herself which would be the worst, having a daughter who owed allegiance to the Pope, or one who boasted a mother-in-law who took in washing. She rose to her feet without having heard a single word of the vicar’s short sermon, and sighed deeply. One thing she knew for sure, and that was that Dorothy would bring trouble. She felt in her bones that some way, somehow, this wilful child of hers would bring disgrace to them all.
‘But let Margaret get married first,’ was her final prayer. As the service ended, she collected gloves and handbag, and walked straight-backed from the church.
