Indian Summer

by Sara Sheridan

  Chapter Twelve

  Live your beliefs and you can turn the world around

  Mirabelle had kept away from Kemptown for over a year. She felt uncomfortable, even walking along the front in that direction. Superintendent McGregor lived in one of the Georgian streets that ran at right angles to Marine Parade. His housekeeper, Betty Brownlee, had silently made it known that she disapproved of Mirabelle when things had begun to go wrong. Miss Brownlee, a steely sixty-three-year-old, had banged a plate down in front of Mirabelle the last time she had eaten in McGregor’s dining room and had not offered butter to go with the bread. It had been a declaration, if not of war, then of strong disapproval that Mirabelle and the superintendent had argued. Miss Brownlee shopped locally and Mirabelle hoped, most heartily, that today she wouldn’t run into her. She picked up the pace as she passed the bottom of McGregor’s street, casting her eyes unwillingly along the terrace. The sign outside his house declared ‘No Vacancies’ for bed and breakfast – an indication that business was going well, even now, at the tail end of the season. Mirabelle thought wistfully of Miss Brownlee’s delicious pâté, which came with an aromatic dollop of homemade chutney, and then put the matter out of her mind.

  At Rock Terrace she cut away from the sea and crossed the main road on to West Drive alongside the park. The sound of children playing floated on the warm air, and she wondered if there were swings across the lawns. It was a lovely area. Today, though, was evidently bin day, and she swerved the rubbish bins out on the street for collection. Number seventeen was a traditional, brick-built semi-detached house. It looked reliable – exactly the kind of place you’d expect a doctor to live. The front door was painted red and the front garden sported a vivid array of red flowers. The last of the summer roses were still on display, as well as a bright scatter of chrysanthemums and a cluster of unusual red nasturtiums. A ginger cat sat on the doorstep enjoying the sunshine. It looked up lazily as Mirabelle opened the gate, only jumping to its feet and stalking off when it became absolutely clear that Mirabelle was not going to deviate from the path.

  She rang the bell. It took a minute or two but then she discerned the muffled sound of steps approaching and the door opened. A tall white woman in an elegant green silk dress stood on the doorstep. Her strawberry-blonde hair was tied in a high ponytail. Mirabelle smiled.

  ‘Is this the right house for Mrs Simpson?’ she asked.

  The woman smiled indulgently, stretching her red lipstick into a long line. ‘Yes. I’m she.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mirabelle felt quite floored. ‘I was expecting a woman who was from India,’ she said.

  The tall woman shrugged. ‘Uma,’ she called over her shoulder.

  Uma emerged into the hallway. She was wearing an orange sari and gardening gloves. Without her nurse’s cap her dark hair fell about her shoulders. ‘Oh,’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh no.’

  The tall woman interposed herself. ‘Are you a patient? Whatever happened, it isn’t Uma’s fault, for heaven’s sake,’ she snapped.

  Uma hovered nervously behind her.

  ‘I’m not a patient.’ Mirabelle wondered what on earth the woman meant.

  ‘She came to the children’s home with the little Jamaican girl,’ Uma cut in. ‘The one who keeps running off. She was there the day the priest died.’

  ‘Father Grogan was murdered. Poisoned,’ Mirabelle corrected her. ‘That is why I came to see you.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Information, I suppose. I’m not a police officer or anything …’

  ‘Look, you can’t just turn up like this. It isn’t Uma’s fault. I’m sorry but this really isn’t on. Go away.’

  The door slammed shut so hard that the small brass handle bounced off the wood. Mirabelle took a step away from the threshold, taken aback as the cat stared nonchalantly from the side of the path and licked its paw with its head cocked to one side, like an embarrassed guest at a cocktail party. Then, with her resolve hardened, she pressed once more on the bell. There was the sound of movement behind the door and the curtains in the window to the left were firmly drawn shut. As quietly as she could, Mirabelle pushed the letterbox open and peered through. An interior door with a glazed panel was closed. Behind it the vague shapes of the two women, one with light hair, dressed in green, one with dark hair, dressed in orange, receded down the hallway.

  Mirabelle considered. There wasn’t much she could do. They were entitled to not answer the door if they chose not to – she’d turned up unannounced, after all, and she didn’t know them. But still, it would seem Uma and her friend were afraid of something. Perhaps disgruntled patients were a regular intrusion. Mirabelle withdrew a business card from her bag and scrambled to find a pencil. Then she wrote I only want to talk and popped the card through the letterbox, listening as it fell on to the tiled floor.

  There was, it seemed, no point in waiting, but she found herself unwilling to leave. She turned. The street seemed quiet. The park opposite the run of houses was a uniform pale green compared to the peppery, warm tones of Nurse Uma’s front garden. Mirabelle hovered for a few moments next to one of the rose bushes. Then she made the decision to cross the road.

  A little way down the pavement, she slipped through the wrought-iron gate into the park and found a bench to sit on. Through the fence and the hedges she could still just make out the nurse’s house. The red of the front door made it easy to spot through the foliage. She needed a moment or two, she realised, to process what had happened. She kept coming back to the picture in her head of the women’s vague figures disappearing down the hallway, and to the blonde woman’s strange comment. She clearly had assumed Mirabelle had been a patient or, presumably, given where Uma worked, a patient’s mother. It was an odd assumption. Families were usually grateful to the medical staff who cared for them and their families. Nurses made patients comfortable, after all. When she had visited Vesta in hospital after she had given birth, the nurse’s station was awash with thank-you cards; one, she had noted, was even from the grandmother of a child who had died.

  She was about to get to her feet and go back to the office. After all, perhaps the women would reconsider and telephone. Just as she was turning, her eye was caught by movement through the leaves. The red door was momentarily obscured as a car pulled up in front of number seventeen. Mirabelle peered short-sightedly through the hedge. She got up and pushed her way through the branches so she could see more clearly. The car was a Jaguar – a blue one. A thin, dark-eyed man with a moustache got out and rang the doorbell. There was no reply. He checked his watch and rang again, this time for several seconds. Then he took his finger off the bell and pressed it one more time. Mirabelle had counted to fifteen before he stopped ringing. She would never have done something so churlish. Undeterred, the fellow opened the letterbox and shouted through it. She couldn’t quite make out the words but he said something along the lines of ‘I haven’t got all day.’

  A moment later, the door snapped open. The blonde stood on the threshold with her arms crossed. She didn’t invite the man in, Mirabelle noted, as she strained to catch the woman’s words. Luckily, his bell-ringing had riled her and she raised her voice. ‘Jesus! You’ll have to wait,’ she said. The man’s voice was lower and more difficult to make out, but Mirabelle managed a few of the words. ‘You bloody dykes,’ he snarled. ‘You’ll do as you’re told.’ His tone was threatening and he sounded as if he was from London – somewhere rough, she thought, where they didn’t normally drive blue Jaguars. From inside the house, Uma appeared. She had changed into her nurse’s uniform, and pushed past the blonde and down the path without saying goodbye. The man smirked. He handed over a small parcel to the grimacing woman in the doorway and then followed Uma to his car, where she meekly got into the back seat and waited for him to drive away.

  ‘The women are lovers,’ Mirabelle breathed. ‘Of course.’

  She craned, trying to read the number plate as the car receded, but the hedge was too dense. Instead, she turned her a
ttention to the possible cause of such a visit. Where was Nurse Uma going in uniform, on her day off, she wondered. And in such curious company. As Mirabelle emerged, pushing the branches aside, a couple walking a Labrador glared at her. ‘It’s just a drunk woman in the shrubbery. Don’t look, Cynthia,’ the man said under his breath.

  Mirabelle smoothed down her skirt and stalked back to the bench, taking her seat as elegantly as she could manage. Questions were racing through her mind. What was in the parcel the man had handed over? Had the women known this man was on his way? Were the women being blackmailed because of their relationship? The law was murky for women who loved women, with prosecutions reserved for men who loved each other. But still, you wouldn’t advertise it or want your family to know.

  Mirabelle suddenly wished she had a whisky. She checked her watch. Vesta would be back by now, she thought as she hurriedly got to her feet. She should return to the office before going home to change for dinner. Maybe if she just let it settle, she’d manage to figure out what was going on. She certainly hadn’t received the reception she had expected – unannounced or not. As she strode on to the pavement from the park, she cast a glance back at the house. The downstairs curtains were still closed.

  Towards town, the streets became busier. The shops on St James’s Street were crowded. The buildings were higgledypiggledy in this part of town, the façades painted different colours. In the sunshine it felt quite continental. Mirabelle enjoyed the feeling of sun on her face. The bustle of Brighton up here, where the locals shopped, was one of the best things about the old place.

  She was just striding out when she spotted Miss Brownlee on the other side of the street. She’d been so taken up by the mystery of Uma and her friend’s behaviour that she hadn’t even been looking. Panicked, Mirabelle ducked into a doorway and watched. Miss Brownlee’s shopping basket was threaded solidly over her arm and her hair was covered in a gaudy rayon scarf. Mirabelle had sent her a red silk square two Christmases ago, but Miss Brownlee had never liked it. Almost directly opposite now, she stopped and chatted to a fishmonger in white wellingtons who was sweeping his doorstep – a broom in one hand and a rubber hose in the other. Rivulets of water tipped over the pavement’s edge into the gutter. Miss Brownlee stepped back but, Mirabelle noted, did not stop talking.

  Suddenly Mirabelle missed the green dining room and Miss Brownlee’s warm, yeasty bread so much that she could almost taste it. The easy familiarity of dinner with Alan McGregor, her hand on his thigh beneath the table, felt like a loss. The fishmonger propped his brush against the window and went inside to fetch something. Mirabelle turned, not wanting to be spotted. She waited. Coming out, moments later, Miss Brownlee popped a parcel of fish wrapped in paper into her basket and turned in the direction of home.

  Mirabelle stepped out again, pointedly ignoring the pub on the corner. It felt like sadness stalked her the minute she relaxed, but there was no way back. Miss Brownlee didn’t know what Mirabelle knew about Alan McGregor. There was no point in becoming nostalgic for past times – she didn’t regret leaving McGregor, she assured herself; it was only sentimentality. The truth was that he was entirely the wrong sort of man.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Admiration and love are like being intoxicated with champagne

  Dr Williams picked Mirabelle up at eight o’clock sharp. The sun had gone down and – outside the window – the navy sky was punctuated by streetlights all the way along the front. Mirabelle had had time for a steamy hot bath, perfumed with a peach bubble bath that Vesta had insisted she buy when they went up to London on their last shopping trip before the baby had been born. ‘It’s so glamorous,’ Vesta had enthused, pointing out the gilded cap and the signature on the bottle.

  The last few months, as her stomach had grown larger and larger, Vesta had craved glamour. She had bought high-heeled shoes she couldn’t wear with swollen ankles, and an array of lipsticks. ‘You should have that, Mirabelle,’ she had insisted, holding up the bubble bath to the light. It certainly smelled nice, Mirabelle thought, though until now she’d hadn’t had occasion to use it. When she had dried herself, she chose her outfit carefully – a peacock blue, tailored silk dress and a pair of very high heels. As a finishing touch, she arranged her hair in a chignon and then applied a splash of Italian bergamot scent and a creamy spot of peach Dior on her lips. She was pleased with what she saw as she checked herself in the mirror, only just ready when the doorbell sounded. She grabbed her angora stole as she opened the door, and as the doctor’s gaze fell on her he let out a low whistle. When he kissed her cheek, he lingered and she let him. Then he wrapped the stole around her shoulders and she grabbed her clutch bag. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

  The evening air was smooth on her skin. Chris drove along the front and pulled up outside the Old Ship Hotel. Mirabelle passed here almost every day but had never entered. At night, the doorman wore a top hat so shiny that it reflected the streetlights. He bowed as they passed, pulling the door out of their path. ‘This way,’ the doctor guided her, his hand steady on her back. The restaurant was only half full and they slipped into a table near the window. As she sat down Mirabelle smiled. It felt good to be here. The thick linen cloth and glinting tableware bespoke a treat ahead. The doctor ordered champagne without looking at the wine list.

  ‘What were you thinking of having?’ he asked.

  ‘Steak,’ she said.

  ‘Not a vanilla slice?’

  She shook her head.

  He barely looked at the menu. ‘The chef here is Swiss,’ he said. Then he ordered pâté followed by fillet steak for both of them. ‘Medium rare, all right?’ She nodded.

  When the waiter took away the menu, the doctor offered her a Dunhill cigarette from a smart silver case that was engraved with his initials.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘You don’t smoke?’

  ‘Hardly ever.’

  He closed the case with a decisive click, without availing himself of a cigarette. Then he raised his glass. ‘To dinner with you.’

  Mirabelle sipped. This man seemed entirely too smooth, but he was charming and far better dressed than the superintendent had ever been. Miss Brownlee kept McGregor’s clothes in good order, but he was no dandy. By comparison, Dr Williams enjoyed the cut of his jacket and the expertly knotted tie at his throat – she could tell. She cursed herself for allowing McGregor into her thoughts – really, it couldn’t be helped. She’d better get it over with.

  ‘Doctor Williams—’ she started.

  ‘Chris,’ he cut in.

  She paused. ‘Chris. I feel I should tell you. I had a relationship before.’

  ‘With Alan McGregor, you mean? He must be a fool to let you go.’

  ‘He hasn’t entirely. It’s been over a year. I don’t want to make things difficult for you at work.’

  ‘Let me worry about that.’

  ‘You’ll come in for some stick. They think I am a kind of harpy at Bartholomew Square.’

  ‘As I understand it, you’re very efficient.’

  ‘Compared to Inspector Robinson.’

  ‘You do yourself down.’

  She realised that she had and wondered why. She wasn’t usually so coy.

  The pâté arrived – a thick slab, sealed with butter, served with small rounds of toast. Beyond the window, the bright lights of the pier twinkled against the dark sky. Outlined by the low moon, Mirabelle made out figures promenading along the front – girls in pastel dresses striding out with men in dark jackets; a silent fashion show. Brighton felt exciting every evening of the year this close to the centre. People dressed up. Once she had genuinely worried about being able to breathe on the bus because there was so much hair lacquer on the air. That and the cigarette smoke.

  ‘Where did you read medicine?’

  Chris bit into a slice of toast to which he had liberally applied the pâté. ‘Bristol,’ he said. ‘I come from Bristol. Well, just outside. Then I went up to London and finished at Guy’s.’
>
  ‘You missed the war?’

  ‘Not quite.’

  She took this in. ‘I’m thirty-eight years old, Mirabelle. Just ask, if you want to know.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She blushed. It seemed such bad manners.

  ‘It’s all right. It’s on your mind. I look younger, I know. I shouldn’t but I do.’

  Mirabelle laughed.

  ‘What?’ his tone was insistent.

  ‘You make yourself sound like some kind of hard-living Lothario.’

  ‘Maybe I am hard living. Do you like your men dangerous?’

  Her eyes slid across the tableau of the dining room. The sound of cutlery on porcelain accompanied the low hum of conversation. The scene was nothing if not civilised. She felt glad the nearest table wasn’t close enough to hear their conversation. The doctor put down his knife.

  ‘Next time, I see I’ll have to take you to some dreadful dive. Would you prefer that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said honestly.

  He laughed. Then sipped the champagne and leaned forwards, reaching for her hand. His touch was firm. He appeared quite unabashed by her frankness. She clasped his fingers and focused on his blue, blue eyes.

  ‘I like you a lot already,’ he said.

  ‘Is that unusual for you?’

  ‘Yes. Actually. Yes.’

  ‘You go out with women you don’t like?’

  ‘Sometimes. I suppose.’

  ‘Because they are beautiful?’

  ‘And then I get bored. I don’t suppose I will get bored with you.’

  Mirabelle pushed away her plate. ‘I’m not sure I can do this. Embark on it, I mean.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m not sure I want to.’

  She blushed at her bluntness, but he brought it out in her. It had taken years before she had had a conversation even approaching this honest with McGregor. Chris filled her glass. ‘Tell me, what did you do today?’