Indian Summer

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘I don’t have anything to wear,’ Mirabelle repeated.

  ‘Oh. Yes. Of course.’

  The doctor disappeared for a minute and came back with a grey woollen blanket and a worn pair of wooden-soled sandals. ‘They don’t have anything else,’ she said apologetically. ‘They want the sandals back.’ Mirabelle pulled the blanket around her. ‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘It’s not far.’

  WPC Bunch drove Mirabelle home along Western Road as the sky was beginning to darken. The chimney smell of fires lighting in the twilight enriched the coming darkness.

  ‘Were you scared?’ Bunch asked as the lights on New Church Road turned green.

  ‘Not really. I was too busy trying to figure out how to get out,’ Mirabelle said. ‘I fell asleep twice.’

  ‘Down there?’

  ‘At the side. During the war, resistance fighters lived in the sewers.’

  ‘I knew the Jews got out through the sewers. In Warsaw,’ Bunch replied. ‘I didn’t know anybody lived down there.’

  ‘What did you do during the war, Jessica?’

  ‘I’d only just left school at the end. I was a secretary,’ Bunch said. ‘APC.’

  ‘I did secretarial work as well.’

  On the front, Bunch pulled up the car at the door. She’d clearly been comprehensively briefed.

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ Mirabelle insisted.

  ‘Sergeant Belton said to see you inside, miss.’

  Bunch silently followed her upstairs. Her still gaze took in the flat, the cornice catching the last of the light from outside. She closed the front door behind them with a click. Mirabelle switched on a lamp.

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘Not on duty, miss.’

  Mirabelle sank on to the sofa. ‘Me neither.’ She didn’t want Bunch to leave, she realised. She didn’t want to be alone. The policewoman seemed to sense it. She hovered beside the table. ‘Is there anybody I could call for you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to trouble them.’

  ‘A neighbour perhaps?’

  Downstairs, the flat was almost permanently empty. Upstairs, a man had moved in. Mirabelle had seen him twice on the stairs, both of them studiously not mentioning the tragedy that had happened to the last occupant and the fire that had ripped through the building as a result.

  ‘No. There’s nobody.’ She glanced through to the bedroom, remembering Chris Williams and what they’d done there.

  Then Mirabelle jumped as a brisk knock sounded on the door. She wondered if it might be McGregor but, when Bunch opened it, Vesta and Charlie stood in the frame. Charlie clutched Noel in his arms, wrapped in a soft blue blanket. The baby was sleeping. Vesta held a pile of brown paper parcels.

  ‘I thought you’d be hungry,’ she said.

  Mirabelle felt tears prick her eyes. Charlie disappeared into the kitchen to fetch plates. Vesta dumped the chips on the table and put her arm around Mirabelle.

  ‘You gave us quite a fright.’

  Mirabelle began to sob gently.

  ‘Well, I’d better be going.’ Bunch hovered momentarily and then disappeared out of the door.

  ‘They’re calling it Dead Man’s City down there,’ Vesta said. ‘You must have been terrified.’

  Mirabelle blew her nose on a handkerchief.

  ‘That blanket looks terrible on you. Grey isn’t your colour,’ Vesta grinned as she disappeared into Mirabelle’s bedroom and emerged with her robe. Mirabelle pulled it around her and Charlie set the table, tucking Noel neatly into place on one of the armchairs. He got to his knees in front of the fireplace and began to pile wood into the grate, twisting newspaper spills into the gaps and lighting them. I’m a crooked log, she thought. Just like in Father Grogan’s notebook.

  ‘You want me to fix that?’ Charlie asked, indicating the stopped clock on the mantel.

  Mirabelle nodded. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I’ve been meaning to wind it for ages.’

  They ate with their fingers, Mirabelle’s appetite returned only as the food hit her stomach. Panther was recovering, Vesta said. Bill had taken him for a swim in the sea. He swore by the saltwater as a cure. ‘I think looking after Panther is helping him, you know.’

  ‘I’ll see him tomorrow. I’m sorry I missed the funeral.’

  ‘Don’t come in tomorrow, Mirabelle. Sleep,’ Vesta said, licking her fingers.

  Afterwards, Vesta folded the paper carefully and tipped it on to the fire. The flames curled around the edges, engulfing it. Charlie slapped his stomach and turned his attention to the clock.

  ‘I can’t imagine not wanting … you know – a baby,’ Vesta said, glancing at Noel. ‘All those women.’

  ‘Not everybody is in the same position as you.’

  ‘Even if I was on my own,’ Vesta said.

  ‘You weren’t happy to start with when Noel came along.’ Mirabelle glanced at Charlie, who was winding the mechanism furiously.

  ‘I just can’t imagine making that decision. I mean, living with that decision. Afterwards.’

  The clock began to tick loudly. Charlie closed the back. ‘I reckon it’s a lady’s choice,’ he said. ‘They should be able to make that call.’

  ‘And you’d have said that even if I had … you know, when I was pregnant with Noel?’

  ‘Baby, I wouldn’t have been happy, but when did I ever tell you what to do?’

  When the Lewises had left, Mirabelle sat staring at the charcoal-grey ocean beyond the glass. It felt as if the world had changed. She had unravelled a knot and now the threads of it had simply disappeared. Gone, like the summer. She wondered if the sewer ran under her house and if she and Panther had passed beneath it. She’d notice the manhole covers now, she thought. She’d make a point of it.

  Epilogue

  We will burn that bridge when we come to it

  Mirabelle could tell it was windy outside because of the waves. They broke on the shore in a particularly energetic fashion, the grey surface of the sea whipped up like churning butter. She lay in bed, making a list of things she needed to do, and then she opened the wardrobe and sat in front of it, staring at her clothes. It took her half an hour just to get dressed. Checking herself over in the mirror, she slammed the front door behind her and headed towards Church Street. At the bakery she ordered a cake to be delivered to the children’s home the following day and a tray of sausage rolls.

  ‘And the inscription?’ the assistant asked.

  ‘Happy Birthday, Peter,’ Mirabelle said. ‘Could you deliver it in the morning?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘With the compliments of Mirabelle Bevan.’

  When she reached Western Road she clattered upstairs to the bookings office for the variety. Inside, the wall was covered with black-and-white photographs of acts she’d seen at the Hippodrome and the Royal Pavilion. A bored-looking woman with long red nails slid a sharpened pencil between her fingers as if it was a weapon.

  ‘Tomorrow?’ the girl said in reply to Mirabelle’s enquiry. She slid the pencil down the bookings in the diary.

  ‘In the afternoon,’ Mirabelle insisted. ‘I would like a magician and somebody to sing. It’s a children’s party.’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s short notice.’

  Mirabelle drew out her purse. ‘I’m sure you can help me.’

  Slowly, the girl smiled.

  Five minutes later and a full ten pounds lighter in the wallet, Mirabelle continued to the front, where she collected her summer jacket and umbrella from the desk at the Old Ship.

  ‘Sign here, Mrs Williams,’ the clerk said, turning around the Lost Property book and offering Mirabelle his fountain pen. She decided not to argue. As she signed, she realised the man was staring at her and wondered if it was because he knew she was no more Mrs Williams than the Queen herself, or if he’d heard about her escapade in the sewers. He was far too discreet to say which one was on his mind, though not discreet enough to hide his curiosity.

  Back outside she turned towards Kemptown, ignorin
g the headlines on the newspaper stand about the dead women whose bodies she’d found and the disarray of the Brighton Force as Chief Constable Ridge announced the upcoming inquiry. Across Old Steine and up St James’s Street, she turned off to the right, slipping past McGregor’s house and up the path of the B&B where Jinty had booked in.

  ‘I’m looking for Miss Lucy Hangleton,’ she said when the door opened.

  ‘Gone,’ the woman declared and crossed her arms.

  ‘Do you know where she went?’

  ‘I know she left in the night on Sunday without paying her bill,’ the woman said. ‘Like a thief.’

  Mirabelle’s forehead creased with concern. ‘Was she alone? I mean, did she have any visitors?’

  ‘Not that I know of. She seemed so quiet. Little cow,’ the landlady added. ‘Forgive my French. I knew there was something funny – a girl like that with no luggage, arriving at night. She didn’t leave her room either. I wouldn’t take her again, let me tell you that.’

  The woman closed the door.

  Mirabelle walked back down the pathway. She loitered on the pavement, waited a moment, and then took the decision to rap on McGregor’s door. Brownlee appeared.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘It’s you.’

  This, Mirabelle thought, was an improvement. At least it constituted some kind of greeting.

  ‘I wanted to check you’d found Rene.’

  Brownlee shook her head. ‘Gone,’ she said. ‘And all the girls with her. Mr McGregor went up to that house and it was cleared out. Even the maid.’

  ‘And Rene’s friend – did you know Jinty?’

  ‘I didn’t socialise with them, Miss Bevan. Mr McGregor has put out feelers. He’ll find Rene.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Mirabelle said. McGregor, it turned out, was steelier than she’d reckoned.

  ‘Well. He’s not in,’ Miss Brownlee snapped, as if she could read Mirabelle’s mind.

  On St James’s Street she bought a bunch of dahlias and then she walked up to the churchyard at St Magnus. Julie’s grave was marked with a wooden cross, the earth newly turned over. Mirabelle laid the dahlias on top of it and hovered for a moment. She couldn’t pray. She’d been like that for years now. Still, it marked her respect at least.

  Afterwards, she walked back to the front. The wind still whipped off the ocean, catching her breath as she continued, taking the stairs on to the pebble beach. She raised her hand to hail the deckchair attendant, handing over a coin without even being asked.

  ‘You sure? It’s breezy today.’

  Mirabelle nodded. ‘Over there,’ she pointed halfway down the beach. ‘I want to keep away from the pier.’

  He cast her a glance but didn’t show any sign of bringing up what had happened as he set off to put the deckchair in place. Mirabelle pulled her coat around her shoulders. Above, a couple kissed, leaning against the rail. The wind caught the man’s hat and it flew off, over the pebbles and into the water. The attendant wandered back up the beach as Mirabelle sat down. The front was quieter than it had been for weeks – only a dog walker and a tramp passing in over an hour. At midday the clouds parted, revealing a patch of vivid blue sky. Mirabelle smiled, feeling the sun on her face. When McGregor approached, she didn’t notice him at first.

  ‘Enjoying the weather?’

  ‘I’m recuperating,’ she replied.

  ‘Quite right. You should be good to yourself. I spoke to Mary Needle’s mother this morning. She said to thank you.’

  ‘And the others?’

  ‘We’re working on it. We’ll identify them.’ He paused. ‘Mirabelle, I meant what I said. What I asked you, the other day. About us.’

  Mirabelle stared at him. The wind was whipping the edges of his mackintosh and his cheeks were slightly flush. He seemed tall from where she was sitting – taller than usual – bigger than she’d thought he was. He’d changed things – set them right, or tried to. He wasn’t the monster she’d decided he was – the man she’d been avoiding for the last year. She felt a twist of guilt about Chris Williams.

  ‘Things have changed me,’ she said. ‘These last few days, in fact, I’ve felt differently about everything – I’ve made mistakes, I know I have. Perhaps the way forward isn’t as clear as I thought.’

  ‘It’s not too unclear, I hope.’

  ‘I don’t want to investigate any more, Alan.’

  McGregor laughed. ‘Well, good. Maybe you could leave things to me?’

  ‘And I want to be honest. I was seeing him. Chris Williams, I mean. Romantically.’

  ‘I know. I’ve never been the jealous type. You’ve had a tough time, Mirabelle, and arguing about that kind of thing won’t help either of us. He’s gone and, well, I’ve done things too, haven’t I? Can you forgive me for what happened to Freddy Fox?’

  Mirabelle considered. Slowly she nodded. ‘I’d rather it hadn’t happened that way,’ she said.

  ‘Me too.’ He reached out and squeezed her hand. ‘I suppose what we’ve both learned is that you can only do your best.’

  He was right.

  Above, the sun showed for a moment and he took his hand back. She still hadn’t answered his question.

  ‘Do you know where Jinty went?’ she asked, changing the subject.

  McGregor shifted. He didn’t like to push her – Mirabelle had been through a lot. She needed time. ‘As far as I can tell, she disappeared on Saturday night – last seen at the Old Ship having a drink with you, by all reports. Later I must take a statement from you about it – all of it.’

  ‘She booked into a bed and breakfast that night but she absconded on Sunday night.’

  ‘Do you know where she might have gone?’

  ‘Maybe you should check the railway station? She was wearing a summer dress. I can give you a description.’

  He nodded. ‘Come in to Bartholomew Square and we’ll get all the details.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘That’s fine. If you’ll have dinner with me tonight, that is.’ He couldn’t quite leave it alone but she smiled. Perhaps she didn’t want him to.

  High above, a gull was gliding on the breeze. She could swear the bird was enjoying itself. ‘Anywhere but the Old Ship,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll pick you up at eight.’ He bent to kiss her on the cheek. ‘You make a difference,’ he said. ‘You have made a difference. You know that, don’t you? That’s all any of us want, Mirabelle.’

  She felt like crying. ‘I’ll see you later,’ she said. He turned up the beach.

  Perhaps things would seem less grubby now. Perhaps they could set things straight. She settled in the deckchair and watched McGregor as he picked his way back to the promenade. As he turned, she raised her hand and he raised his, then he disappeared up East Street.

  AUTHOR NOTE

  The quotations and misquotations used to open each chapter are taken from the following sources:

  All things are only transitory: Goethe. How paramount the future is when one is surrounded by children: Charles Darwin. Nature does nothing in vain: Aristotle. Memory is the art of attention: Samuel Johnson. Alibi: a form of defence wherein the accused attempts to prove that he was in another place at the time an offence was committed. Excellence is a habit: Aristotle. A good marksman may miss: traditional. The life of the dead is in the memory of the living: Cicero. Reason is not what decides love: Molière. Knowledge is true opinion: Plato. The lonely wear a mask: Joseph Conrad. Justice is moderation regulated by wisdom: Aristotle. Live your beliefs and you can turn the world around: Henry David Thoreau. Admiration and love are like being intoxicated with champagne: Boswell. Grief is the garden of compassion: Rumi. Between men and women there is no friendship possible: Oscar Wilde. The gods are too fond of a joke: Aristotle. It is never too late to give up our prejudices: Henry David Thoreau. There is nothing we receive with so much reluctance as advice: Joseph Addison. Undercover: to disguise identity to avoid detection. A foul morn may turn to a fair day: traditional. The best prophet of the future is the past:
Byron. Do not be too moral. You may cheat your self out of much life: Henry David Thoreau. The quarrels of lovers are the renewal of love: Jean Racine. We die only once and for such a long time: Molière. Blood spilt cries out for more: Aeschylus. Judge a man by his questions rather than his answers: Voltaire. The hardest victory is over yourself: Aristotle. Distrust any enterprise that requires new clothes: Henry David Thoreau. Courage is knowing what to fear: Plato. A crime is a matter of law. Every man is guilty of all the good he did not do: Voltaire. Wisdom: to make good decisions. Essential are: something to do, something to love and something to hope for: Joseph Addison. Beauty is everywhere a welcome guest: Goethe. Justice in the extreme is often unjust: Jean Racine. We will burn that bridge when we come to it: Goethe.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks always to Jenny Brown, my brilliant agent. To my editors, Krystyna Green, Amanda Keats and Penny Isaac, for your eagle eyes. And lastly to my own Big Al and to Molly, for meaning the world.