The day room had been prepared with two semicircles of chairs set out to afford the best view of the makeshift stage. Simeon had created some rather elaborate canapés; not for the first time, Candice thought he was wasted working in a residential home.
Beau removed his guitar from its case, slung the strap over his shoulder and began to tune the instrument. ‘I can’t believe you talked me into this, Candice. I must want my head feeling.’
‘Don’t be like that, Beau. They’re going to love it, and I really want you to meet Jenny.’
He continued as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘I’m not even getting paid for it. When did I become such a soft touch?’ He strummed his fingers against the strings, the sound echoing in the empty room. ‘And look at the state of me. I’m supposed to be a rock star. I look like a geriatric Val Doonican.’
Candice had suggested he ditch the leather pants and ripped T-shirt and persuaded him to wear his dark jeans and a plain white cotton shirt. He had acquiesced to a point but had drawn the line at doing up his buttons, meaning his angel tattoo was still partially visible.
‘I’ve no idea who Val Whatshisname is, but you look gorgeous.’
‘Candice,’ boomed Simeon, entering the room holding aloft a silver platter. ‘I thought I heard voices.’ He set down the platter, gave her shoulders a squeeze and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Good to see you, kiddo.’
‘Hi, Simeon.’ She indicated Beau. ‘This is my boyfriend.’
Simeon held out his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Simeon.’
Beau didn’t look up. ‘All right, mate.’
Simeon glanced at Candice, his eyebrows raised. ‘Right, I’d . . . um . . . better crack on.’
‘Is he always like that?’ Beau asked once Simeon was out of earshot.
‘Yes, he is,’ she laughed. ‘He does have a bit of a quirky dress sense. Not everyone can carry off red trousers with a mustard jacket, and I shouldn’t think they’d want to. And the green bow tie is a step too far in my opinion, but he—’
‘I wasn’t talking about his crappy clothes. I meant is he always so bloody pervy? He was practically drooling over you.’
‘For God’s sake, Beau, Simeon’s a colleague, that’s all. He doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s married with three kids an’ all.’
‘That’s the drawback, I suppose,’ pouted Beau. ‘Now you’ve got this knockout figure, men just can’t keep their hands off you. Perhaps you should start piggin’ out again. I miss my little Chubster.’
She took a step towards him and removed the guitar, laying it down on the chair. ‘How many times, Beau? There’s only you. There’ll only ever be you. When will you realise that?’
He managed a smile. ‘It’s the downside of having a stunning girlfriend, I suppose.’ He reached up to touch her face. ‘Don’t ever leave me, Candice.’
She clamped his hand to her cheek. ‘Never.’
25
Candice has gone to a lot of trouble to organise this little musical evening for us. I can’t say I’m really looking forward to it, what with Beau Devine as the headline act. I’m still aghast that that’s his real name. Candice is convinced he was born to be a rock star. With a name like that, he was hardly going to end up as a banker or a scaffolder, but I think ‘rock star’ is pushing it a bit. I believe he’s toning down his act for us, though. Not many heavy rock fans in here. I’ve decided to give him a chance for Candice’s sake, even though I’ve pre-judged him and I’m rarely wrong about these things. People forget I’ve had a lifetime’s experience of men.
There’s a knock on the door and I heave myself to my feet. Frank’s standing there, elbow crooked in anticipation. ‘May I?’ he smiles.
‘You certainly may,’ I reply, linking my arm through his. ‘It’s not often I have such a hot date come to call for me.’
He laughs readily and leans in towards me, his generous dousing of cologne making my eyes water.
There’s a general hum of conversation as the room fills up and we settle down next to each other on the two comfiest seats at the front, thoughtfully reserved for us by Candice. A few feet away is a little wooden platform masquerading as a stage and a microphone on a thin silver pole. It’s more Darby and Joan than Bridgewater Hall, but it’ll do for us lot. From ‘backstage’, Candice sticks her head round the door and gives me a thumbs-up. She looks luminous, positively blooming, and for one awful moment I consider she might be pregnant. God, I hope not.
‘What’s up?’ asks Frank.
‘What? Nothing, why?’
‘You just have a frown on your face, that’s all.’
‘Nowt I can do about that, Frank. When you get to my age, it’s all just wrinkles we have no control over.’
There’s no time for his response as Candice walks out and claps her hands. She bows her head to the microphone. ‘Now then, settle down. I’d like you to give a warm Green Meadows welcome to our first act, Ellie Spencer. Ellie has been writing her own songs for several years now, quite a feat considering she’s only eighteen.’ She glances down at her card. ‘She has a four-octave vocal range and her voice has been compared to that of Mariah Carey.’
From the back, Mrs Culpepper says a little too loudly, ‘By whom? People who’ve never heard Mariah Carey?’
Candice is tight-lipped and wisely chooses to ignore the unnecessary barbed comment from her employer. ‘Please put your hands together for Ellie Spencer.’
Now, I’m tone deaf myself, but even I can tell that Ellie Spencer is quite a talent. I’ve no idea what a four-octave vocal range is, but she definitely sounds all right to me. She’s a bonny lass, with a sizeable chest that no doubt houses a pair of lungs that enable her to hit the glass-shattering high notes. She sings a couple of her own songs, then a couple of more familiar ones, and we give her a thunderous round of applause, and those that can, a standing ovation.
It’s Beau’s turn now, and he certainly has a hard act to follow. After Candice’s blushing introduction, I catch my first glimpse of him as he struts onto the stage. He raises one hand in the air to acknowledge the muted clapping. ‘Thank you,’ he says, adjusting his guitar strap. ‘It’s lovely to be here, thank you for having me. I hope you enjoy what I have to offer.’
I’m momentarily stunned. He seems like a thoroughly decent young man. He’s dressed conservatively, although I can see he has some sort of tattoo under his shirt. From the huge wings, I would guess at an eagle. He’s not wearing any eyeliner and he’s dispensed with the sunglasses. He has a small, hooped earring in one ear, but I can cope with that.
Frank nudges me. ‘Blimey, not what I was expecting at all.’
‘Nor me.’ I frown.
I can see Candice by the side of the stage. She’s gazing at Beau as though he’s the only other person in the room. He catches her looking and gives her a wink and a smile that looks like genuine affection. It’s such a tender, private moment I’m forced to look away, doubting myself. What if I’m wrong about him?
I assume these are not the songs he usually plays, because I know most of the words, and even though I wouldn’t inflict my limited vocal abilities on anyone else, some of the others are singing along. Frank is swaying and tapping out the rhythm on the arm of his chair. He raises his eyebrows and nods in my direction. ‘He’s pretty good, eh?’
‘He is,’ I say grudgingly.
He finishes with a jaunty version of ‘When I’m Sixty-Four’, seemingly oblivious to the fact that his audience would give their eye teeth to be sixty-four again. Then he takes a bow as Candice rushes onto the stage, her face a beacon of beaming pride.
We all put our hands together and someone at the back manages to produce a whistle through their false teeth.
‘Thank you,’ says Beau, taking another bow. ‘Thank you for having me.’
Candice leans into the microphone. ‘I hope you all enjoyed that. You’ve heard me raving about how good he is, and now that you’ve seen it for yourselves, you know I wasn’t kidding.’ She turns and kisse
s his cheek. ‘Thank you, Beau.’
After the lights have gone up, Simeon moves between us with platters of crab puffs and tiny beef-filled Yorkshire puddings. I take one of the latter and momentarily wonder if it’s a two-bite job or whether to shove the whole thing in at once. I decide to take the plunge, but haven’t bargained for the whoosh of horseradish, which causes my nose to fizz.
‘Jenny,’ says Candice as I whip out my hanky. ‘I’d like you to meet Beau.’
He sticks out his hand. ‘Good to meet you at last, Jenny. Candice is always talking about you.’ His palm is moist and clammy and it’s all I can do to resist rubbing my hand along the arm of my chair.
‘Is she now? I can’t imagine that’s a particularly interesting conversation.’
‘Oh, I just switch off. She’s always wittering on about something.’
Candice thumps him on the arm. ‘He’s only joking, Jenny.’
‘Are you looking forward to your trip?’ Beau asks as he squeezes Candice’s hand. ‘I know she is. She was that excited when I said she could go.’
I immediately bristle, and can’t help myself. ‘It was good of you to grant her permission.’
He makes a noise something between a scoff and a laugh. ‘Um . . . I’m not sure it was like that.’ He turns to Candice. ‘Was it, babe? You didn’t feel like you had to have my permission to go, did you?’
‘Course not,’ says Candice, although her voice is high and hollow. ‘Anyway, don’t you have to be off?’ She turns to me, her face flushed. ‘He’s doing a late-night set at the Lemon Tree. Makes sense as I’m here all night anyway.’
Beau presses his lips to hers. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, babe.’
He takes my hand again and looks me directly in the eye. ‘It was nice to meet you, Jenny.’ And he squeezes my hand just a little too hard.
I decide to wait in the day room until Candice has finished seeing to the others. I’m far too agitated to sleep anyway. Frank has left me with a balloon of brandy, which he assures me will help me drift off. I take a sip of the fiery liquid, but I’m not a fan. I’ll ask Candice to pop it into a mug of warm milk instead. The chairs have been cleared away and the only light comes from a standard lamp in the corner, which creates a soporific glow.
Candice gently pushes the door open and creeps into the room.
‘It’s all right, Candice. I’m still awake.’
‘Oh, lovely,’ she says breezily. ‘Can I get you anything else before you turn in?’
‘Some warm milk, please, but that can wait. Come and take the weight off for a while.’
She settles down on the chair next to me, kicks off her shoes and tucks her legs beneath her. ‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘What did you think of Beau?’
I swill the brandy round the glass, contemplating how to give an honest but inoffensive answer. ‘Well, I’m not sure I’m the best one to judge. There’s hyenas on the Serengeti that can carry a tune better than I can, but he sounds like a competent singer, as you said.’
‘And?’
I was really hoping she wouldn’t pick at this thread. I want to tell her he’s an arrogant, controlling manipulator with a very high opinion of himself but she’s perched with her hand under her chin, her eyes shining in anticipation. ‘He’s . . . um . . . charming,’ I finally manage.
‘Isn’t he just?’ she says. She closes her eyes and the smile on her lips suggests she’s thinking how lucky she is.
‘Candice,’ I venture with some trepidation. ‘Beau knows I’m paying for the trip, doesn’t he?’
‘Course he does. We couldn’t afford it otherwise.’
‘Then . . . um . . . I’m just wondering why you had to ask him for permission to go.’
Her head snaps up and she glares at me. ‘I knew you’d bring this up, Jenny. I didn’t have to ask for his permission. That came out all wrong. We talked about it and I asked if he minded if I went. It’s what couples do, in case you’ve forgotten.’
I’m momentarily stunned. Candice has never spoken to me like this before. ‘I’m sorry, love, I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘You don’t like him, do you?’
I don’t wish to incur her wrath, but I’m not going to lie either. ‘I don’t know him, Candice.’
‘You wouldn’t be so mean if you knew his background.’
Oh, here it is. She’s going to make all kinds of excuses for him. ‘Do you want to tell me?’
‘He’s an orphan.’
‘An orphan?’
‘Yes,’ she says determinedly. ‘His parents were killed in a plane crash nearly three years ago.’
‘A plane crash?’ I realise I’m sounding like a particularly dense parrot.
‘Yes, a light aircraft in Malaysia.’
‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘It was a special holiday to celebrate their anniversary, and they took a trip into the rainforest jungle type thing. The engine failed and killed both of them and the pilot as well.’
I have an image of a smouldering plane, broken in half, buried amongst the trees. ‘That’s awful, Candice. Poor Beau.’ I genuinely mean it.
‘He doesn’t have any brothers or sisters, so he’s only got me now, you see, and as I only have him, we need each other.’
I keep my tone level. ‘You should really only be with somebody because you want to be, not because you need to be.’
‘I do want to be.’
‘How long have you known him?’
She hesitates a little too long and her answer only comes out as a whisper. ‘Seven months.’
‘Is that all?’ I say, genuinely shocked. ‘You didn’t waste much time before moving in together.’
‘A month.’ She shrugs.
The brandy balloon is now warm in my hands and I risk a tentative swig. She looks crestfallen, and I decide to tread more carefully. ‘You can’t rush into these things, Candice.’ I reach for her hand, clasping it between mine. ‘There’s nobody who knows that better than I do.’
26
1940
She stood outside the police station, a rolled-up sheaf of papers clutched in her fist. She’d left her cane behind, not wishing it to be a reminder that she might be slightly less able than her peers. Especially today, it was crucial not to display any signs of weakness. She swatted at the irritating cloud of midges buzzing around her head and adjusted the angle of her straw hat before striding up the three stone steps and through the heavy door, bracing herself for the confrontation. There was nobody behind the desk. She banged her palm on the brass bell several times.
‘All right, calm down,’ came the disembodied voice from the back. ‘I’m on my break here.’
Sergeant Williams appeared, rubbing his eyes. ‘Oh, it’s you. What can I do for you?’
Jenny slammed the roll of papers on the desk. Sergeant Williams glanced down but didn’t touch them. ‘And what, pray, is this?’
‘It’s a petition.’
‘A petition?’
‘That’s right. A petition demanding the release of Enzo and Domenico Bernardi. It’s been signed by everybody in town . . . well, almost everybody. Obviously there’s still a small number of petty-minded, ignorant people who know no better, but they’re in the minority, thankfully. It’s outrageous what you’re doing to the Bernardi family, and the people of Penlan demand that they be released forthwith.’ She took a deep breath and balled her fists to prevent her hands from shaking.
Sergeant Williams narrowed his eyes but said nothing. He picked up the bundle of papers and met her eyes with a penetrating stare before turning away and dropping it into the metal bin.
‘What are you doing? You can’t do that. Get them out at once.’
He leaned so far over the desk that she could smell the Camp coffee essence on his breath. ‘Listen to me. I don’t know who you think you are, or indeed who you think I am.’ He cast his arm around the station. ‘This is my jurisdiction. You think I can swan up to M
r Churchill brandishing your little pile of papers, demanding the release of prisoners of war?’
Tears of frustration threatened, but she would not give him the satisfaction. ‘They’re enemy aliens, not prisoners of war.’
‘It makes no difference, there’s nothing I can do.’ He wiggled his fingers. ‘Now run along, there’s a good girl, and stop wasting valuable police time, or else I’ll have to charge you.’
‘Oh, you think you’re so clever, don’t you? You won’t get away with this. That petition is a properly orchestrated demonstration of the way people around here feel. You can’t just ignore it.’ She prodded the desk with her finger. ‘You haven’t heard the last of this.’
Sergeant Williams was already flicking through his newspaper. ‘I asked you to leave.’
The day was warm and sticky and she could feel the sweat moistening the back of her neck. She removed her straw hat and fanned herself with it as she crossed the square and sat down next to Lena under the shade of the canopy. ‘I tried, Lena, I really did, but bloody Sergeant Williams was useless.’
Lena poured her a glass of ginger beer. ‘I appreciate your efforts, Jenny. Is so kind of you. And just seeing all those names, well, it really gladden my heart. It make me realise that perhaps we are loved in this town after all.’
‘You are,’ Jenny emphasised. ‘By most people, anyway. There’ll always be a few nasty bigots, but they’re not worth worrying about.’
In spite of the unappetising brown froth floating on the surface, she took a polite sip of the ginger beer, peering over the top of her glass at the older woman. The last three weeks had ravaged Lena almost beyond recognition. Her hair was now completely white and her face seemed to sag under the weight of excess skin. Jenny patted the back of her hand. ‘You’ll get through this, Lena. I promise we’ll all be here for you, so don’t you . . . Lena?’
Lena had stopped listening and now rose slowly from her chair, staring past Jenny. She clutched at the gold cross around her neck and brought it to her lips. ‘E un miracolo.’ She dropped to her knees, seemingly oblivious to the hard cobbles. ‘Santa Maria, madre di Dio.’
The Memory Box Page 14
