Dead Gorgeous Page 9

  ‘They’re neighbours. I’m not without friends, believe me.’

  ‘Friends? Up here in London? Who, for instance?’

  ‘Um, people you wouldn’t know. Ex-service.’

  She was too late to bite back the last words. Her mother gave her a sharp look. God, how much longer would the kettle take? She tried turning the gas up. It was already fully on.

  The cross-questioning began in earnest. ‘Air Force people then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ex-service, you said. You don’t mean the men in the other room?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘WAAFs?’

  ‘You wouldn’t know them, Mummy.’

  ‘I didn’t see any WAAFs here today.’

  ‘They couldn’t manage it. Would you be a dear and put out some more biscuits? We’re about to run out in the other room.’

  ‘There’s plenty of cake left. They’ve hardly touched it. Do you really want to use up all the biscuits? All right, if that’s what you want. We’ll talk about this again, dear. I’m far from satisfied.’

  Rose filled the teapot and went in search of the civil servants. They’d managed to corner her father and were telling him about the inner workings of the Stationery Office. He was reacting with every muscle of his face, as if no subject interested him more passionately. By the nature of his occupation he was a splendid listener. She’d watched him earlier doing his stuff with the Air Force. Dear, generous-hearted Daddy.

  It would be folly to go home with her parents, sweet as they were. Between Mummy’s sharp questions and Daddy’s spirituality she’d be confessing everything before the train left Waterloo.

  What a shock they’d get! She had never so much as hinted that the marriage was unhappy. The few Saturday afternoons she’d taken Barry back to the Rectory he’d played the part of the loving husband and she’d been grateful for the effort he put into it. The fact that he’d spent the previous evening in the arms of a tart in some hotel room seemed as unthinkable as Daddy dropping an ‘h’ or Mummy a stitch.

  How, then, could they even begin to comprehend the truth about Barry’s death and her part in it?

  Gascoigne the civil servant appeared beside her. ‘My colleagues and I will be leaving in a few minutes, Mrs Bell.’

  ‘Thank you for coming.’

  ‘It was a pleasure.’ He coughed. ‘That is to say, thank you for your hospitality. One small matter I wished to mention. Mr Bell left a few personal items in his desk including a photograph that may be of some sentimental value, a fountain pen and, I think, some tickets for a dance. I placed them in an envelope for safe keeping.’

  ‘I don’t suppose they’re important.’

  ‘Ah, but I wouldn’t want to dispose of them without your seeing them.’

  ‘Could you put them in the post?’

  ‘I’m concerned about the possibility of the pen leaking over the other things. Would you like me to arrange for someone from the depot to bring them here? It didn’t seem appropriate today.’

  ‘That’s all right. I’ll come to the depot and see if they’re worth keeping.’

  ‘Really? I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’

  ‘I’ll let you know when I’m coming.’

  After repeating his offer to do anything of practical help that Rose could think of, Gascoigne gathered McGill and Tremlett and left. For a moment it appeared as if the Kettlesham Heath crowd were lining up to say goodbye as well. Not so. Rex Ballard still had something on his mind.

  ‘I suppose you haven’t run into any of the girls lately?’

  ‘The girls?’

  ‘WAAFs, my dear. Your fellow-plotters.’

  Rose’s pulse beat faster. Rex was one of those people who put you at ease and then poleaxed you with something he’d discovered. He’d found out about the funeral. What else did he know?

  ‘I think we all went our own ways. One met so many people in the war.’

  ‘True.’ He looked wistful. ‘They’re a very insipid bunch on the station now. No sense of fun. I wouldn’t mind having a get-together one weekend with some of the wartime crowd. A sort of reunion. Do you think it’s a good idea?’

  Was that all he meant? The relief!

  ‘I’d need to think about it.’

  ‘We’d have to find out where they are now, of course. You’ve lost touch with everyone, have you?’

  With uncanny timing, her mother pushed a plate of trench cake between them. ‘Far from it, Squadron Leader. Rose was telling me just now that her ex-service friends are all she’s got in London, weren’t you, dear?’

  Rose sidestepped. ‘Mummy, we’re talking about Kettlesham Heath now, not Hornchurch. I met Rex at Kettlesham Heath.’

  ‘Oh, I’m out of order as usual, am I? Have some cake anyway.’

  ‘It looks delicious. Unfortunately I’m not the cake-eating type, Mrs Mason, but I say, if there’s another Spam sandwich . . .’

  While her mother went off to cut more bread, Rose let it be understood that a squadron reunion wasn’t to her liking. She told Rex candidly that she’d regard it as an ordeal rather than a pleasure. He said he sympathized. However, in case she changed her mind later, he’d let her know if the idea came to anything. Soon after, the RAF party set off for Suffolk in their Standard 12.

  When her parents finally left with Aunt Joan they all but dragged her off the doorstep and into their small car. She escaped by undertaking to visit them at the earliest opportunity. They also extracted promises that she would say her prayers each night and finish every crumb of the trench cake. She thought, I’ll need more than prayers if I do.

  13

  Alone in the sitting room Rose threw off her shoes and collapsed on the settee. Her legs ached, her head was ringing from being the focus of so much conversation, but the sensation of relief was like champagne. Barry was buried and the funeral was over.

  She was beginning to think that she’d reward herself with a sherry before facing the washing-up when she heard a sound from upstairs. Someone was in her bedroom. What she’d heard was the loose floorboard in front of the wardrobe.

  It frightened her. She’d quite convinced herself she was alone in the house. She sat up, reached for her shoes and put them on, at the same time checking mentally which of the guests had definitely left. She glanced out of the window. No cars were left in the street.

  Another creak from the floorboard.

  She couldn’t fathom who it could be, or why they should be where they were. The noise definitely hadn’t come from the bathroom. Whoever was up there was creeping about, not wanting to be discovered.

  That stupid remark of Rex Ballard’s crept into her mind, about Barry always coming back. Stupid and irresponsible. This time Barry couldn’t possibly come back. Yet she’d heard that board creak a thousand times before and it had always been Barry upstairs.

  She stood with her hand on the banister rail, listening. She ought to have called out and asked who was there. Her throat wouldn’t function. She was going to have to go upstairs and look inside that bedroom. If she didn’t face it now, she’d never be able to sleep in the house again.

  The landing light was on, but that meant nothing. It had got dark in the last hour. People would have needed the light to use the bathroom.

  She told herself this had to be done. Without pausing, she mounted the stairs, crossed the landing and opened the bedroom door.

  The light wasn’t on in there. The light from the landing picked out the figure of a man in front of the wardrobe dressed in Barry’s demob jacket.

  Rose caught her breath and took a step back.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  He turned. ‘Hello, Rose.’

  It wasn’t Barry, of course. It was Barry’s oafish brother-in-law, Ronald. And Daphne, his harpy of a wife, stepped out of the shadows and took her place beside him. They’d been in there in the dark, communicating in whispers.

  ‘Has everyone gone, then?’

  ‘I supposed they had.’
>
  ‘Didn’t you know we were still here?’

  ‘Hope we didn’t frighten you, Rose.’

  ‘What the hell are you doing in my bedroom?’

  Ronald was a master of the art of bluffing his way out of embarrassing situations. He had plenty of practice, for his manners had always been abysmal. ‘Merely trying on one or two of Barry’s jackets, my dear. Seeing that you’ll have no further use for them, I thought I’d offer to make some room in the wardrobe. It’s not a bad fit really, is it?’

  ‘Take it off.’

  ‘There’s no need to take offence, Rose.’

  ‘Isn’t there? Who invited you up here? I didn’t.’

  Daphne, long resentful of Rose annexing her brother, bared her claws. ‘We didn’t expect you would. Barry wouldn’t have thought twice about it. He was sweet-natured.’

  ‘Get out of my house, both of you.’

  ‘Your house now, is it? That tripped off the tongue very easily. How do you know it’s yours? Have you seen the will?’

  ‘There isn’t a will.’

  ‘No will? I find that hard to believe.’

  ‘Frankly, Daphne, I don’t care what you believe.’

  ‘I suppose you think you’ll inherit everything. Well, you’ve made a serious mistake. As his only blood relative, I shall instruct my solicitor to begin proceedings. I’m entitled to my share and I intend to claim it.’

  ‘Your share of what – his debts?’

  Daphne gave a cry like a seagull. ‘My brother wasn’t in debt.’

  ‘He was overdrawn several hundred pounds. If I were you I should think twice before you go to the expense of a solicitor.’

  Ronald peeled off Barry’s jacket, held it at arm’s length as if it were flearidden and let it drop in a heap on the bed. He picked up his own and took Daphne by the arm. ‘Better leave it for the present, old girl.’

  Daphne ignored the advice. ‘Barry couldn’t possibly be in debt. He was an ex-officer, for God’s sake. A civil servant. None of this rings true, Ronald. She’s lying. He must have left a will. All those pilots who risked their lives in the war left wills. I believe she’s destroyed it, that’s what she’s done.’

  ‘Steady, Daph.’

  ‘I’m going to get to the bottom of this.’

  Rose was unmoved. ‘At this minute, Daphne, you’re going to get to the bottom of the stairs and straight out of my house.’

  ‘With the utmost pleasure. I don’t wish to remain in it a minute longer.’

  Watching from the front room window as they retreated up Oldfield Gardens to catch a bus, Rose doubted if she would hear from either of them again. She returned to the kitchen and took out the sherry. On second thoughts, she put it back. She’d already given herself the boost she needed.

  Sleep was slow in coming. Fragments of conversation flitted in and out of her brain. At about two in the morning she got up and made some tea. She carried it into the front room and got out the writing pad. She was in no way depressed. She felt strong. She’d been firm with her parents. And in giving Daphne and Ronald their marching orders she’d discovered something new in her personality. Now she was ready to take up the pen.

  27 Oldfield Gardens,

  Pimlico,

  London SW1.

  Dear Miss Paxton,

  Although we haven’t met, Barry told me about you and your child. I am his lawful wife – or was. I am sorry to inform you that Barry was killed in an accident in the underground on Thursday, 16th October. The funeral took place yesterday at Brompton Cemetery. I understand what a shock this must be for you.

  Barry made no will. Even if he had, the state of his bank account would have rendered it meaningless, for he was overdrawn seven hundred pounds.

  Believe me when I say I am in no position to assist you or the boy. I can only repeat in sincerity that I am sorry.

  Yours truly,

  Rose Bell

  It didn’t take long to write. When she had finished, she soon fell asleep on the settee.

  14

  Shortly before 7.30 on Tuesday morning a taxi entered Hyde Park by the Cumberland Gate, drove around the Ring and halted just across the bridge over the Serpentine. Antonia, who was the passenger, sensibly remained inside wrapped in her mink, for there was a thick frost. Her breath was making ice on the window. She rubbed at it.

  ‘A little closer, driver.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be thinking of joining them, miss?’

  ‘No fear.’

  The all-weather bathers were taking their dip. A dozen at least, including women, were in the water paddling joylessly about.

  The driver stopped at the point closest to the water. ‘Like ruddy lobsters, except that this lot go in red and come out blue.’

  Some minutes passed. It seemed to be a case of first out’s a cissy. Then two of the women waded to the bank and started the exodus.

  Antonia sighed. ‘They get no credit for this unless they break the ice to go in. Then they get their picture in the papers.’

  ‘I can think of easier ways, miss.’

  One of the last to emerge was Vic, wearing trunks and chatting to two middle-aged men in old-fashioned costumes with shoulder straps. Although Antonia inclined to the view that people who did this must be coldblooded or mad, or both, she wasn’t totally disapproving. Vic’s body was good to look at even in these conditions. There was a suggestion of power as he moved, and his damp body-hair darkened the flesh and picked out the muscles as he flexed them.

  She wound down the window and called his name.

  He stopped and stared. Then he recognized her and gestured that he needed to dry himself. She nodded. He went into the brick bathing house to change.

  The driver had watched all this with interest. ‘Boyfriend, miss?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Funny time to meet.’

  ‘I spent most of yesterday trying to find him.’ She took out her cigarettes and offered him one. ‘He’d better not be long.’

  ‘Doing up his buttons won’t be easy with frozen fingers.’

  ‘Don’t worry. He’ll get a roasting from me.’

  She stared across the steely sheet of water until Vic emerged from the bathing house in his overcoat and came over to the taxi and climbed in.

  ‘Well, this is an unexpected pleasure. What are you doing here?’ He leaned across to kiss her cheek.

  She withdrew her face out of range. ‘Making one final attempt to track you down.’

  ‘You were looking for me?’

  ‘For the last twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Sorry. I was sent to Birmingham. A conference. I got back at eleven last night.’

  ‘You could have picked up a phone’.

  The voice from the front interjected, ‘Where to, please?’

  She clicked her tongue impatiently. ‘I suppose you’re ravenous for breakfast now.’

  The driver switched on his engine. ‘There’s a place at the top of North End Road. It ain’t the Savoy, but you’ll never taste a better bacon and egg.’

  Later, after they’d put this recommendation to the test, Antonia conceded that the driver hadn’t been far wrong. Her pleasure in the meal was much assisted by a full apology from Vic.

  She forgave him, and more. ‘I’m coming to stay with you some time in the next week or so.’

  ‘To stay?’

  ‘Yes, won’t it be divine? Our first whole night together. Then our second and our third and—’

  ‘What’s Hector going to say about this?’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to him yet. He won’t be any trouble.’

  Vic glanced around the small café. Some traders from the market in wide-boy overcoats with heavily padded shoulders were in for breakfast. No one seemed to be listening.

  ‘Antonia, I’d like to know more about this. Are you up to something?’

  ‘Of course I’m up to something. I want to marry you and go to America.’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t want some bastard with a flash-camera b
ursting into my flat and taking pictures of you and me in bed.’

  She laughed. ‘How did you get that dopey idea?’

  ‘That’s the way people arrange it these days.’

  ‘Arrange what?’

  ‘Divorce.’

  ‘Sweetie, how many times do I have to tell you divorce is out of the question? Forget about men with cameras.’

  He sighed. ‘I don’t understand it.’

  She lodged her foot against his. ‘Don’t try. Simply enjoy it while you’ve got the chance.’

  Mr Smart, the insurance agent, was on the doorstep again, in the act of raising his trilby as Rose opened the door. His nose and ears were pillarbox red.

  ‘Good day, Mrs Bell. Bright but cold. Ice about.’

  ‘You’d better come in.’

  He placed his hat and bicycle pump on the hallstand and removed his clips. ‘How are you settling down?’

  ‘I’m managing the best I can. Would you care for a cup of tea?’

  ‘That sounds agreeable.’

  ‘If you don’t mind the kitchen, it’s warmer in there.’

  He stood rubbing his hands by the boiler. The teacloths from yesterday’s wash-up were draped from the struts attached to the flue.

  Rose reached for the matches and lit the gas under the kettle. ‘What have you got – more forms for me to fill in?’

  ‘I require no more than a signature this time. The funeral was yesterday, I believe.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I dare say you’re glad it’s over.’

  She detected an undercurrent of disapproval in the voice.

  ‘It kept me busy. I was grateful for that.’

  ‘Stopped your mind from dwelling on things.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Are you able to get any sleep at all?’

  She gave him a long, cool look. ‘While we’re waiting for the kettle, Mr Smart, don’t you think we should get down to business?’

  ‘As you wish. This is what you are waiting for, I think.’ He took a brown envelope from his pocket and placed it ostentatiously on the kitchen table. ‘Your cheque for five thousand pounds.’

  She resisted the polite impulse to say thank you. Why should she? Nor did she snatch up the envelope and rip it open. She put out cups and saucers and went to the larder for milk.