False Charity (25 page)

Saturday, noon

Noel was stretching his imagination with the aid of some porn he'd downloaded on to his mother's laptop. He heard his mother letting herself into the flat, and switched off. He was stretched out on the settee with the newspaper by the time she'd slipped off her shoes and asked how his day had been.

There was something about the body on the Heath in the paper. No leads, just a general plea for anyone who knew anything, to come forward. Fat chance
.

His mobile rang. It was the receptionist, again. He wondered if he had time to do something about her before they lit out for pastures new. Regretfully, he decided that he could only take on one at a time and tonight was the night for Maggie.

Saturday, noon

M
aggie wasn't in the kitchen, or in the garden. She was nowhere to be seen. But Bea could hear noises coming from the top floor, so she climbed the stairs to find the girl polishing the bathroom taps.

Bea suppressed an urge to shout at the girl. Weren't there more urgent tasks to be performed? ‘Dear Maggie, whatever is the matter now?'

‘Nothing,' said Maggie, short and sharp, head well down, swilling clean water round the bath. ‘You really must pay more attention to cleaning taps. They can't have been touched for ages. I'll be off in a minute but I couldn't leave them like this.'

‘But you've got another six days here, haven't you?'

‘You could be renting my room out and I'm no good at this agency lark, so it's best I go. I'll keep in touch with Oliver.'

‘What's brought this on?'

Maggie poured a bottle of brown liquid down the loo. ‘Now don't you bother with all those expensive limescale removers. Vinegar works better and is cheaper. Just don't flush it for a while, let it get to work.'

‘I thought you were happy here.'

‘Well, of course. In a way. It's more interesting than most jobs but I'm not exactly pulling my weight, am I? Not like Oliver. My mother's got a dinner party on tonight, so I might as well make myself useful at home.'

Bea thought she understood. ‘You've been on the phone to your mother, and she's said …?'

Maggie wiped over the mirror. ‘She says my husband – my ex-husband – is going to be there at this do tonight, with
her,
his girlfriend. They're an item again. So even though you've gone to all that trouble to get me a dress, I couldn't possibly … and now I've cut my hair, I look like something the cat brought in. You do see, don't you?'

What Bea saw was an angry, deeply unhappy girl, whose mother was not saying the right things to help her. Well, there was something she could do for Maggie, and that was to pass on her own hair appointment. Bea knew how much better she'd be able to cope if she were properly groomed, not to mention appearing in public at a big function, where every other woman would have spent most of the day in one salon or other.

Bea hesitated. Why should she keep trying to help someone who clearly didn't want to be helped, and who irritated the life out of her most of the time?

At the back of her head, she heard Hamilton say, ‘If you let the girl go like this, she'll never fulfil her potential. You look fine as you are, girl. Give Maggie the chance to look good, too.'

Bea said, ‘Maggie, my dear. You are worth your weight in gold, or platinum, or whatever is the latest currency. Euros, I suppose. We've only known one another for a short time, but I can't imagine how I'd ever have managed this last week without you. If you want to leave at the end of next week, then that's your privilege. But don't sell yourself short.' Almost, she meant it.

Maggie polished the seat of the toilet.

Bea said, ‘You're a lovely girl, inside and out, and all you need is a good haircut and a tweak or two in your wardrobe to bring out the best in you. It will be my privilege to act as Fairy Godmother. Cinderella shall go to the ball tonight, with a brand new hairdo and a becoming dress, and trust me; she'll wow the punters, and make her faithless ex-husband wish he'd not been so hasty.' She checked her watch. ‘Get yourself tidied up and I'll take you round to the hairdressers and see you settled, right? And no more nonsense about leaving today. Understood?'

‘As if anything like that could make a difference to what I am.'

‘Believe me, it will,' said Bea, holding open the door. ‘Let's see what we've got for lunch, and then we'll get going on the transformation scene. Remember, I'm relying on you for tonight, and so is Oliver.'

The girl hung back. ‘I know my limits. It's really better if I go back home and make myself useful.'

Bea steered Maggie to the stairs. ‘I don't suppose your mother will pay you for skivvying for her, while I'm paying you a proper wage, remember. Oh, and please do give Oliver a kind word. I know he's worried about letting us all down tonight, because he's never worn a dinner jacket before. Do you know how to do a bow tie? I can never get it right.'

Burbling gently away, Bea managed to get Maggie down to the kitchen, and busy supplying them with a scratch lunch. Oliver appeared, looking anxious. Bea continued to chat away about the garden, and the weather and how much Hamilton had been looking forward to seeing Australia, where the weather was of course quite different. She hadn't a clue, afterwards, what she'd said, but whatever it was, it got them through a difficult half-hour.

Twice Maggie opened her mouth to say something, but Bea gently overrode her, refusing to acknowledge that anything was wrong. Oliver followed Bea's lead and actually contributed some chatter of his own. Good for Oliver.

None of them were particularly hungry and there wasn't much clearing up to do afterwards, so Bea took Maggie by her elbow and walked her round the corner into the High Street. There they waited at the pedestrian crossing for the lights to change. Halfway across Maggie stood still and said, ‘Look, this is crazy!'

Bea said, ‘Humour me, humour me!' and got the girl moving again. Bea was welcomed into the salon with open arms. Oh, Mrs Abbot, how lovely to see you, how are you bearing up, they'd heard the bad news, so sorry, so very sorry, but it was lovely to see her again, but who had she allowed to cut her hair like that? Come this way, we'll soon put you to rights again.

Bea was very tempted to sink into a chair and let her favourite stylist take over, but – with a promise to come in again the following week – she explained that her protégée needed the appointment more than she did. There was some in-drawing of breath as the magnitude of the task set by Maggie's punk style sunk into the stylist's mind, but she nobly shouldered the burden, and bore Maggie off to be dealt with.

‘You'll have a manicure now you're here, Mrs Abbot? I'm sure I can fit you in if you can just wait a while.'

Yes, Bea did need a manicure, but she was too restless to sit and wait. ‘Make sure Maggie gets one instead,' she said, proffering her gold card by way of payment.

The noise of the traffic enveloped Bea as she left the salon. She hesitated, standing on the kerb. She'd forgotten how loud London traffic could be. She thought of the peace and quiet of the far away hospital in which Hamilton had died. She'd sat by his bedside holding his hand till he left his body behind.

He'd asked for a Christian burial. He hadn't wanted her to have the bother of bringing his ashes back home with her. He'd said it didn't matter where he was laid to rest. In a way, she wished he hadn't been so unselfish. It would have been a comfort, wouldn't it, to have brought his ashes back with her, perhaps to be buried in the garden? But no, he wouldn't have wanted that, either.

‘No plaques, no flowers, no mourning. Think of me sometimes, as if I've just popped out of the house for a while, but will be back to hear all the gossip later. I'm going on another journey, that's all. To tell the truth, I've got rather tired of all the stresses and strains of this world, and this body of mine is pretty well worn out. It'll be good to be able to rest for a while, and then perhaps there'll be some other task for me to do, but it'll be under a new boss, and He's promised I'll enjoy it.'

Bea blinked. It wasn't safe to cry when crossing a busy road so she turned into Café Nero, and ordered a latte. She tried to relax. One moment she wished she'd stayed in the salon and had a manicure, and the next she was glad she hadn't. She needed space around her, nobody talking at her. Since she'd got back – no, since Hamilton had died – she'd hardly ever had the luxury of being alone and able to relax.

Here in this busy café she could be quiet for a while, taking time out of her busy schedule with no one wanting her to solve problems, no phones ringing, no old friends demanding this and that. No Oliver or Maggie. No family.

It was bliss, she thought. She sipped her latte. She told herself it was good to take time out now and then. Hamilton had always made a rule to take Sundays off, plus at least one other day – sometimes it was only a half day – for them to go out together to an exhibition, to see friends, or just to pootle around the shops and have a coffee and a cake together. They'd often end up in this very place. Gossiping. Making plans. Snatching time to allow the world to settle around them.

She closed her ears to the hubbub around her.

‘Well, if it isn't Bea Abbot, back from the dead! Whoops, I didn't mean that exactly, did I? You look good, considering …'

Someone she recognized? A face from the past. A blast of good-natured gossip from the past. A divorcee with grown-up children, whose name Bea couldn't for the life of her recall. Not that it mattered. The woman plumped down opposite Bea, disposing of various purchases around her, and chattered away. Key words floated to the surface, complaints about her chiropodist, her husband's new secretary, the new treatment she was on for this, and the investigative procedure for that and … and … Bea couldn't cope. She stood up without warning. She saw the other woman's mouth gape, and realized she'd been rude.

‘Sorry,' she said. ‘Got an urgent … have to … let's catch up next week some time?'

She got herself out of the coffee shop somehow or other, bumping into people who were entering as she was leaving. Where could she go to be quiet by herself? She crossed the busy High Street at the traffic lights. What about St Mary Abbot's church on the corner of the street? The gates were open and she made her way along the crooked cloisters that led to the church, only to be met by a wave of sound as the bells rang out above her and a noisy wedding party gathered in the porch for pictures. There was no way she could push past them into the peace and quiet of the church, so she fled into the flag-stoned alleyway beyond.

The noise of the traffic was muted here, though the bells still rang in her ears. She remembered other weddings. Max and Nicole's splendid marriage had been in the country church which her family attended, but Bea's mind went back to the quieter, perhaps more meaningful blessing for herself and Hamilton after their civil ceremony.

The joyful clamour of the bells drained her energy. She stood in the oasis of St Mary Abbot's garden, but the benches there were all full of people chattering, playing with children, reading, taking a nap.

She clung to the railings for support. Whatever was the matter with her, giving way like this? She bowed her head, wondering with one part of her mind whether passers-by might take her for a bag lady, living on the streets. Or drunk. Or ill.

If she were to pass out now, did she have any identification on her, to enable people to trace her nearest and dearest? It made her giggle a bit to think of them ringing up Max at the House of Commons to report that his mother had been found wandering around the back streets of Kensington, half out of her mind. Bea knew what Nicole would do; that was easy. Nicole would sweep her mother-in-law into an old people's home, tidying her mercilessly away as someone not capable of looking after herself.

Bea struggled to regain her composure. It would be extremely inconsiderate of her to inflict such a problem on her nearest and dearest, and so she mustn't do it.

Max did love her, she knew that. But his first allegiance must now be to his wife, and Bea had to recognize that there was no great depth to her relationship with Nicole. If Oliver or Maggie or Piers were to see her now, they'd react quite differently. Or Coral. They'd be really concerned, really helpful. Or would they? Was friendship, perhaps, more meaningful than a blood tie? No, no. That couldn't be true.

‘Are you all right?' An elderly man with a walking stick. The walking stick had an ivory head in the shape of a dog.

She asked herself how she'd got like this. The answer lay at the back of her head. Grief. She tried to lift her heavy head to make eye contact with this man who was so concerned about her. ‘I'm all right. Just tired.'

‘They say you shouldn't drink when you're on medication.'

‘Er, no.' The bells ceased their clamour. She pulled herself upright. ‘Thanks. I'm all right, really.'

Perhaps he was lonely for company? She had no energy left to let someone else into her life. If she managed to get home without breaking down, she'd be doing well. She wouldn't look any further than that. She smiled in the general direction of the elderly man, looked around, reorienting herself. And set off back home.

There was a strange car parked outside the house. Correction; it was a car she recognized. It was Hamilton's car, which Max had taken for his own use when Bea and Hamilton had flown off on their round-the-world trip. Bea let herself into the house, and said, ‘Hello?' expecting Max to answer.

Instead, Oliver appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, holding a phone to his ear, and gesticulating towards the first floor. He held a sheaf of messages in his free hand. He mouthed something which Bea didn't quite catch. She dumped her handbag and went up the stairs to her bedroom, from which she could hear bumping noises.