Tara (47 page)

'We thought you were Rip Van Winkle.' Mabel smiled. 'You're a bit late for breakfast, and I doubt if you fancy cider when you've just woken. But how about a cup of tea and some toast?'

He liked the look of Greg immediately, and envied the way he looked so right in his tweed jacket and grey flannels. His own navy blazer had seemed perfect in Simpson's of Piccadilly, but now he felt overdressed.

'They've all been dying to open the presents.' Greg's plump, rosy face broke into a warm grin of comradeship. 'But we couldn't start without the guest of honour.'

Josh knew all about presents, he'd had plenty of practice with his avaricious mother, but the moment they began to open the parcels he knew his style only belonged in Golders Green. The pale blue cashmere sweater for Amy should have been bought by Greg. Mabel's eyes sparkled like his mother's when she saw the wooden box of paints, but the moment she saw the Harrod's label she looked embarrassed.

'It's lovely,' she said, lowering her eyes. 'But you shouldn't have given me such an expensive gift.'

She meant that she felt awkward because she'd only given him a pair of grey woolly gloves, and Amy a desk diary. Yet somehow he sensed she felt he was trying to buy them. Worst of all he knew this
had
been his ploy and he dreaded the moment when Tara would open her box and find the boots.

'It's a way of thanking you for inviting me,' he said quickly. 'And Tara, yours is because I could never have got this far without you.'

Her squeals of delight at the tight white leather boots almost washed away his guilty feelings, but not quite.

The whole day was wonderful – wearing his first paper hat for lunch, lingering over mince pies and brandy as they read each other the jokes from the crackers.

Later they played Scrabble in the sitting room. The fire crackled, the tree lights twinkled and the paper chains rustled in the heat. The scent of pine needles and oranges mingled with cigar smoke as they chatted and laughed.

Tara sat on the floor, her tongue peeping out of her lips as she concentrated on finding words. Amy curled her legs up beneath her on the settee, giggling girlishly each time Greg came up with a far-fetched word he claimed was a medical term.

Mabel dozed in an armchair, waking from time to time to top up their glasses with cherry wine. But Josh's eyes kept returning to Tara.

There was nothing artificial about her. She stuffed sweets and fruit, rubbed her mascara on to cheeks rosy from the fire and flicked her hair back behind her ears without any pretence. He wanted to kiss that long neck, lick away the stains of the cherry wine from her mouth and hold her in his arms forever.

Back in London he would have dismissed a country doctor with thinning hair and a pot belly as a boring companion. But the man sparkled with wit and incisive comments on human frailties. Josh saw the way his hands reached out
to
touch Amy now and then, the way their eyes met. He wanted it to be like that between him and Tara, to feel so safe and secure that he didn't have to guard his words, or cover things up.

In the course of conversation he discovered the tragedy that had killed Paul. He was touched to find he was the first person to sleep in his room, yet sad that Tara had never told him about her brother.

"The right moment never came.' She shrugged her shoulders in a way that suggested he'd never shown the slightest interest in her family. 'Besides, Paul belonged here, not London. It didn't seem appropriate to talk about it there.'

Was he shallow? Why hadn't he realised that deep sadness was part of her reason for remaining a semi-recluse when other girls were out dancing and partying? How many other secrets was she hiding while he used her talent?

He was a bit tipsy when he went to bed on Christmas night. He'd been far drunker, but had never laid his heart on the line before.

Tara followed him up the stairs. Amy and Greg were in the sitting room, Mabel in the kitchen. He turned to Tara on the landing and held out his arms.

'I love you,' he whispered, wanting more than a girl in his bed or even a fashion designer to help him fake it. 'You are everything in the world to me.'

She put her arms round him, drawing his head down on to her shoulder, and rocked him in her arms.

It was only the next morning that he realised she hadn't responded either way, and that worried him more than a rebuff.

He climbed into the big old-fashioned bath and lay under the hot water.

That was why he'd tried so hard to help this morning, dressing up in those awful old clothes in an effort to learn about the farm. Maybe seeing him away from London had made her uncertain that he could fit in with this part of her life, and he had to try. But now he'd made a fool of himself!

They were due to drive back tonight, but he had to try to make things right before they left.

He finished washing, shaved and put on a pair of slacks and a sweater, then went back downstairs.

'Lunch will be ready soon.' Amy smiled as he came into the kitchen. 'I hope you didn't hurt yourself. I've just been telling off Tara for being so cruel. The calves did that to me the first time. It's the same for everyone.'

'Sorry, Josh.' Tara grinned impishly. 'It was mean, but it was so funny.'

'I've a good mind to take you down to Bergman's one day and throw you in the deep end.' Josh ran a hand down her hair as she sat on a chair. 'Anyway, I've forgiven you. After all these years I've finally discovered why Jews steer clear of pigs. They're scared of them!'

'I'm glad you take it all in good part.' Mabel turned round from the stove. 'It's been good having you here, Josh. I hope you'll come again in the spring or summer and see the farm at its best.'

A feeling of joy rushed through him. He wanted to go over and hug the old lady, swing pretty Amy around the room and tell them both how much he liked them. Tara must have implied to them she really cared, otherwise they would've kept quiet.

'After lunch let's go down to the lake,' Tara suggested. 'I must see it before I go.'

'You stay on here till after the weekend.' Josh smiled generously. He didn't want to go back without her, but he had to cast bread on the water. 'We can manage quite well without you, and I think your mum and gran would like a bit more time with you.'

He hoped she'd refuse, but instead her eyes lit up.

'Oh, Josh, that's wonderful,' she said. 'Thank you so much. Are you sure you can find your way back alone?'

'I've got a map and a pair of eyes,' he said. 'Now, Amy, can I do something? Set the table, wring a few chickens' necks?'

They leaned against the rail and stared at the lake, their sides just touching.

Tara was childishly wearing all her Christmas presents at once; the white boots from Josh, a tartan fur-lined jacket from her mother, and the green hat, scarf and gloves from Greg. Her golden hair hung in great hanks on her shoulders, her lips red as cherries in the wind.

The sky was growing very dark, the sun was big and orange as a pumpkin. The lake seemed to stretch to infinity, almost black now, with silver flashes on the choppy surface. There had been dinghies earlier, but now they were all scudding off towards the yacht club on the far side and the water was left to the swans, geese and ducks.

'This is so beautiful,' Josh said softly. 'Imagine living in a house overlooking it. I'd never want to work again.'

'Paul and I used to come here nearly every day on our bikes,' she said, tucking her hand under his arm and huddling against his sheepskin coat. 'The first time we saw it he was scared by the bigness and wildness of it, but he grew to love it, learned all the birds' names and where they came from. Those big ones, the Canada geese, were his favourites. He used to bring cakes of fat with bits of meal in it specially for them.'

Josh knew there would never be a better moment, but he was scared by the bigness of what he felt.

'I meant what I said last night,' he said softly, turning to take her in his arms. 'I do love you, Tara.'

Her eyes were wide, glowing in the fast fading light, and the green bobble hat against the gold of her hair was painfully lovely. Her mouth quivered momentarily as if she was struggling to find the right words.

'I don't know how I feel,' she said finally, her eyes burning into his. 'Sometimes I think you're the one for me, but other times I know it isn't right.'

She was speaking the truth. Her emotions had swung in both directions so many times in the last few days. Here on home territory faults showed up that she hadn't noticed before – bragging, a kind of fawning manner and even insecurity. But the harshness she hated in London was gone, this new tenderness touched a place within her.

'Are you saying you don't want me as a lover?' He tried to keep his voice even and resist the urge to grab her fiercely.

'If you became a lover I might lose the friend.' She put her gloved hand on his cheek and stroked it. 'We've got a long way to go, Josh, and right now we need one another. Let's just be friends for now and see how it is in a few months.'

'Is it Harry?' He took her hand, peeled off her glove and held her fingers to his lips.

She gave him one of her strange looks that reminded him of the unblinking stare of a cat.

'Harry's like a brother,' she said. 'Yes, I'm worried about him, he's very special to me. If he was to go down for a murder I know he didn't do I couldn't bear it. But he hasn't got anything to do with us.'

'One kiss for friendship?' Josh tilted her face up to his own.

She smiled, showing her even white teeth, and her eyes sparked with fire.

'For friendship,' she said. 'And maybe a tomorrow.'

Josh's flat was icy. It stank of stale cigarette smoke and whisky. He switched on the light, took one look at the mess left from before Christmas and shuddered.

It was a small apartment in a block above shops in Brompton Road, a stone's throw from Harrod's. He hadn't had the time or enthusiasm to make it his own yet, and the furniture and decor spoke of faded grandeur.

He drew the heavy plum-coloured curtains, switched on the electric fire and sat hunched in front of it. Empty bags from his pre-Christmas shopping expedition were strewn everywhere. Dirty shirts and pairs of shoes littered the floor, and the remains of a Chinese meal still sat on the marble coffee table. But he wasn't really seeing his customary bachelor squalor; he was thinking of Tara and the future.

On the long drive back guilt had overcome him and he knew in his heart what he had to do. 'If he goes down for murder,' he whispered to himself, rubbing his hand round his chin and feeling the stubble coming through, 'you'll never be able to look any of them in the eye.'

He reached into a cabinet inlaid with mother of pearl and pulled out a bottle of whisky and a glass. He half filled it and gulped it down in one, wincing as it burned his throat.

'Do it now,' he said.

Picking up the phone he dialled a number in South London, glancing at his watch. It was just after one, a good time to catch him in.

'Joe?' he said as the deep voice answered. 'It's Josh. Good Christmas?'

'I'm calling it off,' he said after pleasantries had been exchanged. 'Make some excuse to bugger off after you've cleared the place of anything of yours. Is he asleep?' He listened patiently for a moment as the gruff voice erupted into argument and abuse.

'I know all that,' he said. 'But there's more than one way to skin a cat. I can't let Collins go down for murder, he'll get a fair stretch for the robbery anyway. Besides, it's been costing me a fortune keeping that little gutless wonder safe all these weeks. He isn't worth it.'

He could tell by Joe's voice that he'd had enough of playing nursemaid, however much he hated the idea of Harry getting off lighter.

'We'll meet tomorrow and I'll settle up with you,' he said firmly. 'Now get the fuck out of there and make sure the gun's somewhere the plod will find it.'

Josh put his hands over his face and sighed deeply. Joe could be relied on to do his part, in half an hour he'd be gone leaving no trace of himself.

The room was getting warmer now. Josh had another slug of whisky and rolled a joint to fortify himself for the walk down to a phone box to make the final call.

It was freezing out on Brompton Road. He turned up the collar of his sheepskin coat and walked past Harrod's, not even glancing at the illuminated windows. The streets were deserted, only the odd taxi passed now and then.

He was almost at Hyde Park before he stopped and pulled open the heavy door of the phone box. Inside it reeked of piss and vomit, but he still closed the door behind him.

He took out the card with the name and phone number on, took a deep breath and dialled.

'It's me again,' he said softly. 'I've got an address for you, and a name. Clive Dunning, known as Ginger, 134 Baytree Road, Brixton. Basement flat. He's the man who shot the nighrwatchman, not Harry Collins. If you go there now you'll find him in bed. Some of the leathers are there, too. Watch the back way. He might try to leg it out that way.'

The air smelled sweet as he walked back home. Next week he'd look into finding a shop in the King's Road, and maybe Oxford Street too. He felt lucky.

Chapter 21

January 1967

'They've dropped the murder charge?' Tara was so astounded she almost dropped the receiver. 'Are you sure?'

She glanced round to see both her mother and gran standing stock-still, clutching each other's hands.

Bacon was sizzling in the pan. Pails of pig swill were steaming on the floor, ready to be taken out. Gran was back in men's trousers, boots and a sweater; Amy still had on a duffle coat and gloves.

'Well, I got it from 'Arry's brief,' George said, his voice rumbling as if he was trying to suppress a wild whoop of joy. 'Seems the plod picked up the other geezer in the early hours of yesterday morning.'

'They've picked up the man who really did it,' Tara quickly relayed back to Mabel and Amy.

'Oh, Uncle George, I'm so thrilled!' She giggled. Amy was gesticulating wildly, presumably sending love and kisses, while Mabel had sunk down on to a chair, her smile like a slice of watermelon. 'You should see Gran's and Mum's faces. They're both grinning like a pair of Cheshire cats.'