The Last Pier (15 page)

‘I’ll phone for the doctor,’ Cook was putting water to boil. The doctor would want to sterilise the wound.

Doctor Denys, stitching stitches into Cecily’s forehead as though he were a tailor, promised no more than a tiny scar.

‘That’s very important for you young ladies,’ he said.

‘What is?’ asked Rose drifting in, interested in Cecily for a change, thus making it a very interesting day, all round.

But later it was Rose, quietly and alone, who defended Bellamy when a first-class row broke out between Agnes and Selwyn.

That had been Bellamy then. Now he had his own fishing fleet. And a wife and two grand lads.

He stood watching Cecily as she remembered. Perhaps he was remembering different things. How Rose’s death had been made into quite a story by the newspapers, relieved to have something besides the war to write about. They had called it a Tragedy with Sex and Betrayal. Followed by Death. No one had asked his opinion. No one had asked if he had known the Victim. Or the Perpetrator. Or even if there had been any Collateral Damage. Staring down at Cecily’s beautiful, empty face, these might have been the things Bellamy was remembering.

‘The boys are doing well at school,’ he said, using words to hide behind.

Standing with her feet sinking into the beach, Cecily listened without hearing.

‘I don’t want them to work the sea, or live in a caravan. I want them to be respected. To study, to get good jobs.’

Cecily wondered what his wife was like. As if he heard her thoughts, Bellamy smiled.

‘You must come over,’ he said. ‘Meet the missus. She’s like you!’

There was another heavy silence and Bellamy took a further step backwards.

‘Tide’s out,’ he told her, uneasily. You staying up at the house?’

Cecily nodded.

‘Oh, okay,’ he smiled, again. ‘Come over.’

And he took something out of his pocket and pushed it into her hand.

‘I heard you were about,’ he said apologetically. ‘So I fetched it.’

Cecily was silent. Then he turned and hurried off, his footsteps becoming fainter as he walked away. When he reached the pile of nets, he turned and shouted something, waving his hand. Cecily shook her head, not understanding, but he had turned away again. He was whistling. The sound of it threw itself backwards towards her.

A tune from long ago,

A rainbow that had vanished.

Walking quickly back towards Palmyra House (she was too shaken to stay out any longer) Cecily realised what it was he’d said.

‘The quack was right,’ Bellamy had said. ‘It is only a tiny scar!’

Opening the front door with her right hand, she saw what he had put into her left hand. Her mind was a blank, her body trembling.

‘Time for another pill, perhaps,’ she said, aloud.

How many more years could she go on living in this way? I’ll make a cup of tea, she thought, sitting down, confused, at the kitchen table. No one had sat here in years. The black and white photograph was of Rose. And Cecily. It wasn’t large. There was nothing unusual about it. The black wasn’t very black and the
white was creased and unshiny. But Rose was smiling and so was Cecily. Someone had scratched away the face of the boy standing next to Cecily. She could tell from his legs and how he stood that the figure was that of Bellamy. The white scratches over his face had almost gone through to the other side. Hate marked the image with vigour and something inside Cecily shivered. It had not been what she had expected but then she saw, faintly in the background, the figure of Robert Pinky Wilson, one foot in front of the other, trying to walk out of shot. Cigarette-tapping Pinky Wilson, blurred features, still recognisable. While walking towards them from the spinney, a fleeting glimpse of polka-dotted Agnes, out of shot but for her hem. And was that Lucio behind her? What on earth had they all been doing on that day, twenty-nine years ago? With the sun so high that no one noticed these things, they could only be seen with hindsight.

That day, when Franca, wearing her pastel pink dress, could no longer hide her feelings for Joe, and when Joe (who wasn’t even in the picture) plucked up the courage to tell her he loved her.

That day, or was it before, or even after the tennis court party, when Carlo told Cecily she was so tall now that she came up to his heart.

When the hoardings appearing all over England bore the slogan, ‘What Price Churchill?’ as though he was being auctioned off.

Going, going, gone, like the day itself.

Time running away like a shrew over a shoe.

Time running out like the tide.

Only three weeks before she died.

Rose Maudsley.

A Thing of Beauty.

Breaths of Heaven.

A living, breathing girl with a toothache smile.

Caused by eating too much ice cream.

IN THE PANTRY
in Palmyra House, there remained a solitary jar of Agnes’ plum jam gathering dust on a shelf. The hand that bottled it was long gone. Cecily stared at the writing. August 23rd 1939. Was it edible?

For some reason the sight of the jar brought Carlo to mind, sleeves rolled up, eating a piece of freshly baked bread. Jam oozing out, warm butter from the churn, Cook cross with everyone as usual, except of course Carlo.

Agnes had agreed to go up to London but she needed to finish bottling the yellow plums first. She felt harassed and wondered if she could really spare the time. It was Wednesday now. Six days to harvest, ten to the party, how many to a war? The thermometer was a steady eighty-five and the wireless was on again.

Lucio had important business in London and had offered Agnes a lift.

‘What sort of business?’ Pinky Wilson asked, popping in for a cup of tea and his usual morning chat.

Oblivious to Cook’s heavy sniffing.

Friendly gossip was what he called these chats.

Snooping was what Cook called it.

‘Oh, he edits a small newspaper,’ Agnes said. ‘For homesick Italians.’

Agnes had developed a song in her heart and her dimple had come out of hibernation.

‘Ah,’ said Pinky Wilson in what Cecily felt was a significant way.

Captain P was being as nosy as Tom.

‘Can I come?’ Cecily asked, after
that man,
had gone.

Her mother ignored her and it occurred to Cecily that everyone was cross these days.

‘When will you be back?’ she asked. ‘It will be a dismal day until you return.’

Agnes, who wasn’t in the least bit cross, laughed and laughed.

‘I’ll be back tomorrow,’ she said, ‘and if you are good and don’t fight with Rose I’ll bring you a present.’

Cecily opened her mouth to speak but her sister’s expression made her forget what she wanted to say.

‘It isn’t fair,’ Rose said, in a
sotto voce
sulk. ‘I want to go to London too. I hate this place. I shall die of boredom!’

Shocking liar, thought Cecily. From the way her hair was done, it was clear Rose had plenty of plans of her own for the evening.

Agnes was behaving like a dove released from a cage, and Tom was showing off again.

‘Britain doesn’t hate Germany,’ he said.

Cecily wanted to hit him.

‘True,’ Joe agreed. ‘All this talk of encirclement is nonsense. No one wants war with the Germans!’

‘Then why are you going?’ Cecily asked.

‘I’m not, not really. Just preparing, as a precaution.’

Rose wasn’t listening.

On the news it was announced that the Imperial War Museum was closing. Tomorrow all its works of art would be evacuated.

Lucio was feeling harassed too. Aware that the presence of Fascist Italians in Britain could become a big problem, he wanted to nose out the trouble in advance. He could not confide in anyone in his family. Only his nephew Carlo cared about what was going on behind the scenes. In Lucio’s opinion, Carlo was the brightest Molinello of them all. He read all the Italian newspapers that Lucio brought home and helped distribute
il Lotto 
amongst the Italian community. Sometimes he even attended events at the social club in Clerkenwell where, during innocent conversations with the children of friends, he gleaned pieces of information that might one day be important in ensuring the safety of the Italian community. So Lucio was proud of his nephew. Normally he would have taken Carlo with him on the trip but on this occasion he could not. This time he would have Agnes in the car with him.

‘It isn’t safe,’ he told Carlo, ‘something is bound to come out in conversation.’

Agnes was an innocent bystander, Lucio didn’t want to endanger her in any way. If she accidentally repeated some small thing to Anna they could all be put in danger.

‘In any case,’ Lucio said, pulling a face, ‘your father would have a fit if he knew what you got up to!’

Carlo had been ready to tail Robert Wilson. He had followed the man skilfully once before without being noticed. He was undoubtedly a natural. But now the plan, made many days before, would have to be abandoned. Carlo was bitterly disappointed.

Lucio had been keeping an eye on the Wilson man for some months, following him on his trips up to London. His presence at Palmyra House, his friendship with first Agnes and then Kitty, his gifts to the young girls, all these things worried Lucio for, through a network of contacts, he had found out that Robert Wilson was not the man he said he was. His boss was not Sir Dudley Stamp of the Land Utilisation Survey. His boss was Lord Halifax and possibly even the Prime Minister himself. These were rumours that Lucio desperately needed to investigate. He didn’t want to alarm anyone but his unease was growing.

‘Well,’ he said, grimly, looking at his nephew’s disappointed face. ‘I’ll do it myself this time. And, if my guess is right, there will be plenty more trips for you before this is over!’

‘But I wanted to help
now
,’ Carlo protested.

Lucio smiled wryly.

‘Stay here and keep an eye on the place,’ he murmured. ‘You know what to do if I don’t return!’

Carlo looked alarmed.

‘I’m joking,’ Lucio said. ‘I’ll tell you what happens tomorrow. Just don’t tell your father, for God’s sake!’

Then he drove off to Palmyra House to pick up Agnes and in spite of the world news he found himself whistling.

In London, just before she was dropped off at the Wigmore Hall, Agnes suddenly thought she saw her sister walking over Waterloo Bridge.

‘How can this be?’ Lucio asked, ‘I thought you told me she’d gone to Exeter for a few days?’

For a second, the afternoon became shrouded in mystery. But it could not have been Kitty.

Lucio warned Agnes he would not be free to see her until much later. Was it okay? He had a meeting to attend.

‘Take your time,’ Agnes said. ‘I’ve brought my diary with me. I’m writing for Mass Observation, you see.’

Her shy smile was at odds with the boldness in her eyes and Lucio’s heart rose. Did he need to go to this meeting? Wouldn’t he be happier picking her up after the concert, so they could have supper together?

‘No, no! I’ll make myself an omelette in Kitty’s kitchen,’ Agnes told him, adding softly, ‘and then I’ll wait for you.’

Lucio hesitated a moment longer. Her grave and tender look sent a strange fear over him. I am being superstitious, he told himself. We are safe. In the late summer light Agnes reminded him of a flower. When had his feelings for her become so intense? This was not what he had bargained for. He had a job of work to do. Agnes was not part of any plan.

‘After this crisis is over,’ he said, ‘I would like to take you on a cruise ship. Across the Atlantic to America!’

He brushed her lips gently with his own, then reluctantly he drove on towards Wigmore Hall, dropping her off, watching her being swallowed up by the crowd, the image of her remaining
before him, fixed and slightly disturbing. A moment later he crossed the river.

Robert Wilson, unaware he was being followed by Lucio Molinello, drove back up the Strand towards Chelsea. He had been dining with Lord Halifax. There had been several new faces at the meeting, including the editor of
The Telegraph.
Albert Einstein it seemed had written a letter to President Roosevelt that everyone in the Cabinet was talking about.

‘Can one believe the claim,’ asked the editor, ‘that a single atomic bomb, if dropped on a port, might destroy everything, together with some surrounding territory? Can this be possible?’

No one had known what to say. Such destruction was impossible to imagine.

Was Germany bluffing? Should Britain go to war to defend Danzig? And what on earth was to be done about the growing number of foreigners in the country? Life was becoming a nightmare.

‘Fascism is spreading unchecked in Britain,’ one member of the cabinet remarked.

‘Is this your own view?’ Lord Halifax asked.

‘No, sir, just what I heard.’

Everyone’s sitting on the fence, thought Robert Wilson. In his opinion there was another more localised headache that had to be dealt with first. But when he finally got to speak privately to Halifax about his suspicions, the response had been predictable. Halifax was only interested in the main problem.

‘I’m worried,’ Robert admitted. ‘Potentially this could be huge if it got out of control.

‘How certain are you?’ Lord Halifax asked.

‘Not entirely, sir,’ Robert said.

Halifax relit his cigar.

‘Right. Well keep an eye on the situation,’ he advised. ‘No need to do anything yet. Things are changing daily. You know the drill, jump in your own time, old chap.’

Halifax trusted him. That was the main thing. Although, and here Robert Wilson paused, he knew that in the end he was on his own. Now, and probably forever. Not that he cared any more, he thought grimly.

An hour later Robert drove swiftly along Fleet Street, turned left into Shoe Lane, a narrow one-way overspill to all the newspaper offices in the area, and parked awkwardly outside number thirty-seven. He had a small, anonymous office here. Deciding to take the stairs, he went up to his office. Narrowly missing Kitty, who walked out of the lift and headed towards the river and the railway station.

It was a quarter to midnight.

He poured himself a glass of scotch.

Seven sweet williams stood in a glass of water on his desk. He looked thoughtfully at them. The sign they had agreed on.

So she had something to tell him, did she? Well…

Seven, not ten. Ten would have been serious.

Seven, not twelve. Which would have been catastrophic.

He continued to stare at the flowers. Then he broke off a head and threaded it absent-mindedly through his buttonhole. Something must have cropped up but obviously she couldn’t stay. Damn, he thought. Looking around, he checked that nothing was amiss. He knew from past experience that Kitty often blew hot and cold, changed her mind, even became a little hysterical. As he had intimated to Halifax, he often had to have the information she gave him checked out. One could never be too careful. Kitty had uncertain allegiances. But nothing had been disturbed in the office and whatever it was it would have to wait.

He took a file from its usual hiding place. There were just two hours in which to finish his report.

Downstairs
Picture Post
was being put to bed, riding high on an editor’s desire to embrace Germany. The sounds of machines in motion could be heard faintly through the floorboards. Robert Wilson, dog-tired and unhappy, could not leave until
he had finished. A nagging thought, vague but persistent, kept returning to worry him. Sitting back in his chair, he tried to work out what it was. The boy Bellamy was a problem, too. Twice now Robert had met the boy on the footpath whilst going from his rented cottage across the field to Bly. Their exchanges had been guarded. Then yesterday he had caught Bellamy training a pair of binoculars on the Martello tower where he, Robert, kept his Bentley. Robert sighed. The sooner he could compile his list and leave Palmyra Farm, the better.

Soon, soon, the tempest would come. Of that he was certain. And the Maudsleys?

Selwyn,

Kitty,

Agnes?

Joe, soon to be conscripted.

Innocent Cecily.

And pretty Rose?

What of them all?

The collective problem he had not anticipated, that was what
they
were.

There were others who were a problem, too, but they were easily dealt with. When the time was right. For now, it was the Maudsleys who bothered him most. What could he do with them?

Feeding a fresh piece of paper into his typewriter, he was about to begin work when a small sound stopped him. He froze. Someone was outside on the landing. He was not expecting any visitors at this late hour.

There were only two other offices on this floor. One of them belonged to a literary agent and the other was a stockroom for the newspaper. Neither was used very much. Glancing down, he saw he’d forgotten to place the roll of felt against the door. Whoever was outside would see light seeping through.

Resisting the desire to cough, Robert took the phone off the hook. The receiver made a small click and he winced. There was
nothing for it but to sit it out. The bottle of scotch was maddeningly out of reach. If he moved, the floorboards would creak. The revolver he possessed but did not wish to use was in the drawer of his desk.

He waited. In the silence his highly tuned ear detected a shoe being turned on a sole. The person outside didn’t want to be heard, either. He saw the brass door handle turn slightly. Once to the left, and then back again. He had always made a point of oiling every door handle with which he came into contact and so it moved soundlessly.

Nothing between them,
thought Robert, almost enjoying himself,
except the width of a door.
But then, wasn’t that all there was between any of them? Part of his mind felt curiously relaxed, interested. The other part was ready. Except for the file, impossible to decipher, and impossible to find, there wasn’t much to give him away. In the pause that followed, he heard receding footsteps and counted them. Then with one swift movement he lifted up a floorboard and deposited the file into the space below. The list he had been so carefully compiling was all in this file. There was no duplicate. He switched off the light and went over to the window.

But all he saw was a car pulling away with a dark-haired man in it. It was him all right. So they had become suspicious.

When it had gone, Robert waited for a moment longer. The Arab printers downstairs were still working furiously. He switched on the light, picked up the receiver, listening first for a tone before dialling.

‘475321,’ he said. ‘Primrose.’

There was a pause during which he opened his cigarette case and took out another cigarette. He patted his pockets looking for his lighter and waited.