The Last Pier (16 page)

Yes,’ he said, frowning. ‘I think so, yes. The Italian, I think. No, nothing else. I’m back in the morning. Of course.’

The sounds downstairs were followed by muffled voices shouting instructions. A telephone rang in the depths and was answered.

‘I shall need another place,’ Robert said. ‘Yes, yes. Of course.’

He hung up. Hesitating, he opened up the floorboards again and took out the file he had just hidden. Then he began to remove all the papers before stuffing them into his briefcase. He emptied the ashtray. Switching off the light once more, he made his way noiselessly downstairs and into the street, bypassing the newspaper’s office. This time he did not lock the door.

Kitty’s flat was empty as promised. A note in Kitty’s handwriting instructed Agnes to use anything she needed. There was champagne in the fridge, cold salmon and brown bread and butter. The bed was freshly made up. There were clean towels and plenty of hot water. Some sweet williams stood in a vase by the bed, one small puddle of water freshly spilled on the bedside table.

When you leave just push the key back through the letterbox
Kitty had written.

Lucio glanced at the note and hesitated. He had just arrived and Agnes was pouring him a drink. He was too tired for food, he told her. She saw his hands tremble as he held the glass.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked. ‘I can leave, come back and pick you up in the morning? We can… wait…’

Agnes shook her head and presently she saw in his face, as he turned towards her in the soft glow of the lit lamp, a reflection of all that he was thinking. A shot of almost feverish desire seemed to leap up in him as, with the final decision reached, he cupped her face in his hands. All that had been growing in her, all the tender opening of her feelings, soaked into his fingers so that at last, turning, she led him towards the bed. She had forgotten, they both had, the tiny drops of fresh water, lying silently beside the vase.

Selwyn Maudsley wasn’t at any anti-aircraft meeting. He wasn’t with the ARPs, he wasn’t reporting to headquarters in London. He was alone on the Ness, not very far from the Last Pier. He had been there since late afternoon, in the abandoned coastguard
hut. It was his private space. From here he had a good view of the mainland and also of any sea landings, should they occur. He had been waiting off and on for days for the sight of Robert Wilson’s black Bentley rolling along the marsh road at low tide. So far there had been no sign of it. So far Kitty, who had been delayed in Exeter, had got it wrong.

On the walls of the hut were pinned tidal maps of the area, marked at intervals with red rings. There was also a map of the Ness itself and the stretch of beach near Bly on which the Martello tower stood. It could be that the Bentley had been parked there already, of course. But if this was the case, he would have heard it or seen the low sweep of its headlight on the water.

Moonlight flooded the marshes and bleached the colour from the reed beds. In all the years he had been coming here Selwyn had never known the area look so dry and parched. There occurred the harsh cry of a waterbird fading into nothing. It was the same everywhere you looked, Selwyn thought, continuing to search the landscape. The world was red in tooth and claw. He would wait until the morning if need be and when the tide finally went out, he would cycle home via the causeway and across the fields. Taking out a hip flask, he poured himself another whisky and prepared to wait.

Waking, Cecily thought she was dreaming. Her sister was talking to herself.

‘Oh shut up, shut up, you muff,’ Rose breathed.

Abruptly Cecily was fully awake.

Rose, fully dressed, had gone into their parents’ room and switched on the light. Cecily tiptoed out of bed and onto the landing. She was only doing this for research purposes, she told herself. Their parents’ room looked curiously dead. On the dressing table was a silver framed photo of them on their wedding day. Agnes smiling up at Selwyn. Rose was staring at the image.

‘I have to look my
very
best,’ she said out aloud. ‘I have to make him swoon at the dance. I
have
to!’

Cecily stared through a crack in the door as Rose swept up her hair, exposing her slender neck. Then with her other hand, she slowly unbuttoned her dress so she could see the entire length of herself naked in the glass.

Cecily swallowed. Their mother’s jewellery box was half open. Inside were the emeralds their father had bought their mother. Rose picked out a tiny string of pearls. She turned, coming towards the door and, taking fright, Cecily fled.

But Rose did not come back to bed. Cecily heard her going downstairs. It was impossible to leave things as they stood. She would simply have to follow her sister. Rose walked out through the kitchen door to the shed where her bicycle was.

‘Where are you going?’ Bellamy asked, blocking her path.

Cecily jumped and almost knocked over a chair. She heard a scuffle and saw Rose push him fiercely and with force, both hands against his chest.

‘Are you spying on me?’

In the dim moonlight Bellamy’s face looked desperate. As if the recollection of a blistering earlier taunt was festering. Suddenly Cecily felt sorry for him. He was like a faithful hound. It wasn’t fair that he should be kicked again and again. In a flash she saw, perhaps more clearly than before, that the complications about her sister, about Bellamy too, about everything to do with them both, were too vast for her to understand. And did Rose really love Carlo?

‘I’m glad you came out,’ Bellamy said, simply.

Cecily saw on her sister’s face a look that seemed to be fighting with itself as, with a hopeless sound, Bellamy bent down and kissed Rose.

‘Oh, do get away from me,’ Rose said. ‘I’m tired of you, don’t you understand? I shall tell Daddy if you won’t leave me alone and he’ll sack you.’

There was a pause.

‘Selwyn won’t be back tonight,’ Bellamy said.

Rose laughed.

‘How d’you know?’

‘I just do.’

‘You do not! He’s at an important meeting but he said he’d try to get back as soon as possible.’

There was a silence. Cecily could hear Bellamy’s angry breathing.

‘Look, Bell,’ Rose said in a more conciliatory voice, ‘I know I… I let you…’

‘What?’

‘It’s over Bell. Can’t you see? It’s a very old story now.’

‘Oh? So who’s the new story, then?’

Rose made an impatient sound.

‘I’m telling you, Bell, leave me alone or I shall have to tell Daddy you’re being a nuisance. And then he’ll be forced to get rid of you.’

‘Tell Daddy, then,’ Bellamy said and his voice suddenly coarsened. ‘What will you tell him? He’s busy knocking off Kitty.’

Rose slapped him. Bellamy stared at her, bitterness bubbling to the surface.

‘Where are you going?’ he asked again.

‘I’m going to meet Joe at the corner. He’s got a puncture and I’m going to meet him with the torch.’

She’s lying, thought Cecily, shocked. She’s going to meet Carlo. Suddenly, in spite of the balmy night she felt very cold and desolate. Bellamy continued to stare helplessly at Rose.

‘You’d better stop loitering around here, you know!’ she said at last. ‘I’ll simply have to tell Mummy and then you’ll be in trouble.’

‘So will you,’ Bellamy said, but he turned and melted into the trees.

When she was satisfied he had really gone, Rose mounted her bicycle and rode off in the direction of the bright lights and the band music playing on the seafront.

Back in her bed, colder than she had ever been, Cecily saw a small piece of paper peeping out from under Rose’s pillow.

Let’s meet at the dance,
it said.
But not raise suspicion with your parents.

The handwriting was not Carlo’s.

ALL THE SCENTS
from the orchard were in that old pot of plum jam. Sitting where Carlo once had, right there at the kitchen table, Cecily broke off a piece of the bread she had bought. Surrounding her were seven ghosts. They reminded her that although peace had been taking its last breath and the newspapers had been spewing out one terrible story after another, she hadn’t felt the agony of waiting for war in the same way as the adults.

On those last days of peace all along the riverbank, there appeared sudden sightings of kingfishers, blue and incomparable, rare and ominous. Reminding the country of what was passing.

And still the waiting had continued.

By now the world’s oracle was undeniably the wireless, its sound impossible to escape, its news carrying across the open sun-soaked fields of England. The whole country had been living in such a state of anticipation for so long that it almost passed for ordinary living. London transformed itself in the minds of busy Londoners. Until this moment it had been taken for granted. The idea that it might soon be in mortal danger was unthinkable. Overnight the city became infinitely precious. Never in the history of British conflict had so many understood what might well be lost.

And all the time the question
when?, when?,
cried out from every sweltering street corner while the desire to carry on calmly
still remained the order of the day. It was part of the terror of having to wait. Part of the blindness.

At the National Gallery, at the very moment the city became bloated with protective sandbags, Kenneth Clark was making plans for part of the collection to travel to Aberystwyth.

‘World Shocked!’ cried the news vendors.

For now there was a new word on every pair of lips.

Poland!

The colour green in a school atlas.

There came across the towns and villages of England the oddest of hushes, as though the very trees and streams, the green-hinged country lanes, the orchards, heavy now with fruit, were bracing against an unknowable horror. Loyalty flowed gently in its ancient rivers, love for home, fierce and invincible, was stamped on every face. If the Germans came, would any of this remain in a thousand years? Would it look different, were it to belong to others? Would the foxgloves bloom again on some other lovely summer’s day?

All over England excited children ran amok, their gas masks thumping against their backs, singing songs not sung since 1914.

‘Be prepared,’ Brown Owl warned.

And now at last everyone had heard the name Mussolini.

In Suffolk there were those who laughed at the mountain of sandbags in London. Here, everyone had a sandbag or two, in case of flooding. In Bly, the Molinellos were disappointed with their Pope. His broadcasted appeal for peace, in terms so general and trite, had almost passed unnoticed by the world. But the people in the town, not knowing about the Molinellos’ disappointment, began to look strangely at them.
Were
they related to that chap called Mussolini?

‘Blacker and blacker,’ said Selwyn, but how much blacker could the news really get?

Kitty, back from Exeter and listening to one of the news bulletins over supper, turned away to clatter plates in the scullery. Then she came back with the summer pudding.

‘People are collecting tinned food in the cities,’ she said, pouring custard made from fresh cream.

Nobody made summer pudding like Cook.

No one had seen Robert Wilson for some days.

‘He’s gone to see his boss in London,’ Kitty told them.

‘He’ll be back in time for the match, won’t he?’ Agnes asked.

‘Why does he have to come?’ Cecily asked. ‘He’s boring.’

‘Because,’ said Rose with an odd gleam in her eyes, ‘he
likes
Aunt Kitty.’

No one spoke. Agnes went to put the kettle on.

‘You haven’t finished your pudding, Rose,’ she said, finally. ‘Robert Wilson likes us
all,
not just Aunt Kitty.’

‘You can have mine,’ Rose told Tom, holding out her plate.

She looked pale and angry. Perhaps she was sickening.

‘As a matter of interest, what’s our friend Mr Wilson up to?’ Selwyn asked, lighting his pipe.

No one was interested but Aunt Kitty stared hard at him with a look that she usually reserved for Rose.

‘Tom, dear,’ Agnes said, with a crack in her voice. ‘Eat a little more.’

Tom grinned. Don’t worry about me, his grin said. I’m rather excited.

‘Don’t you have a meeting tonight?’ Agnes asked.

Selwyn shook his head and helped himself to seconds. Not tonight.

Cecily watched Tom slurping up raspberry juice at the bottom of his cut-glass bowl. There was no need for anyone to eat out of tins when the orchard was bursting with fruit. The orchard always reminded her of Carlo. Of late, since the accident, when she had had to have stitches, he had been very solicitous towards her. Thinking of him made Cecily blush.

‘I say,’ Tom was saying, ‘did you know that Bly fire station has got its anti-glares already? And is it true that the old school will be used for Top Secret missions?’

‘It’s a Top Secret!’ Selwyn joked.

But it wasn’t a joking matter.

‘My nerves are in shreds,’ Agnes confessed.

‘Captain Pinky’s done a bunk. Hurrah!’ Rose said out of the blue, forgetting what could and could not be said.

She was sounding a little hysterical, Cecily felt. Tom kicked her under the table but if Rose saw, she didn’t care. She had on a Black Look over her summer dress that made Kitty laugh in an oddly bitter way.

‘Thank you, Rose,’ Agnes told her. ‘Robert Wilson has been very supportive of this family.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Selwyn, non-committal.

He looked as if he could say more. On the table there were seven fresh flowers. Aunt Kitty was going out later.

‘Off out to see her admirer, I bet,’ Rose said, adding, in a nastily under-breath voice that only Cecily heard, ‘but who it is this time is anyone’s guess!’

In fact Aunt Kitty was only going to play bridge over in Bly.

On the news there were the usual stories of ‘incidents’ on the frontiers between Poland and Germany.

‘Just a minute,’ Selwyn said, raising his hand. ‘I want to hear the latest news bulletin.’

‘I bet you do,’ muttered Rose.

What in the world was the matter with Rose?

‘Shush!’ Aunt Kitty said crossly.

‘Who
does
she think she is?’ muttered Rose, glaring at their aunt.

Luckily only Cecily knew of her sister’s own undercover plans.

‘Our ambassador has gone back to talk to Hitler.’

‘Well, the next three days will be important,’ Selwyn agreed. ‘Let’s stay hopeful until then.’

‘I’d like to have a word with Mister Hitler!’ Kitty said.

‘And me!’ agreed Cecily.

Everyone was amused, even Agnes, and all at once the atmosphere changed and became happy and glorious again.

‘What would you say, C?’ Tom asked, joining in.

Cecily hesitated. On the one hand she would have liked to fool around and make them laugh but on the other, she knew if she did, everyone would continue to treat her as though she was a child.

‘She’d vomit on him,’ Rose cried.

She had found a Don’t-Care straw hat and wore it rakishly over her Black Look.

‘Be quiet,’ Selwyn admonished, turning the radio up and they were all silent, listening to the boring voice.

President Roosevelt was urging peace. Great efforts were being made to preserve it by all the Scandinavian countries, too.

When supper was finally over Agnes went off to complete her Mass Observation entries. Then she promised Rose she would finish her dress. Rose’s dance dress was straight out of a fairy tale. Cecily’s a mere cast off.

Then, in spite of what he had said earlier, Selwyn put on his bicycle clips and went out into the lovely evening, disappearing
amongst the dusky dog roses. He had so much to do before the harvest began on Monday.

‘Let’s meet in the den tomorrow,’ Tom hissed.

Cecily nodded.

Afterwards, in no time at all, the harvest arrived and for a whole week the farmhands worked furiously to finish the job. Bellamy was paid extra by Selwyn to join in, simply because he was such a good strong worker. Always the first to arrive in the coolness of dawn, he was also the last to leave, working steadily, wasting no time and speaking to no one. The helpers, aware of his unpredictable moods and made uneasy by his brute strength, gave him a wide berth. Often he would be found standing stock-still, as if in a dream, staring across the waves of softly undulating white oats in the blaze of sunshine. In contrast to the gentleness of the abundant countryside, Bellamy’s scythe sounded harsh against the wheat stalks. There seemed always to be a glint of anger in his eyes.

Soon the swathes lay yellow and beautiful on the stubble. The local girls began making the bonds, the mothers binding the sheaves. And except for the noon rest and the mid-morning break and the pauses for the drinking of tea, the work went on all day until darkness fell.

One afternoon during that week, Rose came out into the field where Bellamy was working. She was carrying the tin pot of tea.

‘Hello, gipsy,’ she called, her voice rising like a lark over the translucent light.

She had not seen him since their row.

Bellamy took the pot from her. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Then he threw the tea in a wide glittering arc across the stubble. Cecily, hurrying across to the secret hiding place she now shared with Tom, saw them and stopped. Bellamy and Rose were fighting.

‘Still in your silly mood?’ asked Rose.

She didn’t sound as if she cared much.

‘If that’s what it pleases you to say,’ Bellamy answered.

The threat in his voice threw itself across the field.

Until this summer Bellamy had always gone to Bly fair with Rose. They went after dark because Rose thought fairs were more fun if you sneaked up on them. When it arrived, she used to climb down through the bedroom window and the two of them raced off to the seafront. Then with no warning she withdrew her friendship and developed another interest.

‘It wasn’t Joe you saw,’ Bellamy said.

‘Shut up!’ Rose whispered savagely.

In the stillness of the air, her voice carried all the way to Cecily.

‘You
like
that idiot? You really
like
him?’

‘What if I do?’ asked Rose. ‘What will you do?’

‘I’ll… I’ll…’ Bellamy grabbed her wrist, leaning towards her.

Cecily heard Rose’s careless laugh as it skirted his threat.

‘It’s nothing to do with you, you fool.’

‘Yes it is. Everything about you is my business. If I find it’s true…’

Rose laughed again. Then she pushed him away with surprising force.

‘If you
want
to kiss me, kiss me, then,’ she said. ‘Don’t creep all over me.’

But Bellamy’s attempt to kiss her was not successful, either.

‘Why don’t you wash?’ Rose snapped, suddenly. ‘You smell something terrible.’

Bellamy experienced a moment of confusion. He had been drinking beer and the strangely repetitive taste of the hops began to rise and quarrel with another sensation just above his heart.

‘I have,’ he lied.

‘No you haven’t,’ she said furiously. ‘You’ve been here all day. And I’ve already told you I don’t want to go on the rides with you any more.’

Bellamy was silent.

‘You can’t go on your own,’ he said mildly, adding, ‘I’ve nearly finished for the day and I’ll wash in the stream if you like.’

‘If I
like
! You smell like a pig, like… like the poacher you are. I’m sick of it.’

They had moved away from the stocks and the sun was full and harsh on them. Bellamy looked at her upturned face. The expression on her face was one of supreme indifference. The flat, faint impression of her voice carried sharply across to Cecily. Her sister’s sudden rage, which Cecily had been well used to since childhood, seemed to have on this occasion come from nowhere. It wasn’t Bellamy who usually angered Rose.

‘But you know I poach,’ he said, frowning. ‘You’ve always known. What’s wrong?’

‘Well I’m tired of the way you are. I’m tired of doing the same things with you, tired of your stupid habits.’

He seemed to digest this.

But they had been friends forever, thought Cecily in dismay. Been inseparable since they had been children, since Selwyn had first employed Bellamy on the farm. No one, not even Agnes, had been able to break that. Palmyra Farm and all of the surrounding countryside that they had roamed together
was
Bellamy. Cecily could not imagine a life in which he did not exist.

‘Don’t be silly,’ he was saying.

‘I’m not being silly,’ Rose cried. ‘I’ve already made up my mind. The time has come for me to go to the fair on my own this year.’

‘What?’

‘Yes. I shall meet the Molinello boys, they’ll bring me back. I don’t need you.’

Her cruelty winded Cecily. It seemed to render Bellamy speechless too.

‘So that’s it,’ he said, dully. ‘The Eyties? Those fools?’

‘Don’t you dare call them fools!’

There was a silence. Cecily shivered.

‘Go then,’ Bellamy said at last with a sudden flash of anger. ‘Bugger off.’

And he pushed her so hard that she almost fell. Turning, Rose marched swiftly in the direction of the house.