Cross My Heart and Hope to Die (27 page)

I didn't see how I was going to sleep, and in a way I was relieved when I heard a heavy tread on the pavement. A policeman, in cape and helmet, came into view. He looked me over with his torch. ‘And what do you think you're doing?' he said in a gravelly voice.

‘I'm not doing anything. Just sitting down.'

‘Where do you live?'

‘I've got no fixed abode.'

‘Don't try to be funny with me.'

‘I'm not being funny. I don't live anywhere at the moment.'

He took another look at me by torchlight. ‘You'd better come with me, then.'

We didn't say anything else to each other. My left foot had pins and needles, and I limped beside him on the frosty pavement to the police station. It was a gloomy old-fashioned place with a slightly ecclesiastical look about the doors and windows. Inside, I stood blinking under the fluorescent lights of a busy office. There were various policemen about, and a couple of drunks giving them trouble. A woman with a lot of make-up and wearing a fur coat was sitting on a bench, smoking. The policemen obviously knew her well because they addressed her as Dolly.

When the drunks had been dealt with, the gravelly policeman introduced me to the sergeant behind the counter.

‘This young woman was sitting in Matthews's doorway,'

‘She was, was she?' The sergeant, a fat man with a moustache, looked at me with more disapproval than he'd shown the drunks. ‘We don't have people sitting in doorways here. What's your name?' He wrote it down. ‘And your address?'

‘I haven't got an address. I've left home. I'm a student, and I've been living in London, but I've left there too. I'm on my way to France with a friend. We were going on the night boat, but she hasn't arrived.'

‘Let's see your boat ticket, then.'

‘Er – I haven't got one. My friend is organizing the tickets.'

He looked as though he didn't believe me. He pointed at my grip: ‘And is that all you've got in the way of belongings?'

‘It's all I'm taking to France. We're going to travel light. I left the rest of my things in London.'

‘Where?'

I told him, reluctantly, so at last he had an address to write down.

A chunky policewoman appeared and the sergeant showed her what he'd put in his book. She didn't exactly look disapproving, but she wasn't very friendly either.

‘How old are you, Janet? Have you been to Dover before?'

‘Eighteen, and no I haven't. Look,' I added crossly, ‘you've no need to treat me like some kind of suspect. I wasn't doing anything wrong. I didn't want to spend the night in a doorway, but I've nowhere else to go.'

They asked me to open my shoulder bag and my grip, and they had a good rummage round. They weren't very happy about the Baudelaire, I could see them wondering whether it was pornographic, but my creaking-new passport cheered them up.

‘You're not destitute,' the sergeant pointed out. ‘You've got plenty of money for a room in a private hotel.'

‘But I expected to go on the boat. I waited at the Central Station until after eleven-thirty. You can check that, the ticket collector will remember me. Then I went down to the docks to see if my friend was there. By the time I got back to the town everywhere was closed.'

They scratched their ears, disposed to believe me at last. ‘Well, you can't sleep on the pavement. You'll have to spend the night here.'

‘Anything you say. But look, I'm worried that there might have been an accident. My friend would have been here otherwise. She may be in hospital somewhere.'

They promised to check, and wrote down her name, and the address again. The policewoman took me to a cell. Having decided that I wasn't a suspicious character she became quite friendly.

‘It's not designed for comfort,' she said, ‘and you'll probably find the neighbours a bit noisy, but it'll be a lot warmer than Matthews's doorway. I shan't lock the door. If we get an influx of customers I may have to turn you out, so get some sleep while you can.'

Everything in the cell smelled of disinfectant, and there were intermittent foul-mouthed shouts, some of them in a female voice, from the other cells. I took off my boots and flopped down on the narrow bed, so bewildered and worried, and disturbed by the noise and the bright light, that I thought sleep would be impossible. I was astonished when the policewoman brought me a mug of tea and told me it was morning.

‘We've checked your London address,' she said, ‘and your friend spent the night there. Couldn't get away, I expect.'

I didn't understand. If Kate had missed the last train she would surely have tried to get a message through to me at the station. I was thankful she wasn't in hospital, but almost more worried than if she had been.

I'd imagined myself spending the morning at the railway station, waiting, but the police told me I'd do better to go back to London. I had the impression that they still weren't entirely sure about me, and wanted to get me out of Dover. But if Kate was still in London, that was where I wanted to be, so I gladly accepted a lift to the station in a police car, and bought a oneway ticket.

At Charing Cross I made straight for the telephone. Mrs Dooley answered fiercely.

‘Who? Listen, I've had the police on to me already this morning. What's going on? Yes, she was here, Miss Forbes saw her going out. How do I know where she was going? Work, I suppose – some of us have to, you know.'

Kate worked for a large public relations agency. I couldn't really believe she'd be there, but the girl on the switchboard was sure she was in the building somewhere, and when I said it was urgent she started to ring round the departments.

I waited anxiously, clutching the receiver. A middle-aged woman, trying to make herself look young by wearing a trendy John Lennon-type cap, came to the next telephone and I could hear quite clearly what she was saying: ‘I'm enquiring about an article I sent you three months ago. A travel article under the name of David Warwick. I've heard nothing from you … yes, I'll hold on.'

We both waited. And then, on my line, a very brisk voice that I hardly recognized said, ‘Kate Bristow.'

I hadn't begun to think what I was going to say to her. I'd imagined that just speaking to her would instantly resolve my problems.

‘Kate …'

‘Yes?'

‘It's
me
. Janet.'

There was a pause. ‘Oh,' she said, impossibly distant.

‘What's happened? Why didn't you meet me last night?'

‘Ah, yes. Well. Look, I'm sorry. I ought to have told you I wasn't coming, but I was too much of a coward. Where are you?'

‘Charing Cross.'

‘Oh no! I thought you'd go on to France without me.'

‘How could I?'

‘Why not? You're a big girl now.'

‘But Kate –'

There was a lot of office clatter and chat in the background. ‘Hang on a minute,' she said.

I waited, my eyes staring at nothing, my mouth open and drying fast. The woman in the next call box was explaining to someone else: ‘I write travel articles under the name of David Warwick. I sent you one three months ago and I've heard nothing –'

‘Janet?' said Kate, and there was no warmth in her voice at all. ‘I know I've let you down, and I'm sorry. But I told you I was selfish, I told you that you couldn't rely on me.'

I didn't understand. ‘But you love me. You said so.'

‘Oh, grow up, do. We helped each other through a bad patch, and it was fun while it lasted, but it couldn't go on indefinitely.'

I refused to understand. ‘But I love you – I'll always love you. Please,
please
. You can't just leave me!'

‘Why not? I would have done sooner or later. If it's any comfort, I'm quite fond of you. It's a measure of my affection that I couldn't face taking you to France and deserting you there.'

‘David Warwick!' The woman in the next booth was almost shrieking in exasperation. ‘Morocco. Two thousand words and three photographs.'

I clung to the receiver, my lifeline as long as Kate was on the other end. ‘What am I to do?' I babbled.

‘Go home for Christmas,' she advised, ‘and then make a fresh start next term. You won't see me again, because I'm leaving London for good. I'm going abroad, tonight, on my own. I'll leave your gear in my room, and you must make your own arrangements with Mrs Dooley. Why not ask her to let you rent the room? That'd be better than sharing with Libby. All right? Good luck. ‘'Bye now.'

The line went dead. The woman next door was having similar trouble, still holding the receiver and mouthing her frustration at it: ‘Blah blah blah … You stupid bloody
little
man.' She went into elaborate, obscene detail, her face old and ugly under the ridiculous cap.

My own reaction was different. I put the receiver carefully on its rest, picked up my grip and wandered away, letting the crowds take me with them. And all the time I held myself together, determined not to cry or to swear or to walk under a bus or do anything equally stupid, because I'd been stupid enough already.

I walked out of Charing Cross and turned right, along the Strand and Fleet Street, up Ludgate Hill to St Paul's, past the Mansion House and the Stock Exchange, and on to Liverpool Street and the train for Suffolk. And either my boots had worn to the shape of my feet, or my feet had become numbed, because they didn't

hurt any more, there was no more hurt to be had.

I had nowhere else to go, and no one else to go to, so I went back home to Mum.

When my train reached Breckham Market it was four o'clock, dark already. The next bus to Byland didn't leave until six. To pass the time I mooched round the town centre, looking at the Christmas shopping displays. The main streets were hung with necklaces of coloured lights, and there was a big lit-up tree outside the Coney and Thistle in the market place.

As usual, all the town's retailers were trying to get in on the Christmas act. The men's outfitters, where I always went to buy Dad's annual tie, had filled their window with neat displays of socks and ties and gloves and handkerchiefs and scarves, each price card labelled with a sprig of holly and advice for potential buyers: ‘
Attractive Xmas Gift'; ‘Useful Xmas Gift'; ‘Acceptable Xmas Gift
‘. Other items, presumably neither attractive nor useful nor acceptable, were labelled simply ‘
Xmas Gift
‘.

It was always the same, every year, ever since I could remember. Always good for a laugh. Except that this year it wasn't the same, and never would be, ever again. An intolerable sense of loss overwhelmed me, and I stood on the pavement weeping.

I couldn't bear the thought of Christmas without Dad. Or home without Dad, because without him it wouldn't be home any more. Might as well go back to London. I wiped my eyes, blew my nose, and began to trudge back towards the station.

But then I thought of London without Kate, and decided that I preferred Suffolk.

There was still almost an hour before my bus went out. At the Corner Bakery and Café I paused for a moment, seduced by their window display of sausage rolls and pastries, and by the smell of warmth and food that wafted out when the door opened. I hadn't eaten all day, except for a cup of coffee and bun at Liverpool Street station. But the café was busy, and I couldn't bear the thought of having to reveal my tear-stained face to strangers at a shared table.

I was just going to move away when a man came out carrying a cake box. He was about my age, going on six feet tall, trendily dressed in a black leather jacket, with thick dark hair and heavy eyebrows that almost met in a straight line above his nose. Hadn't seen him for months, or spoken to him for years.

If I'd stopped to remember how Andy Crackjaw used to torment me, I would have wanted to avoid him. But the fact was that I'd made use of him for so long whenever I needed to describe my imaginary boy-friend that I greeted him without hesitation.

‘Hallo, Andy.'

He stared for a moment, then recognized me: ‘Well, if it isn't our Janet from Longmire End! What're you doing here?'

‘Waiting for the six o'clock bus.'

‘Bus, nothing! I'm on the way to see me poor old Mum, it's her birthday. I'll give you a lift in my car.'

He just wanted to show the car off, of course. But I was glad enough to accept his offer. ‘Give us your grip,' he said, and I gladly relinquished it. He gave me his cake box to carry in exchange, and held my arm in a neighbourly way as we crossed the street. And I realized then how limp I felt, how all my emotions and energies had drained away leaving me with just a pair of feet that had been mechanically taking me in the direction of home. It was a wonderful relief to be taken charge of, and to think that I wouldn't have to endure the jolting bus journey, the chat of the village passengers, the long plod up the dark lane. However badly Andy had treated me as a child, he was certainly making up for it now.

‘I'm parked at the White Hart,' he said. ‘Their bar'll be open in ten minutes, so we can have a drink before we leave.'

I'd never been in the White Hart, the best hotel in town. It wasn't the sort of place I'd ever think of going to, though the girls at school who lived in town used to talk about going there for Saturday morning coffee or the Saturday evening dinner-dance. It was a big plain red-brick place, Georgian I'd thought, but inside it turned out to be Tudor, with dark beams and crooked corridors. It was impressive, though, with thick carpets and discreet lighting and antique furniture. I felt very much out of place on account of being both tear- and travel-stained, and I was thankful that at least I was wearing a skirt rather than jeans.

Andy seemed to know his way round. ‘You'll find the powder-room down that corridor,' he said. ‘I'll be in the lounge bar over there.'