Hold My Hand (27 page)

"God, yes," says Mark. "D'you remember at school? They were still using her name as a shorthand for a really, really bad child. Gave everyone nits and everything.”

“Oh, that's not fair,” says Tina. “She got a prize once. It's still there, in the ledger. I remember the name now.”

“Well, whatever. Even if she did have a period of being good, it certainly didn't last. She got expelled for setting fire to the curtains in the main schoolroom. You can still see where the window got warped. I don't really remember what happened after that. It's one of those village things, isn't it? That you get when people are secretive. She disappeared after a while and of course all the kids started making up that she'd been murdered. But of course she wasn't. She'll have gone back to Portsmouth and got killed in an air raid or something.”

“God, yeah, and they were still going on about it when we were kids. Do you remember? That was why we always used to run away screaming whenever the Blakemores came to the village. Load of little bleeders, weren't we? I feel really sorry for her, now. Kid probably got her mum come and pick her up, didn't she?”

“Whatever,” says Mark.

“I prefer the murder theory,” says Penny. “Nothing like a good juicy rumour to keep a village together. What do you think they did? Shot her? Strangled her and dumped her body in the lake?”

“Yuh, thanks,” says Bridget. “I like that theory, too. Makes me
much
more comfortable living there.”

They all laugh, but they change the subject.

“So what brought you down from London, anyway?” asks Penny.

Bridget glances at Mark, but his face remains impassive. Tina's, too. She can't tell if he's told her. “Yasmin, really. I suddenly realised that London's a terrible place to bring up a child, if you're not rich.”

“So you've not got any connection with the area?”

“No,” she says. “Sorry,” she adds.

“Good thing, I'd say. Too many people related to each other round here. Half the families around here have webbed toes, as it is. So what do you think? Think you might stay a while?”

Bridget sips her beer. It is warm, nutty: truly traditional. “You know what?” she replies, “I think I really might.”

Chapter Forty-two

Carol is walking home from the bus stop with her purchases. Now she's got a salary approaching and a world of overnighters to live on, she feels justified in splurging a bit: expensive night creams to preserve her skin in the dry cabin atmosphere; two pairs of really good formal shoes that will support her arches and leave plenty of room for her feet to expand on long-haul; blissful, glorious makeup; extra-hold hairspray. Non-iron Summer clothes for the Florida run, extra-cheap in the tail end of the sales, warm furry boots for the New York run, though she knows she could probably have got them cheaper at Barneys.

She feels oddly Christmassy, though the season is well past. Feels as though her life, on hold for such a long time, is finally beginning to move again. She's done her refresher course, learned to spot a terrorist, remembered how to give mouth-to-mouth to a keeling pensioner, and tomorrow she'll be locking the door on the flat, hearing the rumble of the wheels on her pull-along flight bag along the pavement. She'd forgotten that sound: all the promise it held.

The traffic is so heavy on the Streatham High Road that she nearly doesn't hear her phone, chirruping away in the bottom of her bag. Must remember to enable roaming, she thinks, as she scrabbles into the inner pocket where she keeps it, now I can afford it. It's still ringing when she puts her hand on it, the lights on its keyboard blaring out on the night air. “Hello?”

“Hi, it's me.”

“Honey! How funny. You didn't come up on my display.”

“No. That's why I'm ringing. I've finally got a new phone.”

“Have you? Great! Well done, girl.”

“Do you want the number?”

“I'm walking,” she says, “and I've got my hands full. Can you text me?”

“Sure. You could get it out of the history, of course.”

“You know what I'm like with technology,” says Carol.

“Okay.”

“So how's it going? Had any more power cuts?”

“Good. All good. And no, I've got a guy from the village in right now, sorting it all out.”

“Guy from the village, eh? Single?” says Carol.

“Oh, you. One-track mind. He's a friend, okay?”

“Course he is.”

“No – oh, why do I bother? We're having a raging affair and he wants to have my babies, ok?”

“That's more like it,” laughs Carol.

“So how about you? All good?”

She turns the corner into her road, their old road. She's not paying attention to her surroundings, sucked as she is into that invisible bubble that wraps itself around anyone who is speaking on a phone. Is faintly aware that someone has turned the corner behind her, but doesn't think about it. It's work-turfing-out time, after all. There are millions of people turning into roads all over London right at this moment.

“All great,” she says. “I've been shopping for my travel kit. I've spent about a million quid.”

“Cool! And when do you start?”

“Tomorrow. Isn't it exciting? I fly to Vancouver at just gone noon.”

“Fantastic! Oh, Carol, I'm so pleased for you! When will you be back?”

"On and off," says Carol, "not for the best part of a month. Except for the odd half-day turnaround. It's this incredibly complicated rotating shift system. Especially if you're a new one, on probation. Got to look keen."

"So, what? Back and forth to Canada for a month?"

"No," says Carol. "All over. Four Caribbean layovers I know of, plus LA and Florida. I'm right back in the jet-set, girl, I can tell you, and I'm not going to waste a minute of it."

"LA? You'll never survive. What about the fags?"

"I'm giving up," says Carol. "I only do it 'cause I'm bored and miserable. And I'm not going to be bored and miserable any more."

It's dark and quiet in Branksome Avenue. The big houses that stand back from the pavement show little light from behind their curtains. She's used to it, of course, but she'll be glad to get away, after all these years. To find herself in a nice little one-bed house with a nice little nippy car to get her to the front door.

“I'm pretty pleased myself,” she replies. “That'll be me, by the side of the pool, with the cocktail, then!”

“Oh, Carol. You won't forget about little us, one you've started living the high life again, will you?”

“Course I will, darling. That's the last you'll see of me, now.”

“Ha bloody ha.”

“How's my little angel? She behaving?”

“She's great. We're having a party, Sunday. A load of kids from her school all coming over for cake and hide-and-seek.”

“Oh, God, it's her birthday,” says Carol. “I forgot! What a cow! I'm so sorry, darling. I promise I'll get her something from the States and send it the minute I get back.”

“No need. She's going to get plenty of presents this year. I've made sure of it.”

“Yes, well,” says Carol. “I'm her Auntie, aren't I? She's practically my godchild. I don't want her forgetting about me. Seven years old, eh? Who'd have thought it?”

“Well, if you want to… I'm sure she'll be pleased.”

“Course she will. Never underestimate the materialism of a child.”

“Oh, sorry,” says Bridget. “Mark's shouting. Got to go.”

“Mark, is it?” teases Carol.

“Shyattap,” says Bridget, but she sounds pleased. Entertained. Far, far happier than Carol can remember her sounding over they years they've known each other. “I'll talk to you soon. Call me and let me know how it went, won't you? I'll be wanting to know.”

“Willdo. Don't wait by the phone, though. I'm not going to be getting a tri-band phone 'til next month at least. Got to save the pennies for a bit. And I won't be at home in civilised hours practically at all. But you'll text me that number, won't you?”

“Right away. Bye.”

“Byeeee!” calls Carol. Lets the phone fall shut with a click. Drops it back into her bag. Turns in through the hedge, and climbs the steps to her front door. Her keys, as usual, have worked their way to the bottom of the bag. She pauses, rummages while she hums the theme to
Happy Days
in her rich alto. Finds the fob and fetches them out as the phone bleeps to let her know she's received a text message.

Doesn't notice, for a few moments, that someone is standing behind her.

Jumps, whirls round, brandishing the keys.

“Hello, Carol,” he says. “Been shopping?”

Chapter Forty-three

Mrs Peachment has to sit on the trunk, in the end, to get it to close, straining herself purple to tighten the leather straps. She is astounded that she has managed to distil her life into a single steamer trunk; it has been a labour of weeks, weeding out clothes and keepsakes, poring over photographs she may never see again, ironing everything as flat as flat so it takes up the least amount of space. There is so much she has had to leave behind. Ornaments and gramophone records, curtains and coverlets she thought she'd never have to live without. By the time she sees them again –
if
she sees them again – they will have faded with time and Cornish sunshine, will not be the same familiar objects. They will have had another life entirely.

I'm in two minds. This war so saps one's vitality: the uncertainty, the constant sense that life as one knows is about to come to an end.  Life will be pleasanter, less afraid-making, in Canada, though the fear for Malcolm, for the boys, will never go, however far I run. But oh, the eyes of my neighbours. I am a coward, a rat deserting a sinking ship: they may never forgive me for this. That's why I'm doing this midnight flit, telling nobody hereabouts, simply fading away into the crowds and leaving a handful of letters behind me. And at least I've got a legitimate excuse. No-one can say I shouldn't go and look after my poor little nieces, for heaven's sake. I didn't
ask
my sister to go swimming in the north Atlantic, did I?

Should I go? Should I really take this opportunity, risk the cold Atlantic with its lurking dangers, to seek out the land of milk and honey, when my neighbours are living a life of drudgery and marrow jam?

I'll send food parcels. Constantly. Hams and biscuits and maple sugar. I don't doubt anyone would do what I'm doing, if they had relations to sponsor them, let alone children in need. I've done my bit.  Taken my part in the war effort. Organised rag drives and scrap drives and blackout patrols, coaxed and chivvied people into opening their homes, in the face, often, of the most obdurate unwillingness. It's someone else's turn. I'm tired.

She gives the strap another tug. A cup of tea, she thinks. A nice cup of Earl Grey. I've still some left. I'll leave it for Patsy when she arrives to take the house over; she'll be glad of it.

The telephone, sounding out through the house, jerks her from her reverie. “Bother,” she says out loud, to no-one, and hurries from the landing where she has been packing to the hall, where it stands on a Victorian whatnot she inherited from an aunt.

“Meneglos 34.”

“Take her away! Take her away now!"

The voice, a woman's, is distorted by its own volume. It takes her a moment to work out what the shouter is saying.

“Hello? Excuse me?”

“I want her gone! Now! Do you hear me? Just come and take her away!”

“Who is this?”

There's a brief silence, as though her interlocutor is stunned at not being recognised. “Felicity Blakemore, you idiot! Who on earth did you think?”

“Good afternoon, Mrs Blakemore,” says Margaret Peachment, calmly. Another sixteen hours, and she will never have to cope with this woman and her high-handed approach to her neighbours again. Another twenty-four, and she will be embarking from Portsmouth docks, her trunk stowed and a whole new life ahead of her. “Are you having some sort of problem?”

“I want you to come here and take the filthy brat away
this instant
! I won't have her in the house a moment longer!”

“Who are you talking about, Mrs Blakemore?”

She knows perfectly well. There is only one refugee left at Rospetroc. She regrets, sharply, that she didn't take the time to get another half-dozen
in situ
before she hands over the reins to the coordinator in St Austell tomorrow. It would have been an enjoyable revenge.

“You know
exactly
who I'm talking about! Don't even
try
to pretend you don't!”

“Um…” she says, sounds vague and distracted, relishes the infuriation which beams down the line. “I have lots of people under my care, I'm afraid, Mrs Blakemore, not just you. You'll have to remind me.”

A gasp of frustration. Mrs Peachment fails to suppress a smile. Twiddles the string of pearls inside the collar of her blouse.

“
Lily – Rickett –”

“Lily… Lily… let's see… Ah, yes, I remember. And how is Lily getting on?”

The voice rises to a shriek. “SHE… HAS… BEEN… EXPELLED… FROM… THE… SCHOOL! I
cannot
bear her here for
one
moment longer! She's been a complete menace since the end of the Summer holidays, nothing but impertinence and sullenness. She threw an andiron at Hughie's head and very nearly brained him. She
slapped
my daughter, twice. I get nothing but lip and rebellion, it's enough to try the patience of a saint, and now even the
school
won't keep her. Mrs Peachment, she
set fire to the school
. I
cannot
have her here a
moment
longer. I won't be able to sleep safely in my own bed!”

“Set fire to the school?”

“Yes! This afternoon!”

I passed the school no more than an hour ago. I didn't see any sign of a fire. “Are you sure?”

“
Are you stupid?
Of course I'm sure.”

“Well, there's no need to take
that
tone,” she says.

“There is
every
reason to take this tone! You will sort out the mess you have created, Mrs Peachment, or… or…”

“Or what?” she can't keep the sneer out of her voice.

“I'll… the relevant authorities… Your superiors. You're not as important as you
think
you are, Mrs Peachment.”

It is her turn to gasp. “Well, I never –”

“I know all about people like you,” continues Felicity Blakemore. “Puffed up with your own authority. Using this war to play your petty little power games. Well, I'm not having it. Do you hear me?”

An idea is forming in Mrs Peachment's mind. No-one speaks to me like that, she thinks. I've worked my finger to the bone for this village, and she cannot speak to me like that. I'll cook her goose. The child's mother hasn't been heard of in four months. Women like that often disappear, when they find the opportunity. She's not going home any time soon.

“Well, it's not as simple as you seem to think,” she replies. “I can't just remove a child in an instant. There's another home to find, paperwork to do… there
is
a war on, you know.”

“I don't care. I've had enough. I've put up with her for over six months, now, and I won't put up with it for one day longer.”

“Sorry about that,” says Mrs Peachment. Gloatingly.

“I'm telling you, Mrs Peachment. I'm not asking. I'm
telling
you. If you haven't come and fetched her away by this time tomorrow, I'm putting her in the car and dumping her on your doorstep. Do you understand me?”

“Well, I hear what you're saying,” she says.

“Do. You. Understand. Me?”

“Oh, yes,” says Margaret Peachment. “I understand you
very well
.”

A click, and Mrs Blakemore is gone.

Margaret Peachment dabs at her temple with a small handkerchief which she has doused with the last of her
eau de Cologne
. Stands for a moment in the hall, fingers the tassels on the small lace tablecloth that protects the whatnot from being scratched by the telephone.

“Well, we'll see about that,” she says, out loud.

On the kitchen table, the refugee files wait, neatly bundled up with string, for the area overseer to collect when he receives his letter. He's a busy man, running the bank in St Austell by day and covering a huge area of the county by night; it will probably take him weeks to make his way over to Meneglos. Mrs Peachment fills the kettle, puts it on the hob for her nice cup of tea. Collects the scissors from the drawer by the sink, and returns to the table.

“Yes,” she says. “We'll see about that.” Cuts the string.

It doesn't take long to locate the Rickett papers. She's always been proud of the efficiency with which she has kept her records. And it'll stand me in good stead now, she thinks. Far harder to believe that someone's made a mistake when their punctiliousness is so clear for all to see.

She holds Lily Rickett's life between thumb and index finger. Turns it over, studies it. Not much to it, she thinks: just two forms and an already-fading photograph. There will be duplicates, buried deep among hundreds of thousands in a ministry somewhere. It will be spring at least before they are located. A lesson learned for Felicity Blakemore.

One of the world's unwanted children, not actually an orphan but as near as damnit. No-one's going to come asking for her, I can be fairly sure of that.

The child glares sullenly at her, dirty face and gooseberry eyes. No, she thinks. No-one's going to miss you.

The kettle starts to sing. Margaret Peachment goes to the stove to take it off the heat, and collects the box of matches on her way.