Meet Me at the Pier Head (21 page)
Read Meet Me at the Pier Head Online
Authors: Ruth Hamilton
Armed with pen and pad, she wrote the message carefully.
Richard, I am leaving you. Joan will come with me and we shall settle somewhere eventually once the business of divorce is completed. I intend to make an offer for
Bartle Hall, since you have not the money required to save it. The furniture is in storage, though we have kept essentials like beds. Table and chairs in the morning room remain, but all
valuable pieces bought by me are securely kept under lock, key and vigilant guards in a facility far from Chaddington Green. I expect you are now apoplectic with rage, but do read on to the end
before throwing your weight about.
Mrs Melia, who is due to retire, has been paid two months’ wages in advance and has promised to stay for that length of time to ensure that you are fed. She will live out her
remaining days in Lilac Cottage, as promised in her terms of employment. I have arranged a pension for her. Mrs Melia will have no dailies to help in the Hall. If you want the rooms you use
cleaned, you must pay those who are prepared to stay on. That also applies to garden workers.
My agent is aware that I refuse to work with you. He also knows that I am not, and never have been, dependent on alcohol. Our doctor can verify that, too. As I lay in my supposed stupor,
I heard every word you said, every piece of nastiness that emerged from your throat. You are a sad, vicious man who will end life alone and bitter, since very few will tolerate your rages and
your verbal abuse.
My legitimate reasons for seeking divorce are lodged with my lawyer, but the truth of the matter is that I hate the way you have treated me and my daughters. Perhaps your other children
(I know of two) might tolerate you better. Tia will make an excellent teacher, Juliet a wonderful nurse, and Delia will find her way to a settled future. You are not their master; nor are you
mine.
Perhaps you should warn your more recent ‘conquests’ that you have been followed and photographed and that the stories will hit the press sooner or later. I have wanted to do
this for years, but was forced to wait until my daughters had escaped your reach. Twice in recent times you have persuaded me to stay, but I am depending on this third time to be lucky and
beyond reach. Do not try to find me; be aware that nothing could possibly induce me to live with you or work alongside you ever again.
She re-read it twice and signed her given name only, since she intended to cease being a Bellamy in the very near future. Just as she penned her signature, she heard the village entering the
front courtyard. Several cars pulled up, and Joan could be heard guiding drivers towards various priest holes. ‘Stay away, Richard,’ Isadora said aloud. ‘Just half an hour or so,
and we’ll be gone.’ After sweeping bottles and jars into a vanity case, she applied a smear of lipstick and a small amount of powder before placing the note on Richard’s pillow in
the dressing room. There. It was done.
She returned to her own room, picked up her handbag and the medium-sized suitcase. ‘I’m not abandoning you,’ she told the house she and her girls had loved. ‘I’ll
make sure you’re put to good use, I promise. Have a rest in the meantime, stretch your timbers and listen to the birds.’ She dropped her bags, picked up the phone and left a message for
Delia, asking one of the housemates to remind her to phone her mother at the Punch Bowl. ‘It’s important,’ she stressed to the one person who was awake. ‘Please pass the
message on.’ Skifflers seemed not to go to bed before six in the morning.
For now, there was no more to be done, so she left her much loved home and went out to thank all who had come to help. Most of the luggage was on a flatbed lorry, so matters had been
hastened.
Cases wearing a red spot would be stored somewhere or other, probably in Liverpool for a while; the rest contained enough clothes for herself and Joan Reynolds, and they would be kept at
Tia’s place once Delia had transported them upcountry.
Oh, please hurry, my friends. Collect the luggage and throw it in your cars and get me out of here. The self-elected Grand Master
will be back at any minute, and I want to be gone before he shows his smug countenance. I married an idiot, so what does that make me? Why did I carry him for so long, especially after he became
rigor mortis weight? Oh, I can answer that one: you’re a fool, Izzy.
Mrs Melia waved goodbye, a handkerchief mopping up her tears. Isadora, seated with Joan in one of the cars, waved back before staring deliberately forward, because the house was, for now, a part
of the past. It was all horribly sad, yet it had to be done as smoothly as possible and without a show of emotion.
Like a wagon train in the wilds of America, the cars pulled out of the estate and proceeded in an elegant convoy towards Chaddington Green. Fortunately, there were no Indians about, though they
did have to slow down for a few stray deer whose sense of direction was confused, to say the least.
It was fiesta time when they reached the Punch Bowl. A late lunch had been prepared for the two women, and two rounds of drinks for everyone were on Isadora. There were cheers and whoops of joy
when villagers learned that she was leaving Richard at last. Bill Jenkins delivered his imitation of Richard Bellamy, a stiff, stilted and very gung-ho World War Two flight lieutenant from some
black-and-white movie of that era.
Polly Jenkins proposed a toast. ‘To freedom,’ she called, ‘and the absolute emancipation of women.’
The men pretended to boo, while their female companions cheered.
Isadora stood. ‘Deadlier than the male,’ she shouted. ‘It would be in the best interests of every man to bear that in mind.’
Polly Jenkins raised her glass again. ‘I’m coming with you,’ she joked.
Isadora sat and clinked her glass against the one held by her children’s nanny, now her best friend. ‘To us, Joan. I haven’t been to – you know where we’re going
– for years. We did Priestley’s
When We Are Married
there, I seem to remember.’
Bill Jenkins approached the table. ‘Phone call for you, Mrs Bellamy. It’s Delia from London.’
‘Thank you.’ She stood.
‘And your cases are in our dining room. My Pol thought that would save carrying them downstairs when you need them picking up. I hear you’re going to stay with Tia.’
‘That’s right.’ She would tell nobody where Tia was. Even Mrs Melia at Bartle Hall knew nothing of Isadora’s immediate plans. She picked up the phone. ‘Delia,
darling. Thank you for calling back so quickly.’
‘Hi, Ma. Sorry, I was asleep when you rang. Have you run away from home at last?’
Isadora could not manage to contain a chuckle.
‘Have you, Ma?’
‘I have, but Joan and I are staying here tonight. Our belongings are taking up space in Mr and Mrs Jenkins’ living quarters, so they need to be shifted soon. When you pack the van,
put the red spot cases in first, because we need to store them somewhere in . . . somewhere close to Tia. When can you come?’
‘I’ll try for tomorrow, but it’s more likely to be Tuesday. I have to be back in London by Thursday afternoon. You’re taking some stuff with you on the train, I
expect.’
‘Yes. We have to get out of Chaddington very soon, because your father’s on his way home with a sore throat. Villagers brought our luggage to the inn; they all seem delighted to hear
about my leaving him. Now, don’t rush, because we want no accidents.’
‘OK, Ma.’
‘Joan and I will go to our rooms now; we need to be out of sight. Can you telephone Tia and tell her I’ll be on the afternoon train tomorrow? I think it reaches its destination at
about six o’clock. And if you are able, will you tell Juliet what’s happening?’
‘Of course I will.’
‘Cordelia?’
‘What, Ma?’
‘You’ve met someone. Your voice is lighter. Take that slowly, too; as I said a few seconds ago, we want no accidents.’
‘Right, Ma.’
After a few beats, Isadora spoke again. ‘Are you perchance laughing at me, Cordelia Bellamy?’
‘Yes, Ma. Good luck and God bless. He never deserved you.’
‘Oh, he wasn’t always as he is now. Or perhaps I was more tolerant, but I don’t like the way he’s treated his daughters over the past few years. So, what’s her
name? Your young lady, I mean.’
‘Too early for that, Mother dear. It’s like any other relationship, and introduction to family doesn’t happen for a while. She’s pretty, she’s learning bass guitar
and is a good cook. Oh, she does knitting and crochet, too, and she’s teaching me to make blankets for African children. It gets cold at night even in the tropics, or so I’m told.
That’s all you need to know for now, Ma.’
‘Shhhhh,’ Isadora whispered. A sudden silence had descended on the public area at the other side of the bar. He was here. A shudder raced through Isadora’s body when a crash
broke the quiet in the snug. She dropped the receiver and rushed out to find Joan Reynolds on the floor with Richard standing over her, one foot raised as if he were preparing to stamp the life out
of the slender woman. ‘Where is my wife?’ he rasped.
‘I’m here,’ Isadora answered, her voice low and threatening. She knelt beside her friend. ‘Did he throw you to the floor, Joan?’
Joan nodded.
Men leapt forward and dragged Richard Bellamy to the outer door.
‘Keep hold of him, please,’ Isadora begged. ‘Joan, stay where you are.’ She returned to the phone, said a hurried goodbye to Delia and dialled the three nines, asking for
police and ambulance at the Punch Bowl, Chaddington Green. When she walked back into the bar, her husband was tied to a chair. Three large farmhands stood over him, while Polly Jenkins squatted
near Joan. ‘I don’t think anything’s broken,’ she told Isadora, ‘but I’m no expert.’
‘Keep her on the floor in case there is something broken,’ advised Polly’s husband. ‘Don’t move her. He was so quick coming in, Mrs Bellamy, that we didn’t
realize what he was up to until it was too late. I’ve never seen him move so fast. Being ill must suit him.’
The farmhands began to translate Richard’s hoarse whispers. ‘He says you’ve left him with no furniture. He says you can’t go away while he’s ill.’
‘He’s made me sick for years,’ was her response. ‘And I’m not going away; I’m leaving him.’
‘She’s an alcoholic,’ the prisoner said hoarsely.
‘No, just a good actress,’ Isadora snarled. She looked down at Joan. ‘We’ve plenty of witnesses to what happened here today. Bill, do you have a camera? Will it do indoor
shots?’
He nodded. ‘I’ll get it.’
‘Good man. I want a couple of him tied to the chair, and a couple of poor Joan on the floor. Let’s give next week’s newspapers something to chew on.’
By the time the snaps had been taken, a locum doctor had rolled up. He examined Joan, shining a light into her eyes, asking her for the day, date, month and year, asking had she banged her head
and did she feel sick. He placed her in a chair, said he was satisfied, but that the ambulance folk should have a look anyway. He then spoke to Richard. ‘Your wife acted like an alcoholic so
that she wouldn’t need to work with you. It’s all in Dr Heilberg senior’s records.’ He left the scene muttering darkly about people who didn’t appreciate others, and
raising his voice to wish Isadora and Joan good luck when he reached the doorway.
The ambulance arrived next, and Joan was once again declared out of danger.
‘She wouldn’t have been if Mr Bellamy had followed through,’ said the biggest of the farm labourers. ‘He was going to stamp on her till Mrs Bellamy stopped him.’
During this accusatory declaration, the police entered the scene. They questioned Joan, Isadora, Polly and Bill before talking to other witnesses. Richard had little to say due to his damaged
throat. He was taken away to the police station while villagers cheered raucously.
Exhausted, Isadora and Joan went up to their rooms. Once again, Richard Bellamy had managed to wear out his wife simply by being there, on the attack and . . . and breathing. ‘No,’
she muttered, ‘it isn’t that I want him dead. I just want him away from me.’
And how could he pick on Joan after all she’s done for us? She’s such a small woman,
so breakable, so loving and kind. Without her, I could not have worked; without her, I would have been in poorer financial health. She made the partnership possible, and I carried him as far as I
could. Once the idiot started to believe the publicity machine, he became too big for his boots and too small for his co-performers. He’s earning so little, has never saved . . . but
he’s no longer my problem.
Exhausted, and chilled to the bone in spite of the warm day, Isadora drifted into sleep, dreaming of happy days when children played in Bartle Hall’s grounds, when rain drove them inside
and hide-and-seek with its accompanying shrieks and footfalls echoed through the ancient building. Plays written by Portia and Cordelia were performed in the great ballroom to an audience of people
from the village, and Christmas had always been wonderful.
At about nine o’clock that evening, the extension telephone rang. She woke, temporarily disorientated, taking a few seconds to remember where she was and why. It was Bill from downstairs.
‘Mrs Bellamy, I have Tia for you. Polly came up to see you a few times, but you’ve slept for hours.’
‘Thank you, Bill.’
‘Ma? Is that you, darling? Did I wake you? So sorry if I did. Mr Jenkins told me just now about Pa’s behaviour. Is Nanny hurt? Oh, Delia asked me to call you, by the way.’
‘Portia, Joan is well, sweetheart. Is it convenient if we come tomorrow? Delia can definitely bring our luggage on Tuesday.’
‘Of course. There are complications . . .’ Tia told her mother about the murder, the abused child, the attempt at suicide by Rosie’s gin-dependent mother, and about Maggie.
‘Teddy got permission to bring Maggie out of hospital today and she and Rosie are staying with him. They could go home now, because Sadie’s in a coma and no threat at present, but he
feels they need a break. Rosie doesn’t know everything about her mother’s condition, you see. Maggie does. We can only hope that this latest tragedy won’t leave Rosie’s nana
open to further health problems.’