Perseverance Street (20 page)

Ogden Beakersfield had been staring into the window
for several minutes, screwing his eyes up most of the time because his eyes weren’t what they used to be and he’d left his glasses on the kitchen table. Eventually he walked away, muttering to himself and called in the pub for a beer. It was market day and they’d been open since ten a.m. – an hour ago. He was still muttering to himself as he sank his pint.

‘Stop yer chunterin’, Oggie, lad,’ scolded the landlady. ‘Yer mekkin’ everyone’s beer go flat.’

‘I’m minding me own buggering business,’ muttered Ogden. ‘An’ two pound’s a lorra brass for a man on a low pension.’

‘What the heck is he talkin’ about?’ asked the landlady of no one particular.

‘I’ll tell yer warram talkin’ about if yer lend us yer glasses for two minutes.’ Ogden pointed at the landlady’s spectacles. She stared at him for a brief moment, sighed, then took them off and handed them to him. He stuck them in his top pocket and shuffled out of the door, much to her consternation.

‘Hey! I never said yer could walk outside with ’em. Bloody hell! Where’s he gone wi’ me glasses? Daft owd beggar!’

The daft owd beggar had gone
over the road to the café, where he donned the spectacles and stared at the photograph on display in the window. His wrinkled face creased into a toothless beam as he confirmed what he’d previously seen. He took a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and wrote down a phone number, using one of the many bookie’s pencils he’d accumulated. He then stuck the glasses back into his pocket and returned the pub for a celebratory pint. As he paid for it he asked the landlady, ‘How do I mek a telephone call ter Shipley? Is it long distance? Will it cost much? I’m not used to all this new-fangled telephone business.’

‘New-fangled? Oggie, telephones have been around for years.’

‘Not round my bloody ’ouse, they haven’t. What do I do?’

‘Yer go ter that big red box up t’ road and yer pick up a black thing what yer stick to yer ear’ole, then yer dial 0 and ask t’ operator ter put yer through to whatever number yer want. She’ll tell yer ’ow much ter put in.’

‘What, they mek yer pay afore yer use it do they?’

‘Aye, just like I mek yer pay fer yer pint afore yer drink it.’

Ogden screwed his face up. ‘I ’ope it’s not much. I’ve not got money ter flash around, yer know.’

‘Aye, I think we’ve all noticed that, Oggie.’

‘I’ve mos’ prob’ly missed me chance, anyroad. Prob’ly someone’s beat me to it. Story of my life – bein’ beaten to it.’

He finished his pint and shuffled outside, up the road to the telephone box where he dialled 0 and asked the operator for the Shipley number he’d seen in the café window.

‘Put tuppence in the box, caller, and
press Button A when your call is answered.’

‘What if I don’t get no answer?’

‘You press Button B for your money back.’

‘Right.’

Ogden carefully placed two pennies in the slot, dialled the number with a shaky index finger and pressed the telephone to his good ear.

‘Well, damn me! Aren’t you supposed ter be in jail?’

Lily looked up at the woman
confronting her at Dee’s stall in Leeds market. It was late morning and Dee had gone to buy them a couple of sandwiches for lunch. Since finding out that Bernard Armitage had died, her world had almost died with him. He’d taken with him the precious secret of her son’s whereabouts. Dee had virtually bullied her out of the house and back to work, afraid of what she might do if left alone.

‘What?’ said Lily dully.

Hilda Muscroft was standing there with a carrier bag full of vegetables. Her voice grew louder, wanting people to hear.

‘Yer got locked up in a nut’ouse, didn’t yer? How come they let yer out? Yer still look doo-lally ter me. Bloody ’ell! We’re not safe in us beds wi’ nutters like you around. Killed any more of yer kids lately?’

Lily, who had been sitting down, got to her feet but didn’t have the mental ammunition to retaliate. She went paler than usual and began to shiver. Hilda was laughing out loud at her triumph over this woman who, along with her blowzy friend, had humiliated her. She turned and addressed the small crowd which had gathered, sensing something going on.

‘Hey, d’yer know who this is? It’s Lily Robinson – her what killed her son and got sent to a nuthouse for attacking me in t’ street.’

Lily wanted to run away but
this meant deserting Dee’s stall, so she stood her ground, drip-white and shocked to the bone. People who remembered her story were looking at her with contempt. Hilda’s vicious diatribe grew in venom and volume when she realised that she was in no danger of retaliation from Lily, who looked totally harmless and on the verge of a breakdown. Angry comments came from the crowd, eagerly encouraged by Hilda. One woman stepped forward and spat on a tray of rings. Hilda sniggered out loud.

‘That’s right love. Step forward and spit on the child killer! Lily bloody Robinson. What’s she doin’ workin’ among decent folk?’

Another voice, much louder than Hilda’s, joined in. ‘That horrible smell isn’t coming from the fruit and veg stall, ladies and gentlemen – it’s coming from this stinking woman!’

Dee took Hilda by the scruff of her neck and twisted her coat so tight that she had her choking. She then hurled her to the ground. The carrier bag burst, scattering her vegetables. Then she confronted the woman who had spat on her stall.

‘You, wipe your filthy spit off my stall before I throttle you!’

She took the woman by the hair and thrust her face into the spit she’d just deposited. Effortlessly, she held the woman’s face down as she spoke to the crowd.

‘My friend hasn’t killed anyone, which is why she’s a free woman. She’s a victim of brainless idiots like this old bag and old smelly knickers down there.’

Dee let go of the old bag and took a kick
at a large cabbage that Hilda was reaching for. It flew into the crowd like a football, bringing broad grins from some of the watching men. Then she gave the kneeling Hilda a kick up the backside, sending her sprawling and rousing the men into cheers. When she turned back to the stall Lily had gone.

She was just leaving the crowded market and heading towards the West Yorkshire bus station when she heard a voice behind her.

‘Are you OK, Lily?’

She stopped but didn’t turn round, having recognised the voice. Charlie. He came alongside her. ‘I saw it all kick off back there – including the mayhem caused when your friend turned up. She seems a very formidable lady.’

Lily couldn’t think of anything to say. She felt his hand on her shoulder and it felt unbelievably welcome, strong and comforting and undemanding. Now she turned to him. He was dressed for work, in a dark blue boiler suit, a pencil stuck behind his left ear.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked him. This fourth meeting must be more than a coincidence.

‘Well, maybe I thought I might bump into you.’

‘Oh,’ she said, then added, ‘Did you believe what you heard?’

‘No.’

His answer came almost before she
finished asking the question. Brief and unequivocal.

‘What do you believe, then?’

‘I believe the story you’re going to tell me when we go for a drink in this pub.’

The Yorkshire Hussar, which stood at the bottom of Eastgate, was just opening its doors. Charlie escorted her into the taproom.

‘I’d take you into the lounge but I’m not exactly dressed for it,’ he said apologetically.

‘I don’t mind.’

He selected a table for two in a corner where they wouldn’t be disturbed, sat her down like a head waiter might, removed the pencil from behind his ear and stuck it in his pocket. The bar was practically empty, but would soon fill up with early lunchtime drinkers; beer was twopence per pint cheaper than in the lounge. He bought her a brandy while he settled for a small lemonade.

‘How do you know I like brandy?’

‘I don’t. Seems to me as if you need one.’

‘Good guess.’ She eyed his drink. ‘Not a drinking man yourself, then?’

He grinned. ‘Oh, I can drink with the best of them but not during the working day and not while I’m driving. The army instills all sorts of strange disciplines into you.’

‘Driving? Do you have a car as well as your motorbike?’

‘Firm’s van. The old man gave it to me as a sweetener to persuade me to go back into the family firm.’

‘
Were
you going to work somewhere else?’

‘It crossed my mind to
do
something else. I’m afraid the army messed up my mind for Civvy Street. Anyway, I’m back to knocking things down for a living – for the time being at least.’

‘You sound as if you had
a hard time of it in the army.’

He went quiet for a brief moment, then said, ‘We’re here to talk about your problems.’

She gave a wan smile and swilled her drink around in the glass. ‘Oh, I don’t think you want to know about my problems.’

‘Actually, I do – and the first thing I want to know …’ He glanced at her ring finger. ‘Tell me to mind my own business if you like – but I assume you’re married?’

‘If you assume I’m married why have you come looking for me?’

‘I’ve learned that not everything is as it seems. Or is it?’

Lily looked down at the two rings on the third finger of her left hand and, without looking up, said: ‘My husband was killed in France on April the eleventh this year. He was mentioned dispatches.’

She added the last bit to emphasise that her Larry had died the death of a brave soldier. People who asked about him should know that.

Charlie felt guilty at the fact that his feelings were mixed at this answer. ‘I’m truly sorry to hear that.’ He took a sip of his drink. ‘Got a Mentioned, did he? Sounds a good man. Just weeks before the end. That was hard luck.’

She gave a slight nod and felt
a desperate need to unburden herself on this young man whom she hardly knew. Over the next thirty minutes the whole story tumbled out. He sat there, quietly, interjecting nothing but an occasional question to clarify something. At the end of it he went to the bar and came back with two brandies. She looked at them and then up at him.

‘I thought you didn’t drink during a working day.’

‘This stopped being a working day about ten minutes into your story. I’ll ring the old man up and give him some lame excuse about me needing to take the afternoon off, then I’ll run you home.’

He looked at his watch. ‘In my experience,’ he said, ‘there’s always a way out of a problem. Blimey, I’ve wriggled out of a few tight spots in my time.’

‘This isn’t the army, Charlie.’

‘Same principle. Just needs thinking about. As Mr Micawber once said, “Something will turn up.”’

‘
David Copperfield
.’ Lily smiled, unaccountably relieved that she had Charlie on her side. Dee was a tower of strength, but a loose cannon. Charlie was different. He seemed resourceful and dependable. Somehow she had faith in Charlie, a man she hardly knew.

‘What’s your surname?’ she asked him.

He winced slightly. ‘Cleghorn. Beryl hated it. Hated the idea of one day becoming Beryl Cleghorn. Still, she doesn’t have that to worry about any more.’

‘She must be mad to lose you.’

Charlie grinned. ‘She going out with a bloke called Arthur Sirrell now. Hey, if she marries him she’ll be a mouthful.’

Beryl Sirrell made Lily smile once
again. He did that, did Charlie.

‘Do you want to come in for a cup of tea?’ Lily asked him as he drew the van up outside Dee’s house.

‘Don’t mind if I do.’

They’d just settled down to drink their tea when the phone rang. ‘It’ll be Dee, worrying about me like a mother hen,’ said Lily, going into the hall.

‘Hello, Shipley four-eight-six-two.’

‘Is that two quid still up fer grabs?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Oh, bugger! Can yer hear me all right?’

‘Yes, I can hear you. Two pounds? Which two pounds is that?’

‘That photo what yer put in t’ caff winder. I know who it is, if that two quid reward’s still up fer grabs.’

Realisation set in. ‘Oh, right. Look, I’m sorry, we’ve actually identified the man.’

‘Oh bugger! Story of my life. So, I’m not gonna get no two quid, then?’

‘I’m really sorry, but—’

‘Buggeration!’

He banged the phone down. Lily shouted over the dial tone. ‘Don’t ring off! Oh blast!’

She put down the phone and went back into the living room as Ogden trudged back to the pub disconsolately, muttering to himself. Charlie looked up from his tea.

‘Was it Dee?’

‘No, it was someone claiming a reward we were offering to anyone who could identify photo of the man who took Michael.’

‘And this person said he knew who he was?’

Lily paused before
saying, ‘Yes he did.’

‘So, did you ask him any questions about Oldroyd or Armitage?’

‘Didn’t get the chance. He caught me a bit unawares. I told him we’d identified the man. He swore because he wasn’t going to get the two quid then he put the phone down before I could ask him anything. Good God, Charlie! My mind’s all over the place. Do you think the telephone people will know who rang?’

‘Dunno. I imagine the police might be able to have the call tracked somehow. Did it sound like a private number or did you hear any coins drop as you answered?’

Lily cast her mind back. ‘I heard coins drop – it was a telephone box.’

‘I see. Where will he have seen this photo?’

‘He mentioned a caff. It’ll be the one in Grassington. We put a photo in the window.’

‘Then we should go to Grassington and ask around.’

‘What – now?’

‘No time like the present. It may well be a wild goose chase but it has to be done.’

‘Was there anything distinctive in his voice
that might set him apart from other men?’ Charlie asked her as he drove the Morris van along the A650 towards Skipton.

Lily thought for a moment, running the telephone conversation through her head. ‘Well, his voice was a bit raspy as though he was quite old … and he used the word bugger three times. Actually, there were two buggers and one buggeration in a thirty-second conversation.’