Tara (27 page)

'Because you don't need me any more now.' He took a rag out of his overall pocket and wiped his hands on it. They smelled of linseed oil, and his fingernails needed cleaning.

Harry leaned back against the rails of the stall. Any minute now Stan would bring the cows in for milking and the hosed-down cobbles would once again be a sea of muck.

'I need you,' Tara blurted out. 'Please don't go, Harry. I can't bear it here without you.'

Harry recognised the pleading tone, he'd heard it from girls before. All at once he realised who the smart clothes and the make-up were for.

'You won't even miss me once you go back to school next week.' He felt awkward now, remembering how painful his own first crush had been. 'Anyway, what about my dad and Queenie? They've had to do all the work while I've bin down 'ere.'

'I don't care about anyone but you,' she insisted. 'I love you, Harry.'

At least thirty girls had told him they loved him since he was fourteen, but he hadn't expected this from Tara.

He took a deep breath. He wanted to laugh it off but a prickle touched his own heart.

'I love you, too.' He calmly went on rubbing his hands, eyes deliberately on the rag. 'You're like my sister.'

'I didn't mean it like that.' She moved so fast he didn't have a chance to avoid her and suddenly her arms were round his neck. 'I mean like this!'

It was an innocent's kiss, lips pressed hard against his because she hadn't yet learned the way adults did it, but somehow it was more moving than an experienced one.

'Oh, Tara.' He didn't know what to do – he couldn't hold her at arm's length because his hands were dirty and it would show on her white jumper. 'You're too young for me.'

'I'm not,' she insisted, pressing herself closer. 'I want you.'

Harry waved his dirty hands helplessly out to the sides. That young, sweet body against his was enough to make any man forget her age. Her hair smelled of lily of the valley and he wanted to hold her and kiss her more than he'd ever wanted any other girl.

'Stop
it,
Tara. It's not right.' If Stan or Mabel caught him like this he'd be picking shot out of his backside for weeks!

'You think I'm just a child, don't you?' she said scornfully. 'Well I'm not, I'm a woman, and I love you.'

He couldn't win. If he held her in his arms and kissed her he had no doubt as to what that would lead to. If he rejected her, the loss of face would hurt her, too.

'I've got a girl back home, sweetheart,' he lied. It was all he could think of. 'You and your mum are part of my family, I love you both, but not in that way.'

'You never said you had a girl.' Her look cut him to the quick.

There were lots of girls who would be pleased to have him at home, but not one he really cared about.

'I didn't think you were interested in things like that,' he said easily, stepping back from her.

Her eyes filled with tears and she turned away and ran out of the cowshed.

'Oh
shit!,'
Harry flung down his old rag. 'Women!'

'Autumn's sad, isn't it,' Amy said as she looked out of Mabel's bedroom window at the rain beating down. 'All the leaves have come down during the night.'

It was a Saturday in late October and Mabel was still in bed because she had a chesty cold which wouldn't go.

Amy had regained not only her health but her looks, too. Her hair had grown long enough to have it cut in a sleek bob on her shoulders and a feathery fringe drew attention to her big blue eyes. Jeans and a pink sweater showed off her slender yet curvaceous shape – she could easily pass for twenty-five.

She felt as if she was breaking out of a cocoon. Everything seemed sharper – sights, smells, sounds and feelings. Each day when she collected eggs, fed the chickens or cooked a meal there was a kind of joy, as if she'd been reborn.

Right now she could smell oranges and cloves from the homemade pomanders her mother hung in the wardrobe. When she looked around and saw Mabel sitting up in bed in her pink flannel nightdress she felt a surge of affection. The heavy old dressing table, the ancient carved bed that both James Brady and Mabel had been born in, were indescribably dear to her.

'The seasons all have their purpose,' Mabel said hoarsely, slicing the top off her boiled egg. 'Papa always relished autumn because it meant a lull in the farm work. We should see it like that, too, a chance to go shopping in Bristol. Go to the cinema with Tara, or to Bath to explore.'

Mabel was thrilled to see roses back in her daughter's cheeks. Slowly as the weeks passed Amy had grown stronger. She began to sew again for neighbours, she gossiped with other customers at the shops, laughed at the stories Greg Masterton told her about his practice. As summer finally drew to a close she had thrown herself into harvesting with joyous enthusiasm.

The growing friendship between the doctor and Amy pleased Mabel too. Greg Masterton was a gentleman, kind and understanding, and, although she felt a little nervous that it might lead to a romance and perhaps even marriage, for now it was a good thing.

'Tara seems happier now, doesn't she?' Mabel nibbled a slice of toast. 'She was a bit down after Harry left, but I suppose that's understandable.'

'I think she had a little crush on him.' Amy smiled. She had seen the torn-up sketches of Harry in the wastepaper bin and guessed her daughter had been rebuffed. 'I'm not surprised, of course, so had most of her friends from what I can make out. But I looked in on her just now and she was scribbling away on her sketch pad, that's a good sign.'

Mabel's eyes lit up. 'She really has talent. I mean, it's one thing to be able to draw an imaginary dress, quite another to actually make a pattern and turn it into a real dress.'

Amy smiled to herself. In many ways her mother was just as obstinate, prickly and awkward as she always had been, but where Tara was concerned she'd softened. Not outwardly – she still shouted at her for cutting out on the dining-room table and leaving a mess; she would snort and turn up her nose at some of Tara's wilder ideas. But privately she thought Tara was another Coco Chanel in the making.

It was true, Tara was clever. Her sewing skills left a great deal to be desired, she still rushed things, forgetting that patience was as important as flair. But she had an instinctive eye for colour and the use of textures, Amy could tell.

Amy stood up, taking her mother's breakfast tray from her.

'I'll light the fire in the sitting room,' she suggested. 'Then if you want to come down you can sit in there. I must go now, I've got some work to do in the dairy.'

She glanced out of the window as she crossed the end of the bed. The road was covered in fallen leaves and the red door of the fire station stood out clearly through the rain. Bare branches gave a clear view right across to the mill and she could see a bag of grain being hauled up on a hoist.

'Do you know anyone with a white Vauxhall?' She turned back to her mother. 'There are a couple of men in one out there looking at the house.'

'What sort of men?' Mabel asked.

'Just ordinary. Perhaps they've lost their way?' Amy replied. 'I'll go and see.'

She was just going down the stairs when she heard a knock on the front door. Balancing the tray against her hip she pulled back the curtain covering it and drew back the bolts.

'Sorry to take so long opening it.' She smiled as she opened the door. 'No-one ever comes in this way.'

'Mrs Manning?'

They were both tall, stocky men, one around fifty, dressed in a beige raincoat; the other younger, in a short navy car coat.

'Yes.'

'I'm Inspector Hawkins from the Metropolitan Police,' the older one said, pulling an identification card out of his pocket. 'This is Sergeant Harrison. Could we come in to speak to you?'

She led them into the kitchen and put the tray down on the draining board. She had an uneasy feeling in her stomach.

'Do sit down, I'll make a fresh pot of tea.' She whisked away a loaf and bread board and brushed the crumbs into her hand. The kitchen smelled of burned toast and she was embarrassed by the pile of breakfast dishes in the sink. 'What can I do for you?'

'Is your real name Amy MacDonald, wife of William Henry MacDonald?'

She could only nod. Blood rushed to her head and and she had to clutch the back of a chair for support.

'We're sorry to give you a shock,' she dimly heard one of them say as he guided her to a chair. 'We understand the reasons for your change of name and we don't want to upset you. I'm afraid MacDonald is dead.'

For a moment she was incapable of speech. She noted Inspector Hawkins had a beaky nose and his skin was so badly pitted he might have had smallpox. She noticed a button had come off his shirt and each time he moved she saw a flash of dark hair. She even wondered why men with so much hair on their bodies almost always lost it from their head, as he had. But she still couldn't put a sensible sentence together.

Harrison was a good ten years younger than Hawkins, fresh faced with blond hair cut so short he looked like a convict. He made the tea while Hawkins sat beside her and explained everything.

'Your husband's body was found in a burned-out car that crashed off the coast road near Berwick. The car was stolen, he had been drinking. A witness reported seeing him earlier trying to fill up the tank from a can of petrol outside some shops; he'd stumbled and spilled petrol on his clothes. It seemed he must have forgotten this and just a few miles further up the coast road, lit up a cigarette. He must have gone up like a torch. The car went right over the cliff, landing on rocks beneath, and the whole thing caught fire. They found his bag in the boot untouched by the flames. In it the police who were called to the scene found his passport, driving licence and a few other things, and were able to identify him.'

Amy listened with growing horror as they described how money traced to a post-office robbery had also been found in the boot of the car.

'What's going on, who are these men?' Mabel appeared suddenly in the kitchen in her dressing gown, face alight with indignation.

Amy could only sit with her head in her hands as the police went through the grisly story again.

'Your friend Mr George Collins spoke to us late last night,' Inspector Hawkins explained. 'He was very concerned about not being able to break the news to you himself first but, as we pointed out, a phone call out of the blue is every bit as bad as us coming round.'

There were things Amy still didn't understand when they'd finished their tale, yet she realised her mother knew exactly what they were talking about when a murdered priest was mentioned.

'That's why Harry came down here,' Mabel explained. 'We didn't know for certain if Bill
had
killed Father Glynn, but he came to keep an eye on us.'

Amy heard them explaining how Ernest MacDon-ald, an older brother who lived in Portsmouth, had identified the body. Ernest couldn't be sure at first, but the small tattoo of a bluebird on the right shoulder had proved it to be him.

Amy covered her eyes with her hands.

The mention of the bluebird took her right back to Grafton Buildings. She could remember the first time she had ever seen Bill without a shirt, shaving at the sink, and how she had run her finger over it.

'I got it done in Singapore.' He grinned round at her, his face white with shaving soap. 'Pretty, ain't
it?'

That day she'd been more impressed with the rippling muscles under his smooth olive skin, the width of his shoulders tapering down to slim hips.

'Did it hurt?' she asked.

'Not so much as my septic foot, or the dose of dysentery.' His brown eyes twinkled with laughter. 'I was so glad to be alive, I wanted a permanent reminder.'

'But you can't see it yourself!'

'I wanted it behind me,' he had said, suddenly serious. 'Now I've got you and a future, I won't always be looking over my shoulder.'

Inspector Hawkins knew almost everything there was to know about Bill MacDonald, yet he was surprised that this gentle, beautiful blonde was his wife.

Even though Hawkins had been transferred to Bow Street years ago, he'd heard the gossip about MacDonald knocking his wife and kids around, and their disappearance. He heard about the fire at Collins' warehouse and guessed old George had stuck his neck out to protect them.

Seeing Amy's tears shocked him. How did a man go wrong with a woman like her behind him?

'I'm so sorry.' He touched Amy's hand gently, wishing he could find something good to say about MacDonald.

'Is someone going to tell me what's happened?' A girl's voice made them all look up.

Inspector Hawkins stood up; the sergeant's mouth fell open. They knew there was a teenage daughter, but neither of them was prepared for her beauty. Her gold-red hair flowed over the shoulders of a green sweater; her amber eyes sparked with indignation.

'This is my daughter, Tara,' Amy said, a little nervously.

'It's your father,' Mabel said curtly. 'I'll explain later.'

'Is he dead, or has he been nicked?'

For a moment no-one replied or even moved. Her words sounded so blunt, cold and devoid of emotion.

'He's dead, Tara.' There was more than a trace of delight in Mabel Randall's voice and the inspector noticed that Amy winced. 'Go to your room, we'll explain everything later.'

'I want to hear everything now,' she said firmly and, sitting herself down at the table, folded her arms.

'I said go upstairs,' Mabel repeated.

'I won't.' Tara's voice was openly defiant now. 'I want to hear all the details. I'll enjoy it!'

Inspector Hawkins told her. He had a feeling this girl would like to know just how badly burned her father had been, that they couldn't even finger-print him because there was no flesh left on his hands. But he didn't tell her any of that, just the incidents that led to his death.

'What happens now?' Tara asked calmly. 'Does he get a funeral?'

'That's happened already,' Hawkins said. 'His brother took care of it. It took us some time to discover where you and your mother were.'

'So it's all over?'