Threads of Silk (21 page)

It had rained earlier in the day and with nightfall the air had grown colder. The wet pavements underfoot were slippery but he strode along, anxious to get home.

Seating himself opposite Mary, Harry thought the cosy domestic scene was reminiscent of the days before he’d joined the army – times when, like today, Bert had been working late – or more likely was down the pub. He smiled across at Mary, who had her feet on the little wooden stool he’d made for Ellie so long ago.

She had picked up a magazine and was idly flicking through it.

‘I didn’t know you’d been out,’ he said. ‘You should have asked me to get the shopping.’

‘I picked this up in the surgery,’ she said.

‘What did the doc say?’

‘Just gave me some more pills.’ She shrugged and turned a page. Suddenly she gasped, the magazine fluttering to the floor.

‘What is it? Are you all right?’ Harry grabbed her hand, which was
icy-cold
.

She pushed him away. ‘It’s OK. I just had a bit of a shock, that’s all. But it couldn’t be – I must have been seeing things.’

‘Something must have upset you,’ Harry said.

Mary picked up the magazine, folding it back to reveal a coloured photograph. ‘I was just being silly,’ she said with a little laugh. She thrust it at him. ‘I thought for a moment – it looks just like her.’

Just a quick glance was enough. There was no mistaking that smile. Harry felt the colour drain from his face as he held the picture up to the light for a closer look.

The article was spread across the centre pages and Harry waited until he’d read every word before speaking. It could have been a coincidence – a girl who looked like Ellie and just happened to be good at design. But by the time he got to the end, he was convinced. In addition to the girl’s looks, there was the name – Helen Scott Cameron. And she worked from a studio in Essex, not far from where they’d had the first postcard. What really convinced him was the picture of the butterfly-and-flower design. He’d seen something very similar not long ago, when he’d gone into Ellie’s old room and been disturbed by the sight of her early paintings still pinned to the walls.

‘It is her, Mum. It’s our Ellie.’

Mary snatched the magazine back and devoured the photograph, tears streaming down her face. ‘She’s safe – I always knew deep down she was all right. And to think she’s got her own business – and making a success of it too. She must have married as well.’

Harry’s stomach lurched as the significance of Ellie’s name change hit him. He could understand her calling herself Scott and Helen was only a different version of Ellen. Cameron must be her husband’s name. But that didn’t matter, they’d be able to find her now. He put his arm round Mary. ‘Don’t cry, Mum. We’ll get in touch with the magazine – that’s if you want to.’

‘Want to? Of course I do – she’s my daughter. I have to see her.’ Mary leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. ‘Why hasn’t she been in touch with us?’

Harry patted her arm. ‘She probably thinks we’re still angry with her for running away.’

‘Her father is,’ Mary said. ‘He’ll never forgive her. You know he won’t have her name mentioned. Perhaps we should let well alone.’

‘But, Mum—’

‘No. She knows where we are. She’s the one who should write to us.’ Mary picked up the magazine, staring for a few moments at the spread of words and pictures. Then she screwed it up, threw it down and without another word got up and stumbled out of the room.

Ellie carefully folded the last of the scarves and placed it in the box. ‘All ready for delivery tomorrow,’ she murmured.

She glanced at her watch. Time to get on with her latest painting before Alex got home. She went across to her easel and studied the design critically.

She was finding it harder to come up with something new. Perhaps she should never have embarked on these abstract designs. But for Carnaby Street it had to be ‘new’, the next big fashion. So different from those for Sylvia – she knew just what her customers wanted.

She needed a change of scene – fresh sights to inspire her. Ellie fondled her bump. Already she felt like the side of a house and had little energy for anything besides her painting – and there was ages to go yet. Ellie sighed. Alex now seemed resigned to her carrying on her ‘little cottage industry’ as he called it – at least until the baby came. Although she’d nodded agreement, she was determined not to give up. Alex still didn’t know about her contract with the printing firm in Chelmsford or her dealings with the Carnaby Street shop. For weeks after the magazine article had come out she’d held her breath every time he came home, or when the phone rang.

Not that they ever had proper rows. No, Alex was always sweetly reasonable, his demands framed as requests and, she knew, prompted by his concern for her and the baby. But when he did find out, she knew he’d be furious.

She should confess, she thought, despising herself for her weakness. Why couldn’t she speak up for herself, make him see that motherhood shouldn’t stop her carrying on her business? Meanwhile, she must get on with this wretched design, otherwise she’d have no customers to do business with.

The flash of anger directed at herself served as a spur to her creativity and she splashed bold colour on to the paper stretched on her easel. For the original paintings, she’d started using designer’s gouache, an opaque paint which came in vibrant colours more suitable for the modern designs. Then the painted design was copied on to a screen for printing on to the lengths of silk.

Soon, she was lost in her work and, as usual when things were going well, she completely lost track of time. At last, she threw down her brush and stepped back to admire the finished painting, sighing and rubbing her back.

‘Darling, there you are. Have you been working in here all day? You know you shouldn’t be doing so much now.’

Alex’s voice made her jump and she turned angrily. ‘Don’t creep up on me like that,’ she said.

‘Creep! A herd of elephants could walk in here when you’re painting and you wouldn’t even notice.’ He gave a little laugh and came towards her. ‘Seriously, though, you do look tired.’

She shrugged him away. ‘I’m all right, Alex. Please don’t fuss.’

She carried on washing her brushes and cleaning her palette. When she’d finished he was waiting for her by the door and she felt a little guilty that she’d been so brusque. But as they turned out the lights and locked the studio door before going across to the house, she realized he hadn’t even commented on her painting.

They had finished supper, a casserole left to cook slowly in the oven while Ellie worked, when she asked Alex if he’d take her in to Colchester the next day. ‘I can come back on the bus,’ she said. ‘That’s if you really think I shouldn’t drive myself.’ She had to admit that recently it had become a bit uncomfortable to get in and out of the car – not that she’d admit that to Alex.

‘I’m sorry, Ellie. I have to go to Manchester tomorrow – another crisis up there, I’m afraid.’

‘I’ll have to take the car then. I promised Sylvia I’d deliver her scarves this week.’

‘Didn’t you say you were going to give it up?’

‘This is the last lot.’

Alex sighed. ‘That’s what you said last week.’ He threw down his napkin and stood up. ‘If it’s so important to you,
I
’ll, deliver the stuff to Mrs Marshall – just this once. But no more, Ellie. I will not have you wearing yourself out like this. The baby comes first.’

‘I’m perfectly fit.’ Ellie’s irritation rose again. Would he never allow her a shred of independence? ‘Besides, I’ve hardly been out of the house for days.’

‘I know, darling, but I worry about you. I’ll be away a couple of days this time and you wouldn’t want me getting in a stew, would you? Look, I’ll try to get back for the weekend and we’ll go up to Southwold on Sunday – a bit of sea air will do you good. You’d like that wouldn’t you?’

His smile mollified her. Was it so bad that he cared? She knew he wasn’t keen on visiting her friends and accepted that he was trying to please her. ‘I’d love it, Alex. I haven’t seen Norah for ages. And thank you for offering. Tell Sylvia I’ll phone her later.’

It was only after she’d gone to bed that she realized she hadn’t asked Alex about the crisis in Manchester. There seemed to be rather a lot of problems in their northern mill lately. He was always dashing up there these days. At one time, Alex would have discussed it with her. When she’d been his secretary he’d been pleased at her interest in the business, using her as a sounding board for his ideas and confiding any problems. Once they were married, she felt as if he had put her in a different compartment in his life. But if something was wrong, she’d rather know about it.

She could hear him moving about in the next room. It sounded as if he couldn’t sleep either. If he was worried she ought to try to get him to share his problems. But, as she swung her legs over the side of the bed, another thought struck her and she sank back on the pillows. What if he’d found someone else? Suppose his frequent trips to Manchester were to see another woman?

She was surprised at the pain the thought gave her. She believed that Alex loved her, was looking forward to fatherhood. Surely he wouldn’t risk what they had just for the thrill of an affair? For she was certain that’s all it could be. Her stomach twisted as she realized she didn’t blame him. She knew what men wanted – even a man as gentle and loving as Alex. And she hadn’t been able to give it to him. It wasn’t just sex either. She hadn’t given him her heart – not wholly. Yes, she had tried, had told herself repeatedly that Alex was all she wanted, that she was happy. She counted her blessings daily – a lovely home, her own business, freedom from financial worry, the love of a good man. The girls she’d grown up with would be more than content with that. But it wasn’t enough. Without love, it was all meaningless.

As she turned over and buried her sobs in the pillow, Ellie’s only comfort was that soon she would have someone she could truly love. Her baby would grow up surrounded by love, smothered in it. He would never know the insecurities and tensions she’d had.

Let Alex have an affair, if that made him happy. Just so long as he was a good father and provided a stable home for their child.

Harry’s steps dragged as he left the building, his shoulders hunched. Had he really expected anything else? The woman in the magazine office had been sympathetic but had refused to give Ellie’s address or phone number. He couldn’t blame her. After all, he could be some sort of nut – a jealous boyfriend or business rival.

He ought to get back to the stall but surely there was something he could do. The magazine hadn’t given the name of the shop which sold Ellie’s scarves, but it should be easy enough to find. Not that he was likely to get much joy there either.

On impulse, he jumped on a bus going towards Oxford Circus. He had to try for Mary’s sake, at least that’s what he tried to tell himself as he found a seat and pulled the now crumpled magazine from his pocket. Ellie’s clear brown-eyed gaze seemed directed just at him and a lump formed in his throat as he stared at the photo. He’d never really believed she’d run away just because he’d kissed her. It must have been something else. And whatever the trouble was, she must have known he’d help her. Was it too late? He hoped not, for he’d realized from the moment he saw her face smiling up at him from the magazine that he still loved her – always had, always would.

The bus jerked to a stop and he pushed past the other passengers, plunging into the maze of streets that made up the Soho district. Despite the cold, the Berwick Street market was crowded with shoppers and Harry fought his way past, searching for the shop featured in the article. The air was rich with spicy cooking smells and his stomach rumbled. But he couldn’t stop to eat.

He walked for a long time, stopping frequently to ask directions, until he turned a corner and found himself in Carnaby Street. This was more like it. Even the people looked different – mostly young, smartly dressed in clothes that would raise eyebrows where he lived. The latest fashions took a while to reach their part of London and short dresses with
knee-high
boots in shiny plastic were the exception rather than the rule in Bethnal Green. Harry looked in one of the windows and gasped as he saw the price tag. No wonder he didn’t see many girls in Kendall Street dressed like this. But no one here turned a hair – at the fashions or the prices, it seemed.

He stopped at an eye-catching window display. Inside the tiny shop, loud music played. Bright lights bounced off the equally bright materials of the dresses, jackets, blouses hanging in colourful array from rails which left scarcely enough room to pass between them. And, beside the door, a stand of rainbow-hued scarves fluttered in the wind.

There didn’t seem to be a proper shop counter and he looked around for an assistant, jumping as a voice said in his ear, ‘Sure you’re in the right shop?’

He turned to see a tall skinny girl, her height accentuated by the extremely short skirt and thigh-length boots, her eyes outlined in black, like the Egyptian wall paintings he’d seen in the British Museum.

‘I’d like to speak to the owner or manager, please.’

‘That’s me,’ the girl said. ‘Do you want a refund? We don’t do refunds.’

‘No, no. I’m enquiring about those scarves – the
Helene
design.’

‘We sell a lot of those – can’t get enough. There’s only a few left. You want a present for someone?’

Harry thought quickly. How could he get this girl to give him the information he so desperately needed? ‘Actually, it’s a business matter,’ he said. ‘Is there somewhere we could talk?’ He glanced across the narrow space to where another girl, almost identically dressed, stood chewing gum and watching them curiously.

‘Through the back.’ The first girl jerked her head and Harry followed her into a space even more cramped than the main shop. She pushed a pile of sweaters off the only chair and gestured him to sit, perching herself on the edge of a table.

‘Business, you said. Well, what is it? If you’re a salesman, where’s your samples?’

‘I’m not selling. Actually,’ he improvised. ‘I have a shop of my own.’

The girl’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Harry thought quickly. ‘I’d like to sell some of those scarves. Could you tell me…?’

‘You trying to put me out of business?’

‘I wouldn’t be competing with you – my shop’s up north.’

‘You sound like a Londoner to me.’ She still seemed suspicious.

‘Yes – but I live in Yorkshire now. The girls up there don’t want to be left behind when it comes to fashion, you know. So whenever I come down to visit the family, I have a look round, see what’s goin’ on in the big smoke, yer know.’ Harry managed a laugh. He wondered where he’d got the nerve. But it seemed to be working.

The girl slid off the table and went across to a box in the corner, holding up one of the scarves. She smoothed it out and showed him the
Helene
signature with its flowing ‘H’. ‘I have to tell you, she only does a limited number of each design – that’s why they’re so expensive. And she told me on the phone she has more than enough orders.’

‘Well, it’s worth a try. Could you give me her address?’ Harry said, trying not to sound too eager.

‘I’m not sure about that, but I’ll give you her phone number.’

It was more than he’d hoped for.

The girl smiled and wrote the number down on the back of an old envelope.

He grabbed it, noting the exchange. ‘Great Withies,’ he muttered. Wasn’t that somewhere in Essex? He rushed out of the shop clutching the piece of paper.

Next morning, Ellie’s fears seemed foolish. Alex’s goodbye kiss was warm and tender and his protestations that he would miss her seemed sincere.

She knew that pregnancy brought strange fancies and imaginings and that was all it was, she told herself firmly as she watched his car back out of the garage and shoot down the gravel drive.

When he’d gone, Ellie felt a sense of relief, despite her concerns of the night before. She had two whole days to herself – Mrs Mills wasn’t due till Friday and George would be gone by midday. She was quite content on her own, so long as she kept busy. She couldn’t wait to get on with her painting – she had a feeling that this new design could prove to be one of her best yet.

As she crossed the lawn towards the studio, she heard the phone ringing. She hesitated, keen to get on with her work but changed her mind when she realized it might be a customer. She hurried back into the house and picked up the phone, but all she heard was the dialling tone.

Oh well, if it was something important they’d ring back, she thought. She’d have to ask Alex about putting an extension in the studio. It would save her running to and fro, or missing important calls. As she paused to pick up some fallen petals from the flower arrangement on the hall table, the phone rang again. She snatched up the receiver. ‘Great Withies 325,’ she said.

There was no reply, although she could sense someone on the line. ‘Who do you wish to speak to? This is Mrs Cameron.’

A long silence was broken by a sharp click as the person at the other end put the phone down. Ellie shrugged. Must have been a wrong number, she thought.

But as she entered the studio a prickle of unease ran up her neck. The fear that had been her constant companion in the days following her escape from London returned. Had her father found out where she was? And if he had, why should she be scared? He couldn’t hurt her now.

She uncovered her easel and contemplated the almost finished painting, methodically squeezing paint on to her palette and selecting a brush. But she couldn’t settle to work and the quiet of her surroundings weighed on her.

She was being silly, she told herself. But she couldn’t get the strange phone call out of her head. At last she abandoned attempts at working and went for a walk in the garden. George was still there, forking over the compost heap. At least she wasn’t entirely alone.

She leaned on the fence overlooking the unkempt paddock. In the early days of their marriage Alex had suggested they keep horses and he would teach her to ride. The thought had terrified her. Turning the stables into a studio was a much better idea she’d told him. Now, he’d started talking about putting in a swimming pool.

But nothing had come of it since the increased frequency of his trips up north and once more Ellie wondered whether he was having an affair. That was it, she thought. It must have been the woman – whoever she was – phoning earlier on. Of course she wouldn’t announce herself when Ellie had answered. She’d obviously been expecting Alex to pick up the phone. But he’d left early to deliver the scarves to Colchester.

Relief at solving the mystery dissolved the little lump of apprehension that had lodged in Ellie’s stomach. Now it was replaced by anger. How dare she phone here?

Harry replaced the receiver and leaned against the café wall, shaking. It
was
Ellie. He’d know that voice anywhere, despite her attempt to sound posh on the phone.

Why hadn’t he spoken?

Bob pushed a cup of coffee towards him. ‘Bad news, mate?’ he asked. ‘’Ere, it’s not Sid, is it? I ’eard he’s gotta go back in ’ospital.’

Harry answered with an effort. He was worried about Sid too. But Ellie was uppermost in his mind at the moment. ‘Tomorrow – for another operation. I’ll let you know how he gets on.’

He took his cup over to a table in the corner and sat down. It was half-term holidays and he’d got one of Maisie’s kids minding the stall for him. He should get back, but at the moment he just didn’t care about the business – about anything. All he could think of now was finding Ellie.

After talking to the Carnaby Street shop-owner, he’d dashed back to Bethnal Green to relieve Sid, sending the older man home to rest. He’d intended to ask for time off to go to Essex. It shouldn’t be too hard to find Ellie with all the clues he had.

But Sid had to go in hospital again and he couldn’t let his old mate down.

Finding Ellie would have to wait, although he’d given in to the impulse to phone the number he’d been given. It was almost a relief when no one answered. But a couple of minutes later he’d summoned the nerve to try again. When she’d answered he just couldn’t think what to say.

Cursing himself for a fool, he swallowed his coffee and hurried between the stalls to his waiting customers. He hoped being busy would distract him but there were so many problems – Sid, Mary, and most of all Ellie.

Sid, after yet another operation, looked small and grey against the white hospital sheets. When Harry sat down beside him, he moved feebly and tried to speak.

‘You’ve been good to me, son,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘I don’t know how to thank yer.’

‘You just concentrate on getting better. Your customers miss you, keep asking when you’ll be back,’ Harry said, trying to sound cheerful.

Sid made a sound which could have been a laugh. They both knew he would never stand behind his market stall again.

Harry stayed for the whole visiting hour, holding his friend’s hand while he dozed and thinking over the good times they’d had. He didn’t know how he’d have got through those years before he’d gone in the army if he hadn’t had Sid to run to when things got bad at home. He’d guessed a long time ago how his friend felt about Mary and wondered how things would have turned out if she’d married him instead of Bert.

As usual his thoughts turned to Ellie. The magazine article said she was married. Was she happy, or was she making the best of things too? It didn’t matter either way. She would take her vows seriously, whatever her innermost feelings.

He gave himself a mental kick in the backside. How did he know how she felt? She’d kissed him a couple of times with a warmth that was far from sisterly and her letters had been full of love. He’d been longing to come home – to find out whether what he was beginning to feel for her was real. She’d been his little sister for so long and they’d always had a loving relationship. He’d always known there was something special about Ellie. Then, the last time he’d seen her, their affectionate parting had flamed into an intense passion. He’d known then that his love for Ellie was far from brotherly.

As he had so many times, he wondered what had made her run away. Perhaps, having thought of him as her brother all her life, she had been confused by the passion that had flared between them. If only he’d had time to make things right. He told himself it wasn’t too late. He’d find her one day. But, looking at Sid’s face creased with pain, he knew he couldn’t do anything about it yet.

The bell rang for the visitors to leave and Harry leaned over and spoke softly, not sure if Sid could hear him. ‘I’ll bring Mary next time. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, mate?’

He squeezed Sid’s hand and turned away, wondering if he’d ever see him again. He’d promised his old friend that he’d attend to all the formalities – after all, he was the nearest thing to family Sid had.

The funeral was one of the grandest the East End had seen for years. Sid had told Harry he wanted a good send-off with all the trimmings. And he got it too – no horses with black plumes like in the old days, but a shiny black hearse with purple satin curtains at the windows covered in flowers.

The church was crowded. Even Tommy Green came, surrounded by his minders, some of whom looked extremely uncomfortable at being in church.

Most of the market traders were there, and those who couldn’t leave their stalls stood respectfully silent, paying their respects as the cortège drove slowly along Roman Road towards the Bethnal Green cemetery. Afterwards, the mourners gathered in the Red Lion opposite Bob’s Café. A buffet had been laid on upstairs and the drink flowed freely.

As the afternoon progressed, the air of solemnity gave way to a party atmosphere. Sid had been well-loved, a man of warmth and humour. Harry found himself looking round more than once for his old friend. He should be here. It was his party, after all.

Harry knew most of the people in the room. But there were a few strange faces. When Sid realized he was dying, he’d given Harry a list of people to be notified, some distant cousins, old Army mates.

One of the strangers, a tall lean chap with a droopy moustache, came over to him. ‘You’re Harry Scott, aincha?’ He held out a skinny hand, its skin and nails engrained with black grease that no amount of scrubbing could remove. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you, son. Sid thought a lot of you. I’m Nobby – Norman Barnes, D Company, the Buffs. Me and Sid was together in the war.’