The young accomplice, p.30
The Young Accomplice, page 30
She’d let the woman have this little moment of ascendency. ‘I didn’t come here to upset you, so I’ll say goodbye now, Helen. I appreciate the tea.’
‘You just have a pleasant journey home.’
‘I will indeed.’ She’d bitten on these words. As soon as she’d got back into her car, she’d taken care to rev the engine loudly, giving three blasts on the horn as she drove off. The bloody harridan. The sad old witch. She wished she’d said more to defend herself, but once she’d reached the junction and the house was out of view, she felt relieved for the restraint she’d shown, because it would’ve made the situation worse, exchanging insults on the woman’s doorstep. Still, it rankled her. The blame and accusations she’d left unreturned. And no one had a right to ask a woman why she hadn’t borne a child. There could’ve been a thousand reasons for it, all of them as private as the next; to disregard the prospect of a tragedy along the way was tactless and unfeeling. Charlie had been right about his aunty: there was sweetness to her, but you had to suffer all the bitter layers of rind to reach it.
On the high street, she could see a hardware shop called Ponsonby’s between a chemist’s and a haberdasher’s. The only place to park was near the Baptist church, a little walk away. Inside the shop, there were no customers, except for an old sheepdog lapping at a bowl beside the counter. A fellow with white hair came out to greet her in his apron. ‘Hello, dear. What can I help you with?’ he said.
‘I was told that Charlie worked here – Charlie Savigear.’
‘That’s right. He isn’t on today, though. Lucky, with it being so busy.’
She looked about the place, uncertain if he wanted her to laugh. ‘Do you know if he’s at home?’
‘Upstairs, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sorry, I believe he’s out.’
‘Well, do you know what time he might be coming back?’
‘I’m not his secretary, you know.’ The old man sighed and combed his arm-hairs with his fingers. ‘I expect you’ll find him over at the sports ground. He’s been helping out there, building the pavilion.’
‘Is it far from here?’
‘Just round the corner. Maidstone Road. Go left at the church and keep on going for a hundred yards or so.’
‘Thank you. I appreciate it.’
‘Good. Then next time, you can buy a mop or something.’
‘It’s a deal.’ She stooped to pet the dog before she left. ‘I think she’s out of water.’
‘Don’t you worry about her – she’s like a camel. Just tell Charlie I expect him in tomorrow, good and early.’
It was only a short walk and she made sure to take it slowly. The sports ground wasn’t much more than an open field of turf embossed with molehills and a set of holes where goalposts should’ve been. On the far side, a small team of men was gathered at the base of a half-built pavilion. Its walls were up already, but the roof’s anatomy was still exposed and, to her eye, the frame looked asymmetrical. As she got nearer, she saw Charlie. He was carrying a timber joist as though it were a broom. A nubby cigarette was in his lips. It was the mildest afternoon, but he was shining with the sweat of his exertions. He didn’t spot her till she made it to the edges of the site. A man called out to her, ‘You’d best keep out the way, love. We’ve not fixed those beams in yet. I don’t want any falling on you,’ and that made Charlie glance in her direction. Right away, he dumped the timber, patted his hands clean. Walking over, he stubbed out his dog-end in the grass. The sweat was streaking down his forehead when he reached her.
‘What d’you reckon?’ he said, jabbing his thumb back at the pavilion. ‘Should we call the Architectural Review or what?’
‘It’s looking well so far,’ she said. ‘You’re looking well.’
He didn’t seem so certain, pulling at his collar, then his trousers, raking back his hair. ‘You think so? I’ve been meaning to get down the barber’s.’
‘It’s nice to see you on a site again. It suits you.’
‘Yeah, I thought I’d do my bit, you know – for the community,’ he said. ‘Besides, it’s something else to put down on my application letters. Shall we –’ He was pointing to an empty bench across the field. As they walked, he whistled to the other men and shouted, ‘Back in half an hour, Mr Broad!’ There was murmuring and laughter in reply, as though a bawdy joke had been returned in private. ‘Don’t mind them,’ he said. ‘The fresh air makes them giddy.’
‘What’s the project, anyway?’
‘It’s just a new pavilion for the football club. There’s never been a war memorial in town and someone had the bright idea to put this up instead. It’s something folk will get some use of, I suppose. The trouble is, it’s taken us a while. There’s only so much time these blokes can volunteer.’ He dusted off the bench for her before she sat. ‘How’d you know that I’d be down here?’
‘Well, I had to make a few stops on the way.’
‘You mean you saw my aunt. How is she?’
‘Not my biggest fan. She’d like to see you soon.’ She leaned back, watching the activity on site. A man was climbing to the roofline with a mallet. ‘You didn’t tell me you’d moved out and found a place.’
‘Yeah, I’m sorry about that.’ He dug his cigarettes and matches from his trousers. ‘I did mean to, every time I wrote, but I just couldn’t go back through it all again. She’s very hard to live with. Always was, but since what happened, she’s got even more opinionated. And more wrong.’ The match flame wouldn’t take at first – he had to strike it a few times. ‘It’s a funny way to love somebody, don’t you think? To have a set idea of how their life should go and force them to comply with it, or else. That’s Helen for you. At least she hasn’t given up on me entirely. Even if she thinks she owns me.’
‘You know you still have me and Mr Mayhood,’ she said, meaning it, but she could only guess how circumspect it must’ve sounded. ‘We still want to help you, any way we can.’
He stood up then and paced in front of her. ‘If you’ve come to twist my arm on that again, you’ve had a wasted journey.’
‘I’m not here for that, I promise.’
He went on striding back and forth, but never further than the bench’s width. ‘I don’t care if it takes me twenty years to save it, I’ll be paying my own way. You’ve lost too much already.’
‘I know that, Charlie. Will you please sit down?’
She thought they’d come to an agreement on the issue long ago, before he’d chosen to return to Borough Green. They’d said, as soon as he was ready to apply to architecture school, they’d write endorsement letters for him, cover his tuition fees, because it was the least that they could do, to make sure of his future. In truth, they’d barely had enough left of their savings to afford more than two years of a diploma, and Charlie had inferred this, given that they hadn’t paid his wages for three months by then. ‘You needn’t worry,’ he’d said. ‘I’ll do something different for a while and see what happens. If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that there isn’t any point in making plans. Things go how they want to go. That’s it.’
A year had passed since then, and quietly. They’d had a regular exchange of letters, phone calls, keeping him apprised of their eventless days and putting a fresh coat of gloss on all their problems so he wouldn’t notice their decline. Then he’d dropped the news into a letter, as though it were a minor detail of the view outside his window – I’ve started saving up for architecture school – and when they’d followed up with him by phone, he’d said, ‘I miss it. The ambition I used to have – it was the only thing that ever got me out of bed. You know exactly what I mean. It feels as though you have a higher calling, doesn’t it? The hours you put in every day are for a reason. You’re doing something bigger with your life. And even if I never make it, I can’t live without that feeling any more. It’s just too hard to go round thinking there’s no purpose to it all.’ He’d refused their money outright. There were scholarships he could put in for, and if he wasn’t granted any on the merits of his application, then it wasn’t meant to be; he’d scrape the funds together somehow, go to any school that would accept him. ‘I mean this, Florence,’ he’d said. ‘I appreciate your offer – everything you both have done for me – but this is something that I need to do myself.’ She’d understood, of course, though it had gone against her better instincts. How could she stand back and watch him struggle when she could’ve helped? If not financially, then with a word to someone up in Liverpool. It had felt like a desertion. Arthur hadn’t been so sure: ‘We can’t keep trying to atone for something that was not our fault. We have to listen to the lad, or else we will be doing wrong by him, and he might not forgive us for it.’ As the months went by, she’d wondered more about the situation. What if Charlie had refused their help for different reasons? What if he was trying to detach his name from theirs?
He took a seat beside her on the bench now, perching on the outer edge. The fellow on the roof was malleting the beams and each strike echoed in the horsehoe bend of trees surrounding them. ‘So why’ve you driven out here?’ Charlie said. ‘You didn’t even tell me you were coming.’ He stared hard at the lit end of his cigarette. ‘You’ve never visited before.’
‘I wanted to. We wanted to.’
‘How’s Mr Mayhood doing?’
‘You should phone and ask him.’
‘I will. How is he, though?’
‘Oh, he’s been better, I would say.’
‘Did you decide to lease the land again?’
‘No, we changed our mind on that. We’re growing sunflowers in the east field now.’
‘That’s good. And what about commissions?’
‘We’ve got bits and pieces coming in. It’s all surveying work, but it’s been keeping us afloat.’
‘It’ll pick up soon. It’s got to.’
‘Yes, I keep on saying that as well. But architecture is a reputation game and all the rumours – well, there’s nothing we can do about the rumours. We just have to keep on trying to turn our luck round, but it’s hard to motivate my husband these days. Getting him enthusiastic for another open competition – I’ll admit, that really takes it out of me.’
‘I think I get why you’ve come down here now.’ He gazed at the pavilion, where the man was straddling the apex of the roof frame with the poise of a stilt-walker. ‘I knew it was too much of a coincidence. First, I get a house call from the coppers and now you. Well, I’ve not heard from her, all right? I thought she might just let the phone ring twice or something on my birthday. But I haven’t heard a whisper.’
‘Yes, I thought as much,’ she said. ‘You would’ve told me otherwise. I would’ve seen it in your face.’ His eyes were on her now, in that old way she used to catch them dwelling. ‘The police were here?’
‘Just Applegarth. He said it was a routine call, but I don’t know. He gave me the impression he was after something else. You know the way he is – he’s always scratching at the subject, hoping you get sore.’
She’d not seen DS Applegarth since May and she was never comfortable when he came over to the house. There was an unerring calmness to him, how he strolled about the parlour with his hands behind his back, examining her mother’s trinkets and flipping through their stack of records. He was CID, which seemed to give him licence to arrive at any moment of the day or night, asking to be let inside with such effete politeness, lifting his hat and asking, every time, if he could trouble her please with a few more questions, won’t take long. But his visits always lasted more than half an hour. The first occasion he’d appeared – alone – was last October, when he’d got them to review the details in their written statements to the Chief Inspector, dating back about two years, as though expecting them to falter and reveal a contradiction. Arthur had grown weary of it, telling him, ‘We’ve been through this a hundred times with, whats-his-name, Fitzsimmons. Where is he? Ask him.’ But the explanation had come back: ‘The Chief Inspector is a very busy fellow. He’s devolved the running of this case to me. As far as I’m concerned, we haven’t shut down our investigation yet – so let me ask you that again, sir, if it’s not an imposition. When was the last time either of you saw Miss Savigear?’ Early on in May, he’d questioned them inside the draughting room, asking to see all the work that Joyce had done while she’d been with them, and he’d even sat down in her chair a moment, searched the drawers and meddled with her instruments. He’d rummaged through the files on Arthur’s bureau and disturbed the survey drawings she’d been working on. They couldn’t tell if he’d been looking for some object in particular, and he wouldn’t satisfy them with an answer. Still, she sensed there was a hidden method to his visits – he couldn’t charge them with a crime, but he could keep them under observation and disrupt their peace occasionally, if peace was what it was. And something Arthur said had rattled her: ‘If this is how he acts with us, imagine how he’ll be with Joyce when they catch up with her.’
‘I’m glad the shop was empty,’ Charlie told her now, ‘or else I might’ve lost my job. He parked his massive car right on the kerb outside. He asked me, Weren’t you her accomplice once before – why not again? I said, Accomplice? I was just her passenger, and she’s my sister. He said, Pardon me, I must’ve read your file wrong. I suppose you weren’t convicted in a court of law and sent to borstal, then? That wasn’t you? I told him to piss off. He didn’t like that very much. But that was all the damage he could do to me, so off he went. I wouldn’t trust that bloke as far as I could throw him. Joyce detested coppers – all of them. And I can’t say I’ve met a single one who’s proved her judgement wrong.’ He stamped the leavings of his cigarette into the dirt. ‘I reckon I should wander back and help them with the roof. They need as many hands as they can get.’
‘Don’t disappear just yet. I’ve brought you something.’ She rooted in her bag and found what she’d come forty miles to give him. ‘It was in with all the post this morning.’
He took it from her, doubtingly. A picture postcard from Maidstone Zoo. On the front, there were two polar bears inside a brick enclosure. On the back, an empty space and their address, typewritten. Charlie seemed to hold his breath. He had to clear his throat to keep the melancholy from his voice, but she still heard it trembling there. ‘It’s her, it’s – bloody hell, it’s her.’
‘The postmark’s from a TPO in Aberdeen.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It means she would’ve posted it when she was on the train. Or maybe passing through the station.’
He squinted for a tighter focus on the stamp. ‘It took its time to get to you, look. 31st May.’ He sniffed it, too – she’d done the same herself, when she’d removed it from the pile of letters. It had smelled of soot. ‘Who else has seen this?’
‘Mr Mayhood.’
‘What’s his reading of it?’
‘Well, he sent me here. He wanted you to see it before Applegarth showed up again.’
‘I’m grateful.’ He went quiet. ‘She must think I’m still at Leventree …’
‘It seems that way.’
‘Then she can’t know how bad a mess she’s put you in.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘But she’s alive, though – that’s what matters. I mean, she must be doing all right. She’s thinking of me, still.’ He grabbed a handful of his hair and shook it, grinning. ‘Aberdeen. It’s bloody cold up there.’ He rose and stood before her with his back turned. For the longest moment, he was glaring at the sky, as though in consultation with the Lord. ‘Thank you, Florence,’ he said. Twisting round, he put another cigarette between his lips. ‘Thanks for bringing it.’ He lit up, watching her.
‘Of course,’ she said.
‘Tell Mr Mayhood that I really do appreciate it. I know it couldn’t have been easy, doing her a favour.’ With that, he held the bright end of his cigarette up to the corner of the postcard till it peeled away in flames. In seconds, it was just a mothy curl of black and he allowed the breeze to carry it. He shrugged at her and said, ‘For everybody’s sake. I got the message – that’s enough.’ There was a languidness about his strides as he went off, back-pedalling across the grass. The worker on the roof frame cracked his mallet. Charlie stopped, then scratched the stubble by his ear. ‘Listen, can you stick around and have lunch with me?’ he called. ‘There’s a cafe on the high street and it’s not half bad. Just let me tell the fellas.’
He was gearing up to whistle at them, but she called back, ‘Sorry, no, I can’t – I’ve got to do a site inspection later.’
‘Where?’
‘In Sunbury.’
‘Oh.’ He looked subdued, until he realized what she’d meant. ‘Is that still dragging on?’
‘I hope this afternoon will be the end of it.’
‘Don’t worry, then. Another time. And I’ll phone Mr Mayhood soon.’
‘You’d better,’ she said. It was true that he was not the same boy any more. His borstal posture had relaxed, his speaking voice was gentler but more self-assured. In her absence, he’d matured – both in his temperament and physically. She was going to tell him her good news, but knew her chance had gone. She’d tell him on the phone. ‘And, by the way, you ought to walk round to your aunty’s now and then. She’s hurt and that does no one any good. Be kind to her.’
‘Point taken,’ he said, backing off into the sunshine. ‘You drive home safely.’
*
It hadn’t helped their chances of acquiring new commissions to be stuck in a dispute over the Proctor house. Before the defects liability period on the building work had lapsed, they’d done a maintenance inspection and amassed a list of faults that needed fixing – most of these were minor, although one or two were troubling omissions. They’d sent their list to the contractor, expecting that the flaws would be resolved within four months. At the next inspection – January last year – she’d gone with Arthur in the hope of issuing a certificate and releasing funds to the contractor, but the work had been substandard. Arthur had to steer her to a quiet corner of the site and say, ‘Can you believe the brass neck of this lot? The damp-coursing’s not right. And there are twice as many cracks now in those bricks upstairs.’
