Her almost perfect husba.., p.17
Her Almost Perfect Husband, page 17
Outside the building a wedding party was being photographed, the bridal couple covered in a shower of glittering gold and silver confetti. Bernie nodded to them briefly, ran down the steps and into the car park. Would these young people have fifty golden years of married bliss? Or silver even? Andrew and Emma had just the year before celebrated their twenty-fifth anniversary with a dinner at the golf club; would they get to the next milestone?
Bernie flicked off the confetti and got into the car. He took out his phone and scrolled through his address book till he got to T. No, there was no point in talking to Trev; he wouldn’t know anything. He couldn’t trust himself to call Emma, not just now; he was too angry and upset, and besides, he needed to have all the facts before he did speak to her. How could he tell her what he had just learnt?
There was only one person he could think of who could help him at this moment. Reluctantly, he scrolled up to G. He would need to be careful how he phrased this: a wrong word and he’d scare the guy off. His thumb hovered over the options key; he took a deep breath and clicked on Call.
‘Hello. Garry? It’s Bernie. Those envelopes: any chance you could bring them here? Rather than just text me the info?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The gates to the yard in Almeida Street swung open as Garry approached them. He wished he knew what these guys wanted. ‘Just the envelopes,’ Bernie had said on the phone, ‘it’s the postmarks we want to look at.’ Not a word about buying the shop. Oh fuck … what if them gates open only by remote? He felt himself beginning to sweat. In the wing mirror he saw Bernie emerging from the back door of the shop. Garry opened the van door; he wasn’t going to stay trapped in the vehicle. Who was to say the other one, Trevor, wasn’t coming at him from the other side?
‘Garry, hi. Good to see you.’ Bernie stuck out his hand. Garry was glad he still had his gloves on. It might not be the polite thing to do in Bernie’s world but it saved him from having Bernie know how cold and clammy his fingers were.
‘Hi,’ Garry said.
The doors to the yard swung to. Side by side Garry and Bernie walked to the back door.
‘Coffee?’ Trev asked.
Garry nodded; he couldn’t trust himself to speak just yet. It wasn’t that he was afraid of these guys: if only he could work out what they were about.
‘You did bring them, didn’t you?’
‘Yes. It’s why I’m here, innit?’ They looked at him, startled. He’d not meant to sound that aggressive. ‘I mean … yes, course I have. Like you said, just the envelopes.’ He took the bundle out of his anorak pocket and handed it to Bernie.
‘Thanks,’ Bernie said. He put them on the desk. ‘Quite a mixture, aren’t they?’
Garry nodded; Bernie, hunched over at the desk, began leafing through the bundle, peering at the postmarks. As Garry knew, most of them you couldn’t read. Trev handed Garry his coffee.
‘Ta.’ He took a sip; it was too hot. He went to put the mug down on the floor beside his chair.
‘Here, I’ll take it,’ Trev said, in a whisper.
Garry gave him the mug. ‘Cheers,’ he whispered back, his eyes fixed on Bernie. For Christ’s sake, what was going on here? It was only a bundle of fucking envelopes! How important could that be? And, more to the point, what did it have to do with these guys buying the shop? If he wanted to make this sale he’d no choice but to keep schtum … and wait. It was like that game he’d played as a little kid, where you spun round and round and then you had to stop; you could be on one foot or anything, it didn’t matter; the one who won was the one who could stay still the longest. His coffee might have been too hot before; if this went on much longer it would be fucking cold by the time he drank it. He risked a look at Trev; he was like a statue. Statues, yeah! That’s what that game was called. Trev wasn’t moving a muscle; it was like he was made of stone. He’d seen Harrison Ford and Bruce Willis do that; not a flicker … then they’d suddenly pounce, like a tiger. Jesus, the guy was an actor! Garry’d seen him, way back, on telly, he was sure he had; in The Sweeney. No question, playing some kind of copper. No wonder Garry’d thought he was one for real; he felt his taut muscles relaxing.
‘Yes, very interesting,’ Bernie said, sitting up, straightening his back, ‘but I don’t think they are going to be much use to us.’ Bernie pushed his chair back and swung round to face them. ‘So, Garry, what now, eh?’ Bernie was smiling.
‘Dunno.’ He didn’t like the smile. ‘You tell me.’ He took his coffee back from Trev. Whatever they said, the money was his, and nobody was going to make him give it up: it was first time in his life, in nearly forty years, he’d had what you could call real money that was his own. Grandad had wanted him to have that money, or he wouldn’t have … Christ, they’re waiting for me to tell them! All right then, go for it. ‘I can’t see how these …’ He waved his hands towards the envelopes which Bernie was carefully restacking into a bundle. ‘… postmarks and things have anything to do with you wanting to buy the shop.’ There, he’d said it. Straight out, no messing. Well, why not? He had to know, otherwise all this was just a waste of his time, time when he might be sussing out a whole load more buyers. Well, maybe a couple. Now what are they doing, looking at one another? Deciding which one of them’s going to say, “Sorry, Garry, we don’t actually want to buy your Grandad’s shop.”? Oh Christ, they’ve not found a rare stamp on one of them envelopes, have they?
Bernie nods at Trev. Trev says, ‘Yes?’ Bernie nods again. ‘The thing is,’ Trev begins: posh voice, like he’s a judge in a courtroom, and he’s looking at me like I’m in the dock or something, ‘when you consider buying a property, Garry, you need to know everything about it before you decide to make the purchase.’
‘Yes, that figures. So?’
‘So …’ It’s Bernie’s turn. ‘It’s not just a question of wet rot or dry rot.’ Jesus, these guys are really getting up my nose now.
‘Yeah, I know that!’
‘It’s the history that a building may have. For instance, although this …’ He taps the bundle of envelopes. ‘... this money does appear to have come into your possession because of a burglary that took place some …’
‘You’ve no right to bring that up. That’s money’s mine; Grandad left it to me. It’s nothing to do with any burglary. Just give me them envelopes and I’m out of here.’ Garry stood up.
‘No no, Garry, don’t go like this, please.’ Bernie stretched out both his hands, palms down. ‘Do sit down.’ Garry remained standing. ‘Of course it’s your money, I’m not disputing that for a moment.’
Reluctantly Garry sat down.
Bernie sighed. ‘Listen … I just feel … I need to know more about that break-in before I can go ahead with … with buying the shop.’
‘Why? How does a break-in thirty years ago stops me selling.’
‘It doesn’t, not really. But … Look, you’re going to have to trust me on this, Garry.’ He couldn’t figure these guys out; he wished he knew what they really wanted. ‘I wouldn’t want to take this further without finding out a bit more about that break-in. I’m not saying it is relevant, but I do feel I have to look into it.’
‘So ... what d’you want to know?’
‘Your grandparents ... they were tied up, I gather ... but they weren't hurt, were they?’
‘Hurt? What d'you mean? They was tied to their chairs ... and they had gags stuffed in their mouths!’
‘Yes, of course. That would have hurt.’
Bleeding right it would! He couldn't for the life of him see what that had to do with selling the shop now. Did these guys know something he didn't.
‘Perhaps we should talk to your sister?’ Bernie said.
‘My sister?’
‘You told Trevor you had a sister, older than you. In the pub, remember?’
‘Oh. Yeah.’ He couldn’t remember half he’d said that day.
‘Paula. Yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘And if I remember rightly …’ Trev said, pointing his index finger at Garry, ‘... your grandfather left the shop to her.’
Was there anything he hadn’t told this guy? He’d never been any good drinking during the day; he’d had to sleep it off in the van for a couple of hours before he dare drive home.
‘Yeah, that’s right.’ He knew, Trevor did, so why pretend. And he’d told Bernie.
‘So …’ said Bernie, ‘it might be helpful if we could talk to her; she may know more … about what happened.’
‘Okay, I’ll ask her.’ Anything, anything, to get out of here.
‘Get her to call me, will you?’ Bernie said.
‘Yeah. Sure.’ Not on your life, mate.
‘Good man.’
‘Another coffee before you go?’
‘No, ta. I’ll … um … I’ll just take those envelopes.’
Bernie put the bundle into Garry’s outstretched hand. ‘Thanks a lot for coming, Garry. I feel we’ve cleared up a lot of things today. Been most useful.’
‘Yeah. Thanks.’ Garry smiled, nodded. God knows why he was smiling. Cleared up? What? Oh well, if they were happy, he wasn’t going to rock the boat.
* * *
Safely out of the yard, and away from Almeida Street, Garry looked for a street without yellow lines. He badly needed to stop – there was so much whirling around in his head – and take stock. There was a garage ahead; that would do. He pulled into the side of the forecourt and switched off the engine. He had a bottle of water on the passenger seat; he took a long swig – that fancy coffee had left a bitter taste in his mouth. The water and the action of drinking it cleared his brain a bit. So … should he speak to Paula? All’s said and done, it is her shop. Come to think of it, she might be pleased, she might see what he’d done as a good thing, her little bruv doing something useful – ‘Yes, all right, Paula.’ – for a change. Okay, he’d speak to her; not just yet, though. Give it a couple of days, think how best to tell her. And what all that was about Grandad and Nan being hurt? No idea. He didn’t like thinking about it, he knew that. And most of the time he didn’t. Well, never really. It was thirty years ago; he was only a kid when it happened. Besides, he had good memories of Nan and Grandad - Nan in a red cardigan, not nearly as tall as Grandad, and sort of round and cuddly; she loved a hug, Nan did. He wished now he’d let her hug him more, instead of running away when she had held her arms out to him. Grandad didn’t hug; he lifted Garry high in the air and swung him round, playing aeroplanes. There were things hanging up in the shop - baskets and wellies, and he had a feeling that around Christmas one year there had even been some hams up there - and he’d loved seeing how many things he could touch as Grandad whizzed him round. He could have stayed up there for ever but after a bit Nan would make Grandad stop. ‘You’ll make the boy sick,’ she would say, and although Grandad would laugh, the game would be over ... till the next time. It was good to have those memories, they helped keep away the bad ones. He could do with one of Nan’s hugs right this minute.
He hoped to God they’d not been hurt, really hurt, knocked about. Maybe Paula knew, had known, but she’d kept it from him. Best not ask her; let it be.
The days ran into a week, then a second one. He’d not seen Paula, not heard from Bernie. He began to panic: s’pose he’d gone cold on the deal. Or … he’d gone to the police! Oh, Jesus. He had to tell her.
‘You’ve done what?’ Paula’s voice at the end of the phone was loud and piercing; Garry held it away from his ear.
‘Just calm down, Sis, and listen.’
‘This better be good, Garry.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Bernie put down the office phone. Garry’s sister, Paula, was coming to see him, and she was on her way. He wished Trev was here. It would be easier with two of them; he’d found that when they’d spoken to Garry. Reluctantly Bernie had had to let Trev go to an audition: it was, after all, the guy’s real day job. He was surprised how well he and Trev were getting along, and how reliable he was; he had become quite a shrewd buyer, too, delighting Bernie with some of his acquisitions, and even more with the prices he had paid for them. Bernie had obviously underestimated him; he would be sorry to let him go when Andrew was fully recovered. That day, however, was some time away. Emma hadn’t yet found a convalescent home that she felt was right for him; the ones she had visited so far were too noisy or the food was not good, or the rooms were too small. She was visiting another one today, this time in north London, and if it seemed suitable she wanted him to have a look at it, too.
Although Andrew’s speech and movement had now returned in some measure, he seemed disinclined to talk and positively refused to be walked up and down the corridor outside his room. Clearly his state of health would not improve if he remained in hospital, and his bed in the stroke unit was needed for another patient. Neither was he ready to return home, even with a physiotherapist and a carer making daily visits: the obvious answer was some kind of rehab facility. More worrying to Bernie than his physical health was Andrew’s attitude, in the past week, to Emma. Encouraged by the doctors to talk to him, even when he was unable to reply, she’d got into the habit of giving him a daily digest of her activities, telling him about Constance – he liked her – and Bernie and the shop, and going out for the day with Jackie: she’d not said where they had been. This change in his response to her spiel seemed to have begun when she told him, thinking he might be worrying about what was happening to the business in his absence, that Bernie had found someone – she didn’t say it was Trev – to buy in new items, and had given him Andrew’s ever so helpful contact list, so there was no need for him to be concerned that the Almeida Street stock was running low. He had become very agitated and had turned away from her; Emma hadn’t known what to do. The nurse, who had come in at that moment, said it was only because he still found any conversation tiring – Emma had been with him a longer time than usual that afternoon – and that he would be fine once he’d had a little sleep. ‘He kept his head turned away nearly all the time,’ she had told Bernie afterwards, on the phone. ‘As if he didn’t want to look at me; it was horrible. Was it something I said? Or something in my body language? You don’t think he could know, do you, about us?’
‘No, I don’t think it’s that,’ Bernie said. He hoped to God it wasn’t.
‘I need to know, so I don’t mention it again, whatever it was.’
‘You didn’t mention the notebooks, did you?’
Emma nodded. ‘Well, yes, I did - the red one - but only because I wanted to reassure him that we were looking after the stock; he cared about that so much. Oh God, Bernie, what have I done?’
It was a good thing Emma was doing something positive this afternoon; he hoped it would stop her worrying, for even just a short time.
Bernie looked up at the security monitor: a car was pulling up just outside the yard gates. It couldn’t be Garry’s sister, it wasn’t afternoon yet. Oh Christ, it was: the numerals 12.57 were showing on the display. He zoomed in on the vehicle; yes, there was a woman in the driving seat, and Garry was beside her.
Bernie pressed the buzzer which allowed the car, a newish-looking Toyota Yaris, to enter the yard. Paula must be doing quite well, or maybe she had gambled on the prospect of buying into the hair-dressing business where she worked, with the money from the sale of the Brockwood shop.
He watched as the driver’s door opened and the woman stepped out of the car.
Bernie didn’t know what he had been expecting, but having met Garry, it certainly wasn’t this: a slender, statuesque, self-confident-looking black woman with lustrous hair piled high on her head; she was wearing tight-fitting leather trousers and a red furry jacket. It was as if Naomi Campbell had by magic appeared in the yard. He went on staring as Paula looked slowly all around the yard, sizing up her surroundings; apparently satisfied with what she was seeing, she turned to her passenger, waiting patiently beside her. He had been so taken up at the sight of Paula that he hadn’t noticed Garry, at least a foot shorter than his sister, emerging from the car. With a delicate movement of her hand, silver bangles glinting in the afternoon sunshine, she clicked on the remote and locked the car. Elegantly and purposefully she walked across to the back door. Garry followed meekly behind; he was not looking happy.
Bernie let out the breath he had been holding. So much for lunch.
He opened the office door.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘Do come in.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Garry wished she’d not dressed like that: it was only the back yard of a shop they’d come to. And the way she was looking at Bernie, he just wanted to crawl away and fold himself up.
It weren’t surprising though, after what he’d told her. Once he’d said, ‘Sis, there’s something I need to tell you’ she’d come to the flat and seen the money. ‘How much?’ she’d said. ‘Dunno.’ ‘You don’t know! Jesus, Garry!’ She’d narrowed her eyes. ‘I don’t believe you. You have money … and you don’t know how much? Huh! Come on, little bruv, time to find out!’
Envelope by envelope they pulled out the notes, stacked them up on the little table. Paula looked at them in awe.
‘Jesus, Garry.’ Her voice was little more than a whisper, ‘I don’t wonder you was scared.’ She ran her tongue round her mouth. ‘What?’ she said, ‘my lips are dry, is all. Right … let’s count.’ She leant forward, picked up the first pile. ‘No. Wait.’ She put the notes down, picked up her handbag from the floor, scrabbled around inside it and brought out a pen. ‘Pass me one of them white envelopes,’ she said.
Pile by pile Paula and Garry counted the notes and Paula wrote down the amounts on the back of the envelope. When all the piles on the table had been counted, she added up the figures she had written down. Garry sat watching her, his mouth now dry, his heart thumping wildly.
Paula threw the pen down on the table and began to laugh.
‘What?’
