The Last Pier Part 20

'I'll find him,' Tom said and ran out.

'I'll phone for the doctor,' Cook was putting water to boil. The doctor would want to sterilise the wound.

Doctor Denys, st.i.tching st.i.tches into Cecily's forehead as though he were a tailor, promised no more than a tiny scar.

'That's very important for you young ladies,' he said.

'What is?' asked Rose drifting in, interested in Cecily for a change, thus making it a very interesting day, all round.

But later it was Rose, quietly and alone, who defended Bellamy when a first-cla.s.s row broke out between Agnes and Selwyn.

That had been Bellamy then. Now he had his own fishing fleet. And a wife and two grand lads.

He stood watching Cecily as she remembered. Perhaps he was remembering different things. How Rose's death had been made into quite a story by the newspapers, relieved to have something besides the war to write about. They had called it a Tragedy with s.e.x and Betrayal. Followed by Death. No one had asked his opinion. No one had asked if he had known the Victim. Or the Perpetrator. Or even if there had been any Collateral Damage. Staring down at Cecily's beautiful, empty face, these might have been the things Bellamy was remembering.

'The boys are doing well at school,' he said, using words to hide behind.

Standing with her feet sinking into the beach, Cecily listened without hearing.

'I don't want them to work the sea, or live in a caravan. I want them to be respected. To study, to get good jobs.'

Cecily wondered what his wife was like. As if he heard her thoughts, Bellamy smiled.

'You must come over,' he said. 'Meet the missus. She's like you!'

There was another heavy silence and Bellamy took a further step backwards.

'Tide's out,' he told her, uneasily. You staying up at the house?'

Cecily nodded.

'Oh, okay,' he smiled, again. 'Come over.'

And he took something out of his pocket and pushed it into her hand.

'I heard you were about,' he said apologetically. 'So I fetched it.'

Cecily was silent. Then he turned and hurried off, his footsteps becoming fainter as he walked away. When he reached the pile of nets, he turned and shouted something, waving his hand. Cecily shook her head, not understanding, but he had turned away again. He was whistling. The sound of it threw itself backwards towards her.

A tune from long ago, A rainbow that had vanished.

Walking quickly back towards Palmyra House (she was too shaken to stay out any longer) Cecily realised what it was he'd said.

'The quack was right,' Bellamy had said. 'It is only a tiny scar!'

Opening the front door with her right hand, she saw what he had put into her left hand. Her mind was a blank, her body trembling.

'Time for another pill, perhaps,' she said, aloud.

How many more years could she go on living in this way? I'll make a cup of tea, she thought, sitting down, confused, at the kitchen table. No one had sat here in years. The black and white photograph was of Rose. And Cecily. It wasn't large. There was nothing unusual about it. The black wasn't very black and the white was creased and unshiny. But Rose was smiling and so was Cecily. Someone had scratched away the face of the boy standing next to Cecily. She could tell from his legs and how he stood that the figure was that of Bellamy. The white scratches over his face had almost gone through to the other side. Hate marked the image with vigour and something inside Cecily shivered. It had not been what she had expected but then she saw, faintly in the background, the figure of Robert Pinky Wilson, one foot in front of the other, trying to walk out of shot. Cigarette-tapping Pinky Wilson, blurred features, still recognisable. While walking towards them from the spinney, a fleeting glimpse of polka-dotted Agnes, out of shot but for her hem. And was that Lucio behind her? What on earth had they all been doing on that day, twenty-nine years ago? With the sun so high that no one noticed these things, they could only be seen with hindsight.

That day, when Franca, wearing her pastel pink dress, could no longer hide her feelings for Joe, and when Joe (who wasn't even in the picture) plucked up the courage to tell her he loved her.

That day, or was it before, or even after the tennis court party, when Carlo told Cecily she was so tall now that she came up to his heart.

When the h.o.a.rdings appearing all over England bore the slogan, 'What Price Churchill?' as though he was being auctioned off.

Going, going, gone, like the day itself.

Time running away like a shrew over a shoe.

Time running out like the tide.

Only three weeks before she died.

Rose Maudsley.

A Thing of Beauty.

Breaths of Heaven.

A living, breathing girl with a toothache smile.

Caused by eating too much ice cream.

IN THE PANTRY in Palmyra House, there remained a solitary jar of Agnes' plum jam gathering dust on a shelf. The hand that bottled it was long gone. Cecily stared at the writing. August 23rd 1939. Was it edible?

For some reason the sight of the jar brought Carlo to mind, sleeves rolled up, eating a piece of freshly baked bread. Jam oozing out, warm b.u.t.ter from the churn, Cook cross with everyone as usual, except of course Carlo.

Agnes had agreed to go up to London but she needed to finish bottling the yellow plums first. She felt hara.s.sed and wondered if she could really spare the time. It was Wednesday now. Six days to harvest, ten to the party, how many to a war? The thermometer was a steady eighty-five and the wireless was on again.

World shocked by Berlin-Moscow pact.

Lucio had important business in London and had offered Agnes a lift.

'What sort of business?' Pinky Wilson asked, popping in for a cup of tea and his usual morning chat.

Oblivious to Cook's heavy sniffing.

Friendly gossip was what he called these chats.

Snooping was what Cook called it.

'Oh, he edits a small newspaper,' Agnes said. 'For homesick Italians.'

Agnes had developed a song in her heart and her dimple had come out of hibernation.

'Ah,' said Pinky Wilson in what Cecily felt was a significant way.

Captain P was being as nosy as Tom.

'Can I come?' Cecily asked, after that man, had gone.

Her mother ignored her and it occurred to Cecily that everyone was cross these days.

'When will you be back?' she asked. 'It will be a dismal day until you return.'

Agnes, who wasn't in the least bit cross, laughed and laughed.

'I'll be back tomorrow,' she said, 'and if you are good and don't fight with Rose I'll bring you a present.'

Cecily opened her mouth to speak but her sister's expression made her forget what she wanted to say.

'It isn't fair,' Rose said, in a sotto voce sulk. 'I want to go to London too. I hate this place. I shall die of boredom!'

Shocking liar, thought Cecily. From the way her hair was done, it was clear Rose had plenty of plans of her own for the evening.

Agnes was behaving like a dove released from a cage, and Tom was showing off again.

'Britain doesn't hate Germany,' he said.

Cecily wanted to hit him.

'True,' Joe agreed. 'All this talk of encirclement is nonsense. No one wants war with the Germans!'

'Then why are you going?' Cecily asked.

'I'm not, not really. Just preparing, as a precaution.'

Rose wasn't listening.

On the news it was announced that the Imperial War Museum was closing. Tomorrow all its works of art would be evacuated.

Lucio was feeling hara.s.sed too. Aware that the presence of Fascist Italians in Britain could become a big problem, he wanted to nose out the trouble in advance. He could not confide in anyone in his family. Only his nephew Carlo cared about what was going on behind the scenes. In Lucio's opinion, Carlo was the brightest Molinello of them all. He read all the Italian newspapers that Lucio brought home and helped distribute il Lotto amongst the Italian community. Sometimes he even attended events at the social club in Clerkenwell where, during innocent conversations with the children of friends, he gleaned pieces of information that might one day be important in ensuring the safety of the Italian community. So Lucio was proud of his nephew. Normally he would have taken Carlo with him on the trip but on this occasion he could not. This time he would have Agnes in the car with him.

'It isn't safe,' he told Carlo, 'something is bound to come out in conversation.'

Agnes was an innocent bystander, Lucio didn't want to endanger her in any way. If she accidentally repeated some small thing to Anna they could all be put in danger.

'In any case,' Lucio said, pulling a face, 'your father would have a fit if he knew what you got up to!'

Carlo had been ready to tail Robert Wilson. He had followed the man skilfully once before without being noticed. He was undoubtedly a natural. But now the plan, made many days before, would have to be abandoned. Carlo was bitterly disappointed.

Lucio had been keeping an eye on the Wilson man for some months, following him on his trips up to London. His presence at Palmyra House, his friendship with first Agnes and then Kitty, his gifts to the young girls, all these things worried Lucio for, through a network of contacts, he had found out that Robert Wilson was not the man he said he was. His boss was not Sir Dudley Stamp of the Land Utilisation Survey. His boss was Lord Halifax and possibly even the Prime Minister himself. These were rumours that Lucio desperately needed to investigate. He didn't want to alarm anyone but his unease was growing.

'Well,' he said, grimly, looking at his nephew's disappointed face. 'I'll do it myself this time. And, if my guess is right, there will be plenty more trips for you before this is over!'

'But I wanted to help now,' Carlo protested.

Lucio smiled wryly.

'Stay here and keep an eye on the place,' he murmured. 'You know what to do if I don't return!'

Carlo looked alarmed.

'I'm joking,' Lucio said. 'I'll tell you what happens tomorrow. Just don't tell your father, for G.o.d's sake!'

Then he drove off to Palmyra House to pick up Agnes and in spite of the world news he found himself whistling.

In London, just before she was dropped off at the Wigmore Hall, Agnes suddenly thought she saw her sister walking over Waterloo Bridge.

'How can this be?' Lucio asked, 'I thought you told me she'd gone to Exeter for a few days?'

For a second, the afternoon became shrouded in mystery. But it could not have been Kitty.

Lucio warned Agnes he would not be free to see her until much later. Was it okay? He had a meeting to attend.

'Take your time,' Agnes said. 'I've brought my diary with me. I'm writing for Ma.s.s Observation, you see.'

Her shy smile was at odds with the boldness in her eyes and Lucio's heart rose. Did he need to go to this meeting? Wouldn't he be happier picking her up after the concert, so they could have supper together?

'No, no! I'll make myself an omelette in Kitty's kitchen,' Agnes told him, adding softly, 'and then I'll wait for you.'

Lucio hesitated a moment longer. Her grave and tender look sent a strange fear over him. I am being superst.i.tious, he told himself. We are safe. In the late summer light Agnes reminded him of a flower. When had his feelings for her become so intense? This was not what he had bargained for. He had a job of work to do. Agnes was not part of any plan.

'After this crisis is over,' he said, 'I would like to take you on a cruise ship. Across the Atlantic to America!'

He brushed her lips gently with his own, then reluctantly he drove on towards Wigmore Hall, dropping her off, watching her being swallowed up by the crowd, the image of her remaining before him, fixed and slightly disturbing. A moment later he crossed the river.

Robert Wilson, unaware he was being followed by Lucio Molinello, drove back up the Strand towards Chelsea. He had been dining with Lord Halifax. There had been several new faces at the meeting, including the editor of The Telegraph. Albert Einstein it seemed had written a letter to President Roosevelt that everyone in the Cabinet was talking about.

'Can one believe the claim,' asked the editor, 'that a single atomic bomb, if dropped on a port, might destroy everything, together with some surrounding territory? Can this be possible?'

No one had known what to say. Such destruction was impossible to imagine.

Was Germany bluffing? Should Britain go to war to defend Danzig? And what on earth was to be done about the growing number of foreigners in the country? Life was becoming a nightmare.

'Fascism is spreading unchecked in Britain,' one member of the cabinet remarked.

'Is this your own view?' Lord Halifax asked.