The September Girls (47 page)

‘But Nancy witnessed it, darling,’ Mummy had pointed out last night when they got home and Sybil had expressed, very forcibly, her opinion that there was something very suspicious about the will, that it couldn’t possibly have been Daddy’s wish not to leave his darling daughter anything at all. ‘Mr Maplin, the solicitor, expressly brought his clerk with him so he could witness it, too. Daddy was there the whole time.’

‘But don’t forget Daddy was in a terrific amount of pain, maybe he wasn’t of sound mind.’

‘I’m sure Nancy would have noticed if he was - and Mr Maplin.’

‘I think we should contest it,’ Sybil said heatedly.

‘You do whatever you wish, darling, but I’m afraid you won’t have my backing.’ Mummy stroked her hand. ‘And such a thing would be terribly expensive.
I
don’t have enough funds to embark on a long legal battle. I intend to sign the factory over to you and Jonathan straight away so you will have the income from that. If you want to waste it on court action, it’s up to you.’

Cara had come back from London earlier today and Mummy had actually gone to see her, which Sybil considered a traitorous thing to do. She returned, saying the baby was the sweetest little thing and Cara had brought a friend back with her, Fielding, whom Sybil might know as she’d been in Malta, too.

‘She lost her arm in the same air raid that killed Cara’s fiancé, yet she’s being so brave about it. Me, I’d have gone to pieces, I really would,’ Mummy twittered.

Sybil had gone up to her room where she sat on the bed and brooded over the idea of Cara and Fielding living in
her
house, one of them possibly sleeping in
her
bed, using the things on
her
dressing table - the silver-backed mirror and brush set that Daddy had bought her one Christmas, the jewellery kept in a marquisette box, the clothes still hanging in the wardrobe.

Impulsively, she got off the bed and ran downstairs, shouting, ‘I’m going for a walk, Mummy.’

‘But, darling,’ Mummy cried, ‘it’s pitch-black outside and there might be a raid.’

Sybil’s answer was a slam the door. She stood on the step, waiting to get used to the darkness, for the sky to separate itself from the houses opposite and, as the buildings gradually took shape, she set off for Parliament Terrace.

 

She had remembered to bring her front door key, but took ages finding the keyhole so she could let herself in. Inside, she became entangled in a thick curtain covering the door, but managed to fight her way through and was then faced with a dilemma. Should she make her presence known by shouting? Or creep upstairs and remove everything that belonged to her? It struck her that she’d had no right to let herself in. The house no longer belonged to her, but to Cara Caffrey, who had, somehow, managed to trick poor Daddy into leaving it to her.

She crept along the hall. There were people in the kitchen. She recognized Nancy’s voice and another, only faintly familiar. Fielding, she realized after a while. Insolent, brazen-faced Fielding, whom she’d never liked, was actually sitting in what should have been
her
kitchen, talking to Nancy.

It’s
not your kitchen, not your house
, a little voice reminded her.
You have no right to be here
.

The best thing would be to ask Mummy to collect her things - she should have thought of that before, but her brain wasn’t working properly at that moment. She was about to leave when she noticed a light shining underneath the door of Daddy’s study. She crept along the hall and listened outside, but was met with complete silence. All of a sudden, she felt a desire to sit in Daddy’s chair, touch the things on his desk, something he’d used to do, as if the feel of them gave him some satisfaction.

She opened the door and came face to face with Cara Caffrey, who was sitting behind the desk, tears streaming down her cheeks.

‘Hello, Sybil,’ Cara said softly. She didn’t look even faintly surprised to see her. ‘I was just sitting in your father’s chair. This was his favourite room. He spent nearly all his time in here.’

‘Do you think I didn’t already know that?’

‘Of course. What a silly thing for me to say! I was just having a little cry alone - this is the first minute I’ve had to meself since I got back. I’ve just put Kitty down to sleep, she’s worn out with all the attention she’s had tonight.’ She made a welcoming gesture with her hand. ‘Come in and sit down.’

How gracious of her, Sybil thought, inviting me into my own father’s study. She went in and closed the door, but didn’t sit, deeply resenting the way Cara looked so very much at home.

‘What did you do to Daddy to make him leave everything to you?’ she asked, making a great effort to keep her voice steady and reasonable, when she really wanted to scream and yell.

‘Do?’ Cara wiped the tears off her cheeks with the back of her hands. ‘I didn’t do anything. I’ve no idea why he should have been so generous.’

‘But he loved me more than anyone else in the world!’ she wailed. It was impossible to keep her voice steady and she didn’t feel even remotely reasonable. ‘You must have done something to make him prefer you over me.’

‘I didn’t, Sybil, honest. He was nice to me and I was nice to him. I told him often how grateful I was that he’d taken me in - I’ve no idea what I’d have done if he hadn’t.’

‘It was all my idea that you approach Nancy for help,’ Sybil sullenly pointed out.

‘I know, and I’m very grateful for that, too.’

She wished Cara wasn’t being quite so calm, as if she were determined not to lose her temper no matter what Sybil said. She would have much preferred a shouting match.

‘There is something,’ Cara added quietly. ‘I think you should have written to him more often. The whole time I was here, you only sent him the one letter and he kept it on his desk for ages. I often came in and found him reading it. In a way, I think I took your place. I told him all about Marzipan Hall and what it was like being in Malta -
you
hadn’t. The letter you sent was only a single page and was obviously dashed off in a hurry.’ Her voice wobbled slightly. ‘He was a terribly lonely man, Sybil and, after a while, I think he began to look upon
me
as his daughter.’

‘Men don’t usually marry their daughters.’

‘He only did it for Kitty’s sake and I accepted for the same reason. I wouldn’t have dreamt of marrying Marcus otherwise and he wouldn’t have dreamt of asking.’ Cara stood and came round to the front of the desk. If she comes any closer, Sybil vowed, I’ll slap her face, but Cara stopped a few feet away and gave her an imploring look. ‘I’d like us to be friends, Sybil. It was dead good of you to pass on my letters to Mam and hers to me. I don’t know how I would have managed without your help. Now, we’re both related in a way and there’ll always be a room for you in this house whenever you want it.’

She held out her hand, but Sybil ignored it. ‘I shall never set foot in this house again,’ she spat. ‘I shall ask Mummy to collect all the things from my room and keep them at hers. I take it you have no objection?’ she added sarcastically.

‘Of course not.’ Cara’s narrow shoulders heaved in a sigh. ‘Take anything you want.’

‘Cara!’ There was a knock on the door and Nancy came in. She looked surprised when she noticed Sybil there. ‘Oh, hello, pet. I didn’t realize you were here.’

‘I’m just going - and I’m never coming back!’ Sybil rushed out of the room and both women were silent until the front door banged shut.

‘Poor old thing.’ Nancy shook her head. ‘Her father wanted to give her the sun, moon and stars, but she threw them back in his face, so he gave them to you and Kitty instead.’

It was one of the oldest tricks in the book and he’d fallen for it, hook, line and sinker. For as long as he lived, he would never make a bigger mistake.

The three Irish men were playing rummy for tanners in the Black Horse, a pub on the Dock Road, when he dropped in for a pint after work. When they saw him watching and asked if he’d like to play a hand, he’d done so willingly, although had always considered rummy an old woman’s game.

Tyrone Caffrey had inherited his Uncle Paddy’s fondness for playing cards for money. No matter how low the stakes, it gave him the same tingling, faintly unsettling, but highly enjoyable feeling he’d had when he and his mates had shaken down drunks for coppers.

The men’s names were Barry, Johnno and Titch; the latter was well over six feet tall. At first, he’d considered them a bit gormless and wasn’t surprised to find himself winning every game. By eight o’clock, when the men had to go, he’d won over thirty bob and was surprised when they suggested they meet the next night for another game. Just try and stop me, he’d thought exultantly. It was like taking buns from a baby.

The following night, he didn’t win quite so much, but a quid was better than a kick up the backside and he returned home feeling mightily pleased with himself, having arranged to meet them again at the same time in the same place tomorrow.

‘Have you ever played blackjack, Ty?’ Barry asked when they met. ‘It’s an American game otherwise known as twenty-one.’

‘A few times,’ Tyrone replied. Blackjack was a man’s game, faster and more skilful, far preferable to rummy.

They cut to deal and Tyrone’s card was the highest. Being the dealer was a distinct advantage in blackjack and he easily won the first game. This must be my lucky night, he crowed inwardly when he cut the highest card again and again and was up by twelve and a tanner in no time.

Then everything began to change, so suddenly that it left him breathless. The games speeded up, the men stopped joking and became more businesslike, and by the time eight o’clock came and they had to leave, he discovered he’d lost all his winnings and was down by a further ten pounds - they’d stopped using money when he’d spent all he had on him and Barry was writing the figures down in a notebook.

‘Hard luck, boyo,’ Johnno said sympathetically. ‘Don’t worry, I’m down almost as much as you, but we’ll win it back again tomorrer night, eh?’

‘Sure thing,’ Tyrone gulped. He
had
to win it back. There was no other way he could get his hands on ten pounds.

‘Oh, he’ll be back tomorrer night, that’s for sure, won’t you, boyo?’ Barry said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘Don’t forget, we know where he lives and we know where he works. If he doesn’t come, we’ll just have to go and fetch him.’

He’d told them where he worked, but did they really know where he lived? By now, he considered them more sinister than gormless. If Johnno hadn’t lost so much, Tyrone might have suspected he was being set up. He hoped and prayed his luck would change tomorrow. He didn’t care if he came out of the experience with nothing in his pocket. All he was interested in was clearing the ten-pound debt.

The next night was a disaster. It had taken Tyrone, who’d always thought of himself as a canny bugger, quite a while before the penny dropped and he realized the Irishmen were cheating. There was something suspicious about the cards they used, a yellowing pack with smudged backs, and Tyrone suspected they were marked. And although Johnno had lost the night before, it didn’t matter because they were working as a team and it had been just a ruse to make him believe he hadn’t been singled out. He must be the biggest idiot under the sun to be so easily duped. He threw his cards on to the table and said flatly, ‘I’ve had enough. I don’t know how much I owe, but I’ll never manage to pay it back.’ He’d never been short of nerve, but couldn’t pluck up the courage to accuse the men of cheating, and couldn’t see what use it would be if he did. They’d only deny it.

Barry silently totted up the figures in his notebook, his expression hard and calculating. ‘You owe just over twenty-four quid, boyo, and you’re going to have to pay it back, if not in cash, then in kind.’

‘What d’you mean by that?’

‘We’ve seen your house in Shaw Street, it’s not exactly a hovel. There must be goods in there worth twenty-four good ould English pounds that you can take to the pawnshop.’

‘It’s not my house. It belongs to me mam and dad.’ They really had been to see where he lived. Terror gripped Tyrone’s heart like a fist.

‘Does your dear ould ma not own a decent bit of jewellery?’ Barry asked in a silky voice. ‘Has your da got a watch? What about your wife’s wedding ring? Does the family have a wireless, a nice chiming clock, some good china, a canteen of cutlery?’

‘Me mam doesn’t have any jewellery and I can’t possibly take me wife’s ring or me dad’s watch. Or any of those other things,’ he added.

Barry thrust his face into his so that their noses almost touched. ‘Well, boyo, either you pay us what you owe, or you’ll find yourself with both your legs broke in so many places that you’ll never walk again, not even with crutches. The choice is yours. You’ve got twenty-four hours to come up with the cash. If you’re not here by eight o’clock tomorrer night, you know what’ll happen.’

Tyrone didn’t doubt that Barry meant every word.

 

That night, he didn’t sleep a wink as he tried to think of ways of getting together the twenty-four pounds, ranging from holding up a bank, to staging a robbery in his own house when everyone was out and taking the stuff to the pawnshop. The first was no good as he didn’t have a gun, and the second because pawnshops usually demanded some sort of identification and they’d be the first places the coppers would look when Mam reported the burglary. It was no good thinking up a reason to get Maria to hand over her ring, as it was hardly thicker than a thread of cotton and had only cost three pound, two and sixpence in the first place.

It wasn’t until he was back at work next day that Tyrone remembered Cara’s sapphire ring that Mam had been looking after all this time. Only the other day, she’d muttered bitterly, ‘I bet she’ll turn up any minute wanting it back.’

So far, there’d been no communication between Mam and Cara, so the ring was still somewhere in the house. There’d be no need to pawn it, as it was gold with real stones, obviously worth well over twenty-four pounds. He’d give it straight to the Irish men, tell
them
to pawn the bloody thing, so there’d be no record of Tyrone Caffrey having been near a pawnshop. There’d be ructions when Mam discovered it had gone, but she hardly ever wore it so it would be ages before she found out, and all he’d have to do was claim he knew nothing about it - he was good at pretending innocence when he was as guilty as sin.