A Cuckoo in Candle Lane (18 page)

‘No, of course not. Tennis is only for toffs.’ As soon as the words left her mouth she was stricken, feeling the heat of embarrassment as her face coloured. God, she thought, what an idiot. What must he think of me!

‘No, Sally,’ he said, sounding unconcerned, ‘tennis is for everyone and I certainly wouldn’t call myself a toff. I could teach you to play if you like.’

‘Er, I dunno … maybe,’ she stuttered, still cringing as they walked along a path that led to a small tea-room.

‘Well, have a think about it,’ he said, drawing her to a halt. ‘Would you like something to drink?’

‘I’d love a Coke,’ she told him as he led her towards a table under the scant shade of a small silver birch.

Sally studied him as he entered the tea-room, already chastising herself for agreeing to meet him. John was different from her first impression, more sophisticated somehow. He was also very well-spoken, and somehow that made her feel gauche and out of her depth. She raked her fingers through her hair, then frantically tried to smooth it down again, realising she had probably mucked up Ann’s careful grooming.

‘Here you are,’ he said, placing two bottles on the table and sitting down opposite her.

‘Thanks,’ she mumbled, grabbing her Coke and sucking deeply on the straw, her eyes averted.

‘Do you like working in the record department, Sally?’

‘Yes, it’s all right, but I’m not keen on Miss French, my manageress,’ she told him, trying to be careful with her diction.

‘Why is that?’ he said, a slight frown creasing his brow.

‘She’s just so stuck-up. Sort of prim and proper, if you know what I mean.’

He let out a low laugh. ‘Yes, I can see how you got that impression. What sort of music do you like, Sally?’ he asked, abruptly changing the subject.

‘Oh,’ she enthused, her diction already forgotten, ‘I love Elvis. Mind you, he didn’t half look different when he went into the army. Don’t you think it’s a shame that he had to ’ave his gorgeous hair cut so short?’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ John said hesitantly.

‘Who’s your favourite singer then?’ she asked.

John grinned lopsidedly. ‘To be honest, I prefer classical music.’

Sally grimaced. This date was getting worse and worse and it seemed they had nothing in common. As though sensitive to her thoughts he reached out, placing his hand over hers.

She jerked away nervously, seeing a puzzled look in his eyes as he leaned slightly towards her. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you,’ he said softly.

Ashamed of her reactions she sank down in her seat, hunching her shoulders defensively.

‘I play the piano,’ he continued, as though trying to reassure her. ‘My aunt taught me, and I think that’s where my love of the classics originates from. That’s not to say I don’t like some modern music – I love jazz, for instance.’

Unable to think of anything to say, Sally smiled wanly, wishing the ground would open up and swallow her.

‘Come on, finish your drink,’ John urged, and as she stood up he gestured to a small shaded path. As they ambled along she saw a set of gates ahead and sighed with relief. Thank God, she thought, they were leaving the park, so perhaps he was as unhappy in her company as she was in his.

They emerged onto a wide tree-lined avenue, crossing towards tall elegant houses, each with intricate wrought-iron balconies surrounding large windows that glinted in the sunlight.

John gestured to one of them. ‘I live here, Sally, and I know this is unusual on a first date, but would you like to come in to meet my aunt?’

‘Oh no, I couldn’t,’ she stammered shyly, her eyes roaming over the large, affluent-looking houses.

‘Please,’ he urged. ‘I’ve got a special reason for wanting you to meet her and we won’t stay long.’

Before she could think of any further protest he led her up the wide steps and, opening the door, ushered her into a large square hall.

‘Our flat is on the first floor,’ he said, indicating the rich blue carpeted stairs with highly polished brass rods gleaming at the back of each tread.

Sally had never seen such a beautiful hallway and was unable to keep the surprise out of her voice. ‘A flat? You live in a flat?’

‘Yes, of course,’ he said, his voice slightly puzzled as they mounted the stairs. ‘This house is divided into four and I’ve lived here with my aunt since my parents died.’

When they reached the first floor, John opened the door facing them. ‘It’s only me, Lottie,’ he called as he led her inside. ‘I’ve brought someone to meet you.’ He turned to Sally, a wide smile on his face, saying, ‘Be prepared for a surprise,’ as he led her into a large room that seemed to be filled with light.

The sun was blazing through two large windows, and for a moment Sally was blinded by the glare. She blinked rapidly and as her eyes adjusted, she saw a tall, slender lady with long, dark hair, standing in front of an easel, her back towards them and a paintbrush poised in her hand.

As she turned, Sally’s eyes widened with shock. No, it couldn’t be! She saw a face devoid of make-up, a large smudge of green paint across the nose. Her gaze travelled downwards and she looked with amazement at the woman’s peculiar, scruffy outfit. She was wearing a man’s shirt, liberally spattered with paint, that almost reached her knees and covered most of the faded denim jeans. Bare feet completed the bohemian look.

‘Miss French,’ she gasped.

Charlotte French smiled at the expression on Sally’s face. She had studied her young sales assistant carefully and had seen the way she reacted to male customers, almost as if she was frightened of them. She was convinced that Sally was a virgin, perhaps with something in her past that had turned her off men. Realising that she would be ideal for John, she had suggested that he ask her out.

‘Hello, my dear,’ she said, advancing towards her. ‘I can see you’re surprised by my appearance. I wear these old clothes when I’m painting. Now, can I get you something to drink, a sherry perhaps?’

Sally’s mouth opened, her voice coming out in a squeak. ‘Er …no, thanks.’

Lottie grimaced; they would have to do something about the child’s voice. Her diction was awful. What would her friends think if they heard that awful Cockney twang?

‘How about you, John? Would you like a sherry?’

‘Yes please, Auntie.’

‘Do sit down, Sally,’ Lottie urged as she walked across to the drinks cabinet, glancing back to see Sally perched on the edge of the sofa, looking overwhelmed and biting nervously on her bottom lip. Pouring the drinks she hid a smile; the girl was so innocent and just what John needed – but it would do no harm to gently probe her background. ‘Now, Sally, tell me something about yourself. We don’t get a chance to talk socially at work, do we?’ she said, handing John his glass of sherry.

‘Er, what do yer wanna know?’

‘Well now, what are your hobbies for instance?’

‘I ain’t got any hobbies – well, except for reading that is.’

‘Reading is a marvellous hobby, Sally, it can broaden the mind,’ she told her. ‘What about your father? What does he do for a living?’

Sally’s face turned slightly pink and lowering her head, she said softly, ‘My dad left me mum years ago.’

‘How awful for you!’ Lottie exclaimed, but with a small smile at John. It was even better, she thought, without a protective father in the background.

‘Do you go to church, Sally?’ John asked. ‘I mean, are you Church of England or Roman Catholic?’

‘No, I don’t go to church, but I think I was christened Church of England. I do believe in God though, and just recently I’ve been learning how to do spiritual healing.’

Both Lottie and John froze, their glasses half-raised to their lips, looking at each other in horror.

‘What’s the matter?’ Sally asked worriedly.

‘Oh, my dear, you really shouldn’t be doing things like that. It goes against the teachings of the Church,’ Lottie told her, a frown creasing her brows.

‘But it helps me gran,’ Sally protested. ‘It’s taken her pain away.’

Lottie bit back a retort; it wouldn’t do to alienate the girl. They would have to tread softly, perhaps introduce her to their church, and slowly show her the error of her ways. My goodness, who would have thought it? This innocent-looking child mucking about with spiritual forces. It didn’t bear thinking about.

‘Let’s talk about this another time,’ Lottie said, shaking her head at John, who still had a frown on his face.

They chatted for about another fifteen minutes, avoiding the subject of religion, until Sally told them that she had to go home. Lottie watched them leaving, hoping that she had made the right choice for John. The girl seemed pliable, her opinions unformed, so perhaps it would work out. It must, she thought fiercely, it must. At all costs, John must be protected, otherwise what sort of future would he have?

‘I
’m worried about Mary,’ Sadie said, folding the letter and shoving it back into the envelope.

‘I ain’t interested, Mum.’

‘For Gawd’s sake, Ruth, she’s yer sister!’

‘Not any more she ain’t. Now look, Mum, I said I would never forgive her for defending Harry, and I meant it.’ Ruth stood up, walking across the room to look out of the window, her arms folded defensively.

‘Look, it’s been over six years now, don’t you think you’ve punished her enough? Please love, come with me the next time I go to meet her. There’s something wrong, I know there is.’

‘No!’ Ruth yelled, turning sharply to glare at her mother. ‘How many times ’ave I got to tell you! And now you’re trying to make me feel guilty. That ain’t fair, and you know—’ She paused, hearing a knock on the back door.

‘Hello, it’s only me. Have you got the kettle on?’ Elsie asked as she poked her head into the room. Then, as if sensing the atmosphere, she added, ‘What’s up?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ Ruth said, taking a deep breath to compose herself. She was sick of arguing with her mum over Mary, and was glad of the distraction. ‘How’s things, Elsie?’ she asked.

‘All right, except for Bert’s back that is, it’s really playing him up. With all the heavy lifting he’s done over the years it’s starting to take its toll. Thank God it’s Sunday so he can give it a rest.’ Elsie pulled a chair out from under the table and plopped down, her ample rear bulging over the sides of the small wooden seat. ‘By the way, Ruth, is Sally in? Ann wants a word with her.’

‘No. She’s gone to church with John.’

Elsie turned to Sadie, smiling sadly. ‘Is she still refusing to give you any healing?’

‘Yeah. John’s convinced her that it’s wrong to use her psychic gifts and there’s no talking to her. I told her that my hip was starting to give me a lot of pain again, and do you know what she said?’ Sadie blinked her eyes, close to tears. ‘She said I’m in God’s hands.’

‘What does your Ann say about it, Elsie?’ Ruth asked.

‘She doesn’t say a lot, but I think she feels that John’s got a bit too much influence over Sally.’

Ruth sighed unconsciously. Sally had been going out with John for over nine months now, and was becoming like a different girl. She was absolutely besotted and did everything she could to please him. She had already improved her elocution, changed her hairstyle and the way she dressed, saying that John wanted her to look more sophisticated.

She shook her head worriedly. If he loves Sally, why does he want to change her? Turning towards her friend, an appeal in her eyes, she asked, ‘Elsie, do you think you could ’ave a talk with her? We’ve tried, but she just won’t listen.’

‘I’ll give it a go, love, but I don’t think it will do any good. She goes out of her way to avoid me these days.’

Sally tried to listen to the service, forcing her mind to concentrate on the sermon, but it was no good. The strange feeling of foreboding refused to go away. No, she thought, I must ignore it. John had told her that she had to fight these psychic episodes, insisting they were the work of the devil.

Closing her eyes she clutched her hymnbook tightly, a prayer on her lips, but the feeling just became stronger, filling her with an impending sense of doom. She knew something was terribly wrong when a message, urgent and compelling, rushed into her consciousness.

‘John,’ she whispered frantically, standing up abruptly, ‘please let me pass. I’ve got to go home.’

Lottie was sitting on the other side of John and she turned, her face stiff with disapproval. ‘Sit down, Sally,’ she hissed.

‘No, I must go!’ she insisted, her voice now loud in panic as she struggled to push past John’s knees.

The vicar faltered in his sermon and those nearest to them in the congregation turned in their pews, straining their necks to see who was causing the disruption.

John was forced to stand up, acute embarrassment showing on his face. ‘Excuse me, Auntie,’ he urged, and as she stood to let them pass he took Sally’s hand, almost dragging her up the aisle.

On the steps outside the church he turned, and instead of annoyance on his face, she saw sympathy. ‘What’s wrong, darling, are you ill or something?’

‘I haven’t got time to explain, John. I must go home, but you go back in for the rest of the service.’