Meet Me at the Pier Head (15 page)

He woke at twenty minutes past six, his head banging, light streaming in through drapes he had forgotten to close, birds performing some sort of medieval madrigal with a few
notes deformed by a fretful blackbird. Why were blackbirds so darned territorial? Fear, probably. But he shouldn’t blame the birds or the light; it was Madam Sensitive upstairs who had
deprived him of sleep, because he’d found himself worrying about her state of mind, about whether she would stay or go; he’d also reflected on her undeniable beauty, her downright
cheek, her feistiness, her wonderful voice.

‘This darn headache.’ Just a minute – it wasn’t a headache, as the sound was coming from outside his skull, from upstairs. What the hell was she up to now? He’d
rented out a lovely, spacious apartment, and it sounded as if she was busy smashing it to pieces. Oh, God. He jumped out of bed, remembered that he was stark naked, pulled on pyjama bottoms and
dragged a dressing gown from a hook on the door. When he’d grabbed the spare key from a drawer in the hall, he ran barefoot up the side of the house and let himself into his own property.
Why am I nervous? This is my house, my property, and I have every right to make sure it’s in one piece.

At the top of the stairs, he took a deep breath and knocked.

‘It’s open,’ she called. ‘Oh, wait a minute, I’m not decent.’

He entered the flat and found her in the living room on her hands and knees. She wore a cream silk nightgown that left little to the imagination, though she did wrap a dust sheet round herself
just as he entered the room. Tia Bellamy was perfect, and she probably knew it.

‘What the hell are you doing, Tia?’ he asked. ‘Sounds like Armageddon right over my head.’

‘Building an extension, of course.’ Her words carried the message that any normal person wouldn’t have needed to ask so trite a question. She looked him up and down. ‘Who
got you ready?’ she asked, the tone saccharine sweet.

He dropped into an armchair. ‘Where did you get the work bench?’ he asked.

‘It’s mine.’ The tone was defensive. ‘It came in Delia’s van with the rest of my stuff. I usually keep it in this window draped in a floor-length cloth. It looks
good with a plant on top. What’s the problem? Am I breaking a rule of which you failed to make me aware?’

‘The problem is the time, not to mention the noise.’

‘It’s Saturday,’ she replied smartly, ‘and you have mentioned the noise. I always do woodwork when I’m stressed. Go back to bed; I’ll soon be
finished.’

He arched an eyebrow. ‘Do you get stressed often? Because I’m darned sure I don’t need a rude awakening like this on a regular basis.’

Tia rose to her feet and stood straight. ‘Just a moment.’ Clutching at the dust sheet, she left the room, found the robe that matched her nightdress and pulled it on. When she
returned, he seemed to be trying hard not to laugh. ‘What’s so funny?’ she asked, tying the belt at her waist. ‘At least I haven’t killed anyone in order to harvest
body parts.’

He arranged his features into a more serious mode. ‘Is the accommodation not big enough for you? Are you extending into the roof?’ Her hair was so long, silk against silk, strands
floating across the fabric of her clothing, seldom stilling unless she remained motionless, and she was almost always in perpetuum mobile mode.

A slippered foot beat a tattoo on the floor. ‘The extension is for my dolls’ house, not for your villa. I still need to learn plastering and tiling before I can do full scale
renovations. Oh, and plumbing and wiring might be useful subjects for me to study. It’s a double garage with an extra bedroom and bathroom above. Look.’ She picked up a pair of small
cardboard boxes. ‘Our cars. Two MGs, one red, one green, both in perfect proportion to the house.’

Theo picked up the green one. ‘Sweet,’ he said. ‘I love my car. But now, I’m going to make breakfast. Please try to be quiet for the rest of today. A man of my advanced
years will need a nap to compensate for this disturbance to my sleep.’ He studied her for a moment. ‘Feeling better than you did last night?’

‘Yes, thank you. Sorry I let things upset me like that. I’m usually tough, though I do seem to have inherited my father’s temper and lack of patience, I’m afraid. Worry
not, I keep both tethered in the bicycle sheds at school. Would you like some coffee and what I believe is named a bacon butty?’

He grinned broadly. The word ‘butty’ sounded strange in perfect English. ‘Determined to feed me, aren’t you? You spoil me, Miss Bellamy.’

‘The elderly must remember to eat, Mr Quinn. When my grandmother began to lose the plot, we stuck a huge reminder on her kitchen door. It told her to eat, in capital letters, of course.
She had a home help, but she, too, was senile. Growing old can be difficult in many ways, so do take care not to break any bones.’

While she cooked in the kitchen, Theo studied her dolls’ house. It was almost certainly antique, and each room was furnished, wallpapered and lit by tiny torch bulbs fed by a battery.
Little people were in almost every area; a baby looked ready to drown in a tin bath, so he righted the tiny figure. ‘You could hide the battery in the back of your new garage,’ he
called.

‘Good idea. You’re not just a pretty face, then, Teddy?’

He puffed out his cheeks and blew gently.
She’s goading me again
.

‘Well?’ she called.

He couldn’t think of an answer. This was the problem. He had employed a probationary teacher who was probably cleverer than he was, and he was supposed to be the principal. The bossy
creature was taking over his home life, too, and he felt . . . he felt happy. Feeling happy made him slightly bewildered, since he had sworn never again to take interest in a woman. ‘Be
quiet,’ he answered her finally. ‘I’m starving to death here.’ He remained happily bewildered or bewilderedly happy – he wasn’t sure which.

She bounced in with two bottles of sauce. ‘I have learned about these,’ she said smugly. ‘This is red, this is brown. Which?’

‘Neither. I like my bacon neat.’

‘Do you want it soft or crunchy?’

‘Well done.’

‘Crunchy like mine, then.’ She exited bearing ketchup, brown sauce and a huge smile. They shared a liking for well-cooked bacon.

She’s used to looking after people, and that’s why she’s come to work in a city. Maybe she helped raise her two sisters, because she’s the oldest. I guess if I were
to write her down, I’d describe her as multi-faceted, so we’re very alike. I am so drawn to her that I feel like a teenager trying to pluck up courage to invite her to a prom. Twelve
years younger than I am, very young at heart and older than Methuselah in the head. If I make a move – and I’m shit scared of that – I could lose a great teacher, an inventive
chef and a very interesting friend who builds extensions for dolls’ houses in the middle of the damn night.

‘Bugger,’ she exclaimed.

‘Are you OK, Tia?’

‘I dropped some bread, that’s all.’

Her voice alone is enough to seduce a man. My resistance is diminishing at a rate of knots.

She came in with a tray, two mugs of coffee and two bacon sandwiches. ‘Here we go. That should help you get back to sleep. A full stomach attracts blood, takes it away from the
brain.’

Theo’s brain was on vacation anyway. He was hormonal, stupid and emotionally needful. And he’d done so well lately . . .

Tia sat opposite him and attacked her bacon sandwich with gusto. Building an extension was very hard work. ‘Why aren’t you eating?’ she asked.

‘I’m drinking coffee. Someone woke me before half past six, so I need the energy.’

She tutted. ‘You must mind your heart, Mr Quinn. Caffeine can be lethal for a man in his dotage.’

This joke would run on and on, he decided. ‘I am in the prime of my life, Miss Bellamy. Thirty-eight years of age and still ticking over. Any more of your clever talk and you’ll get
detention.’

‘Is that a promise?’

Theo swallowed another mouthful of black coffee. She was communicating, wasn’t she? ‘You wouldn’t like my detentions. We do geography and French, that kind of stuff.’

‘Je n’ai pas besoin de ces sujets, monsieur.’

‘Oui, mais vous avez besoin de quelquechose, je crois.’

Tia’s appetite took a nosedive. She needed something, he believed? Oh, yes, she needed him to need her. Too early for courtship, too early for anything beyond liking his company, yet she
knew he was winning her heart. Forcing herself to carry on as normal, whatever normal was, she turned to look at her dolls’ house. ‘I’ve had that since I was four years
old.’

‘It may lose value if you alter it,’ he told her.

‘The value was possibly slashed when Pa had it electrified. And my extension will be on a board that will take the house as well, so it should look like an extension without being
one.’

‘I see. You may use my shed for your future adventures with wood. Do you have any other hobbies apart from waking fellow residents at the crack of dawn?’

After chewing and swallowing, she gave him the list. ‘Outsmarting my father, driving, flying kites, swimming, hockey, netball, archery, gun club, woodwork, swordplay, tormenting my sisters
and cooking.’ She inhaled deeply. ‘In fact, I’ve scarcely time for teaching. You?’

‘Body parts,’ they pronounced simultaneously.

He decided to put her out of her misery. ‘
Take my Hand
,’ he whispered, ‘
A Foot in the Door
,
A Finger in Every Pie
,
At Arm’s Length
,
Two Hearts and a Spade
,
An Eye on the Money
,
Learning by Ear
,
Housemaid’s Knee
,
Tooth and Claw
,
No Head for Heights
,
A Hair of the
Dog
,
A Nose for Trouble
,
Heartburn
,
Hand in Glove
. I am currently out of titles.’

Tia seemed to be struck dumb, though not for long. ‘Tom Quirke?’ she screamed finally. ‘Body parts?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re
the
Tom Quirke?’

‘Guilty as charged.’

Tia clapped her hands like a child. ‘I’ve read them. We all have. They’re the only truly hilarious crime novels on the market.’

‘It has to be another secret, Portia.’

‘Absolutely.’ Her brow was furrowed. ‘What about
Bad Blood
?
The Heart of the Matter
?
On Bended Knee
?’

‘Write them down,’ he ordered.

She jumped up and rooted out pen and notebook from her capacious school bag. ‘That’s three,’ she said triumphantly. ‘Tom Quirke. I am living in Tom Quirke’s house.
Skin Deep
?
Feet First
? Oh, I’ll just write whatever comes into my head, shall I? What about
A Toe in the Water
?
Six Feet Under
?
All Hands on
Deck
?’

Theo nodded. He didn’t want this from her, didn’t want her as a fan. But she had to be told, because he needed few interruptions during school holidays. ‘Perhaps you’ll
understand my desire for quiet now.’

She raised her head. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’

‘And don’t tell anyone.’

She stuck a finger in her mouth, drew a cross on her gown and said, ‘Cross my heart and swear to die if I should ever tell a lie.’

‘Good title.’

‘What?’

‘
Cross My Heart
.’

‘I’m on it.’ She scribbled again. ‘Mind, they might get confused if you use the same body part in more than a couple of books.’

‘Yes, that’s where the marinade comes in. The jacket. I paint my own.’

Her grin broadened. ‘You’re clever,’ she announced.

‘For a colonial person, I suppose I am.’ Now, there would be too much respect, he feared. ‘I’m just an ordinary guy who writes to pass the time and to fund my real hobby,
which is teaching. Teaching in this country is not a good job. When war started, educators contributed by taking lower salaries, and they’ve never recouped the loss. You’ll start on
thirty pounds a month or thereabouts – am I right?’

She nodded. ‘About that, yes – a pound a day. But I do have other money left to me by family elders.’

He shrugged. ‘You’ll need it.’

‘Tom Quirke. I can’t believe it.’

‘Believe it.’

She pondered. ‘You know the one called
Heartburn
?’

‘I have vague memories, yes. Why?’

‘Is it true that bodies can be found in that condition? Not a mark on them, but shaken to bits inside?’

‘As the result of nearby explosion, yes.’

‘Did you . . . did you see that?’

He nodded and told her a story he wished he could forget. Stationed just outside Hastings, he had been on the ground when the base had been bombarded by the enemy, who were going for the planes.
‘My pilot,’ he said. ‘Outwardly peaceful, inwardly shaken apart by the blast. It happened.’

‘Yet your books are fun.’

‘Yes. Brooding does no good. And you’ll notice I don’t write about the war. I just use what I learned during those years.’ He stood up. ‘Thank you for the coffee
and the bacon butty. See you later.’ He left.

Tia remained where she was, remembering the nights when she and Delia had read aloud from the books of Tom Quirke. They’d been doubled over with laughter because of idiots who mapped out
the perfect murder or grand larceny, only to carry out their plans so haphazardly that they killed the wrong person, or got stuck up trees, in chimneys, in locked safes or in prison for a different
crime altogether.

Judges were cranky, deaf and incontinent, jurors scarcely literate, while lawyers were often inebriated, poorly briefed or out-and-out criminals whose misdeeds were greater than their
clients’ crimes. Tom Quirke took society and ripped it apart at the seams before stitching it back together in the wrong order, leaving an anarchic mess that was hilarious, impossible, yet
strangely believable. Oh, she must read them all again.

She scrabbled about on her bookcases until she found a few of them. They were slim volumes, probably eighty thousand words at the most. But, for the first time, she looked at the dedication
pages.
For Mom, who died too soon
,
For Dad – have a drink on me
,
For Sally; I saw the while cliffs of Dover
,
For Peter, Tim and Jamie, my half-brothers –
read one third each
.