Meet Me at the Pier Head (27 page)

Simon gave his permission, and Rosie flung her arms round his neck.

Tia grinned. Why couldn’t she love this special man? He would make a great husband and father, an ideal care-giver for children.

Rosie finally released him. Her face shone like Christmas, twinkling eyes and glowing cheeks. She was going to be a great beauty, Tia believed.

‘Your favour?’ Simon asked.

‘Ah, yes. Come for supper tonight, about seven. Ma and Nanny Reynolds will be there. They’ll be pleased to see someone they already know.’

‘She’s finally done it, then?’

‘She has. I just hope he isn’t running round like a bear with a sore head. Don’t forget the letter for your dad.’ She glanced at Rosie. ‘We have to get the
examination done for old . . . old damage.’

He nodded. ‘Is Sir going south with you?’

‘Yes. We won’t all fit into the cottage, so some will stay at the inn.’

‘I see.’ He saw, all right. She had finally fallen, but not for him; she was perilously near to the brink with a man who wanted no children.

Rosie was trying to dance in her red shoes. They were no different from any others when it came to dancing, so doctors made up stories, too. But the shoes were so pretty . . . Miss Bellamy and
Dr Heilberg paid while Rosie skipped about in red shoes outside the double-fronted shop.

The adults found her and took her off for lunch in a hotel. They had wine, while she had pretend wine made from blackcurrant and apple juices. She had it in a proper wine glass with a stem, and
she made up a story in her head about these two people being her mam and dad. This made her feel slightly guilty, because her real mother was ill in hospital, but Mammy hadn’t looked after
her properly, so making up a story about belonging to nice people wasn’t really bad, was it?

They had cream of chicken soup, poached salmon with Jersey potatoes and sauce, and a cold salad on a side plate. The bread was flaky on the outside and soft on the inside, and tonight she would
have more good food with Miss Bellamy’s mother, who was a secret film star.

For pudding, she enjoyed vanilla ice cream with hot chocolate sauce, and she had never tasted anything so wonderful in the whole of her life. She saved a bit and mixed it round with her spoon
until it was a thick, tepid, chocolate and cream sort of custard. Delicious.

Simon watched her, humour in his eyes. ‘Adorable,’ he mouthed at Tia.

She inclined her head in agreement. If Sadie wanted her daughter back, and if the mother and grandmother should both be judged unfit, Simon would probably be looked upon as a very suitable
adoptive father. But was that reason enough for Tia to marry him? No. He would make a lovely daddy, though.

‘You have a lot of parcels,’ he commented as they left the hotel.

‘I bought fents to make Rosie a few more dresses.’

‘Fents?’

‘Come north and embrace the culture,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘A fent is the end of a weaver’s run, sometimes with a tiny flaw, often perfect.’

Simon took the packages and spoke to Rosie. ‘Miss Clever Clogs, isn’t she?’

Rosie found no answer. Miss Bellamy was clever, but she didn’t wear clogs. ‘We’re going to see Harry,’ she told him. ‘He’s got no legs. When they got blowed
off, he could still feel his feet itching.’

‘That’s quite common,’ Simon told her.

‘He’s not common,’ was Rosie’s swift reply. ‘He has nice furniture and a big plant nearly fifty years old called an aspiduster and a sister called Martha and no
stairs. I sing with him and get pennies and Martha keeps them for me.’

Simon’s grin widened; the child was beyond price. How had she survived thus far? He squatted down. ‘You are precious,’ he said, his voice thickened by emotion. ‘One day,
I’d like a daughter just like you.’ He walked with them and placed the parcels in Tia’s boot. After locking it, he handed the keys back to Tia. ‘See you later,’ he
said. ‘Is the plan in place?’ He mouthed the word ‘kidnap’.

Tia nodded just once.

‘Good luck with it. I know nothing, of course.’

‘Thanks, Simon. You’re precious, too.’

Rosie looked them up and down. ‘She loves Mr Quinn,’ she stated baldly. ‘Nana thinks so, and Nana’s always right. She never told me, but I heard her talking to herself in
the kitchen, and she called them the lovebirds.’

Simon chuckled; he’d never before seen Tia blush. ‘Don’t try to keep a secret from this one,’ he said. ‘I’m throwing in my cards, Tia; I’ll probably be
back in Kent by Christmas.’

‘I’ll miss you.’

‘Not as much as you’d miss Quinn, the lucky devil.’ He walked away to his own car. Although the day was sunny and quite warm, he felt as if the main source of heat and light
had been removed from his life.

Rosie slipped her hand into Miss Bellamy’s. ‘He loves you, too, doesn’t he? Can you have two husbands?’

‘No. It’s a crime.’

‘Is it? Like killing Uncle Miles was a crime?’

‘Not quite. Come on. Now we’ll visit the library and the gallery.’

‘Then Harry?’

‘Oh, yes. Then Harry. I have a little picnic for him.’

When Theo returned to his office after delivering Miracle to the Athertons, the dog was already back and waiting for him. Oh, God, it was happening again. All his life,
he’d been a magnetic force as far as animals were concerned. Even the crazy horses in America’s southern states had slowed down to avoid trampling him or knocking him over.
‘Miracle? Did they leave a gate open? OK. In the office and sit. Stay there.’

The dog sat, her eyes fixed on him, her tail wagging hopefully. It was clear that she had adopted a new master. How did she know? Did he have something printed on his forehead, a message visible
only to animals? ‘I have a kitten,’ he announced. ‘He’s small and useless when fighting geraniums, but he’ll go for you, I’m sure. Very territorial creatures,
cats.’

Theo left his office and locked the door, marching briskly to the deputy head’s class. Miss Cosgrove was his second in command, so she was sent to inform the Athertons that Mr
Martindale’s dog was sufficiently intelligent to require formal education and had returned to school.

‘What happened, Sir?’ Colin Duckworth asked.

‘I seem to have won a dog, Colin, and I didn’t buy a raffle ticket.’

‘Oh.’

‘Oh is right. I have a feisty kitten who will scratch poor Miracle. Thank you for bringing trouble to my door yet again, Colin.’

He sat with the class and waited for their teacher to return. Colin looked so crestfallen that Theo awarded him a wink. ‘What are you all working on, class?’ he asked.

Colin was self-elected spokesman, of course. ‘Project, Sir. The slave trade and Liverpool. Loads of black slaves died, Sir. They got buried at sea – that means chucked over the side,
Sir.’ Colin shrugged. ‘Really interesting, it is. We done some terrible things, didn’t we?’

The girl next to Colin used an elbow to dig him in the ribs. ‘It was Bristol, too, and London.’

He rubbed his injury. ‘Girls have dead pointy elbows,’ he complained. ‘Liverpool done the most. Miss Cosgrove said it wasn’t nothing to be proud of.’

‘We’re not responsible for the sins of our ancestors, Colin. Carry on with the work.’

A flushed Miss Cosgrove re-entered the fray. ‘I met Mr Atherton. He was looking for the dog, Mr Quinn, so I told him that you were looking after her.’

‘Thank you, Miss Cosgrove.’ He left while the going was good. If she started batting her eyelids at him again, he would probably blow a fuse, bust a gasket or throw a box of
chalk.

Things were stacking up somewhat. His feelings for the beautiful Portia were stronger than he had been prepared to admit to himself, and it had all moved too quickly. Visitors were arriving; he
already had Maggie and Rosie as guests, and he now had a large dog standing next to him holding her own makeshift lead. She pushed the end into his hand. ‘OK, Mickle. If you think I’m
going through life shouting “Miracle”, you can think again. Let me ring the playtime bell.’

When the bell had sounded, Theo Quinn, head of Myrtle Street, allowed himself to be led out of school by the dog. They reached Mr Martindale’s house and passed it, because Mickle wanted
the next door, which opened after a couple of woofs. ‘There you are,’ cried the woman of the house. She picked up a box. ‘Her lead, her blanket, her toys and some tins of food.
Are you looking after her, then, Mr Quinn?’

‘She chose me. I’ve had no say in the matter.’

‘Well, she knows what she’s doing. Had her photo in the paper when she was just a pup, saved a drowning boy.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘I’d keep her meself, but she’d be sad here right next door to where she’s lived all her life. Hang on.’ She disappeared for a moment. ‘Here’s the list
he left; he knew he was dying. Miracle likes egg on toast for her breakfast. At night, she’ll eat just about anything, and he’s written down her most favourite foods. Our cat will miss
her. Best of friends, they were.’

Mickle took Theo back to school, led him back to the office, dragged blanket and bone from the bag and settled in a corner. Flabbergasted, the head of school sat at his desk and watched the wise
dog watching him. ‘Why me, Mickle? I’ve never done anyone any real harm since I stopped killing Germans, I go to church occasionally, keep my hands clean and the garden tidy most of the
time, I’m good with kids, help old people cross roads, change shirt and underwear every day – why me?’

Unimpressed, the dog yawned noisily.

Theo closed his eyes.
Tyger and I are being marginalized. This evening, there will be five human females plus one canine female in my property. The odds are stacking against me and my cat;
we will be buried beneath the weight of the tons of accessories that seem to accompany all members of the fairer sex – even Mickle has her box of stuff – and our personalities will be
flattened.

I am so . . . happy. For the first time in my life and in the life of Tom Quirke, I feel hope taking root somewhere in the region of my diaphragm. Portia will understand; perhaps I’ll
tell her everything if we can get some time to ourselves in Kent.

‘I have an ambulance,’ he told Mickle. ‘It’s been adapted and I’m having it painted blue, so I hope you don’t suffer from travel sickness. Right. You stay
here, and I’ll go raid the teachers’ biscuit tin for you. It’s in the staffroom, so I won’t be gone long. Don’t say a word.’

Mickle sighed and settled down for a rest. She wouldn’t say a word.

Maggie was glad to have something to do. Up in Miss Bellamy’s flat, she was making a huge amount of scouse in two large pans. Southerners needed to learn that folk north
of Birmingham knew how to live. Pickled beetroot and red cabbage were already on the dining table, and a stool had been brought in for Rosie, as there could be as many as seven or eight diners. It
was possibly going to be a funny do, because Miss Bellamy had said last night that both Mr Quinn and her ex-boyfriend might be attending if she could contact Dr Heilberg. Maggie wondered why the
girl didn’t collect something sensible like stamps or dried flowers, since men were difficult to store even in a place as big as this.

When she heard a car arriving, she turned the flames to simmer and looked through a front window. Ah, here he was in his little green MG with that big dog sitting in the back on the seat-level
shelf that allowed no legroom for humans, though it seemed to be OK for a dog. Miracle had run away from Tom and Nancy this morning; she clearly wanted to live in better circumstances, with posh
rugs and a garden.

Oh, God, the cat, the bloody cat. Is my hair all right? He’s one of those beautiful men who make every woman of any age want to look her best. I’ll take this pinny off. The
scouse should be fine; I’ll just give it a stir. A squirt of Miss Bellamy’s perfume on my wrists – ooh, that’s nice – and I’m off. No, a bit of lippy and a dab
of powder. Pull yourself together, Maggie Stone. You’re not on a date and you’re not eighteen, you hussy.

She dashed downstairs and along the side of the house, letting herself in through Mr Quinn’s – Theo’s – front door. As a guest on both levels, she could come and go as
she pleased in either flat. When she entered the living room, Theo was standing in front of the fireplace, a finger to his lips. Maggie froze. A scrap of spiky, furious fur was clawing at the
dog’s nose. Behind needle-sharp teeth, Tyger’s face was distorted into the very embodiment of absolute hatred and anger.

The Alsatian remained unmoved for a while before flattening the kitten under one huge front leg. Tyger blinked and hissed, though his enthusiasm for the task appeared to be diminishing fast. It
was clear that the deceased Mr Martindale’s faithful companion was in no hurry. The bitch seemed to be smiling, pink tongue on show, ears pulled slightly back as if trying to create a
non-threatening frontage.

When the hissing and spitting stopped, that same pink tongue began to wash the kitten. A few half-hearted swipes were attempted, but the canine rose above such innate nastiness. She knew cats,
was familiar with their aggression, and had made lifelong friendships with several of the unpredictable bundles. This was a baby that missed its mother, and she would act as surrogate.

‘Aw,’ Maggie breathed, a hand on her chin. ‘Look, Theo.’

‘I’m looking,’ he whispered. ‘Mankind could learn a lot from this.’

Mickle edged her face forward, moved her foot slightly and picked up the kitten in her mouth before lifting her leg off his little body. She carried the tiny creature to her blanket, placed him
on it, and began a thorough grooming of her new pupil.

‘Peace in our time,’ Theo said. ‘Five minutes, that took. We fought for six years, and I don’t know how many young Germans I killed to get to this stage. The planet would
be a happier place without people. We fucked it up – sorry, Maggie, excuse my lingo.’

‘You’re right, though,’ she said. ‘We do fuck things up. There’s her at number four for a start, carrying on with him at number twelve while her husband’s on
nights. There’ll be blood and guts from Ivy Lane to the Albert Dock one of these days. Yes, we make a mess.’