Meet Me at the Pier Head (48 page)

Tasked with the job of doling out presents from foreign shores, David and Michael were harvesting gifts from a deep rucksack. There were silk scarves for Maggie, Joan and Nancy, who had not yet
arrived. For Tom, a peace pipe rested in a box on top of a more conventional one, while Jack was delighted with a Polaroid camera from the USA.

Rosie was in happy receipt of her first ever makeup bag from Paris. She found three lipsticks in varying shades of pink, an eyebrow pencil, mascara and a pretty compact of powder.

‘You need no more than that,’ Tia advised her. ‘Don’t start blocking your pores with that foundation gunk, or you’ll get spots. And the perfume’s French, made
especially for younger girls. Wait until you’re twenty-odd for Chanel No. Five – it’s too seductive for a teenager.’

Rosie grinned. Several boys were on her tail, but she was concentrating on her books. Except for . . . except for one boy, who was almost a man.

‘And don’t wear it at school,’ Theo advised.

‘I won’t. Thank you so much. The makeup’s great, but the bag’s splendiferous.’ The item dangled from golden chains, and its body was covered on one side in sequins
laid in the pattern of the French tricolour, while the other side was completely gold. ‘Gorgeous,’ she breathed. ‘Look, Nana. There are even spare sequins in a little packet in
case I lose some.’

‘It’s lovely,’ Maggie said.

Isadora tapped her toe as if she were impatient. ‘What about poor little me?’ she asked, the tone plaintive.

Theo clapped a hand against his face. ‘How could you, Portia? How could you forget your mother? After all she’s gone through with architects and mains drainage and classrooms and
dormitories and the shifting of septic tanks.’

Portia dropped into a chair. ‘David, Michael, please go across to our garage and see if anything in there will do.’ She looked at Izzy. ‘Sorry, Ma.’

‘You are up to something, Portia Quinn.’

‘Am I?’

‘You look as innocent as did Judas after he took the thirty pieces of blood money.’

‘Ah yes, I forgot you were at the Last Supper. Exactly how old are you, Ma?’

‘I am old enough to know when my daughters are up to mischief.’

A man with his head in a brown paper bag was led in by Tia’s giggling boys. ‘This was all we could find, Mum. Apart from Mum’s woodwork tools, two old bikes and some worn-out
skates, there wasn’t anything left.’ David shrugged nonchalantly. ‘It will just have to do.’

The man with the invisible head was carrying a parcel. Michael relieved him of it and thrust it at Izzy. ‘There you go, Gran. David and I are off to play softball or kick that American
football about. We’ll be back for cake.’ The boys left.

Isadora knew who the man was, but she went along with the joke. When her parcel was opened, she shrieked with joy. It was a capacious leather bag with MADE IN TEXAS on the label. ‘Thank
you so much,’ she cried. ‘It will hold a dozen scripts and all my personal bits and pieces.’ She grinned. ‘Take the article off your head, Richard. You’re not quite
ugly enough to need it.’

Richard Bellamy revealed himself. ‘Thank goodness,’ he said. ‘It’s too hot for brown paper bags.’

Ex-husband-and-wife kissed. ‘How are you?’ Izzy asked.

‘Fine, thanks. Though I do hope you’ll let me have Lilac Cottage now that poor Mrs Melia and her sister no longer need it. Daphne didn’t last long after Ethel died, did she? I
want to continue as caretaker, of course.’

‘Yes, dear. I don’t know how we’d manage without you, frankly.’

Jack smiled to himself. The Shakespearean actor had survived a suspended sentence, the hatred of an unforgiving press, divorce, periods of ill-health, and the sale to Izzy of Bartle Hall. He now
occupied a position well known to Jack, though to be fair, Richard did teach English literature part-time to Bartle Hall pupils.

Isadora was busy counting compartments in her American bag. She had no regrets about the divorce, because she had achieved so much as a single woman, while Richard seemed to have finally
matured. He had married the mother of one of his sons, and they currently lived in a flat in Bartle Hall where Catherine Bellamy, Richard’s other half, taught secretarial skills to older
pupils. ‘How are Cath and Giles?’ Izzy asked.

‘Fine, thank you. Juliet and Simon send love, as do Cordelia and Elaine. If you have gifts for them, Portia, I’ll take them with me when I leave. Cordelia will be in Kent for a day
or two to help supervise while the school’s closed for summer. She and Elaine are taking the children hiking.’ He shook his head. ‘Hiking? Even the devil himself would have
trouble coping with temperatures in Kent. Still, school opens again in a few days.’

Isadora smiled to herself, remembering Richard’s prejudice against Simon because of a Jewish father, his reluctance to visit Portia, who had married a man who was part coloured. As for
Cordelia – well, lesbianism hadn’t suited Richard, either.

Richard shook Theo’s hand. ‘You’ve made a good job of taming my eldest daughter. Well done. Will somebody feed me, please? Hanging around in a garage waiting for my grandsons
to rescue me is hungry work.’

‘Help yourselves.’ After issuing the invitation, Tia watched her parents, now the best of friends, as they piled food onto plates. They were chattering and laughing and helping each
other to bits and pieces from the buffet. Joan was busy choosing food for the boys, who would probably eat outside while playing with their new American toys. Maggie had her eyes pinned to Rosie,
her raison d’être, her pride and joy.

Tom and Nancy arrived. ‘Sorry we’re late,’ Tom said, ‘but madam here couldn’t find her new pair of number nines – knitting needles, not shoes.’

‘That’s right, love. Still, we got here in the end. Maggie? You all right, girl? Welcome home, happy wanderers.’ She had gained in confidence since beginning to travel on a
regular basis between Liverpool and Kent. A voluntary assistant at Izzy’s school, she taught knitting, crochet and sewing to any child who was keen to learn.

Maggie, whose appetite was seriously depleted of late, sat propped up by cushions on a comfortable chair with her feet resting on a padded stool. This was her place, and these people were her
family. She had been a lucky woman, because these wonderful characters had chosen her and Rosie. Isadora had forced the welfare officers to bugger off, so Maggie had gained a daughter and a son in
Tia and Theo, older sisters in Izzy and Joan, and a sort of brother-in-law named Jack Peake. She had lived in relative luxury with her beloved granddaughter, and all had been well.

Maggie turned her head and gazed through the window at a turquoise sky with little puffs of cotton wool clouds hanging around like wallflowers at a dance. After this morning’s rain,
everything looked washed clean and new.

Well, I was never a wallflower, and my Rosie won’t be short of dance partners, either. She’ll be a lady in nice clothes in a job where she can dress up and be beautiful. And
she’s a good girl who visits Harry the Scoot and Martha every week. She’s never forgot nobody who helped her. She goes to see Nancy and Tom regular, too.

The pain’s back. It’s like the monthly pain I used to get before the change, but this swine has teeth. I asked Daphne how the end would be, and she was honest about the pain.
I’ve got the powders she sent. They’re in that little drawer next to my bed. I don’t want these good people to see my pain, and I don’t want any bloody doctors going on
about how I should have kept appointments and all that doo-dah. Suicide. Well, I’ve left letters for everybody so they’ll know why. I think I’m bleeding to death inside, but
I’m not sure. It feels like I’m bleeding to death, anyway.

I’ll try and manage a bit of that cake. If Izzy made it, I might not need the flaming powders. See, I’m still me; I can still laugh at the idea of Izzy mucking about with flour
and eggs and sugar. She made me an omelette a few weeks back, and I could have soled shoes with it, honest. Rosie laughed till she cried, said her cutlery had bent and could she have another
fork?

Look at her now, my little granddaughter. Little? She’s five foot six and thrilled to pieces with that fancy bag from Paris. I wish I could hang on for a bit longer, see her through
university and all that, but I mustn’t be greedy. God sent Daphne Melia to me – well, He sent me to her, really.

She moved her head and stared again at a sky whose brilliance was amazing. The pain was settling down – perhaps the enemy was soaking his false teeth in Steradent.
I feel as if
I’m floating up to sit on one of them wallflower clouds. So bright up there today, brighter with every tick of the clock. The sun is coming down to meet me. White, so white, so beautiful. I
can’t turn my head; I can’t look at her one last time. And there are things hidden here in this flat – where did I put them? I wrapped the main one in greaseproof. Please God,
take good care of my baby, my precious Rosie, my . . . my everything . . .

Rosie brought a plate of food for Nana. Nana didn’t eat enough, and— The teenager stopped in her tracks. ‘Izzy-gran?’ she called.

‘Yes, darling?’

Rosie swallowed hard; Nana had prepared her well for this moment. ‘She said she’d still be here when Mum and Dad got back from America, and she was. Her eyes are open as if
she’s looking through the window, but . . .’

Isadora grabbed Theo’s arm. ‘Go out and play with the boys, and don’t let them in here. Rosie, sit with your mummy on the sofa. Portia, keep hold of her – she’s
shivering. Richard, carry Maggie into her room – it’s through there. Joan, ring for an ambulance, then make hot, sweet tea for Rosie. Tom, take Nancy home – get a taxi. Jack, help
Richard.’ She directed traffic like a policeman on duty at a busy crossroads.

Tia rocked her foster-daughter. ‘We love you, baby. You’ve got us, and we’ll always be here for you.’

‘There is no always,’ Rosie whispered.

Tia blinked back a torrent of emotion.

Rosie continued. ‘She wants to be buried in her dark blue suit and white blouse. And I think she should have the silk scarf you brought back for her. She said she’d like
“Onward Christian Soldiers”, and “All Things Bright and Beautiful” because I used to sing that to her when I was little. It’s all written down. Oh, and Izzy-gran has
to read “Death”, by John Donne. I’m going to read something Nana dictated to me when she told me she was ready to go. I’ve put a bit in from me, too.’

‘Oh, Rosie.’

‘I know, Mum, I know. Oh, we have to wear bright colours – that’s written down, too. Nana wants a party, not a funeral. She was lovely, wasn’t she?’

‘She was one of the best, Rosie. There was a quality in her that’s lacking in so many of us – staying power. I’m just so glad that we were in a position to give her a
pretty place to live in. She loved this flat.’

They sat, each with arms wrapped around the other, each staring at the empty chair opposite the sofa. ‘Remember your wedding day, Mum?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘And she never warned Tom and Nancy that they were at a wedding. She had a wicked sense of humour. I was so happy in my pink frock, and I couldn’t understand why Nancy was crying.
But I understand now, because I know there’s no forever, no always. Poets write about that, the transient nature of life. Nana said we just have to get on with it because we’re no more
than a blink of God’s eye. She was clever.’

Tia’s control slipped, and she cried like a baby. Rosie kept her company, finally allowing herself to weep for the woman who had saved her life, a real life away from institutions for
unwanted or orphaned children. Most of all, she wept for Nana as a person, a good, kind, funny lady who had been her sole living blood relative. ‘Thank you, Mum,’ she sobbed.

‘For what?’

‘For loving me and Nana.’

Tia drew in a deep, shuddering breath. ‘You’re easy to love, as was Maggie. But you still have a mum and a dad and two brothers.’

Rosie almost laughed. ‘Can I live in the attic at Brooklands? They’re always throwing things.’

‘Of course you may. In fact, I’ll probably move up there with you.’

They both giggled hysterically.

Isadora, listening from Maggie’s room, nodded sagely. They had wept, they had giggled, and bereavement could now commence. The ambulance was here. There would be an autopsy, as Maggie had
seen no doctor for years, and a post mortem examination would involve a coroner. Rosie had shown Izzy the recipe . . .

‘What do you need?’ Richard asked, concern in his tone. ‘Shall I stay another night?’

‘No, you get back home, but thank you.’

He kissed her forehead. ‘Tell Portia and family goodbye for me, Isadora.’

‘I shall.’

There now remained in Flat One, Crompton Villa, just Portia, Rosie, Isadora and the frail shell that had contained the soul of Margaret Stone. Joan and Jack had been sent upstairs to Flat Two,
and Theo was playing outside with his two sons.

Ambulance men entered the bedroom. Izzy bent and placed a kiss on a cooling forehead before leaving the men to deal with the body. ‘Goodbye, my sweet friend,’ she said when she
reached the door. Then she went to join her daughter and Rosie in the living room. She placed herself in Maggie’s chair, laying her head in a hollow in the cushion where Maggie’s head
had rested.
She was years younger than I am. I may be a famous star, but Rosie’s nana was greater than any of us.

Rosie and Portia seem calmer now. We have each other. Between us, we can carry Rosie through this, though I suspect that she may be the one who carries us . . .

Isadora was ready for them. Standing at the window, she watched as they climbed out of the car and slammed both doors behind them before walking up the path that led to
Crompton Villa. She had ordered Portia and Theo to stay away; they, too, were probably watching from Brooklands, their house across the way.

Izzy’s eyes followed the movements of two detectives, both in ill-fitting suits and shiny shoes. One suit was blue, the other brown. Although their car was unmarked, they were unmistakably
policemen. Well, she was fired up for this confrontation. Throwing open the door before hearing a knock or a bell, she faced them. ‘Gentlemen, good morning. Please come in.’ She stepped
aside and awarded them a huge smile, glancing fleetingly at their warrant cards.