Meet Me at the Pier Head (52 page)

Half an hour later, Martha was tucked up and asleep in one of the spare rooms. That letter from Harry for Theo was propped up behind the mantel clock in the sitting room. The three remaining
women were silent, though Tia’s brain was going like a bat out of hell.
Rosie, my Rosie, you’ve lost your nana, your chosen grandfather, and you may have gained a biological father.
Maggie was not a dishonest person, and she must have had her reasons for being confused by and afraid of that photograph. Teddy, where are you? We need you; we need you now. Jack, come home; your
wife was in a state of worry about you an hour ago, and she’s plucking at her skirt now, so her nerves are raw. We have to tell Rosie about Harry . . .

Izzy watched Joan, who was, indeed, picking invisible lint from her skirt. She turned her head away from Joan and glanced at her eldest daughter, who was clearly deep in thought. There were
teacups everywhere, and side plates covered in crumbs and half-eaten biscuits. Theo and Jack were taking their time, and Martha had entered the sleep of the truly exhausted. Izzy wouldn’t
clear the crockery, since she wanted the silence to endure for a while, because Martha Foster deserved and needed peace.

Tia’s chair was nearest to the window. When the nose of the family car entered the avenue, she jumped up. She kept her voice low. ‘Whatever they know or don’t know about Frank
Foster will have to keep. Tonight belongs to Harry.’ She dashed downstairs.

‘Where the hell have you two been?’ she demanded when the car stopped on the driveway to Brooklands.

Theo alighted from the driver’s seat. ‘Don’t ask.’

‘So don’t tell,’ she snapped. ‘Harry the Scoot died last night in his sleep. Martha’s upstairs in the flat, in bed. Harry left a letter for you, Teddy. Your
name’s on the envelope with IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH underneath in capital letters. Martha says she wants you to tell Rosie.’

Theo closed his eyes.

‘So wherever you’ve been is in second place for now, Teddy. First, we have to break our daughter’s heart. I’ll be at your side when you tell her, darling.’

‘Sweet Jesus,’ Jack said softly.

Theo walked round the car and grabbed his friend’s hands. ‘We need to keep quiet, mate. There’s enough going on without heaping this on the heads of others. Let’s deal
with it another time, huh?’

Jack nodded. ‘I need to sort my head out anyway. I feel like me brain’s tied in knots after what’s happened tonight.’ He spoke to Tia. ‘Sorry we were gone so long,
love, only we’ve had a shock – I can tell you that for no money. But you’re dead right as per usual. Harry comes first, God rest him.’

They crossed the avenue until they reached the gate of Crompton Villa. ‘Don’t let slip anything about what you found out, boys,’ Tia begged. ‘Martha needs rest, so we do
what must be done, no more than that.’

They walked up the side to the door that had once been Tia’s. ‘Deep breaths now. In we go,’ she ordered. ‘You’ve a letter to read, Mr Quinn.’

Theo emerged from the used-to-be-body-parts room, left the lower apartment by the front door and stood in the garden. He remembered that evening when Tia had come to look at
the first-floor accommodation; he remembered falling in love with a face and a BBC-here-is-the-news voice and hair that tumbled when she crawled under the table to meet Tyger-One. He looked back at
his fear of producing a dark-skinned child, recalled Tia explaining that he was thinking like a racist and that they would have children.

He’d needed to be truly alone while reading Harry’s letter, but he now had to return to all who waited upstairs. He was weeping, and he didn’t care about how he looked. Still
unable to recover from the evening’s earlier discovery, he found himself having to absorb a second trauma. On leaden legs, he returned to the first floor.

Tia’s heart seemed to swell when she looked at him. Her Teddy had a tendency to become emotional, because he was filled with love for humankind in spite of the species’ foibles and
the torture he had endured when young. She crossed the room and wiped his face. ‘I’m here, beautiful boy. We’re all here for you and for Harry.’

Theo sniffed. ‘Izzy?’

‘Yes, darling?’

‘Have you any plans for my body parts room?’

Izzy pondered. ‘Not really. I was just beginning to tidy it, and I intended to use it for storage. I don’t need it. Why?’

Theo inhaled deeply. ‘Martha may need a bolt-hole.’ There was no other way, so he cut to the core of the matter. ‘Harry killed Miles Tunstall.’

Silence reigned. The tick of the mantel clock seemed to grow louder by the second. It announced the half-hour in soft Westminster chimes. Theo continued. ‘That room is off to one side, so
you’ll still have your privacy when she stays with you.’

‘To hell with my privacy,’ Izzy snapped. ‘She’s family. They dined with us at least once every month for ten years.’

Practical as ever, Tia wanted to know how Harry had managed to kill a grown man.

‘He doesn’t give full details, Portia – not to me, anyway, but he prepared me in his way.’

‘How?’ Tia asked.

‘He used to say that his trolley could knock down a grown man and that his own upper body was strong enough to inflict damage.’

No one spoke, so Theo continued. ‘There’s a second letter inside mine. The envelope is sealed, and it’s addressed to the Chief Constable, Liverpool police. We are charged by
Harry with the task of minding Martha. She’s an accessory before and after the fact.’

‘Bugger,’ Tia muttered. ‘She’s frail, Teddy. She will crack if questioned.’

‘Right.’ Theo straightened his spine. ‘Tomorrow, don’t allow her to be alone. I’ll give the official letter in at a police station once Martha has been
indoctrinated. We must make sure she pleads ignorance. We have an actress and two teachers among our number. Between us, we can make sure that she honours her brother’s request.’

For the first time ever, Nanny Reynolds, now Mrs Peake, swore. ‘He killed that bloody bastard. St Peter will let him in.’

A door opened quietly. ‘It’s all right.’

They turned as one person and stared at Martha Foster, who was wearing a robe belonging to Joan. ‘I’ve already been trained, so don’t worry. I made a promise to my brother, and
I know nothing. Me and Harry never let each other down, and I’ve no intention of going back on my word. Is there any brandy?’

For Rosie, it was like Nana dying all over again. Still in mourning for Maggie, she took the news of Harry’s sudden death like a kick in the gut. Winded, she sank to the
floor, a heap of limbs and clothes topped by a magnificent head of long, dark hair. She finally managed a few words. ‘He can’t be dead – he’s going sea-fishing next week
with his
Post
and
Echo
friends.’

Theo picked her up and placed her on the sofa in the drawing room of Brooklands, their treasured family home. Tia hovered, feeling helpless and useless and untypically lost for words. She
wrapped her arms round her upper body as if protecting or hugging herself. After a few seconds, she managed to retrieve a level of control. ‘He went quickly, darling, and in his sleep.
Doctors said he wouldn’t have suffered.’

‘He was my adopted granddad.’

‘We know, honey.’ Theo stroked his daughter’s arm.

‘Where’s Martha?’ Rosie asked.

‘She’s staying with Jack and Joan, then Isadora’s going to give her the body parts room, and she can come and go as she pleases, baby. After the funeral, we may send her with
Nancy and Tom to stay in Rose Cottage for a few weeks, or for as long as they wish. If they agree to go, we’ll have their luggage sent down a couple of days before. Nancy and Tom are too old
to carry cases.’

‘They’ll be next,’ Rosie murmured.

The two adults stared at each other. There was more to tell, as Harry had left the letter . . . With no need for words, the couple asked each other the question, both nodding almost
imperceptibly in reply. It had to be done. The message for the police needed to be delivered, and presses would release their hounds as soon as the news broke.

Tia decided to relieve her man of the biggest burden. ‘Rosie?’ she whispered, tears held in check. ‘Harry saved your life.’

Rosie lifted her head. ‘Yes, he taught me to cross roads in town when I was five. And he listened when I told him about . . . about things at home.’

Tia and Theo knelt side by side next to the sofa. ‘He killed Miles Tunstall,’ Tia whispered.

The fifteen-year-old blinked as if stupefied. ‘But . . . no, he couldn’t have done that. Harry wouldn’t hurt a fly, and he had no legs – they stopped at his knees,
Mum.’

‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way, my love. He left a written confession for the police, plus a letter for Teddy. You have to know, because we don’t want you to learn
it by reading it in the papers. We can probably keep your name out of it because of your age, and we’ll try to keep Sadie and Maggie out of it, too, although—’

‘No,’ Rosie replied breathlessly as she sat up. ‘No,’ she repeated quietly. ‘My teachers know, my friends know and the Lady Streets know.’ She hugged her
parents. ‘I want to be by myself, please.’ She paused for a few beats of time. ‘Murder is wrong, but if someone hadn’t removed Tunstall, he might have removed me. Now,
I’m removing myself, but only as far as the attic. I need . . . I need to think about things and just to be quiet for a while.’

After a minute or two, Tia and Theo crept up the stairs and stood at the bottom of the flight to the attic. They heard her sobs, but remained where they were. Rosie Stone was possessed of a
level of dignity that was unusual in one so young. ‘Remember the glue?’ Tia whispered. ‘And her lying under the table at our reception with Mickle as her pillow?’

He nodded. ‘And her love for all things pink or red. She still has the red shoes Simon bought for her, Tia, and the red clutch purse you gave her. She keeps them wrapped in tissue paper
inside shoe boxes. They’re her treasures.’

Tia wanted to ask about Frank Turner, though she didn’t. Both she and Joan had agreed not to pester their husbands on the subject of their disappearance into the bowels of the city. Harry
took priority, as did his sister.

Theo sat on the top stair of the lower flight. ‘I read her work,’ he murmured like a man making a confession. ‘She wrote an essay entitled
Meet Me at the Pier Head
,
and the whole story of her young life was there. I never told anyone I’d read it, because I felt like a spy, an intruder. I bet she got good marks for the piece – it was so vivid. It
was also heartrending.’

Tia joined him on the step. ‘She’s a brave young woman. I hope she manages to cope with Harry’s funeral.’

He grimaced. ‘Knowing her, I guess she’ll organize the whole thing. Like my wife, she’s a bossy besom. God, don’t her tears break your soul into a thousand
pieces?’

The crying had slowed, so they went back downstairs.

Like Maggie Stone, Harry Foster became famous in death. His demise made front-page news in most nationals, while newspapers local to Liverpool were filled with praise for the
deceased. Readers sent in scores of letters referring to his heroism, and Rosie was interviewed about the man who had beaten her and locked her in a coal shed, and about a mother who had been
addicted first to gin, later to food. Although she took care not to condone the act of murder, Rosie expressed her heartfelt gratitude to Harry, who had saved her.

The fifteen-year-old comported herself admirably. After a few days of sporadic weeping, she answered questions concisely and truthfully, because life had equipped her with backbone, while her
foster-parents had taught her good manners. Photographs of her with Harry, Martha and Maggie appeared everywhere in magazines; when paid for her time, she donated the money to Bartle Hall, which
now enjoyed both the status of a registered charity, and the support of many stars of stage and screen.

Harry’s funeral was huge. The self-confessed murderer was celebrated as if he had eliminated a disease from the streets of the city. People spilled into aisles, while many had to stand
outside, as the church was so packed that its occupants felt they needed to take turns to breathe. In spite of the lack of oxygen, Rosie did her bit, singing
a cappella
‘The White
Cliffs of Dover’, just as she had all those years ago to the accompaniment of Harry’s mouth organ. She delivered every note clearly and accurately while the congregation wept. Dry-eyed
at the end of her song, she rebuked her audience gently. ‘Listen to me, please,’ she begged. ‘Harry doesn’t want you to cry.’

And she read her piece entitled ‘Harry the Scoot’.

‘I asked him where his legs were, because I was only just five years of age, and he didn’t look right to me, perched as he was on that famous trolley. He said the Krauts had blasted
his legs off. It was a while before I realized that he was referring to Germans, and I eventually stopped looking under my bed for hideous little gremlins that came along in the night and stole
pieces of people.

‘He gave me the confidence to sing and dance at the Pier Head while he played the harmonica. My pennies were saved for me by Harry and his sister, Martha, both of whom have been greatly
loved and appreciated by me and my family.’

Tia squeezed her husband’s hand. Rosie knew her whom from her who, and she also knew her real, true family.

‘My nana died, and Harry has followed soon afterwards. But this is what happens to all of us, and let there be no doubt that Harry has taken his place with my nana at the right hand of
God, because he knew no other way of saving me. There is medical proof of my injuries, and Harry put a stop to the abuse. I take this opportunity to thank the Liverpool police, especially PC Mary
Twist, who was so kind to me when the news of what Harry had done for me finally broke.

‘Do not pity me, as I have a mum, a dad, two brothers, and a family that extends to the other end of this country. But pray for Harry and raise a glass in his memory, and please contribute
to the NSPCC.

‘I apologize to Shakespeare, whose work I now misquote. “The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones. So let it
not
be with Harry the
Scoot Foster.” Remember the fun of him, his music, his good nature, his very individual call, “E-e-echo”, when he sold his newspapers. Thank you for coming to say
goodbye.’