The Rainbow Years (15 page)
Authors: Rita Bradshaw
‘Miss Shawe, I never expected anything else. A letter of this type,’ he nodded to the paper which Amy had dropped as though it was burning her, ‘is always the same. A tissue of lies with just the merest touch of truth to give it some credence. However, I felt you should be informed of it if only to warn you that someone . . .’ a slight hesitation, ‘someone doesn’t seem to like you very much. Have you any idea who could have written this?’
One name sprang to mind even as her whole being cried out, no, no, he wouldn’t do that to her, not Perce. They had grown up together, he said he wanted her to be his lass. Surely he wouldn’t do something as horrible as this. But who else was there? And he had been furious she was going to work here.
‘Miss Shawe?’
‘I . . . I don’t know.’
Charles Callendar stared at the arrestingly lovely face in front of him. This little episode had the stamp of jealousy all over it. Probably one of her pals who knew about her beginnings had tried for a position as waitress here and had been turned down. Women, girls, could be the very devil when their noses were put out of joint. But to suggest that this poor girl who was little more than a child was in any way corrupt would have been laughable if it wasn’t so dreadful. She had innocence written all over her. Gently he said, ‘Have any of your friends applied for a job here that you know of?’
Amy shook her head. Her hair was in its normal thick plait at the back of her neck today, and she was unaware of how young and defenceless she appeared. ‘I don’t know of any,’ she said.
‘Would you like me to take this matter further?’
‘Further?’ The colour had come and gone in Amy’s face several times throughout their conversation and now she looked ill.
‘It’s not unusual in matters of this nature to inform the police.’
The police?
Her heart was pounding against her ribs. She glanced at the piece of paper lying curled on the desk so the pasted letters were obscured, but she could still see every mean little word in her mind’s eye. She had never felt so alone or ashamed in her life. And for this man to know, this handsome nice man who spoke so posh and everything . . . She kept her eyes on the letter and he had to lean forward to hear her when she said under her breath, ‘I don’t want anyone else to read it.’
Her heart was pounding against her ribs. She glanced at the piece of paper lying curled on the desk so the pasted letters were obscured, but she could still see every mean little word in her mind’s eye. She had never felt so alone or ashamed in her life. And for this man to know, this handsome nice man who spoke so posh and everything . . . She kept her eyes on the letter and he had to lean forward to hear her when she said under her breath, ‘I don’t want anyone else to read it.’
‘They are very discreet in such matters.’
It was the sympathy and kindness in his voice that enabled her to raise her head and meet the deep brown eyes. ‘I don’t want to,’ she said again. ‘You . . . you don’t know what they’re like round here.’ How could he, coming from where he’d come from and being one of the upper class and all? How could he understand about the gossip which spread from backyard to backyard like wildfire? And there didn’t need to be any truth in it, that was the thing. There was always some old wife who would justify the backbiting by nodding her head and saying,‘There’s no smoke without fire, now is there? You answer me that.’ And they would agree and continue with their sport.
Why, just a few weeks ago the new priest who had taken over from Father Lee on his retirement had stopped doing home visits, and she had heard Aunt May whispering to Uncle Ronald that it was because some of the lasses who were no better than they should be were always hanging around him. The fact that the new priest was young and good-looking had made the bishop worried for him because of the ‘talk’. And her uncle had shaken his head and said grimly it was coming to something when a man of God couldn’t go about his business without them getting their fangs into him.
If they were like that with a priest, what would they say about her?
‘Well, it’s up to you, of course.’ Charles Callendar admitted to a feeling of relief. It wouldn’t have been the most auspicious of starts to the business to have to call in the local bobby but he would have done so if the girl had wanted it. ‘Perhaps it’s better to treat such rubbish as just that - rubbish, eh?’
Amy nodded.
‘You’re sure?’
Again she nodded.
‘Then we’ll dispose of it accordingly.’ He reached into his pocket and brought out a box of matches. He put the letter into a large heavy ashtray at the side of the desk and said, ‘Here goes.’ The sheet of paper blackened at the edge and caught fire, and within moments it was nothing but ash. ‘There.’ He smiled at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘Don’t give it another thought.’
Amy thought that was a silly thing to say. Her face must have given her away because the next moment he shook his head. ‘I know, easier said than done,’ he said ruefully. ‘But try anyway. Now,’ his tone became brisker, ‘I mustn’t keep you any longer. It’s not as if you work here yet, is it?’ he added with an attempt at lightness as he rose to his feet.
He was saying she could still have the job? As Amy followed him across the room she wanted to ask to make sure but she didn’t know how to put it. They went down the stairs and he opened the door into the café for her.
‘We’ll see you in a couple of weeks then, Miss Shawe,’ he said, ‘and please don’t let this unfortunate incident dwell on your mind. Good afternoon.’
‘Good afternoon and th-thank you, Mr Callendar.’ Suddenly she felt painfully shy.
He had been about to say ‘My pleasure,’ but realising this wasn’t exactly appropriate in the circumstances, he changed it to, ‘Not at all.’ He shook her hand and remained in the doorway as Amy made her way out of the building.
When he re-entered his office he didn’t immediately apply himself to the list of urgent matters requiring his attention. Instead he sat down at his desk, his fingers idly toying with the thick glass ashtray as he stared at its contents. Damnable thing, this. His finely sculpted lips pursed as he leaned back in the chair. Left a nasty taste in the mouth. A lovely girl like that and someone wanted to do her harm. He didn’t understand the sort of mentality that could lend itself to doing something as low as that letter.
He reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and drew out a half-full bottle of whisky and a small glass tumbler. He poured himself a generous measure and swallowed it in one gulp before pouring another and putting the bottle back. He emptied the ash from the ashtray into the waste-paper basket and then ripped the envelope into small pieces and disposed of that too, finishing the second tumbler of whisky. The neat alcohol burned a path down his throat and into his stomach, creating warmth where there had been emptiness.
There was something about Amy Shawe that reminded him of Priscilla although he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. He shut his eyes against the pain which always accompanied thoughts of his late wife, even now, some two years after her death. If only he could picture Priscilla other than how she had looked that last night, lying in an ocean of blood with the tiny still body of their newborn son beside her. He opened his eyes and stared round the room. But he couldn’t. He could stare at their wedding picture for hours on end but that other image was superimposed on their smiling faces. Would she have rallied round in spite of the haemorrhaging if the child hadn’t been stillborn? No one could give him an answer to that.
He raked a shaking hand through his thick hair before rising abruptly and beginning to pace the room. He needed another drink. Hell, how he needed another drink. But he knew that the way he was feeling, it wouldn’t stop at one. Better to wait until he got home - if you could call that miserable box of a flat he was renting home. Still, it was somewhere to lay his head and prepare himself for the struggle of getting through the next twenty-four hours. And then the next twenty-four and the next.
He walked over to the window and looked down into the busy street below but he didn’t see the crowded pavements and Saturday bustle. ‘A day at a time,’ he murmured to himself.
That was what the doctor he’d consulted a few months ago - when he’d finally admitted he couldn’t sleep since Priscilla’s death - had said. Take it a day at a time, Mr Callendar. Don’t try to look ahead.
He swung round, flinging himself back into the chair and dropping his head in his hands. Work can be an excellent panacea against brooding too much. That had been another of the doctor’s little gems. Charles’s mouth twisted. Maybe a new venture or something of that nature would help. The man had been full of platitudes, and all the time the gold-framed photograph of the good doctor’s plump wife and four smiling children had looked down at them from the wall of his office.
But something had come from the meeting, although it had been a few days before he acknowledged that the germ of an idea had taken hold. In the following weeks he had sold his portion in the family engineering businesses to his elder brother, much to his mother’s dismay. She had insisted his late father would have wanted the two brothers to run his small empire together. He had cashed in some bonds his grandmother had left him, along with what remained of his stocks and shares after the Wall Street crash two years ago. With the over-valued pound, trade recession and world Depression, his overall lump sum hadn’t been as much as he had expected, and he had lost more money when he had sold the house he had bought with Priscilla shortly before their marriage. But this had not concerned him; he’d just wanted to get right away from the south and do something new.
A knock on his office door brought him out of his reverie. He put the tumbler away with the bottle of whisky before he called, ‘Yes?’
‘Is everything all right, Mr Callendar?’ Robin Mallard poked his head round the door. ‘I thought I saw the young lady who came for an interview last week back here again. I didn’t think she was starting with us until Easter week.’
‘She isn’t.’ Charles Callendar found he didn’t want to say anything more. He had told the girl no one but he knew about the contents of the letter, and this was true.To mention it now in any connection whatsoever would be a betrayal. He didn’t know why he hadn’t mentioned its existence to his manager. He had certainly been about to more than once in the last day or two, but then the recollection of a young, beautiful but strangely lonely face had stopped him. He looked the other man straight in the eye as he said smoothly, ‘I think she must have been a little overcome last week and she couldn’t remember one or two points you discussed with her. She called in to see you and clarify these and I happened to catch sight of her so I took care of it.’
‘I see.’ Robin Mallard’s stiffness expressed his disapproval that his employer had so far forgotten his position as to concern himself with one of the least of his staff.
Charles was aware of the nature of the man’s thoughts and he found he was amused rather than annoyed. He was such a stuffed shirt, Robin, but damn good at his job which was all that mattered in the long run. If the business was going to sink or swim on what he himself knew about running a restaurant, they would soon be in the red, that was for sure. That was why he was paying Robin double what he’d get elsewhere, even in London. To humour him, he said, ‘I know how busy you are on a Saturday, Robin, so I thought I’d help out. I trust that’s all right?’
‘Of course, sir.’ The manager unbent a little. ‘It’s just that the restaurant world is such an enclosed community. It wouldn’t do for Chef or one of the senior waiters to get the idea a waitress had your ear.’
Quaint turn of phrase. Charles kept a straight face with some difficulty. ‘The pecking order, you mean?’ he asked gravely, dismissing the mental picture of Amy Shawe holding his severed ear aloft.
‘Quite so, Mr Callendar.’
‘I think people are protective of their position in all walks of life, Robin.’
‘Maybe so.’The manager cleared his throat. ‘But the young lady is quite fetching, as are all our waitresses, of course, which can be a two-edged sword in my experience. Now if you’ll excuse me I’ll just see how things are shaping up for the dinner dance later.’
Charles blinked as the door shut. Cheeky hound! Was Robin suggesting people might think he had designs on the girl? Damn it, she was a child, fourteen years old, and he was a grown man of twenty-six who had buried his wife and baby two years ago. For a moment or two he was inclined to call his manager back and tear him off a strip. ‘Damn cheek,’ he muttered out loud, shaking his head with some bewilderment before he reached for the pile of papers on his desk and tried to clear his mind of everything except the accountant’s report in front of him.
But the desire for another drink had left him for the present.
PART THREE
1932 Suitors
Chapter 7
Amy stood quietly in front of Mr Mallard, her hands folded behind her back, her eyes downcast and her feet together as each waitress had been drilled to do if she was ever summoned into the holy of holies - the girls’ nickname for the manager’s office. Since Mr Mallard had called for her a few minutes before, she’d been racking her brains to think what she might have done wrong, but thus far nothing had presented itself. She hoped it wasn’t too awful. She loved her job, she had never been so happy in all her life and she would just die if she got the sack as one or two other girls had done who hadn’t measured up to Mr Mallard’s high standards. But he was always fair, she had to give him that.
Other books
Colby: September by Brandy Walker
Brute by Kim Fielding
Bluebonnet Belle by Lori Copeland
Cruel Crazy Beautiful World by Troy Blacklaws
Shout in the Dark by Christopher Wright
Seduction Squad by Shaye Evans
Deadly Dose by Amanda Lamb
Cold Heat (Seasons of the Heart #1) by LeeAnne White
Some Things Never Change: An African American BWBM Urban Fiction Romance by Marian Grey, African American Club
A Classic Crime Collection by Edgar Allan Poe
