Running Scared Page 19

  ‘Do you take sugar, Miss Varady?’ She was observing the niceties in a desperate way, clinging to form as a drowning man might cling to a wooden spar.

  I told her I didn’t and asked her to call me Fran.

  ‘I’m Sheila . . .’ she said, handing me a cup of coffee. It slopped in the saucer. I felt sorry for her and wished I could put her at her ease. She was wearing a three-piece woollen outfit in a respectable, muddy brown: long skirt, sweater and long sleeveless jacket. It looked expensive. Her fingernails were painted a brownish-orange to team with it and matched her lipstick exactly. My feeling of pity for her increased. When Tig had walked out, this poor woman had been left with nothing to do but polish the furniture, visit the hairdresser and shop for painfully smart but respectable outfits. But how would she cope with Tig’s return?

  ‘Is Jane—You’ve seen Jane recently?’ she asked now, leaning forward slightly, her eyes pleading.

  I told her I’d seen Jane that morning and she’d been fine.

  ‘I still don’t know why she couldn’t come herself,’ Sheila Quayle said fretfully, and I recognised the tone of voice of the woman on the phone. She felt all this was unfair. She’d lavished care and attention on her family, her home, and in keeping herself looking nice. Her reward was this: desertion by her only child and a temporary desertion by her husband who, just when she needed him, was away doing his own thing. He’d left her here, facing a total stranger and one of an unknown species at that, begging for details.

  She then floored me with a question I hadn’t anticipated. ‘There isn’t a baby, is there?’ There was a world of dread in her voice.

  I gawped at her. ‘No,’ I said foolishly.

  She flushed, her tissue-fine skin turning a dull rose-red. ‘Only, these days – I mean there are so many single mothers and I thought, perhaps the reason Jane didn’t come home – or even, the reason she’d left . . .’

  I sighed. Since Tig had left, her mother had sat here asking herself, why? To her way of thinking, this perfect home couldn’t be at fault. That must be nonsense. Her daughter had been working hard at school, so that couldn’t be it, either. Sheila Quayle had come up with the only other thing she could think of. Explaining was going to be much more difficult than , I’d imagined in my wildest moments.

  ‘There’s no baby,’ I said, underlining the fact.

  She looked relieved but then that fretful expression came back. ‘Then I really can’t see why—’

  We were interrupted by the sound of a car turning into the drive.

  ‘Colin!’ exclaimed Mrs Quayle as beleaguered drivers of wagon trains cried out ‘The cavalry!’ She jumped up and darted out into the hall to brief him as we heard his key turning in the lock.

  She’d shut the drawing-room door behind her, but I could hear the slam of the front door and the muffled conversation which followed. The drawing-room door reopened.

  He was a big, red-faced man in a houndstooth-checked suit worn over a mustard-coloured felt waistcoat. His shoes were highly polished brogues. The initial effect was that of a country squire rather than a businessman. At second glance, it was less convincing, all too new and too well pressed. It was a good suit, but I guessed off the peg. The shoes were top of the range, but likewise off the shelf, and the flashy gold wristwatch jarred. Such country gents as I’d come across – like old Alastair Monkton – wore suits of incredible age but beautiful cut and made-to-measure shoes cracking up with wear. When they wanted to know the time, they consulted ancient half-hunters which had belonged to their grandfathers.

  I wondered about Colin’s origins and guessed they’d been pretty ordinary until money had enabled him to move, as he’d probably term it, ‘up’ in the world. Perhaps the outfit was a sort of passport. Not all self-made men wore their success easily.

  He didn’t offer to shake hands but stood before me, towering over me, while he scrutinised me in a way no gentleman would do, as Grandma Varady would’ve said.

  ‘You’re the girl who phoned, then?’ he challenged. ‘The Londoner.’

  I resisted the temptation to exclaim, in stage Cockney, ‘Cor, swelp me, guv! Sit down and rest your plates of meat. Have a cuppa Rosie Lee.’

  Sheila said nervously, ‘Her name is Fran.’

  ‘Oh, is it?’ he retorted disagreeably. He lowered himself into the opposite chair and glanced at the coffee tray.

  ‘I’ll get you a cup!’ his wife said at once, and darted off into the kitchen again. It was a telling moment – at least, it told me a lot.

  He placed his hands on the chair-arms and I wondered if the crocheted covers were because this was his habit. His hands, I noticed, were large and coarse for all they were carefully kept. I decided the country suit had been chosen because it flattered his general build and style. I wondered, my fancy wandering as it’s apt to do, how he looked when he and his wife went to a formal do and he was required to get togged up in a tuxedo. Like one of the door bouncers, probably. I liked the image and allowed myself a smile.

  He interpreted it badly.

  ‘While my wife’s out of the room,’ he said bluntly, ‘I’ll ask you a straight question, to which I want a straight answer. What’s your part in all this? Also, if you think I’m paying you any money, you can forget that idea right now. So you needn’t sit there smirking and looking pleased with yourself! You’ll find me a hard man to fool and I’m impervious to sweet talk.’

  Yes, he was a nasty bit of work and Ganesh had been right. He was the sort who put a price on everything and assumed everyone else did the same. He’d calculate success by financial reward. This house and its contents were proof, as was his well-dressed wife and – until a couple of years ago – his pretty daughter whom he’d sent to private school and ballet lessons. These things, which people could see and admire, these things only mattered.

  I realised, with a stab of shock, how angry Tig’s defection must have made him. His bubble of success had been punctured, his wealth rejected. His daughter had chosen God knew what sort of street life in preference to this. Could he ever really forgive that? I wondered.

  ‘I don’t want your money,’ I said sharply to him. ‘Jane asked me to come on her behalf. I’m doing it as a favour to her.’

  His mind ran on the same lines as his wife’s. ‘She doesn’t need anyone to speak for her. She could pick up the phone. She knows where we are. I’m not convinced you’re on the level. I’m not even sure my daughter sent you. Why the dickens should she? She only had to pick up the phone,’ he repeated doggedly.

  Sheila was back, carrying a cup and fresh coffee in a little individual cafetiere. She set them down with a clatter on the tray and took a seat nearby, smoothing her skirt over her knees. The action drew the eye to her manicured hands. Even diamond rings and nail varnish don’t entirely distract from a looseness of skin on the knuckles and brown liver spots. I wondered briefly if it were possible she was older than her husband and all this care with make-up and appearance was to keep at bay the inevitable, the day when he’d look at her and decide she was no longer trophy wife enough. Time to trade her in as he’d do with his car. She was fixing anxious eyes on me. But though she didn’t look at him, it was to her husband she spoke.

  ‘Fran assures us there’s no baby.’ There was relief but also a hint of triumph in her voice, as if they’d argued this point over and over, she denying the possibility, he insisting. She wasn’t daring to say, ‘I told you so’, but she couldn’t quite keep it hidden.

  ‘There’d bloody better not be,’ he said. But he, too, looked relieved. ‘Right, speak up. Where’s my daughter? Supposing that you know and aren’t just stringing us along. You’ll be sorry if you are. I promise you that.’

  ‘In London, staying at my place at the moment.’ I ignored the threat though the impulse to get up and march out was strong. But if I did, Tig would be lost, and he’d be convinced he was right, I was conning them and he’d frightened me away.

  ‘And what sort of place might that be?’ His man
ner and voice were both insulting.

  ‘I’ve got a basement flat in a perfectly respectable street, as it happens,’ I replied, goaded into letting my anger show.

  ‘And how do you pay for that? Got a job? Or just a welfare scrounger like the others?’

  I was pleased to be able to say yes, I had a job. I worked in a newsagent’s. I knew I had to get a grip on this conversation or I’d find myself sitting here being bullied by Colin until I was thrown out by him.

  ‘Well,’ I said briskly, putting my cup back on the tray, ‘you’ll be pleased to know T—Jane is fine. She has lost a lot of weight—’

  Sheila let out a gasp and put orange fingernails to her lips. Her husband gave her an irritated glance.

  ‘Has she been ill?’ he asked me.

  ‘No – but she’s been living rough.’

  Sheila moaned. Colin Quayle gave her another cross glare. ‘Stop whimpering, Sheila, for God’s sake. If you’ve got something to say, say it.’

  He didn’t give her any chance, however. Turning to me, he went on, ‘By living rough, do you mean under arches, in doorways?’

  ‘Recently, yes. Not all the time. She’s had different places to live. At one time she shared a squat with me and some others.’

  ‘I thought you said you had a flat!’ he snapped at me.

  ‘Before I had the flat, I lived in several different places. Look,’ I was getting seriously annoyed with him, ‘do you want me to tell you about Jane or not?’

  ‘Don’t take that tone—’ he began but, to my surprise, was interrupted by his wife.

  ‘Let her speak, Colin. If you keep interrupting her, we shan’t learn anything.’

  He looked startled but fell silent. I took up my tale.

  ‘Jane would like to come back home, but you’d need to be prepared – if she does come – for a lot of changes in her. She’s had some bad experiences. She’s had a rough time. She doesn’t trust people any more. She’s afraid of the police.’ His eyes bulged and his mouth opened, but before Colin could speak, I hurried on, ‘Not because she’s any reason to be, but because of the sort of life she’s been living. The police have harried her and other homeless people like her. She’s – she’s been attacked during her time on the street. She’s been hurt. Besides, she’s had to do things on the fringes of the law . . .’

  They were both staring at me in frozen horror. I knew I couldn’t tell them that at one time Tig had been on the game, much less about the gang-rape.

  I said, ‘Like beg.’

  ‘Beg!’ Sheila screamed.

  ‘Beg?’ Colin took up the cry. Perhaps they’d have taken the idea of rape with less horror. His voice rose. ‘My daughter? Begging on the street? For pity’s sake – why didn’t she just pick up the phone and ask us to come and get her? Or to send some bloody money? God, if it were only the money—’

  ‘She – she was scared to,’ I said, and thought I understood well why.

  ‘My daughter begging . . .’ He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his face. ‘Bloody hell. If people get to hear about this . . .’

  Oh yes, that’s what worried him. Prosperous, successful Colin Quayle the church sidesman – whose daughter stood on London streets with her hand held out to passers-by, asking if they had any change.

  I said loudly, ‘So you see, if she comes home, there will have to be a lot of give and take. You’ll have to make allowances for her experiences, for the change in her. She’s got to learn to live this sort of life again.’ I indicated the room around us, but my heart was sinking as I spoke. Could Tig do that? Readjust to this? Especially with a blockhead like Colin around, a man as sensitive as Attila the Hun. ‘It’s going to be hard for all three of you,’ I went on. I pointed at the picture of – the child in the tutu. ‘You’ve got to forget that.’

  Sheila whispered brokenly, ‘She was a lovely little dancer. She won prizes. You don’t know what it’s been like, Fran, since she’s gone. I’ve hardly slept. I lie awake all night thinking of her. I think of her all day long. Every time the phone rings, or there’s someone at the door, I’ve thought, perhaps it’s Jane. I wait for the post. . .’ She seemed to remember her husband. ‘Colin has, too, haven’t you?’ she asked him.

  Colin didn’t answer that directly. He was afraid of showing even that allowable human weakness, I judged. I felt sorry for the man, really. He was in a sort of prison he’d made for himself, keeping up a set of unreasonable standards. The trouble was, he’d tried to impose those standards on Tig.

  Now he asked grimly, ‘Who attacked her?’

  ‘Who knows?’ I replied. ‘That’s how it is on the streets.’

  ‘Is she on drugs?’ he asked next. He was tactless but not stupid. He knew there was a lot I wasn’t saying.

  ‘She was.’ I tried not to look at Sheila, who was swaying in her chair. ‘But she’s clean now. That took some doing. She’s got courage.’ I leaned forward. ‘All she needs is some support and help. She can do it, she can get back into regular life. It won’t be easy, but she can do it if you’ll help. She does – will need – a lot of help. She hides behind the furniture when strangers come to the door. She thinks everyone is out to get her.’

  They looked at one another and then both sat in silence.

  ‘Dr Wilson could help,’ Sheila said to her husband at last. ‘He’s known Jane since she was little. Perhaps a – some visits to a therapist.’

  ‘I don’t need some trick-cyclist telling me my daughter’s crackers!’ Colin growled. For him, having to turn to a psychiatrist would be another admission of failure. Frankly, I thought he was the one who needed the shrink.

  ‘It might be a good idea to ask your doctor for advice,’ I said. ‘Anyway, T—Jane needs to go on some sort of proper diet to build her up again and, in my opinion, she won’t last much longer if she doesn’t.’ It was make or break time. ‘So,’ I said, ‘what do I tell her? Can she come home or not?’

  Colin began, ‘We need a bit of time—’

  Sheila, again surprising me, broke in. ‘Of course Jane can come home. This is her home. It’s always been her home. She’s our only child, Fran. Without her, what do we have? Nothing.’

  Colin blanched. It was as if she’d hit him. He struggled for his former bullish self-composure. ‘Yes, better tell her to come. If she’s ill, of course, she must.’ He made another effort. ‘I can drive down and collect her.’

  ‘I’ll put her on the train,’ I said. ‘You can pick her up at the station.’

  There was a release of tension in the atmosphere now the decision was taken.

  Sheila stood up, picked up the tray of used cups and asked, ‘Would you like to stay to lunch?’

  I ignored the glare of baffled fury Colin directed at his wife. I had no wish to stay here longer than I had to, anyway.

  ‘Thanks, but no. I’ve got to get back. It’s a long journey.’ I got to my feet.

  ‘I’ll see you out, just let me pop this into the kitchen.’ She trotted out.

  Colin grunted but that was his only attempt at further communication. He had nothing more to say to me and stayed where he was as Sheila saw me to the front door. On the step, she touched my arm and said, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘I’d like to think Jane was getting her life back together again.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she whispered, ‘to think Jane will be home again. It’s the best Christmas present I could’ve imagined. I’ve prayed for it. I honestly thought God wasn’t listening, but He was.’

  There were tears in her eyes. ‘You will be prepared for changes?’ I repeated anxiously. I really wondered how they’d cope.

  But Sheila, I’d already decided, had hidden depths. ‘We’ll manage,’ she said firmly. ‘Jane and I always had a good relationship before.’

  It didn’t seem to occur to her that if it had been as good as all that, Jane would have been able to talk through her problems at home.

  She had put her hand in the pocket of the woollen jacket and produ
ced a small package wrapped in a paper napkin. She put it in my hand. ‘Shortbread, for the journey.’ She gave an apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry you’re not able to stay for lunch. Have you got enough money to buy something?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I assured her, ‘but thanks for the biscuits.’ There was nothing else to say but to wish her good luck, and put distance between myself and that house as fast as I could.

  I felt really relieved as the train drew out, as if I’d put down a heavy weight I’d been toting along ever since Tig had turned up at the door with Bonnie. I’d done what I’d said I’d do and got away relatively lightly. My part was over.

  A metallic rattle announced there was a trolley service on this line. The guy came along, hauling his load as I’d been hauling my symbolic one. He stopped and asked, without much show of interest, if I wanted any refreshments. I bought a coffee (black, white or cappuccino?) off him and unwrapped my shortbread biscuits. But somehow, although I was hungry, I couldn’t eat more than one of them. I wrapped the others up again and put them away to give to Tig later.