The Last Pier Part 21

'No, sir, just what I heard.'

Everyone's sitting on the fence, thought Robert Wilson. In his opinion there was another more localised headache that had to be dealt with first. But when he finally got to speak privately to Halifax about his suspicions, the response had been predictable. Halifax was only interested in the main problem.

'I'm worried,' Robert admitted. 'Potentially this could be huge if it got out of control.

'How certain are you?' Lord Halifax asked.

'Not entirely, sir,' Robert said.

Halifax relit his cigar.

'Right. Well keep an eye on the situation,' he advised. 'No need to do anything yet. Things are changing daily. You know the drill, jump in your own time, old chap.'

Halifax trusted him. That was the main thing. Although, and here Robert Wilson paused, he knew that in the end he was on his own. Now, and probably forever. Not that he cared any more, he thought grimly.

An hour later Robert drove swiftly along Fleet Street, turned left into Shoe Lane, a narrow one-way overspill to all the newspaper offices in the area, and parked awkwardly outside number thirty-seven. He had a small, anonymous office here. Deciding to take the stairs, he went up to his office. Narrowly missing Kitty, who walked out of the lift and headed towards the river and the railway station.

It was a quarter to midnight.

He poured himself a gla.s.s of scotch.

Seven sweet williams stood in a gla.s.s of water on his desk. He looked thoughtfully at them. The sign they had agreed on.

So she had something to tell him, did she? Well...

Seven, not ten. Ten would have been serious.

Seven, not twelve. Which would have been catastrophic.

He continued to stare at the flowers. Then he broke off a head and threaded it absent-mindedly through his b.u.t.tonhole. Something must have cropped up but obviously she couldn't stay. d.a.m.n, he thought. Looking around, he checked that nothing was amiss. He knew from past experience that Kitty often blew hot and cold, changed her mind, even became a little hysterical. As he had intimated to Halifax, he often had to have the information she gave him checked out. One could never be too careful. Kitty had uncertain allegiances. But nothing had been disturbed in the office and whatever it was it would have to wait.

He took a file from its usual hiding place. There were just two hours in which to finish his report.

Downstairs Picture Post was being put to bed, riding high on an editor's desire to embrace Germany. The sounds of machines in motion could be heard faintly through the floorboards. Robert Wilson, dog-tired and unhappy, could not leave until he had finished. A nagging thought, vague but persistent, kept returning to worry him. Sitting back in his chair, he tried to work out what it was. The boy Bellamy was a problem, too. Twice now Robert had met the boy on the footpath whilst going from his rented cottage across the field to Bly. Their exchanges had been guarded. Then yesterday he had caught Bellamy training a pair of binoculars on the Martello tower where he, Robert, kept his Bentley. Robert sighed. The sooner he could compile his list and leave Palmyra Farm, the better.

Soon, soon, the tempest would come. Of that he was certain. And the Maudsleys?

Selwyn, Kitty, Agnes?

Joe, soon to be conscripted.

Innocent Cecily.

And pretty Rose?

What of them all?

The collective problem he had not antic.i.p.ated, that was what they were.

There were others who were a problem, too, but they were easily dealt with. When the time was right. For now, it was the Maudsleys who bothered him most. What could he do with them?

Feeding a fresh piece of paper into his typewriter, he was about to begin work when a small sound stopped him. He froze. Someone was outside on the landing. He was not expecting any visitors at this late hour.

There were only two other offices on this floor. One of them belonged to a literary agent and the other was a stockroom for the newspaper. Neither was used very much. Glancing down, he saw he'd forgotten to place the roll of felt against the door. Whoever was outside would see light seeping through.

Resisting the desire to cough, Robert took the phone off the hook. The receiver made a small click and he winced. There was nothing for it but to sit it out. The bottle of scotch was maddeningly out of reach. If he moved, the floorboards would creak. The revolver he possessed but did not wish to use was in the drawer of his desk.

He waited. In the silence his highly tuned ear detected a shoe being turned on a sole. The person outside didn't want to be heard, either. He saw the bra.s.s door handle turn slightly. Once to the left, and then back again. He had always made a point of oiling every door handle with which he came into contact and so it moved soundlessly.

Nothing between them, thought Robert, almost enjoying himself, except the width of a door. But then, wasn't that all there was between any of them? Part of his mind felt curiously relaxed, interested. The other part was ready. Except for the file, impossible to decipher, and impossible to find, there wasn't much to give him away. In the pause that followed, he heard receding footsteps and counted them. Then with one swift movement he lifted up a floorboard and deposited the file into the s.p.a.ce below. The list he had been so carefully compiling was all in this file. There was no duplicate. He switched off the light and went over to the window.

But all he saw was a car pulling away with a dark-haired man in it. It was him all right. So they had become suspicious.

When it had gone, Robert waited for a moment longer. The Arab printers downstairs were still working furiously. He switched on the light, picked up the receiver, listening first for a tone before dialling.

'475321,' he said. 'Primrose.'

There was a pause during which he opened his cigarette case and took out another cigarette. He patted his pockets looking for his lighter and waited.

Yes,' he said, frowning. 'I think so, yes. The Italian, I think. No, nothing else. I'm back in the morning. Of course.'

The sounds downstairs were followed by m.u.f.fled voices shouting instructions. A telephone rang in the depths and was answered.

'I shall need another place,' Robert said. 'Yes, yes. Of course.'

He hung up. Hesitating, he opened up the floorboards again and took out the file he had just hidden. Then he began to remove all the papers before stuffing them into his briefcase. He emptied the ashtray. Switching off the light once more, he made his way noiselessly downstairs and into the street, bypa.s.sing the newspaper's office. This time he did not lock the door.

Kitty's flat was empty as promised. A note in Kitty's handwriting instructed Agnes to use anything she needed. There was champagne in the fridge, cold salmon and brown bread and b.u.t.ter. The bed was freshly made up. There were clean towels and plenty of hot water. Some sweet williams stood in a vase by the bed, one small puddle of water freshly spilled on the bedside table.

When you leave just push the key back through the letterbox Kitty had written.

Lucio glanced at the note and hesitated. He had just arrived and Agnes was pouring him a drink. He was too tired for food, he told her. She saw his hands tremble as he held the gla.s.s.

'Are you sure?' he asked. 'I can leave, come back and pick you up in the morning? We can... wait...'

Agnes shook her head and presently she saw in his face, as he turned towards her in the soft glow of the lit lamp, a reflection of all that he was thinking. A shot of almost feverish desire seemed to leap up in him as, with the final decision reached, he cupped her face in his hands. All that had been growing in her, all the tender opening of her feelings, soaked into his fingers so that at last, turning, she led him towards the bed. She had forgotten, they both had, the tiny drops of fresh water, lying silently beside the vase.

Selwyn Maudsley wasn't at any anti-aircraft meeting. He wasn't with the ARPs, he wasn't reporting to headquarters in London. He was alone on the Ness, not very far from the Last Pier. He had been there since late afternoon, in the abandoned coastguard hut. It was his private s.p.a.ce. From here he had a good view of the mainland and also of any sea landings, should they occur. He had been waiting off and on for days for the sight of Robert Wilson's black Bentley rolling along the marsh road at low tide. So far there had been no sign of it. So far Kitty, who had been delayed in Exeter, had got it wrong.

On the walls of the hut were pinned tidal maps of the area, marked at intervals with red rings. There was also a map of the Ness itself and the stretch of beach near Bly on which the Martello tower stood. It could be that the Bentley had been parked there already, of course. But if this was the case, he would have heard it or seen the low sweep of its headlight on the water.

Moonlight flooded the marshes and bleached the colour from the reed beds. In all the years he had been coming here Selwyn had never known the area look so dry and parched. There occurred the harsh cry of a waterbird fading into nothing. It was the same everywhere you looked, Selwyn thought, continuing to search the landscape. The world was red in tooth and claw. He would wait until the morning if need be and when the tide finally went out, he would cycle home via the causeway and across the fields. Taking out a hip flask, he poured himself another whisky and prepared to wait.

Waking, Cecily thought she was dreaming. Her sister was talking to herself.

'Oh shut up, shut up, you m.u.f.f,' Rose breathed.

Abruptly Cecily was fully awake.

Rose, fully dressed, had gone into their parents' room and switched on the light. Cecily tiptoed out of bed and onto the landing. She was only doing this for research purposes, she told herself. Their parents' room looked curiously dead. On the dressing table was a silver framed photo of them on their wedding day. Agnes smiling up at Selwyn. Rose was staring at the image.

'I have to look my very best,' she said out aloud. 'I have to make him swoon at the dance. I have to!'

Cecily stared through a crack in the door as Rose swept up her hair, exposing her slender neck. Then with her other hand, she slowly unb.u.t.toned her dress so she could see the entire length of herself naked in the gla.s.s.

Cecily swallowed. Their mother's jewellery box was half open. Inside were the emeralds their father had bought their mother. Rose picked out a tiny string of pearls. She turned, coming towards the door and, taking fright, Cecily fled.

But Rose did not come back to bed. Cecily heard her going downstairs. It was impossible to leave things as they stood. She would simply have to follow her sister. Rose walked out through the kitchen door to the shed where her bicycle was.

'Where are you going?' Bellamy asked, blocking her path.

Cecily jumped and almost knocked over a chair. She heard a scuffle and saw Rose push him fiercely and with force, both hands against his chest.

'Are you spying on me?'

In the dim moonlight Bellamy's face looked desperate. As if the recollection of a blistering earlier taunt was festering. Suddenly Cecily felt sorry for him. He was like a faithful hound. It wasn't fair that he should be kicked again and again. In a flash she saw, perhaps more clearly than before, that the complications about her sister, about Bellamy too, about everything to do with them both, were too vast for her to understand. And did Rose really love Carlo?

'I'm glad you came out,' Bellamy said, simply.

Cecily saw on her sister's face a look that seemed to be fighting with itself as, with a hopeless sound, Bellamy bent down and kissed Rose.

'Oh, do get away from me,' Rose said. 'I'm tired of you, don't you understand? I shall tell Daddy if you won't leave me alone and he'll sack you.'

There was a pause.

'Selwyn won't be back tonight,' Bellamy said.

Rose laughed.

'How d'you know?'

'I just do.'

'You do not! He's at an important meeting but he said he'd try to get back as soon as possible.'

There was a silence. Cecily could hear Bellamy's angry breathing.

'Look, Bell,' Rose said in a more conciliatory voice, 'I know I... I let you...'

'What?'

'It's over Bell. Can't you see? It's a very old story now.'

'Oh? So who's the new story, then?'

Rose made an impatient sound.

'I'm telling you, Bell, leave me alone or I shall have to tell Daddy you're being a nuisance. And then he'll be forced to get rid of you.'

'Tell Daddy, then,' Bellamy said and his voice suddenly coa.r.s.ened. 'What will you tell him? He's busy knocking off Kitty.'

Rose slapped him. Bellamy stared at her, bitterness bubbling to the surface.

'Where are you going?' he asked again.

'I'm going to meet Joe at the corner. He's got a puncture and I'm going to meet him with the torch.'

She's lying, thought Cecily, shocked. She's going to meet Carlo. Suddenly, in spite of the balmy night she felt very cold and desolate. Bellamy continued to stare helplessly at Rose.

'You'd better stop loitering around here, you know!' she said at last. 'I'll simply have to tell Mummy and then you'll be in trouble.'

'So will you,' Bellamy said, but he turned and melted into the trees.

When she was satisfied he had really gone, Rose mounted her bicycle and rode off in the direction of the bright lights and the band music playing on the seafront.

Back in her bed, colder than she had ever been, Cecily saw a small piece of paper peeping out from under Rose's pillow.

Let's meet at the dance, it said. But not raise suspicion with your parents.

The handwriting was not Carlo's.

ALL THE SCENTS from the orchard were in that old pot of plum jam. Sitting where Carlo once had, right there at the kitchen table, Cecily broke off a piece of the bread she had bought. Surrounding her were seven ghosts. They reminded her that although peace had been taking its last breath and the newspapers had been spewing out one terrible story after another, she hadn't felt the agony of waiting for war in the same way as the adults.

On those last days of peace all along the riverbank, there appeared sudden sightings of kingfishers, blue and incomparable, rare and ominous. Reminding the country of what was pa.s.sing.

And still the waiting had continued.

From the White House, President Roosevelt sends a personal appeal to Hitler.

By now the world's oracle was undeniably the wireless, its sound impossible to escape, its news carrying across the open sun-soaked fields of England. The whole country had been living in such a state of antic.i.p.ation for so long that it almost pa.s.sed for ordinary living. London transformed itself in the minds of busy Londoners. Until this moment it had been taken for granted. The idea that it might soon be in mortal danger was unthinkable. Overnight the city became infinitely precious. Never in the history of British conflict had so many understood what might well be lost.

And all the time the question when?, when?, cried out from every sweltering street corner while the desire to carry on calmly still remained the order of the day. It was part of the terror of having to wait. Part of the blindness.

At the National Gallery, at the very moment the city became bloated with protective sandbags, Kenneth Clark was making plans for part of the collection to travel to Aberystwyth.

'World Shocked!' cried the news vendors.

For now there was a new word on every pair of lips.

Poland!