Memories of You (35 page)

‘Donald's found somewhere,' Eva told Helen grudgingly. ‘There are plenty of houses vacant with so many people out of work. Not that a lady like you would care about that, I suppose.'

‘I didn't mean you had to leave immediately,' Helen said.

‘Didn't you? Did you expect us to hang around here knowing what you think of us? My dad's coming up with his handcart in the morning to help me shift everything, and don't worry – I won't take anything that doesn't belong to me!'

The next morning Helen had an errand to run and she left the house while Eva packed up. When she returned the handcart was loaded and ready to go. She had known from the start how painful this would be but she was not prepared for the silent tears they both shed when Eva took her leave. She handed Eva an envelope containing a more than generous settlement but they parted without a word.

Dr Salkeld called as Helen was serving a lunch of steamed fish to her disgruntled aunt and he smiled approvingly.

‘They've gone already?' he said.

‘This morning.'

‘How will you manage?'

‘It won't be for long. Just a few days, in fact, although I'll probably stay on for a little while until my aunt's new housekeeper settles in.'

‘You've found someone already?'

‘I confess I already had her in mind.'

‘And who is she?'

‘Margery Sutton; she's the mother of a friend of mine.'

Helen took a tram to the Central Station. She had reserved a seat on the morning Pullman. When she was queuing for a paper at the newsstand she saw one or two of the porters eyeing her uncertainly. She knew it wasn't the fact that she only had one suitcase; it was the state of that suitcase that made them doubt whether she would be able to tip them well.

The case had been given to her mother by one of the rich ladies that she had cleaned house for. It was a trifle shabby-looking but Helen had never seen the need to buy a new one. Eventually, one of the porters, who perhaps had recognized the quality of the case and knew that many well-off people kept their expensive luggage for years, approached Helen with a polite smile. She didn't really need a porter but she handed him the case and when he had escorted her to her table in the carriage she tipped him generously.

Helen surveyed the tables set with snowy linen, each one illuminated by a pink-shaded lamp. She was pleased to see that none of the other three seats at her table was reserved. For that she was thankful. She hoped no last-minute arrival would take one of them. She wanted to read her paper and drink several cups of coffee while the train steamed southwards. She did not feel like engaging in polite conversation with a fellow traveller. As soon as she was settled a steward handed her the luncheon menu and told her that coffee would be served when the train was underway.

She looked out at the busy scene on the platform: people hurrying to catch their trains, couples and sometimes whole families saying goodbye. She glanced across the carriage towards the other windows. A train had been stationary on the other line ever since she had boarded. She saw the blinds were closed and guessed that this was the night train from London, the sleeper, and she wondered briefly about the people who had made that journey. As usual she found herself speculating about the lives of total strangers and wondering whether they would make interesting stories.

After a blowing of whistles and a slamming of doors the engine released a great hiss of steam and the train began very gently to pull out of the station towards the High Level Bridge. The rhythm of the wheels on the tracks changed as they left the station behind and after they had crossed the River Tyne Helen sat back and gave way to imaginative speculation about the sleeping train.

What if there was a young couple on that train? she thought. A couple running away from the police like in
The Thirty-Nine Steps
. . . Matthew had taken her to see the film and they had both enjoyed it, although they agreed that Alfred Hitchcock had taken many liberties with the novel's original plot.

Matthew . . . Was it fair of her to come here without telling him? But once she started telling him her family history it would be difficult to know where to draw the line. If she thought he was really committed to her it would be easier, but as it was she'd kept everything to herself for so long that it had become a habit that would be hard to break.

 

The snack bar on the platform was crowded and Perry found them the only table left vacant. Elise drew back. ‘It's by the window,' she said.

Perry smiled, ‘Don't worry, darling, no one knows us here. No one is going to go rushing to tell your father where we are. Now we've at least an hour before our next train so I'm going to order bacon and eggs, toast and marmalade and a pot of tea.'

‘Oh, no. I never eat that sort of breakfast. My mother says it would be bad for my figure.'

‘She may be right, but right now you need to keep your strength up.' He cocked his head to one side. ‘Can you smell that bacon frying? Don't say you aren't tempted.'

‘All right! I am! But you must let me pay.'

Perry made a show of taking the money reluctantly but Elise suspected that he had spent more than he could afford on their berths on the night train and also that he was the one in need of a substantial breakfast.

He went to the counter to give their order and his tall, slim figure seemed to merge into the haze of steam coming from the water boiler on the counter. Elise was aware of customers at nearby tables giving her speculative glances. She supposed it was because of the way she was dressed. She knew very well that her clothes were noticeably expensive here in this cheap snack bar where people came because they could not afford the restaurant in the hotel.

Flushing slightly with embarrassment, she turned to look out of the window at the train from which they had recently disembarked. People were still sleeping there or being woken up with trays of tea or breakfast to keep them going until they reached Edinburgh. Perry had explained that it was easier for them to change trains at Newcastle and he had been astonished at her reaction.

‘Newcastle!' she had exclaimed.

‘Yes. Why? What's wrong with that?'

For a short while she had not been able to answer him but she refused to give way to indeterminate memories. She shook her head. After all, what did Newcastle mean to her? It was years since she had any thoughts whatsoever about the place where she was born and where she had spent the first nine years of her life.

‘Nothing's wrong,' she said. ‘It's just that this journey is getting complicated, isn't it?'

‘Not at all, my darling,' Perry had replied. ‘And in any case you mustn't worry about any of that. Just leave everything to me.'

Elise watched as men wheeled trolleys along the platform and loaded bread and milk and other provisions on to the train. Soon it pulled away, and as it snaked around the curve of the platform and out of the station, Elise saw that the Pullman, with its distinctive dark red carriages, which had been standing on the next track, had gone.

Back to London, she thought. The people on the Pullman are going to London. What am I doing here? On impulse she rose from the table and turned towards the door. She was standing there hesitantly when Perry returned.

‘What is it?' he asked. ‘Do you need the ladies' cloakroom? It's over the bridge, I'm afraid, in the main concourse.'

‘No . . . it's all right. I just . . .'

‘Are you still worried that we'll be spotted?'

‘No. I don't know what the matter is.'

‘Poor darling. You're exhausted, that's all. I heard you tossing and turning in the bunk below for most of the night. I wanted to climb down and get in beside you and take you in my arms and comfort you. But the damn things are too narrow for two to sleep comfortably so I lay there feeling guilty instead.'

‘Guilty?'

Perry smiled down at her. ‘Yes. Guilty for loving you so much. Guilty for wanting to marry you. Guilty for making love to you. Guilty for stealing you away from the bosom of your family when I know how much your mother dotes on you.'

Suddenly Elise felt all right again and she returned his smile. ‘Oh, that's all right,' she said. ‘It's Bertie she dotes on. Not me.'

‘Well, sit down, then. Here comes the waitress with our breakfast and I want you to enjoy every mouthful.'

 

Elise ate with every indication of enjoyment. She was young, she was healthy and she had obviously begun to recapture the feeling of adventure and excitement that had spurred her on to agree to elope with him. Thank goodness for that. A moment ago Perry had been worried that she was going to bolt. If she'd been determined he would have had to let her go. He could hardly restrain her physically; that would be kidnap, wouldn't it?

And if she had gone? Would he have been heartbroken? Of course not. He was surprised to discover that despite the dire circumstances he found himself in he might even have felt relieved. He knew this was a hare-brained scheme and if he had not been so desperate he would have waited, courted her, even tried to win the approval of her parents by being a faithful suitor.

And there was always the possibility that Hugh Partington might have paid him off, given him a large sum of money to stay away from her. That would have dealt with his immediate predicament but in the long term he would end up penniless again. No, the sort of money Elise Partington would one day inherit was worth waiting for. And even if her father lived to a ripe old age he would surely have too much pride to allow the daughter of one of the wealthiest industrialists in Europe to live in poverty.

It had not been too difficult to make Elise fall in love with him. She was completely inexperienced as far as the opposite sex was concerned and a bit of flattery combined with the excitement of their secret meetings had convinced her that theirs was a special relationship. The original plan had been to make sure that she did not fall in love with anyone else and to wait until she was eighteen before asking for her hand in marriage. If her father had refused permission then they would have had to wait until she was twenty-one, when almost certainly there would have been some sort of trust fund maturing.

However, his fascination with the dog track had made waiting impossible.

‘Are we going to the dogs again?' Tom Chapman would joke when he came up to town on leave. It was Perry who had first discovered dog racing and introduced it to his old friend. The two of them would dress in old coats, caps and mufflers and pretend to be ordinary working men, adopting atrociously false Cockney accents that fooled no one, least of all the men they placed their bets with.

Tom, being cautious, stuck to the Tote, the official betting facility. But Perry was fascinated by the course bookies with their blackboards showing the odds they were offering on the various dogs. After checking the form in the racing paper he would then look at the race card to see how individual dogs had done in their previous races. He kidded himself that he was quite an expert, but after an initial run of good luck, he began to take risks on outsiders because the odds were good. It was a good way to lose your money.

Bad gamblers get desperate. They take bigger and bigger risks to recoup what they have lost. Perry was no different. Instead of cutting his losses he got into very muddy waters. He had found it all too easy to borrow money from dubious characters he met in the bar and their ‘hail fellow well met' attitude soon evaporated when he began to lose in a big way.

He owed them much more than the actual sum he had borrowed, of course, because they expected interest, and their rates were extortionate. When he couldn't pay them back the threats started.

One night when he had been to the track without Tom, a car pulled up alongside him as he was walking home. A rear door opened and a smooth voice said, ‘Get in.'

Before Perry could answer the driver of the car got out, came round and seized him, then pushed him into the back of the car.

‘Don't worry,' the smooth voice said. ‘We're not going to hurt you. Not if you pay back all the money you owe me.'

Perry peered through the darkness and as his eyes adjusted he saw a bulky man with a fedora pulled down, concealing most of his face. The little he could see was badly pockmarked. He had a cigar clamped in his mouth and the aroma of tobacco mingled with that of an expensive cologne.

‘I don't owe you any money,' Perry said. ‘I've never seen you in my life before.'

‘No, it's some of my friends you owe the money to and they're beginning to lose patience with you. They're little men. They can't afford to go on backing losers. So, being a good friend, I compensated them.'