Nameless (30 page)

‘So do you work?’

She shook her head and necked the rest of the wine. ‘You do, I suppose?’ she asked him almost sympathetically.

He smiled. If your family owned a village, gainful employment obviously wasn’t on the agenda. ‘Yeah. I do.’

‘Doing what? May I have another of those please?’

Kit looked at her. She was very direct, with that ingrained self-confidence the rich always had. He went to the bar, and returned with another glass of wine.

‘Thank you. Now, what do you do?’

I break people’s legs if they don’t pay money to my boss
, he thought. ‘I work for Ward Security,’ he said instead.

‘Where? In London? You’ve got a Cockney accent.’

He nodded, sipped his pint. ‘East End,’ he said.

‘Then what are you doing down here?’

Kit was thinking of the wild night he’d just shared with Gilda. What a woman. While this little hoity-toity tart . . . he looked at her . . . she was pretty, but unformed. There was something almost familiar about her, maybe he’d seen her somewhere before.

‘You ask too many questions,’ he said.

‘I know.’ She laughed and threw back the wine. ‘My aunt Ju’s always saying so. Another?’

‘I don’t think so,’ he said, and finished his pint and stood up. ‘I’ve got to be getting back. Can I drop you at the house?’

‘OK.’ Daisy stood up. ‘Can we see each other again then?’

‘What for?’ asked Kit. God, she was irritating. Like a kitten, batting its claws at your ankles as you passed by.

She shrugged and smiled coquettishly. ‘I don’t know. A drink or something?’

Kit sighed.

‘We could meet up in London,’ said Daisy. She’d work on Aunt Ju, get herself back in her good books. Use the infallible Daisy Bray charm. She was using it now, but it didn’t seem to be having much effect. Men usually swooned over her. But this one wasn’t doing that. It offended her, and made her all the more determined.

She was scrabbling in her overstuffed bag, pulling out paper and pencil. ‘If you give me your number . . .’

‘I’m
not
giving you my number.’

‘Then take mine.’ She scribbled on the paper and thrust it into his hand. ‘Here.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s . . .’ he muttered, and pocketed the piece of paper just to shut her up.

He went out to the Bentley, Daisy trailing him.

‘You will call, won’t you?’ she asked, smiling.

‘Sure,’ he said, and they got in and he started the engine and drove the half-mile to the house. He turned into a narrow opening and passed a gatehouse, then drove up a winding gravel track that eventually opened out onto a big turning-circle with a dormant fountain with dolphins and a half-man, half-fish set in the centre of it.

‘That’s Neptune,’ said Daisy.

Behind that, the house stood like a monolith, multi-gabled, its rose-red bricks and cream-coloured corners glowing in the midday sun.

‘You’re fucking joking,’ said Kit, pulling up in front of it.

‘Home sweet home,’ said Daisy.

‘Serious?’

‘Yep.’ She looked at him. He was gorgeous, she’d liked him on sight. Even if he
had
pranged her beloved car. ‘You
will
call . . . ?’ she asked hopefully.

‘Sure,’ he said again. He wouldn’t. Young chicks – posh or otherwise – did nothing for him. They wanted too much, a level of feeling and commitment he knew he was unable to give. He preferred older ladies, who understood his no-strings outlook better. And right now he had Gilda, who was more woman than most men could cope with anyway.

‘Right,’ he said, when she showed no sign of getting out. ‘Got to go.’

‘Well, it was nice meeting you,’ said Daisy. ‘Thanks for the drinks.’

‘That’s OK.’
So get out of the bloody car.

‘Bye then.’

‘Bye.’

She opened the door. ‘Phone me.’ She blew him a jokey kiss.

‘Sure.’

She closed the door and he started the car and drove off. Daisy heaved a sigh, stumbled up the steps and went indoors. She didn’t see Vanessa, watching her from her bedroom window, appalled that her daughter had just got out of a car with what looked like a foreigner driving it.

Who on earth could that be?
wondered Vanessa.
And where’s the Mini?

Daisy had blown him a kiss. Vanessa wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered at the thought of her daughter being in any sort of relationship with a person of colour. That couldn’t happen. She turned from the window just as the Bentley reached the bottom curve of the drive and vanished from sight. At that instant, she saw its driver lob a small scrap of paper out of the window and into the shrubbery.

‘Who was that?’ asked Vanessa when she came downstairs and found Daisy unloading the contents of her carpet bag onto the table in the hall.

‘Hm?’ Daisy looked up, wide-eyed and innocent.

Vanessa wasn’t fooled. Her daughter had a talent for deviousness; she still hadn’t got to the bottom of what had been happening in London to make Julianna send Daisy back home.

‘That
dark
person in the Bentley. Someone’s chauffeur? Whose?’

Daisy rolled her eyes. ‘He’s not a chauffeur, he’s a businessman. He’s in security. I’m afraid . . .’ Daisy bit her lip . . . ‘I’m afraid I pranged the car just a bit, on the bridge.’

‘Oh,
Daisy
.’ Vanessa had warned and warned again that she had to drive carefully, but would she listen? No, she would not.

‘But it’s OK, just a scratch, and I’ve arranged for the garage to collect it. Kit was passing and very kindly gave me a lift back here.’ Daisy omitted the drinks in the pub. She didn’t think Vanessa would like the idea of her daughter drinking with such an exotic-looking man. But the village gossips would probably filter it all back to her waiting ears, anyway.

‘That’s his name? Kit?’

‘Kit Miller, yes.’

‘Is he local?’ She’d never heard about anyone called Kit Miller in this vicinity. She was certain she
would
have, surely . . . ?

‘No, London . . . just down here on business, I suppose.’ Daisy thought for a moment. ‘He said he works for Wade . . . no,
Ward
Security.’

‘And you’re all right? You weren’t hurt at all?’ Vanessa took Daisy’s shoulders in her hands and gazed anxiously into her face. She was responsible for Daisy’s safety.

‘Not in the slightest.’

‘Good.’

Daisy had found her purse and was now piling all her belongings back into the bag. She turned to her mother with a bright smile. ‘Going up for a bath,’ she said.

‘Right.’

Vanessa watched Daisy run off upstairs. Her reckless,
infuriating
daughter. Vanessa had the strong feeling that if she knew even a tenth of what Daisy got up to, she’d turn grey overnight.

74

1969

Michael Ward was surprised when she called him at last.

‘It’s Ruby Darke here,’ she said, sounding very businesslike.

‘Oh! Right.’

It was a long time since he’d sent that third bouquet of roses.
Third time lucky
, he’d thought. But he hadn’t really believed it. Here was a woman who, despite her luscious looks, was cool, right through to the bone, a dedicated businesswoman. He respected that. After the third time, he’d thought, no more. But here she was, calling him.

‘I just wanted to thank you for all the roses you sent.’

‘Pleasure.’
What, a year later?

‘And to accept your invitation to dinner. If it still stands.’

‘Fine.’ He sat up straight, starting to smile, just a bit. ‘Where would you like to go?’

‘Surprise me.’

They went to the Connaught. Ruby thought that Michael Ward was even better-looking than she remembered, his striped grey-and-blue tie perfectly complementing his healthy tan and grey eyes.

‘You look wonderful,’ he said to her after the waiter had brought bread and water and taken their order for starters.

Ruby nodded, acknowledging the compliment. She’d tried her best to look good, but she hardly knew what to put on for an actual ‘date’. She’d
never
dated – not since Cornelius had blundered into her life and wrecked it. After putting on and ripping off half the dresses in her wardrobe, she had settled on a claret-coloured jersey dress that discreetly skimmed her tall figure. She had selected nude sandals, a small clutch bag. She had added ruby stud earrings, and piled her thick black hair up on top of her head in a severe, elegant topknot.

Michael Ward looked at the woman on the other side of the table. He wasn’t bullshitting her. He really thought she was the most stunning woman he’d met in years. And her air of quiet calm, of extreme and almost frosty reserve, intrigued him. It was in complete contradiction to the way she moved, with the sinuous grace of a jungle cat. Her cocoa-brown eyes, flecked with warm chestnut, looked sad sometimes when her guard came down. Which didn’t happen very often, he guessed.

‘What?’ Now she was staring back at him.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he shrugged.

‘No. I’m not,’ she scoffed.

What’s he playing at?
wondered Ruby.

Here was a man of wealth and power. He could have any nubile twenty-year-old he desired. She was
old.
Almost fifty. She had a shedload of miserable weighty baggage she was carrying around with her. But while he was here, and while he was busy trying the honey-tongued routine on a woman who was old enough to see through it, then fine: she was going to exploit him.

She’d been thinking it all over, and had finally decided that Michael Ward was
exactly
what she needed right now. Not for sex, though. For information.

Their starters arrived – prawn cocktail for her, avocado for him. While they ate, she said:

‘You said once that if there was ever anything you could do for me . . .’

‘Ah.’ He gave a half-smile and put down his fork and stared at her. ‘So that’s it. You want something.’

‘Well, you said it.’

‘And I meant it.’
Only I’m a bit gutted you’re here for that.

‘Well then.’

‘OK, shoot. What is it I can do for you?’

Ruby put down her knife and fork. She could see she’d annoyed him. She’d been too direct, too unwilling to play these little parlour games. But she’d started, and she was damned well going to finish. She’d been turning it all over in her mind, wondering how to get the answers she needed, and she’d come up with only one solution.

‘I want you to get to my brother, Charlie Darke. He’s in Wandsworth. I want to know what really happened to my son.’

So she had a son, big surprise. Michael stared at her, waiting for more.

‘He was taken away by Charlie when he was born,’ added Ruby when he said nothing. ‘It was during the Blitz in London. I was unmarried. I believed Charlie was taking the boy to a good home. A
married
home. You see?’

Michael was still staring.

‘OK, what?’ asked Ruby.

‘When did you last go on a date?’ he asked.

A long, long time ago.
‘Not your business. When did
you
last . . . ?’

‘Six years ago. And it wasn’t a date, strictly speaking. I took my wife out to dinner on our anniversary. She was ill and we both knew time was short. Six months later, she died.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Long time ago.’

‘No it isn’t.’

‘You’re right.’ He gave that half-smile again, picked up his fork and continued eating. ‘It don’t feel that long ago at all. I still wake up sometimes and imagine she’s there. Then I open my eyes, and she isn’t.’

‘And your point is . . . ?’

‘You’ve carried all this around with you for a long time. Since the war. Now, all these years later, you want answers? The kid’s grown up now. Probably he’s a married man, with kids of his own. Is it fair to barge into his life after all this time?’

The waiter came and cleared their plates. There was a long pause and then Ruby said: ‘He’s probably not grown up at all. He’s probably dead. But I want to know for
certain,
do you understand?’

‘But you said Charlie . . .’

‘I’ve been to see Charlie. He says he took my boy to a mate of his who was a fire-watcher in the war. That he . . . disposed of him.’ She couldn’t go further than that. Her hand trembled as she reached for her glass and drank deeply. Picturing Charlie’s sneering face, and those ugly, horrible words pouring out of his mouth.
Dissolved in acid. Her baby boy.

Their main course arrived. Ruby looked at her lobster and felt suddenly sick.

‘You OK?’ he asked.

‘Fine.’ She drank again, felt a little better.

‘You’re saying this friend of Charlie’s did away with the kid?’ Michael wasn’t touching his meal, either.

‘That’s what he’s saying. I want to know whether it’s true or not. I want to know who this friend is, where he lived, I want . . .’ Her words were tumbling over one another and suddenly her voice cracked with strain.

‘Whoa, slow down.’ He reached out a hand and put it over hers, on the table. ‘What about Joe? Don’t he know the details?’

She shook her head. ‘No. I’ve asked. Charlie’s the answer. Charlie’s the key.’

Michael squeezed her icy-cold hand briefly and then released it. He picked up his knife and fork and started in on his steak. ‘You know, as a date, this is a bit weird.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. Eat your dinner. I’ll get someone to have a word with your brother.’

75

Sebastian Dorley’s father, Richard, had been searching for his son for a long time. Sebastian had left the family home in Leicester at sixteen, after he’d confessed to his parents that he was gay.

‘It’s your fault,’ Richard had told his wife angrily. ‘Giving him a poofy name like that. Sebastian! What for the love of God is
that
all about?’

But his mum had taken it well, on the whole. Cried a bit, but said if he was happy, then so was she. Richard, however, couldn’t accept it. This was now Richard’s greatest grief. He had behaved like a complete fool, lashed out in anger at his beloved son, driven him away.