The Lily-White Boys (2 page)

Still, this was no time to brood on such things. Monica hastily finished her tea and went to run her bath.

Thirty minutes later, crisply elegant in navy linen, she entered her mother's room and bent to kiss her cheek, marvelling as she always did at its softness.

‘I hear you had a good night,' she said bracingly.

‘Yes, thank you, dear. Such a relief.'

‘You didn't hear the van, then? I was afraid it might wake you.'

‘What van was that?'

‘Oh, a disreputable old thing. It broke down outside in the middle of the night, and it's still there.'

‘A tradesman's van, do you mean?'

‘I suppose so, though there's no name on the side; and unless it goes in for overnight deliveries I can't think what it was doing out at that time. No doubt someone will arrive any minute with a can of petrol and drive it away.'

She walked to the window where the small round table was already laid. This practice of breakfasting together, she at the window table, her mother in bed, had developed since her father's death. And though it meant forfeiting her precious fifteen minutes downstairs with the paper, Monica didn't grudge her mother this short interval before she left for work.

Ignoring the van, she stood for a moment gazing at the park across the road, where early-morning walkers were already exercising their dogs. It was early summer, trees and shrubs were blossoming, and she felt an instinctive lifting of her spirits. Life was good indeed.

Preceded by a tap on the door, Mrs Bedale bustled in with the breakfast tray: grapefruit, coffee and toast for Monica; tea, bread and butter and soft-boiled egg for her mother.

‘What have you on today?' Monica inquired, extracting a segment of grapefruit.

‘Quite a full programme as usual,' Maude said complacently. ‘Coffee at Florence's, bridge at the club this afternoon, and, of course, dinner with Eloise.'

A day as busy as her own, even if more sociably inclined. Her mother's full engagement diary had been a lifesaver over the past year.

The sound of a passing car made Monica glance outside, and she smiled. ‘Gerry Ridingdale's just passed the van in his Rover. I could see the curl of his lip from here!' She folded her napkin. ‘I must be on my way.'

‘Will George be there this evening?'

‘Undoubtedly.' Cutting off further comment, Monica kissed her mother goodbye and hurried from the room.

Of course he would, she thought, fishing the car keys from her handbag as she ran down the stairs. Eloise punctiliously included George in her invitations, as though they were already married. Which, Monica allowed, letting herself out of the rear hall door, was fair enough. It had been understood for years that when – or, she sometimes thought wryly,
if
– George's mother died, they would come together. So why did she resent rather than appreciate her sister's thoughtfulness? Perhaps, she acknowledged with sudden searing honesty, because George suffered in comparison with Justin. Which was a line of thought it was better not to pursue.

The gardens behind the Georgian terrace were long and fairly narrow, but skilful landscaping had given the Toveys' an illusion of space. Dew still lay heavy on the grass and Monica kept to the paving stones as she walked to the wooden door in the high brick wall. Behind it lay the converted mews which served the houses as garages, and by the time she let herself through the door and locked it behind her, she had disciplined her thoughts away from the family and was already anticipating the working day ahead.

‘Waste of good food, that's what I call it,' Doris Trubshaw grumbled as she scraped the dried-up food off the plates into the bin. ‘And they needn't think I'll knock anything off 'cos they weren't here to eat it, neither.'

‘I can't think where they've got to,' her husband said anxiously. ‘They never said nothing about staying out all night.' It was he who, when their lodgers hadn't appeared for breakfast, had gone to their room to find it empty and the beds unslept in.

‘Probably went to a party or something.'

‘Even so, they should be back by now.'

‘All-night parties end with breakfast, so I've heard,' Doris said disapprovingly. ‘Not that I hold with that kind of thing. Asking for trouble, if you ask me.'

‘Well, I suppose you're only young once.'

His wife pursed her lips and did not reply. Though she accepted Sid's soft spot for the boys, which came of having none of their own, she didn't altogether trust her lodgers. There had been times when, while dusting their room, she'd noticed bulky newspaper parcels hidden under the beds. And once, when her Hoover nudged not altogether accidentally against one, she'd caught the gleam of silver.

Well, she wasn't one to ask questions and it was no business of hers. Nor, in view of his liking for the twins, had she mentioned it to Sid. Nevertheless, she was guarded in her dealings with the pair and determinedly strove to keep things on a business footing.

Sid, on the other hand, was delighted when they started calling him ‘Pop' and taking him along to matches when Shillingham played at home. At least, Doris reflected now, his presence kept them out of trouble; they'd been involved in brawls at the ground more than once. Football was all they could talk about, and Sid was as bad when he was with them. It got on her nerves sometimes.

‘They'll probably go straight to work now,' he added, looking at the clock on the wall.

‘They can't, can they? Their ladders are still out the back.'

‘Well then, since they'll have to look in anyway, it mightn't hurt to fry 'em a rasher or two, eh, love? They'll need something inside them to start the day.'

Doris threw him one of her looks and, picking up the Hoover, pointedly left the room.

Randall Tovey's was arguably the best known fashion store in Broadshire. Founded by Monica's grandfather during the First World War, it had started life as a small dress shop in Duke Street catering for the fashion-conscious middle classes. Tovey himself had been a quiet, unassuming man, and while proud of his brainchild and its success, he was content with the small niche it occupied and had no plans to expand it.

His son, however, was of a different mould. Innovative and ambitious, his acute business brain saw possibilities which Randall had never dreamed of. At first his father tried to put brakes on his schemes, alarmed at the apparent risks Humphrey was taking. But gradually, as the plans took effect and the small shop began to flourish as never before, he relaxed and gave the boy his head.

He never regretted it. Under Humphrey's direction they moved to new premises in East Parade, Shillingham's premier shopping area, at the same time dropping the cheaper lines to which, by way of insurance, Randall had clung, and stocking designer clothes from Paris and Rome as well as the better British houses.

The store was Humphrey's life, and one of his great disappointments was that he had no sons to follow him. He tended to judge all females by his wife, whom he adored but who had no business sense whatever. None the less, her slim figure and unerring sense of fashion were in themselves good advertisements, and, having assumed his daughters would also be mere showcases, he was disconcerted rather than otherwise when Monica announced her intention of joining the firm.

Nor was it a passing fancy. He'd been first touched and then astounded by her determination to prove herself, studying fashion design and buying techniques with passionate intensity, taking business management courses and giving up her evenings to night-school while Eloise danced and flirted her way through her teens.

Humphrey'd been aware, though, that no amount of dedication would make up for that instinctive eye for style which was an essential requirement, and when his daughter displayed this in full measure, his relief was profound. Monica had as many new ideas to put before him as he'd had for his own father. At her instigation they diversified into luxury lingerie, then model hats, shoes, belts and handbags, so that an entire outfit might be purchased at the same time. The fame and prestige of the store grew steadily, achieving an eminence undreamed of by its founder, and by the time of Humphrey's own death the previous year it had become one of the leading fashion stores in the country.

Nor did it suffer the indignity of having its name abbreviated; the complacent remark, ‘I bought it at Randall Tovey's,' was as much an indication of the buyer's standing as that of the store.

An integral part of the firm was Miss Hermione Tulip. Now in her seventies, she was a familiar figure with her well-cut silver hair and heavily applied make-up. Tall, thin, extremely elegant and unvaryingly dressed in black, she had an unerring eye for personal style, and there were many who refused to buy an outfit without her approval.

That morning she was, as always, awaiting Monica's arrival in the central foyer of the store. This was both the heart of the building and the prospective buyer's first glimpse of it, and much thought had been given to its ambience. Logs burned throughout the winter in its fireplace, and now a massive vase of lilacs screened the grate. And here, perhaps most important of all, was Miss Tulip's desk, so that she was on hand to offer a personal welcome to each caller.

‘The Duchess's secretary telephoned,' she reported now, handing Monica her mail. ‘Lady Henrietta's wedding date has been fixed, and Her Grace would like a few outfits sent to Beckworth House to chose from.'

‘Well, you know her size, Tulie,' Monica said absently, flicking through the envelopes. ‘May I leave it to you?'

‘Of course. And though nothing was mentioned for Her Ladyship, I thought we might send up the de Franzi wedding gown, too. It would suit her admirably.'

‘By all means.'

It was 9.20, ten minutes before the doors opened to the public, and from the tea-room behind the ivy-twined columns came the smell of freshly ground coffee. Anticipating her own cup, Monica walked up the wide, shallow staircase to her office.

Abbie Marlow was seated at the kitchen table, chin in hand, watching her mother tossing the salad for their lunch. She'd been excused school this week in order to revise for her O-levels and had wandered down from her room in search of sustenance.

‘How's it going?' Claudia asked, setting the large wooden bowl on the table.

Abbie pulled a face. ‘Boring. After next month, I'll never open another history book as long as I live! I hope you're impressed by my willpower,' she added, pulling the bowl towards her and ladling salad on to her plate. ‘For two pins I'd ditch the lot and go out and play tennis.'

‘I'm most impressed, but it will be worth it in the long run.'

‘But I need an incentive
now
,' Abbie said, ‘a reward for all the slogging.' She brightened. ‘How about the cinema this evening – something to look forward to?'

‘Oh, darling, I can't; we're going to the Teals' for dinner. I thought I told you.'

‘Oh yes. Well, never mind, I'll phone Mandy.' She licked some vinaigrette off her finger. ‘Don't you ever feel awkward, spending so much time with the Teals?'

‘Awkward?' Claudia repeated blankly.

‘Well, she was engaged to Daddy once, wasn't she?'

‘Good heavens, that was years ago – before I even met him.'

‘All the same, I know
I
wouldn't like to be always hobnobbing with my husband's ex.'

‘But that's not how I think of Eloise. She's my friend as much as Daddy's.'

Abbie shrugged, conceding the point. ‘Any news of Theo?' she asked casually.

Her mother hid a smile. ‘Not lately.'

‘I wonder if they'll be having a garden party again this summer. If they do, wangle me an invite, won't you?'

‘I'll do what I can; but he's a sophisticated young man, darling. You'd be better with someone nearer your own age.'

‘Meaning he won't notice me any more than he did last year?'

‘I didn't say that.'

‘Oh well, I can dream, can't I?' She put down her knife and fork. ‘Back to the grindstone. Thanks for lunch.' And she was gone.

But Claudia sat for several minutes, turning the pepper mill in her fingers. She'd almost forgotten Harry was once engaged to Eloise.
Did
he ever have regrets? Or did she? It was a thought that hadn't occurred to her in twenty years, and she found it disturbing.

During her busy day Monica had forgotten about the broken-down van, and was surprised on arriving home to find it still outside the house. She perforce drew up behind it and got out of the car, frowning. From its appearance, no one had been near it all day. She jotted down its registration number, and as soon as she entered the house, phoned the police station at the top of the hill.

‘Sergeant Penrose? It's Miss Tovey. Do you know anything about a van that's broken down outside our house? ... It arrived in the middle of the night. The driver tried to restart it, failed, and walked off I assumed he'd gone to a garage for help ... Yes, it's most annoying, especially since we're going out this evening and I need to park in front of the house. As it is, I've had to take next door's space ... Yes, I made a note of it.' She read out the registration number, nodding as he repeated it back to her. ‘That's right. Would you? Thank you so much.'

She replaced the phone and put her head round the drawing-room door. Her mother was relaxing on the sofa with her feet up.

‘Hello, darling. Had a good day?'

‘A busy one. Hasn't anyone been to see about that van?'

‘Not that I know of. Margaret remarked on it when she brought me back from bridge. It's a disgrace to the neighbourhood.'

‘Well, I've phoned Sergeant Penrose, so I hope he'll take care of it. I'm going up for a bath. Shan't be long.'

Officially, an abandoned vehicle was a matter for the local council, which Penrose bet Miss Tovey knew quite well. However, since she was a senior magistrate and personally inconvenienced, he didn't mind looking into it. He'd not much on at the moment, anyway; North Park was a wealthy, law-abiding suburb, and while a posting there was regarded as a cushy number, the main drawback was boredom. He therefore began by checking the police national computer, and moments later had ascertained there were no reports either of the van being stolen or any interest having been expressed in it.