Meet Me at the Pier Head Page 2

  ‘All?’

  ‘There are three of us, mere females, named after Shakespearean heroines. We are one nurse, one teacher and one wild child. The wild child plays drums and other percussive items in a skiffle band, and none of us wants to act. Pa is distressed, but we’re sticking to our guns. Cordelia – we call her Delia – is lost in the bowels of London with some disgraceful boys, strangers to soap and water, who wield laundry washboards and guitars. Juliet’s a qualified nurse, currently training as a midwife, and I’ve just avoided the immediate wrath of my father by disappearing while he was away being Mark Antony. My mother’s been sulking in the bath for several days. She’ll shrink if she doesn’t pull herself together.’

  ‘Whoops.’ Theo found himself grinning. She had humour, and she seemed not to mind laughing at herself and her family. ‘So will you disappear again during term time to play Ophelia?’

  She snorted in a way that fell well short of ladylike. ‘No. I’m a teacher to the marrow, Mr Quinn. But if I get the post, I shall do your pantomime, your nativity play – whatever you wish. I like writing for children. As for the community, it can take me as I am, warts and all.’

  ‘Good.’ In Theo’s opinion, warts would do best to steer clear of so decided and confident a young woman. He opened one of the twin doors and followed her inside. She stopped to study Work of the Week, a wall covered by children’s efforts in most subjects. ‘You wear your gown, then,’ she remarked while looking at a painting entitled Blackbird.

  ‘Yes. The little ones think it’s magic. Older pupils know better, of course, but this artist is only six. Note that I am depicted in flight. She probably believes I emerged from an egg the size of a house in a nest as big as Texas. It’s fun.’

  The sole applicant nodded. ‘We appear to share a philosophy, then, Mr Quinn. My number one rule involves making children happy. I find they learn and remember more in a relaxed atmosphere.’

  ‘Did you apply that theory at the college, Miss Bellamy?’

  She awarded him an are-you-crazy look. ‘Not at all. A worker in a sausage factory makes sausages. I followed the curriculum before following my instincts and getting out of there.’

  ‘To Liverpool?’

  ‘I have three interviews; Southport, St Helens and here.’

  Theo frowned; he had competition, then. ‘Southport’s rather elegant. If you’re looking to make a difference, here would be better.’

  ‘Or St Helens,’ she murmured.

  He agreed, but with reluctance. ‘The land’s owned by an earl, and many of the townsfolk belong to a glass magnate. It’s a bit grim, but so is my catchment area.’

  ‘I noticed.’ Boldly, she faced him. ‘Are you prepared to fight over me, Mr Quinn?’

  Without flinching, he met her gaze full on. ‘No, but I’m almost ready to make an offer for you.’ Chortling internally, he watched her blush. ‘There will be an interview with a board, but if I want you, I’ll get my way.’

  She walked into a classroom, angry with herself. Why had she blushed? Yes, he was attractive; yes, his words could be interpreted on more than one level. But surely he was married? He wasn’t old, wasn’t young, took his job seriously, and—

  ‘This is Junior Standard One,’ he said from the doorway.

  ‘Yes, I read that on the wall in the corridor,’ she replied smartly.

  ‘Good. I like my teachers to be literate.’

  She tapped a foot. This was a confrontational man, and she liked a challenge. He was laughing at her. What would Ma have done? She ran through a list of Ma’s films. Ah, yes; To the Ends of Earth sprang to mind. Tia turned and gave him her haughty look. ‘I’ve been reading for twenty-three years, Mr Quinn. My date of birth is on my application form and, if you are numerate, you’ll work out by simple subtraction the age at which I began to read.’

  He grinned again. ‘Touché, Miss Bellamy. Shall we proceed to the infant department? At this point, I’ll inform you that my children come, for the most part, from poor but ambitious families. Many arrive able to read a little and to write their names. They can dress and undress themselves, count, draw and sing nursery rhymes. Rhythm is important. Poetry is a good tool.’ He led her to the infant classrooms and left her there. ‘I’ll be in my office,’ he told her.

  He marched off. No. It mustn’t happen again, because it shouldn’t happen again. Perhaps it would be better if she took up the post in St Helens or Southport, because she was too . . . too interesting. He didn’t want to be interested. Interested meant complicated, and he was no longer fit for complicated.

  After switching on his Dansette to play Humphrey Lyttelton’s Bad Penny Blues, Theo sat at his desk and listened. He liked Lyttelton, especially this piece, which was jazz with humour. Yes, humor had a U in it these days. Am I losing my sense of humo(u)r? What’s the matter with me? How many times must I go through these stupid hormone alerts? She’s lovely; live with it, Theodore. And she’s knocking on your door in more than one sense. Pull yourself together and deal with the immediate.

  He lowered the Dansette’s volume. ‘Come in.’

  In she came. She had pearl earrings and a big smile; she had leather shoes, a grey suit, and a charm bracelet that tinkled when she moved her right arm; she also had a large diamond solitaire on the third finger of the left hand. ‘You’re engaged to marry?’ The words emerged of their own accord from his dry throat.

  ‘Ah.’ Without waiting to be invited, she sat on the chair facing him across the desk. ‘No. It was my grandmother’s. She was Dame Eliza Duncan. The ring is very useful for warding off predatory males. Sometimes, I wear her wedding band with it.’

  Theo’s disobedient right eyebrow arched itself. ‘Drastic measures, then?’

  She shrugged. ‘Men in Kent guess who I am, smell money and become nuisances. I look like my mother and my maternal grandmother, so I attract unwanted attention.’ She shrugged. ‘I deal with it my way.’

  He decided to change the subject. ‘What do you think of my school?’

  Tia met his steady, dark brown gaze. ‘It’s old,’ she replied.

  ‘And?

  ‘I like old. It’s as if all the teaching has soaked into the walls – the learning, too. A school in London where I practised was similar. I missed three days due to head lice and fleas, but I went back once I’d deloused myself. The children were needful and great fun.’ A frown visited her face. ‘Pa got me the post at the Abbey College. Friends in low places, you see.’

  He nodded. ‘The money may be less, and you’ll have to serve probation if you move into the state system.’

  ‘I’m aware of all that, thank you.’ Her smile returned. ‘I want to live in Liverpool.’

  ‘So you’d rather work in my school?’

  ‘Probably. Though I do have a car, and the other towns are near enough.’

  ‘When are your interviews?’

  ‘Southport Monday afternoon, St Helens Tuesday, here Wednesday.’

  Theo rose to his feet and held out his right hand. ‘Time to go home, Miss Bellamy. Delighted to have met you.’ And that was the truth.

  She stood up and took his hand. ‘I have no home yet, Mr Quinn. I’m staying in a small hotel overlooking the river, but I’ll be searching for somewhere more permanent. Liverpool appeals to me. They’re friendly here.’

  He smiled and retrieved his hand. ‘They are. But, as in every city, you must keep an eye on your belongings. Oh, if you’re looking for a place to live, buy the evening newspaper.’

  ‘I’ve applied already through lettings agencies.’ She turned to leave.

  ‘Miss Bellamy?’

  ‘Mr Quinn?’

  ‘How would you deal with a child suffering physical and psychological abuse at home?’

  Tia turned and froze. ‘Tell the welfare people? Get the National Society on to them?’

  ‘And if you feared that such actions might lead to the further injury or even the death of that child?’

  ‘Couldn’t he or she be removed immedia
tely?’

  ‘Not always,’ he replied.

  She frowned. ‘I’m a member of a gun club. Sorry, I didn’t mean to make light of it. I’d move him or her.’

  ‘She’ll be in your class if you take the post. We’ve had the new intake here on visits, just four or five of them at a time. Rosie Tunstall’s her name. You’d move her to where?’

  ‘Any bloody where I could find, Mr Quinn.’ She shook her head slowly, sadly. ‘Why do people hurt small children?’

  Don’t think about it, Theo. Forget it; it’s ancient history. ‘Moving her might be illegal,’ he said quietly. ‘It would be kidnap.’

  ‘Better than a funeral,’ she almost snapped. ‘Why are you smiling?’

  ‘You echo my thoughts, Miss Bellamy. Let’s see what September brings, shall we? I’m doing research on the family. We may have a clearer idea by the beginning of the next school year.’

  Once again, she tapped a foot. ‘So the job’s mine?’

  ‘Probably. I’ll see you on Wednesday unless you accept another offer. Will you let me know if you do?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Until then, Miss Bellamy.’

  ‘Until then, Mr Quinn.’ She left.

  Breathing was suddenly easier. He removed Humphrey Lyttelton and listened for a while to Debussy’s Clair de Lune. Resting his head on folded arms, he tried to relax. Miss Cosgrove of Junior Standard Three fame had set her cap at him months ago. Not that she ever hid her corrugated ginger hair under a cap, though she did bat invisible eyelashes at him.

  But like a rogue elephant, Theo kept his own company. He wasn’t available. The decision had been made at the end of the war, and he didn’t need to flick through his paragraphs of reasons. He was off the market. It wasn’t easy. A reasonably good-looking bachelor of thirty-eight with his own property and car was a desirable item on a woman’s shopping list, but he was not for sale.

  He raised his head and stood up as Claude Debussy’s wistful piece reached its final notes. From the side window, he watched Miss Portia Bellamy as she talked to some of the children. Her car, parked behind his, was the twin to his pre-war MG, though his was racing green while hers was red. Similar tastes, similar attitude to classroom work, similar humour with a U in it. ‘God,’ he whispered. ‘Into the valley of death rode the six hundred and one. Sorry, Alfred Lord Tennyson.’ He would manage; he had to manage . . .

  When she had finally left, Theo went for a word with Jack Peake, school caretaker. ‘Don’t tell anyone about Colin and the football, Jack. I made a promise. See if you can fix the downspout. If you can’t, we open fire on the Education Department on Monday morning.’

  ‘Got your gun loaded, Mr Quinn?’

  ‘I sure have, Mr Peake. Organize a posse and bring my lasso.’

  He left the building and drove home, picking up the mail as he walked through the hall of his rather imposing house in Allerton. After throwing assorted envelopes on the kitchen table, he set the kettle to boil. Oh yes, he was becoming thoroughly English, though he seldom poured milk into his cup. Tea in America was usually iced and taken only on stifling hot days. Britain didn’t do many hot days; had Noah lived here, he would have built an ark every summer.

  This evening’s meal would be quick – jambalaya. So he rolled up his sleeves, picked up his mug of tea and went to fetch the lawnmower. If the front lawn suffered any more neglect, it might become habitat for a tribe of pygmies. In fact, they’d be able to erect two-storey edifices and still be invisible.

  It would be necessary to begin with a scythe, and that meant hard work and sweat on an evening as untypically balmy as this one, so he finished his tea and went inside to divest himself of decent clothes. He pulled on a pair of khaki shorts and a short-sleeved shirt which he left unbuttoned, and emerged almost naked from the waist up. Bringing down the tone? No, he was bringing down the grass.

  Damp and hot after all the scything, he began to mow. Feeling proud of his one-year-old Victa, he made fast work of the front lawn before resting on a flat stone at the edge of his rockery. The slugs were back, so bang went another hosta. Gardening was a fight for survival, and slugs were damned tough.

  After so much physical effort, Theo felt too warm for jambalaya. He didn’t relish the idea of dealing with heat, so the chorizo, chicken, rice and tomatoes would wait their turn. A sandwich should suffice, surely? He had ham, salad and beer in the fridge, and a young woman gazing down at him. ‘Miss Bellamy?’ Acutely aware of his state of undress, he leapt to his feet. ‘Are you following me?’ he asked, humour trimming his tone.

  ‘No,’ she answered smartly. ‘I’ve been sent.’

  ‘I see.’ He rubbed dirty palms down his shorts. ‘By whom?’ he enquired.

  She pulled a handful of papers from her bag. ‘Hang on a mo,’ she said. ‘I’m a little flustered. Let me find the whom.’

  He managed not to grin. Seeing her flustered was extremely amusing.

  ‘Here’s the whom,’ she murmured, a slight smile visiting her lips. ‘There are two of them, a Maitland and a Collier. They’ve written to you – it says so in their letter to me. I registered with several letting agents before I came up to Liverpool.’

  ‘Ah.’ He remembered the unopened mail on his kitchen table. ‘The flat was completed just recently; in fact, the paint may still be wet.’

  ‘Shall I go away, then?’

  His mind was breaking all speed limits. This was awkward. ‘Well, I may already have a tenant, but I’m unsure. He’s thinking about it.’ She’s beautiful. Seeing her at school will be enough . . .

  Tia turned away from him and looked at the house. The man was distracting, dark hair, eyes the colour of plain Swiss chocolate, good musculature, tanned skin. ‘You own the whole house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How many rooms?’

  ‘Eighteen in all; nine up and nine down. The upper flat is self contained, with the entry door up the side of the house.’

  ‘You live on the ground floor?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Alone?’ she asked.

  He arched an eyebrow. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh. Er . . . may I look at the accommodation?’

  She’s so damned pushy. ‘Of course. I’ll follow you up. The keys are on my hall table – do go in and get them. There’s a metal Liver Bird attached to the key ring. The door’s black and halfway down the right hand side of the building. I’ll just . . . er . . . yes.’

  It was her turn to raise an eyebrow. ‘See you later, then, after you’ve just yessed.’ She got the keys, came out of the house and stood for a moment looking at him. He was an oddity, friendly one minute, guarded the next. Did she want to live above the boss? More to the point, would he like living below her? ‘Would my being tenant here bother you?’ she asked.

  Forthright, isn’t she? ‘I have no idea,’ he answered truthfully. ‘I must go and yes myself into a shirt and trousers.’ He needed a shower, but there wasn’t time. This forward young woman made him feel slightly inadequate, as if she had his measure, as if those violet eyes could penetrate through to his innermost secrets.

  Tia entered the small ground-floor hallway of the upper flat. She climbed the stairs feeling like a seven-year-old on Christmas Day. It was stunning. Victorian mouldings remained throughout; he had been faithful to the age of the house. The place upstairs was spacious, with three bedrooms, a dressing room lined with wardrobes, bathroom, kitchen, living and dining rooms, and even a sunroom-cum-office at the back. She loved it immediately.

  Theo, on the stairs, listened while she scuttled about, heard her exclaiming to herself as she discovered fireplaces, chandeliers hanging from original ceiling roses, picture rails, old cupboards preserved in recesses. What should he do? Lie to her about a friend moving in? Tell her that the board of governors might object to a single woman living under the same roof as a single man? And would the talcum he’d applied conceal the smell of sweat? He should have opened his mail . . .

  ‘I want it,’ she said
as soon as he entered the living room. ‘Did you do all this?’

  ‘More or less,’ he replied. ‘People these days are quick to pull out old fireplaces and built-in cupboards and cornices. They board over panelled doors, too.’

  ‘Silly.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Tia sighed. ‘You’re not going to let me have the flat, are you? I’m quiet most of the time, and I’ll wear Gran’s engagement ring. Simon’s following me up here from Kent, so he can be my intended.’ She frowned. ‘Actually, he intends to be my intended, though my unbearable father doesn’t approve because Simon’s half Jewish.’

  ‘And what are your intentions?’

  ‘He’s not on the shortlist. In fact, he’s not even on the long list, and I’ve told him that.’

  Theo shook his head. ‘There’s a long list?’

  ‘Of course there’s a queue. I’m Roedean and Oxford educated, I’m easy on the eye, I know how to use cutlery and have all my own teeth, and I’ll be a very wealthy orphan when Ma and Pa shuffle off.’ She winked at him. ‘Please, Mr Quinn. You’re my mentor if I get the post, so why not look after me, make sure I’m safe in and out of school?’

  He raised his hands in a gesture of defeat. Portia Bellamy promised to be entertaining, at least. She’d even winked at him. ‘Right. Pass the interview, accept the job, and I’ll think about it. But I’ll have to advise the governors about your wish to live here. Some people remain as Victorian as my house.’

  She squealed like a delighted child. ‘Can I see your flat? I just love this house. It’s so much more homely than Bartle Hall.’ She felt a small stabbing pain in her chest – she shouldn’t be unfaithful to her now decrepit childhood home.

  They entered his domain. ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ he urged her. ‘I’m going to have a quick shower – that garden was hard work.’ He left her to it and dashed off to clean up his act. Roedean and Oxford? He stank as if he’d arrived via a farmyard and a boxing ring. Jeez, women didn’t half complicate life.