The letter was rounded off by saying that if Ruby had got her wires crossed, and if he had indeed wanted to end it with Verity, she was sorry for contacting him, and wished him well for the future.
‘Well done,’ Wilby said after she’d read it and put it in the envelope. ‘I’ll pop out and post it in a minute, and then we just have to wait.’
With his new identity card in his pocket in the name of David Close, and his address as 14 Culverley Road, Catford, South East London, Archie arrived in Bristol. He had put down his occupation as being a surveyor, and he’d claimed to be fifty-five, three years older than he really was.
He’d had to pay twenty-five pounds for the card, which had left him a bit short, but he thought he could easily rectify that. As he recalled from his last visit to Bristol, there were some very nice houses on the other side of Clifton Down, and he was fairly sure some of the residents would have moved out to some funk hole for the duration of the war.
It was icy cold as he came out of Temple Meads Station. He had intended to catch a bus and book into one of the many boarding houses in Clifton. But the prospect of a chilly boarding house, and having to go out to get some supper, decided him. He hailed a taxi and asked to be taken to The Grand.
He had only been to the hotel once, long before Verity was born, and he’d liked the plush comfort of it so much he’d promised himself he’d come back.
It was something of a shock to see how badly Bristol had fared in the bombing raids, especially in the old part of the city, in Wine Street and High Street. There were many gaping holes where once there had been fine buildings. Living in London tended to make people feel they were the only ones affected by the war. But he was glad to see St Mary Redcliffe Church was still intact. Tomorrow he would take a walk around and see how the rest of the city had fared.
‘How long were you planning on staying with us, sir?’ The man behind the reception desk at The Grand in Broad Street looked at least sixty, with so much loose skin around his eyes it was astounding he could still see, and he was as skinny as a rasher of bacon.
‘I’m not sure, it depends on how my business goes here,’ Archie replied. ‘But at least four days, I imagine.’
He handed over his identity card, signed the register, and the reception clerk handed him a key. ‘Enjoy your stay with us, Mr Close, your room is 212 on the second floor. Your luggage will be brought up in a few minutes.’
‘No need for that,’ Archie said, picking up his suitcase. ‘I’ll take it with me.’
The room looked a little tired, but then that was the same everywhere since the war began. But it was warm, the bed felt soft, the heavy curtains were drawn, and it had its own washbasin. Pearl’s house had been cold, often chaotic and mucky, and there was never enough hot water. One of the things Archie dreamed of quite often was having a really deep, very hot bath. With the wartime restriction of two inches of water, a bath was no longer a pleasure, just a necessity.
As he put his clothes away he wondered how long it would be before they found Pearl’s body. He would have to find some way of changing his appearance, as no doubt a picture of him – or at least Stephen Lyle – would soon be plastered over every newspaper.
He lay down on the bed, suddenly feeling exhausted. As good as it felt to be in such a pleasant room, he knew he couldn’t really stay for more than a couple of days. He didn’t intend to pay for his stay anyway. He’d just pack a few things in a shopping bag and make off, leaving his suitcase and some clothes here to fool them into thinking he was coming back.
But changing his appearance was going to be tricky. A moustache and beard took too long to grow, and as he wore a trilby all the time there was no point in dying his hair. Maybe he could put a patch over one eye? People always noticed that and nothing else.
All at once he felt angry about his position, and once again he brought it back to Verity being to blame. ‘Why did she have to lie to me about meeting a friend?’ he thought bitterly. ‘Everything was alright back in Weardale Road, but she had to ruin it.’
He went down to the bar, sat on a stool and got very drunk because he’d had nothing to eat. He didn’t speak to anyone, not even the barmaid, just downed one brandy after another. He couldn’t understand why, when he’d arrived at the hotel feeling fine, had been delighted with his room and was looking forward to a nice supper, suddenly Verity had to pop into his head and spoil it.
‘I think you’ve had enough now, sir,’ the barmaid said when he asked for yet another brandy. ‘Why don’t you go up to your room now?’
The barmaid was around thirty, plain, with straight dark hair, thick-rimmed glasses and no breasts. He was about to tell her that The Grand must be desperate for staff if they employed someone as plain as her, but he stopped himself just in time. They would probably throw him out of the hotel, and might even call the police if he didn’t have enough money to pay his bill.
‘I’m sorry. I had some bad news today,’ he said, slurring his words. ‘No excuse, I suppose, but please accept my apologies.’
Archie woke the next morning with a thundering headache, and feeling anxious. He regretted being so impulsive as to book into The Grand. The staff in good hotels were trained to be observant; he’d known concierges who sensed what a guest wanted, be that female company, a game of cards or theatre tickets, just by looking at them.
He thought he ought to leave now, before anyone became suspicious of him or got his face firmly fixed in their mind.
Looking out of the window, he saw it was snowing. That made him even more anxious.
He got up, washed but didn’t shave, and dressed, putting on two pullovers, long john pants and two pairs of socks for extra warmth. He got some sheets of brown paper and a ball of string out of his suitcase, and began to make a parcel. He couldn’t put too much into it, just a spare pair of shoes, a couple of shirts and underwear. He looked at his tweed sports jacket and his cavalry twill trousers still hanging in the wardrobe and for a moment considered packing his suitcase with everything. But he knew that the risk he’d be taking in leaving the hotel with a suitcase was a huge one. However much it grieved him to leave most of his stuff here, it had to be done.
He tied the parcel up firmly with string. He had done this trick many times before, even a sharp-eyed concierge wouldn’t think a guest with a brown paper parcel under his arm was jumping ship without paying his bill.
All his papers and his toothbrush went into his briefcase, and he put the torch and penknife in the pockets of his overcoat. With his shaving gear left on the washbasin, and yesterday’s shirt slung over a chair, it didn’t look like he’d gone for good.
It was heavy going, taking the steep hill up to Clifton in the snow, but it looked as if the buses had stopped running. Archie cheered himself with the thought that cold weather was good for something: unoccupied houses had no smoke coming out of their chimneys.
He went into a chemist’s and bought an eye patch and a tin of sticking plasters. Not a perfect disguise by any means, but he hoped all anyone would remember about him was that he looked like he’d been in a bad accident.
Last time he’d come to Bristol and had walked from the centre up to the Downs, it had seemed just a short stroll, but then it had been in summer. It seemed endless this time, his face stinging with icy snowflakes, his shoes already leaking, and he had to stop every now and again to brush snow off his hat and tuck his parcel more securely under his arm.
He stopped at a cafe at the top of Whiteladies Road to get a hot drink and some breakfast, knowing there were no shops near the big houses on the other side of the Downs. A fried egg, fried bread and a very small portion of baked beans barely touched his sides, but at least the tea warmed him through.
A newspaper had been left on the table, and he read how German Field Marshal Paulus had surrendered to the Russians at Stalingrad. It was a good sign that the Germans could be defeated, but ironic that it was more to do with extreme cold than superior soldiery. Glancing out of the cafe wi
ndow at the driving snow, he could almost sympathize with the Germans. But the young, blonde girl behind the cafe counter made him think of Verity, and he felt a surge of anger that it was she who had brought him to this. No home, everything he owned in a brown paper parcel, and the police on his tail.
He was going to make her pay for this! He might as well get hung for a sheep as a lamb.
CHAPTER THIRTY
‘Psst! A letter has come!’
Ruby was just attempting to use her parallel bars when Wilby hissed at her from the hall.
‘Addressed to me or her?’ she whispered, guessing Verity was in the kitchen and could hear.
‘You. But I’ve hidden it for now.’
Ruby realized Wilby was taking this precaution because Verity might recognize Miller’s handwriting. And if the letter wasn’t what they hoped, she would just get upset for nothing.
‘Okay, later,’ she whispered back. ‘Now I’m going for six steps, turn, and six steps back. Possibly doing it twice,’ she added in a loud voice.
‘Bully for you,’ Wilby said. ‘Want me to stand and cheer?’
‘No, I don’t,’ Ruby said. ‘You put me off.’
Wilby went back into the kitchen with a couple of bills in her hand.
‘What were you two whispering about?’ Verity asked, looking up from the breakfast table.
‘I was just teasing her, she claims I shout at her for not exercising enough,’ Wilby said. ‘So I whispered.’
‘She seems to have bucked up a bit,’ Verity said. ‘Maybe the spring-like weather has helped?’
They’d had a lot of bad weather in February and early March, including some snow, unusually for the south coast. But for the last few days the sun had shone, making the crocuses in the garden open up at last and even some of the daffodils.
‘Yes, I do believe she is brighter,’ Wilby agreed. ‘Sunshine makes us all feel better.’
‘Well, I must get off to work,’ Verity said, getting to her feet. ‘Shall I go up and wake the boys first?’
‘Don’t worry, I’m going up there now anyway. If I don’t bully them, they’ll forget to wash.’
Verity smiled, getting the boys to wash and clean their teeth was an ongoing battle. ‘I’m working down in Plymouth today, so I might be late back this evening.’
Wilby went to the door with her, and watched her wheel her bicycle out of the garden, then leap on to it in the road, turning her head just briefly to wave. She looked so pretty; she’d plaited her blonde hair and wound the plaits around her head like a crown. With a bright pink scarf tied around her neck, even the threadbare old coat she wore for work looked good.
Wilby scuttled back indoors, snatching up the letter from its hiding place under some papers in the hall. ‘Right,’ she said as she rushed back into the dining room to see Ruby.
Ruby was standing by the bed, wearing a smile of triumph. ‘I did both ways, twice,’ she said. ‘Just wondering if I can manage a third.’
‘That’s absolutely wonderful, but you mustn’t exhaust yourself,’ Wilby said, handing over the letter. ‘Now sit down and read this letter to me.’
Ruby lowered herself gingerly into an armchair. ‘I hope you are prepared for disappointment,’ she cautioned, playing with the envelope in her hand. ‘I think if it was good news he’d have written back by return. It’s been nearly four weeks.’
‘That’s true. But he’s a good-mannered lad to write anyway.’
Ruby smiled. Wilby set great store by good manners.
She opened the envelope, pulled out the single page and began to read.
Dear Miss Taylor,
I was very surprised to get your letter, in fact so much so I found it hard to think about anything else for several days, and the delay in replying is partly that, and also because it’s a very busy time felling trees at the moment.
Verity often talked about you, I knew she was very saddened by you becoming estranged. So I am very glad you are friends again now, but was very shocked to hear how and why this came about.
I can’t even begin to tell you how horrified I was to hear Verity was badly treated by her stepfather. I did know he was something of a rascal, and he had, after all, left Verity and her mother in financial difficulties, but I had thought he was her real father. Perhaps I was mistaken about that?
To backtrack, yes, your assumptions/suspicions are correct. Mr Wood did write to me, and told me that Verity had met another man, and indeed was expecting his baby and planning to marry as soon as it could be arranged. Whatever I’d heard about him from Verity, he did sound absolutely genuine, a caring father who was trying to sort out a mess without anyone getting hurt even more.
I didn’t consider for one moment that it might not be true, and his request that I let Verity off the hook gently seemed so very thoughtful. He said she was sick with worry about admitting the truth to me, she thought I would be devastated. As I was, of course. Yet we all know now that this war has thrown all kinds of problems at people. So how could I judge Verity for not waiting for me, when I’d never even admitted I loved her?
So the upshot was I wrote to her, doing just what her stepfather asked, even though it hurt to make out I had another girl. Verity was, and still is, the only girl for me …
Wilby’s sharp intake of breath made Ruby break off and look at the older woman. Tears were cascading down her cheeks.
‘Don’t cry, Wilby,’ she said. ‘Everything will be alright for them now.’
‘Will it?’ Wilby said. ‘That beast of a man is responsible for so much pain and humiliation. She may seem to be alright to us, but she learned to cover things up at a very early age.’
‘Maybe so, but I have every faith in her self-healing powers,’ Ruby said staunchly. ‘Now am I going to finish reading this letter?’
‘Yes, go on,’ Wilby sniffed, wiping her eyes on her apron.
Ruby read on.
So what do I do now? My heart tells me to get the next train down, but what if you are wrong and her feelings for me have died? I’d only cause her more embarrassment, wouldn’t I? I know if I’d been a real man I should have gone straight to her when I got Mr Wood’s letter to have it out with her, and been prepared to fight for her if necessary.
I need a couple of days to sort things at this end anyway. As I said at the start, we’re felling trees at the moment and I’m needed. So if it’s alright with you, please say nothing to Verity for the moment. I suppose the sensible thing is to write to her and leave her to decide if she wants to see me again. But I took the sensible option last time, and look how that turned out.
So if I decide to just come, I’ll telephone you or send a telegram when I’m about to board a train. I can’t thank you enough for intervening. And if all goes well, I shall be meeting both you and Wilby soon.
Yours with high hopes,
Miller
‘He sounds such a nice, sensitive lad,’ Wilby sniffed, still wiping her eyes on her apron. ‘Bevan is going to be upset, though!’
‘He’ll be fine,’ Ruby said. ‘I think he’s always known Verity was only ever going to be a friend. Now what do we do? It’s going to be torturous waiting until Miller appears.’
‘You can practise walking,’ Wilby said with a smile. ‘If I could see Verity happy in love and you walking again, I would be one happy lady.’
While Wilby and Ruby were talking about happiness, Archie was seething with resentment at being cold, hungry, penniless and wanted by the police. His luck had left him as he arrived in Bristol. It seemed no one had left their homes here to stay somewhere safer.
He had prowled the area beyond Bristol’s Downs, up and down every wide avenue of gracious-living detached houses, and it seemed all of them were full of people. Some, it seemed, had been requisitioned by the government for civilians involved in war work, because he noted domestic help going in early in the mornings and coming out at dusk. If it wasn’t for the blackout, he had no doubt he’d see people dancing in drawing rooms, warming their
backsides at roaring fires, and lounging in well-stocked libraries.
He had found a semi-derelict house, boarded up, but he’d had to resort to sleeping in the garden shed for one night, because he had no tools to prise off a board and get inside. It was so cold that night, he thought he would freeze to death. The next day he managed to get into the house, but there were no pleasant surprises for him there. A mattress on a bed was a nest for hundreds of mice. He just touched it and dozens ran out; it stank and was wet with their urine. He couldn’t light a fire, because the smoke would give him away, and although he did find some old blankets in a tin trunk that the mice hadn’t managed to get into, this didn’t cheer him because he was too hungry to sleep.
With only the suit he stood up in, and nowhere to bathe, wash his shirts or underwear, he knew that before long his neglected appearance would make people suspicious of him. Each morning he walked to the library to warm himself up in the reading room, and so far he hadn’t seen anything about Pearl’s murder in any of the national newspapers.
Yet he couldn’t be complacent; it didn’t mean her body hadn’t been found. With the paper shortage, newspapers concentrated on big stories, and while the Eighth Army had captured Tripoli and the RAF were bombing Berlin in daytime, a woman’s body in a cellar in Ipswich wasn’t that newsworthy.
Yet for all he knew every police station in England could have been alerted about Stephen Lyle; they possibly knew now that was an alias, and he was really Archie Wood. Furthermore, the manager at The Grand had almost certainly reported to the police that a guest called David Close had disappeared without paying his bill. The police would immediately have asked for a description, and so it was possible, even probable, that the hunt for him was centred on Bristol now. Even with his eye patch and the newly grown beard and moustache he knew a sharp-eyed detective would see through the disguise.