Before All Else Page 19

  Of course, there is so much she wants to ask Amelia. Curiosity burns dyspeptically inside her. What is the significance of the overstuffed rucksack? Where is Enzo? Does Amelia plan to stay? Is this a stopping-off place before her next adventure? Is she hurt? Heart-broken? Does she have news of some import to tell? All will have to wait.

  It is strange having Amelia in the house, even though she is virtually motionless, soundless. It feels like a pressing weight, an unaccustomed responsibility, as if Cecily herself is bound to the same lack of movement and voice as Melly.

  It is a time for waiting, standing at windows, staring out.

  The Village

  With just over a week to go to the summer fair, the village has an air of self-important bustle. Perhaps spurred on by the rippling media interest in the recently discovered sunken chapel and the by now maniacal excitement of Chris Eveans, a Bunting Committee had been formed. The boy scouts had leafleted every household in the village notifying everyone of the Twenty-Four-Hour Bun-ting-a-ling taking place in the Scout Hut from Friday night to Saturday night. Everyone was invited to bring sewing materials, cardboard, string, scissors, strong coffee.

  Bleary-eyed and pricked-about, a handful of stalwarts emerge from the hut at the end of the day and night-long stint. “Five kilometres of bunting” chirrups the Facebook page, together with pictures of the sewing bee looked on by groups of bemused-looking families each holding garishly coloured tubs of ice cream in their hands.

  Cecily watches from her window as three men in a hired cherry picker move from lamppost to lamppost festooning the street at height with zigzags of fluttering triangles. Ben unfurls ropes of the stuff from black plastic bags placed at intervals along the pavement.

  “Jesus Christ. Be careful,” Cecily shouts onto the window pane as Ned’s van comes careering down the street, narrowly avoiding a large lady in a little white Fiat pulling out of the car park opposite the deli. Ned swerves and ricochets down the street exploding a black bin bag with the wheel of his van. A multi-coloured bundle of bunting quickly whips itself up into the underside of the rear mud guard and lodges there. Ben runs down the road for a short distance, shouting, “Mr Gallagher. Mr Gallagher!” The van is soon out of sight.

  Ned

  “Oh for Christ’s sake! Get out of the way you stupid bloody woman!” Ned lifts his hand to strike the horn but feels the van buck and shimmy so quickly grabs the steering wheel again. Cretinous Sunday drivers in their little white pudding basins should bloody well look before they pull out.

  He is getting too old to go chasing round the countryside; one day, one day, one day he’ll call her bluff and just let her get on with it.

  She’d barely spoken to him since that evening with the kitten and the photo and the hellish accusations. To his shame, he’d coloured up as soon as she showed him the picture on the screen with him and Ben’s mum, their hands interlocked behind Ben. But there was nothing to be guilty about. It was the force of Mandy’s anger and certainty that had made his blood rise. They’d stood either side of the boy, a proud mum and a benevolent mentor; that’s all they were. Ben’s mum was a fantastic lady who worked all hours to give her son a decent upbringing. Where did Mandy get off making false accusations and stirring up trouble?

  He’d thought about having a quiet word with somebody to get that photo taken down. But to do so would be tantamount to admitting there was something to feel ashamed about. And it would mean a whole lot of explanation about something that was delicate and, actually, nobody’s business. He didn’t want it known to all and sundry that his wife had a bit of a jealousy issue. He was just grateful that she hadn’t posted any spiteful comments.

  The note on the table this morning told him that she had gone round to ‘sort that woman out’. He couldn’t let Mandy do that to her. “Bitch. Bitch. Why can’t you just be fucking normal?” He bangs the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. The faster you want to go, the longer it takes.

  He turns into the familiar street. No sign of anyone. So what if he has got it wrong? What will Bernadette say if he rocks up at the house and, as far as she’s concerned, it is just like any other ordinary day? He’d be a fool. And he’d probably expose himself for being the lovestruck fool that he now, truly, knows himself to be.

  But what if Mandy’s threats are real? What if she is about to say some of the things that she’d mouthed off at home? Doesn’t bear thinking about.

  Ben’s mum comes to the door. Her face is pale. He wants to smooth out the two parallel frown lines with his thumb. “Come in. Mandy’s here.” His heart sinks. He tries to grab her arm as she walks down the hallway, to stop her, to wordlessly apologise, but she is out of reach.

  “Darling!” Ned cringes. Mandy waggles her phone. “I knew you’d come. I so need a lift. Thank you for the cup of tea, Mrs Nolan. So lovely to meet you. Ned’s so pleased with Ben. Talks of little else.”

  A buzzing goes off in Ned’s head. This is all so false, so bloody false.

  “Come on. Let’s go.” Mandy offers her hand, which Ned grabs, lifting her brusquely off the chair and pushing her, her hand at an awkward angle behind her, down the hallway and into the van. He hears the front door close quietly behind them. Mandy slides into the cab. As he walks round the back, he notices a pile of grimy, oily rags caught under the back wheel. He tries to work it free, but it is wound fast round the axle. Sod it. He’ll sort it out later.

  Mandy is po-faced all the way home. It was either going to be that or a ranting tirade. He prefers the silence. Even before the van stops, she slides out of the passenger side and, leaving the door open, disappears into the house. He should go into the house to hear her out. A long trail of what looks like kite string has unfurled itself from the rear of the van. Little triangles of oily, grimy fabric lift and flutter inches off the road. What kind of a fucking joke is this? He just wants to cry.

  Cecily

  Marcus emerges from the alleyway. He has bundles of papers and appears to be heading her way. She ducks out of sight for to be seen standing idly at a window would admit to being listless, feckless. Which was a bit daft, because wasn’t that what windows were for? But she has no wish to start a teleological discussion with herself or to appear anything other than purposeful and in command. Besides, he might think she was watching out for him, especially after he failed to turn up yesterday, and that definitely wouldn’t do.

  Cecily’s view of Marcus is suddenly blocked by a vehicle bumping up on the kerb directly outside the window. It pops and spews as the driver turns off the ignition. The mud sprays and the decals could only mean one person. Tilly. She should have phoned Tilly to tell her of Amelia’s arrival. Of course she was going to, but was there any point before Amelia woke up? So, is Tilly here on a completely spontaneous visit, or does she know? It might look like she had been hoarding Amelia for the last twenty-four hours, keeping her to herself, excluding Tilly. Which, of course, wasn’t her plan at all. Was it?

  Tilly bounds up the steps, coming to a juddering halt at the front door, immutably closed and locked in front of her. “Just a minute,” Cecily calls from inside.

  “Sorry. Old habits. Just expect it to be open. Hope you don’t think I was barging in.”

  “Not at all.” The sisters hug briefly in the lobby.

  Tilly is electric with excitement. “Where is she?”

  She obviously knows of Amelia’s arrival.

  Cecily tamps down her first thought – how did she know? – and speaks while drawing Tilly down the hall. “She’s still asleep. Looked in on her a few minutes ago. She’s absolutely flat out. Drank a cup of tea, that’s all, since she got here yesterday. Was going to call you, obviously, but thought it was best to wait till she woke up. No idea she’d sleep for this long.”

  “Come on. Let’s go and wake her up.”

  Cecily’s slower canter up the stairs behind Tilly is halted by a knock on the front doo
r. “You go. I’ll see who this is.”

  She turns carefully on the stairs and makes her way down the hallway again. The sound of excited shrieks ricochet off the hard surfaces above her. Tilly had obviously just bounded into Amelia’s room. Was that what Amelia was waiting for? Why couldn’t Cecily have done that?

  Marcus is standing on the threshold, also evidently jerked by some inner excitement. Cecily stands back as he bullets his way down the hallway, heading straight for the kitchen, talking as he goes. She follows him into the kitchen. Trueman, released from his confines, speeds past and up the stairs. She can hear the delight in the raised voices as the sisters invite him to ‘hup, hup’ onto the bed. She pictures the scene of chaos and joy upstairs. But where would she be in that little scenario? Jumping on the bed, or pulling the corners tidy? Squeezing herself into the middle of the harum scarum, or leaning against the door jamb? Even the blinking dog has deserted her, preferring the easy laughs upstairs to the quieter, studied, earnest feel of the kitchen.

  Marcus seems oblivious to it all. A feeling of almost overwhelming frustration wells up as she tunes into Marcus’s flow of words.

  “I’ve been following two very interesting strands of enquiry. One that you know about. The other that you possibly don’t, but which I think I should make you aware of.”

  Cecily turns her back on him to fill the kettle, working her jaw silently around the words ‘pompous ass’ over and over.

  “Are you alright?”

  “Yes, yes, fine.”

  “Only, it’s…I thought…”

  “No. No. Tea?”

  Marcus doesn’t reply but continues to spread papers from his briefcase over the table. She wants to shout at him, to tell him to have the grace to acknowledge a simple offer of tea. She knows that he obviously has very important things to tell her, things that he is proud of, that elevate him by their discovery, that reflect well on his skills of enquiry, that very possibly allow all the world to see, shining deep inside him, that single crystal of worth and value that makes his life entirely worthwhile – while she can only stand back and observe and offer the creative genius tea. Tea that, once proffered, gets ignored. Ignored. Ignored, while Tilly and Amelia upstairs tumble over each other, finger locks of each other’s hair, smile with radiance, laugh and chatter. Always on the edge. Always on the margins.

  “Oh dear, you seem to have broken a cup.” Marcus looks up briefly at Cecily standing with a raw-edged handle in her hand. “Anyway, as I was saying… Have you got company by the way?” Marcus’s head shoots up as he glances at the ceiling.

  “My sisters,” she tells him abruptly. She places a steaming cup on the table, holding hers gingerly by the rim in the absence of its handle. The other two can come and make tea when they are good and ready.

  “Right. Well. I hardly know where to begin. It’s all great stuff. As you know, I’ve been looking into the origins of our sunken hideout. And I think I’m getting close. But…” here Marcus nods slowly and portentously, “there…is…more.”

  Cecily puts her face to the steam. She feels droplets form on the tender skin beneath her eyes. The sharp scent of bergamot jags inside her nose. Closing her wet eyelashes, she urges herself to be nice, to play the role of palimpsest.

  “Oh. How wonderful. Do tell.”

  The mercury bubble inside her settles and she sits back to listen graciously and calmly to what he has to say.

  With a ringmaster’s flourish, Marcus places a photocopied newspaper cutting in front of her.

  “Why, that’s Major Welding.”

  Marcus looks gratified.

  Cecily peers closer at the photograph. A three-man head shot. Major Welding in the foreground, head slightly bent, eyes downcast. Flanking him and towering above him, two uniformed men. One, stern-faced, insignia above the peak of his baseball cap, seems to sweep the view to the left. The other, eyes obscured by sunglasses, looks straight to camera, out of focus save for the gold law-enforcement badge on his chest. The man in the middle, Welding, sparse grey hair swept back into coiffured curls on the crisp white collar of his shirt, would appear to be walking into an unknown future.

  “Read the headline, and the caption. That should give you the bones of the story.”

  Cecily reads them out loud. “Stop! Police!” She glances up at Marcus, disbelieving her eyes. Marcus nods to her to continue. “Bernard Gorman – scapegoat or genuine investor?”

  “I shall read you the first paragraph.” Cecily hands back the page. “Within the closed world of high finance, it is rare for a global investor to be pushed out into the cold. However, these are extraordinary times. Bernard Gorman, director of one of the sixty or so failed financial institutions to be found in the landlocked republican enclave of Northern Italy, claims that he is being made a scapegoat following investigations by Bank Italia.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “Well, it seems that our Major Welding has been somewhat of a naughty boy when it comes to paying his taxes and those of his old boy network. It’s a bit of a long and complicated story, which I won’t bore you with, but it goes something like this.”

  As Marcus pauses for wind, Cecily fights a rush of rising pique at the suggestion she would be easily bored or uncomprehending. She also listens for signs of life upstairs. All is quiet, except for the sound of Trueman bumping his way down the stairs. Letting out air as he positions himself under Cecily’s seat, she feels inordinately grateful to the hound for returning to her after his brief, disloyal foray upstairs.

  “It seems our man, on leaving the army, gets himself voted onto the board of various financial institutions in both France and Switzerland where he introduces certain of his associates to the joys of offshore investments. By a process of creep and gravity, funds make their way to a certain banking house in San Marino. Gorman, as he’s known, sidles these funds into high-earning, non-tax-paying accounts set up in fictitious names. Nobody’s too bothered. Nobody asks too many embarrassing questions. Dividends are good. Tax liability minimal to zero. He’s everyone’s friend.

  “Then comes the perfect storm. Along with the global crash in credit, a certain whistle-blower in Switzerland and the Italian government undergoing una crisi di coscienza, Gorman’s name pops up on a top secret list that gets circulated by confidential degrees around Europe. This list, by the way, has well over twenty thousand names on it. It’s perhaps just a bit unfortunate that Gorman’s is the one that catches someone’s eye.

  “He fits the bill perfectly. He’s not a major player. He has no direct links with the Mexican drug cartels, the quartermasters to various Russian separatist outfits, who benefit the most from the no-questions-asked loans and other financial services offered by Gorman’s company. So, there will be little come-back if the authorities make an example of him and hang him out to dry in public view. He gets escorted to the international airport by members of the Polizia Civile and the Guardia di Rocca in the full glare of the world’s media and told never to darken the financial fortress again.

  “Now, happily, everyone can say they take very seriously the task of combatting money laundering and tax evasion – witness his extradition – while they quietly get on with what they’re good at – running funds through intermediary companies at multiple levels to wash any stain off the filthy lucre. Gorman’s safe, happy again, as there is no fear that the UK tax authority has any intention of prosecuting any of its citizens named on the whistleblower’s list.

  “Gorman returns to the UK, a bit battered and bruised. Vows never to mix in the world of high finance again and picks up the life of a Suffolk gent.”

  “Well, well, well.” Trueman is moved to lift his head off the kitchen floor and wag his tail to the rhythm of Cecily’s astonishment. “Are we sure it’s Major Welding though? The bit you’ve just told me concerns somebody with a different name entirely.”

  “Totally sure. We’ve got the pict
ure here. There’s no doubting this is our Major Welding. So I did a bit more digging around and found that the Welding family have quite a presence in this county, and not all of it quite laudatory. He adopted the name ‘Gorman’ from a distant aunt on his mother’s side while playing the money game. When that didn’t work out, he took his CV off in a different direction, reverting back to his post-Army persona.”

  Cecily sits for a moment to take it all in. The upstairs loo flushes.

  “As Major Welding, he moves into Haughton Hall, no doubt financed by a certain amount of hush money from his cronies. No one would be any the wiser, except that he happens to own the Town Field and a compulsive hankering for the limelight.”

  “I see.” She can hear Amelia and Tilly come down the stairs, one’s footfall a regular beat, the other’s irregular. They appear at the kitchen door; Amelia has her arm round Tilly’s shoulder. Just like when Tilly broke her leg at gymkhana and hobbled round the house for six weeks with a pot on her leg and the temper of an irascible bear. Cecily remembers having to blank out with felt-tip pen what Mother would call ‘unsavoury comments’ written by Tilly’s classmates before they came to the attention of any grown-up.