The Last Perfect Summer of Richard Dawlish Page 3

  Chapter Three

  IT TOOK DOTTIE ALMOST no time to pack, and soon she was at the railway station and waiting for the train to Scarborough. How she wished—not for the first time—that she could drive. It would be so convenient to bundle everything into a car and leave immediately, instead of all this hanging around and waiting for the train. As soon as she got back to London, she must insist on George teaching her.

  She bought a newspaper from a young boy on the platform, the train journey was a little over an hour, and she had no book to read, and no wish to be drawn into conversation with any of the elderly ladies waiting on the platform.

  The train left on time, and she opened her newspaper, reading it carefully from front to middle, then skipping over the sport and financial news without interest. The small section on page four under the heading of Lower Bar, Scotland caught her eye. She read:

  ‘Police investigating the death of local laird, Howard Denholme, late of Lower Bar, urgently want to speak to a young man named locally as William Hardy. Mr Hardy has not been seen in the area for two or three days, and is believed to be accompanied, either willingly or unwillingly by Mrs Anna McHugh the wife of a local publican. If anyone knows of the whereabouts of either party, or has any other information to offer, they should contact the authorities immediately. When asked about the presence of a detective from Scotland Yard, the procurator fiscal said the officer had been operating in an advisory capacity only, and had since returned to London.’

  With a sigh, Dottie folded the newspaper and set it aside. She hoped William... She groaned, annoyed with herself for keep slipping over his name. Inspector Hardy. She hoped Inspector Hardy would be able to solve that case very quickly, so that his half-brother could be exonerated and would be able to settle down with his lover, Anna McHugh. Because whilst the local police, aided by the procurator fiscal, no doubt anxious to cover his own part in the crime, wasted their time searching for the other William Hardy, the real perpetrators were going unpunished. Dottie hated to think that Will Hardy, local rogue and wife-snaffling scoundrel, might be arrested and charged with a crime he didn’t commit. Especially such a serious crime as murder.

  She sat lost in her own thoughts for a while. The motion of the train lulled her mind, and soon her thoughts returned to London and all that was waiting for her return: her parents, her home, her sister and brother-in-law, and soon, their first child would be born and she would be an aunt, and she would take care to be the fun sort of aunt who took pleasure in spending time with their niece. Or nephew. She wouldn’t be the kind of aunt who didn’t understand anything about life and all the latest things, or was only interested in ensuring the child did their school work.

  And, increasingly persistent, increasingly forcing itself into her consciousness, was the newly-inherited fashion warehouse, Carmichael and Jennings, Exclusive Modes, and all those women who depended on it for their living. If only it wasn’t hers, she suddenly thought. If only Mrs Carmichael was still alive, and would go on living for years and years, and would have time to teach Dottie everything she knew, so that when Mrs C did finally pass away, she, Dottie could step up and run the business properly, and everyone who worked there would prosper. It was her greatest fear that she would, through lack of experience, run the thing into the ground within months or even weeks, and all the mannequins and dressmakers would be unemployed. If it was a tremendous honour to receive Mrs C’s bequest, it was also terrifyingly onerous for her, a young woman—a mere girl really—of just twenty years old. She couldn’t afford too long a delay here: she had to be back in town to take up the reins and ensure the transfer of the business went as smoothly as possible. Too many people depended on her for their livelihood. But her only experience was as a mannequin. What if she had no head for the business side of fashion? What if she was a failure?

  And yet this, this impulsive quest to find George’s sister, seemed so pressing, so important. In one way, she could quite see it was really none of her business, but at the same time, she knew Diana, and counted her as a friend—kind of—and she couldn’t bear to think of her shoved off somewhere out of the way, feeling the disgrace of her illegitimate pregnancy, the anxiety of childbirth ahead of her. Surely all first-time mothers felt that fear? And then to be followed almost immediately by the wrenching misery of separation from her child. To go through all that alone—well, not quite alone, but with just her old nanny for company and support...

  No. Thinking it through again, Dottie felt sure she was doing the right thing. She felt a kind of sisterly solidarity with Diana. After all, there but for the grace of God... Dottie had been tempted more than once to throw convention to the wind and spend the night with William. Who knew what might have happened if she had? If he had asked her to stay, begged her, kissed her just once more. What might have happened had she found herself in Diana’s predicament? Men could afford to have affairs, and everyone thought it was acceptable, even laudable. There was no shame, no guilt, no disgust for a man’s behaviour. Jokes were made, elbows nudged knowingly, eyebrows raised. Other men envied them; women found them virile and desirable.

  But what of the women these men left trailing in their wake? What was their lot? Even in this modern era, Dottie thought, women were expected to remain spotless until marriage, beyond reproach. It was decidedly Victorian, but decidedly real. A woman who had affairs, unless of course she was a successful actress, or a Bohemian, was despised by all. God forbid she should have a child too; her reputation, even nowadays, would never recover from the shame of her guilt.

  The sun shone in at the window. There was no sign of the sea, the coast was still a little way off, but a refreshing breeze came into the carriage where a gentleman a few seats away had let down the glass. The breeze ruffled Dottie’s hair and soothed her skin. She dozed, her hands neatly folded in her lap, her hat and overnight bag on the seat beside her.

  When she woke a short while later to find herself almost in Scarborough, she felt relaxed and calm. She would find Diana, relieve her own mind that Diana was all right, and hopefully assure her of any help should she need it. At this point Dottie faltered somewhat—what could she actually do? Anyway... she left that on one side... then she would return to London and bury herself in her new role at the warehouse: it was the beginning of June, and she would have to start thinking about the Spring range for the following year. William Hardy would be forgotten. After all, just how often did one cross paths with the police? Once in a blue moon? Yes, he would soon be forgotten, and eventually perhaps, her heart would mend.

  The Station Hotel was full. Then it was borne in on Dottie that she had come to the seaside, so why not go down to the promenade and look for a nice hotel there. Here too, many hotels were rather full, but there was an attractive one called The Grand Hotel. It had a charming-looking glass sunroom at the front that faced the prom. Beside the front door, gleaming in the sunshine and well-polished, hung a discreet sign stating, Vacancies. It all looked beautifully clean and comfortable, and very expensive. Dottie went inside to enquire.

  They had a number of rooms available, the clerk told her, and she opted for a room with a sea view. A price was agreed, and the clerk slowly wrote her details on a form. Dottie wondered how it was possible to write so slowly and not accumulate a queue as long as the one at the butcher’s. As she waited she caught sight of a tall, fair-haired man, and for the second time in as many days, her heart did something painful in her chest as for the briefest of moments, she thought... was almost convinced... He was with a woman who was busily saying, in a pettish voice, ‘For goodness’ sake, Gerry, you’ve had your policeman’s head on the whole time we’ve been here. We’re supposed to be on holiday!’

  Another tall, fair policeman! Dottie turned away, gripping the edge of the desk with white-knuckled fingers. At last the clerk gave her the form to sign, and she was free to go upstairs to her room, hurrying in the wake of the fast-walking adolescent who carried her bags.

  She had a wash to refresh h
erself after the journey, changed her clothes then set off for Seaview Terrace following another brief consultation with the elderly man behind the desk. Mercifully there was no sign of the tall, fair-haired man.

  Scarborough was in the grip of the new summer tourist season, and there were holidaymakers everywhere, in various states of casual attire, or sporting embarrassing sunhats and carrying beach towels or buckets and spades. Dottie was the only one there in normal clothes seemingly, and with a mission other than pure enjoyment. She pushed through the crowds all heading for the sandy beach, and made her way into the town, to one of the winding streets that ran uphill above the resort.

  Seaview Terrace was just what Dottie had imagined: perched precariously on the cliff top, with one side of the street rising higher than the other, and here and there between the small homes and guest houses cramped there, a dazzling flash of bright sunshine and the blue sparkling ocean.

  Number 71 had a weed-covered set of stone steps going up to the tall narrow entrance of a tall narrow house. The paint was chipped, the windows grimy, the lace curtains at the windows yellowish-brown with cigarette smoke and years of dust and dirt. Comparing it with the Gascoigne’s family residence, a huge, ancient home set within acres and acres of park, Dottie couldn’t help but feel uneasy about Diana being confined here.

  Dottie found that the door knocker had broken off, so she rapped with her knuckles and stepped back to await an answer. After a full minute, the door was opened by a grubby teenage girl with a cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth.

  ‘What d’you want?’ She looked Dottie up and down with a frown. ‘You ain’t collecting for the church?’

  Dottie said no, she wasn’t collecting for anyone, and added that she was trying to find Miss Diana Gascoigne. ‘I understand Mrs Bessie Brown lives here and I believe Miss Gascoigne is visiting her?’

  The girl stepped back, and with a shrug said, ‘See for yerself.’

  Dottie squeezed past her in the narrow hallway. The girl shoved the door shut with a loud bang, pushed open a door on the right, then continued down the corridor to a room at the back of the house.

  Not quite sure what to do, Dottie peeked into the room on the right. By convention it should have been the front parlour, but it had been turned into a bed-sitting room. A small narrow bed was placed in one corner, with a commode-chair beside it.

  By the grubby window Dottie had seen from outside, sat an elderly woman, rocking gently in a rocking-chair and gazing out at the world, though whether she saw what was before her or not, Dottie wasn’t able to tell.

  ‘Nanny Brown?’ Dottie asked tentatively. The old woman turned her head to fix Dottie with faded blue eyes.

  ‘I’m Bessie, I am,’ she said, sounding like a small child, in spite of her harsh worn-out voice. ‘I want my dinner. When’s my dinner coming?’ A trickle of saliva ran from the old woman’s chin onto the front of her house dress, like a thread from a spider’s web, and the dress bore the evidence of other meals already eaten.

  The sound of a step behind her made Dottie turn. A woman of about forty stood there. She looked flustered.

  ‘You’re not from the church? Or the welfare?’ she queried anxiously.

  ‘No, not at all, I...’

  ‘My daughter said something about a Miss Gascoigne. Auntie Bessie was with the Gascoignes for many years.’

  ‘Yes, so I understand. I’ve heard that Miss Diana Gascoigne was staying with Nanny Brown to recover from an illness?’ and in Dottie’s mind, she heard William’s words from the train—was it really only two days ago? I’m not sure we could still consider pregnancy an illness in this day and age. Those few simple words had brought Dottie’s world crashing down. She bit her lip and forced the memory away, made herself attend to the woman in front of her.

  ‘No one’s staying here,’ she said. ‘We’re not able to take anyone. It takes all my time to see to Auntie and get the meals and everything.’

  Dottie hesitated. How much should she say? Diana would hardly want her situation to become widely known. But the woman, glancing over her shoulder as if there were eavesdroppers lurking nearby, lowered her voice and said, ‘Look, you won’t tell anyone, will you? Only she’s no trouble really, poor old dear, and I couldn’t have her locked up in one of those institutes, she was so good to me after my husband upped and left, and with what they do to them in there—why, it’s in the Sunday Express every week about the awful things what goes on in them places. She’s a bit doolally, but she’s no danger to anyone, she’s like a little child. I-I couldn’t bear it if they took her away and locked her up in one of them places.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Dottie said, ‘I wouldn’t dream of saying a word. And I don’t want to give you any trouble. Only it’s a bit odd. We were told quite definitely that Miss Diana Gascoigne was staying with her old nanny. If she’s not here, I’m not quite sure what I’m going to do.’

  The woman thought a moment, then said, ‘There was a young woman, well-to-do like yourself, but it was a couple of months ago. A young widow, a Mrs Dunne, she said her name was. In the family way. Could that be her?’

  Relief flooded Dottie. ‘Oh yes! That would be her.’

  ‘Well I directed her to my cousin’s hotel down on the seafront. Whether she’s still there or not, if she ever went there, I couldn’t tell you, as I don’t speak to my cousin, not since... Well, never mind. It’s called the Claremont Hotel and it’s the last building on the prom. You can’t miss it, it’s painted bright pink. That’s all I can really tell you.’

  Dottie thanked her and said goodbye. Another long tramp—at least this time it was downhill—brought her back to the road that ran along the promenade. It was now mid-afternoon and Dottie had eaten nothing since breakfast-time. She ignored the rumbling of her stomach, promising herself a good dinner. She could see the little pink hotel at the far end for twenty minutes before she actually reached it, and what appeared from a distance to be an ordinary low-cost seaside hotel, proved at close quarters to be a crumbling ruin of a place, as filthy and unkempt as the house on the cliff where Nanny Brown was living out her days waiting for her dinner.

  Dottie stepped up to the front door—which mercifully did still have a knocker—and as she let it fall, once, twice, she watched the flimsy door tremble under the weight of it. She suddenly realised she had no idea what she was going to say to Diana when she saw her, nor did she even have any idea whether Diana would welcome her arrival or If she would see it as an unforgiveable intrusion. What if she was furious with Dottie for discovering her shameful secret? Dottie began to think she shouldn’t have come, but it was too late now. She took a few calming breaths.

  The door was opened by a thin young woman in an overall. She bore such a strong resemblance to the woman at Seaview Terrace that Dottie knew this had to be the cousin.

  ‘Ah Madam, come this way, do. A room? With a sea view and huse of a bathroom, of course...’ the woman was already heading back inside, and her toothy smile beneath the cold eyes, coupled with the ingratiating, false voice grated on Dottie’s already frayed nerves.

  Dottie stepped into the long, narrow hallway but remained by the door. The woman, some six or seven yards ahead, turned and looked at her in surprise.

  ‘I’m not here for a room, I’m afraid, I’m here to see Mrs Dunne,’ Dottie told her.

  ‘Mrs...? I shall have to see if that lady his staying with us. One moment, hif you please.’ The woman ducked behind a miniscule counter slotted under the arch of the stairs. It was dark here; there was no bulb in the fitting that hung from the ceiling. As she waited, Dottie looked around her. The stair carpet was threadbare in places; there was thick dust on the window sills, skirting and stair rails. A huge cobweb was attached to the back of the front door like a hinge, sticking it to the wall. A fat spider sat in the middle of the web, busily rolling up a fly, still kicking, in its sticky threads. Dottie gave an inner shudder, and coming up to the counter, said, ‘Your cousin at Seaview Terrace directed
Mrs Dunne here, but that was more than two months ago. She may have moved on by now,’ she added, mentally adding, I hope she’s moved on by now.

  The woman’s eyes held a knowing look. Her obsequious manner vanished, her smile dropped as quickly as her aitches. ‘She owes me two months’ money, just so’s you know. Oh, she’s still ‘ere all right. Where would she go, the state she’s in? I’ve threatened her with the police. So genteel, but what good is that when you’ve not got sixpence to your name? And I’m not running a charity. I’ve got my business to think of. She’s got a little room at the back. Almost her time to drop I’d say, but I’ve told her straight several times, she ain’t having her little bastard here, bringing down my reputation. I run a decent place, and I don’t want her kind under my roof. Coming here, pretending she’s a young widow! Hah! Some posh boy’s cast-off, that’s all she is.’

  ‘Just tell me where to find her,’ Dottie snapped.

  ‘You pay me, and I’ll take you up.’ She held out a hand, clicking her fingers impatiently. ‘Money or the police, you take your pick.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Dottie said. Then, ‘How much are you owed?’

  The woman thought a moment, all too clearly sizing up Dottie’s worth. ‘Fifty pounds.’

  ‘Fifty!’ Dottie glared at her, the grasping hand still outstretched.

  ‘Fifty pounds,’ the woman repeated. She set her jaw. ‘And not a penny less. Or the cops. It’s your choice.’

  ‘I don’t have anything like that amount on me. Very well, I’ll get it for you and bring it with me tomorrow.’

  ‘I could take some on account.’

  ‘I don’t have any money on me,’ Dottie said. There was no chance of her handing over her last few pounds in cash. ‘You’ll have to wait; another day won’t make much difference, will it?’