always in here.’ Lily was digging away in the back of the cupboard. She sat back on her heels, digging away like a little animal. ‘What upsets her is he didn’t leave her for anyone else … He moved out to a place in Wapping and is growing his hair long and wearing a white smock, I saw him the other day when he came back to get some money out of her.’ A roll of lavatory paper arrived at Gabriel’s feet. ‘Here. Look … I didn’t touch it, I wanted a witness.’
So that’s what I am, thought Gabriel, I’m a witness.
‘You’ll have to get down.’
Gabriel obligingly crouched on her knees to look inside the cupboard.
‘Right at the back …’
Nervously Gabriel put her head in the cupboard, wondering what she was going to find. Nothing dead?
‘I found it when I was looking for fresh soap.’
Not true, thought Gabriel at once, you were looking.
At the back of the cupboard she saw a small bundle of crumpled cloth. It had once been white but was now discoloured. Nor did she believe that Lily had left it untouched. To her it looked as though it had been screwed up in a tighter ball: you could see the stained folds.
‘So what is it?’
Lily hardly bothered to hide that she had had a closer look. ‘I think it’s Ephraim’s pants. His cotton underpants.’
‘Oh, Lily, you can’t know. Just an old rag used for cleaning the floor.’
‘Rubbish. I’m going to get it out. You watch, and remember what you see.’
She drew out the bundle and slowly opened it out. It might once have been a boy’s underpants, or part of them. It was no longer a complete anything. And very stained with some dark stuff.
‘It’s a rag, just a rag.’ Gabriel looked at Lily. ‘Truly, it could be anything. Just a bit of cloth for cleaning the floor.’
She knew she wasn’t going to carry conviction, she read the determination in Lily’s face.
‘No, it’s his, and that’s blood.’ Lily pointed to the stains, blotchy and thunderous. ‘Blood that someone has tried to wash out and failed.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And look at the bottom of the cupboard.’
‘Yes,’ said Gabriel thoughtfully. Where the bundle had rested was an area of stained board that seemed to take its shape from what had sat on it. In an uncertain voice, she said, ‘If you’re really worried you’d better tell the police.’
Lily gave her a brilliant smile. ‘Something else to do first.’
Rose was sitting at her desk. She had been crying, the gossips were quite right, the shock of what had happened to her had been considerable. She did not know why her son had the other lad’s red boots in his sports bag, but she accepted his story that he had not put them there. Hard, though, to believe there was not more to the story than he was telling. She could sense trouble hanging over him. He was not telling everything. No doubt the police felt the same way, but they had kept his bag and let Steve himself depart.
When they got home he had gone straight up to his room and closed the door. She heard the lock turn. No more talking between them.
Later she carried up a tray of food and knocked on his door. ‘I’ve brought you your supper, Steve … Made your favourite scrambled eggs on fried bread. Then some apple tart with cream.’ One constant had remained between them until now: she had known what he liked to eat and had laboured to produce it. ‘Come on now, open up. You know you must be hungry.’
Silence and silence again. Perhaps if we had a telephone each we could talk, she thought with a bitter humour.
In the end she left the tray outside his room and went to bed. It was gone in the morning and the plate and knife and fork washed up and put away.
While she was standing by the kitchen sink with a cup of black coffee, Steve came down the stairs dressed for school.
‘Don’t go to school.’ It wasn’t going to be easy for him. ‘Have the day at home. I’ll write a note or telephone … You can go tomorrow.’ Or even later; a week might not be too long to hide.
He shook his head, walked past her and out of the door. He was going to be very, very early for morning school, but apparently even that was better than staying in the house with her.
She put the coffee down and began to get herself ready for work, checking her make-up and patting her pocket for the car keys. Not there. Well, she’d had them last night so they couldn’t be far, but the spare keys hung on the rack in the kitchen and she could take those.
The spare keys were there all right, but not where she kept them. She was methodical about where different keys hung, priding herself on the routine. Now the spare car keys were hung on top of a set of house keys. Carelessly, casually.
The act had Steve’s signature all over it, almost as if he wanted her to see and know what he had done. What had he done? Had he taken the keys and played around with the car?
She replaced the keys where they should go. One of those nights, she thought, when I took a sleeping tablet. No, not the night, doesn’t even have to be the night. Early morning would do. No one around. Perhaps this very morning.
With tears pouring down her cheeks and shaking with misery and rage, she found her handbag and the other car keys. At least they were where she had left them.
She went back to her mug of coffee and stood at the sink, crying and drinking. The coffee was no longer hot, it wouldn’t do her any good. She needed to be done good to, she knew that they were both in terrible trouble.
Ever since he had been born she had loved her son. But apparently she had not been very good at showing it or he would have loved her back, which he could not do. Not and behave the way he did to her.
She did not look at her morning paper nor listen to the radio as she drove to work, so she did not learn the news about the body in Mouncy Street. Afterwards she realized that Steve could not have known either when he set out. Poor kid, poor kid. What had he walked into? What had she, for that matter?
She knew the police would be into the factory: there was that matter of the silk. That put Belmodes right in the picture. She was surprised that the police had let them both go home. It had a just-for-the-time-being feel to it.
And then she had her own particular worry. Surely at her age she couldn’t be in the club again? She’d been so careful. God, if she escaped this time, she’d go on the Pill, in spite of the headaches. She knew a useful quack who would give her a prescription.
‘It was the night I tried cannabis.’ In the fashion world it was difficult to avoid cannabis at the moment without feeling you had got left behind. Rose never liked to get left behind.
She hung up her short lime-green linen coat and replenished her lipstick. It was pale, pale pink, very nearly the whitest shade of white, but all that fashion allowed at the moment. Nor did she wear powder and rouge, the shiny, natural face being required, although her
