Deborah Crombie - All Shall Be Well

"What about the money," he said, leaning forward again and lowering his voice. "We agreed-"

Meg didn't bother to lower hers. "I never agreed to anything. And you'll not see a penny of it. You wanted her dead. Did you make sure, Roger? I don't know what you've done, but I'm finished covering up for you."

His eyes widened in astonishment. "You'd grass on me, wouldn't you? You bitch. You-" He stopped, took a breath and closed his eyes, and when he opened them again he was back in control. "Think about it, Meg. Think about how much you'll miss me." He raised his hand and ran a finger down her cheek.

She jerked her head back, turning her face away from him.

"So that's how it is," he said, the venom fully evident again. "Run home to Mummy and Daddy, then. You've got no place else to go. Work in your dad's garage, let every filthy old bastard that comes in pinch your bum; change your sister's brats' dirty nappies-you're welcome to it. And you can tell your precious Superintendent Kincaid whatever you bloody well like, because they'll not pin anything on me." There was nothing pleasant about Roger's smile. "You fancy the Superintendent, don't you, Meg? I've seen the way you look at him. Well, he's way out of your league, darling, and you're a bigger fool than I thought."

Meg felt the hot rush of color stain her face, but she refused to let him bait her. Standing, she squeezed her way clear of the table and stood close enough to Roger for his arm to brush her thighs when he moved. She looked down into his face, noted the way his eyelashes fanned against his cheek when he blinked, and she sensed the fear beneath his bravado. "So are you," she said, and turned away. She didn't look back.

"Ta, Charlie," Meg said to the driver as the bus groaned to a halt beneath the Abinger Hammer clock. It was the daily Dorking to Guildford run, and the driver one of her father's regular customers. She waved as the doors swished shut behind her, then watched the bus until it disappeared around the bend in the road.

The shop was across the road, unmistakable, just the way she remembered it. She brushed her hands down the front of her coat, discovering a stain where she must have spilled the pop she'd drunk on the train from London to Dorking. The stop at her parents' had been brief-she'd put her bags in her old room, refused her mother's offer of tea, and refused to answer any questions. "Not now, Mum. There's somebody I have to see."

The thought of the astonished expression on her mum's face made her smile. No one in her family ever expected little Margaret to be uncooperative, or to have plans of her own.

She crossed the street slowly, pausing again outside the shop. Lights shone through the French panes of the windows, but there was no movement inside. Her heart thumped against her chest and her fingers trembled as she touched the door handle. A bell tinkled briefly somewhere in the back of the shop as she stepped inside. Her heart sank as she looked around at the jumble of rubbish that passed for a display. Old farm implements, china, a rocking horse, moldy books, nothing arranged with a semblance of balance or order, and over everything lay an aura of neglect.

But as she moved carefully through the cluttered aisle, looking, touching, possibilities began to emerge. She had knelt to dip her hand into a basket of antique buttons when a door opened and she heard Theo's voice. "Can I help- Margaret?"

She stood, a silver-gilt button still clasped in her fingers. "Hullo, Theo. Why don't you call me Meg. Jasmine did, you know."

"What are you doing… I mean, it's nice to see you. I just didn't expect-"

"I've come to make you a proposition." Although her voice felt shaky, it seemed to sound all right, so she took a breath and plowed on. "Is there someplace we can talk?"

Theo seemed to collect himself. "Of course. We can go upstairs."

"I'm afraid it's not much," he said as he led the way. "I suppose I've got used to living out of boxes over the years. The bare necessities."

Meg surveyed the armchair and camp bed, the packing crates and hotplate. "I know," she said, thinking of her bedsit, "but you've made it cozy enough."

"Here, have a seat," he directed her to the armchair, "and I'll make us some tea."

She watched him fill an electric kettle in the little alcove that served as a kitchen, her tongue suddenly too frozen to make small talk. Dear god, what ever had possessed her to invent such a harebrained scheme? He'd laugh at her, at the very least, at worst reject her with well-deserved scorn-and then where would she be? No worse off than she'd been before, she told herself firmly, and still with the means to start a new life for herself.

Theo brought the tea on a lacquered tray, with china cups and matching cream and sugar. "Sometimes I do pinch nice things for myself," he said, seeing her expression. "Coal-port. I've always had a fondness for this pattern, and it's common enough not to be terribly valuable."

The china seemed to focus the light in the bare room, and its cobalt-and-rust, intertwining leaf-and-dragon pattern made Meg think of Jasmine. "Jasmine never lost her taste for the exotic, either."

Theo didn't speak until he had poured her tea and pulled up a seat for himself, then he said, "No, and it was in part an affectation, a vanity. It made her different." He smiled. "I, on the other hand, never wanted to be different, but I suppose I find things that remind me of my childhood comforting."

"You never knew your mother, did you?"

"No. Only Jasmine." Cup in mid-air, he gazed at some point behind Meg's head. "It's odd to look back on one's childhood from an adult's perspective. Jasmine was only five when Mummy died having me. I see now that taking complete responsibility for me must have been her childish way of dealing with her own grief and loss, but to me it seemed the most natural thing in the world. I thought all families were like ours." He sipped his tea and returned his cup to the saucer.

Meg gathered her courage. "Theo, it's Jasmine I've come about." Seeing his lips purse to form a question, she hurried on. "Or rather, it's Jasmine's money. You see, I want to help with the shop."

He was shaking his head before she'd finished. "I couldn't let you do that. It wouldn't be right. Jasmine did what she thought best for both of us-"

"Theo, I'm not talking about a loan. I want to come in as a working partner. I'll have capital to invest from the sale of the flat, and I'm good with figures. I think we could-" She stopped herself, feeling an idiot. Theo's mouth had formed a perfect round "o" of astonishment, making his resemblance to a teddy-bear more marked than ever. "I'm sorry. It was stupid of me." She finished her tea and stood up, glad she hadn't taken off her coat. The awkwardness of getting into it again would have delayed her exit. "Thanks for the-"

"Wait, Meg," Theo said, standing so quickly he sloshed his tea into the saucer as he tried to set it down. He touched her arm. "You're quite serious, aren't you?"

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

"I thought you were joking at first. You'd really be interested in this place?" His tone expressed his disbelief, and when she nodded again he said, "Why? What about your job? Your life in London?"

He meant Roger, she thought, but was too tactful to say it. "I quit my job. And Jasmine was the only thing in my life that really mattered." She struggled to find words that would make him understand what she wasn't sure she understood herself. They both sat down again without quite realizing it, Meg on the edge of her chair, Theo leaning forward on his stool. "I didn't count, Theo. Anyone could have done my job, rented my room-and Roger will find a better prospect soon enough. My family complained when I left because it left more work for them, but they didn't miss me."