Polly's War (16 page)

‘A damn sight more exciting,’ Benny finished for her.

‘I didn’t say that.’ She was furious with him and didn’t quite know why. What did she want from Benny Pride anyway? For him to sweep her into his arms and promise to spend his life building a business and a home for them? Or did she just want a bit of fun before moving on to something more suitable? She had the strangest feeling that unsuitable or not, she was already more than half committed to this man so he could at least show some gratitude for her efforts on his behalf. What was wrong with the fool? Just because he didn’t find the shop himself, she supposed. Wounded male ego.

She bit her lip, looking up at him from under her lids. ‘I bought this lot at auction. At a good price, but don’t worry. If it’s no good, I can get rid of the stuff in exactly the same way.’ She flung the words at him with such force he could taste the warmth of her breath before she flounced away to stand at the window with her arms folded. When he didn’t come after her but remained sunk in a silent pout, she added in a voice tight with anger, ‘At least it’s my own money I’ve wasted.’

‘Oh aye, and you’ve money to burn, of course.’ His tone mocked her.

All the heat and fury drained out of Belinda, to be replaced with a rush of sympathy as she suddenly understood. She’d insulted Lucy over bugs she didn’t have, now she’d insulted Benny over money. She turned and ran to him, grasping him by the arms. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? I’ve hurt you by using
my
money. Is that all? Why didn’t you say?’ She put back her head and gave her full rich laugh and, unable to help himself, Benny found his eyes drawn to the slender whiteness of her throat, moving down to where it dipped into the open vee of her shirt and swelled into full firm breasts.

‘I’ve money of me own, if you want to know,’ he said, thinking that perhaps he should go on letting her think this was the reason, so he could perhaps salvage the ruin of their promising friendship before it was too late. Benny was beginning to appreciate that he might have shot his mouth off a bit too loud, and all because she’d called his bluff. What he knew about joinery could be written on the back of a chisel.
 

He could try it anyway, he thought, reckless with need, for if he didn’t have her soon he’d go mad. Maybe she was worth the sacrifice of his other dreams.

But if she ever told her father that she’d loaned her ‘soldier-boy’ money to get started up in business, he’d really be in hot water then. Benny didn’t care to think just how hot that might be. ‘I’d pay back every penny, and it would have to be our secret,’ he said, just to be on the safe side. Lord, he thought, what am I saying? Why am I agreeing? This was all a terrible mistake. Her lips were moist, full and sweet and the pain in his loins was growing so that he was certain he’d shame himself soon. He wondered desperately if there were something else he could do with the place other than joinery and despite the workbench and array of tools. It certainly wasn’t big enough for a furniture store.
 

‘What does money matter?’ She was smiling at him again, and it was as if the sun had come out, warming him, searing him with new heat. ‘You can pay me back when you get going. Oh, Benny, you silly man.’ Then she had her arms about him, pressing that ripe luscious body against his and he thought he might burst with pain. She was kissing his cheek, his mouth, saying something about not letting pride stand in the way of what could be a good future for them, though her voice came from such a far distance he wasn’t too sure.

From the corner of his eye he saw Lucy quietly closing the shop door as she slipped away. Belinda was telling him she had yet another surprise, waiting upstairs and he made no further protest for Benny knew now that he must go along with the plan whatever the cost. He was lost completely.

Chapter Ten

Hubert made up his mind that it was long past time he cracked the whip and brought his recalcitrant daughter to heel. He set out his shaving brush, soap mug and cut-throat razor on the bathroom shelf with painstaking care while his mind buzzed with plans. Ron was supposed to have seen off soldier-boy but she was still mooning over the young whippersnapper.

It wasn’t like him to fail. The one good thing about his son was that he had very little brain and even less imagination, therefore was always willing to carry out whatever task his father set him. What he lacked in the brain department he more than made up for in native cunning. If a child told him her mam wasn’t in, he’d wait round the back of the house till the woman emerged and squeeze a bob or two out of her even if she did claim her family to be starving. And if it were a chap who refused to pay, Ron usually found a way to make him regret that daft notion.
 

So why hadn’t it worked with young Benny Pride?

Hubert began to lather his chin with his best badger bristle brush. This was the cause of half his problems at the moment. Folk weren’t listening any more, and weren’t paying up. The world had gone haywire and everyone thought they could avoid unpleasant responsibilities just because the war was over. As well, some of the returning service men objected to coming home and finding their wives in debt. As if it were
his
fault that they couldn’t find a job.

He had an appointment today with Eric Wilnshaw, his accountant and he didn’t expect the news to be particularly good. He’d made a lot of money over the past few years but sadly had spent a good deal of it almost as fast. But then he did have a lot of commitments, some of them quite delightful ones, which brought a smile to his face as he applied the soap with greater care. He needed to look his best today. After the accountant he had another meeting, a much more interesting one.

Myra was the kind of woman any man would hock his soul for. Unlike his wife, for whom he had every respect, naturally, as the mother of his children. But Myra knew how to excite a man. She knew how to peel off her stockings in the most tantalising way imaginable, how to carry out a chap’s every fantasy while adding a few of her own. Her imagination had provided them with countless sensual diversions and she knew better than any of the many women he had enjoyed over the years, how to bring him to a fierce climax and still leave him panting for more. Myra was a bad girl, in the best possible sense of the word.
 

So if he’d been a touch too generous with her in his gratitude of late, didn’t she deserve it? This slight cash flow crisis could be quite easily rectified, given time and energy, of which he still had plenty. Credit trading was suffering just at present. The firms who supplied his clients with goods were getting greedier, cutting their discounts, demanding payment up front. And the bank was squeezing him to reduce his loans, fearing the change of government might damage trade, that the coming of peace had bequeathed them all as many problems as it had solved. But he was impatient to further his ambitions and move ever upward in the city of Manchester, without sacrificing these pleasant diversions which surely any hard working businessman deserved.

Hubert slid his cut-throat razor over his throat, the scraping sound it made on his rough skin echoing in the stark Victorian bathroom. A liaison with Fenton Chemicals would have fitted the bill nicely, providing him with the extra kudos he craved, would perhaps have led to himself and George Fenton fixing up some sort of partnership deal. Hubert was not averse to having his fingers in many pies.
 

He nicked himself and cursed, sticking a piece of tissue paper on it to stop the bleeding. Myra preferred a close shave which wasn’t always easy to achieve. But then nothing worth having, came easy.
 
Despite the difficulties there was no question that he would survive. The answer, surely, was to increase his holdings and therefore his profits.

His accountant, at their lunchtime meeting held at the Rising Sun, confirmed this diagnosis, adding that Hubert’s latest set of tax returns were even now in the process of being prepared. They in no way revealed the true picture of his affairs, for what the Inland Revenue didn’t know, couldn’t hurt either them or Hubert. Much of his trading was done on a cash only basis (Hubert never referred to it as the black market) with no invoices or paperwork of any kind to show that it had taken place. All those details were in his head with the money carefully deposited in obscure places, saved for a rainy day and his old age.

‘The difficulty is, Hubert, that this kind of trading will gradually disappear.’ Eric informed him. ‘So you need to look in other directions to expand.’

‘There’ll always be those who prefer to deal in cash.’

‘True, but opportunities will be reduced once the allocation of materials are relaxed. Nothing lasts for ever, Hubert old chap. You need to be thinking more creatively.’

Hubert puffed on his excellent cigar and smiled through a swirl of smoke. Creative thinking, when it came to business, had never been a problem. ‘Right then, let’s order another malt and put our brains to steep.’

It was pointed out to him how, in the past, he’d often taken over a failing enterprise in lieu of debt. That this was, in fact, a useful way of building an empire and there was really no reason why he shouldn’t do more of that in the future. The secret was to latch on to a business that was new and overstretched, suffering from insufficient capital or some other problem such as an unsettled workforce or division between the partners. There were a surprising number, once you started to look. Hubert judged this idea a fruitful one to pursue.

Tactics and planning were, of course, of the essence. He couldn’t simply go barging in but must carefully manoeuvre and manipulate his target into just the right weakened state ripe for a take-over, rather like a cat battering a mouse. Fortunately he was strong on patience and could devise all manner of interesting tactics to bring this happy situation about. All he had to do now, was keep his eye open for a likely victim.

Yet another awkward breakfast was over. Belinda had taken a week’s holiday from her job as she hadn’t been feeling too well lately, though it wasn’t turning into quite the rest she’d imagined as there was still a great deal of work to be done on the upstairs rooms at the shop. She packed sandwiches and a flask of tea into the bag she took with her each day.

She’d never intended to let things go so far the day she’d taken Benny upstairs to the rooms above the shop. She’d meant only to try to explain to him how much better the rooms would look once she’d finished the painting and decorating, and that with one or two bits of furniture he could enjoy the independence he’d so craved. But somehow the explanations had been lost in their need to touch, to kiss, to express the burning passion they felt for each other. Within moments he’d had her backed up against a wall, her legs up around his solid waist while he thrust into her, her cries sounding embarrassingly loud in the empty room.

Now, it seemed, she must rue the consequences and she still hadn’t got round to telling him - or her father. Belinda hadn’t even allowed herself to dwell on the problem, preferring to push it to the back of her mind. Time, she was only too aware, was fast running out. The problem could no longer be ignored.

‘Frank’s called here regularly, most days in fact, and you’re never in.’ Hubert was saying, sounding peeved.

Belinda reached for a couple of apples and stuffed those into the bag too, studiously refusing to allow him to rile her. ‘I’ve already told him that it isn’t on, that whatever there was between us before the war, if anything, is well and truly over. We were little more than children, which we definitely are not now. He understands. Why don’t you?’

Her calmness inflamed him. ‘Don’t take that tone of voice to me, young lady. Show some respect when you’re living in my house. Who do you think you are, running wild, not helping your mother properly, wearing trousers, not to mention refusing to have anything to do with a fine young man from a good family. You’re so determined to make yourself cheap, you can’t even be civil. Are you listening to me, madam?’

‘No, Father. There’s really nothing more to be said and I don’t have to stand here and listen to anything.’ Belinda picked up her bag and swung it on to her shoulder.

‘You will if I say you must. You’ll marry who I tell you to marry and be thankful someone is prepared to have you, plain lump of codfish that you are.’

Belinda froze and whatever remnant of pity she had left for her father, finally snapped. ‘As a matter of fact I doubt Frank would have me now that I’m expecting Benny’s child.’ She strode towards the door.

Hubert could feel the blood pounding in his ears, a haze of red growing before his eyes. ‘What did you say?’

‘Oh, I think you heard. I’m just on my way to break the happy news to Benny.’

‘You
whore!
’

She’d taken no more than two steps when, in one swift movement, Councillor Hubert Clarke wrenched the bag from her shoulder and flung it across the room. It hit the sideboard, smashing the thermos flask on impact and sending a vase of roses crashing to the floor, spraying water and flowers everywhere.

‘Oh Hubert, what have you done?’ Joanna, rushing in from the kitchen, gasped in distress and instantly went down on her hands and knees to gather up shards of glass and broken stems.

‘Stop it, mother.’ Belinda, aghast by what had happened, ran to help. ‘Stop it, you’ll cut yourself. Let me get the dustpan and brush.’ Hubert, colour coming and going in his flaccid face, thrust past them both and without a backward glance, carefully extracted his coat, bowler hat and briefcase from the hall stand and walked from the house as if it were a perfectly normal day.