Nellie was walking down Castle Street still deep in thought, her mind veering between how she could win her daughter back and wondering if she could make enough money by pawning the rings to pay off her debts to Terence, when the first shell fell. ‘Hell’s bells,’ she muttered as she quickened her step. How anyone found the time to earn any money these days was a mystery.
Another crash spurred her into a jog. As she turned into Church Street, a familiar figure slipped out of the café’s back gate. She skidded to a halt and watched as Terence hurried away towards St Mary’s Church.
His presence at the café for the second day running filled her with foreboding and reinforced her need to find a solution to her problems soon. Get him the money in two weeks or face the consequences, he’d said. And he wasn’t a man to deliver empty threats.
Problem was, she needed a miracle to get her out of this hole, and miracles seemed to be in short supply right now.
Heart thumping with anxiety, Nellie raced through the back door and immediately went upstairs. Let the shells fall. If the café was hit and she was buried under a pile of rubble, it’d at least get her out of her problems. She went into her bedroom, looking around to see if anything had been moved, but as far as she could tell all was as she’d left it: the bed neatly made, her multicoloured patchwork quilt stretched tight over the blankets and the cupboard doors flung wide, to show the empty space inside.
Ignoring the flutter of fear at the memory of the morning, she hurried towards her dressing table and examined it. There were the usual pots of cream – most of them empty now, but she kept the jars in case she ever got round to making her own. Her silver hairbrush and comb set, a wedding present from Donald’s parents, was still there. Everything looked present and correct.
An enormous explosion suddenly rocked the building and she yelped, her eyes flying towards the windows. Please God, don’t break any more. Last thing I need is to pay for more repairs. But though they rattled, they stayed in place.
With trembling hands, she pulled open the bottom drawer where she kept her jewellery box. Donald had bought it for her in the early years of their marriage and it was one of her most prized possessions – a beautifully carved mahogany box lined with royal blue velvet.
She opened it and stared down at the contents. There was the Wedgewood brooch, the silver pendant with a blue Morpho wing – as bright as the day it had been caught – under its glass dome, a few hairclips passed on by her mother. Her fingers rooted through more and more urgently as she mentally ticked off each item. She lifted the tray to check the contents under there, and her stomach dropped. No wedding ring, no engagement ring, and no eternity ring.
With a cry of despair, she slammed the lid shut and began to pace around the room. Was that why Terence had been here? Had he snuck up here, gone through her things, and then stolen her most valuable possessions? She shuddered at the thought of him snooping around her bedroom. What was she going to do? She couldn’t go to the police . . . If she accused Terence Carter of theft, he’d only counter it with accusations of his own, and God knew she didn’t need the police examining her affairs too closely – especially after everything that had happened with Hester. He had her over a barrel, and the bastard knew it.
Another crash reminded her that she really shouldn’t be here. But she still didn’t budge. What did it matter if the whole place collapsed around her? Because with or without the shells, it was possible she’d lose the café anyway.
She went into the sitting room and grabbed the bottle of sherry that sat on the table beside her chair. She pulled out the cork and took a swig, uncaring that some of it dribbled down her chin. Then she put it down again. Drinking would only make things worse, but Lord it was tempting. Sighing, she gazed at the mantelpiece: the three monkeys ornament that Jim had got her for her birthday one year, the carriage clock, the little white china vase with a forget-me-not painted on it that contained a dusty silk rose . . . She sat up straighter. Where was Donald? Ever since he’d had it taken just before he went off to war in 1914, the picture of Donald had sat between the vase and the clock. But it wasn’t there now.
Frantically, she got up and began to search the room, flinging aside cushions and pulling up the rug to no avail. The rings she could understand. But the photo? It meant nothing to anyone. Unless Edie had taken it. Maybe she’d asked Donny to take it up to her . . . But why take it without saying anything? Surely she knew she’d have given it to her if she’d asked.
‘Is it you, Gladys?’ she said, her voice wavering. ‘Why are you doing this to me? Please stop!’ Nellie’s shoulders started to heave. ‘I’ll lose them all. Isn’t Edie enough for you? You want me to lose the rest of them as well . . . And Jasper.’ Her voice caught on his name and she started to sob. ‘He’s started to love me again. I can’t lose him. Please, Gladys, leave me alone.’
A low rumble shook the walls, and the ornaments on the mantelpiece wobbled.
Nellie stood up. ‘I won’t do it! Do you hear me? I won’t do it?!’