Salt is Leaving Page 4

  He walked away and went down the stairs rather slowly. An observant man for all his abstracted air, he noticed in passing that the door of the Gents was slightly ajar. Halfway down the lower flight, he stopped just as two people passed him and looked up. He caught a glimpse, the merest flash, of a young man with reddish hair and a leather jacket, who must have come out of the Gents, turning at the top of the upper flight. He hesitated, slowly descended three or four more steps, but then, just catching a sound from above, swung round and hurried back upstairs, passing the two people who had passed him. Peggy was not there and neither was the young man with the reddish hair and the leather jacket. The tin receptacle was lying on its side, with tickets spilt around, two or three yards from where it had been standing near Peggy, as if the young man had booted it hard before hurrying down the opposite stairway. Dr Salt looked at the doors marked Private, as if Peggy might be now behind one of them, waited a moment or two, then went on his way downstairs again.

  3

  Recovering his car from Bert, who swore he was nearly ready to offer a lovely price for it, Dr Salt drove to Olton Street, which was only about half a mile from his own flat. It was a monotonous and miserable street, filled with very thin women, very fat women, crying babies. He stopped at Number Forty-five, and Mrs Pearson had the front door open before he had reached it. She was looking rather less slatternly than usual. ‘Come along in, Doctor. And what about a nice cup of tea? Be no trouble.’

  He thanked her but said he hardly ever drank tea, which was a lie because he drank a lot of tea but not the kind that women like Mrs Pearson made – stewed tannin.

  ‘Well, sit down then. That’s right. No – you go on – I like to see a man smoking his pipe.’ She was, in fact, sitting very near him – they were facing each other, but it was a very small room – and he was lighting his pipe to defeat that now familiar sour smell of unwashed bodies and clothes, which had been strange to him, seven years before, after the brown and yellow people he had been attending.

  ‘You went to the police this morning – about Noreen – didn’t you?’ said Mrs Pearson. ‘Well, I had one of them plain-clothes sergeants here this afternoon, asking me all sorts of questions. Taking an interest now – and about time.’

  ‘What did you tell him, Mrs Pearson?’

  ‘Just what I’d told them before, only they weren’t interested then. Though I’ll admit that both times I’d had a drink or two with my friend, Mrs Muston, who’d egged me on to go. Well, I told this sergeant – CID chap, though he didn’t look a bit clever, I must say – I told him she’d gone out that evening—’

  ‘September 12th, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right – the 12th. I told him she’d gone out just the same as usual – an’ looking very smart, I’ll say that for her – expecting to come back – all hours, of course – an’ I knew what was going on, of course – an’ I’d warned her. So I told him she wouldn’t have left Birkden without coming back for some of her things. Not even if he was going to buy her some clothes, whoever he was. I don’t care who a girl is and what she’s up to, she’s not going to walk out an’ leave everything. This, for instance.’ Rather like a conjurer now, Mrs Pearson triumphantly produced from nowhere an object that Dr Salt stared at blankly. He decided finally, while Mrs Pearson sat quietly radiating triumph, that it must be what was left of a rag doll after many years of hard wear.

  ‘Yes, Noreen told me she’d had it ever since she was five. And she’d never stir without it – always took it on her holidays – always there on her bed. I said to that sergeant – an’ he’s a fool, if you ask me – “She’d have come back for that if for nothing else.” My Peggy’s just the same with her old Baby Bear. God knows what they get up to nowadays, not out of their teens, but they’re still babies in some ways—’ And Mrs Pearson began to cry softly.

  ‘We’re all babies in some ways, Mrs Pearson,’ said Dr Salt, feeling he ought to say something.

  ‘Doctor, what do you think has happened to her? I know Peggy thinks she’s gone to France or somewhere with some chap. But I don’t. I can’t help it, I just don’t. She’d have come back for some of her things. It wouldn’t have taken her five minutes to get ’em. And it’s no use – I feel uneasy in my mind about Noreen and I can’t stop wondering about her. Three weeks – an’ never a word. What’s happened? Where is she, Doctor?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mrs Pearson,’ he said slowly as he stood up. ‘But I’m going to find out. And I’m not leaving Birkden until I do, even though I’ve had quite enough of Birkden.’

  ‘I used to think it such a nice town,’ said Mrs Pearson, through her final sniffles, ‘when I was a girl and just after I got married. But now – I don’t know – it’s different. Nothing like so nice and friendly—’

  ‘Perhaps there aren’t any nice towns any more, Mrs Pearson,’ he told her on his way to the door. ‘Perhaps instead of making them bigger and bigger, we ought to set fire to them and then start afresh.’

  ‘And where would we all be – camping out? Will you be seeing the police again, Dr Salt?’

  He turned at the front door. ‘I think so. I hope so. We ought to have something to tell each other soon.’

  4

  Dr Salt had lived well away from his surgery, which he had shared with his three partners. He had a ground-floor flat in a row of coming-down-in-the-world Victorian houses. It had its own front door to the left as you entered the still imposing hall. This door led directly into an unusually large sitting room with windows at each end of it. Here, an hour after he had left Mrs Pearson and Olton Street, which he hoped he had visited for the last time, Dr Salt was finishing a pot of China tea, without any nonsense of milk and sugar, and losing himself in a muddle of books and gramophone records. He was trying to decide which books and records he could sell or give away and which he ought to keep, packing them to be stored until he knew where he was going. And so far he had made very little progress with this rather urgent chore. He would light a pipe and then begin dipping into books instead of deciding which pile should receive them. With the records – and he had several hundreds, together with a magnificent stereophonic record player – he wasted even more time, especially where he had two versions of one work. He would play a particular movement, then try the same movement on the alternative record, which might be older and monaural and yet more worthy to be kept. And so far, though he had started on Sunday morning, he had not yet clearly separated the rejected and the accepted: it seemed to be more and more of a muddle. His heart wasn’t in it. This was when he needed a woman, or at least the kind of woman who was all will and energy when faced with disorder and indecision.

  He was listening to the fifth movement of the Schubert Octet in F Major, played by the Vienna Octet, when the young man with the reddish hair and the leather jacket walked in. He had found the door unlocked and apparently did not care about ringing or knocking. He was wearing dark glasses, which he might have been wearing earlier – Dr Salt had only seen him from the back – and which were certainly unnecessary late on an October afternoon.

  Dr Salt carefully stopped his machine and lifted the record from the turntable. ‘This isn’t a surgery and, anyhow, I’m not in practice here now.’

  ‘And I’m not ill.’ The young man grinned, pleased with himself.

  Even apart from that funny business with poor little Peggy, Dr Salt would have disliked this young man – everything about him. ‘Well, don’t wear those dam’ silly dark glasses too often, you’ll ruin your eyesight. Good afternoon.’

  ‘Not yet. Want to talk to you. You’re leaving Birkden, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, quite soon. Why?’

  ‘I’ve a friend who wants this flat – and right sharp.’

  ‘Go away.’

  The young man brought out and held up what looked like a number of banknotes. ‘A hundred quid here. Nice new fivers. All off tax. Lovely money. And my friend says it’s all yours if you’ll walk out tonight – like that – bingo!’
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  Dr Salt was curious now. ‘It’s a bargain. I leave here tonight, and you or your friend book me a suite for a few days at the Queen’s Hotel.’

  ‘Oh – no. That’s out.’

  ‘I thought it would be. Put your money away.’

  ‘You think you’re being clever, Dr Salt, but you’re not. You’re just being bloody stupid. Look – if you’re leaving Birkden, you can’t like it much—’

  ‘Not much – no.’

  ‘Lovely town. And I’m not one of the locals. Only been here a year. But I go with the right kind of people. You don’t – you’re bloody stupid.’

  ‘You’ve made your point,’ said Dr Salt wearily.

  ‘Oh – no. Just coming to it. Look – if I want you to clear out of Birkden – right sharp – it’s only for your own good. You’re not popular, y’know, Dr Salt. You’ve been careless. You’ve made enemies. Didn’t matter before. Not safe to start monkeying with a doctor who’s working hard. He’s got too many people on his side. But you’ve finished here now, haven’t you? You’re not working any more. You’re not important to anybody. You’re redundant, man. And it can turn out to be a nasty experience.’

  ‘Can it? What are you proposing to do?’

  ‘Me?’ cried the young man. ‘I’m not going to do anything. I’m just giving you a warning, that’s all. After that I mind my own business. And you ought to mind yours.’

  ‘I am doing.’ Dr Salt went to his desk and picked up a telephone directory.

  ‘Look – I’ve given you a warning, now I’ll make you a nice offer. My last. Clear out now and you can take ten of those fivers with you and I’ll see that everything here is properly packed and put into store. There’s a good train to the Smoke at half past six – you could catch it. And two or three to Birmingham – if you like Birmingham.’

  Dr Salt was now looking through the telephone directory. ‘I don’t,’ he threw over his shoulder. ‘And I don’t like you. Now go away.’

  ‘And you go screw a duck.’ The young man slammed the door so hard that a lithograph in colour jumped its nail and crashed on a pile of books.

  After blowing out his breath in a long sighing sound, Dr Salt began dialling. ‘This is Dr Salt. Is Mr Duffield there, please? He knows me.’ A youthful but surprisingly precise voice, belonging, it said, to one Godfrey, personal assistant to Mr Duffield, replied that Mr Duffield was away and would not be back until the following afternoon. ‘Well,’ said Dr Salt, ‘tell him I’ll be coming round to see him about something that might be rather important. About this time perhaps . . . Yes, Dr Salt. He’ll remember me because his brother was one of my patients.’

  Then he recalled that he had been trying to make up his mind about the Schubert Octet. He started the fifth movement again, listened carefully, decided in the record’s favour, but then had some trouble finding the pile of chamber music recordings he was keeping. After listening to several more records he went into his kitchen, which was larger than most and also served as a dining room even when he had two or three guests. He examined some tins in the cupboard and chose a French one – tripes à la mode de Caen. He brought it out but did not open it, knowing that he had plenty of time, but he peeled a few potatoes and cleaned and shredded half a cabbage. Then he put the potatoes into salted water and started them going over a low flame, poured some whisky into a tumbler, added a couple of ice cubes and then took the drink into the sitting room. There he sat at his desk, lit a pipe and, after taking one slow sip of the whisky, forgot about it, began thinking hard and making notes in a scribble that was as good as a cipher. Sometimes even he couldn’t read it after a few hours; but he just managed to make it out, later that evening, when he began thinking again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Maggie Meets a Dr Salt

  1

  The letter came by the second post on Wednesday morning. It was the only letter, the rest of the post being bills and receipts. Reg Morgan, looking important as well as scholarly, brought it into the little back office, where Maggie and Mrs Chapman were sitting over their cups of elevenses.

  ‘Just one real letter, Miss Culworth,’ said Reg. ‘I can’t imagine what’s in it. Looks very peculiar.’

  ‘So do you, Reg,’ said Mrs Chapman sharply. ‘Hanging about here, making silly remarks. Go and help Sheila.’

  ‘What doing, Mrs Chapman? She’s just standing there – in a dream.’

  ‘I’ll find something for both of you to do in a minute. Now off you go, Reg.’

  Maggie was staring at the letter. Printed in red at the top of the envelope was Lyceum Cinema, Birkden. But it was addressed in a childish hand to Mr Culworth, Bookshop, Hemton. ‘I must say Reg was right, though. It does look most peculiar. See for yourself.’

  ‘Must be one of these silly young girls they have working in some of these offices now. Can’t get anybody else. Not even a big cinema like the Lyceum. Are you going to open it, Maggie?’

  ‘I think I ought, don’t you? After all, it’s addressed to him here at the shop. It might be something we ought to attend to. I think he’d want me to open it, don’t you?’

  ‘Certainly.’ Mrs Chapman brought that out promptly, but then she hesitated. ‘Besides – if it isn’t business – well, it’s from Birkden, isn’t it? And all you know so far about your father is that he went to Birkden. So if it isn’t business, if it’s personal, then it might tell you something about where he is and what he’s doing. You read it, Maggie.’ She took a look into the shop. ‘Damn – two customers! I’d better go and cope.’

  The sheet inside was headed Lyceum Cinema again. The letter was written in the same childish hand that had addressed the envelope.

  Dear Mr Culworth,

  Dr Salt came here to ask me about Noreen and from what he said I think I was wrong what I told you about her. And now there is trouble so look out but I am in a hurry to write this so cant explain.

  Yours truly,

  Peggy Pearson

  Maggie read it three times, her mind racing round and round it. And then, before she settled down to consider the letter carefully, she realized something. She was suddenly more alive than she had been for the last two years, ever since she fled from the ruin and misery of her affair with Hugh. Not joyously alive, of course – she hated this letter – but still – alive. Or at least far less desiccated, instantly more capable of real feeling, than she had been ever since she came back home.

  ‘Was it anything?’ Bertha Chapman was back, for once a highly inquisitive type.

  Maggie had to think quickly. She had already decided that she must show the letter to Alan, but must make him agree that it ought to be kept from their mother. But what about Bertha? Yes, she needed one ally in the shop. ‘You read it, Bertha, but please don’t say anything about it to Sheila and Reg.’

  Bertha, built for it, gave a snort. ‘I wouldn’t tell those two what I was having for lunch. Now then.’ When she had read the letter twice, she stared inquiringly at Maggie.

  ‘What do you make of it, Bertha?’

  ‘Well, it’s obviously written by a girl, probably quite young, who works at the Lyceum Cinema, and not in the office, though she’s used office stationery. She knows your father, but not well, I’d say. What she and your father have in common, so to speak, is this Noreen. And my guess is that she’s another young girl. Where this Dr Salt comes in, I can’t imagine. Noreen could be a friend of his – or just one of his patients, which I think is rather more likely. But obviously your father’s involved somehow in this Noreen–Peggy–Salt business.’

  ‘I know. But how? Can you see him being mixed up with cinema usherettes or whatever they are?’

  ‘That’s this Peggy Pearson. He went to ask her about Noreen—’

  ‘Yes, but then what? That must have been on Monday. What happened then?’

  ‘You’ll have to go and find out, Maggie. At least you know something now. And if you don’t want to do it, then let me do it.’

  ‘No, of course I must go, Bertha. You’
ll have to manage without me, this afternoon—’

  ‘Your first duty to the shop, Maggie my dear, is to find your father and bring him back as soon as you can. I think all these bigger cinemas open just after lunchtime. So you have your lunch – and try to eat a good lunch; you’re all excited and using up nervous energy – then take the first bus into Birkden and find this Peggy Pearson.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, Bertha.’ She hesitated a moment. ‘I’ll have to tell my brother Alan about this letter of course – as soon as I can; he’s at the University all day today, and it’s hopeless trying to ring him up there – but I thought I wouldn’t worry Mother with it—’

  ‘You’re quite right, Maggie dear. In your place I shouldn’t dream of it.’ Mrs Chapman and Mrs Culworth had no liking, not even any respect, for each other. ‘Keep her right out of it for the time being, until you know more. You go off to lunch, then to Birkden. Don’t go there first – all the lunch places there are always so crowded.’

  Maggie laughed at her. ‘Food first for Bertha!’

  ‘You may laugh, but I believe in stoking up – specially at a time like this. And another thing, Maggie dear – be careful.’

  ‘Careful about what?’

  ‘I don’t know. If I did, I’d tell you. But Birkden isn’t Hemton, don’t forget. Different sort of place altogether.’

  ‘And don’t you forget that I’m a big girl who used to live and work in London – the real wicked city.’

  ‘Well—’ And Bertha left it at that, but gave her a long look.

  Maggie could feel the flush that Bertha must be noticing. Annoyed with herself, not with Bertha, she said rather quickly: ‘All right, I’ll be careful.’

  Just over an hour later, she went at forty miles an hour into the maze and another kind of life.

  2

  She never did see the manager of the Lyceum, but after talking to two girls and a male attendant in a chocolate uniform, she reached the assistant manager, a pale and melancholy youngish man in a cubby-hole of an office.