Like There's No Tomorrow - Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX

“If you don’t stop pacing to and fro, you’ll be getting a bill for wearing a hole in the carpet,” Kirk Spencer commented while trying to decide between a red and blue tee shirt.

     Charley Briggs paused and glared before lying on the bed and sprawled there, naked, gazing at the ceiling. “I can’t help it. It’s that man, Owen Shepherd. He’s really got under my skin. You remember I told you he was a guest here when Briggs and I were on our honeymoon? Well, according to Mel Harvey, he’s been carrying a torch for Anne all these years.  Anne isn’t interested, of course, and just as well since his mother kept him on a tight rein by all accounts. I ask you, what woman wants a mummy’s boy? But now the mother is dead…well…who knows what he might do? Some men just can’t manage without a woman around. They go to pieces. Suppose he comes on to poor Anne? I tell you, Spence, that man’s got me worried.”

“It’s none of our business,” Spence pointed out.

“True,” Charley conceded, “But there’s something else too…” sitting up on the bed and running an approving eye up and down his naked front.

“So?” Spence prompted with a grin, “Don’t keep me in suspense? On second thoughts, let me guess. You’ve got a hunch about him, right? There’s something about Owen Shepherd that doesn’t quite add up.”

“Spot on.”

“Now why, I wonder, am I not surprised? Could it be because you’ve read so many corny crime novels, my sweet, you can’t tell fact from fiction?”

“Oh? And it’s fiction I suppose that I once saw Owen Shepherd in the strangest circumstances here in this very hotel twenty-three years ago?”

“Unless you have a phenomenal memory, it probably is, yes. Now, which tee shirt shall I wear, the red or the blue?”

“Neither. Wear the green one with the dragon motif. And you know damn well, I have an excellent memory. I remembered the man’s face, didn’t I?  What’s more, now I remember why. Are you listening to me?”

Spence had turned his back and was rummaging in a drawer for the green tee shirt with its dragon motif in a contrasting, darker shade of green. “I’m all ears, my sweet!” he replied.

“It was in the early hours of Sunday morning…the day Briggs and I were due to leave for Gatwick,” she continued, choosing somewhat sceptically to take him at his word. “I had gone to the bathroom. There were no en suite rooms here in those days. On my way back to Briggs, who should I see coming up the stairs but Owen Shepherd! It must have been three, maybe four o’clock in the morning, I forget. But I’ll never forget the look of him on those stairs. He was not only dishevelled, for a man usually so neatly dressed, but he had a real shifty look about him too. I’ll say! I recall thinking, good for him. A night on the tiles away from that ogre of a mother of his would do him the world of good.”

“So?” Spence, having retrieved the dragon top, was facing her again now, looking a trifle bemused.

“Anne’s little girl disappeared sometime within the next twenty-four hours.”

“So?” Spence repeated, “Yes, but you told me the child didn’t disappear until after you and Briggs had left, which would make it during the Sunday night, right?”

“Or the early hours of Monday morning, no one knows for sure.”

“So?” Spence scratched his head, “What has seeing this Shepherd bloke in the early hours of Sunday morning got to do with anything? You’re not suggesting he had anything to do with what happened, surely? It’s probably just like you said. He’d been out having fun and was feeling - and looking - the worse for wear. Besides, the police wouldn’t have left a stone unturned. You can’t possibly think…?”

“I don’t know what to think,” said Charley irritably. She could tell from his expression that Spence was laughing at her. “Supposing he hadn’t been out on the tiles, but planning that poor child’s abduction, sussing out where to dump her body even?”

“That a lot of supposing,” Spence commented dryly.

“Whatever, it fair makes my blood run cold. Honestly, Spence, that man has got me so worked up.”

“So I see, and talking of which…” Spence laid one knee on the bed.

“Oh?” Charley felt a rush of adrenalin despite her annoyance.

“Here I am naked and there you are naked and, wow! Have you got me all worked up or haven’t you, Charley Phoebe Briggs?”

“You know I hate the name Phoebe,” she chuckled.

“All I know is I want you Charley Briggs, and, so help me, I’m going to have you.”  He was astride her in seconds, body pinioning the huge mound of perfumed flesh, mouth smothering a string of oaths pouring by way of half-hearted protest from the wide, sensual lips.

“I love you!” he murmured between frantic kisses.

I can’t think why, she thought good-humouredly. However, rather than tempt fate, she murmured, “I love you too,” before letting him taking the lead in a long, hot, sensual romp until he exploded inside her. She, too, climaxed almost simultaneously.

For a while they were content to lie there, each enjoying the intimate rhythm of the other’s breathing. She stroked his hair, reflecting as she always did that he was the only man who had been able to coax her to orgasm, moreover in such a way that sex became a beautiful, shared experience rather than a demonstration of male ego.

You’re not bad for a forty-something pushing fifty, Charley Briggs, she congratulated herself with amused satisfaction, not bad at all. What did the eighteen years between her and Spence really matter, she fretted? Oh, people would persist in warning her it did. If they didn’t have the nerve to come right out and say so, it showed in their faces. Let them. Who cares? She bent and kissed the nape of his neck. Spence did not stir. She licked the lobe of one ear. He opened his eyes, grinned, lazily raised one arm and proceeded to draw her head close to his for a long, passionate kiss.

...……………………….

Cathy Taylor took her time returning to Hillcrest. As she entered the hotel lobby, Lynette came running towards her and flung herself into her mother’s open arms. Where have you been, Mummy?” the child demanded in a scolding voice that did not match the laughing mouth and eyes.

“I told you, darling. I’ve been to see Anne, the lady we met on the beach yesterday.”

“The one Daddy shouted at?”

“That’s the one,” said Steve Taylor gruffly, tossing Cathy dark looks over the child’s blonde head. “Lynette and I have already had lunch,” he added.

“That’s okay. I didn’t expect you to wait for me. Besides, I’m not hungry,” Cathy lied upon suddenly discovering she was ravenous.

“We’re going to see the Devil,” Lynette announced excitedly.

“I thought we’d take a bus to the Devil’s Dyke then take a walk along the South Downs way,” Steve explained.

“That will be nice. But you’ll have to count me out, I’m afraid. I can feel a migraine coming on and need to go and lie down for a while.”

“No, Mummy, no, you’ve got to come too. Hasn’t she Daddy?” Lynette screwed up her pretty face in protest.

“I’m sorry darling but Mummy has a headache. You’ll have a lovely time with Daddy. You wouldn’t want Mummy to get one of her bad migraines would you?

“No, but…” the child continued to wrestle with concern and disappointment.

“You’ll have a lovely time,” Cathy reiterated, “Just be sure you’re back here by five o’clock”

“Oh?” Steve raised a distrusting eyebrow.

“We’re all having dinner with Anne Gates at The Orion, as her guests. Won’t that be a nice treat?” Cathy kept her gaze on Lynette, careful to avoid her husband’s eye.

“I suppose so,” the little girl sounded doubtful. Immediately, she looked to her father for confirmation that the proposed event would, indeed, prove a treat.

Steve was furious. “How dare you agree to something like that without asking me first? You could have called me on the mobile.”

“And you’d have said no.”

“Too right, I’d have said no.  Can’t you see the wretched woman’s obsessed?”

“Can I go and talk to Neil?” Lynette spotted a boy she had got to know at the hotel standing by his parents at Reception. She liked Neil although she wasn’t sure why since she privately considered him to be stuck-up and a rather silly, but it had to be better than listening to her parents arguing again.

“Okay, but don’t wander off,” Cathy agreed and braced herself for a battle royal with her husband.

“It’s not fair on Lynette or me, for that matter. I won’t have Lynette taken over by that woman.”

“Now you’re being ridiculous. Anne is harmless enough. She wouldn’t dream of trying to take anyone over. She and I have things in common, that’s all. She’s lonely, poor soul. As far as I can make out, she doesn’t have any family of her own…”

“And she’s not getting her obsessive little paws on ours either!” Steve fumed.

“Give her a chance, can’t you? You might even find you like her. She’s really a very nice person. Oh, but I forgot. Giving people a chance isn’t exactly your forte, is it?  You don’t think it’s such a bad principle when the shoe’s on the other foot!”

“I’m trying aren’t I?”

“So try a bit harder. Lynette and I will be having dinner with Anne Gates tonight whether you like it or not. You’re welcome to join us. Or you can go to hell, take your pick.” She strode across to Lynette, sparing no more than a cursory nod for the little boy and his parents. “Go with Daddy now, darling, and have a lovely time. You can tell me all about it when you get back,” giving her daughter a hug and kisses before making her way towards the lift, turning only once to be sure father and daughter were safely reunited. She watched Steve sweep the child into his arms and a laughing Lynette fling hers around his neck. Robustly telling herself she wasn’t in the least jealous, Cathy was nonetheless relieved when the lift arrived to take her to the fifth floor.

It was true she had a mild headache. Once in her room, though, Cathy consulted a menu and called room service to order a snack. Only then did she take two paracetamol capsules and lie on the bed to await its delivery.

Is Steve right to be so wary of Anne Gates, Cathy wondered?  What possible harm could Anne do? Her husband was mistaken. It wasn’t as if he had given her just cause to have much faith in his judgement for years. Besides, she felt irresistibly drawn to the little woman in a way she couldn’t begin to work out for herself let alone describe to anyone else. “Least of all to Steve,” she confessed aloud.  Why, we can’t even have a serious discussion any more without its rapidly degenerating into a slanging match.

She sighed, recalling fondly how it hadn’t always been like that. Once they had been able to talk, communicate, sort things out between themselves. Somehow, after Lynette was born, all that closeness began to evaporate, leaving a gaping hole that even their daughter had been unable to fill. Oh, Steve adored Lynette. She might dispute it with him sometimes when he made her angry, but she rarely meant half of what she said whenever they argued.

Now all we do is argue. So where did we go wrong?  It was, she supposed, as much her fault as his. Men were not unfaithful to their wives for no reason. In Steve’s case, it certainly wasn’t a frustrated sex drive. Sex had never been a problem for either of them. On the contrary, it was only during lovemaking that she felt her marriage was worth saving. No man could make love to a woman like that if he had no feelings for her…or could he?

She reached for her purse, absently wondering how much she should give for a tip and went to answer a knock on the door. “Thank God for room service!” she confided to a passing fly.

..................................... 

“Dinner…? You can’t be serious, Anne?  I shouldn’t need to remind you I’m in mourning? What will people think if I start socializing and Mother not even in her grave yet?”

“Who cares what people think?” Anne retorted, “Besides, it’s not as if you have any other plans for this evening other than moping about in this draughty old flat on your own.”

“This flat is not draughty,” Owen protested.

They were in the Shepherds’ kitchen, sitting at the table drinking more tea. “It has always been draughty.” Anne wasted no time contradicting her old friend, “You should have done something about it years ago.”

“I haven’t had time, what with working at the bank and looking after Mother.”

“You agree the place is draughty then?”

“Perhaps it is a little draughty here and there,” he conceded then, “But so what? It doesn’t bother me and Mother never complained.”

“Yes, well, there has to be a first time for everything I suppose,” commented Anne wryly but Owen was not amused.

“I hope you’re not suggesting my mother was always complaining? If so, that just goes to show how little you knew her. Mother was a stoic, an example to us all. She bore her illness without as much as a whimper.”Never mind that now,” said Anne impatiently, “Do say you’ll come to dinner. I need your moral support, Owen, I really do. Steve Taylor is far less likely to make trouble between Cathy and me if you’re there. Another man…well…It will make him think twice about causing a scene. Men hate to make fools of themselves in front of other men. They seem to think behaving badly in front of women is somehow likely to endear them to us for some unearthly reason. I’ve never have been able to fathom out why.”

“You can’t think I’ll scare him off, surely? Look me in the eye Anne, and tell me honestly. If what you tell me is correct, the man has a bit of a temper. What could I do if he loses it, eh, whack him one? Oh, yes, and probably be hauled off to jail for my trouble. No, I’m sorry Anne, but you got yourself into this mess sand you can deal with it. I’m missing Mother so much already. I can’t tell you. I just want to be left alone to enjoy some peace and quiet.”

“Wallow in self-pity, you mean,” Anne told him straight, “and what do you mean about my having got into a mess?   All I’ve done is to invite some people to be my guests at dinner.”

“Really, is that all?”  Owen flung her a knowing look.” You’re convinced the child’s mother is Patricia despite the poor woman’s denials. And don’t you dare tell me any different because it’s written all over your face. Oh, Anne, my dear, don’t go down that road I beg you.” At once he was all sympathy and concern as he saw her eyes fill with tears.

“I hear what you’re saying, Owen. I know and accept that Cathy may not be Patricia. But Owen, there’s something between us, there really is. All the while we were talking at the hotel this morning I felt as if I’d known her all my life. She felt it too, I could tell. You’re right, of course. I mustn’t grab at straws. But she was adopted as a child when she was about Patricia’s age. She has no recollection of her life before then.  Of course it could be a coincidence and probably is, but…I have to try, Owen. You can see that, surely? I have to try,” she insisted.

“But try what, Anne? What can you do? If this woman is convinced she’s not your daughter, and you agree she probably isn’t, what can you…do?”

“I can get to know the family. I suspect the husband’s not so bad really. It’s only natural he should be concerned for his wife and child. Some woman, a complete stranger, comes up to them on a beach and starts making wild claims…You can hardly blame the man for being aggressive, hostile even. But Cathy’s a lovely person. You’ll adore her, Owen, the child too. She’s such a pretty little girl, Lynette, and so much...

     “Like Patricia. Yes, yes, so you keep telling me,” Owen groaned, “But you told me this Cathy says she looked nothing like the daughter at that age, right?” Anne could only bite her lip and nod. “So how can you even consider it?  It will be like putting body and soul through a mincing machine. And for what, I ask you?  Chasing after false hopes, that’s what. Will you never learn, woman?”

Anne shrugged, got up and made another pot of tea.  It’s always good to meet new people and make new friends, surely? Where’s the harm in that?” she put to him.

“So long as that’s all it is,” muttered Owen.

“Does that mean you’ll come?” Anne struggled to contain her relief, “You’ll enjoy it. I just know you will. Your mother wouldn’t want you to sit around brooding. She’d want to you to get on with your life, show everyone what you’re made of and let them see you’re not…” She bit her lip again.

“Not what, a pathetic little mummy’s boy? That’s what you were going to say, isn’t it? Well, isn’t it?” Anne said nothing but turned her attention to the boiling kettle.  “Oh, I know what people say, what they think. Fifty plus and still living with his mother, how boring! Well, maybe I am boring, but I owe Mother so much …more than anyone will ever know…and I wouldn’t have missed these years with her. She loved me, took care of me. I’ll miss her so much…” His voice broke.

Anne sat down again and poured two fresh cups of tea.

“I’m frightened, Anne, frightened of being without her.”

There was genuine fear in his voice. Anne was more disturbed by it than she cared to admit. “All the more reason to start building a new life,” she pointed out, injecting a teasing note into her voice that she hoped he’d find less intimidating, “And why put off until tomorrow what you can do today, or tonight even?”

Owen sighed. How could he expect Anne to understand? She was such a strong woman. “Okay, you win I’ll ome.” He even managed a weak smile. He felt so wretched, as if he were locked in a dark cupboard. He had been there before and again since his mother died in his arms during the early hours of that very morning. Has it really been so short a time? It seems a lifetime already. Who was left to let him out of that horrible cupboard now? He held the teacup in both hands and gazed searchingly into the brown, milky, liquid but found precious little comfort there or any hint of the reassurance he craved.

“Thank you, Owen. You won’t regret it, I promise.” Anne sipped at her tea.

 “On your head be it,” he told her with that same crooked smile she had always found at once endearing and oddly disconcerting.

To be continued on Friday.

Like There's No Tomorrow - Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE

“True to say, Goldilocks and the three bears lived happy ever after.” Cathy closed the book from which she had been reading. Lynette was already fast asleep. After kissing her daughter goodnight, she left the room for the adjoining one where Steve was sitting on the bed waiting.

     “She’s fast asleep,” said Cathy.

     “I’m not surprised. It’s been a long day.”

     “Yes,” Cathy agreed and counted silently to ten, knowing full well what was coming next.

     “You’re going to see that madwoman again aren’t you?”

     “I don’t think so, not at this time of night?”

     “You know what I mean. You just can’t leave it alone, can you?  Can you stand there and tell me you honestly believe there’s anything in what that crazy woman said that is even remotely to do with you, me or Lynette?”

     “Yes.”

     “Why, for heaven’s sake? Anyone can see she’s needs to see a shrink. You don’t seriously believe there’s a chance in hell you could be her long lost daughter?”

     “No, I don’t. For a start, I didn’t look anything like Lynette when I was her age. She takes more after your side of the family.”

     “Then why…?”

     “I’m not sure, if you must know. Maybe it’s because she’s lost a chunk of her life just like I’ve lost a chunk of mine. Maybe she can give me some tips on how to deal with it. I don’t know, Steve, I just don’t know. I only know that I have to see her again, talk to her. Maybe I just feel sorry for her. No, it’s more than that,” she instantly corrected herself, “Maybe I think she’ll understand, the way no one else ever has. I can’t remember a thing before I was nine years old, Steve. You can’t imagine what that’s like.”

     “What does it matter, anyway? You adore your Mum and Dad. Who cares if they adopted you? Besides, you’ve got Lynette and me now. Why can’t that be enough? Why do you have to keep going on and on about what’s done and dusted.”

     “That’s the whole point. Can’t you see? Nothing is done and dusted. I need to know who I am, Steve. Failing that, I need to know how to live with not knowing. Maybe that’s why I need to talk to Anne Gates. She has no idea what happened to her daughter. She’s learned to live with the not knowing. Maybe she can teach me a thing or two.”

     “I’m hearing a lot of maybes…”

     “Maybe because that’s all there is.”  She gave a tight little laugh that never failed to make him see red.

     “If that’s a dig at me, go ahead. Shoot from the hip like you always do when I’ve been a naughty boy. Well, maybe I wouldn’t be such a naughty boy if you didn’t drive me to it. I love you Cathy. Yes, I do, I really do. But you shut me out all the time. Not content with that, you encourage Lynette to do the same. Is it any wonder I play away from home sometimes?”

     “It’s not that I shut you out, Steve, it’s that you can never be bothered to find a way in. We’ve been married eleven years and you haven’t a clue what makes me tick because you’ve never bothered to find out. I’m your wife, full stop, that’s it, end of story. Like hell it is! And how dare you suggest it’s my fault you’re not as close to Lynette as you’d like to be? Do you know the name of her favourite colour or TV show or bedtime story or how well she’s doing at school?  No. And why is that, I wonder? Could it be because you never bother to ask?”

     “I’m a trucker. I work all hours. I’m busy. I get tired. I try, I really try. But every time I do, you put me down. I can’t fight you, Cathy.  You’re so much better with words than me. I’m beaten before I start. God knows I’ve tried. I’m trying now, aren’t I?  I turned down work to be here with you and Lynette because you said you’d leave me if we didn’t give it one more go. That has to mean something, doesn’t it…even to you?”

     Cathy groaned. “It always has to be my fault, doesn’t it?   That couldn’t be because it makes you feel so much better every time you sleep with another woman, could it?”

     “I thought we’d called a truce?”

     “Give me strength! What kind of truce is it when you’re only here because you feel threatened? Most men like to be with their wives and children for the sake of it, not because they’ve negotiated some kind of truce.”

     “There’s no talking to you in this mood!”  He ran to the door and flung it open.

     “Don’t you dare slam that door and wake Lynette, don’t you dare!”

     But he ignored her, slammed the door behind him and took the stairs two at a time rather than take the lift, so anxious was he to get out of the hotel and breathe some fresh air.

     Cathy went to check on Lynette. Thankfully, she was still sleeping. She closed the door quietly and did not see the child’s eyes fly open wide or the tears forming.

…………………….

     Although the next morning was warm and sunny, Anne felt no inclination to leave the hotel. Instead, she sat in the garden, after leaving instructions at Reception that if anyone asked for her they were to be directed there. It was very pleasant, sitting at a wooden table painted white under a huge orange umbrella, sipping tea and leafing through the pages of a glossy magazine. Not that she absorbed much of what she read, for wondering if her instincts were right and Cathy Taylor would, indeed, turn up. The younger woman might wait a few days, of course, but Anne thought not. No, if Cathy is coming at all, it will be some time this morning.

     A lark’s song caught her ear and she listened, enchanted, until she glanced over the pages of her magazine and Owen Shepherd came slowly into focus. She pursed her lips in annoyance at first until she then saw more clearly that he was very upset. Instantly, she took herself to task. “Owen,” she called and beckoned.

     His tragic expression brightened a fraction. By the time he had crossed the hotel lawn and had pulled up a chair beside her, he was close to tears. She’s gone, Anne. Mother’s gone. She died peacefully in her sleep.”

     “Oh, Owen, I’m so sorry.” Anne took her friend’s hands in hers. He was plainly grateful for the gesture and did not withdraw them for several minutes. During this time, each struggled for words but none came so they contented themselves, as they had so often done, with a companionable silence. “I’ll fetch us some tea,” she said at last and would have got up from her chair had she not seen Mel Harvey approaching with a tea tray.

     “I thought you might need this,” said Mel as she laid the tray down. Turning to Owen, she laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. “I’m so sorry, Owen.”

     “It had to come, I suppose. I couldn’t expect to keep her for much longer, the state she was in.”

     “At least she’s at peace now.” Mel squeezed again.

     “I hope so. Oh, I do hope so,” Owen moaned softly.

     It struck Anne as a curious thing to say. “Of course she’s at peace,” she said, mildly irritated, “For heaven’s sake, Owen, if we can’t expect to find peace when we die what hope is there for any of us?”

     Mel frowned. “She’s not in pain any more. We must be thankful for that,” darting a look over Owen’s shoulder that Anne was plainly meant to interpret as a rebuke. “You must try and be glad for her, Owen. In time, you’ll be able to look back on the good times and things won’t seem half as bad.”

     “I suppose so,” murmured Owen but did not sound convinced.

     “You’ll see,” said Mel, “Time is a great healer.”

     “So they say,” Anne muttered and wished Mel would leave. Her friend was being very tiresome. She hated it so when people trotted out clichés.

     “I’ll leave you to it,” said Mel, giving Owen’s shoulder a final squeeze but with such an aggrieved expression that Anne couldn’t help wondering if the hotelier hadn’t read her mind.

     Mel returned, briskly, to the hotel. Not until the French windows had swallowed her up did Anne relax and set about arranging china cups (why were there three?) and saucers before pouring tea from a stainless steel teapot.

     Owen watched her like a man hypnotised by the deft, precise action of busy fingers then, “I’m on my way to register the death.”

     “Would you like me to come with you?” asked Anne without pausing in the act of adding milk to his tea from a small jug.

     “No, I need to be on my own. I just thought you’d want to know. You will come to the funeral, won’t you? Not that I’ve arranged that yet of course. I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve seen the vicar. Hopefully, it will be in a day or so. It’s not as if there’ll be any need for an inquest. The doctor said she died of pneumonia. Strange, that, don’t you think?  She gets cancer and dies of pneumonia…”

     “It happens,” said Anne and took refuge in a sip of tea.

     “You will come to the funeral, won’t you?” he repeated, “Mel says either she or Joe will be there. They won’t both be able to leave the hotel, of course. So at least there will be three of us.”

     Anne groaned inwardly. “Of course I’ll be there and if there’s anything I can do, you know you only have to ask.”

     Both sipped at their teas.

     “What did mother tell you about Fern?”

     The question, coming out of the blue as it did, required that Anne take a moment to collect herself then, “Nothing, why? She must have misheard when you said my name. She thought I was someone called Fern, that’s all. Don’t forget Owen, she was very ill.”

     “As if I could forget,” he retorted.  Anne, tactfully, made no reply. “But she must have said something, surely?” he insisted.

     “No, Owen, she said nothing. Not about this Fern person anyway. She expressed concern for you and that’s about it. ”

     “Concern?” he echoed sharply.

     “She was worried about how you’ll cope after she’s…gone. Who is this Fern woman, anyway?” She had only asked by way of steering the subject away from Alice Shepherd’s death and its implications for poor Owen. The vehemence of his response both astonished and alarmed her.

     “I told you before, it’s none of your business,” he snapped. “If you must know, she was a neighbour where we used to live in Bristol. She and mother were close once. We lost touch after we moved here. If you think there’s anything to tell, you’re mistaken. Fern is...history… nothing more or less than…history. History, damn it woman, history!”  He was on his feet now and glowering at her with such a fierce expression that she might have been frightened had she not assumed the poor man was still in shock.

     “Sit down, Owen, and drink your tea,” she said quietly, reflecting with some satisfaction that Alice Shepherd would have approved.

     Owen meekly did as he was told. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

     “Don’t be.” She tried to reassure him, “You’ve had a shock and shock makes us say and do funny things. Oh, I know your mother was dying. But death, when it comes, is always a shock. You must let yourself grieve now, Owen.  Men do cry, you know, there’s no shame in it. And if you ever need someone to talk to, you know I’m a good listener.” She stretched an arm across the table and laid a hand on his. “I’m always here for you, Owen, you know that.”

     He gave her a long, reproachful look and removed his hand. “Always, you say? Don’t you mean until the end of next week?” he said with such bitterness that her head began to swim.

     Owen rose abruptly and left.

     Watching him disappear through the French doors over the rim of her teacup, Anne wondered if she could face Alice Shepherd’s funeral after all, even for Owen’s sake.

     “Hello-eeee!” a disembodied voice called out seconds before Charley Briggs sailed through the French doors, a fetching green dress billowing like tent flaps in a breeze that had suddenly got up. In no time at all, she was settling into the chair Owen Shepherd had just vacated. “Is there any more tea in that pot?”

     “I dare say,” said Anne.

     “Who was that poor man who just left? He looked in a bit of a state. I’ll say!”

     “His mother has just died.”

     “Oh, no, how awful.…. It’s always so sad when a parent passes away, especially when it’s the mother. Don’t you think so?” Anne nodded pensively. “I was devastated when my mother died.”  Charley paused long enough to help herself to the spare cup and pour some tea into it, shaking her head as Anne held out the milk jug then, “Is he a friend of yours maybe, or another guest?”

     “He’s an old friend.”

     “Well, you’ll think I’ve got a screw loose but I could swear I recognized him from somewhere. I just can’t think where. That’s unusual, because I have an amazing memory for faces. Ask anyone who knows me how it is with me and faces, and they’ll tell you the same. I never forget a face.  Usually, I can place one right away, spot on. But, no, not this time. I do know that face, though, you can be sure of it,” she repeated and supped ponderously at her tea.

     “I suppose…” Anne began hesitantly.

     “You suppose what? Come on. If you’ve got something to say, spit it out.”

     “His name is Owen Shepherd. He and his mother were staying here at the same time my daughter disappeared.”

     “You don’t say? Oh, my God, that is such a coincidence!”

     “Not really.” Anne wished the woman was less of a drama queen. They were moving into a garden flat not far from here. There was some kind of hitch over the previous owners moving out. I seem to remember their dog got ill and died or something like that. So the Shepherds stayed here until they could move in. Owen has been a good friend to me,” she added with a passion that surprised her then, “It’s incredible, you remembering him after all these years.”

     “Like I said, I never forget a face. But, look, I’m sorry. It must be so hard for you to talk about…what happened.”

     “On the contrary, most people prefer to pretend it never happened at all. Believe me. That’s much harder. ”

     “I can imagine,” said the big woman whose sympathetic smile displayed no trace of pity, only kindness. Again, Anne warmed to her. “But I can’t stay here chatting, much as I’d love to. Spence will be looking for me. We saw a lovely brooch in this quaint little shop in the Lanes yesterday and he wants to buy it for me.  I ask you, who am I to refuse? The three of us must get together soon. You’ll love Spence when you get to know him, everyone does. Now, you be sure to take good care of yourself…”  On these parting words, she floated across the garden, sails billowing, just as she had arrived.

     Anne watched her, smiling broadly.

     Couples and singles came and went. Some waved and called ‘hello’ and some didn’t. Two children, a boy and a girl, came and chased each other around the lawn, shrieking madly and ignoring an agitated father’s demands that they come inside at once until their mother arrived on the scene, grabbed each by the hand and dragged them, protesting loudly, back into the hotel. Yet again, the French doors enjoyed a veritable feast. The metaphor made Anne chuckle. But the sound died on her lips as she spotted Cathy Taylor hovering, half in and half out of the glittering glass jaws.

     Anne did not hesitate but rose and went to greet the other woman, just as Cathy had experienced a change of heart and was making a beeline for the hotel entrance. “Cathy, wait!” she called out, attempting at the same time to contain the panic churning up her bowels.

     Cathy Taylor stood stock still for several seconds before turning round. “Hello again,” she said in a tired voice and it struck Anne how the younger woman looked as if she hadn’t slept a wink all night.

     “Hello,” said Ann, seized both Cathy’s hands in hers and smiled reassuringly. “I’m so glad you came. I hoped you would. Shall we find a quiet corner in the lounge or would you like to come up to my room? I’d suggest the garden but the wind’s getting up and, besides, it can be quite noisy sometimes. Children, you know…they do so love to play, don’t they?”

     Cathy nodded and followed Anne into the lounge where, as promised, they found a quiet corner. Anne sat. Cathy did the same. Anne placed both hands firmly in her lap. Cathy fidgeted with hers until, “I had to come,” she confessed breathlessly, “I just had to come. But please don’t get the wrong idea. There’s no way I’m your daughter. I know Lynette looks like the girl in the photograph you showed us, but it’s just a coincidence. That’s all it is, really, an uncanny coincidence. You have to understand that or…”

     “Or…?” Anne prompted.

     Cathy shrugged. “I had better leave.”

     “Is that what you want?” Cathy shook her head. “Then stay and share a pot of tea with me,” mouthing as much to a passing waitress. “Or would you prefer coffee?” she suddenly remembered to ask.

     “Tea will be fine,” Cathy began to relax.

     “Forgive me, my dear, but if you are so certain you’re not my daughter, why are you here?”

     It was so long before Cathy answered that Anne was about to repeat the question then, “To be honest, I’m not sure. I wanted to see you again but I didn’t want to get your hopes up. You seemed so…certain.”

     “Then…why?”

     “I just thought…well, maybe we could…help each other.” She fell silent again. Anne waited. “I’m adopted, you see…” Anne leaned forward, the better to catch the softy-spoken words clambering with difficulty over Cathy Taylor’s tongue. “My adopted parents found me wandering in the street when I was about ten years old. I had no idea who I was or how I’d got there…”

     Anne’s breathing quickened. She felt the blood rush to her face.

     “They fostered me for several years then adopted me,” Cathy went on, “They tried hard to find out who I was, everyone did…the police, Social Services, the Missing Persons people… everyone. My photo was posted everywhere, even on TV. But no one came forward with any information. Nobody claimed me. I felt like an unwanted piece of lost luggage for years…”

     “And now…?” Anne probed gently.

     “I barely spoke for two years. The Harrisons were wonderful.” She looked up from staring at a stain on her jeans and looked directly at Anne. “They really are fantastic parents. I love them both to bits.” Anne nodded approvingly.

     Cathy returned to studying her jeans. “I don’t have a photo of me at that age on me. But I can show you one sometime if you like. I didn’t look much like Lynette, hardly at all in fact. She takes after Steve’s side of the family…” the choked voice petered out again.

     Anne waited. In spite of Cathy Taylor’s denials, she was aware of an intense affinity with this young woman, who plainly felt the same. Maybe…? She put it to herself that Cathy Taylor was her daughter. But even as hope flared, it died almost at once as she began to rationalize to the contrary. Not only was Cathy convinced otherwise, but to entertain the idea, even briefly, would be seen as a betrayal of the only people she had ever called Mum and Dad. And yet…Anne could not recall having felt so close to anyone, even Tom, as she did to Cathy Taylor at this moment.  

     Her ears pricked up as Cathy continued, “The way I see it, we’ve both lost a child…you, a daughter and me…I’ve lost myself as a little girl. I thought I’d learned to live with it. I did. I had…until Lynette was born. Now, I look at her and wonder…does she get any of her funny little ways from me? Is she as good at all the things I was good at and as bad at others? What was I any good at? What was I bad at? Who am I and why did my parents never come looking for me? How can anyone be so uncaring, so cruel?” I’d die if anything ever happened to Lynette.”

     Anne could find no words to express her deep sympathy for this young woman sitting tense but dry-eyed beside her on a plush leather sofa. Nor could she prevent herself from reflecting how many times she had contemplated suicide since that terrible moment in the early hours of Monday morning, August 8^th 1983 when she discovered Patricia was missing from her bed.

     “Please help me,” a small voice pleaded.

     How could she refuse? Moreover, as she obeyed an impulse to give Cathy Taylor a big hug, Anne felt a surge of maternal bonding the like of which she had never expected to feel again. Acknowledging the feeling for what it was, she felt happy and sad at the same time. However, she told herself firmly, she must not expect too much too soon. 

     Cathy began to shiver.

     She’s scared. Anne sensed it at once and was only faintly shocked. Instinctively, she hugged the younger woman closer. I’m scared too, she wanted to say. But that, she decided, would be giving too much away.

To be continued. on Monday.

Like There's No Tomorrow - Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

In the event, Anne chose to walk back to the seafront. That way, she reasoned, she would find it easier to let go of the anger that Owen Shepherd’s outburst had aroused in her. She wasn’t angry with him. On the contrary, she thought she understood. After all, the poor man was under a tremendous strain. No, she was angry that it had eclipsed her newfound joy, undermined her determination to prove everyone wrong, show the doubters once and for all that Anne Gates was not a woman obsessed, that her daughter was alive. She did not want to have to worry about Owen, least of all at this particular moment in time.

     Yet, how could she not worry?  The degree of Alice Shepherd’s deterioration had come as a nasty shock but Owen…She was still reeling from his outburst. It was so out of character. She did not even notice the bus stop as she continued to walk down the hill.

     Hadn’t she always thought of Owen as an unemotional person, almost cold?  True, he was passionate about his hens, but far less so about people. Nor was Alice an exception. While she did not doubt the strength of the bond between mother and son, Owen had always managed to convey an almost calculated detachment in his mother’s presence. She had felt it again as she’d watched him fussing over Alice as the poor woman lay dying. 

     Now you’re just being silly, Anne chided herself. At the same time, she found herself admitting that the Shepherds had always struck her as odd, hardly the usual mother-son relationship. Even so, Owen had been a good friend to her and she was grateful for that. Too many people became emotional in her company, as if it were par for the course. It made a pleasant change not to be made to feel guilty for failing to play the distressed mother. Of course she was devastated by Patricia’s disappearance, what mother wouldn’t be? Nor had time healed the gaping wound in her life. But the world continues to turn, regardless. She had a job, a house and a life among friends, neighbours and colleagues to whom she could never have done justice in a constant state of near collapse.

     Anne sighed. She could not win, of course. Coping, or appearing to cope, gave the impression she was a hard, heartless person. In the early days after Patricia’s disappearance when she’d gone to pieces, she’d hated being an object of pity. Most people, in her experience, seemed to prefer the latter. She could only suppose it satisfied some maternal instinct, even among the male population. Owen was one of the few people with whom she had always felt she could relax, enjoy a conversation or stroll without being made to walk on broken glass. It was inconceivable to her that Alice Shepherd’s death should threaten this relationship. “I can’t, I won’t play the surrogate mother,” she muttered and tried in vain to suppress a renewed surge of anger.

     By the time she reached the promenade and was heading towards the surviving pier, Anne had calmed down and returned to the task of seeking out the couple with the little girl whose likeness to Patricia had struck her as so uncanny.

     Commonsense told her it might well have been a trick of the light, not to mention wishful thinking, but excitement had already taken over from the mixture of anger and concern she felt towards the Shepherds. Every nuance of her being was on high alert. Anticipation coursed through her veins like wildfire. She could barely refrain from stopping people to ask if they had seen the family trio. It occurred to her that she might show them a favourite photograph of Patricia that she always carried in her bag, but suspected it would be seen as the act of a desperate mother, and she had long since put that role aside. No less desperate for all that, she could at least keep her dignity.

     A dry chuckle tickled her tongue. Years ago she’d have scoffed at the idea. What did a loss of dignity matter? Beside the appalling act of losing a child, it paled into insignificance. Yet, it did matter. Without dignity, you’re nothing. And she should know. Hadn’t she learned the hard way?  Even so, she paused to retrieve the snapshot from her bag. For several minutes, she gazed longingly, achingly at it before walking on and slipping it into a pocket, comforted by the same delight that had inspired the taking of it outside the Royal Pavilion, August 1983.

     Descending from the promenade to beach level, she ordered a cup of tea at a café and grabbed a table outside just as its present occupants were leaving. Here, she was almost content to sit a while, enchanted by sunlight dancing on the water if more than a little envious of family groups and girlfriend-boyfriend couples passing by. Judging by their assorted gestures and expressions, they all seemed to be enjoying themselves. She kept telling herself that the chances of her spotting the couple with the little girl were remote. Yet, how could she sit here doing nothing?  She must get off her backside and do as she always did, weave her way through the crowds on the beach, either side of the pier, however long it took. But she was tired. Besides, it was so pleasant just to sit and do nothing, feel nothing, simply admire the view, lap up the cheerful hubbub all around, relish a sense of being a part of it all instead of forever being on the outside looking in like some Peeping Tom.

     Again, she couldn’t help but ponder how it was all so different this year. She had never felt like this during past visits. It had to be some kind of omen, surely, and a good one? “Omens, huh!” she scoffed at a seagull perched on her table. Pull yourself together, woman. You’ll start believing in miracles next.  If she felt morally obliged to concede that she always had, she also chose not to confide in the seagull. It would remain her secret.

     As if sensing a rebuff, the bird flew off.  Anne watched it soar, spread its wings in a graceful arc and disappear.

     It was hot. The sun glared down at the world that was Brighton beach with uncommon ferocity. Not a single cloud threatened its place in an infinite expanse of sky. It was not a day for being indoors. She and Tom, Anne decided, would definitely not have taken Patricia sightseeing on such a day. They would have come down to the beach, the three of them, and built sandcastles, gone for a paddle, perhaps even a swim. They would almost certainly have searched for pretty shells too, and laughed at smudges of ice cream on each other’s faces.

     A rush of adrenalin galvanised Anne into action.  Even so, she rose with a measure of reluctance.

In spite of a queasy excitement, she headed towards the Palace Pier. She still thought of it as that even though it read ‘Brighton Pier’ in huge letters, illuminated at night, above the entrance.

     Although looking out for the trio with every step she took if awkwardly on the pebble beach in spite of wearing comfortable sandals, she couldn’t help feeling apprehensive. What would she say to the child’s parents? How would she introduce herself? What if the mother instantly rejected her or, worse, made it clear she wanted nothing to do with her?

     It was while turning such gruelling thoughts over in her mind that she suddenly spotted them.

     They were slightly ahead and above her (she hadn’t realized how close she was to the water’s edge). The two adults were reclining in deckchairs. The man was reading a newspaper. The woman was encouraging her daughter to build a sandcastle. The little girl was facing the sea. At that precise moment, she looked up. It seemed to Anne as if the child’s smile was meant just for her.  Almost at once, the bright eyes returned to bucket and spade. Eager little hands resumed their task, leaving Anne chasing a swathe of butterflies in her stomach although, and try as she might, she could not catch a single one. At the same time, the attempt helped her achieve what she hoped would pass for at least the outward appearance of a casual observer.

     Pulse racing, she approached, only to panic upon reaching the trio and hurry past, stumbling on the pebbles in a growing anxiety to reach a point of safety from which she could, hopefully, devise a strategy of sorts. Until now, it hadn’t occurred to her that she might need one. In her dreams, Patricia had simply cried “Mummy!” and rushed into her arms. While the rational part of her mind accepted that Patricia, if still alive, would now be an adult, Anne had never consciously thought of her daughter as anything but a child. But she had caught a telling glimpse of the little girl’s mother as she passed. It was the same blond hair, the same simultaneously amused and serious expression in the same blue eyes that she had coveted in her mind’s eye every hour of every day for the better part of twenty-three years; the same, yes, but in a completely different person.

     This woman was a total stranger. Obviously, Anne kept telling herself.  Hadn’t she been prepared for this? The answer was a resounding, No!

     Nothing, Anne began to realize, could have prepared her for this awful despair. Where she had expected joy, a terrible fear gripped her. Where she had anticipated a rush of release and fulfilment, there was only a rising panic.

     It was all so unfair, so cruel.

     Anne sat down on the shingle just a few yards away from the little girl and her parents. For a while she watched them without quite seeing them. Over and over she rehearsed in her head one variation after another of what she might say, how she could broach the subject without scaring anyone, herself included. It was one thing to dream, imagine and fantasize. This stark, cold-blooded reality was a far cry from the cosy, happy-ever-after reunion that had kept her going, kept her sane…and kept her alive all these years.

     “Excuse me,” a small voice intruded. Anne looked up to find a solemn looking boy with a mop of black curls and wearing just green swimming trunks standing beside her. Tears were rolling down his face even as a lively pink tongue continued to lick enthusiastically at a strawberry ice cream cone. “I think I’m lost.”

     “Oh dear, are you?” She was momentarily nonplussed then, “Are you with your mummy?”

     “Of course not,” retorted the boy, “Mum’s at work. I’m with my grandma.”

     “And what is your grandma wearing?”

     “A red straw hat, why?” the boy wanted to know.

     Anne got to her feet and looked around. “Like that one?” she asked, pointing at a red straw hat balanced on the rim of a deck chair.

     “Yes, that’s it!” the boy shouted and ran off in that direction. As soon as he reached the deck chair, Anne could tell at once that the straw hat did, indeed, belong to grandma as she watched the solemn expression transformed in quick succession from one of relief to delight then finally, a brave attempt at nonchalance.

Perhaps it was this happy reunion that persuaded her to act on her own behalf, she would never be sure. Whatever, she made her way towards another deckchair where the blond woman sat alone, the little girl and her father having gone for a paddle only a few minutes before.

     “Hello,” Anne ventured after standing only inches away from the woman for several long seconds. The woman, who could only have been in her early thirties, had begun reading a magazine and now looked up with a startled expression. A snub nose twitched. Anne’s heart skipped a beat as she recognized one of Patricia’s funny little habits only too well. “My name is Anne Gates…” her voice trailing off as emotion overwhelmed her. “Do you mind if I sit down next to you for a moment. I’m feeling rather faint.”

     “By all means do.” The younger woman was instantly concerned, “Would you like some water? We always carry several bottles with us. You never know, do you, with the heat and everything, especially with children?”  She delved into a huge, colourful beach bag and produced a bottle of mineral water just as Anne was settling herself into the deckchair recently vacated by the man she could only assume was the child’s father. 

     “Thank you so much. I hadn’t realized how thirsty I was.”  Anne accepted the plastic bottle with thanks and drank eagerly.

     Keep the bottle. We don’t want you becoming dehydrated and passing out, do we?”

     “Thank you. You’re very kind. I’m Anne Gates by the way.”

     “So you said.” The woman smiled and laughed but not unkindly. “I’m Cathy Taylor and that’s my husband Steve over there, the carrot top with that little girl in the yellow swimsuit. She’s our daughter, Lynette.”

     “A pretty name for a pretty little girl,” said Anne and only vaguely wondered why the father’s ginger hair hadn’t registered with her before.

     “Forgive me, but do we know you? Are you staying at our hotel perhaps? We’re at The Hillcrest.”

     “I always stay at The Orion, have done for the past twenty-three years.” But if she was hoping to provoke a reaction, Anne was disappointed. The younger woman merely smiled politely and appeared increasingly embarrassed.

     “So…how can I help you? I mean, you’re welcome to the water but…well…I get the impression you didn’t just happen to be passing. Am I right?  Because if you have something you want to say to me, just come out with it, I won’t bite…whatever my husband might tell you to the contrary,” she added with a musical laugh that was so familiar it sent shivers down Anne’s spine.

     “Actually, there is something…” Anne began then trailed off when she saw the child and her father returning out of the corner of one eye.

     “Steve, Lynette…” the woman called, “We have company.”

     “So I see,” said Steve. Anne was surprised to discover at close quarters that he was over six feet tall.       

     “Stay there, don’t move,” he told Anne and went to fetch another deckchair.

     “I’m Lynette,” piped up the little girl.

     “I’m Anne.”

     “Anne Gates,” Cathy told her husband. She’s been coming to Brighton for the past twenty-three years. Isn’t that interesting?”

     “I suppose,” said Steve, plainly unconvinced.

 Cathy turned to her daughter. “Why don’t you show Anne how well you can build a sandcastle?”

     “Okay,” the child flung Anne a huge grin and returned to bucket and spade with all the natural intuition of a child who knows something is up and it’s better not to argue.

     “Now, Anne…how can we help you?”

     “I don’t quite know how to begin…”

     “Not from the beginning. In my experience, that always takes forever,” interrupted Steve with a terse laugh, “Suppose you just give us the gist, eh? Keep it short and sweet.”

     “Oh, well, if you say so…” Anne was instantly nonplussed.

     “Pay no attention to him. You take all the time you want,” Cathy assured her and gave her husband a meaningful look that said, “Can’t you see the poor woman’s not well? Don’t you dare give her a hard time or you’ll answer to me, just see if you don’t.”

     “I first came to Brighton twenty-three years ago…” Anne began again.

     “So you already said,” commented Steve.

     “Shut up. Let the woman speak, can’t you?” Cathy snapped then berated herself for doing so. But there was something about the woman beside her that she found at once intriguing and faintly scary. She told herself she was being absurd. Anne Gates had to be the most ordinary looking and least threatening person she had ever met. So why couldn’t she shrug off a feeling of unease that had been with her since she had handed over the water bottle and seen the strangest look in the other woman’s eyes? “She knows me, or she thinks she does,” had been Cathy’s first thought. Now the same thought returned to haunt her as she listened attentively to the older woman’s voice but was careful to avoid the unnaturally bright eyes.

     “We first came here in August 1983,” Anne went on, “My husband Tom and I, that is, and our daughter Patricia. She would have been about your Lynette’s age. The likeness is uncanny. Look, see for yourself.” She produced the photograph from her pocket and handed it to Cathy who only looked at it only briefly before passing it to her husband.

      Steve Taylor studied it closely, eyes wide with astonishment and gave a long, low whistle. “That’s amazing, just…amazing!” He handed the photograph back to Cathy who returned it to Anne without giving it so much as a second glance.

     “Go on,” Cathy prompted Anne sharply.

     “We had booked into The Orion for two weeks. On the first Sunday evening, after dinner, Patricia said she was tired so Tom put her to bed and I went up later to read her a bedtime story. For the rest of that evening, Tom and I sat drinking and chatting with other guests in the bar. I drank rather more than I’m used to, I’m afraid and had to get up in the middle of the night to use the toilet. The rooms at the Orion weren’t en suite in those days. Each floor had its own toilet and bathroom. On my way back to bed, I looked in on Patricia…as one does,” she murmured and glanced at Cathy as if for confirmation, but the younger woman kept her eyes fastened on the pebbly surface below.

     “The bed was empty. There was no sign of Patricia. I started screaming and woke everyone up. The police were called. We searched for days, weeks…the police, other guests, Tom and me…we were frantic…we were given sedatives but they barely took the edge off the pain. It was as if Patricia had vanished from the face of the earth.”

     “Weeks became years. We carried on as best we could, Tom and me…until we could barely stand the sight of each other any more for rembering how things were, and...I was on my own, coming here for the first two weeks in every August and each waking hour on either side. But don’t get me wrong” Anne tried to explain, “I’m not some demented soul searching for her long lost daughter. Well, I suppose I am…but…well…you know what I mean.”

     Steve wasn’t sure that he did. “Look here, I feel for you, I really do. I’m sure Cathy does too. But you’re surely not suggesting that our Lynette is…”

     “Patricia?  Of course I don’t think that. It was years ago. She’s not my little girl any more. She’d be older now, a grown woman…”

     “My age,” declared Cathy Taylor flatly, “She would be my age. Twenty-three years ago Patricia would have been…nine, ten?” She turned and looked Anne directly in the face.

     “Nearly ten,” Anne told her and looked away, unable to bear the other woman’s steady, challenging gaze.

     “That would make her nearly thirty-three now.  Like I said, she’d be the same age as me,” said Cathy.

     “Hey, hold on a minute!” Steve Taylor exclaimed warningly, “Let’s not rush to any daft conclusions here. Go ahead and tell her, love. Your parents are Eve and Frank Harrison. They’ve lived in Ipswich all their lives and, even as we speak, are probably arguing over who should cook supper tonight.”  But Lynette’s mother merely bit her lip and stared ahead with a glazed expression. An uncomfortable silence wrapped itself around them all. “So what are you waiting for, Cathy? Tell her it’s true. You’re no more this Patricia than I’m David Beckham!”

     “I should think not,” joked his wife with an apparent resurgence of awareness if a noticeable absence of humour, “David Beckham doesn’t have red hair for a start.”

     “This is no time to start nitpicking, Cathy. Be serious. Tell the stupid woman she’s barking up the wrong bloody tree.”

     “I’m sorry.” Anne rose to leave. “I should never have imposed myself on you like this. It’s been a great shock, to both of you, to me too. I understand. Believe me I do. But please, at least think about what I’ve said. Let me write down my mobile number.” She fumbled in her bag for pen and paper.

     “We don’t want you’re damn mobile number,” Steve Taylor yelled, “Nor do we want anything to do with you. So, you can just fuck off and leave us alone!”

     “There’s no need to start swearing, Steve. Can’t you see the poor woman’s in a state? So am I, for that matter. Swearing won’t help. Swearing won’t solve anything.”

     “What do you mean, won’t solve anything? You’re not telling me you think there’s the remotest substance in this woman’s fairy tale?  Because that’s all it is, love, a fairy tale. You know it, I know it, and deep down I bet she knows it too.” He glared pointedly at Anne.

     “I don’t know. I just…don’t know,” Anne began to sob.

     “Oh, no, you can cut that out for a start. I can’t stand women who turn on the waterworks to get their own way. Not least, because they usually do. But not this time, lady, no way! Now, clear off. You’ve done enough damage for one day.  Who do you think you are, parking yourself here uninvited and spoiling our holiday? Fuck off, damn you, just…FUCK OFF.”

     “What’s the matter Daddy?”  A distressed Lynette came running towards them.

     “Now see what you’ve done?” Steve raged, “You’ve upset my daughter. Now, get lost or do I have to call the police and have you charged with harassment?” he yelled, snatching a mobile phone from a pocket in his shorts as he spoke.

     “What’s the matter? Why is Daddy so cross?” Lynette wanted to know and burst into tears.

     “It’s the heat, darling, nothing to worry about,” Cathy reassured her daughter and gave her a hug, “Sometimes the heat gets to grown-ups and they get upset. But it’s nothing ice-creams all round can’t put right.”

     The child’s face lit up.

     “I’ll say goodbye,” said Anne and began to pick her way back to the promenade without further ado.

     “Shall I go and get us ice-creams, Mummy?”

     “I’ll come with you,” said Steve.

     “I’m nine years old, Daddy, nearly ten. I can carry three ice-creams and don’t you dare say I’ll get lost because I won’t.”

     “Okay, if you say so.” Her father caved in gracefully and took a ten-pound note from his wallet.

     “You won’t get much change from that,” remarked Cathy as they watched her go.

     “She’ll be alright won’t she?” asked Steve anxiously.

     “Don’t worry, she’ll be fine. It isn’t far and we can keep an eye on her from here. We can’t expect to keep her wrapped up in cotton wool. It wouldn’t be fair on any of us.”

     “How about you, are you okay? I know what’s worrying you but you’ve got to put that mad woman out of your head. Forget her, she’s obsessed.”

     “So what’s worrying me, the fact I’m adopted or that the Harrisons fostered me for three years before they could coax a word out of me? And why was that, Steve?  Let me remind you. Because I was scared witless, that’s why.  I had no idea who I was or where I’d come from and I’m none the wiser to this day. And don’t you dare tell me it doesn’t matter, because it does.” She was grateful for his embrace but sensed it was more a knee-jerk reaction than an act of affection, let alone love. Did they still love each other, she wondered?   She hoped so. They had, after all, come to Brighton to find out if their marriage could be saved if only for Lynette’s sake.

     In spite of her doubts, Cathy was glad of Steve’s arms wrapped around her. It was a comfort of sorts although she would have welcomed more reassurance. About what exactly, she wondered?  But she wasn’t ready to go there just yet.  Instead, she clung to Steve even as he tried, gently, to push her away.  She felt weary and very uneasy. Swallowing the familiar lump in her throat, she kept telling herself she was over-reacting. But am I? It was starting to look as if not only her marriage might be at stake on this holiday, but also her very identity.  Each was, of course, part of the same problem.

     Neither spoke. Both knew, though, that she would make a point of seeing Anne Gates again.

To be continued on Friday.

Like There's No Tomorrow - Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

Anne opened her eyes, yawned and lay still, content to listen to the pleasant sound of rain splashing the huge bay window of the room where she had slept remarkably well, all things considered.

All things considered...

Events of the previous evening instantly flooded her senses, making her skin tingle and inviting her mind’s eye to watch a series of shadowy cameos revolving like figures on a roundabout. Suddenly, it stopped. The shadows lifted. She  clearly saw a little girl with blond pigtails sitting on a beautifully carved wooden horse; the child was squealing with delight while clinging tightly to a pole. The roundabout began to move again to the sound of stirring organ music, now passing into heavy shadow beyond reach or sight, by which time Anne no longer found the noise of rain splashing the bay window at all pleasing on the ear.

A ray of watery sunlight found a chink in the curtains and targeted Anne’s face, causing her to blink furiously. She promptly flung back the bedclothes and strode resolutely to the window, tugging first at a cord on one side then the other, achieving a disproportionate satisfaction upon seeing the curtains glide open. In spite of some low cloud and obstinate rain, she knew instinctively that it would be a nice day. She proceeded to reflect on what she would do. Oh, she’d take a shower, dress and go down for breakfast…But what then? She might take a stroll through The Lanes if the rain had stopped. There was always a chance she might bump into Patricia. It has to be her.  With any luck, mother and daughter (her granddaughter?) would be shopping alone. Men hate browsing shops. He will probably take himself off somewhere and meet them for lunch. Then they will all go on the beach and he’ll take the child for a paddle in the sea, maybe even teach her to swim. Tom, she recalled, had done just that with Patricia. Isn’t that what all adoring dads do with their children on holiday?

It was even possible, she supposed, that the family lived here in Brighton. More likely, though, they had only come for the day and she would never see them again. Yet, she reasoned anxiously, fate could not be so cruel as to steal her daughter a second time. Or could it...? 

“No!” she shouted above the noise of the shower and proceeded to lather herself furiously with a lavender scented gel. This time it would be different, she was sure of it. So sure, that she began to sing…

Later, Anne was enjoying breakfast when the Briggs woman approached her table with an invariably sheepish looking Spence in tow. Anne struggled to conceal her dismay and summon a friendly disposition despite a sinking feeling in the stomach.

“Good morning Anne. You don’t mind if Spence and I join you?” Anne winced as the rich, booming voice swamped the entire room. Charley Briggs, seemingly unaware of causing any heads to turn or eyebrows to lift, sat down and addressed her companion. “Now, Spence, be a treasure will you?  Get me a glass of grapefruit juice and heaps of cornflakes, but not too much milk and only the teeniest sprinkling of sugar. Oh, I say!” she waved at a passing waitress carrying a jug of steaming coffee, “Coffee here please. Will it be coffee for you too Anne?”

“I prefer tea at breakfast,” said Anne with a smile that was requiring less effort as the seconds ticked by. Whatever reservations she might have about Charley Briggs and her young man, she couldn’t help liking them.

“Spence is such a sweetie. I don’t know what I’d do without him. We care about each other a lot, you know. It’s not just a case of wealthy fat woman snaps up slim, handsome, toy boy. Spence and me, we’re…soulmates.” She beamed as the word sprung to her full, shiny lips.  

“That’s nice,” murmured Anne and picked up her teacup, the better to hide her amusement. If the woman is so well off, what on earth is she doing in a humble Bed and Breakfast? She gave a guilty start. After all, she loved coming here. Yes, in spite of everything.

“I’ll say it’s nice!” Charley Briggs agreed and leaned across the table. “It beats having a husband, I’ll tell you that for nothing,” she confided. “I’ve had three husbands and none of them could hold a candle to Spence.  Mind you, Briggs came close to it, bless him. He was my first. I was born a Spooner and ended up a Mulberry-Hart but I call myself Briggs because we were always broke, but as happy as Larry. I’ll say. It’s true what they say about money, you know. It doesn’t buy you love. Not that I’d be without it now, you understand. But it was so romantic, being broke all the time. You knew who your friends were, that’s for sure. Ah, Spence, that’s looks delicious.”

Spence placed a glass of grapefruit juice and a heaped bowl of cornflakes in front of her then returned to the breakfast buffet for his own.

A waitress appeared out of nowhere, dropped three menus on the table and rushed off again.

“They do a wonderful fried breakfast here, as I recall. Mind you, things change. It’s been a good few years since I was here with Briggs. August 1983, it was…” She stopped in mid-flow and a look of utter consternation crossed the kindly face. “Anne, I am so sorry. I completely forgot. How insensitive of me. I guess you don’t need any reminding about the date,” she murmured contritely and spooned a heap of cornflakes into her mouth.

“It’s not as if I can ever forget,” Anne agreed more tartly than she intended.

“As if…” the other woman mumbled, scooped up some more cereal in her spoon and guided it to her mouth. “You must think me so gross?”

The spoon vanished into the woman’s mouth and Anne recalled how her father would encourage her to eat as a baby by pretending the spoon was a train entering a tunnel.  The memory gave her a start. It had been a long time since she had thought fondly about her father. “Not at all,” she said and meant it.

Spencer returned with a glass of orange juice and more cornflakes. A waitress homed in on him and poured coffee from the jug. An adoring smile sat prettily on her face until a dark look from Charley wiped it clean and she moved, huffily, to the next table. 

To Anne’s relief, Charley and Spence tucked into their breakfasts and few words were exchanged between themselves or across the table. The shadow of a smile crossed her face upon realizing she had already begun to think of the other woman as Charley, no longer the Briggs woman. Spence leapt to his feet as she rose to leave.

“Have a nice day,” he said warmly and treated her to a dazzling smile.

“I’ll say!” said Charley Briggs between mouthfuls of toast, “Spence and me are heading for The Lanes just as soon as it stops raining. Maybe we’ll see you there and we can all have lunch together?  I just love Brighton, there’s so much to see. Spence wants to visit the Sea Life Centre but I’m not so keen.  Can you believe he wants to see the sharks? The very idea gives me goose pimples. I mean to say, they’re such dangerous things, sharks.”

“They can’t hurt you. They’re in an aquarium for heaven’s sake,” protested Spence good-naturedly.

“Even so, they still give me goose pimples,” Charley insisted.

“Sharks will only attack you if they feel threatened,” Anne pointed out.

“Like some people I could mention,” retorted Charley with such feeling that Anne now understood why she couldn’t dislike the woman. She recognized a kindred spirit. For all her loudness, Anne sensed intuitively that Charley Briggs had known more than her fair of suffering. She’s a survivor, like me.

“Come to think of it, people give me goose pimples too,” Charley added, “so maybe sharks aren’t so bad after all!” She roared with a raucous laughter that caused some guests to cringe. “So if it’s sharks you want, Spence, sharks you shall have.” Another roar of laughter brought a huge grin to Kirk Spencer’s handsome face. Briefly, he and Anne exchanged glances. She saw no hint of apology for his companion’s behaviour, which pleased her more than she might have imagined.

For his part, Spence had felt instinctively drawn to this diminutive woman with short grey hair whose very ordinariness struck him as quite extraordinary. There was more to Anne Gates then met the eye, he would have bet on it. Certainly, he saw nothing in the steady, smiling gaze to change his mind. So tragic to lose a child, he mused, especially in such awful circumstances. How does she cope, he wondered?  But at least she must have some happy memories.

He sighed. For all her larger-than-life appearance and mannerisms, poor Charley had never really come to terms with the knowledge that she would never have a child of her own. Not for the first time, he wondered if that was how she saw him, as a substitute son.  At the same time, he couldn’t help recalling, in graphic detail, the nature of their lovemaking. A mischievous grin on his face, he immediately retracted the child substitute idea. He had never met a woman with such a rampant appetite for sex or a talent for it to match.

“Hey, Spence, what are you chuckling about like a monkey hugging a banana?” Charley demanded. But she had to settle for a cheeky wink that caused her to reflect, as it always did, that she was a lucky woman.

Meanwhile, Anne decided she would lunch with Owen and his mother and called him on her mobile phone to confirm.  Sceptical regarding Owen’s insistence that the old lady was looking forward to seeing her, she suspected Alice Shepherd would give her son a hard time if she failed to turn up. I might as well get it over with sooner than later, she told herself and made no attempt to suppress a long sigh.

If Alice Shepherd had always ruled Owen with an iron rod, she continued to do so even so from her sick bed. If he was but five minutes late home from work, she would call him on the mobile and demand to know what was keeping him. Before mobile phones became a necessary accessory nationwide and she could get out and about more, she would even come and look for him. Anne groaned.  The poor man was in for a hard time if Alice ever caught him engaged in idle chit chat with a colleague or, worse, if they happened to be propping up a bar somewhere. Owen had once told her that his father was an alcoholic and had died of liver poisoning. No wonder, poor man, Anne reflected grimly, with a wife like Alice Shepherd.

Anne did not enjoy her leisurely stroll around The Lanes. Not only was it with growing desperation that she kept a lookout for the little girl and her mother, but lunch with the Shepherds also weighed more heavily on her mind than usual. In the past, she would have looked upon it as a cross she must bear for Owen’s sake. But this year was different. This year, she was dreading it. Nor was she able, for the life of her, to pinpoint why. If Alice Shepherd was something of a dragon, her fire was mostly spent. In recent years, their meetings had been manageable, almost bearable. Yet, Anne suspected that Alice could still be a force to be reckoned with as and when it suited her.

Anne pursed her lips. She and Alice had never been friends, however much Owen cared to delude himself otherwise. Nor would she put it past the old dragon to raise a flame or two on her deathbed.  It was a disturbing prospect and, yes, better over and done with sooner rather than later. Consequently, she arrived at the Shepherd’s house a good twenty minutes before she was expected.

“Why, Anne, you’re early!” Owen predictably exclaimed upon opening the front door.

“You know how it is with buses,” she said but stopped short of apologizing, “Better early than late, eh? That’s what my father always used to say.”

“I suppose so,” responded Own grumpily. Anne found herself losing patience with the man. “So do I get to come in or are we going to chat on the doorstep until your mother starts yelling blue murder about the draught?”

“Oh, yes. Do come in. It’s just that I…”

“Prefer punctuality to a few minutes either side,” murmured Anne but if Owen heard, he gave no sign. She was immediately repentant. After all, wasn’t arriving on the dot something his mother had instilled in him since he wore nappies? She smiled as an image confronted her mind’s eye of baby Owen popping out of the womb, dead on time at his mother’s command.

“Would you like to come and see mother while I finish preparing lunch?” But he was already ushering her into a spacious room at the front of the house where a sharp smell of disinfectant instantly assailed her nostrils and made her feel slightly nauseous. Her first impulse was to rush to the window and open it but she resisted. Alice Shepherd, she recalled, did not believe in fresh air. Air was something dirty, polluted, cause rather than cure for most illnesses.

Alice Shepherd lay propped among pillows like a rag doll.

Anne hoped her expression did not betray her horror. The woman looked ghastly, barely recognizable. “Hello Alice,” she ventured in as cheerful a voice as she could muster.

“It’s Anne, mother. You remember Anne. You were asking after her only the other day. It’s August. Anne always comes to see us in August, doesn’t she?”

The rag doll merely let its head flop forward a fraction by way of a greeting.

Owen pulled up a chair beside the bed and Anne’s stomach heaved as she realised she was expected to sit in it. She did so with what she hoped would appear good grace, the fixed smile pasted on her face already starting to grate on her nerves.

“I’ll leave you ladies to chat,” said Owen and left the room.

Well might you run away, Anne wanted to say, but refrained and gave the sick woman her complete attention instead. So how are you Alice?” It struck her as a ridiculous question even as she asked it. “Another year gone, eh?” she added, as she always did.

The balding head flopped slightly forward again and seemed to take an age to revert to its place among the pillows.

“Owen looks well,” said Anne. The rheumy eyes held hers for an instant then made contact with a water jug on a table by the bed. “You’d like some water, is that it?” The ghastly parody of a nod implied agreement. Glad of the distraction, Anne poured a glass then saw that she would have to hold it to the cracked lips. No way, she realized, would the paper thin hands spread on the sheet be able to lift a glass. Indeed, she doubted whether they could lift themselves unaided. As she helped the woman drink, it crossed Anne’s mind that, for a dominant woman like Alice Shepherd, this must be purgatory.

After replacing the glass on the table, Anne turned to her old adversary with genuine compassion. “I’m sorry to see you like this, Alice. It must be so hard for you, Owen too. What can I say?” she gestured helplessly.

“There’s nothing to say. Can’t be long now though,” answered a reedy voice from the pillows. This time it wasn’t just the head but the entire frail upper body that attempted to edge forward. “I’m so frightened Fern, frightened for Owen.” The thin voice paused but continued before Anne could choke back tears sufficiently to contradict. “He’ll not cope without me. I’ve always been there for him, you see. I’m so frightened for him, Fern, so frightened,” Alice Shepherd kept repeating before the head fell back among the pillows and the woman’s eyes closed. But for a wisp of breath and a dribbling at the mouth, Anne might have been forgiven for thinking the old lady was dead.

The door opened and Owen entered carrying a tray bearing three bowls of soup. “Soup, in August…?” Anne could not contain her impatience.

“Mother likes soup,” Owen explained. “Besides, it’s all I can get her to eat.”

“I suggest we let her sleep for now. I think chatting to me has quite exhausted her. I had no idea she was so ill, Owen. You should have warned me.”

“Then you wouldn’t have come,” he said with such simplicity that her heart went out to him.

“Oh, my dear…” But even as she observed the hapless figure in the doorway, she found herself wondering about the mysterious Fern. She had never heard Alice or Owen mention the name before, not in all the twenty-three years they had known each other.  Yet, it paled into insignificance against the poor woman’s obvious distress as to how her son would cope after her death.

Anne winced, realizing that it hadn’t just been disinfectant she had smelled earlier. The whole room reeked of death or, rather, its close proximity, to such an extent that she couldn’t help wondering how on earth Alice Shepherd still managed to cling to life?   She was no stranger to death herself, had almost grown accustomed to the idea of mortality since the death of her parents. She had thought of her marriage as dead, too, long before she and Tom finally agreed to go their separate ways. Nor had she ever shied away from the possibility that Patricia might be dead. Now, though, she knew her darkest thoughts were unfounded. Death might fill the stuffy room where she sat but outside, waiting for her, was life…and Patricia.  “We’ll have lunch in the kitchen, just the two of us,” she announced briskly and jumped up from the chair.

“If you say so,” murmured Owen and proceeded to return the way he had come without uttering a word of argument.

Later, over a cup of tea, Anne asked, “Who’s Fern?”

Owen’s reaction to her question was as shocking as it was unexpected. At first he stared at her, blankly, saying nothing. Then his jaw began to quiver. His whole body began to shake. For a moment, Anne was convinced he was about to have a fit and ran through various First Aid skills in her head.  Suddenly, he leapt from the chair, the normally placid features contorted with rage. “Get out!” he yelled, “How dare you interrogate my mother on her sick bed? How dare you? Get out, now, before I throw you out. I thought you were my friend…” The rage began to subside and he began to sob, “I thought you were my friend,” he repeated tearfully.

“I am your friend,” Anne tried to reassure him, “and I barely said a word to your mother.  But she seemed to think I was someone called Fern and I just wondered who she is, that’s all. You mustn’t upset yourself so, Owen. I can see how your mother’s illness is placing a huge strain on you, but…”

“You think I can’t cope, is that it?” he snapped, “Well, I can and will. Mother has always looked after me. Now it’s my turn to do the same for her. Doctors come by, you know, and nurses and neighbours. Everyone helps. They want to take her away, but I won’t let them. I will keep her with me to the end then…” His voice broke and he began to shake again.

“Sit down, Owen, and let me make you another cup of tea.”

“I will not sit down!” he shouted, “How dare you tell me what to do in my own house? You’re just like all the rest. You think I won’t be able to cope on my own, don’t you, when mother…passes away? Everyone thinks so. Well, they’re wrong. I will cope. I will, I will, I will…” His voice broke again and he began to cry.

“Oh, Owen…” Anne rose and went to put her arms around him but he pushed away. 

“Go away!” he began to shout again, “Go away! I don’t need you. You’re not my mother! Go away, before I…” but he could not finish the sentence. Instead, he glared at her with such malevolence that she could easily believe she was having a bad dream. But she knew all about bad dreams. She could tell the difference between nightmare and reality, for all there was but a thin line between the two. Obviously, poor Owen was having some kind of mental breakdown. She knew all about that too, enough to know she should leave him, for now at least, to tackle his own demons in his own way.

“I’ll call you,” she said quietly.  “Don’t worry, I’ll see myself out.” Once in the street, she found herself gasping for breath and had to sit down on a low wall for several minutes before she felt able to walk to a nearby bus stop.

Inside the house, Owen Shepherd swept an arm across the table, sending crockery and cutlery flying in all directions as well as the contents of a pink sugar bowl and a half full china teapot. Sprawling across the table, beating at the well-worn pine with clenched fists, he lifted his head and howled, demanding of the door panels behind which Alice Shepherd lay dying, “Damn you, mother, and damn you, Fern McAllister! Why does it always have to be like this? Why, oh, why does it always have to be like this?” he repeated and collapsed, sobbing, into a chair.

To be continued. on Monday.