Like There's No Tomorrow - Chapter Fourteen

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Was it really Saturday already? Anne could scarcely believe she had been in Brighton a whole week. After a light breakfast at the hotel, she had come for a stroll along the promenade, finishing up - as she invariably did - by leaning on the pier railings and watching frisky waves below. There was something so fascinating about water. It calmed her spirit while allowing her mind time and space to travel wherever it chose to go.

She frowned, unable to get Alice Shepherd’s letter to the mysterious Fern McAllister out of her head. Mysterious, did I say? Now, why do I think that?  The frown deepened. Am I making something out of nothing, she wondered?  Yet something had caused Alice Shepherd to revert to her maiden name and insist Owen use it too. What could she possibly have to hide, a fiercely proud woman like that? Could it have anything to do with her being frightened for Owen, as the poor woman   confided on her sick bed?  Had Alice been afraid he might betray her trust without her imposing presence constantly reminding (warning?) him to remain silent on whatever it was she did not want people to know?

Anne sighed. It was none of her business. She should never have allowed Kirk Spencer to read the letter but insisted he give it to Owen immediately. Oh, the Briggs woman had fair lapped it up of course, and how! But then she would, wouldn’t she?  Charley Briggs was, after all, the very stuff of gossipy stereotypes.

The frown relaxed into the semblance of a smile. There was, she had to admit, precious little stereotypical about Charley Briggs. The woman is a phenomenon.  She has to be in her late forties at least, surely? She might even have turned fifty.  As for Spence...A smile spread across Anne’s otherwise drawn features. If Kirk Spencer had turned thirty, it could not have many years ago. .

“Good morning.”

Anne turned, startled to find Steve Taylor regarding her with a quiet deliberation that disturbed her. “Good morning,” she returned his greeting with a wary smile.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

“It’s a free country,” she pointed out.

He came and stood beside here, resting his elbows on the rail and casting an eye over the scene below. The tide was coming in and the beach was already starting to crowd with holidaymakers. Few locals, or so he had been told, came to the beach. It struck him as peculiar. If he lived here, there would have been no stopping him. He’d have come during every spare minute of every day, all the year round…walking, swimming, watching waves spread across the pebbles like the white laced edge of a blue-green tablecloth.

“A penny for them…?” Anne ventured after an interminable pause during which she tried to decide whether or not she had a grudging sympathy for the man, even quite liked him in a worrying, masochistic kind of way.  Either that or she thoroughly detested him. She certainly wasn’t afraid of him…or was she? “Cathy and Lynette not with you?” she asked, looking around once it became clear he had no intention of sharing his thoughts.

“What? Oh, no. They didn’t get back until late last night. They were both still in bed when I left, snoring their heads off,” he told her, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

“Did they enjoy their trip to…Norwich was it? Cathy called to tell me they would be away all day,” she added.

“It was Ipswich, actually. Cathy’s parents have lived their all their lives,” he said pointedly. Another long pause followed then, “Cathy is very close to her mum and dad. They dote on her, Lynette too.”

Oh, and how about you? Anne wanted to ask. Where do you fit in? Instead, she merely smiled and said nothing. He would tell her when he was ready, she suspected. Furthermore, instinct told her she wouldn’t have long to wait. 

She wasn’t mistaken.

“We were happy, Cathy and me. Even when Lynette was just a toddler, we were still happy. Then…it was like she was falling down a hole and I couldn’t help her. I wanted to. I tried, I really did. But she just kept falling deeper until I couldn’t bear to watch. It was horrible, feeling so bloody helpless all the time…”

Anne waited.

“She didn’t even want to make love any more,” he went on, staring into space rather than meet Anne Gates’ faintly disapproving expression. “Our GP suggested counselling so we thought we’d give it a go. But we only went the once. Cathy refused point blank to go again, and I can’t say I was too keen either so I didn’t push for it. Maybe I should have. God knows, she needed help, and I couldn’t give her any. But for Lynette, I think we’d have gone our separate ways there and then. But we didn’t. We stuck it out. Only, by now I was falling down a hole of my own. So I hauled myself up the only way I knew how.”

“Other women,” commented Anne. It was not a question.

Steve Taylor grimaced. “She told you, eh? What else did she tell you, that I’m a serial womaniser who should never have got married in the first place? That and a damn sight more I imagine.”

Anne resisted a nod. A piece of driftwood bobbing about below caught her eye and she used it to form a bridge in her mind, over which Steve Taylor’s words poured with much the same persistence, and as many stops and starts, as rush hour traffic.

“I didn’t know what else to do. I felt so helpless, so…irrelevant. It’s not a nice feeling for any man…”

Or woman, Anne reflected with a mixture of sadness and anger.

“It’s no excuse…” he went on.

No, it’s not. Inwardly, Anne was seething if uncomfortably aware of an increasing sense of déjà vu. Hadn’t Tom, her own husband, offered much the same excuse when she’d confronted him about his affair with…? She couldn’t bear to even contemplate the woman’s name, but it wouldn’t go away, always lurking, like a feline mouser on the prowl. Helen something. She resisted the impulse to laugh out loud.  Who was she kidding?  Helen Newton, she mouthed to the same piece of driftwood, still bobbing about below but swept closer inshore by the next wave.

“This is supposed to be a make or break holiday for Cathy and me,” the man’s voice at Anne’s ear seemed far away, “so what does she do? She takes Lynette and buggers off to see her parents!”

“But they’re back now,” she pointed out, “so all is not lost…yet,” she added quietly, struggling to stem a surge of resentment coursing her veins like a sequence of angry waves.

“Sure, but for how long?” muttered Steve Taylor miserably, “I think I’m losing them.” He gave a short laugh that grated on Anne’s nerves. “What am I saying? I know I am. I’ve known it for ages. I just don’t know what to do about it.”

“You will do what every other man does who claims his wife doesn’t understand him,” she told him in no uncertain terms, “You’ll start trying to understand how she feels. Unless and until you do, you can take it from one who’s been there, your marriage is dead in the water so you might as well call it a day and salvage as much goodwill as you can. There’s nothing worse than a messy divorce, especially where children are involved.”

They were face to face now, each eyeing the other with a mixture of undisguised dislike and vague, distant self-pity. Anne thought she detected a glimmer of respect, too, in the dark eyes and instantly began to thaw. “If two people want to save their marriage, it takes both to give it their best shot,” she added, not unkindly. “True, one may need to try a bit harder than the other to reach the starting point, but then you pull together or not at all.”

“And if one doesn’t?”

Anne shrugged. “The other must try all the harder for as long as it takes to get somewhere, or nowhere as the case may be.”  She hesitated then, “People don’t always know what they want...really want, that is...any more than they always say quite what they really mean. We have to read between the lines.” She gave another little shrug, “It’s never easy, of course, but always worth a try.” After a longer, increasingly strained pause, she could not resist asking, “What do you really want Steve?”

It was his turn to shrug and play for time. “I want things to be they way they used to be,” he said at last, “I want us to be a family again.”

Anne shook her head. “Once things change, they can never be the same. You can get real and live like there’s no tomorrow or…hang on to yesterday and be a ghost in your own lifetime.”

“Like you, you mean?” he murmured scathingly. Embarrassed, he looked away and fixed his sights on a piece of driftwood bobbing just below where they stood.

Anne winced. The accusation had struck home. Is that what she had become, a ghost in her own lifetime, she wondered? No! She rejected the idea out of hand at first. Hadn’t she got on with her life, held down a good job and ignored the invariable note of accusation simmering away beneath the surface whenever people expressed sympathy or concern? Hadn’t she accepted, deep down, that she would never see Patricia again? She wasn’t to blame for Tom’s trading her in for a prettier, younger model…or was she? No! The inner voice cried out again.

Anne clenched her teeth. At the same time, she could not suppress a nagging suspicion. For years now, had she not but gone through the motions of everyday life, inclined to let its finer reality pass her by? Who am I to accuse or advise anyone else? “Crisis is like a maze,” she told Steve Taylor while addressing the piece of driftwood, just as it was washed beneath the pier and beyond view. “We find our own way out or…we don’t,” she added in a stricken whisper.

Steve Taylor heard and swallowed the sarcastic remark on his tongue with difficulty, telling himself the woman meant well. Yet, he was none the wiser for that, and might as well have been talking to a piece of driftwood that had caught his eye. He peered over the rail and looked for it but there was no sign. Why is it some people so love to philosophise, he wondered, especially when they want to appear as if they have something to say but don’t? “Take care,” he muttered absently and strolled off towards the amusement arcade situated at the centre of the pier.

Anne did not linger long at the rail. Nursing an absurd disappointment that the piece of driftwood had failed to reappear, she headed back to the hotel.

……………………………

The Orion’s reception desk was quiet. Mel Harvey was leafing through some papers.

Charley saw her opportunity. “Good morning Mel.”

Mel looked up and smiled. “Good morning Mrs Briggs. A lovely morning, isn’t it? Will you be taking breakfast?” Charley nodded. “Mr Spencer too…?”

“Mr Spencer is still in bed, snoring away like a fog horn,” Charley told her with a knowing wink look that plainly said, ‘Well, what do you expect? You know what lazy bones men are like.’ She hesitated.

“Was there something I can help you with?”

“Well, as a matter of fact…” Charley lowered her voice, “I’m worried about poor Anne. It must be so hard for her, coming back here after…what happened.”

“No worries there,” said Mel cheerfully, “Anne’s practically one of the family by now. True, she comes back every year. But don’t be fooled. She’s no crank. Take it from me, there’s more to Anne Gates than meets the eye. It’s my belief she finds it a great comfort to come back here.”

“Morbid, though, wouldn’t you say?”

“Morbid? Dear me, no. There’s nothing morbid about Anne. Sad, yes, but one can hardly wonder at that.”

“Of course not,” Charley politely agreed before adding, “It must have been a terrible time for you all. I only wish I could have been here to offer some moral support.”

“Be glad you weren’t. It was dreadful, just dreadful,” said Mel, “I know you’ll think I’m mad, but I had a horrid feeling all that day. I just knew something awful was going to happen. Besides, disasters always happen in threes. That’s what my mother always used to say, and damn me if she wasn’t right. First of all, two of the breakfast staff didn’t turn up, and not so much as a phone call. Then Colonel Gibson’s shower wouldn’t come on. Got the hump good and proper he did too, miserable old codger that he was. Made my life a misery all day, he did, until I got it fixed. Mind you, one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead I suppose. Whatever next, I kept asking myself?  It was still preying on my mind when poor Anne scared the living daylights out of everyone, screaming for Patricia in the middle of the night. Of course I had no idea…”

“I imagine the police wasted no time questioning everyone?” Charley felt obliged to interrupt and point her companion towards the nitty-gritty.

“Swarming all over the place for weeks, they were. As for questioning people, interrogating is the word that springs to mind. The men copped the worst of it. But then you’d expect that, I suppose, wouldn’t you? They gave my Joe a real grilling, I can tell you. My Joe! I ask you, would my Joe hurt a fly, let alone…?  Excuse me.” She broke off to answer the telephone. “A dreadful business,” she reiterated after replacing the receiver, “I thought for a while that we might have to sell up, bookings were down so. Cancellations left right and centre, there were. But they picked up again soon enough. Fortunately people have short memories.”

“It can’t have been easy for Owen Shepherd and his mother either,” commented Charley.

Mel looked around before leaning leaned forward in the furtive manner of someone about to share a confidence.  “Funny you should say that. The police took Owen in for questioning on several occasions. Alice was beside herself. I kept telling her not to worry, but she was a real worry-cat on the quiet. She worried about Owen something rotten. I dare say it was worry that killed her in the end. Relax, I’d say to her. Let him get on with his life. You can’t live it for him, I’d tell her. I might as well have been talking to a brick wall. Heaven knows, I want the best for my son Peter. But I wouldn’t presume to tell him how to live his life. He’d send me off with a flea my ear, and rightly so. Alice couldn’t see it, but she was a millstone around poor Owen’s neck for years.”

“Did you know her well?”

“Not well, exactly. Alice wasn’t the kind of person one got to know well. To my knowledge, Jessie Cartwright is the only person who knew her well. You can ask Anne. She’ll tell you how Alice liked to keep folks at a distance. It was like she suspected every woman of wanting to poach her precious Owen. How daft can you get, eh?”

Charley nodded.

“Since Jessie was about as close to Alice as she’d let anyone get,” Mel went on, “I suppose you’d call them best friends. Jessie’s lived in Hove for years. Cornville Road, I believe, or is it Cornwall?” She paused and scratched her head. “Yes, that’s it, number seven Cornwall Road. You might have noticed Jessie at the funeral although probably not. She’s one of those people you’d never notice in a month of Sundays. Unless she gets her dander up, that is. Then you’d notice her quick enough. When push comes to shove, she’s not backward about coming forward.  Oh, she can play the sweet old lady to perfection. There’s a good few have been fooled by that little act. Oh, yes, Jessie’s a tough old bird. To look at her, though, you’d think she has about as much presence as a ghost. Alice was just the same...”

Mel stopped in mid-flow to cast a disapproving eye over two small children playing by the lift. Thankfully, they were soon joined by their mother who proceeded to take each by the hand and all but drag them into the garden.

“Kids, eh..?” Mel raised a weak smile. “But you were asking about Jessie. To be honest, I’ve always thought she could make more of an effort.  The word that springs to mind is ‘drab’. Yes, drab. The woman has no sense of colour. No dress sense at all, if you ask me. But you’ll know the type. They always strike you as fading away, even those who have the constitution of an ox.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” the hotelier hastened to add, “I don’t dislike Jessie. It’s not as if I know her that well.” Mel paused. “It’s like I said. She’s another one like Alice. Shepherd, keeps folks at a distance, not the kind to let others get too close. I dare say that’s why the pair of them got along. I’d hesitate to call them friends, exactly, but you know how it is, we all need somebody sometimes.”

“That’s certainly true,” Charley agreed while Mel experienced an extraordinary if brief sense of bonding with the other woman. “Does Jessie Cartwright have any children?” she asked, intrigued by Mel Harvey’s impression of Alice Shepherd’s best friend.

 “Heaven’s yes!” Mel exclaimed with a short laugh, “Alice would have done well to take a leaf out of Jessie’s book there. There’s a whole tribe of them. Practically, raised them on her own she did too.  She had precious little help from that husband of hers, that’s for sure.” Mel lowered her voice to a whisper. “Between you and me, he drank like a fish. Died of liver failure a year or so back. No surprises there, I can tell you.”

Charley nodded encouragingly.

“They’ve all done well for themselves too, Jessie’s kids, each and every one of them. Jesse’s not the type to live in their pockets, you see. She lets them get on with their lives and vice versa.” The hotelier gave a little sigh. “Maybe now poor Alice has gone Owen might get himself a life too. I mean to say, it’s never too late is it? Who knows? Maybe he and Anne will get it together at long last. Never did a nicer pair deserve each other more. If you ask me...”

She broke off again as a young couple approached the desk. “Good morning. Such a lovely morning…”

Charley beat a discreet retreat. Deciding against waking Spence, she eventually chose to take a stroll along the promenade. Barely had she resolved to pay Jessie Cartwright a visit when she spotted Anne Gates on the other side of the road. “Anne!” she bellowed and beckoned excitedly to her friend. “Anne!” she had to call again twice before the other woman stopped, looked, waved and indicated a crossing at traffic lights ahead.

Anne had heard Charley yell out her name the first time, recognized the voice and kept walking, hoping the other would give up on whatever it was she had in mind. The tone of voice suggested a summons of sorts. Anne grimaced. She was in no mood for Charley Briggs. At the third resounding bawl, however, she surrendered to fate, paused to give an acknowledging wave and signalled that she would cross the road at the traffic lights just ahead.

Later, sitting at a table outside a coffee shop, shielded from the sun’s glare by an enormous blue and white striped umbrella, Charley related the gist of her earlier conversation with Mel Harvey about Alice Shepherd. She made no mention of the hotelier’s speculation regarding Anne and Owen. .

“It’s true Alice was a very private person,” Anne agreed, “But I always thought she was rather complex too. To be honest, I never quite made up my mind about her. To the end, I neither liked nor disliked the woman. Mel’s right. She wasn’t an easy person to get to know and far too protective of Owen. Maybe her death is a blessing in disguise, for Owen I mean.”

“I thought I might pay Jessie Cartwright a visit,” murmured Charley over the rim of her cup.

“Really…?” Anne was genuinely surprised.

“Alice Shepherd fascinates me,” Charley confided, “I don’t know why, she just does. She might know something about that letter too, the one Alice wrote to Fern McAllister. Aren’t you in the least bit curious? It strikes me that if anyone can throw any light on the matter it’s likely to be Jessie Cartwright. Don’t you think so?”

 “Possibly,” said Anne stiffly, continued to study the froth on her cappuccino without attempting to drink and wished she hadn’t let Charley persuade her to try it. She’d have much preferred a caffé latte or, better still, a nice cup of tea. As for the letter, it was none of her business…or was it? Certainly, it was no business of Charley Briggs. Yet, she could not deny Charley had hit a nerve. She was curious. At the same time, a sixth sense had warned her not to tackle Owen directly. What harm could it do to visit Jessie Cartwright?  The name rang a distant bell. She vaguely recalled meeting the woman once at the Shepherd’s house but could not even begin to conjure up a picture in her mind’s eye.

“Where’s the harm?” Charley was saying with uncanny rapport. “You have to admit, it’s odd, to say the least. Why on earth should Alice Shepherd want to revert to her maiden name, let alone insist that Owen do the same? So the old girl had a skeleton in her cupboard, so what? It can’t hurt her now, can it? I know it’s strictly none of our business, but…well…aren’t you just eaten up with curiosity? I know I am.”

“Owen would be mortified if he knew were snooping into his private life behind his back,” Anne demurred.

“Not snooping, just looking after his best interests,” Charley insisted. “Anyway, it’s not his skeleton were looking for, it’s his mother’s. Who knows? It may turn out to be nothing at all. Imagine how relieved he’ll be when you tell him that whatever he’s been covering up for his mother’s sake all these years it’s nothing to fret about after all? It might even encourage him to get a life.”

“Perhaps,” Anne grudgingly admitted. She was torn between loyalty to Owen and a passionate curiosity on a par with Charley’s that had been tormenting her from the moment Kirk Spencer finished reading out the letter. “That damn letter!” she declared under her breath.

Charley heard but said nothing, sensing Anne was about to capitulate.

To be continued on Friday.

Like There's No Tomorrow - Chapter Thirteen

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Do you want to tell me what’s wrong now, darling, or later?” Eve Harrison asked at her daughter’s shoulder. She and Cathy were standing at the French windows in the sitting room of the Harrison’s home in Ipswich watching Frank Harrison and Lynette kicking a ball around.

“They’re having fun,” observed Cathy, wistfully.

“And you, how about you?” Eve Harrison persisted gently, “Is life much fun for you these days?”

Cathy turned to face her mother. “You know it isn’t,” she whispered tearfully.

“I only know what you choose to tell me,” her mother pointed out,” which isn’t a great deal.” She paused then, “Is it Steve?”

Cathy nodded. “But I can’t blame him entirely, it wouldn’t be fair. It’s me, too.” She forced a laugh. “You know how bloody-minded I can be sometimes.”

“Don’t I just!” exclaimed the tall, bespectacled woman beside her but Eve was not laughing and the degree of concern in her mother’s eyes was too much for Cathy to bear.

“Oh, Mum!” Cathy sobbed, burst into tears and fell into her mother’s arms.

Later, over endless cups of tea at the kitchen table, Cathy told her mother about Anne Gates. Eve listened carefully, her pulse racing. Cathy had become practically obsessed with the missing years of her childhood ever since Lynette was born. She understood or thought she did. All the same, Eve could not deny it was painful to hear her only child speculate about her biological parentage.

The circumstances under which she and Frank had first fostered and then adopted Cathy may have been unique, but they had always looked upon her as their natural daughter. After they found her wandering in the street and took her in, she hadn’t spoken one word to either herself or Frank for a whole year. Social Services had agreed to their fostering the child, not least because any attempt to remove her from the house had met with violent tantrums. Once she started to talk, it seemed she would never stop.

Cathy was very subdued for several weeks after the only people she had ever really known as Mum and Dad sat her down and told her how she came to them on the day they had set aside for her eleventh birthday; without a birth certificate, they had to pick a date at random, but doctors had put her age at ten years at the outset so they chose September 11^th. It had been on that day, fifteen years earlier that their first child, Stephanie, had been stillborn. There had been complications that necessitated a hysterectomy. Eve had thought she was reconciled to never being a mother…until the day they came across a little girl crying in the street who appeared to have no recollection of how she came to be there or even who she was.  Only a charm bracelet on her wrist bearing the letters C-A-T-H-Y had revealed her name.

Eve permitted herself a quiet smile. They were a happy family. (Well, weren’t they?) Cathy may have put them all through the various ups and downs of being a teenager but she was a sensible girl and had blossomed into an attractive young woman. She met Steve Taylor at university, and they married a year after their graduation. Another year later, Lynette was born. In her mind’s eye, Eve could still picture little Cathy on the garden swing, Frank pushing her with much exaggerated huffing and puffing. Frank adored Lynette, they both did. 

Eve frowned. How dare this Gates woman come along and threaten to destroy my family? “I think we’ve drunk quite enough tea for one day,” she announced suddenly. “Let’s go into the lounge. A drop of brandy for both of us, I think. But don’t tell your father. You know how he feels about women drinking, let alone during the day!”

Cathy followed her mother into another room at the front of the house. She could hardly believe her mother was suggesting they have a brandy at four o’clock in the afternoon. Her father was teetotal.

Eve steered Cathy to the sofa, and went to fetch the drinks. “So what does Steve think about Anne Gates?” she asked while handing Cathy her glass and sitting down beside her.

Cathy sighed. “You know Steve…any excuse for a quarrel. I think he feels threatened.”

Eve Harrison sipped at her brandy, a welcome heat flooding the parts tea could never reach.  “He may have a point for once,” she commented abstractedly.

“How do you mean?”

Eve could not resist a tight smile. Her daughter was never anything less than direct. “It’s supposed to be a family holiday, just you, Steve and Lynette,” she pointed out. “Yet here you are, breaking into it already on the flimsy excuse that a complete stranger is making waves.  If you ask me, the Gates woman is a mischief-maker if ever there was one.  Oh, I feel sorry for her, of course I do. Who wouldn’t? But it’s not fair on you or Steve, and it’s certainly not fair on Lynette. That child sees more than enough of her parents bickering all the time at home, never mind on holiday too.”

“We’re going back tonight,” said Cathy defensively, “and the Gates woman has a name. It’s Anne. Nor is she a mischief-maker. She’s a very nice person. I like her a lot, and so does Lynette. As for Steve and me…Well, you know the score.”

“I’m not sure that I do. I know he’s cheated on you more than once, but maybe you should ask yourself why?”

“You think I don’t, all the time?”  Cathy was angry as well as taken aback. Her mother, always a good listener, was usually more sympathetic.

“He’s a good man, Cathy. You were so in love once before…” Eve faltered.

“Before I drove him away, is that what you were going to say? So it’s my fault my marriage is falling apart, is it?  I’m to blame for my husband and the father of my child being unable to resist anything in a skirt, is that what you’re saying? I thought you were on my side.”

“I was going to say, before Lynette was born, and of course I’m on your side, darling, you know I am. It’s just that…”

“What?”

“Oh, let’s have another brandy.” Eve drained her glass. 

“Not for me,” Cathy shook her head.

“Not even just a tiny one?”  Again, Cathy declined. Eve took no notice, but snatched the glass from her daughter’s hand and crossed, abruptly, to the wine cabinet that stood in a far corner of the room.

“I’m driving later, don’t forget.” Cathy protested.

“Two little brandies won’t hurt,” Eve insisted. “I’ll ply you with gallons of black coffee later if it makes you feel any better. You and Lynette could stay over of course...” She poured herself a generous measure and Cathy a smaller one, paused, and then picked up the bottle.

“I told Steve we’d be back tonight. We should be getting back after supper, but…” She glanced at a clock on the mantel. It was nearly 6.00 pm. “Oh, let him stew. We’ll stay until nine, but not a second longer. Lynette always falls asleep in the car and we are on holiday.” Her mother’s huge smile spoke volumes.

“You were such a happy couple once, you and Steve” Eve remarked, rejoining Cathy on the sofa where she drained her glass, refilled it and placed the bottle on an occasional table.

“So you said, But he doesn’t understand, mum. No one does. That’s why I like Anne. She knows what it’s like to have a dirty great hole in you that you can’t even fill with memories because there aren’t any,’ Cathy told her with feeling, absently accepted the glass, pulled a face after taking a sip and put it down again. What am I doing? I don’t even like brandy.

“Perhaps a counsellor…?”

“How can you say that?” Cathy fumed, “Look how many trick cyclists and bloody counsellors I saw when I was a kid. And what good did it do? None, except make me feel like a freak.”

“Oh, my poor darling…!” Eve wailed, put down her glass and flung her arms wide. On this occasion, however, Cathy did not fall into them.

Eve reached, agitatedly, for her glass. “Let’s be honest, darling. There’s no way this Gates woman can be your biological mother. You were barely ten years old. You couldn’t have made your own way from Brighton to Ipswich and if you were…abducted…why should anyone dump you here, of all places?  No, you need to give this woman a wide berth, and concentrate on saving your marriage. You said yourself, this little holiday in Brighton is a make or break affair as far as you and Steve are concerned. You owe it to Lynette to give it your best shot. Steve does, too, of course. Oh, I know he’s been unfaithful, and I’m sure some women could never forgive that. I’m not even sure I could myself. But you have to try, darling, for Lynette’s sake. Tell me you’ll keep trying, darling, please.” Eve pleaded.

Cathy put her head in her hands and covered her ears. How could her mother be so obtuse?  She sat up and tried a different tack. “Anne is no threat to anyone. On the contrary, she might even help me save my marriage if Steve doesn’t go and ruin everything. Can’t you see?  I need someone like her in my life. It doesn’t matter if she thinks I’m her long lost daughter. I know damn well I’m not. All that matters is that I have someone in my life who really understands how it feels to be a half dead person walking.”

“Oh, my poor, poor darling!” cried Eve, horrified by Cathy’s choice of expression.

“Lynette already thinks of her as a second granny,” Cathy persisted doggedly. “I just need you to be okay about that.”

“Never mind me, what about Steve?”

“Fuck Steve” Her mother’s shocked expression warned Cathy she had gone too far. “Okay, I’m sorry. But you can leave Steve to me. I’ll talk to him and make him understand if it kills me if you’ll…”

“Talk to your father?” Eve had no difficulty finishing Cathy’s sentence for her, having seen it coming from the very start of this tête-à-tête.

“Will you?” Cathy held her breath while her mother appeared to be deliberating. She could tell from the anguished look in her mother’s eyes that she was asking a lot.

Father and daughter were close but he’d always spoiled her rotten and there had never been the intimacy between them that she shared with her mother. Her mother hated talking about the early years but had never avoided the subject whenever Cathy he felt compelled to broach it. Her father, on the other hand, would always change the subject and immediately suggest a treat of some kind, as if a treat might make the truth of the matter disappear. She had always caved in, pretended to be over the moon about whatever he came up with and his face would light up so…

“You want to bring her here, don’t you? You want your father and me to meet this Gates woman?” her mother was saying. Cathy could only nod, not trusting herself to speak. “Frankly, darling, I don’t think he could handle it. He’s not been well and this…Well, it won’t help. You know he’d do anything for you, we both would. But how can you expect me to convince him it’s for the best when I don’t believe it myself? Besides, what on earth do you expect us to say to the woman? It will be a disaster, and no one any the better or wiser for it.”

“You’ll ask him then?” Cathy gave an inaudible sigh of relief. She had won her mother over. That had to count for something…didn’t it?

Eve Harrison nodded unhappily.

“Grandma, grandma, grandpa has got a frog in his throat!” Lynette burst into the room. Her grandfather was close behind, coughing, slightly breathless and looking very flushed.

“I’m fine,” Frank Harrison assured them, and visibly recovered the instant he sank into his favourite an armchair.”

Eve gave her granddaughter a hug, careful to avoid a disapproving look from Frank that had been quick to include the brandy bottle. “Do you want to come and help me lay the table for supper?  I could use an extra pair of hands and it looks to me as if you’ve just about tired your poor grandfather out,” stroking the little girl’s hair as she spoke. She much preferred Lynette’s hair hanging loose as it was now. Why Cathy should ever like to see the child to wear it in plaits, she would never know.

“We’ve been playing football, haven’t we granddad?”

“We certainly have,” Frank agreed with a mock grimace, “and you certainly know how to run rings around someone with a ball, young lady!”

Lynette’s face glowed.

“Little girls never played football in my day,” declared Eve, “That was boy’s stuff.”

“Oh, grandma, that is so sexist!”

Everyone laughed except Lynette.

“Come on,” said Eve, “Let’s leave your grandfather to get his breath back while we girls get the tea ready. Or is that too sexist for you?”  

Lynette flounced about with an impish grin on her face, unsure why she should be the centre of amused attention, but enjoying it all the same. Flinging her mother and grandfather an adoring smile, she eagerly took her grandmother’s hand and followed her into the kitchen.

Much later, after Cathy and Lynette had driven off and they lay in the same bed they had shared for more than half a century, Eve and Frank listened to the sound of each other’s breathing without saying a word.

It was Frank who broke the unpalatable silence. “So, when are you going to tell me what you and Cathy talked about?”

“Didn’t she tell you?”

“I wouldn’t be asking if she did,” responded Frank testily. “Oh we chatted, yes, and very enjoyable it was too. All the same, I could tell something was bugging her. But you know how she is with me. We only ever seem to skirt round the edges of anything really important.”

“You do, you mean. Your answer to unhappiness is to ignore it and hope it will go away.”

“So why is she unhappy this time?”

“Oh, it’s nothing much,” Eve lied easily enough.

“It must have been something important if it needed a tipple of brandy to wash it down,” was the gruff response.

“Not now Frank. I’ll tell you in the morning.”

“You’ll sleep better if you tell me now, you know you will.” Eve felt too tired to argue and told him all she knew. “A fine mess, I must say,” was Frank Harrison’s immediate response. “Oh, well, it can’t be helped I suppose. I can’t say I like the sound of this Gates woman any more than you do. But if Cathy wants us to meet her, I can’t see how we can wriggle out of it. You know what our Cathy’s like once she gets the bit between her teeth. You never know, this Anne Gates might even turn out to be a blessing in disguise.”

“How can you say that?” Eve sat bolt upright and fixed her spouse with a piercing glare. “She’s an outsider, an intruder. Heaven only knows what she’s up to. Cathy hardly knows her, and already the woman’s manipulating her. I tell you, Frank, I’m scared. You know how vulnerable Cathy is, especially about anything regarding her past.  Besides, it’s family business. I don’t want a complete stranger poking her nose in and stirring things up. I’m amazed that you could even consider it.”

“I only want what’s best for Cathy.”

“And I don’t?”

“I didn’t mean that.”

“Oh, I know what you meant. This is just the excuse you’ve been looking for, isn’t it?

“She deserves the truth, Eve. She needs to know who she is. Surely you can see that?”

“She’s our daughter. What more does she need to know?”

“We can’t go on lying to her.”

“We’ve never lied to her.”

“Maybe not, but we haven’t been entirely straight with her either, have we?  Trust me, love, you’ve nothing to be scared of.” He tried to put an arm around her but she drew back. Frank tried again to reassure her. “Cathy isn’t going to turn her back on us if we tell her what we know. Like you say, she’s our daughter. Nothing can change that. We both know the Gates woman isn’t Cathy’s real mother, and from what you say, Cathy knows it as well. I dare say the Gates woman knows it, too, in her heart of hearts.”

“So why not leave well alone?” Eve insisted.

“Because if Cathy’s clinging to some fragile hope that this woman might be her biological mother, that only goes to show how desperate she is to fill the terrible gap in her life. It’s her very identity we’re talking about, for crying out loud. You’re her real mother, just like I’m her real father, in every way but biological. Telling her what we know can only bring us closer, you’ll see.”

“No!” Eve was adamant. “Telling her the truth will break her heart.”

“And not telling her won’t?”

Eve flung back the light duvet and scrambled out of the bed. “Call me a selfish cow, but I will not risk losing our Cathy. Besides, what would be the point?  What do we really know that can make any real difference? So we have a shoebox with a few pieces of jigsaw in it.  It could take a lifetime to put the pieces together. Think of the pain, the heartache. How can you even consider about putting Cathy...or us...through all that again? And for what, just pieces of a jigsaw?” Her voice broke and she began to sob. “No, you stay there. Don’t touch me. Don’t you dare come near me,” she cried as she pushed the duvet back and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “Pieces of a bloody jigsaw…” She continued to sob uncontrollably.

“Pieces that include her birth certificate,” Frank reminded her gently.

It was too much for Eve, who fled the room and took the stairs two at her time in her haste to reach the brandy bottle waiting downstairs to help ease both her distress. and her conscience.

Frank debated whether or not to follow her, and decided against it. There was no talking to Eve once she started drinking. How they had managed to keep Cathy from finding out her mother was an alcoholic, he was at a loss to explain.

He thought he heard the doorbell ring, glanced at an alarm clock on Eve’s side of the bed and dismissed the idea out of hand. The luminous dial told him it was nearly midnight. He lay back on the pillows, thought he heard the sound again and closed his eyes. A succession of familiar images took him back to a few days before Cathy’s eighteenth birthday celebrations. The same short ring at the bell…

It was Eve who had answered the door then. She was gone so long, he’d felt obliged to investigate and discovered her deep in conversation on the doorstep with an elderly man clutching a walking stick in one hand and a shoebox in the other. “What is it dear?” a younger Frank had asked in all innocence. As soon as Eve turned and he saw the expression on her face, he knew it was serious. He had never seen her look so angry or…frightened.

“This gentleman says he’s Cathy’s grandfather.” She said and his heart sank.

“Well, don’t leave the poor man standing at the door, dear, show him in.” He’d adopted a brisk matter-of-fact tone to hide his dismay.

In the event, it hadn’t turned out to be quite the crisis they imagined.  The man apologized profusely for not having made contact years earlier. “I saw her picture on a television News programme and recognized her instantly of course. I had no idea she had even gone missing. Naturally, my immediate instinct was to dive for the telephone. But I never made the call. I couldn’t, you see, I just couldn’t. Her parents, my son and his wife, they had no idea how to look after a child. Both were on drugs. My wife and I did what we could then…” his eyes filled with tears, “my dear wife passed away suddenly. I fear I neglected everything and everyone for far too long after that…”

“But how did she come to be in Ipswich?” Eve asked weakly.

“I’m not sure, to be honest. My daughter-in-law had friends here I believe. She and my son were visiting and somehow they managed to lose Cathy.”

“You don’t just lose a child,” Frank had raged at the man.

“There was an accident. My son was driving while under the influence. Drugs, alcohol…you name it. He and his wife were killed outright. Presumably Cathy was with the friends. How she came to be wandering the streets on her own…heaven only knows. My guess is they didn’t even know what day it was at the time and Cathy just walked out of her own accord. Maybe she went looking for her parents. It must have been so traumatic for the poor child. By the time I realised what had happened…” He paused and fixed them with a look sheer anguish neither of them would ever forget.

“I couldn’t have coped with a child on my own. I knew that,” he’d continued, “so I prayed Cathy would somehow come through it all and manage to have a good life. It’s unforgivable of me, I know. I can’t tell you how ashamed I am. At the same time, I was proven right wasn’t I. Cathy has turned out well. She’s a credit to you both. I sometimes come here, you see, and watch out for her. I used to a lot when I was younger. Less so in latter years…”

“So why now, after all this time...? Why wait until today to ring our bloody doorbell?” Half asleep, Frank fancied he could still hear himself shouting at the poor man all those years ago.

Cathy’s grandfather had taken his time answering the question, and then said very quietly, “I’m dying. I have a few weeks if I’m lucky, days if I’m not.”

Frank opened his eyes.

Downstairs, Eve took another swig from her glass before greeting oblivion with relief.

To be continued. on Monday

Like There's No Tomorrow - Chapter Twelve

CHAPTER TWELVE

They got lost in Bristol several times. Eventually, Spence stopped the car and asked a young man with dreadlocks, who was able to give precise directions.

      Not only did they find Fennimore Street but were also able to park outside number fourteen. Charley took one look at various For Sale signs by the gate and swore loudly. “Now what do we do?” she demanded exasperatedly of Spence who had already removed his seat belt.

      We try next door,” said Spence coolly, “Someone must know something.”

      “But who, and what?” she groaned, “It’s a long road.”

      “We won’t know unless we ask so the sooner we get started the better,” Spence pointed out with an irritating cheerfulness that gave Charley an excuse to swear again while wrestling - as she always did - with her seat belt.

      There was no reply from the semi-detached next door. They had to ring three more doorbells before anyone answered. “Dear me, no, the McAllisters left years ago, not long after it happened,” an elderly woman told them, “Well, you couldn’t really expect them to stay in that house, could you? I mean to say, it was so awful, wasn’t it? I’m afraid I’ve no idea where they went. Fern McAllister is a friend of yours, did you say?”

      “Not a friend as such,” Charley felt obliged to say, “but we do need to contact her urgently.”

      “Number fourteen is the only address we have,” Spence explained. He gave the woman a dazzling smile before adding, “What ‘happened’ exactly?”

      “You don’t know?”  She regarded them with frank suspicion, “You’re not the press are you? I’ve nothing to say, nothing at all.” She was already closing the door.

      “We’re not the press,” Spence assured her, “we just need to get in touch with Fern McAllister.”

The gap was still closing.

      The woman peered out at them. “You could try Sally Hunter at number twelve opposite, the one with the gate nearly off its hinges. Her Craig and Stuart McAllister went to school together. They may have kept in touch, I wouldn’t know.”

      “Thank you,” said Spence, but the door had already clicked firmly shut.

      “Well, what do you make of that?” Charley demanded.

      “Not a lot,” Spence replied in a matter-of-fact tone that infuriated her.

      “What do you mean, not a lot?” she cried. “It proves I was right. Fern McAllister is woman with a past.”

      “So?”

      “So once we find out what it is that links her with Owen Shepherd, we can…” her voice trailed off.

      “We can what?” Spence stopped and confronted her. “What is going on in that pretty head of yours, my sweet?”

      “One step at a time,” she muttered. “Let’s see what Sally Hunter has to say then maybe we’ll have a clearer picture.”

      Charley hurried on.

      Spence watched her cross the road with a despairing expression. At first he’d thought it might be fun to humour her. Now he was not so sure. Charley, bit between teeth about whatever, was a sight to behold. In the past, it had always provided a few laughs. So why should he think this occasion might turn out differently?  He chuckled and felt better for it. Maybe it will be okay and I’m getting my knickers in a twist over nothing. Maybe... So why do I have this bad feeling in my gut? Oh, well, in for a penny… Spence told himself philosophically and ran after Charley. He caught up with her, only to be treated to a smile that struck him as more than a trifle patronising. He refused to take it to heart. Charley could act that way sometimes. She didn’t mean anything by it…or so he liked to believe. He found himself hoping Sally Hunter would be out.

      Following Charley past the broken gate then having to negotiate some uneven  paving that led to a garishly painted front door, Spence could not shrug off the feeling that they were treading on thin ice. It evaporated the instant the front door was opened by an attractive blonde woman he took to be the wrong side of fifty but exuding a good deal more sensuality than many women half her age.

      “Yes? Can I help you?”

      “We’re trying to track down Fern McAllister,” said Spence before Charley could get a word in. “We believe your son knew hers and you or he might have some idea where they’ve gone. It’s frightfully important,” he added with an appreciative smile. “We’d be so grateful if you can help us in any way.” He held out his hand. “I’m Kirk Spencer, by the way and this is Charley Briggs.”

      “How do you do,” said Charley stiffly after the woman had nursed Spence’s hand in hers for several minutes, undressed him with a single raised eyebrow and plainly liked what she saw.

      “I might be able to help you,” Sally Hunter agreed.

     “Might is no good,’ Charley told her. ‘Either you can or you can’t. If you can’t, we’ll find someone who can. Come on, Spence, we’re wasting our time here.”

      “Hang on a minute,” Spence insisted then turned to the Hunter woman. “You do know something, don’t you? I can see it in those gorgeous eyes of yours. That pretty dimple on your cheek is behaving very suspiciously too. Am I right or am I right?”

      “You’re right, you cheeky devil,” Sally Hunter laughed, “so I suppose you had better come in. Would you like a cup of tea, coffee, or something stronger?”

      “I’m driving,” Spence told her with an expression of mock dismay, “or I’d take you up on the offer of something stronger…” he assured her with a twinkle in each eye that was returned in good measure.

      “A cup of tea would be very nice,” said Charley frostily.

      “Come through into the kitchen. We can chat while I put the kettle on.” Sally Hunter’s invitation was directed at Spence.

      Charley, too, wasted no time following them. The woman plainly fancied the pants off Spence. She tried telling herself that she should feel flattered. He was her man, after all, not the Hunter woman’s. Even so, she recognized a kindred spirit in Sally Hunter. Certainly, she could not deny the woman positively oozed sensuality. It should have made her feel better disposed towards the woman, Charley reasoned. But the truth of the matter was it didn’t.

      “My Craig and Stuart McAllister were best mates for years,” Sally Hunter was saying as she opened a cupboard, retrieved three mugs from a cupboard and handed them to Spence. “Put those on the table, dearie, will you? Mugs okay are they? I’ll never know why some people prefer cups. Mugs are much more user-friendly, don’t you think?”

      Spence agreed, grinning, aware that Charley was looking on disapprovingly.

      Later, though, Charley began to thaw. Sally Hunter plainly loved to gossip. Her revelations about the McAllister family sent shivers up and down her spine. Charley could scarcely contain either her curiosity or delight. Let her flirt with Spence, what did she care? Besides, Spence was no fool. He must have realized the long eyelashes and fingernails painted a sickly shade of green were false. So too, probably, the huge breasts and she was certain the blonde hair was a wig. Not bad legs though, she had to admit, given that the woman must be pushing sixty.

      “Stuart was a nice boy,” Sally Hunter told them, “but he went off the rails a bit after what happened. Everyone put it down to shock. But you don’t stay in shock for years, do you? Maybe he would have turned out a bad ’un anyway. You just don’t know, do you? I mean…well, some kids are bad news from the time they’re born aren’t they? She paused to take several sips at her tea.”

      “So what happened, exactly?” Spence asked.

      “You really don’t know? But I thought you were friends of Fern’s?” Her manner changed and she got angry. “Just who are you? You wouldn’t be taking the piss by any chance, would you?  I’m warning you, I don’t take kindly folks who…”

      “We’ve always known there was something dreadful in Fern’s past,” Charley interrupted smoothly, “but she never talks about it.”

      Sally Hunter appeared mollified and drank more tea. When she spoke again, it was in much the same tone of someone trying to convey sympathy while relishing the enjoyment of imparting bad news. “It was terrible, dreadful. The McAllisters had two children, a boy and a girl. Stuart would have been about thirteen and Carrie coming up for eleven. Well…one day Carrie didn’t come home from school. Fern and Bob were in a right state, as you can imagine…”

      “Bob was her husband?” Charley was anxious to establish the facts.

      “Goodness me, no, but she took up with him not long after she and the kids moved in so I suppose you’d say he was her partner. They seemed happy enough. Mind you, the police gave him a hard time after little Carrie disappeared. Oh, but didn’t they just? Questioned him for days, they did. They had to let him go in the end though. No proof, you see. He and Fern split up not long afterwards. The last anyone heard, he’d settled down with someone up North. Not that I ever suspected the man myself, you understand. He struck me as a decent enough bloke. Thought the world of Fern, he did, the kids too.” She noisily drank more tea.

      “Did they ever find the little girl?” Charley asked with growing impatience.

      Sally Hunter shook her head. “No one ever set eyes on the poor little mite again. Not to this day, as far as I know. Terrible it was, just terrible. My Craig was very good to young Stuart. Very supportive, he was. But it’s like I said. Stuart went of the rails. My Craig, though, he’s a good lad. He wasn’t having any truck with anything like that. At first it was just the occasional shoplifting but he got in with a bad crowd, did Stuart McAllister. Ended up in a young offender’s institution he did, for armed robbery, no less. Poor Fern, first she loses one child then the other, not to mention the partner. Such a handsome man he was too, that Bob…”

      “Perhaps you knew another friend of ours, Owen, who lived around here in those days?” Charley ventured, “He lived with his mother.”

      “Another cup of tea, dearie?” their hostess asked Spence, seeing that he had drained his mug. Ignoring a warning glance from Charley he nodded. Nor did he mind too much as the hand taking his mug clasped rather than brushed against his own a fraction longer that was necessary. He winked at her. She winked back. Charley saw the exchange and fumed inwardly. The woman took the mug from Spence and turned to Charley with a knowing grin. “More tea…?” Charley would have liked to tell the woman where to stick her tea. But she was thirsty. Instead, therefore, she had to settle for pursed lips and an ungracious nod.  Sally Hunter gave a little titter and took her time pouring them all more tea from a brown enamel teapot.

      “Now, where was I?” Sally Hunter sat down at the table again.

      “Owen Shepherd and his mother, you knew them?” Charley sipped at her tea and tried to sound nonchalant.

      “Oh, yes, I knew them alright. Alice King was like a surrogate mother to Fern. As for Bob and Owen, thick as thieves they were. I’d say just they were well known to just about everybody, not least the police. Owen, that is. But maybe I shouldn’t say, what with his being a friend of yours…”

      “More of an acquaintance,” Spence hastily enlightened her.

      ”Well…it was a rum do and no mistake. It turned out that Owen King had once been questioned about an assault on a young girl near where he and his mother lived before. That’s why they moved here, you see. It was in all the papers. Apparently, he was never charged. But it makes you think, doesn’t it? It certainly made poor Fern McAllister think, believe you me. She and Alice King were good friends, you see. No surprises there, since they lived next door to one another. But after Carrie disappeared and it all came out about Owen…Well, not a good word passed between the pair of them ever again. Can you wonder? I mean to say…Would you have wanted anything to do with the Kings after that? Guilty as hell, he was, if you ask me. Written all over his face, it was. Nothing ever came of it, though, and they moved away about a year later.  He was a nasty piece of work, Owen King. The heavily pencilled eyes on Charley narrowed with renewed suspicion. “Why are you so the interested in him anyway?

      “He’s just an acquaintance,” Spence repeated, “We met him while we staying at a hotel somewhere. I can’t even remember where now. He lived nearby, seemed a nice enough bloke.”

      “Which is more than can be said for the mother,” Charley could not resist adding.

      “Alice King was a good sort,” Sally Hunter contradicted sharply. “Shrewd, she was too. There were no flies on Alice. You can ask anyone.  But she had a blind spot where that son of hers was concerned. Doted on Owen, she did, poor cow. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I dote on my Craig. But you have to keep a sense of proportion, don’t you? You have to let them go, for a start. It’s like they say, kids with domineering parents are likely to end up as fucked up as Lucifer. Not my Craig, though. No way. But how come you’re so interested in the Kings? I thought it was the McAllisters you were after?”

      “No one is ‘after’ anyone,” Spence reassured her, “Charley only mentioned Owen in passing. Didn’t you, my sweet?” Charley nodded.

       “Huh! In passing, my eye…” Sally Hunter was sceptical.  “But whatever your little game is, it’s no skin off my nose. Just don’t take me for a fool, okay?  As for the McAllisters,” she went on without waiting for a reply, “I haven’t a clue where they are now. Frankly, I don’t give a toss either. That Stuart only wanted my Craig to give him an alibi, the little toe rag. As for Fern, well, I felt sorry for her, as anyone would. But she was a stuck up bitch, if you want the truth. How Alice King ever took a fancy to her the way she did, heaven only knows. More tea anyone…?”

      Spence shook his head.

      Charley rose to leave. “There’s no way your Craig might know where we might find Fern?” she felt compelled to press Sally Hunter.

      “If he knew, I’d know. But if it makes you feel any better, I’ll ask him when I see him. How can I contact you?”

      “Here’s my card,” Spence produced one from his wallet and handed it to her.

      “Well, well, my luck is in. It’s been a while since a handsome young man gave me his phone number.”

      “It’s my mobile number. Call me any time,” said Spence and winked again.

      “Don’t worry, dearie, I shall,” Sally Hunter giggled and returned the wink.

      “Only if you have any news for us of course,” added Charley icily.

      “Why, dearie, of course. It’s not as if I’d have any other reason, is it?” the other woman responded cheerfully and with such an overtly lusty wink at Spence that he laughed outright. Nor did a warning look from Charley have the desired effect. Soon, he and Sally Hunter were rolling about the kitchen in fits of laughter and finally fell into each other’s arms.

      "When you two have quite finished…” Charley declared.

      “Sorry dearie,” Sally Hunter apologized, producing a tissue wiping tears from her eyes, “but you have to laugh, don’t you? He’s a card this one, and no mistake. If you ever finish with him, send him to me” She caught Spence’s eye and the pair of them went into a second bout of raucous laughter. 

      Charley had heard enough and saw herself out. Even after she had managed to fasten her seat belt, it was a good five minutes before Spence arrived, grinning broadly. “Did you have to be so…juvenile?” she demanded.

      “Come off it, my sweet. Your high horse, that is. Surely you could see she was winding you up? A good thing for me she was, too. Her husband might have taken the same dim view of things as you did.”

      “Husband…?”

      “Married all of thirty years apparently, she told me so herself. You have to admit she wears well for a fifty-something. But that’s what having a man around does for a woman. It keeps her youthful and desirable, like you, my sweet.” He leaned across and kissed her on the mouth.

      “Don’t flatter yourself. If I manage to stay youthful and desirable, it has more to do with a healthy approach to life and damn all to do with you,” she murmured in his ear but with a throaty chuckle that told him he was all but forgiven for playing along with the engaging, not to mention voluptuous, Mrs Hunter. She sighed, pushing him gently away. “How are we going to tell Anne?”

      “Why should Anne be interested in Sally Hunter?”

      “Now you’re being obstreperous.”

      “I might well be if I knew how to spell it,” commented Spence wryly.

      “Be serious, Spence. Obviously, we have to tell Anne what we now know about Owen Shepherd. Not only is he masquerading under a false name but he clearly has something to hide.”

      “She knows about change of the name business,” Spence pointed out, “It was in the letter. It didn’t seem to bother her unduly then so why should it now?”

      “But she doesn’t know the rest, about the other little girl, Carol, who went missing.”

      “Carrie,” Spence corrected her.

      “What?”

      “The little girl’s name was Carrie, short for Caroline I presume,” he added inconsequentially.

      “Oh.”

      “And we don’t know that Owen had anything to with the child’s disappearance.” Spence reminded her.

      “Sally Hunter plainly thought so.”

      “The police obviously didn’t or they would have charged him. Besides, Sally Hunter is a gossipy mare. You, my sweet, have more sense than to start accusing anyone without a shred of evidence against them.”

      “I’m not accusing him of anything. I’m just saying that Anne has a right to know.”

      “She may know already.”

      “Come off it, Spence, even you can do better than that.  Her daughter disappeared, for heaven’s sake. Do you honestly think she’d want anything to do with a man who’s been questioned by the police about the abduction of another child?”

      “I suppose not,” admitted Spence, “But I forbid you to say a word of this to Anne. Do you hear me? I absolutely forbid it.”

      “She has a right to know,” Charley argued.

      “Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?”

      “She has a right to know,” Charley insisted.

      “Oh, yes? And then what?”

      “What do you mean?”

      “I mean, what is she supposed to do with the information? It’s not even information, just gossip. You’ve seen them together. She clearly thinks a lot of Owen and it’s obvious he’s potty about her. Why ruin a beautiful friendship between two very nice people and cause them heartache? No, Charley. There are occasions when it’s better for everyone concerned to let sleeping dogs lie and this is one of them.”

      “But…” she started to protest.

      “I mean it Charley. Breathe a word of this to anyone and that’s it, we’re finished. I adore you, you know I do, but I will not be a party to malicious gossip.”

      Charley fell silent. The tension between them grew unbearable. She hated it. This was a side to Spence she hadn’t seen before. She had no idea he could be so assertive. She might even have quite liked it if it hadn’t meant his opposing her. Briggs, she reflected with a quiet smile, had been assertive. Nor had he hesitated to take issue with her when he she thought she was in the wrong. But I’m not in the wrong this time, she told herself with utter conviction. “Anne deserves to know,” she announced with the air of someone coming to a final decision. “I’d certainly want to know if someone I thought of as a friend was really a… Wouldn’t you?”

       Spence rounded on her angrily, “You can’t even say it, can you? You can’t say it because you don’t even know a word that fits. You just can’t bring yourself to admit that you’re being so bloody unfair…to me, Anne, Owen and not least yourself. Yes, yourself. You’re better than this, Charley, you know you are. Either you see sense or…we’re finished.”

      “So you said.”

      “I meant it too.”

      A longer, silence followed, more stressful even than before, during which Spence reached for the ignition key several times. Each time, he drew back and continued to scowl at the windscreen while Charley ransacked her brain for a compromise.

      Her face lit up.

      “Don’t tell me. You’ve had an idea,” Spence observed between gritted teeth.

      “As a matter of fact I have,” Charley enthused, “and you’re absolutely right. We can’t possibly enlighten Anne until we have a lot more to go on regarding our friend Owen King, alias Owen Shepherd.” Spence turned the key in the ignition. The engine leapt into life. “All we have to do now is…find it.”

      Spence sighed resignedly as the sleek Jaguar gathered speed, purring like a cat that’s found some cream and enjoyed a sneaky lick, in search of the motorway.

To be continued on Friday.