CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“How many people are coming?” Owen wanted to know, “You’ve prepared enough food for an army!”
“Hopefully, there will just be us, Cathy and Lynette. But I have a feeling Charley Briggs may invite herself, which means Spence will probably tag along. I just hope Steve Taylor stays away but…” Anne sighed, “Who knows?”
Mother always preferred a sit-down meal.
“In my experience, a buffet is best when you’re not sure how many people will turn up.”
“Mother used to say a buffet was common.”
Anne kept a tight rein on her temper. She was so looking forward to seeing Cathy and Lynette. It wouldn’t do to quarrel with their host. “Each to their own is what I always say,” she responded dryly.
“I wasn’t criticising,” Owen hastily pointed out, “I was only saying….” His voice trailed off miserably, “It feels so strange that mother’s gone, yet I feel her presence in every room. It’s like she’s looking over my shoulder all the time and I have to justify myself to her, just like I always did.”
“Justify yourself?” Anne was curious, but Owen showed no inclination to elaborate. Instead, he muttered something about having to go and change and left the dining room where she had been laying out a simple but appetizing buffet on the long, mahogany table, its flaps pulled out at both ends.
Anne sat down. Try as she might, she had been unable to get Fern McAllister out of her head. There was something about the woman’s manner that had instantly touched a nerve. I don’t trust you, she thought. It crossed her mind too that she might even have cause to fear the woman. “Now you’re just being silly, Anne Gates,” she murmured aloud.
In his bedroom, Owen Shepherd was having second thoughts. What on earth had be been thinking of, inviting people here and poor Mother not buried a week yet? It would be nice to see Cathy and little Lynette again, though, he conceded. From what Anne had told him, the child was genuinely excited about seeing his hens. “As only a child could be,” he told his reflection in the window with a smile that conveyed no trace of humour. He went to the wardrobe and opened it. What should he wear? I should have asked Anne. Mother was always spot on when it came to dressing for any occasion.
Without coming to a decision, he went and sat on the edge of the bed. For the umpteenth time, he asked himself why Fern McAllister should have bothered to turn up at the funeral. The wretched woman had been on his mind ever since Anne had asked who she was. What exactly did Mother tell Anne, he wondered? More to the point, how much dare I confide in her myself? If Fern McAllister was bent on making mischief, he owed it to Anne to explain. Well, didn’t he? “Must I?” He sighed and glowered at the carpet.
Owen sighed again. They had been so close once, Mother and Fern. Even now, he found it hard to believe that Fern could have been so cruel. Without a shred of evidence she had accused him of abducting her daughter, and worse. “Without a shred of evidence” he repeated aloud. Nor had there been any evidence on that other occasion when another child was assaulted. She had even picked him out of an identity parade. Oh, she’d retracted the identification later, but everyone said that was only because the parents had wanted to spare her the ordeal of going to court.
He shivered, hugged himself and began rocking to and fro. It was a while before he could stop.
Twice they had been forced to move away, Mother and he, driven out by malicious gossip and libellous innuendo in the press. Time and again, mother had urged him to sue. But it would only have made things worse, especially as I had no alibi for either occasion.
He began to shiver and rock again.
When Patricia Gates disappeared, it had been too dreadful for words. The police had made it clear he was their prime suspect. But there was no proof, not a shred. By a small miracle, the press hadn’t got wind of his past. A constant flurry of reporters had paid no more attention to him than any of the other men being interviewed, sometimes more than once.
Owen closed his eyes and could see himself in the interview room being harangued by first this police officer then another. Some were in uniform, others in plain clothes. All, he could tell, thought he was guilty. Questions, more questions and the same questions all over again being fired at him like bullets from a machine gun. Time again, over and over, he had told them he was in bed asleep at the time they judged little Patricia disappeared. He could have told them he had been was prone to sleepwalking for years. But who would have believed him? What could be worse than when no one believes you’re telling the truth? He must have asked himself that a thousand times. The answer was always the same. It’s when you’re not even sure what the truth is yourself.
In spite of his mother’s assurances that a person sleepwalking was incapable of an act they would not commit whilst wide-awake, he had never been totally convinced. He could almost hear her now, whispering urgently in one ear, “You must never say a word about it, not to anyone. Do you hear me, Owen? Not a word, ever. There will just be a huge fuss and who knows where it will end? Better to be safe than sorry. It’s not as if we have anything to hide, not really. Lots of people sleepwalk. It’s not as uncommon as people think. But no one quite understands why, and people are always suspicious if not frightened of what they don’t understand. Let’s face it, Owen. The last thing we want is to arouse suspicion.”
“But people are already suspicious,” he’d sobbed in her lap.
“Sticks and stones, Owen, stick and stones...” She had ruffled his hair and tried to reassure him. “There isn’t a shred of evidence against you. Nor will there be any evidence because...you’re innocent. Even so, mention sleepwalking and they’ll have a field day…the police, their so-called expert witnesses, you name it.”
Fern McAllister thinks I’m a … But he could never bring himself to say the word even to himself. His mother was a godsend. She was always there for him, always had an answer for everything. Even now, it was a comfort to feel her voice penetrating his loneliness, his fear, his desperation.
“Fern, McAllister,” the disembodied voice continued, “is a mother who has not only lost a daughter but has no idea what has become of her. She has to hit out at someone and I’m afraid, my dear, you’re it. People need someone to blame. It does no one any good but… At least, I suppose, one feels one is doing something, especially when doing nothing is simply too awful to contemplate. Believe me, Owen. We have no choice, either of us. We must rise above the world’s predilection for malicious gossip. Sticks and stones, Owen…sticks and stones,” it kept repeating. That’s the trouble with Mother, she never knows when to let go. Damn you, mother, damn you. Why won’t you ever let go?
Owen got up and went for a shower, taking new strength, as he always did, from his mother’s commanding and uncompromising show of faith in him. After all, he was an innocent man, and like so many innocent people, it was his fate to be one of life’s victims. Well, wasn’t he? Oh, yes, a victim. But you’d know all about that, Mother, wouldn’t you? It’s all make-believe with you. Devoted mother and son? Family is everything? “Huh, you wish!” he snorted aloud, “You and I both.” He brushed a tear from his cheek with the tip of one finger. Only, there was nothing there. His fingertip was quite dry.
Anne answered a ring at the front door and was dismayed to find Steve Taylor on the doorstep, Lynette holding tightly to his hand, Cathy a few steps behind. Almost at the same time, Charley Briggs and Spence also arrived. Resolutely putting aside her misgivings about Steve’s presence, Anne proceeded, instead, to give silent thanks to the gift of foresight that has resulted in her preparing plenty of food.
To Anne’s relief, lunch passed without incident and everyone tucked in happily enough. Kirk Spencer and Steve Taylor seem to be getting along well, she was both pleased and relieved to see. After overhearing a few rude comments about football managers that had both men roaring with laughter, she was more than happy to leave them to their crass repartee.
Lynette, anxious to see the hens, ran into the yard, tugging impatiently at Owen Shepherd’s hand. They, too, seemed to have developed a good rapport. Cathy would have joined them but Anne caught her arm. “I’d leave them to it, dear, if I were you, unless you have a passion for hens. Owen is besotted. I dare say Lynette will lap up every word but I have to warn you, dear Owen can be a real bore where his wretched hens are concerned.” Both women laughed. Charley caught the last few words and her booming, musical chortle made them jump.
“I must say, Owen has done us proud,” Charley declared, “That buffet was delicious. I dare say you lent a hand though, eh, Anne?”
“I helped,” said Anne modestly.
“The two men seem to be getting on famously,” Charley commented, casting an eye over the pair chatting animatedly by the French windows, “Mind you, everyone gets on well with Spence.”
“I wish I could say the same for Steve,” Cathy muttered.
“You have to handle men with care,” Charley proceeded to expound a pet theory, “Let them think you can’t live without them and you’ll have them eating out of your hand. Of course, in reality, it’s the other way around, as every woman knows. Let them catch a whiff that you’re manipulating them, though, and see all hell break loose. Whoever said ‘hell has no fury like a woman scorned’ plainly knew bugger all about the male ego. Forget the wallet and the heart. So much as dent a man’s pride and the results can be pure evil.”
Again, all three women laughed. “It sounds as if you speak from experience,” Cathy told her.
“Not so much experience as three husbands!” Charley exclaimed with a huge grin. “Mind you, give me a boyfriend rather than a husband any day. They keep a woman on her toes. All some husbands ever do is take you for granted. Not that my Briggs ever did…” Her eyes misted over. “Briggs was a one-off. He wasn’t one to cry over spilt milk and wouldn’t have wanted me to either so…well, you have to make the best of things, don’t you? Live for the moment, that’s what I say. I mean to say…what bloody else is there to live for? Yesterday’s dead and gone and there’s always a fifty-fifty chance we might snuff it before tomorrow…”
Sometimes it’s hard to let go of the past,” said Anne.
“Living for the moment is all very well,” put in Cathy, “but a lot depends on who there is to share it with.”
“Ah, but the trick is to play the devil at his own game,” Charley told her with a mischievous chuckle. “Let your man of the moment think you need him to make it last forever and, hey presto, he’s as easy to crack as an egg.”
“Talking of which…” Anne said, laughing, as all three looked out into the yard where Lynette was holding up an egg she had just collected for Owen to see.
The two men, deep in conversation, became suddenly aware of the women’s interest and also paused to glance through the French windows.
At that same moment, Lynette dropped the egg. It splattered on the path. She stared at the gooey mess plainly distressed and burst into tears. Owen knelt down. The child flung her arms around him. It seemed to the onlookers that man and child were locked in a tender embrace for infinitely longer than the few seconds it took for Owen to reassure the sobbing Lynette.
Steve Taylor saw red. “Let her go of her, damn you!” He ran out into the garden, dragged Lynette away from a bewildered Owen, threw him to the ground and pinioned him there. Owen lay unresisting, yelping pitifully, blows raining on him thick and fast. He tried to shield his face with his hands but they provided precious little protection. Taylor was like a man possessed.
Lynette gaped in astonishment at first then, “No Daddy, no!” she kept screaming.
Cathy dashed to her daughter and led the terrified child way from the debacle in the yard. Lynette clung to her mother, sobbing.
Hens were squawking everywhere.
“Don’t just stand there,” Charley told Spence, “do something!”
Spence leapt into action. Eventually, he managed to haul Taylor off the writhing figure on the ground, but not before finding himself on the receiving end of several wild punches that sent him sprawling. Scrambling to his feet, blood dripping into his eyes from a gash on the forehead, he lashed out blindly with a right hook that sent Taylor staggering backwards before collapsing in an untidy heap.
Anne looked on, appalled.
“You sick bastard!” Taylor sat up, oblivious to his appearance and continued to hurl abuse at Owen Shepherd. “Pervert!” he yelled, his features horribly distorted by an ugly mix of loathing and contempt. “How dare you touch my daughter, how dare you!”
“I was only comforting her,” Owen protested feebly, “I didn’t mean any harm by it. I was only comforting her,” he repeated, tears streaming down his face.
“Sure you were,” returned a disbelieving Taylor, “and loving every minute of it! I saw you, you bastard, we all did.” He looked at Spence as if expecting support.
“I think you’ve got the wrong idea,” Spence told him grimly.
“Take Lynette,” Cathy said to Anne, practically pushing the distraught child into the other woman’s arms as she went to confront her husband.
“Have you completely lost your mind, or what?” she demanded, eyes blazing.
Anne winced. Instinctively, her hold tightened around Lynette who, still trembling but sobbing less violently, continued to hide her face in Anne’s plaid skirt.
Charley neither trusted herself to move or speak. Even so, she could feel her pulse racing. Something closely resembling triumph brought bile to her mouth. It was just as she feared. Owen Shepherd was a pervert. Steve Taylor had seen it at once, just as she had herself. Why then, oh, why can’t anyone else? She glanced at Anne. But the other woman could not tear her mortified gaze from the scene in the yard. What was passing through Anne’s mind Charley wondered? She could not be thinking anything but the worst of Owen Shepherd now…surely?
As if to prove her wrong, Anne suddenly found both her voice and feet. Passing Lynette to Charley before either quite realised it, she rushed to help Owen and give Steve Taylor a dressing down. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” she rounded on Taylor as Owen, visibly relieved to see her, staggered to his feet. “The child broke an egg and all Owen did was reassure her that it didn’t matter. You would have done the same and so would I. How dare you read anything more into it than that?” She slapped him hard across the cheek. “You have a foul mouth, Steve Taylor, and it’s high time someone washed it out for you, preferably with carbolic soap or the like. No wonder your marriage is on the rocks with a disgusting mind like yours and a temper to match. You should be ashamed of yourself, acting like a playground bully and in front of your wife and daughter too.”
“Yes, my husband and my daughter.” Cathy sprang perversely to Taylor’s defence. “So I’ll thank you to mind your own damn business. Who says my marriage is on the rocks? How dare you say such a thing in Lynette’s hearing? As for this fiasco…” She pointed accusingly at Owen. “You have to admit there’s something unhealthy, to say the least, about a man his age living with his mother and having a liking for little girls. I’d have thought you, of all people, would steer well clear. Instead, you act like you’re carrying a torch for the man. God only knows why. Or maybe you’re two of a kind. Maybe you deserve each other. Steve said you’re a pair of weirdoes. Well, maybe he has a point…” She stopped short, aghast at her outburst and no idea where it had come from.
Anne’s horrified expression warned Cathy she had gone too far. Why was she defending Steve, anyway? She wanted to hug Anne and tell her she was sorry, that she hadn’t meant to say what she did. Instead, her confused emotions would only let her look around, glaring at everyone, wishing at the same time that yard, garden, the earth itself would swallow her up.
“Mummy, what’s happening?” Lynette broke away from Charley and ran crying to her mother.
“It’s nothing for you to get upset about darling, just a horrible misunderstanding.” Cathy tried to reassure the child.
“You do admit it was a misunderstanding then?” Anne demanded testily.
“Why did Daddy hit Grandpa Owen?” Lynette blurted before her mother could reply.
For the second time, Steve Taylor saw red. “Grandpa Owen? He’s not your grandpa. He’s nothing. He’s the scum of the earth. He’s a bloody…”
“That’s enough!” roared Spence, “Get out of here Taylor. Now, before you do any more damage. And take your wife and brat with you. Or, so help me…” He flexed his muscles threateningly.
Taylor’s eyes narrowed.
“He’s right, Steve. We need to leave right now. Please, if only for Lynette’s sake,” Cathy pleaded tearfully. Look at the state she’s in. The poor child doesn’t know whether she’s coming or going. Nor do I, for that matter.” Keeping a tight grip on Lynette’s hand, she approached Steve and held out her hand to him. The child, however, hung back. Cathy fumbled in her pocket and produces some tissues. “Here, use these.”
“Thanks,” Steve muttered ungraciously, snatched them from her and tried to stem the bleeding where Kirk Spencer’s fist had struck home. Seconds later, he strode purposefully, if shakily, back into the house, pausing only to exchange dark glances with Charley Briggs.
What was the matter with everyone? Had the whole world gone mad? Had he overstepped the mark this time, taking Owen Shepherd for…what, a paedophile? Did he really think that or had he just been jealous because Lynette seemed to be getting closer to the Shepherd and farther away from himself, her father? Yes, I’m her father and Cathy is my wife, he kept reminding himself, and a father has to look out for his daughter. Well, doesn’t he? Oh, Shepherd and the Gates woman have pulled the wool over Cathy’s eyes good and proper. All the more reason he must stay alert, protect both of them. “God, I hurt all over, damn it!” he groaned aloud.
Charley watched the hapless trio take their leave and wondered what her next step should be?
Anne began assisting a distressed Owen back into the house, but he broke away and ran off, knocking into Charley as he dashed though the French windows and fled into his bedroom without a backward glance or word of apology.
A door slammed. The whole house shook.
“Are you okay?” Spence asked Anne.
The note of genuine concern in his voice helped ease the turmoil in her head and she turned to him with a grateful smile. “I think so,” she said, “although it’s me who should be asking you that,” she added, “You look terrible.”
“I’ve felt better,” he admitted ruefully but declined her supporting arm. “We don’t want to make Charley jealous, do we?” he said with a mischievous twinkle in each bloodshot eye.
In spite of herself, Anne laughed aloud. She liked this young man who had dashed to Owen’s rescue. If he hadn’t, doubtless Steve Taylor would have beaten poor Owen to a pulp.
“They’ve gone,” Charley announced needlessly. “I suppose we had better get you cleaned up,” she told Spence with a hug that made him wince. “Let’s get you back to the hotel before that maniac has second thoughts and comes back for more. Don’t look so worried. I’ll be gentle with you.” She turned to Anne. “Are you coming? I think you should,” she added with a catch in her voice Anne found unsettling without quite knowing why. “I’ve called a cab. It should be here any minute…”
Should she stay, Anne wondered? Owen would want her to, she was sure of that. The poor man must be devastated by what had happened. He was probably sitting in his room now, sobbing into a pillow, expecting her to come and administer to his needs, emotional as well as physical. How could Steve Taylor have entertained such awful thoughts? Owen wouldn’t hurt a fly. She had to admire Cathy for standing by her man, she supposed, but felt hurt by the younger woman’s attack on her. She hadn’t deserved that…had she? Her thoughts returned to Owen. “Poor Owen!” she murmured under her breath. I should stay. So how come she felt unable to face her old friend, that all she wanted to do was go back to the hotel and sit alone in her room with a nice cup of tea?
“Are you coming Anne?” Charley repeated with growing impatience.
“Before I bleed to death,” commented Spence dryly.
“We should get you to a hospital,” said Charley
“No way…!” Spence was adamant. “No one plays Florence Nightingale with my ravaged body but you, my sweet,” he informed her with a crooked grin.
“We’ll see,” Charley was not convinced but neither could she suppress a tremor of anticipation. “Well, Anne?” she said irritably.
Anne made up her mind. “Yes, yes, I’m coming,” she told them.
To be continued on Friday.
