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.

Like There's No Tomorrow - Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

Anne half expected the Taylors to be late if they turned up at all. Owen, though, was predictably punctual, entering the lobby of The Orion on the dot of six o’clock. She was pleased to observe that the suit he’d chosen to wear was grey, not black. True, the perfectly knotted silk tie was black, but that only to be expected in the circumstances, and in any case co-ordinated with a grey shirt to such effect that the overall impression was not one of intimidating austerity.  People, she knew only too well, were easily intimidated by grief.

     They sat in armchairs that were in full view of Reception so they could watch out for the Taylors. “Maybe they won’t come,” commented Owen hopefully.

     “Cathy will come if she can.” Anne tried to sound confident.

     It’s only Cathy she’s interested in, thought Owen. Heaven help the others. Even so, he knew better than to say so. Anne was not a woman easily roused but there had been occasions when he’d seen her flare and deliver a verbal assault well worthy of a GP’s receptionist. On one such occasion they had been menaced by youths on the promenade and she had seen them off with a flow of abuse that made him blush. She reminded him very much of his mother.  He squirmed in his chair. Mother, he recalled, may have had a sharp tongue but a good heart had once beat beneath the silk blouses she always wore, always pastel colours with high necks and frilled sleeves.

     “Why, Anne, how nice!”

     A voice boomed and broke into his reverie. Owen looked up, startled, to see a large, buxom woman in a multi-coloured caftan that became her very well striding across the lobby towards them. Behind her, a good-looking young man he took to be her son trotted like a bull calf after its mother.

Anne rose. Owen, too, obligingly stood up while she made the introductions.

     “You must be the poor man who’s just lost his mother,” Charley Briggs exclaimed sympathetically, “Do accept my condolences. She was a…memorable woman.”

     “You knew my mother?”  Owen could not disguise his astonishment.

     “Not so much knew as recall,” Charley hedged, “I was on my honeymoon here with my first husband, Briggs, while you were waiting to move into your flat. That was years ago, I know. I don’t expect you to remember me. But I remember your mother very well. If my memory serves me right, she made a big impression on everyone.”

     Owen permitted himself an approving smile. “It’s very kind of you to say so. I’m sure Mother would have loved to meet you again. Alas…” his voice trailed off.

     Anne couldn’t help but notice that Spence looked uncomfortable.

     “When is the funeral?” Charley wanted to know.

     “It’s on Thursday. There has been a cancellation and the vicar has kindly agreed to fit us in.”

     “A cancellation, you say?” Spence assumed an air of innocence that fooled no one. “Someone changed their mind about dying just yet, did they?  I can’t say as I blame them.”

     “Don’t be facetious, Spence,” Charley scolded, but a wrinkling at the corners of her lips belied her tone. Ann, too, found it hard to suppress a smile.

     Only Owen appeared outwardly unmoved. “Apparently, the family decided on a cremation instead,” he explained.

     “Don’t mind Spence. He has a sense of humour that’s more often funny peculiar than funny ha-ha,” said Charley. “Me, I put it down to post-traumatic stress. His poor mother went into labour on the loo and nearly dropped him down the pan.”

     Spence roared with laughter.

     “Would you mind awfully if we came to the funeral?” Charley asked Owen, to his visible consternation.   “Spence will behave himself, I’ll see to that. No worries there, I promise. It’s just that…Well, I’d so much like to pay my last respects.”

     Anne hoped Owen would agree if only because Charley and Spence would swell the congregation to at least four. Even so, she couldn’t help thinking it was a strange request. Owen was clearly nonplussed. She was none too keen herself, to say the least, to pay any last respects to Alice Shepherd. But Owen was a dear friend. As she saw it, she had no choice. The same could not be said for Charley Briggs. That the likes of this huge, flamboyant woman, of whom she was certain Alice Shepherd would have strongly disapproved, should want to come to the funeral struck Anne as nothing short of farcical. 

     “Charley has a fetish for funerals,” Spence addressed Anne directly as if reading her thoughts, but in a low, conspiratorial voice that the others gave no sign of having overheard. Anne winced at the young man’s flippancy. At the same time, she could not entirely resist the intimate grin, returning it with a tight smile that she suspected fell way short of the reprimand it was intended to convey.

     It was Charley’s turn to burst into peals of laughter. “I have no such thing,” she assured a bemused Owen. “I’d consider it an honour to be there, I truly would.”

     “I’m sure Mother would appreciate it,” said Owen stiffly. He did not know what to make of this woman or the young man whom he had begun to suspect was not her son. She has to be in her late forties at least, he mused disapprovingly. A toy boy at her age, it’s monstrous! Wait till I tell mother. She’ll have something to say about it, that’s for sure. He began to reflect further then stopped, flustered and embarrassed, but unable to bring himself to use the past tense. Time enough for that later. Mother will make out she doesn’t give a damn, he felt obliged to admit …if only for the sake of being disagreeable.  He considered the unlikely pair with mounting scepticism. Yet, they seemed happy enough.

     Owen frowned. His mother had been a great advocate for happiness. Other people’s happiness, never mine, he pondered acidly and immediately took himself to task. She looked after me, he reminded himself and addressed the Briggs woman with a confidence he was far from feeling, “Yes, do come and you’ll be most welcome, both of you,” he said. He felt bound to include the young man, Spence. Besides, it had crossed his mind that they would probably turn up anyway. 

     “Well, we must fly. Spence is taking me out for an anniversary meal. Isn’t that so sweet?”

     “Anniversary…?” Anne was curious.

     “We’ve been together six whole months to this very day.”  Charley let rip with another of her booming, musical laughs, a sound Anne found at once irritating and delightful.

     To Owen’s immense relief, the odd couple said their goodbyes and swept out of the lobby. “A fine pair they make,” he remarked disparagingly and was instantly prevented from continuing in the same vein by the look Anne flung him. Trust you to like them, he thought, abashed. You’re too soft by half, Annie Gates. No,” he hastily corrected himself, not soft, vulnerable. Perhaps it was a good thing, after all, that he had come.

     “Oh, look, here they are!” Anne jumped up and went to greet the Taylors. Lynette looked different. It took a moment for her to realize why. Gone were the pigtails. On this occasion, the child wore her hair long and straight. Anne just had time to reflect, disapprovingly, that it made her look much older.

      The adults shook hands while Lynette looked on with a bemused expression on her pretty face. “Are you relatives?” the child wanted to know.

     “No, darling,” said her mother, “Anne and Owen are just friends. You remember Anne, from yesterday?”

     “Daddy doesn’t like you,” the little girl told Anne with the shameless directness of a nine year-old, “Do you, Daddy?”

     Steve Taylor had the grace to blush.

     “Your Daddy and I just need to get to know each other better that’s all,” said Anne cheerfully, “Don’t you agree?” She gave Steve Taylor a broad smile. He returned it with a surly shrug.

     An uncomfortable silence descended on the group.

     “Let’s go and eat, shall we, I’m starving?” declared Owen, winking at Lynette who winked back and flashed a bright smile.

     Owen, Lynette decided, was cool. Of Anne, she was less sure but would reserve judgement. It wasn’t as if she had any choice. As things stood, she could but hope the meal was worth getting dressed up for. She had wanted to wear jeans and a top but her mother had insisted she wear a dress. Lynette scowled inwardly. She hated having to wear a dress. “Will there be ice-cream for desert?” she asked Owen, who smiled and assured her there would. He has a nice smile, she was thinking as they entered the hotel restaurant, unaware that Owen was thinking the same about her.

     Indeed, Owen relaxed considerably over dinner, enjoyed himself far more than he’s expected and was glad he’d let Anne twist his arm to come. He and Lynette bonded quickly, the child laughing and giggling in turn at a string of anecdotes with which he kept her entertained while the others struggled to make conversation.

     Anne was both delighted and irrationally annoyed to see Owen and Lynette getting along so well. Sensing that Steve Taylor was none too pleased at the way Owen was monopolizing his daughter, she attempted to make small talk. “So, tell me Steve, what do you do?”

     “I’m a truck driver.”

     “That must be very…interesting.”

     “It can be.”

     “I’ve always thought a life on the open road must be fascinating. Not for me, though. I’m far too much of a home bird.” She managed a little laugh but neither Cathy nor Steve reciprocated.

     “It’s dead boring most of the time,” Steve growled and tucked into a fillet of plaice while cocking an ear at one of Owen’s tales, something about a cat chasing a dog up a tree, with which he has Lynette captivated. He couldn’t resist a grin, and wondered if he hadn’t perhaps misjudged the older man who had struck him at first glance as something of a dry old stick. The Gates woman, he disliked intensely. He certainly wasn’t happy about the way she and Cathy were chatting away like old friends. Something about the little woman got his back up. The bottom line being, he simply didn’t trust her.

     “I love that dress,” Anne was saying, “Lynette’s too. But plum is my favourite colour. Not everyone can carry it off of course.”

     “I try,” said Cathy modestly, but pleased. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had expressed approval of anything she wore. Lynette, of course, invariably did. Somehow, though, flattery didn’t carry the same weight on the lips of a child. “I like yours too. Turquoise suits you.”

     “I try,” Anne parried with a broad smile. The two women laughed companionably.  “Have you been to Brighton before?”

     “Oh, yes, lots of times. We love it.” Cathy lowered her voice, “To be honest, Steve and I have been going through a rough patch. You know how it is sometimes, all work and no play. We thought coming here might be just the thing to help smooth over a few cracks, so to speak.”

     “And what’s the verdict?”

     “So far so good…” Cathy muttered with a sidelong glance at her husband that told Anne a very different story.

     More than a few cracks, thought Anne, that’s for sure.  Careful, though, not to betray any such concern, she continued to smile pleasantly while struggling to prevent conversation from drying up completely. Inwardly, she railed against Owen. It was all very well that he and Lynette were getting alone like a house on fire but he was meant to be supporting her, not least by distracting Steve. “I love Brighton too,” she told Cathy, taking herself and everyone around the table by surprise. Even Owen stopped in mid-flow. “I suppose I shouldn’t, really, but I do. I can’t help it. I just love it here in spite of…everything…” Her voice trailed off.

     It was Cathy who broke the awkward silence. “Life is full of surprises,” she said. Turning to Steve, she went on, “I mean to say, look at you and me darling, we’re still married!” She gave a laugh that rang false and embarrassed everyone.

     “I’m ready for ice-cream,” Lynette announced loudly, and a relieved if strained, chuckle spread around the table.

     The meal over, Steve got up from the table after Lynette said she wanted to see the garden. Cathy assumed they would all go but Anne caught her by the arm. Owen was already on his feet and Lynette wasted to time seizing his hand as well as her father’s.

     Steve glared daggers at everyone.

     Owen observed that it was getting late and he was very tired. “It has been lovely to meet you all. Thank you for a delightful evening. Mother wouldn’t have wanted me to sit on my own brooding.” Gently but firmly, he extricated his hand from Lynette’s, bent down to accept her kiss on his cheek and hurried off.

     Having suggested to Cathy that they have another cappuccino, Anne indicated as such to a passing waitress without waiting for an answer. Steve opened his mouth to protest, but Lynette was already dragging him away before he could say a word.

     “Come on, Daddy. You promised...”

     “Don’t let her dirty her dress,” Cathy called out, but the pair were already well on their way and if either heard they gave no sign. The child’s eagerness contrasted with the man’s show of reluctance although Anne guessed Steve Taylor was only too glad to have an excuse to get away. From me or Cathy, she wondered, and decided on the former.

     “I don’t think your husband likes me,” said Anne quietly.

     “It takes him a while to get used to people, that’s all. It’s nothing personal,” Cathy lied.

     “Does he see me as some kind of threat, I wonder? I do hope not. He certainly has no cause to worry on that score. Oh dear, am I being too forward?  I mean, it’s quite understandable. What man would take kindly to a complete stranger intruding upon a family holiday, not to mention trying to monopolise his wife.

     “It’s my holiday too,” Cathy pointed out, “and you’re not intruding...or monopolising. On the contrary, I’m glad we met.”

     “Are you? Are you really?” Anne clapped her hands, her face flushed with pleasure.

     “It’s nice to have someone to talk to for a change,” said Cathy without thinking, and only fleetingly considered retracting her words before pressing on. “We don’t talk, you see, Steve and me. That is, we never discuss anything. Or if we try, he can never see anyone’s point of view but his own. So, I ask you, what’s the point?”

     “It must be very frustrating for you,” Anne murmured sympathetically, I had the same problem with my ex-husband, especially after Patricia…disappeared. Perhaps I asked too much of him, I don’t know. Tom thought the world of her but there was no strong emotional attachment. I know that’s sounds like a contradiction but…Oh, I don’t know…It’s almost as if she were little more than a doll to dress up and play with and that’s what he missed after she…disappeared.  It wasn’t Patricia he missed at all. Oh, dear,” Anne berated herself, “I’m not being fair am I? I can’t explain it. I so needed him to understand how I felt but…” She sighed. “It was as if we became two different people once Patricia was no longer there. I hadn’t realized how much our marriage depended on her. She held it together, held us together. Without her…it’s like I said…we were two completely different people…ships in the night.  Don’t get me wrong. Tom wasn’t a bad father or husband. He simply wasn’t…”

     “…quite up to being a good one either? I know what you mean. Don’t I just! Steve’s much the same. He adores Lynette, and I think he loves me too in his own way. But it isn’t…”

     “Enough.”  Anne said gravely. It wasn’t a question. Involuntarily, she let her thoughts drift to her own marriage.

     “Not nearly enough,” Cathy agreed with a passion that amazed even her. “Was that it, she wondered? Was her marriage so meaningless now, not worth the saving even for Lynette’s sake?  She fought back tears, acknowledging that she hadn’t really needed to come to Brighton to confirm what she already knew.

     “Does Steve understand about your lost childhood? It must be so hard for you, not knowing quite who you are…” Anne hauled herself back to the present and forced herself to concentrate.

     “There’s not much chance of that I’m afraid. Whenever I want to talk about it, he just tells me to see a shrink. Go privately, he says. I’ll pay, he says. But I don’t need a shrink, I…”

     “Need a husband,” murmured Anne.

     “You said it. I need a husband, someone I can turn to, someone who will support me and at least try and understand why I get so frustrated, so angry, so…frightened.”

     “Frightened?” Anne thought she knew what the other woman meant but was curious all the same.

     Cathy merely shrugged. She hadn’t meant to say that and it left her feeling acutely uncomfortable. Even so, she was enjoying this heart to heart with Anne Gates. It felt good to have someone to talk to; someone who genuinely seemed to care; someone who understood if only partly; someone willing to listen. At the same time, she felt suddenly very vulnerable, as if she were standing at the edge of a cliff, peering down, feeling dizzy and vaguely aware that she was in immediate danger of losing her balance. Why had she said that, about being frightened?  It wasn’t true…or was it?  Of course she was frightened. She was scared stiff. But it wasn’t something she wanted to look at too closely. Not now, and certainly not here. “Listen to me, whinging on as if I were the only person with problems. Poor Anne, you have more than your share, for heaven’s sake.  Cathy Taylor, you can be so selfish sometimes. Forgive me, Anne. It’s just that…”

     “I know, my dear, I know.” Anne reached across and patted the younger woman’s hand as she might have tried to reassure a disturbed child. “There’s absolutely nothing to forgive. I only hope I haven’t made things worse, between you and Steve. I mean, encouraging you to…”

     “Face my demons?”  Cathy raised a parody of a smile that had the immediate effect of making Anne feel both wretched and guilty. .

     Anne tried to sound reassuring. “We all have to do that at sometime or another,” she said. “I only hope I haven’t raised any new ones for you. It’s good to talk, open up closed doors and let in some fresh air. But opening doors is one thing, what we do about it is something else. Do we stay put or do we go though the door and, if we do, what direction shall we take and where will we end up?” She promptly took herself to task. “But, hark at me, a proper little philosopher I don’t think! I’m the one who should be apologizing. I meant this to be a treat for you. Instead, you’ve had to listen to the meanderings of a bitter old woman.” Anne laughed.

     “You’re not old,” Cathy contradicted her immediately then, “Nor do you sound bitter. Are you bitter? God knows you have every reason to be.”

     The directness of the question caught Anne off guard. She was momentarily at a loss how to answer. A knee jerk denial on her lips adamantly refused to budge and transform itself into speech. She began to panic. Had it all been for nothing, years of working so hard at not being bitter, trying to salvage as much of her old self as she could?  She was sad, yes, even heartbroken. But she had never thought of herself as a bitter woman. So why had she said that? Hadn’t she always taken everything in her stride, made the best of things rather than despairing of the worst all the time? 

     Owen, Anne recalled, had said his mother was stoic. The description would be more appropriately applied to herself, surely? Alice Shepherd was her own worst enemy who had made her bed and died in it. She, Anne Gates, on the other hand, was…what exactly? A victim of… what, whom?  Should she blame fate, God, the monster who abducted her daughter, Tom…or herself?

     Anne’s head began to swim. She had never consciously thought of herself as a victim but preferred to see herself as a survivor. There was no surviving bitterness. It was tantamount to pressing a self-destruct button.

“No, my dear,” Anne heard her voice as if from a great distance, “I’m not bitter.” But the words rang hollow. Nor had the earlier feeling of panic completely subsided.

     “I’m glad to hear it,” said Steve Taylor as he approached the table, Lynnette skipping beside him. “My mother always used to say, bitterness is a slow poison. Better to love and go to an early grave, she’d say, than be a long time buried alive. I used to think she was just playing with words.” He looked directly at Cathy as he spoke but she was too preoccupied with combing out knots in Lynette’s windswept hair to notice.

     “And what do you think now?” Anne couldn’t resist asking.

     Steve shrugged. “You grow up, don’t you, and discover the truth about all that stuff for yourself.”

     Lynette yawned.

To be continued on Monday.