No good asking God for more help. He now seemed Hell bent on taking everything away. Just as I’d made a few, crippling steps in my sodden, filthy clothes, my cell phone came to life in my pocket. Its ring too loud in that silent place while Leslie
Horncastle’s smug face came to mind. I pulled the phone free and extended its aerial.
“Yes?”
“The Reverend Nicholas Beecham?”
A stranger’s voice. More Midlands than local. “It’s DS Morris, Norwich CID. You weren’t at home when I called round just now…”
Don’t stutter…
“How did you get this n… number? Was it John Lyon?”
A short pause, giving me the answer.
“Are you in sometime later?” he pressed on as the rain seemed to freeze and attack me like an army of small spears. I wobbled, then steadied myself.
Get a grip, Nicholas, for Christ’s sake…
“I’m away until Friday. My mother’s very ill.”
“Sorry to hear that. Where’s she, then?”
“Truro,” I lied. “Why?”
“Best I explain to you face to face, so do let me know once you’re back.”
And before I could push in my aerial or even ask myself why I’d told my inquisitor such an inept lie, I suddenly noticed a motorbike and a female rider, with its full headlights on, thankfully just missing me, skim out of the car park and roar away into the night.
43. STANLEY.
Thursday 9th August 1920. 11a.m.
Two reasons why I cudn’t return to Wombwell Farm. Them two cops was there again looking for me and burrowing around that river bank. Also, Ma and Pa was definitely not to be trusted. Nor them four cuckoos now in the nest, specially the mother with her bobbing tits and tight little arse.
But I still cud keep me eye on them all, and I did. Every day, because Mrs. Myers in Wombwell House just down the road past Fletchers’ Fields had seen me going by looking scared and asked me to clear her back garden, so she could keep a few chickens.
God bless her.
I’d told her I’d bin picked on by Ma and Pa just because me leg were bad, and I weren’t able to do all me jobs as usual. That they’d stopped me money and treated me worse than a dog.
All that had bin a while back, just after I’d met that thick-set stranger with the mad eyes and hair like a broken-up haystack. His bribe of five florins still in me pocket.
“Your parents’ attitude doesn’t seem fair,” she’d said, sitting me in her nice kitchen with a glass of cool lemonade. I’ve always thought you were a good, eager worker. Besides, now your folk have more help about the place, you can help me.”
I weren’t sure I knew where this were leading.
“What then?”
“To feel safe at nights.”
That had caught me by surprise.
“Why? Here’s not London.”
“After what happened to the Parminter family nearby, it seems like it. And.” she’d leaned forward so I could see the wrinkly skin between her old tits. “There’s been a strange man hanging around. I caught him asleep in the outhouse a fortnight ago. Frightened me half to death, he did. And he had a gun. I saw it clear as day.”
“Fortnight?” I’d repeated. That were a new word.
“Two weeks.” She’d smiled, despite still thinking about her intruder. “And don’t tell me to call the police, because round here, they’re useless. Too keen on drinking in the public houses and going off shooting. Except perhaps for Constable Lambert, but then, he’s new.”
New and squitty…
“Was this stranger fair haired? Big as an ox with a different accent?” I’d asked, finishing me drink and licking every drop off me dry lips.
She’d nodded, but I never told her it must have bin that same man who’d wanted to know if that New Forest family were at the farm. How cud I? I’d landed on me feet here good and proper. Yes, this place wud do nicely, till I were ready to move on.
“I’d like a look at this barn, and what else you got,” I’d said suddenly realising that even an old woman like her might take that statement the wrong way. But she didn’t.
*
“Chickens,” I’d reminded her, once I’d seen that rusty, old barn which in the next bad gale would surely come toppling down. “You wanted some ground cleared.”
“And made fox-proof.”
She’d shown me further round the back and into her square patch of wilderness, choked up with dead old weeds and crispy bramble. The sun burning a hole in me head.
“One shilling a day,” she’d said out of the blue. “Happy with that?”
Happy weren’t the right word. Me headache seemed to suddenly vanish. Me sore leg felt like it used to in the good old days. I’d still be able to take a peep at me Special Mawther in Wombwell Farm. Me new name for her, and who knew where me peeping might lead?
I’d then wondered whose bed she’d bin sleeping in since I’d left, and just hoped it were mine. “Which room did the Parminter girl sleep in here?” I asked, casual as I cud.
“What an odd question.”
“She were missing two hair clips, that’s all.”
“Next door to mine. She shared it with her brother. Such lovely children.”
And not long afterwards, in that very room, I’d found two blonde hairs under the pillow of one of the beds. Paler at one end than the other, which had ended up deep in me trousers pocket, to remind me not so much what I were missing, but what the future might hold.
*
Wednesday August 22nd 8 a.m.
The big man with the gun who’d lined me pocket with five florins, hadn’t shown up agin at Wombwell Villa for another two weeks, so I’d asked Mrs. Myers if there were still a need for us both to be sharing her bed. It were a nice one, mind, with clean sheets every few days, but I preferred me own company at nights, doing what I always did with me soldier down below. How cud I have told her that?
“But I’ve not slept so well in years,” she’d said next morning. “And your poor leg seems to be getting better too. You must let me pay you extra for the kindness.”
Kindness?
That sealed it. And last night, hotter than ever, with the heat from the roof turning her bedroom into a furnace, I’d let her touch me soldier, then stroke it. Then…
She’d kept her eys shut and her mouth wide open, and while she were busy, I thought of me Special Mawther who’d ridden me in that field, egging me on till he’d nearly burst through me trousers… And afterwards? Rita Myers, old enough to be me mother, tidied her white, fluffy hair and asked me to move in permanently. To give her life some meaning. Give her love.
*
Ten o’clock, and the first cloud in the sky since the beginning of June. We both stared at it as if it didn’t belong there.
“A bad omen,” she said, with it being so dark underneath. Then she turned to me. “Have you though about my question? I mean it, Stanley. I’ve been lonely too long, and,” she added with a little smile. “I did enjoy myself last night. I’ve not done that to a man for over forty years.”
I tried not to look shocked.
“Who were that, then? Yer husband?”
A blush made her pinkness turn red. “No. He’d passed on long before that.”
I grew more than curious. “Who?” I said again.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”
This made me determined to find out. And why did she keep glancing in the direction of Wombwell Farm?
No…
That cloud had gone. Everything suddenly too bright inside and outside me head. She just stared at me - her creased little face fading like Susan Deakins’ had done, leaving those eyes boring into mine.
“What’s the matter, Stanley?”
But it were me hands that answered as if they’d a life of their own. Around her bobbing throat. Tighter and tighter. “So ye did it with me Pa?”
“Yes,” she gurgled, trying to push me away. “Get off!”
Me brain were i
n a spin.
“Ye mean…?”
A nod.
“Who else knows?”
“Him and Ann Bulling. She offered to raise you instead. Said her womb was a dead nest. They needed you to work the land. Bring in more money, and as I was too busy housekeeping for Lord Helvin after Robin died, I agreed…”
More money. Too busy. I weren’t worth nothing. She’d even kept his picture and his shirts…
And that’s when the banging and knocking came back into me head.
*
Beyond Rita Myers’ plot with its dry hawthorn hedging trimmed hard like Lord Helvin’s beard, were an area of half-dead, skinny hazels that had given the ground some shade. Common land, I knew that, but no-one had put any stock on it since the end of the war, because there weren’t enough men like Will Parminter to check on them. Pa had once
fancied making use of it, but not after I’d said I cudn’t be the one forever to-ing and fro-ing over the Longstanton Road.
As I marked out the narrow grave with a stick, I kept thinking over and over what she’d said, and the more I did, realised why there’d been not one photograph of me as a babe or a bor over at the farm. It were as if I’d never existed. Only once did I remember Ma ever speak of her.
“Too stuck up by half,” she’d said. While to Pa, she were ‘Meddling Myers.’
And then it came to me that Robin, her son who’d had his brains blown out at somewhere called Loos, were in fact me sort of brother.
*
She proved heavier than I expected but I put that down to her gardening boots. Funny thing, but while in bed together, I’d never peeped under her nightdress. Plenty of opportunity, mind, but old fanny weren’t for me then or now, even though she had a good few bob tucked away in the old bread oven in her kitchen.
Me next port of call now everything had changed.
Thanks to her nearly-new spade breaking up the rock-hard ground, she were soon safely out of sight, and I re-arranged all the cut, dead brambles and every other weed on this earth so the spot wud look undisturbed. All the while I thought if Ma weren’t me real mother, that would surely take the farm further from me grasp and into the greedy paws of those southerners.
Just to think of it, made me hurry back indoors, and within a few minutes, I’d found a pile of notes and coins crammed into a Baker Perkins biscuit tin. Never mind that big stranger’s five florins, I were rich. Didn’t need to be able to count it all out, but wud have to get some proof of what she’d said about being me real mother. A birth certificate, summat I cud use in case she’d left a Will.
Robin Myers had rotted somewhere far away, but I’d have to be wary. Admit I’d kept in touch with the dead widow. Sometimes popped in to see her, but nothing more than that. Yes. That wud be me story. Then there were Wombwell Farm and its own money pot. I’ll be back for that, I told mesen. I’ll be back.
*
Midday and no more clouds. I had to shift fast, kicking over the kitchen chairs, leaving drawers open to make it look like the gypsies had got in. Then upstairs. Through all her things. Posh stuff, mostly. Neatly folded, but not for long, only to find nothing of use until I lifted one of the framed paintings from the wall next to her dressing table. It showed a scene of Diss market on a summer’s day, but that weren’t what held me interest. Stuck on to the back were an old envelope, brown round the edges, and inside, a small, even browner photograph of a baby smiling at whoever were taking the picture. No toys, no scenery. Nothing to say where he might have bin, with them brown curls, small eyes and big ears.
Jesus Christ.
Me. I were lookin’ at mesen.
*
After a good wash using nice soap and her wash-cloth which still smelt of her, I then left by the back door, locking it and leaving the key in place. Just like with the front door. One day, Wombwell Villa wud end up mine, but as for any more money hidden away, she’d have surely spilled the beans. We’d grown that close…
I crept round the side of the house, then reached the road. I looked over to where Fletchers’ Fields boasted a new fence and while checking I were quite alone, saw three dark blue figures climb out of what could only have bin a police car. I set off in the opposite direction, running till me leg made me slow to a walk. Past the Wombwell Farm gate which were shut, and on towards the distant heat haze rising from the ground. Aware all the while of a small, fair-haired figure in a blue dress, standing on the rutted track leading to the front door, waving as if I’d never be coming back.
44. JOHN.
Tuesday 15th November 1988. 6 p.m.
Six o’clock, and although Nicholas Beecham had made his bulky presence felt at the University of West Norfolk, Stephen Vickers had neither shown up, nor been in touch. His home number too, just rang and rang, with no answerphone to take my message urging him to reply. The same for DS Connor Morris, and a brief jolt of panic derailed what I’d planned to tell him about my secretive visit to Stephen’s office, where former, post-graduate student, Melanie Cox, covering for Greg Lake, had proved more than helpful.
She’d also been that motorcyclist…
I recalled the tight woolly jumper, skinny jeans, the fashionable Ugg boots. Dark brown hair pulled back in a pony tail. She’d looked smart and eager, but I’d also recognised fear in her eyes as she’d handed me the green file which Stephen had accidentally left on the table in the nearby Extenuating Circumstances meeting room. Its four, matching elastic bands still in place.
“He must have been in a state to do that,” she’d added. “What’s in it, do you know? I felt it wasn’t my business to look.”
I didn’t yet know her well enough to say, and pleaded ignorance. “But I have picked up that Greg Lake’s under some pressure.”
“Too right.”
She’d then added how Vice-Chancellor George Chisholm had been on the hard-working technician’s tail for too long, with the power to ruin his career. A bear of a man who’d lurked on the touchline from the day Greg was appointed. Professor Vickers was another target, whose cell phone was still dead.
She reclaimed her bag, leather jacket and helmet and made for the door, key in hand as though she’d overstayed her welcome.
“Is Greg at home, do you know?” I’d queried, equally anxious to get away without mentioning her ex-professor’s strange attack on me. “I have tried phoning him, but no joy.”
She’d shrugged. “Same here. I keep leaving messages on his phone. Six so far.”
“When and if he does answer, please suggest he lies low for a few days. Takes some leave. Lets things settle while we try and locate Stephen and his wife.”
“Surely that might look more suspicious?”
She was right.
“Does he live alone?”
“Yes. Since his partner died a few years ago.”
“Partner?”
“He’s gay. OK? And it was AIDS. All a bit hush-hush…”
That didn’t surprise me.
“Right,” I’d said. Look, I’ll try and contact him once I’m out of here. By the way,” I added. “How well do you know Professor Vickers?”
“Fairly. He was my main tutor for my final year. I loved his field trips. We all did.”
“And his family?”
Seconds had moved by too fast. To be caught in there and get an innocent young woman into trouble, would ruin everything, but my options for information had been shrinking.
“I saw his wife a few times, at the usual functions here, you know…”
“Any other family?”
For a moment, Melanie had seemed puzzled, then her face cleared. “I did see a blond guy with her once. Bit younger than me and a bit of a dude, but he seemed OK. Definitely seemed fond of her.”
Hadn’t Jane Calder-Brown had said the same?
“When and where? It could be important.”
“This was the odd thing, though. I’d taken my sister’s boxer dog to a show in Braythorne two weeks ago. He actually won his class…”
�
�And?”
“The three of them were together. Her, Black Leathers and the VC - I mean, George Chisholm - getting into that huge 4x4 of his. All very friendly, almost as if they’d been having a tipple.” She’d looked at me. “Why? What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Look, thanks so much. Really appreciate this.” I’d shaken her hand, patted her arm, then opened the door.
“By the way, I’m off to Buenos Aires tomorrow,” she’d added, as if referring to Bognor. “A research trip for three weeks, and,” she’d smiled, “if it goes well, I may even end up out there.”
“And your motorbike?”
“My brother. He’s bagged it already.”
“Well, good luck, and safe journey.” I’d then hesitated. “Just in case you remember anything else, you’ve got my details.”
“I have. Colchester castle’s great. I love Roman relics.”
I’d suddenly felt old.
“I can take your key back to Reception if you like,” I’d said.
“You go. I’ll be fine.”
“By the way, have you heard today’s news yet?”
“What news?”
Hesitation…
“Never mind.”
She’d then locked up. Given me a parting wave.
“Caiou.”
And while re-tracing my steps outside, I’d dwelt on her account of that cosy threesome. The tally of secrets and lies surrounding the tragedy mounting by the minute. Almost out of control.
*
At six thirty, with Nicholas Beecham keeping up his floor show of squirming and groaning on the car park’s Tarmac, I’d had to act quickly, taking not minor roads back to Longstanton, but on the longer but less exposed B1113. En route, I’d pulled over in front of a small petrol station to call Greg Lake.
Damn.
No reply, and that same automated BT voice asking me to leave my message.
“Greg, just call me,” I’d hissed once the beeps had stopped. “It’s important. You have my number.” I again hesitated, torn between the Devil and the deep blue sea. Should I or shouldn’t I leave a specific message? If busy Melanie hadn’t already told him, he could get into serious trouble on my account.
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