by J. A. Baker
A home? Maude perks up. She likes the sound of that. At long last she is going home. And not before time. Brenda has been really good to her and everything but to be able to go back home … well that sounds so lovely, so perfect. Music to her ears. To be back in her own bed, back home with the sooty smell of their open fireplace, back to playing in the street with her friends; watching as Alfie, her brother, clambers over the piles of rubble, looking for pieces of shrapnel after the Germans have wiped out half of their street. She lets out a small sigh of relief as she closes her eyes and drifts off into her own little world. Back home sounds just fine to Maude. Back home is where she wants to be.
43
Rachel
She should have asked to speak to him last time she was here. She knows that now. These things are always easy to figure out with hindsight, aren’t they? She should have stayed around, asked for his number, not been so easily fobbed off or taken Peggy’s word for it that they hadn’t had any contact with Sheryl for ages. If it hadn’t been for that taxi driver, she would still be stuck at home worrying and biting her nails, or out plastering up more pictures or sitting talking to the police, asking them what the latest developments are and why they aren’t putting more effort into finding her sister. On her last visit to see them they claimed they were trawling through all the CCTV footage trying to track Sheryl’s last known movements but it appears that so far, they’ve come up with nothing and yet here she is, a cashier at the local bank with no knowledge of police procedures whatsoever, out and about knocking on doors, doing their work for them and already she has a lead. At their last meeting, she asked them about looking into Sheryl’s clients and they reckoned they were onto it, but Rachel somehow doubts it. They’re still taking those bizarre text messages as an indicator that Sheryl is safe and sound and has taken it upon herself to disappear. They are making all the right noises, saying they will begin an investigation, but doing very little. Apparently, you have to have learning difficulties or be an alcoholic or a drug user - anything that is deemed vulnerable, before the police begin to pick up their pace and put any effort into finding you. If you are one of the Sheryls of this world - happy, successful, able to make your own way through life - then you are pushed to the back of the queue. Not considered a priority in this world of budget cuts and understaffing.
She brings her fist up and hammers on the door as loudly as she can. There’s a car parked up here. Somebody is in. She is absolutely determined to sort this thing out and won’t leave until she gets the answers she wants to hear. She will not be ignored or lied to this time. Her sister deserves better than this. She deserves to be found.
The woman who opens it is a complete mess. It’s the same lady as the last visit but she is thinner; much thinner than the last time they spoke and dark crescents of exhaustion hang heavily under her eyes. Her hair sits on top of her head, a crop of unruly, black curls that she has piled up with a comb and slides. It refuses to stay put and keeps falling down over her pale, wan face. Her right eye bulges slightly. Rachel noticed it last time she was here - a web of razor like scars that criss-cross around her socket and up over her forehead, asymmetrical and uneven, as if they have refused to heal properly.
Rachel holds her breath before speaking. She needs to get this right. She needs to be courteous so she can get inside the house. The last thing she wants is for the door to be slammed in her face. If that happens she’ll be left with no other option than to go to the police and she feels almost certain they won’t take her seriously or follow up on her claims. Not a priority. This is something she has to do herself, a way of gathering as much evidence as she can before going back to them. The taxi driver’s comments may amount to nothing but she’s not prepared to take that chance and dismiss it. Every bit of news, every morsel of gossip, every rumour or tiny piece of information may be the thread that leads Rachel to her sister.
She stares at the lady before her and feels herself being scrutinised, the dark eyes taking in everything about her appearance. She stands tall, unwilling to be the victim this time, unwilling to let this liar get the better of her.
‘Hi, I hope you don’t mind me calling round again. I was just wondering if I could have a quick word?’
Rachel feels something catch in her throat as, without warning, Peggy steps forward and quietly closes the door behind her. Not what she was expecting. The action of somebody who is on their guard; somebody with something to hide. They both stand facing each other on the step, their eyes locked together as the wind pushes at Rachel’s back. She pulls her collar up, hoping to draw attention to the icy temperature as she shivers dramatically. Peggy’s eyes stay locked on hers, full of shadows and vaguely threatening.
‘I told you everything I know last time you were here,’ Peggy murmurs, her voice a low whisper against the backdrop of the furious, thrashing waves far beneath them and the roaring wind that is howling round them.
‘It’s just that I got a call from somebody who said they saw Sheryl come up here at around the time she went missing so I was just wondering if we could go inside and talk about it a bit more?’ Rachel tries to keep the edge out of her voice but it’s so difficult under the current conditions. She is freezing and can feel her frustration growing by the second. Why is this woman being so awkward and uncooperative? What on earth is she hiding?
‘I said it before and I’ll say it again. I haven’t seen Sheryl for a long time now. Ask our friends, they’ll tell you the same. We haven’t socialised with anybody for months and months.’
‘And what about your husband?’ Rachel asks, refusing to give in. She will not leave here until she gets some answers. The answers she wants; the answers she desperately needs to hear.
‘My husband isn’t here today. He’s away working, so I’m afraid I can’t help you with that one.’ Peggy crosses her arms, a defensive stance. A fortress against Rachel’s barrage of questions.
She feels a wave of thoughts and ideas rush through her brain. She has to get this woman on her side. She cannot blow this opportunity. If she has to, she will present her trump card, but would rather do it inside because when she does say it, at least Peggy can’t turn around and slam the door in her face. She would have to ask her to leave or physically drag her from the house. In the first scenario, Rachel will simply refuse, and for the second one – well, Peggy is half her size. It simply will not happen. She won’t allow it to. Rachel isn’t going anywhere until she finds out more information about Sheryl’s relationship with Peggy’s husband.
A movement behind Peggy takes Rachel by surprise, a clicking sound followed by a low, solid creak as very slowly the door begins to move. A faint hissing sensation takes hold in Rachel’s head as another woman appears from the shadows and stands in the doorway, her arms folded, her face the picture of surprise. She is an older woman, perhaps in her sixties, Rachel guesses. She clears her throat and steps back before beckoning Rachel inside.
‘Close the door, Mother. I’m handling this.’ Peggy’s voice is cold. Her back is rigid as she speaks, her gaze still fixed firmly on Rachel.
The woman in the doorway talks as if Peggy hasn’t uttered a word and Rachel makes her move before anybody can stop her.
‘Come on in, dear. I’m sure we can sort all this out in the warmth of the living room with a nice cup of tea. You must be nithered out here in this awful weather.’
44
Peggy
Nausea rises and her head feels as if a furnace is raging in there. This is why she came outside, to stop this happening, to ward off this woman, to send her on her way before Audrey could intervene and yet here she is, ushering her inside into the warmth. Into Peggy’s house! Were it not for the fact that this Rachel lady has a new piece of information and could blurt it out any time, Peggy would order her out, tell her to be on her way whilst telling her own mother to shut her mouth and keep her outlandishly stupid opinions to herself. But instead, she watches, mute and barely able to move as the two of them slide past her, chat
ting away as if they have known each other for years, before sitting down at the dining room table, Rachel rubbing her hands together dramatically as if she has just been subjected to Arctic conditions.
‘Milk? Sugar?’ Audrey’s voice chirrups across the kitchen as she busies herself lifting mugs down from the dresser. Peggy is speechless.
‘Yes, for the milk and no to the sugar, thank you,’ Rachel croons, blowing on her hands. This is ridiculous. She has to stop this, to say something and eject this creature from her house before her world begins to crash down around her.
‘As I was saying outside before my mother decided to take over, there’s only us here for the next few days, so if you’d like to leave me your number again, I’ll call you if I find anything out or come across any new information.’
She is met with a wall of silence.
Unable to take it any more, she marches over to where Audrey is standing and grabs the cups from her mother’s hands, sending them tumbling to the floor where they smash into tiny pieces, the fragments spreading around their feet, sharp, tooth-shaped splinters of porcelain staring up at her accusingly. Her head swims.
‘Peggy!’ Audrey half shrieks, ‘what on earth are you doing?’
Peggy tries to speak; she has all the words formulated ready, but they refuse to come out. Her throat feels tight, a fear constricting her windpipe as she stares over at Rachel sitting here, in her house. She swallows hard, sure she is going to pass out at any second. Hanging on to the kitchen top, she stumbles across to a chair and slumps down wearily. She cannot allow her to speak, to let her say whatever it is she has come here to say, not while her mother is here listening, hanging onto every single word.
‘Are you okay?’ Rachel’s voice filters through the thick haze that has settled in Peggy’s head. She wants to cry. The voice sounds genuine, caring even. She doesn’t want to hear it. She doesn’t want to hear anything at all. This is wrong. So horribly, horribly wrong.
‘I’m fine,’ she manages to croak, ‘just tired. I’ve not been sleeping well lately.’
A short silence. The sound of water gushing and more crockery being rattled. Murmuring from behind her.
‘There. All sorted and swept now,’ Audrey says in the sing-song voice that makes Peggy want to weep with despair. A cup of steaming tea is placed in front of her. She takes it gratefully and gulps a large mouthful down, enjoying the burning sensation as it travels down her throat. Fiery liquid washing away her sins. No more than she deserves.
‘The thing is,’ Rachel says as she takes a sip of her tea and winces at its temperature, ‘I was talking to a taxi driver and he said he remembers giving Sheryl a lift up here around the time she disappeared.’
Her words crash into Peggy’s brain like a boulder, sending her off course. She feels as if she is drowning, the weight of the huge waves dragging her out to sea, salty water lapping around her ears, blocking everything else out.
‘So, I’m a bit confused because you definitely said you hadn’t seen Sheryl for ages, didn’t you?’
The air in the room becomes thin. Invisible fingers clasp themselves around Peggy’s windpipe, further restricting the flow of air. She begins to gasp. She needs to get outside, to breathe properly, to feel the rush of the breeze on her face, to hear the incessant roar of the tide, to just get away from this woman and her words; her accusations. She wants to get up and run away from it all but her limbs refuse to work properly. Were she to make an attempt to stand, she feels sure she would collapse in a sorry heap at Rachel’s feet.
Another awkward silence ensues. Peggy sees Rachel and her mother look at each and then back over at her. Her face burns as she takes another gulp of hot tea and swallows it before finding the strength to speak, ‘I’m really sorry, Rachel, but I’m not feeling too well. My mother will take your number and we’ll call you later, but right now I need to lie down so if you wouldn’t mind leaving us?’
With that she stands up as slowly and carefully as she can and waits for Rachel to do the same. The floor sways violently as Peggy hangs onto the edge of the table. Fury begins to build. She wishes this woman would just follow suit and get the message and simply go.
Nothing happens.
She stares hard at her as Rachel continues to drink her tea slowly and deliberately, her movements precise and ordered until eventually Audrey breaks the silence, ‘How about I give you a call later, Rachel, when my daughter is feeling better? If you’d like to write your number down, I’ll let you know when you can come back and we’ll talk about this thing properly. Clear the air. It must be very distressing for you, so the sooner we sort it out the better.’
This seems to work, to snap her into action. For once Audrey’s authoritative tone and demeanour are a welcome force.
Peggy watches, dazed, as her mother leads Rachel out of the room and into the hallway, a look of protestation on her face and locked into her body language. Her exit is an unwilling one, irritation and displeasure oozing from every pore.
She strains to listen to the hushed tones of their voices out in the passageway but her ears seem to be full of cotton wool and her head feels as if it’s in a vice that is being tightened second by second. Her senses are no longer functioning as they should be. Everything is coming undone. She is unravelling bit by bit, the tapestry of her life slowly falling apart with every passing second.
By the time Audrey comes back into the room, Peggy is sure she is going to pass out.
‘Sit down, Peggy,’ Audrey says sharply, her eyes dark and narrow, her mouth a mean streak of disapproval, ‘I think now we really do need to talk.’
45
Alec
He dumps his bags down on the floor and lets out a long sigh. Such a long drive. It seemed to go on for forever, with so many hold ups and road works along the way. Why do they close all the main roads at the same time, resulting in the biggest snarl up of traffic he has encountered in a long, long time? He unzips his case, grabs his phone and sits on the edge of the bed, his head buzzing and his neck stiff after sitting behind the wheel for so long. Yawning loudly, Alec kicks off his shoes and scrolls through his messages. He needs to contact Peggy, let her know he’s arrived safely, and send a few work-related emails as well. Rotating his shoulders to free up his spine, he takes a deep breath and stares hard at the screen, eyes blurring as he takes them all in. His skin suddenly hot and prickling with anxiety and unease, Alec slaps his hands over his head. Jesus. This has got to stop. She’s done it again, misread his subliminal messages and taken things too far. Partly his fault, admittedly. He has, after all, quietly lusted over her since taking up his new position and very possibly presented her with the opportunity to carry on like this, but now it all needs to come to an end. He can’t let it continue like this. This is by far the most inappropriate text she has ever sent. They’ve exchanged anecdotes, the odd smutty joke, but this … this is too close to the bone for his liking. This could lose him his job. They’re colleagues, no more than that and it needs to stay that way. At least she has taken the plunge and is leaving next year to do her teaching degree. That will put an end to it all, but that’s a long way off and, in the meantime, they have to work together. It’s going to be a difficult and long year if this kind of behaviour continues.
Alec stares at the message and bites at his lip,
Missing you here at school. We should make up for it when you get back. Can’t wait to see you again but in the meantime picture me here naked in bed … Love Ellen xxx
He quickly hits the delete button and sends a message to Peggy to let her know he has arrived. A short text, no emotion, no gentle, loving phrases; a perfunctory message to let her know he is here safe and sound. His fingers feel like blocks of wood; thick and clumsy as he presses the buttons, guilt seeping out of every pore. He finishes the obligatory missive to his wife and throws the phone on the bed. Later, when he’s rested, he’ll send a message to Ellen asking her to back off, to remind her that he’s a married man. He won’t leave Peggy. She
is his wife. They have their troubles, for sure, but they’ve been through too much to give it all up. Sheryl tried that one on him when he used to visit her, but his answer was always the same - definitely not. That was the main reason he stopped going to see her; her insistence he end his relationship with Peggy. There were times when it’d seemed appealing. Oh God, so often he has come close to packing his case and walking out of the door never to return, but for all her faults - for all his faults, they still have a future together. He wants to make a go of things and not give it up as a bad job. Not when they’ve come this far.
He thinks of Ellen and her curves and the way she struts into his office smelling so good and then he thinks of Peggy’s agoraphobia and her many foibles, especially her aversion to sex, and wishes his basic, primal urges could be ripped from his body, tucked away somewhere like a detachable limb. Damn his libido and his wife’s deteriorating mental health and desperation for a child. Damn Ellen and her smooth skin and full pouting mouth. Damn it all.
Alec stalks over to the mini bar and stares in at its contents. Miniature bottles of gin and Bacardi and two bottles of cheap beer. That’ll do for starters. The meeting doesn’t start until nine in the morning. Plenty of time to sleep in and stagger the short distance down to the conference centre after a hefty cooked breakfast. It’s about time life cut him some slack.
He twists the cap off the gin and looks around for a glass, snatching it up off the tea tray, then watches greedily as the clear liquid glugs its way into the tumbler. He deserves this after what he’s been through. Tipping his head back he drains it in one gulp and quickly pours himself another. Time to start living a little.
46