The Man Who Vanished

by Roz Goldie

  “Well, damn you, Harry!” Veronica had been taken completely by surprise. He was making no effort to repair their relationship and seemed to enjoy being in control – in control of his life, without regard to her. Stung to the quick, she retorted, “Then buy me out!”

  “Fine! And when you do go, I can get the place fumigated so that the smell of your filthy cigarettes stops clinging to the very fabric of the house!”

  There were no tears shed – on either side – since Veronica’s pride forbade any admission to the depth of the pain she was experiencing and Harry felt vindicated after her demeaning him by being unfaithful – not pausing to remind himself that he was the serial womaniser and she had been a faithful wife for all those years. Harry Pilchard never entirely recovered from being two-timed by an armed policeman in his own home!

  Some premonition must have motivated Veronica as, before his return, she had cleared her office, leaving a bare minimum of equipment and had sorted out her other belongings – many of which went to charity shops over that week. She was, in fact, in a position where she could have loaded her worldly goods into the car that night. She chose not to do so.

  The following day she had cracked after the Barry Doyle how, in the privacy of the production office – where Barry had given her a shoulder to cry on.

  “Veronica, if that’s how he is behaving, you should move out.” He handed her another paper tissue. “He wouldn’t get violent, would he?”

  “God! No!” She laughed and blew her nose. “He isn’t that sort of man – I’d never put up with that!”

  “Let’s go to the Golden Palace for a bite of lunch and talk it over where we have friends. You know Bertie will never forget you collaring that beast who beat the hell out of him.”

  Veronica was too grateful to say that the Golden Palace was not a place where she had a lot of friends, or that she didn’t actually have a lot of friends – now that she had left the social circle where she and Harry had been a perfectly settled couple for so many years.

  “Thanks Barry. That would be nice.”

  “What about your policeman friend?”

  “Oh, Jack? I haven’t seen a lot of him – that was just a fling, on both sides really.”

  “But it was fun, wasn’t it, sweetie?” Barry teased.

  And so, it was Barry’s friend, Bertie Norton, who eased Veronica’s passage into Marianne Kelly’s guesthouse for thespians and Wild Fern Alley.

  * * *

  “Of course, there are still some rowdy drunken students, but things have calmed down a lot recently.” Marianne made conversation easily, as she sat with Veronica in the large kitchen. “A room at the back would be quieter for you.” She poured two cups of coffee and pushed a ceramic ashtray in front of her new guest. “You look like you need a smoke. Don’t use them anymore myself but I do remember.”

  “Thank God, you are not the pious sort of reformed smoker!” She did not add, ‘like my about-to-be ex-husband’.

  “Yes, some people get very sniffy, don’t they?” She smiled. “We prefer people to smoke in what we now call the designated area – and not in the bedrooms.”

  “And this is designated space?” Veronica was clearly wondering about whether smoking could possibly be permitted in the kitchen.

  “No, but we’ve just met and I’d like us to get along. The official area is in the old study. It has been extended with a sun room into the garden.” She pointed towards the modern extension on the back of the house.

  Having shown her a well-furnished, en-suite bedroom, which Veronica admired greatly, Marianne was about to leave her to find her bearings and decide whether she wanted to stay.

  “When is the room free?” Veronica was eager to move out of Glenbannock as soon as humanly possible.

  “It’s free now.” Marianne gave her a ring with keys to the front door and her room.

  “Thank you, Marianne. If possible, I’d like to take it tonight for a month.”

  “Grand. You have the keys, so come and go as you please.” She held out her hand to shake on the deal.

  Veronica was not sure if she would even stay for as long as a month but wanted to secure a bed for at least that amount of time. Circumstances were to affect her plans as the neighbourhood around Wild Fern Alley was to see a mysterious series of crimes. For the moment, Marianne’s house was the base from which she would work. Veronica Pilchard moved in that afternoon, complete with her meagre collection of clothes and personal possessions.

  * * *

  Marianne Kelly was central to a local residents’ group, who had formed a community collective of professionals and retired people, who lived in the homes backing onto Wild Fern Alley. Although it had taken some years to get permission to gate off the alleyway, the group had formed solid and increasingly trusting relationships – despite having very different political, cultural and sexual preferences.

  As far as officials in the Council and various government departments were concerned, the two main characters were Marianne and Thaddeus James, since they were the named people who sought authorisations – and occasionally sought forgiveness having acted before getting permission. Thaddeus James was a retired law professor who had taken to painting after a lifetime of excellence in academia. He was the group’s unofficial legal advisor. More importantly, he was their horticultural mentor, as few of the neighbours had experience of successful gardening.

  Over several years, they had met with resistance from property owners in the district who saw themselves as custodians of the area, regardless of the fact they flouted planning restrictions. Wild Fern Alley was enveloped by residences that had once been family homes but which had been turned in houses of multiple occupation – and the occupants were usually students and frequently anti-social. As property prices and rents had increased, these local landlords had become millionaires and now considered themselves to be people of substance – to the point of joining, supporting and buying their way up the hierarchy of various and even opposing political parties.

  As property magnates they felt justified in acting as a private vigilante force, gently but firmly undermining community development and collective activity in the area. There were few communal spheres that they considered as being off-limits – among which were the Buddhist Centre and the Local Church. Of the five men who owned some 800 properties, Brendan Cobbles and Shappie McVeigh were the most vociferous. Thaddeus was a quiet man in his late 70s who tended to avoid confrontation and kept a low profile. Marianne was more prominent and likely to speak her mind when the occasion arose. Her customary sophisticated and gracious manner gave her a quiet authority which Councillor Cobbles disliked and deeply envied.

  Cobbles had only just managed to squeeze into power by a slim majority in the Local Council Elections – so slim he was in danger of losing his seat at the next ballot. However, he was now a public representative and was to be seen on a daily basis, patrolling the surrounding streets consorting with the few who were his equal. From the great heights of his social advancement and individual wealth, he looked down on the local residents and intensely distrusted their motives for mutual improvement and cooperative action. He and Shappie McVeigh infiltrated local groups, attended their meetings and studied the potential for disrupting developments, such as Wild Fern Alley – this followed a pattern of years. Frederick Stewart was another local landlord, though his priority was his art gallery.

  Despite the landlords’ efforts, once the gates were up and locked, the residents worked well among themselves and with those nominated by the university to improve public relations and the image of their students. The university donated large amounts of compost and a variety of plants. Environmental health operatives took away the debris amassed over years and collected by residents over the weeks and produced a series of recycling containers. Neighbours offered help to those who could not decorate or garden. Children and grandchildren were recruited to paint back doors, stencil on red brick and grey walls and refurbish seating areas.


  Within weeks, the space was transformed. Local landlords were unhappy and suspiciously watched these enhancements.

  * * *

  The Golden Palace was the centre of night life for the gay community in Belfast and the hub of their social networks. That was where a person could hear gossip, rumour and information that had not yet made the news and some information that never would get into the public arena. And that was where Veronica had stumbled upon a vital link to the perpetrators of murder and child abuse, which she had passed on to the police two years previously. Nowadays, she went there to meet people with stories or introductions to those who would talk to Barry Doyle for the daily show.

  As often as not, she’d meet Bertie Norton, a waiter at the exclusive and expensive Merchant Studio Restaurant. He was always an enthusiastic informant, grateful for her part in convicting the sadistic, predatory, homosexual Deakin, who had assaulted him – and even more so after the attack on Veronica.

  And the Golden Palace regularly served as the unofficial production office for the Barry Doyle Show.

  That evening, she had walked into the city centre, enjoying the pleasant September weather. As she got to the Golden Palace, she met her hairdresser, Desmond, from Curl up and Dye.

  “Ah, Veronica, crossing to the other side again!” He teased her as one of the few straight people, who was a regular.

  “Essential networking, Desmond.” She smiled. Desmond had become fond of her since meeting her in his own social clique. She was more than a customer now.

  “So, you are on the prowl tonight?” she asked, knowing that Desmond was a notorious flirt and rarely formed lasting relationships.

  “My dear! I never do prowling – purring perhaps but never prowling.”

  Barry Doyle had smoothed her path into the social scene at the Golden Palace so that she was now accepted as a trustworthy confidante.

  Veronica whispered theatrically, “There is a very nice young man who is staying with Marianne and I thought he’d like it here. I gave him the address and directions, so keep an eye out.”

  * * *

  Leaving home life in Glenbannock had been a relief to Veronica, once Harry had installed himself back home. Petty irritations, such as her smoking and lack of interest in creature comforts had become the source of his exasperation and then anger – even before a full day had elapsed. Veronica did not pause to consider whether there was more to his moodiness than their now-inevitable divorce. His easy charm simply evaporated in her presence. He snapped at her on numerous occasions during her last morning in the house and so she upped and left as soon as the opportunity arose. Harry was a changed man but she was not to discover why for some time to come. Freed from the sense of foreboding in what had once been her home, she drove to Belfast, enjoying a definite feeling of emancipation.

  Belfast offered easy access to most of the things that interested her. She could walk into the city centre in 15 minutes and enjoyed the exercise. Oblivious to the smell of petrol fumes, Veronica was glad to be far from the stench of slurry spraying. Far from the fields of crops and profusion of weeds, her hay fever would surely disappear within days. Even the wild ferns that graced the alley, among the well-pruned herbs and geraniums, could not diminish its attractions. Life in the home of a quiet, unpretentious but clearly talented landlady would surely provide a pleasant routine. Unlike Harry, Marianne had shown genuine interest in her work from the very beginning of the friendship and even made some suggestions about programme ideas. Thus, the first two weeks passed as a pleasant, stress-free experience – to such an extent that Veronica felt that this change was not to be feared but rather an alternative and better way of living.

  Although there was a strong community in the area, life under the shadow of Queen’s University was utterly devoid of the village parochialism and somehow the gossip appeared to a somewhat gullible Veronica as less malign.

  In that first fortnight, Veronica became involved in the life of the Alley and local folk during her few free evenings. She went so far as to resume an old habit of knitting – as the Alley was about to be festooned with brightly coloured woollen swags on lampposts and street furniture. This was ‘yarn bombing’, which was a practice originating from the response of an arts-based collective to the uninvited erection union flags and painting of curb stones to curtain and carpet public spaces – thus marking out territory controlled by so-called ‘locals’ aided if not armed by paramilitary factions.

  “Oh, we did a lot of that last summer – Bogtown Road had become a sea of red, white and blue overnight, and you can imagine how a lot of Catholic residents felt about that,” Marianne spoke with assertion but no animosity. “It started on Facebook and took off quickly.”

  Veronica did not participate in any social media networks. She gave a non-committal nod, and asked, “Is this new – Carpeting Bogtown Road with flags?”

  “It used to be a neutral space because Catholics, Protestants and people of other religions and none live there in a friendly community. The mass of huge flags is to mark the territory and defy any show of tolerance.” She flipped open her phone and showed Veronica some pictures. “As you see some people have used brightly coloured scarves and fabrics, as well as the knitted collars. It somehow makes the area seem much less hostile. Anyway, we decided to do the same in Wild Fern Alley. If you can knit, that would be appreciated.”

  “If you have needles, I can get some wool and give it a try.” Veronica was not going to boast about her skill at knitting, nor was she going to admit the warm feeling of acceptance that she felt.

  “Oh, there’s a community wool bank – you don’t have to buy anything,” Marianne said happily. “Anything you could do would be welcomed. You know not many people can knit these days.”

  To her surprise, Veronica still found the dull repetition of knitting plain squares generated a sense of peace, order and security – and that while it kept her hands busy, it freed her mind to wander in creative and unusual directions. Over those two weeks, she produced a series of squares in primary colours, and in that process jotted down some of the most interesting ideas that had occurred to her as she stitched her evenings away in the sunroom.

  * * *

  Eliza Taunter was Marianne’s nearest neighbour and a professor of some ‘ology’ or other. Eliza made sure that people were aware of her academic status, whatever the setting. She attended community meetings about parking and recycling bin collections but somehow managed to avoid doing anything of practical use.

  Her usual excuse for refusing to take action or responsibility for things communal was, “I simply don’t have the time!” Professor Taunton was always on her way to a conference, due at a book launch on her specialist subject – the science of words and symbols – or preparing a particularly abstruse journal paper. Marianne would listen patiently at meetings as the Professor detailed her important commitments, pausing occasionally to complain of slow progress on the latest community concern.

  Happily, for the others in the residents’ informal association, Eliza would inevitably have some reason to leave within half an hour. It was exactly this performance that the Professor enacted on the evening they met in the old study and sunroom in Marianne’s home.

  “I am writing about the discursive inconsistencies in the debate about flags at Belfast City Hall.” Eliza bowed her head slightly, her spectacles balanced half way down her thin nose, as if to emphasise the gravity of discursive inconsistency and the huge significance of her scholarly analysis. “I feel that dispute had been entirely misunderstood and that my deliberations will clarify matters.”

  Veronica sat knitting, listening and watching this routine with a mischievous interest that was rather too near to malice. This woman was a complete caricature of an academic! Discursive inconsistency? Of course, politicians indulged in double-speak – that’s how they manage their votes! She watched the reaction of the assembled group of 11 solid citizens noticing the discreet raising of eyebrows and not a sound other than a few mu
mbled coughs. The woman was as subtle as a pantomime horse, Veronica thought, without seeing that this was precisely the same as the dynamics of communal meetings in villages like Glenbannock.

  As an experienced radio producer, Veronica knew the perils of interviewing the scholarly expert on any subject. Aside of some few and notable exceptions, all academics gave a lecture – generally a meandering one – which would require a huge amount of editing. Her usual tactic was to wait until the scenario had been fully acted out and then repeat the initial, basic question in a little more detail. This usually elicited a short, if condescending response which was all she would use for the planned feature or programme. From this experience, she had created a virtual black list of worthy persons who claimed expertise but could not speak for less than 20 minutes on their given topic. She amused herself thinking of what Barry Doyle would do with Professor Eliza Taunton in the hot seat, live on air. She would ask him if he’d do a demolition job on her discursive inconsistencies.

  The atmosphere lightened immediately after Eliza left the room – although no one explicitly commented. Veronica was reminded of the honest countrywoman, Martha McCoubrey, who had observed that if she lived in a village, she would have to learn to rub along with people whether or not they were to her taste. Veronica was not the sort to put her judgements to one side and ‘rub along’ and certainly not with a woman who had addressed her sneeringly, as Marianne’s new reporter.

  The only way that she would convince Barry Doyle to have Eliza on the show to discuss the running sore, that was the dispute over how many days the Union flag should fly, was to make it enormously funny. She was sure that could be done. She knitted in the undeniable knowledge that she was nearer to Madame Lafarge sitting under the shadow of the guillotine than the benevolent Miss Marple of St Mary Mead.