‘Nice, is he?’ Vivienne asked, her eyes widening with interest. ‘About time you had some fun, Meriel.’
‘He was charming, but he only wanted to ask about his sister,’ Meriel smiled. But deep inside her there was a jerk of pleasure as she remembered that gentle kiss.
‘You couldn’t help him?’ Helen looked quizzically at her. ‘If anyone could guess where she went, and why, then it’s you.’
‘I’ve no idea where she went. She did leave the van, though. so that’s a relief. It was parked not far from my back gate on the field.’ She leaned towards them and added, ‘I suspect that a courting couple made use of it before I found it, so I gave it a really good scrub.’
‘You look a bit distracted, Cynthia,‘ Helen said. ‘Anything wrong? How is the sale of the house going, any prospects?’
‘Not yet,’ Cynthia said brightly. ‘It’s in the top bracket and there aren’t many buyers around at that price level. We have to be patient.‘
When Helen went to buy more coffee, and Vivienne went to help carry it, Cynthia said to Meriel and Joanne, ‘Confidentially, I am worried. Christian thinks someone is trying to destroy us. Not a word to Helen, mind. We don’t want gossip spread all over the county!’
It was on the tip of Meriel’s tongue to offer to talk to her if it would help but she stopped the words from escaping. She was beginning to act like an agony aunt, someone without a life, needing the problems of others to fill in her empty hours.
* * *
Parked in a lay-by, wondering whether she would ever have the nerve to go back to Abertrochi, Cath watched the moon riding the night sky. It was late. Far too late to find somewhere to spend the night. The lane was quiet, on the outskirts of a village and with little prospect of being disturbed, she settled to sleep in the Saab. A not unusual occurrence.
She had hardly closed her eyes, hugging the thick blanket around her, when she heard the sound of a car approaching. It was moving slowly and she shrank down.
The car was a small one and it stopped just in front of her own. Three boys got out, one urinated in the hedge, the others laughing at some unheard joke. Another boy got out and helped a girl to alight. She crouched down near the hedge, while the boys made silly remarks. It was as they clambered back in, arguing about who would drive that she recognized Cynthia’s oldest boys with Joanne’s two sons, and the girl, her face just visible in the moonlight, was Helen’s daughter Henri.
Cath’s first reaction was anger that their parents didn’t take greater care, but then her face softened to sadness. Everyone took chances, parents and their children. She did many stupid and potentially dangerous things when she was young. Danger and risks were part of life. Most survived unscathed, but for her, on that terrible day, luck had turned away from her.
* * *
Christian’s investigations were leading nowhere. He didn’t believe children, especially his own, were responsible. His thoughts turned reluctantly to Ken. But why would Ken try to harm the firm that gave him a generous income? They’d known each other all their lives. They had built the business together by hard work and determination. How could he think for a moment that Ken would want to ruin it? Because there was no one else. He had to make some effort to get to the truth, so he tried to look at Ken as though he were a stranger.
They were no longer close, sharing so many hours together as they once had, both at work and socially. With the death of Ken’s wife, there had come a divergence of their paths. He and Cynthia had become a part of the local scene, always going out to theatres, dances, clubs, dinner parties. They involved themselves in fund raising. Christian was a governor of the boys’ school. He played golf.
Ken had given up those things. He went to the local pub and played darts, visits to the racetrack being his only treat. Yet he lived as a lodger with no visible evidence of the wealth he must have accumulated. He insisted he couldn’t afford to visit his daughters in America. A worm of unease wriggled in Christian’s stomach. Something didn’t add up.
Then he realized that much of Ken’s money must have been spent keeping his sick mother in a comfortable home. That would explain it, he thought with relief.
Ken was very loath for Christian to visit the house where he now lived. With his two daughters grown up and living in America, it had seemed sensible for him to sell his house and move into a B and B accomodation, He had implied at the time that the money from the sale of his home had been invested for his daughters. No one had ever questioned that.
He always made an excuse for Christian not to call for him, even when they were going off together in the camper van. He insisted on meeting Christian at a crossroads some distance from the house, explaining that his landlady was strict and didn’t encourage callers, adding that she was elderly and set in her ways and that visitors bothered her. Always too busy to think about it over much, or think it unusual, Christian had never seen where his partner now lived.
He hadn’t seen Ken’s mother for many years and for a long time had rarely questioned that. Now, he began to wonder if Mrs Morris was a greater part of the mystery. Perhaps she had run up debts or needed expensive medical treatment that was keeping Ken short of money? His head ached trying to make sense of it.
Restless, and desperate to solve the mystery, he phoned Ken that morning and, when he couldn’t reach him, he decided it couldn’t wait and drove to the last address at which Ken’s mother had lived.
No one knew of her there. He knocked at several of the smart houses but she had been gone too long for anyone to have news of her. He was about to give up when he saw a corner shop and stopped to buy some chocolate. Without much hope he asked the elderly lady serving him about Mrs Morris and was told the address to which she had moved.
He checked the address he’d been given three times, not believing the directions when they led him to a small, neglected property set back from the road on the edge of town. He knocked on the door, convinced he had been mistakenly sent to another Ken Morris. A woman of about seventy opened the door. Neatly dressed and with a brightness about her, he was convinced he was in the wrong place. This attractive woman was not the shy, nervous individual Ken had described.
‘I’m sorry, I’ve come to the wrong door. I was looking for news of a Mrs Morris but you aren’t the person I was expecting to see.’
He was stepping away from the door when the woman smiled and said, ‘Christian? Don’t you remember me? I remember you very well, even if you are too grand to ever visit me these days. Many’s the plate of bread and jam you’ve had at my kitchen table years ago.’
‘Mrs Morris? Ken’s mother? But I don’t understand!’
‘Come in and I’ll make us a cup of tea. Good heavens I can’t think how many years have passed since you came to see me. Cynthia well, is she? And you have three wonderful boys, so Ken tells me.’ She chattered on as she led him through the dark passageway and into a small, rather overfilled room looking on to a long narrow garden.
‘I didn’t come — we didn’t come — because Ken told us you were ill, and then said you didn’t like visitors.’
‘Don’t like visitors? Why, the house is always full of them. Neighbours calling and leaving the children while they go shopping, coming for a chat, and for help with their knitting or cooking. Grannie Morris to them all I am. Me, ill? I never have a moment to think about being ill.’
She went through the room to the small kitchen and talked to him while she prepared a tray of tea. Her voice with its gentle, sing-song Welsh lilt brought tears to his eyes with its touching reminder of his childhood when he used to go to her house to escape from the misery of his own. He only half listened to what she was saying. He looked around the shabby room and wondered why Ken allowed himself and his mother to live in such a place. What had made them move from the attractive house they had owned, to come here and live like this?
The room was spotlessly clean but everything was worn and colourless. There was linoleum on the floor covered in places with rugs. T
he curtains at the window were thin and misshapen with too many washes. The wallpaper was falling away from the wall in one corner where damp had penetrated. The chairs were wooden, the cushions neatly covered with material which, like the curtains, was well washed and faded.
Curiously, he stepped towards the kitchen door and saw more of the same. A belfast sink, a wooden draining board, oddments of shelves and mismatched cupboards. The cooker was ancient, there was oilcloth covering the wooden table. A mop and bucket stood near the back door still steaming, Mrs Morris had obviously been washing the stone floor when he had knocked. What looked like a wooden box stood on its end, partly concealed by a curtain, inside it were stacks of soaps and powders and other cleaning materials.
‘Why are you living in a place like this?’ he asked softly as Mrs Morris placed the lid on the teapot, turned and saw him standing in the doorway.
‘It’s only temporary, Christian. Ken wants to design and build a house with a flat on the side for me, a grannie flat but for a grannie with no grandchildren. Why did the girls have to go to America to live, eh? Did you know one of them is a teacher?’ she went on, ‘And her husband is—’
Refusing to allow her to change the subject, Christian interrupted and asked again. ‘Why aren’t you living in a decent home? Ken can’t be short of money. We’re partners, equal partners, and Cynthia, the boys and I don’t live like this. Far from it. Is he gambling more than I know about?’
‘Gambling? No, no, not really. Just now and then, a bit of excitement.’ She poured tea and offered him a plate and a serviette and gestured for him to help himself from the plate of home-made cakes.
‘What’s going on? I only want to help,‘ he said.
‘Have a welsh cake,’ she said. ‘Or what about a piece of bread pudding, dear? That used to be your favourite.’
Refusing to be put off, Christian put down his plate and stared at her. ‘Please, tell me what’s going on. I’m not the enemy, I want to help — if it’s needed.’
‘All right then, he had a bit of bad luck, made some foolish investments. Ill-advised he was and him so trusting of everyone.‘
‘How long ago? This place looks as though it’s been like this for years. You should be living somewhere modern and comfortable. Please, Mrs Morris, what’s going on?’
He was having bad thoughts about the attempts to discredit him. If Ken was in serious trouble, might he have succumbed to the temptation of having debts paid? He wouldn’t be the first to give in to such pressures. Ken did gamble, he didn’t hide the fact, but perhaps he had been hiding from him just how deeply he was addicted. It wouldn’t be difficult to get into this state if he kept increasing his stake in the hope of solving his problems. More importantly, having reached this state, he was vulnerable to a bit of persuasion.
Something else clicked into place to add to his growing fears that Ken was the one responsible for his problems. A man, who his sons believed was Ken, ran from them when they called after him one day. They said the man who they were all convinced was Uncle Ken, had climbed up from the beach not far from the tunnel. Presumably it was the same man who knocked Meriel over a few minutes later and didn’t stop.
‘Ken has been saving to go to America,’ Mrs Morris said, interrupting his unpleasant thoughts. She lifted the cake plate and coaxed him to eat something.
‘About time he went to see his daughters,’ Christian said. ‘I’ve been telling him for years.’
‘He’s paying for me to go too,’ she said. ‘I can’t wait to see them, lovely girls that they are. Never been on a plane, mind, I’m a bit anxious about that, but better than a long trip by sea. More time to spend with them, isn’t it?’
* * *
When Christian discussed his thoughts later that evening, with his wife, Cynthia didn’t believe him.
‘You can’t think that Ken would do something like this? He’s a partner in the firm, he’d lose everything too. It doesn’t make sense.’
‘From what I’ve seen today, I don’t think there’s anything left to lose. I think he’s gambled everything away. If he’s in debt to some of the clubs then he’ll probably be desperate enough to do whatever they ask and if that means creating a situation where I appear to be a dishonest builder, and lose this important contract, then I’m afraid he’d agree.’
‘I didn’t know his mother had simply moved. Why did Ken tell us she was mentally ill and in a home?’
‘Why indeed,’ Christian said ominously.
‘The poor dear lady. And all these years she thought we didn’t care.’
‘The house she owned was a good between the wars semi, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes. So why did she end up in a place like you describe?’
‘That’s something I didn’t feel able to ask.’
‘Surely Ken hasn’t robbed her of her home?’
‘What other explanation can there be?’
* * *
Cynthia went to Churchill’s Garden and put on a brave face, insisting that everything was wonderful, ‘Christian is building some fabulous houses,’ she told the others proudly. ‘He’s such a remarkable man. Someone tried to embarrass us you know, but it’s all sorted. Christian has a reputation that can’t be tarnished. Jealousy and greed made someone try to discredit him but it didn’t work.’
‘You aren’t selling because of the subsidence?’ Vivienne asked doubtfully.
‘There is no subsidence. Someone tried to make it look like there was but the buildings Christian puts up are built to last.‘
‘Evan and Sophie Hopkins have put their house on the market,’ Vivienne insisted.
‘I think that’s because she wants to move far away from me,’ Meriel said. ‘She still doesn’t feel secure with him. And he doesn’t help, constantly calling to see what I’m up to!’
‘And what are you up to, Meriel?’ Joanne asked. ‘Anything interesting?’
‘Well, I have seen Cath’s brother Mike, a few times. He’s rather nice, but whether it will be anything more than a mutual concern for Cath, I’m not quite sure.’
‘I do find it odd that she isn’t in touch with her family,’ Helen frowned. ‘Fancy running away from her brother like that. Quarrels and fights happen in most relationships, but with family, you usually fight to the bitter end, get all your anger out and sizzling, then get back to normal. I couldn’t bear to lose my sisters or brother.’
Meriel hadn’t mentioned Cath’s husband, or the tragedy of the lost children.
‘I can understand why she might avoid him. I haven’t seen my sister Samantha since I married John,’ Joanne reminded them. ‘She and I fell for the same man, and the vindictive way she tried to keep him, well, I don’t want her back in my life, even after all these years.’
‘She must have changed. She’s probably married now and any feelings she had for John will have been forgotten. I’d have to seek her out,’ Helen insisted.
‘I’ve managed without Samantha in my life for so long I hardly ever think of her,’ Joanne smiled airily. ‘And I doubt if Samantha ever thinks of me. Best we leave it like that.’ She turned to Helen to change the subject. ‘Are your children staying with you at present?’
‘Only Henri. She loves coming, but her stepmother tells me I spoil her. Give her too many treats. She has put on a bit of weight, mind, but teenagers often do, don’t they?’
‘Of course. I was plump when I was fifteen,’ Cynthia said. ‘My darling Aunt Marigold who brought me up after Mummy died, used to say it was the bloom of youth and gave a promise of beauty.’
‘As long as it isn’t the wrong kind of weight,’ Joanne said warningly. She was shocked when Helen stared at her, the colour draining from her face.
Twelve
Helen thought about Joanne’s flippant remark about the weight her daughter, Henri, was showing and the more she thought, the more clear it became. Henri, not quite sixteen, was pregnant. Henri’s listlessness and her occasional dislike of certain foods, the sickness. Why hadn’t she recog
nized the signs before this?
Her hand trembled as she drew the telephone towards her and began to dial her ex-husband’s number. She wasn’t necessarily to blame, she comforted herself. Henri wasn’t here for very much of the time and she must have boyfriends near her home. Yes, this has to be down to Gareth and his new wife. They were responsible for not taking proper care of her daughter.
The phone rang and rang and Helen wondered whether Gareth’s wife had recognized her number on the display panel and was refusing to pick up the phone. She allowed it to continue to ring. She had to let Gareth know her suspicions. Gareth and his new wife couldn’t blame her. She only saw Henri when they allowed a weekend visit. It was at home that there would be a regular boyfriend. She had almost convinced herself the fault lay with her ex—husband and his new wife when the telephone was picked up and a voice said coldly. ‘Helen?’
‘I hope you know that Henri is unwell?’ Helen said. ‘She was sick a few times and I think you need to get her to a doctor, fast!’
‘What are you saying?’ the cold voice asked. ‘Are you suggesting we don’t look after your daughter properly?’
‘I think she should see a doctor, that’s all.‘ Her suspicions were no more than that. How could she tell this woman that she suspected that her daughter was carrying a child? Lots of teenagers put on weight. It was the age of weight problems. The age when girls blossomed and panicked and became paranoid about overeating. Everyone knew that. She muttered a repeat of her words and replaced the receiver.
She mentioned it to Reggie when he came home from work and all day she worried about it. If she was right and Henri was pregnant, then the sooner she saw a doctor the better. Her ex-husband called at the flat that evening.
‘Come in, Gareth,’ she said, unable to hide her pleasure and relief.
Friends and Secrets Page 21