If They Knew

by Joanne Sefton

  ‘Where’s he taking them?’

  ‘Some farm park place, up the motorway.’ She hadn’t asked the specifics, if he’d mentioned the name she’d forgotten it. She flushed with a brief panic, but then decided her concern was stupid. They’d never tracked each other’s movements when they were together.

  ‘You going to try to catch up with some sleep then?’

  ‘Hmmm, probably. I could meet you later at the hospital?’

  ‘Yeah, that sounds good. At least we don’t have to worry about visiting hours now she’s in St Aeltha’s.’

  ‘Before you go, Dad?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Could you have a look for those phone bills for me?’

  There was a flicker at the corner of his mouth. Did he regret telling her about the phone calls? Would he refuse now? But, no, after a moment he nodded and explained where she’d find the files of old BT bills.

  ‘You’ll have to look through a few years,’ he said. ‘There’s not many 0151 numbers, though – you should be able to scan through quite quickly.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Promise me you won’t call it, Helen?’

  She paused for a heartbeat.

  ‘I won’t.’

  He kissed her on the cheek and was gone.

  *

  As Neil had said, scanning through the phone bills was easy enough. She stuck on the radio and sat with a pile of paper about three or four inches high beside her, gradually working through it and moving each one into a ‘done’ pile that slowly, slowly, crept taller. Whenever she saw a Liverpool number, she jotted it down with the date next to it, and then if it came up again, she put the new date down next to the old one.

  By the time she’d gone back to the start of 2013 she was convinced she had it. There were six calls altogether, one each year in December or January, and two extra ones in June 2016 and February 2014 – the 2014 call was just a few days after Alys had been born, Helen realised with a jolt. Besides that number, there was one other possibility that came up a couple of times, but a quick Google search confirmed it was a shop selling gardening supplies. Neil had seed catalogues galore and had been known to hunt the length of the country for a new breed of tomato or rare dahlia tuber, so that was easy to explain. No other Liverpool number appeared more than once.

  But what to do now? She googled the number, hoping that would give her some clue without breaking her promise to Neil. Nothing came up, which was disappointing but not a surprise. Private household numbers didn’t tend to be broadcast on the internet, after all. Next, she tried to see if she could find the BT phonebook online, but it was only searchable by name, not by number.

  Finally, she decided she would call. She didn’t feel great about directly going against the promise she’d made to her dad, but, realistically, this was the least of what she was keeping from him. She’d never forgive herself if Jennifer managed to seriously harm Barbara and she’d held back from doing something that could have prevented it.

  She rehearsed a little speech in her head, but still her fingers shook as they punched out the numbers, and she worried that whoever answered would be able to hear the nerves in her voice. People hung up so quickly on junk calls, she’d have to get to the point if she was going to have any chance of finding out anything useful.

  Her mind spun, wondering who would answer. Would it be a relation she’d never known about? Someone who knew her mother’s past? Could it even be Jennifer herself on the end of the phone line?

  After three rings, an answer service cut in. Frustratingly, it was a pre-recorded phone-company message, so it gave her no information about who she’d got through to. Or, rather, not got through to. She reeled off her speech, giving her name and explaining she was the daughter of Barbara Marsden, maiden name Kipling, and if anyone in the house knew Barbara she’d be very grateful for a call on her mobile. Inevitably it sounded slightly garbled, but she felt it came out better than she’d feared.

  It felt like an anticlimax. How long should she wait to get a call back? And what else could she do if it didn’t come? Finally, she remembered her idea about enlisting some back-up from Amy. Their friendship went way back to uni; Helen was sure she’d want to help out if she could.

  She got through to Amy straight away.

  ‘I think I can help. I’ll try a reverse-phone look-up, as long as the number’s not ex-directory it’s fine. You could probably find a company to do it for you, but they’d charge.’

  ‘And if it is ex-directory?’

  ‘Well, if it was an enquiry I’d have other options, but I can’t abuse my access.’

  ‘I get it, but—’

  ‘Look, chances are it’ll be fine. Wait till the problem happens before you stress about it, yeah?’

  ‘Okay, thanks, Aims, I do appreciate it.’

  They made their promises to try to have a proper catch-up soon, and then Helen was alone again, stalled and running on empty. When her phone rang, she grabbed it.

  ‘Hi,’ said a female voice.

  ‘Amy! That was quick.’

  ‘Um, sorry, it’s Julie.’

  Julie? Helen’s mind rattled through the possibilities. Of course, Julie Hendricks. She felt a slump of disappointment that it wasn’t Amy, but of course it wasn’t realistic to expect to hear from her so soon. Helen had tried to call Julie after their text messages, but they kept on missing each other.

  ‘My fault – I thought you were someone else, sorry.’

  ‘Oh, shall I go, only—’

  ‘No, I’ll hear if she’s trying to call. She said it would be a while.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t want to bother you,’ she said. ‘You’ve got so much on your plate. I just thought I’d see how things were.’

  ‘Of course, that’s kind.’

  There was a silence. Helen realised Julie was waiting for her to fill her in on the gory details about Barbara, or Darren, or both. She was tempted just to tell her where she could stick them, but something made her hold back. She wasn’t exactly drowning in friends and support at the moment, and Julie’s offer to look after the kids could be a godsend.

  ‘Mum’s recovering well from the surgery. We’ve got to go in on Monday to hear about how far it’s spread.’ That was bland enough, no need to mention the move to St Aeltha’s and the reason behind it. She took a breath. ‘Look, do you fancy a drink tomorrow afternoon? We could take the kids somewhere with a beer garden. It’d be great for my two to have some company.’

  ‘Sounds perfect – the shop’s shut on Sundays, so I like to try to do something with the girls.’

  They settled on a pub and a time and then Julie had to get back to her desk. She worked for a travel agency and had a honeymoon itinerary for Nepal and Tibet to get on with.

  After Julie hung up, Helen checked her missed calls just to make sure there was nothing from the Liverpool number or from Amy. While she scrolled down the screen, a series of huge yawns overtook her, her jaw stretching so wide it was actually painful. She decided that trying to get that nap might be a good idea after all.

  Amazingly, she managed to get some sleep and then to squeeze in a quick trip to St Aeltha’s before Darren dropped off the kids. Neil and Barbara both seemed relaxed there, with Barbara looking much better. There was more colour in her cheeks and she chatted calmly with her visitors. When Neil stepped out of the room, Barbara confirmed that there had been no more notes.

  Refreshed by her nap, Helen felt the sense of threat that had surrounded her begin to ebb away. For the first time in days, her shoulders dropped just a little and her earlier worries about Jennifer faded a little. Nothing more than coincidence and paranoia, she comforted herself, with real hope that it was the truth. The hospital move had clearly been the right thing to do.

  Although she’d been dreading another encounter with Darren, when it came to it, he dropped the kids off without much fuss and dashed away again. He was going to the pub with some old friends, she picked up from Barney. Darren himself hadn’t bothere
d to mention it, even though she must presumably have also counted them as mates once upon a time. So much for his pressing work commitments, she thought, but then at least he’d managed to feed the children this time. She decided she might just go out for a walk to try to clear her head.

  She got her own trip to the pub the next day, sharing a slightly shivery picnic table overlooking the play equipment with Julie, who had been to the place before and wisely brought a fleece jacket. She also produced four foil-wrapped chocolate medals from her handbag for Barney, Alys and her two girls, dishing them out on the pretext that it gave each of the kids a chance to be a winner.

  ‘What a great idea – they’re all thrilled with them,’ Helen said, as the kids rushed off brandishing their bounty.

  ‘I just spotted them in Tesco and thought it would be nice.’ She shrugged.

  For a moment, in the sunshine, with a gin and tonic in her hand and a bit of adult company, Helen almost felt normal again. Julie was very easy company. They talked about the kids mainly, but also TV and bits and pieces of celebrity gossip.

  ‘Your two are very polite,’ Helen said, as Julie’s eldest, Evie, came to the table for a quick drink before dashing back off up a climbing frame.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, laughing, ‘they have their moments.’

  ‘Don’t they all!’

  Alys was sitting with them, playing contentedly enough with a couple of toys Helen had brought from the house. Barney was tagging around after Evie and her sister Lexie like a Labrador puppy. They were six and eight and happy to throw him the odd bone, so he couldn’t be happier.

  As Helen relaxed, she found herself opening up about Barbara. Not about the heparin overdose, but about the diagnosis and the operation and the chemo she was psyching herself up for.

  ‘So tomorrow’s the big day then?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, I think so. It’s all so new, such a rollercoaster … I don’t want to build myself up for it and then find that it’s not what I expect. Everything they tell us is always so hedged around with ifs, buts and maybes.’

  ‘I’m off work tomorrow morning,’ she said. ‘If you want me to have the kids you only have to ask.’

  ‘Could you?’ It had been worrying at her. She clearly couldn’t take them into the appointment. She’d thought that she’d have to leave them with Chris – assuming Darren actually had gone back to London – but the idea hardly filled her with relish.

  ‘Of course, they’ll just play out the back. It’ll be a diversion for my two – stop them fighting.’ She turned to Alys. ‘You’ll be no problem, my angel, will you?’

  ‘You’re a superstar. Really, I can’t thank you enough.’

  Helen took her address and they began to wind things up. Helen, Barney and Alys waved goodbye to Julie and the girls in the car park before finally making it back to their own car.

  ‘Can I play with Evie and Lexie again?’ Barney wanted to know.

  ‘Actually, darling, you can. You’re going to go for a little visit to their house whilst Mummy sees Nana at the hospital tomorrow.’

  ‘Me too!’ shouted Alys.

  ‘Yes, you too.’

  There was a chorus of cheers.

  Helen’s phone rang when they were almost back at the house. A London number, not one from her contacts. She pulled up sloppily, blocking someone’s drive.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hi Hels, it’s Amy.’

  She had to turn to hush the kids before she could concentrate on what Amy was saying.

  ‘… really sorry. I can’t tell you anything else. Just don’t go there.’

  ‘What? Alys was making a racket. I didn’t catch you?’

  ‘I should have left it alone, Hels, it’s my own fault.’

  ‘What’s your fault?’

  ‘It was ex-directory, so I ran it through the PNC – the police computer – just in case. I can’t tell you who it belongs to, but you should stop trying to find out. It might put someone in danger. Something triggered when I checked it. Now I’m being hauled into the Chief’s office tomorrow.’

  ‘What do you mean it triggered something?’ Helen was confused, still half-distracted by the kids, but fighting a sliding sense of dread. ‘Are you saying the number belongs to a criminal or a terrorist or something?’

  ‘I said, I can’t tell you. I shouldn’t even have told you that much – that’s why I’m not on my own phone. I shouldn’t be telling you anything, but I couldn’t let you go blundering into …’ She trailed off.

  ‘Into danger?’

  ‘Perhaps. Look, I’ve got to go. Take care.’

  The line went dead. Helen’s mind was racing. How could tracing a phone number be dangerous? What was Barbara mixed up in?

  ‘Want bint,’ whined Alys, from the back.

  ‘Mint, mint, mint,’ agreed Barney.

  Blindly, Helen groped for the half-pack of Polos in the glovebox.

  They were only two streets from the house, but suddenly she couldn’t face being back there. She needed some time to think about what was going on. After dishing out the Polos, she swung the car around and headed back out of the village.

  Her seatbelt was suddenly too tight, trapping her heart like a hummingbird flapping uselessly against it. Her clothes were itchy and she was breaking into a sweat. She turned the aircon to max and tried to breathe, watching her knuckles change colour as she alternately tightened her grip on the wheel, making herself relax.

  Forcing herself to breathe, she tried to straighten out her thoughts. Amy said someone could be in danger. Barbara had almost died. If that didn’t count as danger then what did? Of course, it could just be a coincidence that Barbara had a mysterious past, with some sort of family (presumably) in Liverpool, whom it was dangerous to try to track down, and that she also had a stalker who she had upset years ago whilst working at the newspaper and who had suddenly now decided to get serious. But it was a very big stretch.

  Wasn’t it more likely that whatever Barbara was caught up in now was completely tied up with whatever had happened in the past that she would never speak about? That would explain why Jackie had seemed sceptical about the stalker story.

  It was suddenly all the more real, now, and Helen was convinced that what had happened at the hospital wasn’t simply a horrible mistake. Those awful notes weren’t just a prank. Helen had always been a bit of a daydreamer, but Amy was straight down the line. Helen couldn’t remember ever hearing panic in her friend’s voice like that before. The more she went over it in her head, the more certain she was; this went right back into her mother’s past, before her marriage, when she was still Barbara Kipling. Whoever Barbara Kipling really was.

  Peace reigned in the back seat, but of course it wouldn’t last. There was a ten-minute loop out to the motorway. She’d do that and then head back, she decided. She wouldn’t say anything to Neil tonight. Or to Barbara for that matter. But after Mr Eklund had said whatever he had to say tomorrow, then she would make sure she got some answers.

  Just then, her phone pinged again. A text message from Jackie Miller. Sorry, Helen, no luck with the archive.

  What a surprise, thought Helen, because it looks more and more like my darling mother has been leading me right up the garden path.

  June 1963

  Katy

  The morning after the trip to Moreton Chase, Katy was allowed to have a lie-in. Maureen Stephenson came knocking at eight-thirty a.m. with two mugs of lukewarm tea and a couple of slices of toast – no plate – on a plastic tray.

  ‘They wouldn’t give me any jam. Said if you wanted any you’d have to go down for it.’

  Katy shrugged. ‘The jam’s shit anyway, in’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, you’re not wrong.’

  ‘Thanks, Maureen.’

  She didn’t know she was ravenous until the smell of the toast hit her nostrils. Then it suddenly felt as if she’d left a black hole in her stomach when she’d spewed up at the side of the road yesterday.

  Maureen sat silently
, watching her friend slurp and munch, examining her with those sharp green eyes that missed nothing.

  ‘Well?’ she said, as the last mouthful slipped down.

  ‘Well what?’ replied Katy.

  ‘What happened? Did they find the kid, or what?’

  ‘Nah.’ Katy made her answer sound nonchalant, but the truth was she had tried her best. She wasn’t bothered about Etta, far less Simon, but she felt Mary deserved better. If she was honest with herself, she wanted it to please Mr Robertson too, but there was no way she’d admit that to Maureen, or anyone else.

  ‘So no early parole then?’

  ‘No.’ Katy gave a snort of disdain at the idea. She couldn’t help but notice Maureen’s stifled look of glee. Should she be flattered or upset? she wondered. Not that it mattered.

  Maureen wanted more details about the outside – what she’d seen and heard and eaten – but Katy brushed her off impatiently. ‘It wasn’t a bloody trip to the zoo, you know.’

  ‘All right, keep your knickers on. I’m just interested.’

  There was a pause, and in the distance the sound of a bell.

  ‘I’ve to tell you you’ve got till first break,’ Maureen remembered. ‘I’ve to go now. Although it’s art, and old Foster will be late as always.’

  ‘He was there this time.’ Katy spoke faintly, as if daring Maureen to hear it.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Him.’

  ‘What, the bastard Gardiner?’

  Katy laughed bleakly. ‘Yes, the bastard Gardiner. Who else?’

  ‘He’s got a nerve on him.’

  ‘He has,’ Katy agreed, but her tone was thoughtful. That was Simon all over, she thought, though she’d never put it into words until now. The nerve of him. He managed to do all sorts because no one would believe it. A brass neck like a fucking giraffe. A brass neck to hang him.

  August 2017

  Helen