Wings over the Watcher

by Priscilla Masters

  Joanna stood up. She would gain nothing more from here – for now. Besides – Guy’s hand was moving with intent towards his partner’s upper thigh. Joanna was no prude but it embarrassed her, as she knew it was supposed to. They meant to shock her. She could see it in the demeanour of both of them as they regarded her slyly.

  But her thoughts were not as they imagined. What she was thinking was this: Marilyn had her toy boy. So why wasn’t she looking as though she was enjoying it more? Why did she have this downtrodden look? And if things were so hunky-dory why did this pair have to rub her nose in their relationship? They had each other. What did she matter?

  “Thanks,” she said quickly, turning towards the exit. “Her parents. They live in Brown Edge, don’t they?”

  Neither of them looked at her. “They’ve got a smallholding there,” Guy muttered.

  It would be her next port of call.

  It was still a beautiful afternoon, full of birdsong and colour. Pollution seemed a million miles away and not for the first time Joanna was glad she lived in this part of the country, this hidden part of England, a small haven cleverly concealed from tourists and crowds alike, quiet and green, pleasant and rural. She would not leave it. Washington DC seemed on another planet, one that Matthew inhabited but that she could not reach. She allowed her mind to flicker across the distance and picture his face without anger and without another woman behind him before schooling it back to Staffordshire, England.

  One step at a time, Sweet Jesus.

  With the sun full in her eyes she drove up the hill which led out of Leek, towards the Potteries. Known as Ladderedge it consisted of three steps, leaving the town below, in the valley. She drove through Longsdon, passing its pretty, spired church and turned off the A53 just before Endon, forking right up Clay Lake before taking another right turn into Broad Lane, rising to the ridge which marked the southern boundary of the Staffordshire Moorlands. At the summit, marked by a chapel converted into a house, she turned right again to travel along the ridge of Biddulph Moor, towards Lask Edge and Lion’s Paw.

  Involuntarily she smiled. Years ago she had asked an ancient moorland-dweller where the name Lion’s Paw came from and been amused at her answer.

  “‘Tis where they shot the last lion in Staffordshire.”

  It was a more poetic explanation than the fact that the lumpy outcrop resembled a lion’s paw.

  Beatrice’s parents lived in a tiny cottage, pebble-dashed-grey with bright green paintwork. There was a chicken run to the side and a couple of inquisitive sheep in a fenced field to the side. As she pulled up a dog started barking. She approached the gate warily. Some of these farm dogs have sharp, aggressive characters.

  But the dog was chained up. Otherwise it would certainly have launched itself at her. It growled and lunged at her a few more times before being stilled by its master.

  Beatrice’s father had arthritis. His back was bent almost double. He looked in his eighties and frail, his face sharpened and wrinkled by a hard life. He stood in the doorway of the cottage, squinting across the yard at her. “Hello. Can I help?”

  “Mr Thomas Furnival?”

  “Aye. That’s my name. What have yer come about, young lady?”

  Joanna flashed her ID card. “Your daughter.”

  “What – our Beattie?” He looked incredulous and again Joanna realised that Beatrice Pennington had never been a source of worry to any member of her family before. Not ever.

  “Have you seen her lately? Is she here?”

  “No – she ain’t. Arthur’s already been here. What’s it to do with the police anyhow?”

  A voice called from inside the cottage. “What are yer doing out there? Shut the door, will yer, Thomas.”

  The old man turned towards the voice. “You’d best come in,” he said grumpily.

  She followed the old man through a low doorway into a small room.

  The evening was warm. Marilyn might have been sunning herself in her garden. But warmth rarely touched this bleak part of the county. It was too high. Too exposed. They had still lit a fire, probably out of habit. This ridge was well known for its harsh conditions and cold winds that found the tiniest crevice in a house and whistled right through. Added to that the exposed position of the cottage, on the ridge’s highest, easterly point, meant that draughts always would find a way in. But such properties have their advantages too. Every few years a heat wave cooks the county. On those days this high point is the most perfect spot on earth. Still cool and green, with the freshest air.

  There is another advantage too. At some point, probably during the 1960s, the cottage had been altered and a picture window inserted which ran the entire width of the sitting room to take full advantage of the sweep of the valley down to Knyperseley Pool before rising to the highest point four miles away – the crooked castle of Mow Cop. The view dominated the room. Made a picture window a true description. It was impossible to ignore it.

  Mrs Catherine Furnival sat in an armchair. Wispy grey hair, arthritic hands gripping the arms. But her face was strong and she had a very direct gaze through sharp blue eyes. “You’d best sit down,” she bade.

  Joanna did, on a shabby sofa with a rug stretched across it. “I’m a police officer,” she said. “I’ve come about your daughter.”

  The husband spoke for the wife. “Aye. We’ve had Arthur up asking if we’d seen her. She must have took off for a day. Out of character, I admit. But I can’t see why he’s dragging the police into it. She’ll be all right, will Beattie. Just got a bit over-excited. That’s all.”

  Catherine Furnival nodded vigorously. “Aye – she’ll be found when she wants to be found. But we don’t know where she is. We’ve not seen her for a week or two. I don’t know where she could be now.” Husband and wife glanced at each other.

  But there was no conspiracy.

  “I should try askin’ them two cronies of hers,” the wife put in. “That Eartha. Right one she is. Tried no end of times to lead our Beattie astray. I should ask her if I were you. She’ll have some idea if our Beattie’s got ’erself into trouble.”

  Joanna reflected that actually it was more likely to be Marilyn Saunders who had given Beattie the first spark of discontent, made her recognise that her life was unsatisfactory and made her want to step into the pages of her very own Mills and Boone.

  But Joanna said nothing. It was not the direction she wanted her interview to move in.

  “I have talked to Jewel Pirtek,” she said smoothly. “She doesn’t know where your daughter is.”

  Catherine Furnival wasted no time in moving her wrath on. “And that Marilyn? Tekin’ up with that young man? Could be her son.” The old lady made a face. “Disgustin’ I call it. The talk of the town. I’d be ashamed if she were my daughter. Livin’ with a…” Not knowing such phrases as ‘trophy-man’ or ‘toyboy’ she had run out of words. “…Young lad,” she finally managed.

  All the time Joanna was learning about Beatrice Pennington she was understanding that, in a way, her disappearance had been inevitable. While her friends might have brazened out any scandal, she would have found it difficult. Her own mother would not have forgiven her daughter for causing scandal in the town. Leaving her husband, eloping with a younger or divorced man. Joanna winced. These were Victorian morals that she thought had been left behind in the twentieth century, consigned now to the history books together with other prejudices.

  Not so.

  The prejudices were still alive and flourishing here, in this tiny cottage.

  Thomas Furnival hobbled across the room, to add his disapproval to his wife’s. “Left her husband and three fine daughters she did to go off with that thing.”

  “And them brazen enough to go get a house together right in the middle of town.”

  Their venom was as potent and visible as when you milk the fangs of an adder.

  Joanna left the house believing she understood some of Beatrice Pennington’s motives. Even that she could move into her state o
f mind. But while she sympathised with the missing woman the different attitudes intrigued her. While her parents would condemn her, her son and daughter were indifferent, her husband despairing and puzzled. Only her friends seemed tolerant.

  Therefore it was back to her friends that Joanna must search.

  Briefly she wondered about Beatrice’s sister. If the missing woman didn’t turn up over the next couple of days she might be worth a visit.

  At this point all seemed clear.

  It was only later that the fog would descend.

  What we see is not always what is. Being rational people we rationalise.

  What we believe we see is sometimes what we want to see.

  Not always the truth. Purely wishful thinking.

  Chapter Seven

  Cycling home had given Joanna the chance to ponder.

  Secrets between partners are not always a good idea.

  What can be concealed can be found out.

  And misconstrued. They needed truth and clarity.

  Corinne kept opening the drawer and reading through the letters. Days had gone by now and there had been no more. But instead of feeling relieved she missed them. “You are my reason for living, my life, my love, my only true romance.” Because she had felt threatened she had not realised before how beautiful the words were. “No one in my entire life has ever touched me the way you did.” They had a sort of…reverence. “A respect for my body, for who I am, for what I am. Therefore our love is complete. A full circle. A perfect sphere.” She scanned the page.

  “I daydream about the life we will have together, the home we shall buy. Maybe a little further south from here. We should both be able to get work to pay for it. I cannot rob Arthur for what is, in effect, the result of my traitor heart. I remember once I broached the subject with you of what a woman should do if she fell in love with another. I recall your answer so clearly. “She should follow her heart,” you said categorically.

  “To its ultimate conclusion?”

  With your eyes fixed on mine you moved closer. “Most definitely,” you said. “What else can a person really do?”

  What clearer directive could I have had? You were telling me exactly what to do.

  “Tosh.”

  The thick sheet of paper, blue, smothered in violet ink, was scrunched up and flung into the waste-paper bin.

  But less then ten minutes later a hand retrieved it, smoothed it out and fatally she put it in her handbag.

  Maybe it should be preserved.

  Why?

  As evidence? To prove that this bad dream really had happened and was not simply a disobedient nightmare, one which inhabited daytime thoughts too or simply because the sentiments expressed were a manifestation of pure affection?

  Joanna tried to convince herself that she could forget about Beatrice Pennington, or at least relegate her to the back of her mind. Okay. So there was a murky little story behind her disappearance but it was not a police affair. A woman has the perfect right to go with whom she chooses. As does a man. Matthew? Yes. She answered her own question without flinching. If one elects to leave one’s partner one may do so. And vice versa. This is a free country and it is a domestic affair. Not one for her. She should take a leaf out of Beatrice’s book, sort her own life out, spend the evening writing the letter to Matthew.

  She felt a sudden surge of happy energy. It was in her nature to be clear about situations. To take positive action. She wanted to tell Matthew. Everything. Everything? Yes – everything. Right from the beginning. All that had been in her mind. At least then for the first time their relationship would be based on the sure ground of truth. Not an affair, not a deceit. He would get the letter within the week. And then he could decide where his future lay. She would not try to influence him, but would show him the same courtesy he had awarded her. She would merely let him have the full facts. Then all would be clear – and honest.

  Joanna, whispered the voice. Life is not like this. It does not move towards clarity and honesty but hides behind corners, waiting for the opportunity to jump out and surprise you. This is what life is like. Full of nasty surprises.

  Watch out for them. Life is not a meadow full of butterflies and wild flowers always in bloom.

  As she inserted her key into the door she had a sudden vision of Matthew, standing in the doorway to the living room, tall, slim, fair, with that faintly quizzical smile he often wore, the smile which was half greeting, half question. The smile which gave her an ache in her heart.

  But once inside the cottage the scent of him was gone, that tangy, male, spicy smell. The place smelt feminine, of perfume and cleaning fluids, washing powder, fabric conditioner. Nail varnish. And acetone remover. Joanna breathed in and smelt only herself. Lemons, lavender. Chanel. Coffee. There was not the slightest hint of Matthew. His desk in the corner of the lounge was tidy, his laptop gone with him. This was the room of a lone, single woman. She felt restless. She wanted settlement, a finality. If he wasn’t going to live here then he should go. She would remain in the cottage and adapt it as her single home. Otherwise he should come back. Not remain in the States. In limbo.

  All the time he had been gone she had not allowed herself to think so deeply. In the early weeks she had been too damaged. But now she felt fit. Stronger than before. It felt like time to fight.

  She dropped onto the sofa, recalling a particular night, one of the many, when they had been teasing and flirting and the phone had rung. Eloise, sensing from more than a hundred miles away, that her father and his mistress were enjoying themselves perhaps a little too much.

  Did she want him to return?

  Joanna sat bolt upright. Did she want him to return?

  She could not stop her face from curling into a smile. What sort of a question was that? Of course she did.

  Did she?

  Did she really? Was that the truth? Or did Matthew make her just a little too uncomfortable with his demands?

  With Eloise? With…

  She should face it. One thing or the other. Commitment or split.

  Life without Matthew, whispered the voice? Having him not even on the periphery of your life? Not even for brushing encounters or surreptitious dates, meals at little-used restaurants?

  Affairs.

  So her mind turned full circle, back to Beatrice Pennington’s affair.

  The family had gone quiet. Maybe they too were putting two and two together and working it all out for themselves. Possibly they had guessed that there was more to this mother, wife and friend than they had thought and realised that in the end it had been she who had left them.

  Again she mouthed, Good For Beatrice.

  But she would have cheered louder had there been money missing. Or a passport gone. Her car or even her bike gone too. Something that fitted in with her theory.

  And she wished Beatrice had remembered to pack the Ann Summers underwear.

  She yawned and glanced out of the window. If she didn’t move now she’d miss the evening.

  She took the road south towards Waterhouses, riding fast and furiously. It stopped her thinking and forced her to concentrate on movement. Her lungs, her legs, her skin. Alive. A light drizzle had sprung out of a moist, grey sky. It cleaned her skin so it felt pure and freshened. She never felt fitter, happier or better than when she was pedalling her bike around the moorlands. She took her eyes off the road with its moss-smothered centre (some of these lanes were little used) and stared to the left and to the right at the grey-stone walls which divided the fields up, sheep from cows, corn from hay. The evening was punctuated by the plaintive sound of sheep baa-ing. Think she must. But in manageable sound bytes. Not all at once, in unpalatable chunks. She could not allow her mind to flood with the idea of life with or without Matthew Levin. The void. Not life. Because it would not be life without him somewhere. It would be a void. An unimaginable void.

  They had been together for almost all the years since she had arrived at Leek.

  The first post-mortem she
had watched had been performed by him. She pictured herself, Sergeant Piercy, seconded from Stoke, puking noisily in the corner during the post-mortem, Matthew’s hand on her shoulder, the offer of a cup of tea quickly followed by a dinner invitation. An invitation she had accepted – and been damned.

  When you lose a lover you lose a small part of yourself.

  Her first case as an Inspector had been solved through his skill and knowledge.

  At Waterhouses she swung left, passing The Old Beams restaurant, and entered the Manifold cycle-path, quiet today, as it was a weekday, tracking the River Hamps until she reached the village of Grindon. And now she had accepted the truth about Matthew she slowed her pedalling down to a steady rhythm, knowing she could keep this up for hours.

  Like many areas isolated by geography and the lay of the land, the villages of the Staffordshire moorlands are full of strange myths and tales. Grindon is no exception. Marked by hikers by the tall spire of the church peeping over the brow of the hill. The winter of 1947 was especially hard with a deep fall of snow, which cut its villagers off from the outside world. On February 13th, 1947, in that hard winter which came so close on the heels of a hard-fought war, an RAF Halifax and its crew flew over the village, detailed to drop food to the hungry villagers who had marked a safe spot with a sooty cross on the snow. But the Halifax dipped too low. A wingtip of the plane caught the ground and it crashed in a ball of flame, killing its entire crew, in front of the eyes of the horrified villagers they had been trying to help. To add a terrible poignancy to the incident, on that very day, the road between Leek and Grindon was reopened. The people of Grindon never forgot their would-be saviours. In the church a memorial has been erected, In Grateful Remembrance.