Stone Cold Red Hot

by Cath Staincliffe

  Our house is a big Victorian semi in the south of the city. Manchester is a large sprawling conurbation, laying on the plain between the Pennine foothills to the north and the rich Cheshire farmlands to the south. Its history as a centre of trade, industry and commerce brought successive waves of immigrants to live and work here. Manchester was now home to a myriad of cultures. There are large, long established communities from the Caribbean, from India, from Bangladesh and Pakistan, from China and Ireland.

  The city is cross-hatched by the old canals and railways that transported the goods back in the days of the industrial revolution. The Manchester ship canal provided a thoroughfare to bring cargo all the way from the coast to the docks. In Manchester they would meet each day to set the price of cotton for the world. Whoever first lived in our house probably made his money in that trade.

  I made myself a cheese and pickle sandwich and a mug of tea. Sat to eat at the big kitchen table. The house was quiet: kids at school, Ray at college, Sheila, our lodger, at the library working on her project for university.

  Ray was in love. I should have been pleased for him but I was anxious. If it became serious he and his son Tom might move out. They might decide to buy a place instead of renting. Ray and I had set up home together for mutual convenience. Two single parents, a child apiece, a big house we could rent indefinitely. He’d answered my advert, and we’d given it a trial. It worked. It worked really well. My daughter Maddie had a surrogate brother in Tom and Ray and I benefited from sharing out the relentless routine of childcare and chores. We’d become a family of sorts. If Ray and Tom went I’d have to try and replace them - and they felt irreplaceable. It would be such a wrench. Or maybe Laura would move in? Could that work? Would she want to move into a set-up like ours? It was hard to share a house, hard enough for families and for couples but for people who hadn’t got those roles allocated there was so much to negotiate. Ray and I had done hours of that along the way. And we’d had our very own lodger from hell, too, as well as some people who just didn’t want to share a home with others in the long run.

  I recalled the pokey bedsit I’d been in with Maddie before we’d got the house, no bath, no garden. It felt like a trap, a punishment, never a sanctuary. What if Ray did move out and I couldn’t find anyone suitable to share? We’d have to move too - I couldn’t cover the rent. I didn’t want to leave Withington, I liked it. It was handy for the library and the baths, there were enough shops to suit us, and a park, even a cinema. The hospitals in the area and the universities down the road provided employment and brought students into the mix of people who lived in the neighbourhood. I’d hate to move.

  I sighed, cleared away my plate and went out into the garden, the big beautiful garden, and launched myself into activity. There were still flowers on the sweet peas even though the foliage was powdery with mould. I picked a handful and there were enough buds to leave the plants for another few days. I cut back the worst of the dead perennials, leaving the ornamental grasses, the mint and honesty for the frost to decorate. I piled the twigs up for a bonfire. There were two clumps of Michaelmas daisies still blooming, their puce flowers vibrant against the wall. I picked an armful. Gaudy, cheerful. I put them in a vase on the kitchen table.

  The dark sky had passed over, holding onto its rain. I set off for school. Someone else had been busy: I could smell woodsmoke. Strictly not allowed - we live in a smoke free zone. I know bonfires are supposed to be terrible for the air but a bonfire once or twice a year is so good for the soul.

  Maddie; my daughter, and Tom; Ray’s son, are like chalk and cheese. Maddie, aged six, is sensitive, imaginative and fearful of all sorts of things. She’s also temperamental, but I would think that because being her mother means I’m on the receiving end when she throws a wobbler. Tom, aged five, is fearless, he hurls himself at the world and remains on an even keel much of the time. His grandmother, who is known as Nana ‘Tello, short for Costello, is Italian and both Ray and Tom have inherited an olive skin and glossy dark curls from her. Maddie, by contrast, is pale-skinned and has light brown hair. They squabbled lightly most of the way home and collapsed in front of the television when we got in. I started cooking tea for the three of us. Ray would be late back and Sheila, who rents our attic flat, caters for herself.

  Half-an-hour later we sat down to veggie-sausages, mashed potatoes and broccoli. Broccoli is just about the only green vegetable that both Tom and Maddie eat. It seems to have something to do with its resemblance to a tree, or to lots of little trees if you separate the florets. Maddie was constructing a forested landscape when she dropped one of her sausages. Digger the dog, sentinel beneath the table, snapped it up. Tom chortled. Maddie tried to be philosophical. “I’m not bothered, I’ve gone off those sausages. They’re horrible.”

  “Can I have that one, then?” said Tom.

  “No.”

  “You said you’ve gone off them.”

  They bickered on until I intervened. “When Maddie’s finished, if she doesn’t eat her sausage, you can have it”

  Tom smiled. “Goody.”

  Maddie wolfed down the sausage.

  As I washed up I thought about the new case. Mrs Pickering was dying and facing death might soften her attitude to her long-lost daughter. It was possible that Roger was exaggerating the animosity, though he said she’d bitten his head off then wept when he’d raised the question a year ago. Would Mrs Pickering be as unapproachable a year on?

  I wondered whether she had ever heard from Jennifer; letters that she tucked away or tore up? Would she have shown them to her husband? If he was so strict perhaps she’d kept them from him. She had called Jennifer a disgrace. I tried to imagine feeling that way about Maddie. Not wanting to speak her name, ignoring her existence. I could picture myself being hurt or angry at things she might do but I couldn’t envisage a situation where I’d turn my back on her. No matter what she’d done.

  It could have worked the other way; and been Jennifer who had severed the tie. Hurt by their lack of support she may have decided to cut them off. Deny them the chance to relent or make amends. Had she been pregnant? If that had been the case wouldn’t the Pickerings have wanted to see their only grandchild, once they’d got used to the idea? Or would their church regard the baby as unwelcome evidence of sinful behaviour? A burden of shame not a bundle of joy. Were they that harsh? By the seventies public attitudes to illegitimacy had relaxed a lot, but the church and its members may well have opposed such changes and clung doggedly to maintaining their own high standards in the face of moral decline and corruption.

  I had a rush of memory. I had announced my pregnancy at the tax office where I was working. I was happy about it even though the pregnancy was unplanned. I joked about the struggle ahead being a single parent (oh, how little did I know) and accepted people’s congratulations.

  One young woman, a fundamental Christian, cornered me later. “Sal, have you really thought about what you’re doing?”

  I was too shocked at her audacity to stop her before she launched into a speech about children needing fathers, and how there were places that could support someone in my position until I had the baby. When she got to the part about how many couples desperately wanted a baby and couldn’t have one, I turned on my heels and walked away. I was shaking and horrified to find myself so upset. I blamed it on my hormones. I was also angry that I hadn’t challenged her opinions on the spot and my mind went round and round working out succinct arguments and powerful statements that I should have flung back at her.

  In the intervening years there had been occasional echoes of that disapproval from people I’d met and now and again the tabloid press or the government of the day would start demonising single-parents for reasons best known to themselves. How much worse might it have been for Jennifer two decades earlier?

  Had she had the baby? Had she kept it? So many possibilities. I could feel my curiosity intensifying. I smiled to myself as I wiped down the sink. Some cases draw you in: others, I do
well, competently, professionally but they don’t reach out in the same way. Already I was intrigued by Jennifer Pickering. I wanted to know her story. If I could unravel it there would be personal satisfaction along with the sense of a job well done. I couldn’t wait to hear from Roger Pickering. I was hooked.

  He came with a printed list of names, addresses, phone numbers and notes. His initial awkwardness evaporated as we began working through the list. Two of the people were neighbours; Mrs Clerkenwell, who still lived in the adjoining semi, “she always had dogs, we used to walk them”, and Mr and Mrs Shuttle who had lived at the other side and had moved away, to Bradford. He didn’t have a forwarding address for them.

  “I’ve not had a chance to check if they are still in Bradford,” he said, “I don’t know if they’ll be able to tell you very much but they knew her as well as any of the other neighbours.”

  There were three friends listed, “Lisa Monroe, she lived at the old vicarage on the corner and her parents are still there. They gave me this number for her in Chester. She’s Lisa MacNeice now. The other two, Caroline Cunningham and Frances Delaney, the Monroes told me their names. Frances Delaney they think she’s still in Manchester but they don’t know where Caroline is now, Lisa might.”

  “Do you remember them?”

  “Vaguely, more as a gang than individually. Like I said they didn’t come round to our house very often. But I think I was at school with one of Caroline’s brothers, there was a Mick Cunningham in my year.”

  Roger had added the number of Jennifer’s old school. Had the girls been at school together?

  “Not Frances, she went to the Catholic school - St Anne’s.”

  He’d brought a photograph of Jennifer as well. All dressed up to go out by the look of it; purple maxi skirt, black skinny rib sweater. She had long brown hair, parted in the centre, it gave her a sleek look. She was smiling. I studied her face; it was quite delicate, thin nose, small mouth, her eyes seemed large but that could have been the effect of the dark make-up. I tried to imagine how she would look now she’d aged twenty odd years. Difficult. So much would depend on how she dressed, how she wore her hair, if she wore glasses, jewellery, make-up.

  Roger cleared his throat, “Could you get this copied? There aren’t many decent photos of her.” He shrugged, a little embarrassed, “well, this is the only one I’ve got.”

  “Yes, I can get some photocopies done, give you it back next time we meet.”

  I told him I would be in touch after talking to some of the people on the list and let him know what progress I’d made.

  After I’d seen him out I made myself a cup of coffee and then got busy on the phone. Mrs Clerkenwell could see me that same afternoon.

  There was an answer machine on at Lisa MacNeice’s. I asked her to return my call without going into any details.

  Roger hadn’t given me a number for the other neighbours; the Shuttles. However I did find a number for them - when I’d set up the business I’d invested in phone directories for the main northern cities as I expected at times my cases would take me to Leeds or Liverpool and they’d be useful resources. I checked the phone book for Bradford and found just one Shuttle. Felt like my lucky day (though I couldn’t be dead certain it was the same couple). I wrote the number and address in my notebook for future reference. As they were no longer in the area and had moved away years ago I decided to wait before following them up. Jennifer’s friends were much more likely to have heard from her.

  I got a call then from Mandy Bellows at the Neighbour Nuisance Unit at Manchester City Council. I’d done a bit of surveillance work for them the previous year, helping to gather evidence that they could use to take an anti-social tenant to court.

  “Sal, how are you?”

  “Fine, and you?”

  “Too busy, half the team’s off ill with some nasty little virus and the rest of us are holding the fort. The reason I rang you,” she continued, “I’ve some clients suffering harassment, general unpleasantness from the neighbours. I want to see if we can gather enough firm evidence to go to court. Can you pop in on Thursday to talk about it?”

  “Yes, morning?”

  “Good, ten o’clock?”

  “Yes, see you then.”

  More work, more money. It was rare that I was only working on one case at a time and when I did there were gaps in my working day while I waited to interview people or receive replies to enquiries I made. It was much better when I’d a few things on the go at once and it also meant I was nearer to making a decent living out of the job. (Not good, just decent as in free of debts). It was a state I aspired to and achieved now and again, but never for long.

  I glanced at the clock. There was just time to make a note of the areas I wanted to cover with Mrs Clerkenwell and pop home for a sandwich before our appointment. I was looking forward to finding out some more about Jennifer Pickering. I didn’t expect any hot tips as to where she was now but I hoped to learn a little about how she had been back then; a young girl about to fly the nest. What had she been expecting when she’d left for university? Was she anxious about it or eager? Had the Pickerings ever confided in Mrs Clerkenwell about what Jennifer had done or whether she had been in touch? I had no shortage of questions. I hoped that she would be able to answer at least some of them.

  Chapter three

  Heaton Mersey, the district where the Pickerings lived, isn’t far from Withington so I made the journey on my bicycle. That and swimming are the only regular exercise I get. Now and again I practise sprinting as a very useful skill for a private investigator to possess but I’m afraid I don’t do it as often as I should. Still I guess I could do a reasonable dash in the Mum’s 100 metres at school’s sports day - if they had a sports day.

  The houses were good sized Edwardian semis, brick built, with tall, bay windows and sizable front gardens. Each had a driveway and garage. The gardens were well-tended. The neighbourhood looked settled, comfortable. Several windows sported Home Watch stickers.

  I rang the bell for Mrs Clerkenwell and there was a burst of barking from inside. While I waited I looked at the adjoining house hoping to catch a glimpse of Mrs Pickering. There were no signs of life.

  Mrs Clerkenwell opened her door. I introduced myself.

  “Come in, I’ve shut the dogs in the garden, they get delirious over new people. Bring your bike in.”

  “I can leave it in the back if you’d rather..”

  “No problem. Can you manage?”

  I wheeled the bike up the two steps to the front door and into the hall. There was plenty of space. I leant it against the wall, taking care not to scuff the wallpaper. We went along the hall to the back room and sat at a table by the window looking out onto the back garden. The rooms had high ceilings with moulded plaster edges and picture rails around the walls. It was decorated in creamy yellow with a mossy green for the woodwork. The colours lightened the room which could easily have been gloomy.

  “Would you like a drink? Tea, coffee?”

  “Coffee please, no sugar.”

  She was a large-boned woman, in her fifties at a guess with grey shoulder length hair, a sallow complexion and chunky black-framed glasses. She wore dark slacks and a baggy woollen sweater, bottle green with flecks of colour in it, sprinkled with dog hairs.

  From the chair I could see the garden, long and wide with a couple of apple trees at one side and a wall at the end. Flower borders ran the length of the lawn which had a wavy path down its centre. Two honey coloured Labradors were sniffing around the lawn and occasionally diving onto each other. An old larch-lap fence divided the garden from its neighbours on either side. I stood up to see what was visible of the Pickering’s garden to the left. I could make out the roof of a garden shed and a circular clothes dryer, the tips of a row of conifers at the far side, nothing more.

  Mrs Clerkenwell returned with mugs of coffee.

  “Roger has explained to you why I’m here? That he’s asked me to trace his sister, Jennifer?”
/>   “Yes. Though I’m not sure what help I’ll be. I’ve often wondered what became of her.”

  “What was she like?” I asked.

  “Very lively, high spirits. Obviously got on well at school. Very bright, on the ball. She and Roger used to walk the dogs, he was not much more than a toddler when they first started. They’d take them down to the recreation ground or up to the park. Along the river sometimes. Once or twice she came along with me to a craft fair, I run a stall on a regular basis. She was a nice girl, I liked her.”

  “And then she left home?”

  “Yes, Keele wasn’t it? English degree. Couldn’t wait to get there. It was that terrifically hot summer, the drought. ‘76. You remember?”

  I nodded. “And after that?”

  “I never heard from her. Not that I expected to. I was only the next-door neighbour,” she laughed.

  “Did you know that she’d not kept in touch with her family?”

  “Not for some time, no. I think it was that Christmas, I saw Barbara and I asked her about Jennifer; how was she getting on, when would she be back - that sort of thing. She was quite abrupt. Told me that Jennifer had dropped out of university and that they’d no idea when they would hear from her again. I was surprised, I must admit. I never thought Jennifer would have given up her studies like that. Perhaps the course wasn’t what she’d expected. Anyway, Barbara obviously didn’t want to talk about it and we were never very chummy so that was it.” She wrinkled her nose and the heavy glasses bobbed up and down.

  I took a swig of my coffee, it was cool enough to swallow.

  “When Frank died I thought Jennifer might be back for the funeral but she wasn’t. It’s not the sort of thing you can ask about really, though people noticed. So, I knew she’d not been back to visit but I hadn’t realised that there had been no word at all until Roger called the other day.”