by Jodi Taylor
He was half-right, so I nodded and climbed in. He took me to the nearest town, dropping me on the ring road. I was staring in baffled incomprehension at a road sign when a huge artic pulled up. I heaved myself in and grinned at the driver. She took me to Rushford.
From there, I took a taxi, shamelessly quoting Dr Bairstow’s account number because we were supposed to be using our initiative. There would be trouble later on, but deal with the now. With luck, I’d be dead before the future turned up.
The taxi dropped me just outside the village and I cut through the woods, enjoying the shade and the birdsong. I signed in at the South Gate, laughed at their surprise, skirted the lake, pushed my way through the reed beds, crossed the grass, climbed in through one of the Library windows, grinned at an astonished Dr Dowson, and headed straight for the bar.
I entered to stunned silence. With my track record for catastrophe, they certainly hadn’t expected to see me for at least a week and probably only then to the accompaniment of sirens and significant numbers of the emergency services, but here I was. I’d hadn’t been gone much more than a couple of hours. Major Guthrie and the transports weren’t even back yet. This was a record that was never going to be broken.
Ordering a celebratory Margarita, I took a seat by the window, heaved my pristine and unused backpack to the ground with a crash, put my feet up, made myself comfortable, silently raised my glass to the god of historians – and waited for Guthrie to return.
Obviously, someone had told him and I’ll never forget the look on his face as he strode into the bar, stopped dead on the threshold, and stared. Such was the depth of his emotion that he very nearly dropped his clipboard.
Considering that every member of St Mary’s who wasn’t actually out on assignment had found a good reason to be in the bar at that specific moment, the silence was remarkable. He just stared. I could practically hear his mind working until one of the bar staff tapped him on the arm and handed him the double scotch I’d ordered for him earlier. I raised my glass and grinned at him, because I’m told that’s really annoying.
And that, folks, is how you effortlessly pass into St Mary’s legend.
However, enough of me. The point I’m meandering towards is that I was back – and not only was I back, but I was back hours, days, weeks even, ahead of schedule and this was probably why Miss Lee was taking advantage of my absence to use my empty office to have a really good cry.
Now I knew exactly how Major Guthrie had felt. Another occasion so unexpected that the world is flipped upside down and everything is topsy-turvy.
I stopped on the threshold, gobsmacked, and she leaped to her feet and glared at me as if everything was my fault. Which, to be fair, it usually is.
I really wasn’t sure what to do. Tactfully ignore her? Ask her what was the problem? Turn around and walk away? I tried to remember that this was my office after all, and sat down behind my desk.
She’d obviously been at it for some time. Her face was blotchy, her eyes swollen, and her nose was running. My first thought was – my God, could this be guilt? Was I right? Was Rosie Lee the traitor and was she now experiencing remorse? Admittedly rather late in the day, but better late than never. Well, whatever the reason, there was obviously something very wrong with Rosie Lee today.
Actually, that’s an inaccurate statement. There’s something wrong with Rosie Lee every day. Reactions to her vary from mild dislike to outright hostility with a little bit of irritation thrown into the mix for good measure. As far as I knew, she had no friends, nor any desire for any. I had no idea what she did with herself when she wasn’t in the office (actually, I didn’t have much of an idea of what she did in it, either). I didn’t know where she went or whom she was with. I was just grateful it wasn’t me.
However, there might never be another opportunity so I moved smoothly into interrogation mode.
‘What’s the matter with you?’
All right, not subtle, but a direct question sometimes prompts a direct answer.
She trumpeted into a completely inadequate bit of tissue and threw it into my bin where it landed with a squelch. Fortunately, she had enough sense not to say ‘nothing’, which is so irritating when there obviously is something and you have to play that stupid guessing game.
She sighed. ‘I’ve had a bit of a falling-out.’
I was a teensy bit surprised. Not that she’d fallen out with someone – that happened twenty times a day and they always came to complain to me afterwards – I mean surprise that it had obviously upset her so badly.
‘With whom?’
She shuffled her feet around a bit and then muttered something.
‘Can’t hear you.’
She sighed again and said, in defiantly ringing tones, ‘David Sands.’
So, nothing to do with the death of Schiller. Or was it? I would have to probe further. But first things first.
‘I have to hand it to you, Miss Lee, you possess a rare gift. How can you possibly argue with David Sands? He’s one of the nicest blokes on the planet.’
Stupid question. She could argue with a corpse and reduce Patience herself to foaming, blood-red rage.
I got up and made the tea, having discovered long ago that making it myself was the safest option. The rumour at St Mary’s is that the last person to ask her to make the tea got it at head height some forty-five seconds later. No idea if that’s true but who wants to take the risk? There’s enough drama in my life without having to spend the working day ducking low-flying tea.
Anyway, back to the plot.
‘What on earth could you find to argue about with David Sands? Was it one of his stupid knock-knock jokes?’
She tossed her head, defiantly. ‘We’ve been going out.’
I tried not to look gobsmacked and failed miserably.
‘Yes, I know what you’re thinking. He’s tall, he’s handsome, he’s popular, and everyone likes him, so why would he be interested in someone like me?’
Exactly the question I was asking myself, but saying so would probably not be helpful. Since I couldn’t think of anything to say, I said nothing and obviously this was the right way to go because without any prompting from me, she was off again.
‘I mean, look at me. Why would he even bother? What could he possibly see in someone like me? Does he think I’m easy? Is that it?’
God knows where she got the idea that anyone would think she was easy. Personally, I would have said she was the most difficult person ever born.
‘Or does he just think I’m grateful?’ she continued bitterly. ‘It’s not as if anyone else is ever going to take us on, is it?’
There are no words to describe how far out at sea I was at this point. There were rafts in the mid-Atlantic that were less at sea than I was. However, my duty was clear. She was having a vulnerable moment and it was up to me to exploit it with powerful and penetrating questions.
I said, ‘Do you want some tea?’
She blew her nose again and nodded. So far so good. I kidded myself I was winning her confidence.
Shoving a steaming mug towards her, I sought to push the conversation in the right direction.
‘Is this because you didn’t fight for St Mary’s last year?’
‘What?’ Her head reared up. Oh God, I’d annoyed her and she was about to attack me. ‘Where did that come from?’
‘Well, I was wondering. For some reason, you seem to feel you’re not good enough for him and I wondered if it was because you didn’t fight for St Mary’s. And,’ I continued, with that reckless madness frequently experienced when risking life and limb, ‘you subconsciously feel guilty because that was when he lost his foot and –’
There was a crash as her mug hit the wall. Tea splashed everywhere. I jumped a mile and decided that in the not-unlikely event of Dr Bairstow chucking me out one day, relationship counselling was a field I should probably avoid. I almost began to wish I were back in the great outdoors again, battling for my life in the warm afternoon sunshine
.
She was on her feet. ‘You! You’re no better than the rest of them. I know what they say about me but I never thought you were saying it as well.’
I was now so far out at sea I was practically dropping over the horizon. ‘Right,’ I said, suddenly losing patience. ‘Stop. Sit down. No, never mind the china. We’ll sweep it up later. Sit down, take a deep breath, and tell me what you’re talking about.’
‘Well, at the moment, I’m talking about being pissed at you because of what you implied because I didn’t fight for St Mary’s.’
‘Yes,’ I said, suddenly getting back on track. ‘Why didn’t you?’
Silence fell heavily.
She said nothing.
I waited, every muscle tensed in case she made a break for it. I swear, if she so much as twitched a muscle, I’d be over the desk and pounding her into the ground. My mind flew back to that dull, grey day when we found Schiller’s body, all yellow bones and tattered clothing with that small, neat bullet hole in the centre of her forehead …
Go on, Rosie Lee. Just give me an excuse …
She took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders.
I braced myself. This was it.
She put her clasped hands on the table and said very quietly, ‘I didn’t fight because of my little boy.’
The world span around me. I had to replay the sentence several times before I could make any sense of it. To gain time, I said stupidly, ‘Because of your little boy?’
She nodded.
I pulled myself together. ‘You have a child?’
She nodded.
I sat back in my chair. I really must learn to listen better. She was a single parent and had a child and because of this, she’d thought Sands would think she was easy. Or that she would be grateful. She’d said, ‘No one would ever take us on.’ For God’s sake, Maxwell, learn to listen!
All right, that answered the question about why she hadn’t fought. She was on her own. If anything had happened to her then her child would be all alone in the world. An acceptable reason. Unfortunately, it was also the reason for her obvious shortage of money and an excellent reason for her to accept a bribe – a substantial bribe, probably – to betray us all to Clive Ronan.
On the other hand, she’d made her confession easily enough. If she were guilty then surely she wouldn’t have mentioned the kid at all.
It struck me that I was pretty rubbish at this.
And who could the father be? Assuming she hadn’t eaten him during the act. Like a praying mantis, that is. Not a bad idea actually, and certainly one that could do with being more widely adopted.
‘Um … Who’s the father?’
She read my mind. ‘No one here. Nothing you need worry about.’
‘So where is he in all this?’
‘Gone.’
‘Ah.’
‘His parents didn’t like the look of me.’
I suddenly experienced a complete change of view. Who did they think they were? ‘You’re probably better off without him. You’re certainly better off without them.’
‘I thought so, yes.’
‘Does he send you any money?’
‘Of course not. Everyone knows if you ignore this sort of problem then she goes away.’
‘But there are agencies for …’
She sighed impatiently. ‘There are different worlds for different people. People who have rich and powerful parents live in a different world from people like me. There were demands for paternity tests, investigations into my past history, and allegations of promiscuity … and then they said they could bring my baby up better than me and I should hand him over, so I backed off.’
‘You’re definitely better off without him.’
‘That’s what I said when I told him and his mother to fuck off. I even tried to get a solicitor to draft them a letter telling them if they came within a hundred yards of me and my son I’d take legal action.’ She shrugged. ‘He wouldn’t do it.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Forgot them and carried on with my life.’
‘Does anyone here know?’
‘No one knows. I took two months’ unpaid leave. I told people I had a once-in-a-lifetime chance to visit relatives in Australia.’
‘But where is he? The kid, I mean?’
‘Rushford. Where I live.’
Oh my God – the coat hanging behind the door. Right in front of me for all this time. I’d noticed the shabbiness but the important fact had escaped me. If she lived at St Mary’s then why would she bring a coat to work? Because she didn’t live here. She lived in Rushford with her kid and that was where the money went. Rent, transport, and childcare.
I took a deep breath. A very deep breath.
‘I’m going to ask you a question. I have a good reason for asking it and I’ll tell you why afterwards.’
She looked wary. ‘All … right.’
‘Answer me truthfully. This is more important than I can say. Has anyone … anyone at all ever offered you money in exchange for information about St Mary’s?’
I don’t know what sort of reaction I was expecting. She slowly shook her head. ‘No, no never,’ and then the implications sank in and she flushed red with rage. Genuine rage. She wasn’t faking it.
‘Steady on,’ I said, quickly. ‘Let me live long enough to explain.’
I gave it to her in a few sentences.
She sat back and looked long and steadily at me. ‘We have a problem, don’t we?’
I appreciated the ‘we’. ‘Can you shed any light?’
She shook her head slowly. ‘I wish I could, but no. I can see why you think it … might have been me, but it wasn’t. I would never —’ She broke off and fell silent.
I was silent myself, thinking what her life must be like. I had Leon. At the end of a bad day – and sometimes even during a bad day – he was there. Always. A word, a look, a cup of tea – whatever was needed. I suddenly realised how much I’d grown accustomed to having him around and remembered again that special feeling that warmed my heart whenever he was near. I remembered how, whenever he entered a room, I was the first person he looked for. I remembered how he would smile, just for me alone. I remembered the sound of his voice, the touch of his hands, his solid warmth.
Rosie Lee had none of that. Rosie Lee was so alone in this world that she’d been pregnant and no one had noticed. She’d given birth and no one had noticed. She lived alone in Rushford. Did anyone know? Mrs Partridge? Dr Bairstow? How could this happen? How could anyone be so isolated from those around her? And what did that say about us?
However, there was a solution. Which brought me back to the original topic of conversation – the handsome and charming David Sands.
‘Does he know?’
She had no difficulty working that one out and nodded defiantly. ‘Just about the first thing I told him.’
Yes, I could imagine her flinging the information at his head.
‘How did he take it?’
‘Well, I think it was a bit of a shock. He just stared at me. I said I’d give him a week to think about it and let me know what he wanted to do and he came to see me the very next day and asked to meet him.’
‘Him?’
She stuck her chin in the air and said defiantly, ‘Benjamin.’
‘Benjamin Lee. Nice name,’ I said, vaguely, because I was still thinking.
While I was doing that she got up, picked up the bits of broken mug, and put the kettle on again. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘What?’ I said, still thinking.
‘What are you going to do? Are you going to tell Dr Bairstow?’
‘No, of course not, but it would be a good idea if you did.’
She recoiled. ‘No.’
‘Rosie,’ I said gently, ‘there’s nothing in the rules and regs about having kids. You haven’t broken any laws. You don’t even have to disclose any information about the father if you don’t want to, but it is possible he can do somethi
ng to make your life a little easier.’
‘Such as?’
‘No idea, but I have every confidence he’ll think of something. And you should give Sands the benefit of the doubt. You’ve given him every opportunity to run away and he hasn’t. Nor has he told anyone about Benjamin. Why don’t the two of you take some time and just talk to each other? He’s a decent man. You could do a great deal worse.’
She put another mug of tea in front of me. God knows I needed it.
We sat and sipped.
‘Sorry about the wall,’ she said, indicating the giant tea stain. ‘I’ll get Mr Strong to paint it over.’
‘No need. I quite like it. I’m going to tell people it’s a giant Rorschach test and get them to tell me what they see.
‘Tell them it’s a bloodstain,’ she said, cheerfully.
‘Or I could tell them it’s the remains of my last personal assistant who passed away under mysterious circumstances.’
There was a slight pause. I couldn’t help myself. Curiosity was eating away at my very bones.
‘So how did you two – get together? You and Sands?’
‘Do you remember our celebration dinner, the one after the Battle of St Mary’s? The one last year?’
‘No, I didn’t attend. I was unconscious, remember?’ I should point out that I was unconscious because I’d been shot, not because I’d self-medicated on an entire jug of Margaritas. Just to be clear.
She swallowed. ‘I arrived late. Everyone was already sitting down. I couldn’t see a seat anywhere. No one would catch my eye. Suddenly, everyone was too busy talking to their neighbours to see me and there wasn’t any room.’
No, there wouldn’t be. The civilian staff had stepped up and won the day. At some cost to themselves. People hadn’t liked Rosie Lee before the battle. They certainly didn’t like her afterwards. But that was no excuse. My anger was tinged with guilt. For how long had this been going on? How difficult were they making her life? There are a thousand small ways to make someone’s life a misery. And how typical of her not to mention it.
She was continuing. ‘Anyway, I thought bollocks to the lot of you, and turned around to walk out and go home and I ran slap bang into David Sands. I knocked him over. He went flying. He still wasn’t very steady on his legs then.’