by Isla Dewar
‘I’ve been set for the last ten minutes.’
‘Right, photos, keys, dog, gas off, fireguard on. Let’s go.’
In the car he patted his pockets once more, fussing and mumbling, ‘Keys in correct pocket. OK.’
Martha started the car, signalled and started to move off.
‘No, wait,’ Charlie put his hand on her arm. ‘Did I turn the gas off?’
‘Yes, and you checked it after you’d done it.’
‘Sure?’
‘Positive. Relax. It’s fine. The gas is off. The fireguard is on. All shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.’
‘That’s good. Did you just make that up?’
‘No. It’s very old. My mother had to ice it onto a cake a few years ago. Funny what you can learn from cakes. Julian of Norwich said it.’
‘Wise chap.’
They were moving along Portobello High Street and Martha was congratulating herself on having distracted Charlie from his checking the gas was off routine. ‘Actually, Julian of Norwich was a woman.’
‘Really? She doesn’t sound like a woman. Julian is a bloke’s name.’
‘I suppose,’ said Martha. ‘But it’s a woman’s quote all the same. My mother liked it so much she put it into one of her collage things along with a toffee wrapper, a scattering of lettuce seeds and a letter I sent to Santa when I was six. She called it Optimists and Heroes.’
‘Excellent.’ He shifted in his seat, and sighed, ‘Are you sure we turned the gas off?’
‘Yes. Did you remember to tap the nameplate?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then we are safe. We travel forth guarded by your lucky gesture. All shall be well.’
Bernice stared at the photographs, put them down on the coffee table in front of her, stared at Charlie and Martha, picked up the photos again and stared at them. ‘That’s him. That’s definitely him.’ She ran her fingers over his Kodak face. ‘Who’s the woman?’
‘Belinda. He calls himself Bill Simpson,’ said Charlie.
The room was tidy, almost unlived in. But the house was filled with the smell of stew simmering in the kitchen.
‘Simpson? Bill and Belinda Simpson?’
He nodded.
‘So they’re married.’
‘No,’ said Martha. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘You just don’t think they are. You don’t know.’
Martha said, ‘No, I don’t know. Just, the way they were behaving, they didn’t look married.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Bernice peered at her, eyebrows raised. ‘Oh, don’t tell me they were kissing and cuddling in public.’ She sighed. ‘You stop doing that after a while. After you’ve shared a bathroom, seen each other’s old underwear and dirty socks.’
‘I know,’ said Martha.
‘But you didn’t find out for sure,’ said Bernice. ‘And the child, his?’
‘Probably not,’ said Martha. ‘It seems he turned up in her life relatively recently. The child is at least three.’
Bernice’s face hardened. ‘I see. This isn’t good.’
‘And what’s he doing in this last photo? Who is that woman in Heriot Row?’
Charlie shrugged. ‘Not sure. He was going into her flat when we last saw him. We came to give you an update. Actually, we’ve found Brendan. It’s up to you what you do now.’
Bernice reached over, switched off the electric fire. She stared at the photographs on the table. ‘I’ve been waiting and waiting. Now this.’
‘I know,’ said Martha. ‘It’s awful.’
Bernice said, ‘I can’t take this in. Maybe I did something wrong and he ran off to another woman. I thought he loved me.’ She stood up. ‘I’m all confused.’
‘Guilt. Shame. Disbelief. Anger,’ said Martha.
Bernice said right now she thought anger was winning. ‘All the time when I thought he was on the road working, he was with another woman, well, two other women. Maybe more. Where did he get his money?’ She looked at Martha and Charlie, and then answered herself. ‘From us. From the women. We’ve all been subsidising him. Roof over his head, food on his plate, comfort in bed.’
She disappeared into the hall. ‘I have to switch off the stew.’ She returned heaving on her coat. ‘Life goes on. I have a hairdresser’s appointment. Can’t have him waiting for me. Waiting’s hell. I know about waiting.’
They left the house, walked up the path to the gate. Charlie offered Bernice a lift. ‘Martha could easily drive you.’
Bernice said, ‘No. I’ll walk. Walking’s good. I can think. I might have calmed down a bit when I get there.’ She stomped off. Turned and stomped back to them. ‘I’ll bet the other women all think he’s wonderful, mostly because he’s not there all that much. It’s all tender hellos and goodbyes with him. It’s easy.’
She stomped away. Stopped. Turned and came back.
‘I sort of knew it. I just didn’t let the wondering about him rise to the top of my brain. He swaggered. I watched him once coming down the street and he was moving the way cocky teenagers do. Pushing himself forward with his shoulders. I thought it was sort of cute. But really, I don’t trust men who do that.’
Martha said, ‘It’s upsetting. An insecure man with too much testosterone, strutting.’
‘Exactly,’ said Bernice. ‘Most men leave the strutting and swaggering behind. It just fades away with time and a mortgage and children. But Brendan still swaggered at forty-eight. I should’ve thought about that. You can tell a lot about people from the way they walk.’
She stomped off once more.
‘The walk of an angry woman,’ Charlie said.
Bernice turned and once more came back to them.
‘Right now, I’m so shocked, I think my heart can’t cope. I hardly trust it to keep beating. I’d cry, but I don’t cry any more. I’d scream, but what good would that do. I’d throw things, but I can’t afford to replace anything I broke.’ She poked Charlie. ‘You find out everything about him. All the women he sees, all the names he uses, all the children, all the lies. Then I’ll confront him. I want to see his face when he finds out I know all about him. I want to see him squirm. I’ll see him in hell.’
Charlie reached out, took her hand, patted it. ‘We’ll do that. We’ll report back as soon as possible. Don’t worry, all shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.’
Bernice yanked her hand away. ‘What a stupid thing to say. That’s the daftest thing I’ve ever heard.’ She stomped off.
Charlie looked hurt. ‘Well, I think it’s cool.’
Martha sneered. ‘Stew? A woman on her own worrying over a missing man doing a stew? Chopping veg? Onions? Carrots? Garlic? I don’t think so. She’d not be eating much. Just a bit cheese straight from the fridge or a bite of fruit or a small carton of yoghurt. Never stew. And it smelled like she put it on a while ago.’ She pointed at Bernice marching away from them. ‘Something’s not right.’
17
Drinkin’ with Charlie
‘I saw Jamie,’ said Sophie.
Evening, two days after Sophie’s sighting. Evie was in bed. Sophie and Martha were washing up. Martha washed, Sophie dried. The radio played. It was late. Supper had been delayed because halfway through cooking it Sophie had read the recipe properly and discovered the meat had to be marinated for two hours. She’d given it thirty minutes; people were hungry.
‘When?’ said Martha.
‘A couple of nights ago.’
‘And you only tell me now?’
To avoid looking at Martha, Sophie gazed at the painting on the wall. It showed two large elderly women in bulky coats dancing at a bus stop. It had cost a pound at a jumble sale, and originally she’d bought it for the frame, but the more she’d looked at it, the more she’d loved it.
‘I was wondering if I should tell you. You seem happy. I thought my seeing him might upset you.’
‘Of course it upsets me. But I’m more upset
by your not mentioning it. Why didn’t you tell me right away?’
‘You should let him go. Forget about him and get on with your life.’
‘Get on with my life? How can I do that? My husband disappeared. He just walked out and never said where he was going. What if I wanted a divorce? What if I wanted to move to Australia and take Evie with me, how could I do that? He wouldn’t know where to find me.’ She vigorously wiped a plate, plunged it back into the soapy water and wiped it again.
Sophie looked shocked. ‘You’re not, are you? Thinking of going to Australia?’
‘No,’ said Martha. ‘But I should be able to if I wanted. Right now, I’m stuck. What if I died? He could claim guardianship of Evie and take her away so you’d never see her again.’ She put the plate in the dish rack and started on another.
‘I never thought of that. You’re not stuck. Not if you don’t want to be. If you met another man you don’t have to get married. You could live in sin. It’s quite the fashionable thing these days,’ said Sophie.
‘I don’t want to live in sin with anybody. I’ve gone off all that relationship stuff.’
‘You might meet someone,’ said Sophie. ‘You don’t know what will happen.’
Martha lifted a dripping hand from the water and pointed at her mother. ‘You’re not going to change the subject. Where did you see Jamie? Did he see you? Did you talk to him?’
‘Jelly’s. I saw him at this place called Jelly’s. Yes, he saw me. He kept glancing at me. In fact that’s what made me notice him. No, I didn’t talk to him because I didn’t recognise him. He’s gone all hairy. A beard and a moustache and he was wearing shaggy clothes. One of those Afghan coat things. It was only when he was leaving that it clicked who he was.’
‘You could’ve run after him.’
‘With my knees. I don’t think so.’
‘You could’ve shouted out. You could’ve done something.’
‘My food had just arrived. I was distracted.’ She dried the plate Martha had just put on the rack. ‘It was surprisingly good. Better than I expected.’ She put down the plate, stared at Martha. ‘You’re not going to die, are you? There’s nothing wrong with you, is there?’
Martha said she was fine.
‘Good,’ said Sophie, ‘I hate death. It’s sneaky. It creeps up on people you love and takes them when you’re not looking.’
‘I’m not going to die. Just, if I did, it could be awkward.’ Martha stared into the dishwater, floated a saucer on the surface, prodded it and watched it slowly sink. ‘What were you doing in Jelly’s?’
‘Duncan took me there on our date.’
‘Hardly a romantic venue. He’s a cheapskate. I don’t think I like him very much. Still, you saw Jamie. But you did nothing about it.’
Sophie looked at the two women dancing and said nothing. Remembering the Jamie moment embarrassed her. She had done something. She’d stood up and pointed, arm stretched out, finger rigid. ‘My God. That was Jamie,’ she’d cried.
People around her looked at her mildly, followed the direction of her point, stared with slight interest at Jamie and resumed eating. Duncan turned, watched Jamie set off along the street, and asked, ‘Who is Jamie?’
Sophie sat down, said, ‘Oh, nobody really. Never mind.’ She’d taken a mouthful of her food. ‘This is very good.’ For the rest of the evening she’d tried to look inconspicuous.
Martha stepped back from the sink and dried her hands. ‘I’m going out. I need to think. I can’t believe you saw Jamie and didn’t tell me till now.’
‘I didn’t want to upset you. And look – you’re upset.’
Martha didn’t answer. She fetched her coat, took the car keys and headed for the door.
‘Where are you going?’ Sophie shouted.
‘Out,’ Martha shouted back.
She drove to the Be Kindly Missing Persons Bureau, stopped the car and looked across at the building. For a while she considered going in. It would be quiet there. She could light the fire and think. But no, she wouldn’t do that. It would be odd to be in there at this time of night, and besides, she’d miss Charlie. She’d even miss Murphy. All that, and she had somewhere she had to go.
She drove on, joining the traffic heading into town. Ten minutes later she was in Princes Street heading for the West End and looking at the people walking the pavement. Scanning faces, she was always scanning faces. Couldn’t help it.
At the West End, she turned onto Lothian Road and, still watching passing faces, drove to Tollcross. Then left into a maze of narrow, badly lit streets. She knew the area well. Once, it had been her stamping ground. She’d played youth clubs and a church hall here when she’d dreamed of girl-band glory. She parked across from Jelly’s.
She hadn’t been here in years. But there had been a time when she’d come often. It was where the band headed after a gig. Too broke to order a meal, they’d shared a couple of Cokes and a plate of chips. Back then poverty had been part of their lives. It had been exciting. In fact, they hadn’t expected anything else. Hitting the big time without the struggle would have been a disappointment. Only Grace had money. But she’d pretended she hadn’t and joined the others complaining about her empty pockets. It had been a bonding thing, Martha supposed. It hadn’t worked. Grace never had been convincing as a penniless musician. When the chip-eating and Coke-sharing were over she’d climbed into her father’s Jaguar and swished off.
Martha got out of the car and caught her breath. She’d forgotten what this place did to her senses. The air was heavy with the thick fat reek of heavy-duty cooking. Marvin Gaye’s ‘I Heard It Through The Grapevine’ shrilled out. It was all smells and sounds here. For a moment she was seventeen again. Broke, alive with hope, passionate about Gene Vincent and with a digestive system that could cope with chips and swiftly swigged Coka-Cola.
She opened the door and looked round. Nobody looked at her. It wasn’t the way of things at Jelly’s to be interested in other people. The face Martha was searching for wasn’t there. A man at a table nearby said, ‘Hello, darlin’. Been stood up? Come here.’ He patted the seat next to him. ‘I’ll buy you a coffee.’ She shot him a filthy glance and left.
Back in the car, she sat mesmerised, watching people. How busy it was here. Every night all this went on while she sat at home in front of the television hoping for easy-viewing sitcoms. Oh, the joys of an evening’s numbness. If only for a moment, she could forget.
By half-past ten the theatre set were arriving. Dressed to the nines, and carrying their own champagne, theatre-goers would eat fish and chips, swig their wine and bray loudly about the show they’d seen and what fun it was to slum it. These days she thought them tiresome. Back in her days of trying to be Gene Vincent, she’d been more blunt. ‘Wankers,’ she’d said not quite loud enough to be heard. She’d been a rebel, but a whispering one.
It started to rain. People emerging from the café pulled up their collars, stared skywards in surprise and ran. Martha wondered if everybody in Edinburgh had eaten here at some time. All sorts were here tonight, students, taxi drivers, policemen, villains, rich, poor, revellers, one or two women of dubious occupation and Brendan Stokes. Or maybe it was Bill Simpson.
She sat up, stared. Yes, it was definitely him. Brendan Stokes tonight, she thought. Bill Simpson had been scruffy. This man wore a dark blue suit, pink shirt and ostentatiously patterned tie. A taxi stopped and he climbed into it.
Martha started the car and followed. No point in hanging about hoping Jamie might turn up. After being spotted here he wouldn’t return for a while.
A second taxi pulled out behind the one Martha wanted to follow. She thought this excellent. She wouldn’t be so obvious.
The three cars moved through the streets away from Jelly’s and stopped at the junction that would lead them into the thrum of late evening traffic. The taxi carrying Brendan Stokes turned left, the next one turned right. The rain got heavier, drumming on the car roof, the windscreen steamed. Martha signalled left
and moved up to join the stream of cars on the main road. Looking round she was surprised to note there were taxis everywhere. She counted three before there was a gap in the traffic. Well, taxi drivers always got busy when it rained. She was sure the taxi she was following was the fourth one ahead. She gripped the wheel, craned forward and peered into the rain. The windscreen wipers squeaked and struggled with the deluge. If she’d been a real detective, if she’d been using her brains, she’d have thought to take the number of the taxi Brendan Stokes had got into.
One taxi turned off to the right, another pulled over to drop off a passenger. So, two ahead. The one directly in front of Martha’s car was hailed by someone on the other side of the street and did a swift U-turn. Now she was behind the remaining taxi. She followed it into Morningside, where it turned into Comiston Drive and stopped outside a large house. Martha drove past it and pulled up so she could see Brendan Stokes get out. This was the sort of thing they did on American cop shows. She was proud of herself. A natural detective, she thought, imagining how impressed Charlie would be in the morning when she crowed about her triumph.
She adjusted her rear-view mirror to watch what was going on behind her. And waited. And waited. Perhaps Brendan Stokes was rummaging through his pockets for change to pay the driver, or then again, they might be having an engrossing chat about football or some other manly thing.
It took ten minutes before the taxi door opened. Martha thought, here we go. But a tall woman in a long red coat climbed out. She spoke briefly to the driver then hurried up the path to her front door. The taxi drove off. Martha ducked as it passed. She didn’t know why. It was a reaction. She was embarrassed and she was stupid. She’d just followed a complete stranger home.
Somewhere between Jelly’s and here Brendan Stoke’s taxi had given her the slip. Maybe that was why detectives went about in pairs. One to drive, the other to keep an eye on what was going on.
She headed home. The streets were empty now, hardly anything on the road. She drove slowly, giving herself a ticking off for her absurdity. That, and the car wasn’t up to being driven at speed. It grumbled along noisily and made odd complaining grunts when she changed gear. The wipers squeaked, the rain got heavier, bounced off the pavements, rivers down the sides of the road. There was nobody about.