by Diane Janes
As she hurried down to the ground floor, she realized it was becoming a theme, running away to hide in the toilets. She would have to grow up – in fact, that was the solution – she was a grown-up, and the uncomfortable memories which Gilda represented belonged to an another time – a time when she had been no more than a child. She had left all that behind now, and Gilda or no Gilda, she wasn’t going to resurrect it.
The crowd in the bar was thinning by the time she returned. A lot of people had already made their way back to their seats, and the little group from Easter Bridge appeared to be on the point of dispersing. Gilda was facing the opposite way, which gave Jo the chance to take a long, hard look at her new neighbour. Her hair was as lank as it had always been, although these days it was streaked with grey, and she still wore it scraped back into a plastic hair clip which might have come from Woolworth’s. Her trousers were ill fitting and not quite long enough, revealing pale blue ankle socks and flat lace-ups, the ensemble topped off with a strange knitted jacket, possibly courtesy of Oxfam. In twenty-first century Ulverston, where any eccentrically dressed bag lady might just turn out to be a moneyed recycling fanatic, it was impossible to make completely objective judgements based on fashion considerations alone, but in Gilda’s case, Jo detected the natural successors to the old-fashioned pleated skirts and hand-knitted cardies which had singled Gilda out as ‘different’ at school, before the girl even opened her mouth.
Jo reminded herself firmly that nothing which had happened in the past could possibly matter now, although if Gilda was going to live just across the road, she would presumably have to come to some accommodation with her. She decided the safest line to take would be amnesia. She would claim to have pretty much forgotten everything about Gilda – after all, a great deal of water had passed under the bridge since then.
The playing in the second half was sublime, but Jo struggled to focus on the remainder of the programme. She kept experiencing the irrational sensation that Gilda was watching her from somewhere in the semi-darkened hall, though when the lights came up and she scanned the applauding crowd in the balcony, and then the departing concert-goers on the stairs and in the street outside, there was no sign of their new neighbour. Not that she was allowed to forget her.
‘What’s the deal with you and the weird woman?’ Marcus asked as they headed back to the car, sheltered again by the big umbrella.
Weird – that was exactly it, she thought. Gilda had always been a bit weird. ‘We were at senior school together, in the same class. Her name was Gilda Stafford then.’
‘Why did you pretend not to recognize her?’
‘It’s awkward – complicated.’
‘Why?’
Jo hesitated. They had reached the big roundabout at the bottom of the hill, and had to pause for a couple of passing cars before they could cross the road. The pavements reflected cold and wet in the street lights. It was quiet enough to hear their footfalls when there wasn’t any passing traffic. ‘It’s something I’d much rather not talk about. Something I’m rather ashamed of, if you want to know the truth.’
Marcus said nothing, leaving a long silence during which he clearly expected her to elucidate further, but she said nothing as they crossed the car park and climbed into the car. After starting the engine, he said, ‘If this woman is going to live just across the road and there’s something – or was something – between the two of you, don’t you think it might be better if you told me?’
‘It’s nothing really. It’s all in the past. You know – just schoolgirl stuff.’
‘No, I don’t know.’ He reached across to increase the heat on the windscreen, which was starting to mist up. ‘I think you’d better tell me about it. If it’s something trivial, then you’re right, it doesn’t matter. If it is something important, then I ought to know.’
Jo hesitated. It was obvious that his curiosity was aroused and he wasn’t going to drop it. ‘OK. When I started at St Catherine’s, everyone else had been there for a couple of years and already made their friends. I was a very lonely, very scared new girl. I fell in with the first people who offered to be friends with me and I became part of their … crowd. All I wanted was to fit in and be accepted. You can understand that, can’t you?’
‘Of course,’ said Marcus, but his tone was cautious rather than warm.
‘We – they – were quite a tough crowd. You know, the sort of girls who are always a bit cheeky to the teachers, always on the edge of any trouble. We used to dare one another to do stupid things. We even did a bit of shoplifting, not because we wanted or needed the things we took, but just to prove we could get away with it. I knew it was wrong and I was petrified that I’d get caught, but I did it because the others did it, and if you didn’t keep up, you’d be out …’
‘Of the gang,’ Marcus finished for her. He sounded like a vicar who has just found a fag end in the collection plate.
‘And no one else wanted to be my friend. I’d had such a hard time at my other schools, always being pointed out, always being made to feel different. People calling things out, or just whispering behind your back.’ She paused, but Marcus continued to focus on the road ahead, giving her no sign.
‘So instead of being a victim, you joined the bullies,’ he said quietly.
‘Gilda Stafford brought trouble on herself!’ Jo exclaimed. ‘She used to bring this rag doll thing to school and talk to it. One time she pretended to do voodoo, you know – sticking pins into a plasticine figure. It was supposed to put a curse on Colleen Hudd – she was sort of the leader of our group. As you said yourself, Gilda’s weird.’
‘I didn’t mean weird in that sense. She’s got a slightly odd appearance, that’s all.’
‘She’s always had what you call an “odd appearance”, and it wasn’t just the way she looked. While the rest of us were listening to Duran Duran and watching The Outsiders, she was talking to a bloody rag doll. Is it any wonder the other kids took a rise out of her? If it hadn’t been us, it would have been someone else.’
‘But it was you.’
‘For crying out loud, Marcus, don’t sound so judgemental. I don’t suppose anyone’s led an absolutely blameless youth, not even you.’
‘I never bullied anyone.’
‘I never really did anything to her. I wasn’t one of the ringleaders, I just tagged along and let things happen because I was too much of a coward to go against people like Colleen. It’s easy to look back now and say that I should have spoken out. Believe me, I’m not proud of it.’
‘What did you do to her, exactly?’
‘Really Marcus, this is ridiculous. I honestly don’t remember anything specific. It was something which happened at school – it went on for a couple of years, then Gilda left.’
‘Because you bullied her?’
‘Not me! I told you, I was just a bystander. I don’t suppose Gilda differentiated between us, but in my case it was just a question of hanging around with the wrong people. And I’m sure there were other reasons for her leaving, too.’
‘Really? Such as?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. You’re making it all sound important, and it really wasn’t. I don’t know exactly why she left – I don’t know everything there is to know about Gilda Stafford, or whatever her name is now.’
Jo huddled back against the seat. They had long since left the main road; dripping hedges and dry-stone walls appeared for a few seconds in the headlights, approaching fast before dropping away into the blackness again as soon as the car was past. The steady hush-hush of the wipers, the faint glow of the lights on the dashboard and the hum of the air-con, all contrived to give the impression of security, but Jo knew it was an illusion. Sooner or later you always had to go out and confront the dark again. She considered pointing out to Marcus that Gilda had survived; she had evidently married and produced a child, and what was more, she still had her child – but she decided against it. Better to say nothing more. To live in the moment of the car journey, where everythi
ng appeared superficially safe and warm.
Next morning, keen to avoid any possibility of making an apology to Sean with Marcus looking on, Jo feigned sleep until Marcus was almost ready to leave for another round of castles and abbeys. When she finally drifted downstairs in her dressing gown, safe in the knowledge that there had been no sound from Sean’s room to suggest his imminent appearance, she was relieved to find Marcus in a much more equitable mood.
‘It looks like a nice day.’ His greeting was cheerful, and he kissed her on top of the head.
‘Yes. I thought I might go out and do some drawing later on. Any idea if Sean has plans?’
‘He didn’t mention anything specific, but I expect he’ll be hanging out with Harry. The two of them have been pretty inseparable these past few days.’
‘I’m going to do some more work on the Artists in the Lakes idea, while you’re away.’
‘We’ll need to come up with a better handle than that. Artists in the Lakes is too vague. It doesn’t say enough.’
‘I know, but the title is often the last thing we come up with. I’m sure I’ll think of something better, when I’ve got the format clearer in my mind.’
‘We should ask Melissa – she’s always full of good ideas.’
Jo turned away, so that he would not see her face.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘you shouldn’t let that business with the woman at The Old Forge worry you. Kids say and do all sorts of daft things – sticks and stones and all that – she probably doesn’t remember anything about it. She was chatting in a perfectly ordinary, pleasant way last night. And if she does remember, she’s hardly going to make a thing of it – she’s probably as embarrassed by it all as you are.’
In the office, Jo found an email had come in from the other side of the world, bringing her up to date on Nerys’s latest adventures and asking, among other things, how it was going with Sean. Putting a mental picture of the damaged cupboard firmly to the back of her mind, Jo typed: Sean-wise, things are about the same. It’s very hard to build a relationship with someone who makes me feel as if I am wearing my wicked stepmother badge and riding my broomstick the whole time. Marcus falls over backwards to be fair to Sean, and sometimes he gets caught between the two of us, but I know we’ll manage to work things out eventually.
Sean had still not emerged by the time she had showered, dressed and sent her email, so she left him a note on the table in the hall to say she would be back in time to do his lunch. As she turned to close the front door, she noticed that the seashell she had last seen on the gatepost a few days before had been moved to the front step, where it now sat alongside the old-fashioned boot scraper. Presumably Sean or Marcus had put it there, although she could not imagine why.
When she reached the end of the drive, she was half inclined to turn right and head down towards the bridge, where some daffodils growing near the beck might provide an easy subject. Whichever way she chose, she could not go very far because she did not want to leave Sean alone for too long. Besides which, there was a backlog of jobs in the house which required her attention. It occurred to her that she had never drawn the cluster of buildings at High Gilpin, and since the house was currently without a tenant, now was as good an opportunity as any. She told herself that any interest in High Gilpin had nothing at all to do with seeing Brian go up there a few days before.
The track leading to High Gilpin initially ran through an open field, crossing first a cattle grid and then a concrete culvert which carried a tributary of the main beck down towards the bridge. After this it proceeded steadily uphill, heading for a gap in the wall, where once upon a time there might have been a field gate. From this point it was possible to see a couple of chimney pots above the trees, providing you knew just where to look for them, but the rest of the house and buildings remained hidden behind the shelter belt until you were almost on top of them.
The farmhouse itself was painted white, but the cluster of buildings which had once housed livestock and farm machinery were the original unfaced local stone. By the time Jo reached the point where the rough track became a concrete drive, the sun had gone behind a cloud, rendering the buildings dark and uninviting. She followed the drive along the side of the house to where the outbuildings formed a kind of courtyard at the rear of the property, stopping short at the back corner of the house, when the yard came into full view and she recognized Shelley and Brian’s estate car standing with its boot open alongside the barn which now served as a garage. The barn doors were shut, but the door to an adjoining outbuilding stood ajar, its padlock dangling from the hasp with a key still in it.
Jo swallowed so hard that she almost choked. Although she had seen Brian heading this way a few days before, the last thing she had expected was to find him here, doing something in the sheds at High Gilpin. Of course, it could be something perfectly legitimate – he had obtained a key from somewhere after all – but on balance, it would surely be better if she slipped away without Brian seeing her. Then another idea arrived hard on the heels of the first: that if Brian had access to the sheds at High Gilpin, maybe she ought to find out what he was up to. No, no. That was silly, melodramatic. Much better to get out of it, before Brian came out into the yard and saw her hanging about, but her heart seemed to have jumped up into her throat and her legs refused to obey her. And suppose she started to walk back and Brian overtook her on the track? There was nowhere but the house she could have been. He might think she had seen something. Stupid, stupid. There was nothing to see.
At that moment Brian appeared in the doorway, both arms occupied with a lump of something swathed in black plastic. He took it round to the back of the car and placed it inside, seemingly oblivious to her presence. Jo continued to stand rooted to the spot, watching as Brian returned to the outbuilding. Faint sounds came from within, suggestive of large boards or planks of wood being moved around, before Brian emerged again after a moment or two, loaded down with another object, longer and narrower than the first, but similarly shrouded in plastic. Had he really failed to notice her, or was he for some reason pretending she wasn’t there? This time he slammed the rear hatch closed and went back to lock the outhouse door.
If he had not seen her already, he certainly couldn’t avoid doing so once he got into the vehicle and drove it through the gap in which she was currently standing. She forced her legs into action, darting back along the side of the house. She would never make it into the trees before the car overtook her, but the small patch of garden at the front offered few possibilities for concealment. In desperation, she crouched down beside a large plastic water butt, which stood halfway between the corner of the house and the parlour window. It would at least shield her as Brian drove by – she would be fine as long as he didn’t bother to look in his driving mirror – and surely he would keep his eyes fixed on the track ahead, because there was no reason to check the rear-view mirror up here. The blood was pounding in her ears, and she stayed with her back pressed hard against the farmhouse wall until long after she had seen the car disappear behind the trees, and could no longer hear its engine in the distance.
Her mother had sometimes hidden from people. When Jo had been very little she had treated it like a game of hide and seek, but later on she understood that it was not a game. She stood up and made her way back along the track, any desire to draw the buildings forgotten. She forced herself to walk so hard that her breath came in gasps, once or twice almost breaking into a run in her desire to put as much distance between herself and High Gilpin as possible.
On the doorstep of The Hideaway she stooped to pick up the shell. Now that she looked at it properly, she wasn’t sure whether it was the same shell that had been on the gatepost or not. She took it into the kitchen and put it on the shelf where they kept the recipe books, intending to ask Sean or Marcus where it had come from. The whole episode at High Gilpin had already taken on a kind of unreality. She decided that on the whole it would be better not to mention anything about it to Marcus.
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br /> CHAPTER NINE
Although his mother liked to read P. D. James and his father watched detective shows on TV, Harry had never been much interested in murder mysteries before. This was different, of course, not least because it was not a game. During the first week of the holidays he pored over Sean’s accumulated files of information. Together they interrogated the internet afresh, discovering a number of crime forums and blogspots which freely discussed the case. Yeah, she did it, ran one posting. The whole story is just too many coincidences.
Harry suggested that if they tried hard enough, they might come up with the one conclusive piece of evidence everyone else had missed, but Sean was less than convinced by the idea. If hard evidence had been available, he said, the police would have arrested his stepmother years ago. She was too clever for them – even if she often looked and acted so dumb. His own strategy was more concerned with observing their suspect for signs that she was about to kill again. As he pointed out to Harry, she had recently been behaving more oddly than usual. The other day she had asked him, a propos of nothing at all, whether he had put a seashell on the front doorstep. The way she held the shell out to him on the palm of her hand reminded him of the way a mad bloke on the bus in Manchester had once offered him a glass marble, claiming it was a sweet.
In the face of his newly acquired knowledge, Harry was taking no chances either. He carried a heavy torch with him when walking between The Hideaway and The Hollies, even though he didn’t really need it now that the nights were lighter. In the privacy of his bedroom, he had practised swinging it towards the head of an imaginary assailant; an overarm movement for someone in front of him, a reverse underarm swing if anyone came at him from behind. The law allowed you to use ‘reasonable force’ to defend yourself. Sean had looked into the question on the net.