Terms of Affection

by M K Turner

  “She spoke to you? That hasn’t happened before has it?”

  “No, no, no. No words. She was there,” Again her left hand raised above her shoulder, “I felt her, I read, and she was gone in an explosion of . . . anger. It’s the only way I can describe it. It shocked me. I’m not making sense to you, am I? Where’s that cuppa?”

  “Yes, in a way. I have no idea what that feels like, but perhaps she doesn’t want to be found. Perhaps she wants to stay buried and this is her warning you off?” Hitting the switch on the kettle, Angie turned back to her mother. “That’s what I’m reading from this. I’d offer to have a look at the file, but to be honest I haven’t got the energy.”

  “Oh, you’ve had more success than me. I can tell. You did the boy . . . Henry?”

  “Yes, I’m getting somewhere, but not ready to discuss it. Have you heard from Gran? What did she say about your rejection?”

  “Nothing as yet. She’s on a pensioners’ jolly today. Burnham or Clevedon possibly. Not back until six. Sarah Townsend was dropping them off at the bus station, and I have the joy of picking them up during rush hour.”

  “I’m sure Gran will have words of wisdom for you.” Angie grinned.

  Although they loved each other dearly, Margaret and Bridget rarely saw eye to eye. Angie was frequently called upon to referee their differences.

  “I doubt I’ll tell her. I think you’re right. It would appear that Michelle had a lot of issues, not least her marriage was on the rocks. If she did decide to take her own life, something she threatened more than once, then perhaps she doesn’t want anyone to know.” Smoothing the creases from her skirt as she got to her feet, she strode into the hall. “I’ve stopped you mid-chore. I’ll go and strip that bed for you. I’ll return that file, and perhaps you can look at it as and when you feel like it.”

  “Mum, there’s no need. I can do it later.”

  “No, no. Not a problem. I feel like a weight has been lifted. You see, Angie, I knew talking to you would sort it out. Do . . . Oh, and here they are. Come to Nana, darling.” Taking Lily from Ryan, she walked into the sitting room. “I’ll keep her occupied while you two sort out the shopping.” Kicking the door shut, she called, “Child secure, unload at will.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Ryan popped his head around the door. Lily was asleep in her grandmother’s arms. “I thought she might drop off. She was fighting it in the car. Are you staying for lunch? I’ve got some lovely crusty bread and extra strong cheddar. Thought we’d have a ploughman’s.”

  “Sounds perfect. Here, take Lily for me, my arm has gone to sleep. I can help then.”

  Lifting his daughter carefully, Ryan lowered his voice. “I’ll pop her up in the cot. No need to help, Angie’s already on it.” Lifting a finger, he pointed at the printer. “Have a read of that, I’ve not seen it yet, but she was upset last night.”

  It didn’t take long, and by the time lunch was ready, Margaret already had a plan. Unsure how Angie would take such early interference, she approached the matter from a different angle.

  “Would you mind if I had a look at the file on Henry Cooksey? I’ve got nothing to do all afternoon while I await the return of the merry widows. It’ll keep me out of trouble and out of your hair.”

  “You read it then?” Pointing a hunk of bread at her, he asked, “Did you ‘get’ anything?” His body swayed from side to side as he spoke.

  “What is that movement supposed to be?” Irritated, Angie turned to her mother. “And you, why beat about the bush, all you needed to say, is, I’ve read what you’ve written, without permission, but read it just the same, and now I’m going to give you my opinion.”

  “Hang on a minute, Ange. I told her to read it. Apologies if I overstepped the mark.” Holding up his hands in surrender, he apologised to Margaret.

  “No need to apologise, either of you. Angie is right to be irritated if she thinks I’m interfering. It’s an emotional process and you have to let the pieces fall into place, it’s why I only suggested reading the file, and not what I think we should do.” Biting into her bread, she spoke with her mouthful, “This bread is delicious.”

  “Subject changer.” Refusing to ask, Angie picked up a pickled onion and winced as the sour vinegar hit the back of her throat.

  Looking from one to the other, Ryan wondered who would give in first. He was used to this game. After five minutes of silence, and lunch nearly over, it was he who gave in.

  “Blimey, you two are stubborn, she won’t ask, you won’t tell. I’ll do the honours. What do you think we should do, Margaret? And as soon as you tell me, I’ll read it and give my opinion, and then Ange can be pissed with both of us. Plan?”

  Trying not to smile, Margaret looked at her daughter. “Only if Angie agrees.”

  “Get on with it, Mother.”

  “I think we should take the scarf and go to the bus stop. It didn’t sound far from Henry’s home address and if they still live there, I think we should knock and speak to the parents. If they’re in of course.” Pushing her plate forward, she looked Angie in the eye. “You know I’m better with locations and objects.”

  Remaining silent, Angie took a corner off the block of cheese, stabbing it repeatedly as she considered this. Her mother was probably right, and there was no reason not to get on with it, except . . . there was no exception.

  “Ryan, this is your fault, you’re babysitting.”

  “Can I read it before you disappear?” Winking at Margaret, Ryan lifted the file from the box which was now on the floor. “Make some room, let’s find out where this bus stop is.”

  The table was cleared, the Cookseys’ home address and location of the bus stop noted, and while Angie changed, Ryan read what had been witnessed so far. Margaret sat nursing the scarf.

  “Come on then, it’s on the other side of town and you have to be at the bus station at six.” Scooping up the car keys, Angie waved them at her mother. “I’ll drive.”

  “Are you not going to ask what I think?” Ryan shuffled the paper into a neat stack and placed it on the coffee table.

  “No. Because this is what we’re going to do. You can give your thoughts once I’m home. Lily is stirring by the way.” Blowing him a kiss, she passed her mother’s coat and opened the door. “If you get the urge, and or the opportunity, you can get the veg ready for dinner.”

  “That was harsh,” commented Margaret as they set off.

  “I know. But he thinks it’s like reading a book. Albeit the chapters are in the wrong order. He doesn’t understand how it happens . . . any more than we do, but he has no concept of how draining it is. He’s got the bit between his teeth. I have no idea why, other than he knows I don’t want to go back to writing scripts for The Village, and we can’t survive on just his salary.”

  “Have you considered that he might be interested, now he’s accepted it? Although, I’ll grant you, his acceptance came quickly, considering I spent the best part of my life denying it.”

  “Enough about Ryan, we need to think about how we’re going to approach this, and I think we need to give the Cookseys prior warning that we’re coming. I jotted their number on the pad, although it might not be the same as it was in seventy-seven. Give it a try.”

  “And say we’re working with the police? How should we approach it?”

  “I forgot it was Gran who was the storyteller. I’ll call from the bus stop. We’ll be there a while I expect.”

  Turning off the main road as instructed by the satnav, Angie followed the winding lane out into the countryside. As they turned a bend, she spotted the bus stop on the brow of the hill.

  “There it is.”

  “Your eyesight is better than mine.” Leaning forward to peer ahead, Margaret shook her head. “Can’t see it.”

  “When we come out of this bend look up to the top of the hill, it’s on the right, set back off the road a little. Stone built.”

  “No . . . Oh yes, I see where you mean, but it looks like a wall to me. You knew,
you didn’t see.”

  “Probably. Get the scarf out of my bag. You can have a wander, while I call the Cookseys.” Checking the road on the other side of the hill was clear, Angie pulled over and parked in the narrow layby in front of the bus stop. “Off you go. I doubt the call will take long.”

  Scarf in hand, Margaret went into the bus shelter. Rough stone walls supported a rusting corrugated metal roof, and a mass of dried leaves and the odd piece of paper had been blown into and caught under the sturdy wooden bench. Sitting herself in the centre of the bench, Margaret closed her eyes.

  Watching her mother, Angie listened to the ring tone and was surprised when it was answered.

  “Mrs Cooksey?”

  “Yes, dear. Do I know you?”

  Annette Cooksey sounded older than Angie expected, and realising she must be approaching eighty, Angie wondered whether it was kind to rake up the past, but it would be wrong to go any further without the couple’s blessing.

  “No, not yet. My name is Angie, and I’m a writer. I’ve been working with the police on some missing person cases, and it’s been suggested I might want to look into Henry’s disappearance. I wouldn’t want to do that if you are not comfortable with it. I wondered if I could pop round and see you and your husband at some point. I’m actually in the area this afternoon.”

  Her request was met with silence, she waited a moment. “I’ve shocked you. I’m sorry. Have you got a pen handy? I’ll leave you my number then you can call me when you’ve had a think about it.”

  “Gerry is dead. Ten years now. I’m not sure what to think if I’m honest. Not a day goes by when I don’t wonder, but you know he’s dead, don’t you? That’s why I hesitated. I accepted that a long time ago.”

  Deciding the truth was best, Angie agreed. “I think you’re right, but how can you be so sure?”

  “Because he was my boy, a good boy. Because he wouldn’t have left us without a word, and he certainly wouldn’t have left poor Lorna.”

  There was another silence, and Angie struggled to find something constructive to say. She settled on offering her number.

  “I understand. Look, take my number and if you want to talk, I’d be happy to come and see you when it’s convenient.”

  “This afternoon, you say? It’s just I have a . . . oh what harm can it do, it’s not a secret. Come after three, if you don’t mind.”

  “Thank you. Are you still living in Farthing Lane?”

  “Yes. Look I must go, I have a cake in the oven.”

  “No problem, I’ll see you a little later.”

  Hanging up, Angie considered Annette Cooksey’s words, and although she didn’t know Henry well yet, she agreed that Annette was right, Henry would never have been a runaway. Watching her mother get to her feet, she got out of the car to join her.

  “Anything?” As she neared her mother, she noticed she looked concerned. “Are you okay, Mum?”

  “No. Come and sit here. He was here alright, but it seems to have been fleeting. I feel him and then,” Margaret clicked her fingers, “gone. Perhaps you’ll do better. Here have this, I’ll have a walk around and see if that helps.”

  Taking the scarf, Angie sat on the bench, kneading the fabric between her fingers she closed her eyes. Watching for only a moment, Margaret walked to the rear of the bus stop, and after catching her coat on the blackberry brambles several times, finally made it into the dense woods behind. She’d only managed to go a few yards when Angie called to her.

  “I doubt you’ll have any luck in there. He got into a car. That’s why it was fleeting.”

  “I should have guessed. Did you get anything useful? Hang on, I’m coming back, no point in ruining a perfectly good coat on a fool’s errand.”

  Joining Angie in the bus stop, Margaret looked at her expectantly. “Tell me what you saw.”

  Chapter Five

  Cursing as he glanced at his watch, Henry increased his speed and sprinted the rest of the way to the bus stop, glad to see there was no one waiting for a bus, while irked that they hadn’t arrived yet. Despite the freezing temperature, he was now warm and he pulled off his scarf and loosened his collar. Swinging the scarf in one hand, he paced around, kicking the gravel around the bus stop, and wondering why he’d agreed to this.

  After a few moments another glance at his watch. Shit. Time was running out. Going into the shelter, he took a seat. As he placed his scarf next to him, he noticed someone had carved a heart into the wood and filled it with initials. T & M. Did he know T or M? Unable to bring a couple to mind, his thoughts turned to Lorna, a common occurrence these days. Would she be impressed if he carved her name in wood, not a bus stop bench, but a proper old tree or something? Perhaps he’d ask her.

  A car came to an abrupt halt in front of him.

  Leaning across, the driver pushed open the passenger door. “Get in.”

  “No. Don’t do this.” Henry walked to the car and leaning forward, peered at the driver. “What do you want? You have five minutes.” He checked his watch for the accuracy of that statement.

  “Don’t mess about, Henry. Get in.”

  “No!” Thumping the roof of the car in frustration, Henry turned away.

  “You’ll want to know what I have to say.”

  Stopping, Henry turned back but didn’t return to his former position. “Everything that needs saying has been said. But say it, whatever it is, then you can go. I’m sorry, I don’t even know why I agreed to this.”

  “I’m not having a shouted conversation. Get in.”

  “And then what? You’ll mess about and drive off. I know what you’re up to.” Henry remained where he was.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s bloody freezing and better to talk in here.”

  “I’m fine.” Another glance at his watch. “Time’s up. I’m off.”

  Forgetting his scarf, Henry turned and started walking away from the bus stop. The driver of the car called after him. When he heard what they said next, his feet couldn’t get him back to the car quickly enough. Jumping into the car, he closed the door as instructed and as he had predicted they drove away at speed.

  Chapter Six

  Failing to hide her disappointment, Margaret stood and looked at her daughter. “That was it? Did you see who was driving the car? I know the answer is no or you would have said. But it doesn’t give us much to go on.”

  “No, except we now know why he wasn’t at the bus stop, or on the journey Lorna and her dad took. To be honest, that’s obvious now we’re here and we can see the distances involved. Depending on how far up that lane his home is, I think we’d have reached that conclusion.”

  “Possibly. Sorry, Angie, it is a step forward. Male or female?”

  “Don’t know. Possibly male, they were self-assured and commanding. This bloody curse would be better if I heard it myself, instead I get his memories, and therefore it’s his voice.”

  “I know, I know. But it’s better than your gran or I could achieve. How . . . before that, make or model of the car?” Holding up her hand, Margaret apologised. “Sorry, you’d have said. What now? Did you get hold of the Cookseys?”

  “Mrs Cooksey, Gerry Cooksey is no longer with us.”

  “Oh dear, well to be expected. It was a long time ago. What did she say?”

  “That we could visit after three. She knows he’s dead, said her son wouldn’t just disappear, he would have been in touch. I don’t think she wanted us to be disappointed.”

  Checking her watch, Margaret walked towards the car. “Let’s go then, fifteen minutes, and we’ve got to find it yet.”

  “It’s within walking distance of this bus stop.”

  “For a fit and healthy young man, and don’t forget your grandmother needs to be picked up in town.” Flashing a smile, Margaret opened the car door. “Despite all my past misgivings, and the frustration I still feel, I am enjoying this new venture.”

  “I’d never have guessed. You ask more questions than an inquisitive child.” Setting the
satnav, Angie headed towards Farthing Lane.

  “I’m quite nervous. I’ve never done this with the next of kin, not the first meeting.”

  “At least she knows why we’re coming, and she seemed happy enough to speak to us.”

  A nod was all Margaret could manage as she wondered how she’d cope if she were in Annette Cooksey’s situation.

  They found the Cookseys’ home without any problems. It stood at the end of a row of four picturesque cottages set back from the road at the top of a hill. Farthing Lane was narrow, and Angie bumped onto the kerb of the negligible path behind a battered Landrover.

  “I don’t think we’ll be in the way here. We’re a little early. Let’s wait for ten minutes.”

  “Okay, I can compose myself looking at the wonderful view.” Releasing her seatbelt, Margaret pointed to the other side of the road. “Lucky that hedge is kept low. I bet that’s wonderful when all the crops are at their peak.”

  Looking at the patchwork of fields, Angie agreed, “Beautiful. I thought my cottage was out in the sticks, but this really is the countryside. Are you still nervous?”

  “Emotional is probably a better word. I don’t know how these women cope, I wouldn’t if I’d lost you, I’m sure. Look what I was like when that lunatic drove off with you. Thought I’d lost you both.” Clearing her throat, Margaret opened the door a crack. “I can’t wait, it will just get worse. I’m sure Mrs Cooksey won’t mind.” Climbing out of the car, Margaret chanted softly. “I mustn’t get teary, I mustn’t get teary.”

  Locking the car, Angie smiled at her. “I doubt she’d mind. There aren’t rules you know, Mum. Just take each situation as it comes. I’ll take the lead, join in when and if you want to.”