Terms of Affection

by M K Turner

  “I’ll be back, Henry. I’ll bring back help somehow.” As the words left her lips, she knew that she wouldn’t. How would she explain this? “I’ll be back though, I’ll come back.” Again, she knew she was lying. “Bloody hell, Henry, this is it. But I’ll think of you. Perhaps one day, in the future, I’ll be able to come. You know, bring a bunch of flowers or something.”

  Chelly doubted she would, but she wasn’t going to admit that. Stepping back from the mound, which was already turning white, she realised her hair was soaked. Her efforts to cover Henry’s body had stopped the cold from affecting her, but she shivered now.

  “I can’t even pray for you. I don’t know how. But God bless and all that. I . . . I’ll give you a marker. An H, that’s all I can do.”

  Grasping the stick with renewed energy she approached the rock face. Lifting the seat so that it was level with her hip she jabbed it at the rock with all her might. The stick bent a little and the seat snapped off with a sharp crack. An inspection with the torch showed she had managed little more than a line no thicker than a hair. Screaming her frustration at the cold rockface, she picked up several stones, inspecting them one after the other. Eventually she found one with a sharp edge, and using the line she had already made, she scratched away until she had an almost straight line about five inches long and deep enough that she could get the tip of her nail into it. Starting on the crossbar of the H, she screamed in agony as the stone slipped from her control, and tore the skin off her knuckles.

  “I hope you appreciate this, Henry, I really do.” Closing her eyes, she apologised, “That was selfish, wasn’t it? You’ve sent me mad, Henry Cooksey, totally bloody cuckoo.” Her teeth were chattering as she whispered to him. “But not mad enough that I can stay here all night. One last try and I’m out of here.”

  Retrieving the stone, she tried again. Her efforts weren’t accurate, but on second inspection, she smiled. “Not an H, but a cross, so if you do believe in God, that’s probably more appropriate. I have to go now. Bye, Henry.”

  Henry’s grave, such as it was, was almost obliterated by the snow. Blowing a kiss, she skirted around it to head back to her car. As she cleared the mound, the battery on the torch ran out, and she was plunged into darkness.

  “You did that, didn’t you?” Glancing over her shoulder, she blew another kiss. “I know, I deserve it.”

  The journey back to the car, and the welcoming harshness of the fire station floodlights, gave Chelly time to think. But all her thoughts were focused on protecting herself. How would she explain her injuries? Would Chris notice his hat and hunting seat had gone missing? Would Chris be at home? If he was there, where would she say she’d been? Had anyone seen her car? Why had she left the bloody stick there? It had her fingerprints on, would anyone find it?

  On reaching her car, relief flooded through her. The snow had kept everyone at home, there were no prints from either feet or vehicles in the pristine snow. Thank God. With this final thought she turned and looked into the blackness.

  “I hope there is something else for you now, Henry. I really do.”

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Margaret looked at Bridget and nodded. They had come up with a reasonably good excuse to get into the former Rogers’ home, and having agreed that Margaret should do most of the talking, they’d finally left the car and walked along the path. They now stood on the doorstep. Bridget lifted her hand to push the bell, and was surprised when the door jerked open.

  A harassed looking woman in her mid-fifties looked them up and down. “Don’t you ring that bell,” she hissed. “I’ve spent the last two hours getting them off. If you wake them, you can get them back down.” Glancing nervously over her shoulder, she turned back. “If you’re Jehovah’s whatsits, we’re not interested.”

  “Grandchildren?” Bridget’s smile was sympathetic. “I remember looking just like that when mine were young.”

  “A couple of mornings a week I agreed to. Now it’s a couple of days. At least I had my kids spaced out. Who knew twins could be such a nightmare?”

  “Twins?” Bridget shouted and clapped her hands. “We had twins. Not identical though, were they, Margaret?” Looking at Margaret, she raised her eyebrows.

  Rolling her eyes, Margaret looked at the woman who had glared menacingly at Bridget for making such a racket. “How could they be? I had one of each.”

  “Me too. Bloody nightmare, terrible twos, and Simon is still cutting his back teeth.”

  “Oh no, not the back ones.” Bridget winced.

  “Look, I don’t want to be rude, but I’ve got to clean up and finish getting dinner ready. What can I do for you?”

  “Ah, well that’s a long story, why don’t we talk while you get on with the . . . Oh dear.”

  From somewhere inside the house a child cried out.

  “Bugger, I’ll have to shut whoever that is up, or they’ll have the other one awake. Hang on.” Turning quickly the woman disappeared through the first door off the hall.

  Grabbing Margaret’s elbow, Bridget led her over the threshold. “Well we’re in,” she whispered.

  As she wondered whether to close the door, the woman reappeared with a sleepy-looking toddler in her arms. His cheeks were crimson, his nose running, and his dummy dropped from his mouth as he opened it to bellow again.

  Darting forward and catching the dummy deftly, Margaret surprised even herself. Smiling at the child, she held out the dummy. “Here you go, Simon, did we scare you? You don’t need to be frightened of us,” she cooed, gaining a smile from Simon. “What a lovely smile, are you going to be a good boy for your . . .” she glanced at the woman, “Nana?”

  “Nanny, but I’ll answer to anything if it comes with a smile. Now, what . . .”

  Having taken a shine to Margaret, Simon suddenly launched himself at her. Margaret took him into her arms and kissed his cheek. He gabbled at her, then paused, clearly awaiting her answer?

  “He wants you to play trains.”

  Simon was nodding. “Yes, yes, yes.”

  “Hush. This way.” The woman ushered Margaret to the end of the hall, and into the kitchen. “I’ll get the train.” Sidestepping Bridget, she went back to the sitting room.

  Margaret and Bridget sat themselves at the table, with Simon on Margaret’s lap. A selection of vegetables sat on a chopping board by the sink, and steam was rising from a pan on the hob. The woman reappeared and handed Simon a small wooden train. He placed it on the table and rolled it back and forth.

  Walking to the hob, the woman stirred the pot. “If I manage to get this done, it will be a miracle.” She eyed the vegetables. “Do you mind if I chop while you tell me what it is you want?”

  Getting to her feet, Bridget held out her hand. “Of course not. I’m Bridget by the way. I’ll give you a hand, if you like, can’t sit idle while others are working.”

  “Jen, and there’s no need.”

  “I know. But I’d like to. Shall I take on the carrots?”

  As Jen pulled the cutlery drawer open, Simon wriggled off Margaret’s lap and on to the floor, train in hand. Crawling under the table, he made choo choo noises as he weaved the train in and out of the table legs.

  “Do me a favour, go and shut the door to the sitting room. If he gets in there, it’ll be chaos. Emmy isn’t the best company when she’s been woken suddenly. Simon, come and show Nanny the train.”

  Simon paused long enough for Margaret to step over him and hurry down the hall. As she pulled the door shut, a warm sensation shot along her arm. The whites of her knuckles appeared as she tightened her grip on the handle and bowed her head. Remaining like that for a few seconds her head jerked up and she stared at the staircase. She had to get upstairs.

  Returning to the kitchen, she found Bridget in full flow, telling the story that was supposed to be told by her. Simon was sitting crossed-legged under the kitchen table. In one hand his beloved train, in the other a half-eaten banana.

  “That looks scrummy.” Mar
garet crouched and grinned at him. He held out the banana offering a bite. “No thank you, my darling.”

  “He likes sharing.” Jen blew Simon a kiss. “I was just telling Bridget about—”

  “Before you tell me, may I use your toilet please?”

  “Of course. Top of the stairs.”

  Thanking her, Margaret returned to the hall and slowly climbed the stairs. Her hand on the banister she stopped on each stair her eyes closed. When she reached the landing, she looked around, all the doors to the bedrooms were open. As she made her way to the bedroom at the front of the house, a heat rose from her feet to her chest and she clenched her fists. Her chest tightened and she leaned against the door frame.

  A piercing scream brought her back to reality and she looked down into the hall. Simon had escaped the kitchen and had attempted to climb the stairs, train in hand. Bridget and Jen appeared as his sister joined in. Hurrying to the bathroom, Margaret pulled the flush. Walking down the stairs she looked at the twins screaming for all they were worth while Bridget and their grandmother tried to sooth them.

  “Oh dear. What happened?” She took Simon, who held out his arms.

  “I think he was trying to find you.” Jen’s eyes accused her of encouraging him.

  “Silly boy. Now where’s the train?”

  Simon stopped mid-scream and held out the train.

  “Right shall we go in here and play with it?” Margaret walked into the sitting room. “Mother, bring Emmy, we can keep them entertained, while Jen finishes preparing dinner.”

  Hands on hips, Jen watched the two women settle the children on the playmat. Simon found the truck which attached to the train and insisted Margaret do the sound effects. Bridget emptied some bricks in front of Emmy and began to build a tower.

  Glancing at Jen, she jerked her head toward the kitchen. “Go on then. We can’t stay long.”

  A twitch of a smile, and a sharp nod and Jen was gone. Bridget returned her attention to Margaret.

  “Anything?”

  “Yes, but this young explorer brought it to an end prematurely.”

  “Do you want to go and try again?”

  “Not sure that I can. Certainly not immediately.”

  Emmy’s yawn was wide and noisy, and Bridget scooped her up. “Let’s get these two off, and we’ll tell her you have the trots or something.”

  “We most certainly will not. Perhaps you should have a try.” Pointing at Emmy who, thumb in mouth, had snuggled into Bridget to complete her nap, she added, “One down, one to go. Doubt it will take long, he’s falling asleep sitting up.” Sitting on the sofa, she held out her arms. “Simon, come and have a cuddle with me. I need a cuddle.”

  Not needing to be asked twice, he clambered onto her lap.

  “Tell me what you saw.”

  “Not here. Wait until we’re in the car.” Rolling her eyes, Margaret rocked Simon back and forth. He was asleep within minutes, and she lay him carefully on the other end of the sofa, covering him with the brightly coloured throw which lay crumpled on the floor. “No sudden noises, Mother.”

  “That might be difficult I’m getting a cramp in my leg. Take Emmy, I must straighten it.”

  Positioning Emmy at the opposite end to her brother, Margaret rearranged the throw so that both were covered.

  Bridget held out her hand. “You’ll have to help.” Once on her feet, she looked around. “Let’s get this room tidied, and get you back upstairs. I think that should be a polite enough pause between visits,” she whispered with a grin.

  Although not sure where some of the children’s toys belonged, the two women collected them up, and arranged them neatly in the corner of the room. A final glance at the two children, and Bridget headed for the door.

  “Leave the talking to me.”

  “Mother, can we just . . .”

  The door opened causing Bridget to step back. Margaret held a finger to her lips as Jen appeared. Eyes wide in appreciation, Jen grinned and beckoned them out into the hall.

  “I can’t believe you managed that. Thanks, mind you, there were two of you.”

  “Many hands, Jen, many hands. Now—”

  “I’ve spoken to my son-in-law, he phoned to make sure all was well. Anyway, he says they don’t know many of the neighbours well, only a handful. But he reckons that the only elderly residents live three doors up on this side,” she jerked her thumb to the left, “and across the road with the fence that needs a lick of paint.”

  To Margaret’s dismay, Jen walked to the door and opened it.

  “Thanks for your help. I’m going to risk putting my feet up with them, you never know, I might catch forty winks.”

  Knowing that Bridget was about to suggest she needed to pay another visit, Margaret pushed her forward. “No, thank you, Jen. We knew it was a long shot.”

  Waiting until the door had closed quietly behind them, Bridget tutted. “You could have tried again. It wouldn’t have hurt.”

  “I don’t think so. I feel perfectly normal. I think we should speak to the neighbours anyway. We might get something. Three doors she said.”

  At the first house, a woman in a lilac uniform opened the door, and it was established that Mrs Eaton was virtually housebound and currently napping.

  “Her memory’s not good, you’ve got to remind her what time of day it is sometimes. Her daughter finishes work in an hour. She might be able to help.”

  Thanking her they crossed the road and headed for the house with the fence. This time they had more luck and Stanley Gooding ushered them into the living room.

  “Are you sure you don’t want tea?”

  “No, thank you. So, Stanley, you remember the Rogers family?”

  “Oh yes. My mother was a bit of a gossip and she never stopped going on about them. I was about twenty when they moved.”

  “What do you remember about that?”

  “Everything. Why do you want to know?” Stanley was clearly as much of a gossip as his mother had been.

  “We’re trying to find out what happened to Chelly Rogers, and we know that this was her last known address.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what, dear?” Smiling Bridget cast a glance at Margaret, who sighed. Her mother was going to start lying.

  “Why are you trying to find her? She was a bit of a girl. She used to wink at me, in front of mother too!”

  “I’m not surprised to hear that. We’ve been told Chelly was lonely.”

  Snorting, Stanley laughed. “I doubt that. She wasn’t short of friends, not male ones anyway.”

  “Really? Do tell me more, Stanley.”

  “I was working, but Mother told us that she had men in there regularly while Mr Rogers was at work. Shame, he was a nice chap. Ran off with one of them.”

  “Are you sure, Stanley, that’s not what we heard? What happened?” Resting back in the chair, Margaret smiled encouragingly.

  “Well the police turned up one night, and say Mrs Rogers is missing. Disappeared over the weekend, and asked if we saw anything unusual.”

  “And did you?”

  “Not me, but my wife and mother didn’t miss much, but like they told the police, it wasn’t unusual. Not at all.”

  “Gosh. What had happened?”

  “First, in the afternoon Mrs Rogers had had an almighty row with Beryl. She lived next door to the Rogers. It was about the music. Mother reckoned Mrs Rogers thought she was still a teenager. Beryl had come over here to tell them all about it. Mrs Rogers told Beryl to . . . you know . . . excuse the language, eff off. Not very ladylike. Terrible really. It was a nice street, she was bringing down the tone, and then Lorna got pregnant. Never even had a boyfriend, Karen said.”

  “Who’s Karen?”

  “My wife.”

  “Ah, so you both lived with your mother?”

  “Yes. Didn’t I say? We were saving for a deposit, but then Mother died and we stayed here. Used our savings for the conservatory. Karen was so proud of that, we were the only house i
n the street with a conservatory.”

  “Was Karen friends with Lorna?”

  “Not really. She was that much older, Lorna was still at school, but she saw her several times at the ante-natal clinic, before they moved. That’s how she knew about the baby, they were pregnant at the same time. Sad really, her mother had run off, she had no chap, and her dad was a teacher.”

  “Unbelievable,” Bridget agreed. “How do you know her mother ran off? She was reported as missing.”

  “Beryl said she as good as told her. Chelly said something like you won’t have to put up with it for long. After she told them about the row, Beryl stayed for tea. I was glad about that, with those three gabbing in the kitchen I could watch the football results in peace and check the pools coupon. Beryl left eventually, but was only gone a couple of minutes before she was back. She’d seen another one.”

  “Another what?” Margaret leaned forward. “Do you mean a man?”

  “Yes. He was knocking on the door, and when Mrs Rogers answered it, Beryl said she virtually pulled him in. Mr Rogers and Lorna were away, Devon they told mother, or was it Cornwall? Anyway, Mrs Rogers didn’t go with them.” He laughed. “Mrs Rogers put two fingers up to Beryl before she closed the door. To be honest, I reckon that was fair enough, I didn’t like Beryl much either.”

  “What happened then?” Beginning to worry he’d never get to the point, Margaret tried to hurry him along.

  “Not much, another one came a bit later, then when Mr Rogers gets home from his weekend away, she’s gone. Don’t get me wrong, I understand why the poor soul thought she might be missing. He didn’t know about her comings and goings, but she told Beryl she was going, and she went.”

  “Another one, Stanley? What, a different man?” Bridget hoped she looked shocked.

  Stanley shook his head and looked sheepish. “I doubt it. That’s what mother and Karen wanted to believe, so I wasn’t going to argue, but the first one probably popped out for some cigarettes or something from the off licence. She drank, even if it wasn’t a special occasion you know.”