by Ruth Sutton
Sam looked puzzled. ‘I thought Catholic priests were there for life, like the Pope. Did they throw him out?’
Judith shrugged. ‘Don’t know. If I can find him, maybe we could see him together. He’s getting on a bit, you going on your own might put him off.’ It was a long shot, she knew, but he didn’t say no. Keep going, she told herself. Aloud, she added, ‘Don’t just let this drop, please, Sam, I need the story.’
She knew immediately that she’d pushed too far. Sam looked up and she could see the anger in his face.
‘It’s not a story, Judith, it’s a case, and it’s mine not “ours”. A boy died and I’m trying to find out how that happened, not for some stupid byline but because we need to know, his family needs to know. I told Elspeth that I’d go out if she invited you for supper. You and I have different jobs to do. I should have gone out tonight, but I was too tired and it’s been another shitty day.’ He got up from the table and pushed back his chair. ‘So I’m going to bed. You get on with your job and don’t expect me to do it for you. Good night.’
Sam pushed past Elspeth who had come downstairs at the sound of Sam’s raised voice. She stood for a moment looking at Judith, her eyebrows raised, her hands up, questioning, before she called up the stairs. ‘Sam?’ There was no reply.
‘What happened?’ she said. ‘You seemed to be getting on OK.’
Judith groaned. ‘We were,’ she said. ‘I must have asked the wrong question and he just went on about not doing my job for me. He’s so, I don’t know, so tight. Sorry Elspeth, but he is.’
‘He is, I know. He means well, but I called him sanctimonious the other day. That’s what he was, banging on about the principle of keeping his distance from the press. I had to tell him you’re my friend and if he doesn’t want to see you he’ll have to go out.’
‘I should have asked if I could come tonight.’
‘Well you didn’t, and I was pleased to see you and he’d said he would be late. Anyway, I’m not going to tread eggs around his sensitivities. Not in my own home.’
‘Well the damage is done now,’ said Judith. ‘He’s stormed off and I’m no further forward, and now you two are cross with each other.’
‘We’ll survive,’ said Elspeth. ‘He’ll probably be sorry in the morning about raising his voice. Sometimes I wish he wouldn’t apologise so much.’
Later that evening, Judith sat on her bed and wondered what to do. Her chances of getting any more information from DC Tognarelli were slim to none. Maybe Skelly could use his links with Morrison, but she’d get no credit for that. So much for Skelly’s instruction to use her wiles on Sam. She obviously hadn’t got any wiles, whatever they were. The only things she had left to follow up were the date with Mikey and a conversation with Father O’Toole in Maryport, if he was still alive. She didn’t sleep much that night.
❖ ❖ ❖
On Wednesday morning Judith followed the same instructions that Mikey had given her for their meeting the previous week. It was raining and although she was sheltered from the wind off the sea as she stood in the bushes at the digging field by Montgomery House she could feel water dripping off the trees, past her upturned collar and down her neck. She looked at her watch. It was after ten. When the boys arrived down the path from the home they didn’t spread out round the field like they had before but stayed clustered by the hut. Mr Harries was with them but he seemed to be talking to them and showing them something, and before long they traipsed back towards the path and out of sight. If Mikey had been in the group, and she wasn’t even sure he was there, he’d made no effort to contact her. She was annoyed and frustrated and very wet, but she wasn’t surprised. She knew the boys were under pressure, and what did any of them have to gain from talking to her?
By the time she was got into town on the Vespa she was so wet that she stopped off at the flat to dry out and change her clothes. Back in the newsroom, she put on her most confident expression to avoid any unwanted attention and sat at her desk writing with studied concentration, as if her story was taking shape instead of falling apart. The task of tracking down Father O’Toole took only two phone calls, one to Directory Enquiries and the other to a house on Camp Road in Maryport. The voice that answered the phone was hard to follow. ‘Father?’ said the old lady. ‘No, he died in the war, you know, fighting for his country.’
‘Father O’Toole?’ Judith repeated, wondering who this old person thought she was talking about.
‘Father O’Toole?’ said the high-pitched voice. ‘Oh, he’s not a father any more. He’s just Mr O’Toole…’
Judith heard a whispering voice and then knockings on the line, as the receiver was handed over.
‘Who is this please?’ said a man’s voice.
‘My name is Judith Pharaoh,’ said Judith.
‘Judith Pharaoh? Oh, my goodness,’ said the man. ‘Jessie’s granddaughter?’
‘Yes,’ said Judith. ‘Is that Mr O’Toole?’
‘It is indeed,’ he said. She could hear the smile in his voice. ‘Many years ago I married your parents, but that was in another life. Well, well. And where are you now, Judith?’
‘At work, in Barrow,’ she said. ‘I work for the Furness News.’
‘That’s splendid,’ he said. ‘Jessie would be so proud. And what can I do for you, my dear?’
Judith gave away as little as she could about her reasons for wanting to talk to Pat O’Toole. She told him only that it was a story about a local boys’ home and she recalled that he’d had worked with boys in care and might give him some background information. Going up to Maryport would get her out of the office and away from her colleagues’ scrutiny for a while, a bonus that she did not share with Pat. Getting instructions about how to find his house was a long process during which her questions were greeted by questions rather than answers.
‘Now you know the road up from the harbour?’ he said.
No, Judith didn’t know it. ‘Where do I go when I come out of the station?’ she asked.
‘Ah, well you know where the fort is, up on the hill there?’
And so it went. Pat seemed to find it hard to understand that Judith had never actually been to Maryport before.
❖ ❖ ❖
When Judith arrived in the newsroom the following morning to deal with some bits and pieces before heading off to Maryport, Irene Thornhill was emerging from her husband’s office, looking as well groomed as ever. Yet again, Judith was immediately conscious of her own unkempt appearance, even after she’d put on a decent pair of trousers for her trip north. Her embarrassment seemed to attract Irene’s attention like a hawk to a mouse in the grass. Judith began to understand what ‘feminine wiles’ really meant.
‘There you are, dear,’ said Irene in a low conspiratorial tone. ‘I’ve been dying to ask you whether things have improved at all, you know, after our little chat.’ She took a quick look into Cunningham’s cubbyhole but it was far too early for him to make an appearance. Judith too had a look round the newsroom, wondering whose ears might be alert to some gossip. She gestured to Irene and they stepped out into the stairwell.
‘Did you say something about the problem I was having?’ Judith asked. She didn’t want to assume that Irene had intervened on her behalf.
Irene beamed. Even in the gloom of the stairwell her carefully made up face seemed to shine. ‘I told you I could deal with it, and I did. And it worked?’
‘It looks like it,’ said Judith. ‘Ed’s hardly said a word to me, and not bothered me at all. Alan’s still after me about the story I’m working on, but I don’t feel he and Bill are trying to find fault all the time. They both seem genuinely interested in how it’s going.’
‘Splendid,’ Irene responded, pulling on her gloves.
‘What did you say, if you don’t mind me asking?’
Irene tapped the side of her nose. ‘Never you mind, dear. Just a few home truths, that’s all. It was the least I could do. We women have struggled with men at work for far too long. I thou
ght I might be able to help.’
‘And it worked,’ said Judith. ‘Thanks. I was going to write you a note about it, but I was leaving it a bit longer, to see whether it was really going to be better.’
‘If you have any more trouble with any of them, come back to me.’ Irene smiled at Judith, squeezed her arm and tapped off down the stairs on her high heels. Judith carried a faint aroma of face powder and Chanel perfume back into the newsroom, to clash incongruously with the usual smells of sweat and tobacco.
CHAPTER 10
The house on Camp Road in Maryport was bigger than Judith expected, but it looked neglected. The front hedge was wild, the garden uncared for and she noticed as she rang the bell that the front door needed painting, Chimes echoed inside before the door opened and a man stood in front of her who was nearly as wide as the doorframe. He had a thick mop of grey hair and round glasses perched on a small nose. Like Friar Tuck, Judith thought.
‘Judith Pharaoh,’ cried the man, stretching out his hand to shake hers. ‘I’m Pat O’Toole. Come in, come in.’
She stepped into the dark hallway and saw another smaller figure emerge from a room at the end of the passage. Pat O’Toole saw her too. ‘Come and meet Judith, Winnie. This is Jessie’s granddaughter. You remember Jessie?’ He was speaking very loudly; Judith guessed that the old lady must be deaf.
Pat turned to Judith, who had clasped the dry hand that was extended to her. ‘Mrs Foster has been looking after me for many years now, ever since I moved up here, when was it, Winnie?
‘After Bill died,’ she said, ‘and that was in 1950.’
‘Nearly twenty years then,’ he said. ‘Would you believe it?’
‘Not a day too long,’ said the old lady, squeezing Pat’s arm. ‘He’s such a gentleman,’ she said to Judith. ‘I look after him and he looks after me.’
‘We do indeed,’ said Pat. ‘And now Judith and I need to talk about some business, Winnie, so could you bring us some tea in the front room, and maybe some of your cherry cake?’ He said this bending over to speak to the old lady who was tiny next to him. ‘She makes a wonderful cherry cake, so she does,’ he said to Judith, straightening up again. ‘Come away into the sitting room, Judith. Let me take your coat.’
‘Well, well, let me look at you,’ he continued, as Judith settled into a chair by the bay window. ‘Jessie told me all about you. You were going off to boarding school, as I remember.’
‘Did she tell you about that?’ said Judith. ‘Jessie wasn’t sure it was the best plan for me.’
‘And was it?’ he asked, leaning forward. Jessie had always said that Pat O’Toole was a good listener, and Judith didn’t doubt it. They talked about those days for a while, about Vince’s accident and Maggie’s reaction, and Judith’s job on the paper. The door opened slowly and Mrs Foster carried in a tray that looked more than she could manage. A curious dance ensued as Pat tried to relieve her of the tray and she tried to keep hold of it. Once the tray was safe and the tea poured, Mrs Foster sat and looked hard at Judith. ‘I remember Jessie,’ she said. ‘She was a fine-looking woman, I must say. She and Pat here, well I thought they were heading for the altar, I can tell you.’ She sat back with an air of finality, while Pat looked on, nodding.
‘It didn’t work out, did it, Winnie, and here I am still. Just a sad old bachelor.’
Not very sad, thought Judith, looking at his beaming face. She’d never heard anything about Jessie and Pat being so close, but then her grandmother had always been very circumspect about her private affairs.
Mrs Foster showed no sign of leaving, but when the tea was drunk and the cherry cake consumed, Pat helped her up and kindly steered her towards the door, carrying the tray. A minute later he was back, and Judith felt those grey eyes focus closely on her again.
‘Why didn’t you and Jessie get together?’ she asked. He smiled and clasped his big hands together. ‘Well, you know, we both had our own views of the world and they didn’t always coincide. I was very fond of her, always had been since we first met just after the war, but I don’t think she felt the same about me.’ He paused, thinking. ‘Anyway, you haven’t come all this way to talk about me and your grandmother. You said something on the phone about a story you’re doing, about a boys’ home?’
Judith decided to come clean before he got too much of the real story out of her.
‘Well, actually,’ she said, ‘the story is about a boy from a local home who was found dead by the shore at Morecambe Bay a couple of weeks ago. I’m trying to piece his life together. I’ve talked to some of the other boys there and they seem bright and lively. I wonder how children end up in care like that, what their lives are like now and will be like when they go out into the world. If this lad was trying to get back to a family that doesn’t seem to care about him, why was that?’
Pat put his fingertips together. ‘How sad,’ he said. ‘Do the police know how he died?’ For a moment Judith wanted to tell him much more, but the thought was interrupted. ‘You say the family doesn’t care,’ Pat went on, ‘but they do, you know, in their own way. It’s often mum who has to hold things together and sometimes the mothers just get overwhelmed. They can’t provide for the kids and they actually think that someone else would do a better job. Yes, it’s an abdication of responsibility, but we must be careful not to judge. We’ve no idea what problems they might be facing. Could be debt, or eviction, or violence. The children may not have the right food, or any food. Some of the boys I worked with used to beg for food from neighbours, and have to share beds or sleep on the floor. Being in care was a better place for them, safer.’
‘The boy had an older brother I’ve been trying to track down,’ said Judith. ‘He went into care, too, into a Barnardo’s home in Lancaster, around 1957, maybe earlier. It’s not there any more.’
‘Well things change, as I said. Maybe it was the cost of running the homes, I don’t know. We began to think that the children, some of them at least, would be better off in families rather than in big institutions. Some of those Barnardo’s homes were huge, you know. How big is the home this boy of yours lived in?’
‘There are only about twenty boys at most, I think. Some of them are apprentices or working, and still living there. For the younger boys it must be like living in a very large family. Just three full-time staff as far as I know, although there may be others I haven’t met.’
‘You see, that could work well,’ said Pat. ‘As you said, like a large family, but all boys?’ Judith nodded. ‘And up to all sorts of things I’ve no doubt,’ he went on. ‘There will have to be rules and structures, of course, and some children will always find those difficult after what they’ve been used to. The very big homes were the ones I had my doubts about.’
‘In what way?’ said Judith.
‘Too many rules, perhaps, and not enough real care. Boys in large numbers can be a real handful.’ He got up and looked across a bookshelf beside the fireplace, picking out one and handing it to Judith. She looked at the title, Lord of the Flies.
’We read this at school,’ said Judith, recognising it. ‘But those boys were on an island, with no adults.’
‘You’d be surprised how much like that island a big place full of boys can be, even if there are adults around. They’re not around for every minute of every day. Unsupervised lads can do pretty harmful things to each other.’
Judith thought about this for a moment. Had Steven been bullied by the others, and tried to get away from them? Had they got him drunk that time against his will? Had Mikey told her the truth about anything?
She glanced at the notebook on her lap, open at the page of questions she’d written on the train. ‘There was some mention of boys from Barnardo’s going to live with families overseas. Can you tell me anything about that?’
‘Ah,’ said Pat. ‘Well that wasn’t just Barnardo’s of course. After the war, things were very difficult in Britain and looked much better in the old Empire. There was quite a push to offer children the chance
to go to Canada or Australia. A healthier life, don’t you know, often on farms where they would get decent food and exercise. It all sounded very attractive if the boy wanted to make a fresh start, or the family thought it would be best.’
‘A bit final, wasn’t it?’ said Judith. ‘What if it didn’t work out?’
Pat hesitated. ‘I’m sure there were procedures to deal with that. You can’t just send children away and forget all about them.’
‘So if a boy went overseas, he could come back again once he was old enough, and able to find the money for a ticket?’
‘I’m sure that could happen,’ said Pat. But he didn’t sound sure, thought Judith.
‘Do you still work for Barnardo’s?’ she asked.
Pat shook his head. ‘No. I wasn’t with them long actually. In the 1960s I got involved in the anti-nuclear movement, writing, campaigning, that sort of thing. Had to do all sorts of jobs to make ends meet, but I’ve never worried much about the money. God will provide, I say, and He has done so for me. I’ve been very fortunate.’ He paused. ‘You’ve probably worked out that I’m not a priest any more, not even one of those modern ones who don’t wear the uniform.’
‘I’m sure you had your reasons for leaving,’ said Judith. Suddenly, from nowhere, she remembered something that Captain Edwards had said, although not where or when.
‘When you were a priest in Millom, or when you moved up here, did you ever come across a man called Desmond Harries?’
Pat O’Toole looked up sharply. ‘Harries? How old is this man?
Judith thought about it. ‘Hard to tell actually. I only met him briefly, and since then I’ve only seen him at a distance. About forty I should say, maybe less, or more. I’m not sure.’ She watched Pat thinking, remembering, and prodded his memory. ‘The Desmond Harries I’ve met works at Montgomery House in Attercliff. He led the prayers there for the boy who died. I wondered if he had a religious background.’
