She stared out of the window; the sun was still quite high, the trees at the end of the garden barely shifted in the wind. Yellow and orange marigolds edged the flowerbeds at either side of the path; behind them white and soft orange dahlias were staked and fastened upright. Jackie sighed; even the bloody flowers had to measure up to her mother’s idea of order and neatness. ‘Everything in its place and a place for everything’; the words were suddenly there in her mind, another of her mother’s sayings. Where would she fit in after this? With her mother’s narrow outlook on life how the hell would she ever accept the way she and Nicki were living?
Jackie knew she was putting off going back into the living room. Coward, she thought, bloody coward. Standing upright she pulled her shoulders back and picked up the tea. The cups rattled in their saucers.
Jean had taken up her knitting again. ‘Thanks,’ she said when Jackie pulled out one of the nest of tables and put both teas on it. ‘I made some scones, if you want one?’
‘No, I’m okay, thanks, Mum.’ Jackie knelt on the floor by her mother’s chair.
‘Not like you to turn down a scone, Jacqueline.’ Jean put her knitting down. ‘Not like you, at all. Aren’t you feeling well?’
‘I’m fine.’ Where to start? Jackie took the cup of the saucer and held it to her lips. Her hand was shaking.
‘Something on your mind, then? I can always tell. Come on, what is it? What is it?’
For a moment Jackie thought of telling her mother about Victoria running away. The predictions of the trouble that her cousin would get herself into would occupy her mother for days.
Coward, she berated herself. Coward. ‘It’s about me and Nicki—’
‘Nice girl,’ Jean interrupted and took up her knitting again. ‘Do you know, love, I think I’ll have a scone, if you don’t mind buttering one for me?’
Jackie clenched her jaw. ‘Just the one?’
‘Oh, yes, got to watch my waistline.’ Jean patted her ample midriff.
In the kitchen Jackie took one of the scones off the baking tray and quickly cut and buttered it. Usually she couldn’t resist the smell of fresh baking but today it turned her stomach.
‘Here.’ She handed the plate to her mother. Taking in a deep breath, she started again. ‘It’s about me and Nicki—’
‘You haven’t fallen out, have you?’ The words were muffled as Jean chewed on the scone. ‘She’s been such a good friend to you. I hope you haven’t fallen out?’
‘That’s just it, Mum,’ Jackie blurted, ‘she is a good friend… In fact, she’s more than a friend … she’s my girlfriend.’ She watched as her mother slowly stopped chewing.
Jean swallowed, her face reddening. Then she coughed, spluttered out crumbs. Dabbing her mouth with her handkerchief she reached for her cup and gulped at the tea. ‘What exactly do you mean?’ she asked, when she could speak.
Jackie moved to the settee opposite her mother and clasped her hands. This was going to be as bad as she thought it would be. She noticed her knuckles were white and loosened her fingers. ‘I mean,’ she gave each word emphasis, ‘Nicki and me … we’re not just friends … we’re lovers.’
There was a long dragging pause. Then: ‘No.’ Jean clashed the cup into the saucer, pushed herself from her chair. She fluttered her hands, rejecting Jackie’s words. ‘No. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. What you’re saying … what you’re saying … it’s disgusting. Disgusting.’ She left the room, bumping into the door-frame as she went.
Jackie waited, wondering what to do. Unable to keep still, she stood up, massaging the back of one hand, listening for any sound from the kitchen. Eventually, hearing nothing she followed her mother.
Jean was watching the next-door neighbour taking in her washing. ‘That woman has never spoken to me, you know,’ she said. ‘Not once. She doesn’t even acknowledge I’m on the other side of the fence when I’m in the garden.’ Her tone was bitter. ‘I asked your father years ago to put a higher one up but he never did. Too much like hard work, I suppose. Too much like hard work.’
‘Mum.’ Jackie touched her back.
‘No.’ Jean moved away into the dining room. ‘No.’ She stood in front of the mirror over the sideboard and tugged at a curl by her temple. ‘See? More grey hairs? I need a visit to the hairdressers, I think.’
‘Mum—’
‘No.’ Jean swung around, faced Jackie. ‘I don’t want to hear any more of that talk. Ever.’
Jackie kept steady eye-contact with her mother. ‘I think it’s a bit late for that. Jack knows.’
‘Your brother knows? How can he?’ Jean’s mouth opened, closed and opened again. ‘How?’ Holding on to the table and the backs of the chairs as though she would otherwise fall, she walked towards Jackie.
‘Half-brother.’ Jackie couldn’t stop herself. ‘Jack is only my half-brother and he’s always resented me.’ Even though, as a child, she’d adored him. ‘You know that.’ The way Jean idolised Jack, she sometimes thought her mother didn’t remember that he wasn’t her natural son: that she’d been forced to take on the child of one of her husband’s many affairs. ‘He knows because he saw me and Nicki together.’
She waited but Jean ignored Jackie’s last words. ‘He wouldn’t think anything of that.’ Jean pushed her lips out. ‘He knows … thinks you’re just flatmates.’
‘We were holding hands.’ They’d actually been kissing, believing they wouldn’t be seen in the small booth concealed from the bar, celebrating Nicki’s promotion to legal administrator at the solicitors’ firm where she worked.
Jean flinched and closed her eyes. ‘You mustn’t tell your father. He must never know anything about … what you’ve just said.’
‘That I’m a lesbian, Mother?’
‘Don’t use such disgusting words.’ Jean slapped Jackie, hard, across the face. Breathing heavily she said, ‘He mustn’t ever find out… he must never find out what you are.’ Her lip curled. ‘It’s been bad enough with you going into the police force. You haven’t a clue what I’ve had to put up with from him about that. But this…’
Jackie held her cheek. ‘I’m a lesbian, Mother. Jack knows. And, before long, so will Dad. Jack won’t be able to resist telling him. And there’s nothing you – or I – can do about it.’
Chapter 15: Mary & Peter Schormann
Llamroth, morning: Friday, September 19th
‘There has to be something to tell us where she’s gone.’ Mary pulled open the last drawer of Victoria’s desk and emptied it on the bed. ‘Something. A letter, a photo of somewhere, someone. Something….’ She ended on a wail, sweeping the pile of papers, files, drawings onto the floor.
Downstairs, Gelert barked.
‘Mary.’ Peter stopped her, pulled her into his embrace. ‘Look at this room. See what you have done. And yet we have found nothing. Victoria has made sure we do not know where she has gone.’
‘Why? Why?’ She leaned back to gaze into his face, searching for an answer. ‘Have we been such dreadful parents…? So awful she’s had to escape from us?’
‘No, meine Liebe. But she has always been the strongest, the most determined.’
‘Spoiled, you mean.’ Mary flung herself out of his arms and sat on the bed, scattering the remains of the papers.
‘Nein. No. You don’t mean that, Mary.’ Peter sat down alongside her, holding her hand. ‘Victoria has her own mind.’
‘We have to find out… We have to know she is safe.’ Mary’s face was blotched and puffy; she began to shake, the ashy taste of fear in her mouth. ‘We have to find her.’
‘She doesn’t want us to find her, Liebling.’
‘I don’t care,’ Mary said. ‘She’s too young to be out there on her own. Anything could happen to her.’ She pulled away from him, her eyes flitting over the rest of the room, frantic to find something, anything, that would tell her where her daughter had gone. ‘There must be something.’ A thought crossed her mind. She jumped up, excited, pleased that she knew what t
o do. ‘We can go to her college, find out who she’s friends with there. See if they know anything.’
‘And then what? What can we do?’
‘We can bring her home.’ She didn’t understand his reticence. What was wrong with him?
Peter shook his head. ‘No. She is not a child, Mary.’
‘She is. She’s our child.’
Peter voiced his oldest fear. ‘Perhaps that is the problem, Liebling. Perhaps that has always been the problem.’
So that was it. ‘No, I won’t have you saying that.’ Mary held him to her; she’d always known the fear he held for his children, for her, just because of his nationality. But she couldn’t stand the thought of him mithering. That heart attack two years ago might only have been a slight one, but it was a warning, and she’d tried so hard since then to be the barrier between him and the worries. ‘You have been – you are – a good father.’
‘Still … it has not been easy for them.’
The minutes ticked by in the silence that followed.
In the end Peter sighed. ‘We can only wait, Liebling. Perhaps, soon, she will let us know where she is.’
Chapter 16: Richard Schormann & Karen Worth
Ashford, evening: Friday, September 19th
Richard was furious with Victoria for driving Mum and Dad mad. She always caused trouble when things weren’t going her way, kicking against everything, taking anyone and everyone on just for the fun of it: at home, in school. Mae hi’n dwp. Stupid. Always jealous of him. And she didn’t need to be, she was welcome to all the attention – leave him out of it.
Folding down his shirt collar and knotting the new narrow blue tie, Richard grimaced at himself in the wardrobe mirror.
The last few weeks had been no different. She’d been impossible to live with; if she wasn’t sulking, she’d been trying to pick a fight with him. It was one reason he’d come up to Ashford so many days before his interview.
But not the only reason. And he felt guilty. He couldn’t stand the tension, the unspoken questions, the inability of his father to understand why he didn’t want to go to Pont-y-Haven. Dad didn’t realise that he wanted – needed to train at a proper university hospital; the one in Manchester was new, the first of its kind and he had to go there. If they’d have him. What he’d do afterwards, he hadn’t decided. And he knew his father wouldn’t understand why he didn’t want to join the Llamroth practice when he did qualify. If asked, he doubted that he could have answered the questions anyway. Except that he needed to make his own way in life. He didn’t want to hide behind his father: to be safe, secure in the knowledge that there’d always be a job for him. He had to prove his deafness wouldn’t hold him back in whatever he wanted to do.
Still, all the justifications didn’t make him feel better right at this moment. Any more than transferring his anger from himself to Victoria helped.
Where the hell was she? Richard shrugged on his jacket and looked around the bedroom, checked he had his wallet.
‘Next on Radio Luxembourg, a track from the brand new album, ‘Play On’ from Fleetwood Mac, released only today. But first a word from Horace Batchelor …’
He peered through the net curtains. No sign of Karen yet. He should really have gone back home; he could have checked with all Vicky’s mates. Mum and Dad wouldn’t know everybody she mixed with in college.
‘That’s K- E –Y- N- S –H-A- M, Keynsham, Bristol. I’ll spell that again …’
‘T-H-A-T,’ Richard muttered, grinning as he switched the radio off and picked up his boots. ‘Stupid bloody ad.’ Frowning again, he remembered his mum’s last words when he’d spoken to her earlier. And how distraught she’d sounded.
Calling Richard downstairs, Uncle Ted had shaken his head and patted him on the shoulder. ‘She sounds a bit worked up,’ he’d mouthed. And he wasn’t joking.
‘Nobody has seen her anywhere, Richard. Your father and I are beginning to think she’s not around here any-more.’ His mother’s voice was shrill. ‘I wondered if she’d met someone. You don’t know if she’d met anybody, do you?’ she repeated. ‘Somebody from away?’
‘No, Mum, I don’t. I would have told you by now, isn’t it.’
There was a muffled crackling on the phone, some hushed whispers. Richard strove to hear. The next voice he heard was his father’s.
‘Sorry, Richard, I asked that your mother would not telephone you before your interview but she is very worried…’
‘I know, Dad. But like I said to Mum, I would have told you if I’d known anything.’
‘I know.’
There was a pause. Richard concentrated on listening.
‘Good luck for Monday.’ His father said, eventually.
‘Thanks.’ It didn’t help the guilt he felt to hear the earnestness in the words.
Richard heard the toot of a horn. Karen. He closed the bedroom door and dashed down the stairs.
His aunt and uncle were in the living-room, listening to the calm tones of a presenter on the radio. At least Uncle Ted was.
Even so, he glanced at Richard. ‘You all right, after your mum’s call?’
‘Yeah, thanks.’ No point in saying anything else.
‘Your dad?’
‘Yeah, he sounded A1.’
Ellen shifted restlessly in her chair and twisted around to face Richard.
‘We’re going to watch that new programme on the telly. What’s it called again, Ted?’
‘I’ve got to go. Karen’s here.’ Richard tapped his new parka coat pocket. ‘I’ve got my key.’
‘What’s it called, Ted?’
His aunt was tetchy again. Richard felt sorry for his uncle. She needed help for her drinking but, like his mum said, she wouldn’t admit she had a problem. Was it selfish to hope she didn’t kick off the night before his interview? He’d feel obliged to help Linda and her dad.
‘Right, lad.’ Ted nodded. He gave a small sigh and rustled through the Radio Times, which was resting on his knees. ‘Um, Randall and Hopkirk Deceased, it says here. Something about ’em being private detectives but one of ’em is dead. Rum title. Even more rum idea, if you ask me.’
‘I didn’t.’ Ellen looked irritated. ‘How long is this on for?’
‘Dwi’n mynd nawr. Going now.’ Richard hovered in the doorway. ‘Bye then.’
Only Ted answered. ‘Bye, son.’ He lifted his chin at Richard and smiled before peering over his reading-glasses at his wife. ‘It’s nearly finished. I told you I wanted to listen to this. It’s an interview with John Spencer. He’s the World Snooker Champion—’
‘I want the telly on, I…’
Their voices were muted as Richard quietly closed the living room door. He was fond of both of them but his aunt sometimes drove him round the bend.
‘Pictures?’ he asked Karen, folding himself into the passenger seat. ‘There’s a new film just out showing at the Apollo in Manchester. The Italian Job. William says it’s brilliant.’
‘Okay.’ Karen glanced in the mirror and put the car into gear. ‘Sorry, I was just going to come in,’ she said. ‘I hope they didn’t think me rude not doing.’
‘I don’t think they even noticed.’
‘Any news on your sister?’
‘Nope.’ Richard put his arm along the back of her seat and studied her. She was gorgeous. He pushed the worry and the guilt to the back of his mind. ‘Let’s go.’
Chapter 17: Linda Booth
Ashford, evening: Saturday, September 20th
‘It’s usual to stay in for ten days after you’ve given birth.’ Linda helped Harriet Worth into the armchair by the side of the bed. ‘You only had the baby last Tuesday. You’ll have to tell your husband you won’t be going out yet.’ She looked at the clock on the wall, almost quarter to seven. ‘He’ll be here soon.’ If he didn’t push his way in before visiting time. ‘Tell him then.’
‘He gets a bit … you know … impatient.’ The woman winced as she settled in the chair.
That wasn’
t how Linda would describe the man. But she kept her mouth closed and shook the pillow into the case with more vigour than she would normally have done before sliding it behind Harriet’s back.
‘He just wants me home.’ Harriet settled back with a faint sigh, her arm resting on the small cot next to her, her fingers stroking the baby’s hand.
So he can control you, Linda thought. She straightened up. ‘You need to stay in until we’re sure you’re going to be well enough to manage. It’s hard work to cope with a young baby but—’
‘But worse when you’re an older mum?’ Harriet Worth smiled, wryly.
‘I was going to say, when you’re not on top form.’ Linda ran her hand over the sheet before lifting up the corners of the mattress to fold it in. ‘You had a hard birth with this little one.’ She unfolded a white open-textured blanket onto the bed. ‘Give yourself a chance to rest. It’ll be all go once you’re home.’
‘I’ve got my daughter to help me. She’s seventeen and a sensible girl.’
‘Well, that’s good; you’ll need all the help you can get. But, like I said, I’m sure your husband can manage for a few more days—’
‘And what would you know about that?’
Linda’s stomach heaved. She didn’t understand why this man had such an effect on her; in her job she’d come across some rough types before. But there was something about him that made her skin crawl. Actually made her afraid, she admitted to herself. She forced herself to carry on making up the bed, not even looking at George Worth when he came to stand close behind her.
‘I said what do you know about it?’
She moved sideways to get away from him, pretending to smooth the folded down sheet. ‘I was only saying—’
‘I heard.’
Linda forced herself to look at him. His grey eyes were bloodshot but it was the way he’d narrowed them that made her swallow hard before saying, ‘Your wife needs all the rest she can get.’
‘Well, missy, I suggest you keep your neb out of our business.’ He stroked the side of his nose with his forefinger.
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