Love Lives

by Emlyn Rees

  ‘What’s it all about?’ Scott asked, reading it.

  ‘Apparently, this Ryan boy was a local teenager who committed suicide at Lost Soul’s Point last year. He must have been about the same age as Jimmy …’

  She was interrupted by a knock at the door and she shuffled around Scott to answer it.

  Outside, battling with an umbrella that had been turned inside out by the wind, Cheryl Driver’s face smiled out from the small hole left by the drawstring on the hood of her red pac-a-mac. ‘I’ve got the fax for you!’ she shouted triumphantly, starting to pull a long stream of paper from her pocket.

  ‘Fantastic! Come in! Come in!’ Ellen urged, taking Cheryl’s arm and pulling her through the door.

  Scott tucked the duvet more tightly round his chest, disgruntled at the blast of cold air.

  ‘Stay for some tea,’ Ellen declared happily, taking the fax from Cheryl, who was already busy untying her hood. Ellen pushed the door shut and walked into the room as she unravelled the fax so that it almost touched the floor.

  ‘Oh, Scott, look. Here’s the permission. I take it all back about Joy. She’s included all the correspondence. Great!’

  ‘Shall I … um …’ Cheryl began, looking uncertainly between Ellen and Scott. Ellen looked up from the papers and slapped her forehead, realising her rudeness. ‘Cheryl.

  Sorry. The kettle’s just …’ But she was too distracted by the fax, eager to read on.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Cheryl confidently. ‘You carry on. I can do it.’

  Scott shuffled back into the corner of the sofa as Cheryl walked past him to the kitchen, as if she’d been there a hundred times before.

  Ellen held up the long ream of fax paper and grinned at Scott. ‘I’ve got him!’ she declared. ‘Ned Bloody Spencer won’t have a leg to stand on.’

  ‘I’ll just use the normal tea, shall I?’ Cheryl enquired from the kitchen.

  Scott glared at Ellen, obviously displeased at Cheryl’s nosy presence, but Ellen regarded her as an ally and she flipped her hand dismissively at Scott’s concern. ‘Normal’s fine,’ she shouted back.

  ‘It’s a bit shabby in here, if you don’t mind me saying,’ Cheryl said, poking her head through the bead curtain.

  Ellen shrugged. ‘Believe it or not, it’s all we can afford. We’re not planning on being here for very long.’

  ‘It’s cheap, but it’s freezing,’ Scott mumbled. ‘It’d be fine if the fire worked, but it smoked us out.’

  ‘You should have said something before,’ Cheryl said. ‘I’ll send Russell over this afternoon. He’s a regular Dick Van Dyke when it comes to chimneys.’

  ‘Really, you’ve been kind enough already,’ Ellen said, raising her eyebrows at Scott.

  ‘Consider it done,’ Cheryl said, disappearing into the kitchen and Scott poked his thumbs up from under the duvet at Cheryl’s offer of salvation.

  ‘We can make a start right away,’ Ellen said to Scott, perching on the arm of the sofa by his feet. ‘And I meant what I said. I really think this Ryan thing could be our way into the modern slant I wanted to run alongside the historical story. Have a word with your pal Jimmy, would you? See what you can get out of him.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Scott said. ‘It’s a bit recent. They might have been friends.’

  ‘Even better,’ said Ellen.

  ‘I’ll make a deal,’ said Scott, fixing her with a serious look. ‘Agree to divert some of our lousy resources Jimmy’s way and I’ll talk to him. Work experience for him, back-up for us. Everyone’s a winner.’

  ‘You’re really keen to help this kid out, aren’t you? You hardly know him.’

  Scott shrugged. ‘I know what it’s like to grow up in a piss-poor town and want something better for yourself.’

  Ellen smiled at Scott. Why weren’t there more good guys like him around? ‘We’re not going to be able to give him much,’ she warned.

  ‘If he’s up for it, it won’t be because of the money anyhow.’

  ‘OK. But he’s your responsibility.’

  Ellen stood up as the kitchen curtain twitched and Cheryl pushed aside the beads with three mugs of tea.

  ‘We should definitely film the benefit concert,’ Ellen said, starting to visualise the footage. ‘That could be our intro and tie-up sequence to end the film on an optimistic note.’

  ‘You’re filming the concert, Ms Morris?’ Cheryl interrupted, placing the mugs on the coffee table in front of Scott.

  ‘Call me Ellen, please,’ Ellen reminded her. ‘It’s just a thought.’

  ‘I know the organisers,’ Cheryl said. ‘I could have a word. You should definitely go to the auditions tomorrow night. Clive, from the Community Centre, will be there. He’s a very approachable man.’

  ‘Hey, that’s an idea, Scott,’ Ellen said. ‘We could get some kids for the historical reconstructions from the auditions. It’ll save us doing our own.’

  ‘Are you sure you want to do all this right away?’ Scott asked, leaning forward to grab a mug of tea.

  ‘Have a bit of imagination, Scott. Now we’ve got this,’ Ellen said, waving the fax, ‘we can do anything we want. Now come on, I want to go up there and do a recce.’

  ‘In this weather? You must be bloody mad, woman.’

  ‘That man is not going to waste any more of my time,’ Ellen declared.

  ‘I’d better be on my way, then,’ said Cheryl, hastily putting down her tea.

  ‘Hang on, Cheryl, we’ll finish this while Scott gets dressed. Then I’m sure he won’t mind if we give you a lift back to the hotel,’ Ellen said, with a big grin at Scott.

  ‘But I’m busy,’ Scott protested.

  Ellen lifted the laptop away from him, yanking the earphone from his ear. ‘That’s the beauty of technology. It can wait until later. This is what you’re paid for, remember?’

  The storm had broken by the time Ellen and Scott drove through the Appleforth Estate gates. Rain lashed against the windscreen as they pulled to a stop in the car park. Ellen turned off the engine, but kept the windscreen wipers flick-flacking across the screen. Even with them on full, it was impossible to see anything other than the shape of the house in front of them and a few of the workmen’s vans.

  ‘Ellen, this is ridiculous,’ Scott implored. ‘Look at it. We’re not going to be able to do anything.’

  ‘If we wait for the weather to stop in this place, we’ll be waiting all year. You can stay here if you want, but I’m going. It’s only rain,’ Ellen said, pulling up her hood and zipping up her jacket right under her chin.

  Outside, leaning into the wind, Ellen marched towards the house. Thankfully there was no sign of Ned Bloody Spencer and even if he were to find her, she was armed with her fax.

  Feeling confident, Ellen walked right round the house, taking in its austere grandeur. It was certainly a dramatic location and Ellen started to think about where she’d be able to put the camera to get the best shot.

  As she walked backwards, framing the house in her mind, she found herself in the gardens. They were so wild and beautiful that she decided to walk on, trampling through the overgrown paths that had once been formal gardens, exploring behind the ivy-covered walls until, a while later, she found herself near to the cliffs.

  Holding her forearm up against a sudden lashing of rain, she decided to follow the cliff path, to see whether she could get a view of the house from a distance.

  To her right, Ellen could hear the waves booming against the rocks far below and she kept looking down at the ground, to make sure of her footing. Before long, the path curved away and Ellen turned head-on into the wind, which whipped her hood back. She gasped as the rain hit her like a bucket-load of water.

  It was then she heard something.

  Shaking her head, she looked around her, the thought of the Appleforth House ghost flitting through her mind. Then she heard the noise again: a pitiful crying sound, rising and falling in the wind.

  She stopped and listened, straining to hear
, but when the noise came again, Ellen hurried forward and, a few metres later, saw where it was coming from.

  There, crouching on the ground, a little girl was crying loudly, her hands wrapped round her knees as she shivered uncontrollably. Her wet, honey-blonde hair was plastered to her skull and she was wearing pink sparkly boots, a blue skirt and a pink jumper, but she wasn’t wearing a coat.

  Without hesitating, Ellen leapt forward and squatted down by the little girl. ‘There, there,’ she said, unzipping her jacket and putting it round the girl. ‘It’s going to be all right. Hold on to me.’

  The little girl allowed Ellen to lift her up.

  ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Ellen said. ‘It’s so dangerous.’ Now that she was holding the girl, she could see the sheer drop to the rocks below.

  ‘What’s your name, sweetheart?’ she asked the girl, rushing away from the edge of the cliff to safety.

  ‘Clara.’

  ‘Where’s your mummy, Clara? Is she here?’

  Clara shook her head, wiping her nose on the sleeve of Ellen’s jacket. Ellen could feel the icy rain seeping through her sweatshirt, but she didn’t care.

  ‘What about your daddy?’ she asked, trying to sound as calm as possible, although she was starting to feel panicky at this totally unexpected discovery.

  Clara pointed back towards the house.

  ‘He’s here?’ Ellen asked, but she was already running in the direction of Clara’s outstretched finger.

  By the time they’d reached the house, Ellen was out of breath and Clara was too heavy to carry any longer. Ellen lowered her gently to the ground, watching the hem of her new jacket fold into a muddy puddle as the little girl stood on shaking legs, but Ellen didn’t care. Clara’s chin wobbled as her teeth chattered and her large eyes stared out from under the dripping hood. Ellen’s heart melted. She was unbelievably cute. ‘Clara, where’s Daddy?’ she asked again gently. ‘Is he inside the big house?’

  ‘No. He’s over there,’ Clara said in a small voice and Ellen followed her outstretched arm.

  Now Ellen could see a Portakabin set away from the house by some outbuildings. ‘Right,’ she said, scooping up the little girl and running towards it.

  For the third time that week Ellen faced Ned, who opened the door. There was a split-second of shocked silence as his eyes met hers. Then he rushed forward to help.

  ‘Daddy!’ Clara yelped, yanking herself away from Ellen and transferring herself into Ned’s arms.

  Ellen stood back, her brain trying to make sense of all this, but Ned motioned her to come inside and she stepped up and shut the door behind her. She rubbed her hands together, shivering now that the warm air hit her, watching Ned peel her coat away from Clara and fling it over the back of a chair by the desk, as Clara kicked off her boots.

  ‘Darling, darling,’ he muttered, kissing his daughter and stroking her hair.

  Ellen looked down at her mud-covered feet and folded her arms across her chest. Then, as Clara laid her head against Ned’s shoulder, her legs wrapping round his waist, he finally looked at Ellen.

  In every scenario she’d imagined Ellen had either been angry and indignant, or coolly indifferent when she’d seen Ned again, but now that she was finally face to face with him she couldn’t summon up any anger. Instead, she felt foolishly embarrassed, as if she were an intruder on this intimate scene. She was completely thrown by the fact that he was a father and seeing how tender he was with Clara only confused her more.

  ‘I found her up on the cliff,’ said Ellen, wiping the drips away from her face.

  Ned drew away from Clara, and held her chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing Clara to look up at him. ‘Is this true? I thought you were reading in the back.’ He glanced towards a closed door leading to another section of the cabin.

  ‘I got bored,’ Clara said. ‘I climbed out through the dog flap. But then it was raining and I got lost.’

  ‘You can’t go wandering off when you feel like it. I’ve told you before. It’s dangerous out there. Especially in this weather.’

  Ned crouched and put Clara down before he grabbed a towel hanging on a hook by the wall heater. He put it over Clara’s head and rubbed her hair, but Clara struggled immediately. Leaving her to it, Ned watched her wrap the towel over her head and hold it closed under her chin, before she looked between Ned and Ellen with a gappy smile.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Daddy,’ Clara replied. ‘The nice lady found me.’

  Ned slapped his hands on his knees. ‘Yes, well, the nice lady shouldn’t have been there in the first place,’ he said, standing up.

  Ellen’s smile at Clara’s compliment faded as soon as she heard Ned’s tone and saw his stony expression.

  ‘But,’ he said, sighing, as if against his will, ‘thank you, anyway. I’m very grateful.’

  Clara ran behind the desk, jumped up on to Ned’s swivel chair and started to spin gently.

  Ellen pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh at Clara’s cheekiness. Ned watched his daughter and then turned back to face Ellen.

  ‘Look, Mr Spencer,’ she said, before she’d had time to think about what she was going to say. ‘I know we’ve got off to a bad start, but maybe we could try again?’ It was ridiculous, but why was she feeling this nervous? She had every right to be here and Ned should be the one being nice to her after she’d saved his daughter.

  Ned exhaled and smiled kindly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. ‘Yes, yes, you’re right,’ he said. ‘Let’s start again.’

  ‘I’m Ellen,’ she said. ‘Ellen Morris.’

  She held out her hand, but realising how silly this formal introduction seemed, she laughed and made to drop her hand. But Ned grabbed it. His hand was warm and he squeezed hers gently.

  ‘Well, Ellen Morris, you’re freezing,’ he said. ‘Let’s get you warmed up.’

  Five minutes later, Ellen had her hair in a towel turban and had swapped her sweatshirt for a baggy woollen jumper of Ned’s. As she sat warming herself by the wall heater, she folded up the long sleeves and watched Ned pour two fresh coffees from the jug. He seemed at home in his makeshift office and, she had to admit, there was something cosy about the place, even though it was a complete mess.

  The huge desk was covered with ornate architectural plans and an overflowing ashtray sat by a new Mac laptop, along with a half-empty bottle of Tallisker whisky. The coffee machine was perched on a bookcase laden with large, well-thumbed books on interior design and haphazard piles of carpet and wallpaper samples. Behind it, the walls were covered with a jumbled montage of photographs showing the progress of the restoration of Appleforth House, along with several of Clara’s childish paintings. In the corner, Ellen was relieved to see, the dog basket was empty.

  Ned handed the coffee to Ellen and she accepted it gratefully, before pulling the towel off her head.

  ‘So,’ Ned said, perching on the edge of his desk. ‘You want to film here?’

  He looked so competent and in control that Ellen felt excited about telling him all about the programme. ‘I’ve got the fax from Jonathan Arthur,’ she added, leaning forward and digging the soggy papers out of her jacket pocket. ‘The correct documentation,’ she said light-heartedly, reminding Ned of his words on Monday. He half smiled as he took the fax from her.

  Ellen combed her fingers through her hair, as Ned scanned the fax.

  After a moment, he put it down on the desk beside him and smiled at her properly. ‘What have you got in mind?’ he asked.

  ‘I want to tell the original legend of Lost Soul’s Point. It’s a great story,’ she began, going on to explain what she’d learnt so far through Michael Francis. ‘I was hoping to use the house to do a bit of reconstructed drama, if that’s OK with you. Just … you know … edgy black-and-white shots with a voice-over. Now that the house is nearly back to its original state, it’s going to look fantastic.’

  ‘I’ve got some papers that Jonathan sent over. There’s letters and all sorts. You
can have a look some time, if you’d like,’ he said.

  Ellen nodded enthusiastically. ‘That’d be great. Anything like that would be so helpful. Obviously, we can dovetail it with thoughts about the modern victims.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Ned was frowning.

  ‘Well, we’re going to look at how the legend lives on, that kind of thing. Link the original story into the modern suicides. There was one just last year. We were going to start off with the memorial concert –’

  ‘Hang on,’ Ned interrupted, standing up and putting his coffee cup down. ‘You’re not seriously thinking about including that, are you?’

  ‘Why not?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘Because making a programme about suicides that will be shown on the television, when people in the town are still grieving … well it’s wrong…’

  ‘But it’s not about right or wrong,’ Ellen explained, smoothing a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘It’s a matter of public record. All we’re doing is reporting on what’s already happened.’

  ‘And that’s entertainment, is it?’

  Ellen looked at Ned, feeling herself stiffen as she saw his appalled expression. Where had she gone so wrong? They were getting on so well a moment ago. She carefully replaced her mug on the table. ‘It’s not entertainment. I’m trying to make a programme of value,’ she said, as calmly as she could. ‘It’s going to be a sympathetic, relevant …’

  Ned was shaking his head, looking at his shoes. There was a moment before he said anything. Then he glared up at her. ‘What you’re doing has nothing to do with sympathy or value. You’re down here to make money out of other people’s misery. it’s irresponsible and it’s shallow, and if you knew anything about death and how it affects people, you’d know that I’m right.’

  Ellen stood up and snatched the fax from the desk. Something about Ned’s tone had cut her to the quick and she felt anger shoot through her. ‘Who do you think you are to lecture me about people’s feelings? What gives you the right to claim some moral high ground? I’m just doing my job, Mr Spencer.’

  Ned shook his head. ‘People like you disgust me.’

  ‘Daddy!’ Clara whimpered, hopping off the chair.