by Jane Tulloch
Even in the staff canteen, where he now spent much less time, he was keenly aware that no one wanted to take up the offer of a seat at his table. He stifled his embarrassment at Mr Prentice from Luggage walking past him pretending not to notice his welcoming smile and proffered newspaper. Barry tried joining tables of chatting colleagues but, with a sinking feeling, noticed that the conversation dried up as soon as he sat down and he only received perfunctory responses to his opening conversational salvoes. He usually ended up on his own again. Naturally, he thought.
Eventually, after several months of his failing charm offensive, Barry had noticed one other apparent loner in the canteen: Jock, the lift operator. An older man, he had been injured during the war. His injuries, extensive at the time, had largely healed but he was left with a dangling useless left arm and a large scar across his face including where his eye had been. There had been some debate, when he was taken on, as to whether or not he should be employed in such a public position. Old Mr Murray, then in charge, had stoutly defended his placement as a lift operator as there was no point in pretending that the war had not resulted in casualties and that the store had responsibilities to injured ex-servicemen.
Jock was never sure why no one seemed to like him. He tried his best to be friendly but somehow he could never strike the right note of chumminess with the other male staff and he certainly couldn’t seem to communicate with the youngsters. Especially the younger girls: he’d seen the look of alarm on their faces when he tried to talk to them.
He knew, he understood that there was something off-putting about him but he could never work out what it was. There was his physical appearance, of course, but there was something else too. Despite pondering on it in his limited free time it still eluded him. He was just different he concluded. He didn’t have a family so couldn’t chat about the ups and downs of family life. The big events of the year passed him by. He was always available to work on public holidays. He wasn’t even interested in football. In fact there didn’t seem to be anything that he had in common with the others on the staff. The older members were slightly more accommodating and occasionally passed the time of day with him but somehow, even with them, there was an invisible barrier between them: they all seemed to lead lives of cheerful pleasure while he felt that he was a dampener on other’s good fortune. Or so it sometimes seemed to him. He often sighed. “Chin up, old boy,” he would tell himself, “it’s not a sin to be lonely.”
Jock was quite taken aback one day to be beckoned over to join Barry. He walked over, warily looking behind him to check whether someone more interesting was the object of Barry’s intention. “Have a seat here, Jock, old boy,” Barry breezed, glad to have someone at his table however unwillingly. Jock couldn’t refuse what felt like an order from a senior member of staff.
“So, how was your morning? Anyone interesting in your lift? Oh, it’s just like I’m talking to a taxi driver!” Barry laughed at his own feeble joke.
“Well Mrs Harrington was in. She’s looking for a replacement tea cup for her wedding china,” Jock offered hesitatingly.
“Really?” Barry feigned interest. How had Jamie managed? He asked himself. He always seemed to be so interested in people. Tea cups though? Oh God. He took a deep breath.
“What else was she looking for today? There’s nice new silk scarves just arrived.”
“Right,” said Jock wondering what to say next. He took a large bite out of his bacon roll to preclude further speech. Barry nodded, equally at a loss as to how to continue the conversation. The two men continued in silence, occasionally smiling brightly at each other if their eyes accidentally met.
The next day Barry waved Jock over to join him again. This time to fill the difficult silences Jock felt able to tell him about his pigeons. Barry’s eyes widened in an approximation of interest. Jock loved his pigeons and as he talked on he became more and more animated. Barry couldn’t help being drawn in by the sheer enthusiasm of the older man. It was nice to see him so animated. He wished that he had some all-pervading interest like Jock’s. He heard all about the stock lines, keeping conditions and the pros and cons of various foodstuffs nodding approval at appropriate intervals. Jock was surprised but happy to find someone interested in his beloved birds.
As the weeks passed it became an accepted thing that Barry and Jock would have lunch and most breaks together. Jock relished finally having someone to talk to and Barry, while feeling slightly superior to Jock, also enjoyed the satisfaction of having what seemed like a friend: a very different friend from previous ones he had had in the police force but someone to share various conversational gems with: a companion. The pair were oblivious to the nods and knowing glances at them from uncharitable people at the other tables. ‘Ha ha, how funny that Fat Barry, the super sleuth, had found a friend at last, especially so since it was that cripple from Lift 3’, seemed to be the overall thoroughly unkind impression.
Mrs Pegram observing this unlikely friendship smiled to herself. She felt that Barry was recovering from a potentially nasty depressive episode.
One steamy day in the canteen, Barry and Jock were having a heart to heart about their more personal lives. This was not a topic generally discussed among men but Jock had read a newspaper story about a tragic suicide and it had set his mind wandering. “Why do people do that?” he mused. “It’s hard to see how someone could be that miserable.”
“I know.” said Barry. “Fancy anyone thinking of jumping off the North Bridge.” The two men shook their heads. There was a thoughtful pause then Barry ventured hesitatingly, “I felt that bad once.”
Jock’s eyes widened. “Really?” then reassuringly, “I’m glad you didn’t!” He paused again, overcome by the enormity of the confidence Barry had shared with him. “Oh Barry,” he lamented. “What a shame.”
Barry didn’t look at him. He looked away and sighed. “It was after that awful business with young Jamie, you know, my assistant.”
“The one who…” Jock couldn’t bring himself to say the words.
“Yes. It made me feel so, so useless somehow. I felt such a failure. It brought everything home to me how, well, useless I was,” he repeated. “He was such a good lad and I wasn’t nice to him. I was jealous I think,” he said in a burst almost surprising himself. “He was so popular, everyone liked him.”
“Not everyone.”
The words were out before Jock could stop himself.
“What do you mean?”
He hesitated and took a deep breath. “I saw,” – he corrected himself – “at least I think I saw him being pushed. Hard. Over the balcony,” he said in a rush.
“What?” exclaimed Barry “You can’t mean that. Who pushed him?”
“That’s just it. I can’t believe it myself.”
“Who was it, man? For God’s sake tell me!” groaned Barry.
“It was, it was, her,” he nodded indicating Violet sitting in the midst of a happily chatting group of ladies.
“Violet P?” Barry spluttered. “You’re daft, man! How could it be her? She was his big pal!”
Defensively, Jock continued. “I saw what I saw. That’s all. If you don’t believe me, you don’t have to but I know what I saw. It was her. She got him to reach over to get a napkin that had fallen off her display then she gave him such a shove, then another to make sure he couldn’t get back.”
There was an aghast silence. The two men looked at each other. A burst of laughter rippled out from the ladies’ table. Violet was in good form it seemed.
Barry looked at Jock doubtfully. “Time for another cup of tea?” he enquired.
That night he ruminated on what Jock had told him. Violet P had pushed the boy? Why? Why would anyone want to hurt Jamie? Jock must have imagined it. Maybe his eyesight wasn’t up to much? Jock was no liar though. Of that he was quite sure. So much to ponder. This set him thinking about Jamie all over again and he tossed and turned all night.
Mrs Pegram was surprised the next morning to be asked
by her secretary if she could spare a moment to see Barry from Security. “He’s very keen to see you. It must be urgent,” she was assured.
“OK, send him in.”
Barry entered the room sheepishly. Mrs Pegram unnerved him slightly. He found her very attractive in a careworn sort of way.
“Good morning, Barry. How can I help you?” she enquired brightly.
Barry looked down at his feet, cleared his throat a few times them finally uttered “Well, it’s just this,” he started. “Well, not just I mean. It’s important, or seems important,” he corrected himself.
“Go on,” she said encouragingly.
“It’s Jamie,” he said baldly.
“Jamie? What about him? I assume you mean that unfortunate young man who…” she hesitated.
“Yes, him.”
There was a pause.
“Well?”
“I heard something yesterday,” he continued eventually. “I heard about what happened.”
“Don’t we know what happened?”
“Apparently not.”
Mrs Pegram gasped. “What do you mean? Barry what are you saying?”
“It wasn’t an accident, he didn’t just fall, he was pushed,” Barry blurted out. Not the way he had intended to discuss this with Mrs Pegram.
“Pushed? Who by? Who says this happened?” So many questions rushed through her mind.
Barry outlined the content of yesterday’s conversation with Jock.
When he had finished she sighed and shook her head. “Why didn’t he tell the police at the time?” she asked.
Good question, thought Barry. “Because he was scared? He didn’t trust his own eyesight? Because it was impossible? Just impossible. Violet P? She’s just such a lovely person. It couldn’t have been her.”
“We’d better have Jock up for a wee chat about this,” she decided out loud. She also resolved to review Violet’s personnel record. Barry suggested that he ask one of his old contacts in the police if, by any chance, they had any records or information on Violet. Most unlikely, he thought, but you never know.
“Good idea,” she said. “Let’s meet here tomorrow at shall we say 11?”
After Barry left she picked up the phone.
Back in his office Barry looked through a little notebook and, finding the right page, dialled the number in his phone.
At 11 promptly the next morning, Jock presented himself at Mrs Pegram’s office. He was nervous and unsure of the reason for his summons. Barry hadn’t been in the canteen at first break so he hadn’t been able to discuss it with him. He hoped it wasn’t to do with their conversation about Jamie yesterday. He knocked at the glass door.
“Come in, Jock,” said Mrs Pegram pleasantly. “Oh please don’t look so nervous you’re not in any sort of trouble.”
“Good,” he replied. Looking around the cluttered office, he was surprised to see Barry.
Barry nodded. “I’ve been telling Mrs Pegram about what you were saying yesterday,” he started.
Jock began to protest, but was quietened by Mrs Pegram smoothly continuing. “It was very interesting, Jock, and thank you for bringing it to our attention.”
Jock was gratified at this tactful way of accounting for the delay in his informing Barry (or anyone) of what he’d seen. Why did I keep it quiet? he thought to himself furiously.
“Since yesterday we’ve been doing some background work ourselves,” she indicated Barry who sat back basking in her approval. He nodded affirmatively.
“Barry here has been in touch with the police and I have made some calls,” she explained. “It’s given us something to think about. In the meantime can you tell me exactly what you saw happening? I’d like to hear it for myself.”
Jock recounted his story. She prompted him for more details and he racked his brain for any tiny aspect he might have overlooked. “No, it’s no use,” he moaned. “The lift doors shut just after she’d given him that last shove. He nearly made it though, poor lad, he was balancing on the bannister. I thought he’d made it but she just – saw him off.” He shook his head. The three of them sat in silence.
Barry cleared his throat. “Well I made some enquiries,” he started
“Oh yes?” said Mrs Pegram.
“I contacted Henry Carson at my old station. We used to be chums back when I was in the force.” Jock looked surprised. He’d never have guessed at Barry’s previous occupation.
“Yes. Violet P. Well there’s nothing about her on file at the station but, guess what? A certain young man name of Parsons, and of the same address, has a long police record for theft, assault, actual bodily harm and so on. Has enjoyed many a year at Her Majesty’s pleasure.” He nodded at them triumphantly.
“Really?” Mrs Pegram was very surprised. She’d thought she knew all the trials and tribulations of her staff. Surely the stress and sadness of coping with her son’s descent into crime might have led Violet to share it with her or even with a colleague? This sort of information generally made its way up to her office. She was a notably kind and supportive person. So why had it not? Perhaps Violet was ashamed? Who could blame her? She shrugged her shoulders involuntarily and shook her head.
“There’s more, though.” Barry continued. “Apparently a Mr Hugh Parsons, husband of the aforementioned Violet and father of the boy, disappeared 18 years ago. He was a small-time crook and in very bad company until he suddenly disappeared off the radar. We’d –,” he corrected himself, “the police had had him under surveillance as they thought he was building up to a big job then he just evaporated. Never seen again. They think he went to Ireland and changed his name. Must have got wind of the boys being on to him.”
“Good Heavens! No wonder the boy went to the dogs. Poor Violet living such a difficult life. She’s so cheerful too.” Jock shook his head. Poor woman, he thought again briefly, then remembered why they were meeting.
“I made a call too.” Mrs Pegram eventually said. “I phoned Jamie’s mum. Talking about it all reminded me that I’d said I’d keep in touch. We had a long chat. She was glad to talk about Jamie. I think people shy away from it, from death, and don’t like to talk about the person. It can be such a comfort to remember and talk about the good times when they were around. Anyway that’s how our conversation went,” she said dismissively. “Ah, but she was so proud of him.” She shook her head sadly again.
“The funny thing is that she was saying that Jamie had phoned her the night before he, you know, died. He always phoned on a Sunday and it was Mother’s Day too. He’d been taking a bunch of flowers to Violet to thank her for doing his washing. Apparently, she’d been very kind to him and her with her troubles too: a husband in Carstairs,” she said with some emphasis.
They reeled. Carstairs? This was serious indeed. A husband in the prison for the criminally insane? How did the police not know that?
Mrs Pegram continued. “He told her the visit had gone well but the funny thing is that he said he’d found out something else. Something really interesting and how he couldn’t wait to get to work the next day. He was ‘fair away with himself’ is how she put it.”
The three of them looked at one another.
“Could be a coincidence,” started Barry.
“Might all mean nothing,” agreed Mrs Pegram
“Might not though,” said Jock heavily, voicing what they were all beginning to think.
“Look at it like this: Jamie found out something at Violet’s and the next day she pushed him over the bannisters. What could he have found?” Barry mused. “Her husband is in Ireland – or Carstairs? Which? It just doesn’t add up.”
“Should we inform the police?” asked Mrs Pegram.
“Tell them what? Vague suspicions? What was seen by a visually impaired lift operator? Sorry, Jock,” he threw to his indignant friend. “It happened ages ago. The file will be closed on it.”
“We can’t do nothing. Is there anything we can do to allay our own suspicions if nothing else?” continued Mrs Peg
ram.
“Like what? Ask her directly?” scoffed Barry then looked apologetically at her. “I don’t see that that would happen.”
“No,” she replied miserably, “but we can’t just leave it. I believe Jock.”
Jock looked at her gratefully. She really was a very nice woman, he thought.
“And this husband business?”
“Leave it with me,” said Barry eventually. “I’ll make some enquiries and have a think about what to do next.”
“Well, if you’re sure,” said Mrs Pegram, fearing the prospect of Barry making heavy-handed enquiries of the staff. “Be careful though. Don’t want to appear to be making allegations or anything. We don’t want to raise her suspicions in case she really is, she really did…”
Barry nodded reassuringly, “Naturally. I’m a professional.”
“Professional what?” flashed through Jock’s mind. He was still resentful of Barry’s comment regarding his eyesight.
They left the office together. Jock to return to Lift 3 and Barry to go and talk to some of Violet’s colleagues and friends.
As feared by Mrs Pegram, Barry’s professional approach caused a wave of concern. Accusations and counter-accusations began to fly round the store. He really is clumsy when it comes to people, sighed Mrs Pegram, after receiving yet another visit from a tearful member of the staff.
Despite this apparent level of increased awareness, gradually, almost imperceptibly the level of shrinkage crept up.
For his part, Barry was becoming increasingly frustrated. There really was something going on. This was his chance to solve a crime, avenge Jamie and potentially cover himself in glory for once in his life. An additional factor was that it might make Mrs Pegram see him in a better light. He fantasised about her praising his cleverness and bravery and gladly accepting his offer of dinner – and more.
