She pulled the duvet up over her chin, shut her eyes and willed herself into a dreamless sleep.
23
Tuesday, 14 June 1966
‘Shut your eyes and don’t look till I say.’
Clifford Hunt blocked Mary’s view of the Infants’ gate. She would miss Michael coming out. She screwed her eyes up tight.
‘…commit his body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes…’
‘Hold out your hand,’ Clifford said. ‘It’s a surprise.’
Mary had a fleeting image of Clifford slapping her palm with a ruler as Mr Sparrow had done to him for talking. Clifford hadn’t cried. Mary would not have cried either. Nor would she have been caught talking because she had no one to talk to.
She splayed out her hand and felt a butterfly land on her palm. She heard footsteps, but she did as Clifford said and did not peep. After a very long time she said ‘I like surprises’. Although she did not.
Birds twittered in the plane trees by the viaduct. More moments passed.
‘Could I please see?’
She heard laughing and dared to open her eyes. A group of girls were clustered around the Infants’ gate. They were in Michael’s class and treated him like a doll, brushing his hair and sticking up for him when she was in charge. Michael was not with them.
‘…In that it has pleased our heavenly Father, who loaned these little ones to us for this short time, to take them back to Himself…’
She looked down at her hand, still outstretched. There, face up, lay a Brooke Bond tea card with a picture of two brown circles like squashed conkers and a branch with leaves. She turned it over. Number 42.
The Sweet Chestnut cannot in any way be confused with the Horse Chestnut…
The voice in her head was Michael’s even though he couldn’t read.
Clifford had given her a card that she already had. She could not swap it because there was no one to swap with.
‘Cliff’s escaped.’ One of the girls sniffed through giggles.
‘Mind your own business.’ Mary said.
…its flowers are attractive erect catkins, conspicuous for the bright yellow anthers of the male…
The girls took off. Satchels swinging and bumping against their backs, they scattered past the Sunken Garden where Michael had sat, past the drain cover where Michael was marble champion and out of the gate to Ravenscourt Park.
Mary was pleased that Clifford Hunt had remembered her birthday but cross that he had not asked what she needed. She pulled out the Trees of Britain album from her satchel and flicked through it. She did not need the Holm or Evergreen Oak: Number 43. She had the full set, he only had to ask.
She looked again at one of the pages in her album: there was a space. It was for number 43. Mary couldn’t make sense of this. She flicked through the pages. It must have fallen out. She knelt on the ground and tipped out her satchel but it was not there. A feeling crept over her. It started at the back of her neck and went to her tummy. There were back-to-front words in the square for number 42. Mary could do mirror writing: …crown is heavily and densely leafy, giving a deep shade…
The card Clifford Hunt had given her was not the brilliant white and dark blue of the brand-new cards in the tea leaves. It was bent and the writing missing on the card was there in reverse on the album page.
Mary dropped the card into the album and slipped it into her bag next to her pencil case. Michael’s voice chattered gaily at her.
He’s given you what was yours anyway!
Mary rushed out of the school gate. The faster she ran the less she could hear Michael. He stole it from you. She stopped at the kerb – nothing coming – she belted across the road into the park.
He didn’t get you a real present. He knows your name’s not Mary.
A train rumbled above but the sound did not block out Michael.
Mummy said you have to make our tea.
The rule about Mary making tea had disappeared since the day she swapped cards with Douglas Ford. ‘I can do what I like,’ she shouted at Michael and ducked along the path by the arches.
The girls from Michael’s class were on the slide.
It’s only me having tea, and I don’t care. She marched over to the ladder to wait her turn. To her astonishment all the children stood back.
‘You can go next.’ It was Jacqueline, the kind girl with plaits.
No one moved or argued with Mary. Maybe they liked her after all? Mary looked up at the pretend house at the top of the ladder. Michael wasn’t there. She slipped her satchel around to her back and placed one sandalled foot on the first rung. She expected someone to shout that she had pushed in, but it was quiet. Everyone wanted to see her perform her incredible feat. She climbed fast and clumsily, banging her knee on the metal. She would not cry. From the doorway of the house she looked down. The girls had gone.
Mary stood alone in the little house where her brother had crouched with chattering teeth and trembling knees. He had held her tight around the middle. She touched her tummy. His hands had gone. Without Michael the slide would be easier, but she still wished he were there to see her.
She would go head first. She lay on her tummy and with a swimming motion propelled herself over the edge and pitched downwards.
Everything was at top speed; the skimming metal burned her legs. She went faster and faster and jolted to a stop at the end of the slide, her head hanging over the side and the ground close to her nose.
Mary rolled off the chute and trotted out of the arch. The girls were up ahead at the end of the path. She wanted to run away, but they would know she was scared so she kept going. They were looking at her heart in the concrete. This gave her courage; she would tell them that Clifford had done it for her.
‘What are you lot doing?’ Mary tried to sound cheery, but her voice was shrill. She looked at the heart. The concrete had set hard so the ‘T’ was clear, but where Michael had dug at the ‘M’ the letter could have been anything.
A girl shoved her. ‘You spoilt it.’
‘We hate you.’ Another voice. More shoving.
The girl with plaits wasn’t there.
‘What have I done?’ Mary retreated and trod on someone’s foot. She felt a sharp kick on her leg.
‘You don’t care about your brother.’
‘He’s not your real brother. You don’t have a daddy!’
A girl with long blonde hair was pointing at the heart as if Michael was under there. For a moment this seemed possible, but no, Mary knew where he was.
‘…to the ground. Looking for that blessed hope; when the Lord Himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel…’
She had told her parents that Michael had gone to his bedroom while she was making tea. He must have run out to get sweets. Mary could believe this had happened.
‘Michael hated you.’
Mary stared at the heart, uncomprehending. ‘He hated you.’ It was a chorus, the words flying around her ears. More kicks and punches.
‘No he didn’t.’ Mary got down on her knees. The letters were cold and hard as stone. Her fingers tore at the concrete; her nails split. She made no difference.
‘Michael wanted to rub it out because you made him a cissy. He hated you!’ A fireball rose in her chest.
‘You should be dead, not your brother!’
Mary clawed at a girl’s neck and rubbed her face into the heart until it and the girl crumbled to dust and ashes and there was nothing left.
Pigeons cooed in the arches; the sound might have been in her head along with Michael. Mary warily traced along the groove of the heart. Where Michael had tried to scrub out the ‘M’ was a lump of cement she could not break off.
‘…our Saviour Jesus Christ who shall change the body of our humiliation and fashion it anew in the likeness of His own body of glory…’
Michael had gone for good.
Clifford Hunt had not done the heart for her. Mary wandered along the path. At the arch wher
e she had done the deal with Douglas Ford she pushed open the corrugated iron sheeting and went in. If the girls came back they would not find her.
There was no sun today; the curving brick was like the inside of a chimney. She crouched on the dusty ground. Dimly she knew it was tea-time. She wasn’t hungry. She wanted to sleep but it wasn’t bedtime. She unbuckled her satchel and drew out the Trees of Britain album. The red cover was crimson like blood and heavy with the weight of the cards. She licked her finger the way her dad did while he read his insurance reports. She flipped to the page with the spaces. She decided the card Clifford had given her had fallen out. He had found it and given it back, which was the same as a birthday present.
Your birthday is not till 29 February 1968. Soon I’ll be as old as you.
You will never be as old as me.
You only get a birthday every four years. I will catch up.
At her feet was a congealed mess stuck with flakes of bark and dead leaves. It was Michael’s sick. Leaning against the wall was a bundle of canes. She drew one out, like a sword from a scabbard, and poked the end into the crusted mixture. She drew an ‘M’ in the sick and unearthed smeary bright pink streaked with orange. Michael had gobbled up the Fruit Salad chews. Her daddy had found the crumpled bag in Michael’s shorts with one sweet left. She would have liked to have it. The bag proved Michael had gone out to buy sweets, she had said.
How could my sick be here when I have gone?
Don’t be stupid. But she didn’t know. How could the concrete heart with Michael’s crossings out be there when he was under the ground?
Mary Thornton brushed her cheeks dry with her sleeve and fitted the stick back with the others. Her bag swinging, she returned to the path and went under the arch to King Street as she and Michael had been told. Certain nothing was coming, she crossed at the zebra. Today she was not having a pretend birthday; because of Michael her mum and dad were not making a fuss.
‘I’m doing fish fingers and baked beans,’ she confided to Michael. ‘Your favourite.’
24
Thursday, 26 April 2012
A fierce wind blew through the sixteen spans supporting Hammersmith flyover and the clouds massing were the grey of the obdurate structure. Traffic noise was amplified to a discordant roar that drowned out the reproachful call of pigeons sharing cavities with electricity cables and the heating pipes that were an innovation in their time. Birds finding tenuous perches on the spalling surface made the paving around the supports viscous with excreta.
Stella tried to put out of her mind the rumour, which she supposed she had got from Terry, that criminals of London’s underworld were entombed within the units of pre-stressed concrete.
The Hammersmith and Fulham Archives were housed in a nondescript building without signage in the shadow of the flyover at the west end of the Talgarth Road.
Stella had left the office after lunch, intimating to Jackie that she had an appointment with a new client, without actually saying so. She hadn’t told Jackie about the blue folder, and in particular hadn’t admitted she was going out with David Barlow this evening. Jackie was keen for Stella to meet ‘Mr Right’; she was always saying Stella must give people time, get to know them, dare to trust them. While she might approve of David Barlow’s looks and considerate manners, her judgement would be clouded by the deep cleaning and him being a client, a transgression of Stella’s rule.
Ten minutes later Stella was untying the string from a roll of film that held editions of the Fulham & Hammersmith Chronicle for 2002 and clumsily feeding the intractable end around a series of rollers on a microfiche reader. When she attempted to spool it forward, she twiddled the dial the wrong way and the strip of celluloid whipped from the casing and smacked against the glass plate. The librarian, whose help Stella had refused, glanced up from her desk with raised eyebrows, silently renewing her offer. Stella shot her a grim smile and began the process again. At last she mastered the sensitive controls and, as she tentatively turned the dial, the film jerked forward.
Optimistic of success, Stella drew a grid in her Filofax with columns headed ‘Date’, ‘Street’, ‘Accident’ and ‘Victim’. She put in seven rows, because, not counting the numbers with letters, there were seven streets. She squeezed in an extra column for the picture number.
She had forgotten how unsettling a local newspaper could be. The murders, muggings and accidents that befell people in the ordinary course of their lives – house fires, more than one murder in an abandoned church or a bedsit, robberies and accidents at work and in the street – were so frequent that, if they read the paper, residents of Hammersmith could be paralysed with fear.
After two hours she had only reached May 2002 and found two fatal traffic accidents. An elderly man – Harry Pickering – hit by a motorbike and a young man who, the article reported, had yet to be identified, crushed by the 272 bus on Shepherd’s Bush Road, not far from Stella’s office. He had died later of head injuries. This story intrigued her because a man arrested at the scene was not the bus driver, which inspired further questions. Who else could be responsible? Was he pushed in front of the bus? She trawled through the following weeks but found no answers. She was getting distracted. Terry would keep strictly within the limits of the case. There was no mention of a horse trough.
Her back ached from sitting on the hard chair and a headache from staring at the poor resolution screen was nagging at her temples. She went to the lavatory.
She was drying her hands – on a towel whose hygienic properties she mistrusted on principle – when she saw what had been under her nose. She hurried back and pulled out the blue folder from her rucksack; she flipped to the street with the witness board (number 5b) and there they were. Two horse chestnut trees – she had learnt about trees at primary school and could still identify most species in the British Isles – their bare branches black lines against a white-grey sky placed the season of the photograph as late autumn or winter. Stella was safe omitting the months between May and August from her search.
She opened the cabinets housing film dating back to the 1960s, eased out ‘September 2002’ and loaded it into the machine. By now she was operating the clunky apparatus with the breezy skill of an expert and arrived quickly at Thursday, 5 September, the day the paper came out. No accidents reported for that week. A woman was found dead in her bed of a paracetamol overdose. A nurse in the renal department of Charing Cross, she had stopped work to care for her father and after his death was diagnosed with depression. Stella believed that keeping busy was the best cure, not that she had looked after Terry. She whizzed the film on and accidentally skipped a week. Reversing it, she found no fatal accidents.
Another hour passed and she was at the end of October. Her headache was worse; she could do with a handful of paracetamols herself.
She was about to give up when she found it. Date: Thursday, 14 November 2002, above an advert for Woolworths in King Street.
Hit and Run Man in Fatal Collision
By Lucille May
A man who was given a suspended sentence of two years for causing death by dangerous driving and leaving the scene was killed when his Peugeot RCZ hit a tree on Britton Drive W6. James Markham was taken to Charing Cross Hospital on Sunday night where he was pronounced dead.
The smash is known to have occurred after 11.30 p.m. when DS Terence Darnell, an off-duty police officer, drove down the street and noticed nothing unusual.
James Markham, 36, of l Glenthorne Road, was married with a two-month-old son. On 2 January 2002 Markham caused the death of seven-year-old Christopher Mason, who ran out in front of his car on Shepherd’s Bush Road. Mr Markham failed to stop, but reported the accident at Hammersmith Police Station that evening. His widow Sasha Markham told us: ‘Jamie was thrilled to be a father and was rebuilding his life.’
Anyone who witnessed the incident or who has information should contact Hammersmith Police Station quoting reference P103/1900/12.
Incredibly Terry had given t
he accident a time frame. Trembling, Stella pressed ‘copy’ and the photocopier by the librarian’s desk sprang to life. She called up Street View on her iPhone and dabbed Britton Drive into the search box. She had expected a fiddly, careering perambulation along the streets as the controls on the phone were clumsier than on her laptop – but there, set back from the kerb and framed by two sweet chestnut trees in full leaf, was a horse trough. Street View takes pictures in the summer when it is meant to be sunny; these were taken in June two years ago. Like the trees in Terry’s photograph these were sweet chestnuts. Stella knew not to confuse them with horse chestnuts. More evidence, if she had needed it, that she had found one of Terry’s streets. Stella sat back in her seat, her arms folded to contain her excitement. If she needed proof that the pictures in the blue folder were clues to a case, this was it. Sometime later, years later even, her dad had returned to Britton Drive and taken his own record of the accident spot. Why?
Her phone rang. She fled back to the toilet because a notice at the reception instructed users of the library to turn off their phones and, reluctant to obey instructions other than her own, Stella had ignored it.
Suzie. She would be complaining about Jack’s cleaning. Stella did not answer.
25
Thursday, 26 April 2012
Jack did a check on his dormitory. Nothing had been touched; it hadn’t even been cleaned. They were cutting costs. Outside the flat, he waited a moment. No sound. He retrieved the key from above the door with the shamrock holes. If it took a while to finish the repairs, he would make a copy.
Jack had forgotten he was there to get back his street atlas and get out.
The old man was a hazy figure in the poor light; he hovered godlike over his streets, his breathing stertorous. He gave no sign of knowing Jack was there. Jack manoeuvred along the tight gangway between the model and the wall that had served so well as a hiding place the other night. The man was wiring one of the signals outside Hammersmith Underground station. He gestured at the work table.
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