by Paul Clayton
He walked along the front of the blocks of flats that made up the other side of the cul-de-sac but there was no sign of anyone. No door closing, no gate swinging open.
One of the blocks, Parkside Tower, was eight storeys high. It had large, white-railed balconies on each floor from which the owners could no doubt look down onto the park. Henry gazed up, wondering how exciting it would be to live at the top of such a building. The ground-floor flat in which they lived had no such views; it overlooked a shaggy piece of grass on the corner of a major road. Buses stopping outside often blocked the view from their living-room window. This was different.
Henry walked down the drive and peered through the enormous glass door into the hallway. To the right he could see mailboxes, little light-blue painted cupboards, each with its own letterbox and lock. Further back, he saw the lift. The number five was illuminated above its door. No wait a minute ... six, seven. The lift stopped on the eighth floor. Had someone just gone to the eighth floor? Was that where Cora lived, on the eighth floor of this tower overlooking the park where they had often met?
Henry tried the front door of the block but it was locked. He walked along the front of the building. Down one side was a driveway with four cars parked next to a wooden fence. At the far end of the drive, past the gardens, were garages and parked in front of them was a car.
Henry was sure it was the one Cora was driving on the night he’d narrowly missed causing an accident. He looked up at the tower. More balconies on this side, too. One, two, three … he counted eight floors up. There were four windows on the eighth floor.
He was wondering if the windows belonged to one flat or more when he caught a movement behind the glass. He peered up through the darkening afternoon but the window was empty. Was it part of the spy game he had been playing? Or had someone been watching him?
Chapter Thirty-Five
How long did it take to deal with a job application? The more days passed by, the more Frankie’s hopes fell. Cora had rung her after Henry had delivered the first attempt at filling out the questionnaire. She’d spent an hour giving corrections, changing sentences and pointing out how Frankie could phrase her answers in the sort of language a childcare organisation would understand. It both delighted and baffled Frankie; she was delighted that someone would take so much time to help and yet baffled as to why.
‘How does Cora know that these are the right answers?’ Shannon was entering Frankie’s notes into the online application form. Frankie knew her daughter would do it better than she could herself.
‘She knows what they want. That’s what it’s all about at this stage. It’s not about whether you’re any good for the job, it’s all about what you say.’
Shannon and Frankie crossed their fingers on the mouse together and clicked ‘Submit’.
‘Good luck, Mum.’ Doing the job application together had given them a new closeness. Shannon would now string words together and almost make a sentence. They had what might be called snatches of conversation. Frankie loved this. If the worst came to the worst and she didn’t get the job, at least she had a chattier daughter.
But she wanted the job, she wanted it more than she’d ever wanted anything. Her money from the launderette only went so far and Christmas was coming. If all went well, she’d borrow enough from the bank short term to get them through Christmas. Then, with a higher wage and a new job, things would be easier all round.
The older they got, more expensive the kids became. And then there was the car. It was such a generous gesture from Cora, but she didn’t actually pay for the running of it and it did seem to be more costly to keep on the road than Frankie’s old banger. She needed this job.
She’d filled her time since leaving the Techno Factory doing odd jobs. She’d done shopping for Mr Jenkinson in return for dog sitting with Dimwit, helped out one evening a week at the Cub Scouts pack where Henry went reluctantly when he could be persuaded.
What she missed most was Cora – a wine-bar catch up or coffee at the Deli. These were things she’d grown to love. Losing them while waiting to hear about the job was hard.
When her phone rang and the display told her Luke Buchanan was calling, she answered the call with a huge smile in her heart.
‘Hello…’ She got no further.
‘Is that Mrs Baxter?’ The voice was unfamiliar and sounded thick with cold.
‘Yes. Who’s this?’
‘I’m Luke’s mum. I think he looks after your kids sometimes.’ There was a loud sniff and cough.
‘Yes. He’s great and they …’ Frankie stopped. Something was wrong.
By the time the call was over, Frankie could hardly believe what she’d heard. Poor Luke. A faulty gas heater in rented digs. How awful. And worst of all, she would have to break it to the kids.
She made herself a cup of tea and sat at the kitchen table thinking of all the laughs they’d had around it on the evenings Luke had been with them. Whatever was she going to say to Henry? Her phone range again. ‘Unknown caller’ was displayed on the screen. She picked it up.
‘Could I speak to Mrs Frances Baxter, please?’
‘Speaking.’ This was odd. It sounded like Cora.
‘Mrs Cora Walsh calling from Langley Social Services. I need to verify a few of the answers that you’ve given on your job application and have a brief chat about your suitability for the situation.’
This was bizarre. Frankie had understood Cora’s reasoning as to why they shouldn’t go out together before she interviewed her for the job, but this was a phone call. Was someone listening? Was Cora doing this for the benefit of someone else?
‘That’s fine, Cora.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Baxter.’ Cora sounded very formal. She raced through questions about date of birth, previous job, family situation, all of it information Cora must have already known.
‘You’ve written a personal statement as to suitability. I understand that you lack the qualifications necessary but would be willing to undergo the appropriate training, which we would provide?’
‘That’s right. No formal training. Just a mum of three,’ said Frankie, playing along with the questions.
‘You’ve made no mention of a criminal record.’
Silence.
‘Is there one? Is there anything we should know about?’
Frankie held the face phone away from her face. This was taking whatever game Cora was playing too far. It wasn’t what they’d talked about. She’d thought someone else would interview her and, if they approved, Cora would rubber stamp the application.
‘It’s nothing personal,’ Cora continued, ‘but if there were any criminal offences still in place it would be difficult to get the approval you’d need.’
Frankie took a deep breath. I’ve made so many mistakes I wouldn’t know where to start. Telling Cora everything would be so easy. ‘My record is clean.’
‘That’s good. We’ve done a full search and nothing came up. It’s always good to ask, just in case, Mrs Baxter. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.’ And with that, Cora hung up.
Frankie put down the phone and gazed out of the window. A bus pulled up and people spilled from it, coming home from work. In some shady corner of her thoughts, a thin sliver of sunlit memory flashed on a recollection that Frankie couldn’t place. It hung out of sight.
The conversation with Cora had certainly been strange. Had she changed her mind? Was there something wrong?
Chapter Thirty-Six
The one fact of which Lottie was certain was that she was keeping the baby. From the moment she knew a life was growing inside her, her sense of responsibility changed. She’d slept with Craig Heaton twice. The first time had been such an unqualified disaster on his part that she’d wanted to reassure herself that sex might possibly be enjoyable. It wasn’t the case. There was an awful lot of energetic thrusting from him, while she seemed to have
no part in the proceedings.
At the home, the girls had regular medical check-ups as part of the welfare programme. Lottie wasn’t sure why the nurse had insisted she take a pregnancy test, but she could see the result written on the nurse’s face before she saw the thin blue line on the piece of white plastic.
‘Now there’s nothing to worry about.’ The nurse dropped the test kit into a bin by her desk. ‘This will be easily dealt with.’
Lottie had already decided what would happen: she was going to become a mother. How much it concerned other people was up to them.
‘You can’t stay here, you know,’ said Little Girl. ’You’ll have to go to someplace else. A young mum’s home. Either that, or they’ll take it into care.’
‘No sympathy there, then,’ thought Lottie. Racing upstairs to their room to share the news, Lottie had so wanted Little Girl’s reaction to be one of joy and excitement.
A sticky silence ensued as neither girl knew what to say next. ‘I suppose it’s Craig Heaton’s?’ Little Girl sounded haughty and aloof.
‘It’s nobody else’s. What do you think I am?’
‘I think we know that.’ Little Girl’s face boasted a sick, smug, self-satisfied smile.
‘I’m not getting rid of it. They won’t be able to make me get rid of it if I get married.’ Lottie watched the smug smile disappear from Little Girl’s face.
‘But you can’t! You’re sixteen.’ she pleaded.
‘Watch me.’
At morning break next day, Lottie marched up to where Craig was occupying his regular position on the railings. A couple of other fifth-form boys hung around. ‘I need a word.’ She wasn’t sure whether Craig knew how awful he was at sex. She assumed that, as he’d got what he wanted, her thoughts hadn’t entered into his head. ‘I’m pregnant.’
Craig fell off the railings. Two of his mates standing nearby burst out laughing. He got to his feet and dusted down his trousers, doing his best to recapture his cool. ‘Fuck off.’
‘It’s yours.’
‘You can’t be sure.’
She reached out and snatched the knot of his tie, pulling him towards her. Craig made a futile attempt to splutter his indignation but she spat the words into his face. ‘It fucking is yours, and you can do something about it otherwise people might think it’s rape. Got it?’
The minute she’d said it she regretted it, but words had deserted her. This was the beginning of her fight to keep this child – her child – and if marriage to Craig Heaton was what it took, then that’s what she would do.
That evening Little Girl laughed out loud at her. ‘They won’t let you do that. They definitely won’t let you do that.’
But they did. There was a certain amount of relief on Mr Dale’s face when she announced her plans. Things moved quickly, almost as if the home couldn’t wait for her to leave.
Craig and his mother came for a meeting. They agreed that Lottie would live in the spare room at Mrs Heaton’s and there would be a registry office wedding as soon as they could arrange it.
Lottie told Little Girl of the plan. A tear rolled down Little Girl’s face and, for one moment, Lottie felt sad about how she had spoken. Little Girl was the best and only friend she’d ever had. Now she would be alone.
***
The day she was to move out was the last day of term at school. Lottie’s belongings occupied one enormous suitcase and two battered cardboard boxes. Mrs Heaton loaded them into the back of her car while Craig sat in the passenger seat looking out of the window, any touch of swagger gone.
Lottie shook hands with Mr Dale at the top of the steps and turned to Little Girl, who was standing next to him. ‘Thanks,’ she whispered. Little Girl kept her face turned away.
Lottie walked down to the car and, as she opened the door, glanced back one last time. Little Girl stood watching her, her eyes full of heartache and her heart full of hate.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
As the days grew shorter and winter neared, the harder it was to get Jonny, Shannon, and Henry up and out to school in the morning. By the middle of November, it was proving almost impossible.
Frankie was finding it tougher to fill her days with useful activity. The strange phone call with Cora seemed an age ago. Frankie was beginning to lose hope. She made herself a cup of coffee on her return from the school run and sat down at the kitchen table. How could she fill the day? Pop her head into the launderette to see if she could pick up a few hours work around lunch time?
She savoured the smell of her coffee. It filled her head with visions of the success and money the job could bring. It was a brief pleasure, but these moments alone were precious to her.
A sudden sound broke into her reverie, a loud knock on the door. She wasn’t expecting anyone, so she was surprised to see PC Oliver Ashley standing outside, cap in hand. She liked Oliver, but her stomach still flipped in the way it always seemed to do on catching sight of a police uniform.
‘Good morning, Mrs Baxter.’ He sounded far too cheerful to have brought bad news.
‘Would you like to come in, constable?’
After she’d made him a cup of coffee, she sat down with him at the kitchen table. ‘Should I look worried, constable?’ She grinned at him.
‘I was wondering if you might be able to help me. It’s about that telephone number you gave us. Cora Walsh.’
Frankie’s stomach tensed. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘We don’t seem to get any answer on it. There is a woman’s voice with a message, but no name. We’re not even sure if it’s Mrs Walsh’s number.’
Frankie thought quickly. With the job application pending, she didn’t want Cora any more involved than she already was. Cora never answered the phone; Frankie always left a message and Cora got back to her. If she wasn’t returning the call from the police, she must have her reasons.
‘It’s the only number I have for her.’ Frankie took a little breath. ‘She’s not a great one for using the phone. I never arrange anything with her by phone. She calls round or we set another time when we meet for coffee.’
PC Ashley looked a little puzzled. ‘You have no way of contacting her in an emergency?’
‘Why would I? She’s not family, just a casual acquaintance. In fact, I haven’t heard from her for a couple of weeks. I’m a bit of one for keeping myself to myself. If Cora wants to meet for coffee or anything, she pops round. I leave it to her.’ Frankie wondered how convincing she sounded.
‘And you don’t have an address?’
‘No. I told Detective Sergeant Webb. I think she lives by the park somewhere but I’m not sure.’
PC Ashley sipped his coffee. ‘To be honest, I got a bit of stick from the sarge. He said I should have taken more than a mobile phone number and that I obviously wrote it down incorrectly. This is the number, isn’t it?’ He thumbed through his notebook and showed her a page.
Frankie checked what he had written with the number on the card in her bag. ‘Yes, that’s the number. She can be a little reclusive. Difficult to get hold of – but I think that’s how she likes it.’
‘Thing is, we’ve done a bit of digging. Detective Sergeant Webb’s annoyed because my records aren’t actually complete. The Sue Steadman case is still open, and there’s a gaping hole because I never interviewed both of you. Perhaps I should have questioned Mrs Walsh at the time of the original incident with the car.’
‘She would have told you the same as me. Neither of us had met the woman before. It’s a bit worrying that you still link the argument in the car park to what happened to the poor woman.’
‘We don’t, not any more. I’m just tying up loose ends. A full check of the electoral roll and no Cora Walsh, or any initial. No address by the park. In fact, not on the local register at all. Strange, isn’t it?’
‘I’m sorry I can’t help.’
�
��No problem, Mrs B. As I say, we are working to tie up loose ends.’
The constable put his cup back down on the table. He stood up and put on his hat , which made him seem too tall for the kitchen. ‘Thanks for your time, Mrs Baxter. And the coffee.’ He paused at the door. ‘Sorry, I almost forgot. The postman gave me these as I was coming up the path. Not sure I should be doing his job for him.’ He plucked two envelopes out of his pocket and handed them to Frankie. ‘Bit creased. My fault.’
He headed off down the path. Frankie looked around to see if anyone was watching. It wasn’t good to have police coming out of your house too often; people began to talk.
Once he’d gone, she turned her attention to the envelopes. A brown official one from the DVLA, which she ripped open. The car tax was due. She’d only paid six months’ tax when Cora gave her the car because it was all she could afford. The time had gone by too quickly. Yet more money that she had to find.
A sudden thought hit her. If the car had been Cora’s, she would have registered it and that would require a name and address. Frankie could tell the police about the car. They’d be able to access records of previous owners.
‘Let sleeping dogs lie,’ was advice Frankie seldom took but now she understood it might be the wisest choice. The last thing she wanted was the police poking around in her affairs while she was waiting for the outcome of a job application.
She picked up the other envelope. It was of a much more expensive type: crisp, white, and with no window for her address. It didn’t look official, yet her name and address were clearly typed and there was a Langley Borough Council frank over the stamp.
Frankie went back inside and sat on the sofa clutching it. Once opened, she knew there was no return; while the envelope remained sealed, there was hope.
She took a deep breath. Unfolding the contents, she started to read. There was the letterhead for Langley Social Services. In one moment, this letter could smash all her hopes. How many times had she opened envelopes with the kids’ reports in them, trying to be confident and teach them to be brave when getting terrible news? Yet here she was, scared to unfold the rest of the paper.
