by Janet Tanner
She rinsed the socks, sniffing them to see if they had lost their cheesy smell, and took them through to the back garden where her washing line looped and sagged between two poles. Her basket of pegs was on top of the old cooker. She hung out the socks and went back inside. Nothing for it, she’d have to do the sheets next – a chore and a half that was! Joyce never washed sheets if she could help it. A quick airing on the line usually did the trick, but every so often the time came when they had to be introduced to soap and water, and unfortunately she didn’t think she could put it off any longer.
She was hauling a sheet in and out of the sink, swishing it round a bit so that the dirtiest patches came into contact with the soapy water when she heard a motorbike in the road outside. She looked up and saw it stop outside Number 27. She didn’t recognise the lad riding it – at least, the crash helmet and leather jacket were unfamiliar to her – and when he removed his crash helmet, balancing it between seat and tank, she didn’t think the rider looked like anyone she knew. He had fair hair cut quite short, a good deal shorter than was fashionable, anyway, and he looked tall and well built. Curious, Joyce watched as he went up the path of Number 27 and knocked on the door. After waiting a few moments he knocked again, then retreated back down the path between the borders of French marigolds and snapdragons, looking up at the windows of the house.
Unable to contain herself a moment longer, Joyce went to her own door. The young man had come back out on to the pavement and was standing beside his motorbike, hovering uncertainly and still looking back at the house.
‘There’s nobody in,’ Joyce called.
He didn’t hear her and she called again.
‘They’re all out!’
This time she had attracted his attention, and to her gratification, he came across the Green towards her. Encouraged, Joyce went down her path to meet him.
‘Who was it you were looking for? The Simmonses?’
‘Yes.’
‘I think they’ve gone to shop. Well, Carrie and David have, anyway. And Joe went off on his bike. Or was it Jenny you wanted?’
‘Jenny – yes.’
Joyce experienced a thrill of triumph. She’d known it! The minute she’d seen him, she’d known it! He could have been a friend of David’s, but her first gut feeling hadn’t let her down.
‘Oh – she’s away,’ she said smugly. She saw his face fall and added: ‘She’s been away a month and more now.’
‘Away? Away where?’
‘Well, none of us knows that for sure. It’s all a bit of a mystery. But … well, there’s talk.’ She folded her arms across her chest and made a knowing face, hoping he’d ask her what kind of talk, but he didn’t.
‘You a friend of hers, are you?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re out of luck, then. No, judging by the talk that’s going round, it’ll be another month or more before she’s back here. You know what I’m saying, don’t you?’
‘No. No – I don’t.’
‘Ah. Well …’ Joyce twisted her face into a knowing expression, ‘let’s put it this way. When a girl disappears like Jenny has, you can more or less say it’ll be that the nine months is up before you see her again.’
‘Nine months … ?’ He sounded puzzled but she could see from his expression that he understood her all right. Only his brain hadn’t quite caught up with itself. He was shocked and in denial of what he was hearing.
‘Well, there you are,’ she said triumphantly. ‘It’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it? That’s what I always say.’
She broke off. David’s car had turned into the road and she could see Carrie sitting up in it. She hadn’t been long at market today!
‘Here they are now,’ she said. ‘Carrie and David, anyway. They’ll be able to put you right about it all.’
She stood her ground, smiling and nodding to Carrie with false friendliness. Carrie ignored her. Instead she was looking at the young man. And the expression on her face spoke volumes.
She’s not pleased to see him! Joyce thought. He’s the last person she wanted to see, by the look of it! As she turned to go back to her house, she was smiling.
‘What are you doing here?’ Carrie demanded, getting out of the car. She was shaking all over; how was it that she always seemed to be shaking these days? It took only a word or a look or the slightest little thing going wrong to set her off and in an instant her whole body would be a quivering jelly.
‘I’ve come to see Jenny.’
‘She’s not here.’
‘So your neighbour said.’
‘Well, there you are then – you may as well go again.’
‘If she’s not here, can you tell me where I can get in touch with her?’
‘Why do you want to do that?’
‘I want to know why she hasn’t answered my letters.’
‘Well!’ Carrie said tartly, ‘if she hasn’t answered your letters I should think it’s pretty obvious. She doesn’t want any more to do with you.’
‘I’ll believe that when I hear it from her.’
‘You’ve taken your time anyway, haven’t you? Following her up?’
‘I’ve been abroad – Malta. But she knows that. I wrote and told her.’
Carrie said nothing.
‘So can you give me an address, please?’ he said, polite but persistent.
All manner of thoughts were chasing through Carrie’s head. But the only one making itself heard loud and clear was that if Jenny and this boy got their heads together it wouldn’t take them long to work out the truth as to why each of them had thought the other had broken contact. A whole series of letters had gone astray and were burning a hole in Carrie’s underwear drawer. For the first time in her life she was ashamed of herself, and frightened by what she had done. She didn’t want Jenny to know. Jenny would never forgive her. Coming on top of the devastating news Heather had had to break to her, it would be the last straw. She had not heard a word from Jenny since Heather had gone to see her, and neither had Heather. If she found out Carrie had put paid to her affair with this Bryn as well as letting her think all these years that she, and not Heather, was Jenny’s mother, then in all likelihood she’d never want to see her again.
‘It’s no use,’ Carrie said, facing him out squarely though the trembling was so bad she felt her legs were going to buckle and let her down at any moment. ‘I’m not going to tell you. She’s better off without you.’
‘She’s having a baby, isn’t she?’ he said. He was pale and the strain was showing in every line of his face but he, too, was determined not to back down. ‘The woman across the road told me. Well, if she’s having a baby, it’s mine. So I’ve got a right to see her and you can’t stop me.’
‘Oh, can’t I, my lad? We’ll see about that! I’ll have the police on you if you don’t leave her alone!’
‘You can’t do that. She’s over sixteen.’
‘I don’t care how old she is. She’s my daughter, and I’m telling you to leave her alone. Now – clear off. Do you hear me?’
Argument was clearly useless. The only purpose it was serving was to bring neighbours to their doors and windows in the houses all round the Green.
‘I’ll find her,’ Bryn said. ‘If you won’t tell me, I’ll have to try other ways. But I will find her!’
He put on his crash helmet and turned away.
‘What did you do that for, Mum?’ David asked as the motorbike roared away.
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Carrie said shortly.
She marched down the path, setting her basket down against the wall whilst she unlocked the door. By the time she was in the hall David had locked the car and followed her.
‘Mum – there’s been too many secrets in our family. And if he’s the father of our Jenny’s baby …’
‘There’s no doubt about that, I hope!’
David ignored the bitter innuendo.
‘All this sweeping things under the carpet does more harm than good.
He’s got a right to know.’
‘He has no rights at all!’
‘Mum – you know how upset our Jenny has been because she hasn’t heard from him. And if he wants to take responsibility, then surely he ought to be given the chance. It might solve a lot.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Carrie, who was still shaking all over, now vented the resulting aggression on David.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he wouldn’t be prepared to marry her.’
Carrie banged her purse down on the table. It came open, spilling coins over the polished wood. ‘And you call that solving things?’
‘Well, yes …’
‘Then a fat lot you know. I don’t want our Jenny tied down at her age. It would blight her whole life.’
David, who thought Carrie was far too fond of organising all their lives according to what she thought was best for them, sighed.
‘Don’t you think she ought at least to be given the chance to make up her own mind what’s going to blight her life? I’d have thought having her baby adopted and never seeing it again might do that.’
‘She’ll get over it,’ Carrie said shortly. ‘In time.’
‘That’s what you said to me. About Linda.’
‘You will. You might not think so now, but you will. And our Jenny will get over this baby. Once it’s gone to a good home she can make a fresh start. And I don’t want anything to stand in the way of that. So if you’re thinking of telling her that Bryn was here, you can forget it, or you’ll have me to answer to.’
‘All right, all right,’ David said hastily. Generally, like his father, he liked the quiet life.
Satisfied, Carrie began unpacking her basket, turning custard cream biscuits into the barrel on the sideboard and crumpling the paper bag into a ball.
‘What if he goes to see our Heather?’ David said unexpectedly.
‘What?’
‘He said he’d find Jenny somehow or other. What if he goes to see our Heather – or Gran?’
‘Your gran wouldn’t say anything and neither would our Heather. Anyway, I don’t suppose he knows where they live. He only went out with our Jenny a few times.’ Carrie was beginning to feel a bit more like herself. ‘All I wish is,’ she went on, ‘he hadn’t spoken to that blooming Joyce Edgell.’
But she was even beginning to think that Joyce wasn’t quite the danger she’d seemed to be. There had been no repercussions from the fact that Joyce had discovered her well-kept secret and Carrie was more than halfway to persuading herself there wouldn’t be. Who would listen to anything a trollop like Joyce said anyway? Without a shred of proof? It would just sound like sour grapes and hopefully nobody would believe such a thing of a well-respected family like the Simmonses.
No, all in all, Carrie was daring to hope she was in control again.
Helen was driving up Porters Hill.
She had been to visit Amy, who had telephoned to say she had a first picking of peas from her garden, courtesy of Cliff Button, who was still working wonders with his green fingers, and would Helen like some to share with Charlotte? Helen had stayed longer than she had intended, chatting about Charlotte’s progress and a good many other things besides whilst enjoying a glass of sherry with Amy at the picnic table on the lawn.
Usually she, like Amy, used the lane that ran along the valley past the mill rather than the steep and rutted hill, but today a tractor was moving slowly along it, scything the hedges, and rather than be stuck behind it or have to drive on to the verge and risk scratching her car, she had opted for the alternative route. She pulled out past the iron foundry – quiet today, no rollers trundling off behind lorries, and drove down towards the Jolly Collier, glancing to her left to look at the new road of bungalows that was being built in the field below Alder Road. More council housing. At last the economy seemed to be picking up after the rigours of war, but although she knew the houses were badly needed, Helen couldn’t help regretting that the open spaces within the boundaries of Hillsbridge were fast disappearing.
Just as she reached the junction with the steep lane, a motorcycle came roaring down. Shocked, Helen realised he had no intention of stopping. She stood on her brakes and at the same moment the motorcyclist seemed to become aware of her and did the same. As she veered wildly, her car objecting to the sudden stop, she saw the motorcycle skid in the loose gravel which had accumulated on the junction after the recent tar-spraying. With almost comic grace, car and motorcycle floated towards one another and there was a crash and a thud as they collided.
Helen leaped out and ran round to where the motorcycle and rider lay beside her front nearside wing. She turned off the ignition and dropped to her haunches beside him.
‘Are you all right?’
‘My leg …’ He tried to get up, but his leg was pinned beneath the machine.
‘Don’t try to move. I’m a doctor.’
The crash had been heard inside the Jolly Collier; three or four men who had been enjoying a lunchtime drink appeared in the doorway, pints in hand, with Ken Coles, the licencee, behind them.
‘Can you help?’ Helen asked.
Two of the men obliged, lifting the motorcycle clear and propping it up on its stand. It looked relatively none the worse for wear, with only a few scratches on the tank and a shredded handgrip to show for evidence of the accident.
Helen made a quick examination of the rider. He, too, seemed virtually unscathed – apart from his leg, which had taken a nasty knock.
‘I think we ought to get this X-rayed,’ she said. ‘I’m not convinced you haven’t got a fracture there.’
‘I’m all right.’ The young man sounded more impatient than shocked.
‘I’d like to be sure of that. I’ll drive you over to the cottage hospital myself and check you out there.’
Helen could be quite assertive when she chose, and she was backed up by Ken Coles.
‘Doctor’s right. You do as she says, mate. We’ll put your bike on the forecourt of the butcher’s shop for you. It’ll be all right there.’
The motorcyclist looked on the point of arguing, but Helen opened the passenger door of her car and he reluctantly got in.
‘You shouldn’t just have come out on to the main road like that,’ Helen said, starting the engine. She was a little shocked herself, and it made her sharp. ‘This is the main road, you know.’
‘Yeah. I wasn’t thinking.’
‘I don’t know you, do I?’
‘No, I’m just visiting. This won’t take long, will it? I’ve got to be back at base tonight – I’m in the RAF – and I’ve got things to do round here first.’
‘Provided there’s a radiographer on duty, and provided you haven’t got a fracture, you shouldn’t be held up for long. Where are you stationed? Colerne?’
‘Not now, no. I’m in Norfolk.’
‘Norfolk! That’s quite a trek! What’s your name, by the way?’
‘Bryn Thompson.’
‘And I’m Helen Hall. Dr Hall. We’ll need to exchange details formally and get the accident reported to the police, but let’s get you seen to first.’
Hillsbridge town centre was bisected by two sets of railway lines; Salisbury Hill emerged between them. To reach the hospital Helen needed to turn to the left, but the crossing gates were closed on that line for a train which stood at the station, steam gushing out from the locomotive as the fireman took on water from the tanks at the end of the platform. Helen pulled up in the queue of traffic waiting to go through and glanced at Bryn. He had been silent for some moments now and she wondered if shock was setting in.
‘Are you OK?’
His eyes were narrowed thoughtfully. After a moment he returned her glance.
‘You’re a doctor here, in Hillsbridge, are you?’
‘That’s right.’
Another momentary hesitation. Then: ‘You’re not Jenny Simmons’ doctor, by any chance?’
‘Yes,’ she said, surprised. ‘As a matter of fact I am.’
‘So you’d know … could you tell me where I can find her?’
The engine was moving over the level crossing, its retinue of trucks clattering behind. Steam billowed across the windscreen of the car, thick enough to obscure Helen’s view. She looked at Bryn again, adding together the fragments of the puzzle and coming up with an almost complete picture.
An RAF serviceman, previously stationed at Colerne and now in a posting on the other side of the country. In Hillsbridge with something very much on his mind, and looking for Jenny. It could mean one thing and one thing only.
‘You do know where she is. You must!’ he said, turning in his seat so he could look directly at Helen.
Helen made a great show of concentrating on moving with the line of traffic. Her mind was racing over all the possibilities and pitfalls of this chance encounter.
‘Why are you trying to find her?’ she asked, turning into New Road.
‘Why?’ He sounded surprised she should ask.
‘It’s a simple enough question, surely?’
‘Because I want to see her, of course. After I was posted to Norfolk, they sent me to Malta for a spell and we somehow lost touch. I can’t understand why she stopped writing. I haven’t heard from her now since before Christmas. She must have found somebody else, I suppose, but I couldn’t just let it go like that, so I came down here to see her first chance I had. I thought – well, if she didn’t want to have any more to do with me, I’d have to accept it, but it seemed strange. Anyway, she’s not here, and her mother won’t tell me where she is.’
‘Why do you think I’d know?’ Helen asked.
