Her Turn to Cry

by Chris Curran

  ‘Yes, I have to.’

  ‘Well I don’t want you going on your own, so I’ve called one of my mates. Andy Pugh, known him since school,’ he said. ‘Not much up top brain-wise, but he’s a big bloke. Scrum half in the rugby first fifteen. You’ll be safe with him.’

  She pulled her fingers through her hair, not sure whether she was touched or annoyed. ‘What did you tell him?’

  He walked towards the door. ‘I said you were being bothered by a fan. Told Andy to make himself visible, but to let you get on with some delicate family business you had to sort out down there. Don’t worry, he won’t ask questions; he never was the curious type.’ As he opened the door a car horn sounded. ‘That’ll be him. Shall I tell him you’re OK with it?’

  ‘Of course, I’ll get ready. Thank you, Marcus, I …’ But he was gone.

  She dressed and packed quickly, listening to the two voices rumbling away downstairs. She’d call Marcus up here before they left and clear the air with him.

  When she went down carrying her overnight bag Andy was sitting on the couch, long legs stretched out in front of him, the coffee cup looking tiny in his beefy hands.

  He stood when he saw her. ‘Hi there, Orchid, or should I call you Joyce like old Marky does?’ Unlike Marcus, who overlaid his posh accent with a fake cockney twang, Andy was trying to disguise his with a kind of Elvis drawl.

  ‘Joyce is fine. It’s my real name and anyway …’

  ‘You want to keep a low profile.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Understood.’ He grabbed her bag as she looked around for Marcus. ‘Marky’s gone. Needed to get to the studio, says to phone him from the hotel.’

  ***

  If Joycie had assumed Andy would be the strong and silent type she was wrong. He talked constantly in a surprisingly high-pitched voice as he drove his E-type Jag with delicate skill through the London traffic and along the winding country roads.

  ‘I’m going to ring Marcus and then I want to look up an old friend,’ she said when they’d checked in. ‘So shall we meet down here in an hour? And let’s eat in the hotel tonight?’

  Andy looked disappointed. He had been asking her about the nightlife in the town as they drove down.

  ‘I was just a kid last time I was here so I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Well the Mods and Rockers seem to love coming on bank holidays so it must be lively enough.’

  Marcus had told Andy he needed to stick with her, but only when they went out. Joycie smiled and said. ‘After dinner I want an early night so you can hit the town then.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘Marcus all right?’ Andy asked as they walked out of the hotel.

  ‘There was no answer so he must still be at work.’

  After ringing their home phone Joycie had tried the studio, but it was Saturday so there was probably no one in the office and Marcus and the models wouldn’t hear it from where they were working. Joycie had given him the hotel’s number, which was one reason she wanted to eat in the restaurant tonight. She mustn’t miss a call from him.

  She had remembered how to get to the lodgings they’d stayed in all those years ago, but the young woman who answered the door was clearly not Mrs Palmer. ‘We bought the place from Mr Palmer after his wife passed away, I’m afraid.’ The woman hadn’t heard of either the Madison family or the boyfriend, Nigel Godwin, so it was a dead end.

  Andy took Joycie’s arm as they turned away, obviously interpreting her disappointment as shock. ‘Are you OK, Joyce? Need a drink or something?’

  ‘No, I’m fine. I didn’t know Mrs Palmer well, she was just a friend of my mum.’

  As they passed the pier Joycie looked away. Didn’t want to remember the time she spent there. The days when her mum’s absence felt so raw. On the other side of the road a sign for the public library caught her eye. She looked at her watch. It was five o’clock so it might still be open and she could check the electoral roll. The newspaper said Sharon Madison’s mother lived in the Old Town and it was quite likely she was still there, which should narrow the search for an address. And the boyfriend, Nigel, was Sharon’s childhood sweetheart, which meant there was a good chance he had lived nearby. With any luck he’d have stayed in the same area. Surely she could locate at least one of the two.

  The library was airless and very warm. They were directed upstairs to the reference section and when Joycie asked for the voters’ register the librarian handed her a book that was much thicker than she’d expected. A few large tables were dotted among the shelves. She headed for an empty one next to a rack of newspapers.

  Andy was shifting from foot to foot beside her, looking totally out of place. She whispered, ‘Why don’t you have a wander for half an hour. Meet me outside. It looks safe enough in here,’ and with a little salute and a look of profound relief he headed for the door.

  She had borrowed a ruler from the girl behind the counter and when she found the Old Town section she worked through it street by street, moving the ruler down the addresses. It was slow going and by the time she’d been at it for five or six minutes her eyes were blurring and she had to look around for a few seconds to get them to focus again. An old man came to the newspaper rack beside her. He looked and smelled like a tramp and, sod’s law, he settled at her table, sniffing loudly and rattling his paper. Every few minutes he gave a rasping cough accompanied by the occasional burp as gusts of old sweat and grime wafted over from him on the warm air.

  At last she found an entry for Madison and, yes, the names were Stanley and Margaret. They could be Sharon’s parents. And in the very next street there was a family called Godwin with two voters named Nigel: probably a father and son. She noted down the addresses and arrived at the library entrance as Andy was loping up to meet her.

  ‘Hey, guess what?’ he said, his voice soaring with excitement. ‘They had PJ Proby on at the pier the other week. Shame we didn’t come down then.’

  She nodded, keeping her head down to hide her smile, and taking deep breaths of the fresh sea air.

  At the hotel she went straight to her room. With any luck there would be time to phone Marcus and have a bath before meeting Andy for dinner. Her clothes seemed to carry the smell of the tramp on them so she stripped off, wrapped herself in a towel, and hung them near the open window. There was still no answer when she rang home and when she put down the receiver her stomach was churning. Was Marcus ignoring her? Had she upset him even more than she’d realized? But looking at her watch she told herself he was probably taking Fatty for her walk. She was being silly. They would be fine once they’d talked.

  The cool bath was perfect after the sticky weather and, dressed only in her underwear, she lay on the bed to try Marcus again, but there was still no reply. She told herself he’d decided to eat out, that was all.

  In the restaurant they were given a table by the window. The promenade was deserted, everyone having tea at home or in their guest houses. The sky had cleared to a translucent baby blue. The sea was motionless: a misted mirror of the sky above it. It was too lovely and Joycie wanted to cry, wishing Marcus was here.

  Andy was busy studying the menu and she swallowed, blinked away the tears, and put on a smile. ‘What are you having?’

  ‘Roast beef for me and they’ve got my favourite for pud.’ He rubbed his hands together and grinned showing huge white teeth. ‘Rhubarb crumble and custard.’

  The restaurant was busy with several groups apparently celebrating special occasions. They were all middle-aged or older and none of them seemed to recognize her. When she looked back outside she saw that coloured lights had come on along the promenade and the sea was a dark shadow. The prom was getting busy with holidaymakers again, in bright clothes and silly hats, and the melancholy air she’d imagined earlier had disappeared.

  Andy swallowed down his roast beef with all the trimmings in a few minutes and while Joycie, who always thought of herself as a quick eater, chewed her overdone Barnsley chop, he gazed around, his foot tapping under
the table, obviously desperate to get on to the rhubarb crumble. She asked for cheese and biscuits, but when it arrived – Jacob’s cream crackers, a lump of cheddar, and a bit of dry Stilton – she pushed the plate towards him. He’d already wolfed down his crumble – ‘Good grub this!’ – and he demolished the cheese and biscuits with a large brandy as she drank her watery coffee.

  ‘Tomorrow I need to visit a couple of people then we can leave whenever you’re ready.’

  ‘Shall we have lunch here?’ he said and she nodded, although she wanted to get away as early as possible. The food would all go on her bill and he deserved that at least for coming with her.

  Up in her room she reread the newspaper article then called home again. Still no answer. If he was in the darkroom he often didn’t hear the phone, but why didn’t he ring her?

  She sat in bed trying to read an Agatha Christie paperback, but it was a creepy story about girls whose hair was falling out and a strange house where women practised witchcraft, and it made her feel unsettled.

  Ten o’clock. Marcus should be back by now even if he’d been out for dinner. She let the phone ring and ring, but eventually had to hang up. He was on a tight deadline and it wasn’t unknown for him to stay at the studio until late then work in the darkroom through the night.

  ***

  If she slept at all Joycie wasn’t aware of it, but the night passed eventually and when the sky began to lighten she got up and dressed. It was too early to ring Marcus and in a way she was relieved about that, wondering how she would feel, what she would say, if a girl picked up the phone or it was obvious he had someone there.

  It was a brilliantly sunny morning and she was almost tempted to take a walk along the seafront on her own. She was pretty sure no one had followed the car down and there had been no sign of Bill or anyone like him in town yesterday. Bill’s approach seemed to involve trying to intimidate her by making his presence obvious. So it looked as if they had managed to get away with it. Joycie had to hope so because she didn’t want to put Sharon’s family in danger and she told herself that if she spotted any suspicious characters today she wouldn’t go to see them after all.

  She had been flipping through the Sunday paper and now her hands were black with newsprint so she went back to her room, washed, grabbed the floppy hat she had brought as a gesture at disguise and stood looking at the phone for long minutes, her heart thumping hard and fast. Finally she grabbed it and dialled.

  It rang and rang and she could almost hear it echoing through the empty house. It was nearly 8 a.m. and she told herself it was just possible that Marcus hadn’t finished the shoot yesterday and was already back at the studio. More likely he was taking Fatty for a walk. But her knees were quivering as she walked down to the foyer again and the lump that had been lodged in her stomach all night was threatening to rise into her mouth. Please, please, Marcus, call me. Perhaps she had missed something from him yesterday.

  The man at the desk shook his head. ‘No messages for you, Miss Todd.’ He laid emphasis on the name, just about resisting a wink.

  Andy waved to her from the restaurant and she joined him. At least no one there seemed to take an interest in her. Andy was wearing a short-sleeved shirt with a floppy collar and thick stripes in purple and pink, reminding Joycie of a large and comfortable deck chair. He was eating a huge fried breakfast, liberally slathered with brown HP sauce, and the smell clashed with the whiff of stale booze from last night that hovered in the air.

  Joycie pressed her napkin to her lips and asked for some toast and black coffee, but could only nibble on half a slice. She longed to tell Andy to drive her home right now, but that would make the whole visit pointless and she would have upset Marcus for nothing.

  Andy, who had cleared his plate at lightning speed last night, seemed to take an age to eat his breakfast. Joycie pushed her plate and cup away, looked at her watch pointedly and told him she’d wait for him in the foyer.

  ‘Oh right.’ He folded a slice of toast and crammed the whole thing into his mouth, standing at the same time. ‘Mustn’t dawdle, eh? Lead on McDuff.’

  His high-pitched American twang sounded even more ridiculous through a mouthful of toast and made Joycie grin despite her anxiety.

  As they walked along the seafront the sun shone down hard and she was grateful for her big white hat. Andy mopped his face.

  ‘Bloody hot.’

  Joycie nodded, forcing herself to match his slow, slow pace even as her mind said, hurry, hurry. There was no point in rushing. The people she needed to see were likely to be having a Sunday morning lie-in and she’d promised Andy they’d have lunch at the hotel before leaving, but she longed to be back on the road and heading home to Marcus. At least Andy hadn’t asked about him this morning.

  The promenade was quiet in the heat haze. The only sound the low shush, shush from the sea: a sheet of blue glass rippled here and there with a few imperfections. There was certainly no one following them. They were passing the Italian café where she used to eat with her dad in those weeks after her mum disappeared. It looked exactly the same and she had to turn away and take a deep breath, but Andy was too busy looking at a couple of girls in bikinis covering themselves with sun oil to notice.

  When they reached the Old Town Joycie touched his arm. ‘The people I’m going to see are a bit shy of strangers so will you wait at the end of the street? I won’t be long.’

  They were passing a pub and Andy glanced at it longingly but, of course, it was closed until midday.

  The house where Sharon Madison’s parents lived was down a narrow lane off the old High Street. It was a tiny terraced cottage, and the door was opened very quickly by a woman who looked to be in her fifties. She was wearing an apron and wiping her hands on a towel. The smell of roasting meat came from inside and the woman’s face was shiny with the heat.

  ‘Mrs Madison?’ When she nodded, Joycie said, ‘I lived here for a while in the ’50s and my older sister was a friend of your daughter, Sharon. I’ve been looking up some other friends and they told me Sharon had died and I just wanted to say how sorry I am.’

  The woman’s face was red, but white blotches stood out on each side of her nose and she swayed and grabbed at the door frame. This was awful. Joycie wanted to turn and run but it was too late: the damage was done. Sharon’s mother raised her eyes and they were filled with tears, but her face was twisted in what looked more like anger than grief.

  ‘Did they say she killed herself or she was so drunk she fell off the pier?’

  What an idiot she was blundering in like this. ‘I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  She turned to go, but Mrs Madison touched her arm. ‘I’m sorry too, love. You didn’t mean any harm. It’s just that I have to set people straight. That inquest was a joke. Accidental drowning, they said.’

  Joycie could hear her own heart thumping so hard she was surprised the other woman didn’t notice. Careful, careful. ‘But you don’t believe the verdict was right?’ Mrs Madison looked at her, twisting the tea towel around her fingers. Joycie could see she wanted to talk. ‘So what do you think really happened?’

  The towel was tortured into a misshapen knot, the knuckles on Mrs Madison’s hands standing out. She jerked her head towards the main street, speaking in that harsh half whisper again. ‘He did it, that Nigel. Couldn’t bear it ’cos she’d found someone else. Always was jealous of her.’

  ‘So why didn’t the police charge him?’

  She raised her voice, glancing around as if wanting to be heard. ‘Got his mates to lie for him. And it was what the police wanted to believe. Made it easier for them if no one was to blame.’

  Joycie had been aware of Andy moving down the little lane towards them and now she turned and shook her head at him. He stood with his arms folded like a nightclub bouncer. Mrs Madison looked at him and began to shut her door. ‘I’ve got dinner to make, can’t stand here talking.’

  Joycie said, ‘I’m so sorry,’ but the door was
already closed and she didn’t think the poor woman heard her.

  ‘I thought you might be in trouble for a minute there,’ Andy said when she joined him.

  ‘She was a bit upset, but it’s all right.’ After Mrs Madison’s reaction Joycie knew she needed to be more honest with Andy because if Sharon’s mum was right Nigel Godwin might be dangerous.

  As they walked towards his address she told Andy that she was really down here trying to find out what had happened to a young girl who had been a family friend and had died in suspicious circumstances. ‘That was her mother and I’m going to talk to her boyfriend now. It all happened years ago, but I’m guessing he might have strong feelings about it too. So perhaps you’d better come to the door with me.’

  Andy gave one of his mock salutes, clearly enjoying this. ‘You’re the boss, Joyce. Whatever you say.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be fine, but I’ll feel happier with you beside me.’

  That made him flush and look down to scuff at a pebble on the pavement.

  Nigel Godwin’s family lived only a few hundred yards from the Madisons. Their place was a flat above a hardware store. When Joycie knocked at the narrow door to the side of the shop window she heard heavy footsteps running downstairs. It was a man who answered, but too old to be the boyfriend. She smiled. ‘I was hoping to see Nigel Godwin junior. Is he at home?’

  The man, who was wearing an old-fashioned collarless shirt and an equally outdated pinstriped jacket, was almost as tall and broad as Andy. When he answered he was looking at Andy, not her. ‘Who wants to know?’

  She told the same story, but adding that her sister had known both Sharon and Nigel.

  The man buttoned his jacket. ‘Well she’s dead and my son’s working in London so you’re wasting your time, darling.’

  ‘I know about Sharon. I spoke to her mum.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about that cow. My Nigel couldn’t stay here because of the lies she spread. Telling everyone he had something to do with it.’