by Oliver Tidy
‘I don’t know. My sister’s not answering her mobile. I’ll go up tonight after we knock off.’
‘Gov’nor won’t mind you sloping off early.’
‘Don’t you even mention it to him.’
Romney came out of his office and Marsh let Grimes know with a look to shut up about it. Grimes’ phone rang.
‘Well?’ said Romney, staring at Marsh expectantly.
‘Mr Gurung gave me a good statement. Good descriptions of the men. Body’s been removed and uniform are in charge of the scene until everyone’s finished.’
Romney grunted, satisfied. ‘We’re off it. Boudicca’s orders. She didn’t really have much choice. I’m not sorry. Did I mention Dover Athletic are playing in the cup tomorrow?’
‘Yes, sir. You did.’ And to Marsh the fixture was beginning to sound like a convenience.
Romney wanted to say something to Marsh about her behaviour earlier but Grimes finished on the phone and said, ‘That Range Rover I saw near The Eight Bells is registered to one Billy Savage. Jimmy Savage’s boy, in case you don’t remember. He’s nineteen.’
Romney sat down and allowed a contented smile to spread across his features. ‘Is that right?’
‘Hang on,’ said Marsh, ‘I thought we weren’t on this any more.’
‘We’re not. It’s just the answer to an earlier thread of enquiry. No harm in hearing him out.’
Grimes said, ‘And there’s another thing. When I was talking to Bernie in the Bells, I’m sure he said something about Jimmy’s boy not going to like it when he found out we were talking to him.’
Romney said, ‘Shiny new Range Rovers? Doesn’t sound right. Jimmy Savage lived in some crappy little council place in Tower Hamlets, didn’t he? Where would they get the money for a Chelsea tractor?’
‘Want me to ask around?’ said Grimes.
‘Hello!’ said Marsh.
‘It would be nice to know. It’s always nice to know where scrotes get their money from.’
‘Sir!’
Romney checked his watch and changed the subject, ‘You still out tonight?’
‘Yes, gov. Thought I was going to have to disappoint the kids.’
‘Try not to make too much noise when you come in then. I might be asleep. And have you called your builder back about his timescales?’
‘He’s not picking up,’ lied Grimes.
‘Well, keep trying him, will you? A couple of weeks, you said.’ Romney left that hanging in the air as he turned and went back to his office.
‘You told him then?’ said Marsh.
‘The moment seemed to present itself. I wish I hadn’t now.’
‘Why?’
‘I spoke to the builder an hour ago. He said it might take even longer. He’s got a lot on.’
Marsh tidied the few things on her desk, switched off her monitor and said goodbye.
‘Hope your mum’s OK, Sarge,’ said Grimes.
She smiled a tired smile at him for that. ‘Thanks, Peter. Have a good night. Say hello to Maureen and the kids for me.’
***
6
Joy walked out of the station and followed the little stretch of the River Dour that ran alongside the boundary fence. She cut up between the historic landmark buildings of Maison Dieu and Maison Dieu House and turned left to walk along the pedestrianised thoroughfare of Biggin Street towards the sea.
That she could walk from her flat in The Gateway on the seafront to work and back comfortably each day had become a source of great pleasure for Joy. Walking to work was not something she’d ever been able to do before. It saved her money and gave her exercise and time to think.
After her initial settling in period, during which she had experienced less than positive attitudes towards the town, she had come to appreciate that Dover had much of interest to offer those who were prepared to look for it and who were bored with shopping or the pub. As well as the iconic cliffs and the splendid walks they provided, there was the busy ferry port with its constant flow of sea traffic; a bit of a beach with safe swimming just outside her front door; there were museums and a good number of fascinating historic buildings and places of interest to fritter away a day off: the Castle, the Grand Shaft, the Wartime Tunnels, and, set high above Dover on the Kent Downs, the Western Heights. As well as all this, she didn’t have to travel far by bicycle to get into some wonderful countryside. And, although she still had not found time for it, France was a very short jaunt away. If she ignored the people and focussed on her physical surroundings it wasn’t such a bad town to live in.
Joy had developed something of an interest in the history of the town. She could not remember being particularly interested in the history of anywhere or anything before. Maybe it was a sign of increasing age and maturity. More than likely it was to do with the relationship she now considered herself in.
Joy had met Justin while lost and walking over the high ground that topped the area. She had stumbled across outlying installations of the heavily-overgrown Western Heights quite by accident and, unable to suppress her natural inclination to investigate and explore, she had strayed into an area that, as a member of the public, she shouldn’t have been in. Justin had been very nice about it. He had been there to assess the place ahead of an undergrowth clearance day to be carried out by volunteer members of the Western Heights Preservation Society, of which he was a senior member.
They had chatted amiably for a while. Justin had offered to show her around. She had accepted. She had marvelled at the forgotten and derelict nature of what, to her, seemed an outstanding, fascinating and neglected historic site. Justin had suggested that she come along on the following Sunday and lend a hand. Joy had thought, why not?
They’d gone out a few times after that, the usual: pubs, dinner, the cinema. They got on well. He was well educated and lectured on British History at the University of Kent. As well as intelligent and educated, he was a gentleman and a gentle man, interesting, funny, charming, well-travelled, attentive, given to romantic gestures and spontaneous – if sometimes embarrassing – public displays of affection. Justin was ten years older than Joy, although he didn’t look it.
Joy felt she might be falling in love with Justin. She had not been in love since grade three of primary school. There were only a couple of flies in their ointment, but then little in life was perfect. Justin was married. Separated, but married. And there were children. One of each. Both still at primary school. She had yet to meet them and she was in no hurry.
On this walk home she could derive no pleasure from either the town or what she considered the upturn in her personal life. She did not look up for glimpses of the imposing Dover Castle between the taller buildings of the street, she did not appreciate that she was not sharing her walk home with motorised transport polluting the air with its noise and fumes, she did not sniff out the first sign of the English Channel as she made her way through the underpass that ran beneath the A20. Joy’s thoughts were preoccupied with the wholly-depressing visit that she must now make to her mother.
Mrs Marsh had lived in her modest brick-built terraced home on the outskirts of Enfield for over forty years. Joy had grown up there. It was a place she never looked forward to going back to. She knew this was one of the reasons that made her an infrequent visitor. Too many memories. Too many of them unhappy and depressing.
The Marshes had always struggled to make ends meet. Joy could never remember a time when they had been happy as a family. Her father’s death had made things worse when under different circumstances it could have made them better.
The day Joy announced she’d been accepted into the police made things worse still. Like a hot and constant summer sun bleaches grass, time quickly faded the memories of those family and friends who had known from experience what a bastard Joy’s father had been. Joy felt that even the neighbours resented her for joining up. They all knew. Joy’s sister had seen to that.
*
There was nowhere to park, of course. Both sides of the street were
nose to tail with vehicles. Joy ended up in a parallel road. After squeezing her little hatchback between a plain white Transit and a tarted up old Golf, she turned off the ignition and rested her head on the steering wheel.
It had been dark for a while. And it had recently rained. The air felt heavy with the promise of more of the wet stuff. She locked up, pulled her coat tightly around her for the comfort as much as the warmth and put her head down and one foot in front of the other.
Tracy answered the door. They didn’t hug. There was an awkward moment as Joy stood on the threshold waiting to be invited into a home that she had as much right to be in as anyone before one of the girls came tearing up the hallway and threw herself at Joy’s legs. And the ice was broken.
Joy threw her coat and bag over the back of a chair, kicked off her shoes and proceeded to make a fuss of both the girls, of whom she was genuinely fond, before they got bored with her and gravitated back to the television and their bags of crisps.
‘You want a tea?’ said Tracy.
Joy nodded. ‘No sugar, thanks.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since I started getting fat.’
‘Comfortable lifestyle is it, down on the coast?’
‘It is for some. I’m not one of them. I do have a full-time job.’ That was the wrong thing to say and she opened her mouth to say that’s not what she meant but her sister beat her to it.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Not what you obviously think. I know you’ve got your hands full. I’m just saying I work long and hard hours too. Look, Trace. I haven’t driven up here for a fight with you or anyone. OK? I’ve come to see our mum. Where is she?’
Tracy heaved out a deep sigh. ‘Bed. She has to have bed rest. I now have to look after two under-fives and a bloody geriatric. It’s no fun for me, you know?’
Joy bit her tongue. No one had forced her sister to marry a twat. She decided that on her own despite or to spite the concerns of her friends and family. Neither of the kids was an accident. That was what she had chosen. And now she was back here living rent-free but probably claiming every benefit going and typically she was complaining like none of it was her fault. She hadn’t changed. Probably never would.
Joy took the tea and made her way up the creaky stairs. The carpet was the same one she remembered from her youth. The paintwork on the woodwork was chipped and discoloured. There were grubby marks on the dated wallpaper where hands had reached out over decades to aid ascent. The house didn’t smell too fresh either.
On the little landing at the top she looked in at what had been her mother and father’s room – the biggest bedroom. It now contained two single beds and the detritus of two little girls’ lives strewn about like something Tracy Emin would try out before abandoning the ‘installation’ as asking too much of the art appreciation society. Bunch of frauds.
Joy had to guess which bedroom her mum had gone into when she gave up her own for the girls. And she guessed wrongly. It wasn’t the second bedroom. Her sister had not insisted that seeing as the old woman had been turfed out of her bedroom of over forty years she should take the next biggest room. In there, all Joy saw was evidence of her sister’s occupation. She shut the door quickly and prepared herself to see her mother squeezed into the box room.
Joy tapped on the door and waited for an answer. There was none. She gently cracked the door and poked her head around. The borrowed light that came in through the glass panel above the doorway illuminated a scene that made Joy’s eyes sting.
There was just enough room against the far wall for the bed. Because of it, the door could not fully open. A small bedside table with a lamp on it was the only other piece of furniture in there. There just wasn’t the room. Joy choked back her inclination to cry, to run downstairs and have it out with her sister. How could she let their mother live like this? Maybe die like it?
‘Joy, love. Is that you?’
Joy didn’t put the light on. She could feel the tracks of her tears wet on her cheeks and she didn’t want her mother to see them.
‘Hello, mum. How are you feeling?’
‘Tired. Come in. Sit down.’ She patted the bed with a frail gesture. Joy could see that the exposed arm was thin and weak. ‘Why didn’t you say you were coming up? I could have made us something proper to eat instead of lying here like some useless lump.’
Joy took her mum’s hand and held it tightly, temporarily unable to speak.
‘I suppose Tracy’s told you, has she?’
‘Yes, mum. Of course she has. I’m your daughter too. I have a right to know.’
‘I don’t want to be a bother, Joy. You have a proper life now. You have to be allowed to live it.’
‘You’re my mum. Don’t ever forget that. I don’t. I’m sorry I haven’t been up to see you for a while. Things have been really busy at work.’
‘I know, love. It’s all right. Tracy’s here and the girls keep me busy.’
The thought crossed Joy’s mind that perhaps the extra work and burden of having her sister and her granddaughters to live with her had somehow contributed to her mother’s heart attack.
‘Will you be coming down, mum?’
‘Do you mind if I don’t, love. I’m so tired. I’m so sleepy. I’ll not be much company.’
‘Of course not. Can I get you anything? Do anything for you?’
Joy’s mum had altered the grip so that now her little claw of a hand held Joy’s in a tight grasp. As Joy’s eyes became more accustomed to the gloom she caught something of the old fire of the woman’s stare as she moved her head on the pillow. ‘Don’t end up like us, Joy. That’s all. Make something of yourself. You’re on your way. I’m so proud of you. I always have been.’ Sensing that her daughter was tearful, the old woman said, ‘Go downstairs and spend some time with those girls, will you? God knows they need a positive influence and your sister needs a break.’
‘I’ve come to see you, mum.’
‘I know, darling. I know.’ She closed her eyes and Joy felt her relaxing into something beyond wakefulness.
She sat for a moment longer and then retraced her steps back downstairs.
‘That was quick?’
‘She’s tired. Why isn’t she in the hospital getting proper care?’
‘She is getting proper care. I’m looking after her. Besides they won’t keep them in if they’re not actually dying and if there’s someone at home to look after them. Don’t you watch the news? All the hospitals are full up with bloody immigrants sponging off our system. They come over here ‘cos we’re a soft touch.’
‘Bloody immigrants. Bloody everywhere round here,’ said a little voice. Tracy’s youngest had slipped unnoticed into the kitchen and was helping herself to biscuits. Joy stared in astonishment at the remark the five-year-old had obviously overheard somewhere and waited for her mother to call her on it. Tracy seemed not to have even heard her as she scraped at a burnt saucepan.
‘She looks awful,’ said Joy, when the little one had got what she wanted and left.
‘She had a heart attack. How do you expect her to be? Doing cartwheels?’
‘She looks like she’d been ill for a while. She’s lost weight.’
Tracy’s shoulders slumped. Her other daughter came in demanding biscuits. Tracy pointed with the scouring brush at the open pack. When the girl had scuttled out, Tracy said, ‘She has. She’s got cancer.’
‘What? Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘Would it have made you come up any quicker? It’s taken a heart attack for you to remember who she is.’
‘That’s not fair, Tracy. I work bloody hard. Most days off I’m sleeping or going into work to catch up on my paperwork because we’re short staffed.’ But even as she spoke, she knew that her sister was right. She’d pushed her family to the back of her mind. She could have visited. But she’d made excuses and something of a life for herself. She had a man in it too and she wanted to enjoy her time off, not spend it in a shitty, stink
ing little overcrowded terraced home in a crappy street in Enfield watching children’s TV and listening to the girls recycle racist comments without reproach. That was a life she’d left behind and she didn’t care to be reminded of it.
‘There’s always the phone. She loves it when you call.’ Tracy was crying now. ‘I have to sit and listen to her tell me every bloody word you’ve said.’ And they were both crying.
‘She made me promise not to tell you.’
‘Why?’
‘She’s proud of you, Joy. Despite what happened to dad, despite how we all feel about what you did, she’s always been so proud of you. She doesn’t want to be a burden or a bother to you. You can’t tell her I’ve told you. She doesn’t need that bothering her on top of everything else.’
‘Cancer of the what?’
‘She’s still having tests. It’s in her breast. She’ll probably lose it.’
A fresh wave of remorse and sadness broke over Joy as she imagined her mother’s feelings of embarrassment and fretfulness at the confirmation of any woman’s worst fears. Their tears flowed and because of who they were and what they shared they hugged each other under the weak light of the room’s single, bare, energy-saving light bulb and wept for their mother.
‘What can I do?’
‘Just visit more often. Call her regularly. That’s all. I can look after her.’
Joy stayed and helped put the girls to bed. She read them a story, kissed them and told them to go to sleep or she might have to arrest them.
She had a final cuppa in the lounge with her sister. Joy was tired. Her sister looked exhausted. Old. With their issues off their chests and the children out from under their feet they relaxed into something bordering on friendly conversation. Something like the sisters they had once been with each other. Close. It wasn’t something they would ever be again and probably both of them knew it. They had changed too much as individuals. But there would always be the bond.
With the time approaching midnight, Joy stifled another yawn and said she should be going.
