by Penny Kline
The houses were all the same. Bow-fronted, with sunray motifs in the windows, and deep overhanging eaves. Number twenty-three had no particular distinguishing features except that the grass in the front garden was longer than that of its neighbours and the gate had a hinge missing. By now my road in Cliftonwood would be solid with cars, parked nose to tail, but here in Henbury the houses were all owner-occupied, rather than split up into flats and bedsits, and in spite of it being after six o’clock there was plenty of room to park.
When I rang the bell I thought I could hear footsteps in the hallway but it seemed an age before anyone answered the door. Then it was flung open so fast that it crashed against the inside wall.
‘Come in.’ Bill Hazeldean made no attempt to check who I was. ‘Ian’s in his room. I’m not sure if he’ll come down but I could have another try if you like.’
‘That’s all right.’ I stepped inside, breathing in the musty smell that usually means dry rot but could be the result of neither of the occupants of the house bothering to open the windows. ‘I’d like to talk to you first if that’s all right,’ I said, following him into a long, narrow room that stretched from the front of the house to the back.
I wanted to say how sorry I was about his wife — ex-wife — but he was making me feel he would be quite indifferent to anything I had to say. The room was comfortably furnished with shabby but good-quality chairs and a three-seater sofa covered in old newspapers and books. The television was switched on with the sound turned down. A woman with immaculate hair, and lipstick that matched her sweater exactly, looked as if she was just about to burst into a fit of giggles. Bill picked up the remote control from the arm of the chair and clicked it off.
‘Have a seat.’ He sat down heavily, leaning well back with his legs stretched out in front of him. He was wearing black trainers, with red laces that had been left untied. ‘You knew Maggie did you?’
‘No. No, I didn’t. I’d heard of her, of course. I’m terribly sorry about what happened.’
He raised his eyebrows then put up his hands to smooth the lines on his forehead. ‘You’re going to ask me how I feel. Can’t tell you I’m afraid. Unreal? Will that do to be going along with?’
The room was very dusty. A thick layer covered the mantelpiece above a hideous art deco fireplace containing a living-flame gas fire, its grey imitation coal piled unevenly on top of a dull metal frame.
Bill pointed to a photograph on a shelf above the television. ‘That’s Maggie,’ he said, giving a loud sniff that sounded more like a nervous habit than a signal of distress. ‘A family snap taken in Newquay a year or two back. I forget who held the camera. A passer-by I suppose.’
I stood up to study the picture. Was that what he wanted me to do? The frame looked like wood but was actually plastic and cold to the touch. They were smiling, all three of them, but apart from his mouth the rest of Bill’s face was expressionless. The woman looked slightly wild-eyed but I could be receiving a totally false impression. Her expression was fixed, waiting impatiently for the photographer to press the right button. Dark, suntanned, she was wearing a bright yellow T-shirt and had her right arm round the boy’s shoulder. All three members of the family were about the same height, but Maggie was thinner than the other two. It was a blurry photo, the image made grainy by over-englargement but I could see that Ian shared his father’s slightly stocky build.
‘I hadn’t seen Maggie for months,’ said Bill. ‘Ian used to go round to the house but… ’ He closed his eyes and his voice trailed away.
‘You’d been living apart for some time?’
‘What? Yes — living apart. Grace called round on Sunday, the day after the fire.
Of course, we’ve had the police — twice as a matter of fact. First to break the news, then they were back the following day, asking a whole lot of irrelevant questions.’
When I made no comment he sniffed again, then continued in the same flat, expressionless voice. ‘Grace and Terry knew Maggie quite well. Grace’s son from her previous marriage is only a few years older than Ian. He’ll be going to Leeds in October if he gets the right grades.’ ‘Grace’s son will?’
‘What?’ He was avoiding my eyes, folding and unfolding his arms. ‘Yes, that’s right. Ian’s only fifteen. Fifteen and a half. The half can make quite a difference at his age. The police seem to think it was arson but I find that hard to believe. Why would anyone… ?’
‘Petrol had been poured through the front door.’
‘What? Oh, you know about it do you? In the local rag, was it?’
‘You’re a teacher, aren’t you?’ I said, unwilling to go into details about how I had first heard about the tragedy. ‘What d’you teach?’
‘Very little. I’m deputy head. Mostly admin. There’s a ton of it these days — endless form-filling, trouble with the parents, problems with the kids. D’you want a cup of tea?’
‘Are you having one?’
‘I wasn’t.’
‘Don’t bother then. Tell me about Ian. He knew I was coming round, is that right, but he wasn’t too sure he wanted to see me?’
Bill put his hands up to his face and started rubbing his fairly prominent cheekbones. His deep-set eyes and jutting-out ears gave him almost the look of a garden gnome, except that the eyes were burning with anger.
‘Oh, I expect Ian’ll be down soon,’ he said. ‘Homework. They pile it on these days but I’m not complaining. Now, what d’you need to know? He adjusted pretty well to his mother walking out on us. Well, he seemed to although I’ve never been known for my sensitivity and outstanding powers of perception.’
‘Was it Ian’s decision to stay with you?’
‘That was so he didn’t have to change schools. He saw his mother whenever he liked. It seemed the most sensible arrangement. But yes, it was Ian’s decision.’
‘He goes to the local comprehensive?’
‘Mm?’ He stood up, moved towards the door and shouted up the stairs. ‘Are you coming?’
When he returned to his chair he had his hand over his mouth, as though he was concealing a smile. Maintaining the flat voice and lifeless expression had become too much effort, or perhaps there was something about me that amused him.
‘You’re a clinical psychologist, am I right? What do they do exactly? There’s a long training, is there? Degrees, higher degrees, all that kind of nonsense?’
I could hear footsteps on the stairs, then a boy came through the door and walked quickly towards me, holding out his hand. In contrast to his father he had a pleasant smile on his face and sounded remarkably cheerful. ‘How do you do?’
We shook hands. ‘Hello, Ian, it’s nice to meet you.’
‘Very nice of you to come.’ He remained standing until I was sitting again, then chose a low chair near the television, placed his hands on his thighs and looked up at me expectantly as if he were attending a job interview. He was a little taller than his father — he had grown since the holiday in Cornwall — and his face still had the unformed look of many adolescent boys, a face that might turn out to be quite good-looking or could be rather ugly.
‘My name’s Anna,’ I said. ‘Anna McColl. I expect your father’s explained who I am. This is just a preliminary visit to find out if there’s anything I can do to help. I’m so sorry about your mother. It must be almost impossible for you to take in what’s happened.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, I think that’s right. Anyway, it’s awfully kind of you to come and see us. Grace thought Dad and I might benefit from some professional help.’ He turned to face his father. ‘Do you suppose they’ll catch whoever was responsible for the fire? I’ve a feeling they picked the wrong house, like the way people sometimes get accidentally gunned down in mistake for the intended victim.’
Bill stood up, murmured something about having to make a phone call, then left the room and closed the door behind him. Ian cleared his throat and smiled encouragingly, inviting me to make a start on whatever I had come to do.
�
��Your father says you’re studying for your exams.’
‘Yes, that’s right. Keeps me fairly busy but I don’t mind that.’
‘I suppose you’ve been off school this week.’
He looked surprised. ‘Should I have been? As a mark of respect, you mean. I thought it was better to carry on as normal. Dad did too. I suppose we’re rather similar in that way.’
‘I think you should do whatever feels right, whatever helps the most.’
‘Yes, I’m glad you agree. I just hope she didn’t suffer too much. The police said the fumes overcame her before the actual fire got a hold. Would you like a coffee? Did Dad offer you one? He tends to forget. We don’t have many visitors.’
‘Nothing, thanks. Your father says you used to see your mother quite often.’ ‘Once or twice a week. A bit less just recently, because of my assignments. Two of them have to be handed in quite soon. If I get the right grades I’m hoping to concentrate on languages, then read German, at Cambridge if I’m lucky.’ He sat up straight, arms folded, head perfectly still. His eyes were small and dark, like his father’s, but in every other way he was the image of the snapshot of his mother on the shelf above his head.
Maggie had been attractive, but not pretty. Her nose was too large and her jawline too square. Ian’s nose was almost identical but whereas his mother’s skin looked exceptionally clear he had spots round his mouth and the edge of his chin. His hair was thick and wiry, cut short but not in a style that was fashionable with boys of his age. A faint scent of what could be after-shave had followed him into the room and his whole bearing suggested that he had prepared himself for my visit, that in spite of his father’s lukewarm response to my phone call, it was important to Ian.
‘Do you do crosswords?’ he said suddenly. ‘I only like the ones with cryptic clues.’
‘Yes, I have a go at them occasionally but without too much success.’
He laughed. ‘Helped after last month, then died. Eight letters.’
When I looked blank he grinned, rubbing the palms of his hands together. ‘Last month of the year’s December, shortened to Dec. Helped — eased. Get it?’ ‘Deceased,’ I said quietly.
He laughed again, wiping his fingers down the sides of his school trousers. ‘Which way did you come here? People get confused by all the side streets that lead nowhere.’
‘I had a map,’ I said. ‘I don’t know this area very well. I live in Cliftonwood.’ ‘Really?’ He sounded as though I had told him something amazingly interesting. ‘Overlooking the floating harbour?’
‘I can’t actually see it from my flat, but if I walk fifty yards down the road… ’
A cat had jumped on to the window sill and was yowling to be let in. Ian switched on a table lamp and the cat’s round yellow eyes glowed in the dark. It had dust on the ends of its whiskers.
‘Take no notice,’ he said. ‘It lives next door but comes on the scrounge most evenings. I don’t know if you saw it but there’s a notice attached to the wall, near number eleven. “Missing. Silver tabby, six months old with a brown collar and two white feet.” Do they make them into gloves d’you suppose? They’d have to slit down the stomach and skin it in one piece, otherwise it would spoil the markings.’
I flinched slightly but Ian didn’t seem to notice.
‘We haven’t any pets,’ he said, ‘because of the bother when you go away on holiday. Mum wanted a dog, a dachshund or a Staffordshire bull terrier, but Dad said it’d be too much bother. We used to go to the sea, or up in the mountains. I tend to be a bit wheezy, only it’s a lot better than it was.’
Involuntarily my eyes returned to the dusty mantlepiece. ‘You suffer from asthma?’
‘Nothing serious. It’s just, if I get a cold it seems to go to my chest. Actually I think I’m outgrowing it.’ He fingered the spots on his chin. ‘Now I’ve got these instead, not that they’re much of a problem. Mum said they’d be gone by the end of the year most likely.’
‘Yes, I’m sure they will.’ We stared at each other, both thinking about Maggie. Ian looked perfectly in control but I could feel tears pricking the back of my eyes. ‘Look, Ian,’ I said at last, ‘I want you to tell me how you think I could help. If you think I could help. You could come to the place where I work if you like, that might be easier, on the other hand I’m quite willing to come here if you prefer. What do you think?’
He thought about it, scratching a sore place just above his upper lip. When he spoke he could hardly have surprised me more.
‘If it’s not too inconvenient I’d like you to come this time next week. By then I’ll have completed my history assignment so I’ll be feeling less pressured. After that we could meet at regular intervals until you decided I was back on my feet.’ He frowned a little. ‘Oh, there’s Dad, I’d forgotten about Dad.’
‘If your father wants to see me he can make a different arrangement.’
‘Yes,’ he said slowly, ‘I suppose that’s right.’ He stood up and held out his hand for the second time. ‘Next week, then. Will I have to lie on a couch or something?’ ‘No, of course not.’ I smiled but his face was deadly serious.
‘Right you are.’ He clicked his heels together. ‘Next week, then. I’ll make a note of it. Oh, by the way, what should I call you?’
‘Anna?’
‘Anna,’ he repeated, taking a small diary from his pocket and flicking through till he found the right page. ‘Fine. Good.’ He unscrewed the top of his pen, checked the point to make sure the ink was flowing, and started writing. ‘Inquest on Monday,’ he announced, ‘although it’s certain to be adjourned. Anna on Wednesday.’
*
Grace Curtis rang me the same evening. She wanted to make sure I had found the house all right, but I guessed she was curious to find out what I thought about Ian’s reaction to his mother’s death. Since her own son had stayed with his father when Grace moved in with Terry, it was no wonder she was concerned about Ian. Maggie’s death must have stirred up all kinds of unhappy feelings, not just about Maggie, but about children left with one parent, in this case, a father. I had misjudged her, assuming her authoritarian manner had been acquired during her years working in a hospital ward, when in fact it could well have had more to do with controlling feelings of guilt and, perhaps, regret.
‘Ian seems to be coping quite well,’ I said. ‘The main thing is he’s prepared to talk about what’s happened. He wants to see me again next week.’
‘Oh, good.’ I could hear the tension leave her voice. ‘I do hope you didn’t feel it was wrong of me to ask. I thought afterwards, it was very unfair, putting you in a position where it was difficult to say no.’
‘Not at all. I’m glad you did.’
‘I know it’s part of your job, bereavement counselling, but even so… Anyway, if there’s anything I can do don’t hesitate to give me a call. I only work at the health centre part-time, but in any case it’s probably easier to give me a ring at home.’ She was talking very fast. Worried in case she had added insult to injury by disturbing me at ten o’clock at night? ‘I’ve told Bill I’m very willing to do the shopping and cleaning,’ she said, her voice high-pitched from lack of breath, ‘but in the circumstances that doesn’t seem very much.’
‘I’m sure it’s exactly what they need,’ I said, thinking about Ian’s wheezy chest and the living room covered in a thick layer of dust. ‘I’ll give you a ring if I think of anything.’
‘Yes, do.’ She sounded as though she wanted to say something else but was wondering whether she should. ‘You’ll be seeing Ian on his own, will you?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Oh, good. I mean, I do think that’s probably best. Bill’s not the easiest of people. The separation was all so unpleasant and I do feel it’s important poor Ian feels he can speak freely, not just about what’s happened now, but before, last autumn, the whole of it.’
‘Yes, of course.’
There was a slight pause. When she spoke again she sounded more nurse-
like. ‘Good. Well, I just wanted to say how grateful I am. Perhaps we can meet up some time, if you’re not too busy.’
The line went dead and I was left, with the receiver still held to my ear, trying to work out why Grace Curtis would want to ‘meet up some time’. To make sure I was doing my job properly — or was there some other reason?
Chapter Four
Trying to work out why Maggie Hazeldean had wanted to see me was a lost cause. I asked Heather to think back, try to recall if Maggie had dropped any hint, but she was adamant.
‘I remember the call because she sounded so business-like. I mean, although she wanted the appointment as soon as possible she could have been arranging to have a filling replaced in her tooth.’
‘Yes, I see.’ I had told Heather about the dog bite and she was sure it must have been something to do with Howard Fry’s visit. I was far less certain. Making sense of a random event is something we all like to do. Accidents, disasters. Why me? If only the person involved had taken a different flight, driven along a different road. But a nip on the ankle hardly fell into this category.
Janice and Trev Baker’s remarks about the research project at Bradley’s school had alerted me to the fact that Maggie Hazeldean had been active in the community in a variety of ways. All the same, the fact that a client of mine had mentioned her name was pure coincidence. Gradually I was starting to build up a picture of the kind of person she must have been. Independent, determined, ambitious. On bad terms with her ex-husband but still able to maintain a good relationship with her son. Howard Fry had mentioned her work with ethnic minorities, but neither Bill nor Ian had said anything about it. Grace Curtis had been fond of Maggie, but according to Owen it seemed to be Grace’s husband Terry who had taken her death the hardest. Working together, had they built up a close personal relationship? I could ask Owen but he would be unlikely to have picked up any gossip. He never did.
I wanted to leave work early and start looking for ‘Max’, but a new client had been referred and needed to be fitted in as soon as possible.
