by Penny Kline
‘So he’s at a bit of a loose end.’ For some reason I had forgotten to tell Owen how I had met Terry in the university library, then sat in his car for nearly half an hour, listening to what had happened to his first wife. ‘You should’ve asked him to come round, or maybe the three of us could go out for a meal.’
‘You wouldn’t mind?’ Owen’s hand was on the phone. ‘I tell you what, we’ll eat first, then meet Terry at the pub in an hour or so, all right?’
Terry seemed in good spirits, so much so that I began to wonder if the phone call about the conference had been a ploy arranged by him and Owen the previous day. If they could persuade me to suggest a visit to the pub then I wouldn’t feel Terry had spoiled my evening alone with Owen. But Owen didn’t play those kind of games.
He was standing at the bar, buying the second round. Terry asked if I had got Grace’s message about Bill.
‘Yes. I phoned back but Grace must have been out. Tell her I’ll ring her on Monday.’
He nodded. ‘It’s good of you to go to so much trouble. As I told you before, I’m afraid Grace has taken the whole business rather badly. Well, we both have, who wouldn’t, but Grace is particularly sensitive, easily upset, tends to get overinvolved with the patients at the health centre, especially the old ones with chronic conditions.’
‘I should think it’s difficult to remain coolly detached,’ I said, regretting my choice of words as soon as I had spoken them. I hadn’t meant to sound critical, but Terry seemed unperturbed.
‘Poor old things,’ he said, tearing open a second bag of cheese and onion crisps. ‘Many of them living on their own, hardly ever seeing another soul. The way pensioners are treated in this country, it’s a disgrace. Oh, I don’t mean the government, the government can’t be held responsible for every detail of human life. No, I mean general attitudes, the way people write a person off if he’s over sixty-five.’
‘A large proportion of the population is well over sixty-five.’
‘Exactly.’ He patted my knee, then removed his hand quickly as if he expected me to turn on him with a stream of abuse. He was wearing the same baggy green jumper he had worn on the night of the dinner party. It was hand-knitted but somehow I couldn’t imagine Grace making anything quite so shapeless. Perhaps he bought his clothes at one of the charity shops. Plenty of academics liked to dress as badly as possible: presumably they believed it gave them the appearance of having their minds on higher things.
The pub was filling up. I recognized one of the young men who lived in the hostel opposite my flat. Since most of the inhabitants had been in trouble with the police I found myself speculating about the nature of his crime. Petty theft, breaking into cars, although Janos, who looked after the house, had told me one of ‘his boys’ had been convicted of manslaughter before he was twenty-one.
Terry was watching me watching the young man. ‘Someone you know?’
‘Not really. Lives in my road.’
‘In Cliftonwood? Like living there, do you? Nearly bought a place there myself. My house is far too large for just the two of us. I suppose when I moved in, when my mother was still alive, I was hoping to fill it with kids.’
‘Really?’
He laughed. ‘Don’t look so surprised. You think I’m a workaholic, only interested in my research?’ He gazed into my eyes, shifted his position till his knee accidentally brushed against mine, then jerked it away as though he had received an electric shock. ‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe you’re not.’ ‘Do you know the people who own the Bishopston house?’ I asked, changing the subject before he said something he regretted. ‘The one where Maggie Hazeldean was living?’
His expression changed to one of surprise. ‘No. Why do you ask? Someone in physics, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, no reason in particular. I just thought whoever set fire to the place might have thought the owners were still living there.’
‘I suppose it’s possible. Presumably the police look into all that kind of thing. Have they said something to you?’
‘No. I just wondered. It’s not important.’ ‘Good.’ He clapped his hands together to indicate the depressing subject was at an end. ‘I wonder how Grace is getting on? She and her daughter, well, you know what mother-daughter relationships can be like. I miss her. Grace, I mean. You get used to having someone around, waking up in the night and feeling you’re not alone.’
‘She’ll be back soon, won’t she?’
‘Of course. Now, what was I going to tell you? I know, it was rather funny… And he was off on some long-winded story about a student who’d been evicted from her flat, then tried to camp out in the cupboard where they kept all the psychological questionnaires, along with her cat.
When Owen came back with the drinks Terry returned to the subject of Grace’s daughter. I listened with half an ear, the rest of my brain off on yet another fruitless attempt to try to work out why Maggie had made an appointment to see me. If it was about her marriage wouldn’t she have wanted Bill to come too? Perhaps she had been feeling guilty about leaving him and Ian, and wanted to talk it through with a stranger, a woman, someone who might be able to understand why she had felt she had to move out. Or perhaps she had been worried about Ian’s descriptions of his father’s disturbed state of mind, the pile of unopened ‘gifts’ in their polythene bags, and wanted advice about what she should do, if anything. There was a third possibility. She believed she was in danger but had been unable to bring herself to go to the police.
‘Anna?’ Owen was snapping his fingers in front of my face. ‘If you want to know more about Ian Hazeldean, now’s your chance. I was telling Terry how we met him at Blaise Castle. Terry says he’s always been a little strange.’
‘Strange in what way?’
Terry drained his glass and picked up the new one. ‘Oh, nothing you could put your finger on. You don’t agree?’
‘I like him.’
‘Of course. I only meant he had a rather unusual personality. I suppose he’s had to grow up fast. Actually I’ve only known him a fairly short time. I doubt if we’ve exchanged more than a couple of sentences.’
Owen started telling Terry about our walk. ‘Ian was attacking the grass with a whacking great piece of wood. A good way of getting rid of his excess energy I imagine. Anna tends to read too much into everything. How old is he? Fourteen, fifteen? Seemed fairly average to me.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right.’ Terry took his wallet from his pocket, checking the contents in preparation for another round. ‘He’s suffered from asthma since he was three or four but as far as I can tell it’s fairly mild, doesn’t stop him playing football and so on. Maggie said he used to write stories, when he was younger, I mean. Sometimes he let her see them, sometimes not. There was this one about a small child who suffocated under a pile of sand. And another about a boy who told so many lies his father cut out his tongue.’
‘Maggie told you that?’ I was thinking about a stray remark of Ian’s I had almost forgotten: the missing cat that could have been made into a pair of fur gloves.
‘I think it was Maggie,’ said Terry. ‘Must have been. Bill never read the stories. Ian wouldn’t let him. They went through a stage when they got on rather badly. You know, some kind of clash of personalities.’
‘And what about now?’ I said. ‘Now there’s just the two of them.’
Terry stared at the other end of the bar where two drunken young men, both dressed in camouflage jackets, were demonstrating some kind of trick involving an ashtray and several beermats.
‘I saw Bill yesterday afternoon,’ he said. ‘After what Grace had told me I thought I’d better wait for him outside the school, ask if there was anything I could do.’
‘And?’
Terry stared at me, wondering perhaps why I sounded so intensely interested. ‘He looked exhausted,’ he said slowly. ‘As if he hadn’t slept for nights. But apart from that he seemed much the same as ever. I don’t know if you agree, Anna, but
I’d say
a tragedy like this’ll bring him and Ian closer. You know, it was all rather odd — when I was talking to Bill. I wouldn’t say this to anyone else, apart from you and Owen, but I had a feeling he was almost relieved. No, I’m putting this badly. He was like someone who’d been going through hell but now it was over. Now, at last, he was beginning to feel he could carry on with the rest of his life.’
Chapter Ten
Nick was in his room, writing up notes. When I put my head round the door he pointed to a vacant chair.
‘How are you feeling?’ I said, noticing the pile of unopened letters on his desk. ‘I was going to phone you at home but… ’ ‘You thought I’d prefer to be left in peace. As a matter of fact I’ve spent most of the time on the phone myself. Funeral’s on Wednesday. Relatives I’ve barely heard of trekking all the way to Bristol to pay their respects.’
‘People like to.’
‘I know. Funerals and weddings are our only remaining rituals. I just wish some of them had kept in touch when Mum was still alive.’ He shoved his notes in a drawer and turned the key in the lock. ‘I suppose it’s just hit me that I’m the end of the line. No brothers and sisters, no kids. “My mother made me a homosexual. Oh, really, if I give her the wool will she make me one too?”’
‘Don’t.’
‘Sorry. How’s Owen?’
‘Owen-like. No, he’s fine.’
‘You two going to make a go of it?’
‘I hope so.’
‘Good.’ Nick never talked about himself, not his private life. Neither Martin nor I knew if he had a partner he shared his flat with. Occasionally someone called Joss was mentioned, but only in passing, a brief account of how the two of them had seen a film together, or watched the speedboat races in the floating harbour, but I got the impression Joss was just a friend. Quite often, in the past, Nick had asked me how I felt about living alone, implying that he too could appreciate the advantages as well as the downside.
‘Heather’s got a boyfriend,’ I said, aware that he had said as much about his mother’s death as he wanted to, at least for the time being. ‘He’s called Kieran.’ ‘Really?’ Nick’s face lit up and he looked more like his usual self. ‘Serious, is it?’ ‘Who knows? They’ve only known each other properly for a few weeks.’
‘Properly? Oh, I see what you mean. Well, at least it’ll take the pressure off that poor daughter of hers. By the way, any news about the fire in Bishopston?’
I shook my head. ‘Nothing.’
‘Howard Fry’s keeping you posted?’ ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. By the way, Nick, you don’t know anyone called Rod, do you? I haven’t told Martin but I had this letter, instructing me to look for someone called Rod.’
‘Rod.’ He repeated the word, slowly, emphasizing the last consonant. ‘What kind of letter?’
I felt in my pocket, then remembered I had left it at home. ‘No address, no signature, written in block capitals.’
‘An anonymous correspondent.’ He spoke each word slowly, in a mock mysterious voice. ‘What did it say exactly? Came here, to the office, did it? I’m always getting stuff from clients, sometimes people I haven’t seen for a year or more. They like to keep us up to date on current developments in their lives, demonstrate how little effect we’ve had sorting out their problems.’ ‘They’re not all like that.’
He smiled. ‘No, of course not, you know me. Prepare for the best, expect the worst. You still haven’t told me what it said.’ ‘Yes, I have. Look for Rod.’
‘That’s it? And it doesn’t ring a bell? What about all your special profiling skills? Should be able to analyse the handwriting, check the quality of paper, work out the socio-economic class.’
When my expression remained unchanged he let go of the envelope he was just about to tear open. ‘I’m sorry, didn’t realize it had bothered you.’
‘It could be something to do with Maggie Hazeldean.’
‘Who? Oh, the victim of the fire. I can’t see why. She was involved with someone called Rod?’
‘No idea. Anyway, forget it, as you say it’s probably an ex-client — although I don’t recall ever seeing anyone called Rod.’
It was nearly half-past, time for my next client, but I was strangely reluctant to leave Nick’s office. Nick had been the one person who really understood how I felt about my own mother’s death. Now that his mother had gone would that mean we could talk about it more openly, or would it have the opposite effect? We were on equal terms, there was nothing more to say.
As I stood up to leave Martin burst through the door.
‘Oh, there you are, Anna, been looking for you all over. Heard a juicy piece of gossip that’ll really get your brain cells working overtime. Your friend Jon Turle — ’
‘He’s hardly a friend.’
‘Ssh.’ He held up his hand impatiently. ‘Apparently he broke the eleventh commandment, had an affair with one of his clients and nearly got struck off the register of reputable therapists.’
‘Oh, there’s always stories like that flying around.’
It occurred to me that, without giving it much thought, I had assumed Jon Turle was gay. His clothes? His manner? Surely I didn’t make snap judgements, based on such flimsy evidence? Then I realized I was making another. He could still be gay and the client in question could be a man.
Martin soon put me right.
‘That bloke called Gerald told me. You know, the one who finds accommodation for overseas students. Apparently the girl had been referred to Turle by a member of staff at the university. Well, I suppose whoever it was had told her to go to counselling and they’d referred her on to Turle.’
‘Who was she?’ Nick got in first but I doubted if he wanted the answer to the question as much as I did.
Martin shrugged. ‘Gerald didn’t know. As I say it was only a rumour, but I thought Anna might be intrigued. Still, best if we don’t mention it to anyone. As you say, could be one of those stories that get blown up out of all proportion.’ He hovered in the doorway. ‘Right, can’t stand here all day, some of us have work to do. By the way, I’ll be leaving a little early. While Sue’s at her class, I’m taking the kids to that German puppet show at the Arts Centre.’
‘Sue’s doing another course?’
‘Taking a second A level. If she gets the right grade she can apply to do a degree and the younger kids can go in the day nursery. I’m helping her all I can. Enjoying myself, as a matter of fact. It’s amazing the things kids come out with. The twins were in the bath last week and… ’
I stopped listening. I had heard the story before. Martin, the new ‘new man’. I wondered how long it would last. A few moments ago I had found myself comparing Owen unfavourably with nice, warm, expressive Nick. Now I found myself thanking God that no one in their right mind would ever have described Owen as a new man.
My client was late. While I waited I thought about Jon Turle, and struggled to keep an open mind. If Maggie had been a member of staff who had referred a student to the counselling service it was no wonder he had seemed so edgy when I mentioned her name. From everything I had heard about Maggie so far she had been the kind of person who would have reported Jon without thinking twice about it. A young female student, exploited by an older man who was supposed to be helping her sort out her problems.
Then I remembered it had been Jon who had mentioned her name first. Guilty conscience? Testing me out?
When the phone rang I expected it to be Heather telling me my client had cancelled his appointment. It was Heather but she wanted to speak to me in her office, or she could come up if I liked.
‘No, I’ll be down right away. Problem?’
‘I’m not sure, Anna. Someone asked me to pass on a message. It was all rather odd.’
Down in the office the photocopier was making its usual racket. Heather asked me to hang on a second until it printed out the last sheet. ‘Sorry to drag you down like this but I knew your client hadn’t arrived yet. Someone phoned, didn’t give a name, and the
voice was so indistinct.’ She picked up the pile of paper and started straightening it on the desk. ‘Do you know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say whoever it was had deliberately distorted his voice, almost as if he thought I might recognize him.’
‘Him?’
‘Yes, that’s just it, I’m not sure. At first I thought it was a bad line, then I realized there was something odd about the way they were talking. A man trying to sound like a woman, or I suppose it could’ve been the other way round. And another thing, whoever it was didn’t ask to speak to you, just wanted me to pass on a message.’ She picked up a slip of paper and peered at the scrawl of her own handwriting. ‘“Tell Anna to look at… ” No, sorry, hang on. “Tell her to look for Rod.”’
Imogen was my last client of the day. She looked as if she had been crying but it might have been the effect of the icy wind on her face. When she came through the door there was none of the usual laughter, and no sign of the red bag, bursting at the seams, waiting to be dropped in a heap on the floor.
‘You look cold,’ I said. ‘Did you walk or come by car?’
‘Walk? All this way?’ Then she relapsed into gloomy silence.
‘I saw Jon Turle,’ I said. ‘He sent you his regards.’ I couldn’t remember if he had but it seemed the right message to pass on.
‘Did he?’ She started chewing the skin at the edge of her nail. ‘Did you go to the Counselling Centre? I feel so guilty about asking for another referral but… ’
‘No need to, people quite often decide they’d like to see someone different.’
‘Yes, but Jon was so kind. What did they say at Counselling? Did you tell them why you were there?’
‘I went to his consulting room in Kingsdown.’
‘Oh.’ Her fingers started stroking her lower lip. ‘I knew he had one but I’ve no idea where it is. He does private work, doesn’t he? I think that’s better, really. If you’re paying you don’t have to feel so grateful.’
