Towers of Silence

by Cath Staincliffe

  As it was, I was saved by a trio of middle-aged women laden with shopping bags waiting for the Ripon bus who engaged me in conversation. I chattered on with them about shopping and Christmas - or at least I asked all the open-ended questions and kept them going.

  Their favourite topic was their individual shopping passions and foibles.

  “Shoes get me.”

  “She’s twenty-eight pairs.”

  “Imelda Marcos.”

  “Twenty-nine. Not counting slippers.”

  “I can never make my mind up. I come home empty-handed.”

  “You need a personal shopper.”

  “I can buy for anyone else, not myself.”

  “That’d be a good job, personal shopper.”

  “Ooh, no. I’d rather do it than watch others doing it.”

  “She talking about shopping?”

  “Hazel!”

  To an outsider like Adam I hope I’d be one of the gang.

  The bus was crowded which suited me. I bought a ticket all the way as I’d no idea of our destination.

  I sat with my new friends who continued to tease each other as talk moved from shopping to fashions and nostalgia for the bygone styles. I nodded and smiled a lot.

  We hadn’t gone far and were still in the suburbs of York when the driver called out something unintelligible which drew Adam to his feet. I said loud goodbyes to my companions trying to make it sound like a weekly ritual. If Adam was going to clock me I reckoned it was going to be now.

  I let him get off first then followed and immediately crossed the road looking purposeful. He was studying a piece of paper. We were on a suburban housing estate. Brick built semi-detached houses with small front gardens. A passing cat solicited my attention and gave me an excuse to loiter. I bent to pet the cat, watching Adam out of the corner of my eye. He put the paper away and crossed the road. He was coming my way. The cat squirmed beneath my hand, purring and craning its neck. I waited for him to pass.

  “‘Scuse me.”

  Shit! My heart skittered around. I stood and braced myself.

  “Can you tell me where Blandford Drive is?”

  I pretended to consider. “Sorry, no,” I smiled.

  He nodded and walked off towards the bend in the road. I closed my eyes to steady myself. Swallowed hard. When he was out of sight and the prickling had gone from my arms I set off in pursuit. Mingled with the tension I felt a frisson of excitement. The same thrill I got from playing Cowboys and Indians and Cops and Robbers as a child. Though this wasn’t a game and if Adam Reeve rumbled me it wouldn’t be a case of ‘now you’re on’.

  Blandford Drive was off to the left round the bend. It was a long gradual hill, lined with houses, and halfway down on the left was a parade of shops. Adam passed these, crossed the side road to the first house below the shops and stopped. He went up the path and rang the doorbell or knocked; I was too far away to see exactly. He waited. Meanwhile I made my way to the shops hoping for somewhere to lurk. There was a butcher’s, a hardware shop, a baker’s, a newsagents, a launderette and a Save the Children shop selling secondhand clothes. I went in the charity shop, said hello to the women at the counter, then looked at the items near the window so I could see the street. Adam had left the house and crossed the road. He walked up the hill until he reached a bus shelter where he sat down. It was a different route from the one we’d come on. Was he planning to catch another bus or was it simply somewhere to shelter? Almost immediately my question was answered as a bus climbed the hill, slowed but didn’t stop and went past the stop. I could see Adam still there.

  Adam had come all this way, yet there appeared to be no one in at the address he wanted. It looked like he was sitting it out. I’d have to do the same. The old clothes shop was a heaven sent opportunity to alter my appearance and also provided me with the means for hiding in the warmth while keeping Adam in sight. I found a long, camel coloured raincoat and a dark wool hat with a brim which was suitably different to what I’d arrived in. I also bought two old candlewick bedspreads in the sale for a song. I put these and my own jacket and hat in a dustbin liner. “Too big for the carriers,” the women agreed.

  From outside the newsagents it was possible to read the number on the house. Twenty-one. Then I went next door to the launderette to do my washing. I got some soap from the dispenser, stuck the bedspreads in the machine, put in the money and found a seat near the window where I could alternate reading the paper with watching Adam. Regulars came in and swapped gossip with the woman who ran the launderette but they left me to my own devices.

  It soon began to get dark and I transferred my load to the dryers. Parents and children were wandering back from school, the newsagents next door busy with people calling in for sweets and the evening paper.

  I saw Adam stand up and walk down the hill. I left my seat and went outside in time to see a woman with two children, one about Tom’s age and the other, a girl, about seven or eight, walk up the path and let them all into the house.

  Adam didn’t go over and knock again - he just stood there for a few moments. Then he went back to sit by the bus stop. Was it someone else he was waiting for? A girlfriend, still on her way home from high school? He must be freezing, and hungry. I was starving. I bought a Snicker’s bar and a can of lemonade in the newsagents and went back to the launderette. I really wanted something hot and wholesome like a creamy cheese and tomato lasagne or a bowl of thick soup and a hot roll but there was no chance of that.

  Curtains were drawn and the lights went on in houses up and down the street, Christmas lights twinkled or flashed in windows. It was maybe another half an hour, and my candlewicks were virtually dry when I saw Adam move again; he stood up but stayed inside the shelter. I stepped outside, waited next to the newsagent’s window where all the little cards bearing adverts were and we both watched a silver Mondeo with a buckled rear bumper enter the driveway of number twenty-one. A man got out, locked the car, and went in.

  Adam went slowly down the hill and stopped opposite the house. He didn’t approach it. What was this, some sort of vigil? Was he stalking these people or what? The orange street lights distorted his face, cast him in a sickly glow. My stomach flipped when I realised he was crying, his face was blurred, features screwed up, his head bobbing up and down as his shoulders rose and fell.

  I moved away into the launderette and collected the bedspreads. Adam walked slowly up the road, past the bus shelter. I was ninety-nine percent certain he was headed for home but I would make sure. What I wasn’t about to do was wait for any more buses or risk my cover. I used my phone to ring and check times for the trains to Manchester; if nothing was delayed I’d catch it and save myself an hour. Then I called a cab. I put the bag of bedspreads back on the step of the charity shop - which had already closed - along with the mac and hat. When the taxi arrived, I asked for the coach station. I found a corner to wait until I saw Adam arrive and wait by the Manchester stand. My hunch confirmed, I walked to the train station.

  The picture of Adam standing in the sodium dark, staring across at the house, stayed with me. His face bleary and wrinkled and wet. Lost boy. Crying his heart out.

  Chapter Thirty

  You cannot imagine how delighted I was when the train arrived on time to take me to Piccadilly. If only there’d been a buffet too. I was weak with hunger. How did Adam go without food so long? I thought teenagers were constantly grazing, needing vast amounts of food to fuel their rapidly growing bodies. Was he too lovesick to eat? Too disturbed? I rang Susan Reeve en route.

  “I’m on the train,” I said and cringed at the cliché, though I had the carriage to myself so no one could hear me. “I’m on the way back from York, Adam is getting the Manchester coach. He’ll probably be another three hours at least.”

  “What’s he been up to?”

  “I’m not sure, to be honest.” I described our afternoon without going into too much detail. I’d rather tell her in person, particularly about Adam becoming upset.
<
br />   “It was just an ordinary house?”

  “Yes.”

  Adam’s adopted. The thought dropped into my mind like a brick. It fit the scenario. Tracking down a name, an address. Turning up secretly. Unable to go ahead and make himself known. Absurd? Possible? Wouldn’t Susan Reeve have told me though? Unless it was a big secret. I couldn’t raise it on the phone.

  “Can I call round in the morning and tell you all about it then?”

  “Yes. I’ll ask him where he’s been,” she said, “when he comes in. See what he has to say for himself.”

  “Don’t give anything away,” I warned her.

  “Oh, no. I won’t.”

  “He’ll be exhausted, too,” I said, wanting to protect the tearful boy from any more strain that day.

  “I don’t know what’s going on; it doesn’t make sense. I’m so glad you’ve been there, though. I’d have been out of my mind by now but just knowing you were keeping an eye on him ...” Her voice trembled with the dread images of all that could have been.

  A mug of strong tea and a fried egg sandwich, followed by a tin of rice pudding with cranberry jelly allayed my hunger. I browsed through the evening paper as I slurped. There was a heart-rending lead story about the little girl who needed a kidney for Christmas and a plea for more people to join the donor scheme. I flicked through and studied the page with ideas for last minute presents but none of it would do for Ray. He wanted a CD. I wouldn’t even have to go into town; there was a shop the other side of the park, on Fog Lane, that sold recent releases and did a roaring trade in second-hand music too. But what CD would he like? I should ask Laura maybe, he might have dropped her a hint. I turned the pages back to a report on the ill health of the city. We were already top for coronary illness and lung cancer, infant death rates and dental decay. The latest study showed a similarly gloomy picture for mental health. Suicide rates and depression levels rising. One forthright GP said the biggest challenge and the only effective one to improve health was to tackle poverty. A voice in the wilderness. Poverty wasn’t sexy. The poor don’t vote. Another health worker blamed the breakdown of traditional communities and of marriage, the isolation of families. A third of those interviewed were depressed. It was a shocking figure.

  I thought of Adam, bullied at school and now deeply unhappy. Why? Who or what was he looking for in York? Had he ever been happy and settled? His mother clearly loved him, and she was warm, likeable. What was going wrong for Adam?

  And Roland. The loss of his mother was bound to disturb him. He’d be dealing with it for the rest of his life. Would he heal? Would he reach the point where life felt worthwhile? Where he could trust and love again?

  They both had people who cared and neither of them were living in the harsh material conditions that crushed so many childhoods. Would that be enough?

  Prompted by thoughts of Roland I stirred myself to use the phone and check my messages.

  Connie Johnstone had rung and left a message.

  “I’ve talked it over with Martina and Patrick. We’d still like you to carry on, and Roland knows that but I’ve told him there’s no pressure on him to be involved at all. When we meet again we’ll come to you or we’ll sort out a time when Roland isn’t around. That’s it for now. If there’s any problem you can ring me. Thank you. Goodbye.”

  On the whole I was pleased. Glad that I could pursue the leads I had; show the photos to Sharon and maybe make some progress on that front, and I was relieved that the decision to carry on had been discussed among them and that Roland’s opposition was acknowledged and out in the open. But I was a little worried about his removal from the process. Wasn’t it a bit too pat to think his absence equalled acceptance - ‘what you don’t know can’t hurt you’ sort of thing? And there was still the niggling feeling that Roland’s attitude might conceal more than his grief. A notion that I couldn’t shake.

  Laura was visiting Ray. He’d got Moby on in his room; he only ever puts music on when she’s visiting. As I went upstairs to look in on the children, I could smell her perfume. I found it overpowering but said nothing. I couldn’t think of a way to mention it that wouldn’t be hurtful.

  The children were both asleep as I’d expected. Tom was hidden beneath the duvet. I pulled it back a little so his head was uncovered. Sweat had dampened the curls around his temples and they were flattened like feathers against his head. I kissed him.

  I went over to Maddie and bent to kiss her. She brushed at me with her hand and turned onto her other side. There was a thick green felt pen on the bed, a pool of dark green ink on the sheet. Washable, supposedly. I’d heard that one before. I moved it onto the bedside table. Had Ray paid Vicky Dobson? I’d have to remember to check with him in the morning.

  I wasn’t ready to go to bed yet. I needed a bit of quality time. I wanted to see Stuart but he’d be busy at the cafe bar. Twenty-four hours. I sorted out clothes for the following night, checked that the things I liked didn’t need washing. I should talk to him about how we arrange our dates. It would be so much easier if we set a date each time we parted. Then I wouldn’t get in a state wondering whether to call or get fed up with him for not calling me. But would that seem too rigid? Were we ready for that? Was he? All I could do was talk to him about it. And about Christmas too. My idea of a night away on our own. See what he thought.

  Time to relax. I’d got a Sopranos episode on tape still to see. That and a couple of glasses of Shiraz would do very nicely.

  Chapter Thirty One

  It was warm in bed. It was cold out there. I didn’t want to move. Just give me five, ten, fifty more minutes, a couple of hours, the morning.

  I didn’t want to have to chivvy the kids to get dressed, unearth their book bags, brush teeth. I didn’t want to make packed lunches and sort out PE kits, make toast, find Tom’s missing glove, pump up the back wheel on my bicycle, set off for school, return to find Maddie’s forgotten recorder, set off for school take two, deposit children, coats, scarves and bags in the correct classrooms.

  But I did.

  I’d brought my bike because it was neither snowing, raining nor sleeting and the distances between my various places of work were in the couple of miles league. Doing my bit for the environment.

  First call was Susan Reeve. I asked to put my bike round the back and she went to open the back gate. The garden was a tip. Obviously no one had kept it tidy for ages; dead weeds stood waist high and an old mattress lay rotting alongside the skeleton of last years Christmas tree. What a shame, I thought, not just the gardener in me but also the parent. Four kids and a garden going to waste.

  I accepted a cup of coffee and then recounted the trek Adam had made.

  She listened attentively and shook her head in bewilderment as I finished.

  “Why knock at first but not later?”

  “I don’t know. You’ve not been able to think of any connection?”

  “No.”

  “Any estranged relatives?” I said. “People Adam might have looked up?”

  “No.”

  “Mrs Reeve, this might sound like a silly question, but is Adam adopted?”

  “What?” she said incredulously. “Adopted? No. Whatever gave you that idea?”

  Oh, well. Worth a try. “It could have been a possible explanation, for his behaviour, if he was tracing family ...”

  “No,” she said. “Besides, I’d have told you.”

  “Like I said - silly question. But I had to check. Some people keep it a secret, even from the children. So, what did your husband say about York?”

  “I ... ” She looked uncomfortable, mouth half open but no suitable words. “He wouldn’t know anyone.”

  “You didn’t ask him?”

  She played with her mug, her fingers dancing lightly round the rim. She sighed. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “He doesn’t know?”

  I frowned. “What doesn’t he know.”

  “About you,” she went pink.

  “Oh
. I just assumed ...” Too much obviously. “Why?”

  She tucked her chin in, looked down at the mug in her hands. “The money. Things are very ... difficult. The building society are talking about repossession. We’ve only been able to pay the interest for the last six months. Ken’s work, most of it’s commission, sales have been right down. He’s worried sick. I couldn’t ... he’d never have agreed.”

  I felt sick. She was up to her ears in debt, they were about to lose their home yet she’d hired me. What was I supposed to do now? I couldn’t afford to reduce my fees and I felt cross at being put in this awkward position.

  “But Ken won’t know about anyone in York, really. I’m the one who keeps in touch with people, does all the Christmas cards, that sort of thing. He’s so busy with work. I can’t remember the last time he socialised with anyone.”

  “In the contract ...” I began, still weighing up money and time.

  “Have you done the two days?” she said with dismay.

  “Almost; there’s a couple of hours or so left.”

  “Only I was thinking last night, if you could find out who lives in that house, it must mean something. If we knew who the people were then I could perhaps get in touch myself. See if they knew Adam. Like you said, some people have to do it themselves. I’d try asking him first. Probably tell him I knew he’d been to York but it would be easier if we had their names.”

  “I can do that,” I said. “And as for the money you can pay me in instalments. I think finding out who lives in the house is the next logical step. Yesterday, just before he left to come home, Adam was very upset. He was crying.”

  “Crying?” Her face creased with emotion.

  “Yes. We still don’t know why Adam is so unhappy. You said before he wouldn’t go to the doctor?”

  “Our GP isn’t the most approachable man I can think of.”

  Maybe she should change her GP then.

  “Is he eating all right, at home?”

  “He’s a bit fussy ... why?”