---

 

 
 
Northcroft-on-Heugh, County Durham
May 19, 1979

Half-past eight on a warm, bright Saturday morning, and in the foyer of the Gladstone Hotel Sylvia is lingering.

Her beringed, scarlet-nailed fingers are toiling tirelessly, twiddling her beads and patting the diaphanous mesh she’s wearing over yesterday’s shampoo and set, whilst her false lashes are fluttering faster than a hummingbird’s wings.

She hasn’t had it this bad for a long time — but then we don’t often entertain guests as ruggedly handsome as Simon Whitaker.

He’s a self-employed demolition expert from Staffordshire — though his accent suggests he was born much further south — and is in Northcroft to oversee the removal of the railway station’s frontage and concourse. According to Sylv he’s thirty-two years old, divorced, and passes what little spare time his business allows him renovating classic cars.

So far, so what?

Except that her gushing directory of his manly attributes, which she raced into the bar to pour across me five minutes after he’d checked in last night, turned out to be no exaggeration. More than once during breakfast I found my gaze gravitating towards the table next to the fish tank when I ought to have been concentrating on the people I was serving, and if my mind kept warning me that it’s not yet ready to give in to my body’s physical needs and let a man sweep me off my feet, my nipples and the tiny winged creatures in my stomach weren’t listening. I don’t remember moistening my lips with my tongue — more than once, anyway — but there can be little doubt that a single flash of encouragement from those Robert Redford eyes and I’ll be tempted to indulge in a spot of lingering myself.

I might not have to do it for very long. Judging by the way he’s begun glancing from Sylv’s floral summer dress to my T-shirt and jeans, he certainly seems to appreciate what’s filling them.

After several abortive attempts, Simon manages to wriggle free from his would-be seductress and dashes upstairs.

“He can knock down my walls any time he wants,” Sylvia mutters as she lifts the hatch at the end of the reception counter.

I put down my duster and begin leafing through the copy of Au Courant lying beside the register.

“You’re smothering him,” I tell her, flicking back and forth between an article about the controversial new movie Jill Clayburgh is to appear in later this year and an ad for Max Factor that features some of the shades I might consider using when I finally get round to painting my nails. “Men need room.”

“Listen to the expert.”

I have to smile at that. When it comes to empathising with the opposite sex, I reckon I’ve got something of a head start on her.

“It’s still true,” I laugh.

“We’ll see which one of us lands him first. Oh yes, don’t think I haven’t noticed he’s turned your head as well.”

I arch my brows in mock outrage.

“How could you imagine such a thing?”

“I don’t need to. I’ve got eyes.”

“Mmm, so has he…”

“I thought so,” she grunts, vanishing into the office and by doing so missing the sight of my mouth falling open as I realise I said that aloud.

The telephone rings, and I force my jaws back together.

“Gladstone Hotel,” I answer in my sweetest sing-song voice. “How may I help you?”

“Good morning. I wonder if I might speak to Ruth Hansford-Jones?”

Male.

Mature.

Oxbridge vowels.

Succinct without being terse.

Military background a distinct possibility.

Gerald.

Shit.

“I’m sorry,” I say, hurriedly switching to what I hope sounds like a north-east accent, “Ruth doesn’ work ‘ere any more.”

“I see. Do you have her number, or perhaps a forwarding address?”

“I don’ know if I should be givin’ out that kind of information over the phone, pet. If yer want to leave a message I’ll do me best to make sure she gets it.”

“Very well. My name is Gerald Cooper, and my number is 0705 50389. I’d like her to ring me as soon as possible concerning Kerrieanne Latimer. Do you need me to repeat any of that?”

“Naw, I’ve got it all down,” I lie. “Is there owt more yer want me to tell ‘er?”

“That should suffice, thank you.”

I replace the receiver, then open the register and turn to the page containing Kerrie’s contact details. The telephone number she wrote down is the one Gerald quoted.

This has me scratching the back of my head. Is Gerald now living at 113 Woodford Road, in which case Kerrie must have returned from her trip to Belgium, or is he merely holding the fort while he waits for her to get in touch?

We have the situation in hand.

That was nearly three weeks ago. If Kerrie’s still trying to track down her daughter…

She can’t be. Suki’s people wouldn’t let her. They know what’s waiting for her in Bucovina. The risk of her becoming infected with the virus that took over Helen Sutton’s mind, then bringing it back to these shores, is too great.

You sly so-and-so, Gerald! Didn’t take you long to get your feet under the table, did it? I wonder what Rosie thinks about it all?

But why do you want to talk to me? I know Kerrie and I didn’t part on the best of terms, but if there was any news of Niamh or Cathryn I’d still expect to hear it from her.

I decide to call back later in the day, just to put my mind at rest.

Much later.

Shoving Gerald’s spring-coiled head back in its box, I go upstairs to make a start on the second-floor rooms. Just before I reach the landing I meet Simon coming the other way. We have to edge past each other, and there’s a moment when his left thigh becomes lodged in the gap between mine. Before he can free it, fate conspires to engineer things so that my breasts are pressed right into his diaphragm.

“They shouldn’t make the staircases so narrow,” he smiles.

“No…” I breathe, the little minx inside me letting him meet and hold my eyes for a second or five. “No, they shouldn’t…”

I get to the top somehow, and turn the corner without looking back to see if he was looking back to see if I was looking back at him. It takes me a few seconds to regain my composure; although I’m resigned to the fact that this body’s desires are rapidly becoming mine, the emotions associated with them are so different from the ones I experienced as Richard that it can be a real effort to keep them under control. It’s as if I’m undergoing some kind of mental puberty that will only end when the last layers of my male upbringing have been scraped away.

Don’t worry, babe. The time will eventually come when you’re lying in the arms of the man who’s just screwed you to within an inch of your life, shaking your head and wondering what all the fuss was about.

In the first of the rooms I’m due to service I begin stripping the sheets, blankets and pillows from the bed, tackling my duties with such vigour that I’m back in my Fortress of Solitude by ten past eleven, and giving me the chance to read a chapter and a half of Two Is Lonely before packing into plastic bags all the old jumpers, sweatshirts, jeans, and long, dark skirts I’ve decided to give to the next charitable organisation that comes a-calling. Summer — or what passes for it on the Durham coast — is approaching, and my wardrobe will soon take on a radically new look. Sylvia set things in motion when she donated an assortment of dresses, blouses and jackets she bought last year but never wore; the process is due to continue this afternoon when Janice drives us to Newcastle and we quarry Eldon Square for the latest separates and accessories. Although I can’t see myself strutting around in full ‘50s regalia just yet, my image will inevitably move in that direction. A girl well into her twenties ought not to come across as someone who’s trying desperately to persuade the world she can still cut it as a rebellious adolescent.

When the bags are all full I light a cigarette, noting that I’m down to my last three. Better if I head out to the newsagent’s now; if I wait until they’re all gone Sylv is certain to find me a job to do. First I have to swap my T-shirt — which I’ve just discovered has a coffee stain on the front — for the electric blue sleeveless jumper I plan to wear when we go shopping. And as it’s fairly breezy outside, I move my parting further to the right, comb back my fringe and spray it stiff. It wouldn’t impress Vidal Sassoon, but as a temporary measure it just about cuts the mustard.

Maybe I should heed Jan’s advice and have it all chopped off. Already the roots need doing, and I simply don’t have the patience to sit in a salon for over an hour with bits of paper or foil or whatever stuck to my locks, screwing up my nose against the reek of setting lotion. Give it a few weeks, then I’ll ask her to get rid of the dyed bits so I can go back to being a redhead. That’ll allow me to get used to wearing it short before I have it taken right off the ears for the trip to Lloret with my ‘parents’.

Shallow?

Sometimes I don’t think there’s enough water in my pond to submerge a fallen leaf.

My make-up refurbished and my bag checked, I trot downstairs to find Simon standing at the counter, going through the pile of brochures extolling the virtues of such ‘local’ attractions as Durham Cathedral, Whitby Abbey and the Captain Cook Museum on the outskirts of Middlesbrough. Sylv doesn’t seem to be around, so I saunter over to the spindle loaded with postcards featuring colour photographs of St Hild’s, the old pier and Battery Point, as well as sepia-tinted images of Northcroft from the early years of the century, in the pretence that the display needs rearranging.

“Hello again!” he says cheerily.

“Hello,” I reply with an insouciance I only just feign in time. “Looking for somewhere to go?”

His eyes loiter on my bare arms, betraying his surprise at how plump and freckled they are. Yet they also tell me he prefers that to them being too thin.

“I might not wander very far today. It’s the Cup Final this afternoon, and as Arsenal’s my team I don’t want to miss it. No, I’ll just exercise the old leg muscles for an hour or two, have a beer and maybe a bite to eat before I come back to watch the action.”

The Cup Final’s today? That shouldn’t be news to me, but it is.

“Arsenal? I thought you were from the Midlands?”

“I grew up in Hertfordshire. You’re a southerner too, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Actually I was born in Northcroft, but we moved to Kent when I was twelve.”

“Which accounts for the accent.”

I expect him to follow up by asking me why I came back to the north-east — in which case I can reveal that I’m recently divorced and therefore available. Instead he picks up a tourist map of the North Pennines and points to the sketch of High Force waterfall in the top right corner.

“Looks to be quite a spectacle,” he remarks.

I edge closer, though I can see the map perfectly clearly from where I am.

“Oh, it’s wonderful — specially at this time of year just after the last of the snow’s melted. The ground on the top of the hills holds water like a sponge, which means it’s constantly seeping into the streams that supply the rivers. Right now it’ll be in full spate, even though we haven’t had all that much rain recently.”

“You seem very knowledgeable!”

“Geography degree. Anyway, we used to go up there all the time when I was a kid.”

“I still try and do the occasional bit of rambling. Dovedale, mainly. When I get the chance, which isn’t often these days.”

I indicate the area to the west of Middleton in Teesdale.

“My favourite spot was somewhere around here. It’s called Low Force, ‘cause the falls are lower down the river, obviously. There’s a rickety old suspension bridge, and loads of huge rocks where you can sit and have a picnic. I’d often go down to the water’s edge and just listen. It’s ever so therapeutic.”

His blue eyes widen, becoming even more beguiling.

“You’ll have to show me,” he smiles.

I’m not sure what expression my face serves up. I’ve been asked out many times since I came here, Peter Sewell being the most persistent of my aspiring suitors, though never by anyone whose company I’d enjoy enough for me to forget my qualms about taking what is after all one hell of a leap into the unknown.

But whatever Simon thinks my reaction is, it’s not the one he was hoping for.

“I’m sorry,” he groans, putting a hand to his forehead. “I overstepped the mark there, I know.”

“Not at all. I’d love to.”

It’s on sale in all good bookshops before the editor has had a chance to open the manuscript, let alone proofread it.

And the man whose proposition I’ve just accepted likes what he reads on the back cover.

“So if you’re free tomorrow…”

“We could have a drive over.”

Oh look, there’s volume two — rushed off the presses as hastily as its predecessor.

“In that case I’ll meet you here at…is eleven thirty too early?”

“It’s fine.”

Ruth Pattison one, Sylvia Russell nil.

I grab my bag and make a beeline for the door in case either of us changes their mind.

It’s finally happened.

I stood on the shore of the mating game with Padraig and Gerald, but did no more than poke a toe into the surf. Now I’ve waded in with both feet, and I’m waiting for the first real wave to break.

Let’s hope I prove to be a strong swimmer.

The red Mini Minor I can see parked in the forecourt when I return from the newsagent’s renders me as motionless as if I’d just banged into an invisible wall. It pushes aside thoughts of romantic walks beside the burbling waters of the River Tees and replaces them with memories of an altogether less pleasant nature.

Trisha Hodgson and her brother-in-law have been digging. We’d prefer them to desist.

Meaning it’s my job to talk some sense into her. If I can’t, goodness knows what the MoD might do.

The woman in that room. She’s not my mother.

No, she isn’t. But the real Carol Hodgson died along with Richard Brookbank’s body, and nothing her daughter does will bring her back.

Maybe I should crack open a bottle of tough love and send her on her way.

Then I recall that Trisha now owns the house where Helen Sutton once lived. Perhaps the only reason she’s here is that she and her boyfriend have been looking the property over, and felt it would be discourteous to leave without saying hello.

It transpires that she’s alone — and looking very summery in her demure, light green maternity dress as she stands at the reception counter reading the magazine I left there earlier.

I suddenly find I’m unable to be too hard on her. I need female friends; Trisha will have plenty, and to spare. Nor must I forget that her experiences as a mother-to-be are sure to provide valuable lessons I can draw on when I’m carrying a child of my own.

She turns at the sound of the door.

“You’re coming on quickly!” I exclaim, pulling her into a careful hug.

“Getting fatter every day,” she pouts.

I step back — but only a little way, so hopeful am I that I’ll feel her baby move against my middle.

“Notice anything different about me?” I ask.

“Different?”

“My hair, for example?”

“Your hair? Yeah, it suits you.”

She was quick enough to remark that I’d gone ginger. Whatever’s preying on her mind, it must be serious.

“How long have you got to go?” I enquire.

“She’s due on July 15th.”

“So it’s definitely a girl?”

“Oh, we’re quite sure of that.”

“Thought of a name yet?”

“Helen.”

“Not after Miss Sutton, I hope?” It’s a joke, but she seems far from amused. Time to change the subject. “Did you know my divorce came through?”

“Did it? Congratulations.”

“Yeah, I’m back to being Ruth Pattison again.”

“Good.”

She hasn’t cracked her face once since the conversation began. I’m starting to feel like a mourner at a funeral who can’t keep quiet about the new outfit she’s just bought.

One last try…

“My parents phoned the other day. They actually invited me on holiday with them. The Costa del Sol, no less.”

“Lucky you. The furthest some of us’ll get this summer will get is the maternity wing at North Tees.”

I’ve had enough of this.

“Okay Trish, out with it. What’s your mum said now?”

For a moment or two her features just freeze. Then she grabs my hand and pulls me into the lounge. After a quick look to check that the foyer is empty, she closes the door behind us.

“This has nothing to do with her. Not directly, anyway.”

She digs inside her purse. From it she takes a neatly folded piece of notepaper. When I see what’s written on it my frown is so pronounced it’s almost audible.

…a couple of the teenagers who found dad’s body on the beach sneaked back through the police cordon just before it got dark and saw them zipping two more bodies into black bags.

“Are these the girls you were on about before? I thought they’d disappeared from the face of the earth?”

“It isn’t unusual for retired deputy headmistresses to have friends in the Education Offices. There’s all sorts of information on file if you know who to ask.”

“You mean your mum found it for you? Last time you were here the two of you were barely on speaking terms.”

“She apologised. We’re friends again.”

“Have you been in touch with them?” I ask, praying she’ll say no.

“They’re not on the phone. But we can at least…don’t look like that, it’s only twenty miles away.”

“Then it won’t take you very long to drive there, will it?”

“Come on, Ruth! You know how important this is to me!”

“What’s wrong with asking what’s his name, Paul? Or your boyfriend?”

“They’re both busy all weekend.”

“Well guess what, so am I!”

“Fine. I’ll go on my own.”

I do my very best to dissuade her from following this through. If Suki Tatsukichi’s bosses wanted those girls to vanish then vanish they would. That Trisha’s mother located their whereabouts so easily suggests the involvement of an outside agency, and it’s clear to me which one.

She has friends in the highest of high places.

Yvette de Monnier.

Using her hold over the woman calling herself Carol Vasey to stir up trouble.

But why do the whirlpools she creates have to suck me in every time?

In the end I agree to drop out of this afternoon’s shopping trip and resume the role of trusty sidekick. Apart from anything else, I can’t let a girl who’s nearly seven months’ pregnant blunder into another of de Monnier’s intrigues without someone to watch out for her. She’s lost enough because of that selfish bitch already.

Sylvia receives the news with a characteristic shrug of the shoulders.

“I know better than to argue with you,” she sighs. “Just be wary about what you’re getting yourself into. Remember what happened after you and Kerrie Latimer went sticking your noses in where you shouldn’t have.”

As if I needed reminding.

Trisha is on the telephone when I get back to the foyer, speaking in a voice so soft and low that I have to assume her boyfriend is on the other end of the line. She ends the call, then rolls her eyes.

“He who must be obeyed,” she grins, picking up her bag. “Men have such a high opinion of themselves, don’t you think so?”

“Some of them, I suppose.”

“They don’t realise that all they’ve ever been good for is to put food on the table and keep us warm at night.”

“Those are two quite important tasks,” I point out as she takes my arm and we begin making our way outside.

She’s unlocking the car door before I remember that she still hasn’t mentioned her partner’s name.

But then she’s Trisha.

Not so much a law unto herself as a complete Hammurabic Code.

Less than half an hour’s drive from the clamour and smog of industrial Teesside — even the name sounds toxic — lies one of England’s best-kept secrets, the North York Moors. Its most spectacular feature is the thousand-foot high escarpment known as the Cleveland Hills, against whose bracken-covered slopes the lowlands wash in gentle, pastoral ripples. The rounded summits form a broad curve that tends west and then south, their course paralleled by the main road that connects the market towns of Stokesley and Northallerton. A few miles before its intersection with the A19, we take the short side road that brings us into the sleepy village of Ellerby.

“Where to now?” I ask Trisha as she guides the Mini onto a narrow bridge that crosses a sluggish, reed-filled stream.

“According to the map it’s straight through the village and keep going.”

“You bought a map?”

“There was one in Stockton library. They wouldn’t let me make a copy, worse luck.”

The surprisingly long main street steadily turns into a country lane as the buildings on either side become more dispersed and are gradually supplanted by fields, some used to graze cattle and sheep, others growing fodder crops. After a few minutes the gradient begins to increase; the hills, some of which are clothed with extensive belts of conifers, close in. We come to what must at one time have been a railway crossing — one of the gates is still there, and behind it stands a derelict guards’ van — and then a junction at which we bear left, climbing a bank bordered with high hedges, the road scarcely wide enough even for the tractor ambling in front of us.

Trisha changes gear for one more steep, winding ascent. At the top, beside a stone building with an arched doorway, is parked a Dormobile. She pulls in a few yards further on and switches off the engine.

“That can’t be it,” I say to her. “It’s just a barn.”

“See the gate on the other side of the road?”

I look past her, my gaze finally landing upon the concealed entranceway she indicated. Beyond the gate, trees lean over a rutted track that drops abruptly into shadow; through them I’m able to glimpse the rough pastures and knots of woodland falling to the valley floor, but little else.

“Are you sure about this?” I ask as I open my vanity case and begin refreshing my lipstick.

“I want answers, Ruth. I’m not going to give up until I get them.”

I refrain from telling her there are things the MoD has decided it’s better for the general public not to know. Let her come to that conclusion herself.

We pick up our jackets, lift the straps of our bags onto our shoulders and climb from the car.

“So where’s the house?” I ask, pushing open the gate.

“Hidden from the road, obviously. Maybe that’s why they chose it.”

She slips her arm through mine. I brace myself to take her weight.

“You won’t be able to fit behind the wheel soon,” I quip. “Sure it’s not twins?”

“There’s only Helen,” she replies, again failing to see the funny side of my remark.

I lead us forward, taking care not to lose my footing on the uneven ground. The track veers to the left, then merges into a grassy terrace some fifty feet across ending in a confusion of bramble, holly and yew. Opposite, fronted by a gravel forecourt, stands a large but otherwise unimpressive two-storey dwelling that invokes images of a giant hand lifting a house from one of Northcroft’s dowdiest streets and plonking it here just for fun.

“Sunny Hollow,” I murmur, noticing the lack of space between the back of the house and the cliff rearing above it. “I bet whoever called it that didn’t spend much time in the kitchen.”

Trisha releases my arm and makes straight for the front door. She raises her hand to ring the bell, but I’m too quick for her and manage to block it with my palm.

“What’s wrong?” she wants to know.

“I’m not sure. Something is.”

“You’re being silly.”

“No, I’m being cautious.”

Suddenly her eyes are ablaze.

“That’s a baby crying!” She waddles over to the window. “Look, a cot!”

Before I can join her, I hear the sound of a dustbin lid being raised behind the wooden fence at the far end of the building. Then a gate opens; we turn to see an attractive if quite heavily built woman, perhaps just short of forty, wearing a black pinafore dress over a short-sleeved white jumper. Her dark hair, unblemished by even a hint of grey, is brushed forward into a long fringe and tumbles loosely to her shoulders.

“May I be of assistance?” she enquires starchly.

“We’re looking for Donna Parker and Louise Dixon,” replies Trisha.

“Gillian Dixon — Louise’s mother.”

Gillian has noted Trisha’s condition, and seeing no threat from her proceeds to fire the full force of her mistrust directly into my face. It’s a searching examination, yet I’ve been through too much to be rocked back on my heels by a housewife.

“We’d like to talk to her, if that’s okay with you,” I say hopefully.

“The others have gone down to the village,” she informs me in a voice that couldn’t lack much more warmth if the words had been forced to fight their way out of her mouth with ice picks. “If you come in you’ll be supplied with refreshments while you wait for them.”

“This doesn’t feel right at all,” I whisper to Trisha as we follow Gillian through the gate and into a paved yard wet from having recently been washed clean.

“Whatever’s got into you?” she laughs.

“The way she talks. Her eyes. Everything about her is just weird. And did you notice she hasn’t asked us who we are or how we know her daughter?”

We walk through the dingy but fully fitted kitchen and enter a spacious living room. The walls have been stripped bare, and every item of furniture is draped with an old sheet. The two doors in each of the corners to our left are open; the nearer gives onto a stairwell, the other to what appears to be a dining area.

“Hope you both like tea,” says Gillian, uncovering a chintz sofa for us. “It’ll have to be Chinese. Donna bought rather a lot when she visited York last week.”

A teenage girl who spends her money on Chinese tea? This gets stranger by the minute.

While Gillian is out of the room Trisha amuses herself by making a fuss of the baby. I’m drawn to him too, speared by the desire to pick the gurgling child from his cot and hold him against my breast — not that I’d dream of doing such a thing without his mother’s permission.

“What’s his name?” I call into the kitchen.

“Philip. He’s Louise’s son.”

Trisha and I exchange a look. The child appears to be only a few months old, which means that Louise must have been pregnant with him when the MoD spirited her away from her home.

Our host returns with a tray bearing a willow-pattern pot and three matching bowls. She places it on the sideboard, clearing a space by moving aside a packet of disposable nappies.

“This is a first for me,” I confess.

“You should leave it for between three and five minutes to let it infuse properly,” Gillian advises me.

There follows an uncomfortable silence, which Trisha brings to an end when she remembers that a set of documents she intended to show Donna are still in the car. I offer to fetch them for her, but she’s adamant that being pregnant doesn’t make her a helpless invalid.

Finally the tea is deemed to be ready. Gillian pours it out, then suggests I sit at the kitchen table so she can talk to me while she prepares Philip’s bottle.

“How is it?” she asks, watching me lower the bowl from my lips.

“It’s an unusual flavour. Not at all what I expected.”

“That’s the ginseng. You’ll soon get used to it.”

The liquid quickly cools down, enabling me to take several more sips without scalding my tongue. I glance up at the clock on the front of the cooker; the hands are difficult to see, so little light is there.

I make a tactful attempt to bring up the subject of Bob Hodgson’s death and discover that I can’t be bothered to finish my sentence. For some reason the subject just doesn’t strike me as important any more.

Gillian tests the temperature of the baby formula on the back of her wrist. She goes into the living room to collect Philip, who immediately launches into a protracted wail, waves his arms about and refuses to allow the teat anywhere near his mouth.

“He’s upset, the poor little thing,” she explains. “His grandmother doesn’t usually look like this, that’s the problem.”

I want to ask her what she’s talking about, but come to the conclusion that it’s too much trouble. I think about checking to see if Trisha’s all right, because she’s taking longer than she should be; then I find I can’t even summon the enthusiasm to stand up.

Only when Gillian takes off her wig, and I stare in horror at the crest of black gemstones set in her shaven scalp, am I motivated to stir myself.

And then I’m unable to move a single muscle.

When my eyes finally close it comes as a blessing.

---

 
 
To Be Continued...