Our Father Who Are Out There...Somewhere (9 page)

“How old?” asks Jo as she adds ‘butch’ and ‘bob’ to the description in the notebook.

“Dunno. Fifty-five? Maybe even older. What time did ‘AM’ come out yesterday?”

Jo flicks back through the notebook, “08:25 hours.”

“Ok, I’ll wait ten minutes and then I’ll go back up.” Lily lights a cigarette and smokes it in silence, absent-mindedly pulling on the skin of her lower lip. At 8 o’clock she climbs back into the tree and settles on a branch to wait.

Twenty minutes later, ‘Adult Male’ steps out of the front door, wearing a dark brown suit. His hair is flecked with grey. Lily leans forward through the tree, binoculars in one hand, the other hand gripping hold of a branch to anchor herself. He squints in the sunshine, before opening the door of the four-by-four and throwing what looks like a sports bag onto the seat. ‘Teenage Female’ is standing in the porch eating a slice of toast, her school tie unfastened around her neck. He stoops slightly to kiss her on the cheek as she says something to him. He shakes his head and smiles, then turns back to the car and ducks inside it. Lily leans a little further forward, desperate not to lose sight of him, but he’s gone in less than a minute; the gates automatically opening to allow him to escape. Several minutes later Lily gets back into the car.

“Well?” asks Jo.

Lily sits up straight in the passenger seat, her gaze focussed on some distant spot beyond the windscreen. She speaks so quietly it’s difficult for Jo to hear her. “It’s him.”

DAY THREE (Wednesday)

07:25 Fucking knackered.

07:40 AF left house (Routine?).

08:25 AM left house.

08:50 No sign of Teenage Female (TF).

Number of spliffs smoked: 3.

“TF must have a free period on a Wednesday,” says Jo. “It was lunchtime the first time we came, remember? She was just leaving the house then.”

Lily smiles at the biro mark Jo has above her lip, giving the appearance of a moustache, and hands her a cup of coffee, “your deal.” She nods towards the two packs of cards balanced on the centre of the dented tea tray Jo found yesterday, in a skip near Lily’s house, which is now propped against the handbrake.

It is quarter to one before the schoolgirl emerges from the side gate, her royal blue knee socks protruding from under her duffle coat. She is carrying a covered wicker basket, which she rests on the floor while she puts the key into her purse. “What’s with the basket?” Lily asks. “Is she going to pick wild flowers on her way to school?”

Jo shakes her head. “TIFF’s got cookery classes today. I wonder what’s on the menu?”

“Something posh,” says Lily. “Like homemade apple pie.”

“What school do you reckon she goes to? Pass us the A to Z.”  Lily picks up the crumpled book off the floor of the Mini and hands it to Jo. Jo finds three schools in the vicinity and makes a note of all them. “Socks that bright can’t be that hard to find.” She waves the notebook at Lily. “Let’s check out the neighbourhood.”

St Michael’s Catholic School is the nearest. A crucifix bearing a bleeding Jesus Christ stands to the right of the main entrance. Jo pulls up on the yellow zigzags outside the main entrance, and Lily shudders as she sees the anguish on Christ’s face. The school playground is full; hundreds of children in grey trousers and sage green sweatshirts mill around, trying to keep warm. Lily draws a line through it in the notebook as Jo drives to the next school on the list.

After several wrong turns, they eventually find the street they’re looking for. Skipton Grammar School for Girls is housed in an imposing Victorian building, with expansive lawned playing fields, keeping the neighbours at bay. The car park is filled with cars. It is quarter past one and there is no one in sight. Jo pulls up the handbrake. “Shall we go and look through a window?”

“Let’s just wait for break.”

Radio 1 is playing ‘I Should Be So Lucky’ by Kylie Minogue. “Did you know they wrote this song in forty minutes?” asks Jo. “I read it somewhere,” she says, before switching the radio off. “I’m surprised it took them that long.”

They sit in silence, until a knock on the glass makes them both jump in their seats. They turn to see a man’s face pressed up against the glass of Jo’s window. He gestures at them to wind the window down. Jo does so slowly, dropping the glass down five or six centimetres. The man speaks through the gap. “What are you girls up to?”

“Nothing, just talking. What’s it to do with you?”

“You’re on school property.” He points to the yellow lines on the road. “I’m the caretaker. You’d better be on your way.”

“Well, excuse me,” says Jo. “My friend here is very upset. We just stopped because she’s very, very upset.”

The man peers past Jo, trying to get a look at Lily. Lily immediately ducks her head, and sniffs.

“Well, sorry, but you can’t be too careful these days. You’re on CCTV.” He points to a white camera attached to a lamp post.

Jo starts up the engine. “Honestly, you can’t even have a chat these days, Big Brother is watching. Talk about paranoid. Her mother’s just died, you know. But what do you care?”

“Sorry, love. Just doing my job.”

“That’s what the Gestapo said,” yells Jo through the window as she pulls away from the kerb.

An hour later, they are back outside the school, this time on foot. As soon as the first children start to spill from the building, shortly after two fifteen, they know they are in the right place. Every child sports a pair of royal blue knee socks. “I didn’t realise stalking could be so easy,” Jo says with satisfaction, as she adds this latest piece of information to the notebook.

Lily stares at the girls, each dressed in pleated skirts and gold and blue striped ties. Some girls even sport berets. She watches one group playing elastics, while others huddle together around picnic benches, plaiting each other’s hair, and tries to imagine herself at such a school. The one she went to had broken shards of glass embedded into concrete running all around the top of the brick walled playground.

DAY FOUR (Thursday)
  

07:40 AF leaves house.

08:25 AM leaves house.

08:40 TF leaves house.

09:35 Finished toast.

11:35 LA driving lesson. Highest gear reached: 2
nd

11:45 Bum numb.

Number of spliffs smoked: 4

“Come on Lil. Let’s go for a walk.” Jo parks the mini up the side street and they traipse for twenty minutes around the tree-lined avenues without seeing another person.

“Where is everyone? It’s like a ghost town.”

“They’re all at work, trying to earn enough to pay off the mortgage on a house they hardly ever see in daylight, morons.” says Jo as Lily kicks at the piles of scrunched up leaves and watches a cat chase a squirrel up a tree. “I think we should follow her tomorrow.”

“Who?”

“AF, Afghan. Let’s see what she gets up to.”

 “What’s the point?” asks Lily.

“Come on, aren’t you curious? Maybe there’s a reason why he doesn’t want to meet you.”

“Like what?”

“Dunno. Maybe he’s a Tory MP or something. One of those that’s always spouting on about family values. Or maybe she is.”

“Look, there’s a newsagents. We need food and fags.”

“Haven’t seen you two before.” The elderly shopkeeper smiles at Jo. “I would have remembered that hair. How do you get it so white? I can never get any of those hair colours to work.”

“It’s bleached,” says Jo, while Lily pretends to be involved in a difficult ‘which flavour crisps’ decision. “But that’s the best way to get a colour to stay in, bleach it first. I dyed mine fluorescent pink last year.”

“Ah, that’s the secret is it? I might have another try then. I’m not sure pink’s my colour but I’d like something a bit brighter.” She pats at her grey locks.

“Twenty Marlborough Reds,” says Lily.

The woman turns to the shelf behind the till and reaches for a packet. She places it on the counter. “What are you girls up to?”

Jo and Lily turn to stare at each other, pupils wide. “We’re visiting our… Uncle,” says Jo, when she realises Lily isn’t going to answer the question.

“Nice. Does he live around here?”

“Primrose  Glen.”

“Very nice. Well, you’ve picked a lovely day for it.”

“And a packet of king size Rizlas,” Lily re-enters the conversation. “Please.”

Jo selects two packets of prawn cocktail skips and a Curly Wurly. She brings them to the counter. “Do you deliver his newspapers? He’s called Winterbottom. David Winterbottom.”

“Probably, we do everyone round here.”

“Ooh, what does he read? I bet it’s the Telegraph. Go on; tell us he orders a secret copy of the Daily Star.” Jo starts to giggle.

“You’ll have to ask him, I’m afraid.” The shop assistant pulls her peach cardigan tightly around her bust. “I can’t divulge information about customers; although I can tell you no one reads the Daily Star round here. We don’t even stock it,” she says with some pride.

Lily looks at the pile of Daily Mails and Daily Expresses jostling for position on the bottom shelf, and then looks at Jo. Jo grins. “No, I can see; nothing but quality press here.”

The shop keeper doesn’t get the joke. As she turns to the till Jo pulls a face at Lily, which pushes Lily over the edge. She explodes in a giggling fit. By the time the woman turns back from the till to say, “Two pounds fifty seven please,” Lily has had to leave the shop while Jo pays.

DAY FIVE (Friday)

07:40 AF leaves Newlands.

LA and JB follow.

On Friday morning, they park the Mini right at the T junction at the top end of Primrose Glen, so that they can set off as soon as ‘Afghan’ passes.

‘Afghan’ passes by at exactly 07:40 hours and Jo follows a few hundred yards behind. It takes twenty minutes to drive into Skipton, even though it’s only two miles away. It’s an easy journey on which to tail somebody, as the early morning rush hour traffic inches along into the town centre. They are still close enough behind to see her turn into a private car park. They find a pay and display car park a few blocks away, but by the time they’ve sorted out enough change for the meter there is no sign of ‘Afghan’. “Ok,” says Jo. “We’ll meet her here on Monday.”

On Saturday morning, Lily wakes up at half past four and can’t get back to sleep. She smokes three cigarettes, one straight after the other, while waiting for Jo to gel her hair. As Lily stubs the last one out, she bangs on the bathroom door. “Come on, we don’t want to miss them.”

“Hold your horses. They’re probably having a lie in,” mutters Jo from inside the bathroom. “Lucky for some.”

DAY SIX (Saturday)

08:00 All quiet.

08:30 Curtains open, top right window.

09:02 Milkman arrives (2 pts milk, 2 pts fresh orange. Eggs).

09:38 TF and AM. Side gate. Walking.

Spliffs smoked: 7 (well it is the weekend).

Lily watches the two of them walk down the street together; her father’s arm draped loosely across his teenage daughter’s back. Lily pulls at a dreadlock until her eyes water. “Where do you think they’re going?”

“Well, the jodhpurs give it away. Darling ‘TIFF’ is going to the local pony club. Either that or she’s got a pony of her very own.”

Lily bangs her hand against the steering wheel in frustration. “I want to know where they’re going.”

“Patience my dear, the best things come to those who wait.”

DAY SEVEN (Sunday)

Cancelled.

Spliffs smoked: 9

DAY EIGHT (Monday)

07:55 Bench. Skipton town centre.

Weather: pissing down

Hangover: severe.

Jo holds the umbrella over both of them, while Lily tries to warm her hands on the plastic cup of coffee they bought down by the bus station. Lily’s eyes have deep black rings underneath them.

By the time the black BMW slides around the corner and into the car park, the rain has stopped. Lily watches out of the corner of her eye, as ‘Afghan’ steps across the paved courtyard at the rear of the car park, and enters the third building on the right. They wait a few minutes and then run over to see a plaque engraved with the words, ‘Totten, Hurst and Ingham Solicitors’. Jo counts to ten and then pushes through the revolving door.

The door opens onto a reception area, with grey slate tiles and a huge, circular reception desk in the centre of the room. A young receptionist sitting behind it looks up at Jo and smiles. “Can I help you?”

“Does Mrs Winterbottom work here?”

“You mean Ms Hurst? I believe she is called Winterbottom, but she uses her maiden name here. Would you like an appointment to see her?” The receptionist picks up a pen.

“Erm no, not just now thanks. Do you know what her first name is?”

“It’s Ruth.”

Jo nods sagely, wondering how much further she can push it. “And is she, what does she do here?

“She’s a solicitor. Why do you want know?”

“Has she worked here long?”

“It’s her firm. She set it up. Why do you want to know?”

“Oh, just curious. Thank you.” Jo pushes the revolving doors so quickly she nearly does a three hundred and sixty degree spin, but she manages to jump out in time. She shouts over to Lily when she’s halfway across the courtyard. “She’s called Ruth Hurst. She’s a lawyer. Lawyer, lawyer, pants on fire.”

That afternoon Lily has another driving lesson. Primrose Glen and the streets around are deserted in the early afternoons; perfect for the learner driver, without the hazards of parked or moving cars and pedestrians. The only traffic consists of other learner drivers, sometimes queuing to perform three-point turns in a particularly wide avenue. Lily takes three attempts to pull the car away from the side of the kerb, hopping kangaroo style down the road at three miles an hour, until finally stalling. The girls both roar with laughter.