Towards a Dark Horizon (15 page)

‘Where does she live, Dad?’

He scrutinised a small piece of paper. ‘It’s along the Clepington Road somewhere – not the D.E.C.S. bakery end but the other way.’

We set off quickly and we soon reached Clepington Road by going up Provost Road and, at the top, we turned right.

‘The Soshie bakery is along that way so we have to head this way,’ Dad said as he glanced at the scrap of paper again.

We walked for what seemed miles until we almost reached the Forfar Road. We had long since passed the rows of tenement buildings and we were now in a posh part of the town with its semi-detached houses and lovely gardens.

‘Are you sure you’ve got the right address, Dad? You wouldn’t think your gaffer had a lovely house out here.’

He looked puzzled. ‘No, this is the right address. Mr Pringle gave it to me himself. As I said, he came out earlier but he thought one of the men should also come and I was picked.’ Dad didn’t seem happy about his assignment.

We walked for another hundred yards and the house stood in front of us – a sturdy-looking stone villa with a red-tiled roof and a beautiful garden. The number on the front gate was the same as on Dad’s scrap of paper but we still didn’t believe it.

‘Just ring the bell, Dad,’ I said, getting fed up with standing on the pavement like an idiot.

After a moment’s hesitation, he did.

The door was opened by a fat, frumpy-looking woman whose plump face was made even plumper by her tear-stained cheeks and red eyes.

Dad said politely, ‘Mrs Connors?’

He turned to me and I went up the path towards a well-painted door in a lovely shade of blue. I noticed that the window frames were also painted in this shade and they gave the house a fresh look.

Dad turned back to the woman. ‘Mrs Connors?’

We were both right. She was an old woman and I had no idea what to say to her. Perhaps Dad could do all the talking.

The woman shook her head and a few chins wobbled but, when she spoke, her voice was soft and cultured. ‘No, I’m not Mrs Connors,’ she said and then she added, ‘Can I help you?’

Dad explained his mission but said, ‘If you think it’s inconvenient, then we’ll just go away.’ This was said hopefully.

She seemed doubtful for a moment then she stood aside to let us into a large hall with a wooden parquet floor. This was buffed to a highly polished shine and it was almost possible to see your reflection in its surface. There was a most marvellous scent of roses and I noticed a large bowl of flowers on a small table by the stairs.

What a beautiful house, I thought – maybe not quite as grand as the Pringles’ house but it wasn’t far off it.

The fat woman showed us into a large room where the rays from the setting sun were playing against one wall. I was determined not to miss a thing because Granny liked to hear about such houses – all the lovely details. The carpet was a creamy colour as were the two large sofas and three chairs. Tall golden lamps stood on highly polished tables and there were at least another three bowls of roses.

There was a woman sitting on one of the sofas and she stood up when we entered.

The fat woman explained, ‘This is Harry’s wife – Margot.’ She turned to the woman and said, ‘This is one of Harry’s workmates, Margot.’ She bustled out of the room saying, ‘I’ll go and make some tea.’

Margot didn’t seem happy but when she saw Dad she held out her hand. ‘How nice of you to come Mr …’

‘Johnny Neill and this is my lassie Ann.’

She gave him a wan smile but hardly acknowledged me. I studied her in detail, again for Granny’s benefit. She was tall and slender and dressed in a summer frock of yellow crêpe de Chine, its rich folds moulded against her body and swayed with her every movement. She had large blue eyes and dark curly hair that was cut at shoulder length. Her bare shapely legs and trim ankles were thrust into a pair of high heeled white sandals and her toenails were painted a deep blood red. It was difficult to put an age to her. She could have been anything between thirty and sixty but, whatever her age, it hung well on her – just like the yellow frock which had a costly look.

The fat woman came back with the tea tray and I caught an angry glance in Mrs Connor’s eyes before she covered it up with a charming smile.

‘I haven’t introduced you to my sister-in-law. This is Harry’s sister, Mrs Olivia McQueen.’

Mrs McQueen gave us a tearful look. ‘This is a terrible thing. Do the police have any more word on Harry?’

Dad looked embarrassed. ‘I don’t know, Mrs McQueen. It was Mr Pringle who suggested this visit to Harry’s wife just to say how very sorry we all are about his disappearance.’

The sun had now moved around and its rays were centred behind Margot Connor’s head. I was struck by the ludicrous thought that it was a blessing the sun didn’t shine directly on her face because I thought she wasn’t as young as I had first thought.

Mrs McQueen was desperate to find out why her brother had suddenly disappeared. ‘Was he anxious about anything, Margot?’

Again that covert angry glance was quickly covered up. Margot shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘Of course not, Olivia. He went to the warehouse this morning just like any other day. I think he’s lying ill somewhere.’

Mrs McQueen cried out, ‘Don’t say that! I can’t bear it.’

Dad, who was sitting on he edge of his chair, said, ‘Don’t worry about that Mrs Connors because the police have done a thorough search. We wondered if he was maybe away on some sort of business but forgot to tell Mr Pringle. He’ll be home soon just you wait and see.’

‘That’s what it’ll be, Olivia,’ said Margot. ‘He’ll be home as if nothing was wrong – wait and see.’

Olivia said she was going to stay the night with Margot but Margot had other ideas. She picked up the small suitcase and handed it to her sister-in-law.

‘Now you get away home, Olivia. I’ll be all right here.’

Olivia began to protest but Margot was adamant. ‘No, no, Olivia. It was good of you to come when I called you but you have your husband to look after and he’s more important than I am.’ Although said in a charming manner, it was still a brush-off and I wondered if Mrs McQueen had noticed it. If she had she didn’t show it.

After her departure, Dad said, ‘We’d better be on our way as well, Mrs Connors. I do hope that Harry shows up soon. I’m really fond of him because he’s aye been good to me.’

Margot looked at Dad. ‘Please stay for a drink. What would you like? Whisky, brandy, sherry, gin?’

How nice, I thought, to have a house like a well-stocked pub.

‘Nothing to drink thanks but another cup of tea would be grand.’

She stood up and again I marvelled at her graceful moves. After a few moments, she came in with a silver tray and a silver tea service on it. She picked up the other tray and, as she took it towards the kitchen, she said, ‘Olivia is very well meaning but she always uses the old china teapot. Just like they do in their own house.’

Her elegant hands poured out tea into delicate china cups and she indicated the silver milk jug and sugar bowl with miniature silver tongs.

Then later, after we made our departure, I couldn’t help but remark on the gracious house. ‘He must get a big pay with his job, Dad, to afford that lovely house and things like silver teapots and bowls of flowers.’

He didn’t answer. I repeated my statement and he looked at me with a perplexed frown. ‘What on earth has happened to Harry?’ he said. ‘I mean he’s left that grand house and a lovely-looking wife behind. Why would he do that?’

I didn’t reply because, to be truthful, there was no answer to that question. An elderly man who seemed to have everything to live for had just disappeared somewhere between the warehouse and goodness knows where. It was a real mystery.

Rosie was in a rage. I didn’t think I had ever seen her so angry or distressed before. She burst into Granny’s kitchen on a hot August evening. Her face was bright beetroot red and I saw the beads of sweat on her brow and upper lip. Her hair, untidy at the best of times, was now in total disarray. Most of it had escaped from the large bun and now hung in straggly tresses on her shoulders.

She stormed, ‘Where’s that father of yours?’

Granny and I were surprised by her furious tone as she was normally so soft spoken.

I replied, ‘I’ve no idea, Rosie. We thought he was with you.’

She glared at me. ‘And so did I. He was to be here for his tea and my mum has kept it hot for over two hours and now it’s spoiled.’

Granny was annoyed. ‘Och, he’s not to take a loan of you, Rosie. Give him his marching orders.’

This sympathy was the last thing she needed and she burst into tears, all her defiance gone.

Granny nodded to me. ‘Go and make a cup of tea, Ann.’ And then she turned to Rosie. ‘Come and sit down and calm yourself. Although I’m his mother, I swear that laddie of mine is more work than a dozen men put together.’

Perversely, Rosie wasn’t going to hear a bad word against him. ‘Och, he’s not that bad, Nan. It’s just that he’s not turning up when he says he’s coming and he says he’s sorry but he forgot about the arrangement. For heaven’s sake, he’s been coming to see me since Lily’s …’ She stopped and looked embarrassed. She was going to say since Mum’s death.

As I looked at her, my mind kept returning to the cool yellow image of Margot Connors. Poor Rosie. She was wearing a thick woollen frock in a peculiar shade of grey which was neither dark nor light. Over this and buttoned right up to her neck was a chocolate-coloured hand-knitted cardigan. It was as if she wanted to spite the hot weather.

Thankfully, she had calmed down now and I was grateful for that because, to tell the truth, I had a good idea where Dad was and I wasn’t the least bit pleased about it.

It was now the middle of August and there had been no sign yet of Harry Connors. When he had first gone missing at the beginning of June there had been a few so-called sightings of him but they had come to nothing and the trail had fizzled out. I kept asking Dad every night about him but, after all this time, we all thought he must be dead.

In fact, a few weeks ago, Dad had said, ‘I think Margot – I mean Mrs Connors – knows this but she’s bearing up well.’

I bet she is, I thought cynically, remembering her cool image which was in marked contrast to her sister-in-law’s distress.

‘How is Harry’s sister, Dad?’ I had asked one evening.

He was silent for a moment. Then he said, ‘Well, I haven’t seen her since yon first night but Mrs Connors says she’s so dramatic.’

‘Dramatic?’

‘Aye, you know – making a mountain out of a molehill. She’s aye going on about Harry being dead and we don’t know this for sure and it’s upsetting Mrs Connors.’ Dad sounded really annoyed at Olivia.

Although I didn’t say anything at the time, in my opinion Olivia was grieving for her missing brother while the cool, yellow-clad wife didn’t seem to be bothering. Still, maybe I was being mean and cruel. People varied in their methods of grief. Perhaps Margot was all chewed up inside but putting a brave face on things.

Rosie stood up to go and I realised I hadn’t heard a word she said because of my thoughts of another woman. Surely Dad wasn’t flirting with his missing workmate’s wife. I also got to my feet. ‘I’ll go and bring Lily in as it’s time for her bed.’

Rosie stopped me at the door. ‘I should have asked him to marry me on Hogmanay, Ann, but you stopped me.’

So I was the culprit now. I tried to be tactful but she was in no mood to be pacified and, to be honest, I didn’t blame her. What Dad did with his own time was his business but he shouldn’t be mucking Rosie around like this.

I said, ‘You remember the man who went missing, Rosie?’

She nodded.

‘Well, Dad has to keep in touch with his wife. He’s got no option because it was his boss who asked him and maybe he’s got bogged down with listening to her worries and problems.’

‘Aye, he did tell me about the old woman and that she needs his company but that doesn’t excuse his behaviour tonight. He should have told me he wasn’t coming.’

‘I’ll speak to him about it when I see him, Rosie, but maybe he’ll turn up here full of apologies before that.’

But he didn’t.

I found Lily playing with her friends in the backcourt. It wasn’t much of a playground but it did have four washing poles with a threadbare rope tied around them. The small space was alive with children but, when Lily saw me, she shouted out, ‘We’re playing at Reelifoh, Ann.’ As she called to me, the children were scrambling around the poles.

‘It’s time for your bed,’ I pointed out and her face fell.

‘Just another wee while, Ann. I’m not tired.’

Maybe she wasn’t but I was and so was Granny. Still, the evening was lovely and the fresh air was good for her. Her face was red with the effort of the game and her dark hair swung out behind her.

‘Right then,’ I conceded, ‘just another half hour then up the stairs.’

Granny had now been joined by Grandad and his pipe smoke filled the room but, thankfully, the open window kept it to a minimum.

When he saw me, he said, ‘Leave the bairn playing, Ann. I’ll go down later and bring her up when it’s time for her bed.’

Granny was sitting by the open window, a look of annoyance on her face. ‘I’ll give my Johnny a piece of my mind when I see him – leaving Rosie in the lurch like that. She doesn’t deserve to be treated like that so wait till I see the besom.’

I felt the same but I wanted to tell her about the lovely time Lily and I’d had with Connie. I had been on the verge of saying this when Rosie had dramatically interrupted.

‘Connie has these scrapbooks, Granny. She keeps cuttings out of the papers and magazines and sticks them in these books. She was showing them to us this afternoon and they go right back to her father’s time. It’s really great looking at all the photos.’

Granny seemed relieved to be free from Rosie’s problems. ‘What a grand idea, Ann. I’d like to see them sometime.’

‘Well, you’ll have to go to her house because the books are very heavy but she would like you to see them. She knows all the history behind all the pictures. There’s a bonny photo of the Duke of Windsor and Wallis Simpson’s wedding as well as loads of pictures of the coronation.’