I reached out my hand towards it. He smiled. He knew he’d won. I was as greedy as he was.
Chapter Eight
There was still a Mariner living at 63 Priory Way. It was in the phone book, right at the top of the list: A. Mariner. Some relation? Or had Philip even got the name of his child’s mother wrong? I called from Jess’s, waiting until she was out before using the phone. When I returned from Philip’s funeral I’d just said a friend had left me some money in his will. She didn’t pry. It wasn’t her style. I hadn’t explained what I had to do to get the money. I’m not quite sure why. Because it was between me and Philip, because I wanted some success to report before I told her what was going on.
The phone rang for a long time before it was answered and I was about to give up. Then an elderly woman repeated the number. I crossed my fingers.
‘Could I speak to Kay, please?’
‘Eh, pet, she’s not lived here for years. Who’s speaking?’
My brain went into slow motion. I hadn’t prepared any sort of cover story. ‘Jess,’ I said. ‘An old school friend.’
‘I don’t remember any Jess. The high school, was it?’
‘That’s right. Could you let me know how to get in touch with her?’
She paused, not really suspicious but protective. Perhaps her daughter was strong on privacy. ‘Give me your number, pet, and her dad or I will tell her that you called.’
Then I panicked and replaced the phone, glad that I’d dialled 141 before the number to stop the call from being traced.
Priory Way was one of the tidy streets near the Linskill Centre, the old school where Tyneside kids go for their music lessons, close to the overgrown waste of Northumberland Park. North Shields must have a thriving place once, with the ship building and the boats going out to the fishing, but nothing much seems to happen there now. Lots of the shops in the town centre were boarded up. There were posters everywhere for the Fish Quay Festival. The place had come alive for the bank holiday weekend with bands on the Quayside and street theatre and fireworks, then it had slid back into a coma.
I visited the Mariners during the day. If they had a teenage grandchild, I thought they’d have retired and be at home in the afternoon. The woman I’d spoken to on the phone certainly sounded elderly. This time I was better prepared.
Along the street there was a row of trees, all in blossom. Occasional snatches of breeze from the river scattered the petals over the pavement. I’d got the bus into Newcastle, then the metro out towards the coast. I’d looked at the A-Z on the train, so I walked down the street now as if I knew precisely where I was going, very purposeful and businesslike in my linen jacket, carrying the black nylon bag I’d got at a conference on teenage violence and which I’d used as a briefcase ever since. I could almost believe I was a competent professional.
The house was part of a terrace halfway down. More care had been lavished on it than on most of the kids I grew up with, but it’s daft to be jealous of a house. The windows had been polished and the nets were so bright that they gave you snow blindness. The front steps had been swept recently. Only a light scattering of pink petals covered the path. I stepped on them and knocked at the door.
After a moment, a woman of about seventy opened it. She’d left the chain on and I had a glimpse of a round face and tight white curls.
‘Who is it?’
‘Miss Bartholomew. Social services.’ Hoping she wouldn’t recognize the voice from one brief phone call, I flashed the pass which had never been taken from me. She looked at the photo, peered at me and smiled. It had been issued by Northumberland, not North Tyneside, but she seemed not to notice. She unhooked the chain and opened the door wide. She was leaning heavily on a stick and it took her a while.
‘That was quick,’ she said. She was delighted to see me. There’d been no need to fuss that she’d recognize the voice. ‘I only phoned the other day. Come in.’
That threw me. I’d prepared a story that I was undertaking a survey of elderly people in the area to find gaps in local authority services. If she was expecting a real social worker, I’d have to wing it. She led me into a gleaming living room which smelt of lemon furniture polish and baking.
‘Is Mr Mariner in?’
‘No.’ She smiled fondly. They must have been married for forty years but the sound of his name still made her happy. ‘It’s his bowls day.’ There were awards on the mantelpiece, a photo of a small moley man in specs and whites holding a cup, his arms round the shoulders of a bigger bloke with a red face.
‘You sit there, pet.’ She patted the arm of the sofa. ‘I’ll put the kettle on. You’ll have to give me a hand when it’s made. I’ll not be able to carry it through.’
So we sat together in her front room in the sun and she told me the story of her life. Without hesitation. It was scary that she trusted me absolutely on the basis of a bit of plastic and a photo.
‘It’s the arthritis,’ she said. ‘I’m down for a new hip but it could take a couple of months and now it’s in my hands too. Archie and I manage very well between us. He’s turned into a canny housekeeper. But he’s anxious if I’m here on my own. I can’t use the phone. The buttons are that small. He says what if I had a fall… Stupid old fool. Nothing’s going to happen to me. But he doesn’t like to leave me and if he does go out he worries. I don’t want that. He loves his bowls and I don’t want him rushing back. No reason why he shouldn’t have a cup of tea and a bit of a chat with the lads. We thought maybe a panic button, or one of those phones with the big numbers. What do you think?’
‘You’d probably be eligible for both.’ I’d trained with a lass from North Tyneside who worked with the community care team. She’d put the Mariners on the list for me. It would save one of their staff making a visit. ‘Do you have family? Anyone who comes in to keep an eye on you?’
‘Would that make a difference?’
‘Not to your being approved the gadgets. You don’t need someone here twenty-four hours, so you’d still want those. We couldn’t expect your family to provide full-time support.’
‘That’s true enough. Kay’s got her own family to look after now. And she works full-time. Pamela lives in Surrey. She married a southerner.’ As if it were a different breed.
‘Two daughters, then?’
‘Aye. I’d have liked a son, but Archie loved his little girls.’
‘Any grandchildren?’
‘Five.’ She hoisted herself to her feet and soon we were poring over photos. The Surrey brood were girls too. There were two of them. Not exactly lookers. They’d inherited their grandfather’s prominent teeth and in many of the shots their mouths were full of metal. Mrs Mariner seemed not to notice the beaver features and I heard about their academic success, their brilliance at the piano, the gymnastics classes. Kay had also produced two daughters. Closer in age, they appeared together in school photographs. They were younger too. Even the most recent pictures showed them in primary school sweatshirts, their hair tied up with ribbons.
‘Lucy and Claire,’ Mrs Mariner said. ‘Aren’t they bonny?’
They were. Bonnier at least than Abby and Natasha in Godalming.
‘Do you see a lot of them?’ I didn’t want to push for information on Thomas too quickly.
‘Not as much as I’d like. They only live in Whitley Bay. I’d have them for Kay after school. Archie wouldn’t mind picking them up. But she won’t have it. She says it would be too much for me. Maybe she thinks I’d not be able to care for them properly. You can understand her being worried. After Thomas. And Ronnie can afford a childminder. It’s not as if they’re short of cash.’
‘Thomas?’ I could have played safe and left it. I already had enough information to trace Kay. But I was curious. There had been a few photos of a young boy among the rest but nothing recent.