They both nodded.
‘Do you know where he was going?’
‘Of course,’ Esther said. ‘He were off back to Swainshead.’
‘Going back? I don’t understand. Is that where he was before he came to stay with you?’
‘No, it’s where he grew up; it’s where we used to live.’
Now Banks remembered where he’d heard the name before. Allen. Nicholas Collier had directed Gristhorpe and himself to the ruins of Archie Allen’s old farmhouse high on the side of Swainshead Fell.
‘Is your father Archie Allen?’ he asked.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘And you lived on the fell side, worked a farm?’
‘Until it went belly up,’ Mr Haines cut in.
‘Did you live there too?’ Banks asked him.
‘Me? No. Leeds born and bred. But the missus grew up there.’
‘How long ago was this, Mrs Haines?’ Banks asked Esther, who had started weeping quietly again.
‘It’s ten years since we moved, now.’
‘And you came straight here?’
‘Not until Les and I got married. We lived in an old back-to-back off Tong Road. It’s not far away. Dad got a job at Blakey’s Castings. It were all he could get. Then they went to Melbourne — Australia, like — to go and live with our Denny after they retired. Oh God, somebody’ll have to tell Mum and Dad.’ She looked beseechingly at her husband, who patted her arm. ‘Don’t worry about that, love,’ he said. ‘It’ll keep a while.’
‘As far as I can gather,’ Banks said when Mrs Haines had regained her composure, ‘your brother had some connection with Toronto in Canada. Is that right?’
She nodded. ‘He couldn’t get a job over here. He was a bright lad, our Bernie. Got a degree. But there was no jobs. He emigrated eight years ago.’
‘What did he do in Toronto?’
‘He’s a teacher in a college. Teaching English. It’s a good job. We was off out to see him next year.’
Banks lit another cigarette as she wiped away the tears and blew her nose.
‘Can you give me his address?’
She nodded and said, ‘Be a love, Les.’ Her husband went to the sideboard and brought out a tattered Wool-worth’s address book.
‘How often did Bernard come home?’ Banks asked, writing down the Toronto address.
‘Well, he came as often as he could. This was his third trip, but he hadn’t been for four years. Proper homesick he was.’
‘Why did he stay in Canada, then?’
She shrugged. ‘Money. No work for him here, is there? Not with Thatcher running the country.’
‘What did he talk about while he was with you?’
‘Nothing really. Just family things.’
‘Did he say anything odd to you, Mr Haines? Anything that struck you as unusual?’
‘No. We didn’t talk a lot. We’d not much in common really. I’m not a great reader, never did well at school. And he liked his books, did Bernie. We talked about ale a bit. About what the boozers are like over there. He told me he’d found a nice pub in Toronto where he could get John Smith’s and Tartan on draught.’
‘Is that all?’
Haines shrugged. ‘Like I said, we didn’t have much in common.’
Banks turned to Mrs Haines again. ‘What state of mind was he in? Was he upset about anything, depressed?’
‘He’d just got divorced about a year ago,’ she said, ‘and he were a bit upset about that. I think that’s what made him homesick. But I wouldn’t say he were really depressed, no. He seemed to think he might be able to come back and live here again before too long.’
‘Did he say anything about a job?’
‘No.’
‘How could he manage to move back here then?’
Esther Haines shook her head. ‘I don’t know. He didn’t say. He just hinted. Maybe it were wishful thinking, like, now he didn’t have Barbara any more.’
‘That was his wife?’
‘Yes.’
‘What happened between them?’
‘She ran off wi’ another man.’
‘Where had Bernie been before he visited you?’
Esther took a deep breath and dabbed at her red eyes. ‘He’d come to England for a month, all told,’ she said. ‘First off, he spent a week seeing friends in London and Bristol, then he came up here. He’d be due to go back about now, wouldn’t he, Les?’
‘Do you know how to get in touch with these friends?’ Banks asked.
She shook her head. ‘Sorry. They were friends of Bernie’s from university.’
‘Which university?’
‘York.’
‘And you didn’t know them?’
‘No. They’d be in his notebook. He always carried a notebook full of names and stuff.’
‘We didn’t find it. Never mind, we’ll find them somehow.’ If necessary, Banks knew he could check with the university authorities and track down Bernard Allen’s contemporaries. ‘Do you know where he was heading after Swainshead?’
‘He were going to see another friend in Edinburgh, then fly back from Prestwick. You can do that with Wardair, he said, fly to London and go back from somewhere else.’ She put her handkerchief to her nose again and sniffed.
‘I don’t suppose you have this person’s address in Edinburgh?’
She shook her head.
‘So,’ Banks said, stubbing out his cigarette and reaching for the tea, ‘he left here on May the thirteenth to do some fell-walking in the Dales, and then—’
Mrs Haines cut in. ‘No, that’s not right. That’s not the reason he went.’
‘Why did he go, then? Sentimental reasons?’
‘Partly, I suppose. But he went to stay with friends.’
‘What friends?’
‘Sam and Katie. They run a guest house — Greenock’s. Bernie was going to stay with Sam and Katie.’
Struggling to keep his excitement and surprise to himself, Banks asked how Bernard had got to know Sam and Katie. At first, Mrs Haines seemed unable to concentrate for weeping, but Banks encouraged her gently, and soon she was telling him the whole story, pulling at the handkerchief on her lap as she spoke.
‘They knew each other from Armley, from after we came to Leeds. Sam lived there, too. We were neighbours. Bernie was always going on about Swainshead and how wonderful it was, and I think it were him as put the idea into Sam’s head. Anyways, Sam and Katie scrimped and saved and that’s where they ended up.’
‘Did Bernie have any other close friends in Swainshead?’
‘Not really,’ Esther said. ‘Most of his childhood mates had moved away. There weren’t any jobs for them up there.’
‘How did he get on with the Colliers?’
‘A bit above our station,’ Esther said. ‘Oh, they’d say hello, but they weren’t friends of his, not as far as I know. You can’t be, can you, not with the sons of the fellow what owns your land?’
‘I suppose not,’ Banks said. ‘Was there any bitterness over losing the farm?’
‘I wouldn’t say that, no. Sadness, yes, but bitterness? No. It were us own fault. There wasn’t much land fit for anything but sheep, and when the flock took sick…’
‘What was Mr Collier’s attitude?’
‘Mr Walter?’
‘Yes.’
‘He were right sorry for us. He helped out as much as he could, but it were no use. He were preparing to sell off to John Fletcher anyway. Getting out of farming, he were.’
‘How would that have affected you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The sale.’
‘Oh. Mr Walter said he’d write it into the terms that we could stay. John Fletcher didn’t mind. He and Dad got on quite well.’
‘So there was no ill feeling between your family and John Fletcher or the Colliers?’