[Missing Images]

Sometime after migrating the blog back to Blogger, all the images hosted on Flickr dropped out - though the pictures are still on Flickr, it would take to long to reattach them manually. So, apologies, the images were a bonus, but not necessary. I'll keep trying to re-embed them, until then fill the blanks with your imagination.

Bury Them Away, Somehow

Mrs A's Funeral

Why the fuck should Amy Acton have to say goodbye to a casket, a plush wooden box containing the emptiness of her mother's body? I told Ted Acton there was no way I'd let Amy go to her mum's funeral. He wanted her there he said. 'For something you can hold to, to comfort you' I told him, 'and what of Amy, you really thing she ought to say bye, mum to polished brass and walnut?' Amy's done with crying and fearing and blaming herself for her mother's going - she'll return to it, in bouts - you always do. 'Gawd, Ted' I took his sweaty, plump hand, 'take Lizzie henry, if you want something to hang on to, she's plenty a handful to grasp!' He saw red, it was becoming a matter of pride. I apologised. 'Teddy, it won't do Amy any good, her mother's gone and she knows that, to see her lowered six foot, it's not a thing a kid sees as significant, it's just the stuff of nightmares!' Ted got it. He didn't take Lizzie, not with Mrs A's people there. I took Amy and Rio off to Bournemouth for the day, and what a day we had. It was magnificent, not because I spent loads, but because it was a laugh, all of us singing to the same hymn sheet. I seep at wee pee more than once that day, with laughter. I had to get Rio to puff his inhaler, he was wheezing with giggles. Problem is, since Amy joined Chez Freemantle, well, it's been no different but better. Rio and her, they're pals - the girlfriend phase has passed to best-ever pals, so confirmed it'll last forever on (things do, some things do). My dad died, eventually. He left me a load of dosh, which I accepted because Rio'd just been birthed to this world, and I was brassic. He'd been dead to me for years, because I'd reason to hate him. I tried not to hate, so it became 'he was meaningless' - he wasn't, and it fucked me up. My dad tried to buy me at the last possible chance, only I'd more positive, real issues happening - what I got was revenge, the sweetest ever, i got to keep my son in relative comfort. All the cock-ups of my life, despite the degrees and early successes, they were cancelled out - I might work in a newsagents, but I can afford to - and, you know what? I love it. I want to drop-dead on a pavement , on a street - for strangers to look down on me, but not down on me, and stand there thinking about their lives, for good or bad. You can't make a difference, but you can throw yourself like a Sleeping Policeman in the way of things. Mrs A, she was lost before I got to 'not' know her - I must've sensed it, she repulsed me somehow - she was desperately treading water, spending all herself on Amy (looking out for those she could, being the best bomb shelter she could be), knowing herself, what horror had her scent, would catch-up, and finish things off. Alcoholism was just a condition Mrs A inherited, it wasn't what killed her off - that was other people, seemingly distant, who caught up: Mrs A, if anything, was murdered. Early injury can stunt or deform growth, even if it doesn't an instinct's implanted, so if the cause seems to be recurring a counter-mechanism kicks-in. Mrs A had red button, a self-destruct, built-in. Few weeks ago, that button was punched. Mrs A was heroic, she battled the evilest of unseen beasts, as so many do, and she survived many, many years, sacrificing herself for the one she loved. When she new it was the end, she went, carried the soon-to-be exploded bomb as far away as she could. If the drink hadn't made a puppet of her, she'd probably have ended thing anonymously. You can judge people bang-on, and get the whole thing wrong. I respect you Mrs A - Andrea.

*

It's only the threads that link us mean anything. Sometimes it's easy, we're chained together. Others, the connectors are gossamer. You might twist one way or another, and break the reason for in-touchiness. Then, occasionally, one thread to someone will cut across and break the thread to another. We're all Gulliver (he of the travels) tied by ropes to others, Lilliputians and Brobdingnags - but we can always break loose, because of stature, intellect or guile. What we do mostly, as humans, as people, as individuals, as vulnerable, is walkaway. That is, until we walk slap-bang into those persons again. Then, knowing someone (once) so well, you don't have the same reasons to trust them, but you do (cos you did), yet you can't (cos you did once). It's all a minefield. You can only ever trust, until that trust is truly broken. I'm addressing this cryptic paragraph to someone I love, loved. Love-loved is a paradox most of us can understand something of. I'm not grieving, I'm reflecting on mortality - I'm attempting to make my peace.

Everything's a lie. And, if it is, I'm a liar. Then, so are you, and you, and you. Nothing's what it seems. I thank god. This blog is my way of telling the truth. If I say the fish I caught was this big - well, let that be my statement of true intent. However big the fish, it was a fish, it all comes down to a matter of scale. Sardine or Tuna, whatever. Enjoy. All you need know is Mrs A's dead. No more Mrs A. It's as meaningless as that.

You Get to Close Your Eyes

(the last of that) THURSDAY

When I'd done reading those letters to Mrs A, I sat for a long while, letting time run away, I'd no desire to halt it's escape. At a certain point - can't say why it was certain, but it was definite - I walked over to the drinks cabinet. I was unscrewing the lid on a vodka bottle when I came-to, realising I needed to go fetch Rio, my son, and Amy, Mrs A's daughter, from school. I was already late.

The two kids had walked back to ours, they were sitting on the wall outside, legs swinging. I waved, then pulled in to the curb. Sorry I said. Okay said Rio. We just got here reassured Amy. I let us in, sending the kids to change. We ate, just a snack. Kids went outside, into the garden to play. I got that drink I'd had to rain-cheque earlier. My brain couldn't manage much more than fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

Terrible things happen in the world, all the time. Most by-pass us, or evaporate to nothing like (snap of the fingers) that. Some lesser tragedies hold us close, when greater tragedies keep us at arm's length. You can read stories, novels, in which the most horrific things occur, and you put them down, switch-out the bedside lamp and go fast to sleep. Then, like happened to me, what drove Mrs A to flee to drink and on, and still on, you read something unimaginatively horrible, the kind-of mundane soap storyline you mock, and it guts you - sticks in a cold blade, splits you open, reaches in and pulls out your insides. Same words, printed on paper, not so well-written, but they injure you, cause the most subtle and devastating damage. Anyway, I sat and finished my stiff drink, and then I stood, shook my head and picked up the phone.

 

THREE WEEKS LATER

Ted Acton's a bloke you have to tickle trout-like to a phone. I left my number and the word 'urgent' with his minions at the showroom. Still, it took a day and a half for his nibs to contact me. I met him at his house, he hadn't a key, Mrs A'd ensured that, and I told him everything. He took it all in without saying a word, afterwards he asked if I wanted a drink. I didn't. He did. 'You'll go to the police?' I asked. 'Not yet. I'll get some inquiries made first. There're a places to be looked' he told me. 'Oh? I tried the obvious' I said. 'No, she's places she tends to run to, people she'll go see'. That's all he said. It seemed to me, he was aware of his wife's wrangle with alcohol, it hadn't shocked him (he hadn't said 'no, no, she's not the sort'), but I didn't see any reason to ask. He assumed Amy'd stay with us. It was only when I wondered aloud if he'd move back to look after his daughter, he asked could she stay with me, he'd pay her way. He saw me looking at him hard. 'Don't get me wrong, Shirl. I love that girl to pieces, but I'm going to be too distracted (least for a few or more days). I've got to get business sorted so I can go after her mum, and when I find her, well, I certain there'll be arrangements to be made. It's not going to be pleasant whatever the outcome. And Amy loves it at yours. And I know you love having her. My wife knew it too, and it's always made it easier on her, because she trusts and respects you. She dotes on that boy of yours too. I'd get quite jealous sometimes. So, please, Shirley, if you can, keep Amy for me. She comes home grinning, full of laughs and wild stories, after being at yours. It's the way I like to think of her. Please, Shirl?'

Amy settled in to ours without a grizzle. She didn't get homesick, which all kids do (least for their own private hidey-holes and personal bits-and-bobs). She was with us almost a week when she slipped downstairs after lights out to talk to me. She sat beside me on the sofa, I was having a glass of red and lightly watching telly. Amy nuzzled into me, I put an arm about her. 'Shirl?' she said. 'What, doll?' 'My mum's runaway, hasn't she?' 'What makes you think that?' 'Shirl, it's what she does. Mum's fragile. She's not like you, she goes to pieces. And she runs away'. I wasn't about to lie to her, children only choose to believe adult's lies if they want to anyway. 'Yes, Aim, she's done a bunk. Your dad's gone looking for her'. 'I just thought I ought to know, so everyone can talk about it without telling me to go upstairs or sending me out with Rio'. I doubt I'll ever want to give her up, back to her dad.

'She was admitted to a mental hospital near Exeter, last week. She stayed two nights and disappeared again. She was a voluntary referral, but she was in a bad way. They'd confined her to the ward, but that means little. They say she'd a visitor, a man. We're trying to trace him now' Teddy Acton informed me. 'We?' I asked. 'Private investigator, old acquaintance of mine'.

Ted Acton had the shabby, way-fallen look of a boarding house vacancy. He asked for a drink, something cutting. I fixed to powerful g&ts. 'Trails dead' he said, 'and, unless she wants, we're not going to find her'.

Mrs Acton's been found. Ted rang me. She was drowned. She was pulled from the river above Fowey in Cornwall. They can't say if it was suicide or an accident, but she was heavy with alcohol in her system. They're not ruling anything out, because no one has reported her missing down there. Ted's PI mate had contacted the cops when they'd lost track of her. That was a week ago. They know she was in the company of two men in Falmouth days before, they'd been drinking their way around the town. Nobody knew the men, though witnesses believed they'd rented a holiday place and were from London. That means anywhere east of Wiltshire, because by 'London' they mean an Estuary accent. There was no evidence of GBH though. All that's certain is, Mrs A is dead.

Ted told Amy yesterday. He was a gentle and direct as you can be. Amy let her dad hug her. He was crying, not for his wife, but for his daughter. She wasn't crying, she was stroking his unshaven cheek and saying there, there. Then, when she felt she'd done her bit, and her dad had begun to sniff back his tears, she came to me, took my hand and, abruptly, her body given up to it, she cried. I took her as deep into my arms as a woman can, and felt her tears soak through to my skin. When she grew heavy, I sat down with her, and she continued to issue forth. As suddenly as they began, Amy's tears stopped. She was asleep, worn out beyond capabilities of consciousness. I let her sleep in my arms. Ted Acton sat on the sofa. The world was hushed for us. Soon, Teddy was sleeping. Before I knew it, I nodded off too.

The Ironed Mask, the Application of Starch

(forever) THURSDAY

When someone drinks, a heavy boozer, they leave a slug trail, an acknowledgement of glass, a trace of their route to oblivion or wherever they intended tripping out to. At the end of an average week, I'll have about five or six wine bottles to dispose of: now that we've a blue-lid wheelie bin for recycling my habit's less exposed (than carrying bags or a box of clattering, resounding green glass out to the car, to dispose of at Tesco's). We only got these recycling bins last week, on the very day Mrs A went AWOL. Now, if she'd been on the sauce, and it seemed she had, there'd have to be a little silvery trickle, tingle of evidence about her home: there'd be empties somewhere. I stood by the sink in the Actons' kitchen trying to get inside Mrs A's head. She'd have washed the bottles out, and stored/hidden them, ready for recycling (I doubt she'd just bin them, it'd be too public, feel that way to her). She hadn't taken the car out that Wednesday, so the previous nights empties must be somewhere. She'd never've kept them indoors, unless they were behind locked doors. She'd not want them to ever intrude on her 'sober' hours, to pang into the day: these empties would be her guilty secret, the kind shut-away in attics and cellars. The side door into the garage was only a few yards from the kitchen's door out onto the patio, and it was not overlooked (there was a tall fence and gate blocking off the front, no sightlines for prying neighbours): I guessed I'd stash my dead men there, and I was certain Mrs A would, as it was privacy writ large, she could load the car undercover, it was perfect. A few keys on a ring hung beside the kitchen door, I figured these for the garage and shed ones. I was right. Behind the car was a work bench, with a couple of vices attached, and beneath it I found a lidded plastic box containing Mrs A's empties. They'd all, bar one, contained white wine (the odd bottle once held Plymouth Gin). About twenty odd bottles: how many nights did they account for? There was no way of saying, and I was aware they might account for a month's worth, which meant Mrs A drank no more than I did (alone and shared), and that this whole alcoholic hunch was daft, a nonsense I'd concocted.

What I went looking for next was something 'traumatic', a catastrophe that'd have pushed Mrs A over the edge - the proof of my theory. It was becoming an egotistical exercise, I was enjoying the meshing of cognitive gears long unused: sad to say, it was fun, an adult game of hide'n'seek. The thing with a house is, there're only a few pipelines of information into it. One of the general routes in being tv. It seemed unlikely Mrs A'd been shocked into a binge by something she'd watched on tv - of course, such things can and do happen - but Mrs A isn't a daytime telly type, yet until yesterday she wasn't a secret-boozer type lady. No, I pushed the rind of tv and radio to the side of my plate. It was going to be a direct, personal intrusion that'd have sent her flying, without wings. I rang 1471: nobody'd called in a couple of days. You never know, perhaps the trauma was a thing fermented, came to head and blew. I wrote the number down, and dialled it. 'Grieves, Haliburton, Tompkins and Greene Solicitors. How can I help you?' I hung up. When solicitors call you, it's always dire news: someone's died (mind, that can come with a cash prize), someone's suing (for divorce?), you're up in court or any number of personal tragedies. Okay, I thought, legal stuff is always substantiated by documentation, they formalise everything in letters and forms, so, I should snoop about and see what I could unearth. I'd lost track of my real mission, to find Mrs A, or to not find her and start the official ball rolling. When I have important, unsettling paperwork, the kind you must keep but don't want to face, I keep it in the drawer of my bedside cabinet, with the Vick, E45, sticky plasters, batteries and thrush cream. I rifled through Mrs A's bedside set-up, and then, an equivalent, through her pants drawer. Nothing. It struck me Mrs A was a lady, a grown-up girl, who'd fold her pyjamas, nightgown, under her pillow - the classic PRIVATE diary hideaway. Hey presto! She'd stashed a few letters there, all postmarked 'Grieves, Haliburton, Tompkins and Greene Solicitors'. I went down to the lounge, sat on the sofa and read them.

Mobilization

THURSAY (still)

Man's Voice:        Who's speaking?

Me:                        Oh! I thought I was calling Isabell's number, I must've misdialled?

Man's Voice:        This might be Isabell's phone, it was left here, The Ferryman &                                Firkin on High Street in Southampton?

Me:                        Look, if I ring back on Isabell's number, we'll know if it's her
                               phone or not: ok?

Man's Voice:        Sounds a good idea. I'll hang-up now - talk again, in a sec,
                               perhaps?

 

Same Man's Voice:          Hello? Is that you?

Me:                                     If that's you, honey, this is me? So, yes, it's Isabell's mobile                                             you've got there.

Same Man's Voice:          Well, she can come pick it up anytime we're open, and                                             that's 11 to 11. Ask for Simon.

Me:                                     Ta, Simon, I'll tell her when I catch-up with her. Cheers for                                             now, bye.

 

I kicked myself, I hadn't asked when the phone'd been found. I'd already decided to go down to The Ferryman's, try and get the phone, maybe scent Mrs A's trail from there. Least I knew she'd been in town, not meant to venture further afield. My immediate thought was Mrs A'd gone to the pub for lunch, though it wasn't her kind-of place: was she meeting someone there? Nothing to do but go and try to find out.

Before I left the Acton house, I packed young Amy a few essentials, clothes and stuff. I locked the door and kept the keys, I'd a feeling I'd have to use them again. It was startlingly bright outdoors, but drizzling, sighing down a light spit. Miss Gerrard, Mrs A's neighbour, called to me from her porch. I walked round to talk with her. 'No, she's not returned. Yes, I am worried, but let's not panic. If she's not made contact by this evening, I'll call the police. Well, I'll phone Teddy first. If she turns up, here's my number again. Or if anything else happens, you can get hold of me. You're a star, Mrs Gerrard, really. See you again, ta ta!'

It's quite a tricky business, this bloodhound lark. I parked in the East Street multistorey and I was walking down High Street to The Ferryman, when I realised I could've brought a photo of Mrs A, to prompt the staffs' memories. But I'm not Colombo, so I'm excused. This is the part of the city centre where it petters out, before a dramatic switch of vista, a few streets on and you hit the maritime quarter, all yachts and fancy apartments. I went straight to The Ferryman's bar, which was quiet, only a few tables of early diners and drinkers in the place. I asked for Simon. A tall bloke with his hair swept back Italian-style, though he was a mousey bespecked Anglosaxon, came through to talk to me. 'A friend of mine thinks she left her mobile here yesterday?' I opened. 'A Motorola?' Simon asked. 'I think so. She didn't say, but I think it is a Motorola. Is it here?' I said. 'There was a phone left, but I can't just hand it over. What we usually do's get you to phone the mobile's number, that way we can be sure it's yours, your friend's. But, I happen to know the name of this phone's owner, so if you can tell me that?' 'Isabell. It's Izzy's mobile. Sorry, I ought to've said. Isabell Acton'. With that Simon ducked beneath the bar, he shirt came untucked and the boney white of his lower back showed, he stood to hand me the mobile. 'Oh, thank you, she'll be well chuffed. She was panicking. Just out of interest, what time was it handed in (she swore she wasn't drunk, but I'm suspicious, you know)?' Simon called over to a brutish-looking woman and asked her about the phone. She told us it was found late yesterday afternoon. I couldn't think what else to ask, without pushing it, appearing too nosey or whatever. It doesn't feel natural asking all these questions about a virtual stranger, it's intrusive. Sort-of fun too.

It's fair enough to conclude Mrs A was in The Ferryman and Ferkin after lunch, around two or three, because the phone would've been handed in fairly fast - if it'd been lost under or behind something, a punter's not likely to find it, it'd be staff would come across it. Someone saw it, took it to the bar: give it the benefit and say the third customer at Mrs A's vacated table. Still, it means Mrs A was in the pub close to or at the time she should've been fetching her Amy from school. What makes a difference now is the question of her sobriety. If she was drunk, it explains her leaving behind her phone (it would be unlike a sober Mrs A). If she was sober, intending to drive to get Amy, it suggests she disappeared after leaving the pub - but why'd she left the trip home so late, knowing she was on a deadline? If she left the pub sober, she'd have been heading home (let's assume), which meant she walked up to Above Bar for a bus. That's a routine walk through the centre of town, the busiest street, the most policed: nothing could've happened without it being reported. No. Strange as it seemed, and because all this affair's strange, I'd say Mrs A'd been drinking, was tipsy at least, when she left The Ferryman. How pissed would she need to be to lose track of time and possessions? No, the question is, what kind of drunk was she that she didn't care to fetch her daughter - or that she was open to distraction, to diversion, to dislocation? I recalled something Amy'd said weeks ago, about life without her daddy being home: she told me her mum sent her to bed ridiculously early, she'd asked me for magazines to read. She said her mum stayed up late watching tv. Was Mrs A boozing? There was plenty of untouched alcohol in the house, but that means nothing, she'd not got round to drinking it that's all. But the place was spotless, It was a laboured cleanliness, too absolute: isn't that the best of all disguises, the only telling thing, the over perfection of them, to good to be true. But it signified she'd been coping, she'd been looking after and protecting Amy, what yesterday changed her ability to carry-on? What was the shift that knocked her off course? I drove back to the Actons' home, the answer had to be there, somewhere. It was one thirty, I was running out of time, I was going to pick Rio and Amy up from school at three thirty.

Intrude, Deduce

THURSDAY

The key was in the concrete planter, in the pea gravel under a potted shrub, where Amy said I'd find it. I let myself into Mrs A's home. Every house has its distinctive smell: sometimes it's the sweetness of boiled potatoes, the tangy musk of a cat, the sourness of settled dust, but always it's a cocktail of tincture whiffs: a peculiar odour that rolls out of an opened door, to greet, to forewarn. The Actons' homestead was honeyed with furniture polish, a taint of bleach underlay it: place smelt like a Board Room, a space where mighty decision could be made, well and true, for the good of others. Mrs A kept an orderly house. It was all function, even comfort was a function: she allowed no frippery, nothing without purpose. The most useless thing she had, or had, was her husband, Teddy (I thought, I still think), but he brought in the wherewithal that oiled her domestic mechanism. Of course, Teddy-Boy'd upped sticks and gone-off with Lizzie Henry, an A-list slapper about town, so Mrs A was rid of his gewgawiness. She ought to have been over the moon. Teddy wasn't about to divorce Mrs A, he wasn't going to lose his Amy, he was a dutiful father, and Mrs A wasn't going to beg him for a divorce: she, it seemed, could live with the situation. Everyone was of the opinion this wasn't the first time Teddy Acton had gone AWOL from the matrimonial bed. We believed she'd enjoy his absence, and ultimately she'd have the arse back. But. And the 'but' is, was, Mrs A's vanished.

I didn't want to frighten Amy, the Actons' daughter, so I pretended I'd simply forgotten where Mrs A said she'd left the key (she'd rushed off to nurse an old friend). What I was thinking was, mostly was, I'd find a clue to her whereabouts or state of mind. Sometimes, I thought I'd discover her body. Well, you do, don't you. Why is it the stillness of an empty house reverberates so in your imagination? In this case, I suppose I felt almost criminal in my presence, and anxious, because I was trespassing and because I might happen on death. I suspected a body around every corner and door as I progressed down the hall to the back kitchen. The answer-machine light was blinking repeatedly to signify messages left. I decided it would be best to stomp about the house, march upstairs, from room to room, without hesitation or deviation.

There wasn't anybody there. I slumped on the sofa in the long lounge that ran front to back, with French windows onto the garden. I sighed, and gave my nerves a pause. Right, I thought, to business. I checked the messages on the answering machine. All were from me. I sounded chirpy. I pressed the redial button on the phone. 'Hello, you have reached the NatWest Actionline...' Was she checking her account, making a bill payment or what? Had Mrs A money worries? I doubted it. I checked the waste baskets and refuse bin for evidence of torn bank statements, bills etc. All the bins had been emptied, so I went outside to the wheelies to check, but they were empty too. Three theories as to the phone-call Mrs A made to NatWest: a) she wanted to be certain of what money she had available, b) she was routinely paying bills or c) she was ascertaining what money she hadn't (perhaps trying to extend an overdraft, credit limit or arrange a loan). I dismissed the premise that paying bills might mean she was tying up loose ends, meaning to vamoose without leaving a mess (she'd clearly put the house in order), because Amy, her daughter, was an end she'd not have left loose, and she had. Mrs A would have ensured Amy was safely catered for, the fact she had not suggested something occurred abruptly, unplanned for. If she was routinely paying bills, which I imagine is Mrs A's way, that supported the notion of a spontaneous disappearance. You don't suddenly discover you're broke, you expect it, you struggle against it, there would be evidence, paperwork, of the fact and signs of anxiety. Mrs A may've thrown all documentary evidence away, so I decided to look for indications of stress. The drinks cabinet was well-stocked. There was wine in the kitchen's wine rack, five bottles of red. No half-used packets of aspirin or paracetamol in any drawers downstairs or up, and no prescription drugs evident. No telltales of Mrs A going off the rails.

So, Mrs A hadn't planned to disappear, or she'd have arranged to have Amy cared for. She'd tidied the house before going wherever she went (because the beds were made), but that was Mrs A, she was always tidying. There was no evidence of her being under pressure, but there was no evidence of her not. She'd left abruptly, without forethought. She'd intended returning, she hadn't.

      

I was none the wiser. I determined to phone the local hospitals, to see if she or anyone fitting her description'd been admitted yesterday. If she'd been involved in an accident or mugging or something of that ilk, it would have occurred sometime between 11:00 and 15:00 (when she was due to fetch Amy from school). No, she wasn't in any hospital in the city, or Romsey, Salisbury, Bournemouth, Poole, Winchester or Portsmouth. I tried to figure out how far she'd get and expect to return in 4.5 hours, it's not far. It hadn't been twenty-four hours yet, and I didn't want to call the Police until I had to, because it'd mean social workers, newspapers and all-sorts, and that'd finish Mrs A off regardless of what else had occurred to her.

Something had happened after she'd left home that kept her from returning. She may've been attacked, but not found, dead or alive. It was broad daylight, and unless she'd gone somewhere isolated or isolating herself, I didn't think anything could've happened to her without being reported. She was on foot leaving the house. She may've got a bus or a train. It takes between 15-40 minutes to get to Southampton Central from the Actons': so anywhere taking more than 1.5 hrs to arrive at meant she'd have 30-60 minutes maximum there- and, she'd have to've walked Amy home too (unlikely), or she meant to cut picking Amy up very fine indeed. Mrs A might've got to London, or somewhere in an equivalent timescale, but 60 minutes is little enough for even the shortest appointment, what with getting to it and back for the return train. If she'd gone to Bournemouth or Portsmouth, she'd have 1-2hrs available, an appointment or quick shop. Salisbury or Winchester, and she'd have 1.5-2.5hrs to occupy. At Romsey, she could while away almost three hours. Three hours isn't much of a day-out, for R'n'R. I figured she'd gone shopping or to meet someone, a friend or professional. She might've gone to Bournem'th, Pompey, Sals, Winch'ster or Romsey for a meeting. She'd be unlikely go to Pompey shopping (she's not the Port Solent type), and unless you're shopping specifically she'd not go off to Bournemouth or Winchester (where the stations are a trot from the centre). She might've gone to Salisbury, for the quaintness of shopping there, or to Romsey for a look-around and lunch. Or she stayed in Southampton!

I was using a pen and paper by this point, sat at the dining room table. The late morning light ghosted into the room through the white voille in the window. I was determined to find some solution, some workable plan to follow up. I made myself a coffee, and settled down at the table again with the Actons' telephone/address book, from the hallstand. I figured on checking for numbers and addresses in the towns I'd figured she could've reached. There was nowhere of note in Bournemouth or Portsmouth she'd have gone. There were a few numbers and addresses in and around Salisbury, Winchester and Romsey. I called the numbers without addresses first: a butcher's in West Tytherley, the White Hart Hotel, Salisbury (no guest of that name resident) and a chimney-sweep working out of Whiteparish: deadends. I started in on the commercial contacts next: Lemon, Lime and Felton, estate agents in Amesbury said they'd no appointment booked in for a Mrs Acton yesterday (I pretended I was her, apologising for not turning up); a number and address marked 'Dhams - sales' turned out to be, yes, Debenham's (so she may've gone shopping in Winchester after all); Eavis & Sons was a building firm, and they'd not arranged a met with Mrs A; Tollchard & Heimsaith had been an opticians in Romsey, but had closed shop a few years ago; and Pritchard's was another butcher, in Salisbury. That left three addresses, seemingly personal, one in each Salisbury, Winchester and Romsey. I decided to call and simply ask straight-up if Mrs A had visited or arranged to visit them today, to which they might reply 'no, we met yesterday' or 'we were supposed to meet...' - if they asked questions I'd explain I was looking after Amy, but an emergency had arisen and I need to contact her.

Anon:               Hello?

Me:                   Hi. Is that Elaine Bartell?

Anon:                [Aside] Mum! Phone! She'll be with you in a second, thanks.

Elaine Bartell: Hello?

Me:                    Hiya. Mrs Bartell, I wondered if Isabell Acton was due to visit you
                           today: I'm looking after Amy, her daughter, but something's arisen
                           and I need to contact her immediately, and I recall she said she was visiting                            someone Salisbury way? I hope you'll forgive the intrusion?

Elaine Bartell: Isabell Acton? Oh! Izzy, Izzy Wells: I've not heard from Izzy for
                           years; god, where on earth did you get my number?

Me:                   You're in her phonebook, by the phone, I thought I'd give the number
                           a try.

Elaine Bartell: No, that's alright, no problem, just sorry I can't help!

Me:                   No, thank you. I'll try another number, thanks.

 

*

 
Anon:                         To whom am I speaking?

Me:                            Oh. Hello, I'm Shirley Freemantle. I'm so sorry to bother
                                   you, but I'm a friend of Isabell Acton: I'm looking after Amy, her
                                   daughter: well, Isabell told me she was visiting a friend in
                                   Winchester, but I couldn't remember who, and an emergency's
                                   arisen. I need to contact Izzy urgently, I wondered if it was you                                    she was visiting today?

Anon:                         I'm terribly afraid you've the wrong number?

Me:                             Sorry. Is that Mrs Eliah-Scott?

Anon:                         No. No, you've made a mistake, I think you want my husband's                                     ex wife: Acton, you said? Edward Acton's wife? You do realise                                     it was Eddie Acton that ran off with Germaine, my Geoff's ex,                                     don't you? No, obviously not? Where on earth did you get
                                    our number, dear?

Me:                             It's in the Actons' address book?

The New Mrs Scott: Is it. God knows why? She took the cunt back I suppose?                                     Excuse my language?

Me:                             No worries. And, yes she did. But he's gone off again.

The New Mrs Scott: She's a stupid cow. You'd think she'd have learnt. Perhaps she's                                     okay with it, I've always wondered, perhaps it's a mutual thing,                                     Eddie gets his and she's off getting hers? Geoff says she wasn't                                     adverse to a little tickle, even if she shied away from the slap                                     side.

Me:                             You don't say. She's always seemed so proper?

The New Mrs Scott: Well, it is hearsay, and Geoff's bitter, who can blame him (but                                     he did get me, better, by far, than just a consolation prize): but,                                     and we were all at it, and enjoying it, until the sky did fall-in on                                     our heads, I got the idea that Izzy Acton was something of a                                     goer!

Me:                             Really?! Wow! Who'd have guessed.

The New Mrs Scott: Of course, that was before we dropped, fell. Kids change                                     everything, and i suppose that's what quelled Isabell's fires,                                     though it wasn't so long ago; probably an ember still aglow, an                                     itch she'd love to scratch. Best of luck, darling. Hope the                                     emergency's not to ghastly. Bye.

 

*

 
Anon:                    Sarah Threffold speaking?

Me:                       Hello, Sarah, I'm Shirley, a friend of Izzy, Isabell Acton: I'm
                              looking after her kid, Amy, today for her, but something's
                               come-up, and I need to contact her urgently: I though she might be
                              visiting you in Romsey?

Sarah Threffold: No, she isn't, I've not heard from Iz in weeks. Is Amy okay?

Me:                       Yes, yes. It's my emergency. I was just hoping to get hold of Isabell.

Sarah Threffold: It's not like Iz to not leave a contact number: don't you have her                               mobile number?

Me:                       You're right, but it was a spur of the moment thing, both my Rio
                              and her Amy have the same bug, and she wanted to make this visit
                              this morning. She's usual so thorough. And I haven't her mobile
                              number, I left my mobile charging, and I'm at Izzy's now. If
                              you've got the number that'd be so useful?

Sarah Threffold: Your Rio's mum! Oh, he's such a lovely child, Iz dotes on him. I
                              should've recognised the name, Shirley, of course. Iz talks alot
                              about you, and I'm so glad she's a friend close-by. Here, I'll just
                              look up the number, excuse me a second...

 

You live and learn. Now I've a mobile number, and no reason to believe she ventured outside the city. Mrs A seems to've been a lonely lady: grasping at the last straw of long lost mates and acquaintances. Sarah Threffold hadn't ever met Teddy Acton, she'd been Mrs A's best mate at primary school, penpal after that, and then telephone confidant. Sarah was a vicar's wife: something I'd always thought would suit Mrs A. Apparently not, as Mrs Scott had informed me, Mrs A had once swung as vividly as a palm in a hurricane. Whatever, there was only one course of action left, to phone her mobile.

Descent

I recall my toes dipped over the diving board's edge. I perched up there, the highest you could climb, like our budgie atop of his cage when out for a flap. Level with slate roofs and chimney pots, the choppy waters of town, the pool fathoms below, I hesitated, only because it was a spectacle, the view of the houses and distant countryside, what the onlookers saw of me, chafe awaiting a sharp wind to blow it loose. I was never scared, the mouthwash water would embrace me, falling was easy, and landing was a sudden rigidity and arching, hot knife through butter. Why rush? It was such an experience, it had to be savored: the bell sound of people swimming and splashing, the rocking light on the walls, the tinted light relaxed as it passed through the tall windows and the lively odor of chlorine lifting. When I was ready, I'd adjust the straps of my cossie, shake my little boobs into place, snapping the hem of its gusset, and I'd reach out my arms, pivoting at my toes, and free myself of the board as the second hand swoons through 25 seconds, airborne, a small girl not flying but landing, darting and striking the surface and breaking through, a young girl vanishing below, traveling, to reveal herself only when her lungs were giving out, cracking like eggs into oxygen. I never doubted the pool awaited me, was going to catch me. I'd heard the stories of gut-splitting bellyflops, of head-cracks, of all the possible horrors that might befall you diving from such a great height: I knew the answer, the salvation, was to do it right, to guide your muscles through the grace of actions that made you safe, survive. As I got older I learnt to tuck, to spindle, to flip and things, and always to land, to fall into the waters cradling arms.

Rio's never that late back from school, we live a few minutes away. He's often late, yapping or mucking about en route, but he comes in quick enough. Today, Rio was well late. I was halfway up the Lane to his school when I saw him and Amy Acton walking down towards me. Rio'd waited with Amy for her mum, but Mrs A. hadn't shown (she usually drives down). When we got in, I set the two of them to sarnie making, and I telephoned Mrs A. Nobody answered, except the brittle voiced answering machine. I left a message explaining Amy's whereabouts. It was almost six, Mrs A. hadn't made contacted. I told Amy she might as well spend the night, which put a smile on her face. I asked Mrs Jacobs if she'd mind the two kids for half an hour or so, and I drove over to Acton Towers. I rang and rang the bell, nothing. Mrs A's car was in the garage, I could see it through the slats. I went round to Miss Gerrard's, next door, and she said Mrs A.'d left before lunch and not returned, or she didn't think she had. We went out into Miss Gerrard's back garden to look-see if Mrs A. was outside, for signs of life. Nothing. I clambered over the lowest wall between the gardens and peered through the Acton's downstairs windows. Everything looked fine, as neatly neat and as cleanly clean as ever. I thanked Miss Gerrard at her door, told her not to worry (which was pointless). Mrs A. had vanished.

Getting back in, I phoned the Acton's answer phone and told it where Amy was, that she was safe and for Mrs A. to call me asap. Amy was fine, she likes staying over. I haven't called Teddy Acton, because I don't like him, he wouldn't do any good, he'd abuse the situation and upset Amy. I can't call the police, yet. We had a barb-e-que of sorts, and a laugh. We'll see what tomorrow brings, that Indian giver.