Cruel Tide Page 7

  ‘They usually call me first, but I’ll just pass it on. The kid drowned, right? Not much of a story in that but we could do something with it. Another death in Morecambe Bay, when will people learn, the old refrain. Funeral?’

  ‘Friday morning,’ said Judith. ‘I rang the home.’

  ‘Must have released the body then,’ said Bill. ‘You go, don’t forget to get all the names. Won’t be many, but people want to see their names in the paper. What about the family?’

  ‘Only story there is “Can parents like this be rewarded for having children, child allowance, irresponsible families et cetera,” They might turn up to the funeral but I doubt it. Seem to have dumped the whole thing back on social services.’

  For a moment Judith thought of saying something about the man who she thought might be the long-lost brother, but that might jeopardise her deal with Mikey and it wasn’t worth it. If the brother turned up at the funeral she would have something more solid to go on.

  ‘Make something of it, if you can,’ said Bill. ‘Stories about kids always sell papers. If you put something out before Friday it might make a better funeral. Talk to Cunningham about it, if you can find him.’

  ‘Is he in?’ asked Judith.

  Bill shook his head. ‘Meeting at the Town Hall about something. And then the usual long lunch I expect.’

  ‘While he’s out, can I have a word?’

  ‘About Cunningham? I know he’s drinking, and so does Thornhill.’

  ‘No, it’s not the drinking, although…’ She knew it was probably hopeless.

  ‘Come on girl, spit it out. Don’t bother about cloth ears over there, and Hattie’s off powdering her nose somewhere. What about Cunningham?’

  ‘He’s pestering me,’ said Judith. ‘Has done ever since I started here.’

  ‘What do you mean, pestering? Hand up your skirt, is that it? If you ever wore a skirt. Why don’t you wear a skirt? Something wrong with your legs?’

  Judith was shocked. ‘No, not a hand up my skirt. But, you know, trying to touch me, says he wants to feel my hair.’

  ‘Your hair, for God’s sake, what’s wrong with that? It’s not even close to your tits.’

  ‘But,’ said Judith, ‘I don’t like it. I want him not to do it.’

  Bill got up. ‘For fuck’s sake, girl,’ he said. ‘You’re a big girl now. Men do that kind of stuff. Always have, always will, makes the world go round. Where have you been all these years? If that’s the worst you can say about him, then just grow up and shut up. Honestly,’ he continued, ‘don’t waste my time.’ He turned back towards her. ‘And don’t waste his time either,’ he jerked head towards Thornhill’s closed door. ‘We’ve got a paper to run here. I know all about what he said to you last week. The last thing you need right now is some nonsense about being pestered. Understood? Just get on with the bloody job.’ He put on his hat and left, banging the newsroom door behind him.

  Andrew put his head up. ‘Shut up, Andrew,’ said Judith.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  She was writing up her notes from the conversation with Mikey a while later when the newsroom door opened and a waft of expensive perfume caught Judith’s nostrils by surprise. She knew it was Irene Thornhill even before she raised her head to check, and the sight of several bags from the more expensive shops in Barrow confirmed it.

  ‘It’s Judith, isn’t it?’ said Irene, looking down at Judith over the shoulder-high partition.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Thornhill, Judith Pharaoh.’

  ‘Such a quaint name,’ said Irene. She’d said that before, and Judith wasn’t sure what ‘quaint’ actually signified. ‘Is that a local name, Pharaoh?’ she continued.

  ‘Up the coast, Whitehaven way I think,’ said Judith, ‘but there seem to be Pharaohs all over the place.’

  ‘Just like Ancient Egypt.’ Irene’s laugh had a curious tinkle, refined, like the rest of her.

  Irene took the few steps that it took to glimpse into Cunningham’s cubbyhole. ‘Not in, I see,’ she said. ‘Alan tells me his lunchtimes are getting longer. I wonder what he’s up to.’

  ‘We wonder too,’ said Judith. Irene looked at her sharply. ‘What do you think, dear? Any ideas?’

  ‘Just the usual, picking up stories in the pub, seeing contacts, that sort of thing. Mr Skelly says that’s the way to catch the stories.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s true, and he should know after all these years, shouldn’t he? I don’t suppose my husband’s in either is he?’

  ‘He’s out,’ Andrew’s voice, surprisingly forceful, spoke from the darkness on the far side of the room.

  ‘A phantom speaks,’ said Irene. ‘My own fault, to find a deserted office when I come in unannounced. I was just doing a bit of shopping and thought I’d pop in and catch you all unawares. I’m dying for a nice cup of tea.’

  ‘I can make you one,’ said Judith. She’d always admired Irene Thornhill’s style and it certainly made a change for the better today.

  ‘Here? I said a nice cup of tea,’ said Irene with emphasis. ‘Heaven knows what ghastly bugs there are around here. No, I was heading for the Blue Teapot, on the corner. Can’t abide the ghastly noise of that machine in Bruciani’s and if I hear that dreadful “Boom, Bang-a-bang” song once more I shall scream. Care to join me, Judith? You and I have never really talked, have we, and you look like such an interesting young woman.’

  Judith looked at the papers on her desk.

  ‘Don’t tell me you can’t afford half an hour away from your desk, when the two men are hardly ever here. Hattie can hold the fort, and whoever that voice belongs to over there. The Furness News will be in good hands for a little while.’

  Why should I argue, thought Judith. The notes are almost complete, and I deserve a break. She picked up her jacket and followed Irene out of the newsroom and down the stairs to the street. Once on the pavement, Irene asked her to carry some of the bags and slipped her arm through Judith’s as they walked to the café, where she appeared to be a welcome and frequent guest.

  ‘There now,’ said Irene, as they settled into the best table by the window. ‘We can watch the world go by, such as it is, and have a good chat. I’m just so short of female company. Too many men in this world, dear, don’t you agree?’

  Judith said nothing: what was there to say?

  The waitress came over, pad in hand. ‘Tea for two,’ said Irene. ‘Half Earl Grey, you know how I like it. And maybe a scone? What do you think Judith?’

  Judith was very hungry and could have cheerfully demolished one of the café’s sandwiches but she restrained herself. ‘A scone would be lovely, thanks.’

  ‘Two scones, with cream and jam, strawberry jam mind, none of that other stuff.’

  The waitress didn’t wait for any further pleasantries and departed.

  ‘Now then, Judith,’ said Irene, easing her coat from her shoulders. ‘Tell me all about yourself. I don’t think there’s ever been a young woman like you in the newsroom and I’d love to know how you ended up here. Barrow-in-Furness isn’t everybody’s cup of tea, after all. I’d much prefer to live somewhere more civilized, like Ulverston, such a pleasant town, but Alan insists we have to live here, closer to the office. Can’t shift him on that one. Did you say your people come from Whitehaven?’

  ‘Originally, yes,’ said Judith. She was already calculating how to avoid the fact that both her mother and grandmother had been screen lasses at Haig Pit, at the lowest end of the social ladder. ‘But then we moved to St Bees.’

  ‘That’s another lovely spot, but too far away again. Whereabouts in St Bees?’

  ‘Beach Road, quite close to the sea.’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Irene. ‘Quite large houses down there I recall, south facing. Does your father work in the village?’

  ‘No, he’s at Sellafield,’ said Judith. ‘He’s one of the finance managers there.’

  ‘And what does he think of your choice of career, I wonder?’ Irene asked, smiling.

  The tea and scones
were being placed with conspicuous care on the small table and Irene stopped the interrogation for a while, much to Judith’s relief. She took her chance.

  ‘It’s quite difficult actually, as the only woman in the newsroom,’ she said, ‘apart from Hattie, that is. I’ve got all the qualifications, and experience too, but they still seem to think of me as a novice who knows nothing. I do get fed up with it sometimes.’

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ said Irene. ‘I remember that feeling from my days at work, but that was ten years or so ago. I thought it might be different by now. Nearly 1970 and still women aren’t respected in the workplace. Of course I gave up work when I married.’ She sipped her tea. ‘Sometimes I think getting married was a mistake. Alan seemed so glamorous when we met – a young journalist in Manchester, at the heart of the city. I honestly thought we’d be going to London next but then he suddenly turned into the dutiful son and came rushing up here to look after his parents and took a job in this godawful place. Of course he’s in line to be editor of a bigger paper, maybe in Kendal or Newcastle even, somewhere with a bit of class, but now we’re stuck here in this dump. I’m so bored I could scream.’

  Judith drank her tea, wondering how to respond to these confidences. She’d always thought Irene Thornhill was an ambitious woman and admired her for it, and didn’t want to hear that she was actually frustrated and unhappy. Irene seemed bent on telling her more than she wanted to know, and continued as if Judith wasn’t even there.

  ‘Even before we moved up here, things weren’t good. I know Alan had a hard time with his National Service, before I met him. They all had to go, you know, no matter what. The timing was rotten and he got sent to Malaya. Now he says that whole experience knocked the stuffing out of him. He thought it would be so exciting. Won’t tell me much of course, they never do, do they? But he has nightmares about it still. Wakes up shouting.’ Irene was gazing into the distance as she spoke, stirring her tea.

  This is my boss she’s talking about, thought Judith, completely nonplussed by the revelations, and desperate to change the subject. She turned the conversation back towards herself.

  ‘I’m my own worst enemy in some ways. I’ve should give up worrying about how I look, but my hair drives me crazy. It’s as frizzy as a hedge. My mother’s hair is curly too, but it’s a lovely rich red colour while mine’s just a dirty orange. I don’t know what to do with it.’

  Irene seemed to have come back to the present and looked closely at the young woman opposite. ‘That’s easily sorted out, dear. A good hairdresser is all you need. And you have so much to offer. Lovely bone structure, you can probably thank your mother for that, too. I’m sure there are plenty of young men who find you very attractive. They’re all so gauche these days. No idea how to make a woman feel good about herself.’

  I wonder, Judith thought. Irene would never put up with the treatment I get from Cunningham, or Bill, or even her husband. Could I risk telling her about what’s happening and ask for help, woman to woman?

  ‘There is something I’d like your advice about,’ she began.

  ‘About your hair?’ asked Irene, cutting her scone into delicate portions.

  ‘No,’ said Judith, ‘about the things a man I know has been saying to me. Things that I don’t think he should be saying, or doing, but I don’t know how to deal with him.’

  Irene put down the piece of scone that was halfway to her mouth. ‘What kind of things?’

  ‘He says he wants to touch me, and I ought to be affectionate towards him, a squeeze, a hug, that kind of thing. He’s much older than me. It just doesn’t feel right. He says I should treat him like my father, but that doesn’t feel right either.’

  ‘Is he a friend of your family?’

  ‘No. They don’t know him. It’s at work.’

  ‘Not Mr Skelly?’ said Irene. ‘Surely not.’

  ‘No, said Judith. ‘It’s Ed Cunningham. I don’t know what to do.’

  For the first time Irene seemed too stunned to speak. She reached into her bag for her compact, opened the lid and looked carefully at her reflection.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said finally. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Now let’s finish our tea and get you back to work. Just leave it with me.’

  ‘That’s the last time I mention Mr Groper,’ Judith said to herself as she sat down again at her desk. ‘No one’s taking it seriously except my father, and his standards must be higher. Nothing to be done, so I might as well take the only advice on offer, shut up and just keep out of his way as much as I can.’

  Later she woke in the night with the same old dream running through her brain. Only it was a memory rather than a dream. The shock, the hurt and humiliation. Cunningham was making her feel bad all over again. It was time to put it behind her.

  CHAPTER 6

  Judith woke early on Friday morning wishing she’d paid a bit more for curtains that would actually keep out the light. During the winter months the sun’s first light caught the edge of her bedroom window and pierced her sleep more effectively than any alarm clock. Once awake, her head was too full to let her sleep again. She’d realised two things clearly in the past few days. One was that she dreaded going to work: not an acute fear but a low rumbling anxiety that was partly about her competence and partly about the people she had to work with. The second realisation was that nobody would help her deal with the work problem and her choices were stark. Either she drove herself through this despondency or she had to quit. There were no alternatives.

  She could leave the job tomorrow and go to Sellafield, where her father’s reputation and influence would swing her a job and probably a good one, too. She wouldn’t have to live at home, and there were places on the Irish Sea coast that were more attractive than where she lived, in a back street in Barrow. But it felt like going backwards, and she knew enough about Sellafield to realise that the atmosphere there wouldn’t suit her.

  If she needed to stay with the Furness News for the time being she would just have to deal with the men herself, as best she could, and not let it get tangled up with memories of losing her virginity to a middle-aged man whom she should have been able to trust. They weren’t all like that. Bill was just blinkered about work and dismissive of anything else. And Alan Thornhill? What about him? Irene’s description of him in his younger days had made Judith think of him differently. National Service had probably changed his life. One good thing about being female is that you didn’t have your life interrupted by the requirement to go and kill people.

  She’d had a few boyfriends – what a stupid title that was for a grown man – since she left university. There was Adrian from the bookshop, but he turned out to be too solemn and slow. Then there was Paul, who was fun, he liked her much more than she liked him, and he was much younger, just a boy. That was all in the past, she told herself, staring at the rain-stained ceiling of her room. Grandmother Jessie had been alone for years, making her way in the world, unwilling to risk her independence. So far, having a man around had been fraught with compromise for Judith too, and she was better off without, for a little longer at least. Sometimes she wished she preferred women, but she knew by now that there were no sexual sparks in that direction. Pity really. Life might have been a bit easier if there were. She wondered whether Detective Sam might have given up on women after the Christine debacle and turned his attention towards men instead, but he was probably just off sex all together. She could understand that.

  She’d been lying watching the light on the wall and encouraging herself to get up and face the day, when the alarm jangled into life. It was hours yet until Stevie’s funeral but already it was weighing on her. Children’s funerals were almost unbearable. Would the family come? Would anybody come apart from some from the home and herself? Detective Sam would probably be there. Damn. He was Elspeth’s relative, and that meant Judith would have to be polite to him, if nothing more. Was she obliged to tell him what she knew? Was any of her information solid enough for the police to act upon? She doubted
it. So maybe she could wait until it was. He was paid to check things out. If he wasn’t as energetic about it as she was, that was his problem, not hers. So far the story had potential, and she wanted to keep it that way.

  By the time she’d found something suitable and relatively presentable to wear, and eaten something to fortify herself against the misery of the hours to come, it was gone nine. Was there really time to go to work, or could she sneak a walk by the shore while the sun was still shining?

  The newsroom prevailed, but she compromised by taking the scooter down to the shore on her way in. It was one of those days when the light and colour of the sky was reflected in the wet surface of the sand, white and silver and blue and grey, changing patterns as the clouds moved across. Sometimes the reflections were sharp, sometimes blurred. She rested both feet on the ground on either side of the scooter and watched for a few minutes before turning round and heading into town.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  Andrew looked up when she came in. ‘There was a call for you,’ he said. He had such a quiet voice normally that everyone strained to hear him and Bill Skelly had been shouting at him again, which made him even more nervous. ‘She wanted to speak to you, no one else, about ten minutes ago.’ He handed her a slip of paper. Donna, it said, Please call back on this number before ten o’clock. Judith glanced at the clock. It was just gone ten but worth a try and she dialled the number. ‘Café’ said a man’s voice. ‘Donna? She’s here love, hang on.’

  ‘Is that you, miss?’ said Donna, a moment later. ‘Look, I’ve only got a minute. Fred’s let me use the phone. I wanted to come to the funeral, saw it in the paper, but ’e won’t let me.’

  ‘Who won’t? Fred?’

  ‘No, he’s been great, but Ian won’t hear of it. I told you, ’e hates me going anywhere, seeing anyone. Just work and ’ome.’

  ‘But he wouldn’t have to know, would he? You could get the train and be here and back before he gets home.’