A Christmas Wish by Erin Green (28)

Flora

The Peacock Pub
The Square,
Pooley,
Warwickshire.

I finish reading the letter aloud to find Annie and Mick staring at me from the bar.

‘Who?’ asks Mick, hobbling through the bar hatch towards the alcove.

‘Christine Hawthorne… do you remember her?’

Mick and Annie exchange a glance.

‘It sounds familiar but I can’t put a face to her,’ said Annie, leaning against the bar pumps. ‘Can you, Mick?’

Mick reached for the letter and scanned the few simple lines.

‘Christine Hawthorne? Wasn’t she the girl who left our primary school when we all went to the big school?’ he asks Annie on completion.

‘Lord knows, I can’t remember what I had for breakfast let alone who attended our primary school.’

‘You do… she had a thick frizz of blond hair, cut short like a boy’s style… she wore navy blue socks.’

‘Christ Mick, such detail… I bet you can’t recall what I wore on our wedding day and you can remember blue socks on an eleven year old class mate!’ laughs Annie, coming over to join us in the alcove. ‘Are you going to call her, Flora?’

‘Yeah, like I’d waste a chance like this… she might know all I need to know,’ I say, eager for our conversation to be over so I can dial Christine’s number.

‘Christina! Yes, Christina… I knew Christine didn’t sound right,’ mutters Mick, handing me the letter. ‘Annie, you do remember.’

Annie pulls a quizzical face reinforcing her knowledge.

‘You do. Think back to Pooley first school… the climbing frame, the coloured hoops and ladders painted on the playground…’

‘Yes, I remember. I’m right back there playing games of kiss-chase, stuck in the mud and leap frog… yes, I remember – I see it all.’

Mick smiles proudly, missing her sarcasm.

‘What I don’t see is a little girl with frizzy boy hair wearing navy blue socks…’ Annie returns to her domain and begins wiping down the bar. ‘And I don’t see her running for the break bell, nor the lunch queue or the gate at home time.’

Mick shakes his head, tapping ferociously at his temple.

‘Well I do. They lived on the High Street above the butchers at the far end…’ he hobbles through the bar hatch disappearing into their private quarters.

‘What’s up with him?’ I ask.

Annie gives a shrug.

‘Maybe she stole his dinner money and he’s now developed post-traumatic stress from primary school.’

‘No seriously, what’s wrong with him?’ I ask. Mick was becoming grouchy. I was uneasy that it related to my stay.

‘His back’s giving him jib again… reckons the pain is off the scale. Fingers crossed the doctor can organise a scan pretty soon.’

I punch Christine’s number into my phone – suddenly eager to arrange to drink coffee and chat.

*

‘Joel, it feels like that telly programme where missing family members meet up having found each other after years apart,’ I say shakily, as The Moat House hotel looms ahead of us at the end of a wide driveway.

He’d been good enough to drive me into the next town whilst off work. I’d felt cheeky asking but knew he’d be perturbed if I asked Mick to drop me in, having assumed the role of chief investigator for this reopened case, second to me of course.

‘In that case, I’ll leave you here to walk the remainder,’ he laughs, gently patting me on the shoulder.

‘Don’t you dare… I want you to come in.’

‘I will but I’ll sit elsewhere to give you some privacy.’

My eyes trace the outline against the cloudy skyline.

‘It’s got a strange look about it, don’t you think?’ I say, pointing towards the great building.

‘Ey, it has… in the olden days it used to be the local asylum for women.’

‘Seriously?’ I shudder.

‘The Victorians were big on asylums and locking folk up – this place has a huge history.’

‘Stop it, you’re scaring me,’ I squeal, as my imagination suddenly imprints tortured faces at each tiny window.

‘Think positive then… in under ten minutes you might have your answers about your birth mother,’ he said, leading me through the impressive doorway.

‘Oh,’ I exclaim, seeing the interiors modern décor. ‘How different is this from the outside?’

‘See, not so scary after all,’ laughs Joel, leading me by the arm towards the bar. ‘And that… could be your lady?’

He points in the direction of a tiny woman, seated by a roaring fire in a wing backed chair of modern check, a pot of tea on the table beside her. Her bird-like features peer from behind a frizzy fringe of silver grey.

I smile, more in acknowledgement that I have the right person in a busy bar than out of politeness. Her smile lights up her tiny features – this must be Christine.

‘Go settle yourself, while I order you a pot of tea… I’ll be over there if you need me,’ said Joel, pointing to the far end of the bar where a pile of newspapers were stashed.

My stomach gives a jolt as I step towards this stranger. Could she be a blood relative? How could she be in the same year as Annie and Mick – she looks much older.

‘Hi, I’m Flora,’ I say, offering my hand.

Her delicate fingers wrap round mine in a gentle hand shake. I need to relax.

‘Christine.’ Her voice fits her appearance, it is tinny like a small chirp. ‘Please take a seat.’

I glance at the bar to see Joel watching us, my pot of tea is being organised by the staff.

I sit down in my coat, but the bulk of the collar lifts about my ears. Fool. I stand, remove and sit down again.

‘Nice to meet you, Christine, have you been waiting long?’

‘Twenty minutes or so, I wanted to be early… didn’t want to miss you.’

I scrutinise her face as she speaks. Thin painted lips, darkened eyebrows and rouged cheeks sit upon transparent skin. Is there any resemblance?

‘Of course. Anyway…’ the words hang like lead. I want to dive straight in, ask a heap of questions, hear what she knows but that would be rude, surely?

‘Thank you for the letter, it’s nice to know that the article in The Pooley Post has been noticed.’

‘I wrote straight away… I wanted to talk to you as soon as I could.’

Joel approaches, delivering a small tea tray.

‘Thank you,’ I say, grateful for his support.

‘Hi, would you fancy a fresh pot?’ he asks Christine, who shakes her head.

Joel indicates he’ll be just over the way and leaves us.

Begin again.

‘So…’ I want to hear the details, I’m pussy footing about with politeness when I simply want the raw hard facts, the secret revealed, the names, addresses and postcodes.

‘Well…’ her voice lingers as long as my ‘so’ did a few second ago. I wait, hanging on her every word hoping it is soon followed by a torrent of others. It’s not.

‘Christine?’

Her gaze lingers on my face, not quite meeting my eyes but taking in every inch of my face. My heart beat increases. I want to know what she knows. What’s going on?

‘Christine… was there something in particular you wanted to share?’ I sound like I’m begging.

She picks up her tea cup and takes a small sip. Her skin is so frail I can almost watch the sip of tea travel down her throat. Slowly she returns the cup to the table and leans forward.

‘How much do you know?’

‘I know what was printed in the paper last Friday, that’s it.’

She gives a nod, her eyes not leaving my face.

‘So, you don’t know about Simon?’

My heart leaps.

‘Who is Simon?’

She gives a knowing nod and sits back in her chair.

‘Christine… Who is Simon?’ I feel like a child wheedling for information.

‘Simon Hawthorne… is my brother.’

*

‘How did it go?’ calls Annie, as we enter The Peacock.

‘Don’t ask…’ I mutter, removing my coat and settling in the alcove. ‘A total waste of time.’

Joel heads to the bar to collect coffees. I continue to shout across the pub as though it were a private lounge without a smattering of early evening customers lining the bar stools. My business has become their business in recent weeks.

‘Mick was right… Christina Hawthorne from the High Street.’

‘Bloody hell, we’ll never hear the end of it. And?’ laughs Annie, pouring our coffee.

‘You won’t believe what she said.’

I quickly set the scene and retell the conversation.

‘Your brother?’ I’d said to Christine, shocked to hear her news.

‘Yep, my brother Simon returned to Pooley once he’d turned eighteen – got up to some how’s-your-father with a young girl in the village… my Ma never liked her anyhow.’

‘And I was the result?’ I ask, unsettled by my own ability to speak so casually about my beginnings.

I’d watched as Christine’s frizzy head bounces up and down.

‘Like I said, my Ma didn’t like the girl, she made things difficult for them so our Simon knew it would be a no-goer…’

A no-goer? Wow, that was a new one for my list: abandoned, dumped and a no-goer.

‘So, they abandoned me on a doorstep?’

‘Best choice they had… her being underage and all that.’

‘And they told you all these details?’

‘Oh yes, years later… that’s why I’ve come forward after reading the paper.’

‘And my mother’s name?’

‘Sally West.’

‘Sally West.’ I’d repeated the name to see how it sat on my tongue. It felt awkward. ‘And Sally and Simon… are they still around this area?’

Christine shifted in her seat.

‘Well Susan is, our Simon moved away a while back but…’

‘Susan?’

‘I mean Sally. Sally’s still in touch and our Simon visits when he can from up North but…’

‘They’re not together?’

‘Oh, Lord no… Ma wouldn’t have let that happen, as I said she didn’t like the girl.’

‘Are they aware that you’ve arranged to meet me?’ A tingling excitement grew in my stomach.

I’d watched as Christine shifted in her seat, again.

‘Christine, they do know?’

‘See it’s like this… life hasn’t been easy for me…’

It hasn’t been bloody easy for me either, I thought.

‘I’m between jobs at the moment so haven’t got a regular income coming in. The bills have stacked up and my overdraft is… well, it’s huge. I was wondering if there was a reward or anything for information.’

‘What?’ screams Annie. ‘The cheeky cow!’

‘Seriously, straight out, she just asked.’

‘How much did she want?’

‘Three thousand.’

Annie pulls a face, as she finishes the coffees and returns to serving a pint of bitter.

‘Three grand – for a couple of addresses?’ Annie was as stunned as I’d been. ‘You are joking me?’

‘I kid you not, as blatant as the nose on her face. She didn’t even hesitate or stammer, said it straight out as if she was asking me to pass her a teaspoon.’

‘Tell me that’s not so?’ asks Annie, turning to Joel.

‘Sadly, it is… though Flora played a blinder when she’d recovered from the shock and called me over.’

‘Christine didn’t know where to put herself, did she?’ I add. ‘Tried to make out that I was lying when I repeated her request to Joel.’

‘She quickly said how she was joking, how she’d felt so sorry to read the article about Baby Bede and just wanted to help,’ said Joel. ‘When I mentioned I was a police officer she got ready to leave, didn’t she?’

‘Some people have a bloody nerve,’ tutted Annie. ‘Does she actually know Simon and Sally?’

I shrug.

‘I doubt it given that Sally’s name kept changing to Susan every two minutes,’ adds Joel, bringing the coffees over from the bar.

‘Now what? Are you going to report her?’ asks Annie, wiping down the bar top.

‘I’ll mention it at the station, get her details and mobile logged,’ says Joel, settling beside me.

‘I want to follow up on Simon Hawthorne and Sally West,’ I add, quickly slurping my coffee.

‘Don’t trust her, Flora – I bet they don’t exist,’ said Annie, shaking her head. She turned to the line of customers stood near the bar. ‘Do any of you remember a Simon Hawthorne living above the butchers?’

The line of customers shake their heads and pull quizzical faces.

‘See.’

‘How could someone be so heartless?’ I ask, fighting the emotion snagging at my throat. ‘Waste of an afternoon then, wasn’t it?’

‘Any news?’ asks Mick, coming through from the rear living quarters.

‘News! She’s got news. Your little Christina Hawthorne is a crank. She’s tried to swizz Flora out of cash for information – so no more feeling sorry for the little darling, OK?’

‘We get it all the time in investigations – we have people fessing up to all sorts of crimes, sometimes murder, purely for the thrill – they want a slice of the drama,’ explains Joel. ‘Or maybe she’s a bigger piece of the jigsaw, we just don’t realise it yet!’