Midwinter of the Spirit

what you’re into. Wicca… theosophy… Gurdjieff…?’

‘I’ll tell you the truth,’ Lol said. ‘It involves a friend of mine. She thought her daughter might be involved in something possibly linked to Pod’s, and she’d like to know a bit about it. It’s a peace-of-mind thing.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Jane. Jane Watkins.’

‘Don’t know her.’ Viv went to sit behind the till. ‘All right, I went there a few times, but it got a bit intense, yeah?’

‘What was it into?’

‘Self-discovery, developing an inner life, meditation, astralprojection, occult-lite – you know?’

‘You manage to leave your body, Viv?’

‘No such luck, darling. The best teacher they had just dropped out, then they got very responsible. A bit elitist – no riff-raff, no dopeheads. Like an esoteric ladies’ club, you know? That was when I kicked it into touch. Life’s too short.’

‘For what?’

‘For taking seriously. Plus, it was inconvenient. They started meeting in an afternoon on account of the kind of women they were attracting didn’t want their oh-so-respectable husbands to find out. Anyway, it was all a bit snooty and bit too sombre.’

Lol wondered how sombre was too sombre for a Nico-fan.

‘This is a very intense, intellectual kid, Lol?’

‘Not how I’d describe her. Well… not how I would have described her.’

‘They change so fast, kids,’ Viv said.

The only call Merrily returned was Susan Thorpe’s. A careattendant answered: Mrs Thorpe had left early for Hereford Market. Merrily said quickly, before she could let herself back out, ‘Could you tell her the arrangement still stands.’

She felt really unsure about this, but she very much wanted to speak to Susan Thorpe’s mother – wanted every bit of background she could get on Thomas Dobbs.

And it was only an imprint: a redirection of energies. She could handle that – couldn’t she? – if she protected herself.

‘That’s fine,’ the woman said. ‘Thank you, Mrs Watkins.’

‘OK.’

She lit a cigarette and pulled over the phone book. This was something she should have done days ago.

Napier. Surprisingly, there were three in Credenhill. Would it say Major Napier? Colonel Napier? She didn’t even know Rowenna’s father’s rank. A serving officer in the SAS would, anyway, be unlikely to advertise his situation. Might even be ex-directory. She called the first Napier – no reply. At the second, a woman answered, and Merrily asked if this was where Rowenna lived.

The woman laughed, with no humour. ‘This is where she sleeps’ – London accent? – ‘sometimes.’

There was the sound of a morning TV talk-show in the background, a studio audience programmed to gasp and hoot.

‘Is that Mrs Napier?’

‘No, it’s Mrs Straker.’

‘Would it be possible to speak to Mrs Napier?’

‘I wouldn’t know, dear. Depends if you can afford long-distance.’

Merrily said nothing.

‘I’m Rowenna’s aunt,’ Mrs Straker continued heavily, like she’d had to explain this a thousand times too many. ‘I look after the kids for Steve. He’s my younger brother. He and Helen split up about four years ago. She’s in Canada now. If you want to speak to Steve, you’ll have to call back tonight.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know any of this. My name’s Merrily Watkins. From Ledwardine. My daughter, Jane… she seems to be Rowenna’s best friend, at school.’

No reaction. This wasn’t what she’d expected. She wanted a warm, concerned parent, delighted to hear from little Jane’s mother.

‘I don’t know any Jane,’ Mrs Straker said. ‘See, Mrs…’

‘Watkins. Merrily.’

‘Yeah. See, since her dad bought her that car we never know where she is. I wouldn’t have got it her, personally. I don’t think she should have a car till she’s at college or got a job, but Steve’s soft with her, and now she goes where she likes. And she don’t bring her girl friends back here. Or the men either.’

Merrily sat down, her picture of Rowenna and her family background undergoing radical revision.

‘Sometimes,’ Mrs Straker was saying, ‘I think I should be bothering more than I do, but when she was here all the time it was nothing but rows and sulks, and this is a very small house for the five of us. Where we were before, down in Salisbury, things was difficult, but it was a bigger place at least, you know what I mean?’

‘I suppose your brother has to go away a lot.’ In the SAS, Merrily had heard, you could never rely on not having to be in Bosnia or somewhere at a day’s notice.

‘No,’ said Mrs Straker.

‘He is a… an Army officer, isn’t he, your brother?’

Mrs Straker laughed. ‘That’s what she told you, is it?’

‘Not exactly,’ Merrily said. It was Jane who’d told her.

‘Steve’s a corporal. He works in admin.’

‘I see.’

‘That’s not good enough for Rowenna, obviously. She lives in what I would call a fantasy world. Steve can’t see it, or he don’t want to. I dunno what your daughter’s like, Mrs Watson.’

‘Impressionable.’ Merrily’s stomach felt like lead. ‘She’s been out a lot lately, at night, and she doesn’t always say where. I’m getting worried – which is why I rang.’

‘You want to watch her,’ Mrs Straker said. ‘Keep an eye on her, that’s my advice.’

‘Why would you… advise that?’

Mrs Straker made a pregnant humming noise. There was a lot she could say, would enjoy relating, but she apparently wanted more encouragement.

Merrily said, ‘It’s a bit difficult for me to keep an eye on Jane all the time, being a single mum, you know? Having to work.’

‘Divorced?’

‘Widow.’

‘Yes, I’m a widow too,’ Mrs Straker said. ‘It’s not easy, is it? Never thought I’d end up looking after somebody else’s kids, even if they are my own brother’s. But I can’t watch that girl as well – I told Steve that. Not now she’s got a car. What do you do?’

‘Yes, I can see the problem.’

‘No, what do you do? What’s your job?’

The front doorbell rang.

‘I’m, er… I’m a minister in the Church. A vicar.’

The line went quiet.

‘Oh dear,’ Mrs Straker said, ‘that’s not what I expected at all. That’s very funny that is.’

The doorbell rang again, twice, followed by a rapping of the knocker.

‘Why is that so funny?’

‘That’s your front door, dear,’ Mrs Straker said. ‘You’d best go and get it. Ring me back, if you like.’

‘Why is that so funny, Mrs Straker?’

‘It’s not funny at all, Mrs Watson. You won’t find it funny, I’ll guarantee that.’

33 Wrong Number, Dear