Random Acts of Unkindness (20 page)

‘Don’t worry about it, Mrs Swain. I’ll hold this in abeyance for six months, because of the circumstances. If you can pay anything, then please do, but if not, come back in six months. In the meantime, I’ll see what I can do. Get you some support.’

‘Support?’

‘Yes. You shouldn’t have to deal with this on your own. I’ll get people involved. People who want to make them pay. I’ll make sure that you find out what happened to your son. What’s he called?’

‘Thomas. Thomas Swain. He was seventeen when he went.’ We both glanced at a photograph of Mr Pearson’s family, three sons flanked by his wife. ‘I’m sure you can imagine what I’m going through?’

This was the first time it happened. That shared knowledge that implored someone to help. Someone recognising, through their own life, how much pain is involved in my life. Mr Pearson wanted to help, and this was something I was unfamiliar with. Until now, I’d had Colin and his mam bickering at my heels, and the police not knowing if they were coming or going.

I’d left the bank a little bit more relieved, more sure that I had six months’ grace. Mr Pearson told me he’d write to me when the time was up, and I was to go and see him again.

I’d walked most of the way home, but turned off at Newmarket Road. There were rows and rows of rhododendrons, and I followed it for about a mile, into my familiar childhood playground. Daisy Nook was a wood, with the River Medlock running through it.

A canal also stretched through, and me and Thomas used to come here and feed the ducks. It was the first time I’d ever seen a swan, and Thomas called it a huge snow duck.

There was no one about in the middle of the afternoon and I lay on the grass near the stream. It was completely silent, and I thought about Colin and Mr Pearson. I knew, really, that these were the least of my problems.

The gossips on the market were a fickle lot, and over the past four years they’d veered from feeling sorry for me to not really knowing what to say. In hindsight now, I could see that they must have known about Lizzie and Colin long before I did.

I’d wager they’d huddled together and made a mutual decision not to tell me. Some of them would have gone away and formed their own opinions about why all this had happened.

My son’s body had not been found, therefore they concluded that he wasn’t murdered. He’d left. The initial reaction of ‘Little Sod!’ was replaced with suspicious looks. The longer time went on, the more barbed their comments became.

‘Smile, Bessy, it might never happen.’

I’d stare at them blankly, the loud voice in my head shouting that it already had. My boy wasn’t safe at school or in bed. That sense of security you take for granted had gone. They’d carry on.

‘Heard anything then?’

A huddle of nosey faces turned toward me, a flurry of headscarves and raised eyebrows.

‘No, nothing.’

‘Funny business then?’

‘Yes.’ But not funny for me, I think. Not funny at all.

‘Wonder what made him go? You know, leave?’

I stared at the cobbled market square, then up at the clock on the market hall. I’d watch the brilliant white net curtains bellowing up from the stalls and imagine they were ship’s sails pushing the days along, pushing the world round; anything to drown out the bitterness. I glanced around, ever vigilant for a glimpse of Thomas.

‘We don’t know he left. The police don’t know what happened.’

I’d leave them to their gossip, and one or two of them would come and sit with me, budge up to me and pat my arm. But most of the time I just ignored them. What did they know?

I lay there in the sunshine, my best shoes on, and my coat still done up. If anyone had gone past they would have thought I was a mad woman, holding my hand out into the bare grass patch to my left, where Thomas used to lie.

I could only hear his laughter, not the water or the birds, just his laughter. I had been a good mother. I’d loved Thomas with all my heart. I’d had a lot of time to sit and think about it, and I came up with this: I knew that whatever had happened between me and Thomas and Colin in our little house, my intentions had been good.

My train of thought always came back to
her
. To eliminate even this tiny strand of what had happened to Thomas,
she
would know. Of all the dangers, chances, wonderings, this was the biggest, the obvious outcome. If I could only ask
her
, see
her
, and ask
her
if
they
had killed Thomas, at least I’d have an answer.

The sun was warm and I’d see the occasional bird fly overhead, I looked at the clouds for a while then I decided to go home. At least I wouldn’t have to make Colin’s tea. I could have some boiled potatoes and carrots I already had in, and I could stop in my nightie if I wanted to.

Colin had never really understood what I felt. I automatically thought that because he was Thomas’s dad, he was the only other person who would know what I felt like. Instead, he’d been with Lizzie and her kids, playing happy family.

Six months went by quick as a flash and nothing changed, except I laid one less place at dinner and tea. I’d started cooking a lot less, mainly because I had very little money, and I’d lost weight. I took in most of my clothes and wondered what would happen next.

Each day was survival, nothing more, a wait for news, visits to the police station. Mr Pearson’s letter never came so I went to the bank. He wasn’t there, but I had my bank book updated and found that there was more money in my account than I expected. I wondered if Colin, who had refused to pay anything, had relented.

The next January I had a knock on the door. I opened it and a large gentleman stood on the doorstep. He’d got out of a big car, and the neighbours were out. I felt my skin pale and my legs go to jelly; was this the news I’d been dreading about Thomas? He strode in and perched on the edge of a dining chair.

‘Right. I’m John Connelly. I own a lot of butchers round here. I have the meat factory down by the canal. I own shops everywhere. Up and down to Lincolnshire.’

I sighed.

‘I don’t understand. You must have the wrong house. I’m Bessy Swain.’

He laughed, then sobered. He looked like a nice man, all cheery.

‘Sorry, serious business this. I’ll cut to the chase. I’m a pal of Harry Pearson and he’s told me about your little predicament. I’ll tell no lie, Bessy, if I may, but I’d like to see those bastards hanged.’ I knew who he was talking about; it was a view expressed by everyone. Hanging had just been abolished while they waited to go to court. ‘I’m going to do everything I can to help those affected. I didn’t get where I am today through having a hard heart. So. Here we are. I’d like to pay your mortgage off.’

I stare at him.

‘Why?’

‘Like I said, I want to help those affected. But you’d have to do something in return. You’d have to be interviewed for a paper, tell them what happened.’

My heart sunk again. As if they’d be interested in me.

‘But I haven’t got a story. They’ve never found Thomas’s body, have they? The police say he could have gone missing.’

John flushed dark red.

‘And they could just have easily have any number of kiddies buried up there. How do we know? We don’t bloody know. And those two bastards are bloody liars, too. Bloody liars, the pair of them. I’m going to see justice. They should have been hanged.’

He pulled out an already damp handkerchief and wiped his face. I put the kettle on and sat back down, pulling my cardy round me.

‘So does the bank want the house back then?’

‘No. I’d buy it for you and give it you as a gift. Course, I’d still own it, but I’d swear a covenant that you can live here until you don’t want to anymore. To help put your mind at rest. Harry told me you waited in every day for the lad to come home. That’s a bloody tragedy, love, because chances are he’s dead. Sorry. I speak the bloody truth. Course, you can understand why the police won’t say this, cos there’s no body. They have to say it. But I’ve spoken to them and they all think there’s more to this than meets the bloody eye. I want you, as a mother of an abducted child, to rest easy at night. We both get something out of it. You get your house and I get some advertising.’

I wasn’t sure, but I nodded.

‘Problem is, it’s half Colin’s. That’s my husband who left. So he’d get half of what’s made on it.’

He laughed loudly and I could see the curtains across the road twitch.

‘I’ve looked into it. You bought the house for £760. It’s worth £2600 now. Your mortgage is for £350 and this’ll go to Harry. So you’ll get £2250 cash, which you’ll split with this Colin. And I’ll give the house to you, to live in rent-free. Just you, not this Colin bloke. He left you for someone else, so I hear.’

‘Mmm.’

‘What a bastard. You know, it’s hard to find someone good and just in this world. Thank God for people like me and you, Bessy. Good-hearted folk with genuine good wishes.’

He seemed like a nice man, and what did I have to lose? I worked out that I’d get the house to live in and some money, as well as some security. I could sleep again.

‘OK. But will I have to sign something?’

He stood.

‘I’ll get Jim to draw something up and you and your husband can sign. Get a divorce, too, I’ll have my solicitor get in touch with you about it. All you have to do in return, love, is to talk to a few people about where you think your son is. You know, on’t moor. Leave it to me, love. We’ll get the bastards yet. They’ll bloody hang if I have anything to do with it. Oh. And stop mithering the police. They’ve got enough to do and I’m sure they’ll let you know if they find anything.’

The door was open now and his voice boomed out. He shook my hand and the neighbours ducked back in.

‘I can see you all, you nosey buggers. Be good to this lady. She’s been through hell.’

By the end of summer it was all underway. The papers had been signed, I had the money, Colin was happy because he had his money, and I just sat and waited every day, waiting for the door to open.

I’d go on the market every day, buying my dinner and tea, the occasional dress, and my Park Drives. The gossips still huddled together and called me a bad mother and wife, but it was water off a duck’s back.

Not only had my son and husband gone, but I had sold my soul. I’d talked to the people from the newspaper and they’d run rings round me, making me say things I didn’t want to, telling them about Thomas saying he hated Colin, the woman who interviewing me sneering when I said I’d never worked, me tying myself in knots about how I was managing to live. John Connelly put them straight, defending me at every corner—he was like my knight in shining armour.

He asked me never to mention our little arrangement, so my mouth was forced shut more than ever. So I decided I wouldn’t say anything. I was empty inside, dead, just like a robot doing the same thing, day in, day out.

That all happened in 1968. After that, one day merged into another, with no real markers as to where weekends were. My mother and father died two years apart in 1978 and 1980. I went to the funerals, but I stood at the back. I felt like they’d let me down, not really cared when Thomas went missing.

That’s what the police were calling it now—going missing. They’d moved on from ‘disappeared’ and ‘kidnapped’ to ‘missing.’ I’d been in touch with my parents, I been to see them several times, but their blank stares were just like everyone else’s when I mentioned it.

It was like a mist came down over their eyes, nodding and blinking, then, as soon as I finished talking, turning the subject to somat else. I couldn’t work out if it was because they felt sorry and didn’t know what to say, or if they were embarrassed.

Then I realised. It wasn’t about them. Until I gave them somat to compare it to their own lives, they just weren’t interested. My parents had never had a son, never loved me the same, couldn’t wait to get me married off, so why would they care? How could they understand?

It was just like Colin, the expression of boredom. We’d all gone through the correct procedures and come up with nothing. Because it was nothing to do with them, they just stopped there. I carried on.

I was still waiting, itching to get away from their graves to be back home, in case he came back. You probably think I’m mad, and it had been donkey’s years. Donkey’s years. It was something Colin would say and we never knew what it meant.

Me and Thomas used to go and look at the donkeys down Keb Lane and, for as long as we could remember, they were the same ones. I’d been there lately and they were still the same. In fact, everything was still the same, except Thomas was gone and I was no longer married to Colin.

Our divorce had come through and he’d married Lizzie three months later. It was a lovely wedding by all accounts, with her daughter as bridesmaid. I saw him after the do, playing football outside with Dennis and Jack. I caught his eyes, just standing there holding my handbag and I thought he looked guilty. Or maybe not.

It wasn’t all bad, for donkey’s years. I’d done a lot of paper interviews, and some for magazines, and John Connelly had raised a lot of money for me at his appeals. He was such a nice man, very polite and respectful.

Every Bonfire Night he’d have a special outing for all the people round here who had missing children, up in front of his factory. It was lovely, with Parkin and treacle toffee. All I had to do was go and be introduced as Thomas’s mother, I was a bit like a sideshow attraction at the fair, a bearded lady or a strong man, the freak with something not quite right, but what choice did I have?

I’d just live on what I needed and put the rest in the bank. By 1985, I’d had quite a bit saved. I passed my driving test and John Connelly gave me what he called a ‘little run-around,’ so I could get to the benefits and appeals.

Oh, and I’d made a friend, a blackbird that had come to sit on my washing line. Over a couple of months, I’d left bread out in the yard. Then I left it on the outside windowsill. Then I left it on the ledge of an open window. One day, after three months, I was putting the bread out and he came to take it out of my hand.