Cath Staincliffe - Crying Out Loud

Pushing her up the road to the centre of Withington, near where we live, I enjoyed the walk. The wind and rain had ebbed away, taking the clouds too and leaving a high blue sky where gulls wheeled and cried. The sun, its light suffused, warm and golden, made the colour of the leaves sing bronze and crimson, copper and nut brown. In the sycamores by the fire station, starlings thronged the branches, yattering at each other. Someone had been cutting back conifers in the graveyard by the church and the crisp scent of pine sap bit the air.

They’d pulled the old cinema down. Cine City. The iconic building, originally called The Scala, had been the third picture house to open in the whole of the country but it had fallen into neglect, failing to compete with the multiplexes and all attempts to save it had floundered. Now there was a gaping hole. Ongoing wrangles between the developer and the city planners had delayed the start of building work. I’d seen some of the designs in the South Manchester Reporter , our local free sheet – apartments above shopping units: glass, wood and steel, like a thousand other buildings in a thousand other towns. It made me want to weep. The White Lion pub, with its distinctive round clock tower, stood alongside the gap at the junction of the main roads and marked the southernmost end of the high street. The pub was boarded up, too. Would that be next?

Along the high street some work had been done to improve the area, creating wider pavements and parking bays, but there was no disguising the fact that Withington was a struggling centre. The stretch of shops was punctuated by empty units bristling with To Let and For Sale signs. The businesses that survived were a mix of discount outlets, low-cost hair and beauty salons, newsagents and the odd gem, like the vegetarian café and the chemist. The health food shop had gone, succumbing after years. It was where I had spent much of my hard-earned cash on tofu and lentils and the like. One sector was thriving: rental agencies. There were tons of them, set up to find accommodation for students and young professionals. Match single people with the plethora of flats and apartments built in the boom years. Would they find takers for the ones that would be built on the old cinema site?

When we reached the far end of the shops, I wheeled the buggy up the ramp into the library. My books were overdue and I’d gathered together two of Maddie’s that had been mislaid.

The assistant took the pile of books and noticed Jamie in the buggy. ‘Congratulations.’ She beamed. I was a regular in the library so she knew me by sight. ‘I’d no idea. How old?’

‘No,’ I rushed to correct her, ‘not mine. A friend’s.’

She laughed, scanned my books on the machine. ‘Sorry. Does it make you broody?’

‘Maybe a bit,’ I admitted, ‘but I don’t know if I could start that all over again.’

‘My eldest is expecting his first,’ she confided. ‘I’m going to be a grandma.’ She gave a little shiver of delight. ‘That’ll be one pound twenty.’

I congratulated her and fished for change.

‘Can’t wait.’ She returned to her theme. ‘And best of all I’ll be able to hand the baby back at the end of the day!’

Her question stuck with me as I walked home. Was I broody? Was having another child a possibility? It hadn’t really been an issue before; Maddie filled all my maternal cravings – and then some. And I’d not been in any relationships that grew serious enough to think about having a baby.

Ray and I were different: still new enough to be unsettling, exciting, consuming, but based on several years of living together, on friendship and looking after our children together.

When I’d first slept with him, I’d no idea where it would lead. Fearful of jeopardizing what we already shared I had tried to resist the attraction that had sprung up between us. He had made a pass, I’d stalled; he’d wooed me, and teased me, sulked, waited, wooed me some more. My best friend Diane finally told me to go ahead and sleep with him and get it over with, scratch the itch. Reckless – more her style than mine. But I did.

Oh, boy.

The weeks had become months, the sky had not fallen. So what was next? Did there have to be a ‘next’? Would he be interested in fatherhood again? He was a great dad. The idea made my stomach flip, like driving over a bump in the road. The idea lodged there then, tickling at the back of my mind. Something daring, almost forbidden. Something to sneak out later and puzzle over.

We passed Christie’s, the big cancer hospital. Always busy with staff and visitors, patients and builders, the latter involved in a seemingly endless programme of expansion. It wasn’t unusual to see people strolling up this bit of the road clad in pyjamas and pushing a drip, soaking up the precious chance of fresh air and a change of scene. And there were always a bunch of people having that fag before going back in through the glass entrance doors.

Jamie woke; she gave a little crow and screwed up her nose. I chatted to her and she watched my lips, scrutinized my face with great solemnity. Where was her mother now? Missing her, surely. Tonight would be the third night apart. My theory about the number of nappies equalling the duration of her absence had bitten the dust. When would she be back? Was she there now, at my place waiting for us, full of gratitude and compelling explanations? What if she never came back? My throat tightened at the thought. What then? How long before I’d have to tell someone about Jamie? See her removed into the care of social services? They’d never let her stay with us. We hadn’t been vetted or approved. Would we even want her to? A foundling without any history; a child with no biological connection to either of us. Could I love her? Love her like I loved Maddie? And Ray, could he? How long? Ray had asked the same question. A week? Three?

As if catching the souring of my mood, Jamie started to fret.

‘Soon home,’ I told her, ‘and then we’ll give you a nice feed.’

Chloe Beswick rang me that evening. She had spoken to her brother and still wanted me to visit him again. Had I thought about it?

‘I only saw him yesterday,’ I objected.

‘I know. But I told him you needed more details and he says he remembered something else. Said he’s been racking brains all night and it came back to him.’

This, I doubted. It sounded like a ruse to get me back inside. Why? To brighten his stay, break up the routine? Chloe’s belief in Damien’s innocence seemed genuine but Damien’s belief in himself… I still hadn’t got the measure of it. Would another visit make things clearer? Hard to tell. Now that I’d spoken to Geoff Sinclair not only did I have more understanding of the forensic evidence but I’d also picked up some tips on advanced interviewing techniques. It would be interesting to try them out.

‘OK,’ I agreed. ‘I’ll ring the prison tomorrow-’

‘I’ve booked you in,’ she said, quick as a flash. ‘Ten o’clock.’

‘Really?’ I was disconcerted. Suddenly Chloe was arranging my work diary?

‘It can be a right pain getting appointments,’ she said unapologetically. ‘Thought I’d save you the hassle. If ten’s no good-’

‘It’s fine,’ I said, though I still felt railroaded.

‘I’ve warned him – whatever you want to know, he tells you. And if you tell him to shut up he does that an’ all – no messing, innit.’

‘Chloe, can I ask you something?’

‘Free country.’

‘Why couldn’t he have been more cooperative yesterday if he’s serious about making an appeal?’

She sighed. ‘It’s how he is: brain like a frog, all over the place. The drugs don’t help.’

‘He’s on medication?’