Cath Staincliffe - Stone Cold Red Hot

I rang the bell and heard it sound inside the house, moments later Lisa MacNeice answered the door. “Sal Kilkenny?”

“Yes,” I handed her my card which she actually looked at before pocketing it and inviting me in.

I could smell onions and the tang of herbs. There were rooms off to either side of the hallway but we passed these and went to the back where a kitchen cum dining room ran the width of the house.

“Do you mind?” she gestured to the plate on the table, “I was just finishing off.”

“No, carry on.” Tagliatelli and pesto by the look of it, tomato and red onion salad. My mouth watered even though I’d had a decent meal already. I pulled out a chair, shrugged off my jacket and sat down. She ate while I admired the decor.

The room was bright, stylish and spacious. Blue kitchen units with that distressed paint finish ran along one wall and on the adjoining side next to the door stood a beautiful pine dresser resplendent with a collection of hens and chickens in all shapes and sizes. The rear wall was mainly French windows with sheer curtains. In the dining area there were shelving and storage units in wood and glass, holding books and objects of interest, many of these were blue or orange. A side table sported a large vase of lilies, I caught their perfume now that I’d got use to the smell of food, and a six foot Yucca stood sentinel in the corner.

“You collect chickens?” I remarked.

“I never meant to,” she swallowed, “one of those things, I had a couple and then all of a sudden rumour flies round that I adore hens and that’s all I get; birthdays, Christmas, the lot. ‘Ooh, there’s a tea caddy with hens on, ooh look, Lisa would love that chicken letter opener.’

I laughed.

“Hard to shake once you get that sort of reputation. You wouldn’t believe some of the ghastly specimens I’ve ended up with – these are the cream of the crop.” She rolled her eyes. She had very pale blue eyes, almost turquoise. She was small and neat, dark hair cut in an elfin shape to frame her face. When she smiled she had matching dimples in her cheeks. She wore deep blue chinos and a brushed cotton shirt in a blue and white check. I think she liked blue. Silver earrings and necklace, no rings. Divorced then?

She stood and cleared her plate and offered me a drink. I asked for a coffee and also if I could use her toilet.

“End of the hall, on your right.”

Other people’s bathrooms. Fascinating. Lisa’s had the feel of a beach hut, without the sand on the floor. Blue, pink and white striped shower curtain, white painted floorboards, shells and marine artifacts dotted about. An old wooden trunk to sit on. I peered on the shelves but there were no male toiletries, no Gillette foam or Lynx deodorant. I guessed that Lisa lived alone.

Over coffee I asked Lisa to tell me about the last time she saw Jennifer.

“It was that summer, ‘76. I got these out after you rang.” She fetched a photograph album from the shelves. I moved my chair round so we could look at the pictures together. She flicked through the first few pages and I caught glimpses of family scenes, babies and toddlers on rugs, school photos.

“Here,” she said, “this was my 16th birthday. The photo showed four young women, arms linked across shoulders, standing outside. They all had long hair and wore high boots, long coats and scarves, plenty of glittery make up. The glam rock look.

“That’s Frances,” she pointed to the one with blonde hair, “Frances Delaney, she didn’t go to school with us but she lived near Jennifer, house at the back of theirs. Jenny,” looking sleek and dark haired, “me, I was a right pudding then.” Her hair was thick and curly and it was true she was a plump teenager. The fourth girl, Caroline, had glasses and long red hair.

“Christmas that year,” she turned the page. More photos followed, all pretty similar, the girls posing for one celebration or another. Lisa and Jennifer pulling faces in one shot, the four of them posing with arms flung skywards in another. Clothes varying but hair always long, faces made up. There was a photo of them in waitress uniforms, the long tresses pulled back into ponytails and buns. “That’s at the Bounty, we worked there weekends, silver service, it was good money really. And we’d usually enough energy to go out and spend some of it afterwards.”

“I met Mrs Clerkenwell, she remembers giving you lifts up there.”

“Oh, yes,” I could hear note of recollection in her voice, “nearly quarter of a century,” she shook her head.

“Were you and Jennifer close?”

She looked at me, considering. “Inseparable,” she said at last, a tone to it though, a faint challenge? I couldn’t read it.

“We were best friends. It was strange that summer. We were both off to university, so excited but there was this,” she fumbled for a word, “sense of something coming to an end, I suppose. That sounds dramatic but we’d been so wrapped up in each other’s lives I couldn’t imagine how I’d feel without Jenny. Oh, we’d promised to write and visit each other for weekends, I think we even talked about trying to get jobs in the same place once we’d graduated, and sharing a flat,” she smiled and her dimples re-appeared, “never any thought that we might lose touch.”

“Anyway we were both working that summer, Jenny had got more hours at the Bounty and I was working in Kendal’s in town.” She turned the page. “When we got time off we went to Knebworth – brilliant, Lynnyrd Skynnyrd, 10cc, the Stones,” she pointed to a picture of the two girls beside a small, drooping tent, their hair was plaited and they had hearts and stars painted on their cheeks. “Just look at us, and those trousers, flapping around like bedsheets, came back in fashion last year, skinny rib sweaters. God, when I think of what we got up to, we’d no fear,” she shook her head. “That’s when we saw Bob Marley. That was incredible – just after the Handsworth riots and everyone was saying Moss Side would be next, police everywhere – but it was fine.”

She looked across at me. “She couldn’t wait to leave home. Her parents,” she paused, swung her aquamarine gaze away from me, considered a while, “looking back I just don’t think they’d a clue about how to raise a family. There was no love or affection. They weren’t cruel or anything- there was just this absence of any warmth. Jennifer and Roger were their duty, that’s all. Of course they were very strict as well, religious and set in their ways. They hated the way Jenny dressed and all the make-up, they didn’t like her going off to concerts and parties. They couldn’t see she was just having fun, doing normal teenage things. I know at that age we all think our parents are the pits and I had a good few runins with mine but Jenny’s were in a different league really. Her mother was so distant, quiet. Maybe she was depressed. And her father was all stiff upper lip stuff, really formal. Very sad, really. I’m amazed Jenny was as sane as she was. You say Roger’s still at home?”

“Yes.”

She shuddered. “Poor bloke.” She closed the book. “It was brilliant that summer and then,” she flicked her eyes at me as if weighing something up, she decided to tell, “Jenny got pregnant.”

“That summer?” Not once she’d gone to Keele. “Who was the father?”

She sighed impatiently, the memories irritating even at this distance. “Maxwell, he was the sous-chef at the Bounty. She didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t part of the plan. We were so young. God, it was a nightmare. She was so confused. One minute she was talking about abortion – she reckoned she could use part of her grant to pay for it, or we’d scrape the money together and she’d pay us back once she got her grant through. Then she’d go all weepy and talk about the baby and deferring a year.” She tutted with exasperation.