Cath Staincliffe: Towers of Silence

The college was behind the large multiplex cinema, bowling alley and bingo hall and opposite Tescos. The place had been rebuilt as part of a private finance initiative. The city council sold off the prime site land in return for a new, state of the art school and sixth form centre. The Millennium school they called it. Adam’s transfer from Burnage Boys would have been before the rebuild. These days he wouldn’t get a look in. It was way oversubscribed and there’d been ructions about who would get to go there. A lot of the other city high schools had poor reputations or they were single sex schools which some parents didn’t want (myself included.) It was still 5 years before Maddie would move up and I hoped by then there’d be a real choice of where to send her.

I made sure that Adam actually entered the college building and then retraced my walk to the car. I reckoned I’d done three miles there and back. I could notch it up as good exercise but I can’t deny that I was disappointed that Adam Reeve hadn’t done a bunk with me hot on his heels.

Back at the office I logged my time and turned my attention back to Miriam Johnstone. I was calling round to see Martina and Roland at four thirty. In the meantime there were plenty of names on my list to talk to. I settled down with coffee and the phone. I got through to Reverend Day at Miriam’s church on the first attempt. We went through the preliminaries then I talked to him about the mystery man who I wanted to trace. When he’d heard me out his response was lukewarm. “I don’t recognise the description, it’s very vague. I don’t see how we can help, it’s hardly the sort of thing that we’d read out at the ten o’ clock service with the notices.”

“Perhaps you have a newsletter?” I suggested, “a bulletin that I could place a small advert in?”

“Saying?”

I thought on my feet. “That Miriam Johnstone’s family wished to find out more about their mother’s final day and would welcome any information from the congregation.”

“I thought you wanted to identify this man?” he grumbled.

“Well, yes. I might need to add something about that but I’d like to hear from anyone else too.”

“What makes you think any of our members have something to tell you?”

I was beginning to feel like a schoolgirl whose essay was not adequately reasoned. “I don’t think that but I’m trying every avenue.” I’d only know later which were dead ends.

“The bulletin for December is already out and we don’t do another until late January.”

He wasn’t going to help. Was he like this with everyone? No matter what he thought of me he should have been bending over backwards to support Connie and her family. “That’s a real shame,” I said crisply. “I’m sure you know how devastated the family have been and this is their way of trying to accept what has happened.” I was hoping to shame him into action but all I got was a grunt. He was a waste of space. “Did Miriam belong to any church groups?”

“The sewing group,” he said. “Mrs Thomas runs it.”

“Oh yes, I have her details. Thank you.” I made it sound like an insult.

Hopefully Mrs Thomas would be a little more accommodating than Reverend Day.

“She was an angel,” Mrs Thomas proclaimed. “Truly, an angel.”

Murmurs of agreement rose from the women around. As they spoke about Miriam the older ones slipped in and out of a patois that I couldn’t follow but the overall sentiment was positive. Miriam had been well-liked by her peers.

“It mek me very sad,” one said, “that she all alone. She can’t call on we to ease her pain.”

“The family find it very hard,” I said.

We were seated around two long trestle tables pushed together. There were half-a-dozen women each working on their own sewing projects. Three sewing machines sat along the far side of the table and a cornucopia of scraps, silks and ribbons littered the centre. I could see from the red, green and gold colours and the holly and fir tree patterns that Christmas gifts were amongst the creations.

“The last time anyone saw Miriam was when she left the Craft Club at the Whitworth Centre.”

“Melody, you went there,” one of the older women, who’d been introduced to me as Mrs Michaels, addressed a younger one.

Melody looked guilty. “I don’t go any more,” she said to me hurriedly.

“She likes the sewing better, don’t you, Melody?”

Melody nodded. She had a graceful face, large almond shaped eyes, her skin the colour of milky coffee. Her hair was cut close to her head, like a neat black cap. She trembled constantly giving the impression of frailty and ill health. I didn’t want to add to her problems but I did ask her if Miriam had said anything about her plans for that afternoon.

Melody shook her head, eyes lowered.

I asked the rest of them if anyone had seen Miriam.

Nobody had.

“I have found out that someone from the church called to see her, around lunchtime. An grey haired gentleman, middle-aged or elderly. I’d like to find out who it was. Can you think of anyone who fits that description?”

“Albert Fanu,” ventured Mrs Thompson.

“And Mrs Beatty,” said one of the women, “her husband has grey hair.”

“It’s white,” Mrs Thompson said.

“Grey.”

“Mr Beatty,” I said. Writing it down to forestall argument.

“Who else? Grey hair.” said Mrs Thompson.

“There’s a lot more ladies in the congregation,” Mrs Michaels said.

“Nicholas Bell.”

“And Trudeau.”

“Trudeau – has he still got some hair? He having it stitched on?” Mrs Michaels said disdainfully.

“Extensions!” someone hooted.

The place erupted in laughter. The joke was so hilarious that Mrs Thompson had to wipe her eyes and one of her friends slapped at the table.

I smiled inanely and waited for the paroxysms to subside.

With the group’s help I listed the men and their addresses or in one case a description of the house as no one could remember the house number.

“Were any of them friends of Miriam, likely to visit?”

Shrugs all round.

At the doorway Mrs Thompson leant close and put her hand on my arm. “Have you thought that maybe this gentleman caller was a secret?”

“Yes and I will be very discreet.”

She nodded solemnly and patted my arm.

As far as the Johnstones knew, Miriam hadn’t been involved with anyone but maybe she just hadn’t told them. Until I had more information I had to keep an open mind on all counts. The man who’d called for Miriam and missed her could simply have been a friend. If he was her lover and he’d kept the relationship quiet even in the wake of her death the burden must have been horrendous.

Hopefully he was among the four names on my list and would soon be able to tell me himself what the state of affairs had been.

After a quick swim at the baths in Withington I called home for lunch; chunks of courgette, fried with olive oil and garlic, topped with grated cheddar and accompanied by a chunk of home-made bread. Not mine. Sheila, who rented the attic flat, loved to bake. Since she’d joined the household we were regularly treated to the smell of cakes and bread rising from the shared kitchen. I couldn’t get enough of the Greek olive bread she did and added the ingredients to my shopping list so we’d always have them in the next time Sheila got the urge.

We’d be without her for Christmas; she was travelling in connection with the geology degree course she was doing and going on to visit her student son up at St Andrew’s in Scotland. I’d never had the inclination to bake. Or the time. But Susan Reeve managed, didn’t she? Even with four children and her husband away half the week. Her twins liked it, she’d said. Maybe I’d have summoned up some interest if Maddie had been keen when she was younger. But there’s never been any inkling of it until Sheila moved in and now it had become their particular thing. Fine by me. Meant I could go and play in the garden.