Hilary Bonner: When the Dead Cry Out

It was her own fault that she was in such a hurry. She had no idea why she had lingered so long in the cloakroom gossiping, nor why she had detoured to look at the sea after that. The truth, of course, was that she wasn’t particularly keen on returning home at all. But her head was still at the stage of adolescence where she merely accepted her home life for what it was and she had yet to begin to work out the psychology of her own behaviour. At that moment she just wished she wasn’t so late. She didn’t want another row with her mother.

She quickened her pace as she rounded the final corner of her journey, the trot developing into a full-out run, the school bag which hung from her right shoulder flying out now behind her and banging against her backside as she ran. Her mouth was set in a determined line. She hammered her feet on to the paving stones, pushing her body forward, all her energy focused into the urgency of the moment. She wasn’t looking where she was going at all.

And so it was that she found herself enfolded in the arms of a rather large policeman into whose ample body she had cannoned at full speed.

“Whoa, not so fast,” he said, pushing her gently away. She stood for a moment panting, the remaining breath knocked from her body by the force of the impact with the policeman. As her breath and her wits returned she became aware that the street where she lived looked rather different from usual.

It was lined with a varied assortment of police vehicles. Parkview, the small private hotel next to the big semi-detached Victorian villa where Karen lived with her parents, was cordoned off with yellow tape as was a considerable stretch of the pavement outside and part of the road itself. Men in overalls appeared to be digging up the garden. Just outside the cordoned-off area a young man in a vivid green suit with flared trousers was standing alongside another young man who held a camera which was pointed at Parkview. As Karen tried to take it all in two more men came through the front door of the hotel carrying transparent plastic bags containing what appeared to be bundles of clothes. A hand-drawn sign just behind the policeman Karen had collided with read “Crime Scene. Keep Out.”

Karen realized then that the policeman must be on some kind of sentry duty. Another uniformed officer stood at the far side of the cordoned-off area, within which, she suddenly became aware, lay the entrance and driveway to her home.

Pulling away from the policeman she started to tremble with anxiety. What had happened? Parkview seemed to be at the centre of the activity. And the thought of what that could mean made Karen all the more anxious. Was her mother all right? Karen was just a kid, still at school, but she already knew that it was her place to worry about her mother considerably more than the other way round.

Margaret Meadows was a charismatic, pretty woman with a mercurial mind and, on a good day, a natural facility to lift the moment with her zest for life and her easy laughter. She was also prone to bouts of depression which were both deep and debilitating. But Karen and her father referred only to her mother being bad with her nerves, and no one outside her immediate family knew about this at all as far as Karen was aware — because people like the Meadowses didn’t talk about such things.

Karen loved her mother deeply, absolutely adored her, as did almost everyone who came in contact with Margaret Meadows. There was something quite captivating about her. Maybe it was partly her vulnerability which made her so irresistible. Certainly she was the most emotional of women, which in her case meant not only that she gave more love than most people have in them to give, but also that the emotional demands she made on her only child at such a young age were quite mind-blowing.

Most of the time Karen coped. She had had plenty of practice already. But sometimes she was overwhelmed by the various grown-up pressures which engulfed her. And when she was afraid or overly excited she invariably found it impossible to speak. It wasn’t a stammer. She didn’t stammer. It was more than that. The words just would not come. Karen understood all too well the true meaning of the expression to be struck dumb, and it terrified her. As she grew older she was to incorporate into her veritable armoury of defence mechanisms a strategy for overcoming what had been a real handicap in her youth, and for remaining calm and in control while she did so, or at least appearing to be calm. At thirteen that was not the case.

And so Karen was rendered speechless by the scene which confronted her that day, and by its possible implications. The question she wanted to ask was too big to be put into words. Her face turned red with the effort. The only noise she could manage to get out from between her lips was a kind of strangled moan.

“What is it, girl?” asked the policeman kindly, bending over her and putting a hand on her left shoulder. “Don’t upset yourself.”

Karen just looked at him. Eyes wide.

“That’s not where you live, is it?” he enquired, looking slightly puzzled and gesturing at Parkview.

Karen managed to shake her head. She pointed to the villa next door.

“Ah,” said the policeman. “Well, you shouldn’t have anything to worry about then. Are you going to tell me your name?”

At that instant Karen couldn’t tell him her name. She wasn’t even sure she could remember it, let alone say it. She had to know though, she had to ask the question she dreaded. Eventually she somehow managed to get the words out.

“Mum. M-my mum. Is she all right?”

“Well, I expect so, darling, but you’re going to have to tell me your name or at least her name before I can be sure, aren’t you?”

“M-Margaret Meadows.” Karen spat out the words, using all the willpower she could summon up.

“Ah, Mrs. Meadows. Yes, of course. Laurel House. The trouble’s next door to you, girl. Your mother’s fine. Just fine. A bit upset by all the commotion, but then who wouldn’t be?”

“Can I go in?”

“Yes, ’course you can. Just walk along with me, all right.”

The policeman lifted a line of taping behind him so that he and Karen could duck underneath. Karen, by nature a very observant girl, was beginning to function at least halfway properly again. She noticed that several of her neighbours were watching the proceedings, most of them covertly. Mrs. Stephens on the corner was outside cleaning her windows, but her head was all the time turned towards Parkview. Mr. Johnson, the retired schoolmaster who lived opposite, was washing his car very slowly, a job that his wife normally did. Karen looked up and down the street. The curtains twitched at the Beverleys, but upstairs at Hillden House the bedroom windows were wide open and old Mr. Peabody was leaning right out staring openly at all that was going on.

A grunting noise behind Karen attracted her attention back to the policeman accompanying her, who, having also straightened up on the inner side of the tape barrier, was standing with one arm behind him pressed gingerly into the small of his back.

“ Anno Domini ,” he muttered. “Don’t ever grow old, darling. That’s my advice to you.”

Karen was interested in neither the policeman’s back trouble nor his age, which in any case seemed to her to be so great that it was quite beyond her comprehension. She peered anxiously up at him as they walked together towards the gateway to Laurel House.

“What’s going on?” she asked eventually, in what she knew was rather a squeaky voice. “What’s happened at Parkview?”

“Nothing to worry about. We’re just making some enquiries, that’s all.”

“But you’re digging up the garden?”

“I think I prefer you when you can’t get your words out, missy.”