Who Wants to Live Forever? (13 page)
Read Who Wants to Live Forever? Online
Authors: Steve Wilson
Week 6 — Vickerstown — Plummeting
Time seemed to slow down as I waited for the course to resume, and I was reminded again of how lonely I had been barely a month earlier. I hadn’t realised how much I missed seeing Trish and Debbie until I was on my own on the half-term Tuesday evening. I even found myself missing Gail and Emma, if only to witness their burgeoning dislike of each other. As well as wanting to see my friends again, I was impatient to find out what Louise had lined up for us next, as I tried to work out just where the course was taking us. That was the low point. I spent many hours on the phone to Julie during that first week.
After that, things began to improve, and it wasn’t just because I knew in less than a week I’d see them all again. I took stock of myself, and didn’t like what I saw. For years now — long before the divorce — I had been a passenger in life’s car, letting it dictate the where, when, how and why. I resolved that it was time for change. From now on, I would become the driver, and take control. It might lead me into some dead ends, but at least I could then try an alternative route. It was appropriate timing, too; as the clocks changed, so did I.
Outwardly, nothing appeared different, but a new Ethan Hudson approached the college for the resumption of the course as November began. There was a surprise awaiting me when I took my seat at the table. “We’re down to just three now,” said Louise. “Gail rang to say she wouldn’t be able to come in any more as her husband has had to stay in Chicago longer than was expected, and — naturally — she’s staying out there to accompany him. The next day, Emma contacted me to say that she’s dropping out too, though she didn’t give me a reason. Somebody at the college must have given her my home address; it was most disconcerting when she turned up on my doorstep. Anyway, that’s done with now, so if you just bear with me a moment — I’ve left this week’s handouts in the car. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
“I won’t miss Emma at all,” said Trish. “She was better without Mike, but I still didn’t warm to her. And as for Gail — well, I suppose you can do what she does when you’ve no commitments, can’t you?” before adding, in an aside for my ears alone, “Funny, though, that I saw her husband working in the store again on Thursday last week. They do take this industrial espionage seriously, don’t they?”
I nodded slowly. Gail’s story had never completely rung true, and I suspected she knew she was on the verge of being outed, so it was really no surprise that she’d chosen to leave the group. I wondered about Emma’s reasons for leaving. Had her involvement with Gail’s husband — if I was correct in my assumptions — played a part in the decisions of both women? It made no difference to me, though, for, even though I disagreed with Trish’s sentiments — I still liked them both and felt they could have been an asset to the group — following our after-class drinks of recent weeks, I now considered the three of us to be a close-knit trio. Where this would all lead to, though, was another question.
It appeared that we were all on the same wavelength, as Debbie said, “There was something about Emma that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Whatever it was, I didn’t like her. Gail was better, but she still wasn’t really one of us. I see us as the three Musketeers, with Louise as our D’Artagnan.”
“I hadn’t thought of us like that,” said Trish, “but I do think three’s company, more’s a crowd, so to speak. I did see Gail once, you know, when I was driving through Lytham after completing my lunchtime sandwich deliveries. And she
wasn’t
in one of the more exclusive parts of the town; anything but, in fact. I’m not a snob, far from it. I will associate with anybody, whatever their upbringing. But I can’t abide liars.”
Louise returned before I could add anything to the discussion, but it left me with plenty to think about. “So,” she began, “we’re a small but select group. All along, I’ve felt that you three were the most attuned to my thinking. Let’s see what the four of us can achieve from the remainder of the programme.”
“What murder is on the agenda tonight?” I asked. “It wouldn’t by any chance be from 1955, would it?”
“Yes, it would, Ethan, but, before you start patting yourself on the back, things won’t always be as straightforward as you seem to think they are. For instance, the murder I want to investigate tonight took place on a
Thursday
, not a Friday. It was Thursday, November tenth 1955, and the victim was Thomas Brent, a worker in the Barrow shipyards. From the official reports, it appears that Brent fell from a first-floor window onto concrete, and died while he was being comforted by passers-by.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound like a murder,” said Debbie, “unless you’re implying he was pushed.”
“No, it doesn’t, does it? But there are some strange aspects about this case. To begin with, it was only a first-floor window. Brent was a physically fit man in most respects, and a fall of that nature would have injured him, perhaps broken a bone or two, but to kill him? I don’t think so. So I believe some other hand was involved.”
“Why don’t you start from the beginning, then we can hear all the facts?” suggested Trish.
“Yes, a good idea,” agreed Louise. “Brent lived at Vickerstown on the Isle of Walney, which is separated by the Walney Channel from Barrow, a journey of less than two miles across the Jubilee Bridge. And yes, we are once again moving outside the traditional county boundary, this time into Cumbria, but back in the 1950s Barrow was still part of Lancashire.
“Brent worked in the joiners’ shop in the Barrow shipyards, which was an extremely noisy environment. Consequently, even though he was relatively young, he was almost totally deaf, and had suffered from tinnitus as a result of his deafness for many years. Nowadays, people recognise that this was due to the working conditions and the absence of ear protectors, but back then health and safety took a back seat.
“Now, to his death. According to the witnesses, he fell from the window at about nine p.m., although it isn’t apparent if anybody actually saw him fall. What is clear is that he was lying on the hard ground and an Australian woman, Odea Shearer, was cradling his head. Harold Proctor, another who came to his aid, said he saw a wisp, or puff, of smoke come out of Brent’s mouth moments before he died, but the other three who were there — Violet Warren, Martha Sinclair and Albert Stilwell — were unable to corroborate this.
“The ambulance arrived shortly after this, but Brent was already dead. It was in the investigations afterwards that checks on the house led to the conclusion that he had been knocked out of the window of the tiny box room when he opened it to let in some fresh air. The reasoning went that somebody else was in the house, opened the door, and inadvertently knocked him out of the window. He wasn’t wearing his hearing aid, so he never heard them, and it was just an unfortunate accident.”
“But you don’t think so, of course,” I said.
“No, I don’t. Of course.”
“Why not?” asked Trish.
“First of all, as I said, the fall should not have been enough to kill him. Secondly, why would he open the window wide on a cold November evening? Thirdly, if somebody accidentally knocked him out of the window, why didn’t they come forward and explain what had happened? The police had already concluded that it was an accident, so there would have been little or no consequence for the individual concerned. But most importantly of all, what happened to Brent’s hearing aid? He wasn’t wearing it when he was found, and it wasn’t in the house. Everybody who knew him swore he was never without it, as it was the only way he could keep the tinnitus at a bearable level.”
“Do other people think this way?” I asked, slowly.
“What do you mean, Ethan?”
“Has anybody else investigated this case?”
“Not to my knowledge, no.”
“So what put you onto it, then?”
“Because I was looking for it, that’s why — don’t ask, all should become clear eventually.”
“So is that all there is for this one?” asked Debbie. Having heard her sad tale at our last meeting, I sympathised with her distaste for the macabre.
“No, not quite,” answered Louise. “There’s the mystery woman again.”
“Which one?” I asked, checking my notes. “Odea Shearer, Violet Warren or Martha Sinclair?”
“There was no mystery about Violet or Martha. They were born and bred Barrovians. It’s Odea who is the enigma. She came over to England from Australia a few months earlier, bucking the general trend — in the fifties and sixties, you could migrate to Australia for as little as ten pounds, as the country tried to increase its population. There were still huge fears of a Japanese invasion, a legacy from the Second World War, and they figured that the only way to ensure it didn’t happen was to increase the population. British immigrants became known as the ten poundpoms.
“So for Odea to go in the opposite direction was strange to begin with. And then, after the death of Brent, she is supposed to have returned to Brisbane. Although, once again, I was unable to find any record of her in either hemisphere.”
“So you reckon she is like Eve Rhodes, Maeve O’Hara and the others?” I asked.
“I think there is a link, certainly. Otherwise, why would I have mentioned her?”
“But did anybody else see the link?” asked Debbie.
“Not that I’m aware, no. I don’t think they did. But that might—”
“So why are you right when everybody else is wrong?” interrupted Debbie. “Surely you have to accept that perhaps you could be mistaken. I’m not suggesting that you are in all of the cases, but you do appear to have made a
very
tenuous connection.”
The discussion continued in a similar vein until it was time for our coffee break. As we sipped our steaming paper cups of hot liquid Debbie continued to present her case. “It’s as if Louise is finding conspiracy theories in
everything
she looks at. Any death at all, and she construes it as murder, and then tries to link it to other totally unrelated killings. I wonder if the whole experience hasn’t sent her over the edge a little.”
“Perhaps it has,” answered Trish, “but, you have to admit, it’s led to some very interesting conversations.”
“Yes, it might be interesting, but if what she’s telling us is all wrong, what’s the point?”
“I don’t think she
is
wrong,” I started to reply, but just then Louise came over, and the conversation switched to a more specific discussion of the Brent case before we returned to the class.
We spent a large part of the remainder of the evening discussing — and almost reminiscing in some cases, as I knew people who had made the journey — the emigration to both Australia and New Zealand during the 1950s and 1960s.
***
Once again, hardly had the course concluded than Debbie, Trish and I headed for the nearest watering hole. As the evening wore on, though, I felt as if I were the ribbon on a tug-of-war rope. Debbie and Trish almost seemed to take it in turns to try and pull me over to their side. It was all very subtly done, and I could easily have been imagining it, but, given the tension that had crept into the evening a fortnight earlier, I was sure I was correct.
I wanted to spend time with both of them, but not like this. Given my new-found resolve, I determined to do something about it rather than let things just drift along as I would normally have done.
I was about to make my suggestion when Trish asked if we should invite Louise to join us after the next week’s session. Debbie readily agreed, as did I, and I wondered whether the women were also feeling a little uncomfortable with the way things were, now it was just the three of us.
“Just before we go,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “I was just thinking. We seem to get on very well together, don’t we? I don’t know about you two, but I really missed our get-together last Tuesday. So much so, I wondered if perhaps we could meet up another night as well, for a relaxing chat?”
“That would be nice,” said Trish, “but it would have to be Friday night, as I’m busy preparing my sandwiches for businesses throughout the week, and I’m nearly always involved in catering for events on Sundays.”
“And I’m afraid I can only make Saturday,” said Debbie, “as Sunday is my only day off from the bakery and I try not to go out at night when there’s work the next morning. Tuesday’s excepted, of course.”
I knew this, of course, as they had briefly mentioned their lack of availability at an earlier after-class session. “Well as I have no job and therefore no life, I can make any night,” I joked. “I can do both Friday and Saturday if it helps.”
Debbie and Trish looked at each other, and there seemed to be a forced smile on Trish’s face as she said, “Yes, let’s make a
date
for Friday night, then.”
Nobody could have failed to notice the emphasis that she put on the word
date
, but Debbie didn’t react other than to say she would love to see me on Saturday night.
We made arrangements for where to meet, and as I walked home I thought some more about what I had just engineered. My intentions had been to avoid any squabbling, but now I had to face the fact that we were about to go out on dates. Trish, at least, had made it clear that she saw it that way. I enjoyed the company of both Trish and Debbie, probably in equal measures, but I had never been in a complete one-on-one situation with either of them before. I hoped that I hadn’t actually inflamed the rivalry with my suggestion.
***
On the Friday evening, I set off for my meeting with Trish. We had decided to be fairly low-key, and arranged to meet in a local town-centre bar — a different one, though, from the pub we frequented on a Tuesday night after class. She was waiting outside, wearing a heavy coat over comfortable jeans, when I drove my ten-year-old Golf onto the car park. It made me feel as if I was going for a drink with a pal rather than taking a woman on a date; and, when I thought about it, I realised that she had probably only called it a date to get a reaction out of Debbie. As far as she was concerned, a friendly drink was probably all it was.
