Stone Cold Red Hot - страница 9

“Were there arguments?”

“Not between Frank and Barbara I don’t think, but sometimes I’d hear Jennifer shouting at her mother – teenage tantrums I suppose. And Frank would lay the law down every so often. I’d hear him shouting sometimes. He was very old-fashioned, all king and country. To be honest I think having Jennifer was probably completely bewildering for him.”

“So you think it was Jennifer who made the break?”

“From what I was told. And it didn’t sound as though they had done anything about finding her, I suppose they thought she was old enough to look after herself. And Frank was very ill, you know, that wasn’t long after.”

“What was it?”

I drained my cup and continued to make notes.

“Angina. He stopped doing the garden. That used to be his pride and joy. We’d have a word over the fence. He struggled so hard during that summer with it, we couldn’t use hosepipes, you know, everything was so dry but Frank was determined to make it work. Then suddenly he had to leave it all. I could see everything going to seed. Heartbreaking really. He got very low, depression. I never heard that from them, you understand, but word gets out. I don’t think he ever really got better. It can take people like that can’t it, sudden illness, they have to give up work and they never really find their way again.” She glanced out of the window and snorted. “Look at that daft dog,” there was nothing but affection in her voice, “excuse me a minute.”

She went out and into the garden where I watched her remove the hosepipe from the dogs’ mouths thus curtailing their tug of war. I took the chance to glance back at the list of questions I’d come with. When she returned I began again.

“There’s just a few more points.”

“Fine, it’s a break from work,” she tilted her head towards the front of the house, “there’s a pile of stuff waiting in there for me to finish. I’ve got a big fair in Mobberley at the weekend. I’ll show you before you go.”

“Yes. You were able to remember some of Jennifer’s friends – Lisa and Frances and Caroline.”

“Fluke, really, though I am good with names. I know Frances Delaney and her family from church – St Winifred’s. And it so happens that I used to give all four of the girls a lift up to the Bounty, it’s closed now but back then it had banqueting suites and they were waitresses. I was doing table decorations there for a while but I had to let it go. It didn’t really pay enough and it meant me missing some of the craft fairs. Anyway, the girls would come here and I’d give them a lift up on the Saturday morning, they’d share a taxi back or get a bus into town and another one out again.”

“Were you aware of any boyfriends at the time?”

“No, well nothing serious. Of course there was endless speculating and giggling but I was never privy to any secrets. I was just the next door neighbour with a car. Now I don’t know if Frances still hears from Jennifer, have you got her number?”

I shook my head.

“Right,” she stood up and crossed to the table by the sofa, picked up the phone. “She’s not far away,” she said as she pressed the buttons, “she’s in Burnage. Lovely girl, four kiddies. Mary?” she spoke into the phone, “its Norma Clerkenwell…I’m fine…you? Listen, I’ve someone with me who wants to get in touch with Jennifer Pickering, from next door to me, does your Frances ever hear from her now? No. She’s not said anything. Well, apparently they haven’t, not in all this time. I’d Roger here the other day and he says they’ve no address or anything. It is a shame, it is…yes, especially with Barbara so poorly. Look, can you give me Frances’ number and this lady might want to ask her a few questions – trying to trace Jennifer, you see. Great.” She wrote the number down on a pad by the phone. “Thank you Mary, bye for now…and you, bye bye.”

She tore off the paper and gave me it. “Mary says Frances has never mentioned Jennifer. That’s her number. She’s still Frances Delaney, married a boy with the same name.”

On the way out she opened the door to the front room to show me her wares. She’d put a large work table in the centre of the room and it was scattered with clumps of fabric, jam jars full of paint, trays with beads and coloured glass nuggets, small mirrors and assorted picture frames. Tools and brushes were stuck into a collection of vases in the centre. There was a smell of glue and varnish.