In Search of Hope (3 page)

Maybe.

Steven could be very determined when he wanted something and, with the Internet, it was much harder to stay hidden these days.

But, if necessary, she would go to the police for help. Or to a women’s refuge.

She glanced at her watch. Steven didn’t get home from work until six, often later, so he wouldn’t know yet that she’d left. She and Ned were perfectly safe for the moment, and that felt so good.

She wished she could be a fly on the wall when Steven realised what had happened. She hadn’t even left a note, just a house in chaos from her hasty packing.

He would hate that.

It was a relief to see the first sign saying ‘Lancashire’. Libby let out a tired sigh. Nearly there now.

Then Ned was sick without warning, and she had to stop at another services to clean him up, not to mention trying to clean up the car.

He began to cry miserably when she put him back into his seat, poor little love.

‘Don’t want to get in! Don’t want to!’

She gave him a hug. ‘Not long now, darling, then we’ll be there.’

But there were bad hold-ups on the M62. She rotated her shoulders, trying to ease the ache as the line of cars stopped and started, moving forward only in frustratingly short bursts. She wasn’t used to driving such long distances and felt exhausted. Only determination was keeping her going now – mixed with a hefty dose of desperation and another couple of painkillers.

When she got to Rochdale, it was almost six o’clock and though the office building was still open, the lawyer’s rooms were closed, the blinds pulled down. She stood in the foyer, fighting tears, wondering what to do. She didn’t have enough money for a hotel room.

In spite of her efforts to remain calm, a sob escaped her.

She turned as someone spoke. ‘Were you trying to see Mr Greaves?’

She nodded, managing only a strangled, ‘Yes.’

‘It must be urgent to upset you like that. Is there anything I can do to help?’

‘My grandmother has died and left me somewhere to live. I need to see Mr Greaves about that.’

‘He’ll be in tomorrow.’

Libby couldn’t prevent tears from rolling down her cheeks. ‘I’ve just left my husband and I don’t even have enough money to pay for a hotel till I’ve seen Mr Greaves.’ She hugged Ned to her as he began to wail in sympathy.

‘Ah. Well, look, I have Henry’s home phone number. I’ll give him a call. Your name is …?’

‘Libby Pulford. And this is Ned. Thank you.’

‘Come and wait upstairs in my office while I phone. You’ll be warmer there.’

There was the murmur of voices in another room, then the woman came back. ‘Henry can’t come and see you, but he thinks he can sort something out on the phone.’ She held out the handset.

Libby took it from her. ‘Hello? I’m afraid I got delayed. I’ve nowhere to stay and … very little money.’

‘Why didn’t you phone me when you got delayed? I’d have made arrangements.’

‘I don’t have a mobile phone. Mine got broken and my husband wouldn’t buy me another.’

Ned insisted on getting down and wandering round the room, so she tried to keep an eye on him as she listened to Mr Greaves.

‘Now, Libby – it’s all right if I call you Libby, isn’t it? It’s how I think of you because that’s how your grandmother always referred to you.’

‘My husband told me she died several years ago.’

‘Far from it. She remained a redoubtable woman until the end. Rose King was one of my favourite clients. Actually, she’s been keeping an eye on what you’ve been doing for the past few years.’

‘She has?’ Libby was startled.

‘Yes. She paid a private investigator to track you down and find out if you were happy. He … um, didn’t think you were. She knew you had a child, too, wished she could meet him. But she decided, regretfully, that getting in touch with you would probably only make matters worse between you and your husband.’

Humiliation seared through Libby. ‘There was nothing to upset. My marriage was a mess. I’d not have stayed with Steven for so long, but it’s hard to leave someone when you don’t have any money, especially when you have a small child.’

‘Yes. Rose guessed that was a problem for you and she understood. Sadly, she was too sick to face any upsets during the last year when the cancer began to spread. She’s left you a letter, though. I’ll give you that tomorrow.’

Someone spoke to him and he tsk-tsked under his breath. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. Any other time I’d have cancelled my evening engagement and taken you out to Top o’ the Hill myself, but I’m presenting some awards, so I can’t miss tonight’s ceremony. I’ll tell you how to get there.’

She smiled. ‘I’ve been to Top o’ the Hill before. I know where it is. Grandma Rose grew up near there and sometimes she took me walking across the moors, showing me the places she’d loved as a child.’

‘The house she grew up in has been knocked down, but she’d inherited money from a friend and was able to buy another property. She loved living up near the moors.’

‘I’m sure I’ll have no trouble finding the house. But what about a key?’

‘The front-door key is on top of the lintel of the coal shed at the back. Do you have enough money to buy food and necessities for tonight and the morning?’

She could feel herself flushing again. ‘I raided the fridge before I left, so Ned and I will be all right tonight as long as we have a roof over our heads.’

‘Come in to see me tomorrow morning, then. I’m free at nine. Is that too early?’

‘No. I’ll look forward to it.’

She thanked the woman for her help and left.

Ned protested again about getting back into the car, throwing a tantrum, and Libby had to spend a few moments coaxing him. ‘We’re nearly there now. Just a little while longer, darling. We’re going to … a friend’s house.’

She lost her way almost immediately because they’d made a lot of changes to the road system in Rochdale since she was a child. But when she stopped to ask for directions, the northern accent of the woman who pointed out the way comforted her. Grandma Rose had talked like that, slowly and with flat vowels.

Libby smiled as she saw the sign, wincing as a movement made her ribs twinge again. Top o’ the Hill was a strange name for a village, but a very accurate description of the position of this modest group of houses.

The road twisted up a cleft in the edge of the moors. It was only single lane for the most part, with occasional wider places where vehicles could pass one another. The village itself sat almost at the top, with a few houses straggling down the upper reaches of the cleft.

She’d wondered whether the village would have been developed into a dormitory for nearby Rochdale and Todmorden, with rows of dwellings thrown up at minimal cost, ready to become the slums of the future. To her relief it still looked much the same: a few older, stone-built weavers’ cottages with huge third-floor windows to give the weavers light. There were a couple of short terraces of smaller houses, as well as bigger ones round a central paved area. There were one or two newer homes lower down the hill, but that was all.

Two smiling older men were walking into the Crown, the only pub, gesticulating as they chatted, and a little girl was skipping along the street, her lips moving as she earnestly counted something.

The little village shop was shutting, the cheerful, well-lit displays in its twin windows brightening the evening scene. Apart from the cars parked everywhere, it was as if Libby had stepped back into her childhood.

Slowing down, she muttered the directions Mr Greaves had given to get to her grandmother’s new house. She had to turn up towards the tiny church.

For a moment her mind went blank as she tried to find the little lane that led up the final stretch of hillside to the church and graveyard. Surely it should be round here somewhere? She slowed down to a crawl, relieved there were no other cars impatient to overtake her.

She nearly passed the turn and braked so suddenly Ned jerked awake and cried out in protest. ‘Sorry, darling.’

‘First and only turn left,’ she muttered. She missed that completely and had to turn round in the little car park outside the church and go back. Ah, there it was!

Other tyre marks in the curving dirt track showed clearly in the damp ground, but from here she couldn’t see the four cottages she was looking for. Then they came into sight a hundred yards down the track. None of them was showing lights, even though the daylight was fading now. There was a car outside one house, though, so someone else lived here.

Stopping the car, she bowed her head over the steering wheel for a moment, so weary she could hardly move. She’d done it! She’d got here.

It was Ned who got her going again, calling anxiously, ‘Wanta wee, Mummy.
Mummy!
Hafta go wee-wee.’

She helped him out and since he was clutching himself and no one seemed to be around, allowed him to wee on to the grass to the side of the car, which he thought great fun.

When he’d finished, she stayed where she was, studying the cottages. They were very similar to Grandma Rose’s original home, with a third storey and with long mullioned windows across the whole frontage. Weavers’ cottages. She liked the idea of living in one.

She shivered. What was she doing standing out here? It was cold for May. Holding Ned’s hand firmly, she walked along the short row of dwellings to the end one on the right: the one she’d be living in.

Please let the key be where Mr Greaves said it was
, she prayed as she walked past the car and peered into ‘her’ cottage window.

This was such a chancy arrangement, but the lawyer had assured her the key would be where he’d left it.

As he was coming out of the bathroom, Joss heard a car turn into the lane, something so unusual he went to look out of the front bedroom window. A battered old Ford came to a stop in the common parking area and the driver switched off the engine.

He was the only one living in the group of cottages now. The others had been empty for several months and the only visitors had been people from the lawyer’s office checking them out regularly. But they wouldn’t be doing that at dusk.

He couldn’t get a proper look at the face of the woman who got out of the car, but she was moving slowly and stiffly as if something hurt.

She reached into the rear seat then stepped back to let a little boy scramble out. Joss smiled as the child made jigging movements that showed an age-old need. After a quick glance round she helped him to pull down his pants and relieve himself.

When she’d set the little boy’s clothing to rights, she took hold of his hand firmly, though he tried to pull away, before walking along the path to Rose’s cottage, next to his. Intrigued, Joss continued to watch her.

She peered through the front window of the cottage, though he doubted whether she’d see much in the half-light of dusk.

He sighed as it occurred to him that if she was looking for Rose, he’d have to go and tell her she was too late by six months. He didn’t enjoy being the bearer of sad news and hated it when women cried.

She vanished round the back of the houses and he wondered what she was doing there. He hurried into the back bedroom, fighting his way quickly into a sweater as he peered out again. She was fumbling on the lintel of the outhouse and as she stepped back her shoulders sagged and she pressed one hand to her mouth.

He hurried down the stairs and opened the front door, waiting for her to come round to this side of the houses again. ‘Hi there. Are you looking for Rose King?’

She had been lost in thought and jerked in shock, looking at him warily.

‘I’m afraid you’re too late. She died six months ago.’

‘Yes. I know that. I just …’

Even in the fading light Joss could see that her face was white with exhaustion. Suddenly she swayed and before he could get close enough to catch her, she’d crumpled to the ground. ‘Damnation!’

The little boy started screaming in terror as Joss bent to pick her up, shouting, ‘Don’t hit her! Don’t hit my mummy!’

He froze, surprised that such a small child would react like that. ‘I’m not going to hit her, lad. I’m going to pick her up. She can’t lie there in the mud.’ He reached out to gather her into his arms just as she started to regain consciousness. The minute he touched her, she began fighting like a wildcat.

In the end he had to yell, ‘Stop it! I was only trying to help you up!’

She let out a muffled sob and sagged against him. At that moment he saw her face clearly for the first time, because her hair had fallen back. There was a huge new bruise on her cheekbone, just below a black eye. He knew the signs only too well. Someone had thumped her – hard.

Drops of moisture spattered his cheeks and he looked up at the dark clouds, which were piling up ominously. Well, the weather people had forecast storms for this evening and, for once, they were right. He couldn’t leave these two out here. ‘Come inside out of the rain. I’ll make you a cup of tea and you can tell me what brought you here.’

She hesitated.

He spoke very gently. ‘I was a friend of Rose’s and I don’t beat women. Or little boys.’

Her pallor was replaced by a flush and she looked ashamed now. It always upset him when victims of domestic abuse looked as if
they
had done something wrong.

It began to rain in earnest and he gestured towards his house again, not daring to touch her. ‘Come inside, or you and the boy will be soaked.’

She followed him inside, staying near the door, looking nervous.

‘I’ve got a fire in the back room. This way.’

Again there was a hesitation but the little boy ran forward, calling out, ‘It’s warm in here, Mummy.’

Joss followed the boy and she hurried after him. ‘Yes, it is warm here,’ he said to the child. ‘Why don’t you sit on that little stool in front of the fire? My nephew uses it when he comes to visit. He’s five.’

‘I’m four. I’m a big boy now.’ He watched Joss move across to the cooker and put the kettle on, then turned his head to make sure his mother was still there.

‘Tea or coffee?’ Joss asked. She was leaning against the door frame as if her bones weren’t strong enough to hold her up. He didn’t try to touch her again. ‘You might as well sit down. Look, if it makes you feel safer, I’m an ex-policeman.’