Stone Cold Red Hot - [5]

I wondered whether she had ever heard from Jennifer; letters that she tucked away or tore up? Would she have shown them to her husband? If he was so strict perhaps she’d kept them from him. She had called Jennifer a disgrace. I tried to imagine feeling that way about Maddie. Not wanting to speak her name, ignoring her existence. I could picture myself being hurt or angry at things she might do but I couldn’t envisage a situation where I’d turn my back on her. No matter what she’d done.

It could have worked the other way; and been Jennifer who had severed the tie. Hurt by their lack of support she may have decided to cut them off. Deny them the chance to relent or make amends. Had she been pregnant? If that had been the case wouldn’t the Pickerings have wanted to see their only grandchild, once they’d got used to the idea? Or would their church regard the baby as unwelcome evidence of sinful behaviour? A burden of shame not a bundle of joy. Were they that harsh? By the seventies public attitudes to illegitimacy had relaxed a lot, but the church and its members may well have opposed such changes and clung doggedly to maintaining their own high standards in the face of moral decline and corruption.

I had a rush of memory. I had announced my pregnancy at the tax office where I was working. I was happy about it even though the pregnancy was unplanned. I joked about the struggle ahead being a single parent (oh, how little did I know) and accepted people’s congratulations.

One young woman, a fundamental Christian, cornered me later. “Sal, have you really thought about what you’re doing?”

I was too shocked at her audacity to stop her before she launched into a speech about children needing fathers, and how there were places that could support someone in my position until I had the baby. When she got to the part about how many couples desperately wanted a baby and couldn’t have one, I turned on my heels and walked away. I was shaking and horrified to find myself so upset. I blamed it on my hormones. I was also angry that I hadn’t challenged her opinions on the spot and my mind went round and round working out succinct arguments and powerful statements that I should have flung back at her.

In the intervening years there had been occasional echoes of that disapproval from people I’d met and now and again the tabloid press or the government of the day would start demonising single-parents for reasons best known to themselves. How much worse might it have been for Jennifer two decades earlier?

Had she had the baby? Had she kept it? So many possibilities. I could feel my curiosity intensifying. I smiled to myself as I wiped down the sink. Some cases draw you in: others, I do well, competently, professionally but they don’t reach out in the same way. Already I was intrigued by Jennifer Pickering. I wanted to know her story. If I could unravel it there would be personal satisfaction along with the sense of a job well done. I couldn’t wait to hear from Roger Pickering. I was hooked.

He came with a printed list of names, addresses, phone numbers and notes. His initial awkwardness evaporated as we began working through the list. Two of the people were neighbours; Mrs Clerkenwell, who still lived in the adjoining semi, “she always had dogs, we used to walk them”, and Mr and Mrs Shuttle who had lived at the other side and had moved away, to Bradford. He didn’t have a forwarding address for them.

“I’ve not had a chance to check if they are still in Bradford,” he said, “I don’t know if they’ll be able to tell you very much but they knew her as well as any of the other neighbours.”

There were three friends listed, “Lisa Monroe, she lived at the old vicarage on the corner and her parents are still there. They gave me this number for her in Chester. She’s Lisa MacNeice now. The other two, Caroline Cunningham and Frances Delaney, the Monroes told me their names. Frances Delaney they think she’s still in Manchester but they don’t know where Caroline is now, Lisa might.”

“Do you remember them?”

“Vaguely, more as a gang than individually. Like I said they didn’t come round to our house very often. But I think I was at school with one of Caroline’s brothers, there was a Mick Cunningham in my year.”

Roger had added the number of Jennifer’s old school. Had the girls been at school together?

“Not Frances, she went to the Catholic school – St Anne’s.”

He’d brought a photograph of Jennifer as well. All dressed up to go out by the look of it; purple maxi skirt, black skinny rib sweater. She had long brown hair, parted in the centre, it gave her a sleek look. She was smiling. I studied her face; it was quite delicate, thin nose, small mouth, her eyes seemed large but that could have been the effect of the dark make-up. I tried to imagine how she would look now she’d aged twenty odd years. Difficult. So much would depend on how she dressed, how she wore her hair, if she wore glasses, jewellery, make-up.

Roger cleared his throat, “Could you get this copied? There aren’t many decent photos of her.” He shrugged, a little embarrassed, “well, this is the only one I’ve got.”