11 | The Plot Thickens

The letter shouldn't have come as such a shock, and yet it was. Margaret told herself that they should have seen the writing on the wall long before its arrival. But wasn't it human nature to shut one's eyes from the truth—right until it hit you in the face?

For several days Margaret reeled under the impact, hoping that her mother would pick up the phone and get in touch. But the phone never rang.

Outwardly nothing much changed. Margaret and her father went back to the routine they had established the first time Maria Hale had been away for some weeks in spring. Mr Hale still went to college every day—although his daughter wouldn't know how he managed to hold classes, considering that, at home, he was like a man in a daze—, and Margaret still worked at The Shelter.

But on the inside she was not her usual self. It was the keen sense of rejection that made her feel off-balance; it left her short-tempered and at times lacking judgment—as at one notable occasion when she got into a spat with Liz at The Shelter.

"That cough of yours sounds awful, you know. Why don't you go and see a doctor?" Margaret said rather more edgily than she meant to. But she was both annoyed and worried by Liz's constant hacking coughing.

"I don't need a doctor," Liz sullenly replied. "Don' 'ave one, either."

"Why didn't you say so before? Let me give you Dr Donaldson's address; he holds a special surgery for..."

"For th' likes o' me, ya mean, don'cha?" Liz snidely interrupted. "Thanks very mucho!—an' in case yo didn't listen: I don' need a doctor!"

"I think you do... This cough sounds bad—"

"Oh, leave it alone, Ma'gret, will ya! It's none o' yor business." Liz's voice held a distinctive warning. At any other time Margaret would have backed off, knowing full well that one might try and coax Liz into complying but never achieved anything by insisting upon it.

"If you're not concerned for yourself, you might at least think about Megs. I know she worries about you."

"Now, tha's a low blow! Don'cha dare use Megs agains' me!"

Margaret scoffed impatiently. "For heaven's sake! Can you just for once stop taking offence when someone means well? Stop being an idiot."

"Sod off, Ma'gret 'Ale! I'm not yor bloody charity project—an' nor is Megs," Liz spat and, brusquely gesturing at her sister to come along, she stomped out of the room.

Thanks to their argument Margaret had never even had a chance to mention to either of the girls that her mother had left, however much she would have liked to talk with someone who would understand and wouldn't judge her family situation. After all, both of them knew what it meant to be abandoned by their mother—if, in their case, through alcoholism rather than sheer physical absence.

But in the event Margaret learnt something new about her friend: When Liz held a grudge she didn't do it by halves. Both girls remained absent from the aid project. That they didn't come by for a few days was unusual though not without precedent, but this was the longest they had ever been away. Getting worried Margaret started to ask about them whenever she recognised one of their mates, however casual an acquaintance. Eventually it transpired that they had decamped to Manchester for the time being; apparently, that's where they came from in the first place.


However, any worries over Liz and Megs's absence were overshadowed by Maria Hale's continued neglect to call her daughter. After an entire weekend spent staring at the phone on the kitchen wall, Margaret finally contacted her aunt Anne in London on Sunday night.

"Do you know where Mum is? Have you heard from her yet?" Margaret asked the moment her aunt answered the phone. This was not the time for niceties.

"Oh, Margaret... Haven't you heard back from her?"

"Not a word—other than a letter from her lawyer. Where is she?"

"Winchester—"

"Winchester?—whatever for?" Margaret was bewildered. "We don't know anyone there, do we?... Do you have an address, or a phone number?"

"Nothing at all. Maria called me two days ago; she said she was between addresses and would get in touch again. She also said she might need a loan from me... I asked her what was going on, and she told me that she's filing for divorce."

"Yes. Dad got the letter last week... Do you have any idea where she might be staying? She wouldn't be able to afford a hotel, would she?—not for long, anyway." A sudden suspicion dawned. "Aunt Anne, is Mum with somebody new?"

The line was quiet for a long moment, then her aunt's reluctant voice said, "She didn't say... but I got the impression—that she might be."

"Oh—" Margaret said in a small, stunned voice.

"Don't tell your dad yet! He would be devastated."

"You mean more devastated than when Mum walked out on him without a word?" Margaret said with biting sarcasm.

"I'm so sorry, love," Anne Shaw said gently, ignoring the sting in her niece's words. "I'm absolutely furious with her! More so now that I know that she didn't get in touch with you—her own daughter!"

"I suppose, Mum has not been herself in quite a while." All of a sudden Margaret felt so, so weary of it all. "Not since Fred, come to think of it... and Milton was probably just the final straw."

"Well—"

"What is it, Aunt Anne?"

"Let me say as much... There's a good reason why your mother and I have never been close, not even as children."

"What do you mean?"

"Lately I've become more and more convinced that Maria is troubled—"

"Stop speaking in riddles, please!" Margaret exclaimed, now truly alarmed.

Anne Shaw hesitated for another moment before blurting out, "I'm talking about those narcissistic tendencies of hers. I've privately spoken with a couple of psychologists—there are plenty of them here in Harley Street, after all—and they've confirmed that there is every indication..."

"You mean Mum's mentally ill?"

"I mean, Maria's always been self-centred and somewhat lacking in empathy; and I think it got more destructive in the last couple of years... So, I wouldn't set my hopes too high if I were you, dear."

On top of it all Margaret caught a head cold.

In the middle of summer.

She called in sick at The Shelter, pleading a bad headache and a sore throat. So much for the old adage that it never rains but it pours, she thought miserably as she trudged from her bedroom to the kitchen and back again with a cup of hot Lemsip and a cool damp cloth for her throbbing head. She spent two days in bed, damp cloth across her brow, staring at the ceiling.

Margaret briefly thought about dropping in at the Higginses' place for some sympathy and creature comforts. They knew her mother was away, and Margaret suspected that they suspected more behind Mrs Hale's absence than just another vacation. But apart from not wanting to pass on her cold to anyone else, she also didn't wish to bother them needlessly at this time, knowing that Nicholas was in the thick of strike procedures.

For all she knew the strike was going rough; and eventually it seemed to dawn even on the unions that they could not win. The jobs were gone for good. The only thing left for the strikers was to bargain hard for a major outpouring of compensation payments. The employers' side, unsurprisingly, claimed that they could not afford this; and they flatly denied to enter into negotiations. Meanwhile, the warring parties were well into their fifth week of turn-outs, with no end in sight. Milton was still at the focus of Lancashire strike activities, and unionists were picketing in front of the printing site gates of both The Northumbrian Post and The Voice. Nerves were on edge; throughout town the atmosphere was ripe with barely suppressed aggression.


On Friday morning—Mr Hale had already left for college—the door bell rang. Margaret didn't expect a visitor because no-one presumed her to be at home. Ordinarily, she would be at The Shelter that morning for the first time after her sick leave. It was her week of early shifts, but the night before another volunteer had called her and asked to swap.

It was Megs outside the Hales' front door.

"Oh! You're back," Margaret exclaimed. "Isn't Liz with you?" Then she realised that something was wrong. Megs looked distraught and, for once, quite grubby.

"I was lookin' for you, Marg'ret! You were not at The Shelter... You must 'elp! Liz 'as gone missin'." This was easily the most Megs had ever uttered in Margaret's presence.

"I'm sorry, Megs! I was ill... You better come in and tell me what happened—" Margaret grabbed the girl's hand because Megs looked as if she might bolt. Only reluctantly she allowed herself to be led to the kitchen and pressed to sit.

"Do you have any idea where she might be?—and if she's all right?" Margaret asked. Megs just shook her head. "I'll make you some instant soup—you look as if you could do with something hot—and then we'll decide what to do next." Three minutes later, soup bowl and spoon set in front of the young runaway, Margaret started to question her.

"Why are you so worried? Liz told me that you hang out with different crowds from time to time—"

"We do... I'm often with the graffiti sprayers at nights, but we're nevah apart more'n two days in a row. It's four days now! It's that new gang she's 'anging out with... they're smokin' dope—bad stuff—I know they do, and I tried to get Liz away from 'em. She's just laughin'—but she don't want me to come along with 'em... Somethin' 'appened to 'er, I know," she ended miserably.

"How can you tell? Maybe she just failed to meet up with you... Isn't that quite possible, with your being all over town looking for her?"

"No, she would 'ave been back yesterday—Somethin' 'appened."

"What was so special about yesterday?"

"It's me birthday... I'm eighteen. They can't put me back in care now."

The impact of that information left Margaret stunned for a moment. Megs was right, of course. Liz would have been with her sister on her birthday, if humanly possible.

"Megs—" Margaret took the girl's hand. "—I'm afraid it's time to go to the police."

Four hours later Margaret and Megs were at Milton Infirmary. A police constable accompanied them as they followed a member of hospital staff along a lower basement corridor to the morgue.

At the police station an early suspicion had arisen that a girl, found alone in a shed near the old canal at Ashley two days previously, delirious and with a high fever, and dying in hospital the night before, might be Mary Higgins's missing sister Elizabeth. Formal identification was the problem, however. The dead girl didn't have any papers on her, and therefore needed to be identified by a close relative. But Megs, who qualified as such, didn't have any means of identification either. In the end her former Manchester social worker came over by car and brought Megs's file. The social worker was a somewhat harassed-looking young woman, but compassionate enough, even though Mary Higgins was not in her charge any longer. She offered to take Megs and her friend to the morgue and to stay with the girl for the day, or until something was settled.

Both Margaret and the social worker were allowed to stay with Megs during the identification.

Seeing the inert form on the morgue slab left no room for doubt. It was Liz.

"What happened to her?" Margaret heard the social worker softly ask the pathologist in the background. Her voice seemed to come from a long way away.

"Sepsis, triggered by pneumonia," the man answered in a hushed voice. "By the time she was found it was too late—"

Megs didn't hear; she looked closely at her dead sister's vacant face—so utterly different from her expressive features in life—and gave a very formal identification, then she turned to Margaret and broke down completely, sobbing hysterically and flailing about her. With some difficulty Margaret and the social worker got her out of the room and to a nearby waiting area. A hastily called-for doctor injected a sedative. Eventually, Megs quieted down and passively leant against Margaret's shoulder.

"What will happen with her now?" the social worker asked. "Where does she live?"

"Nowhere, really," Margaret replied. "She's been living rough ever since she last ran away from a foster home."

"Well, I can find her shelter for a couple of days, but it won't be ideal. Also, the place is in Manchester."

"No, that wouldn't do," Margaret said. "I could try to contact social services via the aid project I'm working for; but I don't think they can offer anything better than a temporary place, either." What a mess! Poor Liz... poor Megs Higgins... Higgins. "I've got an idea," she suddenly blurted. "I think I know about a place! But I need to talk with people first. Can you stay here with Mary while I go and find them?"

"I'll wait till you come back... though I wouldn't mind if this was reasonably soon—it's a bit of a drive back to Manchester. But what if they're not willing to take her in?" the woman asked.

"In that case she'll come home with me. Even though it's not ideal; as it is, we're going through a bit of a domestic crisis ourselves—"

Margaret left Milton Infirmary in search of a phone box to call Janet at their home. Unfortunately, nobody picked up, so Margaret rushed off on foot to find her at her place of work. But she wasn't at the post office, either. Apparently, this was her day off—

This left only Nicholas himself. By this time he would be at the latest union rally, taking place right in front of the printing works of The Northumbrian Post. Cursing the fact that her bike was still at home, Margaret hurried on. She took a shortcut across the old Hillhead Cemetery, situated atop of one of the many elevations in and around Milton. By the time she arrived at the printing plant she had a stitch in her side. She came to a panting halt and viewed the concourse in front of her.

A substantial crowd had gathered in front of the closed main gate, raising cardboard signs and shouting slogans. Right in front of the high fence that surrounded the site was an impromptu speaker's podium, at this moment occupied by a union spokesman, who was bellowing indistinct demands at the masses by means of a megaphone.

Margaret scanned the crowd for Nicholas. Of only average height the man didn't stand out. Whom she did recognise, with something of a shock, was John Thornton, standing with a besuited group of what appeared to be members of the employers' association, involved in a heated argument with some union functionaries.

"You cannot be serious, John," Margaret muttered under her breath while she pressed towards the group of representatives of the conflicting parties. She thought that there might be a good chance of finding Nicholas amongst them.

It was a frightening experience, squeezing through the press of people; most of them men, most of them considerably taller than Margaret, and all of them patently angry. Perhaps it was the presence of the employers that roused the pent-up aggression of the crowd—the closer she got to the assembly of representatives, the more the crowd pressed in. It was a veritable boiling throng. Finally she managed to wedge through the front line. She was stopped by a crowd control barrier. Still no sign of Nicholas.

"John!" she yelled. "Hey there, John!—Over here!" She frantically waved an arm.

His head jerked up and he scanned the crowd for her, then he strode towards her with a black look on his face, pushing people out of his way. "Margaret! What the hell are you doing here?"

"How about yourself?" Margaret demanded. "Do you think this here is a good idea?"

Instead of a reply he motioned the steward to let her through the barrier. The moment she was through, he grabbed her arm and pulled her away towards a less crowded spot next to the fence.

"Do you know Nicholas Higgins?" she asked. "Have you seen him?"

"Can't say that I have... And why should I care? His absence is the least of my problems at present."

"What are you doing here, anyway?"

"I represent this company; I've got every right to be here," he ground out.

Margaret shook her arm free from his grasp. She had been upset before, but now she was seething. Bloody grandstanding idiot! "Tell me, what kind of idiot scheme is this?—trying to calm the outraged masses, are you? Oh well, this goes down a treat with them, obviously!"

She flung out a hand, pointing at the wall of outraged faces behind the barrier.

"We offered to discuss the situation, their demands—whatever!—right here. Openly! But will they listen? No way!"

"Will you just look at them! They're done with talking... This is dangerous for you—you should leave—"

"Stay out of this Margaret! This is none of your business."

"Very well... I've got no time for this, anyway! I must find Nicholas." She turned, looking for an exit.

"Now?—in the middle of that turmoil? What the..." He broke off when he saw the look of alarm on Margaret's face. But before he could react, she snatched his sleeve and dragged him to the side with a desperate tug. Losing his balance, John stumbled away, just as something shattered against the fence next to them, spraying splashes of some liquid in their direction.

Margaret cried out in pain and staggered back against him. John caught her in his arms. Next to them a scrub went up in flames.

John dragged her further away, yelling, "Margaret! Are you okay? Talk to me... Margaret!"

"It... hurts."

Around them bystanders scattered in panic, screaming.

At a safe distance he stopped and held her at arm's length. She was shaking; her teeth clattered.

"Margaret! Look at me! Where does it hurt?"

With difficulty she raised her eyes at him. "My... my a-arm."

He rapidly scanned her body for damage. She stood bent over, cradling her left arm. Sure enough, there were large blotchy marks on her naked forearm. Other than that he couldn't make out anything.

"Stay with me," he said with enforced calm. "Let's get you out of here." He hoisted her into his arms, careful of the injury.

He heard her stifle a whimper; it was enough to make him grit his teeth.

At that moment two policemen came running towards them, one of them dragging along a fire extinguisher.

"Are you hurt?" one of them called out.

"The girl is! Get an ambulance. Now!"

"They're on their way. As is reinforcement... Let's get her over to the side. Is she in shock?"

Margaret unsteadily raised a hand. "No, I'm fine... I think—"

"Your arm is not! Are you hurting anywhere else?... Margaret?"

"No." She squirmed in his arms. "Let me down, please."

They had reached the parked police car; a concrete bollard sat right next to it. John lowered Margaret onto it. "The ambulance will be here any moment—"

"Mr Thornton," someone called out behind him.

He turned, still keeping a protective arm around Margaret.

At that moment, a blazing flashlight blinded him; blinding them both. Beside him Margaret winced. John stared blankly towards its source, and could just make out the photographer, before another flash followed.

"Very nice, sir," the photographer smirked and hastily retreated.

Sirens could be heard in the distance, rapidly coming nearer. "That was fast," the policeman said, oozing relief. All around them people were on the move, rapidly dispersing.

Ten minutes later they sat in the back of a parked ambulance. John held Margaret in his arms, with her head leaning groggily against his shoulder, while a paramedic covered her injuries with a sterile bandage.

"Will she be all right?" John anxiously asked.

The paramedic handed Margaret some painkillers and a cup of water. "There's no imminent danger; luckily the affected patch of skin is not very large... But this needs to be properly examined and cleaned at the hospital. You were lucky that whatever this was, they threw at you, didn't explode!.. However, this burn may leave a bit of a mark, I'm afraid. It won't build up much scar tissue, I'd think—but it may remain visible."

"God, Margaret... I'm so sorry, my love" John murmured into her hair.

"John... I can't breathe—"

"What?"

"—you're holding me too tight."

"Oh."

"Well, that's it," the paramedic said, handing over a neon-coloured blanket. "We're taking her with us to hospital... soon as we've attended to a few other minor casualties. It won't take long—"

"All right. I'll stay with her," John replied, carefully wrapping Margaret.

"John, I need to find Nicholas Higgins. It's urgent. He's the reason I came here... Can you find him for me? Please," Margaret said, looking up at him, her eyes huge in her anxious face.

"I won't leave you alone right now—"

He sounded strange. He looked strange, too, Margaret realised. His eyes look haunted, she thought in a oddly detached way.

Suddenly John's head jerked up and his eyes focussed on something. "Actually, there he is!" He pointed at the union man who came rushing towards them.

"Margaret, what's the matter with you? 'Ow are you?"

"None too good, thanks to you and your ilk," Thornton sharply retorted.

"Bloody 'ell, Margaret! Were you 'urt in that fire over there?" He pointed out the place by the fence, where a group of policemen and fire fighters were inspecting the debris.

Again it was John who cut in. "That was a freaking petrol bomb, you moron!"

Nicholas looked at them, aghast. "That's... that's 'orrible!"

"No, Higgins! That's criminal!" Thornton rose from his seat and made a threatening step towards the elder man. "I'll bloody well make..."

"Stop it, John!" Margaret grabbed his wrist with her good hand, restraining him. "I'm fine, Nicholas. Truly," she reassured her friend. "But, Nicholas... I need your help!"

"Sure! Anything—"

"Can you get away from here and go to Milton Infirmary? Ask at the information desk where to find Elizabeth Higgins's sister, Megs—Mary. She's the sister of a homeless girl who died in hospital yesterday. I'll be along, as soon as I can."

"What's all this about?" Nicholas asked, bewildered. Thornton looked equally taken aback.

"The sister—Mary—she's eighteen; she needs somewhere to stay, just for a few days... maybe until the funeral? Do you think this would be okay with Janet? She's a nice girl. Shy. She's got the same surname as you—that's why I thought of you before anyone else," Margaret hastily explained.

Nicholas nodded. "Okay. I'll..."

"Mr Thornton?" A policeman joined them, a different one than before. "I'm Sergeant Mason. Criminal Investigation... The officers on duty told me that this was an arson attack on you. I have to record your statements—"

"Ask away," John said brusquely.

"Separately," Mason clarified. "I shall call on Miss Hale later, at the hospital. Will you come with me now, sir?"

"No." When the policeman gave him an incredulous look, he declared, "I'll stay with Miss Hale until she gets taken to A&E."

"I'll stay with 'er," Nicholas said. "You go ahead, Thornton. Press your charges—" For a moment both men stared at each other, their expressions inscrutable, until John slowly rose to follow the sergeant.