Walking on Air Page 11

  And, she reminded herself, there were so many things to look forward to: two more grandchildren imminent, and that new contract Stan had picked up at the market for free-range eggs and goat’s cheese meant that she’d have three extra mornings with her stall, and Billie was at last doing something with her life . . . Or was she?

  Faith sighed. Even the background cheerfulness of Radio Two couldn’t lift the gloom today. It was Billie that bothered her. If she was honest, she’d worried herself sick over Billie on and off for the last two years. It had been lovely having her back for the wedding party, and ever since she’d gone, Faith had missed her very much. Strange, really. She adored Ann, Katy and Maria, and was pretty sure they adored her back. She’d always prided herself on being the ideal mother-in-law – friendly, available, but not intrusive. But wonderful as her daughters-in-law were, the relationship simply wasn’t the same as it was with Billie.

  She and Billie had been real chums, if that wasn’t too Angela Brazil for words! They’d shared jokes and confidences for as long as she could remember. There had never been any secrets. Billie, she was well-aware, tended to protect Faith from things that she considered to be far too risqué for her mother’s ears, and Faith had decided never to enlighten her. She rather liked the fact that Billie thought she was still shockable.

  She’d been an old-fashioned stay-at-home mother, but, she hoped, not a clingy one, probably because she’d never had to be. The boys were all entrenched in the land and she’d never had the slightest doubts that they’d stay living locally simply because they wanted to. She’d always assumed Billie would do the same.

  It had been such a jolt when Billie had left the Devon Argus and moved away to London so suddenly. There had been all manner of speculation at the time. The gossip had been rife in the village, putting it down to fingers in the till or an unsuitable liaison with a married man or an unwanted pregnancy or all three.

  Faith had been loud in her condemnation of the rumour-mongers, knowing that if there had been a baby involved Billie would have had no qualms about telling her family, being a single mother, rearing the child happily with its multitude of cousins. Of course there was absolutely no question of any dishonesty. Billie had often said that the only freebies she could lift from the paper were cheap ballpoints or the occasional notepad. And Billie, she knew, would have had far more sense and scruples than to become involved with a man who belonged to someone else.

  No, there had to be more to it than that. More even than Billie’s explanation of wanting to be a nanny in London just to try something different. But despite her best motherly interrogation techniques over the last two years, both during her weekly telephone calls and on Billie’s occasional visits home, Faith had been unable to discover the truth. Billie had stuck resolutely to the story of just needing to get way, to do something different. But to end up taxi-driving? In Amberley Hill? Faith, who had been secretly relieved that London had lasted only briefly, had never actually visited Amberley Hill but she always thought it sounded pretty dreadful.

  Having been born in Devon and never ventured further north than Somerset for holidays because running the smallholding made distant travelling an impossibility, anywhere geographically up from Bournemouth might as well be Mars. And it didn’t matter how many times told her that Amberley Hill was old and beautiful it was still a town – almost a city – and as far as Faith was concerned, anything even remotely urban was bound to be rife with violence and drug-dealing and unpleasantness. Goodness, she wasn’t that insular! She knew what went on. Just look at what had happened to Torquay.

  And now, the news that Billie had used her small inheritance to start her own business should have cheered her – but it hadn’t. Oh, she didn’t want Billie to be like her daughters-in-law and produce babies if that wasn’t what she wanted to do, nor did she ache to have her only daughter married off – she just felt that this new half-cocked venture, like the flight from London to Amberley Hill, and the erstwhile nannying and taxi-driving, was as a result of something that had happened here before she left, and that until that something was uncovered and faced up to and dealt with, Billie would be unsettled for ever.

  Dealing with a problem head-on was the only way, Faith thought. She’d spent her life dealing with minor troubles, dispersing them before they erupted into catastrophes, and this business with Billie had bothered her for far too long. It had to be sorted and there was no time like the present. It made sense, she justified to herself, as she pulled on her boots and buttoned herself into her raincoat, that as she was here, on the spot, and Billie was miles away, it really fell to her, as a responsible parent, to lay the ghosts on Billie’s behalf.

  She closed the kitchen door and shuddered in the torrential onslaught. She had no intention of telling the men in her family what she was doing. They would insist that she was interfering. But she wasn’t. If she could get to the bottom of this, and understand it, then she’d be able to sleep at night – and, she hoped, Billie would be able to get on with her life without these demons driving her.

  Faith sloshed across the yard and slithered into the driving seat of the Land Rover. Fortunately, Stan was out mending fences with Tom and Ben, and Jon and Alex were occupied in the fields out of sight of the house. None of them would return until lunch time. And as Maria was at work in Teignmouth, and both Katy and Ann were at the playgroup in the village and wouldn’t be back for ages, it gave faith plenty of time to start digging.

  Also, she thought, as she slid the Land Rover out through the gate, if what she uncovered was nasty, then the fewer people who knew about it the better. Especially Billie. Changing up a gear as she hit firmer ground, Faith pushed to the back of her mind that maybe Billie wouldn’t want the horrors uncovered. Still, this wasn’t just to do with Billie any more, was it? It was to do with Faith herself and her peace of mind.

  Anyway, she thought, she hadn’t been the only one to notice that there was something – well, odd, about Billie. After the wedding party, several of her friends had commented on the fact that Billie’s stories about what she was doing all seemed to differ slightly. Faith had laughed and said they’d all been pie-eyed anyway and how on earth could they remember anything? But it had disturbed her far more than she’d been prepared to admit at the time.

  Even more unsettling was the fact that Billie seemed to have told lots of people at the party’ about a boyfriend in Amberley Hill who was unable to make the journey to Devon because of his sick mother. Whatever else she did or didn’t bow, Faith was absolutely positive that this man – this paragon of filial virtue – didn’t exist. Billie had said she was still resolutely single – so why had she lied? And, even more worryingly, if she’d bed about that, what else had she lied about?

  Stan had told Faith not to fret about it: that Billie was probably just fending off unwanted advances. But Stan had always been dotty about Billie and would have defended her to the hilt whatever the crime. Stan had said that Billie was just testing out her wings, like a fledgling, teetering on the edge of the growing-up branch. It was best that they just stood back and let her jump, but that they should make sure they were around if she fell.

  That was typical of Stan’s gentle homilies, Faith admitted. And he was usually right. It was his ability to see the good in people that had made her fall in love with him over thirty years earlier; and his ability to soothe and protect and be totally rational in the face of the most appalling crises that made her love him even more today.

  Sitting together late at night, reflecting on the past, she and Stan often said that they really hadn’t changed from the seventeen-year-old student nurse and the battered and bruised eighteen-year-old motorcyclist who had met in the casualty department of Honiton General. Faith knew that they’d been lucky to have shared so much happiness. That happiness was the one thing she wanted to pass on to all her children.

  Switching on both the radio and the windscreen wipers to full bore, Faith sailed through the village, waving to friends who were
huddled beneath umbrellas gossiping outside the post office. Damn! It would have to be Pat and Miriam. Their daughters had both been at school with Billie, and had gone on to university, and made good marriages, and now combined their careers successfully with their babies. Pat and Miriam always spoke of Billie’s defection in hushed tones as if it was a bereavement, and would now no doubt buttonhole Faith next time they met, and ask just where she was belting off to on a Tuesday morning. It was the main problem with the village – people not only asked questions, but they assumed they had every right to the answers.

  Faith knew Pat and Miriam were still watching as she slowed at the crossroads and turned the Land Rover towards Willowbridge and the Devon Argus. It was the only place to start. Everything had been fine until Billie had left the paper. If there was anything to discover, she was sure the Argus was at the root of it.

  The Devon Argus, established in 1876, was still housed in its original granite and slate three-storey building on Willowbridge’s curving main road. Faith, unable to park outside because of double yellow lines, had had to run from the municipal car park, and subsequently dripped into reception.

  ‘Yes?’ A severe-suited woman glared through the glass screen. ‘Can I help? Whom do you wish to see?’

  Faith wasn’t sure. The editor during Billie’s time on the paper had since retired, and she hadn’t a clue whether any of Billie’s friends still worked there. She exhaled. She really hadn’t thought this through at all. Could she remember any of their names? Oh, yes . . .

  ‘Um – Craigie MacGowan?’ He’d been Billie’s features editor. Billie had always seemed very fond of him. ‘Does he still work here?’

  ‘And if he does, then he certainly doesn’t see anyone without an appointment.’ The woman moved fractionally closer to the screen. ‘I take it you do have an appointment?’

  Faith really itched to say that if she had an appointment then she’d know he worked there, wouldn’t she?, but she merely shook her head. Raindrops sprayed on to the reception desk. She wondered why on earth the Devon Argus would have bullet-proof glass on reception. Still, the woman behind it looked pretty unpleasant, so was probably to prevent her from beating up the visitors.

  ‘Not a chance today, then, I’m afraid. Mr MacGowan is a very busy man.’ The receptionist gave a ghastly grin. Her mouth stretched wide as if she’d swallowed a bicycle and the handlebars had got caught in her cheeks. ‘Shall I tell him you called – er – Mrs . . . ?’

  ‘No,’ Faith straightened her shoulders. She wasn’t going to be fobbed off like that. Anyway, she might never get another chance. ‘Tell him I’m here now. In reception. I’ll sit and wait.’

  ‘I’m afraid you can’t do that.’

  ‘And I’m afraid I can.’ Faith plonked herself on to a shiny leather bench. It made a rude squelching noise. ‘Tell him it’s Faith Pascoe. Billie’s mother.’

  A mature student of feminine thought processes, Faith watched the receptionist’s cogs turning and coming up with ‘paternity suit’. She wanted to laugh, and instead studied the 1953 Coronation edition of the Argus, which was gilt-framed on the wall. With a lot of huffing and puffing and flexing of shoulder pads, the receptionist punched at the telephone.

  ‘Mr MacGowan? There’s a Faith Pascoe wanting to see you. I’ve told her . . . Excuse me? . . . Yes – she’s here. Now. I’ve told her – What? That’s not what I’ve been instructed to – Well, I must say – What? . . . Oh, very well!’ The phone was replaced with a crash. ‘Mr MacGowan will apparently see you. He’s had a cancellation.’

  It made him sound like a dentist, Faith reckoned. She also reckoned that everyone in the staff rest room would be told by lunch time that Craigie MacGowan was playing away.

  She smiled her thanks. ‘Really? Isn’t that nice of him to fit me in?’

  The receptionist snorted and turned her back.

  Five minutes later, Craigie MacGowan powered into reception. Probably not much older than Jon or Alex, he was very overweight and looked incredibly unfit. Still, Faith liked his grin – which was a proper one that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

  ‘Mrs Pascoe? Billie’s mum?’ Craigie was pumping her hand. ‘This is great! Just great! Please tell me you’re here to say that Billie’s coming back.’

  Faith stood up, still shaking hands. ‘I’m afraid not – but it’s Billie that I’d like to talk to you about, only,’ she shot a look towards the receptionist, ‘not here.’

  ‘No. Of course not. Come on up to the office. I’m only on the next floor.’

  Which was probably just as well, Faith concluded, having listened to Craigie wheeze his way up a mere ten stairs and stagger into a glass-sided office. And if the nameplate was anything to go by, he’d been elevated too. No wonder the receptionist had been so protective. Craigie MacGowan was now the Argus’s editor-in-chief.

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Ta. It’ll probably kill me – if the fags and booze don’t get there first. Oh, please sit down and ignore the noise.’

  Outside in the big open-plan office, it seemed like a million phones were ringing and a million computer screens were flickering.

  Faith sat. ‘Look, I’m sorry to bother you. You must be incredibly busy. It was probably stupid of me to come, but I need to ask you some questions.’

  ‘Fire away then. I thought the world of Billie – she was a great kid, bloody hard worker, and she had a nice little future here. She’s all right? Not in any trouble?’

  ‘Not as far as I’m aware.’ Oh Lord! This all sounded so pathetic now. ‘It’s just that this has been bothering me ever since she left the Argus . . .’

  Craigie listened and smoked and ate a Mars bar and smoked some more. Faith watched his face as she talked. There wasn’t any point in the monologue where Craigie looked as though he’d interrupt with an explanation. Her spirits sank.

  When she’d finished, Craigie leaned forward. ‘Let me assure you of one thing. Billie left here under no cloud at all. Everyone was shattered that she chose to go – and as quickly as she did. I know she said she was going to be a nursemaid or something, but we all assumed she’d been head-hunted by one of the nationals – although we were never asked for references. We tried everything we could to get her to stay, but she was adamant.’

  ‘Oh, damn.’ Faith sank back into her chair. It was all so futile. Billie had told the truth. She’d simply fancied a change of direction. ‘Maybe she didn’t like the assignments she was getting or something?’

  Craigie lit another cigarette and wreathed the office in smoke. ‘That’s the funny thing. At the start, she was over the moon with her last-but-one job. She said it was a hell of a lot better than council meetings and school plays. She must have told you . . .’

  Had she? Faith tried to remember. ‘Ah, yes . . . Something to do with restaurants, wasn’t it? I remember the boys all teasing her about turning into Michael Winner.’

  ‘Hardly! Billie was always a bit of a knockout!’ Craigie spluttered into a hacking cough. ‘We were planning to run a series on various foreign food fads in the South-West. She’d gone off to report for the first piece on the new faux French farmhouse restaurant which was being opened near Bideford.’

  Faith nodded. She’d seen the place advertised. Rustique or Rustica or something . . .

  Craigie shrugged. ‘She came back and said she didn’t think it was quite her and asked if she could do something else. Something not quite so local. So we gave her the Willowbridge expats column, which meant she was out and about all over the country following up people who had once lived here. She filed the lives of a couple of pieces and then –’

  ‘And then she left, what, only a couple of months later?’ Faith stood up. ‘It just doesn’t make sense, does it? Thanks or your time. I’m sorry to have bothered you. I’ll give Billie your best, shall I?’ Which of course she would – only not just yet. She had no intention of letting Billie know what she was up to.

  ‘Please do. And tell her there’s a job
here for her if ever she wants it. Look, I’m so sorry I haven’t been any help.’

  Oh, but you have, Faith thought, as she smiled blithely at the receptionist on her way out. It may well be another blind alley, but it was somewhere to start. Something might have happened at that restaurant . . . Something that had made Billie want to get as far away from Devon as possible.

  As soon as possible, she thought as she hurried through the rain, she’d pay a visit to Bideford.

  Chapter Eleven

  Just try to get both wheels on the ground at the same time,’ Vinny yelled across the twin-engined roar in the Shorts’ cockpit. ‘I don’t know about the passengers, but you scare the shit out of me every time we land. I just close my eyes and hang on.’

  ‘That’s why I’m the pilot and you’re only the tea-boy,’ Jonah grinned as the runway lights and rooftops of Whiteacres swept towards him. ‘Bloody concentrate on your own job and leave the tricky stuff to me. Just read the dials, try giving me the speed and height in a volume that I can hear, oh and, yeah, keeping your eyes open might help both of us. . .’

  The Sullivanair Shorts 330, cruising along its allotted glide path, was coming in to land. Coming home, Jonah thought, with a touch of irony. There had been so many homes in the last few years – and he somehow doubted that Whiteacres would be the last. Still, it was fine at the moment. His flat was close by and functional, the airfield was perfect for his business, and the Boeing Stearman was taking beautiful, perfect shape in the privacy of the industrial unit.

  ‘Golf Hotel Charlie Foxtrot. Clear to land.’ The air-traffic control tower was already crackling in his headset as the Shorts’ fat wheels touched the runway, bounced, skimmed, and touched again.

  ‘Christ Almighty!’ Vinny pulled an agonised face. ‘You’re not in the bloody Stearman yet! What was that supposed to be? Waldo Pepper’s death dive?’