Where the missing gather, p.24
Where the Missing Gather, page 24
‘Do you not understand what I’m saying, Fergus?’
‘I’m not… Look, I know people here sometimes say things they shouldn’t, the older generation especially and…and people like June and Whelan and even Walt. People who are supposed to be our friends. I get it. They make stupid remarks and it sounds racist, I know they can sound racist sometimes, but they’d never hurt anyone, not really. You know Walt. It’s like Trish says—’
Trish again. Georgie’s neck tightens.
‘—these villages just need a bit of help, not judgement,’ he says.
At least Trish hadn’t known about Uncle Walt killing Ricky’s dog. Not before this week at any rate, Georgie is fairly sure of that. She hadn’t known about the sacrifices, Walt had kept her away from it all. So what is it she suspects Trish of? Of being racist herself? Of forgiving the villagers their racism? Of being somehow on the wrong side? It’s a hazy suspicion; it slips through her fingers, flickers through compassion. Just like her thoughts about Fergus, too, her Fergus. Is she wrong?
Then she hears Walt’s phrase again: we take care of our own.
‘Words matter, Fergus.’
‘I know that. I’m just saying that there are levels, aren’t there? There are different stages of things. These villagers, most of them anyway, they’re not real racists.’
‘Yes they are.’
‘Not Walt and Natalie, not—’
‘Yes they are. And their words have consequences. You think Andy and Lee would be attacking people because of the colour of their skin if they hadn’t seen it normalised every day?’
‘But they don’t mean any—’
‘Trish is forever letting them off the hook. It’s white privilege, that’s what it is.’ Georgie wishes she could close her eyes to it all, will herself somewhere else, but instead she says what he needs to understand. ‘And you’re as bad.’
‘What?’
‘You don’t call them out, do you? You let them say what they like, the us-and-them implied in the way everyone talks – you let it go. You excuse them.’
‘I don’t have a racist bone in my body, Georgie.’
‘But you enable them. You forgive them. That makes you complicit.’
He looks like he can’t even imagine how to reply. She can see the shock, the pain, on his face. His big open face.
In some cultures they sacrificed the innocent.
What did Walt do?
What did Walt Mackie really do?
‘I have to get back to the office,’ she says, standing up, his photograph in her hand. ‘Look, thanks for this. But I need to go.’
And she leaves him there. To her shame, she just leaves him sitting there looking as though she has just kicked the life out of him, and she gets in her car alone and starts the drive back to Burrowhead.
SURFACING CONNECTIONS, PART ONE
Trish has pulled together all her research and now she’s going to make her case: to Simon first, and then to Georgie. To start, she’s got the Barr family tree dating back to the arrival of Herman Barr in the 1950s all the way down to Andy, his brute of a father and his dead mother Genevieve. Andy might have turned into a different kid if he hadn’t lost his mam when he was twelve – not far off the age Trish was, either, so she knows what she’s talking about. Amanda, her mam’s name was, though it’s rarely spoken in Burrowhead these days; Trish isn’t one to talk about her and Uncle Walt isn’t either, and none of the other villagers ever knew what to say in the first place. She had Uncle Walt though. Thank God for Uncle Walt. Young Andy’s got no one to turn to, not really.
She’s been spending a lot of time with him this year, trying to show him how he doesn’t have to end up like his da; how we make choices in life above and beyond whatever DNA we might have inherited. His mam died of leukaemia in her mid-thirties. She’d never had much to do with the villagers, of course. Everyone always thought she felt herself too good to be mixing with the rest of them, though why she married Ricky in the first place no one could tell. She’d come up from London, sounded like she’d been to finishing school for fuck’s sake, and before she got sick you’d see her walking the cliffs in those beautiful dresses like something out of a catalogue photo shoot, always on her own, while Ricky worked the farm, covered in muck with manure-caked boots.
Andy used to cling to her skirts. She dressed him in cute little outfits, denim shorts and a striped T-shirt with braces, maybe, or dungarees with some kind of hand-stitched animal faces on them; sent him off to school in the smartest version of their uniform Warphill Primary had ever seen. While the other kids were fighting and getting filthy, Andy Barr was ironed and polite. Until she got ill and died, that is, and Andy grew into Andy Barr, his da dragging him out to work in the fields, all weathers, even though his mam had only just passed and he was still a kid by any decent standard. It was like the only way Ricky knew how to keep in control, of himself and of his son, was with the biting cold of manual labour and a brutal punch, or the threat of one at least.
So that’s the base of the trunk of the family tree: Andy Barr on his own there. Above him Ricky Barr, and Genevieve, deceased. No suspicious circumstances.
‘This is impressive, Trish,’ Si says, beside her.
‘Tell me about it. I’ve been going through all the old files as well, anything relating to the Barrs – gave myself a bloody paper cut.’
She holds her finger out and Si smiles. ‘You’ll live.’
‘Aye, well. Here, Ricky’s parents,’ she says. ‘John Barr and wife Isabella Barr, née Dover. On her side, she’d been a cousin of Mrs Dover’s late husband.’
‘Christ, this place. I wouldn’t want you looking into my family tree, who knows what names would turn up.’
‘The curse of the villages.’
‘One of many.’
She snorts. ‘I know, right? Go back far enough and I bet every one of us is related. Except for Georgie and Fergus, of course. And Pamali.’
‘You’re forgetting the Barr family,’ he says.
‘As if I could. Here, beside Ricky, is Deborah-Jane Barr. Her whereabouts, of course, are unknown.’
‘The missing sister,’ he says.
They both lapse into silence and stare at the family tree.
Above John Barr sits old Herman Barr. Date of birth: unknown. Location of birth: Germany. Question mark. Wife – and presumably there was one once, since there was a son – name unknown. It’s a funny-looking family tree. Starting with just the one man at the top, bulging in the middle and then shrinking in again to the single boy at the bottom. One more chop of the axe and the whole thing would fall.
‘So you’ve found no sign of any other children missing?’ Si asks.
‘None from the Barr family. Which is why…’ She turns to her desk and lifts up a large photocopied map of the area. ‘Land boundaries in 1980. Georgie’s idea.’
‘But the Barrs have owned that farm since Herman arrived in, what, the 1950s?’
‘In ’52, to be precise. Not all of it, though. Look.’
‘Is that the field where our skeleton was found?’
‘Yes it is, and you’ll notice that the boundary runs right through it.’
‘The body wasn’t buried on Ricky’s land at all?’
‘Oh no, it was – but only just. It was buried, so far as I can tell, right on the edge of the Barrs’ farm. Like…’
Trish shakes her head, sucking her finger with the paper cut – there’s still a bit of blood flowing from it.
‘Like it was buried by someone who didn’t belong there?’
‘And I’ve been thinking, if it was one of the Barr family who buried it, they’d not have done so in their own field, one that’s actually used for farming, would they? The chances of it being dug up must have been pretty high.’
‘It’s quite something it stayed buried this long.’
‘Exactly. Whereas, if you wanted to frame someone…’ Trish raises her eyebrows. ‘Look. Bordering the Barr farm in the 1950s, see here? That strip of land was owned by one Art Robertson. From the edge of the field where we found the child’s remains, all the way up to the edge of the village.’
‘In fact,’ Simon says, ‘all the way here. Right here. To the police station.’
NEW ROOTS
Andy Barr has a bag with all his tools slung over his back and he’s sneaked out of the farm so his da doesn’t see him, nor any of the others. He’s keeping his distance from Lee and Aaron these days – his da’s not taught him much but he knows he doesn’t want the jitters the way those two have. Making your own choices, that’s the thing, that’s what Andy is all about these days, just like Trish has been telling him. Andy likes Trish. Andy likes having a bag of tools on his back, and a place to take them and all.
Cutting through the edge of the village, glancing at the police station but sticking to the back lanes, then out to the overgrown field that no one uses and no one even looks at. It’s their secret, this field. For now. Andy Barr and Pamali Patel. He heads in through the boundary of tall willowherb and takes a spot beside her.
‘Evening, Andy.’
‘I’ve got all the tools,’ he says with a grin. ‘I’ve got trowels and forks and secateurs and a scythe.’
Pamali laughs that joyful laugh of hers and obviously Andy would never say this because it would just sound weird but he’s started to think that maybe Pami is a little bit like his mam, from what he remembers of her, because she loved gardening too and she had a good laugh, especially when it was just the two of them, sitting out on the grass somewhere in the summer. She forgave him too, when he fucked up.
‘I’m no sure we’ll need the scythe, Andy,’ Pami says.
‘Better safe than sorry though, eh?’
‘For now,’ she says, ‘I was thinking we could sow cauliflower in here and then salad leaves over there, lettuce and rocket and Swiss chard, what do you think?’
Andy nods and he thinks that’s a very good idea actually, that way when they’re ready to open, folk can come and collect a few salad leaves, for their sandwiches or whatever, he can see that. He’s never heard of Swiss chard though.
‘And I have some good news,’ Pamali says. ‘We’ve got another volunteer coming to join us.’
Suddenly Andy is leaning back on his heels and he’s not sure about this.
‘You know Natalie Prowle?’
‘No, no, Pami…’
‘She’s keen to come and help.’
‘She’s Lee’s mam.’
‘I know that, Andy—’
‘Lee’s not a good guy—’
‘Are the two of you not friends any more?’
‘That’s not what I mean…’
‘Well, I think maybe we can give Natalie a chance,’ Pamali says, and he knows what she’s referring to. ‘Everyone deserves that, wouldn’t you say?’
He looks down at the vegetable patch they’ve made, the two of them, working here together this week: cardboard down over the grass, compost on top, a layer of manure, then the rows of seeds they’ve sown together and when he looks up Natalie Prowle is walking towards them already.
‘You don’t mind me joining you,’ she says to Andy, and it’s not a question so he doesn’t bother replying. ‘Thought you could do with one of the local villagers helping out too, give the community food garden a bit of credibility, eh.’
‘I am one of the local villagers,’ says Pamali, and Andy can’t help but smile because he’s never heard Pami sound strict before but she’s sure standing up to Natalie Prowle and Andy likes that very much.
‘Of course you are,’ Natalie is saying, ‘Of course, Pami, I didn’t mean—’
‘And so is Andy.’
Andy looks at her, willing her to deny it.
‘I just meant I’m one of the original…one of the…’
Andy is scowling at her now and he’s not sorry for it and Natalie is looking back at him and he didn’t want her here, true enough, but not as much as it looks like she doesn’t want him here. He pulls out his tools and tells her that he and Pamali are planting the cauliflower here and that the patch over there is going to be for the salad leaves and the Swiss card.
‘Chard,’ Natalie says.
‘That’s what I said.’
Natalie puts her hand on his arm and he shakes it off.
‘How is your da, Andy?’
Andy just shrugs.
‘You know, if you ever need to talk…’
Natalie Prowle has been after his da for as long as Andy’s known his family weren’t welcome round here, and that’s about as long as he’s known anything. Natalie is standing up now though and that’s fine with him. She’s over talking to Pamali and telling her that she’s got cabbages and kale and, if it’s alright with Pamali – another one of those questions that’s not really a question – she’s going to plant them in beside the salad.
Andy doesn’t like that idea. He does not like that at all.
But it’s okay, because now Pami is telling her to start a fresh bed of her own over there because she’s not wanting the bigger plants to take over the salad leaves.
‘They could smother them,’ Pamali is saying, ‘if we’re no careful,’ and all Natalie can do to that is nod.
So she’ll head over to the side and clear herself a fresh patch then, so she’s saying, though before she goes she whispers to Pamali that she needs to watch her back, and Andy knows full well she’s talking about him. It’s no bad advice though because now he thinks about it, Andy reckons they could all do with watching their backs when Natalie Prowle is around.
SURFACING CONNECTIONS, PART TWO
‘Now here’s a thing,’ Simon says. ‘Nora Prowle.’
Finally they’re getting somewhere. Names and family trees and case files and land surveys are all laid out in their office – and Simon’s got what he knows, too, held close. There are boxes everywhere, labelled in faded handwriting and filled with all the petty crimes of the villagers from the past fifty years. He closes the file he’s holding over with a slight frown, rubs the outside of the flimsy beige cardboard folder with his thumb.
Trish is watching him intently. ‘She died in the 1990s, right?’
The old police files smell dusty and damp and they’re making Simon’s throat itch.
‘Aye, ’96. Her husband was the village police officer from ’63 till his death in ’92. They lived right here, in the station.’
Simon remembers the smell in that cell at the back, the one Georgie always thought was rotten. The one that reminded him of the stale sea air.
‘After he died the place was empty for a while—’
‘I remember that from when I was a kid,’ Trish says.
‘I wasn’t even born yet.’
‘You youngster.’ Trish shakes her head, smiling.
‘Aye, but from what I’ve read, they made a right mess of converting it—’
‘Folk were not best pleased. Especially when they reinstated it as a police station.’
‘According to these records,’ says Si, ‘there were three different officers stationed here, each of them leaving within a year of arriving, before Georgie made a go of it.’
‘She’s got some staying power,’ Trish says, the admiration only slightly grudging. ‘But where are you going with this?’
‘Well, while Nora’s husband – Jacob Prowle – was the village police officer, and even after his death, Nora Prowle was taking care of foster children. Remember that?’
‘Vaguely…I was a kid myself at the time. There were never that many children staying with her, but there was always at least one passing through, appearing at the school then disappearing again, staying with her for a few months until they went back to their parents or were adopted or whatever – sent back to the care home they came from.’
‘And Natalie is her niece, right?’
‘She’s proud of it, too. Told me once her aunt Nora could have got any kid back on track.’
‘Probably wishes she were still around to help her with Aaron and Lee.’
‘Maybe so. We kids were all scared of Nora Prowle, that’s for sure.’
‘You, scared of someone?’
‘When I was four, maybe. Not since, mind.’
Simon laughs. ‘Well, the Prowles never had kids of their own,’ he says. ‘And their closest relative was Jacob Prowle’s brother—’
‘Aye, his half-brother, I remember him a bit too. He married Sally, who was way younger than him by the way, and they became Natalie’s parents.’
‘Know what happened to them?’
‘He died years ago, and apparently her mam is living in a camper van in Spain.’
‘Alright for some.’
But at the mention of Spain Simon’s mind clasps on to his version of the Mediterranean, turquoise sea and warmth and the life he could have had with Alexis—
‘You’ve had an idea, haven’t you?’
He swallows, forces his mind back to today.
‘Thanks to you,’ he says, pointing to the boundary as it was in 1980. ‘This is the bit of land owned by Arthur Robertson when the little boy was buried, and it includes the field and the lane, here, that ran between the police station – the Prowles’ family home as was – and the Barrs’ farm. And then we have this.’
He opens the old file again, held together by a paper clip in the corner.
‘We couldn’t find any missing child reports, but I’ve got a closed case here. A little boy drowned on the beach in 1979 when he was nineteen months old. His name was Sonny Riley. His guardian is down as Nora Prowle. No named parents.’
‘One of her foster children died in her care?’
The front door of the station slams and it makes him jump.
‘Was presumed dead,’ he says. ‘They never found the body. Nora’s testimony said he’d disappeared while playing on the beach. Her husband was the investigating officer who closed the case.’
‘They can’t have got away with crap like that, not even in the Seventies.’
‘Out here, in the 1970s? A boy with no family, no one to ask any questions?’
‘But someone would have noticed, surely, known who he was or…’
