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Authors: Roberta Kray
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aware, rarely ran smoothly. Should she go after Alice? She decided not. For one, the contents of the basement always made her feel uncomfortable and for two, the moment had passed. Whatever Alice had been trying to say, she was clearly not in the mood to proceed with it now.
Iris dumped the sandwich in the bin, and with nothing else to do went back to work.
The afternoon rolled by with more speed than the morning. Gerald Grand was back in the office and, like the devil, believed in making work for idle hands. As such, she had a heap of filing dumped on her desk. The phone was busy too, a response perhaps to the publicity over Lizzie Street’s funeral. By four o’clock there were three new funerals booked in with all the accompanying arrangements to sort out. There were also a couple of viewings that fortunately passed with none of the drama of the last one. With bereaved relatives to deal with, flowers to order and plenty of paperwork, Iris didn’t have time to dwell on her own worries.
When five-thirty came around, she still had an hour to kill before her meeting with Jenks. She could go home and wait, but was worried that Luke might be there; it was unlikely - he never usually got back before seven - but not impossible. And if he was there, how was she going to explain why she needed to go out again? If she told him the truth he would try to talk her out of it or, at best, insist on going with her. And she didn’t want that. This was something she had to do alone.
Iris gazed up at the two high windows. For privacy’s sake, the lower ones were obscured so no one could see in. Snow had started to fall, drifting gently down from the sky. She watched as the flakes fell lightly against the panes, clinging briefly to the glass before melting away. Stay or go? If she went, she’d only be walking around in the cold for the next hour or so. Better to stay here in the warm. There was, much as it grieved her, plenty of filing left to do.
Iris strode briskly down Market Road, hearing the thin layer of ice crunch under her boots. There was still ten minutes before her appointment, but having worried so much about being early, she was now afraid of being late. She followed the road down to the large square where a general market was held every Saturday. In the centre, known to the locals as the Monny, was the War Monument, a tall, concrete obelisk flanked on all sides by a flight of steps.
Despite the weather, a few drunks were lounging around on the steps, either disinclined to give up their regular spots or simply too inebriated to move. Iris slowly circled round, making sure that Jenks wasn’t there. She glanced at her watch. Still eight minutes to go. Withdrawing to the north side, she shook out her umbrella and went to stand in the covered area outside the cinema, joining a couple of other girls who were probably waiting for their dates to arrive.
From here she could easily monitor the two entrances to the square and she kept her eyes peeled while her thoughts began to wander. It had never been entirely clear to her why her father had left. Mild interrogations of her mother - she always got upset, even tearful, if Iris pressed too hard - resulted only in the repetitive and by now almost word-perfect response: ‘Things weren’t working out between us, darling. It was no one’s fault, but we decided it was better to split up.’ None of which adequately explained why he hadn’t been in touch again. Some men could leave their children without a backward glance, but not him - he had not been the type, she was certain of it. Iris could still feel her small hand held securely in his. He would never have abandoned her like that. There was something she hadn’t being told. And Jenks, surely, had confirmed that suspicion last night. Why else would he have approached her?
Iris, feeling the cold, stamped her feet on the ground and made another fast survey of the square. Unlike Luke, she never felt nervous when she was
Iris dumped the sandwich in the bin, and with nothing else to do went back to work.
The afternoon rolled by with more speed than the morning. Gerald Grand was back in the office and, like the devil, believed in making work for idle hands. As such, she had a heap of filing dumped on her desk. The phone was busy too, a response perhaps to the publicity over Lizzie Street’s funeral. By four o’clock there were three new funerals booked in with all the accompanying arrangements to sort out. There were also a couple of viewings that fortunately passed with none of the drama of the last one. With bereaved relatives to deal with, flowers to order and plenty of paperwork, Iris didn’t have time to dwell on her own worries.
When five-thirty came around, she still had an hour to kill before her meeting with Jenks. She could go home and wait, but was worried that Luke might be there; it was unlikely - he never usually got back before seven - but not impossible. And if he was there, how was she going to explain why she needed to go out again? If she told him the truth he would try to talk her out of it or, at best, insist on going with her. And she didn’t want that. This was something she had to do alone.
Iris gazed up at the two high windows. For privacy’s sake, the lower ones were obscured so no one could see in. Snow had started to fall, drifting gently down from the sky. She watched as the flakes fell lightly against the panes, clinging briefly to the glass before melting away. Stay or go? If she went, she’d only be walking around in the cold for the next hour or so. Better to stay here in the warm. There was, much as it grieved her, plenty of filing left to do.
Iris strode briskly down Market Road, hearing the thin layer of ice crunch under her boots. There was still ten minutes before her appointment, but having worried so much about being early, she was now afraid of being late. She followed the road down to the large square where a general market was held every Saturday. In the centre, known to the locals as the Monny, was the War Monument, a tall, concrete obelisk flanked on all sides by a flight of steps.
Despite the weather, a few drunks were lounging around on the steps, either disinclined to give up their regular spots or simply too inebriated to move. Iris slowly circled round, making sure that Jenks wasn’t there. She glanced at her watch. Still eight minutes to go. Withdrawing to the north side, she shook out her umbrella and went to stand in the covered area outside the cinema, joining a couple of other girls who were probably waiting for their dates to arrive.
From here she could easily monitor the two entrances to the square and she kept her eyes peeled while her thoughts began to wander. It had never been entirely clear to her why her father had left. Mild interrogations of her mother - she always got upset, even tearful, if Iris pressed too hard - resulted only in the repetitive and by now almost word-perfect response: ‘Things weren’t working out between us, darling. It was no one’s fault, but we decided it was better to split up.’ None of which adequately explained why he hadn’t been in touch again. Some men could leave their children without a backward glance, but not him - he had not been the type, she was certain of it. Iris could still feel her small hand held securely in his. He would never have abandoned her like that. There was something she hadn’t being told. And Jenks, surely, had confirmed that suspicion last night. Why else would he have approached her?
Iris, feeling the cold, stamped her feet on the ground and made another fast survey of the square. Unlike Luke, she never felt nervous when she was
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