Disturbing the Dust by Pauline James

Author:Pauline James [James, Pauline]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Trauma
ISBN: 9780994275455
Publisher: Woodslane Press
Published: 2018-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

England, Midlands, 1974

Jenny’s heart seemed to stagger as the lift descended and neared the ground floor; and glimpsing her face in the half-length mirror with her hair scraped back and minimal make-up, she regretted not paying more attention to style. At least though her clothes looked smart, she thought: the dark red sweater and short black skirt beneath the coat she’d worn the day before. And she had a task to perform, no need to impress. Trying to relax, she breathed deeply, undoing her frown and shaping a smile. Surely when he heard, he’d realise she’d cared—even if she hadn’t said goodbye—and he wasn’t unfriendly over the phone.

This hotel, she knew, was far too expensive, with its mock-antique furnishings and glittering lights. The travel agent in Leicester had talked her into staying there because of its convenience for buses and trains, but she was annoyed with herself for being easy to convince. Once in her room, plumped by the phone, she’d wondered which prospect made her more anxious: spending too much or the mission ahead. She couldn’t postpone her call—a few nights here would reduce her to penury—and yet she dreaded being rebuffed. Her hands trembled as she dialled his number.

‘Mr Watson’s not here,’ the receptionist droned, ‘but he’ll soon be back—within an hour, I should think. He will return your call.’

Jenny left her name and number and started to read but the phone remained distressingly silent. Watched pots never boil, she reflected, trying to divert herself with humour. Though after seeing hours of a sunny day wasted, in an unfamiliar city she’d like to explore, she rang again, her patience gone.

‘Yes, Mr Watson can see you at ten thirty on Monday or two o’clock on Wednesday,’ the receptionist announced.

Jenny was not amused. This was Thursday. She and his mother had also agreed: Mrs Watson would warn him that Jenny would ring—his office, since he was rarely at home—but assure him Jenny had no bad news.

‘My stay here is limited,’ Jenny replied. ‘I am not a client, and I understood Mr Watson’s mother intended to brief him about my visit.’

A hum of sustained, intense muttering ensued.

‘What was your name again?’

‘Jenny Tomlinson.’ Her reply was louder, though drained of emotion. She’d suppressed her strong inclination to sigh.

She heard the name being apparently reported and a jaded, male voice asking, ‘Who?’

‘Miss … Mrs Tompkinson, Mr Watson doesn’t know you. Perhaps he’s familiar with your maiden name.’

‘No, the name is Tomlinson, not Tompkinson.’ Jenny repeated the different names as clearly as she could without sounding rude.

A pause, then whispering and a thudding noise followed, as if books had fallen from a very great height, succeeded by the rattling of crockery and the male voice exclaiming, among the mumbling, ‘Oh shit!’ The sound of a chair scraping on a floor obscured whatever else was said.

‘Oh, w…wait a minute,’ the receptionist resumed. ‘H…he’s going to his office. He’ll speak from there.’ The patronising tone had gone. Instead, she seemed distinctly flustered.

And so was Jenny. Why hadn’t his mother rung him as promised? She’d have to change her opening line.

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