Page 75 of Millie & George: Young Love
CHAPTERTWENTY-EIGHT
Sally steered the big blue BMW into Wellington Close and followed Owen’s direction to park outside his home. It was easy to spot. Blue and white police tape fluttered loosely in the wind around the front door, a macabre reminder of what had happened only a week ago.
Owen said, ‘This is kind of you, Sally.’
‘Nonsense. I felt like a drive. Chas hardly ever let me touch this beast.’ She patted the steering wheel, and looked at the sorry little house that had been Owen’s home, then glancing over her shoulder at Millie and George, she said, ‘You two okay? Snuggled in the back. The pair of you look so cosy. I hate to disturb you, but it’s time we got to work. Out you get.’
George rolled his eyes and said, ‘All right mum, we’re getting out.’ The rear doors slammed, and Millie and George met at the rear of the car to hold hands again.
Sally, who had been watching them in the rear-view mirror, sighed wistfully. ‘Young love, eh?’ she said. ‘It’s a delight to see.’ She glanced at Owen. ‘Have you ever been in love Owen?’
He looked sharply at her, wondering if she was seeking commitment from him. ‘If you mean romantic love, no, I haven’t.’ He scowled, opened the car door, and swung out.
Digging in his pocket for the door key and, with the other three following, Owen paced up the concrete paving. Now they were here; he really wished they were all back in London. He even briefly wondered if he could do without his books and hustle them back into the car, leaving all his past life behind.
He touched the police tape. It was too late now to turn back. He needed his books. Some of them had been gifts from Mr Woodham.
‘Do you think it’s all right to move the police tape?’ he asked, turning to Sally.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I telephoned the local police this morning before we set out and they said all investigations are complete. You can access the house and take anything you want.’
‘I never thought of calling them.’
‘I don’t expect you’ve had quite as many dealings with the police as I have, lovie,’ she said, gently touching his elbow with her fingertips, adding, ‘I know their ways.’
Owen peeled away enough tape to get access to the door and unlocked it.
Inside, the house was colder than it had been the week before. Though little else had changed. More junk mail and a couple of late Christmas cards littered the doormat. Ahead of him, the rope still dangled above the chair where he’d stood holding his mother, trying to take her weight. Thinking about it, Owen realised how stupid he’d been. She had been so obviously dead; what had he hoped to achieve?
It wasn’t even as if he loved her. He knew that now and had come to terms with it. She had never been a real mother to him. It had been watching how Sally looked after George that made him see how unnatural a mother Elizabeth Kingsley had been. Sally cared–sometimes too much. She provided food and clean clothes, support and encouragement. A willing ear to listen to troubles. Sally was a real mother. She’d even mothered him a bit until… Owen forced the memory of Christmas Eve out of his head. Despite telling Sally he didn’t regret what they did that night in her bedroom, which was the truth, it still didn’t make what happened right. It didn’t stop him feeling guilty.
He turned to Sally; regretting being too sharp with her in the car. ‘Ready?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ She nodded.
‘Sorry for everything. Sorry about the state of the place.’
Sally squeezed his elbow. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said.
‘Well, here goes then. Brace yourselves for the smell.’ Owen stepped into the hall.
With George and Millie behind her, Sally lingered in the open doorway, police tape fluttering around her as she silently took in the scene.
Owen moved the chair from under the rope and looked back at Sally, knowing instinctively she was thinking of him, imagining what it must have been like to arrive home to Elizabeth Kingsley hanging limply at the end of the tow rope.
‘Come on, Mum,’ George called out from behind his mother. ‘It’s starting to rain.’
Sally pushed her shoulders back, straightening her spine and stepped inside, eyes locked with Owen’s, sharing a bond. She asked, ‘Where shall we start?’
Owen shuffled uncertainly. ‘I don’t know. Do I clear everything out or just take my stuff?’
‘It’s up to you, lovie. But if I were you, I’d take only the things that were important to me.’
‘Right, that’s what I’ll do.’
‘Come on, Millie… let’s check the kitchen,’ George said, clinging on to Millie’s hand and edging passed his mother. ‘We can make a cup of tea.’
‘If there are any bin bags in there, you might like to chuck out anything that’s in the fridge. It’s probably inedible,’ Sally called after them. Then she turned to Owen and half smiled at him. ‘Right, we won’t see them again for a little while. Perhaps we should have left them at home.’
