Ask laura, p.3
Ask Laura, page 3
You’ve certainly earned the right to think of yourself, Angela, and I applaud you for such selfless care of your parents, which is not always an easy thing. If you are on the internet you may like to look at the magazine’s website which features articles about loneliness and depression. The address is on the inside cover of every issue.
Please don’t despair. You are young with so much to offer and so much life still to enjoy.
Laura
* * *
Angela’s letter struck a chord with me. I’ve also felt lonely at times as my father died four years ago and my mother lives on a different planet. Dad was stricken with lung cancer which seemed unfair as he’d never smoked a cigarette in his life! Mum was already showing signs of dementia during the last few months of his life, so it was left to me to care for them both. But I’m not complaining. Dad was no trouble and tried hard to carry on as usual so as not to place too heavy a burden on my shoulders. But with a wife slowly leaving him, it was distressing, and I think he was ready to go when his time came. Mum, by then, was oblivious to the world around her and I was forced into making the awful decision of finding a home for her to live in, for her own safety. So, she now lives quite happily on planet Alzheimer’s with others stricken by this same cruel disease. I, too, am an only child and felt very alone and isolated during my parents’ illnesses. Paul was also an only child, but his parents are both alive and well, living in Highgate, just a couple of Tube stops away from me. They were terrific with the children during those dark days and supported me in many ways, and I love them for it. Having been disappointed with their son when he left me, Janet and Bob have remained a part of my life, and the children still see them regularly.
Unlike Angela, I’m blessed in having people to turn to, yet I struggled mentally to decide whether to tell Janet and Bob about these hateful letters. Finally, I decided not to, perhaps they were just a couple of random letters, penned by someone with a sick sense of humour, and with luck, there would be no more. However, telling the children was undoubtedly out of the question, so it was to be a waiting game, and I tried hard to put the issue out of my mind.
I did intend to go to the police, knowing if I didn’t, Brian Clark would. Yet, it would have to wait until the following day, as my trip to the city had filled up so much time and the children would be arriving home, expecting me to be there.
‘Not fish again! We had fish yesterday!’ Lucy was first to arrive home.
‘Did we?’ I honestly couldn’t remember what we’d eaten yesterday. I am not a particularly good cook and, despite my aspirations, will never be a domestic goddess. Lucy tutted and turned to go upstairs. I watched her retreating – black hair hanging loosely to her shoulders with a shock of purple half-covering her eyes. Why she’d dyed her hair when she possessed the most beautiful honey-blonde natural colour, I’ll never know, but I didn’t have a say in the matter. Lucy stayed overnight with one of her friends and arrived home the next day looking like a stranger. Being angry was futile, and I dearly hoped it was a passing phase. We really needed to have a conversation about the pill, but I simply didn’t have the energy or inclination after the day’s events. Turning my attention back to the fish, I attempted to make it more interesting by coating it in savoury breadcrumbs (from a packet, of course) and making potato fritters – the boys’ favourite.
One of our house rules, which I try to keep to a minimum, is that we eat together around the table at least once during the week and again at weekends. It is easy to make a meal and allow the children to eat on the run, watching television, or in their room, hence the rule, and that evening was rule night. When the meal was ready, I called my family from their various locations and we settled around the table to eat.
‘Wow, fritters, great!’ Sam exclaimed, making me smile at the simple things which pleased my son. Lucy looked at the fish and began pushing it around her plate as if trying to revive it. I hoped she wouldn’t attempt the kiss of life next. Observing her closely, I wondered if she’d embarked on another fad diet, something she regularly tries in an effort to lose weight, which she can ill afford to lose. I’ve attempted complimenting her on her slim figure, which, quite honestly I would swap mine for any day – but Lucy hates the body she has and frequently attempts to alter it drastically. Finally, she took a bite and I breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Jon’s asked if I’d like to go to his dad’s for tea again next week,’ Jake told me.
‘And do you want to go?’
‘Don’t mind, I suppose,’ was the unrevealing answer.
‘Well it’s entirely up to you, Jake, but tell Jon when you decide. It would be rude not to let him know until the last minute.’ I was secretly hoping he wouldn’t go, suspecting Jon had received some kind of prompt from his father and this was another ploy to see me again. Jake nodded his head and pushed a couple of fritters into his mouth while my thoughts returned to those letters. Even though I tried to discipline myself to ignore them as someone’s idea of a joke, they still played heavily on my mind. Would there be any more? Hopefully not, but I would take them to the police station tomorrow, sure they would think it was nothing more than the proverbial storm in a teacup.
Chapter Six
The local police station was a satellite office, open only during the week and four hours on Saturday mornings. As I have never had cause to visit it before, I had no idea what it looked like on the inside. Outside it was beautiful, an ornate Victorian building which had once been a large private dwelling, it was now divided into two, with the police station occupying one side and the local library the other. The vast heavy doors were wedged open and I pushed my way through a glass interior door and gazed at my surroundings. It was something of a let-down; having expected the interior to reflect the same era and charm as the outside, I was disappointed. A rather shabby desk, enclosed by a glass partition, stretched the length of the lobby. It was reminiscent of the sixties or seventies, with the wood tired and in need of varnishing or chopping up for firewood. The opposite wall was flanked with grey plastic bucket chairs, the type we had at school years ago. The floor was covered in linoleum and cracking from heavy traffic, with black scuff marks from myriads of rubber-soled shoes. The officer behind the desk looked to be about thirteen, which said more about my age than his, and I approached with a smile, not knowing quite what to say.
‘Good morning, I’d like to speak to someone about some letters I’ve received.’ He looked puzzled. Obviously, I needed to be more specific.
‘They’re abusive letters, sent to my work address and my editor insisted I bring them to you.’ My tone was apologetic, knowing they had much more important issues to deal with than my two paltry letters.
‘Can I take your name please?’ he asked, politely enough, so I dutifully recited my name and address.
‘So, you want to see a detective?’ He looked at me expectantly.
‘I don’t know who I want to see; can’t I just give you the letters and leave them here?’
He smiled at my naivety.
‘It’s a matter for CID. If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll see if someone’s available to see you.’
I obediently sat on one of the bucket seats, glancing at my watch to check the time; it was 9.45am. Ten minutes passed before a young woman in civilian clothes came out to see me. She was also impossibly young and very pretty, with long glossy black hair tied back into a ponytail.
‘Mrs Green?’ she asked. ‘Would you like to come through?’
I stood up to follow her through swing doors to a corridor with several rooms leading off both sides. She took me into the first room on the right and motioned for me to sit down on a wooden chair while she took the other one opposite me; a small table separated us.
‘I’m Detective Constable Amy Peters; my colleague says you’ve been receiving abusive letters?’
‘Well, only two, but my editor, who I work for, insisted I bring them in. They were sent to the magazine address, but they didn’t show them to me until yesterday.’ I pulled the offending letters from my bag and slid them towards her on the table. As she began to open them, she asked,
‘So you don’t open your own mail?’
‘That’s right. I work from home as an agony aunt for the magazine. Usually, they only pass on the letters they want me to feature each week, and most of them come by email these days.’
DC Peters nodded as she read the letters.
‘Are these the only ones as yet?’ she asked.
‘Yes, do you think there’ll be more?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m wasting your time, aren’t I?’
‘No, certainly not! The tone of the second letter is more serious than the first and hints at some kind of threat. You haven’t received any at home, you say?’
‘No, only these two which were sent to the magazine.’
‘That’s good. It means the sender probably doesn’t know where you live.’
I let go of the breath I didn’t know I was holding in relief.
‘Is there anything else which has been happening in your life at the moment? For example, have you felt as if someone’s been following you or anything else unusual?’
‘Goodness, no!’
‘Sorry, there’s no need to worry. As I said, apparently, the sender doesn’t know where you live which is a good thing. You say you work as an agony aunt; do you use your own name or a pen name?’
‘My own, but only Laura, not my surname. But there’s a photograph of me at the top of the column.’ I remembered posing for that picture and trying to set my face to express the right degree of intelligence and empathy whilst still being approachable. I don’t think the result was quite what I wanted, but Madeline had the final choice of picture. DC Peters wrote down almost everything I said and then asked for the magazine’s name, their address and my editor’s name and contact number.
‘Is there anyone you’ve fallen out with lately or someone at work who may have a grudge against you?’
‘No, not at all. I don’t have many people in my life; I’m divorced with three children, and as for colleagues at work, I barely know them. As I said I work mostly from home.’
‘Then you have no idea who could have sent these letters?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘And your ex-husband, is there animosity there at all?’
‘We parted years ago and he’s moved on with someone else now. Our relationship isn’t wonderful, but we’re civil to each other, and he visits the children regularly. I couldn’t see him being responsible for this at all.’
‘Do you think it could be someone who’s written to your page and not received the answer they were looking for?’
‘Well, yes, it’s entirely possible. I don’t give the answers readers always want, but the answers I feel are the correct ones for a given situation.’
‘What qualifications do you need to be an agony aunt?’
The sudden change in her questions threw me for a moment.
‘Well I’d like to think empathy and common sense are paramount, as well as life experience, but I do have a degree in psychology.’
‘Ah, I wondered. So, what do you think these letters are all about?’
I’d read them both several times and formed some ideas but was unsure about sharing them. Surely the police would have a better idea than me? Still, my opinion had been asked for so I went ahead.
‘Well, I think the writer is a man and a man who is either a misogynist or not very good in relationships with women. He appears angry about women in general and those references to “women knowing their place” points to chauvinistic tendencies. It could be he’s absorbed these views from his father or perhaps there was no father around and he had a very domineering mother. I can see him being a loner and an unhappy, angry man.’ As I spoke, DC Peters made notes and nodded her head frequently. That was as much as I wanted to say – it summarised my thoughts since I’d first seen the letters.
‘What happens now?’ I asked.
‘We’ll look into it, Mrs Green, and contact the magazine, but in the meantime, try not to worry. Whoever he is, he doesn’t appear to know where you live and there are thousands of women called Laura out there. So we’ll give it a couple of days, speak to the magazine and then get back to you. But, naturally, if you receive any more letters, please let us have them straight away and the same if anything else out of the ordinary happens too.’ Amy Peters gave me a broad smile and stood to show me out of the room and back into the foyer.
Once outside, the cold, bitter February wind whipped at my face and around my legs. I pulled my collar up and dropped my chin to keep warm. It was 10.50 and I decided to treat myself to a latte and a cake; sugar is medicinal, isn’t it, and surely I deserved something nice? But my legs felt a bit like jelly, and a strange feeling settled in my stomach like something was stuck there. These letters had affected me more than I’d expected and those hateful words refused to exit my mind, no matter how much I tried to expel them.
Chapter Seven
The coffee and carrot cake barely took my mind off those stupid letters. What I needed was a strong dose of common sense and the best place for me to find it was in Highgate, at the home of Janet and Bob, my ex in-laws. So I rang to see if they were home rather than waste a Tube journey, and hearing Janet’s voice almost reduced me to tears. Silly, really, as I kept telling myself the letters were nothing to worry about, just some woman-hating nut letting off steam.
‘Can I come round?’ I asked rather weakly, and Janet, in her usual pragmatic way, said of course I could, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, which it isn’t actually. I generally meet Janet for a catch-up in town when we do our ‘ladies who lunch’ thing every few weeks, or she and Bob come to our house to see the children. A thirty-minute Tube journey (three stops on the Northern Line), a five-minute walk, and I was entering their charming home, a place of peace and serenity. Not that it was an immaculately presented glossy magazine house, but shabby chic, by which I mean original shabby chic, not simply a décor style. Their furniture was ancient but of good quality and over the years they’d patched and renovated it with an enviable flair. Colourful throws and cushions warmed each room, and the walls were lined with bookcases holding well-thumbed books from Shakespeare and Dickens to Maeve Binchy and Stieg Larsson. It smelled of sunshine and dog, but in a perfectly acceptable, even comforting way. As soon as I sat down my mood became instantly calmer. The dog in question was an elderly chocolate Labrador called Fudge. He made an effort to stand up on his arthritic old legs to greet me, tail swishing from side to side as he waddled in my direction. Having already kissed Janet and Bob, I reached down to fuss Fudge, stroking his silky ears, and was rewarded by him sitting on my feet, so at least one of us was comfortable.
Janet must have had the coffee ready as she left the room for no more than two minutes before reappearing with a laden tray. The three of us sat in the watery sunlight from the French windows and enjoyed the aroma of fresh coffee. I didn’t know what to say once actually there with these two lovely people. Perhaps I didn’t need to say anything, just simply be in their company, but they would be wondering, even though they wouldn’t ask.
‘I’ve had a couple of crank letters at work.’ My words caused Janet to raise her eyebrows; Bob simply blew on his coffee.
‘What kind of letters?’ she asked.
‘Well... they objected to my replies, in somewhat extreme terms, and the second one, in particular, was quite malicious and told me to stop writing my column or I’d regret it.’
‘Oh, Laura, how terrible!’ Janet took my hand and squeezed it. ‘Have you been to the police?’
‘Yes, this morning. Madeline insisted, and so did a man from the magazine’s legal department. They have to cover themselves I suppose.’
‘So what are the police going to do?’
‘There’s very little they can do. I spoke to a detective constable who made copious notes and asked if I knew who the letters could be from, but it’s ludicrous, no one I know would send them. So it’s probably some husband who objects to an answer I’ve given his wife – and as they were sent to the magazine, thankfully it appears he doesn’t know where I live.’
‘They will investigate, though?’ Bob chipped in.
‘She said they would speak to Madeline and look into it, whatever that means, but quite honestly, they’ve got nothing to go on. The envelopes were cheap white ones which could be bought almost anywhere and the letter was typed and printed from a computer. By the time it had been passed around to all and sundry at the office, there’ll be little chance of fingerprints.’ I sank deeper into the sofa. ‘I’m sorry to bother you with it, it’s probably nothing at all and I don’t want you to worry.’
‘It’s no bother, Laura. You know better than that! I’m just glad you’ve come to us. You know we’ll help in any way we can, don’t you?’ Janet was all concern.
‘Yes, and I’m grateful for it. I don’t know what I’d do without you both.’
‘Phooey! You should call upon us more often. It’s always lovely to see you and the children – you don’t call upon us often enough. When was the last time you had a night out and let us babysit?’ She all but wagged her finger at me, but in the nicest possible way.
‘Where would I go? I’m perfectly happy at home with the children and my job. In fact, I wondered if I could borrow some more books although I haven’t brought the last lot back yet?’
