Departures

depart: verb. 1. leave 2. differ or deviate

[a story in 7 parts]

Part 1-Monday

A fitful breeze blew showers of pink and white blossom onto the paths and gardens along Orchard Way in the early morning. Blue sky and sunshine promised a beautiful spring day for the occupants of the houses that meandered along the old farm lane. Now it was a tarmacadamed suburban road. On the east side, graceful Edwardian villas with bay windows, black and white tiled front paths and stone porches, faced smaller, meaner 1930's semi's with quirky circular windows by each front door.

Number 103 Orchard Way was hiding a secret that pink and golden morning behind it's red brick and slightly peeling woodwork, as some of it's residents began to stir. At 7am a young man dressed in a jeans and a white T shirt climbed up the basement steps from his flat. His shirt proclaimed his love of New York, a city he had never visited, as he got into his small white van and drove away, yawning. Inside the basement flat his partner, Kelly, was coping with the usual breakfast-before-school for Tom aged 7 and Kaylee aged 3.

At 7.30am, Stephen Rowland stretched out an arm to silence his alarm. In his kitchen, showered and dressed, he drank his coffee leaning against the sink and listening to the muffled screaming from below. Kelly was trying to get Kaylee dressed for playgroup and as usual the little girl was resisting fiercely, considering clothes of any kind a cruel and unusual punishment. Once Stephen had emptied and rinsed his mug, he donned his suit jacket, grabbed his briefcase and left to catch his train. On the next two floors, no one stirred and all was quiet.

Gloria Mason got off the early bus at Victoria Road opposite the grocers to pick up some shopping for her employer. As she waited to pay she passed the time of day with the owner and his wife and then turned towards Orchard Way, with two bulging bags gripped in her hands. She was a small, rotund woman with grey, curly hair, a snub nose and a cheerful disposition. Life hadn't been easy but she was through the worst and had found a way to be content with her lot. She had raised three children alone as a young widow, worked at lots of part time, poorly paid jobs to supplement her widows pension and now managed on her State Pension. She adored her four grandchildren but hadn't retired completely as her employer, Mrs Bradley, was elderly and Gloria couldn't bring herself to abandon her.

As Gloria approached number 103 she saw Kelly ushering Tom up the basement steps as she helped little Kaylee to climb them. "Morning sweetheart," Gloria said in answer to Kaylee's triumphant smile as she reached the top, "hello Kelly, beautiful day." Kelly smiled briefly before her face returned to it's usual harassed look. "If I get these two dropped off, I might get a chance to look and see. Tom! Don't kick the wall in your school shoes! See you later, Gloria..." Kelly shoo-ed her children along as she gave a backhanded wave. "Bye dear." Gloria answered.

Inside, the house was silent. It was never a noisy house, the walls were thick and the doors solid wood, but today it seemed very still. As she climbed, Gloria became conscious of a smell. Something sweet and not very pleasant. As she reached the landing on the first floor it was very strong but all was quiet so she continued upward. She produced a key to gain entry into the second floor flat and once inside, the smell was gone. "Morning Mrs Bradley," Gloria called as she went into the kitchen with the shopping. She glanced at the clock and began to unpack the bags. There were a few dirty dishes and cups in the sink so she ran water to wash up. "I'll get the kettle on..." she called towards the open door. While it came to a boil, she put the shopping away and then set out a tea tray with a small teapot and a cup and saucer. Mrs Bradley liked her tea served 'properly'; Gloria didn't mind as long as it was hot and sweet so she popped a teabag into a mug for herself. While the tea brewed she washed up and then carried the tray to the sitting room. As she passed the bedroom she noticed the pillows on the floor; that usually meant poor Mrs Bradley had had a bad night. "I should think you're ready for your tea," Gloria said as she put the tray on the table. "Shall I pour? And would you like a piece of toast?" She turned to the room. To her surprise, it was empty. Mrs Bradley was a creature of habit and was always sitting in the easy chair by 8.30 every morning. Gloria checked the bathroom and bedroom; both were empty. She knew the kitchen was empty so that only left the back room. Gloria recrossed the sitting room, once the master bedroom, and entered what was now a book and sewing room. That was empty too.

Very worried, Gloria wavered between the phone and the door. Call for help or look for Mrs Bradley in the rest of the house? Who could she phone and what could she say? Where would a frail, elderly, reclusive old woman go? She moved along the landing hoping to see her lady returning from wherever she had been, but landing and stairs were empty. Gloria took two steps across the floor in an agony of indecision and spun round slowly as though the answer would be written on the wall somewhere. She noticed the door to the attics as her eyes travelled around the space. She swivelled back. The door didn't look right; it was at a slightly different angle. As she approached she realised it was ajar. The narrow twisted stairway was dusty, as was the narrow corridor under the eaves. Three small attic rooms led off this and Gloria checked each one. The first two were full of old bedsteads, wardrobes and other heavy furniture from the house's heyday when Mrs Bradley was a girl. In the third room were all the smaller treasures from the house and heirlooms from Mrs Bradley's parents and granparents; porcelain, bronze figures, lamps; delicately carved boxes, writing slopes, two french chairs, a davenport and several Georgian tables as well as a few valuable paintings. Lying across the Indian rug spread on the floor was the sprawled body of Olivia Bradley. Next to her was an upturned table and next to that, a heavy lamp. Underneath her snowy white hair was a pool of thick, dark blood.

Gloria stumbled backwards, both hands over her mouth as she unconsciously made distressed mewing sounds. She backed away. Once in the corridor panic gripped her and she groped her way down to the next floor on shaking legs. Slamming the attic door shut in case some nameless, formless horrific thing should have followed her she continued down, down to the street. Completely terrified and horrified she gasped and shook as she clung to the basement railings, wondering why the whole street was deserted. She could hear a noise, realised that she was still making the same, incoherent wails and made an effort to silence herself. Over her gasps she heard footsteps and looked up. A flourescent jacket, a uniform and a helmet. Gloria registered help and dashed out of the garden to grip the policeman's arm gabbling and pleading.

PCSO Charlton was more than startled, he thought he was about to be murdered by a madwoman. Wrenching his arm free he tried to put some distance between them whilst trying to understand what the crazy woman was saying. When he finally understood he felt faint. In the six months since he took the job the most he had done was issue an on-the-spot fine to a girl who'd dropped a fag end on the path and warned two skateboarders to stay out of the car park. The rest of the time he'd spent chatting to shop keepers and sweet old ladies. Gloria was now crying as shock set in and PCSO Charlton knew about shock, it had been included in his basic training. He led Gloria over to the low wall separating the garden from the street and sat her down. Then he remembered he had a radio so he called it in feeling like a real policeman. His supervisor promised to send someone round which he was very happy about, then instructed him to wait at the address until they arrived which he was less happy about. He sat next to Gloria and waited for help.