a canopy outside the station, enabling travellers to get in and out of their cars without the inconvenience of getting wet. But it didn’t prevent the wind from sweeping up from the river, and Maggie cast a doubtful look at the waiting cabs.
At last deciding she couldn’t stand here indefinitely, she moved with some reluctance to the front of the queue of cars. The taxi occupying the pole position wasn’t the one she’d have chosen, if she’d had the chance, but she knew better than to approach one of the other drivers, and have him accused of jumping the queue.
But, as she bent to ask the driver how much he’d charge to take her the twenty or so miles to Bellthorpe, another car accelerated into first place. Not a taxi this time, but a mud-splattered Range Rover, with a scowling, dark-haired man at the wheel.
‘Mags!’
Neil’s curt voice arrested her, and she turned, not without a quiver of anticipation, to see her ex-husband thrusting open the passenger door from inside. The irritation she used to feel at his diminution of her name was absent, however. She was so relieved to see him; so relieved that she wouldn’t have to spend more of her hard-earned cash on a taxi fare.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, exchanging a challenging look with the driver of the cab, who had suddenly lost a passenger. ‘Get in.’ he added, as if the other man’s feelings mattered to him, but she knew of old that however resentful the driver might be he’d get no satisfaction from Neil.
‘Thanks.’
Because of the tightness of her skirt, Maggie scrambled without much dignity into the car. God, she thought, with a feeling of impatience at her ungainly entry. Had Neil brought this vehicle deliberately? It was worse than getting on a bus.
Once she was inside, however, she had to admit it was comfortable. And roomy; and it was warm, which was something she appreciated. She thrust her holdall into the back and slammed her door securely. Only then did she glance at her ex-husband as he concentrated on rejoining the stream of traffic heading towards Elswick.
It was a nerve-racking moment. It was almost five years since she’d seen him, and somehow she’d expected he would have changed. The fact that, apart from a certain narrowing of his features, he hadn’t was hardly reassuring. He was obviously living his life quite happily, without worrying about her—or Lindsey—at all.
A few specks of rain hit the windscreen and because the silence in the car was getting to her Maggie gestured towards the darkening sky. ‘Typical,’ she said. ‘It’s raining. It always rains when I come to Newcastle.’
‘Then it’s just as well the reservoirs don’t depend on you for their existence,’ remarked Neil drily. ‘We’d have had a drought.’
Maggie’s breath surged from her lungs. ‘Is that supposed to mean something?’ she demanded, hurt by his sarcasm, and Neil sighed.
‘It was supposed to be a joke,’ he said shortly, and without much sympathy. ‘Did you have a pleasant journey? Perhaps we can talk about that without you getting in a snit.’
‘I’m not in a snit.’ Maggie took a defensive breath, calming herself. ‘And—yes, I had a very pleasant journey. The train wasn’t full, and it was on time.’
‘Unlike me?’ suggested Neil, with another wry look in her direction, and Maggie wondered if it was his intention to provoke her.
‘As you say,’ she answered, without rising to his bait. ‘But that wasn’t what I meant either. I—wasn’t sure you’d meet me.’
‘As a matter of fact, I didn’t intend to,’ said Neil, his hands drawing her attention against her will. He had attractive hands, long-fingered and artistic. ‘Luke was going to meet you, but he twisted his knee this morning, so he had to cry off.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Maggie meant it. For all he was Neil’s ally, not hers, she had always had a soft spot for Luke Parry. He and Neil had grown up together in Byker, and when Neil had formed his first band Luke had played keyboard. But that was many years ago now, long before Neil had struck out on his own. In later years, Luke had been his road manager, before disillusionment—and the problems she and he were having—had driven Neil back to Tyneside. Luke was his assistant now, and part-time secretary. Their friendship had withstood the test of time.
‘No sweat,’ Neil declared now, switching on the wipers to clear the screen. ‘He probably won’t mention it, but he’s having some trouble with his hip. He had a motorcycle accident about two years ago, and none of us are as young as we were.’
‘Luke’s not old!’
‘He’s nearly forty, the same as me,’ observed Neil carelessly. ‘We’re not kids any more, Maggie. We’re almost middle-aged.’ His lips twisted. ‘Not that I’ve forgotten I can give you a few years.’
Maggie said nothing, concentrating on the wet slick of the road ahead instead of giving in to the urge to look at him again. Almost forty, she thought, which meant she was almost thirty-six. As he’d said, they weren’t kids any more. So why did she feel so immature suddenly?
‘Are you well?’ she asked, aware of the muscled length of his thigh, taut beneath its worn covering of denim. Almost involuntarily she was aware that he was wearing a loose knitted sweater beneath his leather jacket, long boots on his feet, manipulating the controls.
‘Fine,’ he answered briefly. ‘And you?’
‘Fine,’ she mimicked, without thinking. ‘Um—is Mrs Benson still at the house?’
‘No. She retired,’ he responded, and Maggie felt an enormous sense of relief. The elderly housekeeper had always resented her for being a ‘Southerner’, and it was one less person for her to confront.
‘So—so who’s looking after you now?’ she asked, and he cast her an amused look.
‘Do you really care?’ he asked, his dark eyes bright with unconscious irony. ‘As I remember it, my welfare was never high on your list of priorities, not even when we were living together.’
‘That’s not true!’
Her denial was instinctive, but although she stared at him indignantly he turned his attention back to the road. It was getting dark, so she could hardly blame him for that, but it was infuriating that he should still be able to wound her after all this time.
While she absorbed this evidence of her own weakness, they negotiated the southern outskirts of the city, and turned west onto the road for Carlisle. Signs indicating the nearness of the Roman Wall loomed at frequent intervals, and the announcement that this was ‘Catherine Cookson Country’ was vaguely familiar.
But it was a bleak landscape in the fading light of a January afternoon. Skeletal trees bent into the wind, and the few animals that had braved the weather huddled together in the corners of the fields, seeking shelter. It was the time of year, of course, but she felt a sense of isolation. Perhaps she’d lived too long in London, as Neil used to say. Perhaps she was afraid of the silence of her thoughts.
At least it wasn’t snowing, she thought gratefully, and it could have been. These border counties of England saw more than their fair share of severe winter weather. She wondered what she’d have done if it had been snowing. Bellthorpe had been known to be cut off in the past.
‘How’s
