The Daughter

by Michelle Frances

  ‘You’re late again!’ called through Kate from the kitchen as Becky shut the front door behind her.

  ‘Working,’ said Becky, going to join her mum.

  ‘Did you get the porridge oats?’

  Becky pulled a packet out of her backpack. ‘Your text arrived just as I was passing the supermarket.’

  ‘Flipping heck! Organic? How much did that cost you?’

  ‘It’s better for you.’

  ‘Not for my purse.’

  ‘My treat,’ said Becky wryly. ‘It’s actually only thirteen pence more for the same-sized bag.’

  ‘Well, I hope they taste thirteen pence better.’ Kate put them in the cupboard and turned to her daughter. ‘So, you not gonna ask?’

  Becky realized her mum had a big grin on her face. ‘What? You’ve won the lottery?’

  ‘If only.’

  ‘Pay rise?’

  ‘Guess again.’

  ‘I give up.’

  ‘I have . . .’ Kate paused and took a breath for dramatic effect, ‘. . . a date.’

  Becky stopped still. ‘A date?’ she said, as though she’d never heard the word before. ‘With a . . . man?’

  ‘What else?’ Kate waited for a response, her nerves kicking in the longer Becky took to congratulate her. It had been a long time since she’d last been asked out – nearly two years – and that hadn’t gone well. In fact, she’d considered turning this one down as her history with dating wasn’t in the least bit successful, but something had made her throw caution to the wind and say ‘yes’. Then Becky engulfed her in a hug.

  ‘Whoo! Who is he?’

  ‘His name is Tim. I met him at work.’

  ‘Colleague or customer?’

  ‘Customer. New one. That is, I’d never seen him in the shop before. He asked me for my advice on fitting window flashings. Several times.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘He came in on Monday and I talked him through it, gave him a leaflet. He ends the conversation by asking if I fancy a drink, but I told him I don’t date customers. So, he’s back in Tuesday saying he doesn’t understand the leaflet. I end up drawing him a diagram. He asks me out again. I still say no. Next thing, he’s back at the help desk this morning. With a bunch of flowers.’

  It was at this point Becky noticed the yellow roses in a vase on the kitchen counter. ‘Blimey. He’s persistent.’

  ‘Yes. I’m not sure what made me change my mind.’ Kate’s eyes wandered to the blooms. ‘Hmm. Anyway, he wasn’t wearing a ring. Got all his own hair. And he seems nice. At the very least, we can talk DIY.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘I didn’t ask for his birth certificate. Mid-thirties?’

  ‘And still single? Something wrong with him?’

  ‘Something wrong with me?’

  Becky looked chastised. ‘Sorry. Course there’s not. You’re a catch.’

  Kate raised an eyebrow.

  ‘So, when are you seeing him?’

  ‘Saturday. He’s taking me to dinner. That OK?’

  ‘Mum, of course it’s OK,’ said Becky. ‘I don’t need a babysitter anymore, you are free to live your life now that you are released of the burden of bringing me up.’

  ‘Never a burden.’

  ‘You know what I mean. I’ll probably be working late again, anyway.’

  ‘What is making your hours so long?’

  Becky paused. She didn’t like lying to her mum.

  ‘Just got a tough boss. Big story. Got to prove myself, you know how it is.’

  ‘I do. What’s the story?’

  ‘I’m sworn to secrecy.’

  ‘No one will know if you tell me.’

  ‘Mum, stop it.’

  ‘A clue?’

  ‘No. Now, why don’t you tell me more about this Tim instead.’ Becky went to the fridge, pulled out a half-drunk bottle of wine and poured two glasses in a determined effort to change the subject.

  She couldn’t tell her mum what she was investigating yet, there was still too much that could go wrong.

  THIRTEEN

  2018

  ‘Pinch me!’

  Tim did.

  ‘Not there!’ Kate laughed, slapping his hand away from her bum.

  ‘You’re most definitely not dreaming. You are one bona fide, deal-making, share-holding, arse-kicking hot lady.’

  ‘Salt and vinegar?’ asked Donny, from across the counter. His fish and chips were legendary, and Kate and Tim were out to celebrate her victory.

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Tim. ‘Tell me again how he looked when you gave him a bollocking.’

  Kate pulled a face, what she thought was part-surprise, part-bemusement, part-alarm.

  Donny frowned. ‘Was he constipated?’

  Kate snorted and indicated the two plates of food. ‘How much?’

  Donny brushed her away. ‘On the house.’

  ‘No . . .’

  ‘Don’t argue. That’s a fine thing you did today, and Becky would’ve been proud.’ He smiled. ‘We’re all proud, eh?’ and with a nod of respect he went to serve his next customer.

  They sat at a table in the window, the early-evening high-street bustle unfolding in front of them. The first workers to escape; mothers of young children herding their offspring home to bed; the older college kids with their lanyards around their necks, congregating in packs at the bus stop and outside the corner shop.

  Tim lifted a chip. ‘To safer trucks,’ he toasted, and Kate tapped his chip with one of hers.

  ‘Safer trucks,’ she echoed. The pain of losing Becky was ever present, but what she’d achieved was no mean feat and maybe it would go some way to making her heartbreak more bearable. She could tell Tim knew what she was thinking. She still marvelled at how he’d come into her life and at such a difficult time, too. Some men would have found it too much – understandably, in many ways – but he’d stuck it out. She’d sometimes wondered if there had been another reason he’d stayed around, but then chided herself for being ungracious.

  ‘Thanks, Tim.’

  ‘What for?’

  She took his hand. ‘I’m incredibly lucky. I couldn’t have done it without you.’

  ‘You know what I think? I think that’s bollocks because you’re strong and you know what you want.’ He winked at her and made his voice sultry. ‘You’re my kinda gal, Caitriona Ellis.’

  She laughed. ‘Really, you’ve got to work on that accent.’

  ‘I’ll have you know I was offered a place at Prada.’

  ‘RADA, you buffoon,’ she said, caressing his stubbled cheek.

  He held her hand against his face and, leaning across the table, kissed her long and hard.

  Kate still woke early the next morning, even though it was her day off. Force of habit after all those extra early shifts. But she didn’t just have the day off; she had the rest of the week. Imagine! She stretched in bed. Tim had left at five to go to work, and the whole day lay ahead as hers and hers alone. She decided she’d have the luxury of reading in bed and, plumping up the pillows, she settled back with a romance book she’d started several months earlier but never had time to finish. Oh, this was the life! But after a few pages, she looked around the room, twitchy. Maybe she’d just get up instead, sort out the garden or something.

  After a shower, she went downstairs to see a large note taped to the fridge: ‘ENJOY YOURSELF!’ She smiled and made breakfast, then went outside with the secateurs with the intention of cutting back some of the previous year’s growth, but not even the cathartic job of tidying the bedraggled roses could settle her. She felt strangely at a loss, nothing to work towards, nothing to strive for. This wasn’t what she’d been expecting at all. She was meant to feel settled, gratified with what she’d achieved, not have ants in her pants.

  Company. That was what she needed.

  Even though Kate allowed an extra five minutes for Iris to get out of her chair and make it to the front door, it still didn’t open. The windowsill was clear wh
ich meant that Iris had put Constanza away, so she’d clearly got up OK. She must have gone out. Maybe playing dominoes with one of her friends. Kate looked back across the street. She didn’t want to go home, back to her empty house. She stood, indecisive for a moment, and then suddenly knew she needed to get rid of some of her excess energy and headed for the bus stop.

  After a vigorous walk around the lake, Kate wandered amongst the trees, instinctively heading for ‘Becky’s’. She stopped and looked up. Yep, it was still there. Now what? She contemplated a walk the opposite way around the park, but it didn’t appeal. She looked up at the tree again and then put her hands on the lowest branch and heaved herself up. Her feet came too and, before she knew it, she was surveying the park from a metre off the ground. The impulsiveness helped ease her unsettled feeling and she had a little giggle and carried on climbing, higher and higher still, giddy on the madness, the recklessness of it, until she was a good four metres up.

  She sat on a horizontal bough and caught her breath. Looked towards the ground but felt dizzy and so quickly lifted her head. She’d figure out how to get down in a minute. Up here, where the warm spring breeze tickled the new leaves, she felt a release, free from the restlessness that had been binding her earlier. She clutched the trunk, smelt its earthy reassurance. There was a hollow just below her waist and she realized she was at the spot that Becky used to call the fairy home. She instinctively looked for the knife and fork, then remembered they were no longer there – Becky had brought them down when she’d changed it to a parking spot for alien ships. She glanced in again, wishing some part of her daughter was still there, and it was then she saw a bit of clear plastic. A bag tucked in the hollow. For a moment she just looked at it, puzzled, then reached in and pulled it out. It was sealed, a small clear bag that could be used for sandwiches, only in this one there was a memory stick.

  She suddenly wanted to get down. Pocketing the bag, she slowly descended, finding it much harder than going up. Retrieving her jacket from the foot of the tree, she headed back across the park.

  The bag sat by the kettle while she made tea, something to stall the opening of it; a bracing tactic. She wondered whose it was. It might not be Becky’s, probably wasn’t, she told herself sternly. The memory stick probably didn’t even work – had been damaged by months, maybe even years, of cold and wet.

  She took it into the living room and plugged it into the drive of her ancient beast of a computer. The memory stick appeared as an icon on her screen. It had no name. She double-clicked and the computer chattered and whirled and then a box popped up. In it was a single file, entitled ‘R’. She clicked again. A document opened up and on it was a list of names, addresses and phone numbers. A glance told her she knew none of them, but the patterns of their postcodes looked familiar. They all started with TN – in fact they were all in the same place: Ramsbourne in East Sussex. She scrolled further down but the document stubbornly stopped moving. There was nothing else there.

  What was it? Was it Becky’s? Who were all these people? She didn’t know the answers to any of these questions and, frankly, probably never would. Unless . . . No, that was a mad idea. A few more clicks on the computer and she discovered that a train ran to Ramsbourne every thirty minutes from London Victoria. The journey took an hour. Only an hour! But it was silly, pointless really. What was she going to do when she got there? But what was she going to do here . . . It was the country. Be nice to get out of London, enjoy the sunshine. Fresh air! It could be a day trip. A nice little excursion to the countryside. Before she changed her mind again, she took a single slurp of the tea, grabbed her bag and headed out.

  FOURTEEN

  The train-door button flashed and beeped as it opened. Kate was the only person to get off in her carriage and as she looked each way down the platform, trying to locate the exit, she saw only three other people: a sprightly-looking retired couple kitted out in rambling gear, maps in plastic pouches around their necks, and a girl in her late teens, long dark hair swinging as she ran down some steps to what Kate saw was the car park. The girl leapt into a small silver Mini that was driven by a woman who looked like she could be her mother and they were off. When Kate looked round again, she saw the ramblers had gone too, swallowed up into the green. A public-footpath sign, down the side of the station, was the only indication of where they might have vanished.

  It was quiet. Deathly quiet. As she walked through the ticket office, she saw the station was unmanned – off-peak hours most likely didn’t warrant the expense of a salary – and it unnerved her that there was no one to talk to, no one to help her find her way on this wild goose chase she’d embarked on. Looking around, it was apparent the station was not in the village centre. It seemed to be miles from anything. An empty road passed in front of her, disappearing into trees and more countryside. She got out her ancient, cracked phone to locate herself in the maps app – but there was no signal. What should she do? Walk? Which direction? For a moment, she contemplated going over to the opposite platform and taking the next train back home. Then a ladybird landed on her arm and Kate was buoyed by its arrival. Two tiny blue butterflies skitted across the heads of some cow parsley growing by the perimeter fence. A blue tit watched her from the ticket office windowsill. This place was beautiful.

  ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed as the ladybird flew off but, as she followed its direction, she saw up ahead a small railway outbuilding with a sign outside that lifted her heart: ‘Taxis’.

  As she walked towards it, she saw that it, too, looked ominously quiet. The door was shut tight. Then she heard a toilet flush, a whistling and the hut door flew open.

  ‘Whoa!’ said a man, clutching his chest. ‘You’ll give me a heart attack.’

  Kate wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. He’d said it lightly enough, but he was grey and tired-looking, appearing to be in his fifties but she suspected he was younger.

  ‘Sorry. No harm intended . . .’

  ‘None done.’

  ‘Oh, good.’ She paused, wondering if he was the right person to ask. ‘Can I get a taxi?’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  ‘I need to get to Hawthorne Lane.’

  This seemed to make him even more tired. ‘Minimum fare five pounds,’ he said pointedly.

  Kate smiled. ‘Fine.’ She followed him to his car, a care-worn, middle-of-the-road estate, and got into the back, opening the window to waft away the overpowering smell of the cheap cardboard air freshener. She caught snatches of birdsong as they drove down narrow country roads. It was beguiling, idyllic, but she couldn’t fully enjoy the journey as her mind was on her destination. She’d picked the first address on the list for no other reason than it was the first, but she still had no idea what she was going to do or say when she got there. Nor if she’d be welcome. She half hoped the residents would be out, then she could just enjoy the scenery and head back.

  ‘What number?’ asked the cab driver.

  She needed time to compose herself. ‘Could you just drop me at the end, please?’

  He glanced at her in the mirror but said nothing, and two minutes later she was stepping out of the car. She handed a fiver through the window. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No problem. Here.’ He gave her a business card with ‘Rob’s Cabs’ on it. ‘In case you need to come back.’

  She nodded, and then he was gone. She listened to the car speed away from the distant junction, then listened again. Nothing. Nothing except a persistent bird chirruping. Somewhere far off she thought she could hear a lawnmower, but it suddenly stopped, and she wondered if she’d imagined it.

  A sign – dusty with green mildew – a few metres from where she stood told her she was in Hawthorne Lane. Large oaks gripped the verge, their still-small leaves dicing up the weak sunlight as it hit the road. Kate pulled her old leather jacket tighter and started to walk. The houses were tucked back from the edge of the road down daffodil-lined driveways; the happy yellow tops of the flowers head-banged in the breeze. She could smell the war
m pleasant scent of an open fire from a nearby home. The first house was number five – something that struck her as odd. Where were numbers one to four? She carried on further; each house she passed was different from the previous one, each individual and characterful. But they were all old with a solidity that exuded comfort and security. They seemed wise, if houses could be considered as such, having laid their sturdy mortared arms around centuries of families.

  Number twelve was particularly charming – a reddish-bricked detached house at the end of a gravel drive. A bright-green front lawn was the backdrop for a tree bursting with delicate pink-and-white blossom. Yellow painted shutters lay flat against the brickwork. This was it. Kate instinctively sighed. It was a place anyone would want to live in. As did Grace and Nick Stamp – or at least it was their names on the document she’d found. Were they still there? Did they know Becky? It was now or never, Kate decided, and she walked up to the glossy black front door. Rang the bell. There was no turning back now. Not unless she made a run for it. The silliness of this made her smile and it was still on her face as the door was opened by a woman in her mid-thirties with short, pixie-like blonde hair. Kate instantly knew her visit was unwelcome, an inconvenience. The woman looked harassed.

  ‘Yes?’ she said brusquely.

  ‘Hi. I’m . . . I was wondering if you might be Grace Stamp?’

  ‘Yes,’ the woman said again, and then while Kate hesitated, ‘what do you want?’

  ‘Um . . . I was wondering . . .’ started Kate again, ‘do you by any chance know a young woman called Becky Ellis?’

  Grace frowned, partly suspicious, partly just thinking, then said: ‘The journalist?’

  Kate smiled, a mix of joy, relief. A connection.

  ‘Who are you? Are you from the same paper?’

  Kate was about to correct Grace when a small boy appeared at her hip. He was bald. Her smiled slipped.

  ‘Because if you are, you can forget it. Yes, I do know Becky, but I haven’t seen her for over a year. I’m not in the mood for time-wasters, for being picked up and dropped whenever it suits you. In fact, you can leave right now,’ she added wearily and started to close the door.