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by Penny Parkes

Graham Wilson shook his head, jowls wobbling in a weirdly gross and fascinating way, a mere deflation of the vibrant man he’d once been. Except, it appeared that nobody had told him that. He still tried to work it, a twinkly glance only hollow, an indulgent smile marred by prison dentistry.

  Still a chancer, but without the tools of his trade.

  ‘I can’t believe she would do that to you, Anna. To her own child. We all knew she had issues – addiction, depression, mood swings – but I just thought she’d get help, you know? That sending you away was temporary…’ He shrugged, happy to confer the blame entirely onto his absent wife.

  Anna found herself almost speechless with the injustice of it all. There was nothing that Graham Wilson had just told her about her mother that she didn’t already know, hadn’t already judged and found wanting; it was the fact that he seemed to absolve himself of any role in Anna’s abandonment.

  ‘I had two parents, you know,’ she said.

  ‘Anna, Anna – you know I had no choice, love. The whole thing was a botch from start to finish. I should never have been inside. You know how much fun we had together, love. Do you honestly think I would have given that up for anything?’ He shook his head fervently, again with the jowls, and a waft of stale coffee on his breath. ‘When a man gets put away for something he didn’t do, it’s always the family that pays the price, but your mum couldn’t handle it.’

  He nodded, as though that was that, and they could now put the past behind them and move on to talking about the weather and the state of the roads.

  ‘What’s the saying? Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me?’ Anna said quietly. ‘I know, Dad. Social Services keep track. So the whole innocent routine isn’t going to work on me, because I know that this is your third sentence. I know that you were out on bail for a few months, but you couldn’t even stay straight long enough to pick up the phone.’

  He sat there, outlined against the thick glazed windows, his mouth agape.

  Were they bullet-proof, Anna wondered, her mind adept at providing distraction.

  ‘We deserved better than the life we had,’ he said. ‘I was just trying to make our lives better. This wasn’t what I wanted.’

  ‘Funnily enough,’ Anna replied, ‘I could say the same thing.’ She forced herself to look at him, really look at the man who was her father, and felt nothing but a nauseated shame that she had wasted so many years putting him on a pedestal, believing the hype he’d been so adept at building around himself.

  She stood up. ‘Thanks for the invitation,’ she said. ‘And good luck. It seems okay here.’

  He remained seated. ‘This wasn’t what I wanted,’ he said again, never one to take responsibility for anything he’d done in his life. Some things never changed.

  But it wasn’t until Anna was waiting for her phone and her wallet to be returned to her that she realised one disturbing thing: in the whole conversation, with all its revelations, he hadn’t once said sorry.

  Chapter 30

  Bath, 2019

  Ignoring the concerned looks from Jack at the next table and the waitress heading over with her food, Anna had shoved a tenner under her saucer to cover the bill, and left the café, Norbert protesting every step of the way.

  She wasn’t sure if she was angry at herself for failing, or for trying in the first place – if the very definition of insanity was to repeat behaviours over and over again while expecting a different result, then surely she now qualified? When it came to writing, at least. Creativity was a fickle mistress, yet she craved its comfort constantly. That feeling of flow, when time had wings and meals were forgotten, carried a seductive pull that she had never forgotten, even as she spent months trying to capture it again.

  But the last thing she needed was to be in a public place while she felt so raw and exposed. She should have known better.

  The fresh air lifted her from the furious haze that had driven her from the café and she looked around, a little dis-orientated, a part of her mind still caught up in the short story she’d been writing – the story with a mind, and memories, of its own.

  Across the road, illuminated by the morning sunshine, was a bookshop, its livery well-aged, but its display windows packed with beguiling covers and the promise of distraction. Tugging on a reluctant Norbert’s lead, she strode forward with singular focus.

  A car horn blared at her as she hopped up onto the pavement and she waved a hand distractedly in apology.

  It was only when she reached the bookshop, pushed open the door so that the tiny brass bell rang out to announce her arrival, that she realised Norbert might not be welcome in this treasure trove of literary delights.

  ‘Morning!’ called a young willowy woman from behind the cash register, her boho look somehow elevated in muted layers of linens – Bath style. ‘Oh, hi Norbert,’ she smiled. ‘It’s okay, he can come in. He’s one of our best customers!’ The woman laughed and turned back to her order book, and Anna felt a moment of ambivalence…

  She looked so lovely – kind and insightful – that Anna had half hoped to chat, to pass the time of day, maybe ask for a recommendation. The other half of her, the half that was still reeling from reliving her past, albeit in fiction form, was grateful to be left in peace to browse. Norbert snuffled around, dragging Anna over to a small side table where a bowl of dog biscuits sat next to a nest of china cups and a tea urn.

  ‘You really do know your way around, don’t you, Norbs?’ Anna said, passing him down a small bone-shaped treat.

  And just like that, Anna felt at home.

  Bookshops, books, libraries – they had been the constant of Anna’s young, turbulent life and she’d lost count of the number of times she’d sought refuge there. And today was no different.

  She picked up copies of Elizabeth Strout, Elena Ferrante and Alice Hoffman, sitting down cross-legged in a corner, with Norbert snuggled in her lap. She felt her heart rate drop and her breathing steady just from the aroma of the printed pages; like an addict, she inhaled.

  Running her fingers over the shining heron on the Hoffman cover, she wondered again whether her own dreams of being published were simply unrealistic. Like being an Olympic athlete, or a Nobel Prize winner. Were they simply the naive dreams of youth?

  But she looked around her, at the crowded shelves and tables laden with books, and simply couldn’t allow herself to concede the notion.

  It was possible.

  Certainly not outlandish.

  And she had talent – even if her own self-doubt made that difficult to believe sometimes. Surely her professors at Oxford wouldn’t have been so liberal with their praise simply to spare the feelings of the girl from the foster home?

  There had been a time when she’d truly believed that to be the case though, as if every A grade was a bolstering vote of sympathy. Until she’d grown a little older, a little wiser, and realised that very few people on the planet actually cared where she came from. And if they did, it was more likely so that they themselves could have a clearer idea of their own place in the world, in the social hierarchy.

  Once you refused to engage with the ‘Oh, you must know Charlie?’ and the ‘The Shaws, from Cheltenham – you must have crossed paths?’ then life became a lot simpler.

  If nothing else, Anna had allowed herself to be judged on her own merits; there was little chance of nepotism or advantage. She had to live and die by her own efforts.

  Cradling the deep-blue Hoffman in her arms, the shiny heron already a symbol of hope and resilience, she could see the rest of her day more clearly. Eleanor’s chaise longue, looking out over the rooftops of Bath, with a book in her hand and Norbert on her lap.

  There were worse ways to spend a day.

  She leaned back and began to read, Norbert’s snores gently vibrating against her denim-clad thighs. From time to time she glanced up at the shop manager, ready to signal her intent to purchase, to see off the almost standard ‘this is a bookshop not a library’ type comment she’d heard
over the years. But the woman seemed equally as chilled as Anna herself was beginning to feel, offering only an indulgent smile when Norbert’s snores ratcheted up a level.

  The tiny brass bell above the door rang and Anna glanced up instinctively. A woman with sleek, expensive highlights, a fancy designer handbag and an immaculately dressed child walked into the shop, her flawless face marred only by the petulant look of boredom. Sharp suit, sharper tongue. She seemed to have forgotten that independent bookshops danced to a different beat than the boardroom where she obviously held court.

  ‘Can you tell me where to find the book about those foreign women who hunt with birds?’ she said, not bothering with hello or, apparently, please. She simply stood there, tapping her foot impatiently as the manager finished up on the phone.

  ‘It’s a children’s book,’ she added tightly, as though surely that should have been obvious from her sketchy description alone.

  ‘And do you happen to know the title, or the author?’ The woman with the softly spoken voice and gentle smile held her ground behind the counter.

  ‘It’s blue,’ the little girl chimed in, with equally clipped vowels, yet an apologetic tone suggested that, even at that tender age, she knew her mother was being incredibly rude.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ the bookshop manager said helplessly, ‘without a little more information, I don’t know the book you’re talking about. It’s a novel, I’m assuming, so why don’t we go and look in the children’s section? Perhaps you’ll recognise the cover when you see it?’ She directed all her words at her customer, the small girl, who clearly had her heart set on a special, particular book.

  The mother sighed, clearly put out. ‘We don’t have time for this today, Aria.’ She tugged at the little girl’s hand, ready to leave. ‘We can order it online when we get home.’

  Who were these people, Anna thought, that they could behave this way with no thought or consideration for the woman standing right in front of her? Stylish, attractive, clearly loaded – yet her unshakeable belief in her own self-importance made her ugly. It was a strange kind of epiphany, hot on the heels of Liza Lyndell, as the cogs in Anna’s brain rearranged: finally, irrevocably, convinced that shouting louder, or with more confidence, did not in fact make you a better, or more successful, person.

  She had no desire to be like that woman at all; she would so much rather be cross-legged on the floor in her scruffiest jeans with a dog on her lap and a book in her hand.

  Anna’s heart went out to the small girl whose face had fallen in disappointment, her longing so obvious, even to a passing stranger. And Anna would wager that she would far rather have a stack of lovely new books than the designer booties she wore that clearly cost more than an armful of hardbacks.

  Feeling all Kathleen Kelly, and smiling as she remembered one of her favourite scenes in You’ve Got Mail, Anna swallowed hard and found her voice. ‘It’s called Sky Song,’ she said. ‘The book about the eagle huntress, it’s called Sky Song.’

  It was worth the filthy look she earned from the mother with one foot out of the door just to see the little girl’s face light up.

  ‘Of course! And if I recall, we even happen to have a very special copy signed by the author.’ The bookshop manager shot Anna a grateful smile.

  Anna could only hope there was a chunky mark-up on a signed hardback. It would go some way to ameliorating the rudeness from earlier.

  With the mother still standing in the doorway, there had been no bell to alert her to a new arrival and the first Anna knew of Callie’s presence was when she plonked herself down on the floor beside her. School skirt riding up her thighs and laddered tights, Callie’s purple hair was luminous.

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to be at school?’ Anna said. ‘Not that it isn’t lovely to see you, of course.’

  Callie grinned. ‘Would you believe it if I said I’d been sent on an errand by my English teacher?’

  ‘Probably not,’ said Anna, as Callie scooped a dozy Norbert into her arms and gave him a flurry of kisses. ‘But then, it’s hardly my place to say, is it?’ She frowned. ‘Although I’m a bit confused about why you’d play hookie and then fight about your right to stay at school. Are you just being contrary?’

  ‘Callie, I’ve got your parcel for Mrs Redfern almost ready – give me five minutes to find the study guides too?’ the bookshop manager called across.

  Anna laughed. ‘Okay, now I believe you.’ She stood up and walked over to the till, the Hoffman coming home with her for an afternoon of decadent reading and relaxation.

  If Kate couldn’t be proud of her writing again, perhaps Emily would be thrilled that she really was taking a break?

  Walking out of the shop with Callie, the flurry of panic from earlier that morning already felt like a thing of the past, an over-reaction at best. ‘If you want to hang out at Eleanor’s to do your homework this evening, that’s fine by me,’ Anna offered. Callie’s easy conversation was fun, hardly taxing, yet somehow eye-opening to how a different generation saw their place in the world.

  ‘Only if you let me cook. I do a mean carbonara. Or a Thai curry?’ Callie countered, looking so much younger in her delight at the invitation.

  ‘Deal. Now bugger off back to school, okay, because—’

  There was a sudden loud bang and a shriek, and Anna turned just in time to see an older lady thrown to the side of the road, her walking stick snapped cleanly in two, where she’d been clipped by a large red bus. The hot smell of scorched rubber filled the air, although it was obvious that the driver’s emergency stop hadn’t been quite fast enough.

  Anna thrust her new book and Norbert’s lead into Callie’s hands and ran across to the old lady, talking to her gently the whole time, as she knelt down in the gutter beside her. A flurry of passersby were calling 999, but for Anna her entire focus was on soothing the distraught old lady, who was clearly confused, possibly concussed, and grabbing out her hands in an attempt to climb up.

  ‘The ambulance is on its way,’ Anna said several times. ‘Stay still if you can, you’ve taken quite a tumble.’ She reached into her pocket for a sealed packet of tissues and pulled a wodge out, gently pressing them against the free-flowing wound on her temple. ‘I’m Anna.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, really? I’m Anna too,’ said the old lady, their momentary connection distracting her from the blood running down her face. ‘Annabel, officially.’

  ‘They’ll be here in a minute,’ Anna said, hearing the sirens echoing off the Georgian buildings as they surged ever closer. She smiled, reassuringly. ‘It’s lovely to meet you, Annabel.’

  The lady bit down on her lip, seemingly suddenly aware of how prone and distressed she must look, lying in the gutter, battered, bruised, possibly broken. ‘I wish it were under better circumstances.’

  ‘Me too,’ Anna replied.

  Watching the care and gentleness of the paramedics as they soothed Annabel and settled her onto a gurney made Anna feel better about stepping back. It was funny to think that this lady, her namesake, had lived her whole life under the same moniker yet a world apart. Still, it wasn’t lost on her that amongst the belongings tumbled into the dirt of the gutter was a canvas bag filled with library books. Picking them up, she handed them to one of the ambulance crew and stepped back to rejoin Callie.

  ‘You were great,’ Callie said. ‘So calm. I was all panicky and freaked out by the blood and stuff, but you were – well – you were brilliant.’

  Anna attempted a smile, but didn’t think it would help to say that she’d been equally unnerved by the pulsing headwound. Her overriding emotion, though, had been empathy for the old lady, for Annabel’s complete and total vulnerability.

  A young constable walked over to where they were standing, folding back the cover of his little black notebook and eyeing Norbert warily as though he were a trained attack dog. ‘Ma’am? If I could just ask you to step away from the dog for a moment? I gather you were first on the scene? Quite the hero, I’m told.’

  �
�Not really,’ Anna said, sharing an amused look with Callie at his obvious discomfort. ‘But I was with the lady – Annabel her name is – while we waited for the ambulance.’

  ‘So, your name and address to get us started then, please?’ he said officiously.

  ‘Anna, Anna Wilson. And I’m staying at Flat—’

  ‘Er, no, Ms Wilson. Your address. Your permanent address, if you please.’

  Anna paused, watching the flicker of irritation on his face, a face still mottled by youthful acne and insincerity.

  ‘Well, I’m staying at—’

  ‘Ma’am,’ he said sternly. ‘I need your permanent residence if I’m to take your statement as a witness.’

  ‘Right,’ said Anna, glancing back over her shoulder, seeing the concern on Callie’s face. ‘The thing is, you see – well – I don’t have one.’

  The pitiful look he gave her made Anna feel sick. Barely out of school, in all likelihood, who was he to make judgements about her life, yet judge her he did. He gave her a quick once-over, no doubt taking in her smart trainers, her blow-dried hair, and the clean, well-groomed dog he apparently so disliked. Disdain and confusion clouded together as he looked down his nose at her, all mention of her earlier good deeds forgotten.

  ‘No address?’ he clarified. ‘Right,’ he sighed. ‘I’ll just put you down as “homeless” then, shall I?’

  Chapter 31

  Bath, 2019

  She shouldn’t have let it get to her.

  Callie’s take on the situation was probably more wholesome, if a little disrespectful; she’d so easily dismissed the young constable as a ‘snot-nosed little prick’ and got on with her day.

  But still his look of derision and determination to categorise her had irritated Anna beyond reason. She’d stayed behind, insisting that he change the word ‘homeless’ to read ‘no fixed abode.’

  A distinction without a difference, in all probability, but it meant something to Anna.

  It also seemed to mean something to her that she not only shared a name with the poor lady, but that only an hour or so before, Anna herself had blithely, distractedly, crossed that same busy junction, to a cacophony of horns. She pulled Norbert into her arms and muttered apologies into his fur, that sickening lurch of what might have been suddenly a very real possibility.