The Wish List of Albie Young (ARC)

by Ruby Hummingbird

  The woman with the pram left, more people came and went. The waitress lingered by her table, cloth in hand, as Maria averted her gaze. She knew she had to leave. She’d been sat there far too long. With alarm, she felt tears push behind her eyes as she prepared to stand up. Something had changed today. Thursday’s shine was well and truly dulled.

  The weather seemed to reflect Maria’s mood as she left the café in the direction of home: the sun sat stubbornly behind a bank of thick grey cloud, the street mostly in shadow, pigeons pecking at detritus on the ground. A knot of worry was tightening in her stomach as she wandered, unseeing, down the road, and gave a jump as a cyclist rang his bell, swearing under his breath as he passed her, too close to the kerb. Careful.

  Albie hadn’t done this before, he had always been prompt. More often than not he was the one sat there with the tea and cake waiting. She liked the days when she beat him to it, paid for them both, she liked seeing his face, the mock exasperation. Something twisted inside her as she recalled that familiar expression. His heavy brows drawn together, his normally dancing eyes rolling at her, the twitch of his lips. She found herself coming to a complete stop on the pavement, a woman behind her almost barrelling into her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Maria muttered as the woman skirted round her with a small huff of annoyance.

  Where to go now? Home? She imagined herself in the apartment, her careful make-up, her hair, the floral scent of the bath she had sunk into that morning. Normally, Thursday evenings were a relaxing joy: a small supper, a chance to replay the conversations from the café, a warmth in her stomach that made her rifle through her LP collection, choose something upbeat. She’d open a half bottle of rosé and take the glass out onto her small balcony on a warm evening. But not tonight. Tonight, she knew the knot would get bigger and tighter until it filled her up entirely. Where was he?

  She blinked: it couldn’t be? Had all her thoughts conjured him? Ahead of her, through a thin crowd of people, she glimpsed a beige check flat cap, brown tweed shoulders. She started walking again, eyes on the hat, not wanting to lose it moving in between passers-by. Apologising as she weaved her way between people, feeling her hands slippery on her handbag, she could see grey tendrils of hair curled over the man’s collar. The hat had stopped and Maria held her breath as she gained on it. Then, in slow motion, he turned, glancing over his shoulder before crossing the road. This man had paler skin, thinner eyebrows, a straight nose, no familiar bump where Albie had broken his playing squash years ago.

  She felt her whole body sag at the sight. Someone else muttered behind her, a car horn blared, a child called out to its mother. The sounds of the street were loud around her, everyone busy, busy, no time, looking at smartphones, chatting, quick footsteps. Maria had never felt more alone.

  Perhaps he had forgotten their usual arrangement or had just arrived at the café and she hadn’t waited long enough. Why hadn’t she sat there another half an hour? She wavered for a few more moments, feeling utterly undecided. Should she have left a note for him in the café perhaps? Should she go back there? She imagined Amrit’s kind face, would she understand?

  The sun seemed to break through the cloud for a moment, a streak of light slicing the road in front of her, and Maria suddenly recalled a napkin Albie had once handed her: a napkin with his home telephone number written on it. He had told her to call him if she ever needed to postpone their tea and cake. She had never rung him, had never found the excuse to do so. She certainly would never have postponed their meeting. She must find that napkin.

  The thought made her footsteps lighter, a renewed purpose now, something to cling to. Her legs were aching as she pushed her way into her apartment block and started up the first flight of stairs. Her hands fumbled with the key to her front door and she cursed uncharacteristically as it slipped out of her grip.

  Flustered, she moved through her apartment to the side table in the hallway, past leaflets about takeaways, local restaurants she had never frequented, a florist, an electrician. No napkin. She tapped at her teeth, hair mussed up, make-up slipping. She knew she looked a mess, didn’t care. In the kitchen she removed the stack of paper from the side, a place she used for the things she would recycle. With a sinking feeling she knew the napkin wouldn’t be there. What had she done with it? You silly old woman, think, don’t start losing your memory now. She would have wanted to have kept it safe. She would have put it somewhere safe. The mantelpiece was empty, the bedside table in her bedroom was empty bar the single photograph in the frame. She didn’t want to look at that now.

  Slumped on her sofa, she put her head in her hands, feeling completely hopeless. Tears pricked her eyes. She didn’t want to cry but she didn’t understand how the day had taken this terrible turn. Thursdays had been her refuge for so long. How could she have misplaced the one thing that might help her uncover what had happened to Albie: her Thursday friend, her only real friend?

  She pressed her two hands to her eyes, leaving mascara marks on her palms, and swallowed. A long evening ahead. A long evening of wondering, worrying. And then, from across the room she saw it: her small bookshelf, her books arranged haphazardly. And she remembered: the napkin, the book she had taken that day. She sprang up, feeling fifty years younger in that second, and crossed the room. She was already scanning the titles, her eyes narrowed slightly – she didn’t have time to fetch her glasses from her handbag. It had been a midnight blue, she thought, as one finger moved over the spines. There! She pulled the book out, her heart racing as she turned the cover over to reveal the small square napkin nestled like a precious bookmark in its folds. His name and the digits of his phone number, centred neatly in his slanted hand:

  Albert Young 01765 890572.

  She wanted to kiss the napkin but hugged it to herself instead, not wanting to smudge the numbers with her lipstick. She returned to the sofa and pulled the small round side table nearer to her, the large telephone on top of it. With a shaking hand she dialled the number written on the napkin, feeling nerves leaping and jittering in her stomach, excited to hear his voice, the hint of his West Country accent in his vowels. The ringtone sounded and she licked her lips. Why hadn’t she fetched a glass of water? Too late now, of course. She cleared her throat, the ringtones continued. Another, and another. No answer, no one picking up. Then a click and the voice she had been waiting to hear, but this time it was a pre-recorded voice: an answerphone.

  ‘You’ve reached the answerphone of Albert Young, I can’t get to the phone right now but please do leave a mes—’

  With a jolt Maria replaced the receiver.

  Albie wasn’t home.

  And with a horrible certainty she knew something must have happened to him.

  She always smelt of apples and the outdoors and I loved her so much, sometimes I thought my heart might burst with it. One night she had appeared in the doorway to my bedroom, dragging her cream blanket in one hand and holding a book in the other.

  ‘Rabbit book,’ she had demanded, moving across the room to me lying on the bed.

  I struggled up on one elbow. ‘Again?’

  She nodded solemnly, her round eyes enormous in her tiny, smooth face.

  I laughed, my thoughts fading as they always did when she was there. ‘Come on then, darling, hop up here.’

  ‘Like a rabbit,’ she said delightedly, bouncing over and managing to drop the book in her enthusiasm.

  Scooping it and her up, I settled her on my lap, relishing the scent of apples and baby shampoo, her wispy hair tickling my chin as she rested back on me. I loved the feel of her tiny body against me, completely trusting.

  I opened the book, seeing the familiar inscription ‘From Dad’ and felt a twinge of pain. Hastily moving to the start of the book, I began, ‘One day there was a rabbit, a very special sort of rabbit…’

  She was sucking her thumb, the blanket drawn up to her face, our hearts beating at the same time. Sometimes I felt sick with love for her, all-consuming. I carried on reading as
she snuggled next to me.

  Where had those days gone?

  Two

  Maria didn’t sleep well, an old dream nudging at her, forcing her eyes open in the dark, the thin outline of the moonlight at the edge of her curtains. She wasn’t a big dreamer and the details of this one were just out of reach, but she felt colder lying there in the darkness, pulling at the covers.

  Friday.

  She woke far too early, staring at the swirled textured ceiling of her bedroom, the round beige lampshade. She felt a weight on her chest as she thought of the day ahead. Friday was when she liked to catch up with her domestic chores, clear the ironing, wipe down the apartment. Normally she didn’t mind these activities, spaced them out throughout the day, enjoying watching the tiny transformations of the apartment: the sparkling glass of the bath, the gleaming taps in the kitchen, the neat pile of clothes waiting to be hung back up. Today though it all seemed insurmountable, even getting out of bed seemed an effort. If only she could lie here and pretend, pretend it was yesterday and there was nothing gnawing at her.

  Friday.

  She started her day in the usual way, barely tasting the toast and jam, the coffee tepid by the time she remembered to drink it. She rested her hands flat on the table in front of her, the tick of the clock loud in the room, reminding her that she was alone. She didn’t move across to her LP machine, she didn’t bustle and fuss with the paltry amount of washing-up; she just sat there and stared at her hands. Her fingernails were still bare, her cuticles ragged, the ends in need of filing. She couldn’t summon the energy required. She didn’t even get up when she heard the buzzer go downstairs, the familiar clatter as the postman dropped off parcels and letters and pamphlets to the residents of the block. Her own letterbox opened and closed – normally she might be there, attempting to summon up a nice word for him, but today she could do nothing more than stare at her hands.

  Moving back through to her bedroom she glanced over to the wire basket to see that an envelope and a leaflet had been pushed through the letterbox. Automatically, she took them out, hoping for a brief second that the envelope might contain some kind of answer, but of course she was being silly and it was just from her bank. The leaflet was for gym membership, lots of people on indoor cycling machines looking focused and content. The tagline shouted ‘NEVER GIVE UP’ and she held the piece of paper in her hand, didn’t take it across to the recycling pile, but stared at the words instead. ‘NEVER GIVE UP’… Something jolted within her and she realised the slogan was the sign she needed to wake up, to really wake up.

  She phoned him again, didn’t hesitate, didn’t pause, just dialled, her heart in her mouth, her hand slippery on the receiver. Come on, she muttered, come on! The click of the answerphone again: of course, it couldn’t be that easy.

  She cleaned her teeth and she pulled clothes out of her wardrobe, located her most comfortable shoes. She’d start back at the café; she couldn’t stay here ironing and cleaning and pretending that nothing had changed. She had to do something, had to know he was alright. She left her bedroom, a quick glance back to the photograph that stood on her bedside table: a photograph that always filled her with mixed emotions. Today, the face seemed to be willing her on.

  It was a different waitress today, the taller, older woman Pauline, who often left her knitting on the stool behind the counter: she seemed to have a never-ending stream of baby hats, jumpers, cardigans to produce, but Maria had never been brave enough to ask probing questions. Albie of course had no such compunctions and Maria always watched in proud amusement as he would make Pauline open up, share her life story: an upbringing in East London, one of six children, a husband in the Navy, their retirement to be by the sea, his death only two months into retirement, the opening of this café.

  Pauline obviously couldn’t help but glance at the clock, unused perhaps to seeing Maria at this time, on this day. She greeted her warmly though and moved behind the counter, a cake stand of scones, plump and golden, on top.

  ‘Can I help?’

  Maria opened her mouth to ask her and then panicked, feeling silly, closed it again. Pauline looked enquiringly at her, her eyebrows lost in her thick ash blonde fringe. Just ask her.

  ‘A scone please,’ Maria said in haste, pointing to the cake stand.

  Pauline bent to reach under the counter. ‘They’re fresh this morning. I’ll just get a plate.’

  ‘No,’ Maria said in a loud voice, which startled Pauline enough to shoot up straight, ‘to go please.’

  Pauline nodded slowly, a slight frown on her face as she tore off a paper bag and took up the tongs.

  Maria took a long, slow breath in and out. ‘I was wondering,’ she muttered, not quite able to meet Pauline’s eye, instead watching as she dropped the scone in the bag, ‘I was wondering if Albert, my companion, the gentlemen I am usually here with on a Thursday afternoon, I was wondering if you’d seen him?’

  Pauline looked up, replacing the tongs. ‘I weren’t working yesterday, I’m afraid. I can ask Amrit? She was on yesterday.’

  Maria’s eyes darted to Pauline’s face and away, ‘Oh yes, I know. I was here, you see – Amrit was kind enough to serve me. I was wondering, since then, well, obviously not,’ the words were tied and twisted on her tongue, ‘you would have said. So you haven’t…’ She was rubbing her fingers together distractedly.

  ‘Sorry, no, I ain’t seen him. If I do, I can let you know though, you could leave a number? Or let ’im know you’re looking for him?’

  ‘Oh no, oh, that’s fine,’ Maria said, feeling herself flush. What must Pauline think? Some crazed old woman running around town, searching for a man? She made herself look her in the face. ‘I’ll catch up with him, I’m sure. There’s no need for any trouble.’ She forced a smile.

  The café bell rang and a young man moved inside to stand behind Maria at the counter.

  ‘It’s no trouble,’ Pauline said, placing the bag down and reaching for a pen.

  Should she leave her number? Where was the harm really? And yet she didn’t want to cause a fuss and Albie might think it strange. She was aware of the other customer waiting behind her, his light cough. ‘No, really,’ Maria said, backing away, a wave of a hand, an attempt to look nonchalant.

  She was just turning to leave when Pauline picked up the bag. ‘Your scone.’

  ‘Oh,’ Maria replied, spinning round, feeling her whole body warm now. ‘Oh yes, of course,’ she said, stepping towards the counter and fumbling with her handbag, ‘the scone, how lovely. What a treat!’ She knew she was overcompensating.

  ‘It’s £1.80,’ Pauline said slowly, opening the till.

  ‘How lovely,’ Maria repeated handing over a two-pound coin. ‘Do keep the change and thank you for the help. I’ll see you soon.’ She scooped up the bag and placed it inside her handbag, one side already shining with a slight grease mark.

  ‘See you then,’ Pauline smiled, the till sliding shut.

  Maria was already at the door.

  Stood on the street, just around the corner from the café in case Pauline could see her, Maria stopped. What next? She didn’t know Albie’s exact address – only a rough area – and they didn’t have any mutual friends she could call on or telephone. She couldn’t just wander the streets of Brighton, shouting out his name. And anyway, she reminded herself firmly, he could be absolutely fine, this could all be in her head. Maybe he was simply away: he’d been to Scotland on a painting holiday last year, perhaps he had simply forgotten another one? Maybe she should go home and do the ironing and stop working herself up into this strange hysteria.

  Then she thought back over their conversations and she made another decision: she could try and see whether he was at the other places he had mentioned to her. Albie loved to fix things up and he often explained his projects to her: his carpentry, making dovetail joints and the such. Maria had learnt an awful lot over the years, admiring his ability to do things for himself. Whenever anything broke in her apartment she found herse
lf dialling the management company, grateful for the tradespeople and their expertise. Albie had mentioned the shop he visited regularly and she knew it wouldn’t be too far, perhaps a small bus ride and a little walk, but it was still early and the ironing could definitely wait. She felt a renewed sense of purpose and set off, her head up, her handbag bashing against her thigh as she strode.

  The bus conductor was a wiry man behind a glass panel. Maria smiled shyly at him as she paid for her ticket, the destination vague, just a part of town.

  ‘Thanks, love,’ he said, his voice cheery as he dropped the change back with a clatter. She didn’t tip bus conductors but she wondered if she should offer him the scone? She wasn’t hungry and it seemed such a shame to waste it. Too embarrassed to ask, she shuffled past him and squeezed into a window seat, bag on her lap, eyes roving avidly for familiar sights as the bus chuntered into life.

  They turned left at the end of the road and she felt her breath catch in her throat as she made out a sliver of navy sea ahead. Closing her eyes, she turned away from the sight, hoping they would soon turn back inland. She didn’t want to think about the beach – she couldn’t. She licked her lips and tried to feel reassured by the thought that she knew where she was headed. Perhaps he would be buying paint, batteries or bulbs? Perhaps he would simply be browsing, enjoying walking down the aisles, taking in the smell of the place?

  Stepping off the bus, she moved down a side street with a few shops, hoping the one she was looking for would be obvious. With a small thrill she saw it up ahead: brooms and mops propped up outside, buckets and rows of plants, a wheelbarrow, a barrel filled with wire hanging baskets. Her pace quickened and soon she was inside, the smell of turpentine and sawdust all around her. A man in blue overalls walked past her with a can of paint, another was stacking shelves in the corner. She started on the left of the shop, working her way down each aisle – past extension leads and Tupperware, a row of cards, lightbulbs of every size – her eyes roving for his familiar face. No one in the first two aisles at all, a younger man in the third one, a woman browsing seed packets in the fourth. Maria started to feel the disappointment building. Only one aisle left.