There was a cluster of people at the end of the aisle staring at different-sized tools hanging from hooks on the wall. The glint of an axe, screwdrivers and hammers. One man, the same height as Albie, was obscured by an enormous man in a black puffer jacket. She held her breath as she made the slow walk towards them, her eyes taking in the shorter man’s build: the same width shoulders, his clothes a little less formal, but perhaps that was what he wore on other days, not Thursdays? It was a DIY shop and not an evening heading to the Proms. Then the man turned and Maria froze: the profile all wrong, the downturned mouth, the cheekbones too pronounced. Not Albie.
She turned on her heel and went to leave the shop. Then, at the door she wavered, not wanting this to be the last place. She knew this was his local area and she wanted to linger a while longer.
‘Can I help?’ a young man in paint-smattered overalls appeared at her side.
‘Oh,’ Maria said, her mind racing with excuses already. ‘No, I’m fine, I’m…’
‘Were you looking for anything in particular?’
Yes, yes, a man, about yea high, a few years older than me but you’d never know it, with a cheeky half-smile often playing on his face, a soft voice, slight West Country burr, kind eyes…
The man in overalls was still standing there, waiting for a response.
‘I was just looking at your, um, weed killer,’ Maria whispered, spotting an enormous bottle of the stuff on a nearby shelf.
‘Right, well, this is the brand we do. This’ll do the job, works wonders. Do you want the two litres or the four?’
‘Oh, um… two is fine,’ Maria said on automatic. What could she do with two litres of weed killer? She lived in an apartment, didn’t even keep window boxes: weeds were not a concern in her life.
The young man had already taken it off the shelf, was walking over to the till. ‘Needing anything else?’ he called behind him.
‘Oh, um… oh no, just, just that,’ she replied, scuttling across.
‘Green fingers, eh?’ the man said.
Maria was a second behind, her mind still working out how she could get out of buying the weed killer but also somehow remain in the DIY shop searching for her friend. ‘Green… oh…’ she said, staring at her hands, ‘Yes, yes. Ha!’
She paid for the heavy bottle, watched him place it in a carrier bag. She saw some batteries behind the till. Why hadn’t she asked for batteries? They were small, light, everyone needed batteries at some point.
The man pushed the heavy bag across to her and said, ‘Receipt’s in the bag.’
‘Lovely,’ Maria whispered as she wrenched the bag off the counter, practically dislocating her shoulder as she did so. She paused for a second at the door: this was it. The young guy in overalls was still watching her as she bit her lip and turned back to the door, pushing her way outside, the heavy bag already cutting into her palms and no sighting of Albie to take the pain away.
She wandered then, ignoring two buses that would have taken her back in the direction of her apartment, not yet ready to leave. She stopped in a card shop, a newsagent, accumulating more and more items in her handbag, things she knew she would never use or need: bubbles, a birthday card, a new jotter. The small high street supermarket was bustling with people and the doors slid open as she approached. And yet amongst all those people there was no sight or sound of Albert Young.
It was time to go home. Heading towards the bus stop, she tried to convince herself that it had been a silly idea, a whim. It doesn’t mean anything, she reassured herself, something still leaving a taste in her mouth: stale.
Glancing to her left before crossing the road, she almost missed it: an electrical shop. She was taken back to a conversation with Albie gushing with such enthusiasm about his new television: a flat screen television with something like an enormous forty-inch screen. It had seemed impossibly big to her and she had laughed along, swept up in his energy. He had told her about high definition and assured her that the Planet Earth documentary was incredible when watched on that scale. Now, here the shop was in front of her, gleaming electrical items in its windows. She found herself wandering in, her footsteps automatic, the bus stop forgotten.
The two walls were lined with glossy screens, some playing, some switched off, buttons seemingly hidden, wires leading to power sockets. Smaller items – camera, phones, sat navs – were sat on shelves beneath them and the whole place seemed to hum with electrical energy. She was not at home here. They wouldn’t stock LP players, she was fairly sure. A sleepy-looking young man with shoulder-length black hair headed her way. He was wearing a deep purple shirt that seemed to shimmer under the overhead lights and various reflective surfaces around him. A badge announced he was called ‘Gareth’.
‘Everythin’ alright?’
She nodded, her heavy bags making her arms ache. ‘Just looking, at, well, things,’ she said, realising immediately that no other customer was in the shop, that Albie wouldn’t be here anyway as he’d already bought his television and of course now she was stuck having to extricate herself from another store. For a moment though she felt comforted by the fact that he had been here once, that he had bought a television, browsed these walls, that he might have spoken to Gareth too. She felt a gossamer-thin link to Albie, a flash and then, as Gareth started to rub at his nose, flick his eyes to the left, she realised that link had gone.
‘I… was just…’
Fortunately, she was saved by the door opening and a couple bustling into the shop. Gareth seemed relieved, as the couple were at least forty years younger than Maria and would understand terms like High Definition without needing them explained.
‘I’ll let you look then,’ he said, sloping away to accost the new customers.
She didn’t stay long, leaving with a leaflet and only narrowly avoiding paying a deposit on her own flat screen television with high definition when an older salesperson had emerged from a curtain at the back and tried to drag her off to a heavily discounted screen. The weight of the weed killer was a reminder to her that she must not engage. Two litres of the stuff she could handle. An LED fifty-inch screen with Smart TV, three HDMI ports, Bluetooth and wireless technology, she could not.
She breathed a sigh of relief as she found herself back on the pavement outside. She caught the bus back, her bags sat on the seat beside her. Perhaps he was visiting a friend? Perhaps he had forgotten to tell her? Perhaps it was alright after all and she would never have to tell him what she’d been up to.
She repeated the words as she ironed. She repeated the words as she nibbled at a thin ham sandwich, as she sat on her balcony sipping at her tea, as she watched the cars move slowly past her on the road below. She repeated the words until she started to believe them.
But she had slipped up momentarily, finding herself trawling the local Yellow Pages, dialling the local hospital, just in case.
‘Hello. Good afternoon. I was wondering if an Albert Young has been admitted?’
Beeps, shouts, a rustle, she could barely hear the woman on the other end of the line, ‘Are you a relative?’
‘Yes,’ Maria said quickly, ‘his sister, three years younger.’ She didn’t know why she felt the need to embellish the lie. What next? Tell the receptionist about their fake childhood growing up in Devon? The fake time Albie had pushed her too high on the swing and she had fallen and chipped a tooth?
‘Nothing under that name, I’m afraid.’
She had hung up before the receptionist could continue.
Stop this, Maria, she thought, scolding herself. Stop this. You’ll just have to wait and see. There will be a perfect acceptable reason.
* * *
Of course, she didn’t forget it. She wasn’t sure how she got through the days, how she found herself getting ready for bed on Wednesday evening. How she had lain there hoping the last few days were this strange blip, that they would laugh about her worries. She imagined Albie already sat at a table in the café, the marble cake in front of him, ready to tel
l her a new story, another adventure. The image seemed impossibly real and she fell asleep with a small smile dancing on her lips. It was Thursday in a few short hours, she would see him again.
Her pudgy hands were squeezing my cheeks, her little body lying on top of me. ‘Mummmmmmmeeeeeeee.’
I was laughing, my whole body shaking with it, which made her laugh too, delightedly giving my cheeks another squeeze. ‘Mummmmmeeeeeee, ddddooooooonnnnnn’ttttttt laugh at me, it’s not kind.’
‘You’re right,’ I wriggled into a sitting position, ‘But you know you’ve got something on your face?’
I wasn’t sure how she’d managed it, but she had drawn a thick black line right across her face so that it looked like she had an enormous black monobrow.
‘I use make-up like Mummy.’
‘I can see that.’ I laughed, spitting on a finger to rub at her face.
‘Nooooooooooo, Mummmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeeeee,’ she squealed, covering her face with both hands. ‘I wear make-up.’
‘I’m not sure Mummy wears it just like that,’ I said, my voice gentle, hoping to coax her.
She was stubborn, arms folded as she stared me down, ‘Want make-up.’
‘But we have to be at school in half an hour…’
She stared me down again and I shrugged and got out of bed. ‘Your choice.’
‘I do your make-up?’
‘Absolutely not.’ I laughed again, reaching to tickle her until she squealed and rolled off the other side of the duvet, only just missing the bedside table. ‘Be careful,’ I said through my laughter.
We left the house shortly after, me in my skirt and jacket ready for a long day ahead, bag bursting, her small hand squeezing mine, the solemn expression on her face made more severe by the insane black eyebrow. Passers-by craned their necks to get a second look.
‘What, Mummy?’ She grinned, clearly forgetting what she had done to her own face.
‘Nothing, darling,’ I said, pulling out my Polaroid camera and snapping the shot, ‘Just one for the album.’
Dropping her at school, with a shrug at her Year One teacher Mrs Kimble, I sloped away. Throughout the day I found myself grinning every time I thought of her.
Three
She didn’t lounge in bed with the curtains closed this Thursday. She didn’t bring her coffee back to bed. She couldn’t seem to force herself to do what she had always done. Instead, she had all this energy. She swept aside the curtains, stared out at the gloomy sky, her window peppered with raindrops, the pavements slick with a thin layer of water.
She ran her bath, poured in the lavender oil, and yet the aroma didn’t feel soothing as it wafted around the small space. The water was too hot, so she turned the cold tap and yet she couldn’t get the temperature right, didn’t wait for the bath to fill to its usual level. She felt she was faking everything, wanting to fall into her usual routine but just wanting the clock to speed round, for her to get to the café so she could finally relax.
Her breakfast was dry and she had forgotten to put a record on her LP machine so all she heard in the space was the crunch of her cereal, the tick of the clock. She was early as she settled down at her dressing table, pulled the pots and pencils towards her and started on her face. She tried to take real care but she rushed everything, had to wipe at her cheeks because she’d piled on too much blusher, her hand shaking as she messed up her lipstick, tried to draw a thin brown eyeliner along her lashes, smudged her mascara.
The clothes she chose were ones Albie had seen before but not for a while: a plum roll-neck jumper and a grey skirt, tights and black suede boots that she hoped would survive the rain. She added a thin silver necklace and stared at herself in the reflection. She was early, she was very early. She set about blow-drying the back of her hair again, the heat making the skin on her neck prickle. She sat on the foot of her bed wondering what to do with the spare time – she didn’t want to be too early.
She moved through to the living room, knew she had to fill the hour ahead, stared at her book. Turning the page, she was aware she had no idea what she had just read. Instead, she pictured him getting on a bus, if that was how he got there – she’d never asked – walking along the street towards the café. She thought of him settled at a table, wondered what excuses he would come up with for his absence a week ago. Perhaps a tan would give him away? Or a cast on one arm? She pictured every scenario as the words blurred in front of her.
Finally, she could leave, taking a small umbrella with her, her hands fumbling with the buttons on her beige mac.
Just before passing the window of the café she paused for a second, relishing this last moment before she saw him. Taking a breath and plastering a smile on her face, she moved to the door, put a hand out and pushed her way inside, the bell tinkling, and glanced slowly around the café. His face had been so familiar in all the thoughts she had conjured that morning that it took a few seconds to realise he was not in the room, not at the table they shared. She felt a pain start in her chest, an ache.
Another couple, about twenty years younger, were sat at the table, their table, along the furthest wall. It didn’t mean anything, Maria thought, sometimes people did sit there, it wasn’t a sign. She stepped briskly across to a different table. He was just late. That was fine. She had been earlier than him before. It didn’t mean anything.
The café was reasonably full with people lingering over lunch, the smell of jacket potatoes and warm bread in the air. A nearby chalkboard announced the ‘Soup of the Day: Minestrone’. Maria took it all in. It felt similar to last week and her stomach churned. Amrit was there, brown hair still streaked with pink, bent over her notepad as she spoke to the young couple. Maria reached out and repositioned the small vase of flowers on the table, her hand nudging the bowl of sugar cubes. The bell went and her hand slipped, upending the bowl completely so that it clattered in the small space, sugar spilt all over the table.
‘I’m so sorry.’ Maria had already started to pile them back in the bowl, disappointed that the new arrival was a middle-aged woman shaking out a leopard-print umbrella.
Amrit wandered over with the same outfit, the same hair, the same kind smile, but a different coloured jewel in her nose: purple. ‘I’ll sort that out, don’t worry. Nice to see you.’
‘You too,’ Maria whispered, her throat closing.
‘Same as usual. I’m glad you’re back, I was a bit worried last week.’
Maria bit her lip, not quite trusting herself with the words. She wished he had been there first, had ordered, sat poised to cut the marble cake in half, the steaming teapot beside the plate.
He was just late, he would be here.
‘Marble cake and tea please,’ Maria said, not quite meeting the eye of the waitress.
Amrit took a while longer to produce it and as the minutes dragged by, Maria’s stomach seemed to get heavier and heavier. Five minutes, ten, fifteen… The customers were filing out, tables emptying, a few people arriving, but most on their way out. The marble cake sat in front of her, the other empty plate accusatory. She could feel Amrit’s eyes on her as the tea went cold, untouched. Twenty, twenty-five, thirty… Tears swam in Maria’s eyes, she had bitten away her lipstick, her head bowed at the table, no more curiosity if the bell rang. Amrit wiped a table next to her. Maria saw her wait, her heavy boots pointed in her direction, a small sigh and then she moved behind the counter.
Thirty-five, forty… For a terrible moment Maria thought she might be sick. Instead she stood on wobbly legs and left a ten-pound note on the table.
‘Don’t be silly, you haven’t touched it,’ Amrit said, appearing at her arm.
Forty-five minutes, fifty…
Maria didn’t trust herself to respond, simply whispered a goodbye and headed to the door, clutching her bag like a shield.
She didn’t remember walking back to her apartment, and her hair was flattened and dripping – she had left her small umbrella under the table – as she turned the key in her lock.
She moved to lower herself on her sofa, no more pretence that things were alright, that Thursdays, or any day, would ever feel the same again. The silence of the apartment was oppressive, the darkening sky through the window making everything feel worse. A roll of thunder from somewhere far away and Maria let the tears fall, marking tracks through her powdered cheeks, dripping into her lap as she sat, shaking, on her sofa.
Sitting back, she felt drained, hollow. It was still early, the rain trickling down the panes again, dark, but not yet evening. Something in the corner of her eye was blinking at her. A small red light: her answerphone. She never had any messages, not even cold callers since she had made herself ex-directory. She found herself moving across the room, legs heavy, staring down at the handset. She picked it up slowly, brought it to her ear.
Pressing the button, she heard a female voice chime in. ‘Hello, this is a message for Mrs Birch, it’s Becky Leonard from Clive & Sons. I am calling regarding Albert Young…’
Later, she wouldn’t know why she slammed the receiver back down, why she backed away from the counter, breathless, and sat back on the sofa, staring at the now unlit answerphone.
She just knew that she didn’t want to hear the rest of the message, somehow she had realised: it was over. That she would never see Albie again.
I found a note from her in the folds of a book, stuffed there without thinking – why hadn’t I framed every last thing? The words enormous, jumbled and sloping down the page.
‘You are the best mummee in the whole world. I love your smell and that you are bootiful, helpfull and kind.’
The Wish List of Albie Young (ARC) Page 3