The Wish List of Albie Young (ARC)

by Ruby Hummingbird

  The café was around the corner and she found herself moving towards it, hungry for a moment of connection with Albie: their place. Pushing open the door, feeling the immediate warmth envelop her, the smell of cinnamon in the air, she felt momentarily lifted.

  Pauline stood behind the counter, her fringe sticking to her forehead as she huffed over the coffee machine.

  ‘It’s broken,’ she said, almost to herself as she jabbed at a long silver arm with a spanner.

  Maria was slow to react. ‘A pot of tea and a slice of marble cake, please.’

  Pauline paused what she was doing, a small, brief frown on her face before she straightened up. Maria jutted her chin out – she didn’t have the energy for more, simply couldn’t summon any empathy for another human being. The coffee machine was broken, so what? That wasn’t devastating. That wasn’t life-changing. So, some people wouldn’t be able to have their cappuccinos: big deal. She clenched her fists together, feeling an unfamiliar surge of heat course through her.

  Pauline approached the counter, swiping at her reddened face. ‘Of course. Everything alright?’ she added brightly, something in her eyes making Maria unclench her fists.

  ‘Fine, thank you,’ Maria said in a tight voice, moving away to a small table set against the wall. It had two chairs. Maria realised with a terrible aching blow that she would never need a table with two chairs again. How could he leave her? She shot a hand out and righted herself before sinking into one of the seats. Why had she come here? she wondered as she watched Pauline reaching for the teapot, the cup, the saucer, all the while glancing over in her direction. Was she really behaving so differently?

  Pauline set a small tray down on the table and unloaded the familiar items.

  ‘Is the lovely Albert on his way?’ she chirruped as she placed the plate with the marble cake in front of her.

  Maria swallowed, an acid bitterness threatening to fill her mouth.

  ‘No,’ she said in tiny voice, ‘No, he’s not.’

  ‘You tell him to get in ’ere soon. We miss seeing him, such a nice man.’

  Maria felt her insides freeze. She couldn’t even whisper a thank you as Pauline moved away. She should have told her, but then that would make it real. She hadn’t uttered the words to anybody, not that there was anybody to tell.

  She couldn’t even do that for him: share the news with others. The envelope with the keys was heavy in her bag. She lifted them out, sliced a finger along the edge.

  A slim piece of paper, folded once, was inside. She stared at it. A letter. From the solicitor? From Albie?

  She eased it out with a trembling hand, smoothed it out.

  To Maria,

  The big key opens the main door, the Yale key my door.

  Your servant,

  Albie

  She turned it over, needing to see more blue ink, sentences crammed over the surface: words, reasons, something… more.

  There was only blank space.

  ‘I don’t…’ She was talking aloud, felt her fists curl with a sudden flash of anger, the corner of the note crushed in her grip.

  A woman at a nearby table looked up at her.

  Was this his explanation? Surely not, surely he couldn’t have left it in this way? Maria sat staring at the pot, at the cake, at her hands and her chipped nails, the old faded scar on her left knuckle: ugly hands. She had ugly hands, uncared-for hands. Albie had once complimented her on them, but he had always been too nice to her.

  She thought back to the solicitor’s office, to the moment when Ms Leonard had revealed the details of Albie’s estate. It had floored Maria. Albie was preposterously rich: he had an apartment in Brighton, shares in companies she had never heard of and he had cash – quite simply, lots and lots of cash. And apart from a sizeable donation to the Macmillan Nurses it had all gone to her. She had inherited the whole lot. She, Maria Birch, was rich. Silly, what-she’d-dreamed-about-when-she-was-younger rich.

  And yet now she felt devoid of any joy. She didn’t want the house, the shares, the money. She didn’t want to be rich. She wanted Albie. Albie Young. She wanted Albie Young to walk through the café door, head straight to their table, pull out the chair opposite her, sit down and, with no ceremony, pick up his fork and start eating his side of the marble cake. Her whole body craved it. She was so filled with longing for it she couldn’t stop herself looking up at the door of the café as if her desperate need was strong enough to end this whole thing, the need to bring him back to life.

  No one appeared and she stared at the slice of marble cake, knowing for sure that she would never take another bite of that cake, the cake that would forever remind her of him. She thought then of all the questions she had for him, she thought of all the things she hadn’t said. He hadn’t told her any of this. Why had he left her to find out in this way? It wasn’t fair, the whole situation wasn’t fair. She could feel her fists clenching again, her body humming with heat. With a slow horror, she realised she was going to start crying hot, angry tears right there at the table, she could feel them building behind her eyes.

  Across from her, unnoticeable until now, sat a young girl, a skinny teenager dressed in scruffy school uniform: a blue tartan skirt rucked up above the knee, a loose red tie, a white shirt and a V-neck black jumper slung over the chair behind her. She couldn’t be more than sixteen years old. Maria had noticed her with a jolt, the tears stoppering in that moment. The girl was looking at her, her head tilted in a gesture of curiosity, and Maria found she couldn’t look away as the girl got up out of her chair and walked towards her.

  ‘Excuse me,’ the girl said. She had a high voice, confident, and a smile behind her eyes, ‘I was just wondering if you were alright?’

  Maria swallowed slowly, licking her lips as she thought of a response. And then, unable to say anything more, she pushed back her chair, the scraping sound forcing the other customers in the café to look in her direction. Stumbling a little, she squeezed down the narrow hallway to the Ladies’ and pushed her way inside. Resting her head back against the wall next to the hand dryer, she caught her breath. The three cubicles were empty, no one standing at the sinks, thankfully, and Maria allowed a few tears to fall.

  A few moments later, the door opened and the young girl was there again, cheeks flushed. She scuffed her shoe along the ground.

  ‘You left your tote bag at the table, and your coat, and your handbag. The manager’s got them.’

  It looked like she was turning to leave and Maria suddenly found herself pushing herself back from her position slumped against the wall.

  ‘He died. My friend, my…’ she choked on the word, ‘my good friend, he died.’

  She couldn’t say his name.

  The schoolgirl’s eyebrows shot up and then she took a step towards Maria. ‘That’s terrible. I’m really, really sorry. How sad.’

  Maria nodded, unable to tear her eyes away from this girl’s face: her expression one of unadulterated pity. Maria needed to be around someone who cared, she needed to let this awful feeling out, even if it was to a stranger.

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ The girl swung herself up so she was sitting on the edge of the sink countertop, her feet, in her buckled shoes, dangling down.

  ‘I…’

  ‘I’m Rosie, I just thought… you looked like you needed to talk.’

  Maria felt a warmth flood through her. She did need to talk, that was exactly what she needed. The schoolgirl had such an open, innocent face. Maria was desperate for her to stay, to be with her. She opened her mouth to speak: ‘I do, I guess I do.’

  She started with her trip to the solicitor’s that morning, the revelation of what Albie had left her, the brief letter he had included. Then she worked backwards: the confirmation he’d died, the days of not knowing that had driven her to distraction, the guesses, the visits to his part of town, his first non-appearance in the café, the dread she’d felt.

  Rosie simply listened, her presence a soothing balm, seeming to give M
aria the strength to get the words out. Once she began, she found she couldn’t stop, telling Rosie about their Thursday meetings, about Albie’s crooked smile, the way he described the marble cake as ‘lush’ in his West Country accent. She told her what the solicitor had laid out for her, the shares, the property, the money.

  At this, Rosie’s eyes bulged. ‘You mean you’re a millionaire!’ A high bark of laughter filled the tiny tiled space, the surprise so great, Maria stepped back, setting off the hand dryer, which caused both of them to collapse in helpless laughter.

  In the midst of this chaos the door opened and Pauline’s head appeared, eyes widening as she took in the scene. She stepped inside the room.

  ‘Everything OK?’ she asked, watching as Maria dried the tears from her face. She hadn’t even realised she’d been crying. ‘I’ve got your bags and coat behind the counter so you know.’

  Maria nodded, ‘I do.’

  ‘I just thought I’d check where you’d got to…’ Pauline continued, a sudden silence as the hand dryer finished. ‘Are you sure you’re alright?’

  Maria looked across at Rosie, who was raking her fingers through her tangled mid-brown hair as if they were a comb. ‘I’m better,’ Maria said, a small smile lifting her features for a moment, ‘a little better. Thank you for asking.’

  We were in the supermarket and I turned my back for just a second. I was reaching for her favourite cereal, a box of Magic Puffs: she loved the tricks inside.

  When I looked back around she was sat in the bottom of the trolley, blood dripping from her mouth, turning her white T-shirt scarlet, drops on the floor beneath the wire trolley.

  I screamed and a woman with a headscarf and a wheeled trolley came straight over, a shop assistant in uniform heading our way.

  ‘She’s hurt, oh my god, she’s hurt.’

  Blood was still dripping from her chin as I scooped her out and cradled her in one arm.

  ‘Where does it hurt?’ I asked, trying to get her to open her mouth, frightened of what I might see.

  Had she lost a tooth? Bitten her tongue?

  She seemed fine… ‘Such a brave soldier,’ I said, over and over as if that might help.

  ‘I’ll call an ambulance,’ the lady in the headscarf was saying. The shop assistant stood wringing her hands, young and panicked.

  My daughter seemed nonplussed by the drama, looking at us all with large, round eyes.

  It was only then that I realised she was clutching the roll of wrapped-up ground mince in her hand, blood dripping from where she had bitten right through it.

  ‘It’s yucky,’ she said, her bloodied mouth twisting in disapproval as she dropped the mince to the floor.

  I burst out into relieved laughter.

  Eight

  As the days passed, she felt less and less herself, watching dispassionately from afar as she moved about her life. What was she meant to do with herself now? What was the point of any of it?

  Someone’s car alarm had gone off, the insistent wail permeating every thought.

  ‘Bloody thoughtless, bloody selfish!’ She never swore but she felt full of bad language, stamping around her apartment, twitching the curtain, staring at the offending vehicle, wishing bad things on the man who eventually ran over to put a stop to it. He looked up, perhaps feeling her intense gaze, and flinched at her expression. The flash of anger was white-hot, made her muscles tense, set her mouth in a hard line.

  Childish shouts from the apartment below, crying, a woman’s voice trying to soothe. How had she never noticed the sounds before? Someone was listening to music above her apartment. Too loud, far too loud, she thought as she stared up at her ceiling resentfully. They clomped around: bang, stomp, bang! Were they wearing clogs? The noise was ridiculous. She clamped her hands to the sides of her head and shifted in her armchair, the back uncomfortable, a spring sticking in her flesh. Why couldn’t she get comfortable?

  She wasn’t hungry, would howl when she burnt her toast, chucking the two slices in the bin and going without. The fridge started to empty but she couldn’t summon the energy to care enough to get to the shop. She opened a packet of powdered soup that had gone off three years earlier, spooning it silently into her mouth, swallowing the dry stuff that got stuck in her throat.

  Tuesday arrived and she dithered over whether to go to the hairdresser. She hadn’t been out and her hair was greasy and lank. Plus, she needed milk, so it would kill two birds with one stone. She grabbed her handbag and left, no need for make-up, a clean outfit, a hairbrush through her hair. Who was looking? What did she care what people thought?

  The envelope was still in her handbag, the keys inside, the small slip of paper too. His letter to her.

  It hadn’t been a letter, barely a note, a sentence. He had left her everything and yet he hadn’t offered her an explanation. Why? Did he have no one else? Had he wanted to say more? Had she missed another, longer missive? It had been so perfunctory: keys. No acknowledgement of the enormity of what he’d done, what he’d left her. A sentence as an accompanying note, written on a slip of paper from the solicitor’s office.

  She couldn’t ask him any of this and that thought brought fresh surges of pain.

  She couldn’t face going to the address.

  The hairdresser’s was busy and she stood, foot tapping, near the door. A younger girl was sat reading a magazine. It would have been nice if she’d offered her seat, Maria thought. Typical though, the arrogance of the young, like they own the bloody world. The girl got up to get her haircut and Maria remained standing despite her aching legs. She almost turned and left but then Mandy was standing in front of her, taking her coat and offering her the familiar thin black shawl.

  Maria let her put it on without saying a word, Mandy’s prattle almost constant as she walked her across to a spare stool in front of one of the enormous mirrors. The spotlights around the edge were so bright – had they always been that bright? She couldn’t stare straight at them, found herself scowling at her own reflection.

  ‘All alright, Maria? I was looking forward to seeing you, wanted to catch you up on my date. Mr Ravenclaw, he was so short. I don’t normally mind too much, I mean, you know people embellish a bit on their dating profile. I mean, I’m not exactly thirty-nine, but he was like an actual medical dwarf, tiny, he barely came up to the bar. It was so distracting. And he was nice, which was almost worse because I found myself rejecting him solely on his height, which basically makes me shallow, doesn’t it?’

  Maria couldn’t keep up, zoning in and out. ‘It does.’

  Mandy frowned then readjusted her expression as she placed two hands on Maria’s head. ‘Well, what are we doing today? Usual blow-dry? Want to try a conditioning treatment? Your roots could do with a lift. And I could neaten up the cut?’

  ‘Whatever you think,’ Maria’s voice was dull. Mandy was tugging on her hair. What did she want to do, pull the damn stuff out at the roots?

  ‘We’ll leave the cut for another time,’ Mandy said slowly, then brightened, ‘I’ll get Nina to wash it, I need to see another client with her colour.’

  Fine, palm me off, Maria thought. No time even to wash her hair. Why hadn’t she stayed at home?

  ‘Nina,’ Mandy called, ‘Maria’s here, could you wash and try that new root revival treatment on her?’

  Nina emerged from the room at the back, her fringe freshly cut in a line above her eyebrows, making her look even more severe than normal. ‘Hi Maria, tea, coffee?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Maria said, wondering why she felt so cross, her skin bristling as Nina stepped behind her and flashed her a smile.

  ‘So, shall we get you to the sink?’

  Had she always patronised her? Maria wondered as she got up, moved over to the row of sinks. Someone had left the footrest up so she almost banged her calf: selfish and dangerous. She sat in the furthest-away chair, refusing the seat, the massage, just wanting it all to be over and done with.

  ‘How have you been?’ Nina asked as she sta
rted up the taps, the water too hot.

  ‘Ow!’ Maria pulled to the side, cricking her neck.

  ‘Sorry, is it too warm?’

  Almost burnt me, Maria thought, but didn’t say anything, her lips set in a tight line.

  She could have asked Nina some questions but today she didn’t care what Nina had done with her weekend, didn’t care about her metal detecting or whether she had found a whole golden cache of coins. She didn’t want to ask questions and she didn’t want to offer information: Yes, I’m a millionaire now, by a man who didn’t even tell me, who hid it from me and then died all of a sudden and left me in this confusing muddle.

  God, what a mess! What exactly was she meant to do now?

  Nina was rubbing at her scalp and Maria felt the tug on her hair, the start of headache as she kneaded and pressed. The pressure was unbearable: had Nina always had such a grip, her nails scratching at her scalp? The towel she wrapped round her was loose and slipping, her neck exposed, strands of wet hair plastered to her skin. She didn’t smile as Nina returned to the back room with a curious glance behind her.

  Mandy ambled over, moments later. ‘Dealt with your other client?’ Maria’s voice was acid and Mandy paused a second before her fuchsia-pink lips moved into a smile.

  ‘She is getting balayage, I love a bit of balayage,’ Mandy said, plugging in her hairdryer.

  Unwrapping the towel from Maria’s head, Mandy blasted the hot air at her scalp. Maria was grateful for the noise, the excuse that she hadn’t heard any questions.

  Mandy’s voice drifted in and out, her familiar cackle of laughter now grating on Maria’s nerves. Had it always been so high, so sharp? Maria dug her nails into her palms and waited for Mandy to peter out. The woman could talk.

  ‘…So, although he lives in Petworth I suspect it’s with his mother… I looked it up on Google Earth, it’s enormous, I genuinely thought I’d seen peacocks. Anyway, I can’t be doing with a mummy’s boy so I think I’m just going to go for dinner and then make my excuses. We’re going to Café Roma so I hope he doesn’t think I’m all modern and want to go Dutch…’