The Wish List of Albie Young (ARC)

by Ruby Hummingbird

  She watched Rosie leave and then, taking a deep breath, she crossed the road and headed up the stairs to the blue door. The entrance smelt of bleach and rubber-soled trainers. A corkboard just inside the foyer was covered in posters – adverts for a band, youth choir, the numbers for Childline and Samaritans, information about the sexual health clinic, all criss-crossed over each other. Glass panels in a set of double doors to Maria’s right showed a peek of the main room: a carpeted space containing a table tennis table, football table, a couple of sofas, and milling teens. She could hear the beats of a song she didn’t recognise pulsing through the doors, a shout and the echoes of laughter.

  Her palms felt slippery as she approached the door. No one glanced her way as she pushed inside, heart hammering, the hubbub louder, the music all around her. She bit her lip, loitering as the door closed behind her. The room smelt of burnt popcorn and two teenagers were lounging on bean bags, a large television playing a soap opera above their oblivious heads. She scanned the room, wondering what Troy looked like, trying to pick him out from the crowd from the small details Albie had given her.

  A young man approached her, a red tartan shirt over ripped jeans, an enquiring look on his face. ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘I…’ She could sense a couple of nearby teenagers looking her way. ‘I’m looking for someone,’ she told the man in a soft voice. ‘A boy called Troy. Troy… I’m not sure of his surname, I’m afraid…’

  ‘Troy…’ The man rubbed his chin, a tiny red cut where he must have caught himself shaving. ‘I haven’t seen him in here for a while.’ He seemed distracted, then called out to the group nearby, ‘You lads seen Troy recently?’

  Shuffled feet, shrugs, a string of nos.

  Maria felt her shoulders drooping. ‘Oh… Well, it was kind of you to ask.’

  The man was already moving away as he added, ‘Kids come and go from here, I’m sure he’ll turn up.’

  ‘I’m sure he will,’ she whispered, taking a last look around the room.

  She pushed back out into the foyer, feeling deflated. Had she really thought it would be that easy? What should she do now? She should have asked the man to leave him a note, or she should have left her number. Glancing back towards the room, the man in the tartan shirt was now at the table tennis table, picking up a bat.

  ‘Scuse me.’

  A large boy with ginger hair, black cargo trousers and a T-shirt with a skull and bones on it joined her in the foyer. Maria felt the adrenaline rise, gripped her handbag close to her chest.

  ‘You wanted Troy?’ He kicked at the floor with his trainer.

  ‘Oh,’ Maria said, her grip loosening.

  ‘He hangs out at The Level,’ the boy muttered the words, glancing back at the door as if embarrassed to be seen talking to her.

  Maria looked at him blankly, not sure where he meant.

  ‘Skatepark,’ he added quickly, almost certainly about to bolt.

  ‘Do you know him?’ Maria asked, desperate for any information.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, Troy’s alright. Been a bit screwed in the head after finding that old man dead, the one who sorted us with the football table and stuff. Messed up, that.’

  Maria’s mouth fell open, her voice emerging a whisper. ‘Troy, Troy… He found him, found… Albie?’

  The boy tugged on the bottom of his T-shirt, ‘Yeah, man. He had a key to his place and the old man didn’t show up where they normally met so Troy went to find him.’

  ‘Oh my god!’ Maria couldn’t hide her horror. The poor boy, no one should ever have to go through that experience let alone a child, someone who had cared about him too. She didn’t have the words, she simply stood in shocked silence.

  ‘So yeah, he’s a bit off at the moment but he hangs out down there a lot so, you know, maybe he’s there taking some time.’

  Maria nodded dumbly, picturing Troy walking into that apartment, calling out Albie’s name, moving down the hallway, finding him cold. She shivered despite her layers, wrapping her arms around herself.

  ‘So yeah, hope he’s OK. Tell him Gunnar says “hi”, alright?’ The boy gave her a nod as Maria came to.

  ‘I will. I will… Thank you Gunnar. Of course, I’ll go and try there now.’

  She wandered outside, knocking her shoulder into the doorframe as she left, surprised by the change in temperature, the cold snapping at her, the bottom of her coat flapping in a sudden gust of wind. That poor boy. What a thing to go through. She knew she must find him. Must somehow try to make it right.

  Pushing into a newsagent opposite the centre she approached the counter and got directions for the skatepark that wasn’t far away. As she walked, mind racing, she just hoped he was there, that she could talk to him.

  The skatepark was set under an underpass, a large concrete space with small ramps and rails set off the main part, walls graffitied in livid colours, a group of kids in hoodies, boards resting against their knees, one smoking up a rolled-up cigarette. Another group were doing turns on the slope of the underpass, their speed amazing her, the sound as their trainers slapped on the ground, one boy hopping off to break his fall. Maria couldn’t help the gasp that left her mouth.

  A couple of boys, one so tall he could be mistaken for a grown man had it not been for the lack of facial hair and the baby cheeks, turned to stare at her. She did look ridiculous, she realised, standing there in her corduroy skirt, sensible brown ankle boots and woollen coat, clutching her leather handbag to her like a shield. Try to look confident, she reminded herself. She was here for Albie, for his friend, and she had to find the boy who had found him. The desire to meet Troy had increased tenfold with that knowledge. Jutting her chin forward, she met the tall boy’s eye.

  He looked a little alarmed, then with a smirk called out, ‘Alright, Grandma? You lost your way to the bingo?’

  His friend spat some of his canned drink on the floor, erupting into laughter.

  Maria took a step towards them both: ‘I was wondering if you knew Troy?’ Her most polite voice, she held his gaze as he assessed her from top to bottom. She must have passed because he hollered over his shoulder in the direction of the underpass, ‘Troy mate, your nan’s here.’

  A tall black boy in an orange hoodie looked up from the group. ‘I don’t know her,’ he called back, flipping up his skateboard with his foot.

  As she moved towards him, it felt like the longest walk, watched by the other boys, the skatepark falling silent. She pulled at the collar of her coat as she headed across to the group. Stay confident. They’re just kids, she reminded herself.

  ‘Troy? Are you Troy? I’m, I’m a friend of Albie’s,’ she said, her voice growing in confidence.

  She could see now that he had cropped hair, a silver stud in his left ear. Troy turned back to the group, two of the boys looking at him before their eyes slid away. Maria could feel their awkwardness. Had he told them what he’d found?

  He shrugged. ‘Albie’s dead.’

  The harsh words made her catch her breath. She took another step forward. ‘I know. I heard you…’ she tailed off, not wanting to talk to him about this in front of others. Troy seemed to stiffen, darted a look at her. ‘I just wanted to talk to you, if that’s OK?’ Maria tried to smile, tried to convey her desire.

  He shrugged once, not saying anything. His bulky clothes were no doubt designed to make him look bigger, older. Some of the others were a good few years older than him, she realised.

  He span round, his eyes narrowing as he spoke, ‘Look, I don’t know who you are but I don’t want to talk about anything, alright?’

  Maria held both her hands up, desperate to conciliate. What could she say? He had rounded his shoulders and turned his back on her again. The other boys had taken his lead and started to talk amongst themselves and one set off on his skateboard. It signalled the end of the conversation.

  But Maria wasn’t ready to give up just yet.

  She reached her hands out, almost grazing his shoulder, before he turned bac
k to her: ‘Go, alright? Just go.’

  Her hand was suspended in the air between them and with tears building in her throat, she lowered it. She paused, not knowing what to do next, not wanting to just give up but recognising the anger, the sadness, the determined desire to block out others, from her own experience. Of course, he was hurting. She didn’t know how to respond, how to make it right. Albie would have known but then she wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t left her, hadn’t left them both.

  ‘I…’

  Another boy with greasy shoulder-length hair took a step in her direction: ‘He’s told you once, alright?’

  The words were clear: you’re not welcome.

  She left after that. What else could she do, she thought as she crossed the concrete, eyes at her back, whispers following her. As she headed home, she turned it all over in her mind. She wondered what she could have done differently.

  Back home, she stared at the list as she sat in her chair. She thought of Albie mentoring that boy, thought of the times he had spoken about him with teasing affection: his frustration when he had realised Troy was skipping school, his excitement when Troy had complimented him on one of his paintings, and the fond way he had shown Maria text messages with a series of photos – faces with different expressions, a big thumbs-up.

  She couldn’t give up, she thought, as she got into bed that night. He had meant a lot to Albie and Maria needed to try to help him. It wasn’t for ticks or anything like that. She thought of the expression on his face when he had talked: a hurt, a deep sadness, an anger. She knew that look, she knew it so very well. She knew that he would try and push away anyone who cared. She plumped her pillow and closed her eyes, concluding that was the wrong thing to do, push people away. Because you ended up alone. Very, very alone.

  * * *

  She showed up again, and again.

  Sometimes he was there, sometimes he wasn’t.

  She showed up with sandwiches and chocolate bars, apples, hot tea in a flask, bottles of water. Some of the other skaters started to greet her warmly when she appeared. Troy would look up, scowl at her, his brown eyes filled with animosity as a few of the older kids gathered round her, accepting treats and ‘ribbing’ her: ‘That’s taking the piss, Maria’.

  It was a different world, far removed from her tiny flat, her quiet existence. She loved their energy, the jokes, the slaps on the back, watching them focus as they leapt and jumped on the thin pieces of wood. She looked forward to going, thought about them when she was away from them, planned things to bring them.

  She kept appearing, at the same time in the afternoon, wearing the same hopeful expression as she scanned the concrete for him. She would watch them all, admiring the skill: the skateboarders’ skinny arms bare in baggy T-shirts, baseball caps shielding their eyes from the sun, as they twisted and leapt and rolled.

  After a few weeks, finally Troy sidled over to her and silently took the proffered Crunchie bar. ‘You don’t give up,’ he grunted, sitting down on the cold stone and biting into the chocolate. He ate the whole thing and Maria simply stood there, too afraid to push him, too afraid to say anything, to break this tentative peace. As he wiped the crumbs from his chest, she noticed his thin arms underneath the faded orange hoodie he seemed to live in. He then stood up, tugging at his trousers that always slipped down. He didn’t meet her eye as he ambled off, a quiet voice calling back, ‘See you tomorrow, yeah?’

  She grinned quickly, then wiped the smile from her face as the other kids looked over, nodding solemnly, a hand in a half wave, ‘See you then, Troy. Same time.’

  A man was going to take me out: Paul, from the London office. He had liked me since we had met to discuss our latest campaign. He used to be married too and I had felt a little frisson when we went to shake hands at the end, our hands touching.

  My new flares and an orange patterned shirt that I’d been told by my friend and neighbour Tiffany was all the rage completed the look – and I was embarrassingly excited about the prospect of a night out.

  Sarah had agreed to sit in the flat as a babysitter – I didn’t feel too bad saying yes as she was just next door. She had insisted, the whole street seemed to want me to find love again. They all knew how Steve left me, his name mud in Brighton. Not that he’d be back here, too busy shacked up with his secretary in London like the cliché he was.

  ‘Mummmmmeeeeee.’ She appeared at the door, Sindy hanging from one hand, blanket from another. ‘Your hair is pretty,’ she said as I turned. I had put a hairband in it, was wearing it big and curled, like a Charlie’s Angel.

  ‘Thank you, darling,’ I said, my heart swelling as ever at her barefooted appearance, my gorgeous urchin. So grateful to have her: she would always come first, no matter how amazing the man.

  A knock at the door. ‘It’s on the latch,’ I called and I heard Sarah push her way inside.

  She loved Sarah, turning immediately to go and talk to her about the cobweb she had seen and how Mummy had let her give Sindy a bath.

  ‘Mummy hair pretty,’ I heard her say to Sarah as I moved through to the living room, smiling at the scene as Sarah was kissing the top of her head.

  ‘Thanks, Sarah,’ I called as I picked up my keys from the side table.

  ‘Hmm… Not so much from the back,’ I heard a tiny voice add in a cheeky voice as I shut the door.

  I laughed all the way down the stairs.

  Nineteen

  The church was half-empty and the vicar raised two neatly pencilled eyebrows as she greeted Maria in the doorway. ‘Great to see you, great,’ she said in a voice that implied every member of her dwindling flock was precious.

  It was a hot day: people lounging in parks, playing Frisbee, eating ice lollies, jogging, juggling, carrying windbreakers, deckchairs, towels as they headed to the beach. Very few had chosen to spend it in the cool, dark building, dust dancing in the air as the sun filtered gently through the stained-glass windows.

  Keith had joined her for the service. She had kept her promise and had been dropping coffee and sandwiches to him every day for weeks now. She always looked forward to their chats and sometimes they would go for a walk or head to the café. He had offered to accompany her to church, perhaps realising that she had been avoiding it, that she might need someone to give her the strength to face it. She thought briefly of another church, less than two miles away, which she hadn’t visited in thirty-six years, of the yew tree in the corner, what rested below its branches, and then she pushed those thoughts back down deep inside her.

  The service began, the pews sparse, self-conscious voices wobbling over the hymns. Keith had a surprisingly good singing voice, she thought, as he stood next to her, holding a hymn book open for them to share, bellowing out the words to ‘Dear Lord and Father of Mankind’. His words bounced around the walls, breathed life into the space. She couldn’t help smiling.

  ‘What?’ he whispered, nudging her, ‘I always liked that one.’

  She felt the warmth of him at her side, grateful that he was there with her. Staring around at the familiar scenes on the stained-glass windows, the shiny plaques set into the walls, the embroidered cushions hanging from the back of the pews, her body relaxed. She let out a deep, contented breath.

  The sermon was short and energetic, the vicar walking up and down the aisle as she addressed them, connected with them, making eye contact. She felt Keith straighten in the pew as at one point, the vicar appeared to talk directly to the pair of them, and for a second, she felt close to giggles before she swallowed the silliness. It had been years since she had done anything with a friend. She thought then of all the times Albie had asked her to join him in activities and she had refused, not wanting to get in the way, be a bore. Why had she always assumed he was just being kind?

  Soon they were drifting outside, surprised by the sudden warmth compared to the church’s cool interior, one hand shielding her eyes as they struggled to adjust to the brightness. They sat down on a stone bench in the shadow of the church a
nd watched the slow procession of the remaining congregation, Maria resting her head back against the cool stone, feeling glad she had gone. The vicar emerged, pulling the door shut, locking it with a key from an enormous jangling bunch of them.

  ‘Great to see you, Maria,’ she said as she passed them, not a hint of reproach for her absence. Maria just hadn’t been able to face the place, not since Albie had died.

  ‘Lovely service,’ Keith remarked, which made the vicar beam.

  Keith looked relaxed and healthier: pink in his cheeks, his eyes bright. Maria wished she could do more as she placed one hand over the other, building up to ask him.

  ‘You remember Albie’s list…’ she started tentatively.

  ‘Yes.’ Keith sighed as if he had been waiting for this.

  ‘Well…’ Maria coughed, her fingers plucking at the cotton of her skirt. ‘It mentioned that you were estranged from your family and I was wondering if…’

  ‘I’m not ready,’ Keith said quietly, ‘can we change the subject?’

  Maria, more than anyone, understood and she stood up and stretched. ‘I’m getting hungry, how about we get some lunch?’

  A momentary pause as Keith’s eyes filled with worry. ‘I can’t…’ He held out both hands as if demonstrating the shortage of cash.

  ‘On Albie,’ Maria added hurriedly, kicking herself for being insensitive. How could Keith afford lunch? ‘A Sunday roast, there’s a pub around the corner that was advertising them. I haven’t bothered with a roast in years.’

  ‘Bit warm for a roast?’

  ‘It’s never too hot for a roast,’ Maria replied, glad to see he was relenting.

  ‘Well, why not?’ he said, standing and linking his arm through hers. ‘I’d like that.’