The Wish List of Albie Young (ARC)

by Ruby Hummingbird

  ‘Albie wasn’t…’

  ‘Oh, pfft,’ Pauline said, angling the loaded fork at her. ‘Any fool could see the man was head over heels for you.’

  Had he been? Maria wondered, the cake dry in her throat as she swallowed. Had she really missed the signs?

  ‘I was with someone once, a long time ago,’ Maria admitted, cutting into her cake, and tried to change the subject by asking another question.

  Pauline sat back, cake half-eaten in front of her, eyes narrowing a fraction.

  ‘Never mind that, Go on, tell me a bit more about this mystery man.’

  Maria swallowed; she hadn’t spoke about him for over forty years. ‘It was a very long time ago now,’ she said, trying to wave it off, surprised by the stick in her throat.

  Pauline wasn’t fooled. ‘Doesn’t matter how long ago, things still hurt.’

  How true.

  For a moment Maria was tempted to share everything: the whole sorry story. Lay it all out. She had spent a lifetime keeping it inside. But something stopped her: habit, and fear, of course – fear that she would threaten this precious new friendship if Pauline knew everything.

  ‘He was my first love, I suppose,’ she said, offering something small. ‘It started well, he was good fun. He had a motorbike and loved taking me to the pictures and wanted to be a radio disc jockey. I thought we’d get married.’

  Pauline had tilted her head to one side. ‘Sounds exciting.’

  ‘He was exciting. The centre of it all, lots of energy, great fun, brave. I introduced him to my parents back home in the Peak District. My mum didn’t like him, said as much to me and he called her a bully to her face. I loved him for that, for being the person who saw her for what she was and also for being the one to say it when I’d never been able to…’

  ‘I didn’t much get on with my mum either,’ Pauline admitted. ‘Sounds like someone good to have in your corner. What happened to him?’

  Maria licked her lips, thoughts racing through her mind. She didn’t want to tell Pauline the truth, found it lodged inside her.

  We had a child.

  We had a child and all the things that had made him fun, all those traits, weren’t much good when Maria had needed someone to rely on, to share the load.

  We had a child and he walked out when that child was eleven months old.

  ‘It just fizzled out, he left and I wasn’t much interested in men after that…’ Maria mumbled, knowing if she told Pauline the truth there would be more questions, questions she had never been able to face.

  She was slumped in her chair, drained even from these admissions, more than she’d ever really shared before. Only Albie had learnt the whole truth. She had spent months kicking herself for the way it must have changed his opinion of her.

  ‘Well, that doesn’t sound so strange, although it still doesn’t explain what you’re punishing yourself for.’ Pauline appraised Maria.

  Maria swallowed her cake in one abrupt mouthful.

  ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’ Pauline continued as Maria started to splutter on the sponge. ‘Water over here,’ she called out to the receptionist as she rubbed Maria on the back until she’d stopped coughing. ‘Alright, Maria, alright, no need to keel over,’ she added, getting up and tightening the belt of her robe. ‘You win. You’re off the hook, no more grilling from me… for now.’

  Pauline was true to her word; she didn’t ask her another question all the way back to Brighton, just played the radio, sang along and offered her mints. Maria rested her head back on the seat, the tension leaking out of her. It might have ruined things and she was used to keeping secrets. With the fresh air outside flooding the car, her body feeling relaxed and pampered, her skin soft and her feet encased in the brand-new spa slippers to protect her brand-new spa pedicure, she just enjoyed the ride, imagining her life had always been like this and wanting to keep hold of this feeling for as long as possible.

  She ran into her room the moment she was home, her sobs barely muffled by a ballad from The Carpenters spilling out of the cassette.

  I waited a moment, not wanting to push straight in.

  ‘Do you want me to get out the SodaStream?’ I called.

  No answer.

  This wasn’t good. She’d been pestering me for weeks to buy a new cylinder for that machine: ‘It doesn’t make the drink fizzy otherwise!’

  I couldn’t wait any longer, knew she didn’t like me going in without her permission: the worn sign sellotaped to the door warning people in bright purple felt tip to ‘Keep Out’. I was the only other person who lived here.

  Ignoring the sign, I opened the door.

  ‘Mum, no…’

  She was face down, half-on, half-off the bed.

  ‘Hey,’ I said, rushing over, unable to do anything else.

  The bed sagged as I sat next to her and reached out a hand to place on her hair.

  She let me, not hiding the fact she was crying, letting the sobs take hold so the bed shook with them.

  The day darkened, the room in shadow, and I waited there, hand on her hair until she stopped: small sobs hiccoughed out and then silence, just slow, gentle breathing.

  The words when they came were muffled.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s stupid,’ she said, her voice broken with sadness and anger.

  ‘I’m sure it’s not.’

  She sat up, wiped at her eyes, not quite able to look at me, her fingers plucking at the maroon duvet cover.

  ‘They called me a bastard.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘The girls at school. They said I didn’t have a dad so I was a bastard…’

  I felt shock and anger stop the words in my throat.

  ‘…Liam told Tyler that he liked me and now Ali won’t talk to me because she likes Tyler and then they all said they think that…’

  I was barely listening now, heat rising in me at this exhausting explanation of a crowd of mean girls. ‘That’s horrible, they’re not your friends,’ I said, furious on her behalf. ‘How dare they.’

  ‘They are,’ she replied miserably. Then sat up straighter, ‘They were.’

  ‘Well, they’re not even using the word right,’ I said huffily, arms crossing my chest.

  She gave me a sideways look, ‘Whatdya mean?’

  ‘Well, a bastard is someone who doesn’t have any parents. And you have me.’

  Her mouth twitched. An almost smile.

  ‘And you do have a father. It’s not your fault he’s a selfish ass and left us.’

  We sat side by side as I breathed through my nose with things I wanted to say to this group of girls. But instead of saying anything else I felt an arm snake round my waist, a head drop onto my shoulder, ‘Thanks, Mum.’

  I drew her tight into me, ‘I love you so much, do you know that? More than two parents, more than two hundred bloody parents!’

  I could feel her body relaxing as I held her.

  ‘If you want me to hire someone to beat up those girls, I have connections. I’m a very powerful woman these days,’ I said, raising an eyebrow.

  She let out the smallest giggle.

  Relief flooded through me, perhaps this wasn’t too bad.

  There was a pause and she cuddled in tightly.

  ‘Can we use the SodaStream now?’ she whispered.

  I laughed, the sudden bark of sound snapping us apart.

  I stood up and held out my hand to her, ‘Absolutely.’

  Twenty-Two

  She had bought a mobile phone the day before. The nice man in the shop had sat her down and explained text messaging to her and she had got the hang of it. He had even taught her about the little funny faces – called ‘emus’ or something like that – and showed her where they were. She’d left the shop clutching the box to her chest.

  Troy had written his number down on a spare scrap of paper as she had wanted to be able to contact him. She couldn’t wait to return to her apartment and send him her first text message
. She had also asked the man in the shop to connect her to the Words with Friends app and she had invited Timothy to their first game.

  The half-an-hour wait for a response from Troy seemed to last an eternity, checking the phone, waiting for the little envelope icon, the satisfying ‘swoosh’ sound. Then the answer came through:

  c u then.

  An excitement moved through her body. There was something important she wanted to do. She grabbed her handbag and set off out again, knowing exactly where she was headed.

  * * *

  He arrived the day after. She buzzed him into the building and greeted him with a shy smile as he appeared outside the apartment door.

  ‘S’nice,’ he said as he shuffled inside, looking around.

  It seemed strange to see someone else in her home, and with a jolt she realised it was the first time. That thought winded her for a second. No other living soul had seen inside her home. The all-familiar gaping loneliness threatened to overwhelm her for a moment and she had to stop to catch her breath.

  It wasn’t nice, she thought, as she looked as if through his eyes at the dated place: peach curtains that she’d never changed, Artex ceilings, dull pictures, a smeared mirror, cheap pine furniture, mismatching cushions. Perhaps she would give her own apartment a makeover like the café. Albie would like that, she reflected, with a sense of longing.

  ‘So you got a mobile,’ Troy said, seeing her holding it in her hands.

  ‘I did. I already spend far too long on it. I’ve started playing Words with Friends, do you know it?’

  Troy shook his head.

  ‘I’m being rather badly beaten by Timothy, he’s very good at adding letters to the ends of high-scoring words. Anyway…’ Maria took a breath, knowing she was prattling on. ‘I’ve got something I want you to have,’ she said shyly, handing him a slim, rectangular gift wrapped neatly in bottle-green paper and a tartan bow, ‘a belated birthday present.’

  Troy backed off.

  ‘Hey, there’s no need, honestly, I shouldn’t have said anything.’

  ‘I’m glad you did,’ Maria insisted, placing it firmly in his hand. ‘I hope you like them. Happy Birthday.’

  With an embarrassed shrug, Troy angled his body away from Maria and slid a finger along the paper in a neat line. Ever so gently, he took out the present and handed the paper back to Maria. He stared at the artist’s set, taking it in. Maria had asked the attendant in the shop for the very best and had been pleased with the purchase. It was a large collection in a shiny wooden box, all the colours lined up in perfect order: pinks, purples, yellows, greens, blues; the colours bold, the tips perfect.

  ‘These are watercolour pencils, so you can add water to them and turn them into paints. And felt tips, of course, and those are fine liners. The lady in the shop told me they are very good quality, perfect for fine work like your sketches.’ She knew she was babbling again but Troy wasn’t saying anything. She pointed at the pad inset into the case. ‘A new pad for when you fill your last one. It’s for your drawings, they’re really good… And there’s more,’ she said, beckoning him.

  Troy looked a little dazed as he dumbly followed her into the living room. Albie’s mentorship had been all about trying to get Troy to spend some time on things he loved. She’d had the idea a few days before and had been so excited to think of his face. A sudden wave of worry washed over her: had she got it wrong? Would it be met with silence? Would he hate it? She wrung her hands as she stood in the doorway for a moment.

  ‘I know you and Albie sometimes painted together and I hoped you might want to carry on so I did this…’

  She waved an arm to the wall, where she had set up a small desk under the window. Sunlight sliced across the surface, over tubes of paints, a wooden palette, a cup for water, a collection of fresh paintbrushes and pastels lined up in neat rows. She had even bought a stool from a refurbished furniture shop around the corner.

  ‘It’s somewhere for you if you want to use it, anytime. I won’t pack it away… It’s your space…’

  In a small A5 frame propped up on the desk stood the sketch he had given her of Albie. ‘To motivate you,’ she said, seeing him stare at it.

  Troy didn’t say anything and Maria bit her lip, the clock ticks sounding louder, the apartment waiting quietly. He moved forward, one hand reaching to touch the edge of the desk, lowering the artist’s set. She watched him pick up a tube of paint, a paintbrush, turn them over in his hands. Still, he said nothing.

  ‘I just thought…’ She couldn’t bear this silence. Had she done something wrong? Had she been presumptuous? Maybe he had a perfect place to draw and create. Maybe she was overstepping.

  ‘It’s…’ He placed the paintbrush he was holding down carefully. ‘I…’

  ‘Maybe it was a silly idea. I know you barely know me but you see Albie and you, well, I know he would want you to…’

  ‘No, it’s not that,’ Troy said, his voice a little gruffer than Maria had heard it before. Was that a hand up to his face? Was he embarrassed? Was she embarrassing herself? ‘S’amazing,’ he mumbled so quietly she might have imagined it.

  ‘Oh.’ The relief was huge. He didn’t hate it. She hadn’t embarrassed herself, in fact, she wondered whether he was rather choked with emotion.

  He seated himself onto the stool and continued to study all the items in front of him.

  ‘You could stay now if you like, I don’t mind at all. I was just going to read. I could make us tea – do you drink tea?’

  Troy shook his head, ‘Nah.’

  ‘Of course. Well, as I said, it’s here anytime…’

  ‘I drink water,’ he said, looking up at her quickly.

  Maria beamed, almost tripping to get to the kitchen cupboards, to turn on the tap. ‘Water, perfect, lovely, that’s great to hear.’

  She brought him a glass and he was already bent over the pages, with a smattering of pastels, pens and more on the desk. He was focused, barely glancing up as she placed it down next to him. Retreating to the armchair, she picked up her book. It was the first time she had read for more than a page or so, the first time she’d properly read since Albie died. Somehow here in the small apartment, Troy sharing the same space with her, she felt herself unfurl. Relaxing back into the cushions, she enjoyed the sound of Troy’s brushstrokes, his steady breathing, the angle of his head as he worked. Hours passed before he seemed to leave with a reluctant look back at her.

  ‘You come again soon,’ she called as he passed her, clutching the glossy artist’s set to his chest as if it were a newborn baby.

  Then, with barely any warning, he reached over and placed one arm around her shoulder, squeezing her quickly. ‘Thanks, yeah.’

  He was gone before he could see that the gesture had made her cry.

  I’d liked Darren but he’d wanted a fresh start, the space you could buy in Australia – the life for kids, outdoor space, the beaches, the warm sunshine. ‘Everyone’s more relaxed, got a healthier work-life balance. Come with me.’

  I didn’t go. He stuck around for four months more trying to convince me that I could do it but she was happy. Her life was here, her school, her friends. I couldn’t uproot her to the other side of the world, it would be selfish.

  The day he left, I took the day off work, curling into the tightest ball on my bed, knees to my chest, and let myself sob for the life I’d let go. He’d always been so kind, showing his love for us in practical ways: never had more shelves been put up, more cups of tea been made. I wept for the life I could have had: the exhausting work would’ve been over, I could’ve stepped off this treadmill I’d put myself on, I could’ve share the parenting load once more. Three was nice.

  The doorbell went and I wasn’t quick enough, had dozed off, soggy tissues scattered in balls around me, eyes red raw. She didn’t say anything, just climbed onto the bed. I felt the mattress give, smelt cherries as she lay down next to me, one arm over my body like I’d done countless times to her.

  She didn�
�t make a joke, make light of it: she’d liked Darren too.

  She snuggled right in, close to me.

  I let out the smallest sob, reaching for her hand, feeling it grip me tightly, nails smooth with varnish.

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ she whispered.

  I squeezed my eyes tight, feeling the ache in my chest for all the love.

  ‘I choose you,’ I whispered back.

  I would always choose you.

  Twenty-Three

  Since finding out that Cathie was Albie’s sister Maria had felt the jealousy drain away, replaced by an urgent desire to make the Paris trip happen. She had applied for a passport, her old one long-gone, lapsed when she had no need to travel anywhere, no one to travel with. The photo showed a somewhat startled Maria: eyebrows lifted, wide blue eyes blinking in surprise at the flash of the photo booth. It was the first photo of herself she had seen in almost forty years.

  She still couldn’t believe that Albie had hidden this other secret from her. A sister! Someone who had grown up with Albie, who had known him as a young boy. Had he loved trains? Jigsaws? ‘Snails and puppy dogs’ tails’? Had he been a gentle boy or a whirlwind? She was sure she once asked him about family and he’d given the impression that he too was on his own. It was something she’d always felt they’d had in common yet in the wings was a sister.

  As an only child Maria had often watched in baffled awe at the easy relationship between siblings. In her class at school, she had befriended twin sisters and had always watched in slack-jawed amazement at the overlapping excited chatter, the light punch to an arm, the rolling eyes, the energy of them. Had Cathie and Albie been like that, she wondered.

  The list had mentioned a need for Albie to ‘make up for lost time’. How long? What had happened? She hoped Cathie would perhaps give her more of an insight into why Albie felt he needed to live his life through the list.

  She wrote another letter, and a third. She included her address, landline and new mobile number in each missive. She received no replies. She had to try one last time. So, one evening, fortified by a sherry or two, she went on the Internet on her mobile phone and booked two tickets on the Eurostar, leaving the following weekend. Then she scanned numerous hotels before selecting the perfect place and booking two single rooms. She wrote down all the information on a single sheet of paper and added a brief note: Albie never made it, but he wanted you to.