Then the clock’s hands crept round and a dread built. She had circled the tiny flat, dialling the numbers on the telephone, getting it wrong, swearing and starting again, finally disturbing the father of Rosie’s friend. Something felt wrong. The hands crept round way past the allotted curfew: 10 p.m., 10.30 p.m., 11 p.m.
She had known it before the doorbell rang. The policeman was holding his hat in one hand, smoothing down his hair with the other when she had opened the door on him. Startled, he had rushed the words out: her friends had said she lived here.
He hadn’t been old, no more than late twenties perhaps, younger than her certainly. She had made a noise, couldn’t remember much else, but it had alerted her busybody neighbour, who had stuck a head out, ready to tell her to be quiet before seeing what the commotion was about.
They had tried everything he had said, someone had done CPR. They believe she had died when she hit the water.
The pier was dangerous.
The girls had gone to the beach, had been messing around on the pier. She had fallen from the end and her friends had alerted passers-by, but it had been too late.
The fall had killed her.
She would need to identify the body.
Did she have someone who could come with her?
That walk through the hospital seemed neverending: down in the lift, the steel grey walls closing in on her, the lack of windows, the false lights flickering on the corridor walls as she approached the sign for the morgue.
The policeman had stayed with her as she had made the identification. It hadn’t been her – for a moment, Maria had imagined she would see another girl, another face, one she didn’t recognise.
But it had been her. Pale, silent: dead.
The policeman had held onto Maria.
Did she have someone who could be with her?
Yes, she thought. She had someone: she had Rosie.
How could she be gone?
Maria had to sell their flat with its sea view that taunted her every day, the view Rosie had loved, the sight of the pier turning Maria’s stomach. She had never been back to the beach since. She didn’t move away, couldn’t leave Brighton, couldn’t leave her daughter there alone. And yet she hadn’t returned to see her at the graveyard until today, hadn’t been able to face her feelings. She couldn’t overcome the terrible, crushing guilt that had forced her to move, to hide away, to quit the career she loved, to shake off her friends and remaining family, to hide in the back office of an accountancy firm until her retirement, to sit in the bland, silent, stale one-bedroomed apartment, no longer caring.
Until that afternoon in the café when a kind man with a West Country accent and an amused twinkle in his eye had forced his way into her life – and forced her to engage again.
She stayed next to the grave until her shoulders stopped heaving and her head began to ache. Then, taking the cloth and the cleaner, she got to work, spraying the gravestone, circling the cloth, watching the stone brighten, the words pop out. She clipped the grass underneath, ready to plant the seeds: tulips, as Albie had suggested. So thoughtful that he remembered that story: a small snippet she had offered up from her life with Rosie. Tulips would suit her, Maria reflected. Bright, bold.
‘I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get here, darling…’
She talked as she worked and told Rosie about her ideas for the list, knowing that she wouldn’t appear anymore, not now Maria seemed to have found the strength she needed to face things alone.
‘I’ve adopted a cat. They did a home visit which went well, I think. I bought a litter tray, food. The cat will arrive soon. Troy’s going to help me. He’s so excited about him, made me buy lots of cat toys. You’d like Troy, he’s imaginative, like you…’
She dug, making holes for the seeds, leaving neat piles of soil nearby. Dropping the seeds in carefully, she filled the holes, smoothed them, watered them. It was hours later by the time she stood, back aching, legs creaking as she stretched. The grave was transformed: neat and gleaming.
Go to the grave…and plant some tulips.
How she had wanted to ignore those words. Albie had seen what she had needed to do – and now, in the circle of sunlight and the slight breeze, the feeling of something brushing past her, she felt him nudge at her hand, felt a warmth at her side as he joined her staring down at her beloved daughter.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered to him, feeling the enormous boulder she had carried around for the past four decades start to slip from her shoulders. ‘Thank you, Albie Young.’
Schoolchildren were everywhere, stood in huddles, shoulders shaking with their sobs as I moved through them to the church door.
She’d had so many friends. Of course she had, she was my Rosie: my brilliant, vibrant, warm-hearted Rosie, found washed up on the beach that she’d loved. Cold and pale and very alone.
I hated these children.
Where had they been that night? How could they have been so irresponsible? Why were they still here when she was not?
The service was a blur of tearful words. Sarah spoke about the times they had danced around the small flat, singing into hairbrushes, the time Rosie had given Sarah a makeover and practically burnt off her hair in the process with her crimping iron. She spoke about her love of bright pink bubble gum and her earnest concern that if she swallowed some a tree would grow in her stomach, her pride about her mum who loved her, who worked, who had done it all alone.
Sarah had smiled at me then, but I couldn’t move my face, couldn’t react. I just wanted her back. Wanted her here. I wanted to howl and tell everyone to leave, leave because this couldn’t be happening. We couldn’t be burying her. Not my Rosie.
The vicar talked about a better place, peace, the comfort of never growing old. I hated that, hated God for taking her from me. Why hadn’t he taken me? Steve? Anyone else. Not Rosie. Rosie with a head full of dreams for her future, her desire to go to London, to study design, to live near Primrose Hill, to support her old mum in the years to come.
The service had ended, a hundred hands patting my shoulder and a hundred mouths whispering words meant to be a comfort in my ear. ‘She won’t be forgotten’, ‘A wonderful girl’, ‘Gone too soon’. God, I hated them all. Why couldn’t they leave me, leave me alone?
She was lowered into a gaping hole, a mound of earth piled up next to it. I tripped on the way to throw the handful of dirt on top: someone held me up, steered me away. Someone was wailing, a terrible sound, a wounded, haunting sound. Someone who had lost everything, whose life would never be the same again. I was wailing.
Thirty-Five
Troy had messaged, asking her to meet him here.
She was curious as she knocked on the apartment door – he’d instructed her not to use her key to come inside.
‘This is all very mysterious,’ Maria said as he opened the door to Albie’s flat to her.
He looked energised, bouncing from foot to foot and his brown eyes bright. What had he done? She tried to crane a look over his shoulder.
‘What are you up to?’ She laughed, enjoying seeing this strange excitement on his face.
He opened the door a little wider – there didn’t seem to be anything in the corridor, nothing out of the ordinary.
‘So, can I come in?’
Perhaps he’d cleaned, or rearranged the furniture?
‘I wanted to do something nice, for, you know, taking me to The Ritz and stuff…’ he explained, allowing her to squeeze into the narrow corridor.
‘You didn’t have to, it was Albie’s plan. It’s always Albie.’
Troy scuffed a trainer on the ground, not quite meeting her eye. ‘Well, it wasn’t Albie what you’ve done for me, that was your idea, the parlour and that.’
Maria felt affection bloom for this boy in front of her, whose skinny frame had filled out, and who was even taller than when they’d first met.
‘You don’t need to do anything for me,’ she protested.
‘I just want you to
see something.’ Troy turned and moved down the corridor, lingering outside Albie’s bedroom.
Curiosity piqued, Maria followed him into the room.
‘It was on his list, wasn’t it? That he never finished it, so I…’ Troy’s voice faded away as Maria looked around the room.
Everything looked the same, the bed still stripped and unmade, curtains pulled back, items packed neatly away in boxes. Above the bed, her portrait seemed to dominate the small space now that it was so empty of Albie’s things. ‘Oh! You…’ Maria’s eyes widened as she realised the difference.
Troy was biting his lip.
‘…You finished it!’
Troy nodded. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Mind!’ Maria repeated, staring back at the portrait. Troy had painted the area Albie had left blank in the bottom corner, adding her missing hand clutching the top of the chair. He had also filled in other details, she noticed: shading so that the light fell softly on the side of her face.
‘He did most of it, I found some sketches and tried to copy what he wanted…’
‘I love it.’ She grinned, joy filling her every pore. ‘You are so clever, you’d never know it wasn’t by his hand. How wonderful, how lovely!’ She felt tears prick her eyes – he had spent time doing this thing for her. ‘Oh, he’d be so proud of you!’ she said, moving around the bed to really take in the changes.
Troy seemed to relax, the energy sweeping out of him. ‘Sick, Maria, man, I was so worried you might not like it.’
Maria was so busy looking over the details she almost missed his next sentence.
‘I found something,’ he said, moving around the other side of the bed.
‘Hmm…?’
Troy reached across and lifted the portrait off its hook, laying it gently on the bare mattress between them. ‘It’s on the back. Albie did it. I found it when I took it down…’
Maria was confused, her eyebrows drawing together as Troy turned the portrait over, face down on the mattress.
‘What are you—’ The question froze on her lips as she realised the back of the portrait was covered with inky words, words written in Albie’s hand. ‘Oh my…’
‘He wrote it for you…’ Troy said, backing his way out of the bedroom and leaving Maria alone with the words.
They were crammed onto the surface, neat lines of writing, the opening at the top, ‘My Dear Maria...’
‘Oh my…’ Maria whispered, not realising she was alone in the room. As she lowered herself down onto the mattress to read, she felt the whole world reduced to this space, to this letter she had been waiting to read all this time. A letter from Albie, a letter that would surely explain everything.
As she read, the tears slid from her face, dripping onto the mattress, absorbed into the fabric. She read it quickly, having to wipe at her face as the letters blurred before her. And then a second time: slower, carefully. Oh Albie, she thought as she finished, as she re-read the way he had signed it. Oh Albie.
* * *
She had said goodbye to Troy, hugging him tightly, thanking him for his thoughtful gift and knowing exactly where she was headed. Reading Albie’s words made her next decision easier. She thought of the last line on the wish list. The last bullet point, the one under her own name. She would go now and honour it.
Albie would have liked it, she thought, as she pushed through the door of the small, independently run shop. She had walked past it for years and had never thought to step inside. At first it had seemed silly to do it without him. It wasn’t like it could end how he had imagined it. And yet it seemed wrong not to complete everything, to choose the very thing he wanted to get her.
The room smelt of cranberries and furniture polish, the walls were lined in rich cream leather and polished clear boxes displayed a plethora of jewellery, sparkling and gleaming under the spotlights overhead. A woman stood behind the counter, hair pinned back in a neat bun, smooth, dark skin, a bright smile.
‘Can I help you with something?’
Did she imagine Maria would be asking for a christening gift for a grandchild, a new watch to replace her old, maybe a necklace for herself? She searched the woman’s face, which remained open and expectant.
‘An engagement ring, please. I’d like to view your engagement ring selection.’
‘Buy the ring, propose to Maria…’
Only the smallest flicker betrayed the woman’s surprise at the request. ‘How wonderful,’ she said, moving to a cabinet on Maria’s left. ‘Will the gentleman be joining us?’ She peered behind Maria as if some suitor would magically appear.
For some reason Maria found the sentence exceptionally funny and burst into an unexpected, loud laugh, startling the woman. ‘No, no, he won’t be joining us.’
Again, the woman remained perky. Maria wondered if she worked on commission.
‘Well, this is our selection. We have different styles, different sizes of diamond, of course; we have white gold, rose gold, platinum bands and more. Do browse and I can answer any questions you might have.’
She stepped back as Maria peered into the cabinet, the rings spaced out on a dark blue velvet tray. Some were beautiful, the stones gleaming: three in a row, one enormous one, one raised in a clasp of gold, another band studded with tiny ones. It was quite an array and for a moment Maria was overwhelmed with the choice. She hadn’t owned much jewellery. Steve, Rosie’s father, hadn’t bought her a ring, had said he was saving for something special. After he left when Rosie was only eleven months old, she was glad she didn’t have a band to remind her.
What would Albie have picked for her, she wondered as she stared at the selection. She noticed one of the rings, a simple gold band with a beautiful solitaire stone at the centre. It was elegant, modest and just right. She motioned to the assistant. ‘If possible, please could I try that one on.’
‘We would resize it of course, they often don’t fit, but the resizing is complimentary – and we offer an annual clean for a very small sum.’
‘Good, good,’ Maria said, watching in quiet amazement as the woman took a key and unlocked the cabinet, the glass sliding across, her hand reaching inside to pull out the tray.
‘That one, please,’ Maria said, indicating the top right corner.
‘A lovely choice,’ the woman said, giving her another wide smile. Maria knew she probably would have said that if she’d selected any one of them, but it made her feel better all the same.
She felt wobbly, this enormous decision that she should have been making with someone else. It wasn’t so much the ring but everything it represented, what it meant to be purchasing it.
She held up the ring, the stone flashing under the spotlight, the platinum band bright and clean. It was a wonderful ring and Maria slid it onto her finger. It felt snug and strange and wonderful. Like it was made for her.
‘Oh!’ the lady said, her mouth a small ‘O’. ‘That hardly ever happens. It’s obviously meant to be!’
She sounded genuine and Maria found herself smiling up at her. ‘I think it is.’
Maria slid off the ring, reluctantly handing it back to the woman. ‘I’d like it, please.’
The woman couldn’t hide her surprise now – it was the fastest sale she’d ever achieved. ‘You are a woman who knows her own mind,’ she said, both eyebrows raised.
Maria straightened, ready to pull out her purse and pay. She wanted that ring back on her hand, she wanted that unfamiliar item on her fourth finger. She wanted to stare at it from every angle, admire the way it gleamed under the light, wanted to stare inside the stone at the tiny fragmented glass. She wanted to imagine Albie sliding it onto her finger, looking at it in wonder, in wonder at what it represented: engaged.
‘That I do,’ she said, drawing out her bank card. ‘I’ve waited long enough.’
The ring came in a small square velvet maroon case, making it seem even more flawless, which the woman wrapped in a small bag, tied with a navy-blue ribbon. She insisted, wouldn’t let Maria simply walk out
with the ring. She gave her a leaflet about the care of her ring, a reminder to insure it and a card in case she wanted to make further purchases. Maria wasn’t planning on anything else: Albie hadn’t added ‘Buy a tiara’ to the list. She grinned at the thought and the woman tipped her head to the side.
‘I want whatever you’re on,’ she said, passing the bag to Maria.
‘High on life,’ Maria replied, feeling for the first time in many years that this was really true.
Albie might not be here with her now but his list had shown her that he had really loved her, had truly seen her and loved her. This ring represented the fact that he had wanted to share his life with her and that thought settled on her chest and made her heart sing.
She left the shop clutching the bag, knowing where she had to go next, knowing where Albie had wanted to propose to her.
Thirty-Six
He had wanted to make a new memory there. A happy memory. He had known she would need to be ready, need to have let go of the past. Perhaps that was why it had been the final thing on the list.
She took a breath as she approached the familiar street, one hand squeezed tight on the small bag from the jewellers, the other carrying a heavier bag. There were more people here, the road busy too with cars and cyclists. A moped moved past, engine sputtering.
She arrived, craning her neck to look up. Their old apartment in a Georgian block: a wrought-iron balcony, repainted in a royal blue. Rosie had loved to sit out on it and look out across the water, taking endless polaroids that she’d stuck on her walls with Blu Tack. She had loved the sea, the view. Her O Level Art project had been returned to Maria by the school and her final piece had been a photographic collage of that view, the blues splicing over each other, white card cut into tiny pieces recreating the reflections on the water.
This was Maria’s first glimpse of this stretch of beach in thirty-six years. Sand and pebbles that she and her daughter had sat on, played on, lain on hundreds of times.
The Wish List of Albie Young (ARC) Page 28