Ten Little Words

by Leah Mercer

  ‘No.’ Bertie was still shaking his head. ‘She couldn’t have done that. I saw her – I’m sure of it. She was down by the river, listening to music. She was older, yes, but I’m sure it was her. I shouted her name, but she didn’t hear me, and when I tried to get closer, I lost her in the crowd.’

  ‘Is that why you placed the advert instead of just writing?’ I asked. ‘You thought you saw her?’ But why would he wait two years? If Bertie believed my mother was alive, surely he would have put an advert in the paper right away.

  Maybe he had, I thought, and I just hadn’t seen it.

  ‘The advert? What advert?’ Bertie’s brow creased. Did he not remember, or had it not been him, after all?

  ‘In the classified section of The Post,’ I explained. ‘The one that appeared on the twentieth of July.’

  ‘Your mother’s birthday,’ Bertie said, and I nodded. He remembered that, anyway. Maybe he hadn’t put the advert in. ‘What did it say?’

  I took a deep breath. ‘I am always with you. I—’

  ‘Will always be here,’ Bertie finished. ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘No.’

  Bertie breathed in. ‘Ella, I may not always remember things perfectly these days, but I can tell you beyond a shadow of a doubt that I did not place that advert. And there’s only one person I can think of who would reach out with those ten words . . . on her birthday.’

  I stepped back, as if I could stop him from speaking – as if I could stop him from plucking the answer that was hanging in the air around us. But I couldn’t stop him. Couldn’t stop the words from falling towards me.

  ‘Your mother,’ he said, his voice full of hope and wonder. ‘It must have been your mother.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ELLA

  I glanced around the room for Angus, hoping he could help me rid Bertie of such a ridiculous notion, but he’d slipped away without me even noticing.

  ‘Bertie . . .’ I paused, wondering what to say. I knew it was hard to accept that my mother had gone – and maybe even harder to grasp the information with Bertie’s illness – but I couldn’t leave here letting him think my mother was reaching out to us. It may not have been him who had placed the advert, but it couldn’t have been her. She was dead. She had been gone for thirty years, disappeared into the sea without a trace of her left living.

  Not even what she’d promised me.

  Bertie may have thought he’d spotted her, but of course he was wrong. It’d been years since he’d seen my mother, he’d only glimpsed her from a distance, and – as much as I hated to think this – I wasn’t sure I could trust his memories. My mother, lounging by the river, in London? It was impossible to get my head around. This wasn’t some fairy tale, like my mum used to tell me. This was real life. And in real life, people didn’t suddenly turn up again after thirty years.

  ‘It’s just not possible,’ I said quietly. ‘She was declared dead long ago. No one has seen or heard from her.’ I sighed. ‘Mum always said those words to me, too, but we didn’t have a monopoly on them, and the fact that the advert appeared on my mother’s birthday is purely a coincidence.’

  But Bertie wasn’t having any of it. ‘It must be her, don’t you see? I might be old and slightly doddery at times, but my eyesight is as sharp as it ever was. I’d know your mother anywhere, despite the years. She is alive.’

  ‘Let’s say it is her,’ I said slowly, even though I was in no way prepared to submit to his so-called logic. ‘You’re living in the same place. My aunt Carolyn is living in the same place. Why would my mother put an advert in the paper? Why not just get in touch?’

  Bertie met my eyes. ‘I don’t know, Ella. But I imagine just turning up after such a long time would be . . . difficult. Leaving her family behind, leaving you . . . Maybe it was a way of reaching out to the ones she loved; of letting them know she was all right.’ He swallowed. ‘You said your father passed away?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He died before I was born.’

  ‘And was there . . . Was there anyone else?’

  ‘No. There was just me and her until she died.’

  ‘So she never married.’ He shook his head. ‘I always wondered. I thought she must have, and that was why she never wrote back. Still, I couldn’t help hoping.’ He smiled sadly. ‘I wrote for years, you know. Letter after letter. I know it was kind of pathetic – my brother certainly told me so on a regular basis, back when we were still talking. After all, she’d left me with barely a word. But I knew that she loved me. I felt it. And whatever her reason for leaving, I couldn’t help thinking that if we could just talk, then we could get through it. I sent the letters to Carolyn’s place – the only address I had, hoping she’d pass them on. It was a long shot, since she wasn’t keen on me, to say the least, but it was the only thing I could do.’

  My eyes widened. Maybe my mother hadn’t discarded those letters without even opening them. Maybe Carolyn had failed to pass them on to my mum, the same way she’d tried to keep them from me. That would explain why they’d been tucked away in the shed, at least. But why would she do that? I still didn’t understand why she’d tried to stop me from reading them.

  ‘Did you and Carolyn ever meet?’ I asked.

  Bertie nodded. ‘Well, sort of. Jude never introduced me properly – I think she and your mother had a bit of a rocky relationship, and Carolyn wasn’t thrilled that we were living together so soon after we’d met. I got the feeling she thought I was some kind of Lothario who was dragging her sister back to my lair when, in truth, I couldn’t have been further from. I was a shy accountant desperately in love.’

  I nodded. I could certainly see Carolyn believing that, but hiding letters . . .

  ‘After your mother left me, I went down to Hastings over and over to try to find her. I scoured the promenade, the pubs and all the places she used to sing, but she wasn’t there.’ He sighed, and I could see the frustration and loss in his face, even now.

  ‘It was summertime when I ran into your aunt, about a year after your mother had left,’ he continued. ‘I saw Carolyn one day in the supermarket. She looked so much like Jude that I knew she had to be her sister. Anyway, I tried to talk to her. I told her who I was and asked about Jude, but she hurried back to her house without even speaking. I followed her and knocked for ages, but she never came out. I went back to Edinburgh, happy that at least I had somewhere to write to; somewhere where I might reach your mother. And, believe me, I tried.’

  He shook his head. ‘Those words I said to her . . . I meant them, as much as I could ever mean a wedding vow. I’d never met a woman like your mother before, and I’d no interest in trying to again. I don’t think I could, even if I had tried.’ He sighed. ‘A few months after I sent my last letter, I was diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s. Seeing Jude in London that one time, well . . . that was like a gift. Like a bookend to my life. A way of saying goodbye, before I faded.’

  He turned to face me, and I was taken aback by the intensity in his eyes. ‘But, Ella, maybe that’s not the end. If Jude is reaching out now, then I have to respond – before it’s too late for me. What’s the good of trying to find her all these years, only to turn away now?’

  ‘But, Bertie . . .’ Where the hell was Angus? I needed his help to convince Bertie not to go on a wild-goose chase in the past. We had to pull Bertie back into the real world, where people did not come back to life.

  Bertie smiled at me. ‘I know you probably think this is foolish,’ he said, and I felt my cheeks colour. ‘And maybe you’re right. Maybe it is foolish, but I’d rather try than hide away here. If I can see her one last time . . .’ He met my eyes. ‘Will you help me, Ella? Will you do this with me? Will you help me find your mother?’

  I sighed inwardly, wishing I’d never come. Why the hell couldn’t I have just stayed home? I’d journeyed here expecting to end all of this, but I’d only stirred things up more.

  Guilt flashed through me. Bertie wasn’t a foolish old man – in fact, he
wasn’t even that old. He was someone who had loved my mother and who had hoped, like me, that she’d come back. She had been the only one for him, in the same way I could only have one mother. In very different ways with very different outcomes, we had both waited for her. And instead of setting him free, I’d only succeeded in flaring up his hope once again.

  If I could, shouldn’t I do something – anything – to help him rest easier, to make his inevitable slide into dementia that much less tormented? The last thing I’d wanted was to make things worse for him.

  ‘All right,’ I said, and Bertie’s smile made me feel even guiltier. Because I didn’t believe my mother was alive, and I wasn’t striving for that happy ending. I wasn’t helping him so he could find her.

  I was helping him so he could bury her, once and for all.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  JUDE

  April 1981

  Jude groaned as the bed shifted beneath her. She still hadn’t got used to Bertie getting up at 6 a.m. every day, even after almost eight months. And this morning – she glanced at the clock and groaned again – he was even earlier than usual.

  For their first few months together, she’d tried to get up with him when he left for work, puttering around the kitchen, the two of them knocking hips as they made their breakfast. The sky brightened, the birds sang and gentle rain floated down, making everything outside misty and otherworldly. She’d had grand visions of how much song-writing she’d get done if she arose that early, when the world was quiet. But she’d yawn her way through breakfast, then haul herself back to the bedroom and fall asleep again until around mid-morning. Then she’d settle on the sofa to try to write some music for a while before the deathly silence got to her. She’d throw on a coat and march to the city centre for some noise and buzz. Sometimes, she’d even busk for an hour or two before getting shoved off her pitch by yet another annoying bagpiper.

  Life here was great, but . . . if Jude was honest, some days she was even more bored than she’d been in Hastings. Edinburgh was a much bigger city, obviously, but her life had shrunk. She’d never pictured Bertie as the life and soul of the party, but she’d thought he must have some friends she could hang around with. Instead, he went to work and came home again, preferring quiet nights in. And as much as she loved snuggling up with him, part of her was beginning to miss the nights she used to dread, singing in pubs to dozy punters.

  She’d been trying for months to break into the local music scene, popping into pubs and dropping off her tapes, but with no luck. She’d hoped Frank might have a few contacts he could pass on, but in the past few months the only time they’d heard from him was a drunken late-night answerphone message asking Bertie to send him money in Spain. Bertie had simply rolled his eyes and smiled affectionately, as if he hadn’t expected anything different. Jude had thought it’d be easier to get a start here than in London, but Edinburgh seemed a beacon for musicians looking to get a leg-up, too.

  Bertie was nothing but encouraging, telling her over and over again that Jude was so talented she could never be anything but a success. She’d smile, despite knowing it didn’t work that way: talent wasn’t enough. A mind-boggling amount of hard work, sacrifice and dedication went into getting to the top, and even putting in the hours was no guarantee. A million girls with voices like hers were out there trying to make it, and only one or two of them did – probably down to who they knew, or being in the right place at the right time. Jude was working hard, but she wasn’t even in the right place – not in London – and as for contacts? The one person who might be able to help was miles away in another country. In a way, it felt like she’d taken a step backwards.

  Except for Bertie, of course. He was one giant leap forward into a world where she didn’t feel like she was hanging on by her fingernails; a place where she could let go. It was hard to believe they’d been together for almost a year now; before him, the longest relationship she’d had was a night. Even with their different personalities – maybe because of it – they rarely argued, and every day rolled away smoothly, as if the path had been neatly paved before them. Okay, so maybe Jude wished that Bertie wanted to go out a bit more to see some bands around the city, or that he would stay up a bit a later and have the occasional lie-in. But that was nothing in the grand scheme of things. That was nothing compared to knowing that she was finally safe.

  This morning, though, she would have given anything for an uninterrupted lie-in. She’d been up until three last night, working on new songs for her demo tape, and her head was fuzzy. To make matters worse, Bertie was gently pushing at her shoulder.

  ‘Jude. Jude!’ His voice was soft in her ear, but it sounded like a foghorn. Carolyn had always said she’d needed a foghorn to get her out of bed in the morning.

  ‘Hunh?’ Jude sleepily lifted an eye, feeling like that was a major concession. Bertie knew better than to try to wake her in the mornings now. What the hell was the problem?

  ‘Come. Come with me.’ His tone was wide awake and alert, and she knew that he wasn’t going to let her get away with falling back asleep. For all his gentleness, when Bertie got something in his head, he didn’t let it go. She admired that about him.

  Sighing, she let herself be pulled from the warm covers and into the still-chilly morning. Bertie wrapped her robe around her and tugged her down the stairs.

  ‘Come on, Bertie,’ she said, her voice still hoarse from sleep. ‘What on earth is this all about? Is something wrong?’

  ‘Just follow me.’ Bertie smiled, but his voice wasn’t its usual relaxed tone. He pulled her towards the door and she slipped her feet into the sparkly flip-flops she’d been hoping to wear if it ever warmed up enough.

  ‘Where are we going? Bertie, I’m not even dressed!’ She gestured to the bright pink fuzzy robe that barely covered her bottom.

  ‘Not far,’ Bertie said, an enigmatic smile on his face. ‘Don’t worry, the only one who will see you is me, and I already think you’re beautiful.’

  Jude rolled her eyes because, as far as she was concerned, with her curly hair like a bird’s nest and dark circles under her eyes, she couldn’t look further from beautiful in the morning. She squinted against the sun streaming through the trees, the morning chill taking her breath away. Bertie led her across the narrow street and down a steep path between the bushes and brambles to the river.

  ‘It’s a little early for a riverside walk,’ she complained as she tripped on a root and a dew-laden branch slapped her in the face. But Bertie didn’t stop, and a minute or so later they were at the river’s edge. The sun was nearly blinding as it glinted off the river, but even she had to admit it was beautiful down here in the morning light. Birds flitted in and out of the water, and the sound of the river flowing over rocks was like music. She’d never been here so early, and the peace of the spring morning was so calming.

  Jude gasped as she spotted cushions, blankets, a huge flask of what she hoped was very strong coffee, and what looked like her favourite extra-greasy bacon baps from the café down the street.

  ‘This looks amazing!’ she said, smiling up at Bertie. She threw her arms around him, breathing in his soapy scent as his heart beat that steady, solid rhythm. ‘But what’s the occasion?’

  Bertie sank on to one knee, and Jude’s mouth dropped open.

  ‘It’s only been eight months since I’ve known you, but it feels like forever,’ he said.

  ‘Hopefully, you mean that in a good way,’ she joked, then wanted to kick herself. Why couldn’t she just go with the moment? The intensity on Bertie’s face made her want to make light of the situation, almost as if she didn’t deserve such love.

  Thankfully, Bertie didn’t respond. ‘And it’s been better than I ever thought it could be. You’ve brought me to life,’ he continued, his cheeks colouring, and Jude felt something inside her give. ‘I can’t imagine being with someone else . . . not now, and not ever.’ He swallowed, and the only sound was the tinkling of the water. ‘So I guess what I’m sayin
g is . . . will you marry me?’

  Jude stared down at him, her brain spinning as she tried to digest his words. She hadn’t ever thought about marriage – she was only twenty, after all. Sure, it had crossed her mind that Bertie was old – well, eight years older than her, anyway – and since she and Bertie were living together, they might have that conversation eventually. It had seemed miles in the future, though. There was still so much she wanted to do, first and foremost making it as a singer and a songwriter. There was a long, hard road ahead, despite Bertie’s confidence that she couldn’t help but make it.

  But there was no reason that she couldn’t be a wife and a singer, right? Being married didn’t mean the end to hopes and dreams: it just meant there was someone by your side, along for the journey. Her mind flashed back to that day on the promenade when Bertie had given her his coat, encouraging her to not stop singing. He may not understand how difficult it would be, but she knew he’d support her. He knew how important this was to her and he’d never try to change that.

  She rolled the word ‘wife’ around in her mind, partly repelled and partly fascinated by the concept of applying it to herself. She didn’t doubt her love for Bertie, nor his for her. She meant those ten little words they exchanged each night with every cell of her body. No matter what the future held for them, Bertie had become a part of her, and vice versa.

  So why not make it official? Carolyn would be thrilled to officially release Jude from her responsibility now, and Jude couldn’t ask for a better person than Bertie to be by her side. She may be young, but she already knew that a man as good and supportive as Bertie didn’t come around often.

  And she wasn’t going to let him go. She couldn’t let him go. They’d been connected since that moment on the promenade. Singing and performing; going to London . . . She’d figure it out. They’d figure it out, together.