by Leah Mercer
Jude took a deep breath and got ready to go back out to the mic again, excitement curling inside of her. She wasn’t just a regular, run-of-the-mill pub singer any more, dabbling part-time in singing while waiting to get married – not that she ever had been, of course, but she suspected that was how everyone else saw her. She was going on tour now, with a band that was going to be huge. She was on her way.
Life was about to begin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
ELLA
I might be itching to face down my mother but, as the days ticked on, I wasn’t any closer to finding her. Anger mixed with frustration as I scoured social media, knowing she wouldn’t be listed under her own name, but unable to think of anything else to do. How did you find a person who’d been officially dead for years, anyway? And why the hell would she place an advert without bothering to leave any contact information? Did she expect us to search endlessly for her? I should sit back and wait for her to come to me, but I couldn’t. I was through with waiting, with hiding. I needed to act.
I often wondered if Bertie and Angus had found anything, but I needed to do this on my own. Bertie had said they’d keep in contact, but I didn’t want to listen to endless stories and reminiscence; to hear how I shouldn’t be angry or hurt. Instead, I sat inert in my cubicle at work, the pile of sound files growing as my mind ticked over and I tried desperately to think of some way to track her down.
Was I mad for thinking she might be alive? After all, we still didn’t know for sure if she’d placed that advert. Maybe I was crazy, but I didn’t really care. I wasn’t sure I could stop myself now, even if I wanted to. It was as if some dam inside me had burst, letting out a never-ending torrent of anger. I was burning with so much emotion that I’d taken to running along the promenade each night in a bid to work off extra energy. The only way I’d fall asleep was if my body was bone-tired, even if my mind was still spinning.
I was heading home from work one night when my mobile rang. I squinted at the digits that popped up, thinking it wasn’t a number I recognised. In the past, I would have ignored it and let it go straight to voicemail. But now, any call could be a lead that might point to my mother – or my mother herself – and I wasn’t going to let anything slip by me.
‘Hello?’ My voice was breathless as I climbed the stairs to my flat.
‘Hello, is this Ella?’ It was a young female voice, and my brow furrowed.
‘Yes, it is.’ Please may this not be an inane sales call, I thought, opening my door. Dolby streaked towards me, and I set down my bag and scooped her up with one hand.
‘Oh, thank God. I’ve been trying to reach you for a couple of weeks, but that idiot receptionist lost the number you’d given her and it’s taken until now for her to find it again. No surprise there, given how organised she is. Or isn’t, I should say.’
I shook my head as her voice streamed out. Receptionist? Who the hell was this? ‘Who’s calling, please?’ I asked.
‘Oh, sorry. God, I was so excited to finally get in touch that I forgot to tell you who I was, didn’t I? I’m Theresa Blake from The Post.’
‘Hello,’ I said slowly, trying to figure out why she might be calling. Had the paper found something out about my mum?
‘Listen, I hope you don’t mind me ringing you out of the blue. I couldn’t help overhearing what you were saying to Greg that day you came into the newsroom. About the advert and how you’re looking for the person who placed it – how you think it might be your mother.’
Ah. Something clicked in my mind. So that’s who she was – the woman who’d been sitting nearby, the one who’d been rolling her eyes at Greg.
‘Have you found her yet? Your mother?’ Theresa asked.
‘No, not yet,’ I answered.
‘Oh, good,’ she said, and my heart sank that she wasn’t about to pass on any leads. ‘Sorry, sorry, it’s just that it’d make such a great story. It’s the kind of thing our readers would snap up. And if you are trying to find someone, this might help! We have national circulation, and we post stories on our Facebook page and other social media. I have a feeling this could go viral.’
‘That would be amazing.’ I raised my eyebrows, pleased at the stroke of luck. This might be just what I needed – all it’d take was just one person who knew my mum now and I’d be able to track her down.
‘Great. I was hoping to get the story into tomorrow’s afternoon edition – I’ve just been told we have the space – but I’ll need to interview you now. I know it’s short notice, but I have to get this written up quickly.’
‘Yes, of course.’ I plonked down on the sofa. ‘Fire away.’
‘Right . . . So, let’s start from the beginning.’
I swallowed back the nervousness building inside. This was a stranger. Did I really want to open up about my mother leaving and everything that accompanied it?
Why not? I asked myself. Although I hadn’t ever talked about it, growing up here, everyone knew my mother had killed herself. I’d been able to deal with it then, and I could deal with it now. And if my mother was reaching out, then she needed to face her past, too.
I would need to tell Carolyn, though. Despite my aunt’s many calls, I still hadn’t spoken to her. She’d no idea that I’d been to Edinburgh and met Bertie. She didn’t know that he thought he’d seen my mother, nor what I’d discovered in London: that my mother might have placed an advert . . . that there was a chance she might still be alive.
I closed my eyes, trying to imagine my aunt’s reaction. Would she balk at the thought that her sister might be living, like I had at first? The evidence of my mother’s existence now was a little flimsy, but then, so was the evidence of her death. Yet Carolyn had always seemed so steadfast and accepting of my mother’s passing, as if she’d been expecting it.
I could just imagine Carolyn telling me in her calm tone that the advert could have been placed by anyone, that the birthday date was just a coincidence, and as for Bertie’s sighting . . . well, she’d never trusted Bertie, anyway (I still couldn’t figure out why she’d tried to hide those letters, but it didn’t really matter now). I was sure she’d be sympathetic to his condition, but that would add even more weight to her explanation.
Maybe she was right. Maybe my mother was dead, and I was going mad. Maybe I was on a wild-goose chase. But for the first time since I could remember, I had energy. I felt blood running through my veins; heat in my cheeks. Sure, it was anger – an unhealthy emotion. But it was emotion, and it was pushing me out into the world in a way I never could have expected. If that returned my mother to me, then all the better.
Not to embrace and start over, but so I could tell her exactly what I thought of her.
I told Theresa the basics of my mother’s disappearance and the journey I’d taken to find her ever since spotting the advert, including visiting Bertie. No matter why she’d left him, my mother had obviously loved him. She wouldn’t have kept that necklace around her neck nor repeated their pledge to me if she hadn’t, and it was very possible those words in her advert were meant for him as much as they were for me. Perhaps knowing both of us were looking for her would help bring her forward. I wouldn’t have a chance to ask Bertie if he was all right with me mentioning him, but I was sure he wouldn’t mind.
‘Do you have a photo of this Bertie?’ Theresa asked, and I shook my head.
‘No, sorry.’
‘That’s okay,’ she said. ‘But can you send me a photo of you? Just scan one, if you can. I’ll email you through the photo specs we need.’
‘Er . . . I’d rather not,’ I answered slowly. Talking about my mother’s disappearance was one thing, but splashing my face across the country? No, thank you.
‘It’ll really add to the article. People are always more apt to look at things with photos. It might not be used in the print version, depending on space, but we can definitely use it in the online version.’
‘All right.’ I shuddered, just thinking about it, but the more people w
ho looked at this article, the better. Anyway, I reminded myself, I was through with hiding.
‘Great. Okay, I think I have everything I need. I’d love to talk to Bertie, but I’m not going to have the time. I’ve got to get going on this now, and I think we have enough material. Just one final question: What would you say to your mother if you saw her again?’ Theresa’s voice lasered into me and, before I could think about it, the words flew from my mouth.
‘I’d ask her why she had to go. Why couldn’t she always be here, next to me, like she’d promised? What was so terrible that she left a five-year-old daughter behind? And did she ever think about what that might do to me?’ I raised my eyebrows in surprise. That wasn’t what I’d say! I’d meant it when I’d told Angus I didn’t have any questions. Any answer she could give would make no difference. ‘I mean, er—’
‘No, that’s great, that’s perfect.’ I could almost see Theresa salivating as she scribbled down the words.
‘Right, all done,’ she said. ‘Can you send me through a photo of your mum, too? Something from around the time she disappeared? Someone out there might just recognise her.’
‘Um . . . sure.’ My mind whirled. The photos in the box that Carolyn had given me were ancient, but perhaps she had a more recent one at her house. I’d have to make a trip to tell her about the article, anyway. I could grab a picture while I was there.
‘Can you send those photos in the next hour?’ Theresa asked. ‘Sorry, but we’re on a tight deadline. If it’s a hard copy, just scan it or take a picture with your phone and email it.’
‘All right,’ I said.
‘Great.’ I could hear Theresa close her notebook. ‘I hope you find her.’
I nodded. ‘I do, too.’
I hung up and took a photo of the picture on my work pass, then emailed it to Theresa. It was hardly the most flattering image – I looked like I should be wearing an orange jumpsuit – but other than that, the last time I’d had my picture taken had been my graduation from college.
I pulled on my jacket and headed straight to Carolyn’s house, steeling myself against what would be her calm rationale. I didn’t want to be calm, and I didn’t want to be rational. I wanted to find my mother and expel the anger inside.
I rang the buzzer and Rob opened the door, clad in his robe and slippers.
‘Now, don’t say a word,’ he said, gesturing to his outfit. ‘I know it looks like I’m about eighty years old, but I wasn’t expecting anyone to pop by. Even Carolyn hates it when I wear this old thing.’ I squinted at the worn blue robe, which had long since lost its fuzz, as recognition slid over me. I’d given it to Rob one Father’s Day, about . . . it must be fifteen years ago now? My heart squeezed that he was still wearing it.
I followed him into the lounge and sat down on the sofa. With the lamps glowing warmly and the crackling fire, the room was the epitome of a calm oasis, and yet there was no way I could relax.
‘Is Carolyn here?’ I asked.
‘No, she won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon,’ Rob said. ‘She’s at a conference for teachers in Canterbury, and she’s spending the night there.’ He shook his head. ‘I hope she doesn’t overdo it. She really needs to relax.’
‘She’s okay, right?’ I asked.
‘Oh, yes. She’ll be fine. Now, what can I do for you?’
I ducked my head. I didn’t want to tell all of this to Rob and have him repeat it to Carolyn second hand, and I didn’t want to tell her over the phone when she was tired after a long day. Carolyn rarely strayed from the confines of the Guardian and she didn’t have an account on Facebook, so her chances of seeing the article before I spoke with her were practically nil. I’d drop by tomorrow after work and have a chat, I decided.
‘Just looking for a photo of my mother,’ I said to Rob now. ‘Something from the year or so before she died. The ones I have are much older.’ I bit my lip, wondering if he was going to ask why, but thankfully, he remained silent. ‘I’ll scan it tonight and bring it back tomorrow.’
‘No rush.’ He hauled himself from the chair. ‘If memory serves, there’s a photo album here with some pictures of her.’ He opened up a cabinet in the corner of the room and handed me the album. ‘Have a look.’
I lifted the cover and flipped through the pages, hardening myself against the images inside. My mother had been beautiful even in the terrible adolescent phase . . . something about her just shone, in a way I’d never done. In a way I’d never had the chance to, I thought, staring down at a picture of my mum smiling under a blue sky, next to a blue sea in the background, on the promenade. She looked so happy.
The photos jumped a few years – probably when Mum was living with Bertie – resuming again, this time with me. My heart lurched when I turned the pages of the album to reveal photo after photo of the two of us together: playing in the sand, jumping in the waves, Mum positioning my chubby fingers on a keyboard.
I shook my head as I tried to take in the images, trying to frame each one with the knowledge that she’d left me; that she’d broken those ten words she’d said each night. How could you do that to a child? How could you give birth to them, care for them, nurture them . . . and leave them? The same questions I’d had when talking to Theresa hammered in my mind, and I shook my head to dislodge them.
‘Everything okay?’ Rob asked, raising his eyebrows.
I grabbed the last picture in the album, a photo of my mother standing on the beach. Her hair was blown straight back and her lips were smiling, but the light had faded from her eyes. Perhaps she’d gone from me before I’d even realised, I thought, staring down at the photo.
I forced a grin at Rob. ‘Fine.’
As soon as I found her, it would be again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
JUDE
April 1982
‘That was fantastic.’ Frank smiled at Jude as she dropped into a chair at the back of the tiny pub in the middle of nowhere, Scotland. She didn’t even know where they were half the time and the ‘pub’ was barely that: a barn with a bar serving only a few drinks. But she didn’t care. They were halfway through their six-week tour run, and she never wanted it to end.
She loved the camaraderie of their group as they squeezed themselves into cramped mini-vans after yet another uncomfortable night sleeping in dingy, noisy rooms above pubs. She loved leaning her head against the side of the van as it twisted its way through the back country, closing her eyes to the faint buzz of the other band members reliving comic moments from last night’s performance. She loved pulling up into another small town and unloading their gear under the curious eyes of the residents.
And most of all, she loved singing: performing, night after night, honing her songs and feeling her voice not getting tired, but getting stronger. Mike kept commenting how each night’s performance from her was better than the last, while the band she was opening for joked that she was stealing their thunder. They didn’t have to worry – they would be the next big thing; they were just that good – but hearing praise from such wonderful musicians who she respected and admired made her heart sing. She’d always been alone in her craft – Frank’s encouragement and experience in the industry had helped, but he didn’t know much about the technicalities of singing. To be alongside others who understood was a real gift. In fact, she couldn’t help thinking that this whole tour was just that: a gift. All too soon, she’d be back to reality.
Not that she didn’t miss Bertie, of course. She missed him with every part of her – missed his safe, comforting presence by her side, steadying her when she felt like she was about to float away into the darkness. She missed his smile, and the way he looked at her, so full of love and caring. But touring and taking the first step towards her dream, well . . . she didn’t want to be steadied. She wanted to float away and keep going, as far as she could, and she’d take Bertie along with her. In just a few months they’d be married, in the cutest little chapel she’d booked not too far from Bertie’s. When Jude closed her eyes,
she could just imagine the cave-like interior strewn with wildflowers, sun shining down through the stained-glass windows as dust danced happily in the air.
But all of that still seemed ages away. First, she had the rest of the tour to enjoy. So far, Bertie had been super-supportive, as much as she ever could have dreamed. She’d talk for hours on the phone with him after each performance, babbling on about the band when she knew he was stifling yawns and dying to sleep. He’d ask yet more questions and she’d be off again. He was even taking some time off work to see them perform during their last week in York. He was such a good man that sometimes she couldn’t help feeling he was a touch too good for her. She’d meant what she’d said to him, though: she would always be with him. They might be miles apart, but something between them just worked.
Opposites attract and all that, Jude thought, accepting a beer from Frank. She’d got to know her brother-in-law even better over the past few weeks and realised that, as full-on and brash as he could sometimes be, underneath the surface he was a little . . . insecure, maybe. Despite desperately trying to impress the band at every location, they didn’t seem to notice his efforts and rarely even spoke to him except when they had to, which only made him try harder. It was so embarrassing that Jude usually went to her room while the band set up rather than watch Frank run around like an obedient lapdog who’d be lucky if he got within sight of a lap. It was the same reason she disappeared to her room as soon as the show was over – as well as calling Bertie, of course. The days of workshopping her music and laughing together about punters seemed far away now. She cringed, remembering the night she and the band had been huddled together in the corner of a freezing pub, having a post-show drink. They’d been so busy talking about something that they hadn’t even noticed Frank standing behind them. It was only when he’d interrupted to tell the same old story about the man whose trousers had caught on the bar stool that they’d realised he was there. But instead of breaking out in laughter at the tale, the band members simply nodded and went back to their drinks, then started talking to each other again. Jude had gone to pull out a chair for Frank to join them, but he’d already backed away to tinker with a light that didn’t need tinkering with. She could tell by the set of his shoulders that he wasn’t happy, and she’d sighed. She understood his desire to impress, but he really needed to stop trying so hard.