11 Missed Calls

by Elisabeth Carpenter

  ‘These need sorting into categories and putting on the shelves, which are labelled with different genres, and fiction and non-fiction. Would you like a cup of tea first? My grandmother always used to say …’

  I walk towards the kitchenette, not bothering to finish my sentence. Ellen’s already unpacking the books. I was boring myself anyway.

  The sound of the kettle masks my opening her envelope. There is only one thing I want to check. If my mother were alive, she would be fifty-eight tomorrow. I look at the back of Ellen’s head. There is a photo of Robert in one of our old albums, where he’s gluing plane parts together; Debbie is sitting with her back to the camera – her long dark hair is pulled into a bun, so it looks like it’s shorter. Ellen looks just like her from behind.

  I peek at the top of her CV. I see it.

  I read it again to make sure.

  Ellen has the same date of birth as my mother.

  Sheila sniffs and remains on her perch behind the till.

  ‘I don’t have to go in the back if I don’t want to,’ she says. ‘If she wants to say hello, she’ll have to come in here.’ She leans forward. ‘She could be a murderess for all we know.’ She whispers as quietly as a church bell.

  I could argue that Ellen probably isn’t a convicted killer, and that being the veteran volunteer of the bookshop with twelve years’ service, Sheila should make an effort to welcome her, but I don’t. It will fall on deaf ears, as things like this usually do with her – she pretends, at times convenient to her, that she’s hard of hearing.

  Instead, I say, ‘How many people do you know that have the same birth date as you?’

  It’s like I can hear the index cards sifting in her mind as her eyes drift away into the past.

  ‘Mavis Brierly,’ she says. ‘Fattest girl at school, though I don’t know how; no one had much money to buy so much food. After that, I met a woman in the maternity ward when I was expecting Timothy – can’t remember her name … began with a “C”, if I remember rightly. So, two people. Though they’re probably dead now. Most people I know are.’

  I shouldn’t have asked her; I shouldn’t be thinking like this.

  The last time it happened was six years ago. It was the woman who used to work in the bakery a few doors down from the shop I used to work in. If it hadn’t been for Jack, I’d have a restraining order against me.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘So, it’s not as unusual as I thought.’

  ‘Obviously not. There are only three hundred and sixty-five days in a year, and millions of people in this world.’ She leans towards me again. ‘Why do you ask? Has Tenko in there got the same birthday as you?’

  ‘Sheila! You must stop talking like that. Everyone deserves a second chance.’

  Ellen clears her throat. She’s standing at the doorway.

  ‘This book,’ she says. ‘I think it might be valuable. It’s a Harry Potter first edition.’

  Sheila picks up a pen and writes on the notepad next to the till on the counter. She pushes it towards me when she’s finished. She’s probably a thief.

  My face grows hot as I rip the sheet from the pad. I screw it up and drop it into the bin, before ushering Ellen back into the storeroom. She can’t have seen what Sheila wrote, but she will have noticed the whispering, and the silence that followed her presence.

  ‘I’m so sorry about that,’ I say, in case she read it. ‘I’ll give Sheila a warning. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.’

  Ellen sits at the table and places the book in front of her.

  ‘It’s okay. I’m used to it,’ she says. ‘There was one person in particular who targeted me when I was inside: Jackie Annand. She never liked me. But that’s another life. I’m here now.’

  She looks up at me and smiles. She has the same eyes as Sophie.

  Chapter Six

  Wednesday, 2 July 1986

  Debbie

  We need to bin this digital alarm clock. Even when I close my eyes, I can still see the angry red numbers reminding me I’m not asleep. It’s one fifteen in the morning. If I go by her previous feeds, Annie’ll be waking again at three thirty. I could go and heat a bottle ready, in case she wakes early.

  I keep checking she’s still breathing. She’s only a foot away, in her basket. What if I fall asleep too deeply, roll off the bed and crush her? No, no that couldn’t happen – I’ve not fallen out of bed since I was a child. But you never know. I shuffle away from the edge a bit.

  I close my eyes, but my mind is busy with too much crap. My body’s exhausted – why won’t my brain listen to it? It’s no good. The memory of last Saturday keeps coming back to me. I wish I’d never gone with them to Lytham Club Day. There were too many people around – everyone stared at me. You shouldn’t be outside. I bet that’s what they were thinking.

  I watched Bobby and Leo on the little rides, while Nathan, Monica and Peter went on the waltzers. It was too warm. The children’s rollercoaster went round and round and round, hundreds of times. I had to sit on the grass.

  Peter and the others came over, swaying.

  ‘That was amazing,’ said Monica. ‘I haven’t been on one of those since I was a teenager.’

  ‘You have to go on something, Debs,’ said Peter.

  I ended up climbing onto the lorry that had been converted into a two-storey ‘fun’ house with the boys. Bobby took me by the hand and pulled me up the stairs.

  ‘You’ll love it, Mummy,’ he said.

  Halfway up the stairs, my legs started to shake. Why hadn’t I realised how high it would be up there? The eyes on the faces painted on the walls watched me. I tried to cover them with my hands as I walked past, but there were too many. Their gaze followed me until we reached the outside part of the upper level.

  I held the rail opposite.

  Peter and Monica stood waving at us; I couldn’t let go to wave back.

  It was too high. I couldn’t breathe. A cold sweat covered my body.

  Oh God, I thought. I’m going to die.

  I kneeled on the metal floor. The ringing in my ears got louder.

  ‘Mummy? Mummy? Are you okay?’

  Breathe, breathe.

  I put my head close to my chest, closing my eyes.

  I don’t know how many minutes passed before Bobby’s hand touched my shoulder.

  ‘Is it too high for you, Mummy?’ he said. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll help you down. I used to be like this when I was four.’

  He reached down for my hand; I looked up at him.

  My breathing gradually slowed.

  ‘I’m sorry, Bobby.’ I looked around, relieved I could get the words out of my mouth. The sound in my ears faded. ‘Come on, love. Let’s find something fun for you to go on next.’

  I don’t know what happened to me that day.

  Am I dying? I feel numb and my body doesn’t feel like mine any more. That day, I could barely breathe – there must be something wrong with me. My mind might be shutting down first.

  1.23 a.m.

  Oh God. I might go insane with tiredness. In an article in one of Mum’s magazines, it said if you can’t get to sleep, get up and make a milky drink, but I can’t find the energy.

  After counting three hundred and fifty-six sheep, I turn onto my back and look up to the ceiling. This is torture. I bet Monica never had this.

  I can’t believe I was trying to catch Nathan’s eye on Friday. What was I hoping to achieve? My face feels hot with the memory of it. He doesn’t even know how I feel – I don’t even know how I feel. Monica wouldn’t have noticed anyway. She was too busy being amazed by how great Peter is.

  ‘We should get a microwave too, Nath,’ she’d said. ‘We could have jacket potatoes every day, then.’

  He’d rolled his eyes at her back, but frowned when he realised that I saw him.

  Go away, Nathan, I’d thought to myself, fully aware that – as always – my feelings were as fickle as Preston sunshine. There’d been a smash of china in the kitchen, and Monica had jumped up im
mediately.

  ‘Are you all right, Peter?’

  It was my turn to roll my eyes. I glanced at Nathan, but he was looking at the impression Monica had left on the settee. I wondered, then – as I do now, in the darkness – if he’d had the same thought that I did. That perhaps Monica was in love with my husband.

  ‘Get up! Get up!’

  I sit up quickly.

  ‘I’m coming, Uncle Charlie,’ I say without thinking.

  But there’s no one here. The bedroom is semi-lit by daylight filtering through the curtains. Annie’s basket is empty – so is Peter’s side of the bed.

  Why did I call out for Uncle Charlie? My mum’s brother has been dead for years.

  I battle with the cover, tangled in my legs, almost tripping out of bed.

  Bobby’s duvet is made up as though he’s not slept in it.

  ‘Peter!’ I shout as I run down the stairs. I push open the living-room door, and there, sitting in the armchair holding Annie, is my mother.

  Bobby’s sitting on the floor, eating dry Rice Krispies, and watching Picture Box on the telly. That’s not right – it can’t be after nine thirty.

  ‘Is this on tape?’ I ask Mum.

  She looks to the heavens.

  ‘Course not, love. Since when have you seen me operating machinery? And shouldn’t your first question be why Bobby’s not at school?’ She doesn’t wait for me to reply. ‘He said he wasn’t feeling very well. The baby must’ve kept him up all night.’

  ‘What? No, that can’t be right. Where’s Peter?’ I’m still standing at the door in my nightie; she’ll tell me to get dressed any minute now. ‘Has he popped to the corner shop?’

  ‘He’s at work.’

  ‘Really? Has a week passed already? That went quickly.’

  Mum’s eyes widen, and she shakes her head a little.

  ‘I do wonder about you sometimes,’ she says. ‘You have not been asleep for a whole week. He popped into work for an emergency – said he wanted you to catch up on your rest.’

  She sits Annie up, rubbing her little back.

  She knows I didn’t mean that, but she’s doing me a favour by being here, so I don’t argue with her. Part of me wishes I had slept for a week. 3.15–9.30 a.m. – that means I’ve had six hours and fifteen minutes’ sleep. A record. I haven’t slept that long since I was four months pregnant.

  ‘I was just joking about sleeping that long,’ I say.

  I know she doesn’t believe me. She probably thinks I’m not coping. It’s family legend that the day after I was born, she was up and about doing housework, or sheafing wheat in the fields or whatever.

  ‘Do you know what’ll do you some good?’

  I glance at the ceiling. ‘What?’

  ‘Getting a bit of exercise. I’ve been doing it every morning with what’s-her-name on TV-am.’

  ‘You mean Mad Lizzie? Have you heck been doing aerobics, Mum.’

  ‘Well, I watch her do it while I have a cup of tea. Her energy’s infectious.’

  ‘She’d make me feel worse,’ I whisper, turning to look at myself in the hall mirror. Before Mum has a chance to mention it, I say, ‘I’ll just have a quick wash and get dressed.’

  As I put my foot on the first stair, she hollers, ‘Best run a bath, Deborah. You look like you could do with one.’

  I stare at my face in the bathroom mirror until it becomes a boring collection of features that could belong to a stranger. My body has been hijacked for so long, it’s going to be months before I feel like it’s mine again.

  Mum thought I believed I’d slept for a whole week. I have my moments, but I’m not that ditzy. She probably remembers the time I swallowed an apple seed when I was pregnant with Bobby. I telephoned her in a panic that it might harm him – everything scared me then.

  ‘What do you think will happen, Deborah? That an apple tree will grow inside you?’

  I’ve since learned that apple seeds contain cyanide, so I’ll be sure to tell her that if she brings it up again.

  The steam from the bath starts to blur the glass.

  ‘You know it’s not meant to be like this.’

  A man’s voice. It sounded like Uncle Charlie again. But what if it’s not him – what if it’s God trying to speak to me?

  I open the bathroom door.

  ‘Mum? Is that you?’

  Silence.

  There’s nobody upstairs. What’s happening to me?

  I dress quickly, putting on whatever’s on the back of the chair in the bedroom.

  Downstairs, Mum has dressed Bobby, and a sleeping Annie is in her pram under the window. Mum looks up at me as I loiter at the living-room door again, as though it’s not my house.

  ‘Are you all right?’ says Mum. ‘You look as though you’ve forgotten something.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  I walk straight to the kitchen without saying another word. After the sleeping for a week conversation, I can’t tell her what’s actually worrying me; she wouldn’t understand. The voice I heard sounded as though it was outside of my head, but there was no one there. I feel like someone’s watching me all the time.

  I don’t know what’s real and what’s not any more.

  Chapter Seven

  Anna

  It has been five days since I read the email and I still can’t find the right words to write back. I searched the loft for the box of Debbie’s things, but I couldn’t find it anywhere. This morning, Jack suggested it might be in the storage unit with the rest of the belongings we haven’t seen for years. I must not have looked at her things for over three years. Jack promised he would go over later to collect what he can find.

  I pull up outside Dad and Monica’s to collect Sophie. I haven’t seen nor heard from Monica since last week. I should have brought her a box of chocolates or something to let her know I’m thinking of her – that I appreciate all that she’s done for me.

  Growing up, neither I nor Robert called her Mum. Robert had always known her as Monica, so I must have copied him. ‘Why do you call your mum by her first name?’ friends used to ask. ‘She just likes it that way,’ I’d say, too embarrassed to tell the truth.

  Monica never treated us any differently to Leo. It must have annoyed him. I haven’t heard from him in months – he’s been living in America near his dad for almost ten years. It must be so hard for Monica, Leo being so far away.

  Dad opens the door before I have the chance to ring the doorbell.

  ‘Good day, love?’ he asks, as though it is a normal, unremarkable day.

  How can he act so nonchalant? My mother is alive! Perhaps he’s worried about Monica. Leo’s been gone for so long, and now my mother might be coming back to replace her. Like she did to Debbie.

  I put my head around the living-room door. Sophie raises her hand in greeting, chewing something without taking her eyes off the television. There’s a plate next to her with an unopened tangerine.

  ‘Not bad, thanks,’ I say. ‘Is that chocolate she’s eating?’

  Dad’s hovering in the hallway and doesn’t answer my question.

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea, or do you want to head straight off?’

  ‘Are you trying to get rid of me?’

  I follow him into the kitchen. He puts the kettle on and beckons me to stand closer to him. He waits until the water starts to hiss until he speaks.

  ‘Monica’s not feeling too well,’ he says.

  He points to the kettle, then up to the ceiling. What he means is that the walls are very thin in their three-bedroomed terraced house – you can hear next door sneezing, and I dread to think what else.

  ‘Shall I take her up a drink?’ I ask.

  Making yourself heard whilst trying to be quiet is harder than it seems.

  Dad shakes his head. ‘Best leave her to it, love.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say, pouring hot water into the teapot. ‘I want to see Monica for myself. I’ll take her up a digestive.’

  Dad doesn’t look happy, bu
t what is he going to do? Wrestle me to the ground to stop me? I pour tea into a china cup, and milk into a little jug, and place them on a tray with a biscuit she probably won’t eat. I carry them upstairs, everything rattling.

  I balance the tray on the palm of one hand and knock on their bedroom door with the other. There’s no reply. She used to do this a lot when she and Dad had arguments about the boys when they were teenagers. Robert and Leo didn’t get on most of the time. They had to share a bedroom. Robert’s side was reasonably tidy; Leo’s not so much.

  I knock again.

  ‘Monica, it’s me, Anna.’

  Still no reply.

  I open the door. My eyes go directly to their bed, but she’s sitting in the chair that faces the window. I place the tray on the little table, and sit on the footstool next to her.

  ‘Have you been crying?’ I ask.

  She blinks several times.

  ‘Oh, hello, Anna. I’m sorry. I’m not with it today.’

  ‘That’s okay. Is it the news about Debbie?’

  I can’t call Debbie my mother in front of her. It feels disloyal to Monica; she has always been here for me.

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ she says. ‘It’s all come as a bit of a shock.’

  I pick up the cup of tea and offer it to her.

  ‘I’ve put two sugars in it.’

  She purses her lips in a smile. ‘You’re too good to me. I don’t deserve it.’

  ‘Of course you do. Who else would put up with Robert and me?’

  There is an answer that hangs in the air that neither of us even jokes about: Not my mother.

  ‘You know,’ she says, ‘I felt tremendous guilt getting together with your dad after your mother left. She was my best friend, you know. I met her in the third year of secondary school. I’d just moved up north, and spent the first couple of days sitting on my own at dinner time. Then Debbie came over to me – of course, she was Deborah, then. Her mum, you see, she always wanted her to be Deborah, never Debbie.’

  I love hearing Monica talk about my mother like this. Grandad still calls her Deborah – when he talks about her, that is.

  ‘Has Dad told Grandad about the email?’

  Monica drops a splash of tea onto her skirt as she sips from her cup. She frowns, disorientated at being interrupted.