There is.
A whole roll of film that might contain pictures of my mother that I’ve never seen before.
Chapter Eight
Friday, 4 July 1986
Debbie
The sun on my face is delicious. I feel like I haven’t been outside for weeks, when it’s only been days. Being inside feels so oppressive, like there are a hundred faces watching every move I make.
Outside, I feel free, away from prying eyes. Annie’s sleeping in her pram, and even though I’ve only had two hours’ sleep I feel calm for the first time in days.
Peter’s finally back at work (I didn’t tell him it was silly starting back on a Friday) and Bobby’s at school until half three so I’ve over two hours of freedom. I park the pram outside the newsagents and pull the hood up.
The bell dings as I push the door.
‘Is it okay if I leave it open? The baby’s asleep outside.’
‘Right you are, love,’ says Mrs Abernathy.
There’s that new song on the radio playing: ‘The Lady in Red’. It’s not like Mrs Abernathy to have the radio on. For a love song, it sounds pretty dreary – it’s no ‘Addicted to Love’, that’s for sure. I can’t remember it on Top of the Pops last Thursday, but then I can’t remember what I had for breakfast this morning. I do remember the ‘Spirit in the Sky’ video though, because it cheered me up. Mum wouldn’t approve. She keeps harping on about Bobby being baptised so he can go to a better secondary school. I told her that’s hardly the Christian way of thinking about things, but she just spouted her usual words of eternal damnation. I’ll probably be waiting for my children in the burning fires of hell, if my mother’s prediction comes true. It’ll be more fun there anyway. Though the temperature might get a bit much; it’s far too hot today.
Under the window is a giant freezer. I used to love picking an ice cream out of those as a kid – when Mum and Dad could afford one, that is.
I choose a lemonade ice lolly and, as I close the lid, I see him outside.
He’s getting out of his car across the road. I quickly pay for the ice and dash out of the shop. He’s walking in the opposite direction; he hasn’t seen me. I’ve never been an attractive runner, so I try to walk a little faster. He’s still a fair distance away from me. My flip-flops are smacking my heels – I’m surprised he can’t hear me. I look around; there aren’t many people.
‘Nathan!’
He stops and turns around. I stop trotting just in time, and the breeze blows my long dress so it clings to my legs. He’s still looking at it when I reach him.
‘Hi, Debs.’ He lifts his sunglasses and puts them on the top of his head. ‘Pete let you out of the house, did he?’
I just nod. There are tiny freckles on his nose.
‘Are you all right?’ he says. ‘Fancy a quick coffee?’
‘Okay.’ It seems the ability to think and speak has abandoned me.
He takes me by the hand and doesn’t let go as we cross the road. I should be worried that someone we know might see us, but I’m not. He only lets go of my hand when he pushes the door of the café.
There are at least six tables free, but he chooses one at the back next to the door to the toilets. He pulls a chair out for me, and I sit. I feel like my head’s out of my body – this whole situation feels so weird. We’ve not been alone since we were an item ten years ago.
That summer was so intense. We were sixteen, and secondary school had finished. We had no distractions from each other. Both of his parents went out to work, and we’d spend lazy days lying on his bed, listening to records and smoking cigarettes.
‘Promise you’ll never leave me for someone else,’ he said to me one hot afternoon.
We’d closed the curtains for shade and they blew gently in the breeze.
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I said, staring at the ceiling.
He rested his hand on my tummy and I placed my hand on his.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what I’d do if you did.’
He’s still as good-looking now – better even. He’s holding the menu, but staring into my eyes. I know, without glancing in the mirror, that my chest and neck will be red and blotchy.
‘I’m sorry I was a bit quiet at yours the other day,’ he says.
‘I didn’t notice.’
He laughs. ‘You didn’t notice? You were giving me evils.’ He leans forward and puts his hand on mine. ‘You won’t tell Monica you’ve seen me today, will you? It’s just—’
The waitress clears her throat – she’s standing at the side of the table. How long has she been there? I swipe my hand from under Nathan’s. I don’t recognise her, but then, I’m not the best with faces these days. She’s holding a notepad, a pen poised in her other hand.
‘What can I get you?’ she says.
I look down at my skirt. The top of my leg feels cold and wet. I grab a serviette, but it’s no good. Something must’ve fallen from the table. I reach into my pocket and there’s a wrapper. I take it out.
‘Oh God.’
The ice lolly. From the paper shop.
I run out of the café without saying goodbye, and sprint down the street.
How could I have forgotten my little Annie? What if Mrs Abernathy tells the police and they’re waiting for me. They might send me to prison.
I’m only seconds away. I can hear Nathan shouting my name, but I don’t turn around.
What if Annie’s not where I left her?
It’ll be my punishment. What would I do without her?
As I cross the side street, I see the hood of her pram outside the shop.
Please be in there, please be in there.
I reach it, and push the hood of the pram down.
‘Oh, thank God.’
I bend over to catch my breath.
Annie’s still fast asleep. My beautiful, sleeping baby is where I left her.
Mrs Abernathy comes to the doorway. ‘Did you get what you went for?’
I try to work out if there’s a hidden meaning in what she’s asking, but when I look at her face, I realise there’s no agenda behind her words. She’s not as dishonest as I am.
I can never see Nathan again.
‘Yes,’ I say to her. ‘Thanks for keeping an eye on her.’
‘Anytime, dear.’ She turns and walks back into the shop.
I’m nearly at my house when the tears start streaming down my face. How could I have been so stupid? I reach under the pram for a tissue.
I see his shoes, his legs, walking towards me.
‘Are you okay, Debbie?’ Nathan can barely speak, he’s breathing so hard. ‘Did I say something to upset you? I didn’t realise you had Annie with you.’
I’m still crouching near the floor, dabbing my face. I must look a right mess.
I stand to face him.
‘I forgot about her … left her outside the shop. Please don’t tell Peter.’
He frowns. Is he angry with me as well?
‘What do you take me for, Debs? Course I won’t tell him. What would I say? Sorry, Pete, but while I took your wife for a sneaky coffee, she left the baby outside a shop?’
I bury my face in the tissue. He strokes the top of my arm; I step away from him.
‘I can’t see you again,’ I say, sniffing away the last of my tears.
‘Why are you being so serious? We have to see each other. I’m married to your best friend.’
‘What time is it?’
He looks at his watch. ‘Ten to three.’
I turn around and walk away. I’ve forty minutes to get to Bobby’s school. I can’t forget another child. I dab my face to wipe away the remaining tears. I can’t be seen crying at the school gates.
The phone’s ringing as I open the front door. I back into the hallway, pulling the pram over the step and into the house.
If it’s still ringing when I’m properly inside, then I’ll answer it. I’m not in the mood to speak to anyone on the phone. Sometimes it can ring and rin
g and ring until the sound buries itself into the middle of my brain and I want to rip the cord from the socket.
I shut the front door and wheel Annie into the living room.
The phone’s still ringing.
It might be Peter. I haven’t spoken to him since this morning. The thought of him covers me in a warm hug. But I don’t deserve that – not after the way I’ve behaved.
‘Hello?’
‘Debbie?’
Oh. It’s Monica.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It’s me.’ Who else would it be?
‘You sound funny,’ she says.
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Hmm.’ She says it in that disapproving way of hers. ‘I’ve just seen you running up and down the high street in your bare feet – are you wearing a nightie?’
‘What?’
My blood feels as though it’s been replaced with antifreeze.
‘Up and down the street. Are you okay? Do you need me to pop round? Is Annie all right – only I didn’t see her with you.’
I don’t understand what she’s talking about.
‘When?’
‘Just now. I was driving back from work.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Did you see Nathan too? I saw him near the shops.’
‘Debbie, are you sure you’re okay? I can be there in five, no problem. I can watch Annie while you have a sleep.’
‘I don’t need a sleep. I’m getting Bobby at half three.’
‘I know, but even half an hour might help.’
‘Help? Are you sure you didn’t see Nathan? He’ll tell you I wasn’t running around in my nightdress without my shoes on.’
I almost want to laugh at the image.
‘Debbie, Nathan’s at work. He’s just telephoned me from his office.’
‘Oh,’ I say.
‘I can come after school. Would that be better?’
‘No,’ I say, but I can’t think straight. How could Nathan have phoned her from the street? I can’t remember where the nearest phone box is … where is it? ‘It’s okay – Peter’s coming home early today.’
He isn’t, but it gets her off the phone.
Why the hell would she think I was running around without shoes? And in a nightie?
I feel the soft fabric of the carpet, underneath my toes.
I look down.
My flip-flops aren’t on my feet any more.
Chapter Nine
Anna
The rain is battering against the bookshop window; it’s going to be quiet today. Even though it’s not Sunday, I’m hoping Grandad will come in today. I left him a message to say that Sheila’s not coming in, so he can have free rein of the till, but I haven’t heard back from him. Dad doesn’t seem worried – perhaps he’s been to see him. Maybe Grandad’s angry with me. If I don’t see him today, I’m going to bang on his door and sit on the doorstep until he opens it … or until I need to collect Sophie from after-school club.
Ellen’s in the back room, pricing books that she thinks might be valuable. She said she has never used the Internet before, but I find that hard to believe. Prisons must have computers these days.
‘Annie?’ she says. ‘Can you just help me again with this – the page is blank. I’m not sure it’s connecting.’
I have given up trying to tell her that I don’t like being called Annie, but it doesn’t seem to register. I sit next to her, checking the side of the laptop. I click to slide a switch to the left.
‘You must have put it into airplane mode by mistake,’ I say.
‘But why would I do that if I’m not on an aeroplane?’
I look at her as she stares at the screen, frowning. Surely she must know how laptops work. I click on the refresh button and the Amazon page loads. As I’m getting up, I notice there is another tab in the background. It’s a site I’m familiar with: Missing People.
Ellen has been on the computer for nearly an hour. I keep trying to catch her looking at the missing persons’ website again, but she’s too quick, and both times I’ve gone into the storeroom she’s minimised what she was looking at. I should warn her about using the Internet for personal use, but I haven’t introduced a policy for that yet; we’ve only had the laptop in the bookshop for a fortnight. And once she’s gone, I’ll probably use it myself.
I’m still looking towards the back room when I smell a waft of Obsession.
‘Anna?’
It’s Isobel. Luckily, I have the accounts on the counter so at least I look busy. She glances at them and wrinkles her nose.
‘I do hope you don’t have those in view when we have clientele,’ she says. ‘It’s highly confidential.’
I can’t win.
‘I was just having a quick check while the shop was empty.’
I slam the book shut and shove it under the counter.
‘I’ve popped in to see how your new volunteer is getting on. Is she in?’
Isobel breezes past – the smell of her hairspray never fails to nauseate me.
I try to listen in, but they are talking too quietly. It’s not like Isobel at all. Perhaps she knows Ellen more than she’s letting on.
After nearly half an hour, all I have managed to overhear are the words ‘vicar’ and ‘they might not want to know.’ Now they’re saying their goodbyes, I rush to the window so they don’t think I’ve been listening. I move the elephant bookend a fraction, concentrating on it as though it were the most interesting thing in the world.
‘See you soon, Anna,’ says Isobel. She hesitates at the door, glancing at the window display. ‘I must think of some other paperwork for you to do. We can’t have you twiddling your thumbs all day.’
She hums to herself, putting sunglasses over her eyes before leaving the shop. That woman notices more than I thought. I wish I could tell her what I’m going through – that I can’t concentrate on anything because the mother I can’t remember has come back into our lives and, at the same time, my marriage might be falling apart. But I can’t. She’ll tell the whole of Lancashire.
‘Annie.’
I turn quickly.
‘Sorry,’ says Ellen. She’s already in her jacket. ‘Isobel said it was okay if I left a bit early. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve got an interview for a new flat.’
‘Oh, okay. Yes, I suppose that’s all right.’
‘Sorry. I hope you don’t think I’ve gone above you … it was just she was asking about me finding a place to live and—’
‘Don’t worry about it. I know what she’s like.’
‘She told me about your mum.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. She keeps saying sorry. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’
‘I’m just surprised. I’m sure everyone knows about it anyway … it’s not a big secret.’
‘Do you still think about her?’
‘What? I … Of course. Why?’
She shrugs. ‘I’m getting too personal.’ She looks at her watch. ‘I’ve corrected my time now. I’d better go. See you next week.’
I watch her walk away until she disappears from view. I hurry into the back room and click on the Internet icon, then the ‘History’ button. Who was she looking for on that website?
I will never know: she’s deleted today’s history.
I’ve been standing outside Grandad’s for five minutes. People walking past are looking at me. I have thirty minutes until I need to collect Sophie from school. The curtains are closed, but when I press my ear against the window, I can hear the television on low. Today’s silver-top milk is still on the doorstep.
‘I know you’re in there, Grandad. Are you okay? Are you hurt?’
There’s a shadow moving behind the curtains.
‘Grandad! If you don’t answer the door in a minute, I’ll call the police – they’ll break the door down, you know. Then everyone will come and have a nosy – even Yvonne from across the road. She’s in, I can see her net curtains flapping. I’ve got my mobile right here, I will
ring them.’
The left curtain flashes open.
Grandad’s standing at the window. He hasn’t shaved for days; he’s still in his tartan dressing gown.
‘Are you going to let me in?’
His shoulders rise and fall as he sighs. He rolls his eyes.
Moments later, he opens the door, but stands behind it so no one can see him.
‘Well, come in then,’ he says. ‘Don’t make a show of me.’
I do as he says and follow him down the hallway.
‘I’ll make you a cup of tea,’ he says. ‘Go through to the living room.’
‘I didn’t come here for a drink, Grandad. I came to see if you were all right.’
I sit on the sofa anyway. He always makes a drink for visitors, so at least I know he still has his senses. Dad said that when Gran, Debbie’s mother, was alive, Grandad was never allowed to touch the kettle. Dad was probably exaggerating.
Diagnosis Murder is on the television, but it’s barely audible. I look to the mantelpiece. There have always been three pictures of Debbie on there: one on her Christening day; a faded school photo, her hair flicked at the sides like a Charlie’s Angel; and a third with Gran and Grandad – Debbie the only child.
Grandad comes into the living room carrying a tray of tea and biscuits. He’s changed from his dressing gown into his usual beige cords and burgundy jumper over a checked shirt. He must have a wardrobe full of the same clothes. He places the tray on the coffee table. I wait until he’s finished pouring the tea until I speak.
‘I take it Dad’s told you about the email.’
‘He has.’
‘At least we know she’s alive, that’s something isn’t it?’
‘Do we? How can we know if it’s really her? Anyone could’ve written that. What we should be asking is why? If it is her, then why now?’ He plucks a white cotton handkerchief from up his sleeve and presses it against his nose. ‘I wish to God it were her. I’d give anything to see her face again. I just can’t see her not picking up the phone, to tell us she was all right. She was our only child. A miracle, we called her at the time. She came to us later in life – we thought we’d never … I didn’t believe in all that religious stuff before Marion died. But you have to believe they go somewhere, don’t you?’ He looks up to the ceiling. ‘I hope to God we find out the truth about my girl.’
11 Missed Calls Page 6