11 Missed Calls

by Elisabeth Carpenter

  ‘I’m sorry, Grandad. This must be so hard for you. But I have to believe that she’s out there. Perhaps she got into trouble? She might have been in prison. Or maybe she had an accident and has only just recovered her memory.’

  He raises his eyebrows. ‘You’ve been watching too many films, Anna.’ He picks up his mug of tea and takes a sip. ‘It can’t be your mum. She’d have written to me, too.’

  I stare at my cup on the tray.

  ‘But no one could’ve known about the shells. It could only have come from her.’

  ‘Hmm,’ he says. ‘Don’t go getting your hopes up, love. At least one good thing may come from this: we might find out what happened to her.’

  ‘I’m going to try and find her – or trace who wrote the email,’ I say. ‘If the police think it’s a crank, then I’m going to get to the bottom of it.’ I pull out the roll of film from my handbag. ‘I found this in Robert’s keepsake box. It might have some clues.’

  Grandad shakes his head. ‘This is only going to lead to heartache, Anna. The police will say it’s some lunatic, obsessed with her or something – they won’t even be interested, they weren’t last time. It’s been too long.’

  ‘Last time? What happened last time?’

  He flaps his hand.

  ‘A letter, in strange writing. I took it to the police and they said it might be her, or it might not. They logged it and that was that. Said she was an adult – that she left of her own accord.’

  My shoulders slump. Robert mentioned another letter the other day, and now Grandad. But I can’t ask him more about it now – he looks exhausted. His eyes are bloodshot, even though he’s tried to hide it with reading glasses. I shouldn’t be talking to him like this. His only child. The bed she slept in upstairs still has the same duvet cover; her record player is still by the window.

  ‘I’m sorry, Grandad.’

  He doesn’t look at me when he says, ‘It’s been hard for us all.’

  The carriage clock chimes five.

  ‘I have to go,’ I say. ‘The after-school club closes in half an hour.’

  ‘They never had such things in my day.’

  I smile a little as a tiny glimpse of the Grandad I know shows through. I lean over and kiss him on the cheek.

  ‘I’ll see myself out.’

  I’m turning the roll of film in my hands, waiting in the queue. Who knew Max Spielmann would be so busy?

  ‘What are we buying here?’ says Sophie. ‘I’m hungry.’

  She says it like she’s auditioning for Oliver Twist.

  ‘Pictures.’ I hold up the film. ‘This shop can change this little thing into photographs.’

  Her mouth drops open and her eyes widen. She steps closer to me.

  ‘Is this a magic shop?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The man in front leaves, but the woman behind the counter is typing something into the computer. She has one long coarse hair growing from her chin and she’s stroking it as though it were a beard.

  ‘Is that woman a wizard?’ says Sophie.

  She hasn’t got the hang of whispering yet. My cheeks are burning.

  The woman looks up quickly; I’ve half a mind to run out of the shop.

  ‘Not quite, young lady,’ she says, looking up. ‘I’m a witch. And you have to be good for your mum or you’ll end up in my rabbit stew.’ She smiles. ‘How can I help you?’

  I put the film on the counter.

  ‘Can you develop this? I think it’s nearly thirty years old.’

  ‘That shouldn’t be a problem. As long as it’s been kept in its container.’ She opens the lid and slides out the film. ‘It looks intact. I’ll have to send it off though – we don’t do 34 mm any more in store. No demand, you see. I’ll post it off tonight and it should be back in two or three days.’

  I fill out my details and she winks at Sophie as we leave. Sophie doesn’t smile back.

  Out on the street, I feel like celebrating. I thought they’d say it couldn’t be done – that they didn’t do things like that these days.

  But the pictures might not even come out.

  I take Sophie’s hand and pull her away from the kerb.

  ‘Is there a word for that?’ she says.

  ‘Word for what?’

  ‘You always walk on the pavement near the cars.’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.’

  ‘What would happen if a car crashed into us and got you first? Who’d look after me?’

  ‘Don’t think like that.’

  ‘But who would? Daddy’s always working.’

  ‘He’s not always working. I work too. I’ll think of the word.’

  ‘What word?’

  ‘For protecting you on the pavement. I’ll Google it. And I’m glad you’re thinking so practically.’

  She starts skipping. My hands go up and down with hers.

  I wish I were in her head.

  The back of my neck prickles; I feel as though someone’s watching me. I turn around quickly.

  There’s no one there.

  I shouldn’t get my hopes up about the photographs. Grandad always says I should manage my expectations. But if I had a choice between forgetting everything over the past few days, or being hurt from finding the truth, then I’d choose the truth.

  Chapter Ten

  I’ve been watching her for weeks and she hasn’t noticed. She’s too busy living in that head of hers. I watch in the rearview mirror as she gazes out of the window. She’s looking around.

  I glance over at the pile of pink notepaper on the passenger seat. It’s surprising how much meaning can be conveyed in so few words. Will it mean anything to her, to them?

  I slide down in the seat of the car as someone passes. I don’t recognise him; he mustn’t be a neighbour. Streets have gone all Neighbourhood Watch nowadays.

  The radio plays ‘Norwegian Wood’ by The Beatles. My fingers go to the radio – a reflex – and switch it off. Shutting the memories down. We used to listen to that together, didn’t we? I can’t remember if it was your favourite song, or mine.

  Chapter Eleven

  Friday, 4 July 1986

  Debbie

  The oil from Bobby’s fish fingers spits from the frying pan; a drop touches my lips. I put my finger on my mouth to rub the sting away.

  I can’t have imagined Nathan this afternoon. We had a conversation.

  ‘We have to see each other,’ he said. There must be meaning in that. But why would Monica say Nathan was at work? And if she was so worried about me looking hysterical in the street, why didn’t she pull over?

  The front door slams shut. It must be ten past five. Bobby’s banging his legs against the chair under the dining table. Thump-thump, thump-thump.

  ‘Stop it!’

  He doesn’t look up, but stops his legs.

  It’ll take Peter another five seconds to hang up his jacket. Five, four, three, two—

  I hear him throw his newspaper onto the settee. He usually says hello.

  ‘Everything okay?’ I say, peering through the kitchen doorway into the living room.

  ‘Hmm.’ He pulls off his tie. ‘I’ve brought in your flip-flops. They were on the doorstep.’

  ‘What? Again?’

  I can feel my heart banging in my chest. Has Monica told him about this afternoon? Has Nathan? I’m sure I had them on after I picked Bobby up from school.

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘They probably slipped off again when I was getting the pram in.’

  ‘It didn’t look like it. They were placed together, just outside the front door – like someone had put them there like that.’

  ‘How odd. Did Monica ring you?’

  He looks at me, wrinkling his nose. ‘Are you being serious?’

  Bobby must’ve seen my flip-flops slip off, picked them up. Or I might’ve put them there before I closed the front door. That could’ve happened. Monica must’ve mistaken my flip-flops for bare feet earlier – they must keep coming off with
out me noticing. Easily done. I’ll wear sandals next time I go out.

  I don’t tell Peter I haven’t prepared our tea. Instead I say, ‘I thought I’d go to the chippy for us tonight. A treat for you – after working so hard.’

  I sound like my fifty-two-year-old mother.

  I should’ve become a Career Woman. I heard that Michelle Watkinson from college flew to the Bahamas last year, first class. Though she probably has to put up with letches feeling up her arse as she pushes the trolley up and down the aisle. She hasn’t spoken to me since I had children. And I haven’t put make-up on since Annie was born, so I wouldn’t be any good at her job.

  I’m stuck, in limbo.

  I don’t know why I’m trying to appease Peter anyway. It wouldn’t hurt him to offer to cook tea once in a blue moon. But I’d never say that. What if he knows something? What if he can read my thoughts?

  ‘Hmm,’ he says, again.

  I interpret that as: You’ve done nothing all day. The least you could’ve done is stick a Fray Bentos in the oven and some chips in the fryer.

  ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea while you think about it,’ I say.

  He goes straight to the baby; she’s lying on the blanket on the living-room floor.

  ‘Hello, my little angel,’ he says.

  I fill the kettle, roll my eyes at the wall, and immediately feel guilty for it. I put a bowl of beans in the microwave and turn the dial. It’s handier than I thought it’d be. It pings, and I burn my fingers taking the bowl out. Peter’s already sitting in his chair at the table.

  ‘Had a nice day, have you?’ His tone is neutral.

  ‘Well, you know. Been stuck in the house for most of it.’

  ‘You should get yourself out and about.’ He leans back in the chair. ‘If I had the day to myself, I’d be out there. Spot of fishing, trip to the park.’

  Day to myself? I want to shout. If I had the day to myself, I wouldn’t choose to be inside all day. But I don’t want to appear ungrateful.

  ‘But you don’t even fish.’

  ‘I’d take it up, probably.’

  ‘You can’t take a baby fishing.’

  The kettle clicks off and the beeper sounds in his pocket.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ he says, the chair nearly toppling behind him as he gets up to use the phone in the hall.

  I pour hot water into the mug with Mr Tea on it.

  When did we become people like this? We used to laugh about friends who turned into their parents. We said we’d never be like that when we had kids. We said we’d go out all the time, cook nouvelle cuisine, and listen to records. Trisha over the road is always zipping about here and there. They’ve got a car seat for their precious Tristan and they’ve been to Marbella twice since she had him. And she has highlights. They’ve got the money, I suppose. She’s got a white Ford Escort cabriolet that she loves showing off. It’s a C reg; Peter says that’s only last year’s. She’s went back to work at the hairdressers’ when her little one was seven months. I heard her shouting about it outside to her friend. It’s exhausting just thinking about work.

  I dump three sugars into Peter’s mug.

  His face is red when he comes back into the kitchen. He’s breathing hard through his nose.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I say.

  ‘I’ve got to go back in. The alarm’s going off in the shop and there’s nobody else answering their bloody phone.’

  ‘Have a sip of tea before you go.’

  I grab his cup from the counter and hold it out to him.

  He frowns. ‘I haven’t got time for that.’ He flicks his wrist.

  The cup flies out of my hand and smashes onto the floor. Tea splats like paint from a tin. For a moment, we lock eyes.

  He shakes his head, turns around and walks out, slamming the front door behind him.

  I’ve managed to get both the kids asleep at the same time. It might only last a few minutes. Peter still isn’t home. I hope he doesn’t come back while I’m watching EastEnders. Since I became pregnant with Annie, I’ve become obsessed with soap operas – especially this new one. They empty my brain just enough.

  A few minutes after the opening titles, the key goes into the front door. I press pause. I don’t want him to think I’ve just been lounging around. He comes straight into the living room – without hanging up his jacket – just as I’m getting up. He glances at the telly.

  ‘I didn’t know this was on on a Friday.’

  ‘I taped it.’

  He takes off his jacket and flings it onto the opposite couch.

  ‘Everything okay?’ I say.

  I cleaned up your mess and swept your favourite mug into the bin.

  He slumps onto the settee. I look at him, and I don’t think I know him at all. He can’t have been at Woolworths for nearly three hours – it doesn’t take that long to turn an alarm off. His eyes aren’t meeting mine. He’s not usually this secretive – perhaps he’s planning something. I glance around the room. He might’ve been watching me while he was out. I’ve seen those hidden cameras on Game for a Laugh.

  ‘I’m tired,’ he says. ‘All these broken nights.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, narrowing my eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you woke up too. You always seem so fast asleep.’

  He waves his hand. ‘Never mind.’ He sits up. ‘I’m going to book a holiday – or rather, I was hoping you could do it. It’ll get you out of the house for a bit. I can get some brochures this weekend. We can get one of those last-minute deal things. You could let your hair down.’

  I want to tell him it’s a ridiculous idea, but all I say is, ‘We can’t go with a newborn. It’s a stupid idea.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ he says. ‘These first few weeks are the easiest – she won’t take much looking after.’

  ‘Easiest for who?’ I whisper.

  ‘They always sleep at this age,’ he says. ‘I was thinking. We could ask Nathan and Monica to come. Leo could keep Bobby entertained. It’ll be fun.’

  ‘I don’t know if a holiday’s such a good idea. Anyway, wouldn’t it be better just the four of us? Me, you and the kids. Annie’s so young, she might keep everyone awake.’

  ‘We don’t have to share accommodation … though that would make sense financially. She’ll be sleeping soon, if Bobby’s anything to go by.’

  I feel the urge to scream and laugh hysterically in his face.

  ‘And,’ he continues, ‘I was thinking of going abroad. We’ve not been anywhere hot together before, have we? And it’ll be something to look forward to. I’ve seen loads of last-minute deals on Teletext.’

  ‘Hmm. I’ll speak to Monica about it tomorrow.’

  The thought of going on an aeroplane makes my stomach churn. I’ve always hated heights.

  ‘Ha!’ he says, leaning forward. ‘I know what you’re like: if you’re not keen on something, you go quiet, hope it gets forgotten.’

  I open my mouth to speak. He gets up quickly.

  ‘I’ll give Nathan a ring now.’

  ‘But it’s twenty to nine – you might wake Leo.’

  My mother would never telephone anyone after eight o’clock at night – nor would she answer it. ‘If it’s an emergency,’ she says, ‘then they know where we live.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ he says, getting up and turning on the hall light.

  ‘Don’t talk too loud,’ I say, ‘or you’ll disturb the kids.’

  My heart thumps as I hear him speak. I want to listen in and hear what Nathan says in reply … or grab the receiver out of Peter’s hands and talk to him myself.

  Why is he being so stubborn about a holiday? It’s not like him to be this impulsive, or sociable. I turn my ears off, and only switch them on when he’s preparing to say goodbye.

  ‘I’ll get Debs to give you a bell when it’s arranged.’

  Me? Why is he suggesting I ring Nathan?

  ‘Okay then,’ he says down the line. ‘Will do. Bye, Monica.’

  I stand up quickly.
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  ‘You were talking to Monica?’

  He shrugs as he walks into the living room.

  ‘Yeah. Nathan was out.’

  ‘Where?’ It comes out of my mouth before I think.

  Peter wrinkles his nose. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t think to ask.’

  He’s the least curious person I know. ‘Why didn’t you pass the phone to me?’

  ‘Because it was my idea … and Monica is my friend too.’

  Don’t I know it. He looks so pleased with himself.

  ‘I’m making a brew,’ he says, walking into the kitchen. ‘Do you want one?’

  ‘No. It’ll only keep me awake. Think I’ll head upstairs, early night.’

  ‘Night then,’ he shouts, above the sound of the kettle.

  I switch off the telly, which was frozen on Lofty behind the bar at the Queen Vic. Poor Lofty, always taken advantage of … being messed around by Michelle. I used to think that about Peter, but now I’m not so sure. Maybe he’s not so predictable after all.

  My hand’s reaching for the switch in the hall, when I notice a pink envelope on the doormat. It’s no one’s birthday, I think, as I bend down to pick it up. Didn’t Peter notice it when he came in?

  There’s no name on the front. The flap isn’t stuck down; it’s tucked inside. I open it and take out the piece of paper. There are only six words. I hold on to the wall to steady myself.

  I know your dirty little secret.

  Chapter Twelve

  Anna

  I wait until Sophie has gone to bed before I mention Debbie. I didn’t want to confuse her by talking about another grandmother – who she thinks has passed away. How am I going to explain to her that Debbie is alive after all?

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up,’ says Jack − words I have heard many times − while he pours himself a glass of white wine.