‘Does that mean I get to miss the holiday?’ I shout up to him, standing at the top of the stairs. ‘Have a peaceful week here on my own?’
He frowns and shakes his head, and I feel like I’m the child again.
I stick my feet into my flip-flops, which I regret as soon as I shut the front door behind me: it’s windy and blobs of freezing-cold rain drop on my toes. It’s July, for God’s sake.
Dean looks up from the Ford Cortina he’s tinkering with on the roadside. Wham!’s ‘I’m Your Man’ is playing from tiny speakers in the open garage; a Samantha Fox calendar is nailed to one of the concrete walls inside. He’s such a cliché. He wipes one of his screwdrivers with a cloth already covered in oil. He looks at his tool and winks at me. Good God. I almost retch. He’s wearing one of those ghastly new shell suits in pale blue. Ugh.
‘All right, Deborah?’ His voice reminds me of Boycie from Only Fools and Horses. He puts it on though.
I never know how he’s going to behave towards me. When we first moved in, he mistook my friendliness as a come-on, leaning towards me for a kiss at our first and only street barbecue. I pushed him away of course, but these days he can either be civil or downright nasty.
‘Do you mind turning your radio down, please, Dean? Peter’s putting Bobby to bed.’
‘Is he now?’ He sits on his car bonnet like he’s Kevin Webster. ‘Don’t let Trish hear you say that. Don’t want her indoors getting any of those ideas about men doing women’s work.’
‘Trisha’s out, isn’t she? Anyway,’ I say. ‘It’d be much appreciated.’
He turns and walks slowly towards the garage, swinging his hips as he goes. He probably thinks I’m looking at his arse.
Oh shit – I am. I turn around quickly.
‘Hey,’ he shouts. ‘Tell Pete not to blank me next time I see him in town.’
I look behind me. He’s not angry; he’s smiling. ‘Yes, will do.’
‘And that friend of yours – Margaret, is it? Him and her were thick as thieves. Not surprised they didn’t see me. I’d keep my eye on those two if I were you.’ His eyebrows go up and down.
I try and smile back, but it comes out as a grimace. ‘It’s Monica,’ I say. ‘Her name’s Monica.’
I run back into the house, and shut the door. I kick off my flip-flops, my heart pounding. He must know something – or he’s seen something.
Why would Peter be meeting up with Monica in town? He hasn’t mentioned anything.
It must be Dean who sent the note.
But not to me, to Peter.
Chapter Fourteen
Anna
Jack must have slept on the sofa bed in his office upstairs last night, and then left before I woke, because he wasn’t in the house this morning. There was no note. Usually he would scrawl something on a Post-it, or make a silly message with the fridge magnet letters. But nothing today. I’d fired off a quick text, asking if he was okay, but I probably won’t get a response until lunchtime.
Jack said he’d be more relaxed this weekend, but he was the same. We took Sophie to an indoor play centre on Saturday, even though it was sunny – it’s her favourite place – but Jack constantly checked his phone. As soon as we got home at three o’clock, when the rain started, he poured his first glass of wine. I spent the rest of the weekend with Sophie, drawing and making egg cups with her new air-dry clay.
As Sophie and I were leaving for the school run this morning, the landline rang. I almost didn’t answer it.
‘Anna. It’s your grandad here … are you there?’
‘Yes, Grandad.’
‘Ah, good, good. Thought I was on your answerphone-majiggy-thing. I won’t take up much of your time, love, I just wanted to ask if you’d mind popping over this morning. I’ve some of your mother’s things I wanted to show you.’
‘Oh, okay.’
‘I’ll tell you more when you’re in front of me. Bye now.’
I rang Isobel, put on my croakiest voice, and told her I was taking the day off.
Thirty minutes later, with Sophie safely in school, I pull up outside his house. Robert’s car is here too. I hadn’t realised what Grandad was going to show me was that important – or that my brother would be here. I have left Robert countless messages on his mobile and he still hasn’t got back to me.
Grandad’s lived in this house most of his adult life. He married Gran when he was twenty-one and I’m sure everything inside is the same as it was in 1986. I think he stays here so Debbie would know where to come back to, with everything frozen in time so she would feel at home.
It’s Robert who answers the door. He glances at me and walks back down the hallway.
‘Are you all right, Robert?’ I follow him into the living room. ‘Robert?’
He’s sitting in the chair next to the television, looking sideways at The Jeremy Kyle Show.
‘Don’t let Grandad see you’ve got that on,’ I say. ‘You know what he thinks about it.’
He grabs the remote control.
‘We should go on it,’ he says, switching it off. ‘They’d have a field day with our family.’
He isn’t smiling. He folds his arms across his chest. The sleeves of his tweed jacket are stretched at the shoulders – he must have had it for years. He dresses like a man twenty years older. His once-auburn hair has more flecks of grey than red, and there are deep frown lines across his forehead that I’ve not noticed before.
‘Don’t you want to know what happened to our mother?’ I say.
‘I wish you’d stop calling her that,’ he says. ‘What’s she ever done for you, except give birth to you?’
‘I … I just want …’
‘Yes, because it’s all about you. You’re just like her. Have you thought about what this is doing to Monica?’
‘Have you seen her? She didn’t say much about the email when I went round last week.’
‘You haven’t seen her since last week? She probably thinks you’ve abandoned her … after everything she’s done for you.’
‘It’s only Monday.’
I sit on the edge of the sofa, still in my coat, and glance at the painting of Jesus on the wall above the fireplace. He’s always staring at me. His eyes are meant to be kind, but His chest is open, and a giant, graphic image of a heart takes centre stage.
‘I do appreciate everything Monica’s done for me,’ I say. ‘She’s the only mother I’ve ever known—’
‘Well then. We should forget about that email. It’s probably some weirdo anyway.’
‘But what about the shells?’
‘A lucky guess. Everyone keeps shells.’
‘Course they don’t,’ I say, turning my knees towards him. ‘I found a roll of film from your memory box.’
‘What? Oh that. I thought I’d got rid of it.’
‘Are they your pictures?’
‘I guess. Probably from the holiday. Grandad gave me an old camera to use while we were there.’
‘The holiday?’
His eyes burn into mine, before they settle on the blank screen of the television. Why is he acting like he hates me? We’ve always got on, had a laugh.
It was only the week before last that he came to the bookshop to take me out for lunch.
‘Well, I’m honoured that you’ve graced me with your presence,’ I said that day, ‘travelling all this way to the lovely town of St Annes.’ I followed him out of the door and he linked his arm in mine as we walked.
‘Yeah, very funny,’ he said. ‘I’ve an ulterior motive, actually.’
I sat opposite him in the café around the corner.
While we waited for our cheese toasties, he said, ‘I’ve got wind that Monica’s planning a surprise party for me in a few weeks.’
I zipped my lips with my finger and thumb. He rolled his eyes.
‘She knows I’m not forty for a few years, doesn’t she? It’s not a special birthday.’
‘You know how much Monica loves birthdays. She used to make our cakes fr
om scratch. I remember the time she made a house with chocolate fingers and apple slices for the roof.’ I looked down at my cup. ‘Although that was the year only two of my school friends came to my party. I suppose, at eleven years old, they’d grown out of kids’ parties.’
‘It was cruel of them, Anna. Gran had just died, and you were really upset – so was I. Kids don’t get that sometimes. If I’d still been at the same school, I’d have given them hell.’
I smiled. ‘Course you would.’
He shrugged, grinning at me. He never was a fighter.
‘Anyway,’ I said. ‘Monica wants to do something nice for you. Especially after the D. I. V. O. R.—’
‘Don’t say it like that. It’s too much like that song. You can’t kick a man when he’s down.’
‘But you ended it with Kerry … said she had stunted, intellectually—’
He held up his hands. ‘Okay, okay. That’s what I said to you lot.’ He looked around the café, and leant closer. ‘It was only partially true. Oh God, it’s such a cliché …’
‘What is? What happened?’
I lean forward too.
‘She ran off with—’
‘The milkman? The postman?’
‘It’s not multiple choice. Be serious.’ He sighed. ‘She ran off with a bloke from the gym.’
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘I see.’
He flapped his hand in the air. ‘It’s not so bad. Did I tell you that Marie Costigan friended me on Facebook last week?’
‘Robert, I didn’t even know you were on Facebook. Wasn’t she your girlfriend at university? The one with the big—’
‘Intellect. Yes.’
‘I was going to say “hair” …’
He shook his head at me, as our lunch was placed on the table. Robert took a bite and opened his mouth while waving his hand.
‘Hot, is it?’ I said.
I watched him chew quickly before gulping it down.
‘Good God, yes.’ Robert hardly ever swore; he didn’t want it to come out accidentally in front of his students. ‘And that’s why the party is a no-no. I’d like to take Marie out, make a fresh start.’
‘And you don’t want to bring her to the party in case she sees what plebs your family are?’ I smiled and patted his hand. ‘I’ll see what I can do, brother.’
But that was last week. The Robert sitting in front of me now, in Grandad’s living room, is not the same person as he was just eleven days ago.
‘Sorry,’ I say to him, breaking the silence. ‘I won’t show the photographs to you, if you don’t want to see.’
‘I was six years old, and my mum didn’t come back from holiday with us. The last thing on my mind would’ve been getting some shitty photos developed. They’re probably full of lizards and grasshoppers. I can’t stand the sound of grasshoppers.’
I take off my coat, and go into the hallway, hanging it on the bannister. Grandad appears at the kitchen doorway, the china rattling on the wooden tray.
‘You didn’t have to do anything fancy for us. Here, I’ll take it for you.’ I grab the tray, but he doesn’t take his hands away. ‘Grandad?’
‘Your brother doesn’t seem interested in finding your mum,’ he says. ‘Shall we do this another day? It might upset him.’
I give the tray a gentle tug and he releases his hands.
‘Let him decide. I’m sure he’ll leave if he wants to.’
He nods and goes back to the kitchen, grabbing a box from the counter. I place the tray on the coffee table in the living room, and Robert pours tea into one of the cups.
The cardboard box in Grandad’s hands is the size of a shoebox. He sits on the end of his chair next to the gas fire.
‘These are some of Deborah’s belongings. I took in most of her things, when your dad – and you two, of course – moved in with Monica and Leo. Her clothes, shoes, you know … I’ve had them such a long time. But I’m old and I can’t hang on to things forever. You’d have to clear it out when I’m dead and buried. So, I had a sort out a few weeks ago, before all of this …’
Robert’s stirring his tea so loudly it’s like a ringing bell. I glare at him, but he doesn’t notice.
‘You’re not dying, are you, Grandad?’ he says without looking up.
I want to put my hand over his mouth to shut him up.
Grandad’s frowning.
‘You’re not, are you, Grandad?’ I say.
He shakes his head.
‘Not from anything specific, but I’m not getting any younger.’
Robert looks at his watch. He doesn’t trust Grandad’s carriage clock; apparently a gadget that old can’t be reliable.
‘I’ve got to get back to work soon,’ he says. ‘I’m lecturing at one. I need to prepare.’
This usually impresses Grandad; Robert was the first in the family to go to university, but it’s like Grandad’s not listening to him.
‘What it is, you see,’ says Grandad, ‘is that I found her diary. Not a personal one – I mean the days of the week, you know, like a—’
‘A pocket diary?’ says Robert. He downs his tiny cup of tea.
‘Yes, that’s right. I didn’t want to pry, but I had to look. She’s my only child, you see.’
Robert’s shifting in his chair. I wish he’d sit still and listen.
‘I know, Grandad,’ I say. ‘It must be horrible not knowing.’
He edges forward in his chair.
‘The diary was hidden amongst her – you know – her undergarments, which is why I only found them the other week. They were wrapped in a pair of tights.’
‘What were, Grandad?’ I say.
‘The letters. Though God only knows who would send her words like that.’ He looks to the painting of Jesus. Gran always did that if she heard or said anything that bordered on blasphemous. ‘It was only when I found them, did I remember her talking about them – not long before she left … she said they weren’t even addressed to her, though – she didn’t seem that worried about them. They might not even mean anything … kids messing about.’
Grandad picks out a small shortbread tin from the cardboard box – a tartan one that I remember from a few Christmases ago. He lifts it open, and a few flecks of rust from the hinges fall onto his lap.
‘There aren’t many.’
He hands one to me, another to Robert. I take the letter out of the envelope carefully. It doesn’t look as though it’s been opened many times; the creases are still sharp.
I know your dirty little secret.
The skin on my arms turns to goosebumps; the hairs stand on end.
‘Who would send her something like this?’
‘I’ve no idea, love.’
‘Would you mind if I took these home, to look at properly, I’ve …’ I was going to tell him about hiring an investigator, but Robert might get cross with me.
‘Yes, I suppose. Unless Robert wants to take some too?’
Typical. Robert has barely spoken to Grandad today, he hardly ever comes round, but when he does, he gets treated like a prince.
‘What does that one say, Robert?’
‘You can read it for yourself. They’re probably part of her silly little games,’ says Robert, putting his note back into the envelope. ‘Anna can take the stuff. Dad probably showed them to the police years ago. Nothing new.’
‘I don’t think he did, Robert,’ says Grandad.
‘Don’t you want to find her?’ I say to my brother.
Robert stands, tossing the envelope into the cardboard box.
‘Find her? Do I want to find her? Why should I, when I never lost her?’ He bends down and kisses Grandad’s cheek. ‘I can’t be part of this any more.’ He goes to the door, and turns before he leaves. ‘I … sorry, Grandad. I’ll call round next week.’
A few seconds later, the front door slams shut, making Grandad flinch slightly.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ I say.
He gets up and walks to the window, folding his arms.
/>
‘No,’ he says. ‘I know what he means. God forgive me for saying this, but she was ever so flighty, so impulsive.’
‘But she wouldn’t have left on some petty whim. There must be more to it than that.’
Grandad watches Robert from behind the net curtain; my brother rubs his face before getting into his car.
‘That’s what I thought, love. I hope we find some explanation. If only for the sake of that poor boy.’
What Robert said before, about the lizards and the grasshoppers, is the most he has ever mentioned about that holiday. I have the box of Debbie’s letters next to me on the passenger seat. I want to dive in and look through it all, but there are pedestrians going past. I need to be at home, where I can concentrate.
I’ve been parked outside Francesca King’s offices in Preston for forty minutes. Her name is etched on the glass alongside the names of the other partners. I thought that, because it’s lunchtime, I’d catch her nipping to the shops for a sandwich. Perhaps it’s just me who’s so predictable – Francesca probably has food brought to her by one of her minions.
I go to her Facebook profile on my phone, so I can memorise, again, what she looks like. I slouch down in the seat; it would be just my luck to be spotted by my boss, Isobel, or one of the volunteers, when I’m meant to be off sick, even when I’m miles away from the bookshop.
A black cab pulls up alongside my car.
Oh God, I’m halfway down my seat. I push my feet into the footwell and slowly return to the upright position. I need to look to my right. Perhaps it is Francesca who’s getting out of the taxi. I chance a quick glance: it’s a woman with her back to me. Her hair is long and dark like Francesca’s. She pays the driver and turns towards the pavement, passing the front of my car.
It’s not her. This woman must be in her late fifties. She’s waiting outside the solicitors. I put on my sunglasses, so she can’t see me watching her.
Another woman is walking up the road. The same long hair. I think it’s her. I get out of my car, although I have no idea what I’m going to do. I can’t see anything in these glasses – it’s too cloudy. I push them onto the top of my head. She is only three metres away. Why did I get out? My face is hot.
‘Francesca, love,’ says the older woman, kissing the younger one on the cheek. ‘Good timing. I’ve just got here myself.’
11 Missed Calls Page 9