It is her. And I’m just standing here like a fool.
‘Hi, Mum,’ says Francesca. She looks at me and smiles. ‘Hello.’
‘Hello,’ I say, like a parrot.
‘Are you all right?’ She’s tilted her head to one side.
‘I … er … I’m looking for a solicitor.’
She laughs a little laugh, like she’s Snow White in the Disney film.
‘Well, you’ve come to the right place,’ she says. ‘If you talk to Adam on reception, he’ll arrange an appointment for you.’
‘Thanks.’
It would look silly if I just walked away.
The letter, I want to say. Why did you tell my husband you were forever his? It’s not right.
No words are coming out of my mouth. Francesca’s mother looks slightly afraid of me – I’ve had those looks before, years ago. ‘I’ll come back later,’ I say. ‘I’ve got to get my son.’ I pull the sunglasses back over my eyes and get into the car. I know they’re looking at me, but as I pull away, I keep my eyes on the road ahead.
Chapter Fifteen
Friday, 11 July 1986
Debbie
Why is night-time so everlasting? It’s been seventeen minutes since Annie finally dropped off, but my mind won’t slow down. Thoughts are on repeat in my head: of the note through the letterbox; of Nathan; and of Peter and Monica together.
I’ve seen Nathan twice on our high street in the past week, yet he works the other side of Preston – at least five miles away. It can’t be a coincidence. I should’ve asked him. Too caught up in my own head, that’s my trouble. That’s what Mum always says.
What were Peter and Monica talking about when Dean saw them? Why meet on their own and not mention it? Tomorrow I’ll ask Peter; I just need to be brave. Even though he might lie; I’ll be able to tell by the look on his face. The corners of his mouth turn up when he doesn’t tell the truth. Perhaps they’ve fallen in love with each other. Or is that my guilty mind and wishful thinking? No, no, it’s not that. I love Peter.
Infatuation: that’s all it was with Nathan and me. But what is it now?
‘They can’t be trusted, Debbie. You know what to do.’
That voice again. It was clearly outside my head this time. Definitely.
‘What?’ I say.
I sit up quickly and look at Peter. His back is facing me. I lean over to look at his face; he’s fast asleep.
Mum talks to God all the time, He must reply to her at least some of the time for her to keep doing it, surely.
‘You spoke about your uncle Charlie,’ Nathan said the other day. I can’t remember talking about him in the street, but what if he’s trying to contact me? I’ve heard people talk about voices from beyond the grave – I read it in a magazine a few months ago.
‘Mummy!’
The voice makes me jump, but it’s only Bobby calling out from his room.
As quietly as I can, I rush out of the bedroom in case he shouts again. I close the door behind me and flick on the landing light.
Bobby’s sitting up in his bed, gripping Ted with both hands, his little cheeks wet with tears.
‘What’s wrong, sweetheart?’
‘I got a bad dream,’ he says. ‘I dreamed a giant man trampled over the house. He crushed you and Daddy and took away me and Annie in his giant hands.’
I kneel on the floor next to him and pull him close to me. ‘You know what that was?’ I say.
He shakes his head.
‘Did Daddy read you The BFG before you went to sleep?’
He nods, rubbing his left eye with his hand.
‘It was just your dream remembering the story, that’s all.’
‘But the BFG was a goodie, not a child-catcher.’
‘It must be two different stories put together … probably Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.’ I stroke his hair. ‘If you lie down and get to sleep now, I bet you have a good dream next.’
I don’t want to talk to him too much, else he won’t get back to sleep. I keep stroking his hair until his eyes begin to flicker. I kiss his damp cheek and tiptoe to the door.
I feel terrible for forgetting it was his birthday the day before yesterday. How could I have forgotten that? I always remember his birthday’s not long after mine – I used to buy his presents with the birthday money I got.
I used to.
Who am I turning into? Bobby means the world to me, yet my mind feels only half present.
Thank God Monica made him a cake. She probably wanted to show me up. She’d brought round loads of presents, too, but I can’t be angry with her for that.
‘Night-night, my brave boy.’
‘Mummy,’ he says. ‘Promise that a big giant won’t come and get you and Daddy.’
‘I promise, Bobs.’ I leave his door ajar and peep through the gap. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
I don’t know what day it is, but it’s a school day, and it’s lunchtime, and I’m at my parents’ house: my childhood home. Mum’s laid out some sandwiches, French Fancies and Wagon Wheels on posh plates on the coffee table. She’s got out the Midwinter dinner service that Dad got from a jumble sale, complete with a sugar bowl and milk jug.
‘You hardly ever visit these days,’ she says. ‘I wanted to make it more of an occasion.’
Dad’s been in the loft and got out the baby bouncer; the same one I used as a baby. Annie’s lying still on it – she’s too small – but blinking her way around the room. Her eyes rest on the picture of Jesus with the bleeding heart. Poor child will have nightmares, like Bobby. I turn her round so she can watch Rainbow.
‘I only gave birth a few weeks ago, Mum. I’m just getting back on my feet.’
If she tells me that she was out painting fences or making scones the day after I was born, I will scream.
‘Where’s Dad?’
‘He’s down at the library. He’s got his routine now. Job centre every day first thing, then Monday he goes to the market, Tuesdays he …’
Oh, Jesus, I say in my head to the picture of His bleeding heart, Please don’t let me end up like this.
I wait until she’s reeled off Dad’s weekly itinerary before I say, ‘Are you happy, Mum?’
‘What kind of question’s that?’ she says. ‘What’s happiness got to do with anything?’
‘You always seem to be talking about everyone else. You never talk about yourself, or your hobbies. Do you have any hobbies?’
‘What would I want to talk about myself for? I’m not the conceited sort. And anyway, I’m nothing special – no one’d want to hear about me.’
I pick up one of the fondant fancies and bite all the pink icing off. Mum rolls her eyes at me and smiles.
‘Mum,’ I say, mouth full of sponge. ‘Do you ever wonder if this is all there is? You go to college, leave, get married, have kids. And then what?’
She frowns as she drops a cube of sugar in her tea.
‘Sometimes you must accept the burden of what you’ve been given … and I was given your dad.’ She takes a sip of tea. ‘Anyway … Prince Andrew’s marrying Sarah Ferguson next week. I suppose you could call that my hobby.’
‘Good God, Mum.’
She nods to Jesus. ‘He’s listening, you know.’
I grab a tiny egg mayonnaise sandwich. I haven’t eaten this much for weeks.
‘Do you see much of Monica?’ says Mum. ‘You were always so close, always together.’
‘Yeah. Though not much over the past few weeks. I think she’s been busy.’ Busy talking to my husband, I don’t say.
‘Well you need your friends,’ says Mum. ‘That’s a mistake I made. I thought I didn’t need them after I got married … didn’t bother keeping in touch. I had this one friend – Sandra Birkette. She was what they called A Right One, but she was so much fun. She dragged me to one of those dances – got me a port and lemon … it went right to my head. But that was the night I met your dad.’
‘Ah, Mum. You should look her up in the Yellow Pages.’
‘I wouldn’t know where to start. She moved to Devon, I think.’
‘I could look for her for you. It’d give me something useful to do.’
For just a second, I see a small light in her eye, but a second later it’s gone.
‘Don’t be silly, Deborah,’ she says. ‘You’ve got enough to do with the children, the house, Peter.’
Hearing it out loud makes me feel pitiful. My essence, my identity, is defined by other people. I’ve become a shadow. And I don’t know what to do about it.
Chapter Sixteen
Anna
I should not be nervous about seeing Monica, but I feel empty in the stomach. I rang the landline, but there was no answer. This is the first place I thought to go after seeing Francesca in the street. I knock on the front door, expecting no one to be in.
‘Monica!’
‘Hello, love. I saw you sitting outside in your car for ages. Are you okay? Your dad’s doing the shopping at Morrisons.’ She closes the door behind us and rubs the top of my arms. ‘Why are you shivering? It’s boiling outside. The weather doesn’t know what it’s meant to be doing – it was pouring down this morning.’
‘I don’t feel so well,’ I say. ‘I’m meant to be off sick.’
She turns into the living room and I follow. She bends down to their wood burner and throws in two more logs.
‘How come you’ve got the fire on?’ I say.
‘You know how I feel the cold. This living room is always in the shade. What were you doing outside?’
She grabs the throw off the sofa, points for me to sit down, and wraps the soft material around me. I pull it up to my chin, for comfort rather than warmth.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I had to check something, and I haven’t seen you for ages. You were a bit distant the last time I saw you. I hope I haven’t upset you. Things are strange at the moment. I don’t feel right.’ I can’t stop the tears. I wipe my face on the throw. ‘I’m sorry.’
She sits next to me, putting her hand on my forehead.
‘Oh, my darling girl.’
She grabs my shoulders and pulls me towards her, wrapping both arms around me. It makes me cry even more, the sobs shake my whole body.
‘There, there. You let it out.’
She smells of apple shampoo and rose perfume. Like a delicious fruit salad, I used to say to her. She pulls away from me and takes hold of my hands.
‘Is this about the email?’
‘Yes. And about Jack. I think he might be having an affair.’
Monica frowns. She’s always looked young for her age, but now I notice the deep lines between her eyebrows as though they have been excavated by worry.
‘I can’t believe that for a second,’ she says. ‘What makes you think that?’
Heat runs to my face.
‘I was looking through his wallet and I found a letter from a woman called Francesca. I checked his Facebook and there she was: long hair, beautiful.’
Monica wipes the hair from my face.
‘You’re beautiful too, Anna. It’s probably not what it seems. Have you talked to him about it?’
I shake my head.
‘I can’t say I’ve been through his things. He’ll think I’ve had a relapse or something.’
‘A relapse?’ I see her eyes flicker; she frowns. ‘But that was nothing to do with Jack,’ she says. ‘He can’t expect you to have been through what you have and not be a tiny bit crazy.’
I laugh through my tears.
‘I don’t think that’s a politically correct way of putting it, Mon.’
She shrugs.
‘Well, maybe not. But you didn’t hurt anyone, it wasn’t the end of the world. And anyway – I’ve had my fair share of being off the wall.’
She says that, but I’ve never seen her be anything but calm, the voice of reason – the way she is now. She puts her hands on her knees. ‘This calls for a cup of tea, I think. And extra sugar.’
I wipe my face with my sleeve.
‘You’re really spoiling me.’
‘Very funny,’ she says, standing up. ‘All right. I might stretch to a chocolate digestive. That’s if your dad hasn’t eaten them all.’
She leaves the living room, and I bring my legs up onto the sofa. Sometimes I wish I could move back here and become a child again.
There aren’t any photos of Debbie on the mantelpiece, there never have been, not like there are at Grandad’s. There’s one in the spare bedroom – the room that used to be mine – but it’s probably hidden in a drawer now.
I get up and go to the dresser, where all the photo albums are. All the pictures of Dad, Robert and Debbie are in a red-leather book with an imprint of a horse on the front cover. I open the glass door to reach for it, but it’s not there.
Monica brings two cups of tea into the room.
‘Where’s the album?’ I say.
‘I … I was looking at it upstairs. Do you want me to get it?’
I know every picture by heart – there are only twenty-three. There’s one of a Christmas day when Robert got an Action Man; another of his third birthday with the hedgehog cake Debbie made. There’s only one of me. I’m lying on a quilt at maybe a few weeks old, and Robert is lying next to me, propping up his head with his hand. My tiny fingers grip his thumb and he’s looking down at me. One of Debbie’s, or Dad’s, fingers covers the left side of the picture; it’s an orange-and-white blur.
‘No, it’s okay,’ I say. ‘I’ve looked at them loads of times anyway.’
I sit back down on the sofa, and she sits next to me.
‘This whole business,’ she says, ‘it’s affecting your dad too. He’ll never say it to you kids, but he’s been quiet.’ She takes a tiny sip of her tea. ‘I couldn’t tell you this before – not when you were a child, and since then, well, there’s never been a right time to bring it up. But for a long time, Peter was in bits. Your gran moved in with you … sometimes your dad would just sit at the kitchen table, staring out of the window.’
‘For how long?’
She’s looking into the wood burner.
‘Monica, for how long was he like that?’
She shakes her head back to the present.
‘I don’t know. About two years.’
‘Two years? How come I don’t remember any of this?’
‘You were only little, Anna. It’s why you and your gran were so close. She doted on you. She said she treated you better than her own daughter. She was always honest like that. I still think of her today.’
‘I wish I could remember.’
She looks at me.
‘Oh, love. You’ve always been frustrated about not being able to remember the past, but there’s nothing you can do about it … you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. Sometimes it’s better to forget. And the mind protects you sometimes, I think. Like poor Robert. He asked when Debbie was coming home for about a year. Then he just stopped talking about her. The kids at school probably told him she was dead. That poor boy. It had an impact on him when he was growing up.’
I’d love to borrow Robert’s memories for a day – or even for just a few moments. Perhaps once I had them, he would feel a burden lifted and he wouldn’t want them back; he might be happy then.
‘I do feel bad for Robert,’ I say. ‘But she left me too.’
She rubs my hand.
‘I know, I know.’
I look out of the window. Outside, Mr Flowers is trying to grab something with his walking stick again.
‘I wonder if he ever manages to pick up what he’s looking for,’ says Monica. ‘It’s always at the same time every day.’
‘Have you ever offered to help him?’
She turns to me, her eyebrows raised. ‘Do you know, I don’t think I have.’ She frowns again. Sometimes she is so hard to read. Is she thinking about the old man – or is she thinking about Debbie, Dad, or Robert?
‘Have you told Leo about the email?’
‘I mentioned it
briefly when he Skyped on Sunday. But you know what he’s like. He’s living a whole new life out there, with Jocelyn and the kids … he looked bored when I mentioned it, uncomfortable. And his father … well, he hasn’t been interested in my life since he left.’
‘What you said the other day,’ I say. ‘About things going strange with Debbie. What did you mean?’
‘I wasn’t myself when you saw me last. I was talking rubbish.’
‘No one has ever said anything like that before.’
‘Hmm. It was before we went on holiday … your mum wasn’t herself. But it wasn’t just her … we all felt a change, I think, a shift in things – me, Nathan, your dad. We never should have booked that holiday. Things would have been so different. I should’ve been there for her more.’
‘Do you know what happened that night?’
‘Just bits,’ she says, still staring out of the window. ‘It’s a lifetime ago.’
‘What bits?’
She looks at me. ‘About her and Nathan.’
Chapter Seventeen
Saturday, 12 July 1986
Debbie
The heat of the sun that shines through the window bathes me in warmth – even though it’s freezing outside, in July. I’m wearing my terracotta duffle coat that won’t even do up any more.
Monica comes back from the Ladies’. She’s still as skinny as she was ten years ago – and she’s showing it off in a skin-tight, sleeveless polo-neck dress; she doesn’t have to worry about her arms.
‘I had a big breakfast,’ she says, sitting down opposite me. ‘But you go ahead and order. You need to keep your strength up.’
‘What do you think I am? An Olympic athlete?’
She flexes her arm. ‘More like Supermum.’
‘Hardly,’ I say, ignoring the implication that I’m built like a brick shithouse. I grab the menu. ‘Anyway, I can’t do up my coat. I should go on that new cabbage-soup diet.’
‘Jesus, Debs. You’ve just had a baby. Plus, you’re only a size twelve.’
I’m closer to a fourteen, probably a sixteen, but I don’t say it out loud. Monica’s always been slimmer than me. She never ate dinner at school, but says being slender is in her genes.
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