‘Someone told me about it at work,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t wait to get started.’
‘Obviously,’ I said. ‘It’s not even four o’clock.’
Now, we’re sitting around the table at twenty to six, surrounded by every pan and utensil we own scattered on the kitchen work surfaces.
‘Well,’ says Peter. ‘I think I did a good job. I don’t know what all the fuss is about with this cooking lark.’
I open my mouth, but I don’t say what I’m thinking: that it took over two hours, my plate is swamped with watery liquid from the sauce, and I would’ve preferred chicken crispy pancakes.
‘Well done,’ I say, instead. Because that’s what I ought to say, because I’m trying to be as nice as he is today.
Bobby’s face is covered in red sauce; he looks like he’s been in an accident. ‘What’s for pudding?’ he says.
We both look to Peter.
‘I … er … I thought we could have a banana.’
I try not to sigh out loud. ‘I’ll make some custard to go with it.’
I fill a pan with milk, and press the ignite switch so the gas hob lights with a whoosh.
I look outside through the kitchen window. The back yard looks so grey when it’s raining. I wish we had a proper garden.
I jump as Peter puts his hands on my shoulders.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he says, looking outside too. ‘You’re wishing I’d put that washing line up, aren’t you?’
I don’t think he knows me at all.
I just smile.
Peter didn’t complain once through Coronation Street.
‘Do you know,’ he said halfway through, ‘that there’s a surge of electricity on the grid at exactly seven forty-five on Mondays and Wednesdays. Do you know why?’
I was already in my nightie, and held a hot-water bottle to my tummy. I’d forgotten how painful it is after birth.
‘No,’ I said.
‘Because, at the EOPO, everyone puts the kettle on. Isn’t that funny?’
‘EOPO?’
‘End of part one.’
He looked very pleased with this.
‘I’ve taped that other one – Albion Market,’ he says now, as the end credits of Coronation Street play. ‘I thought we might watch it together.’
‘Has someone new started at work?’ I say.
‘No. Why?’
‘No reason.’
I wonder, briefly, what spurred him into watching programmes he’s never seen, or to cook from scratch when he’s never shown interest before.
I fake a stretch and get up from the settee, my hot-water bottle falling to the floor.
‘Think I’ll head up for an early night,’ I say.
‘Already? What about Albion Market? Tony Booth’s in it, you know.’
If he says Albion Market one more time, I’ll scream.
‘It sounds very … fascinating, but I’ve had a long day.’
‘Have you now.’
I don’t take the bait. I go over to him and place a kiss on his cheek. ‘See you up there.’
‘Hmm.’
I haven’t got the energy for it. Annie went to sleep two hours ago. I’ll be lucky to get an hour’s sleep before she wakes again.
I close the lounge door, and go to check the front door’s locked.
There’s another pink letter.
Has Dean nothing better to do?
I pick it up and put it in my dressing-gown pocket. I can’t be bothered to deal with it right now.
Chapter Twenty
I’d forgotten how cold it is in the North. It’s July, but it’s freezing in this bed and breakfast. There’s a storage heater under the window – why are they always under the window? I don’t think it’s worked since the 1980s. I don’t think this place has been decorated since then, either. There’s a television on a stand in the corner near the ceiling, so you need to be lying on the bed to watch it. Next to the bed is the window. It’s like being in there again.
It was the view outside that kept me going – the sounds that leaked through. The rain beating down and the birds singing when the sun came out.
I didn’t have to think about when to eat, when to turn the lights off, because those decisions were made for me. I couldn’t sleep most of the time. The noises at night were worse than in the day. I pretended to sleep, though. It was easier that way.
I get up from the bed. It’s almost ten o’clock.
There are things I must do.
Chapter Twenty-One
Anna
I wish I could have called in sick again, but I think I would be pushing my luck asking Isobel to cover the bookshop again. It has been raining hard for an hour. It’s going to be quiet – apart from the people who will use the shop as a shelter on their way to somewhere else. I will have conversations about the weather with every one of them, and answer each person as though they were the first to talk about it.
The rain tapping on the window makes me feel hemmed in, claustrophobic. It’s like all the books on the shelves are gathering and closing in around me. It’s too warm in here.
Ellen’s due in ten minutes. I haven’t seen her since she hid the fact she was looking at the missing persons’ website. I should be giving her a chance. I always thought I was quite an open-minded person, but I find her presence intimidating.
The breeze from the shop door opening brings welcome relief.
‘Grandad!’ I get up from my stool. ‘I wasn’t expecting you to come in today.’
He turns, briefly, to shake the water from his umbrella onto the step outside. ‘Typical weather,’ he says. ‘Can we not have a bit of sun without the rain spoiling it all the time?’ He pats the top of my arm and walks towards the back room. ‘I can’t be stuck in the house today. The walls are starting to talk back at me.’
I lean against the door frame.
He’s looking at the rota on the fridge.
‘Oh, good,’ he says. ‘Sheila’s not in today.’
‘I thought you two got on.’
‘Hmm. She never lets me have a go on the till. She sits there all morning, warming her behind on the heater. And she fancies herself as a church-goer, but she only goes for the tea and biscuits afterwards. She sleeps through most of the service on a Saturday evening. I reckon she thinks no one notices.’ He hangs up his anorak and flicks on the kettle. He pulls a round tin from a carrier bag. ‘I’ve made some scones for elevenses. Tea’s too wet without a bit of cake.’
‘You made scones?’
‘I’ve had to keep myself busy, then I don’t think too much,’ he says. ‘Your gran had a notebook with recipes in, but God rest her soul, she wasn’t much of a cook. These are Mary Berry’s.’
Ellen will be here in one minute, if she’s on time.
‘Grandad, I forgot to mention there’s a new volunteer. She’s called Ellen. She’s a bit quiet.’
‘I don’t mind quiet. I can’t bear people who go on and on about themselves.’
‘Anyway – I don’t think it’s a secret, but she was released from prison a few months ago.’
‘I see.’ He folds the carrier bag and puts it in his coat pocket. ‘Well, I suppose she’s served her time. We all deserve a second chance.’
‘Morning.’
Oh God. How long has Ellen been standing in the doorway? Grandad shrugs, and flicks on the kettle again – the water has to be freshly boiled.
‘Cup of tea, Ellen?’ says Grandad.
‘Yes please, Frank. That’s very kind.’
Ellen takes off her coat. ‘It’s okay, Annie. I’m used to people talking about me. You should’ve heard the things I got inside.’
‘Were they awful to you?’
‘Only a few. But you learn to stick up for yourself. Or just merge into the background, like I tried to.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t worry. It’s okay – it’s part of who I am. You don’t have to be sensitive on my behalf.’
Grandad walks o
ver, two cups of tea in his hands. He puts them on the sorting table before going into the bookshop. ‘Now, stop gassing, you two,’ he says. ‘There’ll be customers to serve.’ He sits on the stool and drums his fingers on the counter. ‘Any minute now.’
‘These are the best scones I’ve had in a long time,’ says Ellen.
‘I dare say they are, love,’ says Grandad.
It’s eleven o’clock and the bookshop is quiet, so we’re sitting around the sorting table.
‘Do you read much, Ellen?’ I say, trying to sweep Grandad’s insinuation under the table.
‘I do,’ says Ellen. ‘I quite like crime fiction.’
Grandad raises his eyebrows, and takes a bite of scone.
‘What’s your new flat like?’ I say. ‘Have you settled in?’
‘I’m not in there yet. Next week. I’m in a B & B at the moment.’
‘Well that sounds just the job,’ says Grandad, no doubt picturing a grand establishment in the Lake District. ‘Imagine, having your breakfast cooked for you every morning.’
‘It’s not like that,’ says Ellen. ‘I have to be out during the day. And I’m lucky if there’s a mini box of cereal outside my door in the morning.’
‘Oh, Ellen,’ I say. ‘That’s awful. What do you do all day? What about your meals?’
‘I have a wander around the shops. And there’s the drop-in centre. They have soup every day.’
‘Oh.’ I feel ignorant and patronising.
‘Really, Annie, you don’t have to worry about me. I’m a big girl.’
‘If you ever want more shifts here … I know it’s not the most interesting of places, but—’
‘Thank you.’ She stands and takes each of our plates. ‘And I love coming here.’ She places the dishes in the sink and runs the hot tap. ‘It’s like coming home.’
My grandfather is very good at putting on a brave face. To see him today, mixing with the few customers who came in, you wouldn’t know he has been trying to take his mind off his daughter. He usually finishes at twelve, but I think he’s hanging on until Ellen leaves, so he can talk about her. They have hardly spoken to each other, which is odd, as Grandad is usually a master of small talk. I’ve caught him looking at Ellen more than a few times.
He stays seated at the counter as she comes out of the back room with her coat on.
‘Are you sure you want to go now?’ I say to her. ‘You’re welcome to stay longer.’
‘It’s okay. I’m meeting a friend for lunch.’ She walks towards the door. ‘I’ll see you next week – if I don’t pop in before.’
The door is only closed for a second before Grandad says, ‘How did she know my name?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We’d not been introduced, but she addressed me by name.’
‘She probably read the rota.’
‘But I’m not down for … oh, never mind.’
‘What is it? Grandad?’
‘It’s just this feeling I’ve got – like I’ve seen her before.’
‘She’s got the same birthday as Debbie. It’s on her CV.’
Grandad narrows his eyes at me.
‘You’ve got to stop saying things like that.’ He gets off his stool, not looking at me. He goes into the back.
Why do I keep thinking stupid thoughts? Sometimes I think they won’t go away. My counsellor said I should be honest with the people I’m closest to.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say into the other room. ‘You’re not going, are you?’
He walks back into the bookshop with his anorak on.
‘I’m just off down the road to get us some butties.’
He comes back in soaking wet after forgetting his umbrella.
‘Well, that woke me up,’ he says. ‘I hope you’re not still vegetarian because they only had beef or “tuna surprise”.’
‘I haven’t been a vegetarian for over ten years.’
He sits on the stool behind the counter, so I grab a chair from the back and sit in the doorway, ready to jump up in case Isobel comes in. Grandad hands me the tuna sandwich.
‘I can’t be eating things like that,’ he says. ‘You never know what the surprise is going to be.’
I peel it open. ‘I saw Monica yesterday,’ I say.
‘Hmm.’ He swallows his mouthful with a gulp. ‘Don’t you see her every week anyway?’
‘It wasn’t Sophie’s day there. Anyway, Monica mentioned something about Dad – how he was after Debbie went missing.’
Grandad straightens on the stool.
‘She said Gran moved in with us – with Dad and me and Robert.’
He places his sandwich on the counter, using a sheet of paper as a plate. ‘Why is she bringing that up now?’
‘Because of the email. She wanted me to know why Robert’s so upset.’
‘But why tell you? You’ve been the only one who doesn’t remember. Why is she doing this to you? We gave you the best start without all of this affecting you.’
‘But … I know, Grandad. You’re right. In some ways, I am fortunate I don’t remember her … but I’d give anything to have a real memory of her in my mind – not just a photograph.’
He pats my knee. ‘I understand, love,’ he says. ‘What exactly did she say?’
‘Who?’
He rolls his eyes.
‘Monica. About your dad.’
‘That he couldn’t cope – that he needed you and Gran’s help for two years.’
‘Two years is exaggerating it a bit … as if your gran would let me be on my own for two years. It was more like two months. And it was no bother to your gran. She loved being with you and Robert. Your father lasted two mornings at the school gates before the whispering and glances got to him. He couldn’t do it … he called them vultures. They’d heard about it somehow … thought he’d done away with her.’
‘Done away?’
‘No smoke without fire. Don’t look at me like that, Anna, it’s not what I thought – it’s what those busybodies without anything better to talk about said.’
I hadn’t seriously considered that the police questioned Dad, and that strangers thought he might have killed his wife.
‘It didn’t help that he answered no comment to every question,’ says Grandad.
‘But that doesn’t mean anything. Jack says suspects are told to say that.’
‘Yes, they are … these days.’
Grandad presses his lips together.
‘You don’t believe he hurt her, do you, Grandad?’
He puts his barely-touched sandwich back in its wrapper.
‘No,’ he says, eventually. ‘But something’s not right. I mean …’
‘What?’
‘They got married, didn’t they? Peter and Monica. Debbie would’ve been horrified.’
‘You’ve never said that before. You really think that?’
He takes a deep breath. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Don’t mention it to them, will you?’
‘No, I won’t,’ I say. ‘What do you think happened to her?’
‘I’ve been through it hundreds of times in my head. I often thought it was down to us being so strict with her, that we expected too much from her … so she rebelled.’ Tears gather in the corners of his eyes. He gets up from the stool. ‘But I don’t know. Something happened that night. She can’t have vanished into thin air.’
I almost have to drag Sophie into the photo shop after last time.
‘But what if the witch is there again?’ she says.
‘Shh,’ I say. ‘She was just joking.’
‘It wasn’t a funny joke.’
‘Anna Donnelly,’ I say to the man behind the counter. ‘I’ve come for my photos.’
He raises his eyebrows: I’m stating the obvious.
‘The witch isn’t here, anyway,’ I whisper, as the man goes into the back room.
‘He could be her,’ says Sophie. ‘She has magic. And she prob’ly heard you say witch.’
The assistant brings
out an A3 envelope and pulls out a packet of photographs. He goes through each one and I try not to look at them. I don’t want the first time I see them to be in here. He looks at them so unsympathetically, I want to snatch them from his hands and tell him they’re mine.
‘A couple of them are over-exposed – they’ve got stickers on.’ He shoves the pictures back into the wallet. ‘Which means it’s not our fault.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘I wouldn’t have asked for my money back.’
He shrugs. ‘You never know with people these days. They don’t understand the equipment they’re taking photos with.’
‘A child took these photos, actually.’
‘That explains it.’
I grab the envelope. ‘Thank you.’
I stand outside the shop. Should I open them here?
Sophie is jumping up and down.
‘I need a wee.’
‘Can it wait two minutes?’
‘No, Mummy. I’m bursting.’
‘Come on then.’
We walk quickly to my car, parked around the corner.
Just one. If I could just look at one.
I reach into the envelope and pull out the wallet, my other hand opening the car door for Sophie.
‘My seat belt, Mummy.’
‘Yes, yes.’
I fasten her in, close the door, and get into the driver’s seat.
I glance at the car parked opposite us. I’ve seen it a few times this week. There’s someone in the driving seat, staring straight at me. I narrow my eyes as I lean towards the window. Is it a man or a woman? Whoever it is starts their engine, reverses and speeds off.
‘I’m really bursting,’ shouts Sophie.
‘Okay, love.’
I close my eyes as I quickly pick out a photo at random.
I switch on the ignition and place the rest of the pictures on the passenger seat.
‘We’ll be home in five minutes,’ I say.
I turn over the picture in my hands, my heart pounding.
I lift it up.
It’s a picture of a bloody lizard.
‘This is the best tea, me old china,’ says Sophie.
‘Me old china?’
11 Missed Calls Page 12