11 Missed Calls

by Elisabeth Carpenter

She scoops up her beans with a spoon.

  ‘It’s cockney. Miss Graham taught us it. Gramps said he’d get me a book from the library.’

  ‘When did he say that?’

  ‘Last time I was there … think it was last month.’

  ‘You mean last week?’

  ‘Yeah. It was June then.’

  ‘Did you tell me about it?’

  She nods. I feel awful.

  I’m missing all of the little things because my head is taken up with the big things. From now on, all things ‘Debbie’ will have to be talked about when Sophie is asleep or at school.

  The photos are still in their packet on the kitchen counter. I keep glancing at them.

  No. I’ll have to open them later.

  ‘Did you know Monica was born in London?’ says Sophie. ‘But it wasn’t near the bluebells, so she’s not a real cockney.’

  ‘I think you mean Bow bells, love.’

  At exactly five thirty, the front door opens and closes. Jack hasn’t been home on time this week.

  He comes into the kitchen. There are bags under his eyes and he hasn’t shaved for days.

  ‘Daddy! Me old china.’ Sophie puts together the knife and fork on her plate, slides off the chair and grabs her dad round the waist.

  ‘Me old china?’ whispers Jack. ‘It sounds so strange in her little voice.’

  ‘I think it’s the one bit of cockney rhyming slang she’s learnt.’

  ‘Oh.’ Jack smiles at Sophie – at least, he’s trying to; his eyes have no shine.

  ‘I’ve saved you some fish fingers,’ I say. ‘Only five-star service here.’ I pull the tray out of the oven – the golden crumb is now brown. ‘I’ll make something else. I haven’t eaten yet either.’

  ‘No, no. They’re fine. I could do with some comfort food.’

  ‘Elly’s invited me to her swimming party,’ says Sophie, sitting back at the table. ‘Can I go?’

  I open her book bag and take out the invitation, attaching it to the fridge with a magnet.

  ‘Of course you can. Daddy’ll take you.’

  ‘Why can’t you take me? You never go with me to swimming.’

  ‘I just don’t like the water, that’s all. It … er … makes my hair go funny.’

  ‘But you like water in the bath.’

  ‘That’s different.’

  Monica had paid for private swimming lessons for me when I was eight years old, because at school I was the only one who would scream if the teacher tried to guide me into the water. ‘Poor Orphan Annie,’ my classmates would shout, flicking water at me from the pool. ‘Boo hoo, boo hoo.’

  The teacher would tell them off, of course, but that didn’t stop the snide comments.

  The nearest I got to the water, during these private lessons, was dangling my feet in, my little knees knocking together as they shook. ‘Well, Annie,’ Monica said after the third (and last) session, ‘we can’t say you didn’t try.’

  ‘Sorry, Sophie,’ I say now. ‘But Daddy loves swimming.’

  ‘Hmm.’ She pushes her empty plate into the centre of the table. ‘Can I go up the apples and pears? Harry in my class showed me how to make Minecraft figures from Lego.’

  ‘Course you can.’ Jack sits at the table as Sophie stands and runs out of the kitchen. ‘Two phrases she’s learned, then.’

  Sophie thumps up the stairs as I sit down opposite Jack, handing him a plate with five frazzled fish fingers.

  ‘You look really tired,’ I say.

  He rubs his eyes.

  ‘I haven’t been sleeping well.’

  ‘What can be so bad at work that it’s keeping you awake at night?’

  ‘Did I say it was work?’

  ‘The other day … you said you had a tough case.’

  He cuts a fish finger and it almost snaps in half.

  ‘Did I?’ He shrugs. ‘That must be it then.’

  I take a deep breath.

  ‘If there’s something I should know – you can tell me.’

  He crunches the food loudly; I try to not let it bother me this time. His eyes focus on the table. Has he even heard me?

  ‘What? No,’ he says. ‘Where did that come from?’

  ‘You’ve been distant … spending all of your time in your office … sleeping there.’

  ‘You can talk,’ he says.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You’ve been obsessed with that email. It’s just like that woman last time.’

  ‘It’s not like last time. This is something real.’

  ‘Is it?’

  He stands, and pours the rest of the fish fingers into the bin, slamming the plate onto the counter. He breathes slowly through his mouth.

  ‘Look,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry. Really, I am, Anna. There’s nothing wrong. It’s you I’m worried about. It’s just … I don’t know why you’re getting your hopes up, like the last time – however misguided you were then.’

  I look down at my hands on the table; they’re shaking. I’m with my husband – my hands shouldn’t tremble with Jack.

  ‘One of those private investigators called,’ he says. ‘Wanting to know if you were really my wife.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘It was a woman. And I don’t know … probably because we’re charging it to my firm’s account – she might have been ripped off in the past. At least we know she’s thorough.’

  ‘What did you say to her?’

  ‘I said you were my wife, obviously.’

  He grabs the plate and rinses it under the tap.

  ‘What will she be investigating?’ he says. ‘It’s just about Debbie, isn’t it?’

  ‘What else is there to investigate?’

  ‘Just checking you didn’t have any other long-lost relatives.’ He tries to smile again. ‘So I can estimate the cost.’

  ‘No. It’s just Debbie.’

  He rubs my back between my shoulder blades.

  ‘Good, good.’ He kisses the top of my head, and walks to the door. ‘I’ve got to do a bit of work upstairs, then I’ll try to be back down before nine.’

  I don’t reply. He doesn’t wait for one.

  What just happened?

  I asked him what was wrong, and he turned it back on me. Again.

  But I lied as well. Francesca King must have said something to Jack.

  It’s not just Debbie I’m going to investigate. It’s him as well.

  It’s eight o’clock and there is no sound from upstairs. Sophie is asleep, and I doubt Jack will come down again, so I’ve laid out Robert’s photos on the kitchen table. There are twenty-seven altogether – seven of which are blurred; three of what I assume is Robert’s hand, and four of lizards. The rest are pictures of Dad, Debbie, my pram, and Monica with her first husband, Nathan.

  The photos displayed in our house when we were growing up were only ever of us five – Monica, Dad, Leo, Robert and me. Two partial families brought together. It’s like Dad and Monica wanted to rewrite history: to erase the people who hurt them. I have always had an image of Nathan in my head that is like Dad, only a little bit different. But he is Dad’s opposite. Dad is tall with red hair, which is mainly blonde and grey now, and his white skin is freckled. Nathan is also tall, but lean, tanned, and his hair is almost jet black. And he is very good-looking. In one photo, Monica and Nathan are sitting next to each other, leaning back against white plastic chairs. They are smiling, and Monica’s head is leaning towards his, with Nathan’s arm resting casually on her leg. Understated, yet intimate. Had they just said cheese at the command of the little boy taking their picture? They suit one another.

  In another photo, Dad is standing at a huge barbecue, with a sausage on a fork in one hand, and a bottle of beer in another. His hair is a shiny chestnut colour and the freckles on the bridge of his nose have joined together to give him a tan. The skin around his eyes is creased as he smiles. It’s like he had no worries at all, standing there in shorts and a T-shirt with his family and friends.
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  Poor Dad.

  One of my tears drop onto the picture. I rush to get a piece of kitchen roll and dab it off before it makes a stain. I wipe my face with it and stuff the tissue up my sleeve.

  There’s a strange picture of green-neon stripes that I can’t work out, but the next one is of Nathan kneeling at my buggy. My feet are resting on his chest; he must have put them there – I was too young to do that myself.

  He’s smiling at me, this stranger. Though I wasn’t a stranger to him. He’d known me since the day I was born. It’s a peculiar feeling, knowing someone was close to you and you don’t recall them at all.

  ‘What happened to you all?’ I whisper.

  The next photo is of a glass bottle of Coca Cola, but in the distance, sitting at a table, are Debbie and Nathan. They look as though they’re about to—

  ‘Talking to yourself again?’

  I stand up straight.

  ‘Jack! How long have you been standing there? I didn’t think you’d be back down tonight.’

  ‘I couldn’t leave you on your own again, could I?’

  He has an empty wine glass in his hand, which he takes to the fridge to refill. It’s probably the real reason he came downstairs.

  ‘You got them then?’ he says, looking down at the table. ‘Wow – your brother had a thing for lizards.’

  I smile. ‘Seems like it. Though I don’t think he appreciates them as much now.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know – his ex-wife had a few reptilian characteristics.’

  ‘Very funny. She wasn’t that bad.’

  I collect the photographs carefully into a pile and place them back into the wallet. ‘Have you finished working for tonight?’

  ‘There’s nothing that can’t wait until the morning. I thought we might watch a film together – try and switch off from everything for one night.’

  ‘All right,’ I say. ‘I’ll try.’

  I grab a glass from the cupboard and pour myself a glass of wine. It’s the only way I’ll be able to forget about anything tonight.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Tuesday, 15 July 1986

  Debbie

  Two thirty in the morning. I’d forgotten about the tiredness with newborns. How could anyone forget that? I’m so exhausted I could sit and cry. I had to bring Annie downstairs; she won’t settle. I’ve been pacing the living room for forty-five minutes. I tried singing ‘Hush, Little Baby’, but I couldn’t hear my own voice over her screams. It used to work with Bobby.

  It’s been three hours since her last feed. Hungry. She must be hungry. Again. I thought she’d sleep at least four hours at night by now.

  I grab a bottle from the fridge and place it into a jug of boiling water, carrying it back into the living room. I grab the flicker and turn on the telly: teletext is better than nothing. Don’t the television people realise that not everyone is asleep after midnight? Not that I’d be able to watch anything, even on tape. Every time I stop pacing the living room, she shrieks.

  I check the milk on my wrist. A tiny bit too warm, but it’ll do. I put it to her mouth and she starts gulping it down; maybe she likes it hotter.

  I fall back onto the settee, trying to concentrate on the words on the telly, but they’re blurred. Blink, blink. I can’t fall asleep while she’s drinking.

  It’s so quiet at this time of the morning. All the little worries I have in the day double in size and it feels as though they’re ganging up on me. Who is making Peter so happy? It certainly isn’t me. And for him to cook tea; that hasn’t happened for years, not since before the kids were born. He could be planning to leave me. He might leave in the middle of the night. No, that wouldn’t happen – he never wakes once he’s asleep.

  Nathan.

  Why was he pretending to be out jogging? Unless he wasn’t pretending for my benefit, but so I’d tell Monica. Perhaps they’re all in it together. They think I’m crazy and they’re planning ways to tip me over the edge.

  As I sit up, I hear the crackle of the envelope in my pocket. The note that came last night. I’d forgotten about it.

  I hold Annie’s bottle in the hand of the arm she’s resting on, and take the letter from my pocket. The envelope’s not hard to pull apart; it’s not stuck down. I flick it open and shake the note from inside. I can see already it has more writing on the paper than the last one.

  I place the letter on my lap and unfold it.

  You ought to be more careful with that baby of yours – keep her close next time. You never know who’s watching.

  I throw the letter onto the carpet.

  It can’t be for Peter – he’s not been alone with Annie since she was born. Someone knows what I’ve been doing – that I left the baby outside the shop, and at the cemetery. I have to tell someone about these letters: Peter, the police.

  My heart’s thumping. Can Annie feel it?

  She’s looking up at me; the bottle’s empty. Her lovely blue eyes are gazing at my face, trying to take me all in.

  ‘I’ll never let anyone hurt you, little girl.’

  We both startle as a car door slams outside. I get up to turn the big light off, and tiptoe to the window. I don’t know why I’m trying to be quiet – it’s not as if anyone outside can hear me.

  I place Annie on the armchair next to the window, putting a cushion along the edge of the seat.

  I peer through the gap between the curtains.

  There’s someone standing next to Trisha’s car, over the road – a man.

  I open the curtains a few inches wider.

  He takes something out of the boot and dumps it on the pavement. I stand on my toes, but I can’t see anything, except the shine of a bin liner.

  I look back to the man.

  He’s staring straight at me.

  I duck down, almost catching my chin on the window sill. He must’ve seen me – the telly’s giving off light; I should’ve switched it off.

  My heart’s thumping.

  The car boot slams shut.

  I wait a few seconds to give him time to leave, before slowly standing up again.

  He’s next to our gate, just looking at me.

  It’s Dean.

  I can’t move. My knees are shaking.

  He brings his hand up. What’s he doing?

  He taps his nose three times. He’s laughing at me, shaking his head.

  I grab each curtain and pull them together sharply to close the small gap.

  ‘There, there,’ I say to Annie as I pick her up, even though she’s perfectly fine. I hold her close to me as I climb the stairs.

  She doesn’t whimper or cry as I place her in the cot.

  I wish Peter would wake at least once in the night, just to ask if I’m okay. Tonight, I’d tell him, no. No, I’m not okay.

  I try to see things from other people’s point of view. In the early hours of this morning, Dean probably thought I was a nosy housewife spying on him in the middle of the night. To him, I’m the crazy one. Did I think he’d killed Trisha and was getting rid of the body? Whatever was in that bin liner wasn’t big enough for that.

  Trisha’s car’s not outside this morning. Perhaps I fell asleep and dreamt the whole thing.

  ‘She slept through the night then?’ asks Peter, as he eats his toast. He walks into the living room, getting crumbs all over the carpet – not that it’ll make any difference; I mustn’t have hoovered this week.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘She woke three times.’

  ‘Really? I didn’t hear a thing.’

  ‘You never do.’

  ‘A bit tired, are we?’

  Why can’t he accept that sometimes it might be him I have the problem with, and it’s not just my lack of sleep?

  ‘Yes. I only had four hours’ sleep at most.’

  ‘It’ll get better,’ he says, kissing my forehead.

  I wipe off the smear of butter he left on my skin.

  ‘I would’ve helped get Bobby dressed,’ he says, ‘but I never know where anything is.’
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  ‘It’s where it always is.’ I don’t have the strength to say more about it. ‘Dean was outside last night,’ I say. ‘Getting something out of Trisha’s boot. He saw me looking at him.’

  Peter laughs. ‘Coronation Street’s got nothing on Dean, eh? Wonder what dodgy scheme he’s involved with this time.’

  I should’ve known that it was my imagination. Listening to myself describe it to Peter makes it sounds ridiculously dull – just a bloke going about his business. Not someone watching me, trying to scare me, which is far worse than him sending me notes.

  ‘Peter … I’ve got something to show you. These letters came through the letterbox – I’ve kept them upstairs. I think—’

  ‘Can we talk about this tonight, Debs? I’ve got an early meeting in Manchester this morning. Head office is thinking of having a twenty-five-million-pound sale at Woolies this Christmas. I know the company’s doing well and everything, but that’s just ridiculous. It’ll never happen.’

  ‘I suppose it can wait.’

  He bends down to rub Bobby’s hair; he’s watching one of his videos before school.

  ‘Catch you later, kid,’ says Peter.

  And then he’s gone.

  I get up and go to the window, watching Peter as he leaves. I should get rid of these old-fashioned net curtains, but they come in handy during the day when Annie’s asleep and I want to watch the world go by. Peter’s whistling as he strolls down the path and out of the gate. I wonder what it’s like to be in his head – to know what being happy in the morning is like. He gets to go out and talk to people – people who answer him back, like he’s a proper human being. I try to imagine going back to work and I can’t. The feeling still fills me with panic. I’m safe here – with my children. I don’t have to dread Sundays and feel the anxiety of mixing with strangers. That’s what I tell myself.

  ‘It’s finished, Mummy,’ says Bobby. ‘Can I watch another?’

  ‘What?’

  I must remember my children are the important ones in my world. They depend on me.

  ‘Sorry … yes. But we’ve got to leave for school in ten minutes, Bobs. Maybe just a short one.’

  I sit on the settee and watch as he picks one of his three videos, ejecting the last, and putting in another. When did he get so independent? While I wasn’t looking, I suppose. He’s had to fend for himself a bit more now Annie’s here. I’ve nothing to compare it to – it was only me as a child.