11 Missed Calls

by Elisabeth Carpenter

  ‘We can meet up another day, we’ll do lunch.’

  He shifts in his chair, his eyes darting to the door, to the window.

  ‘Since when have we ever done lunch? What’s wrong, Dad? You look nervous.’

  ‘Nothing. Well, not nothing. Jack phoned me this morning … said you’ve organised some sort of detective to find your mother.’

  ‘Jack phoned you? But his office is going to be paying for the detective – it was his suggestion. I don’t understand.’

  ‘Don’t think he’s going behind your back again – he was just letting me know … thought it might’ve slipped your mind.’

  ‘But that’s what I wanted to talk to you about now. It wouldn’t just slip my mind. Since when have you and Jack been having cosy chats about me?’

  After all the times Jack said he doesn’t believe my dad’s version of events, why would he phone my dad? It’s just like six years ago, when everyone was speaking about me behind my back.

  ‘It wasn’t like that, Anna. He wanted to ask me a few questions about it.’

  ‘What questions?’

  ‘The ones he usually asks me when he’s drunk … if I remembered anything I might have missed before.’

  ‘Really? God. I’m sorry, Dad. I thought he was asking questions about me.’

  ‘It was nothing like that, love.’

  ‘I’ll have a word with him later.’

  ‘No, don’t, really. It’s nothing. I’ve had to answer questions about it for years.’

  I place my hand over his.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He takes his hand from under mine and grasps it.

  ‘Don’t you ever say you’re sorry. You’ve been through enough.’

  ‘Do you think …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you think, that if we find Debbie … that you’d want her back?’

  He flattens his hands over mine; he shakes his head.

  ‘I loved your mother … with all of my heart. I probably should’ve told her that more. I should’ve done a lot of things, but you can’t go back in time. But no, in answer to your question. We’d be different people. I was fond of Monica all those years ago, but nothing ever happened between us when Debbie was alive. Now, I adore Monica. She has treated you and Robert as though you were her own. She’s been there for me.’ He closes his eyes for a few seconds before opening them again. ‘I have to be honest with you, Anna. I really don’t think this email is from Debbie. It can’t be.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘I thought it might’ve been, at first. But why would she just send an email? Why just say a few lines? It didn’t even read like she would speak.’

  ‘Did Grandad tell you that he found letters? Poison-pen letters, they looked like. They were with Debbie’s things that he’d stored, from the house.’

  Dad withdraws his hands from mine.

  ‘No, he didn’t. In those days after she left, when I was on my own looking after you and Robert, I remembered that Debbie tried to tell me something, but I was always too busy to listen. All I thought about then was keeping my job. I couldn’t stay at home with you all, even when that was all I wanted to do. I had to pay for the roof over our heads. It wasn’t like it is now – Debbie left her job six weeks before she had you, and that was that. There weren’t day nurseries in abundance. We were meant to just get on with it. I wish I’d listened to her more. She wasn’t herself. Perhaps it wasn’t about the money – we should’ve found a way for her to go back to work. But after Robert had started school, we would’ve had to think about childcare for the holidays.’ He rubs his forehead. ‘We should’ve tried harder, I know that. But, like I said, you can’t go back in time.’

  ‘Was it because of me? That she left?’

  ‘No, no, no. Don’t ever think that, love. It was everything. I think she missed being with adults. I’d have felt the same.’ He places his elbows on the table. ‘But if there’s a remote chance that this email is from Debbie, then no. We would never be together again. Debbie would say the same, I imagine. What I have with Monica is too precious. She was there for us all when I was at rock bottom. She has a heart of gold.’

  ‘This is the most you’ve ever said to me about all of this.’

  ‘I know. It’s been really, really hard. I’ve not wanted to burden you with it. And Monica is my wife. I love her. She hasn’t treated you and Robert any differently to Leo. I’ve had to put her first, above the memory of your mother. This is all difficult for Monica. She’s always felt guilty about her and me.’

  ‘I love Monica, too,’ I say. I take a deep breath. ‘I met the private investigator today. She’s called Sally Munroe. She’s going to start working on the investigation as soon as I’ve emailed her all the details – including the email Debbie sent us the other week.’

  ‘I don’t mean to be harsh, love, but whoever sent that message, sent it to Monica’s email address. Why would someone do that? If it were Debbie, she’d contact me, or you or Robert. It might be from some crank again – you don’t want to be wasting money on a wild-goose chase.’

  ‘What do you mean, again? You all keep saying that, but I don’t remember anything specific. Robert wouldn’t go into details when I asked him.’

  Dad sighs.

  ‘Because he doesn’t know the details. It was about twenty years ago. A letter came through the post. Again, it was addressed to Monica, but using her old surname.’

  He gets up and opens the cupboard above the fridge-freezer.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me this? Why does everyone keep secrets from me all the time?’

  ‘It was a long time ago, love. You were only ten years old and going through all that bother at school. I didn’t intentionally keep it from you. In fact, I don’t know why I kept it all these years anyway. I took it from Monica, and said I’d burned it.’

  The envelope is white, creased. He doesn’t open it, but pushes it across the table towards me.

  ‘Best not look at it now,’ he says, looking to the kitchen door. ‘You’ll have questions, and I don’t have time to answer them.’

  ‘Did you take it to the police?’

  ‘Anna, the police wouldn’t have been interested.’

  ‘But they were interested when Grandad went to the police all those years ago.’

  Dad’s face drops. Why do I keep saying things that hurt people?

  ‘That was an awful time,’ he says. ‘I was at the police station, being interrogated, for nearly eight hours. Their questions were relentless – Did Debbie have any financial problems? Was she having an affair? Had I found out and done something to harm her? – I thought that they knew something I didn’t. What if I had hurt her, but couldn’t remember?’

  ‘But they let you go. I know you wouldn’t hurt anyone.’

  ‘They didn’t look as kindly on me,’ he says. ‘It’s because Debbie left a note.’

  ‘She left a note? And no one thought to tell me this?’

  He stands, the chair squeaking across the floor behind him.

  ‘Anna!’

  It’s Monica.

  I cover the envelope with my hand and slide it from the table and into my handbag.

  ‘I didn’t hear you come in. What have you got there?’

  She’s looking at the wallet of photographs on the table. She’s wearing make-up, but there are still shadows under her eyes.

  ‘Just some pictures Robert took when he was a kid.’ I feel Dad’s eyes boring into me. ‘But I’ll show you two another time. Dad says you have to get going soon.’

  ‘We do?’

  ‘Yes, Mon,’ he says. ‘We’ve got that thing tonight, remember?’

  ‘Oh right, the thing.’

  She’s frowning at him.

  I get up, kiss Monica on the cheek, and walk into the hall.

  ‘I was just passing. I’ve got to get Sophie from after-school club.’

  Debbie left a note. I want to ask where it is. My family has never been honest with
me. It’s too hard to ask what I want to know. If everything was out in the open, we could have had the answers years ago.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Tuesday, 15 July 1986

  Debbie

  It’s still light outside. Downstairs, I can hear the telly on for Bobby, and Mum announced about five minutes ago that she was feeding Annie. All is well, and I don’t have to get up. I can stay cocooned in my old single duvet for a while longer. It’s bobbled with age, but I love it.

  ‘Shall we ring him, Frank?’ says Mum. ‘Let him know they’re here?’

  ‘I’m not interfering in their marriage,’ says Dad. ‘Not unless Deborah asks me to.’

  They must know I’m listening. I could always hear the pair of them from upstairs when I was growing up, but they never had anything interesting to say then. The rooms are too small, and the walls are too thin, in this house.

  When I look up at the ceiling of my old bedroom, I could be fourteen again. I spot the tiny square I carved into the polystyrene tiles. If I remove it, there’ll be the little note I put in there. I can’t remember what it says. Probably a poem about being in love or my heart breaking or something equally as dramatic. One day, I’ll look at it again.

  Monica and I always spent time at her mother’s house, mainly because she was always out working, and we could smoke cigarettes in their massive kitchen. Monica seemed so glamorous when she started at our school after she moved up from London. The closest I got to London was listening to the Sunday charts on Radio One. I was surprised she hung round with me, when I came from a council estate.

  Our house was always freezing. I used to think it was because we’d run out of fifty pences for the meter, until Dad said it was because of Mum. ‘She’s having her sweats,’ he said. ‘It’s like she’s run a marathon.’

  She had her hot flushes for years. It was only a few years ago, after Robert was born, that they stopped. She said, ‘Why’s it freezing in this house? We can’t have a baby in a house that’s as cold as a cave.’

  Dad just rolled his eyes and got the extra fifty pees from a jar he kept in the cupboard under the stairs.

  I turn onto my side. The little stereo Dad bought me is still on the wicker table. He’s always loved gadgets – he’d buy anything electronic from the junk shop in town, even if it wasn’t working. I used to be embarrassed by how little I had in my bedroom. Monica had a telly, a video – even a crimper and a set of heated rollers she never used. I envied her freedom – the fact her mother was always out – but now I’m glad my parents are always home, always here for me.

  It’s a shame Monica didn’t come here more often when we were kids. Mum would’ve liked it, I think. If Monica lived here, she wouldn’t have been as skinny. Mum shows love with food – even if her combinations are a little strange.

  What does Mum do when no one’s around? She only seems to do things for other people. I try to imagine her lying on a sun lounger, drinking Cinzano – a cigarette in a long holder dangling from her fingers. The thought of it makes me smile. Mum might be fifty-two, but she looks so much older, with her permed grey hair. She always wears that pale-blue tabard to save her clothes from her daily bleaching of the house. When I’m fifty-two, I’m going to look glamorous. If I fast-forward to then, the kids will’ve grown, and I won’t have any responsibilities.

  My old cot is at the end of my bed. Dad must’ve got it down from the loft. He’s painted it pastel pink; last time I saw it, it was a deep blue.

  There’s a gentle tap on the door: it’s Dad. Mum would’ve marched up the stairs and knocked as loudly as she could.

  ‘I’m awake, Dad.’

  The bedroom door opens slowly. He stands at the threshold – hands behind his back as though he were waiting for a bus.

  ‘What time is it?’ I say.

  ‘Nearly ten past five. Did you manage to get some sleep?’

  Peter’ll be walking through our front door at any minute. He’ll find an empty house.

  ‘I thought it was later than that. I didn’t hear you bring the cot in – you must’ve been quiet.’

  ‘I got that down weeks ago,’ he says, ‘when Annie was born. We’ve been looking forward to you all coming round to stay. Will you be stopping long, love? If you are, then I’ve got a train set in the loft. I’d love to let Bobby have a go on it.’

  I pull myself up to a sitting position.

  ‘Since when have you had a train set?’

  He shrugs. ‘Since you were five. I bought it one Christmas – only second-hand, like – but you were more interested in the knitting set your mother got you.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘I thought I’d try and make you a tomboy, but you were having none of it.’ He smiles.

  ‘How do you remember about the knitting set?’ I say. ‘I’m sorry, Dad.’

  ‘Give over. I’m only messing.’

  He sits on the end of the bed.

  ‘You know, love,’ he says. ‘You can stay here for as long as you like. It’s been quiet since you left home, and what with me getting laid off at Leyland … well, I’m getting under your mum’s feet. She wouldn’t notice me as much with a house full.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad. But we won’t stop long.’

  His eyes look to the floor. Poor Dad. He always talks like he lost his job at British Leyland a few weeks ago, but it’s been four years. It must be so alien to him, not going out to work every day. I don’t know how they manage, but you can’t ask your parents how they afford to put food on the table.

  ‘Peter won’t know where we are,’ I say. ‘I didn’t leave a note.’

  Dad leans forward, resting his hand on my foot.

  ‘He’s not hurt you, has he?’

  ‘What? No, of course he hasn’t. Why do you ask that?’

  ‘When we opened the front door earlier, you almost fell into the hall. You barely said a word … you just rushed upstairs and got into bed.’

  ‘Did I? I can’t remember … but that wasn’t long ago. Are the kids okay?’

  ‘Annie’s asleep in her pram after her feed, and Bobby went straight to the telly – as usual. Anyway … it was like you’d just escaped from somewhere. You were frightened of something.’

  He looks at the carpet, which has brown-and-orange swirls, immaculately hoovered every day, even though I’m never here. I used to hate it, but now it comforts me.

  ‘I’m just worried about you,’ he says. ‘I’ve never seen you frightened at the thought of being in your own home.’

  ‘You’ve known Peter for years. He’s not like that.’

  Dad purses his lips in a tight smile.

  Then I remember the other day, when Peter whipped the cup out of my hands – it smashed into pieces. He slammed the front door.

  ‘Frank!’ Mum’s shouting from the bottom of the stairs. ‘Your tea’s on the table. Hurry up or it’ll get cold.’

  Dad puts his hands on his knees and stands.

  ‘Are you coming down, Debs? She’ll have made a plate for you. It’ll dry up if it’s left in the oven.’

  I flop back down against the pillow.

  ‘In a minute.’

  Dad walks to the door.

  ‘You should get a microwave,’ I say. ‘They’re like magic.’

  ‘And they cost a small fortune,’ he says. ‘Anyway … your mother can’t even program the video. Let’s not let her loose on radiation.’

  I hear Dad console Mum by saying my dinner won’t be ruined. ‘I’ll have it for my supper if she’s too poorly,’ he says.

  ‘She’s not poorly, Frank. She’s just got the melancholy.’

  I don’t know why they have to talk so loud. I look to the ceiling again. That would’ve been the perfect time to have told Dad about the letters I’ve been getting.

  I was eleven and I’d just got back from secondary school, and a letter had arrived addressed to me. I looked at it for ages before taking it off the mantelpiece. I never received post and I’d sent a painting to Blue Peter a few weeks before. I felt the envelope, b
ut couldn’t feel a badge inside. I tore it open, and the note inside listed names and addresses to send the same letter to. If I didn’t, I’d have twenty years of bad luck.

  Dad grabbed it out of my hand as I read: If you destroy this letter, someone you know will—

  ‘I’m not having that,’ he said. ‘It’s one of those chain letters. I read about them in the paper.’

  The tears welled in my eyes as he tore it to tiny pieces.

  ‘But, Dad. It says if I destroy it, someone will die.’

  He picked up the bits from the floor and scrunched them into a ball.

  ‘You haven’t destroyed it; I have. And no one’s going to die because of it.’ He went into the kitchen and threw it in the bin. ‘If I find out who sent you that, I’ll bloody give them what-for.’

  I ran to the window to see if there was anyone outside, which was silly as the post had come that morning. There was no villain lurking in the shadows of our estate. But someone had written my name. Did they write it out of fear – to share the burden?

  Dad was right, though. No one died. Uncle Charlie had already passed away that year. Whoever is writing to me now, isn’t writing out of fear, but hate. I couldn’t tell Dad about the notes; it’d only upset him. I’ve already tried telling Peter, and he wasn’t interested.

  ‘There’s peaches and Dream Topping for dessert, Bobby,’ Mum shouts from the kitchen.

  I pull the quilt up over my shoulders, and feel safer than I’ve done for weeks.

  The phone’s ringing downstairs. I turn and face the other way. Peter’ll get it.

  Whispers from the hallway.

  I open my eyes, and the wall is in front of me, not our bedroom window or Annie’s Moses basket. Because I’m not at home.

  Thuds up the stairs.

  Mum opens my bedroom door.

  ‘Deborah,’ she hisses. ‘There’s a telephone call for you.’

  I fling back the covers and swing my feet onto the carpet.

  ‘He woke the baby,’ she says. ‘I’ll have to unplug it.’

  I rub my face.

  ‘How long have I been asleep?’

  ‘It’s ten to six.’ Not long. She beckons me with her hand. ‘Come on, love. He’s waiting for you.’