The car stops outside the house.
I hold my breath and duck behind the pram.
What am I doing? Making the baby a barrier between me and some crazy stalker?
I stand slowly. The car is silver, like ours. It’s a battered Datsun, like ours.
My feet are frozen to the ground as the car door opens and closes. The driver walks round the front of the car and stands a few feet from the pram.
‘Why the hell have you taken my children away from me?’
He doesn’t look the same. His eyes are dark, wide; he looks unshaven, even though he was clean this morning.
‘Peter. Calm down. I didn’t take the children away. Stop being so loud and dramatic.’
‘Loud and dramatic? You’re a fine one to talk, aren’t you?’
‘Shh, you’ll wake Annie.’
‘Will I now? Why are you walking the streets at this time of night with my daughter? I was on my way round here, and I saw someone who looked just like you, wandering around at nearly midnight. I thought, No, that can’t be Debs – not in the dark, not when I’ve been so worried about her. But then you came closer, and it was you. What were you thinking?’
‘It’s not that big a deal. People go for walks all the time. She wouldn’t settle.’
‘That’s because she’s not at home. I didn’t know where you were. Why didn’t you tell me you were here?’
‘Didn’t Mum ring you?’
His eyebrows are raised, his fists are clenched, and his feet are wide apart. I take a step back and lean against the front door.
‘Anyway,’ I say. ‘What are you doing creeping about in the car? I thought it was someone trying to get me.’
‘Get you? Why would anyone be trying to get you?’ He’s moving his head from side to side. He thinks I’m stupid.
‘Keep your voice down. I’ve been getting these poison-pen letters … it’s like someone’s been watching me – and Annie.’
I almost fall into the house as the front door opens.
‘What’s going on out here?’ It’s Dad. ‘The whole street’ll wake up if you two keep shouting.’
‘Sorry, Frank,’ says Peter. His face has totally transformed into that of a person who looks calm. ‘I had no idea where my family was. I needed to check they were safe.’
‘At this time? Why didn’t you just phone us?’
‘I’ve been trying since seven – it just rung out.’
Dad rolls his eyes.
‘Your mother,’ he says, glancing at the sky. ‘She must’ve unplugged the phone. She’s been fretting about the baby waking in the night. I told her babies wake just fine all by themselves, but she was having none of it.’ Dad pulls his dressing gown around his middle. ‘As much as I would love to stand out here and have a chat, I think we should get this little one to bed.’
We all look at Annie, fast asleep in her pram.
Peter nods. ‘I’m sorry, Frank, Debbie. You must understand how worried I was. I drove to Monica’s, to the hospitals. I thought if you were here, someone would answer the phone … Are you staying here tonight, then?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Bobby’s upstairs. I’ll have to take him to school in the morning.’
He bends over the pram and blows a kiss to Annie, then backs away. His arms hang at his sides; his eyes are wet, dull. Poor man – what am I doing to him? He must’ve thought I’d left, taken his family away.
‘Ring me tomorrow, okay?’ he whispers.
I nod, and watch as he gets into the car and drives away.
‘Come on, love,’ says Dad, taking hold of the pram. ‘Let’s get you both back in the house.’
Inside, I peel back the pram cover.
‘Wait,’ says Dad. ‘Just come into the living room for a minute, she’ll be okay there.’
I follow him and sit on the settee as he gently closes the living-room door. He sits on the chair next to me.
‘What are these letters you were talking about? Have you got them with you?’
‘Were you listening at the door?’
‘Just for a minute. I’m worried about you, love. It’s like … I don’t know … like the spark’s gone out of you. There’s no joy about you any more.’
‘I’m just tired and out of sorts.’
‘What did they say, these letters?’
I rub my forehead; my temples are throbbing.
‘Something like I know your dirty little secret and keep her close. That sort of thing.’
‘How odd.’
‘I know. But, Dad, you’re not to worry about it – they weren’t even addressed to me. And before you ask, I don’t have a dirty little secret.’
‘I wasn’t going to ask that.’
I smile at him. ‘Yeah, right.’
‘If you get any more, then I’ll come with you to the police station.’
‘What will they do? It’s not illegal to send nasty letters, is it?’
‘No, it’s not. It should be, though … the effect it’s having on you.’
I stand and take off Dad’s jacket.
‘It’s not the letters that are affecting me. It’s everything, I suppose. I’ll get used to it … the shock of a new baby and all that. Don’t tell Mum about them, I don’t want her worrying more than usual.’
I open the living-room door, hang up the jacket, and take Annie out of the pram. I turn to go up the stairs; Dad’s standing right behind me.
‘I know she wouldn’t want me saying this,’ he whispers. ‘But your mum was a bit like this after you were born … with the melancholy.’
‘What do you mean?’ I whisper back. ‘She said she was fine after she had me.’
He shakes his head. ‘I don’t know what she’s told you, but no. She wasn’t fine.’ He glances up the stairs as though he’s scared Mum’ll hear. ‘I shouldn’t say any more. I’m only telling you because it was all right in the end, wasn’t it? It’ll be the same with you, won’t it?’
I take a step up the stairs.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, it will.’
But I’m lying. Again.
‘Night, Dad.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Anna
I’m carrying a box of about a hundred books, and am at the bottom of two flights of stairs. You might have thought I’d be used to lugging them around, working in a bookshop, but my hands are shaking. Ellen’s in front of me, carrying two boxes, and not at all out of breath. Why is there never a lift in these places?
‘I really appreciate this, Annie,’ she says. ‘I know it was Isobel who offered your services. You could’ve said no, I would’ve understood.’
‘It’s okay, I don’t mind.’
I try not to grit my teeth; this box is so heavy.
‘I bet this was a lovely house before it was converted,’ she says.
‘I bet,’ I say, trying not to let the strain of the weight show on my face. ‘But you’ve answered my question about lifts.’
‘Your question?’
‘Never mind. Let’s get these upstairs, shall we?’ I walk past her. If I go quickly, my arms should still be able to hold the weight. Thank God it’s the last batch. I almost drop the box at her door.
‘Thank you so much,’ she says, placing her two boxes down. ‘That’s the lot, I think.’
She looks at her boxes, and I feel terrible. This was only the second trip; she hasn’t many things, but I’m surprised how many books she has.
‘My sister stored them for me in her garage … along with the rest of the stuff I managed to collect before …’
‘That’s nice,’ I say.
That’s nice? Jesus.
I look at my watch.
‘I can take it from here,’ says Ellen, ‘if you have to be somewhere else.’
‘I’m meeting someone in half an hour, but it’s only in Lytham.’
I haven’t seen the inside of Ellen’s flat, having dumped the previous box on the landing.
‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’ she says. She unlo
cks the door, picks up a box, and backs in. ‘I’ll have to set the kettle up, though. Shouldn’t take too long.’
‘Don’t worry about it. If I have a tea now, I’ll have to go to the loo as soon as I get to the café.’
It seems I have verbal diarrhoea.
Ellen laughs. ‘I know what you mean. I do have a bathroom here, but I’m not sure of the state of it.’
I should stay another five minutes – it won’t take long to drive to the café.
‘I didn’t mean it to sound like that, Ellen. It’s just—’
‘Stop feeling so awkward around me, Annie.’
My mouth drops open.
‘I’m not as violent as they said I was,’ she says. ‘Not any more, at least.’
She bends over and rips the Sellotape from a box at her feet. I’m waiting for her to say she’s joking – smile or something, to cancel out what she just said.
She doesn’t.
She picks out a kettle from her box and a Tupperware container. Without looking at me, she says, ‘I’ll put the tea on,’ and walks into a tiny kitchenette off the lounge.
‘Okay.’
My feet are glued to the floor. I want to run out of the door, down the stairs and onto the street. The noise of the kettle would mask the sound of my escape.
I jump when her head appears at the concertina door.
‘Tea, white, without?’ she says, smiling.
I nod; she goes back into the kitchen. I’m reading too much into what she says. As if she would murder me – I’ve just helped her move boxes. I don’t think she realised that her comment earlier unnerved me. Perhaps she thought I’d take it as a joke. It’s so out of character. Well, from the person she’s shown me so far.
‘Can I help you unpack?’ I shout.
I’ll make myself useful, then she won’t get any ideas.
Stop being so ridiculous, Anna! It’s just Ellen.
But I’ve only known her for a couple of weeks. I should have asked Isobel what she’d done.
Ellen comes out of the kitchen and places two mugs on the window sill on the other side of the living room. She kneels down next to an open box.
‘You can help me unwrap these, if you like,’ she says. ‘I haven’t seen most of this stuff for years.’
My shoes thump the laminate flooring. I crouch opposite her and she passes me a parcel wrapped in the front cover of the Daily Mirror. It is yellow with age and dated Wednesday 28 January 1987. The headline reads: Agony of Mrs Waite.
‘All of this would’ve been sent to the tip if it hadn’t been for my sister saving it for me. I suppose she felt guilty. I didn’t think I’d ever see it all again. Not that I’ve got much, anyway.’
She’s holding a wooden picture frame that’s been painted yellow, and has dried flowers glued around it.
‘My son made me this,’ she says, turning it round to show me.
‘That’s so sweet.’
‘You have a little girl, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Sophie. She’s six.’
‘A lovely age. Treasure her, won’t you.’
I feel the pang of guilt I always get when I think about her, that I don’t give her enough attention.
‘How old’s your son now?’ I ask her.
She looks up in surprise. It must be the first personal question I’ve asked her.
‘He’ll be forty next week. An important one.’
Her eyes haven’t left mine. Why is she looking at me like that? It’s as though she’s waiting for me to ask more questions. Instead, I finish unwrapping what’s in my hand. Another photograph. It’s in a silver-filigree frame, the glass is shiny as though frozen in time.
It’s of a little boy. He’s holding up a Lego construction to the camera, sitting next to a Moses basket.
‘That’s him,’ says Ellen, leaning over the box towards me.
I pass the frame to her outstretched hands.
‘What does he do now?’ I ask her.
She’s stroking the glass of the photo.
‘I don’t know, Annie. I’ve written to him three times, but he hasn’t replied yet. He doesn’t want to know me. He’s ashamed.’
‘But you might’ve written to the wrong address.’
She shakes her head.
My mobile phone beeps. I reach into my pocket. A message from Sally.
I’m here.
I get up from the floor.
‘I’m sorry, Ellen. I have to go. Are you going to be okay?’
She doesn’t get up.
‘Of course.’ She places the photo on top of the box. ‘Are you all right to let yourself out?’
I drive to Lytham almost on autopilot. The little boy in Ellen’s photo will be forty soon, but Robert is only thirty-seven on his next birthday.
No. I have to stop these idiotic thoughts. I want to forget I was in Ellen’s flat. I’m not as violent as they said I was. Why would she say something like that?
I pull into a parking space on the main street, to the annoyance of an elderly man waiting in the opposite lane. I get out and dash to the pavement before he starts waving his fist and shouting at me. I’m a few minutes from the café – one of about fifty in Lytham – so I walk as fast as I can without running.
I have to look twice, but Jack’s car is parked alongside the pavement, not far from mine. He often comes to Lytham for work. He asked me this morning if I was free for lunch; I said I was working through. He must’ve been checking I wouldn’t catch him. We were both lying.
I look into the window of the nearest café. He’s always lucky with parking.
He’s inside, to the left of the counter, sitting alone. I hold up my hand to tap on the window, but stop just in time. There’s a half-empty glass across from his cup. He’s waiting for someone to come back. If I tell him I’m here, I won’t find out who’s with him.
‘Excuse me, love.’
An elderly couple want to get past; I’m in the doorway.
‘Sorry.’ I whisper, in case Jack hears me. I pretend to look at the menu in the window.
Oh God, I’m going to see them together. My heart starts pounding. Instinctively, I grab my mobile from my pocket. If he’s with her, I need evidence. If I tell him I know about him and her, then he’ll find a way to turn it around – say I was seeing things.
I keep the phone camera close to my chest; I don’t want to draw attention to myself by waving it in the air.
Jack looks behind him at the door of the toilets. His companion is no doubt making herself look beautiful. The bitch.
A gust of sea wind blows, and the belt of my mac taps the window. Jack glances up, but I hide behind the menu again. I turn my back to the window. Two women, about my age, walk past, carrying takeaway coffees – heads together, chatting. My stomach tightens. What the hell am I doing, spying on my husband like this, outside a café, in front of everyone? Why can’t I be normal like everyone else? If I look back inside and Jack’s still alone, I’ll just head to my meeting with Sally. I’m already late. She’ll think I don’t care.
One, two, three.
I turn around.
He’s not alone. But he isn’t with Francesca, either.
He’s with a man.
I’m breathless when I get to Sally’s table after running the few streets from the café Jack was in.
‘Well, sit down then,’ she says, looking up at me. ‘We can’t have you heavy breathing and scaring the other customers.’
‘Sorry I’m late.’
‘Only by five minutes. I’m always early.’
‘I’ve just seen my husband.’
She raises her eyebrows. ‘Either you’ve just had a really good time, or you’ve run away from him.’
I hang my coat on the back of the chair, and pull it out to sit down. ‘Sorry, you don’t want to hear about my problems,’ I say. ‘What did you find out?’
‘I’m fine, thank you, Anna. It’s so kind of you to ask.’ She winks at me.
‘Oh God, what’s wrong with me
?’ I say. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I’m just kidding. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t bother with hello or goodbye either.’
My hands shake as I get the photographs out of my bag.
‘Are you okay?’ she says. ‘Did you have an argument with Jack?’
I imagine it’s in her job description to be perceptive.
‘I …’
She said the other day that anything said between her and me is confidential. She’s virtually a stranger, but I don’t want to burden Dad, Monica or Grandad with what is happening with my husband. I already emailed her a copy of the love letter from Francesca, so she already knows part of it.
I tell her about seeing Jack in the café and how he always turns things around, so it seems I’m crazy.
‘But why would he want to make out that you’re crazy?’
She makes quote marks with her fingers to frame the last word.
‘Because I … I became obsessed with this woman who used to work near me, a few years ago. I thought she might have been my mother.’
It’s too hot in here. I undo the collar button of my blouse. Why am I opening up to Sally? It’ll only prove Jack right, won’t it? If I tell her about all the things I have done in the past, she will look at me differently – like so many of my so-called friends I don’t see any more. I used to time them to see how long it would take to distance themselves from me. Sometimes it would be immediate, others would just not reply to my texts or phone calls. Life is easier without friends anyway, no one can disappoint you.
But I have nothing to lose with Sally – she’s being paid to be here.
‘Go on,’ she says, resting her chin in the cup of her hand.
‘I suppose there’s always been something there with me, since I was little. I’ve always known that Monica was Debbie’s best friend, that she wasn’t my real mother. Sometimes I wish they’d never told me about Debbie, pretended she didn’t exist, so I could’ve led a normal life with a normal family – even just for the first ten, twelve, eighteen years of my life. But everyone was so honest about it all.’
‘There’s no such thing as a normal family, Anna.’
‘There is.’ I manage a smile as I dab a tear rolling down my cheek with a paper napkin. ‘I met one once.’
11 Missed Calls Page 17