11 Missed Calls

by Elisabeth Carpenter

  I tell Sally about everything I went through before.

  I had never been as bad before I met Gillian Crossley. She looked just like Debbie. I convinced myself that she was Debbie – that she’d chosen to work nearby to get close to me. I took it too far – started following her home to see if she had a replacement family.

  Jack was there for me through all of this, but he didn’t know about the ones before. I latched on to teachers, and my counsellor at college. What few friends I had, looked at me differently.

  Daisy was my first counsellor. It was a sign, I thought, her having the same initial as my mother, yet she was only about five years older than I was. I thought we were friends. She listened to me for hours (an hour at a time, obviously). She knew everything about me. When I took her presents, she looked pleased.

  But when I met her three times in a row at the library on a Saturday morning, she took a step back. ‘This isn’t a coincidence any more, is it, Anna? You knew I’d be here, didn’t you? This has to stop. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have encouraged you. I should’ve said something the first time I saw you here.’

  I only ever saw her in passing at college after that. I was too ashamed to even make eye contact with her. I gradually realised that she knew everything about me because she was paid to; I knew nothing about her, not really.

  ‘I never told Jack about my time at college,’ I say to Sally. ‘It wasn’t that I was embarrassed by it. By the time I met him, I didn’t think about it. I lived at home when I was at university – I didn’t see anyone from college who knew about it. I spent most of my spare time with Monica. She’d take me shopping, out for lunch.’ I give a hollow laugh. ‘It was like I was a project for her. She’d taken early retirement from the council offices, so I kept her busy. But in a way, she built me back up again.’

  ‘What changed?’ says Sally. ‘To make you so transfixed with this Gillian so many years after college?’

  ‘I was pregnant. I suppose expecting a child myself made me question Debbie’s decision to leave even more. I felt so close to Sophie when she was growing inside me – an unbreakable bond. How could someone just abandon that?’

  The memory of it is still so vivid. The last time I visited the bakery, I was on maternity leave; Dad and Monica had looked after Sophie for the afternoon to give me some time to go into town and browse the shops, but I knew where I really wanted to go.

  I stood outside the bakery, waiting for her to come into work. She hadn’t been in for days; I’d walked past with the pram. Her colleagues said she was off sick. When I’d pressed them, they said she had a migraine.

  But that day was different. Her boss came to the door as I waited on the doorstep.

  ‘What are you doing standing outside again, Anna?’ she said, her arms folded in the doorway. ‘Gillian’s off sick again. You realise all of this is making her ill, don’t you?’

  ‘I … I …’

  I stepped back and a huge dollop of rain from the shop canopy landed on my head. I went to wipe it off and realised the rest of my hair was sopping wet. I was standing outside in the pouring rain, soaked to the skin.

  I held up a silver picture frame.

  ‘But I thought she might like this,’ I said, getting closer to her, trying to get shelter. ‘It’s a photo of Robert and me when I was two. She won’t have seen it before.’

  The woman shook her head, went back into the bakery and slammed the door – a waft of warm air from inside hit my face.

  ‘Get yourself some help, Anna!’ she shouted through the glass.

  Sally’s face doesn’t react as I finish my story.

  ‘I don’t understand why Jack would be horrible to you about that, when surely you needed love, empathy.’

  I shrug. ‘He’s not horrible about it, really. He worries about me. He’s very practical, strong. It’s why I married him, I suppose. I’m in a good place now – well, I thought I was before all of this …’

  Sally reaches over and pats my hand.

  ‘While we’re talking about Jack, we might as well start there.’ She grabs a piece of paper off the empty chair next to her. ‘The man who sent Jack the Facebook message: Have you told her yet? wasn’t that hard to find. But what’s interesting is that he had a sister called Francesca.’

  ‘She’s married then? Francesca King?’

  It is so strange saying her name aloud. It’s not just in my head any more: it’s real.

  ‘No. Not Francesca King – Simon Howarth’s sister never married. Her name was Francesca Howarth.’

  A different Francesca.

  Oh God, what have I done?

  I visited that woman at work – told her Jack was having an affair, hatred in my eyes.

  ‘But, I’m afraid, it’s past tense,’ says Sally. ‘Sadly, Simon’s sister died as a result of a car accident. Recently, as it happens.’

  She slides over a print-out of an online newspaper article.

  It’s dated three weeks ago.

  One person has died and two are injured following a crash involving two cars in York.

  A woman, driving a Ford Focus, sustained fatal injuries on the A64, between Copmanthorpe and Bishopthorpe, in the early hours of this morning (Wednesday), and was pronounced dead at the scene.

  A man in the second vehicle suffered injuries that aren’t believed to be life-threatening.

  A cyclist, a man in his late fifties, sustained minor injuries.

  Police are appealing for witnesses.

  I look up at Sally.

  ‘This wasn’t that long ago.’

  ‘That’s right,’ she says. ‘She went to the same college as Jack. If Jack knows her brother, then chances are, he knew her. I believe this is the Francesca we’re looking for.’

  I glance at the time on my phone. It’s one o’clock already.

  ‘Thanks, Sally. That’s great. I’m sorry, but I really must go. I’m not supposed to shut the bookshop at lunchtime. I’d like to hear more, but I can’t get fired. My boss, Isobel, thinks I’m useless as it is.’

  ‘I’m sure she doesn’t.’

  I stand, grabbing my coat from the back of the chair.

  ‘Before you go, Anna, there’s something I’d like you to ask your family about.’

  ‘What?’ I put on my coat, even though I’m boiling hot and the sun is shining outside.

  ‘I spoke to my police contact. Deborah wasn’t reported missing until two months after she disappeared. And it wasn’t your father who reported it – it was Frank O’Reilley.’

  Grandad.

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s what you should ask them.’ She reaches into her bag and pulls out an estate agent’s flyer. ‘Also … sorry, I didn’t expect this to be a rushed meeting, but the house you lived in as a baby … the one next door to it’s for sale. The woman selling it owns your old house too. I’ll arrange a viewing – perhaps we could ask her some information without just turning up on her doorstep?’

  I stop my rushing.

  ‘Do you think she’ll let me see my old house?’

  ‘I doubt that, but it’s worth talking to her.’

  Sally stands, holding out her right hand. I shake it.

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Wednesday, 16 July 1986

  Debbie

  ‘She’s stolen your children. Get up!’

  Where’s Annie? I only closed my eyes for five minutes, didn’t I? A voice woke me up. I get out of bed and rush to the landing in Mum and Dad’s house. Before I look in the room Bobby’s sleeping in, I know the bed’ll be empty. Mum and Dad aren’t in their room either; their bed’s perfectly made.

  Nobody’s stolen the children. It was just a dream.

  I stand at the top of the landing, gripping the railings.

  Oh no. It’s happening again.

  My right arm begins to tingle. I can’t move it, but it won’t stop shaking – my whole body’s trembling.

  The ringing in my
ears is too loud.

  My knees buckle, and I collapse onto the carpet.

  I can’t breathe.

  My heart is about to run out – it’s beating too fast for the rest of me.

  I’m dying.

  My throat feels like it’s closing; I shut my eyes.

  My breaths are short.

  Sick. I’m going to be sick.

  There’s nothing in my stomach.

  Oh God, I can’t breathe.

  I want it to end; I want everything to end.

  But I don’t.

  I’m on the landing, flat on my back.

  Am I dead?

  I look at my hand and pinch the skin on my arm.

  No.

  My poor parents, if they had to find me – what if Bobby had been the first?

  Where is everyone? Where’s all the noise?

  I slowly get up.

  There’s something seriously wrong with me.

  I had blood tests for months before Annie was born, though. They would’ve picked up something, wouldn’t they?

  I walk downstairs, holding the bannister tight; my knees are still weak. I feel as though I’ve been thrown against every wall in the house, yet there are no bruises on my skin.

  Sounds of cars driving past outside. Everything’s going on as normal. I can’t remember what it’s like to feel normal.

  There’s a note propped against the telephone.

  Deborah,

  Didn’t want to wake you. Dad’s taken Bobby to school, so I’m taking Annie out for a bit of fresh air.

  Mum.

  I wish she’d have put the note in Annie’s cot.

  I’m too ungrateful, I know that. When Annie starts to sleep through, I’ll get more sleep myself and then I’ll be a better person. I have to believe that, otherwise I’m going to sink into quicksand.

  Perhaps it’d be easier for everyone if I wasn’t around. I make people angry. I’m not how they want me to be. I’m not who I want to be.

  Bang, bang, bang.

  Someone’s at the door.

  I get down on my hands and knees and crawl into the living room, even though the front door is made from mottled glass and whoever it is can see me skulk away.

  ‘Debs?’ A man’s voice through the letterbox.

  Oh God, he must’ve seen me.

  I look around the living room: nothing. If I were at home, there’d be an airer full of clothes to hide behind.

  More voices at the door. What the hell is going on out there?

  A key turns in the lock.

  ‘Just wait there with the pram while I see what’s going on.’

  It’s Mum.

  ‘Deborah! What on earth are you doing on the floor like that?’

  She’s standing at the living-room doorway.

  More footsteps in the hall. Nathan’s cradling Annie in his arms. He peers over Mum’s shoulder.

  I stand quickly, grabbing a cushion to cover the 1950s nightie Mum laid out for me last night.

  ‘I wondered where everyone was,’ I say. ‘But now that’s been solved – seeing as half the people I know are standing right in front of me.’

  ‘I dare say it has,’ says Mum, looking at me as though I were parading naked. ‘You’ve a visitor. You might want to run upstairs to make yourself presentable.’ She’s trying to direct me upstairs by flicking her eyes to the staircase without her head moving.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ I say.

  I smile and nod at Nathan – who’s probably noticed my crimson face – and run two steps at a time up the stairs. I dress in the only outfit I brought with me. After only a few hours’ sleep, I feel a bit more refreshed.

  It can’t be because Nathan’s here.

  My daughter’s safe – that’s it too. I hope he’s not here on behalf of Peter, to try to convince me to come home.

  In the bathroom, I splash water on my face. I look in the mirror as I pat it dry with a towel. I wish I’d brought make-up – I didn’t bring anything. I can’t even remember the journey here yesterday. I pinch my cheeks like Mum does before church when she thinks no one’s looking.

  I slowly go down the stairs and take a few breaths before grabbing the door handle to the living room. I want to listen in on what Nathan and Mum are talking about, but all I can hear is the telly.

  The pair of them don’t even glance up when I walk in. Nathan’s long legs, crossed at the ankles, take up half the floor’s width as he makes himself at home, and Mum’s feeding Annie a bottle in her chair with Jesus above her as a witness. I’m glad Dad isn’t here to see the way she’s smiling at Nathan. She should be ashamed of herself, and in front of the son of God as well.

  ‘Did you say something funny?’ I say to Nathan.

  He looks up, pretending to have only just noticed I’ve come into the room. More likely, he has just noticed me. I wish my teenage brain would leave me alone.

  ‘I was just saying to Marion that I could take you all out to St Annes, if you fancied a breath of fresh air?’

  Marion? Even Peter doesn’t call my mother by her first name – in fact, I don’t think he ever calls her anything. And why’s everyone so bothered about fresh air? It’s overrated.

  ‘And I said to Nathan,’ says Mum, ‘that I’m going to wait in for your dad, make him lunch. Can you imagine what he’d think if I left him a note saying I’ve gone off gallivanting with a young man? You and Annie go. I’ll be fine here.’

  My cheeks are hot again. What’s gotten into her? Sending me off on a day trip with another man. She’s not this chatty when Peter comes round with me.

  ‘Mum, I’m sure Dad wouldn’t mind if he knew you were with Annie and me as well. He might appreciate the house to himself.’

  ‘No, no. I’ll stop in. Your dad’ll have done two bus journeys after taking Bobby to school and going to the job centre. He’ll need someone to come back to.’

  ‘Oh no, poor Dad. I should’ve taken Bobby.’

  ‘Poor Dad nothing. He likes to feel useful.’

  ‘I don’t think it’d be right for me to go. Peter might wonder where I am.’

  ‘It’s nearly ten o’clock. I plugged the phone back in at six this morning, and there’s not been any phone calls. Just go out and let your hair down – it might get some colour in your cheeks.’

  ‘I … well … if you’re sure?’ I’m still standing in the middle of the living room. ‘But Annie’ll be due another feed in a few hours.’ I look to Nathan. ‘I can’t go out for long.’

  Mum passes Annie to Nathan; doesn’t she trust me with my own baby?

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she says. ‘I’ve made a few bottles up for her. Take another two with you. I’ll make a flask of hot water.’

  My mouth drops open as she hands a bag over to Nathan.

  ‘Are you sure, Mum?’ I say, pulling her by the elbow into the kitchen. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if I stayed here? I don’t think I’m well enough to go out.’

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ She puts her hand on my forehead. ‘Your temperature’s fine.’ She leans her head towards mine. ‘But your eyes look a bit different.’ She tilts her head to the side. ‘I know I’m usually one for plodding on with everything, but your old friend Nathan’s a good sort.’ She’s blushing. ‘I should’ve taken you out a bit more when you were little. I won’t tell Peter if you don’t want me to.’

  ‘Mum! That’s not a very Christian thing to say!’

  ‘He can’t see me in here,’ she says, gesturing to Jesus on the wall in the other room.

  I lean against the Formica worktop and look out of the window above the sink, then to the sill. There’s a broken glass on a newspaper, waiting to be wrapped for the bin. Its glacier-like spikes sparkle in the sunshine. I could just slam my wrist over them – they’re only inches away. It wouldn’t hurt for long.

  I turn to my mother.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind if you did tell Peter. He’s been off gallivanting, as you call it, with Monica.’

  ‘Just go and have a
nice time. Dad’ll pick Bobby up, so you don’t have to worry about the time.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  At that moment, I realise I have no money on me at all. And the only money I have is the pittance left over from the family allowance and I don’t even have my cheque book with me. How far did I think I’d get with no money when I fled the house yesterday? It doesn’t matter anyway. Everything feels so pointless.

  I feel like I’m in a taxi in Nathan’s Sierra, with him in front and me in the back. Annie’s lying in her carrycot, the seat belt strapped across it. Nathan’s window’s open and the breeze is refreshing.

  ‘Am I okay to turn the radio on?’ He shouts over the wind.

  ‘Yes,’ I holler back. ‘Annie’s awake.’

  If she wasn’t, she would be, after all this shouting.

  Nathan keeps glancing at me in the rearview mirror. I look to the world outside the window, though we’re on the dual carriageway and there are only fields.

  ‘The Chicken Song’ comes on the radio. Stupid fucking song; I don’t know what all the fuss is about. Memories of my cousin’s wedding two months ago flash into my mind. Me, eight months pregnant, sitting in the social club making half a pint of Guinness last two hours, while everyone danced the stupid chicken dance, pissed as farts. Even my mother, who’d had half a glass of sparkling wine, got up, self-consciously waving her hands about like the rest of them. Weddings are shit if you can’t drink.

  It finally ends and is replaced by ‘West End Girls’ by the Pet Shop Boys. At last some decent music. I imagine myself in the video, standing moodily next to Neil Tennant, smoking cigarettes. I could’ve had a different life had I aimed high enough, had I been bothered.

  We’ve been driving for twenty minutes and Nathan and I haven’t spoken much. He hasn’t explained why he just turned up at my parents’ house. Doesn’t anyone use the phone any more? Why isn’t he at work? It’s a weekday, because Bobby’s at school.

  The sound and movement of the car has sent Annie to sleep. I’m so tired myself, but I can’t sleep now. I close my eyes, anyway, and let the wind and the heat of the sun through the window warm me. If it weren’t for Annie here next to me, I could be sixteen again – the pair of us driving round the coast in Nathan’s fourth-hand Austin Metro.