11 Missed Calls

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11 Missed Calls Page 19

by Elisabeth Carpenter


  We’ve just passed Lytham windmill. Nathan lowers the radio and rolls up the window. He glances at me over his left shoulder.

  ‘I suppose Pete told you he came round to ours last night?’

  ‘Hmm,’ I say. ‘Mum unplugged the phone. Annie’s not been sleeping properly.’

  I glance down at her, fast asleep: the irony.

  ‘He said you took off in the middle of the night.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘Hardly. It was after I picked up Bobby from school.’

  I don’t tell him I was so scared of being in my own home that I almost couldn’t breathe – that I felt that people were watching me through the window, through the walls.

  We pass the White Church, where a bride in an ivory meringue is being helped out of a limousine by her dad. Don’t do it, I want to shout.

  ‘You know I’m here if you want to talk,’ says Nathan.

  He keeps saying that, doesn’t he?

  ‘I should talk to Monica, really. Peter might think it weird if I talk to you.’

  Nathan shrugs. ‘They have their own little chats, don’t they?’

  I lean forward, resting my hand on the front passenger seat.

  ‘I thought it was only the one time they met. Have they spoken again?’

  ‘Hang on a sec.’

  He pulls up on the road next to the sand dunes and turns off the ignition. He takes off his seat belt, turning to face me.

  ‘On the phone. I’ve heard them. First it was about the holiday – now he keeps ringing her, asking for advice.’

  ‘Advice? About what?’

  He takes a deep breath – his eyes dart around the car before they meet mine.

  ‘You.’

  I’m struggling to push the pram through the sand, so I turn it around and drag it.

  ‘I can get that for you, Debs,’ says Nathan. He goes to grab the handles, but I elbow him out of the way. I know I shouldn’t take it out on him – it’s not his fault Monica and Peter are conspiring against me. I shouldn’t have to worry about those two at a time like this.

  I stop at an area of sand that’s far enough away from anyone else.

  ‘Did you bring a blanket?’ I say.

  He’s looking wide-eyed at me. He probably thinks I’ve gone crazy, like the rest of them do. He pulls out a tartan blanket from his Army & Navy bag, then unrolls it and places it on the sand.

  ‘Do you want me to get Annie out?’ he says.

  ‘It’s okay.’ I pull up the hood to shade her from the sun peeking through the clouds. ‘I’ll let her sleep a while longer.’

  ‘How many weeks is she now?’ he says, sitting on the blanket. He grabs his bag and squashes it into the sand behind him, before laying his head on it, eyes closed.

  ‘Four or five.’

  I steal a glance at him while his eyes are shut. Such dark hair. If I hadn’t known him since we were teenagers, I’d have thought his hair was dyed that colour. There’s a St Christopher chain around his neck. It looks like the one I bought him all those years ago.

  I sit down next to him, but not too close.

  I look up to the sun and close my eyes.

  It wasn’t like this after I had Bobby. Everything was easy then. He’d sleep for hours at a time, letting me get myself ready for the day – and he slept through from two months old. But today is the first day in a long time that I’ve felt halfway human. I wish I could stay here, like this, forever. I might be getting better. I won’t need to go to the doctor – I’ll tell Monica that it was just lack of sleep, that I’ve healed myself. I’m a medical marvel.

  ‘What are you smiling at?’ says Nathan.

  ‘I was just thinking about Monica,’ I say, without thinking.

  ‘Really? You don’t mind her talking with Peter?’

  I open my eyes to find him looking at me, shielding his eyes from the mid-morning sun. ‘I’ll speak to Peter about it tonight.’

  My stomach feels sick at the thought of confrontation. I doubt I’ll even talk to him. I’m a coward. I don’t want him bringing up the fact that I’m failing – as a mother and a wife. If we don’t discuss it, I can try to get back to normal without any drama.

  I glance at Nathan; he’s lying down again with his face to the sky.

  ‘Did Monica mention what they said about me?’

  ‘You should talk to her about it,’ he says. ‘You know I’m not one for gossip.’

  ‘What? How can it be gossip – I’m right here? You can talk to me about me.’

  He props himself up, his elbow resting on the blanket, only inches from my arm.

  ‘I know, Debs. It’s just that …’ He takes a deep breath. ‘Monica said Peter’s been telling her that you two aren’t getting along at the moment. He thinks you’re not yourself.’

  ‘What?’

  It’s one thing for me to think it, but for him to say it is another. The thought of it winds me in the stomach.

  ‘I know, I know,’ he says. ‘It’s a shit thing to say about anyone, baby or no baby. And he shouldn’t be saying all of this to Monica. I told her I didn’t want to hear what Peter’s been saying – and you can imagine how she took that.’ There’s a light smirk on Nathan’s face.

  ‘Yes.’

  I can imagine. There’s nothing Monica likes more than to speak badly about others – she doesn’t like it when people don’t join in with her. She takes it as a slight. A few years ago, she came round on a Saturday afternoon after shopping with Rachel Kennedy, a woman we both went to school with.

  ‘She’s just got a promotion at GUS,’ Monica said. ‘Office manager! Can you believe it? She’s twenty-three and she only got one O Level. Thick as pig shit.’

  ‘I’m sure she isn’t. She’s probably good at her job. She wasn’t that bad at school.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re sticking up for her. Are you best friends with her or something?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Mon. It’s not that I like her,’ I said. ‘I don’t know her.’

  She folded her arms and didn’t speak to me until she’d thought of someone else to talk about.

  ‘Well,’ I say to Nathan now. ‘It serves her right. She shouldn’t take so much joy in saying bad things about other people.’

  ‘Amen to that.’

  Annie whimpers in her pram. Just as I was about to relax.

  I jump up and peer over her, but she’s still asleep. I look over at the grey sea in the distance, and take off my socks.

  ‘Nath, would you mind keeping an ear out for her? I fancy dipping my feet.’

  ‘Yeah, course. Watch out for the dirty nappies, mind. And don’t go walking too far in, Reggie Perrin.’

  ‘Don’t tempt me,’ I say.

  If he knew what was going on in my head, he wouldn’t joke about something like that.

  The first few steps, where the sand is bone dry, are the trickiest.

  A football crosses my path, and a boy of about three or four rushes to grab it. He walks back to his mummy, who’s lying on a towel, wearing a bikini. Her bronzed skin is frying in oil, like we’re in bloody Marbella and not the lukewarm North of England.

  ‘Mummy, will you play with me yet?’ says the little boy. ‘You said in five minutes and it’s been a million.’

  ‘I meant in ten minutes,’ she says. ‘And it’s never been a million. Stop exaggerating.’

  ‘What’s pedgaterating?’

  ‘Give it a rest, Barry.’

  I wish I could be that woman. She doesn’t care that she’s being awful to her son in public because her thoughts are probably kinder, more honest, than mine. I can’t let my feelings creep through my mask, though that’s starting to slip. My children would be taken away and I’d be alone. As horrendous as it sounds, it’s a thought that doesn’t fill me with horror.

  Shit, Debbie. Stop bloody overthinking things. I want to slap the side of my head, but instead, I grab the scrunchie from around my wrist and pull my hair into a ponytail.

  The sand gets firmer as I near the
sea. I bend to pick up a perfect ivory shell wedged in it. The sand gets under my finger nails, but I don’t pick it out. There’s another: a black shell – so thin it might break in my hands. I untuck my shirt from my trousers and use it as a pouch. I could decorate Annie’s memory box with what I find.

  I kneel when I see a tiny dried-out crab.

  Eugh. Horrid, creepy little thing.

  I run the pad of my finger on its miniature, smooth shell.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to think that about you.’

  I keep walking, closer to the tide. It has a scummy, white foam that I bet you wouldn’t find in Tenerife.

  I spot a perfect, white, spiral shell. It would look lovely in the centre of the box. I’ll have to ask Dad for some proper, strong glue; it looks as though it’ll never stay put on the cigar box.

  I look down at my collection. I have about twenty shells. That should do it.

  As I near the sea, my footsteps leave little pools of water inside them – like mini ponds. I stand at the point where the gentle tide ends, and the scummy water tickles the tips of my toes. I look to the horizon. Southport’s just across the water. Dad used to take me there all the time. Mum never came, though. What did she do, all those times Dad and I went out together? I think of Peter and I can’t picture him taking Bobby out on his own – he’s always working. Little Bobby, he would’ve liked that dried-out crab.

  I turn and see Nathan lying next to Annie’s pram; they’re little ants in the distance. I have to get that crab for Bobby. If I find it again, then everything will be all right.

  I follow my footsteps, still fresh. I go slowly, scanning the ground. To my right is a couple: a man and a woman; their dog bounding along after a piece of driftwood they’ve thrown for it to fetch.

  I stop when I see it: the perfect little crab, preserved in death like a mummy. How strange must it be to be hard on the outside and soft inside.

  Before I reach for it, the piece of driftwood lands in front of me. The dog grabs it in his teeth, taking the crab with it.

  ‘No!’ I shout. I stand, folding my shirt to protect my shells. ‘You stupid dog! That was Bobby’s.’

  The woman looks at me, her hand reaching for the man next to her.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she says.

  ‘Your dog took my crab.’

  The man bends down and takes the wood from the dog’s mouth.

  ‘There’s no crab here.’

  ‘It’s tiny. Really small.’

  ‘Sorry, love. There’s nothing here.’

  They glance at each other. I know that look: get away from the crazy lady. I was on the receiving end of it when I was running down the street after leaving Annie outside the shop.

  ‘You should keep that dog on a lead,’ I shout to their backs as they walk away. ‘It could kill someone.’

  They walk faster in the opposite direction.

  Good.

  Annoying, happy people.

  There are tears forming in my eyes, so I face the sea, briefly, to let them dry. I keep my eyelids open and the salt stings. But that’s okay. At least I’m feeling something.

  I turn and march towards Nathan and Annie, clutching the collection of shells to my fat, wobbly belly. I feel it as I walk, reminding me again that I’m nothing like that bronzed woman lying only a few yards from me. She still hasn’t moved from the ground. With any luck, she’ll fry. Poor Barry is sitting cross-legged next to her, making piles of sand.

  The ground is getting drier. Nathan is sitting up, waiting for me.

  I kneel as soon as I reach the blanket and tip my finds out onto it.

  ‘She sells sea shells on the sea shore,’ says Nathan.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘The shells she sells are surely sea shells, so if she sells sea shells on the sea shore, I’m sure she sells seashore shells.’

  ‘How the hell do you know all of that? It’s just a silly tongue twister. It means nothing.’

  ‘From my mum. And it does mean something. It’s about a woman called Mary Anning.’

  ‘What?’

  He shrugs. ‘The Mary bit was from a pub quiz. I only remember her name because we lost the tie-breaker with that stupid question. Who the fuck would know that?’

  A passing woman tuts at him swearing.

  ‘Do you ever think about running away from it all?’ says Nathan, from nowhere. ‘We could go now. There’s nothing keeping us here.’

  ‘Very funny,’ I say, raking my fingers through the sand. ‘Anyway, I haven’t got Bobby with me.’

  I blush as Nathan smiles. I always take a joke too far.

  The clouds have gathered around the sun, and the wind from the sea sends a chill through the air.

  ‘We should go,’ I say. ‘Dad’s picking up Bobby, but I want to be there when he gets back. I don’t want them to think I don’t care.’

  We’re travelling back to Preston, and the thought of talking to Peter tonight fills me with dread.

  ‘You’re a worthless piece of shit.’

  The voice again. It doesn’t sound like Uncle Charlie any more. It sounds like me. I should just get used to it – it’s only telling me what I already know. I’m in a living nightmare where everything is foggy and dark.

  At the beach, I had a little snippet of what normal feels like – just a few hours teasing me about what could’ve been. My mind feels like it’s full of mud, of dark clouds and rain. If I were to just curl up and be left alone, I could dream of another life, far away. Everything would be okay. People around me could get on with their lives and be happier without me in it.

  On the radio, Gary Davies is asking a contestant phone-in questions. Nathan has the volume so loud I want to throw Annie’s bottle at him.

  We pass the sign for Preston. The clouds are greyer, heavier. I don’t want to go home – I don’t even want to go to Mum and Dad’s. I don’t want to be anywhere. I open the window, hoping the wind masks the sounds of my sobbing.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Anna

  I park up outside the bookshop after my meeting with Sally Munroe and luckily, there is no queue of people waiting at the door; there is only one person: Robert.

  ‘You not in class today?’ I say, slamming the car door shut.

  ‘They’re not classes – they’re lectures.’

  I shouldn’t wind him up, but seeing him has cheered me a little. We haven’t spoken much over the last few weeks and I have missed him. He still has a frown on his face, though. Even though it’s a rare sunny day, he is still wearing a pale-green, cotton scarf – his ‘English lecturer trademark’, Dad calls it.

  I unlock the door and he follows me inside.

  ‘What brings you to St Annes?’ I holler as I put my bag and coat in the back. ‘Off to play the arcades on the pier?’

  ‘Anna, stop it. I’m not in a joking mood today.’

  He sits on the stool behind the counter. It reminds me of two summers ago, when he volunteered here. It was nice to spend whole days with him again, and he charmed the volunteers, fetching them cups of tea.

  ‘You haven’t been in a happy mood for ages,’ I say, resting my elbows on the counter.

  ‘Do you blame me? What makes you so chirpy today?’

  I sigh. ‘I’m not really. I’ve had a shit day, but I’m trying to be cheerful, for you.’

  He looks at his hands, resting on his lap.

  ‘I didn’t expect you to be so honest.’ He glances up at me with a brief smile. ‘Sorry for being an idiot the other day at Grandad’s. It’s just … it’s just that I remember the last time Monica received a letter that was supposed to be from Debbie. Dad told me he showed it to you the other day.’

  ‘Yes, he did. Why did they think it was from Debbie?’ I take a deep breath. ‘Did no one ever question why the letter was sent to Monica and not Dad? I mean, if Debbie found out that those two had got married, she should have gone to the police. Dad’s committed bigamy.’

  ‘I don’t know – pro
bably because it’s the same house Monica and Nathan lived in years ago. But Jesus, Anna, those two? Whose side are you on? To me, it sounds like you’re angry with the wrong people. Dad brought us up – even when his heart was breaking, for God’s sake. You’ve been dreaming about Debbie – this ghost of a mother who you’ve put on a pedestal. And you know what – I wish she was dead. If she is alive, she can stay the hell away from me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Robert. You’re my brother – the one person I used to be myself around. Sometimes I forget what you’ve been through is far worse than what I have. It’s just that I’ve no one to talk to about things. Jack’s barely present, I can’t talk to Dad or Monica. The only person I’ve been able to talk to is the investigator – and she’s being paid to listen. But I need to tell you something—’

  He raises his palms. ‘Stop! I don’t want to hear any more. Really, Anna. I wish I were you – I wish I didn’t remember her, that I could be distant in the way you can be. I want to get on with my life and forget she ever existed.’

  ‘You see me as distant?’

  He smiles wanly, shaking his head. ‘That’s what you got from all of that?’ He stands from the stool, his eyes on mine. ‘You’re unbelievable sometimes.’ He takes off his scarf and stuffs it in his pocket. ‘Go on. What’s this thing you want to tell me?’

  ‘Sally Munroe, the investigator Jack organised for me,’ – I stretch the truth a little – ‘she said that Debbie wasn’t reported missing until two months after she disappeared – and that it was Grandad who reported it, not Dad.’

  His expression doesn’t change. Why isn’t he surprised?

  He leans forward and rests his arms on the counter.

  ‘Debbie left a note,’ he says. ‘In Tenerife.’

  ‘I know. Dad only told me a few days ago.’

  ‘I remember it. On holiday, Dad walked around with this piece of paper in his hands for days afterwards. It was the first time I’d ever seen him cry. A few years later, I was rummaging around – I can’t remember what I was looking for, batteries probably – and I found it. Just lying in a drawer under all sorts of crap. Why would they still have it? I’d have burnt it …’

  ‘What did it say?’

  He rubs his forehead. ‘God, I don’t know. “I’m sorry I have to leave”, or something along those lines.’ He looks up at me. ‘I wasn’t … I’m not … like you, Anna. I didn’t want to cling on to everything she ever touched. That’s if she had touched it. I just put it back where it was. And when I next went to look for it – though I don’t know why I’d want to read it again – it’d gone.’

 

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