11 Missed Calls

by Elisabeth Carpenter

  ‘What do you mean: if she had touched it?’

  He shrugs and gives a heavy sigh. ‘The writing … it was all over the place. I don’t mean in a child’s scrawl or anything like that … it was odd. I haven’t seen many examples of Mum’s handwriting, but it didn’t feel like hers. It was on this horrid pink notepaper. It seemed contradictory that this note telling everyone she was going was on such bright paper.’

  ‘Pink notepaper?’ It doesn’t take long for me to make the connection. ‘The letters that Grandad had … that Debbie received a few weeks before you – we – went to Tenerife … they were on the same coloured notepaper.’

  ‘But you haven’t seen the note. You can’t know it’s the same paper.’

  ‘No. No, I can’t.’

  I don’t mention that he had just called Debbie, Mum.

  I need to see that note. I know that when I see it, it will be the same notepaper.

  ‘I know that look of yours, Anna. I know you want to keep digging, but I’m scared for you, for all of us. If I’m honest, I don’t think I want to know. Whatever it is, it won’t be good.’ He starts to walk away from the counter. ‘I don’t think Debbie wrote that email you’re chasing. Really, I don’t.’

  I nod slowly. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Look, I am here for you if there’s no one else to talk to. Other people don’t know what we’re going through – well, they don’t know what I’m going through … everyone knows what you’re going through.’

  He gives a sad smile. He’s always been the brave one, the one who tried to protect me from everything. Who’s been there for him?

  ‘Shit, I’m sorry, Rob. I’ve tried to think about what’s best for everyone. I’ve tried to be kind. I’ve been selfish doing all of this, haven’t I? I’ve hurt you.’

  ‘No, you haven’t hurt me, Anna. Stop feeling as though everything’s your fault – it’s not. And you should stop trying to be kind to everyone – you are a kind person. You make such an effort in trying to please people, but you should do what’s best for you.’

  He walks slowly towards the door, and I follow.

  ‘That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,’ I say.

  ‘Well, it’s true.’

  ‘I know I’m pushing my luck here, but you wouldn’t mind if I carried on with the investigator?’

  ‘I’d be contradicting myself if I said no,’ he says, turning back into academic mode. He opens the door, lifting his hand in a wave. ‘Bye, Anna.’

  With the shop empty, I grab the laptop from the back room and open it on the counter. The sky is still cloudless, so it’s likely be quiet this afternoon. Isobel hardly ever comes in when the weather is nice: too busy sunning herself in her back garden.

  I type in Debbie’s name. There are loads of results; Debbie Atherton is not an uncommon name. I sign in to LinkedIn, in the hope I see her face in one of the profile photos. I Google every one with the same estimated age, but I can’t find her. It’s something I’ve done countless times before. I don’t know why I thought it would be different today.

  There are no news articles about her disappearance – I already knew this. I assumed the reason was because it was in the eighties and there was no Internet. I had never queried the fact my dad never actively searched for her. It was always Grandad.

  Why hadn’t I questioned it? Jack often says I’m naive – he used to think it sweet – but now I feel stupid.

  It’s now two o’clock and there hasn’t been a single customer since I came back. I log in to Facebook and scroll through Jack’s friends list again. There is no Simon or Francesca Howarth. I type her name into the Facebook search bar; there are only a few in the UK, but I’ve no idea where she lived or what university she went to, if at all. Did she still live in Yorkshire? The article reported that her accident happened just outside York, so the chances are high, but the two I find in that area look to be in their teens. I wish I’d had more time to talk to Sally.

  Before I left the café, she said that the house next door to the one I first lived in is for sale. I type the postcode into Rightmove, and recognise it straight away; I drive down that road at least once a month. The houses are small two-up two-down terraces, with tiny walled gardens at the front, yards at the back. The inside of next door looks as though it’s been untouched for at least twenty years – large sofas and loud carpets. The kitchen is beige-and-brown melamine, but spotless.

  My mobile phone sounds. A text from Sally.

  Viewing for tomorrow morning okay?

  Friday’s my day off this week, so I reply yes.

  It’s not Dad’s day to collect Sophie, but I need to see the letter Debbie wrote at the end. I make a call to Sophie’s school to tell them not to send her to after-school club. I take the money from the till, quickly balancing it, and lock it, and the laptop, in the security cupboard. The chances of Isobel coming in are slim, but I leave a note on the counter saying I’ve gone home ill, just in case.

  I rarely pick Sophie up from school at the normal time. If she’s not at after-school club then my dad picks her up. It’s a different world, standing at the school gates. There are a few strays, like me, but most of the parents are in groups of three or four, talking loudly about Marks & Spencer shoes or the new head teacher, Mr Hooper. ‘Don’t tell hubby I said this, but that Mr Hooper can teach me a lesson anytime.’

  Ugh, hubby.

  I’m probably jealous. I haven’t even seen the new head teacher. Being around these parents makes me yearn to be the same.

  Sophie’s surprise as she sees me waiting for her makes my heart swell.

  ‘Mummy!’ she shouts, running towards me.

  At six, she is not yet self-conscious or too embarrassed to show her eagerness in greeting me.

  I open my arms and she runs into them, hitting me on the head with her lunch bag.

  ‘Sorry, Mummy.’

  ‘That’s all right, love.’ I stand, taking her by the hand. ‘I thought we could pop and see Grandad and Grandma this afternoon. Would you like that?’

  ‘Er. Okay. But it’s not Wednesday, is it?’

  ‘No.’

  I feel guilty taking Sophie to Dad’s after I promised myself I wouldn’t talk about Debbie in front of her. I open the car door for her and she sits on her booster seat. As I pass her the seat belt, my phone vibrates. I take it out of my pocket.

  It’s a message from Dad.

  I hold on to the sides of the car as I take in the words: Monica’s been injured. We’re in Royal Preston Hospital.

  Chapter Thirty

  Wednesday, 16 July 1986

  Debbie

  I get home and my dad has already set off to fetch Bobby. Mum’s still wearing her tabard as she waves Nathan off from the front step.

  ‘Will you tell Peter you’ve been on a day out with his friend?’ she says as his car disappears around the corner.

  ‘Course I’ll tell him. And Nathan was my friend before he was anyone else’s.’

  Mum tuts and rolls her eyes as she takes Annie out of my arms, and goes back into the house. I drag the pram into the hallway. No matter how old I am, Mum has this special talent for making me feel like a naughty fifteen-year-old.

  ‘What was that for?’ I say.

  ‘You two always had your fights.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You and Monica. And now you’re talking about who was friends with Nathan first!’

  ‘But—’

  Mum’s already in the kitchen, putting on the kettle. I follow her, and lean back on a kitchen chair.

  ‘Nathan said something to me earlier …’ says Mum, ‘while you were changing upstairs. Are you sure everything’s all right between you and Peter? He’d never hurt you, would he?’

  ‘No. What did Nathan say?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. Just something about smashed cups. Ignore me … I’ve probably got the wrong end of the stick.’ She takes a bottle out of the fridge. ‘He really loved you, Nathan. Didn’t he?’

  I can’
t get away from it. I thought coming back to Mum and Dad’s would give me a break.

  ‘I’ll get back home tonight if that’s all right,’ I say.

  ‘Course it’s all right,’ she says. ‘But your dad has loved having you all here. I dare say he’ll be upset.’

  She places Annie in the bouncer on the living-room floor and comes back into the kitchen.

  ‘You will come round next Wednesday for the wedding, won’t you? I’ll put on a nice spread – it’ll save you cooking.’

  ‘Course. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

  ‘Eh, you sarky thing. This country would be on its knees if it weren’t for the monarchy.’

  ‘It’s on its knees as it is. And don’t let Dad hear you say that about the royals.’

  ‘As if I would.’

  She pours hot water into a plastic jug and puts Annie’s bottle into it.

  ‘Are you all right, Deborah?’ she says, any hint of a smile gone from her face. ‘Only I heard you mention to your dad last night about some letters you were getting.’

  ‘Were you listening in?’

  She feigns surprise; her hand rests on her heart.

  ‘I don’t eavesdrop! You know how sound carries in this house.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have heard that I didn’t want to worry you then, won’t you?’

  ‘I’m your mother. I can’t help it – I have to worry. Do you have the letters with you? It might be that creepy neighbour you’ve got opposite you?’

  ‘Been thinking about it much, have you, Mum?’ I smile at her. ‘I didn’t think you were listening when I talked about him in the past – or Dirty Dean as Monica calls him.’

  ‘I always listen.’

  The phone rings in the hallway.

  ‘Get that, will you?’ she says, shaking droplets of milk onto her wrist to test the temperature. ‘I’ll feed Annie … seeing as I’ll not be getting the chance again for months.’

  ‘Don’t exaggerate, Mother,’ I shout on my way to the phone.

  I pick up the handset. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Debbie, it’s me.’ Peter’s voice is quiet. ‘I heard you went on a little jaunt with Nathan.’

  ‘News travels fast. I’ve only been back fifteen minutes. You’ve been talking to Monica, haven’t you?’

  He sighs. ‘She saw you in his car when she was on her lunch break. And you know what she’s like … loves knowing information before anyone else.’

  ‘Yes, I do know her. She’s been my best friend for over ten years. How could she have seen us? We didn’t go through town.’

  ‘She’s worried about you.’

  ‘Then why doesn’t she speak to me about it?’

  ‘She said she tried to, but you started talking about hearing things – voices in your head.’

  He whispers the last four words, as though afraid of being overheard.

  ‘What?’

  I shouldn’t have believed Monica when she said she’d keep that quiet, but I can’t believe she actually told him. Even for her, this is one step too far.

  ‘I said I was tired … that I heard next door, that’s all. Why does she have to make a big deal out of everything?’

  ‘I know …’ he says. ‘I told her she was being dramatic … overstating things. So you didn’t say you heard voices? I told her you would’ve come to me about it first.’

  I don’t know what to say to him. I sit on the bottom step of the stairs.

  ‘Debs, are you still there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You would tell me if you needed help, wouldn’t you?’

  Scenes flash through my mind: of me confessing I’m not all right, Peter and Monica getting together – of her taking over my life, my children.

  I stand and walk over to the mirror. My hair is knotted and dull from the sea air. Shadows line the skin under my eyes. I look a mess, but I don’t care.

  ‘Yes, of course I’d tell you.’ My voice is flat. I can’t fake emotion any more. ‘I’m not hearing things. She’s making it up. She always was thrifty with the truth.’

  There’s movement behind me. Mum. She’s probably been listening the whole time. I turn around, still holding the phone to my ear.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she whispers.

  I nod and turn back to face the mirror.

  ‘I suppose,’ says Peter. ‘Look. Can I pick you up? I’ve taken the afternoon off. I think we need to talk.’

  I tell him yes, and replace the handset. But the last thing I want to do is talk to him.

  I sit back on the bottom step.

  ‘Have you ever thought of …’ I say aloud.

  ‘Thought of what?’ Mum stands at my feet, Annie in her arms.

  ‘Nothing, nothing. I’m fine.’

  ‘You’re not thinking of doing anything stupid, are you?’

  ‘No, no. Of course not.’

  All I can think of is doing something stupid, but to me it makes perfect sense.

  Peter and I barely said a word to each other on the drive back home, but Bobby’s chatter masked any uneasiness. Now, he’s sitting on the living-room carpet in front of the telly watching one of his videos, and Annie’s still asleep in the new car seat Peter brought with him.

  ‘This holiday is just what you need, Debs,’ he says, putting a mug of milk in the microwave.

  ‘Do you have to microwave everything?’ I say.

  ‘We’ve only got a few days to pack,’ he says, ignoring me. ‘Did you manage to get Annie’s name on your passport?’

  He looks at me and holds up his hands.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘I’ll see if I can sort it out.’

  ‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it.’

  ‘But you were thinking it.’

  ‘Why do you always presume to know what’s in my head? I wasn’t thinking about anything.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s the problem.’

  He says it so quietly I’m not sure I heard him right. I feel like the fight in me has gone, but then, it shouldn’t be a fight, should it? I’m still the same person I always was, aren’t I? I just do different things with my day.

  Looking back at my life only seven years ago, I know I’m a different person. I’d been in my job a year, earning my own money, and I felt I was on the edge of something – freedom, travelling the world maybe. Now, everything feels such a chore; the hopelessness I’ve felt in the back of my mind has risen to the surface and it’s taking over.

  I stand straighter, levelling my head with Peter’s.

  ‘Nathan said you and Monica have been talking about me.’

  He rolls his eyes.

  ‘You make it sound like we’re school kids. I’ve been worried about you.’

  ‘Worried that I’ve not been making your tea, or doing your washing? Babies take up time and energy, you know.’

  The dial on the microwave pings, relieving Peter of the awkward silence. He gives a stilted laugh and gets the mug out.

  ‘Shi— sugar! Why don’t they warn you that everything you put in that thing will come out the same temperature as the food?’

  ‘They do,’ I say flatly. ‘That’s why they do special cooking containers. I’m surprised you didn’t know that, working at Woolies.’

  It’s typical of us these days, that whenever we try to have a serious conversation, it always ends up with something domestic. And then it hits me, as I look around our small kitchen: it’s spotless. The mess that was there two nights ago has been cleared away.

  I’ve never been domesticated. Mum usually did everything for me when I lived at home, and I went straight from home to living with Peter. We first lived together when we got back from our honeymoon in Wales. I started back at work at the estate agency, and Peter was at Woolworths – he was assistant manager then. I had visions of domestic bliss – of coming home before Peter, tidying around and having a cooked meal waiting for him. But after the first week, I realised it was just so boring.

  The dishes began to pile up on the kitchen sides. I’d
learn my kitchen skills from watching Mum, but Peter didn’t like corned beef mashed with potato and peas. And he said I overcooked chicken all the time, but Mum always worried about salmonella poisoning – I thought everyone did. So, he bought a freezer. From then on, whoever got home first would put tea in the oven. But then the house fairy didn’t magically come and clean up after us.

  I got the urge last year to make Bobby a birthday cake, but it looked like a pancake when I got it out of the oven. Luckily, Mrs Abernathy had boxes of cake mix. Everyone had said it was the best cake they’d ever eaten (I’d hidden the box in the outside dustbin).

  ‘You’ll have to make this every week,’ said Peter.

  ‘Once a year will do,’ I said, smiling.

  Smiling.

  I used to smile.

  Looking around our kitchen now, there’s not a dirty dish in sight. Peter’s been busy.

  I turn my back on him and glance at the kitchen clock: only five thirty. Is it too early for bed?

  ‘I know you said on the way back from your mum’s not to mention Monica, but she’s genuinely concerned about you. And I’ve arranged for, er …’

  I turn back around; he’s stirring powdered chocolate into the hot milk, clanging the spoon around the mug for longer than necessary.

  ‘What have you arranged? If it’s a doctor’s appointment, then I can arrange that myself. I’m perfectly fine.’

  ‘No, no. Not the doctor’s. A night out with Monica on Friday night. I thought you could let your hair down for a few hours.’

  I close my eyes. I suppose that’s not such a bad idea. Before I escaped to Mum and Dad’s, I felt the walls of this house closing in on me, people watching me. And Monica’s tongue is always loose after a few drinks.

  ‘Nobody loves you. They’d rather you were dead. They’re thinking of ways to get rid of you.’

  I open my eyes. ‘What did you say?’