11 Missed Calls

by Elisabeth Carpenter

  ‘I’ve got cleaners coming in for me next week,’ she says.

  ‘Is it still decorated the same?’ I ask.

  ‘Good Lord, no,’ says Mrs Sullivan.

  We follow her into the house. There’s a phone on the table in the hall; the carpet all the way through is brown. Like Mrs Sullivan’s house, the only room off the hallway is the small living room, leading to the kitchen.

  I was expecting a crack den the way she described it, but all that’s been left behind are a few magazines and newspapers on the window sill, and several books on the shelf.

  The kitchen is even smaller than the living room.

  ‘We had the units replaced at the beginning of 2001,’ says Mrs Sullivan. ‘It was overdue then; I dare say it’s well overdue now.’

  I walk to the sink and look out of the window to the washing line hanging in the back yard. Debbie must have stood here and looked out at the same view. Concrete and a battered wooden gate, under grey clouds and drizzle.

  I turn around, my back to the window. To my left is a small dining table under a clock on the wall. I can’t picture Dad, with Debbie and Robert, sitting around a table like that. I close my eyes, yet I can’t summon an image in my mind. On my right is a row of units – the right wall dominated by a fridge and a washing machine. The place is tiny, claustrophobic.

  ‘I’ll take you upstairs,’ says Mrs Sullivan, who leads us back to the hall. ‘Or rather, you go first – I’ll see you up there. My knees are on their way out.’

  I’m surprised, given how she manoeuvred over the wall a few minutes ago. I climb the stairs, feeling no connection to this place at all. After driving past it so many times, I thought if I were ever to go inside, I would instantly feel at home. But it feels so cold.

  There’s a small bathroom at the top of the stairs, a small double room, and a master bedroom at the front of the house. Sally and I go to the window, which is small, considering the room is the width of the whole house.

  ‘My dad used to tinker on his car all the time,’ says Sally, looking at Dean over the road. ‘I always used to wonder what he actually did, but looking back, he probably used to just love the peace and quiet. Fancy Dean’s wife leaving him and taking their kiddy.’

  ‘It happens all the time, I expect,’ I say.

  It’s a sentence that hangs in the air.

  ‘You’re not wrong.’ Sally pats me on the shoulder. ‘Let’s hope there’s a happy ending for you though, love.’

  ‘Somehow, I doubt that,’ I say.

  Sally looks at me from the corner of her eye. I wonder if she instinctively knows how a case will end.

  ‘You’ll see that this is the biggest room in the house,’ Mrs Sullivan says as she enters. She winks at us. ‘I’m just practising my spiel. Obviously, it needs a lick of paint in here – you can tell where their pictures were hung.’

  ‘Do you remember much about the time Peter Atherton came back from Tenerife with his children?’

  ‘I remember it all too clearly,’ she says. ‘I lost my Dennis that spring. Days used to go on forever and I used to spend a lot of time looking out of the window, pretending to watch television. When you hear of something unusual happening, the events around it seem to impress upon the mind.

  ‘I didn’t understand what was wrong at first. Just before they went on holiday, there was all this to-do with shouting and whatnot. He used to shout at her all the time. I remember being glad of the peace when they went. The baby would scream for hours before anyone would go to it, the poor little thing.’

  My blood runs cold. I hadn’t heard this version of the story. I don’t know if I want to hear any more. Who would want to learn that no one came to you as a baby?

  ‘Anyway, you don’t want to hear about that, dear. I’m sure it’s quite common. I used to let mine cry themselves to sleep.’ She flaps a hand. ‘Sorry – tell me if I go off on a tangent – I do it all the time. In the end, I was glad when they came back. I missed the sounds of the children – the sounds of life. I’m on the end terrace, you see. Then, after a few days, I realised I hadn’t seen the mother out with the baby – it was that other woman … what was her name – with the dark hair, slim, dressed well.’

  ‘Monica,’ I say. ‘Her name’s Monica.’

  ‘That’s right,’ she says conspiratorially – as though I’m not part of this story at all. ‘Yes, it was her – she was round there all the time. I don’t think she stayed the night though – I would’ve remembered that. But she hardly had her little boy at all. He must have been at his dad’s. Complicated family that one.’

  ‘Did you see her husband, Nathan, at all?’

  ‘That tall, good-looking man? I definitely remember that one.’ Mrs Sullivan laughs, but when she looks at me, her smile fades. ‘I’m sorry, lovey. I keep forgetting all of this is so close to you. It’s strange to think that that little baby was you.’

  ‘So,’ says Sally, she’s beginning to sound a little impatient. ‘Did you see Nathan at all after they came back from holiday?’

  Mrs Sullivan frowns. ‘No, dear,’ she says. ‘He wasn’t the father of that Monica’s little boy, was he? I never saw him again.’

  Sally quickly thanks Mrs Sullivan, and takes me by the elbow, almost dragging me out of the house.

  ‘Oh God. This is my fault,’ she says. ‘I had presumed when you had told me in your first email that Leo lives in America with his father, that you were referring to Nathan!’ She looks around her as though searching for something. ‘I’ve been lax. I should’ve asked for everyone’s full names – I shouldn’t have presumed anything, shouldn’t have just gone from who went on the holiday.’ She hits herself on the forehead. ‘Damn!’

  ‘But what difference would it have made? What’s Nathan got to do with anything?’

  ‘Anna,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘He might have everything to do with this.’

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Friday, 25 July 1986

  Tenerife, Canary Islands

  Debbie

  It’s two o’clock in the morning and we’re finally in the apartment. The journey was as bloody awful as I expected it to be. We were camped at Manchester airport for six hours because Peter didn’t want to miss the plane. I’d never flown before and dreaded feeling the same panic I experienced in the house of horrors at the fair a few weeks ago – and that was only a few metres high. Monica and Nathan ordered a lager at the bar as soon as we’d checked our bags in, even though it was only four in the afternoon.

  ‘The only way I’m getting on that plane,’ I said, ‘is if I’m anaesthetised.’

  Monica smiled at me. ‘Get this woman a double vodka.’

  Peter frowned. ‘Do you think you should, Debs?’

  ‘It’s either that or I’m not going.’

  I prayed he wouldn’t mention it taking me days to recover after my last bender of three cocktails.

  ‘We could always inject you with something,’ said Nathan. ‘Works for B. A. Baracus.’

  ‘If you’ve got it,’ I said, ‘I’ll have it.’ I said it without smiling. Monica’s face dropped, her eyes darted around.

  Let her feel uncomfortable, I thought. It’d serve her right.

  On the flight, even though we’d chosen non-smoking seats, the whole cabin filled with grey, choking fog; my eyes constantly watered. It hid the tears, at least.

  Luckily, Annie, Bobby and Leo slept for most of the flight, which was just as well as Peter sat on a different row with Nathan and Monica – who had her nose in Jackie magazine like she was fifteen again. I sat between the children, with Annie on my lap. Typical. It was like they’d planned it before we got on the plane.

  But we’re here at last. I’m wearing a white cotton T-shirt and matching trousers – the type of clothes magazines say you ought to wear ‘on-board’. But mine are covered with Ribena splashes and cheesy Wotsits dust.

  I glance over at Monica, who’s trying to work out how to open the patio doors. I should’ve worn jeans lik
e her – who’d have thought to wear denim to a hot country? And the way she has her sunglasses in her hair looks effortlessly cool. Well, as cool as someone can look, having sunglasses at night.

  The kids woke up grumpy and groggy; I hope they get back to sleep now we’re here. The boys are sitting on the dining chairs near the kitchenette, eyes wide and looking dazed. Annie’s in a buggy, she can’t support her own head in it, bless her.

  This place looks nothing like the brochure, but I suppose nothing does. All the apartments look the same from the outside. The block next door reminds me of Preston Bus Station. At least it’s clean inside. I refuse to do any housework while I’m here (though I can’t remember the last time I did any at home).

  ‘Shall we open this, then?’ Peter’s holding the bottle of red that was in the welcome pack, which also included a bottle of mineral water, a loaf of bread that looks like cake, and six eggs. Ten pounds down the drain – what a rip off.

  I look at the wine and my heart starts to pound. I had two double vodkas at the airport, and they’ve worn off, but I daren’t have any more. I feel like crawling under one of the beds as it is.

  ‘It’s a bit late for me,’ I say. ‘We have to get the kids to bed.’

  By the time I utter the last three words, the rest of them are on the balcony, marvelling at the heat, ‘even at this time in the morning’.

  Peter and Nathan are still pissed from the flight. I knew I’d be looking after the children, the grown-ups letting their hair down after working so bloody hard to pay for it. I’ll have a better time with the boys, anyway.

  ‘Come on, kids,’ I whisper. ‘Let’s see if we can get you to sleep.’

  There are two bedrooms, and a bed-settee in the living area. Peter and I drew the short straw on that one.

  I drag our massive suitcase into the room with two single beds, before taking Annie out of the buggy. In-between the beds, against the back wall, is a white, wooden cot with a mattress that probably has hundreds of different babies’ bodily fluids ingrained in it. I place her on one of the beds and unzip the suitcase to find a beach towel to cover it.

  ‘Have you got your PJs, Leo?’ I say.

  Leo shrugs. It’s a silly question, as I can hear Monica exclaiming that there’s a barbecue area near the pool; she won’t have unpacked yet. I take out two pairs of Bobby’s shorts and hand them to the boys.

  ‘It’s too hot for proper pyjamas.’

  ‘My daddy took me to Whitby last weekend,’ says Leo.

  ‘That’s nice, love,’ I say.

  ‘Can I phone him tomorrow? He said I can. He said he’d wait by the phone to hear from me.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll have a phone we can use at reception.’

  ‘He’ll go to sleep, won’t he?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Daddy. I don’t want him to wait by the phone all night.’

  I peel the sheets back on the beds.

  ‘Into bed, boys.’ They both jump in and pull the covers up to their shoulders. I sit on the edge of Leo’s bed. ‘Don’t worry, love. He’ll have gone to sleep … it’s the middle of the night. He’ll think you’re asleep.’ He lies his head on the pillow and I bend to kiss his cheek. ‘Night, sweetheart.’

  I change Annie’s nappy on the end of Bobby’s bed. Her cheeks are so red – she’s not used to this heat. I place her in the cot with her blanket and she looks at the net curtain blowing in the breeze from the open window. There’s a sound of a moped in the distance.

  A cork pops from the living room and they cheer as though they’ve never heard one before. God, they can’t be starting again this late, can they? They’re going to get us thrown out. Perhaps I should encourage them to shout louder.

  ‘Shift up, Bobs,’ I whisper. He slides across his bed, and I lie down next to him. There’s only one, flat pillow. ‘I’ll just stay here until Annie goes to sleep.’

  ‘I love you, Mummy,’ he says, laying a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Love you too, Bobs.’

  I think Leo’s already asleep. He must be used to different beds – his dad has moved house about five times in the past two years. Poor boy. I glance over at Annie, and she’s still mesmerised by the curtain – still unable to miss out on anything.

  ‘Night, night, Annie,’ I whisper.

  But she doesn’t even look my way.

  I wake to Annie’s screams and jump out of Bobby’s bed. It’s already light outside and I manage to pick the baby out of the cot and whisk her out of the room without waking the boys.

  Shit. The three sterilised bottles I packed are in the suitcase back in the kids’ bedroom.

  Peter hasn’t even changed the settee into a bed, and he’s sprawled on it with one leg on the floor. Did he assume I’d sleep in the children’s room? The sight of him makes the rage reach my chest. I bet he didn’t even check on how, or where, I was last night.

  The empty bottle of wine is on the coffee table next to him, which isn’t too bad between the three of them.

  Annie is screaming in my ear.

  I nudge Peter’s leg with my foot.

  ‘Peter!’ I hiss as quietly as I can.

  I nudge him again. Annie’s cries aren’t waking him. I’m tempted to pour a glass of cold water on him, but then I remember him ripping the quilt off me last Saturday morning, and how violated it made me feel.

  I strap Annie into her buggy and tiptoe back into the boys’ room, taking out the bag of bottles and formula from the already-open suitcase.

  I pour mineral water into the kettle and flick it on.

  Why hadn’t I made up bottles last night? Why hadn’t Peter? No, that would never do, would it?

  After what feels like hours, I pour the boiling water into the bottle. Oh God, it’ll take forever to cool. I fill the sink and place the bottle upright in it.

  Still, Annie cries. She’s going to wake everyone up. I knew it was going to be like this. It’s roasting already in this apartment. I grab the buggy and walk backwards, opening the apartment door and shimmying out of it. As I swing the pushchair round, a cool breeze outside washes over me.

  The door slams shut, but I don’t care if it wakes Peter.

  I don’t know where I’m going, but I start walking down the light corridor. I pass three other doors before we get to the lift. We’re only on the first floor, but I can’t face dragging the buggy down the concrete steps. The lift doors open. Inside, it smells of cigarettes and BO. I press the button for the ground floor and hold my breath until we reach it.

  The reception area is small. There’s a woman on the telephone who doesn’t look up as I go past and out of the glass doors. I walk down the side of the building – there are more apartments along it, their walled seating areas empty, except for the white plastic tables and chairs.

  My face is colder than the rest of me, but at least Annie has quietened.

  There’s a woman walking towards me, a carton of milk in her hands. She’s frowning at me. Only a few feet away from me now. Oh no, she’s going to—

  ‘Oh, love,’ she says. She has a southern English accent; it sounds like she’s out of EastEnders. ‘Whatever is the matter?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You seem to have …’

  She points to my white T-shirt. My eyes follow hers. I’m covered in blood. I touch my face; there’s blood pouring from my nose.

  ‘Oh my God. I’m so sorry.’

  I pull a blanket out from under Annie’s pushchair, holding it against my nose.

  ‘What are you sorry for?’ She rubs the top of my arm. ‘Don’t worry, love. Come with me.’

  She takes hold of the buggy, turns it around and pushes it down the path. We pass reception – the woman’s still on the phone – and take a right along the other side of the block. She opens an apartment door and ushers me inside.

  It’s so much bigger than ours. There’s a settee and two wicker chairs, plus a portable telly near the double patio doors. It takes me a moment to notice a child of ab
out thirteen sitting on a chair outside – his knees brought up in front of him as he uses them to support the comic he’s reading.

  The woman pulls out one of the chairs around a large dining table and guides me down.

  ‘How old is she?’ the woman says, glancing at Annie in the pushchair.

  ‘I … er, just over a month old.’

  ‘I guess it’s different these days,’ she says. ‘I used to count in weeks – until he was at least four months old.’

  I don’t tell her that people still do, but I can’t remember how old Annie is off the top of my head. I’d have to count using my fingers. Is she five weeks in three days or four? I know today is Friday, because the next seven days are pictured in my head like white blocks that’ll be shaded black for each one that passes.

  ‘It’s not that long ago, surely,’ I say, looking to the lad on the patio.

  ‘Oh, he’s not mine. He’s my nephew. But you’re right. My son’s nearly nine. Time goes by so quickly when they’re young, doesn’t it?’

  She goes over to the glass doors and pulls across the light curtains. It gives the room an amber glow that mimics the sun.

  ‘Will he not mind?’ I say.

  ‘He won’t notice … he’s in his own world most of the time.’

  She smiles and walks into the kitchenette, picking out a bright white tea towel from one of the drawers.

  ‘I couldn’t use that,’ I say. ‘I’d ruin it.’

  She sits down on the chair next to me.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll just buy a new one.’ She takes Annie’s bloodied blanket. ‘I can wash this for you, if you want – I’ve got loads of tokens for the washing machine. My Spanish isn’t as good as it could be … I asked for too many by mistake.’

  Now that she’s sitting so close to me, I see she’s probably about the same age as me. It’s her short hair that makes her look older from a distance.

  I put the tea towel against my nose. ‘I’ve not had a nose-bleed since I was a child.’