My Name Is Echo

by Marguerite Valentine

  Maddy had her own style. She was different from me. She was subtle and she liked black. She reminded me of Chloe. I could see her as an architect already. She was arty, stylish and beginning to look the part of a creative. I thought she was beautiful with her Latin looks. She had dark skin and almost black eyes but she had a self-confidence that came from her mum’s approval and care for her. She didn’t have to work on it as I did. She was easy on herself and she loved her fella, Theo. She told me he turned her on and she liked sex with him but she wouldn’t tell me more.

  Meanwhile, I was developing my own plans but I didn’t tell anyone what they were. I was totally obsessed with Gareth which meant I forgot Ifan for most of the time. He wasn’t around but Gareth was. Besides I was pissed off with Ifan. I didn’t think he was dead. He should have contacted me and his absence made it alright for me to write to Gareth. I asked him how his poetry book was going. I also sent my love to Philomena because I felt for her having to live with a two-timing husband. She’d always been good to me, but there was a disconnect between that thought and what I was up to with Gareth. I didn’t see it at the time, but when you think of it, that’s like most of the population so I’m no different. I’m not making excuses though.

  I asked Gareth if he’d visit me if he came to London. He wrote back to say he would. He said when his new book came out he’d been asked by the Poetry Library on the South Bank to give a reading. He didn’t have a date yet but when he did, he said I’d get a personal invite.

  I was over the moon when I read that but the more I thought about him, the more determined I was to seduce him.

  I felt different from girls my own age and I wanted to make out with a man, not a boy. I wanted to be seen as beautiful, womanly and irresistible. I’d wear the outfit; the skinny pink jeans, the tight red top, the red wedges. They were tried and tested for their pulling power. The question was, when and how it would happen. It needed careful planning, like a military manoeuvre.

  I came to the conclusion the best time would be when he came to London for his poetry reading or when we returned to Ffridd next year. I had to get him on his own and that could be London or Wales. The exact place wasn’t important, as long as it happened. Maybe we could go into the mountains and visit the slate quarry. They were remote, isolated and anything and everything could happen, but then reality intervened. Even I couldn’t walk in wedgies and skinnies into the mountains. I’d look stupid so it had to be somewhere else.

  I forgot Maddy’s warning about the possible consequences; that he already had a lover and a wife. I focused on the fact that he and Philomena had agreed to an open marriage and in my mind that made it alright. Meanwhile I checked out the scene round Camden Town but ‘I was just looking’. I wasn’t going to put myself about. Gareth was and had to be my first lover and that was mightily appealing to me.

  The beginning of October I got a text from Kieran Lloyd, the guy I’d met at the slate quarry. He wanted to remind me of our meeting at the slate quarry and my promise to help him. Actually, I didn’t think I’d promised him but it didn’t matter because I had my proposal to put to him. He was back in London and asked if we could ‘progress it’ as he put it. I suggested we meet in Camden and he agreed to that.

  We arrived at the same time. He’d chosen the place. It was called ‘Reason to Eat’. I’d never been there before and he led the way. It was a bit posh compared to where I usually hung out. We sat opposite each other and I could see him looking at me intently. I told him without his Gore-Tex he looked different, but he didn’t respond. He had no small talk. He was shy and it was only when he was talking about his research that he got animated, and then it was difficult to stop him. I hoped that would change if we got to know each other, because I wasn’t into a crash course on industrial archaeology on a Saturday morning in Camden.

  He was different from the guys I knew. There was something quite sweet about him. He wasn’t smart, cool or mouthy, but kind of intense. Not in a deep way like Gareth, but in a focused, one thing at a time, kind of way. Maybe he was like that because he’d been brought up in Cardiff and that’s how people are there.

  He asked me if I wanted something to eat. I looked across to the front counter and I could see a pile of almond croissants. I adore almond croissants so I said I’d have one of them. He bought one for himself too. As soon as our coffee turned up he began talking about his research. He got to the point fast. Like I say, there was no small talk, no hanging around.

  He wanted me to contact my uncle and check out how many copies he had of The Caban, and what the publication dates were. He’d made enquiries at his department at University College and there was a small fund to buy them and get them translated.

  I said, ‘What if they’re no use?’, but he seemed sure they’d be worth reading. ‘Was there anything special you’re looking for?’ I asked, and he said, ‘Yes, anything referring to the conflict between the quarry men and the owners during the “Penrhyn lockout” between 1900 and 1903.’

  I’d never heard of a ‘lockout’ before so I asked him about that. His knowledge was impressive. Then he said, ‘You have no idea how exciting it was to meet you.’ That made me wonder whether he was coming on to me, but one look at his face put me right. He was in love with his work, that’s what turned him on, and not me or anybody else. That made things easier, that there was no possibility of complications. But he’d given me an opening.

  I told him I’d do everything I could to help him but I’d have to talk to my mum first and I didn’t know how she’d take it. She was moody and unpredictable, and she’d have to get back in touch with my uncle and I didn’t know if they got on. Kieran asked if there was anything he could do to move along the process.

  ‘Actually,’ I said, ‘there is. I’d like to look for my father. You’re a researcher. Do you know how to go about it?’

  He looked blank. He said, ‘Find your father?’ He began stirring his coffee, and didn’t say anything for a while. Eventually he said, ‘It’s not the type of research I do. Family history. That’s not what I’m trained for, but I’ll do my best. When did you last see him?’

  ‘I’ve never seen him.’

  He made no comment. I was picking up he didn’t do personal. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘What do you know of him?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Name, date of birth, last known residence?’

  ‘Zilch.’

  ‘I do need something to go on. Will your mother tell you?’

  ‘I think I was a virgin birth.’ I smiled so he knew I was joking.

  I could see he was thinking. Then he came up with an idea and it was a good one. ‘Your uncle, the one in Liverpool, would he know anything about your father?’

  It was my turn to be excited. I said, ‘I never thought of that, but that’s brilliant. He might, mightn’t he? He’s my mother’s brother, even if they have fallen out.’

  He actually looked pleased but I wasn’t born yesterday. I knew what I’d asked would benefit him too. I was right. He said, ‘When you meet him and ask about The Caban, you could ask about your father too.’

  ‘Or the other way round.’

  ‘Exactly, and your fare to Liverpool, I wouldn’t expect you to pay, I’ve got a grant for research costs.’

  ‘You’re on.’

  He wanted to make a definite date for our next meeting, so we made one in six weeks time and in the meantime he said I could contact him anytime. He paid for the coffee and the croissants, then he went. He had a meeting to attend, he said. I got the impression he didn’t want to hang around for long, maybe because he didn’t know what to say.

  I sat and thought for a while about what to do next and how to play it with my mum. I’d tell her about Kieran and his research, but I wouldn’t say anything about my father because she’d only go into one. I was about to break the habit of a lifetime by becoming a family sleuth so how she responded was
important. I didn’t want her interfering, or stopping me.

  As soon as I got home I began my plan of action. My mother was in a good mood. Maureen was visiting. She taught at the same school as my mum and I knew she liked me because she always spoke to me and laughed at my jokes. She asked how I was, but she didn’t ask about Ffridd which made me think my mum had already said something. I said fine, but the summer had been difficult, finishing with ‘As my mother probably told you.’ She nodded her head sympathetically so I knew I was right. Maureen’s presence would sweeten her up and stop her being so snippy.

  I turned to my mother and said, ‘Mum, I don’t think I mentioned to you before, that when I went to North Wales with Gareth, and he was at his publisher’s, I went to a slate quarry up in the mountains, and I met a guy there, an industrial archaeologist. Do you know what they do?’

  ‘Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?’

  She glared at me. Bingo, I’d annoyed her already. It didn’t take much. I pressed on. ‘His name’s Kieran and he’s really nice. He told me about what he was doing, researching slate quarries, and I happened to mention Uncle Harry had loads of old magazines about the quarries, so to cut a long story short, he’d like to see them. Apparently they’re hard to come by, so I offered to find out more. Kieran is so pleased, he’s going to pay my fare up to Liverpool.’

  She didn’t reply. I ploughed on. ‘So, I just saw Kieran in Camden for a coffee and he’s asked me to find out more.’ I waited for a response.

  Maureen spoke. ‘Does he want you as his unpaid research assistant, because you shouldn’t work for nothing.’

  I said, ‘No, it’s not like that. I’m interested too, and besides, I’d like to meet Harry.’

  My mother was silent for a moment and then she said, ‘How old is he?’ She meant Kieran, but I knew where she was coming from then.

  ‘Like I said, he’s not interested in me, only in his research and he wants to see copies of The Caban. They’re by the slate quarry men and I want to help him. I could meet Uncle Harry as well. Come on, Mum, what’s wrong with that? I thought you were all for education.’ I looked at her with what I hoped was an appealing expression on my face.

  My mum looked unimpressed but eventually she did say, ‘Well, when do you want to go?’

  ‘As soon as possible.’

  ‘Well, as long as you keep me in the picture, you can.’ For the rest of the day I made sure to be really helpful and polite, but she hardly noticed. I didn’t mind, because I’d got what I wanted. After Maureen had gone, I asked my mum why they’d fallen out but all she’d say was there was a personality difference and she’d never got on with him. She said he could be difficult. I didn’t say it must run in the family, but I thought it. She didn’t even have a photo of him. She’d totally cut him out of her life, in the same way she’d done with my father.

  Knowing this made it difficult. I felt apprehensive about contacting him as he might be a weirdo so it took me a while to psyche myself up to ring him. Then I changed my mind and decided to write. It would give him time to think about whether he wanted me to visit.

  Getting his address turned out to be difficult. My mum had to look through her papers and it put her in a bad mood.

  She’d last seen him years ago when she’d gone to some distant cousin’s wedding and stayed with him. She’d taken me with her but after that visit she’d decided to ‘terminate contact’, that’s how she put it, but what led her to do this, she wouldn’t say.

  My memories of his house were vague. I remember going up the stairs to a room full of boxes and a trunk. I could hear my mum and Harry arguing downstairs and I wanted to get away from them. That’s when I came across the magazines. I’d opened the lid of the trunk and saw neat piles of them tied up with string. I took one downstairs to look at them. I was intrigued by the black-and-white photos. It showed men dressed in suits with flat caps on and they were arranged in lines, with the tallest at the back and the ones in the front crouching down. They all looked poor, tired and care worn. Behind them were the mountains. I showed them to Harry. He said the slate was hacked out by these men working in tunnels under the mountains and it was dangerous.

  After several tries I managed to compose a letter to Harry asking if I could visit. I even showed my mother because I wanted to keep her on board as long as possible. In the letter I introduced myself as Phoebe’s daughter and said I had a friend studying the Welsh Slate industries and I’d promised to help him and could I come to see him as I understood he had a connection with some slate quarries. I put my mobile number on the letter.

  He didn’t ring but wrote back within the week saying he’d be happy to meet me and I could stay with him. He came across as quite sad and lonely. He mentioned time passing and perhaps he wanted to make amends, but whatever it was I was about to find out. His phone number was on the letter so I rang him and we made an arrangement for the weekend.

  Two weeks later I stepped off the train at Lime Street Station. Harry said he’d meet me at the station and he’d asked for a photo so I’d sent one of me and Maddy laughing together in a photo booth. I’d marked who I was with an arrow. He told me he’d be wearing a dark green Gore-Tex jacket and carrying a copy of The Independent. I liked him as soon as I saw him, primarily because he reminded me of Mr Harris at school. In fact he could have been a teacher but he wasn’t. He’d been a mining engineer but no longer worked because, from what he said, he was on long-term sick, but he wanted to get back eventually. I was amazed at how open he was. It seemed he wanted to confide in me and was different from how my mum described him, but I’d already decided I wasn’t going to bad mouth her and take sides, even though I felt like it.

  Harry lived in Allerton and it was late afternoon by the time we arrived, but when we got to his house he became nervous and began stammering. I don’t know why. First he showed me my room and the bathroom and when I was ready, he said to come back down for a cup of tea. After he’d gone downstairs, I looked around. It was full of dark furniture and smelt musty as if it hadn’t been used for a long time. The walls were bare, and must have been painted a long time ago because they were a yellowing white and there were no pictures at all, which was strange. I wasn’t used to bare walls. By the bed was an old Bible. I picked it up and wondered whether he expected me to read it. Maybe he was a Christian and thought I was one too. There was a marble washstand in front of the window with a vase of freshly picked pink roses. I liked them.

  I looked out at the garden. It was beautiful. Harry might not be interested in the house but he loved his garden and that’s where he must have got the flowers for my room. I went downstairs. Harry was waiting. I told him his garden was stunning and he brightened up and said he’d show me round later. He was really making an effort. We sat down for tea.

  There were three types of cakes on the table and he said he’d bought them from a shop that baked their own. I looked at them. They all looked delicious. I really like home-made cakes and I didn’t know whether to choose the chocolate brownie, the carrot cake or the lemon polenta. I chose carrot cake and Harry had cream to go with it. I had some of that too.

  We had tea in cups with saucers, not mugs, and I began to think everything about Harry was a bit weird because I’d never met a man who drank tea out of cups and saucers and had a Bible. He’s the type I hadn’t come across in London but I liked him and I could see he liked me too, but he wasn’t sure how to take me. I told him I liked the cakes but I didn’t want to get fat because I’d recently bought some tight pink jeans. He looked at me as if I’d come off a different planet, which when you think of it, I had, compared to him.

  He asked me how my mother was and I said she worked in a secondary school teaching classics but she didn’t like it because the school kids weren’t interested and they didn’t see it as relevant. I told him she saw herself as more of an artist and that for the past five years she’d taken me with her to a place along
the Welsh borders, and that she was part of a group of artists who wanted to keep the spirit of surrealism alive. He didn’t know anything about surrealism and I said very few people did. As I spoke I could see he was weighing me up, but I was doing the same with him and wondering when I could ask him about my father.

  He said then, ‘Shall I show you the garden?’ We walked into the garden and he pointed out the names of the plants. Not so interesting, I thought, but I kept my mouth shut.

  I said, ‘We live in a ground-floor flat. It’s biggish and it’s got a garden but my mum doesn’t do gardening, so you couldn’t really call the grass outside a lawn.’

  ‘And what’s the area like?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s Stroud Green in North London and near Finsbury Park tube. You can easily get anywhere you like from there. Finsbury Park has a park and it’s okay, it’s not posh like some London parks but around the tube it’s a dump. If you didn’t live there you’d say it was interesting. But it’s rundown, with loads of small shops selling stuff no one in their right mind would buy, unless you’re poor and desperate. You have to watch your back, especially at night. The druggies are out in force after ten, hassling, begging but where we live it’s okay.

  The street’s got big houses, some are dilapidated and others done up, like ours, but they’re all flats. When a football match on, it’s mayhem. I hate footie people and I keep asking my mum if we can move somewhere else, like Highbury, but she says it’s too expensive.’

  When I looked at him, his eyes were glued on his garden so maybe I’d said too much. To break the silence, I said, ‘You must have spent weeks designing your garden. It’s beautiful.’

  He looked pleased, ‘You think so?’ he said.