The Missing Person's Guide to Love

by Susanna Jones

  They both came to her at different times. You can’t turn people away when they need you. Who would argue with that? It had all begun with a surprise telephone call. ‘Hello, love. What is it?’ She had pressed the phone to her ear. ‘Yes, yes,’ said the girl. ‘You must help me. I seem to have disappeared but I’m not missing. I’m not missing.’ How sorry Maggie was. I’m just a poor old woman. I didn’t mean any harm. Dust blackened Maggie’s fingertip and she wiped it on the underside of the shelf. Don’t blame me.

  She looked at the girl on the left, her hair a swishing sea anemone in the wind. The tendrils seemed to move even while the rest of the photograph was still. ‘I’ve brought you back now,’ said Maggie. ‘You’ve been gone for too long. I’m giving you a life but I don’t know how good it will be. I can’t promise anything but life, and the chance to claim what should always have been yours. It’s my job. It’s all I can do.’

  Maggie stood at the window, felt the cold glass at her face, watched the horse-chestnut leaves ruffle on the grass below. Conkers and prickly husks dotted the ground. The view irritated her. One was supposed to love the sight of autumn leaves, wasn’t one? But there was nothing beautiful about this. It was as miserable as dirty tables in a fast-food restaurant. If only she could look down and see the old reservoir, but she was in the wrong time and the wrong place for that.

  Two boys and a girl came along with knobbly sticks and poked them at the branches of the nearest tree. The conkers didn’t fall so the children bashed the branches harder and the leaves made a noise like water rushing over stones. She peered down to see them crouching on the grass, searching with their fingertips. There was a man strolling between the trees now, along a sort of invisible curve, as though following an edge, trying not to fall off a cliff or into a pond, but there was nothing to his side, just more grass. He was tall and lean, rather handsome with short dark hair. He was talking to himself, or to someone he thought was just behind him, for his head turned every now and then and his lips moved.

  ‘Excuse me.’ She had no idea why she was calling to him, only knew that she should.

  He didn’t hear her but the children looked up. The girl nudged the bigger of the two boys. They all had pale skin and toffee-coloured hair. They looked like sister and brothers.

  ‘Excuse me, could you tell that man over there that I’m trying to catch his attention?’

  The girl ran through the trees, over the bumpy grass, and tapped the man on his arm. This was wrong, of course. What had she done? Was she putting the girl in danger? There were witnesses around so he couldn’t harm her but, all the same, she had sent a young girl of no more than nine or ten straight over to a stranger who was talking to himself. Maggie regretted calling out. She had nothing to say. If she were to talk to him, she’d have to go downstairs, open the back gate. He could be an escaped murderer. If she kept her eyes on the children and they kept theirs on her, then they should all be safe.

  But the man was not interested in the little girl’s message. He turned to her, smiled, but then walked on, laughing with whomever he thought was strolling at his side. The girl smiled shyly at Maggie and shook her head. Maggie realized that the man was walking as though at the side of a stretch of water. Yes, that was it. He thought he was by a pond or a lake. He was at the edge of the reservoir, taking a walk on an autumn’s afternoon. Perfect. She had no need to ask him anything. All she had to do was watch.

  – 2 –

  A duck or goose quacked a peal of laughter. The sound had a muffled, bleak quality and I stopped for a moment to prepare myself. I approached the gateway that leads to the lakeside path. The masts of the sailing-boats clinked a busy rhythm in the wind. I began to feel excited. I passed through the open gate, closed it behind me and there I was. This was the place. The wind picked up and the clattering grew more urgent. Birds chirruped and cawed from the trees and reeds. I had always remembered this place as silent but now it was like stumbling on a clearing in a jungle. There were the rowing-boats, lined up together, shiny and complacent as they rocked. The small refreshments kiosk was still in its nook under the trees, closed today but with its price list and ice-cream menu on the outside wall, a sign for scones and tea at £1.50. I looked around for other people, children feeding ducks, or birdwatchers with binoculars. A youngish man was walking by the water’s edge. Behind the kiosk, some distance away, was the short terrace of cottages that formed part of Julia’s paper round. Bare rosebushes arched over the doorways. The gardens were neatly mown, as they always had been. I felt like a ghost from the future, come to view the present, 1982. I moved further towards the lake, staring and listening but I didn’t know what I was waiting for. I approached the water, almost afraid to breathe now. Surely something was about to happen.

  I watched the man, who was now standing near the sailing-boats. He was dressed in a stiff black suit – clearly for a funeral – and was feeding bread to a Canada goose. There was a whole loaf of sliced white at this feet. He must have bought it especially. He and the goose were engaged in a movement, almost a dance, back and forth. He looked up at me and smiled. He was probably in his early forties, was good-looking, with a sandpapering of dark stubble on his head, a strong jaw. His smile grew as I approached and I smiled back, slipped my hands into my coat pockets. The goose gave his ankle a jealous peck. The man bent slightly at the waist, backed away. ‘Ouch. Hello.’

  I nodded and cleared my throat. Five or six geese came out of the water to see what was in it for them.

  ‘Want to feed the geese?’ He held up a slice, pushed it towards me. His hands were waxy soft and his nails polished, perhaps manicured. He was well-spoken but with a twang of the south-east. I wasn’t quite ready to converse with anyone but I needed to warm up a bit, rehearse for Owen’s wake.

  ‘Thanks. Why not?’ I took the bread and backed away from the geese.

  ‘I love them.’ He tore a slice of bread into halves, then quarters, then smaller squares and scattered them at the water’s edge. ‘They can be a bit sharp when they want to. They’re not exactly cute, are they? Canada geese, but that’s fine. Hey.’ He shooed the nearest goose away with his arm. ‘That bit wasn’t meant for you.’

  ‘Are you – sorry if it’s rude to ask – going to Owen’s funeral?’

  I tore the bread and threw it, a piece at a time, as far away as I could. I have never liked the geese to come too close. I hate their pushing and pecking. It’s not enough for them to get the bread. They have to act as if they want to knock you off your feet as well. Still, I smiled as they waddled back for more. When I’m with people who love animals, I pretend to like animals more than I do.

  ‘Yes.’ He chucked two handfuls of bread pieces into the air and watched them descend over the birds' heads. ‘I came from Leeds and got here too early. I didn’t want to take any risks with the buses. You never know whether you’re going to be hours late or hours early. It’s impossible to arrive anywhere at just the right time round here.’

  Then he threw a whole slice of bread, spinning it like a Frisbee and calling, ‘Neeoww,’ as it went. Four geese put their heads together and squabbled over it. I watched as a small brown feather lifted into the air and wilted gracefully to the ground. The man held out his hand and I shook it.

  ‘So, you’re Isabel. I wasn’t sure at first but now I can see it clearly. It’s your eyes, I think, and your bone structure. It’s good to see you.’

  My eyes sprang wide open. I let my gaze run over his face but didn’t recognize him. ‘Sorry.’ I stumbled over the word. ‘Have we met?’ I supposed we might have been at school together, except that his accent was wrong.

  ‘No, but I’ve seen pictures of you. Your cheekbones are a little more prominent than they were but apart from that you’ve hardly aged at all. Lucky.’

  ‘Haven’t I? You are . . .?’

  Haven’t aged since when?

  ‘Owen’s friend. He used to talk about you a lot. I knew him years and years ago. We stayed in touch, on and off, though
I hadn’t seen him for a while before he died. I wish I’d made the effort to come up every now and again and take him out for a pint.’ He sucked his lips together and let them go with a smacking sound. ‘It’s easy to say that, isn’t it? But I’m not rushing round taking my other mates out for pints in case they all die next Tuesday so I suppose I’m not telling the truth. Then again, Owen was different.’

  ‘Was he?’

  ‘Oh, you know how he was, Isabel. Needed looking after, needed propping up a bit, didn’t he? Poor old Owen.’

  I hesitated before I spoke. It felt too intimate to speak like this about Owen, but it was what I needed to do. ‘He didn’t always get on with people, that’s true, but I suppose it was only a lack of confidence. I didn’t get that at the time. It was just annoying. Were you close to Owen?’

  ‘When I lived near London, he would come and stay with me quite often, when he wanted to look for you, in fact.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I suppose he found you then, eventually, since you’re here.’

  ‘No. He didn’t.’

  ‘You never replied to his letters? Never received them, perhaps.’

  ‘I got them but there was no point in replying. They were a bit confusing, to be honest. I was never sure what he wanted to say so I began to ignore them. He went quiet after a while. I didn’t think I had anything to say in return and I had no intention of coming here to see him. Did he really go looking for me?’

  Owen could have found me, I think, if he had wanted to. It is true that I have moved around a lot but I have been careful to leave a trail behind me so that I don’t disappear. I have a terror of disappearing and am always dropping white pebbles as I go, putting friends in contact with friends, sending messages and passing on my new addresses, one after the next, so that they can find me if they want to. Owen knew that I was staying with Maggie and, when I left, she would have been happy to give him my new address.

  ‘Spent weeks on end trying to find you.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I don’t know. He just wanted to be your friend again, I think. He didn’t have many friends. He thought you understood him better than other people did.’

  ‘I don’t think I understood him particularly well.’

  The man shrugged and I realized that his presumption was irritating me.

  ‘Look, I didn’t want any contact with him. I didn’t know it was so important until his letters became strange and, frankly, incoherent. I thought it would be irresponsible to do anything that might encourage him to write more.’

  ‘Good of you to come to the funeral.’

  Was this sarcasm? His face was blank. There was something odd about the way he looked at me and I realized it was that he hardly blinked. His gaze was watery, blue and still. ‘It was a small thing I could do.’ I knew that I was not doing this properly. I needed to befriend this man, if I were to learn anything. I made my voice casual. ‘So, were you and Owen very close friends?’

  ‘Yeah. He was a good bloke, Isabel. He used to make me laugh. You know, I’ll tell you about Owen. When he came to stay with me, he would decorate rooms in my flat and build shelves without asking if I wanted them. He started with the hall and wallpapered the ceiling, tiled the floor, put up a nice mirror. Then he worked on other rooms and it always looked good. Yeah, he was a great friend. I’d go to the pub and come home drunk, right, and in the morning I’d crawl out of bed and go into the bathroom or kitchen to find a new shelf or light-fitting. He liked gardening, too, and used to mow friends' lawns when they were out.’

  He chuckled. The smile stayed on his face and in his eyes for a long time after he stopped laughing.

  ‘He must have been very good with his hands.’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘Where was he living at the time?’

  ‘He was up here with his mum and dad. I had a place near Watford, a flat. I believe that he liked to construct things as a way of atoning for past mistakes. Well, one day, about five years ago, he put a new shelf in an alcove in my bedroom. I stacked some books on it and he told me to take them off. It wasn’t for books, he said. The next day he came home with a goldfish bowl and two little red fish. The expression on his face—’ The man’s voice crumbled. He put up his hands as though he was trying to frame Owen’s face in the air. His fingers tensed, loosened, then dropped to his sides. He blinked, swallowed and waited a moment. ‘They were sweet, the fish.’

  ‘Did he stay with you for long?’

  ‘Hardly at all.’ He was steady again now and raised his voice to prove it. ‘Just weekends, here and there. But each time he came he did something to my flat. Some people have to be doing useful things all the time, don’t they?’ He looked me up and down, then down and up. ‘You look as if you don’t like to sit around waiting for your nails to dry. You look as if you get up at six and go to the gym before breakfast. Myself, I’m pretty lazy. When I’m not working I’m sleeping. But it always seemed to me that Owen worked harder than he needed to.’ He smiled at me. ‘I’ve still got one of the fish. It’s cute. A lot fatter than it used to be, but it doesn’t seem to have grown much longer. Maybe I give it the wrong kind of food. I can’t afford to buy the most expensive brand. I know fish food doesn’t cost much, but anyway . . .’ Helooked out over the lake. ‘A friend ate the other one.’

  ‘The other fish? That’s disgusting.’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve always felt bad about it. I told Owen it died of fungus but actually it was swallowed alive to pay a debt in a game of poker. Poor Owen. I wonder, Isabel,’ the man lowered his voice, ‘maybe he’s listening in now and learning about this for the first time.’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘He might be.’

  ‘If he is, do you think he’s pissed off?’

  ‘You know, Isabel, I’m not sure. I couldn’t guess how he’s feeling. What do you think?’

  ‘I never knew this particular Owen you’re talking about so I couldn’t say. If I had to guess I’d say, yes, he’s pissed off He was very serious, even when he was being funny. I mean, I don’t think he was the laughing-it-off type. On the other hand, I imagine he has more to be pissed off about right now than a goldfish. He’s dead.’

  The man looked up at the sky and rolled his eyes around to me in mock-fear. I let out a feeble laugh. He echoed it with a weaker one.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘He’s probably building himself a new bed and some bookcases.’

  ‘I don’t know if Owen believed in life after death.’

  ‘I don’t know either. It wasn’t the sort of thing we ever talked about, though we did go to church together for a few years. I was brought up to think I had no choice but to live in heaven for eternity. I don’t know whether Owen expected to be there too.’

  ‘It’s not very appealing, is it, heaven? Look at this beautiful landscape.’ He waved an arm towards the trees, then beyond them to the moors. ‘I tell you what, I’d rather have a day here than for ever in heaven. I’d be glad to do the exchange.’

  ‘You’d sell your soul, then, for this place?’

  ‘Everyone should sell their soul for their heart’s desire, Isabel, if they have any integrity. It’s the only thing worth doing.’

  ‘You may be right about that. You like to use my name, don’t you? It’s disconcerting.’

  He walked away from me. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken to you.’ He threw more bread at the geese. ‘I’m bothering you.’

  ‘No, no.’ Now I felt bad. I quite liked this man and was enjoying our conversation. I worried that I was too comfortable with him, since I had no idea who he was. ‘It’s fine. Just a bit surprising that the first person I meet when I arrive here is a complete stranger who seems to know a lot about me.’

  ‘Thank you for pointing it out. I won’t use your name again.’

  ‘You can use it as much as you like, but you haven’t told me yours.’

  ‘It’s John.’ He turned, mollified. ‘Delighted to meet you, Isabel.’ He held
out his hand again. I shook it for the second time.

  ‘It’s nice to meet you too, John. Do you think we ought to be getting to the church now?’

  ‘Yeah. Probably. We don’t want to be late.’

  But we were moving in the wrong direction. We were walking along the lakeside path, away from the village and towards the rowing-boats at the jetty. John swung the bread bag by his side. Sometimes it hit my leg. I moved further away but then he edged closer. I considered turning back and going to the church alone, but John’s connection with Owen was too powerful and I could not leave. I had to find out everything he knew about my old friend. The path narrowed and I was relieved to slip a pace behind John. His walk was loose and relaxed. He bounced slightly on his heels as he went. He was tall and skinny but not weedy. His head moved from side to side, registered every movement in the trees or in the rushes, alert as a meerkat.

  I looked at the water but it didn’t mean anything yet, not while I was with a stranger. It would not be mine again until I could reach in and touch it on my own. For now I decided to continue with my questions.

  ‘So, how did you meet Owen?’

  ‘We worked together in a kitchen.’

  ‘Kitchen? What – round here or near London?’

  ‘Neither. Somewhere else, a different part of the country. It just happened that we were both there at the same time.’ John lifted his head and gazed at the moors he would sell his soul for.

  Then I realized. ‘Oh, sorry. Yes, I see.’

  He meant prison kitchens, of course.

  ‘Owen was a wreck the whole time he was inside. I tried to help him when we both came out. I really did. He often talked about that girlfriend of his who went missing. Watch out along this bit, there are roots sticking up. It upset him a lot. He talked about you too. I think he was a little bit in love with you, Isabel.’