The Memory Collector

by Fiona Harper

  Police were able to trace a woman and child, who had been eating in Marcello’s Ice Cream Heaven, to a B&B in the old town. It was there little Heather was discovered and a woman was taken into custody. Police have refused to confirm if this is a suspect, simply releasing a statement saying that someone is helping them with their enquires…

  Heather holds her breath. No, not after all this. Blasted confidentiality! But she reads on, hoping against hope:

  Mr Arthur Horton, proprietor of the Bay View Guesthouse on South Street was able to confirm that the name of the woman in their register was Patricia Waites, also from the Bromley area.

  Heather stops reading. She needs to. There’s another half a column to go, something about the family wanting privacy at this difficult time, but she’ll read it later. For now, she turns those two words, that name, over and over in her head, investigating them from every angle. Patricia Waites.

  ‘Patricia Waites.’ She says it out loud, wondering if that will help, but there’s no recognition. No jolt of memory. Nothing. Just a cerebral and logical processing of the sounds and words. It means nothing to her, both in terms of her lost memory and what she’s feeling.

  This is disappointing. She was hoping for more. Not a flash of light or a voice from heaven, but… something. However, all she feels as she sits in the bland hotel room and stares at herself in the mirror bolted to the wall is numb.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  FLUFFY

  Our cat was beautiful, almost pure white and, as his name suggests, he had a glorious mane of snowy white fur. Sometimes he would wait on the stairs and sting my ankles with his claws when I walked past. I said he was beautiful; I didn’t say he was always nice. But sometimes, when he was in a particularly good mood, he would allow me to show my devotion to him by letting me stroke his tummy. He would lie on his back and purr as I rubbed where his coat was softest. I was inconsolable when he ran away.

  THEN

  It’s six o’clock in the evening and the sky is just starting to get dark. The Lucas family are all tired and grimy, but the two girls keep smiling at each other. All day they’ve been moving things, clearing things, sorting things, and now it is as if a celestial being has pointed down at their house from the clouds and created a miracle. Because that’s what it feels like – a miracle.

  The house is clean. And not what Heather’s mum normally refers to as clean. It’s properly clean, like you see in a magazine or on the television.

  There are still a few piles of boxes in the dining room and a few more to go up in the eaves, but other than that the stuff is gone. Heather can hardly believe it.

  Her dad had to tear up the dining-room carpet because it was no good any more. It left lots of crumbly green rubbery stuff behind, which Heather and Faith had to sweep up, so now there are just floorboards under the dining table and chairs. They also discovered black speckles on the wall in the corner of the living room that aren’t supposed to be there, but Heather’s dad says he can get someone in to sort that out and just not having all the stuff piled up against the wall will help in future. He even smiled when he said that.

  Heather’s dad has been smiling a lot today. He’s even been whistling. Heather didn’t even know he could do that. She asked him to teach her, and he says he will but not today because they’re still so busy making the house nice.

  Heather has forgotten how lovely it is to have her dad in the house in the daytime. He took the last two weeks off work and every day they’ve chosen a different room and sorted it out. Best of all is that Heather has her own bedroom again. All her stuff is in there already: her clothes, her shoes, even her PE kit on a special hook so it’ll never get lost again.

  Heather can’t believe how much space there is. She keeps running up and down the hallway and in and out of the rooms until her mum tells her she’s giving her a headache and makes her sit down.

  Although Heather’s mum says she’s pleased the house is tidy, Heather isn’t sure she believes her. She isn’t smiling like Heather’s dad is, and when Heather asked her if she was going to whistle too, her mum told her not to be so cheeky.

  It doesn’t make sense. For years her mum has moaned on and on about getting the house straight, but as the days of clearing up have gone on, she seems to have been getting smaller and smaller and curling up into herself like one of those funny red cellophane fish you get in a Christmas cracker. She is lying on the sofa at the moment, and she almost looks like a child. Maybe it’s because now the piles balanced all around it have gone, the sofa seems much bigger and she seems much smaller?

  Maybe it’s just a case of getting used to it. Heather thinks she needs to do that too. As much as she likes being able to run around and spin, when she stops it takes her a few moments to remember this is her house and not someone else’s.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ Faith says after taking one more box up to the bathroom, where the little door to the eaves space is. ‘When are we going to get pizza?’

  ‘Soon,’ their father says, ‘but let’s just get these last few boxes put away first, shall we?’

  Faith makes a face behind his back and Heather giggles.

  ‘And we’ll get a tub of ice cream to celebrate too,’ he adds. The girls cheer and grab a box each, grinning, and march up the stairs with them, singing the ‘Pizza Hut’ song.

  They reach the bathroom and head inside. There’s always been so much laundry in the way that Heather didn’t know there was a little door in the wall until today. It’s just the right size for her, but her father has to bend down to get inside. He opens the door, crawls halfway in and then asks the girls to hand him boxes so he can stack them up. This is all the space their mum is allowed from now on, and their dad says he’s going to be very cross if the boxes start filling up the bathroom and the hallway again.

  He shines his torch into the tiny space. There’s just about enough room for one more stack inside. Unfortunately, when he tries to slide the boxes in, he discovers they’re a little too big to fit the space. ‘Don’t worry,’ he tells the girls. ‘I’ll just restack what’s there to make room.’

  He passes a couple of boxes back out to give himself more space to manoeuvre, but when he tries to push one of the other boxes back it won’t go. Eventually, he pulls that out too, to see what the problem is.

  ‘Oh, my God!’

  He stumbles back through the little doorway, banging his head on the top. ‘Girls, get out! Get back onto the landing!’ At first, Heather thinks he’s angry, but then she looks at his face and sees his expression is a mix between surprise and fear, so she does what he says. ‘Chris!’ he yells at the top of his lungs. ‘Get up here!’

  There’s a reply from downstairs, a slightly grumbly one that Heather can’t make out. She suspects her mother doesn’t want to move off the sofa.

  ‘Now!’ he shouts even louder, and a short while later her mum comes running up the stairs, looking worried.

  Heather starts to get scared. She wants to hold Faith’s hand, but her sister has got her arms folded, hugging herself, and she doesn’t look as if she wants to let go.

  Before her mum has even got both feet inside the bathroom, Heather’s dad is pointing and shouting. ‘Look!’

  Heather creeps forward until she can see inside the bathroom but not inside the secret space. Her mother pokes her head inside and makes a strange half-scream, half-crying sound and backs away.

  Heather knows about secret places in attics and cupboards. A tiny part of her is wishing hard they’ve found Narnia in there, but a sensible, grown-up kind of voice in her head is telling her not to be so stupid. If it was a nice kind of surprise like that, her mum and dad would seem more excited.

  ‘Grab a towel,’ her father says to her mother, and he nods his head towards the two girls, who are now standing either side of the doorway. Her mum digs one out of the airing cupboard and hands it to him, then he disappears into the eaves. A short while later he backs out again, something wrapped up in the towel. He carries it li
ke a baby. ‘Out the way, girls,’ he says sternly. ‘Go to your bedrooms.’

  Faith and Heather don’t argue. They run off. Heather has never seen her dad’s face like that before, not even in all the times he and Mum have shouted at each other. It looks like thunder and lightning is happening behind his eyes.

  Heather goes to her new bedroom and walks straight over to the window without turning the light on. She stares out into the twilight, not really looking at anything in particular, but then movement on the lawn catches her eye. Her father walks out there with the towel and a spade. He puts the bundle down and starts to dig a hole.

  Heather’s tummy is rumbling but she doesn’t run to remind her mum about the pizza, even though they’re going to deliver it to the house in a box and she’s very excited about that. No one has ever delivered food to their house before. It feels as if her family has suddenly become royal, like the Queen.

  It gets darker and darker as Heather’s dad digs the hole. He has to stop now and then to wipe his forehead with the back of his arm, but eventually he reaches for the towel and picks it up. He’s not being as careful to hide the contents now, and as he lowers it into the hole, a corner flops over. Inside there’s something white. Something fluffy.

  Heather makes a squeak and covers her mouth with her hand. No! He ran away. That’s what they all thought, anyway. Faith said he’d probably been squashed by a car or eaten by a fox, even though their mum had told them he’d probably just found some lovely cat friends to live with. How could he have ended up in the eaves?

  The furry white lump looks strange. Kind of flat, like the cat has been sucked out and just the fluff has been left behind. It doesn’t make sense. There aren’t any foxes or cars or nice cat families in their attic.

  When her dad finishes pulling earth back over the hole, Heather steps back from the window into the darkness of her room. She’s trying really hard not to cry and she doesn’t want him to see her in case he gets sad too – he’s been so much happier lately and she doesn’t want that to change. She wants to stay in her bedroom but her mum calls out from downstairs, saying she’s about to ring the pizza man and the girls had better come down and help choose because she doesn’t want any moaning about mushrooms or olives if they don’t.

  Heather hears a creak on the landing and she pokes her head out of her door. Faith is standing there. They look at each other, then walk down the stairs side by side. Their father comes back in from the garden as they enter the kitchen. He’s not whistling this evening. In fact, he looks as if he never wants to whistle again.

  ‘Girls,’ he says solemnly, ‘I’ve got some bad news…’

  ‘No!’ their mother shouts. ‘You don’t have to tell them! They don’t have to know!’

  He gives her a tired look. ‘They do need to know. We talked about this, Chris. It’s time to be more honest. And I think that should include the girls.’

  He leads his daughters into the living room and sits them down on the sofa, then kneels down in front of them, takes one of their hands each, and looks into their eyes. He tells them Fluffy is dead.

  Heather manages not to cry, and she’s proud of herself, because even though she’d worked that out already, when he said the words out loud it felt like a punch in the tummy. Faith’s face crumples up and big, fat tears slide down her cheeks. Her sister likes to pretend that she’s tough, that she knows everything and can handle anything, so Heather is shocked. She hesitates for a moment and then puts her arm around Faith’s shoulder and leans in. Then her tears come too.

  ‘H-how did it happen?’ Faith hiccups.

  Their father presses his lips together and makes a huffing noise as he thinks how to answer. ‘We think Fluffy must have run up here – maybe to get some peace and quiet – and that he got stuck behind the boxes.’ He swallows, looks over at their mother. She nods.

  Heather starts to cry again. ‘W-was it my fault?’

  ‘Of course not!’ her father says, and shoots an angry look at his wife.

  She comes over and puts her arms around Heather. ‘Why would you think that, darling?’

  ‘B-because… Because you used to tell me to stop stroking him when he started to wag his tail, that he’d had enough and just wanted some peace and quiet. Maybe he ran away from me and got flatted.’

  ‘Flatted?’ her dad says, and then he looks out towards the back garden and understands. ‘I thought I told you to keep an eye on them while I did it,’ he says quietly but not very softly to her mum.

  ‘I… I was…’ she says, looking confused. ‘But there was one last box I needed to see if I could—’

  ‘Chris!’ Her dad holds up his hand and her mum stops talking. He shakes his head. ‘It’s never going to end, is it?’ he says wearily. ‘I thought I could do this. I thought this could work. But I can see now I was just kidding myself.’ He sighs and walks towards the hallway, turning as he reaches the doorway. ‘I’ll stay at Dave and Carol’s tonight.’

  Mum starts shaking her head. ‘No, no, no,’ she says softly. ‘You can’t do this. You promised you wouldn’t if we cleared up and I’ve gutted my soul to make that happen. I’ve given away everything that meant something to me, everything I’ve ever loved…’

  Dad just stares at her. ‘Me and the girls are still here. Or have you forgotten about us? This was all about us making room – not just physical space, but space for us to be a family again, but if that’s the way you really feel, you’ve just confirmed everything I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘You know I didn’t mean it that way. You know I—’

  ‘Many a truth slips out in the heat of the moment,’ Dad says and his voice is all icy. He holds his hands out, one to Faith and one to Heather. ‘Come on, girls. We’re going to go and visit Dave and Carol. You remember them, don’t you? From the Christmas party last year? Their little girl Nina was just a bit older than you, Heather.’

  ‘No! You promised!’ her mum comes flying at her dad, her arms swinging, clawing. She catches him on the cheek and a bright, red line appears.

  Heather’s dad doesn’t hit back, but he blocks her mother’s blows with his arms and shouts, ‘For God’s sake, Chris! Think of the girls!’

  Her mum sobs and falls into a heap then. Heather runs over to her, wondering if she’s ill, if maybe they need to call an ambulance. Her dad reaches out to her again. ‘Come on, Sweetpea.’

  Heather looks at his hand. Faith is already clutching the other one. Her mum is crying hard on the floor now, her body jerking in time with her sobs. Heather has never heard anyone cry like that before. Like an animal. Like it’s coming from deep inside her.

  Her father steps forward. ‘Heather? Are you coming?’

  All Heather can do is stare at his empty hand.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  NOW

  Heather is in two minds as to whether she should call off the family lunch with Faith that weekend. She’s not sure whether she wants to talk about everything she’s found out. The only problem is that if she doesn’t go, Faith will want to know why and then she’ll be in trouble and she’ll still face the inevitable inquisition. In the end she slides into her car, mumbling to herself. At least if she does it this way the kids and Matthew will be there as a buffer. The last thing she wants is for her sister to turn up again at her flat, unannounced.

  The car coughs slightly as she turns the key in the ignition and for a moment Heather thinks it isn’t going to start, but then it croaks into life and the engine rumbles. She makes a mental note to get the battery checked. When the car was serviced the guy hinted it might need replacing once colder weather hit in the autumn. She’d expected it to last until at least September. But once the car is going, it trundles along as it always does.

  Heather reaches Westerham, on what is turning out to be a grey and drizzly summer’s afternoon, the smell of warm soil pumping through the car’s ventilation system, and Faith greets her as normal then ushers her inside.

  Things go smoothly, pleasantly, until they
’re all seated round the table. Faith’s promises that they would go out and try somewhere new had not come to fruition. Still, it’s a roast this week: pork with apple sauce and crisp crackling. But Heather knows the pin was pulled from the grenade the moment she stepped inside the front door, and while they’re all tucking into their roast potatoes it goes off.

  ‘So… how goes the investigation?’ Faith asks innocently while passing the gravy boat down so Heather can help her nephew to a little more. ‘Have you found out anything else?’

  Matthew gives Faith a look. They’ve obviously talked about this. Heather loves her brother-in-law just a little bit more for his attempt to reel his wife in, and she shoots him a grateful look. Faith just raises her eyebrows in mock innocence. It’s clear she feels she’s approaching saintly status for not launching in as soon as Heather walked in the door.

  Heather considers her answer as she attempts to trickle gravy on the items Barney’s requested in the precise order he’s decreed. She takes an extra-long time making sure she’s doused potatoes and pork (but leaving both carrots and stuffing gravy-free, which is no mean feat). ‘I went to the library. Looked up some old news articles.’

  ‘And…?’

  Heather glances across at her niece and nephew. ‘Can we talk about this after dinner?’

  Faith follows her gaze and nods, but her mouth pulls tight. This is killing her, Heather thinks. Is it wrong that this knowledge warms her a little as she makes her way through her roast dinner, taking extra time, making sure she’s mopped up every last smudge of gravy, caught every last pea?

  After dinner, Matthew takes the kids into the garden. The rain has stopped now so he fetches a ball for the kids to blow off their pent-up energy, while the two sisters tackle the washing-up.