The Girl Who Just Appeared

by Jonathan Harvey

  Except my name wasn’t Holly then. My name was . . .

  Then I saw it. And it did actually take my breath away. I asked the driver to stop and he pulled over by the pavement. I wound down my window and strained to look up at one of the most powerful buildings I’d ever seen. A solid mausoleum of sandstone rock, the Anglican Cathedral sat at the top of a hill looking out over the pudding basin of the city centre. Its tall tower had eye-like windows halfway down that gave it the air of an imperious old lady keeping watch over her people, further down a circle of glass that looked like an open mouth. Was she shocked by what she saw? I certainly was. Although I’d seen many pictures of it over the months, and I’d read so much about its construction, nothing had quite prepared me for the reality. It looked so foreboding, yet beautiful, a sad beauty, but a majestic one nonetheless, and one for a city to be proud of.

  I knew we must be close, as I knew Gambier Terrace overlooked the cathedral. I thanked the driver and we moved on. Seconds later we were pulling into the grove of houses that constituted the terrace. The Georgian sweep of yellow-bricked, bay-windowed, tall-chimneyed residences was also even better in the flesh, or brick, and I marvelled that the area was so well-to-do, or felt that way. How did a young girl from these houses get things so wrong that she had to have her baby taken away? The driver pulled up outside number 32 and I felt an instant connection. Whether that was because of some long-forgotten memory from when I was a baby or whether it was because I’d spent so long now looking at pictures of the houses, I didn’t know. I imagined it was the latter. I rarely remembered anything before my fifth birthday.

  ‘Did you know,’ I informed the driver as he kindly helped me out of the cab with my bags and Michael, and walked them to the door, ‘that this road was named after James Gambier, a royal admiral?’

  The driver shook his head. ‘I move here three year ago. I am Polish.’

  ‘You like Liverpool?’

  He shrugged. ‘Gdańsk is very beautiful. Five eighty, please.’ Well, I had decided that Liverpool was very beautiful. I bet Gdańsk didn’t have a cathedral like the one completely filling my field of vision.

  ‘Keep the change,’ I said as I handed him six pounds. I was sure he rolled his eyes. I turned to the green door. Looked at the bells beside it.

  I was distracted temporarily by the noise of some screaming. An operatic wail, it ended almost before it had begun. Moments later a second came, longer this time. Where was it from? It seemed to come from up on high. I looked up to see if any windows were open, but couldn’t locate any. And then, just as suddenly as I had heard it start, it stopped again.

  Well, this was it – I was about to meet Rose Kirkwood. My journey of self-discovery could finally begin. The taxi chugged away, pulling out of the tree-lined slip road and back onto Hope Street. I felt the first drops of rain, and some clouds passed slowly above. I stared at the bell, and as the temperature dropped, so did my confidence. Excitement drained out of me like a cold flush, leaving me hollow. It was there, look at it, second bell down, 32B. But I couldn’t press it. All of a sudden this felt like folly. What had I done? I had packed in my job, my life, travelled three hundred miles on a whim with a chihuahua that wasn’t mine. This was madness. This was grief.

  I looked back at the cathedral. The face on the tower seemed to gaze down at me quizzically now, as if saying, Well, Holly, what are you going to do now? What next?

  Gosh. I was going mad, imagining that buildings could speak.

  I toyed with getting a taxi back to the station and returning to London, but I had nowhere to go, nowhere to stay, and I’d impetuously paid the rent on this place for the next six months with my mum’s life savings.

  I had no choice. I could do this. I turned back to the door and stared at it.

  It opened. Quickly. A mixed-race woman in her mid-twenties almost fell out, pulling up a trench coat and falling over a bulky handbag. She had a bright pink weave and far too much make-up. She then almost tripped over my luggage and had to jump clear of the dog.

  ‘Oh God, sorry! I didn’t expect anyone to be there!’

  ‘No, I’m sorry – I’m in the way.’

  Her eyes darted to the bags, to the dog, to me.

  ‘Are you moving in?’

  I nodded. She had a really squeaky voice. She was Minnie Mouse.

  ‘Flat B.’

  ‘Oh great. I’m Jax.’

  ‘Holly. Hi.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m gonna be late for work. Ah, I love your dog!’

  And she ran off down the road towards the main street. It was then I noticed she was wearing mismatched shoes. Jax. With the squeaky voice. I tried to commit it to memory.

  I turned to look at the door again and it slammed shut in my face.

  OK, so I’d met a neighbour. I could do this. And for all I knew Rose Kirkwood was looking down from the flat window wondering why the hell I wasn’t ringing the doorbell.

  So I pressed it. And waited.

  A man’s voice crackled through the intercom. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Oh.’ Had I pressed the wrong bell? ‘I was looking for Rose? Kirkwood?’

  I had – I’d pressed the wrong bell, surely.

  But then I heard him say, ‘She couldn’t make it. D’you wanna come up?’

  I heard a buzz, then the catch on the door go. I pushed against the door and tried to wedge it open with my body-weight to drag my bags into the hall.

  FIVE

  I really hoped that when I stepped over the threshold into 32B Gambier Terrace, I would be overcome by the dizzying drama of déjà vu, that I would glance at the floor and instantly recognize it, catch a corner of wallpaper and feel a euphoric rush of familiarity. I climbed the wide Georgian staircase, no doubt originally designed to accommodate ladies of the house and their maids, scurrying up and down it in their big, swishy dresses, but alas felt no surge of recognition. Now that the house had been divided into flats, the staircase felt a little over grand, a bit too big for its boots, and appeared to creak in a sinister way, whereas years before these creaks would probably have been endearing and a forerunner to calls of ‘Ruby? Tell Filigree the butler the stairs are still creaking!’

  Could I see their ghosts? No. But was I about to see some ghosts of my own? With every step the bar of my hopes was raised more and more. I was going to see that floorboard, that chance of wallpaper and immediately memories buried deep within me would come bubbling up and flood my brain. In an instant I would see her, my mother, leaning over my cot, smiling. I would remember her for the first time and all would be well in the world.

  As I reached the first floor, I saw the stairs continued up, but a small landing led me a few footsteps to a wide wooden door, painted something that was either faded hospital green gone dirty or something posher and National Trusty that probably had a quirky name like ‘Melancholy’. As I struggled up with my bags, Michael straining on the lead – he wanted to keep running to the top of the house – I heard a man inside the flat calling, ‘Oh God, I should’ve given you a hand. Sorry!’

  No. I didn’t want him to open the door just yet. But I could hear latches being switched, a spring of key in lock. I wanted to stand in front of the door and consider it. Just for a moment. Find out if I could remember ever having seen it before.

  In my mind’s eye I could see her. I could see Francesca hurrying up these stairs. She was in an astrakhan coat and a headscarf. It was raining outside and she clutched the baby – me – to her, wrapped in a blanket. She was going in a pocket for the key. In my mind’s eye the door was grey then, but I knew I was making this up, because I was seeing this all from this vantage point, outside the door; in reality I would have been the hours-old baby wrapped safely in her arms. But of course, how safe could I have really been if I’d eventually been removed from her?

  The door opened and I realized just how dark the hallway was. I could barely make out this man’s face, silhouetted as it was against the bright daylight from the flat behind him.

&nb
sp; ‘How ya. You must be Holly,’ he said, outstretching a hand.

  Still unable to see him clearly, I shook it.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Come in. Come in. Hello, little fella.’ I assumed that was directed at Michael.

  I followed the man in.

  And then a thought struck me. A thought so ridiculous but at the same time so compelling in that very moment I had to see him. I had to see him turn round so I could see if my face was mirrored in his.

  This could be my father.

  Was this to be how I would spend every waking hour in Liverpool? Wondering if every stranger that crossed my path was related to me?

  But this man, the man with the voice, was standing in my birthplace. So it could be.

  Then as we moved into the living room, light flooded us and I saw him for the first time and was sure he wasn’t related to me.

  The man the voice belonged to was a late fortysomething with the air of a dodgy car salesman about him. The only reason I say this is he was wearing a sheepskin coat. I didn’t even know they still existed outside of reruns of Minder or vintage clips of EastEnders. Nothing else about him screamed second-hand motor, but there was something about putting a man, any man, in a cut of sheepskin and I always imagined him trying to grease my palm in an attempt to offload a Morris Minor. He was affable enough, quietly spoken, a lilting Irish accent, polite and incredibly apologetic that his wife was unable to meet and greet me as he showed me around my new apartment. This was Alan Kirkwood, Rose’s husband.

  ‘Everyone calls me Irish Alan. Except back home, where they call me English Alan, coz they think my accent’s gone on the boil.’

  And even though I’d never met Rose, I imagined she saw Alan as a definite catch. He held doors open for me, insisted on helping me with all my bags, found a bowl to fill with water and put down for Michael, and all that with the permatanned, over-muscled skin of an ageing porn star. It was odd. He had the personality of a courteous village priest, the body of a former Mr Universe and dressed as if he was going to a fancy-dress party as Del Boy Trotter. Confused? I wasn’t. He was really rather lovely, actually.

  But he was definitely not my dad. Different nose. Different eyes. Different face shape. Different lips. Just . . . different. I didn’t feel a crushing disappointment that I could tell this, more an interest, like I had a pad in my hand with every man of a certain age in Liverpool listed. He was the first to be ticked off. With the comment ‘Too porny’ next to him. I hoped he didn’t misconstrue my eyes flitting over him as me checking him out. I couldn’t afford to start off on the wrong foot with the landlord. I needed to be accepted here. I needed to be allowed to stay.

  Sadly for me, the apartment was clearly not how it would have been in 1982, when I was born. I could tell it had been renovated in the last few years. The bare floorboards were too glossy, the handle-less white kitchen units too chic, the wooden blinds at the window too ‘now’. Any other tenant would be overjoyed at the fashion-forward beauty of the place; I have to admit, though, I was crushed.

  ‘It is all right, isn’t it?’ he was saying. My face must have relayed my feelings.

  His voice trailed off, possibly worried I was going to sue him under the Trade Descriptions Act.

  ‘No, it’s lovely, Mr Kirkwood. Who wouldn’t want to live somewhere so tasteful?’

  And he visibly relaxed. Like he was actually melting into his sheepskin coat.

  ‘And Rose is really sorry she couldn’t be here today to show you in and all that. Only it’s this friend of hers. She’s quite old and she’s had a fall. So Rose has had to go up the hospital, you know.’

  I nodded. I did know. I knew only too well what that was like, having rushed more times than I cared to remember from Kentish Town to Tring each time Mum had had one of her scrapes, and I told him as much.

  He was very sympathetic about Mum dying, surprisingly so for a man, but then I wondered whether this was a Liverpool thing, that men wore their hearts on their sleeves a bit more. Iggy had certainly been more upfront than most men I knew; maybe Alan was the same. Oh, but then he was Irish.

  I explained that in the wake of Mum’s death I had fancied a change of scene and a change of life, hence Liverpool. He didn’t ask why I had chosen Liverpool; it clearly made complete sense that I would go to his illustrious city to ‘start again’. Well, at least that meant he didn’t ask too many questions. I wanted to tell him the real reason for coming. I wanted to blurt out, ‘I’m here to find my birth mother.’ But it seemed so weird, such an odd, impulsive thing to have done – to chuck in your life and move to a new city on the basis of a name on a solitary certificate – that I couldn’t actually bring myself to blurt.

  Alan showed me the electric and gas meters and how the central heating and hot water worked. He showed me the airing cupboard and where the instructions were kept for all the white goods, and then he handed me a card on which it said:

  PERM SUSPECT

  49 Glenda Jackson Parade

  Belle Vale, Merseyside

  L25 0GH

  0151 484 6128

  Email: appointments@permsuspect.co.uk

  I looked at him quizzically.

  ‘It’s Rose’s place. She says pop in anytime for a hairdo. Mates’ rates.’ I must have looked wary because he added, ‘She’s good.’

  I nodded politely. ‘That’s very kind, tell her.’

  ‘Or, you know, pop in for a coffee and a gab. She’d love to see you. Just, like I said, she’s had this emergency today.’

  ‘That would be lovely, thank you.’

  ‘Ooh. He’s friendly.’

  I didn’t know what he meant. Then I looked down and saw that Michael was humping his leg, well, his ankle.

  ‘Michael!’

  And Michael ran away.

  After Alan had gone, I had a major panic when I realized I now couldn’t find Michael anywhere in the flat. I ran from room to room, calling his name, unable to see him, fearful he had slipped out of the main door as Alan had left. But then I saw the door to the airing cupboard ajar and so I opened it wider and peered in. Michael had made a nest in there, next to the boiler, and in a small pile of old tea towels. He was fast asleep. It seemed a shame to wake him, but I knew I didn’t want to be stuck inside on my first day. I had a new city to explore!

  I have always found it easier to formulate plans or organize my brain when on the move. Many’s the time I’d sit at Sylvie’s computer screen staring blankly at the screensaver trying to work up the enthusiasm to actually do something, trapped in a careless catatonia that not even a hot slurp on a Costa latte could pierce, but as soon as I set foot outside her block, Michael on his lead, ideas would come to me in the blink of an eye. Maybe I just needed to get the blood circulating, the wind in my lungs to function. And today was no exception.

  Where Gambier Terrace stood, behind the Anglican Cathedral, it appeared to perch on the rim of a big bowl that looked down into the city centre of Liverpool. As I stepped out with Michael, and headed down the slope towards the town, I fancied I looked a little like Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blonde with her chihuahua. I’m sure I didn’t, but I also didn’t care. The weather was so fresh, the sun so bright, and my shades were on as we practically sailed downwards towards the city. I knew exactly what I had to do.

  Before I went on my mad quest to find Francesca Boyle, I had to get my bearings. What was the point in searching this city for someone if I didn’t know this city in the first place? The other idea I struck on was ingenious, even if I said so myself. It might have been the startling sun going to my head, but . . . I decided I was going to become a yes-woman. For so long I had spent my life, or so it felt, saying ‘yes’ to one person – Sylvie – and now it was time to say ‘yes’ to me. So, in the next few days if an opportunity arose to have a new experience, I decided I would say ‘yes’ to it. I was so not used to that, but thought it was the only way I was going to get to know my new city and some people in it.

  My first atte
mpt at being a yes-woman wasn’t particularly brilliant. I stopped to get a coffee from a burger van and they asked if I wanted sugar in it. I never had sugar in coffee, but as I’d made a promise to myself, I said, ‘Yes, please.’

  They asked how many, so I stammered a ‘T-two, please.’

  It was hideous.

  As I carried on down the hill into the bustling centre, I wondered if I had turned down any opportunities since my arrival a few hours ago. Or whether any had fallen into my lap.

  Two had.

  At the bottom of the hill we were walking down was a bizarre shell of a church building with trees growing in it. I recognized it as something I’d read about on the internet. It was a bombed-out church from the Second World War that had been left derelict as wildlife grew inside. It was obviously a symbol or something. Outside sat a bench. I pulled Michael over and sat down, took out my phone and jabbed in a number.

  I heard it ring twice and then a raucously jovial voice boomed to me, ‘Pippa! Blimey, that was quick, girl!’

  I laughed, ‘Strike while the iron’s hot, Iggy.’

  To which he laughed; of course he laughed. To this guy, I was on a par with Joan Rivers.

  ‘I don’t want you to think I’m stalking you or anything, Iggy . . .’

  ‘Bollocks – don’t be daft.’

  ‘But if that offer of showing me around the city’s still open, I’d love to take you up on it.’

  ‘Nice one, laa. When?’

  ‘Well . . . tomorrow? I could buy you some lunch?’

  ‘Great.’

  Only when he said it, it sounded like ‘grace’ . . . with a very elongated ‘sssss’ sound.

  ‘Why don’t you have a think about where we could meet and what time and drop me a text later? I’m staying by the cathedral. Gambier Terrace.’