The Girl Who Just Appeared

by Jonathan Harvey

  ‘Well, I came here looking for answers. Got a few. Don’t think I’ll get any more.’

  ‘Ah, never give up. Rose was saying she’s bound to have family, so she’s going to do some digging for you. See if she can’t find where they are.’

  I nodded. Oh well, at least Rose appeared to be taking this seriously. If she’d told Alan that’s what she was going to do, maybe there was a silver lining to my cloud. Why was I being so unfair on her? Thus far she had taken me to meet my mother, offered to make me chicken curry. What more could I ask for of a landlady? And poor Alan and Rose, managing a flat that wasn’t even theirs.

  ‘Seems like you do an awful lot for my birth mother,’ I said, genuinely trying to praise Alan.

  ‘Ah, it’s no big deal. And neither of us has any family. Rose has a kind heart – she’d do anything for anyone.’

  I felt bad. I’d been getting Rose all wrong, just because she was so different to me.

  ‘Plus . . .’ he left a dramatic pause, ‘Frankie’s leaving everything to Rose in her will.’

  And he threw his head back and laughed. And it all made sense. But still unnerved me.

  ‘She must’ve thought a lot of her perming skills,’ I said.

  And he laughed even more. Suddenly Rose appeared in the butterfly house.

  ‘What are you two laughing about?’ she said severely.

  Alan was brought up short, a schoolboy caught gassing in class behind the teacher’s back.

  ‘Ah, nothing, Rose. Just this and that.’

  Was he scared of her? Rose smiled, relaxing. She pulled the bangs of her long bob out of her eyes and said, ‘I’m just getting the rice out of the microwave. Why don’t you come through?’

  The curry was an insipid yellow colour and boasted sultanas, chopped almonds and some coriander dandruff. It was so Seventies it was untrue, but served not with a Look at me – I’m retro pride, more This is how chicken curry is made, end of. It was tasty and homely, but I couldn’t eat it. Alan was talking away about his weekend fascination for car booting. Cue lots of horrified raised eyebrows from Rose: in her book you clearly bought new and it lasted. Although most of her taste seemed to have been bought new in the 1980s, it still looked brand new. But I wasn’t really listening. I found it hard to concentrate with the crashing noise in my head of everything finally slipping into place. I understood now why Rose had been so reluctant, at first, to take me to Francesca. I realized now why she zigzagged between being kind to me and being cold. I had to say something. I had to explain I wasn’t the enemy. Maybe then she’d . . . like mea little bit more.

  ‘Rose?’ I interrupted Alan mid-flow.

  She seemed grateful for it. ‘Aha?’

  ‘I have something to tell you.’

  She seemed to pale.

  ‘I want to put your mind at rest about something.’

  She cleared her throat. What was I going to say?

  ‘I just want you to know that when my adoptive parents died, I inherited their house. A considerable amount of money.’

  Still she said nothing, but continued to look afraid.

  ‘And so I’m reasonably comfortably off. I was an only child.’

  ‘This is none of our business,’ Alan interjected.

  ‘I just don’t want you thinking I’ve come to try and get money out of Francesca.’

  Rose looked confused.

  ‘I know you stand to inherit Gambier Terrace when Francesca dies . . .’

  Rose shot Alan a look. ‘What’ve you said to her?’ and she sounded so Scouse you could have broken plates on her accent.

  ‘Nothing! Just . . . just mentioned it in passing.’

  Rose rolled her eyes.

  ‘I won’t be asking for anything from Frankie.’ I tried to sound reassuring. ‘I won’t be . . . contesting any wills or . . . saying she owes me or . . . you know.’

  ‘I find it vulgar to discuss finances,’ Rose said, almost swallowing the words.

  I wanted to say, ‘I find it vulgar to cake your hallway in nursery-rhyme memorabilia when you’re in your forties,’ but I kept it zipped.

  ‘I’m sorry. I just didn’t want you to view me as any competition. A contender to your crown.’

  ‘Alan shouldn’t have said anything,’ she reiterated. And then she shot him another look that told me there was going to be an almighty row later, once I had left.

  ‘I had a stroke a while back. In hospital for months, I was. Think it sent me soft in the head,’ he said, by way of explanation for why he might sometimes get things wrong. ‘It was touch and go for a while.’

  Rose continued to eat in silence, as if unmoved by his story.

  ‘But the bad news is, I survived,’ he added with a twinkle. A twinkle I returned.

  Rose became even more guarded than usual following my recent blurt. Everything I asked her she batted back to me like a Wimbledon pro, as if my questions were unimportant, banal.

  Where did you grow up? Liverpool.

  Which part? All over. We moved a lot.

  Are your family still alive? My mother lives in Greece. That’s her in the photo there. Everyone else is dead.

  I looked. On an alcove shelf was a framed photo of a rather glamorous woman in close-up, her face sunkissed.

  Oh, but Alan said you both had no family. Ignore him – he had a stroke. He talks rubbish sometimes. Just listen to me.

  How did you get into hairdressing? It’s really not that interesting.

  Did you ever want children? We have lots of godchildren.

  Where did you get your hideous tights from? The most vile shop in the world.

  I may have made the last one up.

  Alan was a bit more forthcoming. He’d been a bit of a bad lad, ducking and diving, more diving than ducking, but following his stroke, he had taken things a bit easier and erred on the right side of the road. I wasn’t sure what this meant, but I assumed it was his way of saying he’d been a bit criminal and now stayed on the straight and narrow.

  Rose was far more at ease grilling me, and they were both interested to hear more about my job with Sylvie di Marco. Alan had vaguely heard of her but couldn’t profess to name anything she’d been in. Rose had hazy memories of her having had a record out once, though she couldn’t name it. I told them about my contretemps with her and how I’d walked out on her/been fired and they seemed amazed that a boss could treat an employee like that and get away with it. They asked politely if I had anyone special in my life and I told them about Jude and how I’d felt there was a distance between us and I’d not known how to breach it, and maybe it was the sweet wine that I was drinking with the curry but I found myself saying things I’d not hitherto acknowledged. How I’d never really understood how close he was to his family, to his brood of brothers and sisters. And how only now was I beginning to understand how important it was to me that I might be part of a similar brood, that I might have siblings. And how I felt guilty that I’d abandoned him, when now I was starting to understand why that might be a comfort. And I told them how I didn’t really have many friends. How I’d let most of my relationships slide over the years, blaming the pressures of work, of having Jude, anything, when really I knew the reason. I didn’t see the point in investing in people, because eventually they would reject me, just as Francesca had. When you come into the world and are unwanted, who else could possibly want you? I felt tears in my eyes and saw that Rose also was moved. She dabbed at her eyes carefully (so much make-up) with her napkin. I saw Alan give her leg a squeeze under the table.

  ‘And have they?’ asked Alan.

  ‘Have they what?’

  ‘Has everyone else abandoned you?’

  I thought. And had to be honest. ‘No. I guess I’ve abandoned them.’

  The words hung in the air.

  ‘All my life I’ve felt there’s a question mark running through me.’ Rose nodded, as if she completely understood what I meant. ‘And because I know so little about my birth and the first few months of my lif
e, I don’t feel fully formed. I feel like . . . like I just appeared one day.’

  Rose nodded and said, ‘The girl who just showed up.’ Like it was a concept that was one she was more than familiar with. And then it was my turn to nod.

  After a dessert of Arctic roll and tinned apricots, I excused myself to go to the bathroom. Alan went about getting his coat on as he was going to drive me home in Rose’s car. I could hear them having a hissed row downstairs when I came out of the bathroom. I stopped, embarrassed to go back down as they were spitting venom at each other, and I looked around the landing. The door to their bedroom was open; another bedroom door was shut; a third was shut and had a padlock on it. I looked through the first, open door. I could see there was a framed photograph on the bedside cabinet. I could see a boy in it, smiling. It drew me in. I tiptoed so that they wouldn’t hear me downstairs, and then I sat on the bed and looked at the photograph.

  It showed a handsome blond boy in a smart blue uniform. He must have been about thirteen, fourteen, maybe younger. He was smiling at the camera while wrinkling his eyes up at the flash of the camera. There was something about his smile that reminded me of Rose, even though her smiles had been few and far between. And then it hit me. The ice of her, her distance, how she could appear aloof. How she’d grown combative when asked about children.

  Something told me this was her son. Had she and Alan had a child who had died?

  I must’ve become a bit too transfixed by the photo to not hear footsteps coming up the stairs. Because the next thing I heard was Rose’s voice saying, ‘Holly? What are you doing?’

  I looked up. She was standing in the doorway, looking paler and angrier than ever.

  NINE

  ‘Did you have a son, Rose? Did he die?’

  She looked flustered. ‘You shouldn’t go snooping. You’ve got no right to come in here and go sniffing around. I’m not Francesca.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Rose. I could hear you rowing with Alan, so I waited a bit and . . . then I saw this and . . . well, he’s so handsome I couldn’t help but . . . Who is he?’

  She hurried towards me, snapped the photograph off me and jammed it in the top drawer of the bedside cabinet, slamming it shut.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it. OK?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  I’d clearly overstepped the mark.

  ‘I know you’ve had a tough day. I know you want answers. But please. Stop asking me so many bloody questions. I’m doing all I can to try and help you. I’ll find out about your brothers, I will. But you know . . . life isn’t a storybook, Holly. Ask yourself this. Why were you taken off Frankie?’

  ‘I don’t know. Social services haven’t been able to find my adoption records yet, but they will.’

  ‘Well, if she wasn’t up to looking after you, maybe she wasn’t up to looking after them. Maybe you were all taken off her at the same time.’

  ‘I know life’s not a storybook.’

  ‘There are no happy endings. Like my butterflies.’

  I looked to her, confused.

  ‘They start off as caterpillars, then mutate into these beautiful winged creatures.’

  ‘A happy ending!’ I insisted.

  ‘And how many weeks do they stay alive? Happiness doesn’t last forever. It’s squashed out of you before you know it.’

  I was right. That picture was her son. Why else have such a negative view of life?

  ‘You come up here. You lift up rocks. Then wonder why there’s creepy fuckin’ crawlies underneath them? If life was such a mess back then, don’t be surprised that it’s gonna be a mess right now.’ She was like a preacher, jabbing her finger in my direction, emphasizing everything she said. I’d never seen her so energized. I’d certainly never heard her swear.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ I said. Now it was her turn to look confused. ‘I can’t imagine what you’ve been through. I’m sorry.’

  Tears pricked her eyes. She bit her top lip. Her arms tensed at her sides, and she went out onto the landing. Then I heard her lock herself in the bathroom. A few seconds later I heard Alan calling from downstairs. I shouted a goodbye to Rose, heard nothing back, then hurried down the stairs to get Michael and my lift home.

  Alan said very little in the car on the way. Neither did I. I felt exhausted by the last twenty-four hours. The diary, the lack of sleep, the anticipation of meeting Francesca, meeting her, the bitter disappointment, Rose’s bizarreness, it all felt too much for me to handle. I wanted to get back to Gambier Terrace and go to bed. It was well past eleven. I wouldn’t even knock for Jax and ask for the diary back. Right now I didn’t care. No doubt I would eventually read it and it would devastate me. I’d read Darren’s description of Francesca giving birth to me and then . . . and then . . . neglecting me, or abusing me. Who knew what she got up to with the infant me? It certainly wouldn’t have been exemplary maternal behaviour, or else why was I removed from her? Or maybe Darren described her not loving me and leaving me on a doorstep or . . .

  Enough. I’d had enough. For now I wanted to go to bed in Gambier Terrace and wake up in Tring. Ted and Jean would still be alive and I’d love them much more than I ever did before and be more grateful to them for saving me from Francesca than they’d ever know. I’d conform. I’d be nice. I’d wear my hair in pigtails, anything, to say I was sorry for not appreciating their kindness like I did now.

  I had come to Liverpool, turned over a few stones, and yes, Rose was right, felt squeamish at the creepy crawlies festering beneath. It was time to put those stones back and just . . . sleep.

  When I got back to the flat, Alan wanted to come in and inspect the damage in the kitchen again. Everything looked fine, apart from the stains to the ceiling, floor and one wallpapered wall. He pulled at the wallpaper and tapped some wall units to check they were stable.

  ‘I’d plug the kettle in in the bedroom if you fancy a cup of tea, love. Not sure the wiring in here’s safe,’ he said, then reassured me someone would be round soon to put it all right.

  Before he left, he said, ‘You know, Rose might have her faults, but she’s got a heart of gold really. I knew her for years before we got together. I had to grow up a bit before I was worthy of her really. Before that I’d always been drawn to high maintenance.’

  I nodded, unsure why he was telling me this.

  ‘These days I don’t even want high maintenance in the flat I rent out.’

  I smiled.

  ‘She’s had a hard life. Go easy on her.’

  Again I nodded. Though I wasn’t sure that I’d been particularly tough on her. Still, this was a man marking his territory, protecting his brood. There was something of the lovable caveman about it and it was actually rather appealing.

  When he’d gone, I climbed into bed and snuggled up to Michael. He went out like a light and I lay staring into the darkness. The futility and humiliation of what I’d encountered in the last few days slayed me. I’d had such high hopes, and now, nothing at all. Again Rose had spoken sense. For a child to be removed from its mother meant that there was mess or chaos around that child’s birth. To return to the scene of the crime, it was unsurprising to find mess and chaos again. Why on earth had I expected to be Little Miss Different and miraculously find a Utopia of regretful mothers? Again like Rose said, I should be grateful Francesca had Alzheimer’s. At least it had softened her edges. I’d met her – she’d been away with the fairies, but at least she’d not been the bitch I was now more than aware she could be.

  I heard a knock at the front door. I ignored it. I heard Jax calling through the letterbox, ‘Holly? Holly, did I hear you come in? Holly, d’you want your tin back?’

  I ignored her. She called my name a few times more. Then, ‘I’ll get it back to you just as soon as I can!’

  I heard her let the letterbox drop shut. Then footsteps retreating downstairs. I lay in the darkness, staring at a ceiling I couldn’t quite see. I heard a group of women passing, drunk, singing Daft Punk, and then what sounde
d like one of them being sick. Then laughter from her friends. Eventually they moved on. And then I heard it, what I’d heard the day I’d arrived and I’d pulled up outside in the cab. A brief scream. It seemed to come from more than one person. And it seemed to come from upstairs. Then a roaring noise. Then another scream. What was that woman doing up there?

  I located some earplugs in my washbag. Eventually I slept.

  Fortunately I woke the next morning with my batteries recharged and the first thing I did, before even getting dressed, was run downstairs and knock on Jax’s door. I waited. No reply. I knocked again. Either she was sleeping or she had already gone out. I checked my watch. It was half past eight. Was she really the sort of woman to be up and about so early? Maybe if I tried ringing her mobile. I returned to the flat and called her. I heard it ringing downstairs. It rang out and then went to answerphone. She must have still been asleep.

  I got out my laptop, powered it up and entered the name ‘Darren Boyle’ in a search engine. The first said there was a Darren Boyle on Facebook. I’d set up an account years before in a vain attempt to keep in touch with people from school and my time in the orchestras amid the madness of working for Sylvie, but rarely ventured on. I logged in and re-entered the name. Of course, it was not an unusual name and soon I was inundated with hundreds of Darren Boyles. What should I do? Send each of them a message saying, ‘Sorry, you don’t know me, but . . .’? It seemed an impossible task. I entered another name, ‘Robert Boyle’. The leading name was that of a philosopher from the seventeenth century, but then there were, again, gazillions of names to skim through. I shut the page down and opened the search engine again. I entered, ‘Richie Toxteth riots.’ There was lots of information on the riots and on Nicole Richie without her make-up on. I re-entered, ‘Red-Light District Liverpool.’ I found a ‘delightful’ blog by a man who discussed the difficulty of finding prostitutes on the street and how annoying it was to have to go online to procure oral sex these days – he didn’t mind going online to write about it, of course. And then my eyes were drawn to a paragraph about the red-light district in Liverpool in the 1970s and 1980s. One sentence made my eyes practically pop out on stalks: ‘I lived there for a while in the 1980s. I have fond memories of meeting prostitutes in Hope Street next to the Anglican Cathedral.’