The Girl Who Just Appeared

by Jonathan Harvey

  ‘What, you mean like a dungeon?’

  Iggy nodded. I wrinkled my nose.

  ‘From what I can imagine, that was their small front box room. Not much space in there to be whipped or . . . chained to a crucifix. Not enough room to swing a dead cat-o’-nine-tails.’

  Iggy laughed. ‘Oh, so you know how it works, then!’

  ‘Not from personal experience, Iggy, no.’

  ‘Ah, man. Thought you was gonna be the bird of most men’s dreams then. Posh and a little bit dirty!’

  And we both laughed at that.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Iggy. Maybe I’m overthinking things too much. Do you ever watch Hell Hole?’

  ‘Shit Hole!’ he corrected playfully.

  ‘Well, last series they had this girl in, Ronnie, and she’d been a policewoman before entering the Hole, and she was so paranoid and suspicious of everything?’

  ‘Yeah, but she was a massive knob, though,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Oh, so you do watch it!’

  ‘Launch show on Friday, laa.’

  ‘Well, maybe I’m like her – creating suspicions where there really needn’t be. There could be any number of reasons why someone would have a padlock on a bedroom door.’

  ‘Maybe it’s where they keep the dead bodies.’

  ‘And maybe I should just . . . give up the ghost. Maybe it’s good I’ve not been able to read that diary again. Maybe I should just . . . be content with the fact that I’ve met my birth mum and . . . look to the future.’

  ‘Yeah, but if you’ve got two brothers out there. . .’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘Who’s to say they weren’t adopted too? Or removed from her? Last thing they might want is a reminder of her.’

  ‘If I had two brothers, I’d wanna meet them,’ he said wistfully.

  ‘I want doesn’t always get,’ I said. He nodded, taking this in. ‘My mum used to say that.’

  He winked. ‘Which one?’

  I took a crisp from our open packet and fed one to Michael. He took it and placed it on the floor between his paws and licked daintily at it.

  ‘So no sign of her downstairs, then?’

  ‘No. I toyed with calling the police. Her landlord’s been knocking for days, trying to gain entry. He wants to inspect the damage from the flood, but she’s added an extra lock on the door and he hasn’t got a key.’

  ‘She might be dead in there!’

  ‘I know. He didn’t seem unduly bothered. I keep sniffing through the letterbox. No putrefaction yet.’

  Iggy pulled a face. ‘I wonder where she’s gone.’

  ‘Well, I saw a suitcase in her hall. I asked her if she was going on holiday, but she said no.’

  ‘Lying bitch.’

  ‘She’s vanished off the face of the earth,’ I said dramatically. And in that moment, the two of us sat across a rickety table in a backstreet boozer, I felt we were some crack-nut TV-detective duo. Holly and Iggy. Though we weren’t having much luck with our latest case. We even had a gimmick, a chihuahua with links to the stage!

  ‘You gonna go to Canada?’ Iggy took another sip of his pint.

  ‘I don’t know.’ And I meant it. ‘On the one hand, it’s lovely not having to be at her beck and call, but on the other, I’m not finding too much out here. And if I strike while the iron’s hot, I could go back to her and make her sweat. Issue demands, more money, better hours. I just don’t know if I have the energy.’

  ‘Have you heard any more from the hairdresser?’

  ‘No. And I’m glad, really. She brings something out in me.’

  ‘Eczema?’

  I chuckled. ‘No, I turn into Ronnie from Hell Hole. Remember how she thought Conrad was a mole? She didn’t believe a word he said. Felt he was being inconsistent. That’s how I feel around her.’

  ‘And at the end of the day Conrad was sound.’

  ‘He was lovely. Just a bit shy and nervous. I was so glad he won.’

  ‘So the hairdresser’s probably sound.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And yer ma?’

  ‘Why d’you call her that?’ I gasped.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘That’s what Darren called her.’

  ‘It’s just another way of saying “mam”.’

  ‘Oh.’ Disappointment drained through me. I got angry with myself. ‘See? I’m overanalysing every bloody thing. I thought maybe . . .’

  ‘Maybe what?’

  ‘You knew Darren and weren’t telling me.’

  ‘Bloody ’ell, Pips. You need to get a grip.’

  He was right. I did. Instead I tightened my grip around the beer mat in my hand and crumpled it to a mess.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He pulled a face that told me that wasn’t necessary. ‘So are you gonna see your ma again?’

  ‘I don’t know. What’s the point, Iggy? She doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘Maybe she will without Rose West breathing down her shoulder.’

  ‘Her surname’s not . . . Oh . . . I get it.’

  Iggy winked. ‘I reckon you should see your ma again and then fuck off to Canada.’

  ‘Oh what, trying to get rid of me?’

  ‘I’d love to go to Canada.’

  ‘Not with Sylvie di Marco you wouldn’t.’

  A man had entered our room. He scoured the lists on the jukebox. He wore a monocle and a cravat. He wore other things too, but these were the things that made Iggy stare at him.

  ‘It’s rude to stare,’ I whispered.

  ‘Professor Plum in the library with the taser or what?’

  And I smiled. ‘This whole thing is folly, Iggy. Coming to Liverpool, thinking I’d find answers in the flat where I assume I was born.’

  ‘I thought it was on your birth certificate thingy?’

  I shrugged. ‘But everything changes in thirty-two years. Nothing stays the same. That’s not my birthplace anymore. That place doesn’t exist. I don’t exist.’

  ‘Bit deep for me, that, Pips.’

  I sighed and drained my pint. ‘What I need, Iggy, is a sign.’

  He nodded. The monocled man returned to the bar and pulled up a stool. As he did, his song choice started to play on the jukebox. The two Lowry men groaned loudly. Mr Monocle looked over as if to say, ‘What?’ I felt sick.

  ‘Can we go, Iggy?’

  He nodded. ‘Why?’

  ‘Come on, Michael!’

  I yanked the dog out of his dream and got up to head to the door. I could hear Iggy slamming down his pint and screeching back his chair. As I hurried from the pub, I heard Sylvie singing the opening bars of ‘Misunderstood Queen’. And more groaning.

  I didn’t want that to be my sign. I couldn’t let it be. Every fibre in my being was screaming, No, not Canada. Every bit of my DNA – if you’re able to break DNA into bits; I’m sure you can – was pulling away from all things Canadian. Had I seen a maple leaf, I might have been sick. I made a deal with the universe: OK, Universe, I asked for a sign and you sent me one. Can I exchange it for another, please?

  What did I think the universe was? Marks & Spencer? I returned to the flat with an agreement to see Iggy on Friday night – we were going to watch the Hell Hole launch show together – and went and sat on my bed. Was Iggy right? Should I go and see Francesca one more time, or should I stick Michael in kennels and book myself on a first-class flight to Canada? But the thought of Michael in some desolate cage, shivering, ruled that out.

  Nobody had been to check the electrics in the kitchen since the flood. I was sure that was illegal and my landlords should by now have rectified the problem, but I just didn’t want to phone Rose to hassle her.

  But maybe I should. I now had the kettle and microwave in my bedroom and kept a carton of milk in the bathroom sink filled with cold water. For the rent I was paying on this place, this was hardly on. Maybe I should email. Then I wouldn’t have to speak to her.

  I felt tired. Maybe it was the two pints I’d had at lunchtime, but I felt my
eyes closing and my head lolling forward, so I plumped up the pillows and lay back to surrender to the fatigue. Just as I closed my eyes, I heard an almighty crash coming from the kitchen. It made me jump.

  ‘Michael?’ I gasped, unable to see him. Was he all right?

  I jumped off the bed and hotfooted it to the kitchen. I passed Michael in the hall, so knew he was fine. But in the kitchen I immediately saw what had made the noise. One of the wall units had fallen off and onto the floor, knocking a work surface on its way, which was now chipped. There was a massive scratch on the tiling on the floor too. But my eyes were drawn to the patch of wall where the cupboard had been. Whereas the rest of the kitchen had tiled walls and trendy wallpaper, the cupboard had exposed what was behind it. Damp, of course, from the flood, but I could now see some other wallpaper. Dated wallpaper. Eighties wallpaper. Like pinstripes but diagonal. One line red, one black, one white, varying widths. And I immediately recognized it. It was incredibly familiar to me and I didn’t know why. But the more I stared at it, embarrassingly open-mouthed, I realized what it must have been. I must have recognized it from my childhood. I had lived here. This had been my home.

  I did exist.

  Two men were stood outside the Greenacre Nursing Home in navy overalls with what looked like space-age packs on their backs, power-washing the brickwork, slowly erasing the greyness and exposing some welcome yellow sparkle. I called a cheery hello to them, which they ignored, and pushed my way through the heavy front door. A care assistant called Yvanka – I know this for she wore a name badge saying, ‘Yvanka Care Assistant’– was guiding a white-haired old soul in a dressing gown through the entrance hall, moving at approximately minus twenty miles per hour.

  ‘I’m here to see Francesca Boyle,’ I said brightly. ‘Family friend.’

  Yvanka didn’t seem that fussed and nodded. So I tried to remember the way to Frankie’s room. I eventually located it, after walking into a stock cupboard and a laundry room, but after I’d knocked on the door a few times and got no reply, Yvanka and the old dear passed by and Yvanka said, ‘She is in garden.’

  I really wanted to say, ‘The garden, Yvanka, the garden!’ but just nodded a polite middle-class thank-you and tried to find it.

  About six hours later – well, that’s how it felt – I found Francesca sitting in a wheelchair in what was a surprisingly pretty garden. There was a large terrace with a mishmash of garden furniture on it, then a lawn that sloped down and seemed to drop into the Mersey. Not the safest of gardens for people with dementia, with that drop, but the view was nevertheless stunning.

  I dragged up a greying plastic chair and sat beside her. The screech of the legs on the paving made Francesca look at me. A dart of recognition jolted across her face and she smiled as if seeing an old friend.

  ‘Oh, hiya.’ Her voice was soft and warm. It was so hard to equate it with the Frankie I’d read about in the diary.

  ‘Hi, Frankie. How are you?’

  ‘Have you come to take me home?’ She said it as if that was her sole purpose for being outdoors, as if her bags were packed and at her feet, as if I was a cab driver.

  ‘No.’

  She looked crestfallen.

  ‘Had any visitors?’ I continued. I had no idea what I wanted to say to her, but just gave in to the moment. I would soon find out where this would lead.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not even Rose?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How’s Darren?’ I said this quickly, as if slipping his name in would force her to remember him.

  ‘Oh, he’s good, yeah.’

  ‘Seen him?’

  ‘No. I don’t see anyone.’

  ‘Robert? Rob?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Your little girl?’

  She hesitated.

  ‘You had a little girl, didn’t you, Frankie?’

  ‘Pretty little thing, she was.’ She was smiling. She was smiling, remembering me. Suddenly I had a huge sense of belonging. It seeped through my body, upwards, a whirlpool of warm water.

  ‘They took her off you, didn’t they?’

  She looked away from me, stared at the Mersey.

  ‘Frankie? Look at me.’

  Frankie turned. ‘Take me home.’ The water started to subside.

  ‘Where is home?’ I asked. I was beginning to sound like an undercover reporter, which I suppose in a way I was. To the outside world, I appeared like any other concerned relative, visiting, when actually I was digging for the scoop of the century. Well, my century.

  ‘Oh, you know. Big house. Flat.’

  ‘By the cathedral?’

  She stared at the river. I cleared my throat. I now knew what I had to say.

  ‘I’m going to say something now, Frankie, and I want you to hear it. I’m your daughter. I was adopted. And whether you gave me up or they took me off you, it was a good thing. And I’ve had a nice life.’

  I wanted it to sink in. Through the blankets of confusion I wanted there to be a place somewhere where she would take information in and let it rest there. When Mum had been ill, I had interpreted her confusion as if she was hearing lots and lots of white noise, interfering with what she was receiving, cutting out the here and now, forcing her to a deeper place, where only memories from long ago were kept. I wanted to interrupt the transmission, cut through the white noise and allow some lucidity. It would never happen, but then maybe I was doing this for me more than her.

  ‘I just want that to sink in,’ I reiterated, sounding terribly like I was clutching at straws, which I was.

  ‘Sinking,’ she said with a knowing smile. I suppose she knew a thing or two about that. Her face clouded over. I wanted to know what year her head was at. I took a gamble.

  ‘These riots are terrible, aren’t they?’

  She looked quickly, alarmed. I had scared her.

  ‘Do you go to work when it’s all so . . . dangerous?’

  She looked panicked. Her mouth opened, as if she wanted to speak, but no words came.

  ‘What about the kids? Where are they?’

  ‘The kids are fine.’

  ‘Are they? Who are they?’

  ‘Will you just leave me alone?’

  ‘Who are your kids, Frankie?’

  She started trying to get out of her chair.

  ‘No, Frankie, your leg’s bad.’

  But still she tried. I jumped out of my seat to try to get her to sit back. She screamed out in fear.

  ‘Frankie, I just don’t want you to hurt yourself.’

  I heard footsteps behind me. I swung round.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ A rotund woman in a crumpled power suit, red of face, was looking stern.

  ‘She was trying to stand up. I . . .’

  ‘Come on, Frankie. Sit back down, love. You’ve broken your leg.’

  The rotund woman went and stood in front of her. She more or less blocked out the sun. Behind her frizzy split ends, there was a virtual eclipse. Frankie wouldn’t dare try and get past her, so rested back in her seat, the struggle dissipating out of her.

  ‘Oh, hiya, Margy.’

  ‘I’m not Margy, love. I’m Veronica.’ Then she looked to me accusatorily. ‘And you are?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘Perfect,’ she said. Her voice was so loud it practically echoed off the Mersey. ‘I’ve got all day.’

  Veronica took me to her office and gave me coffee and Rich Tea biscuits, a ghastly combination, and I explained honestly and in detail why I was there. I kept calling her ‘Matron’, then getting embarrassed as she explained she was the manager and that matron was a bosomy Fifties thing, but I kept doing it, possibly because she reminded me of Hattie Jacques in the Carry On films. It was the booming voice more than anything, which completely sat at odds with the caring, kindly things she was saying. She was saying everything I already knew, but for some reason, possibly because she wasn’t Rose and I didn’t think she had a secret agenda, I listened, took it in and believed.
She asked if there was anything she could do to help. I didn’t think there was. Though I did ask if Frankie had many visitors. Veronica didn’t even have to think about it. She wasn’t aware of Frankie having any children. Rose had power of attorney. Rose was her only visitor apart from a few volunteers from the local church. Veronica didn’t really see the point of this, as they had no history with Frankie and therefore never knew what to say to her. She told me Frankie was very sweet-natured but prone to outbursts of anger, which she said was common with people with any form of dementia. She asked if I wanted to see Frankie again before I left, but I declined. I was only going to confuse her more and it didn’t seem fair.

  ‘Poor woman,’ I said, rising from my seat. ‘Only ever seeing the same faces. No contact with the outside world.’

  ‘Quite. Who’d be old?’

  As Veronica showed me out, she suddenly stopped and said, ‘Mind you, she did get a letter once. Not so long ago. From America.’

  ‘America?’

  Veronica nodded. ‘It was lying on my secretary’s desk when Rose arrived.’

  ‘Who was it from?’

  ‘Well, I was interested to find out. Frankie never gets personal correspondence, so we were all quite excited in the office.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  Veronica laughed. ‘Such an anticlimax. It was from Rose’s daughter, would you believe? All that excitement over nothing.’

  ‘Rose hasn’t got a daughter.’

  Veronica looked pained. ‘Oh. Maybe she said niece.’ And then she brightened, her work here done. ‘A relative of some description, anyway. Though I’m sure she said daughter. Oh well! Maybe I’m losing my memory too!’

  ‘Did you read it? The letter?’

  ‘We’re not a prison. Rose took it to read to Frankie. Lovely meeting you, Holly. If there’s ever anything we can do to help, please get in touch.’

  ‘Thank you. I think you’ve been more than helpful already.’

  Veronica shook my hand. Her fists were like baseball gloves. And then she led me to the main hall.

  ELEVEN

  ‘She’s gotta be back soon,’ said Iggy, raising a shot glass to his mouth. ‘She’s been gone a whole week, laa.’