The Girl Who Just Appeared

by Jonathan Harvey

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘She came to me before she left and explained that she was minding the tin for you. She had tried your door many times and not found you, so she wondered whether I would keep it and return it to you when I saw you. I am now seeing you.’

  ‘You’ve got my tin?’

  ‘It isn’t your tin, but yes, I have it. Might I ask where you got it from and what your connection to it is?’

  ‘I . . . I found it in my flat. Under the floorboards. In the airing cupboard.’

  ‘Finders keepers,’ butted in Iggy, bless him.

  ‘I came here looking for my mum,’ I said quickly.

  ‘It’s like a quest,’ Iggy chipped in again.

  ‘I was born here. In 1982. Have you looked inside the tin?’

  Helen Chance nodded.

  ‘I think it might be my brother’s diary.’

  Helen Chance nodded again.

  ‘Did you read it?’

  Helen Chance nodded again, and this time her ‘fuck you’ smile lingered a little too long for my liking.

  ‘And I tell you what . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I didn’t like the way he described me.’

  It was at this point that my jaw kind of hit the floor.

  TWELVE

  I had the mother of all hangovers. And unlike my own mother, it was right there, in my face, screaming at me, giving me grief, telling me what a disappointment I was. My woozy recollections of Hell Hole and breaking into Jax’s flat and the confrontation with Ms Chance made my stomach cramp and my whole body groan. I tried to think positive – if the ends justified the means, then at least it had been worthwhile: today I would get the tin/diary back. Ms Chance had flounced off to bed after I announced I felt I was going to be sick, telling me she would ‘see me tomorrow’. Michael was lying next to me on the bed, on his back, stock still, and for a second I thought I might have rolled on him in the night and suffocated him. But then his little legs started to kick and I realized he was dreaming. If only I had dreamed the previous night. I swung my legs round so they hit the floor and then attempted to stand up. I stumbled through to the lounge, which looked like a bomb of booze and pizza had hit it, and saw Iggy sprawled on the couch, fully dressed, also looking like he was dead. This was when I realized that I too was fully clothed.

  I walked carefully to the kitchen and flipped on the kettle. Tea, I needed tea. Oh God, and I needed to find a glazier. Had I slept all night while leaving Jax’s flat with a gaping wound in one of her windows? Panicking, I ran downstairs, but her door was, once again, locked. Light with anxiety, I raced back up the stairs. As I went back into my place, I noticed an envelope on the floor by the front door. It had my name on it. I opened it. Inside, it said:

  Dear Holly,

  I have ‘your’ biscuit tin. I am working all day, then away from this evening, so if you would care to meet me in the Anglican Cathedral gift shop at midday, when I go on my break, I can return it to you then.

  Helen Chance

  I heard a cough in the living room and skidded through to see Iggy yawning and stretching, still prostrate on the settee.

  ‘Iggy, did we leave the flat all night with the window broken? Oh, Iggy! What have we done?’

  He screwed up his eyes, then chuckled. ‘No, Pips. I stuck some cardboard over it. Relax. I’ll get a glass fella round today.’

  ‘But you won’t be able to get into her flat without breaking in again!’

  ‘I nicked a key, didn’t I? How’s the head?’

  ‘Oh, I feel absolutely fine,’ I lied.

  Despite having lived in the shadow of the cathedral for a fortnight now, I’d still not ventured inside. Although she appeared to follow my every move, staring down impassively, this old nun in specs, I hadn’t yet paid her a visit. Leaving Iggy a hundred pounds in cash to sort out a glazier, I headed off feeling slightly better thanks to a double Berocca, a bacon sandwich and three mugs of builder’s tea. Although the weather was bright, it was crisp out. The breeze whipping up from the Mersey might have played havoc with my hair, but it certainly blew away the remnants of my hangover.

  Despite the building itself creating quite the shadow over Gambier Terrace, and despite the fact that it looked like I could reach out of my window and actually touch it, it was still quite a schlep round the side of the cathedral to get inside. But once I was in, well, it had certainly been worth the wait, and I wondered why I’d not come before. Everything about it seemed otherworldly; the atmosphere felt different, like I was suddenly in outer space. Sounds altered, the light changed, the temperature dropped, yet I didn’t feel cold. My footsteps on the marble chessboard floor echoed round the vast open space that was just so big it was hard to believe I wasn’t outside. I looked up. A light display shot up into the tower, vast arches of sandstone disappearing into the clouds were hit by vivid blues, reds, and the lights through the windows made the red bricks everywhere glow like hot amber.

  I found the gift shop easily, on the other side of the knave to the entrance. Helen Chance was handing someone their change when I tiptoed in. She saw me immediately and turned and whispered something to her co-worker, then glided out from behind the counter, picking up a holdall on her way. I felt like I was in a spy movie again. She would now approach and whisper in my ear, ‘Red Fox says take the ostrich only flies at midnight,’ before placing the straps of the holdall in my hand.

  But she didn’t. She said quite loudly, ‘Shall we have a salad?’

  The word ‘salad’ echoed round the space, whirling about as if through a megaphone.

  I nodded and followed her up a spiral staircase to the cafe. Perched up high above the knave, we got a bird’s-eye view of the cathedral as Helen tucked into a small Niçoise salad and I had an orange juice.

  She took the tin from the holdall and placed it on the table in front of me. I opened it, not sure why, and she commented, ‘I haven’t stolen it. I’ll leave the law-breaking to you.’

  ‘Have you read it? All of it?’

  She shook her head.

  Oh good, she wouldn’t know that Darren had killed someone.

  ‘Whereas it might be of understandable interest to you, savouring the incoherent ramblings of my former neighbour are not how I wish to pass the time.’

  ‘Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?’

  She shook her head, a leaf of rocket dangling from her mouth.

  ‘You’ve obviously lost a lot of weight.’

  ‘That’s not a question. Unless you wish to ask how I did it, to which I’d answer, “Mind your own business.”’

  I nodded. Fair enough. ‘What was Darren like? How long did they live there for?’

  ‘The Boyles were there for years. He must’ve been a toddler when she moved in. Soon she was pregnant with the other one.’

  ‘Do you remember her being pregnant with me?’

  ‘No, but then, I didn’t pay much attention to them. She was never in, and he was never out. I’d see the little one go to school, come back from school. I think she’d trained them to be surly with me. I paid them little heed.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘The little one?’

  ‘Darren.’

  ‘Puny. Runt-of-the-litter type. Dickensian almost. Very pale-skinned, like he’d never seen daylight. I was forever reporting her to the authorities. He never went to school, and she was always out.’

  ‘Working.’

  ‘It had not escaped my notice that she was a prostitute. Hope Street was the epicentre of the red-light district then. The pavements were soiled with her ilk littering them up, awaiting kerb-crawlers. I didn’t like her, and just because she is your mother, I will not pretend I did to make you feel better.’

  ‘Clearly.’ But I added, ‘I don’t think I’d have liked her either.’

  This seemed to please her. Maybe she would warm to me now.

  ‘Holly, I don’t know what your experience of adoption was like, but mark my wor
ds, if they took you off her, you were very fortunate.’

  I nodded. It was odd, sitting here in this cavern of a building, her voice echoing round the walls when this all should have felt so intimate.

  ‘Do you know where Darren went?’

  She shook her head. ‘They were all there one day; next day they weren’t. The flat was empty for months, and then she came back alone. Never saw the children again. I assumed they’d both been taken into care.’

  I let this sink in.

  ‘So they disappeared?’

  ‘I really didn’t give it much thought. I really didn’t care. Maybe that’s unchristianly of me. So sue me – they weren’t nice people.’

  ‘Do you remember me as a baby?’

  ‘I was only ever aware of two children. Two boys. I’m afraid that’s all I know.’

  ‘I have found her – Francesca Boyle. She’s in a nursing home. She has dementia.’

  ‘Probably a blessing if she can’t remember her past misdemeanours.’

  ‘What about the family downstairs? The black family? They were there around that time.’

  ‘Oh yes. He went to prison for drugs. She maintained he’d gone back to her family in the Caribbean, but everyone knew that was a lie. The council moved her to a smaller flat, I think.’

  ‘Yes. I think the police framed him.’

  ‘Your positivity must be quite draining for you, Miss Smith.’

  ‘Not really. Is there anything else you can remember about Darren?’

  She thought. She dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin, then shook her head sadly.

  ‘I didn’t even know his name was Darren. I knew they were the Boyles, little else.’

  ‘He had a girlfriend, Samantha. Does that ring any bells?’

  Again a shake of the head. ‘It was thirty-odd years ago.’

  And I nodded back. ‘I know. I don’t know what I expected to find, coming here. I guess I wanted to walk into that flat and . . . I don’t know . . . see it all right there in front of my eyes. As if nothing had moved on. If only the walls could talk, but they can’t, and even if they could, there’s been thirty years of life and memories going through there. Everything’s changed.’

  ‘I used to think Darren looked so brittle, so angry. But I was walking back from the bus stop – I was quite large in those days; it took a while – and he came walking past me with a plastic bag and he tripped. The contents of the bag spilt out into the street. It was all . . . make-up and blusher and . . . stuff for his mum probably, but he scrabbled around for it, shoving it back in the bag. And he looked up at me. And he looked so scared. Kept apologizing.’ She let the image hang in the air. ‘And I remember thinking, What does she put those kids through, if they can get so scared about dropping something?’

  A wave of sadness engulfed me. Francesca must have sent him out to do her shopping. Why was he so scared of her? Was this before or after the murder of ____? Why was he so in her thrall like that?

  ‘Anyway, you have your diary back. I trust the window will be mended today?’

  I nodded. I couldn’t speak.

  ‘Good. I am away for a few days from this evening. Don’t need to worry about burglars getting easy access.’

  I didn’t ask where she was going. By now I wasn’t interested. I couldn’t stop thinking about Darren on the street, scared.

  ‘Since my weight loss I like to keep active. Turns out I’m a bit of a thrill-seeker. I’m now a member of the Roller Coaster Club of Great Britain. We’re doing the Loopathon tomorrow. Two parks in one day – Alton Towers and Drayton Manor.’

  I must have looked startled. She added, ‘I’m seventy next birthday. There’s life in the old dog yet.’

  I remembered the intermittent screams I’d heard coming from her flat.

  ‘I hear noises. From your place. Screams. Quick screams, then . . .’

  She smiled. ‘I film every ride I go on. Love watching my movies back.’ And then boomed at the top of her voice, ‘Scream if you want to go faster!’

  I decided now was my cue to leave. I clutched the precious tin to my chest as I walked quietly from the building. It felt strange, holding so many long-forgotten memories to me, clasping my family history, the clues to my existence. Modern technology beeped around me, texts coming through on phones, emails, and here in my tin was a time when all that was alien, space age.

  A beep told me that one of the emails coming through was on my phone and was for me. I pulled the phone from my pocket and opened it. It was from Sylvie. I didn’t read it all, just skim-read the odd sentence: ‘Might have been a bit overgenerous with the double-your-wages thing . . . Come anyway and have some fun . . . Could keep Marybeth on and you could manage her . . . Michael can go and stay with my dear friend Teddy in Putney.’

  I was just putting the phone away when, sod’s law, it started to ring. I should have put it on silent, I know, and some tour guides and ushers cast me evil glances, so I hurried outside. I checked the caller ID: ‘Rose calling.’

  I answered. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, Holly. It’s Rose.’

  ‘Hi, Rose. How are you?’

  ‘Good. Holly, I’ve got some news.’

  Hope bubbled inside me.

  ‘It’s about Frankie’s kids.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There’s no easy way to say this.’

  ‘Aha?’

  Fear gripped my throat. A vice-like grip. I could hardly breathe.

  ‘Robert, the younger one, emigrated to America many years ago. Darren . . .’ Her voice faltered.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Holly. Darren is no more.’

  Darren is no more. Such an odd choice of words. And even though I didn’t know him, and even though I possibly never even met him – who knows? Your guess is as good as mine – that was still a crushing blow.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I spoke with an old family friend and they didn’t know anything about you. I’m so sorry, Holly.’

  Darren is no more.

  ‘OK. I’ve . . . I’ve got to go.’

  I hung up and ran down the wide red steps of the cathedral. I stopped by a small building with railings over the curvy road. A sign told me this was the oratory. I tried to stare at the wording, to take my mind off things, but it was futile – I couldn’t hold back any longer. Hot tears geysered down my cheeks. I leaned against the railings and surrendered to the pain.

  When I got back to the flat, Iggy could see I’d been crying. When I explained what Rose had said, he stepped forward and hugged me. I fought the tears again and shrugged him off, realizing something.

  ‘What is it, Pips?’

  ‘All this time . . . I’ve been obsessing about the past.’

  ‘That’s understandable, though, like.’

  ‘And Darren’s dead. That’s in the past. And I’ve completely been ignoring what’s going on in the present. You’ve shown me such kindness since I got here, Iggy, and I don’t really know the first thing about you.’

  ‘There’s not much to know, girl. Brew?’ I nodded. He switched on the kettle. ‘I live with me nan in Anfield. I do painting and decorating every now and again for me uncle’s firm. Do a bit of plastering as well. I smoke a bit o’ weed. Got a daughter called Casey.’

  ‘A daughter!’ I gasped. I had no idea. I thought of him as being . . . well, so young.

  ‘I hardly ever see her, though. She lives near Crewe. Her ma was a one-night stand I had three years ago. Ma’s a bit mental, but I keep in touch for Casey. Wanna see a picture?’

  ‘You bet!’

  He took his phone out and scrolled through several images of a pretty little toddler with a snub nose and ringlets.

  ‘Oh, Iggy, she’s gorgeous.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’m nothing special. All a bit boring really. See, you’ve been scratching away for stuff about your family and maybe there’s not much to find out in the first place.’

  I considered this.

  ‘Apart from my broth
er killing an off-duty policeman and his mother covering for him with her dodgy boyfriend. Yes, it’s just another boring story of suburban Scousers.’

  And that made him laugh. A lot. I looked out of the window. Suddenly it irritated me that the massive cathedral blocked out all the light. No longer the imposing building, it was now the place where Fatty Arbuckle worked, and the place where I found out my brother had died.

  ‘Oh God,’ I said, ‘it’s started.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve now grown some associations.’

  ‘You wanna see a doctor about that, Pips. Are they painful?’

  I smiled. ‘I thought this was going to be my new home.’ I shook my head. ‘Not so sure now. My mum’s away with the fairies; my brother’s dead; the other’s in the States. What’s keeping me here?’

  Iggy handed me a mug of tea. Steam rose from it like whispers.

  ‘Me,’ he said. ‘I’d hope that I’m keeping you here, Pips.’

  I looked at him, alarmed. Was he proclaiming undying love for me? He looked longingly into my eyes, then did an odd shake of his head, like he was taking in my beauty. Oh God. But . . . then . . . thank God, he broke into a massive grin and erupted into the biggest peal of laughter I’d ever heard.

  ‘Your face, you knobhead!’ and he literally bent double he was howling so much.

  I slapped him on the back lightly. ‘Bastard!’ and my swearing made him laugh even more.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this train will shortly be arriving at its final destination, London Euston. Watch out for the pearly kings and queens, apples and pears everywhere you turn and urchins dancing through the city streets singing Lionel Bart songs. You have been warned – strike a light!’

  I felt a mixture of emotions as I stepped into the cab at Euston – after first pushing my rucksack in and hiding Michael in the folds of my coat – a little bit ‘tail between my legs’, part pride that I’d actually got off my backside and done something for me for once, and part numb at how much and how little I’d discovered about my humble beginnings. As the cab spun out onto the Euston Road, I thought back over the last few days. Well, I was doing it – I was taking up Sylvie’s offer and heading to Canada, once I’d dropped Michael off at her friend’s in Putney. She was paying for this cab; she was paying for my Thames-side hotel tonight; she was paying for my first-class flight to Toronto. And I intended to enjoy every minute, because no doubt I wouldn’t once I was there. She claimed she was thrilled by my decision and had even used the sentence ‘I grudgingly admit sometimes you were a very reliable assistant.’