I tap out a text, saying that I’ll come over for breakfast in an hour or so, assuming that’s fine with her. The message has barely left my screen before I get a reply: ‘Great!’.
That’s my cue to haul myself out of bed, yawning and stretching my way over to my bag. It’s all I came with, packed with a few changes of clothes and shoes. I could probably unpack into the dresser but that would make everything feel a little more permanent, that I’m definitely settling here. I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet.
After fighting away another yawn, I head across to the window and drag the useless curtains open. I can see the yard clearly now and the stacks of metal beer kegs ready for pick-up. There’s an alley that runs along the back, which intersects with the High Street. I’m about to start finding clothes to wear when I notice the green car sitting on the far side of the road. It’s only just in my line of vision – but it’s more the person sitting in the driver’s seat that surprises me. A messy mop of dark hair is resting on the window and, although I’m pretty sure it’s one of them, I’m not certain whether it’s Max or Ashley. Whoever it is shuffles around in the driver’s seat and then turns to face the front of the pub before leaning back on the window.
I take a shower and then find some clean clothes but, for as long as that takes, the green car is still waiting on the road when I check the window again.
Peter is already in the bar area when I get downstairs. He’s wiping the tables down but I doubt it’s going to have much effect on the stickiness. He asks what I’d like for breakfast but I say I’m going to head out, not mentioning my mother. He never asked for my last name when I checked in and was happy to take cash. I get the sense it’s the sort of place for which cash is an essential part of keeping the business afloat.
We make small talk about whether I had a good night’s sleep but I know it’s not worth saying anything other than it was all fine.
He lets me out the front doors and I blink my way out into the bright sunny morning. The sky is blue, the grass and verges a perky, bristling green. What’s also green is the car still parked diagonally across the road. The nest of dark hair shifts and turns until I can clearly see Ashley’s face. There’s a moment where we stare at each other before he looks away and starts the engine. With a chunter and a blasting cloud from the exhaust, he accelerates along the High Street, disappearing around a corner and out of sight.
I wonder why he was here. It’s not like he was actually spying because he couldn’t see anything. And he clearly didn’t want to talk, else he wouldn’t have sped away.
I’m on the other side of the road on the way to get my Fiat from the car park by the post office when I realise he was only there to let me know he’s watching. He knows where I’m staying and wants me to know that. It was probably a mistake to stand up to him in Mum’s conservatory and yet it’s hard to regret it.
It’s easier to remember the route to Mum’s house than I thought. On the map it looks like there are more roads than there actually are. Many of those that are marked are actually smaller, unmarked tracks and it doesn’t take that long before I’m pulling onto the gravelly driveway. Mum’s 4x4 is there but that’s the only other vehicle. Max must be out.
Mum opens the front door before I can get anywhere near it. Harry is at her feet, resting on her legs and staring out towards me. She smiles and tells him to wave at his sister. He does, before turning back to Mum for approval.
‘I’ve been trying to teach him to say your name,’ Mum says when I get inside.
There’s an awkward moment where neither of us are quite sure what to do but we end up hugging briefly, more touching shoulders than anything else.
Mum reaches down and takes Harry’s hand. ‘Who’s this?’ she asks him enthusiastically.
‘Egg,’ he replies.
I laugh and so does Mum. ‘I swear I’ve not taught him that,’ she says.
‘Egg,’ Harry repeats.
I find out why when we get into the kitchen.
‘Wow,’ I say, trying to take everything in.
‘I didn’t know what you liked to eat,’ Mum replies.
That’s clear, considering she has laid out more food than I’ve seen in one kitchen before. There are apples, bananas and oranges in a bowl; three different types of jam; a thick, crusty loaf with a bread knife at the side, plus margarine, Marmite and peanut butter. Bacon and sausages are in the frying pan and there is a box of eggs on the side. If that wasn’t enough, there are boxes of Corn Flakes, Rice Krispies and Coco Pops – Harry’s favourite, she says; plus sugar, a jug of milk and a bottle of syrup.
‘I can make pancakes if you want,’ Mum says.
‘Egg,’ Harry says.
‘Cereal is enough for me.’
‘There’s porridge as well, if you prefer.’
‘I’ll eat Harry’s Coco Pops if he doesn’t mind too much.’
I reach to pour myself a bowl but Mum gets there before me, shuffling piles of them into a dish, all the while asking if I want more. When that’s done, she’s asking if I want tea, coffee, juice, water, or something else. Then it’s what type of coffee. She has three different blends, an espresso or instant. She asks if I had a good night’s sleep, if the bed’s comfortable, then about the pillows. Were they firm enough? I get the sense that if I were to say anything was remotely unbefitting, she’d be driving me off to the shop to get something more suitable.
I can’t remember the last time anyone fussed over me like this. I’m not sure anyone ever has.
Despite our text messages, the anticipation of being here isn’t matched by actually being here. We’re both floundering. I don’t quite know what to say and I think it’s the same for her. She’s making up for it with food.
Harry doesn’t want an egg after all, not after seeing my Coco Pops. Mum pours him a much smaller bowl and it’s not long before he’s splashing it all over himself, the table, the floor. Everywhere. As Mum tries to help him eat, she continues to watch me.
‘I don’t know what to talk about,’ she says.
‘Me neither.’
‘It’s all really quick.’ She clicks her fingers. ‘Like that. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not a bad thing. I’ve wanted you back since the day you went away but it’s been so long…’
She tails off, staring towards the wall, lost for a moment.
It’s me who makes the move this time, touching her wrist gently with my fingers and then smiling when she turns back.
‘It’s the same for me,’ I say. ‘I’ve not had a real mum in a long time.’
She breathes in through her nose, returning my smile with a gentle one of her own. ‘Thank you for coming over,’ she says.
‘There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.’
‘I dug some things out for you last night.’
‘Like what?’
‘Bits and pieces that used to be yours. Some of it was lost when we moved but I kept a lot in boxes. It’s been in the attic all this time but I went up there last night and brought everything down.’
It takes me a few minutes more to finish eating and then a little while after that until Harry decides he doesn’t want to eat any more. He keeps saying ‘egg’ and I wonder if that’s what he’s decided my name is. Could be worse, I suppose.
It’s only when we get upstairs that I realise she perhaps had slightly ulterior motives. Mum leads me into what turns out to be the spare bedroom. There’s a large double bed that’s been made very recently, all neat corners and ironed-out creases. It’s far nicer than the room at the Black Horse; the carpet softer, blinds and curtains, soft colours. All very welcoming.
There are three boxes against the wall, a thin layer of dust crusted to the top of the cardboard. Mum waits for me to enter and then stands behind me in the doorway as if to say, this could be yours.
‘Are the boxes for me?’ I ask.
‘Of course. Everything in there is yours. If you want anything, feel free to take it.’
She takes a seat on the co
rner of the bed as I sit on the floor next to the boxes. Harry is busy bumbling around the room, tugging at various things and being tutted at.
The first thing I find in the boxes is a pink T-shirt with My Little Pony on the front. It seems impossibly small, the type of thing it’s hard to believe anyone could have ever fitted in.
‘Do you remember that?’ Mum asks. I hold it up, comparing it to the size of what I’m currently wearing. ‘You used to love that,’ she adds. ‘I had to smuggle it out of your room to be washed.’
I snigger but have to shake my head. ‘I don’t remember.’
She seems disappointed and doesn’t ask again as I continue to pull bits and pieces from the box. There’s some sort of fancy dress fairy costume, two pairs of dungarees, three pairs of shoes that are smaller than my hands.
The second box is far more interesting than the first. There’s a cardboard-backed envelope on top and inside is a birth certificate.
‘I thought you’d like that,’ Mum says.
The paper is a little crinkled and the writing is slightly shaky and smudged – but it’s all there. Olivia Adams, the date of birth and the place.
‘You wouldn’t have known you were born in the old house,’ she adds.
I reread the details and then look up to her. ‘Stoneridge really is home…?’
‘Born and raised here,’ she replies. ‘I didn’t know if you’d need that for things like a passport. It’s yours if you want it.’
I thank her and say I’ll take it but she doesn’t ask a follow-up about how I got a driving licence, or what name it’s under.
The next thing out is a suede jewellery box. The charm bracelet inside has been polished recently and gleams bright. The links are silver and it’s like something out of a Monopoly box. There’s a small dog, a four-leaf clover, some sort of bird, a heart, a butterfly and a starfish.
‘We got you a new charm for each birthday,’ Mum says.
I hold up the bird pendant and ask what it is. She squints and smiles.
‘It’s a chicken,’ she says. ‘We took you to a farm this one time and you really liked the chickens. That was the day you realised chicken the food was also chicken the bird. You refused to eat poultry after that and cried if your father or I ever suggested it.’
I know she wants me to say I remember but I can’t do that.
There’s a similar-sized box towards the bottom but there’s no jewellery in this: there are teeth. Small, white baby teeth. I hold one up to the light, running my thumb across the sharper edges.
‘You got 50p from the tooth fairy for that,’ Mum says.
‘Is that all?’
She laughs. ‘It was thirteen or fourteen years ago. With inflation, that’s like two pounds.’
Next is an impossibly small plastic bracelet that holds a slip of paper with Olivia Adams written in faded blue biro. Mum says they put it around my wrist when I was born. It’s only a little wider than my thumb.
The final box is really heavy – and not what I expected at all. It’s not clothes or jewellery, it is packed with newspapers and clippings. It’s only when I’m a few lines into the story on the first paper when I realise it’s the one I’ve been reading over and over. The article I read last night, in which Ashley Pitman says people will search for as long as it takes.
‘I kept everything,’ Mum says. ‘The local papers, the nationals. I used to record the news off the TV but those were all on VHS tapes and I ended up throwing them out. We got rid of the video player years ago. I don’t think you can even buy them nowadays.’
She gives that not like the old days sigh that people do when they get to a certain age. You talk about streaming movies and get a blank look, or disbelief that being a ‘YouTuber’ is an actual job. It’ll come to us all, I suppose. I’ll be romanticising having a phone in my pocket in the days when kids have things beamed directly onto their eyeballs.
The second paper on the pile is a title that doesn’t even exist nowadays. It’s from the same day as the first document, repeating most of the same details but there’s far too much to simply skim. I flick through the rest of the box – and it all seems to be in chronological order, with the oldest articles on the top.
‘Can I take this?’ I ask.
Mum’s biting her lip. She had said I could take what I wanted but now she seems reluctant. It might be because this is something she has kept for so long, or maybe she’s suspicious because Max put the idea in her head that I could be mining information.
‘There’s a lot to take in.’
‘I’ll return everything – or take one or two things at a time if you prefer. It’s interesting to me.’
Mum nods slowly but this is the first time I think I’ve seen a glimmer of doubt from her. Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked. Max sowed the seeds and I’m reaping them.
‘Max didn’t seem too happy yesterday…’
I leave it there. An absent-minded observation, nothing too accusatory. The truth.
‘It’s a big change for everyone,’ she replies.
‘For me too.’
‘Of course you as well. You more than anyone. I’m not saying it’s easy for anyone – but it takes time to get used to.’ She sounds a little flustered and I can imagine she was up half the night arguing about me.
‘Where is he?’
‘He and his brother run a taxi company in the village. Sometimes they’re in dispatch but they drive three or four days a week, so he’s doing that. I think he’s off at the airport.’
I think about telling her of Ashley sitting outside the Black Horse, waiting for me – except it could be innocent. Perhaps he was waiting on a customer, or killing time before he had to pick someone up. There could be an innocent explanation, so no point in causing trouble unnecessarily. I get the sense Ashley would rationalise it all away in any case.
‘They’re trying to set up a limo company,’ she adds. ‘Hen dos, nights out, that sort of thing.’ Mum waves a hand dismissively as if to say it’s not her thing.
‘It looked like they’re close as brothers…’
Mum nods. ‘You always get two for the price of one with them. I knew that before I got married.’
Re-married, I think but don’t say.
Mum turns to Harry, who’s playing snow angels on the carpet without the snow.
‘I think I want to see Dad,’ I say.
It takes her a few moments to turn back to me. When she does, she’s biting her lip again. We lock eyes and she takes a breath. ‘I’m not saying you shouldn’t. You’re an adult and he’s your father… it’s just…’ She gulps, searching for the words and then she looks away. ‘He’s not the man he once was.’
Ten
Nattie’s mother swings open the front door before I get a chance to knock a second time. She’s the spitting image of what her daughter would be if it wasn’t for a bit of work in front of the mirror each morning. Nattie’s hair is straight and down; her mother’s is a wild puff with tight curls. Wider than it is taller. They share the same scattering of freckles and that permanent upturn of the lips as if they’re a step ahead of everyone else.
She throws her arms wide. ‘Olivia Adams, as I live and breathe.’
Before I know it – and certainly before I can make any sort of objection – she’s grabbed me into a bear hug, shoving my face into her chest and clamping her arms around my back. She releases me almost as quickly as she grabbed me and then takes a step back to look me up and down.
‘I can’t believe it. When Natalie got in last night saying who she’d met down the pub, I thought she’d had a few too many. You know what it’s like. I called your mum and she said it was all true. I wouldn’t have believed it if you weren’t here in front of me.’
She steps back into the house, holding the door open.
‘Come on in then,’ she adds. ‘Have you eaten? Do you want tea? Coffee? Something stronger?’
She brays with laughter as I edge past, directly into a living room. It’s a bit dated
– a felt-covered sofa, a carpet square tapestry with a cabinet full of crystal glassware off to the side – but it’s homely, too. The walls are covered with photos of various people with ginger hair. Many of them are Nattie.
‘You don’t remember me, do you?’
Nattie’s mum has closed the door and is bounding across the floor, beckoning me into what turns out to be the kitchen. It’s all light chocolate brown and plasticky.
‘I, um…’
‘I’m Georgina, love. Call me Georgie if you want – everyone else does.’ She pats a high stool in front of a breakfast bar and I find myself sitting. ‘So, welcome home! I doubt Stoneridge has changed that much. This place has only just reached the twentieth century, let alone the twenty-first.’
She laughs again and it’s hard not to join in, as if her personality is some sort of infectious disease. She doesn’t ask where I’ve been or about anything that’s happened – and I can’t believe it’s because she isn’t curious. Nattie must have told her, which saves me a job. It’s not the welcome I anticipated. I expected The Questions.
Where have you been?
Why are you back?
What now?
Everyone has the same things to ask and it’s not as if I blame them. I’d be the same. Anyone would be.
‘Natalie said you had a right ol’ chinwag last night,’ Georgie says.
‘We got reacquainted.’
‘Good for you, darling. She’s a good girl, my Nat. You two used to be thick as thieves.’ She points to the cupboards. ‘So, what can I do you for? Tea? Coffee? Biscuits? I’ve got some Mr Kipling French Fancies in if you want…?’
‘I ate at Mum’s a couple of hours back.’
‘Oh, that’s lovely to hear, darling. She’ll be made up that you’re back after all this time.’
She speaks as if a child was lost in the aisles of a supermarket and, in many ways, this breeziness is stranger than getting The Questions.
‘I was hoping you could tell me a bit about her,’ I say. ‘I don’t remember much about my parents…’
The Girl Who Came Back Page 7