A Little Bird Told Me

by Marianne Holmes

  ‘I’m sorry Ray hurt you too. I hadn’t remembered.’ We weren’t his only victims.

  She doesn’t say much, and I can’t tell if I’ve made things worse.

  ‘Do you know where Wendy is? She’s not listed in the book.’

  ‘She left after Mickey died.’

  ‘Died?’

  ‘You know, the Falklands.’

  I’d noticed the old war memorial in the church square had new names on it, but I didn’t bother looking at them. I didn’t think about all the other tragedies this town might have seen since we left or wonder how the lives of the people we knew could have changed in the years since.

  It’s not until I finish putting all the books back on the shelves and have hauled the TV back on to the table that I think to check the box that was under the stairs. A greening St Christopher and an old handbag with keys and a wallet with no money would be curious thefts. The bag is still there but the contents have been tipped out. I put the keys and the wallet back in, checking for the photograph and driving licence. The bracelet is missing.

  My fingers itch to call Neil and admit everything — that it was the bracelet that Ray wanted all along. And about Mum. With a pang of regret, I remember the disappointment in Neil’s face at the station, and I leave the phone alone. Instead, I put on every light in the house and wait it out until morning.

  I know Ray wants that bracelet. I know how much because I saw it in his eyes when I told him he couldn’t have it. I also have an idea who came to get it for him, but what I don’t know is whether he has everything he wants now. Or whether he’s coming back for more.

  Eva has not stopped fussing about my face since I arrived. I’m beginning to wish I’d gone straight home as she suggested, when Danny comes into the café looking cold and hungry. When he sees me, he slows to a shuffle, looking down at his feet awkwardly. He’s wearing expensive new trainers.

  ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘Where did you get those?’

  He reddens.

  ‘My dad gave them to me.’ He looks away from the bruising on my face. ‘Does it hurt?’ There’s a cut on my jaw that stretches painfully across the bone when I open my mouth, and my right eye is half closed. I know the puffy skin around it is vivid, even with the make-up I’ve put on. Eva has told me I should go home because I’m scaring away the customers, but I reckon half of them have come in just to look.

  ‘Nah, but you should have seen the other guy,’ I wince as I try to smile.

  For a minute, I think that he’s about to reach out to me. But then it looks like his own load is too heavy. I don’t know how to help him.

  ‘Want me to add a couple of sausages to your beans? On me?’ I say.

  ‘No such thing as a free lunch though, is there?’ He looks tired. ‘Nobody just gives you something for nothing, do they?’

  I watch him head to the back of the café, away from the other teenagers. They come in after school now it’s cold and dark outside. Eva doesn’t mind but shoos them off if their language gets too bad or if they sit around too long sharing one plate of chips.

  ‘I know your mother,’ she’ll say to them, ‘and she thinks you’re at home doing your homework. Better get along now!’

  Eva is taking her break, so I’ve added a couple of sausages to Danny’s plate of beans on toast anyway. He starts eating them slowly and deliberately.

  ‘Can I ask you a question?’

  Danny pauses, a fork loaded with beans already half way to his mouth, and nods.

  ‘Do you ever see your mum?’

  He sits back and looks at me. ‘How could I do that?’ he says, lip curling. It’s a personal question but, even so, his tone is defensive. He doesn’t quite meet my eyes. ‘Don’t even know where she is.’ I know how that feels, and yet this is different. He cuts into the second sausage and puts a piece in his mouth, chewing slowly.

  ‘Don’t you want to see her?’

  He shrugs, concentrating on the beans, as if the question’s not that important. I pull the chair out opposite him and sit down. Eva won’t be back for a while, and the rush has died down.

  ‘Yes, but surely she tries to see you?’ I can’t believe she could just leave him without any contact. Is it really possible that she wouldn’t get in touch with him, if she was alive?

  ‘He’d kill her.’ He pushes his plate away. ‘Not that it’s any of your business.’

  I look at my hands on the table in front of me twisting the paper napkin into a spiral. They’re chapped from washing dishes and my nails are soft and beginning to split.

  ‘Dad says we’d still all be together if it wasn’t for your mum.’

  ‘She was sorry she lied about your dad, you know.’ I take a deep breath, ‘She was trying to protect you, but she got it wrong.’

  I look at him and see that he can’t speak. I remember how young he really is and feel guilty for bringing it all up.

  ‘Anyway, I’m sorry too,’ I say. ‘I don’t think your mum left just because of that, but I don’t want to make things worse for you.’

  The door to the café opens with a blast of chill air that disturbs the menus on the tables. I stand up and leave Danny while I pick them up.

  When he comes over to pay, he hesitates handing over the change and says quietly, ‘You need to watch your back, you’re being set up.’ I don’t have time to ask him what he means before he has turned around and is out the door.

  As I watch him cross the road, I think about him living with his father with that yawning empty space between them where his mother should be.

  Eva must have called Neil because he’s put aside his disappointment to walk me home, but I know it’ll be cloaked around him again when he leaves. I tell him nothing is missing, no real harm done.

  When he sees my face, he frowns.

  ‘You didn’t say you were hurt.’

  ‘Oh, this? It’s nothing.’ I grin, but half of my face still feels tight. I give up. ‘Is Kit staying with you?’

  Neil shakes his head. ‘But he’s safe, Robyn.’

  I smile in thanks.

  ‘Do you want me to come in?’ he asks, stopping halfway down the path.

  Of course, I do. I shake my head.

  ‘Just wait until I’m in, will you?’ I have left the lights on and the curtains open, so we can see that the house is empty from here. When I’ve opened the front door, I turn and give him a thumbs-up.

  ‘Right,’ he lifts a hand to wave. I shut the door and pick up the letter that’s lying on the mat.

  My Dear Little Robyn,

  I’m looking forward to seeing you again when I get out. Won’t be long now.

  Sorry I couldn’t help with your problem but it’s worth bearing in mind that lost things are usually under our noses all the time. Maybe if you think hard enough you’ll remember that you saw something after all. It’s a shame you don’t want to help me. But our family is, well, you know what it is.

  By the way, a little bird told me about that breakin. I hope nothing precious was taken.

  Yours,

  Your loving Dad

  Why is he still trying to scare me? Mum’s gone, Matthew’s gone, Kit’s gone. Neil. I might be afraid, but he really has no idea who I am now. Somehow, though, I’m going to make sure he finds out.

  I read the letter again slowly, trying to decipher the threat in it. I know it’s there because he can’t help himself. He knows about the breakin. He knows what was taken. He knows where she is. It’s a game, but why is he still toying with me if he has what he wants now?

  My head is throbbing with questions, so I put the letter down on the meter cupboard, draw the bolts on the front door, and go upstairs. I turn the hot tap on full in the bath and search through the cabinet above the sink for some paracetamol to ease the ache in my jaw.

  The hot water burns, and, as I sink into it, the cuts on my face sting in the steam and the guilt seeps in too. I’m using too much water. There’s a drought. Kit’s summer is ruined. Matthew is sad. Mum. My eyes are itching a
nd sore and dry.

  I get out and try to sleep, but I can’t. The house is too empty, and I can hear the silence rushing in my ears like whispering. I pull on my dressing gown and go down to the kitchen and open a bottle of wine. I take a large mouthful and pick up the glass to walk through to the lounge. The curtains are still open, and I can see across to the Cadogan’s old house. The new family has a tired old dog that barks at the passing cars from the end of the drive.

  Behind the sofa is a box that didn’t get opened in the burglary. It’s labelled Bookshelves — Living Room. I draw the curtains and pull the box out into the centre of the room, then I fetch the bottle of wine from the kitchen and a knife to cut the tape. I find Mum’s course books, stuffed with notes on scraps of paper, and our Encyclopaedia Britannica in its smart blue cover.

  ‘This is how to make a difference,’ I can hear her say. I find a pen and take some of the paper to write on.

  There’s an open packet of cigarettes that I hold up to my nose to try and catch a smell of her. Loose pictures spill out across the carpet from an old photo album. I spread them out and pick up some of Mum and stare and stare until I can almost remember what she looks like. I tuck a couple into my pocket with the paper and pick up the glass and go upstairs.

  We never made up the bed in Mum and Matthew’s old room, so I sit on the mattress awhile looking through the window down on to the front gardens and the paths along the road. A line of parked cars glimmers in the moonlight. I recognise the scent of Mum’s clothes from the wardrobes, but when I open them they are empty and dusty. The glass is empty too, so I go back downstairs and refill it.

  In my own room, I pull out my suitcase from under the bed. It was brand new when we left, but now it’s scratched and dented with faded stickers on all sides. I open it and take everything out and arrange it all alongside the photos from the pocket of my dressing gown and the piece of paper with my notes on.

  I can’t add the bracelet because I didn’t take it out of the bag when I got home. And now it’s gone. There’s a copy of the last Flambards book in a plastic cover, a pencil case, a sketchbook and a small album of photos that Matthew made for each of us. I look inside the pencil case for the knife Mum gave me to sharpen my pencils. It isn’t there, of course.

  There are no pictures of him, and when I close my eyes all I get is the silhouette of a cowboy hat against the sky, a flash of blue eyes or the smell of stale smoke on skin. I pull my gown tighter around me. Something rustles in the dark outside, but, when I get to the window, there’s nothing there but the damp night.

  I open the sketchbook, and flip through the ponies, stopping to see Debbie on her bed with her Barbie, Matthew and Mum dancing in the kitchen, Neil and Kit. And a man with a scar and a crooked nose wearing a hat. He’s smiling, and his hands are held up palms forward. The wine in my glass sloshes as it tilts over and only the splash of it on my hand stops me dropping it altogether. I drain the glass and try to sleep again.

  In the night, there are sounds in the garden like a thousand hedgehogs burrowing through the brown leaves and pattering around the shed. Something that might be an owl shrieks and falls silent. In my dreams, there’s a face at the window with a white, white scar. It drops away when I sit up and reappears when I shut my eyes. Beside me is a woman with a face that fades away if I try to look at her too closely and a cold, cold hand that strokes my head. The twist of silver on her finger glitters in the moonlight and glides across my hair. I try to warn her about the face in the window, but he’s pointing to his eyes and pointing to me and I can’t make a sound.

  When I wake up, my head is fuzzy, and the room feels stuffy and close. The floor is strewn with photographs and diaries and sketches of horses and people. Debbie. Neil. Kit hunched over a book. Matthew sitting in the garden with a glass in his hand. Mum. I sit up carefully, waiting for the room to lurch to one side. When it doesn’t, I cross over to the window and open the curtains. The garden is slippery with dew, and there is a thrill of cool air as I open the window. I kneel on the cushions and lean right out like a cuckoo clock bird. The shed and the pattern of beds and lawn is the same as when I was a child — only now the grass is green and soft. I have a sudden urge to go down and walk through it in bare feet, but, before I go, I sweep up all the papers from the floor, throw them into the suitcase and push it out of sight.

  My feet make no sound across the tiled floor of the kitchen, but Kit isn’t here for me to ambush this morning. I make a single mug of tea and take it out with me, the steam billowing up into the still moist air. I can sense the emptiness of the house behind me as I step off the stones of the patio. My feet sink into the wet grass, and I can feel the unloaded blades springing up around my toes as the water drops off. The garden is quiet, no buzzing insects, and the scratch of brown leaves falling is muffled in the damp air. As I listen, I become aware of the hum of a radio and the fizzing of kettles boiling, car engines stutter and growl away and the smudgy yellow pools of street lights fade as the day brightens around me.

  The grass melds under my feet and the earth beneath seems warm and firm. The beds around the garden are overflowing and the drooping limbs of the fruit trees almost touch the grass and, inside me, the small hard places are dissolving. The tea melts through me. I drop my head back to look at the streaky grey clouds skittering along above. I take a huge gulp of the washed air. I stand there growing straighter until the mug in my hands is cold, and the hem of my dressing gown has wicked the dew from the grass. I notice that patches of it are flattened in places and wonder what animals were wandering around stalking their prey beneath my window. I walk down to the shed looking for signs of burrows or sleeping hedgehogs. The new padlock hangs at an awkward angle, and I straighten it before going back into the house.

  When I’ve dressed, I stop at the door to Kit’s room. In the years that we’ve been away, the original colours have faded, and Kit has done nothing to it since we returned. His bed is made neatly and the room tidy. I realise for the first time that it’s like a hotel room. Or a prison cell. He’s only 24, and this Victorian brick house, with its creaks and the hidden darkness under the floorboards and the layers of paint, is not where he should be. I open the window wide to let the autumn air in, letting it push out the stale smell of history and things done and long over, and I know what I need to do for Kit. I need to let him go.

  As I leave the room, I see the little box on his bedside table. Opening it, I find a folded copy of a photograph that I saw a long time ago. I’m a baby in my mother’s lap and Kit sits on our father’s knee. Behind the four of us stand our grandfather and our aunt. The drops are falling on to my hands before I realise I’m crying. The sun is fully out, and the dew dried up before I stop.

  All the family we were born with are represented in this one photo. Kit remembers them all, and I feel the sharp burn of jealousy for that and then realise how real his loss is compared to mine. How visceral and bloody his memories must be. I wonder what he sees when I ask him about her and blink away the image that comes to me.

  I study the face of the woman who tucked me up tight at bedtime and told me stories about Ricardo the astronaut on a fifty-year mission into space and Robert the cartographer lost in the mountains of Tibet and Raymond the snake charmer. Ray the charmer.

  Mum knew exactly how charming he could be too. I wish I hadn’t been so angry with her, I wish I could take it all back, I wish she’d told me. I push those thoughts away.

  In my room, I take the case back out from under the bed and find the jewellery box. Inside are Mum’s and Matthew’s wedding rings, each engraved inside with J&M. I pull out the sketch of Matthew and Mum dancing and wrap the rings inside before putting them back in the box and putting them to one side.

  I’d found that little velvet case in Matthew’s room not long after we’d moved away and, when I opened it, it was empty. So, I figured Mum must have come back to us somehow, like a fairy tale ending or a miracle, and found her ring and put it back on. I searched the hous
e and, when I couldn’t find her, I went out on to the road and called and called until the neighbours came out to watch. I kept shouting for her and I didn’t stop until Matthew sat down right there on the pavement beside me and took out a chain from under his shirt. He showed me the ring on it and cried.

  ‘We’ll keep it in the box from now on, so you can see it whenever you want to,’ he said finally.

  ‘I don’t care!’ I sobbed but, sometimes, I’d sit on his bed when the house was empty and hold it up to the window to see how the daylight warmed up the garnets.

  Downstairs, I find Ray’s letter and read it again. I pull out the bit of paper with the notes I made last night. Danny said Mace thought Ray was useful to know and I never wondered how — not properly. If Ray was useful to Mace, what would Mace do for Ray?

  I’m not going to be able to make us safe on my own, but I know what I have to do. First, I need to ask Eva and Neil for help. And I need to tell everyone the truth.

  I pick up the phone.

  Chapter Fifteen

  1976

  As soon as I wake up, I run to the window. Everyone has been saying that rain is coming, but it’s not here yet. Matthew is walking down the garden and slams shut the padlock that is hanging open on the shed door. He stops for a moment to have a look at the lock and then returns to the house. When I walk into the kitchen, Mum is there. She is in the same clothes she wore yesterday and looks tired and grey. There is a pad of paper on the table, and she is writing furiously.

  ‘Did you find him?’ I say.

  ‘No,’ says Mum, ‘he wasn’t there.’ I blink away Ray’s face appearing at my window and wonder if I wasn’t dreaming after all. ‘Just some new girlfriend who kept getting in our way even though I told her the place was half mine.’

  ‘So, you didn’t find what you were looking for?’ Matthew says, and shoots a glance at me. I don’t know why because I don’t know what he’s talking about.

  When Kit walks in, Mum takes Matthew’s hand and says, ‘You promised we would leave. If we couldn’t find anything.’