by Sue Welfare
Helen could barely recognise it as the kitchen she had grown up in. It could have been anywhere, and yet, and yet something of the old house lingered. There was a familiarity, like a hint of perfume, that hung in the air.
‘Is it all right if I go upstairs?’ she asked Mrs Handley, who had followed her through to boil the kettle.
‘Of course it is, you just help yourself, pet. Go anywhere you like. I’ll get the tea made,’ Mrs Handley said. ‘You make yourself at home.’
Oblivious to the camera crew Helen climbed the stairs. They were steep and narrow. Off the tiny landing were two bedrooms and a bathroom. Helen stood for a moment drinking it all in and then eased open the door into the room that had once been her parents’ bedroom.
The room was painted cream now and was light and bright with a large bed, dotted with floral cushions, dominating the centre. It could have been anywhere, certainly not the dark secret place she remembered her mother and father sharing. The walls back then had been papered in heavy floral paper, with dark red chenille curtains at the window and a matching bed throw that had stayed on her father’s bed till it had finally faded and fallen to threads.
Standing there now she could still imagine it, still feel the texture of it under her fingertips, and still catch a memory of her mother’s perfume. There had been times when Helen had padded barefoot across the boards, now hidden under a pretty blue wall-to-wall carpet, and clambered up into her parents’ big brass bed, pursued by a nightmare, and had wriggled, small and anxious, in beside her mother.
The rush of emotion and potency of the memory made Helen swallow hard. She could see it so clearly. Her mum with her soft gentle features, her long hair tied back with a piece of ribbon for bed, propped up on one elbow to watch Helen scurry across to the sanctuary of her arms. She was smiling sleepily, while alongside her, Helen’s father slept on oblivious. In her imagination her mother pressed a finger to her lips and beckoned her in. Helen could feel her arms around her and feel her mother pull her in close.
Helen stood frozen on the threshold, desperate not to lose the image or the sensation, but there was no way she could hold the two of them there. She blinked and when she opened her eyes the two of them, and the room, had gone.
Her own bedroom was no better, the memories flooding in like a rip tide the instant she opened the door. Helen stepped inside remembering sitting on a narrow bed listening to the silence from downstairs after her mum had gone, as deafening as any sound, while next door in the room adjoining hers the neighbours fought and made up like cat and dog.
The room was much smaller than Helen remembered. The walls were painted pale green now, the soft colour picking out the green in the curtains and the throws on the two single guest beds. Once upon a time the walls had been papered with pink roses on black paper that curled up at the joins; there had been pink curtains that didn’t quite reach the sill and bare boards with a faded shabby rug with roses in the centre beside her bed.
Helen touched the chimneybreast, earthing herself, afraid of being swept away by the intensity of the memories and how they made her feel.
Her bed had been flanked by a chest of drawers on one side, a little desk with a lamp on the other, and a dark wooden wardrobe in the alcove by the fireplace. Nothing matched; everything had been scraped together on a shoestring.
Helen sat down on the bed nearest the window and looked down into the street below. How many nights had she spent sitting there hoping that if only she was good enough, quiet enough, clever enough then perhaps her mum might just come home? And when she didn’t, trying to work out what was it she had done that had made her leave in the first place …
Helen heard footfalls behind her on the stairs and hardly dared turn round. Finally, she looked over her shoulder to see Natalia and the crew, and not the ghosts from her childhood, standing in the room behind her. No one spoke. Helen glanced out of her bedroom window. It felt like she had never been away.
‘Do you know where my mum is?’ she asked. The words sounded distant and indistinct as if someone else was saying them.
Natalia shook her head. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, ‘but we don’t.’
Helen felt the tears running down her face and from somewhere close by she heard a strange keening sob. It took her a moment or two to realise that she was the one who was sobbing.
SEVENTEEN
‘Are you sure about this?’ asked Harry as Helen lifted a pile of blouses and sweaters out of the chest of drawers and arranged them in her suitcase. ‘Packing your job in is crazy, Helen – you know that, don’t you? And we can’t hold it for you – I wish we could – but my dad needs the help in the shop. Why don’t you give it a bit more time? See if acting suits you? You could probably take a couple of weeks’ holiday if you wanted. I’m sure I could sort it out with Dad.’
‘Harry, that’s not how it works. They want me to sign a contract. I can’t say thanks very much but I’m only here for the next two weeks and then I’ve got to go back to my proper job.’
‘I don’t see why not.’ Harry sat down heavily on her bed. ‘I can’t believe you’re doing this. It’s a big risk. You’re usually so sensible. It’s one of the things I love about you – you’re usually so level-headed. I’m worried that you’re rushing into this, Helen. I keep thinking that that thing at the Carlton Rooms and all the fuss with Charlotte has turned your head.’
‘Turned my head?’ Helen laughed. ‘You sounds like something out of Dickens, Harry. I’m fine and my head hasn’t been turned in the slightest and it’s still as level as it ever was. Now stop fussing. I’ve got to give this my best shot. I know it’s hard for you to understand but it’s too good an opportunity to miss. I haven’t done any acting outside school and I know that I’m not going to get a chance like this again. They’re only taking a risk on me because of Arthur. They wouldn’t give me a second look if it wasn’t for him, and he’s already said I can have a room at his place while we’re filming.’
‘Arthur this, Arthur that –’ Harry said miserably. ‘What do you actually know about this Arthur chap?’
Helen slapped him playfully. ‘Stop it, you’re only jealous, and there is no need to be. What you see is what you get with Arthur, he’s no Leon Downey, that’s for sure. And don’t look so down in the mouth. I’ll come back and see you. I will, but I’ve got to do this, Harry, it’s my big chance.’
‘What if it goes wrong?’
‘Then I come home and get another job.’
‘I could have been your manager, you know. I know I could get you some work. I did that list, remember? All the music pubs. It’s just a matter of making a few calls.’
‘This is different.’
With the two of them in her bedroom there was barely room to turn round. Harry moved a pile of books to one side, lay back on her single bed and folded his hands behind his head.
‘That’s more or less what Charlotte said to me as well.’
‘Charlotte?’ said Helen, trying hard to sound as if she wasn’t interested.
‘Yeah, she came in the shop yesterday. I thought she was looking for you but she said it was me she wanted to see – she said that she’d got herself a job. Singing in some show.’
‘But I thought she was going to teacher-training college in September?’ said Helen.
‘So did I, but apparently that’s all changed. Anyway she said I was to tell you that she’s got herself a summer season in Scarborough.’
‘Please just tell me it’s not with Leon Downey,’ said Helen.
‘I don’t think so. Someone rang the Carlton Rooms after the talent show and they gave them Charlotte’s number; well that’s what she said.’ Harry paused. ‘She told me that you were missing out on a really big opportunity, and that she was really upset that you hadn’t rung her. I told her that I’d pass the message on.’
Helen laughed. ‘If you remember, Harry, Charlotte was the one who said she didn’t ever want to speak to me again, not the other way round. I’m not ring
ing her, simple as that.’
But Harry wasn’t going to be thrown. ‘I know, but she said they really wanted to book you both, for this summer thing.’
Helen glanced around the room. She had almost finished packing now. There was just the top of the chest of drawers to clear, her mirror and her makeup, her hairbrush and the little pot she kept her earrings in. Helen pulled a holdall out from under the bed and glanced at her watch. ‘I’m sorry, Harry, but I’ve really got to be going. Do you mind if I leave the books here? I don’t think I can carry them all.’
‘Don’t go yet,’ he said. ‘There still might be time to ring about this other job if you’re interested. Charlotte said they’d hold it till the end of next week if you needed time to think about it. You can ring from here if you like.’
‘That’s not going to happen, Harry, I’ve already told you, I’m going to London, with Arthur. I’m not ringing Charlotte, and I’m not going round there, and most of all I’m not apologising for trying to save her from that creep Leon Downey.’
‘I just said I’d tell you.’ He rolled over onto his side, so that he was looking right at her. ‘I was hoping that maybe we had a future together, you and me.’
Helen sighed. ‘I know, Harry, and so did I, but it’s the wrong time – I can’ t, not now. I’ve got this one chance and I’ve got to grab it. Come on, move – I need to get that suitcase sorted out, my bus goes in half an hour.’
He leaned closer and stroked her face. ‘Do you have to go tonight, Helen? Can’t it at least wait until after the weekend?’
‘I’ve already told Dad that I’d be coming home tonight.’
‘But you hate it there. You said yourself that he’s never in.’
‘It’s only till I go to London.’
‘You could stay here.’
‘Harry, please stop it. I’ve hardly spent any time at all with Dad, not for months. And yes, he is hard work, and no, he’s hardly ever at home, but he is my dad and he’s all I’ve got. He came to see me in the show; he never said. I just want to tell him about going to London and be with him for a while. There are lots of things I need to sort out, but I’ll be back. I promise.’
‘Are you going to ring Charlotte?’
Helen closed the suitcase and locked it, tucking the keys into her handbag. ‘No.’
‘Please stay, Helen.’
‘Not tonight,’ she said. ‘This is really hard for me to say, Harry, but it wouldn’t do either of us any good. I don’t want to get hurt or to hurt you. It’s better if we never start –’
‘But I love you,’ he said.
‘I told my dad I’d be home in time for tea,’ she said, trying hard not to cry.
‘I could give you a lift home – just stay a little bit longer, please.’
And as she turned Harry caught hold of her and kissed her, a proper kiss; a kiss full of hope, desire and longing. It made her heart skip a beat.
Helen gasped, ‘Please don’t, Harry,’ but she didn’t resist as he kissed her again and pulled her down on top of him.
EIGHTEEN
At number thirty-six Victoria Street, Helen, Natalia, Felix and the crew drank tea downstairs in the front room. Mrs Handley lit the gas fire and brought out a tray set with her best china, a plate with salmon sandwiches and another of cake. The camera was off and the crew were making the most of Mrs Handley’s huge homemade Victoria sponge.
Helen’s hands shook as she drank her tea. She felt cold and tired. ‘I really thought that you had found her,’ she said to Natalia. ‘I thought that’s what this whole thing was about. I’ve never understood how someone can vanish completely.’
‘We’ve looked,’ said Natalia, as if that was any help at all. ‘There was no missing persons report, no one thought her leaving was suspicious – we’ve checked the local hospitals, mental homes, deaths, all the public records we have available. The real problem we have with your mum’s disappearance is that she doesn’t seem to have confided in anyone before she left. We really struggled to know where to start looking; usually somebody knows something or at least has a clue – we all leave tracks – but we just drew blank after blank. I’ve done a few of these before and all I can say is that your mum didn’t want to be found. She told no-one, contacted no-one, and even after all this time either no-one knows or no-one’s telling.’
‘Surely someone must know something,’ said Helen. ‘All these years, if she isn’t dead, she must be somewhere. Did she move away, change her name – surely if she changed her name there would be a record of it somewhere?’
‘You’d like to think so wouldn’t you, but we’d have to have some idea of where she went to,’ said Natalia. ‘There’s no central register of names changed by deed poll. You can register them, they call it enrolling – but it’s expensive, with all kinds of terms and conditions and for obvious reasons a lot of people don’t bother. There are only about 250 enrolled deed polls issued annually, whereas the deed poll service issue about 50,000 unenrolled deed polls per year; the problem is their records are confidential and not available for public inspection.’
‘So she could just have gone somewhere and changed her name and you’re saying no-one would know?’
Natalia nodded. ‘More or less. According to the deed poll service all she would need to have done was to have it witnessed by someone independent: a friend, or a neighbour or someone she worked with.’
Helen stared at her. ‘So you’re saying someone must know where she is?’
‘Yes, but we can’t find them.’
Mrs Handley topped up the tea. ‘I never met your mother but the whole street knew about you and your dad; it must have been hard for you growing up without her. Hadn’t she got family around here?’
‘No, or at least none that I ever really knew. My mum was an only child. I’ve got some vague memories of her taking me to see her mum but I can’t really remember her clearly.’
Natalia pulled a notebook out of her bag and flicked through the pages. ‘Lavinia Hope Thornton,’ she said. ‘Her husband, John, your granddad, died just before you were born. And as you said your mum was an only child. We think your grandmother had a weak heart, which was why she only had the one child, and she was in her late thirties when your mum was born. Lavinia died just before your mum left as far as we can tell – progressive heart failure.’
‘Do you think that’s what made my mother leave?’ asked Helen.
Natalia shrugged. ‘We really don’t know, and we’ve got no way of finding out.’
Helen sighed. ‘Something must have made her do it. Things were different back in those days. You just didn’t up and walk out on your husband and child,’ Helen said, glancing around the room. ‘It was so strange when I was little; it was like she had just walked out of the door and vanished into thin air. I always remember that there weren’t any photos of her around the place. Not even one of their wedding. When I came back for my dad’s funeral it was one of the things I was hoping to find when we cleared the house. Photos, letters, postcards …’
It was Natalia now who looked expectant. ‘And did you find anything?’
‘No, not a thing, not really – not in the way I had hoped. He had all these shoes boxes with his filing in them, all his documents, but no photos – I did find their marriage licence; she was nineteen when she got married and he was thirty. Amelia Constance Hope.’
‘And she was twenty-seven when she left?’
Helen nodded. ‘It seems so young now. He always used to call her Amy. I remember him calling her once when I was with her in the yard hanging out the washing. I keep thinking that she had her whole life ahead of her. A whole life without us.’
‘And you hadn’t come home before then, before your dad’s funeral?’
‘No, I used to ring most weeks to begin with, send him little things – letters, postcards, presents – but it got harder as I got older. I needed someone to love me back and he just wasn’t capable of giving me anything. It sounds so selfish now, doesn’t it
? But he didn’t seem to care one way or the other. In the end I more or less gave up. We had a row, or as close to a row as we ever got, mostly because he was just so quiet. I told him I knew why my mum had left; why she couldn’t bear to stay –’
Helen stopped, realising that everyone in the room was waiting for her to explain the things that they couldn’t fathom.
‘It was him. Just him being himself. Who could live all their life with unbroken silence? The not talking, the one-way conversations? When I first left, to begin with, I used to ring home every week; and I called Harry too, just to let them both know how things were going and how I was. But when I rang home, Dad always made me feel as if I was intruding. Harry was always pleased to hear from me, but eventually that faded too.’
‘Was that when he started going out with Charlotte? Weren’t you two an item?’
Helen reddened. ‘Is that what he said?’
Natalia nodded.
‘I could hardly ask Harry to wait for me, could I? He didn’t tell me about Charlotte straight away. I remember I rang him one night and he sounded odd on the phone; not like Harry at all. It was just before Christmas, I think, and I was in rehearsals. He sounded guarded and I said something like, ‘Have I rung at a bad time? Are you busy, I can always ring back?’ And he said no, but that he wanted me to be the first to know that he had asked Charlotte to marry him and that she had said yes, and he was going to take care of everything.’
‘And how did you feel?’ said Natalia, her body slipping into a listening posture that Helen knew damn well she had learned on a course.
‘Feel?’ Helen said. ‘How do you think it made me feel? To be honest I was stunned. Harry knew what she was like, and it seemed an odd thing to say. I had no idea until then that Harry and Charlotte were dating or even seeing each other, let alone so involved that they were going to get married – but you can’t say that to anyone without risking hurting their feelings. I had no hold over Harry – we never really dated or went out or anything, so I pulled myself together and said something like I was really pleased for them and had they got a wedding list. And he said, “I just want you to be happy, Helen, and I want you to know that whatever happens I’ll always love you.”’