by Holly Seddon
It was eight o’clock in the morning for Sarah, but Robin had been awake for five hours already and was full of birthday bounce.
“Thank you. Happy Robin and Sarah Day,” Sarah said, her voice muffled and a little sleepy.
“What did you get?”
“I don’t know yet,” Sarah said, and laughed a bit. “Mum’s at the gym and Drew’s gone to work.”
“Oh.” Robin flickered her eyes at Callum, who was perched on the stairs but didn’t know how to interpret the look.
“What did you get?” Sarah asked in the space that had opened up.
Robin took a deep breath and then launched into it. “Some T-shirts from Dad and Hilary, Lemonheads CD from Cal, ten pounds from Phil in the pub that he gave Dad last night and Dad says he probably won’t remember and not to say thanks or he might ask for it back. And a box of makeup from Mum,” Robin snorted. “Did you tell her to send that?”
“What do you think?”
“If she asks next time, tell her I want—”
“She never asks. You should just tell her what you want.”
“Yeah, right.”
“What else?”
“The best bit…drumroll…Cal!”
“Yeah?” he replied softly.
“Do a drumroll, please,” Robin commanded, and Callum slapped a fast beat on his knees.
“I go-o-o-o-t…”
“Yes?” Sarah chided, a toss-up between amused and annoyed.
“A guitar.”
“Oh nice. I thought you had a guitar?” Sarah asked.
“Yeah, I’ve got Dad’s old acoustic guitar, but this is a proper guitar. An electric guitar with—I’ll have you know—an amp and…drumroll again, Cal…a whammy bar.”
“Oh great. What’s that?”
“It’s like a stick screwed into the guitar and you pull it when you play a chord and it makes it go…” Robin launched into an impression of vibrating rock guitar noises, and Callum smiled to himself and walked off into the kitchen to leave her to it.
Callum had been playing the guitar awhile longer than Robin.
He’d had piano lessons since he could first sit up on a stool, and because of his early exposure to music and hours of excruciating practice, Callum found it easy to pick up other instruments. He learned guitar methodically, as he had the piano. As he did everything. Robin thought she’d have a go too. She’d picked up her dad’s scruffy old acoustic guitar from the garage, got Callum to tune it and started learning how to play along with him by ear.
Sarah’d had to endure an audio update every phone call since, but Robin improved rapidly between the calls.
Robin’s dad had been shaken when Sarah couldn’t come because of a snow blizzard in Georgia. He’d been playing it cool but casually mentioning to Robin the things that they would do during Sarah’s stay, picking up presents for her with Hilary’s help, making a little truckle bed to slide out from under Robin’s so Sarah had her own proper bed to sleep in. Practical Dad stuff. When he’d gone to the airport, driving faster than Robin was used to, he’d bounded out and practically run into Arrivals. Her plane was not on the board. He worried he’d gone to the wrong terminal and went to ask someone who worked there. When he found out she wasn’t coming at all, he’d looked at Robin aghast, like he was waiting for his daughter to know what to do or say. What could she do? What could any of them do?
Robin was glad Hilary was waiting for them when they got home from the airport. Hilary was good at extinguishing drama. She’d hugged Jack and Robin, made tea, called the airline.
Robin had cried into her flannel in the bath for an hour, then sat on the sofa scowling through her wet hair. “Come on,” Callum had said, linking his arm through Robin’s and tugging her into the hall to put on jackets. “We’re going to the petrol station.”
“Why?”
“Wait there a sec.” He’d thundered up the stairs, his long legs and big feet barely fitting on the steps. A few moments later he was back down, patting his back pocket.
They trudged through the village in silence, icy water running down Robin’s neck. Everywhere she looked, Robin saw something that had changed since Sarah’d left, something she could have shown her. The new white wood cricket pavilion, which someone had already drawn a dick and balls on in marker pen. The big rock that had been dug up at the quarry down the road, seemingly at random, and stuck out in front of the village hall. A sign said it was PROBABLY OVER A MILLION YEARS OLD. The vagueness of the claim creased Robin and Callum up every time they read it. “You’re probably over a million years old,” they would often say to each other, out of the blue. Sarah could have joined in the joke.
The wind was biting, but there was no snowstorm here. The idea of her sister being stuck in some kind of extreme adventure while they just trudged past the million-year-old boulder seemed to make no sense.
“Right,” Callum said, as they pushed open the door to the petrol station mini-shop.
She’d glowered at him. “Yeah?”
He pulled two folded notes from his back pocket.
“Where d’you get that cash?” she asked accusingly.
“It’s the rest of my Christmas money,” he said, and before she could interrupt to ask more questions, he added, “We’re going to buy every guitar magazine they’ve got, and whatever’s left will buy as many bags of sweets as we can cram in before we puke. Okay?”
She’d smiled then, for the first time since the ride to Heathrow.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know. I want to.”
“You’re all right, you are.”
“And you’re probably over a million years old.”
TWENTY-ONE
SARAH|PRESENT DAY
I use the computers at Sale Library, a big red-brick building with glass doors. I’m allowed thirty minutes and use them as wisely as I can.
I search the Web for Robin but there’s nothing new. I search Twitter, an alien territory for me, and find several accounts from people with similar names, many of which have been unused or have lain dormant for a long time. One account, “RobMarshallGuitar,” looks promising but is far more likely to be some male, middle-aged, potbellied heavy-metal fan than my sister.
I search “how to find someone’s address,” but the results are mostly American or talking about IP addresses. Just as I’m about to leave, I look for “RobMarshallGuitar Manchester,” and the one search result is for a review website. A scathing verdict on a curry house—the Spice Lounge—in Chorlton, which hadn’t followed the specific instructions about delivery. Could it be?
Just before my library computer time runs out, I find the address of the Spice Lounge and head back to the B&B, where I put on an extra sweater and then ask at reception which way it is to Chorlton.
If this curry complainant was really Robin, the frustrating thing was that she hadn’t been happy and wouldn’t have ordered again. I couldn’t call up as Robin Marshall and ask for the usual, check the address they have. No gifts from God like that here; it would take more effort. I need to remember to eat, to keep my blood sugar stable, so I stop into a corner shop for a Mars bar, something I haven’t eaten since I was a child.
The walk to Chorlton will take at least an hour. “It’s fine,” I say to the concerned B&B ladies, “I’ve got nothing better to do today.” I’ve got nothing better to do full stop, not until I can move on to the next step.
ROBIN|PRESENT DAY
It’s March 20. For the seventh year running that means something. And for the first time in seven years, Robin has been too distracted, too haunted by the ghosts of the present, to feel the anniversary looming.
Last night, she’d sat in her bedroom in the dark, curtains open. Against her bedroom door was propped a chair to keep it closed. An old trick Callum had used as a kid, when he was scared of his dad getting in. Taking out his fucking “executive stress” on his little boy. With the lights off and the curtains open, Robin had a clear view over the roof and into all of
the flats opposite.
She had a flask of coffee at her feet, a phone charger and a flashlight.
She’d stayed curled on the windowsill, her only company the strangers opposite. Mr. Magpie had looked over once. She thrust her chin up, glared at him angrily with a steeliness that wobbled when she saw that he was holding his son’s soft toy in his arms like you’d cradle a baby.
Robin awoke hours later with her forehead pressed hard against the glass and the morning sun leaking under her eyelids.
She sat up with a start, confused by the shape of her own body. She was utterly exposed, framed by the window and on full display like the Amsterdam prostitutes she’d laughed at while on tour. She dropped out of sight, checked her phone. It was eleven minutes past six. And it was Sunday, March 20.
A thousand years ago or seven. The length of time didn’t make a difference—the bruise of guilt and sadness was permanent. It came at her as hard as it ever had, while she crouched on the floor of her bedroom and stared at the date on her phone.
She’d been coming offstage at a festival in Melbourne when she got the call. It was still summer in Australia, and everything was pink and orange and sticky. Mums and dads and toddlers had watched the band play from the shade of parasols, a polite audience in the morning before the real fun started.
Adrenaline still coursing, Robin had been wringing her T-shirt out with one hand and checking messages with the other. There were several missed calls from UK numbers and texts from her sister asking her to call back. Robin hadn’t known that Sarah had her number.
Sickness mingling with adrenaline, Robin called the old house and left a message on their answering machine. Sarah phoned back a few minutes later. It would have been around midnight in Berkshire.
“Hello, Robin,” she’d said.
“Hi,” Robin had said. She knew it was bad news. You don’t get a flurry of calls and texts from a family you barely see if it’s good news. “Is it Dad?” she’d asked.
Sarah had made a little strangled sound. “I’m sorry, Robin. It is. It’s Dad.” She’d started to cry without clearing anything up. “We didn’t want to tell you while you were away, but then he got pneumonia and it all happened so fast.”
Hilary took the phone from her and started to speak in a strangled voice.
“Darling, we didn’t expect it to happen this way. I’m so sorry.”
Still knowing nothing much, Robin sank down to rock on her heels. “What’s happened?” she asked, unsure if she really wanted to know. Couldn’t she just go back onstage, stay there forever and hide from whatever Hilary was about to say?
“A few weeks ago, he found out why he’s had some breathing problems. He had a terrible cough and it wouldn’t shift. You know what he’s like, he had to be strong-armed into the doctor’s, but, well, they found something.”
“Cancer?”
There was a pause and the slight break in Hilary’s voice as she said, “Yes, cancer. It was in his lung.”
“Was? Have they taken it out? Did he have an operation, can I see him?”
“Oh,” Hilary said. “I’m so sorry.”
There was a brief exchange of words on the other end that Robin couldn’t make out.
“Robin.” Her sister, Sarah, again. “Look, you were away and we didn’t want to worry you. We were going to call you as soon as you got back and get you round to see him so he could tell you everything himself.”
“Were?” Robin said, covering her eyes from the pink sun.
“He got ill really quickly. He was home and it all happened fast. We thought it was just a cold, that he’d be okay for a while yet. But—” She broke off, and in the background Robin could hear, “No, it’s okay, I can do it, let me tell her.”
Sarah carried on, her voice catching. “He died, Robin. I’m so sorry.”
“My dad’s dead and I’ve missed my chance to say goodbye? My dad’s dead? Dad’s dead?”
“Yeah” was all Sarah said. Robin stood up again, kicked the dirt with her boot and squinted at the sky, realized people were watching her. “I have to go.”
The adrenaline had fully seeped away, leaving Robin standing in waves of heat, walking on the cracked pinky-red soil of the VIP area, hot phone in her hand. Her dad was dead. She behaved badly. She didn’t cry right away but had sat on the earth for a moment, before leaping up because it was too hot. She had found her way to the VIP beer tent and asked for a bottle of water, drained it, asked for a beer, drained it, then threw up. She didn’t tell the rest of the band until that night, when they gave her awkward hugs and bought her more drinks. Alistair, who’d known her dad the longest, stayed up drinking and smoking with her. Cried a few tears too.
Over the next few days, as Robin trudged silently through pre-planned photo ops and interviews, there had been text messages with times and arrangements.
The funeral. A week away. Which had seemed like ages, until you factored in a twenty-four-hour flight time, with stops.
Robin still did the press stuff, since no one said she could miss it and she was too numb to ask. She’d sat next to the others, staring blankly, laughing robotically, giving slow and stop-start answers. In the middle of a radio show, she was asked how much she’d enjoyed the Melbourne music festival, and when she started to cry, Alistair wrapped an arm around her to muffle the sound.
The flight from Melbourne to Sydney was fine. The flight from Sydney to Hong Kong was fine. Then there were a few hours to kill, time for Robin to buy a black outfit for the funeral. She’d never picked something like that for herself before. She walked into the main shopping bit of Terminal One and panicked. It was almost all designer clothes, beautiful handbags on pedestals in the middle of shops and delicately lit mini-boutiques where no other customers were wearing jeans. She went into Gucci because she vaguely knew that they did clothes in black.
She found a black dress and jacket, bought them without trying them on and forgot she needed shoes. As she walked to find coffee and lunch or breakfast or whatever-time meal it was, the only shoe shop she could see was Jimmy Choo. At least she’d have a proper neat outfit, she’d thought, even though it was extravagant and uncomfortable.
The flight from Hong Kong to Heathrow was delayed. As the gate opening time slid further away, Robin and others waiting had been put up in hotel rooms near the terminal. Some people’s giddiness at the bonus stay was palpable. Others, like Robin, who were bored skinless of traveling, trudged onto the airport mini-bus like they were headed to the executioner’s block.
For the next twelve hours Robin lay in bed wearing an old T-shirt and knickers, eating room service, drinking beer from the mini-fridge, watching weird TV and just weeping.
She’d thought of her dad up a tree, where he’d spent most of his waking adult life. She thought of his concentrating face as he worked, of the green patches he always had on his work trousers, of his hair, which was gray and curly but plentiful. She thought of his giddiness when he spotted a rare bird, dragging them out to see even though no one shared his interest. How they’d laugh when he pointed to a blue tit or great tit, and he’d pretend not to notice.
Robin had tried to count how long it had been since she’d seen him in weeks and months. The months ran to years. She wept so hard that she got a migraine and nearly missed the rescheduled flight.
When she finally touched down in England, there was an hour and a half to go before the funeral started. She’d joined the long shuffle to get through security and tried to call a cab before realizing that she didn’t know any local numbers. In desperation and post-migraine exhaustion, she’d called and asked a PA from the record company to arrange for a car. She’d explained it was for her dad’s funeral, that she was running late and needed to get there fast. With forty-five minutes left to get to Birch End, Robin stepped into the Arrivals lounge to find a chauffeur holding her name on a thick pink card.
He’d taken the trolley loaded with suitcases, wordlessly pushing it through the sliding doors toward the car park. T
he freezing cold slapped her cheeks.
They’d sent a fucking limousine.
The thing Robin knew about limousines, besides being ostentatious and broadly less safe than any other cars, was that they’re slow.
With no other options, Robin had struggled into her dress and new shoes in the back of the limo, in the slow lane of the M4. She’d texted everyone whose number she had to try to explain, to plead with them to wait. She eventually rolled up, taken almost to the church door—past the hearse—just as Sarah and Hilary were giving up and going inside. Robin had stepped out carefully onto pinprick shoes and tottered slowly up the last of the cobbled path.
“I’m so sorry,” she’d said, reaching for Hilary awkwardly to try to hug her. She ended up pulling her black handbag from her shoulder.
“Are you drunk?” Sarah’s eyes had widened.
“No, new shoes,” Robin said. “I didn’t have much notice,” she’d added to Hilary, still cross that she’d been kept in the dark for weeks. Cross that Sarah was living so comfortably in a shared past that Robin had been excluded from, had no place in. Furious that Sarah had not once asked if Robin was okay, considering her only chance to say goodbye to their dad had been dashed away.
“You’re here now,” Hilary said. She had blusher on the sharp ridges of her cheeks, pale lipstick and no eye makeup. Her eyes were red-rimmed. Robin thought about the way Hilary had looked when they first met and wondered why she hadn’t noticed the changes over the years.
—
Robin pays close attention to everything she can see now. She can’t see much, but she studies it like it’s her job. She’s learned just how much can fall away and fall to pieces when she closes her eyes. Over the last few days Robin had continued to watch Mr. Magpie roaming his empty flat, refusing to close her eyes and look away.
Watching in mute, Robin imagined the awkward exchanges when Mrs. Magpie dropped off the little boy, saw the change in the man when his son was there.
Mr. Magpie was getting thinner, and slower. There seemed to be a light on all day and night. Sometimes she’d see a man’s shape in the little boy’s bedroom, when the little boy wasn’t there.