by Holly Seddon
“Okay?” he says, like it’s a question. I fumble for the folded picture of my sister in my handbag, thrust it at him.
“This is my sister, Robin. We’ve lost contact and I need to find her.”
“Is she a fan of Indian food?” He smiles and looks back at the picture. “She seems a bit familiar,” he says, “but I don’t think she’s a customer.” He laughs. “She’s not famous, is she?”
“She is actually, kind of. She’s in a band, was in a band. I’m not really sure now.” I realize that I sound manic and confused, that I wouldn’t give information to me if I were him.
“I was joking,” he says, in a thicker Manchester accent than he had before. “But she’s famous, is she? Well,” he whistles, “I wish I knew who she was, then.”
“So you’ve not served her in here before?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think so but…I’ll ask the others.”
He turns and calls behind him, the beat of the hip-hop merging with his yell. “Rav! Can you come here a minute?” The boy stands back and gestures me inside. “You wanna come in for a bit?”
—
I sit at the table and watch another waiter smooth white tablecloth over white tablecloth over white tablecloth. Gradually a crowd of guys approach me; some of them seem shy and nervous but a few seem amused.
“You’re looking for your sister?” a gray-haired man with a neat beard asks seriously and quietly.
“Yes.” I nod, overeager, and spread the printed picture out in front of me so Robin’s face is disproportionately large compared with all of ours.
“Is this her?” the man asks, flicking his eyes over Robin.
“Yes,” I say, and they all peer in, except for the older guy.
“Why do you think we’d have seen her?” he asks suspiciously.
“She knows you like younger women, Rav,” one of the men at the back of the group says loudly. There are snorts of laughter, but Rav ignores him and keeps his gaze on me.
“She lives around here. I think she might have ordered a takeaway from you once.”
“Hmn,” the older man says, lifts the picture of Robin and holds it up to the light. “Hmn.”
“Not seen her, mate, sorry,” says a tall guy at the back of the group, turning to return to the kitchen, his friend following.
“She does look a bit familiar,” the swan boy says again, hopefully.
The older man shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he really emphasizes the words and pats my hand. “I’ve not seen this lady. But good luck finding your sister.”
The swan boy looks disappointed. I guess there’s not normally much excitement on an early shift folding napkins.
“Thanks anyway,” I say, and ease myself to standing. Even though it was a long shot, I feel my eyes prickle. I cough it away. “In case you remember anything, can I give you my number?”
I leave the young guy holding one of their own takeaway menus with my new phone number written on it, flopping in his hand. As I step down onto the pavement, the gray-haired man appears and relocks the door, holding up his hand to wave solemnly as I move on.
ROBIN|PRESENT DAY
The morning after calling the police, Robin woke up to see Little Chick in his room and Mr. Magpie in the kitchen, doing laundry. Mrs. Magpie had left without the boy.
“Good morning, Mr. Magpie,” she whispered, although really she should call him Henry Watkins now. Mr. Magpie didn’t exist.
Robin watched his apartment on and off all morning as she paced and tidied and then pumped as much iron as she could stand.
She’d done something. She’d actually done something.
The letter box clattered. She took a deep breath and counted her way down the stairs, skipping the final for an equal number.
A bill from the gas board, a statement from the bank and a bright white anonymous letter. She bent and scooped them up deftly. Took them straight to the office on the middle floor. The window overlooking the green was swamped by the heavy curtain and was never to be touched. The front of the house was not Robin’s domain; that was his. The Knocker.
She filed the bills, still in their envelopes. Placed the white letter on the desk, angled it so it was perfectly lined up with the edge. She studied it for a moment. It was thin, very light. A blurred postmark that looked like “Maidenhead,” but she couldn’t be sure. Letters were a trigger for Robin, according to a therapist she’d soon stopped calling. That letter in L.A. just before she’d imploded seemed to confirm the diagnosis.
“You’re a liar,” it began.
There’d been a sweet spot without any post, a few weeks in this house before her address change filtered through and the letter box started to snap again.
She turned this white envelope over. Looked at the gummed flap on the back. So thin, this paper. It would burn in seconds, tear in less. She needed to fix something. Robin’s finger hooked into the gap by the gummed-down line.
This would be the first letter she’d dared open since that one in L.A. over two years ago.
She felt the scratch of its flap, pulling her into the present, shrinking the present to a moment. She closed her eyes, opened them, pushed her finger in more and was about to swipe it open when the knocks came. It was almost like he knew.
The Knocker was back. The glimmer of hope that some vulnerable old man shouting had put a stop to it seemed ridiculously naïve in retrospect.
She froze, then wriggled the envelope off her finger and slid to sit on the floor, pushing herself slowly under the makeshift shelter of the desk.
When the bangs reached crescendo, then dead stop, she resurfaced. The letter sat there, out of the question now. She threw it onto the top of the wardrobe with the others, slammed the door as she left the room and headed up to her bedroom.
From the curtain slit, she could see Henry Watkins and his son still playing in the little boy’s bedroom. It looked normal and happy but it made her feel worse than ever.
He was so good with his child; was it possible that he could be a bad husband and a good dad and they could cancel each other out? Was saving Mrs. Magpie from potential harm worth more than crushing the little boy?
This family wasn’t her problem, she tried to convince herself—it was for the police to decide whether to intervene. This time, she had to let justice run its course without meddling further.
—
After lunch, father and son walked off down the alley, the little boy on his scooter, singing something indistinguishable. Henry Watkins bounded beside him, swinging his arms. Later, his wife appeared in the kitchen. The two adults sat cozily at the table, mugs in hand. Confronted with this peaceful domesticity, regret nibbled at the edges of Robin’s mind. She was almost relieved to see that the police obviously weren’t concerned enough to investigate.
The sky was darkening. Robin was about to leave the room to run herself a bath when she saw the flash of a uniform in the Magpie flat.
TWENTY-SIX
SARAH|1994
I was so excited to show Robin everything I’d learned to love about Atlanta.
When we got home from the airport, Drew was waiting inside. He shook Callum’s hand vigorously.
“You’ve grown!” he said, almost sounding proud.
“Yes,” Callum agreed, nervous.
“We’ll make a real man of you yet!” Drew added. Callum said nothing and the rest of us held our breaths, but Drew walked off to make a frothy coffee with his new machine.
That first afternoon, Callum and Robin wanted to sleep. After they’d gone to bed, I ate my dinner with Mum and Drew like I always did. The visit wasn’t turning out how I’d imagined.
Still on English time, Callum and Robin rose early the next day and were in happier spirits. They’d agreed to come on a tour of the city while Drew worked. Everything was up for ridicule. Robin and Callum were constantly nudging each other, pointing. When I asked, “What?” they said, “Oh nothing, sorry,” and then carried on giggling.
/> That night, we went to the Varsity, and when we pulled up and the voice crackled through—“What’ll ya have?”—they fell apart laughing, while I burned.
I’d written Robin so many letters, had so few in return. Desperate for her to want to visit, I’d painted what I thought was a rosy picture. I’d exaggerated my credibility at school, talked about the horse-riding lessons and ballet classes that Drew paid for. Sometimes I said that if Robin lived here too then maybe she’d get guitar lessons and we’d be able to share a car when we were sixteen. She’d never responded to that.
The third day of the visit, Mum took us to the mall and insisted on buying Robin some new outfits. She refused to try anything on, of course, and forced Mum to buy a bunch of T-shirts for Callum too. “Your husband owes him” was all she’d say as Mum rummaged for the credit card.
On the drive home, while Robin did bad impressions of my city’s sweet and lilting accents, Mum turned up WSB Radio and stared forward while tears dragged lines through her makeup.
ROBIN|1994
Robin doesn’t understand why Sarah likes living here so much. It’s so tacky and loud, the singsong accents sound fake and everything is big and ridiculous. Except for their mother. She’s still ridiculous, but America has shrunk her.
She made her choice, Robin thinks, although something twists in her tummy when she looks at her mum. But Sarah hadn’t had a choice. Turned out all it took were some new dresses and a fancy school and Sarah’s allegiance was swayed. She was in Drew’s thrall. Like mother, like daughter.
Drew ate with them a couple of times, and then they all sat on the deep sofas in the den, watching TV comedies with canned laughter.
“He’s not seen you for over a year,” Robin said to Callum yesterday. “Shouldn’t he be spending time with you?”
“Believe me, I’d rather it was this way,” Callum retorted, flicking his hair out of his eyes.
It’s the last night, and after a floppy pizza in a downtown Italian place that, despite herself, even Robin had loved, Drew asks Callum to “watch the game” with him.
“Which game?” Callum asks.
“American football. A real man’s sport.”
“That’s like rugby, isn’t it?” Callum asks cautiously.
“I think it’s better,” Drew says. “I didn’t know you were into rugby, Callum.”
“I’m not.” Callum shrugs.
“I quite like rugby,” Robin adds, as she follows them into the den.
“This isn’t for girls,” Drew replies. “Apart from this one anyway.” He jokily jerks his thumb at Callum, who stares at him.
“Don’t say that,” Robin says, narrowing her eyes.
“Don’t bother, Robin,” Callum whispers.
“You’re like a little Jack Russell, aren’t you?” Drew says to Robin as he sits himself in the reclining leather chair in front of the big screen. “But you don’t need to defend him, I was only joking.”
“Yeah, but you’ve made digs at him since we got here,” Robin says. “And that’s when you’ve bothered to speak to him at all.” She doesn’t move when Drew rises back up to his full height and stares her dead in the eyes.
“What did you say to me?” he asks.
“Robin, please,” Callum whispers, looking at the door.
“I said you’ve either picked on Callum or ignored him when you should be fucking glad he’s your son.”
“You’re crossing a line here, young lady. You’re in my house, lecturing me about my son—”
“And whose house were you in when you started shagging my mum? My dad’s? Or Hilary’s?” Robin shouted.
“You really are a mouthy little shit,” Drew says, shaking his head, the veins on his neck bulging.
“Dad!” Callum springs in front of Robin. “Don’t talk to her like that.” Callum is trembling. Drew’s nostrils flare but he doesn’t say anything.
“How dare you? We invite you over, guests in our home—”
“Guests in your home?” Callum spits. “I’m your son! I’m not supposed to be a guest in your home, I’m supposed to be part of your family.”
“Cal,” Robin says, tugging his sleeve, her own rage turning to something else. “Let’s just go,” she says quietly to his shoulder. Callum brushes her hand away.
“But you never could accept me as your family, could you, Dad?” Callum is on a roll now, his breath coming more rapidly, his fists clenched in fury. “Couldn’t accept that a son of yours could be like me. Well, I’m who you got. Congratulations. And you can consider this my coming-out party.” Callum turns to Robin quickly. “Let’s go now,” and she nods.
“You bloody what?” Drew shouts. “You bloody what? You’re standing here in my house and telling me that you’re a pervert?”
“Oh I don’t care what you think anymore,” Callum says, shaking his head. “I really don’t care.”
For a moment no one says anything else. Angela and Sarah have edged anxiously into the doorway, drawn by the loud voices.
“I’m going to pack,” Callum says.
“You stay where you are, boy,” Drew growls, and stalks toward his son. “I knew it. I bloody knew it. I tried everything to straighten you out,” he says quietly. “But it was all for nothing.”
Neither says anything and Callum turns to leave.
“You’re a disgrace,” Drew says to his son’s back as Callum finally storms up the stairs.
Drew marches out of the den, snatches his keys from the hall cabinet and slams the front door so hard, plaster dust flutters to the floor.
Robin glares at her mother. “How could you choose that man?” she says. “How could you do this to us?” She starts crying and is furious at her body for it. “How could you leave Dad for someone like that?”
“I’m sorry,” Angela says quietly. “I don’t know what to say.”
—
Sarah has slipped away. She’s taken the stairs two at a time and gone into Callum’s room without knocking. She’s watching as he throws his clothes at and around the suitcase, not really getting many in there.
“Callum,” she says, and he stops for a moment and then carries on.
“Callum, I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say.” She turns to go.
“Is he kind to you?” he says. It’s a matter-of-fact question asked in a trembling voice.
“Yes,” Sarah says.
“He’s never said cruel things? Or punished you unfairly?”
“No.” Sarah shakes her head.
“Honestly?” Callum says. “Please, Sarah, be honest.”
“Honestly,” she replies. “He’s never laid a finger on me.”
“So it really is just me, then.” Callum nods and carries on throwing clothes ineffectually. “Right,” he says. His voice newly crisp, razor sharp with anger.
“I’ll go,” Sarah says.
Callum says nothing.
—
Sarah and Angela take Robin and Callum to the airport the next morning, the radio babbling on low and no one managing to say very much. Drew stays in bed. “It’s his day off, and he works very hard. Your dad’s got a lot of work stress at the moment,” Angela says to Callum without looking back. “So he’s a bit tightly wound.”
“Tightly wound. Right,” says Callum. He doesn’t say another word on the ride to the airport, briefly accepts Sarah and Angela’s awkward hugs goodbye without making eye contact and picks up both suitcases.
“I’ll miss you, love,” Angela says.
“No you won’t,” says Robin, unsmiling.
TWENTY-SEVEN
SARAH|PRESENT DAY
I dreamed last night that Violet had forgotten me. That I’d found her living with another family. That I’d said to her, “I’m so glad I’ve found you.” She’d looked at me with her bright little eyes and said, “Hi, who are you?”
My nights are peppered with dreams like this, but this one lay heavy with me all morning. I sat at the table like a zombie, eating cold, dry toast and gagging. I h
ave to do something.
I’ve found a phone box that still takes coins, a rarity. I’ve written down Jim’s mother’s number, and I tap it in carefully on the cold steel buttons. The smell of pee turns my stomach but I can’t stop.
I put on a Georgia accent when Jim’s mother answers, the only other accent I know. This will be harder than I thought. Just hearing her voice in my ear makes me close my eyes to scrunch away the image of our last meeting.
“Hey there, is this Mrs. Galway?”
“Yes it is, to whom am I speaking?” Good, she doesn’t know it’s me. I take a deep breath, try to smile as I speak. Play the role. Just play the role.
“My name’s Crystal and I’m calling from Robinson’s Toy Company in Atlanta. You’ve been selected to take part in an exclusive competition—”
“I’ve what?” Her telephone voice is the most grating and haughty voice I’ve heard in my life, but I ignore it. I pump more coins in just in case—I can’t have the phone-box beeps giving me away.
“You were put forward by the team at your local Marks and Spencer, from a pool of their best customers.”
“Oh I see,” she says, less frosty now.
“And with only one hundred entrants, you have a great chance. Did I tell you the prize?” I ask, knowing I didn’t but trying to steamroller her cheerfully.
“No, but, wait, who did you—”
“The prize is a hamper full of toys and beautiful dressing-up clothes for one lucky child.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, it’s a glorious prize. I just need to ask a few questions to make sure you’d win the collection that suits you best.”
“Well, okay, but this won’t be passed on, will it? I don’t want junk letters.”
“Not at all. This is a very special thank-you for your loyalty as a shopper, that’s all.”
“Okay, well, I suppose—”
“So would you hope to win a boy’s prize or a girl’s?”