by Maria Goodin
It’s a narrow three-story house with a grubby white exterior, wedged between a dubious-looking liquor store and a Greek café. Five or six smelly trash bags are piled up on the pavement outside, flies buzzing around them in the afternoon sun. I look at the flier I am clutching, checking the address three, four, five times. Yes, this is definitely number 15. I should already be standing on the doorstep, banging the rusty knocker. So why am I hesitating?
What if this is it? I think. What if the person who answers the door is a long-lost relative? An aunt or an uncle I never knew I had? A cousin? What if it really is my father? The minute I knock on that door my life could change forever. But that’s exactly what I want. That’s what I’ve always wanted.
Isn’t it?
I hear my phone ringing inside my bag and rummage around trying to find it before voice mail kicks in. What if it’s my mother? What if she’s had another turn? What if it’s the doctor saying she’s collapsed? Perhaps I should just go home. Perhaps this just isn’t the right time to be doing this.
But the name that flashes up isn’t my mother or the doctor. It’s Mark.
I hold the ringing phone in my hand, but I can’t bring myself to answer it. I know that Mark would not be impressed by my hesitation. In my position, he would be banging on that door, running through a list of prepared questions with the owner, checking things off, interrogating, noting down clues, getting to the bottom of things. I hear Mark’s words echoing in my mind. You need to do something—anything—to bring this ridiculous situation to an end, Meg. And you need to do it now. Because soon—
“I know,” I hear myself say out loud. “Don’t say it.”
***
The owner of the house balances a screaming baby on one hip and eyes me suspiciously.
“I don’t really get what it is you want,” she shouts in an American accent over the noise of the bawling baby.
That makes two of us, I think.
She must be wondering if I’m mentally unstable, turning up out of the blue, showing her a twenty-one-year-old scrap of paper with her address scrawled on it, asking her if she ever knew my mother or—seeing as she’s barely any older than myself—whether her mother might have known my mother. Or her father, for that matter. Or anyone she’s related to. Or maybe it was the person who lived here before her who knew my mother. Does she know who they were? Has she ever heard of Valerie May?
It turns out that all her family live in Texas and have never been to England (which seems to be the source of some anger), that she has lived in the house for six months and has no idea who previously lived here, and that Valerie May is not a name she has ever heard of, although she does think it’s very pretty.
“Are you trying to track down your mother?” she asks, looking sorry for me.
“Oh, no, I live with my mother. I’m trying to find out if she once knew someone who lived in this house.”
“So can’t you just ask her?”
“It’s quite complicated.”
“Has she got memory loss?”
“Erm…something like that.”
“That’s terrible,” she shouts, patting the baby’s back quite hard. “My grandmother had that. She kept telling everyone she was a hula-dancing champion.”
I smile and give a little laugh to be polite. But then I think it might be impolite to laugh at her senile grandmother, so I stifle the laughter instead.
“Sounds like she was confused,” I comment, just to sound interested.
“Oh, no, she really was a hula-dancing champion. It was just the fact that she kept telling everyone that got annoying.”
The baby lets out an ear-piercing screech, but the woman seems unperturbed and just pats its back even harder.
“Oh! Is it your father you’re trying to track down?” she shouts, her face suddenly lighting up as if she now understands the situation.
“Not really. Although that would be great. It’s more…anyone really. Anyone who might know…anything.”
“Anyone who might know anything,” she repeats, looking confused.
This is ridiculous. I sound like a complete idiot.
“I’m not sure I can help you,” the woman shouts over the noise of the baby. I nod gratefully to communicate that I had already worked this out but that I am thankful for her patience anyway.
What do I do now? I wonder. It would seem logical to say thank you and walk away, leaving this poor woman to get on with her day. But instead I just stand there awkwardly.
So that’s it. It’s all over already. There was no one at this address who could tell me anything. I didn’t find my father. Or anyone who could help me. I didn’t find anything at all. No matter how many times I told myself this was probably a pointless exercise, no matter how much part of me wanted to give up before I had even started, for reasons I still don’t fully understand, I realize now how much hope I had. Deep down I realize I really did believe this would lead me to some answers.
“Have you come far?” the woman asks, spying the sadness in my face.
“Cambridge.”
“Oh, wow! Where the university is, right? I’ve never been there. You’ve come such a long way!”
When I tell her Cambridge is only forty minutes on the train from the station at the end of her road, she doesn’t believe me, so I end up getting my train timetable out and showing her. She still doesn’t seem to believe me.
“I always forget what a tiny country this is!” she shouts.
She asks me about the university and the cathedral and the famous Crown Jewels. I tell her she’s thinking of the Tower of London. It turns out she hasn’t been there either.
“It’s been so lovely to meet you,” she says ten minutes later, as if this has been a well-organized social occasion. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of any help.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, and by this time I am so sick of listening to the baby screaming that I actually mean it. Any sadness about my failed quest for information has been put on hold, my main concern being to get away with my eardrums still intact. I am tempted to ask if there’s something wrong with the child.
Just as I am descending the steps, the woman shouts, “You could try the landlord. Tony.”
I stop and look back at her.
“You rent?” I ask.
She pulls a rubber pacifier out of her pocket and puts it in the baby’s mouth. Finally he is quiet.
“Oh, yeah,” she says, jigging the now-contented baby up and down. “It’s not actually my house. Didn’t I mention that?”
***
Sheltering from the noise of the traffic in the doorway of Chicken King, I dial the number for Tony the landlord. It’s not an ideal place to make a phone call, with people going in and out, the smell of fried chicken sporadically wafting out the door, but I don’t dare wait any longer, because I know exactly what will happen. I will start doubting myself again, telling myself there is no point to this, that it won’t lead anywhere, that I should be at home. Or, alternatively, I will start getting overexcited, believing that it is the key to everything and that one single cell phone connection is all that is separating me from the long-awaited truth. I really have no idea why I have so many confusing feelings about this, and I’m getting increasingly annoyed with myself. It should be perfectly simple. I want some information. Tony the landlord might be able to give me that information. And in order to speak to Tony, I need to make this call.
“What now? I’m trying to take a shower!”
“Err…hello…is that Tony?”
“Joan?”
“Err…no. My name’s Meg May. I…um…I got your number from the lady at fifteen Gray’s Inn Road—”
“Oh, I thought you were the wife. You’re not from the council, are you? I already said I’d sort out that smell—”
“No, no. I…I know this is a strange question, b
ut I’m trying to get in contact with whoever lived at that property about twenty years ago. Well, twenty-one years ago, to be precise. I know it’s a long time, but I was wondering if you owned the house then, and if you did—”
“Get in contact? This isn’t bleedin’ Friends Reunited.”
“No, I just—”
“How am I meant to remember that?”
“I just…I’m sorry, I was trying to track someone down, and I came across this flier at home for some band called Chlorine, and on the back there was this address—”
“Oh, crikey! You’re not a groupie, are you? Blimey, I haven’t had one of you lot call me for donkey’s years. Look, I’m not giving you the number for fizz, or Fuzz, or whatever the heck he used to call himself. He moved out a long time ago, and I haven’t seen him since. All right? So good-bye—”
“Wait!” I shout, although I’m not sure why. Something seems to have just come together, though I haven’t had time to work out what.
“So this band,” I say, working it through in my head, “Chlorine. They used to live at that house?”
“Oh yeah, they used to live there all right. Might have been about the time you’re saying, come to think of it. Causing a racket day and night. Smashed up the bloody kitchen. The damn drummer threw a TV out the window once and nearly killed a homeless person down on the street. And then there were these two young groupies who went and moved in with them. Right messy business, it was.”
“Groupies? You mean two young women?”
“I’m hardly going to be talking about blokes, am I? Mind you, not even young women, really. Just girls. Barely out of school. And one of them had a bleedin’ baby! I tried to evict the whole lot of them, but turns out the drummer had a bloody law degree and—”
“Sorry, did you say baby?”
I put a finger in one ear and moved closer to the wall, trying to block out the noise of a garbage truck passing slowly by.
“Yeah. Tiny thing it was. Poor mite.”
“Whose baby was it?”
“How am I meant to know? Could have been any one of them. These lads, you know, once they’re in a band, tight trousers and all that malarkey.”
“But what about the mother? Who was the mother?”
“I dunno. Long as I get the rent, what do I care who bleedin’ lives there? I don’t know who the girls were. Just a couple of gymslip groupies, one who had obviously got herself knocked up by someone in the band. She didn’t stay long, though, the one with the baby. And I don’t blame her.”
“Do you know where she went?”
“Do I sound like someone who gives a monkey where these people go? Look, if you want to know the ins and outs of it all, just go ask the guys yourself.”
“But how—”
“You’ve got the flier for one of their gigs, haven’t you?”
“Well, yes, but it’s ancient.”
I hear a deep, rasping, smoker’s laugh.
“You don’t really think a bunch of no-hopers like that ever moved on, do you?”
***
It takes me fifteen minutes to walk to the Frog and Whistle, during which time I swing from being convinced that I am on the path to finding my real father, who was probably a musician in a band called Chlorine, to being convinced that I am simply wasting my time and should probably just go home. By the time I arrive at the pub, I am sweaty, confused, and have a large ice cream stain on my top from bumping into a woman with an orange lollipop. I have been offered drugs, accosted by a beggar, and nearly run over by a taxi running a red light. Really, I just want to go home. But what if I’m getting somewhere?
I can’t give up now.
The Frog and Whistle doesn’t look nearly as cheerful as its name might suggest. In fact, it’s old and dingy, with tinted windows and a peeling door. I linger outside, wondering whether it’s really necessary to go in. So what if a young girl and a baby lived in that house? I ask myself for what must be the one-hundredth time. It could have been anyone. Why on earth would my mother have been living there anyway? But then, why would she have a flier with that address on it if it didn’t—
“Oh, just go inside, you idiot!” I snap.
An old man who has been struggling to open the pub door turns and looks at me with wide, startled eyes.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean you,” I say quickly, opening the door for him by way of an apology.
I am beginning to see why Mark gets so frustrated with me at times. There are only two ways to go: forward or backward. What’s so hard about that?
Impatiently, I shuffle inside after the old man, shocked that anyone who moves so slowly still bothers to leave the house, and am immediately struck by the stench of stale smoke, beer, and urinals. I can’t believe anybody would choose to spend time in here, and judging by the fact that the pub is practically empty, I’m not the only one who feels that way. The only customers (apart from the old man, who has sat down at a table in the corner without even buying a drink) are a man in a flat cap with a Rottweiler and a woman with a beer gut, a pint, and the words Hot Stuff printed on the seat of her tracksuit trousers. It’s dim and dreary, the only redeeming feature being that at least it’s cool.
I quickly approach the bar, hoping to make my visit as short as possible.
“Excuse me, do you know of a band called Chlorine?” I ask, getting straight to the point.
The barman, a flabby middle-aged man in a white-gray vest, looks up from where he is slumped across the bar, studying a photo of a scantily clad woman in a tabloid newspaper spread out in front of him.
“What’s the capital of Turkey?” he asks drearily.
“I’m sorry?”
“Turkey. What’s the capital?”
He places the end of a pen in his mouth and chews lazily on it.
“Ankara.”
He looks down, and I realize he’s actually attempting to complete the crossword.
“That can’t be how you spell ‘phlegm,’ then,” he mutters, crossing something out.
“Goal!” shouts the old man from his table in the corner.
He is staring at a large TV screen on the wall, which, much to my confusion, is showing snooker.
“All right, Jimmy?” shouts Hot Stuff from her bar stool, winking flirtatiously at the old man.
I have got to get out of here quickly.
“I heard that a band called Chlorine sometimes plays here. Is that right?”
“Yeah.” The barman yawns, throwing his pen down on the bar and stretching his arms up in the air. The bottom of his vest rises up, and I try to avoid looking at the tire of white flesh that hangs over the belt of his jeans.
“I’m trying to get hold of them. You don’t happen to have a contact number, do you?”
The barman nods slowly. “Yeah.”
He picks up his pen from the bar, and I prepare to grab the number and leave. But instead of writing the number down for me, he puts the pen up the bottom of his vest and uses it to scratch his belly.
“Can I have the number?” I ask, feeling slightly sick.
The barman shakes his head lethargically. “No.”
“Goal!” shouts the old man again.
“Shut up, Jimmy,” mumbles the man with the Rottweiler in an Irish accent.
“Why not?” I ask.
“Women,” says the barman, as if this is an explanation in itself.
“I’m sorry?”
“Wizz says don’t give his number to women.”
“Wizz?”
“The singer.”
“I’m not some sort of groupie—”
“Are you after child support?”
“No! I’ve never even met them. I just want to contact them because they might have known my mother a long time ago, that’s all.”
“Is she after child support?” The
barman looks me up and down lazily. “Because you might be a bit old for it.”
“Nobody wants child support,” I say slowly and clearly. “I just want to get in contact with one of the band. Any one of them will do.”
The barman leans on his newspaper and stares vacantly at me. I wait for a response, but I’m sure his eyelids are actually closing. I think he might be falling asleep.
“So can I have a number?” I ask loudly.
His eyes snap open. “No. Can’t. Women.”
“No, I’m not—”
“Goal!” shouts the old man.
God, this is hopeless.
“How do you spell ‘phlegm’?” drawls the barman, staring at his paper.
“I don’t know,” I nearly snap, “I just need a number—”
“F–L–E–M,” shouts Hot Stuff.
“You sure?” says the barman, putting the end of his pen inside his ear and jiggling it around.
“Forget it,” I mumble, turning and walking out of the pub.
“They’re here last Friday of the month,” says the Irishman with the Rottweiler as I pass his table. He’s staring into his pint, so it takes me a moment to realize he’s talking to me.
“I’m sorry?”
“Chlorine. Last Friday of the month, they’re here, if you’re trying to get hold of one of them.”
“Oh.”
I am so tired and confused that for a moment I’m not sure if this is a good thing or not. I had just decided to give up this wild goose chase, and now it seems the challenge is back on.
“Thank you,” I tell the Irishman, “that’s very helpful,” although I’m not sure if it is.
As a gesture of gratitude, I lean down and tentatively pat the top of his dog’s head. It growls at me, baring the sharpest teeth I have ever seen, and I jump backward, clutching my hands close to my chest in case the dog tries to bite them off.
The Irishman doesn’t even look up from his pint.
“Last Friday of the month,” I say, shaken, backing toward the door as the dog glares angrily at me. “That’s great. What a stroke of luck.”
“Not really,” mumbles the Irishman. “They’re here last Friday of every month. Nowhere else will have them.”