The Mum Hunt

by Gwyneth Rees

  If our mother was still here, she could go and give Matthew a cuddle like in that photo we’ve got downstairs, and then she could go and give Dad a cuddle too and everything would be all right again.

  I heard a sudden noise downstairs, and for a freaky moment I actually thought my mother might have jumped right out of that photograph of her and Matthew on the mantelpiece, just because I’d wished for it. If this was a movie, that could happen. But real life isn’t like the movies and when I crept out on to the landing to look, I saw that the hall light was on and Juliette was there, hanging up her coat. She was wearing her shimmery blue dress and her blonde hair was shining under the light. I waited for her to climb up the stairs and as soon as she reached the landing, I grabbed her arm.

  ‘Why are you not in bed?’ she whispered. ‘What is happening?’ She looked in alarm at the closed bathroom door. Dad’s voice was audible now, talking quietly to himself on the other side.

  I dragged Juliette into my bedroom. Quickly I told her what Matthew had done. ‘I think he did it because of what you said, Juliette,’ I said. ‘To prove he isn’t scared to take a risk. Only Dad was really mad at him and they had a terrible row.’

  ‘What a silly boy,’ Juliette sniffed. But she looked pretty worried, just the same.

  ‘Dad’s really upset too. He’s been in the bath for ages, talking to my mother,’ I whispered. (Dad does that sometimes when he’s worried about anything. He’s a bit like me that way, I guess.)

  ‘He is what?’ Juliette looked like she thought I’d gone mad.

  ‘Come and listen.’ I led her back on to the landing and moved up close against the bathroom door, pressing my ear against it.

  Juliette paused for a moment, then did the same. After a couple of seconds she stepped back. She looked horrified.

  ‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’ I whispered, stepping back too. ‘The way he still talks to her and tells her stuff. I think it’s really romantic.’

  ‘Romantic?’ Juliette shuddered. ‘She has been dead, how long, your mother?’

  ‘Eleven years and seven months,’ I said. Juliette already knew that really. Dad had told her that my mother had died giving birth to me. It’s not something I like to think about very much. In fact, normally, it’s the one thing I never want to talk about. Somehow, though, tonight was different. Suddenly, I wanted Juliette to hear the whole story.

  ‘She died an hour after I was born. Well, before that really, but that’s when they stopped trying to resuscitate her.’

  Juliette looked at me as if she knew that this was something I didn’t tell most people about. ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly. Dad says something went wrong that doesn’t usually go wrong and they couldn’t stop the bleeding. She never even got to ask if I was a boy or a girl. Dad said she wanted me to be a girl though.’

  Juliette moved me gently away from the bathroom door. ‘What a terrible way for him to lose her.’

  ‘And me,’ I reminded her. ‘I lost her too.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, frowning. ‘You lost her too.’ She looked as if she was about to say more but instead she got distracted by the muffled sobbing noises coming from Matthew’s room next door. ‘Matthew is that upset?’

  ‘Dad hit him.’

  ‘But that is terrible! Your father should not be hitting him!’

  ‘I know, but Matty was being horrible to Dad.’

  ‘I think I had better go and see Matthew.’

  ‘You’d better not. He hates it if people see him crying. He’ll only be horrible to you too.’

  Juliette shrugged. ‘I was horrible too when I was a teenager. It is normal.’ As she left me to go to Matthew, she paused. She turned back and said softly, ‘Go to bed now, Esmie. I will see you in the morning.’ Before I had time to reply, she had turned to face Matthew’s door again. She knocked and even though he didn’t say, ‘Come in,’ she went in anyway.

  I tried to go to sleep but I couldn’t. Not while everyone else in the house was still awake. I tossed and turned for a few minutes, but when I still continued to hear Matthew and Juliette’s muffled voices in the room next door, I couldn’t resist any longer.

  I went and stood outside my brother’s door.

  ‘. . . of course he should not have hit you!’ Juliette was saying. ‘No matter how angry he is. No matter how tired. No matter how worried about you. He should not have hit you.’

  ‘He stresses too much about everything! It’s his own fault!’

  ‘Well, you and Esmie are all he has. It cannot be easy being alone with no wife to support him. And when we are stressed, we make mistakes.’

  ‘Juliette?’ I pushed open the door. I didn’t want to be alone any longer. I wanted to be part of this.

  ‘Esmie, I thought you were in bed!’

  ‘I can’t sleep,’ I said. ‘Please can I stay for a little bit?’ I screwed up my face into my most begging expression. ‘Please, Matty?’

  ‘NO!’ my brother barked.

  ‘Wait, Matthew,’ Juliette said. ‘I think maybe this is important for Esmie to hear too.’ She shifted to make room for me beside her on the bed even though Matthew was still scowling at me. ‘Now, tell me more about this argument in the car. What did you say that made your father so angry?’

  ‘I can’t remember,’ Matthew grunted.

  ‘You said, “If you can’t handle the stress, you should get another job, then, shouldn’t you?”’ I recounted, helpfully. ‘Only you said it more nastily than that!’

  ‘I did not!’ my brother protested, flushing bright red.

  ‘All right,’ Juliette put in, quickly. ‘Matthew, obviously whatever you said was very . . . very . . .’ She frowned as she struggled to find the right word.

  ‘Aggressive?’ I suggested, ignoring my brother’s glare.

  ‘I was going to say hurtful to your father’s feelings, no?’

  ‘Dad hasn’t got any feelings!’ Matthew said, scornfully.

  ‘Of course he has feelings! He just keeps them hidden most of the time. In France we tell each other how we feel and it is much better! Still . . . What you must do, Matthew, is tell him you are sorry and then he will tell you he is sorry and you can both talk about it and make friends.’

  ‘No way!’ Matthew said. ‘Not after what he did!’

  ‘Nobody wants to say they are sorry,’ Juliette replied. ‘But sometimes we must. You will have to learn that, Matthew, if you do not want to lose the people in your life that you care about.’

  I was staring at her. I’d never thought before about how you could lose people you loved without them dying, just because you were horrible to them. That’s when I noticed Dad standing in the doorway. He was in his dressing gown and his hair was sticking up where it had got wet in the bath.

  ‘May I join the meeting?’ he asked, jokily.

  Matthew looked up at him and Juliette quickly stood up as if she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t. I stood up too.

  ‘I didn’t mean to hit you, Matthew,’ Dad said, taking a couple of steps into the room. ‘I’m sorry about that. I’d just been so worried about you. All sorts of things had been going through my head about what might have happened to you. That’s why I lost it.’

  My brother swallowed. He looked at Juliette, then back at Dad again. After what seemed like forever, he mumbled, ‘I’m sorry too.’

  We all stared at each other in silence for a few moments, and you could almost hear the house creaking.

  ‘You’re still grounded for the staying out late part, in case you were wondering,’ Dad added, sounding pretty stern again. ‘Don’t you ever do that to me again, you hear? You want to scare me to death, or what?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Matthew muttered again, avoiding Dad’s eyes.

  ‘Come on, Esmie.’ Juliette took me back to my room, leaving them together. As she watched me climb into bed, she looked deep in thought. ‘I will try and think how we can get this Elizabeth and your father together, without Mat
thew having to do something he does not want to do.’ And she kissed the top of my head and quickly left my room before I could tell her what I knew for certain now. That I wanted her to be my stepmother, not anybody else.

  ‘I have been thinking about this problem of the first contact,’ Juliette said, the next morning as she washed up the breakfast things. If Dad was the one washing up, I’d have had to dry them and put them away, but since Juliette thinks it’s more hygienic to let dishes drip-dry, I was just sitting watching her.

  I stared at her. First Contact? Had I missed something? I mean, I know I’m not big on watching the news but so far as I knew the earth wasn’t about to be invaded by aliens from another planet or anything.

  ‘I have decided to make the first contact myself,’ she added, holding a soapy dish under the tap. She always leaves the cold water tap running to rinse the soapsuds off each dish after she washes it, which she says is something that all French people and sophisticated English people do. Personally, I think it makes a huge mess splashing water everywhere but there’s no point in arguing with Juliette when she’s got a rule about something.

  ‘How do you mean, first contact?’ I asked, still thinking about aliens in flying saucers.

  ‘I shall phone this Elizabeth myself!’

  I gawped at her. ‘You’re kidding!’

  ‘I shall do it now,’ Juliette said, decisively.

  ‘But Juliette, you can’t phone her!’ Why couldn’t Juliette see that she and Dad would be perfect for each other, if only they’d realize it? ‘What are you going to tell her, anyway? That Dad doesn’t really want to meet her but we’re going to trick him into it?’

  ‘Of course I will not say that! Here! Finish these.’ And she handed me the dishcloth and headed towards the fridge where she snatched off the sticker with Elizabeth’s phone number on it.

  ‘Juliette! You can’t!’ I gasped, dripping soapy water all over the floor as I followed her out to the hall where she picked up the telephone to dial the number. I tried to grab the phone but she pushed me away.

  ‘Hello?’ she said, and I could feel my heart pounding. She grinned at me. ‘Perfect. It is the answering machine.’ Then she listened for a few more seconds and started to speak into it. ‘Hello, is that Elizabeth? I have been asked to give you a message by my boss, Detective Inspector . . .’ She paused and began again. ‘Sorry! I am meant to say that this is a message from the singing detective.’ She paused again, more dramatically. ‘He has been trying to get in touch with you but could not get through. He has booked a table for lunch tomorrow – Sunday. This is at the new French restaurant near the town hall. You know it? He is sorry not to be able to speak to you directly but he could not get through before and now he has been called away today with his work and he does not know when he will get the chance to phone again. He thought he might not have written down the right number for you. I think it is just that he cannot read his own writing! I can hardly read his writing! He says if lunch tomorrow is not convenient you can phone him at home tonight. His number at home is—’

  ‘Juliette!’ I hissed, making a second attempt to snatch the phone away from her, but she carried on, giving our number apart from the last digit which she gave as six when it’s really zero.

  I stared at her. Was she mad?

  ‘The table is booked for one o’clock and he says he will meet you in the reception area of the restaurant. Thank you. Goodbye.’ And she put down the phone.

  ‘Juliette, are you crazy?’ I nearly shouted at her. ‘Dad hasn’t booked any restaurant – and that’s not even our phone number – and—’

  ‘I have everything under control,’ she interrupted me. ‘I will book the table and then all we have to do is persuade your father to take you there for lunch tomorrow. That shouldn’t be difficult as he will still be feeling guilty for what happened with Matthew. And since I will tell him they are having a special French-speaking day at this restaurant tomorrow and it will be very good for you and Matthew to practise your French, I think he will agree, no?’

  ‘But, it’s meant to be a date?’ I protested. ‘She isn’t expecting me and Matthew to turn up too!’

  ‘No, but as you walk in the door, you and Matthew will spot her and you will tell your father what we have done. He will be too embarrassed to leave her standing there and he will have to speak to her. You and Matthew can come back home and leave them. If she is nice, then your father will get on with her and all will be well!’ She smiled super-confidently.

  ‘Juliette, it’ll never work!’ I protested. ‘Dad’ll kill us if we do that! And anyway, what if she doesn’t turn up?’

  ‘Then we have no problem. We just say that I must have been mistaken about the French-speaking lunch.’

  ‘Well, what if she phones him back?’

  ‘Ah, but she cannot. I have made a mistake with reading your father’s handwriting. His zero, it looks like a six, no?’ She was so pleased with herself, she looked like she could go floating up to the ceiling at any minute, just like Mary Poppins.

  I just gaped at her. She was incredible! And that’s when I completely flipped.

  ‘Juliette why are you doing this?’ I shouted at her. ‘Why are you doing this when you and Dad could get together and then everything would be perfect?!’

  ‘Pardon?’ She said it the French way with the emphasis on the end bit, looking as if she thought she must have misunderstood me.

  ‘You and Dad would be great together, Juliette,’ I said, grabbing her by the arm. ‘You have to stop this lonely-hearts thing. It’s just silly. Dad doesn’t want to meet anyone that way and I don’t want him to either. I want him to get together with you!’

  ‘Esmie, are you serious?’ Juliette’s expression was one of complete disbelief, as if I’d just suggested she get together with King Kong. ‘Me and your father? You are really thinking this?’

  ‘Yes, Juliette!’ I replied, enthusiastically.

  ‘But, Esmie . . .’ She was gaping at me now. ‘I do not like him in that way!’

  ‘Maria didn’t realize she loved the Captain until the Baroness told her she did! ‘I said. ‘You just have to give it a chance!’

  ‘Maria? The Baroness? Esmie, what is wrong with you?’ She frowned and peered suspiciously at my eyeballs as if she thought I might be on drugs or something.

  ‘It was in The Sound of Music,’ I explained. ‘You know! That film we saw about the nun who goes to look after the children and ends up falling in love with their father. Maria looked just like you – except you’re not a nun! And Holly says lots of women marry men who are much older than them! Actresses sometimes marry men who are old enough to be their grandfathers. Holly saw this wedding in Hello! magazine where—’

  ‘Esmie, I am not marrying anybody’s grandfather, OK?’ Juliette sounded impatient now. ‘I don’t know why you would think this. Does your father know that you have this ridiculous idea in your head? Because if he finds out he will not be pleased! And I am not pleased, either!’

  ‘Dad likes you, Juliette,’ I said, stubbornly.

  ‘Rubbish! I can tell if a man likes me in that way. Anyway, I have a new boyfriend now. I met him when I was out dancing last week.’

  I felt like I’d been slapped. ‘You can’t have.’ My lip was beginning to tremble.

  ‘His name is Peter. He is English but he is very handsome. He is taking me out on a date next weekend.’

  I stared at her. I couldn’t speak. How could she do this to Dad? How could she do this to me? How could she start acting like a mother and making me get to love her and then tell me she was going off to be with someone called Peter instead of with us?

  ‘Esmie . . .’ Juliette put her hand on my arm but I pushed it away roughly.

  ‘I hate you!’ I screamed at her, and I ran upstairs away from her as fast as I could.

  I lay on my back on my bed and held my mother’s photo in my hand. I really stared at it, looking for any details I hadn’t seen before. Her eyes looked happy as t
hey looked at whoever was taking the picture. I realized now that I’d never asked Dad anything about the day that photo was taken. I didn’t know whether he was the one who had taken it or what they were doing in the countryside that day or anything like that. The photograph had been in my bedroom for as long as I could remember and I’d never seen any other copies of it. I don’t think I’d ever thought before about it being just a snapshot of my mother’s life like all the other pictures of her in the numerous photo albums we had. I’d always thought of this particular photograph as sort of . . . I don’t know . . . sort of containing my mother, I suppose. Once, when I was much younger, I’d taken the frame apart and looked in the back of it almost expecting to find her there. When we were little, we’d had a nanny who read The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe to me, and instead of imagining the backs of wardrobes opening up into strange magical lands, I had started to imagine opening up the back of my mother’s photograph and being able to jump inside it into her land, wherever that was. But when I’d opened up the back there hadn’t even been a scrap of paper with a message from her inside. If I was writing a storybook, that’s what I’d make happen. I’d make my heroine open up a photograph of a person who was missing and she’d find a secret message from them there and then she’d be able to go and find them.

  My mother looked young in the photograph. Dad told me once that it had been taken even before Matthew was born. My mother was wearing a white shirt and blue jeans and she was leaning against a gate with a field stretching out behind her. I thought about how Juliette never wears white because she doesn’t think it’s a very flattering colour. Well, she was wrong. She was wrong about lots of other things too, like how cats are cleverer than dogs, and how salads are meant to be eaten at the end of a meal, not on your plate with everything else.