by Alex Morgan
The muscles in her chest tightened. If only she had made a bit of effort, just pretended she was serious about a national place, he would have done it. He would have made the grade. There was no doubt about that. But she hadn’t wanted it for herself, and that had stopped him reaching the very top. It was down to her selfishness. The more they won on the tandem, the less Pete raced alone. Whenever she asked why, the answer was always the same: we’re twins, we’re a team. Before long, his solo was just for training when they couldn’t get together. They were Team Tyndall and there was no room for anything else, no possibility of individual success. It was almost as if she and Pete were two halves of the same person, as if she represented the feminine half of him – the part he couldn’t own himself.
Her ribs had become a straightjacket. Her lungs were filling with concrete. Pete could have been a famous sportsman if it wasn’t for her. An Olympic medallist. A celebrity. Her breath caught in her throat; there was nowhere for it to go. She looked down at her hands gripping the glass. The nails and the ends of her fingers were turning white. What else had he missed out on because of her? What might he have achieved? What kind of life might he have had? The voices and laughter of the evening strollers were far away now; the sound of the sea lapping on the pebbled shore a distant whisper. The outline of her hands was blurring.
“Breathe. C’mon Paula, breathe.” Pete’s voice was urgent in her head. “Long, deep breaths; let the air in, really fill your lungs. That’s it, good girl.”
“Are you all right?” Andy asked.
She willed her muscles to relax. “Yeah, I’m okay. I’m fine.” She rolled the stem of the glass between her palms. “Pete was gay, you know.” The words were out before they had a chance to register in her brain. “We never discussed it but I’m pretty certain he was. Isn’t it awful that we never discussed something so important?”
“Did he have a partner?”
“I don’t think so. He had a few girlfriends over the years but they never lasted. I told myself it was because he hadn’t met the right person, but that wasn’t it at all. They were just camouflage. I think he was afraid I wouldn’t approve.”
“Why would he think that?”
“Something happened a long time ago, something I saw. He knew I’d seen him. He saw my face. But …” She looked pleadingly at Andy. “It was a shock, that’s all – such a shock that for a long time I misremembered what I’d seen. It was just so unexpected. I wouldn’t have disapproved of him being with a man, though. I just wanted him to be happy.”
“I’m sure he knew that.”
“Did he? It’s so sad that he never got the chance to be with someone he really cared about.”
A tendril of hair fell across Paula’s eyes.
Andy tucked it behind her ear. “He had you.”
“It’s not the same though, is it?”
A long pause before Paula said, “He would definitely have liked it here. The quiet roads, the countryside, the beach, the people. Sanders would have made him laugh.”
“Why didn’t he come here with you when you were children?”
“He went to France with Ollie’s family. I was so angry with him for abandoning me,” she said quietly. “I was determined to be completely miserable, but then one day on the beach I made friends with Minnie.”
“Was she on holiday too?”
Paula thought for a moment. “No, she was local. She lived with her mum in a flat just off Main Street. Down a little alleyway. Isn’t that funny? I can remember where she stayed. Tall, white buildings in a courtyard. But I’ve no recollection of the house we rented.”
“That’s memory for you,” Andy said.
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and looked at him. “I’ve been thinking about the dreams. You know, I still believe there’s a reason for them. The little girl – Minnie – seems to want to talk to me but we never do. The dream’s different every time, but that part doesn’t change. Now there’s Bill Thompson, who used to look after the donkeys on the beach – I think he wants to harm her in some way. And she’s got a black eye. It really doesn’t feel like random memories. It means something, something important. I just don’t know what.” She sighed. “Does that sound mad?”
“It doesn’t sound mad at all. If it feels significant to you, then it is.”
Paula shivered. “It’s getting chilly.”
He took off his fleece and put it round her shoulders.
She kissed his cheek. “Thank you, kind sir. Oh, there’s the Terrys.” She waved to Nora’s husband, who was walking towards them along the sand strip with Terry Two trotting at his heels.
He waved back. “Hi, Paula. How’re you doing?”
She smiled. “Getting by.”
She introduced the men and they shook hands. “Any update on Bovis?” she asked.
“Aye, I bumped into the vet in Adrian’s shop this morning. Bovis is doing really well. She’s a tough old thing.”
Terry checked his watch. “I’d better get the wee fella home. I’ve got a pick up at Westwick station in twenty-five minutes.”
“Say hi to Nora for me,” Paula said.
“Will do.” He scooped the terrier up under his arm and strode off towards his gate.
Andy began flicking through the annual again. Suddenly, he stopped turning pages. “I don’t believe it,” he said.
“What?”
“Did you write in this earlier?”
“Write in it? No, why?”
He held out the open book. “Sanders said there was something interesting.” At the bottom of the left-hand page someone had scrawled in a childish hand, Paula Tyndall was here. 1992.
“Bloody hell. It looks like my writing when I was a kid. How could I have written in Sanders’ book in 1992?”
Andy turned to the frontispiece. “That’s how. Look.” An adult had written, “This book belongs to Minnie Clapperton.”
Paula’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God. Clapperton. That was her name. Minnie Clapperton. What is Sanders doing with her annual?”
“He probably found it in a charity shop.”
“I suppose. That’s where he gets half his clothes. But isn’t that a weird coincidence?”
“It is a bit. You’re still shivering.” He stood up. “A walk will warm you up.”
They were passing the Co-op when Paula stopped. “There! It was that alley over there. That’s where Minnie lived.” She took Andy’s hand. “Come on.”
She pulled him across the road and down the narrow gap between the buildings. It opened out into a cobbled courtyard lined with flat-fronted, white-harled tenements each with three storeys.
“These look old,” Andy observed. “They could be eighteenth century.”
Paula glanced around. “It was upstairs, but I’m not sure which one. They all look the same.” She had been invited for tea one day, trailing back from the beach tired and sandy-legged with Minnie and her mother. They propped their spades against their buckets and took off their shoes on the landing outside the front door. The doormat was rough on her bare soles and the hall smelled like cabbage. She and Minnie sat on high stools at the kitchen counter, feet dangling, and her mother gave them slices of pie filled with mince and gravy. There was lettuce too, but no dressing like at home, and the plates and tea cups were pale green. Minnie’s mother sprinkled salt on the lettuce, which made it gritty on her tongue.
Andy read the names over the bells beside the nearest door. “There’s no Clapperton here.”
“They probably moved on years ago.”
“There’s no harm looking.” He checked the next building. “Bingo! Agnes Clapperton lives on the first floor. That could be Minnie’s mum. Do you want to ring?”
Paula went over. “I don’t know. I need to think about it. I feel like I’ve heard the name before though.”
He squeezed her hand. “Why don’t we go back to the flat and open the other bottle of wine?”
As they turned to go, Paula spotted a famil
iar shape in the gloom of the alley. “Sanders, is that you?” she called.
He emerged into the courtyard. “Hiya Paula, hiya Andy. Did you like the annual? Wasn’t that funny about your name?”
“Where did you get it?” she asked urgently.
“It was Mum’s.”
“Do you know where she got it?”
Sanders shrugged. “Dunno. A shop, I suppose, or maybe it was a present from my nan. I’ve got to go – she’s at work and she wants her cardi.” He took a key out of his pocket and walked over to the door Paula and Andy had been looking at.
“Your nan’s not Agnes Clapperton is she?” Andy said.
Sanders turned round. “Aye, why d’you want to know?”
“I remember now,” Paula interrupted. “Bill Thompson said that was her name. This is getting way too strange.”
“Does your mum have a sister called Minnie?” Andy asked Sanders.
“She doesn’t have any sisters. Anyway, her name’s Minnie.”
“Don’t tell stories, Sanders,” Paula snapped. “Her name’s Carole.”
“I’m not telling stories,” he replied indignantly. “It’s Carole now, but it used to be Minnie. She changed it when she had me. She said she couldn’t be a mum called Minnie.” He grinned. “Geddit, Minnie-mum – minimum.”
“Be serious for a minute. Your mum used to be Minnie Clapperton?” Paula checked.
“Yes, but Carole’s her real name. No one ever used it because she was so little, like Minnie Mouse. But then she wanted to be more grown up so she stopped being Minnie. She hasn’t been called Clapperton since she was ten. That’s when Nan got married again, to Denzil McCormack.” He leaned towards them conspiratorially. “Mum says he ran off with a barmaid from the Steam Packet on her twelfth birthday and broke Nan’s heart. Nan didn’t change their name back in case he got sick of the barmaid and came home, but he never did. They live in Glenrothes now with six Rottweilers, and Nan’s gone back to Clapperton.”
Paula clutched her head. “Your mum, Carole McCormack, was Minnie Clapperton? All this time I’ve been dreaming about your mum.”
She was sitting at the kitchen table in her running clothes eating an apple when Andy came through. She had woken early, slipped out of bed while he was still asleep, dressed and tiptoed out to take her usual route along the sand to the cliffs.
After the warm fug of skin and sweat and sex in the bedroom, the air had been fresh and cleansing in her lungs, making her breathing easy. But inside her head, the chaos was worse than ever. Images from the dreams jostled for space as she ran: Minnie on the tandem with Bill Thompson, Minnie disappearing into the alleyway, Minnie with a black eye.
“Focus.” It was Pete’s voice again. “Concentrate. Stay on the balls of your feet. Stay light, stay in the now.”
“Stay in the now,” Paula repeated aloud. “Stay in the now.”
Soon there was only the familiar slap and suck of trainers on damp sand, the spring and stretch of muscles, and the cries of the gulls circling above. Soon she was out-running them all: Pete, Minnie, Bill Thompson. She was on her own, her mind free and clear, her thoughts her own once more. That was when she realised. By the time she was back at the steps, she knew exactly what the dreams meant. No wonder Sanders’ nan was cross when he told her they had seen Bill Thompson on their visit to the donkeys.
“Shall I do you some eggs?” she offered as Andy filled the kettle.
“No thanks. I’ll just have coffee and cereal. I need to get on the road.”
“But you’ll be back up next weekend?”
He wrapped his arms around her. “Sooner if I can palm off a couple of bookings. What are you planning for today? Are you going to bury your nose in the papers?” He pointed to Scotland on Sunday and the Sunday Herald lying on the table.
“I’m going to see Minnie,” she said.
Two little girls
Carole peered round the front door, revealing the make-up stained collar of a white towelling dressing gown. Her hair was tangled and her eyes smudged with old mascara. She looked even paler than she had at Nora and Terry’s.
“I wondered when you’d turn up,” she said sourly.
“Can I come in? I need to talk to you,” Paula said.
“I don’t think so. I’m not interested in what you’ve got to say.”
Carole moved to close the door, but Paula stuck her foot in the gap. “Please.”
“Didn’t you hear me? I said I’m not interested. Now shift.”
“I heard you, but I’m not moving till you let me in. I’ll stand here all day if I have to.”
“Fine, have it your way. I’m not providing a floorshow for the neighbours.” Carole stepped back and opened the door fully. “Kitchen’s through there. Make some coffee while I get dressed. I cannae do this without caffeine.”
The small kitchen was clean but untidy, with dishes, open cereal packets and magazines cluttering the work surfaces. A patch of brown vinyl flooring had worn away in front of the back door, revealing the concrete underneath. It reminded Paula of being in Pete’s flat. She filled the kettle and went through the cupboards until she found a jar of instant coffee and a set of mugs decorated with cartoon kittens playing with balls of wool.
A page from a 2011 Brad Pitt calendar was taped to the fridge. Someone – probably Sanders – had blacked out half his teeth and drawn a bikini top on his naked chest. On the varnished pine table, a note in Sanders’ writing balanced against a bottle of orange squash said, Gone to Nans back 4 lunch.
Paula was putting milk in her coffee when Carole reappeared dressed in jeans and a T-shirt with the slogan Keep staring – I might do a trick. Her sandy hair was scraped back in an elastic band, and she wore purple and white striped socks but no shoes. She looked like a slightly older version of Sanders.
Paula held up the milk bottle.
Carole nodded and sat down. She retrieved a packet of John Player Specials and a plastic lighter from under a dog-eared copy of Hello. “I’m surprised it’s taken you this long to come round.”
Paula carried their mugs over and sat opposite her. “I only just realised.”
Carole’s hands shook as she lit her cigarette. She lifted a pile of ironing to reveal the sugar bowl, and added two heaped spoonfuls to her coffee. “Sanders said he told you everything.”
“Sanders?”
“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” She drew on her cigarette and regarded Paula through the smoke. “To tell me what a crap mum I am? How his problems are all my fault? He’s always making friends with visitors. Before I know it, I’m getting a lecture on how I’ve fucked his life up.” She took a mouthful of coffee. A vein pulsed in her temple. “Well, let me tell you, Paula, you don’t know what it’s been like for Sanders and me. You’ve no idea. But, whatever.” She waved her hands in a gesture of dismissal. “You don’t care about that.”
“But …” Paula began.
“Just hang on. You can have your say in a minute, if it makes you feel better. It won’t bother me. I’ve heard it all before. The only difference is it’s usually kids he pals about with, not grown ups. Next thing Mum and Dad are on the doorstep telling me I shouldnae let him run around at all hours on his own, that he’s leading their little angels astray, talking nonsense, telling lies …” She shook her head and took a couple of quick puffs. “But why shouldn’t I let him? He won’t come to any harm round here, and so what if he talks rubbish half the time? It doesn’t matter. It’s just Sanders. They don’t know about him. They don’t know what it’s like not being able to make friends with the local kids because he doesnae want them to find out.” She looked hard at Paula. “But he trusted you. He told you everything.”
Paula nodded. “He did.”
“You probably know I was a drug addict. Everybody does,” Carole went on, hardly pausing for breath. “But that isn’t what caused his condition. Of course, I blamed myself. I thought it was a punishment. I cried every day for months. But you cannae cry forever; yo
u have to get on.”
She blotted up some stray sugar grains with her finger and dropped them into her coffee. “No one knows why PAIS happens. And yes, when Sanders was born I could have decided who he should be. Mibby it would have made things easier for him, but would it have made him happier? I don’t know. What if I’d got it wrong?” She gazed past Paula to the curtain-less window and the overgrown garden beyond. “In the old days, that’s what the doctors did – chose them a sex and let them live with it – but that’s not how they do it now. Most doctors let kids like Sanders make their own choice, and I was happy with that.”
Carole leant forward. “There’s enough people wanting to tell you how to behave, what to think. That’s why I give Sanders his freedom. Most people think he’s just a strange kid. Some know there’s something a bit different, but only a handful know exactly what it is.” She took another gulp of coffee. “At least, that’s how it was until the gala. His life’s going to get even harder now, poor little bugger.”
She stubbed her cigarette out on a saucer as if she was crushing the life out of a particularly loathsome insect. “It was going to anyway. He’s got to choose soon, but it’s his decision. I won’t interfere and I won’t let anyone else …”
“My God,” Paula said. She felt suddenly queasy. “You wrote that note. You were trying to warn me off.”
Carole stared at her. “What note?”
“The one that was put through my door threatening to tell the police I’d molested him. I thought it was Sanders then I realised it wasn’t his writing.”
“What are you talking about?” Carole lit another cigarette. “I don’t care what you think about me, but Sanders likes you and you’ve been kind to him. I’d never make a threat like that.”
Paula sipped her coffee. It was tepid and bitter. “But who else could have written it?”
Carole shrugged. “There’s no shortage of evil people around.”