by Isla Dewar
At the back of the final file, at the bottom of the third cabinet, after Z for zealot (there was only one, a man who’d taken to living on the streets and spent his days standing on corners shouting about the end of the world, which he claimed was nigh), was a huge bundle tied with dark blue ribbon and labelled Nope Not Telling. These files, as far as Martha could tell, were details of searches that had been successful. But Charlie was keeping the results to himself. For the record, these people were still missing.
It took Martha all afternoon to empty the cabinets and sort the files into alphabetical piles on the floor. Every so often, she’d open a file and sit on the rug reading it. It was strange comfort to find people who, like her, were struggling with rejection, loss, upset. And were walking through a new silence, staring at the phone, watching for the mail, caught in a time of waiting.
By four o’clock her back ached. She sweated and cursed and told the dog how awful this was. He looked doleful, but interested. Three times Charlie phoned. Was the gas definitely off? Would she remember to post the report and the invoice? Would she please take the record off the turntable and put it back in its sleeve. Carefully.
The man was a worrier.
7
The Smell of a Mother
By half-past five she was done. In her last job she’d have been entitled to overtime. She doubted that would happen at the Be Kindly Missing Persons Bureau. She didn’t think she deserved any extra cash. She’d done an awful thing – turned a gentle and whimsical filing system into something ordinary and boring.
‘That’s what I did with the songs,’ she told Murphy. ‘I took the sting out of them. I have a sweet voice. My “Away In A Manger” made ’em weep at the Sunday school nativity play. But it did nothing for “Great Balls Of Fire”. I wasn’t cool. No soul. I wanted to be a wild-haired boogie queen, a woman whose voice could make grown men weep. But there’s nothing rock’n’roll about me.’ She sighed, put on her coat. ‘My old friend Grace, now.’ She nodded to Murphy. ‘She was in the band. She could belt out a song. She’d shut her eyes and tell the world about love, loss and loneliness like she’d been there and back many times. What the hell was that about? She was good-looking and rich. She had it all. Where did that pain come from? God, she could sing the blues.’
She checked the gas was off, made sure the guard was firmly fixed in front of the fire, took the record from the turntable and, without touching the grooves, put it in its sleeve. Then she switched off the lights and stood at the door patting her pockets. ‘Keys, gas off, fire guard on, record player off, record put away. I’m turning into Charlie.’
She locked the door and out in the street tapped the nameplate. Walking home she scolded herself for being boring. She’d been a boring leader of a rock’n’roll band. Nothing original. No wild clothes. Didn’t write our own songs. Couldn’t even play our instruments very well. Except Grace. Then I got married and I was a boring wife. Keep your marriage alive, it says in magazines, by wearing nothing but a suspender belt and black stockings when your husband gets home. I never did that. And if I had, I doubt Jamie would have noticed. Or he’d have asked me if I wasn’t a bit chilly with no frock on.’
She stopped. ‘Murphy.’
The dog. She couldn’t leave it there alone. How could a man so concerned about checking the gas was off forget about his dog? Cursing, ‘Bloody man, bloody filing cabinets, bloody dog, bloody, bloody, bloody,’ she stamped back to fetch Murphy.
The dog looked unsurprised to see her. He lifted his head, yawned and settled back to sleep. Martha found a leash in one of the kitchen drawers, clipped it on Murphy’s collar and said, ‘C’mon then, let’s go home.’ Murphy jumped from the sofa and trotted out the door at her side. She stopped, patted her pockets. ‘Keys. Gas off. Fireguard on. Record player off.’ Out in the street she tapped the nameplate and set off once again for home.
They’d gone a few yards when Martha became aware of a squeak of unpolished shoe, the soft squish of thick rubber sole on pavement, steady steps behind her. She was being followed. It didn’t bother the dog much, but it bothered her. Ignore it, she told herself, walk on, don’t turn round.
But she did turn round. Persistent footfalls behind her were annoying and frightening. ‘Are you following me?’
‘Yes.’ It was the small man. The one she’d seen this morning banging and kicking Charlie’s door. The one who was listed among Charlie’s dreads.
‘Well, stop it.’
‘No.’ Up close he didn’t look so small. He reminded Martha of a bull – densely muscled. He was unkempt, his trousers crumpled, his tie stained. Here was a man who cared nothing for himself. And nothing for other people. ‘I know who you are.’
‘No, you don’t.’
‘You work for him. I saw you going in there with him. And,’ pointing at Murphy, ‘that’s his dog.’
Murphy growled. A deep throaty rumble that took him by surprise. He looked up at Martha. Was that me? Did I do that? He sat down to consider the matter.
‘He found me,’ the small man said. ‘I was happy where I was with the life I had. Nobody knew me. I was a constant stranger.’
‘And that made you happy?’ Martha thought this an odd admission. Surely it was better to be among friends, familiar faces – people who knew you and forgave your quirks, absurdities and faults, people who may even love you.
‘Of course it did. Nobody criticised me or looked down at me. They didn’t know who I was and they didn’t care. Then Charlie found me and told my wife where I was. She dragged me back home.’
‘Why don’t you just disappear again?’
‘As if. My wife won’t let me out of her sight. She phones my work every morning checking I’m there. My boss thinks it’s hilarious. Everyone’s laughing at me. I can’t go to the pub without her. I can’t go anywhere without her. Except work. All the neighbours know what I did. I ran away. They’re talking about me. Charlie Gavin did that.’
Martha said, ‘Goodness.’ She looked round. ‘So where’s your wife now?’
‘At home, looking at the clock, wondering where I am.’ He dug into his pocket and brought out a small handful of change. ‘That’s my money. That’s what I get every day for fares and lunch. It’s like being at school again. She’s got nothing to worry about. I’m not going anywhere. How far would I get with this money?’
Martha surveyed the coins and said, ‘Not far.’ She turned and walked away. He followed.
‘Go away,’ Martha shouted.
He kept on walking behind her, shoes squeaking.
‘Go away or I’ll call the police.’
Still he followed. ‘Charlie didn’t take me. He takes others. But not me. I was left to cope on my own.’
Martha turned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Rooms and silences. Her and me staring at one another. She hates me for going and not saying I was going or where I was going to. Just upping and leaving. I hate being there in that house. She feels rejected. She’ll never forgive me.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Charlie Gavin’s not sorry. If he was he’d take me. What’s wrong with me that he won’t take me? Tell me that.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You people, you think you’re doing good. But you’re not. You’re ruining people’s lives.’ He jabbed his finger at her, shouted, ‘Bastards.’
Martha walked on. Didn’t turn, didn’t reply. She rounded the corner, and ran. Handbag banging on her hip, heels clicking on the pavement, the dog pounding along beside her, ears flapping. He was enjoying this. She didn’t stop till she reached home. She burst in, slammed the door and leaned against it, panting.
After she’d recovered, she opened the door, stuck her head out and surveyed the street. Nobody.
She went upstairs, took off her coat and draped it on the post and went into the kitchen.
Sophie was at the cooker, working on her latest Elizabeth David recipe. ‘Where the hell have you been? It’s af
ter six.’
‘Working,’ said Martha.
‘You’re all hot and sweaty.’
‘I ran home.’
‘Why?’
‘I was late.’
Sophie spotted the dog. ‘What’s that?’
‘Murphy. He’s a dog.’
‘Where did you get it?’
‘He’s Charlie’s.’
‘And what’s he doing with you?’
‘I brought him home rather than leave him at the office. I thought he’d be lonely.’
‘So, on your first day you work till after six and you take pity on your boss’s abandoned dog and bring it home. What sort of job is that?’
Martha shrugged. ‘One that pays?’
‘You’re being taken advantage of.’
‘What else was I to do? I couldn’t just leave him there.’
‘Of course you could. He’s not your responsibility.’ She took a bowl from the cupboard, and spooned some of the stew she was cooking into it. ‘Does he eat boeuf bourguignon? It’s got wine in.’
Martha said she’d no idea what the dog ate, ‘But judging from his digestive indiscretions, he eats anything.’
‘Digestive indiscretions?’
‘He farts.’
‘Not after my food, nobody farts over my cooking. I wouldn’t let them. It’s just not polite.’
Sophie put the food on the floor and invited the dog to eat. He did, following the bowl as the force of his enthusiastic eating and licking sent it scudding across the floor.
The noise brought Evie to the room. ‘A dog. I’ve always wanted a dog.’ She flung her arms around him. Held him to her.
‘Hello, Mum.’ There was cynicism and disappointment in Martha’s voice. ‘How are you? Did your first day go well? It’s nice to see you.’
Evie stared at her and said, ‘Hello, Mum. How are you? Did your first day go well? It’s nice to see you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Martha. ‘The day was good. Busy but I coped.’ She was still cynical.
Evie tired of the joke, turned to Murphy. ‘Coming to play?’ She headed for the living room. The dog followed.
‘Perhaps,’ Martha sighed, ‘if I had a thick coat and long silky ears my daughter would adore me.’
‘Not if you farted,’ said Sophie. ‘You can set the table. And wash your hands first. And tell me about your day.’
Martha sighed. ‘I arrived early. I typed a report. I sorted out the filing cabinet. Had a good bacon roll in the morning. That was it.’
‘No adventures, then? No tracking down a missing person and bringing happiness to lost souls?’
Martha shook her head and mentally revised her report. I wasn’t told the proper starting time, I sat in a café listening to a song that upsets me, I ruined a sensitive and genuinely interesting filing system, I got chased by an embittered scary man and I learned my daughter prefers slightly smelly cocker spaniels to me. This day so far hadn’t been enthralling.
Charlie arrived as they were sitting down to eat. Sophie let him in. Martha heard him take the stairs two at a time, asking if the dog was here. He burst into the kitchen, spotted Murphy lying at Evie’s feet and sighed. ‘There you are.’
The dog came to him, leaned on his leg and sighed in return.
‘You should have left him in the office,’ Charlie said to Martha. ‘He doesn’t mind. He knows I’ll come for him.’
‘She should do no such thing. A dog doesn’t like to be left alone in the dark. He worries.’ Sophie pointed towards the sink. ‘Well, wash your hands. You can’t eat after you’ve been touching an animal.’
Charlie said he was fine.
Sophie said, ‘We can’t eat with you looking on. Murphy’s had his share, now it’s your turn. Martha, fetch Mr Gavin a plate and a knife and fork.’ Turning to Charlie, she said, ‘Sit down and eat. You look like you need feeding.’
Charlie obeyed.
‘So,’ said Sophie, ‘tell us about yourself, Mr Gavin.’
‘Charlie, I prefer that name.’
Sophie asked, ‘You find people?’
Charlie took a forkful of food and nodded.
‘And how do you do that?’
‘Follow the trail.’
Sophie told him to help himself to veg and asked what sort of trail missing people left.
‘They leave hopes and daydreams and wishes with the people left behind. They have old haunts I can visit. It’s interesting the paths people follow.’
‘I suppose it is,’ said Sophie. She concentrated on her food for a while before saying, ‘You’re not married Martha tells me.’
‘No,’ said Charlie.
‘Have you ever been?’
‘No. It’s a huge step getting married. I don’t know if I could do it. It’s so final, a big commitment. There’d be someone else constantly in my life. I wouldn’t be free. I like to know I can do what I want when I want.’
Sophie said, ‘You’re sounding just like a man.’
‘I am a man.’
‘No reason to sound like one. Marriage is lovely. It’s warm and comfortable. And it’s wonderful to have someone next to you in bed every night. Someone you can heat your cold feet on. You should try it.’
Charlie shook his head, smiled and told Sophie he didn’t believe her.
‘Oh, marriage is a good thing,’ said Sophie. ‘I enjoyed the companionship. But I’ll admit it is messy. You become entwined with your spouse. Close, sometimes too close. There are stains you wish you didn’t know about and gurgling noises from the bathroom. But these things can be endearing in one you love. Still, there is a certain loss of identity. You become a couple; suddenly you are two people instead of one. I found I had “Martin and” in front of my name. I was Martin and Sophie on Christmas cards and invitations. It takes getting used to.’
Charlie said it was definitely not for him.
‘Will you stop asking questions?’ said Martha. ‘This isn’t the Spanish Inquisition. Evie, stop giving the dog your food.’
‘He’s hungry,’ said Evie. ‘He just told me.’
Charlie smiled to her and started playing his finger and thumb drum solo on the table, chewing in time to the music in his head.
‘That’s a fine bit of drumming,’ said Sophie. ‘Do you play?’
‘No, I wish I did. I love music. Do you play?’
‘No,’ said Sophie. She pointed at Martha. ‘She does – very well, in fact. The piano.’
‘And the guitar,’ said Evie.
Charlie knew this, but didn’t want Martha to know he knew. ‘You didn’t mention that.’
Martha shook her head. ‘I didn’t think it relevant.’
‘Oh,’ said Charlie, ‘everything is relevant.’
‘Yes,’ said Evie, forking food into her mouth, ‘it was the guitar that led my mother to doing the stupidest thing she ever done.’
‘That’s enough,’ said Martha. ‘Charlie doesn’t want to know about all this.’
‘Yes, I do,’ said Charlie.
‘See,’ said Evie, ‘my gran says working for you is the second-stupidest thing my mum done. On account of the bad pay and such like. But the stupidest thing she ever done was when she went to play in the band.’
‘Band?’ said Charlie. He acted interested. He knew all about the band.
Martha said, ‘Evie, that’s enough.’
‘Yes,’ said Evie. ‘She got a place at university to study chemistry but she never done that, she went off with the band instead. They were rubbish and they all argued all the time. That was the stupidest thing she ever done.’
Martha blushed and groaned. She stared down at her food, too embarrassed to bother correcting her daughter’s grammar. She was aware of Charlie staring at her, aware, too, of the silence at the table. She rummaged through her mind, searching for something to say. The subject needed changing.
Evie came to her rescue. ‘What’s the Spanish Inquisition, anyway?’
Another thing that happened today, Martha thought. I dis
covered that no matter how old you get, your mother and also your child can always embarrass you.
All this passed by Charlie. He barely noticed the undercurrents and unspoken fears and doubts going on at the table. He was dining with two mothers and mothers fascinated him. He wondered about them. In the street and in cafés and shops he watched them. He longed to be on the receiving end of their kindness, toughness and caring. He’d never been part of a family. He didn’t know the smell of a mother, hadn’t been held close. There had been a time when he’d answered a horse or a puppy or a red bike when asked what he’d like more than anything in the world. The real answer had been a mother. He wanted one. He knew he had one. Ella had told him she was dead. But he’d discovered she was out there in the world somewhere leading her life. It didn’t include him.
At this table there were two whole mothers eating and laughing and bickering and they didn’t know how special they were. They had changed nappies, baked scones, bathed cuts, clapped at first steps, taught an infant to speak, picked up toys, washed clothes, played games, sung lullabies. How amazing that was. Oh, how he wanted one for himself. If he’d had one he’d have led a different life. He’d be a different person, with friends and someone to love and maybe a child of his own. He ate his beef and marvelled.
8
The Ukulele
Sophie always claimed that if she hadn’t bought that bloody ukulele the stupidity would never have happened. It hadn’t even been a proper ukulele. It had been a plastic toy – beige at the front, pale blue at the back.