by Isla Dewar
He phoned the daughter to ask how long Brenda had been missing. Six years. ‘What?’ he said. ‘Six years. She could be anywhere. Puerto Rico. Honolulu. Milwaukee.’
‘She’s in town. I know it. I know her. She wouldn’t leave.’
So Charlie checked with homeless shelters and at night walked the streets looking for an old woman with red hair in all the places he knew where the dispossessed slept. He was hearing tales about a woman who sang for her supper but nobody knew much about her. She didn’t have a fixed spot. She turned up, sang and disappeared.
He was walking through the Grassmarket one evening. It was cold, raw and threatening rain. A small crowd was gathered round a woman singing Mozart, ‘Porgi Amor’ from The Marriage of Figaro. The voice was pure and beautiful and achingly sad. It echoed in the damp air. Charlie pushed to the edge of the audience to see the owner of the voice. It was Brenda. Older than the photo he’d been given. But definitely her. Charlie smiled. He’d thought perhaps she sang Doris Day golden oldies. Opera hadn’t occurred to him.
When the aria was over the crowd drifted away and Charlie went forward to speak. ‘Brenda?’ He showed her the photograph.
She glared at him. Picked up the hat containing her evening’s takings, pushed him hard in the stomach and ran. He followed and caught up with her in a doorway.
‘You nearly made me lose my place,’ she hissed. Very angry.
He was shamed and suddenly polite. ‘I’m awfully sorry.’ He stood, arms dangling by his side, watching her prepare her bed. Plastic sheet, newspapers and then blankets. ‘I’ve come for you. Your daughter wants you back home.’
She continued to glare.
Charlie went on. ‘I could get a taxi. You don’t have to sleep here.’ He pointed to the bedding. ‘This can’t be good for you. You’d be warm and safe. We could go now.’
She shooed him away, flapping her hands at him. ‘Get away from me. This is my place now. I’d rather sleep here than go back home. I’ll never go back.’ She nodded to a group of homeless men standing on the edge of the pavement watching him. He gave up and went home.
Three o’clock in the morning, the weather woke him. Rain was hissing down, wind rattling the windows. It was hell out there. He pulled his blankets over his head and luxuriated in his warmth and comfort. And then he remembered Brenda. ‘Bugger.’ He thought about an old, sick lady curled up on a cold, hard concrete floor, thin blankets soaked by sheeting rain. ‘Bugger. Bugger. Bugger.’ He wouldn’t sleep now. His conscience wouldn’t allow it.
Dressed in everything waterproof that he owned, and two jumpers underneath the long raincoat, he rode out into the wild night. It took him over an hour to reach Brenda’s doorway. There she was, a sleeping bundle. Not nearly as soaked as he’d thought she’d be. She’d pinned a large plastic sheet over the bottom half of the entrance and pulled another plastic sheet over her blankets. She looked almost cosy. He made the mistake of waking her.
He clambered over the plastic sheet, noticing more plastic sheeting spread over the floor of the doorway. One of Brenda’s plastic bags must contain more plastic bags, he thought. He crouched beside her and said, ‘Brenda. Hello, Brenda. I’ve come for you.’
She opened one eye, threw back her blankets and flashed a knife at him. ‘You bugger off. I’ll use this.’
He held up his hands, ‘No, please. I’ve come to get you out of here. I can’t sleep for worrying about you.’
She glared.
‘It’s really bothering me,’ Charlie told her. ‘It’s keeping me awake. You’re cold and wet and I’m warm and snug. Come with me. I can give you a hot bath, food and a bed with clean sheets.’
‘Why would you do that?’
‘I told you. Thinking of you out here is keeping me awake.’
In the end, he thought it was the clean sheets that swung it. Who could resist clean, fresh sheets? At first they walked side-by-side. He draped her bags over the handlebars of the bike and they headed home. But she tired. Her steps got slower, smaller. She shuffled and stopped. ‘Arthritis,’ she said. ‘Can’t go on.’ And it rained and rained. Water ran down the back of Charlie’s collar, flattened his hair, seeped over his scalp, blurred his vision and soaked through his raincoat, through his jumpers to his skin. Wind whipped round him. He looked at Brenda standing glaring at him in disdain. ‘I was daft to come with you.’ They both knew the hopelessness of their situation. But they wouldn’t give up. ‘Get on the bike,’ said Charlie. ‘I’ll push you.’
It took a couple of hours. They moved in silence. He could feel her body pressed against his, her arm hooked round his neck yanking him to the left. For days after he would ache.
When they got home, Charlie ran Brenda a bath. He dried himself, made bacon and eggs, tea and toast for two and showed Brenda to her room. In the morning she nodded to him. ‘Thank you. I’m feeling better.’ It was the only thanks he ever got from her. Later in the day she said, ‘The room’s good. Big and light. I’d prefer it to be white, though. I like white.’
He knew then he’d never get rid of her. She was here to stay. He bought white paint.
‘You’re kind,’ said Martha. ‘Too kind, perhaps. Does Brenda actually do anything?’
‘She helps with the painting and fixing of things,’ Charlie said.
‘She paints, she does plumbing?’
‘No, but she’s good at bossing people who do.’
‘How many bedrooms do you have?’
‘Six.’
‘And three of them are occupied by people you were asked to find. But when you found them you didn’t tell those who asked you to find them. You kept them to yourself.’
‘Well, sort of. If you put it like that.’
‘Do you know what I think, Charlie?’
‘No.’
‘I think you better get a bigger top hat.’
19
Trailing Jamie
Recently Martha had taken over delivering Evie to school, leaving Sophie free to follow Jamie’s trail. Every morning she caught the bus he’d got on, using the same stop he’d used. She sat watching the world he’d travelled through on his way to work.
She was sure this was the sort of thing Charlie did when he followed someone’s trail. She would slot herself into Jamie’s routine and hope to come across something that would shine a light on why he left. Something he’d seen, something that had troubled him and made him leave. She made notes as she went.
Today was to be her last day on the trail. It was beginning to be embarrassing. People were talking about her. And staring. Nobody wanted to sit next to her. With sinking heart she realised she’d become the passenger other passengers avoided – the old woman who muttered and scribbled odd jottings in a notebook.
Today a man, middle-aged and slightly paunchy, sat beside her and loomed over her, reading what she’d written. He asked if she worked for the council.
‘Me?’ said Sophie. ‘Good heavens, no. What makes you think that?’
‘You’re making notes on the passengers. You’re spying. You’ll report back to the council that we don’t need this bus and it’ll be removed. Council’s always making cuts.’
‘No, I’m not a spy. I’m following a trail. My son-in-law used to get this bus every morning. Then years ago he disappeared. Just up and left. He sent my daughter a short letter telling her not to look for him. So, I’m digging into his life. Trying to see something that might have triggered this strange thing.’ She fished in her handbag, pulled out a photo of Jamie and handed it over. The man scrutinised it. ‘Yes. He used to get on this bus every morning. Haven’t seen him in ages, right enough.’ He handed the photo back. ‘Didn’t know he was married. All he spoke about was music.’
‘You knew him?’
The man nodded. ‘Just saw him most mornings. We didn’t say much. He was the only music type I ever met. I said to him I thought it odd he was doing what he did and yet he wore a suit and seemed to start at nine in the morning. I thought he was a bit of a liar.
That’s why I remember him, the rubbish he spoke.’
‘What did he say he did?’
‘He was in the music business. Not playing or anything. Something to do with management, arranging gigs, driving bands about and setting up equipment.’
Sophie nodded, said, ‘Right.’ She imagined Jamie standing at the bus stop, hands in pockets, quietly telling lies. He’d be matter-of-fact about this fantasy job. Probably even managing to look slightly bored about it. She was hurt that he hadn’t mentioned Martha or Evie. She’d thought they were as important to him as they were to her.
The man leaned over. ‘If you’re following your son-in-law’s trail, why are you still on the bus?’
‘I’m going up to Princes Street. That’s where he worked.’
‘He may have worked there, but he always got off at the top of Leith Walk.’
‘He did? Why did he do that?’
‘How the hell do I know? He just did.’
‘Damn,’ said Sophie. ‘Now I’ll have to get off and walk back. Hate walking.’ She brightened, turned to the man. ‘This might be a clue. Thank you.’ She bundled down the aisle and got off the bus at the next stop.
Walking back to where Jamie had always got off the bus, she stared about wondering what he’d done every morning. Most of the shops were still shut. She looked up at the flats above the shops. Perhaps Jamie had been seeing someone who lived in one of them. He could have been having an affair – an hour’s passion before work.
She doubted that. Jamie had never seemed passionate. In fact, he’d been distant. Rarely speaking when she was about. He’d spent a deal of time in the shed at the bottom of the garden, she remembered. He’d come into the house, take a handful of biscuits from the tin in the kitchen and go and sit sideways on a chair in the living room listening to music.
‘Is he thinking?’ she’d asked Martha.
‘Yep,’ Martha had replied. ‘Planning our future.’
No, Sophie decided, Jamie hadn’t been passing passionate mornings with a lady friend. Perhaps he’d been buying something special for his lunch from the delicatessen in Elm Row. But he’d never been that interested in food. She’d seen him hack a huge slice of bread from a loaf. But that was a matter of urgency. ‘I have to have something now.’ He certainly never seemed to mind what it was. No, selecting a delicacy or two for his lunch wasn’t Jamie’s style.
She was caught standing still in the swirl of the morning – traffic and people on the move. Not knowing what to do, she looked up and down the street deciding which way to go.
It wasn’t a part of town she visited much. But it was interesting to look round. She gazed longingly into the window of a shop selling kitchen equipment – glossy copper pans, mixers and French coffee makers. Oh, the life she could have if she was rich. After that she spent a while reading the menu posted in a glass case outside an Italian restaurant. It was a mystery, all in Italian. How did people know what to order? People were so sophisticated these days.
There was a lot going on that she didn’t understand. Why did young folk dress the way they did? They seemed to say everything they thought about the world through their clothes. Especially their trousers. You could see someone who looked barely old enough to be out on their own and you’d know they’d disapprove of the way you voted, the things you ate and every record in your collection – small though it was – and all because they wore velvet bell-bottoms and a T-shirt with a cannabis leaf printed on it.
Like that couple across the road. Him in purple trousers so tight at the crotch they were almost indecent and then so wide at the ankles they were ridiculous. And her in a shaggy coat, a headband and swathes of beads. She tinkled as she walked. Bells on her belt, Sophie noted. At this time in the morning, it just wasn’t right.
The couple went into a record shop Sophie hadn’t noticed until now. It was open. Well, there were lights on and one or two people milling about. She crossed the road to look at what was going on.
There were about five people in the shop. Mostly what Sophie saw was a lot of hair. The girl from a few moments ago was sitting on a chair by the window rolling a cigarette. The man she was with was flicking through records. The others were just lounging, talking, listening to the music that was booming out.
There was a copy of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band in the window. It was marked, Second hand, cheapo, in good nick. Sophie decided to buy it. She’d heard it on the radio and liked it. Besides, Evie wanted it. She went into the shop.
‘We’re closed,’ said the man behind the counter.
‘You don’t look closed. What are all these people doing here?’
‘We work here,’ said a man with long hair, jeans and a T-shirt that read I’m Far From Normal.
‘I doubt that,’ said Sophie. Pointing at the T-shirt, ‘I believe that, though.’ She turned to the man behind the counter. ‘I want to buy the record in the window.’ She put her handbag on the counter while she fished inside for her purse. And was aware that her sudden arrival had caused an adolescent silence.
She remembered such moments. Years ago when Martha was a teenager, Sophie’s appearance in a room where Martha was holding court with her pals always caused a deep awkward silence. Martha and friends would clam up. Here she felt the same pressure; people wanted her to go so they could resume their interesting chat. She wondered what they’d been talking about. Sex, probably. They’d think that an unsuitable subject for a woman of her years. As if she’d never engaged in that activity herself. As if she didn’t know more about it than any of them. Still, this silence was impatient. And standing amid these colourfully clad youngsters made her feel frumpy. She’d committed the sin of ageing.
The behind-the-counter man fetched the record from the window and put it in a red carrier bag. ‘Enjoy.’
‘I will. And so will my granddaughter.’
‘Everybody loves the Beatles.’ He took Sophie’s money. Put it in the till.
Taking her change, Sophie handed him her photo of Jamie. ‘Do you know him?’
He examined the face in front of him, shook his head. ‘Nope.’
But there was a flicker. Sophie swore she saw a flash of recognition.
‘Why?’ he asked.
‘He’s married to my daughter. He loves this music you’re playing. Just wondered.’
The photo went round the shop. Everyone took it, gazed at it and shook their head.
‘Nope.’
They were lying. Sophie knew their mutual expression well. She called it the it-wasn’t-me look, or the don’t-know-what you’re-talking-about look. It was very familiar. She figured all mothers knew it. Everyone was staring at her, wide-eyed and mildly baffled. ‘Never seen that guy before.’ They were all lying.
‘Just thought I’d ask,’ she said, taking the photo back and slipping it into her pocket. She took the bag containing her record from the counter, thanked everyone and headed for the door. They were mocking her. Oh well, such things happened. Silly, really, for one day they’d all be her age and ripe for mocking, too. Behind her a small ripple of sniggers. She turned. ‘Oh, stop being so young. It’s annoying.’
Out in the street, she made her way to the bus stop. But changed her mind, and went back to the shop. Through the window she saw the man who’d served her talking on the phone. He was talking to Jamie, telling him an old lady in a frumpy outfit was looking for him. Sophie was sure of it.
On the bus home, she took her new record out of its bag. Turning it over she noticed the price label stuck on the back. It was the same label that was on many of the records Martha had brought to the flat when she moved in. ‘Records Jamie left behind,’ she’d said. ‘Obscure bands I’ve never heard of. He gets them second-hand from somewhere or other. Don’t know what to do with them. I’ll never play them.’ They’d put them in the attic.
She held the record to her face and sniffed. Opened the red bag that the record had been in and stuck her head inside, sniffing and sniffing. The smell was familiar. It
was dense, slightly spicy and herby. It was the scent that sometimes hung about Jamie. It was the scent that had greeted her on the few times she’d gone into the garden shed where he’d spent so much of his time. Once, she’d been searching for a trowel to weed Martha’s small garden and the place had reeked. She put the bag on her knee and stared ahead contemplating this.
‘Marijuana,’ she said. ‘That’s the smell.’
Of course marijuana hadn’t been part of her youth. She hadn’t even known it existed till some film star or other had been arrested for smoking it.
So that’s what Jamie had been up to. Smoking dope and staying young. Dreaming of being a dropout with a droopy moustache who went around saying things like right on, cool, man, and make love not war.
‘He should have been helping with the baby,’ she said. ‘Giving Martha a little rest.’
People on seats nearby stared.
Sophie looked out of the window and tried to settle her mind. ‘Too much to think about.’
People shifted in their seats, looked uncomfortable.
A memory swirled into her brain. The arrival of a long-buried snippet of information startled her. ‘Robert Mitchum,’ she said. ‘That’s who it was. Did time for drugs.’
Nobody looked at her. They turned away, pretended she wasn’t there.
Sophie scolded herself. Be quiet, stop talking. You have become the dreaded one, the nutter on the bus.
20
Not Sure About This
Ted Lewis’s flat was in Great King Street, two floors up, with views across the city towards the river. The man matched his handwriting. He was elegant, well mannered and old-fashioned. Not a shirtsleeves man. Even at home alone in the afternoon, he wore a jacket and tie. He showed Martha and Charlie into a large room, invited them to sit on the polished leather sofa by the fire and brought them tea served in fine china cups on a large tray. He handed round delicate shrimp paste sandwiches, macaroons and sponge cake. It looked like he’d spent some time preparing for this visit. Perhaps people didn’t come round much any more.