by Isla Dewar
Two years later, Charlie had set up his missing persons bureau and was happily going to his small office every morning, playing records and eating bacon rolls. He hadn’t many clients and didn’t mind at all. He felt he had a purpose in life that suited him as it took very little effort.
He read newspapers and magazines. He strolled the length of the prom. He went to the pub. He congratulated himself on being a businessman and sighed with pleasure that he didn’t do much actual business. He was free to daydream.
Sitting at his desk he read the local paper from cover to cover. He loved the small ads. Among the adverts for laxatives, extra large shirts, second-hand ice skates and kittens free to a good home was one for Bain & McKenzie Loans – no amount too small. No questions asked.
Charlie knew who this was and for months did nothing. He finally phoned on a Monday morning, knowing this to be a mistake. He didn’t trust Mondays. A woman answered, ‘Yes?’
‘Is that Mairi McKenzie?’ said Charlie.
‘Yes. Who is this?’
‘Norman.’
There was a long silence. Then Mairi said, ‘I wondered when you’d get in touch.’
Charlie said, ‘I’d like to meet.’
‘I suppose you would.’
‘Was Ian Bain my father?’
‘Yes. He died three years ago. Heart attack. I’m on my own now. I could fit you in today. Here at my office. Two o’clock.’
Charlie wasn’t happy. ‘That’s a bit soon. What about tomorrow? I’d prefer that.’
‘Today. Two o’clock,’ said Mairi. She rang off.
He took the eleven o’clock train to Glasgow. A taxi to the office cost him five pounds though the journey was only two or three streets. His feeling of foreboding heightened. He knew doing things right away was wrong. A person needed to procrastinate, to think, mull the situation over and prepare for the worst. The office was in a faceless building in a street of faceless buildings. The main door was locked. Charlie had over an hour to wait.
He found a small café, ordered coffee and sat watching the world go by. He saw women pushing babies in prams, men in cheap, slightly shiny business suits, school girls giggling past the window, arms linked with pals, and a long pink limousine slipped along the road. Charlie thought it odd. A slick and garish thing in a grey landscape.
At ten to two he paid for his coffee and headed for Mairi’s office. The main door was open and a hand-written cardboard sign pinned to the wall told him that Bain & McKenzie Loans was on the first floor. The stairs were covered in grubby red linoleum. Here and there well-trodden holes showed the planking beneath. There was a strong scent of floral perfume. Charlie’s stomach flared nerves.
The office door was open. Charlie stepped into a pink room. Pink walls, pink floor, pink coat hooks on the wall. The floral perfume was overwhelming now. There was nobody here. He called out, ‘Hello. Miss McKenzie. Mairi. Hello.’ Nothing happened.
Bare wires hung from the wall where lights had been yanked away. A telephone line had been snipped and the phone removed. Outside, traffic swished past. But the silence in this place was frightening. Charlie turned to run and spotted a slip of pink paper on the pink windowsill. He picked it up.
Dear Norman,
Couldn’t do it. Couldn’t meet you. I’m not much of a mother, I’m afraid. Never was. All the feeding, nappy changing, responsibility and downright guilt of motherhood just wasn’t for me. You should forget about me. Sorry.
I’ll tell you this though. Ella loved you. Right from the first time she saw you she was smitten. She couldn’t keep her eyes off you. She’d just sit, hands clasped in her lap looking at you and sighing. She thought you were gorgeous. Such love. You were a lucky boy.
Mairi
Charlie dropped the note and ran from the room. He had to get away. He had to breathe fresh air. He clattered down the stairs, threw open the main door and barged into daylight. As he stood on the pavement wondering which way to go the pink limousine slid past him. He caught a glimpse of a woman in the back seat. Her blonde hair tumbled over her face so he couldn’t really see her. It was his mother. He absolutely knew it. She’d waited to watch him go into the building and in time come out again. She’d wanted to have a look at him, to judge him, and she’d decided against stopping to speak. She’d rejected him once more.
Charlie ran. He threw himself down this faceless street and into the busy traffic-filled, crowded places beyond. He ran till his sides ached and his breath hurt his throat. He ran till he thought he would throw up. Trembling, he leaned on a wall and wept. When he saw the train station he stopped. Time to get on a train and go home.
27
A Mother on the Rampage
The room was morning-grey, gloomy. Charlie had a fleeting moment of being disorientated. He slowly remembered the night before. Martha had come to him and, unable to sleep, had asked about his life. She’d slipped under the duvet at the opposite end of the sofa to keep warm. He’d moved his feet to accommodate her. Not wanting to disturb her, he’d slept sitting up, propped against a cushion with his feet hanging over the edge of the sofa. When his tale was done, she’d opened one sleepy eye and said, ‘Oh my, you poor boy.’
He could hear her moving about the flat. Dressing, he thought. Then she walked down the hall to the kitchen and he heard the rush of water filling the kettle, cups clattering. He slid deeper under the duvet, warmth and comfort. He indulged in the small delight of listening to someone preparing coffee while he lay sweetly still and removed from the world. Martha ruined the moment. She came into the room, loomed over him and told him it was time to get up. ‘We’ve got to get going soon.’
He gazed at her mournfully. ‘It’s only just after six. The shop won’t be open for hours.’
‘You don’t know that. These hippy music-types live by their own hours. Nine to five doesn’t occur to them.’
‘Still, I don’t think they’ll be open at this time in the morning.’
‘Doesn’t matter. I want to be there when they open up so I can go in and take them by surprise. They won’t have time to think up some story about where Jamie is. They’ll be so off guard they’ll just tell me. So get up.’ She stood back, folded her arms and glared at him. ‘I’m not leaving till I see you out of bed and standing up.’
He shoved back the duvet and slowly, stiffly, got to his feet. The room was cold. He shivered. He was wearing only his underpants. He cupped his hands over his private parts and said, ‘Underpants.’
‘So I see,’ said Martha. ‘Very natty.’
And so they were – neatly fitting, dark red with tiny black polka dots. Not his usual choice of undergarment, but a present from Brenda last Christmas that he had added to his underpants routine because he rather liked them. They made him feel a little bolder and more outré than he actually was. Now Martha had seen them and heard his story, she had too much information. She knew his life, his rejection and his underwear.
In the kitchen he asked if he had time to nip home and change into fresh clothes. ‘And a cup of decent coffee wouldn’t go amiss. This is instant.’
‘Get over it. It’s coffee.’
He took a sip. Made a face. ‘This isn’t right. A day needs to start with proper coffee. It’s disturbing if it doesn’t. Things can go wrong.’
Martha left the room, returned with her coat. ‘What can go wrong?’
‘Anything. Everything. Your average day needs a rhythm to it. A pattern to hang the hours round – up at quarter past seven, shower, shave, dress in the correct shirt, underpants, trousers and socks for the day. Then coffee carefully brewed at the right temperature, feed the dog while listening to the news, breakfast – toast and boiled egg. Bacon roll at bacon roll time and so on.’
Martha said, ‘You’ll be fine. To hell with your routine. My child is missing. C’mon, we have to go.’
They parked outside the shop and settled down to wait till it opened. Martha stared at the dusty doorway, the peeling paint and the darkened windows, wil
ling lights to come on. Charlie slid down in his seat preparing for a long wait. He had passersby to look at and speculate about and Martha was by his side. If he wasn’t dreading what might happen when somebody turned up to start the day’s business, this might almost be pleasant.
But it wasn’t. Martha fidgeted, slapped the steering wheel, ran her fingers through her hair, cursed and sighed. She regularly saw movements inside the shop and she thumped his arm. ‘There’s someone in there. I saw them.’
‘No, you didn’t. You’re imagining it.’
‘I’m not. They’ll be using the back door. They’ll hang about smoking pot and discussing the prospect of nuclear meltdown. That’s what these people do.’
‘There’s nobody there.’
‘There is. You just don’t see anything you don’t want to see. It’s all right for you. The person you love most in the world hasn’t been abducted. You haven’t worried and fretted all night. Evie’s a child. She won’t know what’s happening. I have to get her back.’ She thumped him again and then reached out, stroked the abused arm. ‘Sorry.’
He told her that when he was a kid he punched people as a sign of affection. ‘Didn’t know any other way. Cuddling was cissy. I punched Sally Turner on the shoulder several times a day. God, she hated me. I had a crush on her. First one of my life and I didn’t know to be kind or gentle or even buy her a Mars bar. I just punched her shoulder in a matey, blokey way. I was twelve.’
‘When I was twelve I was desperately in love with Eric Watts. I let him know by totally ignoring him.’
‘So neither of us quite had the hang of love, then.’
‘Looks like it. I’m a failure at romantic love. Motherly love, though, that’s different. When Evie was born I was swamped by it. Took me by storm. I’d never known such love. It was bigger than me. I loved holding that girl, her little body. Her determined breathing. And the smell of her. Oh God, the utterly perfect smell of babies. Don’t you love the smell of babies?’
‘I don’t recall ever smelling one. I haven’t had a lot to do with babies. I thought they’d reek of vomit and foul nappies. It has never occurred to me to seek a baby out, lift it up and smell it.’
‘You’re heartless. Babies smell of milk and vanilla and innocence.’
‘Ah, I’ll grab the next one I see and have a good sniff.’
Martha ignored this. ‘I used to think the love would fade or I’d get used to it. But it hasn’t. I want to know where she is all the time. I need her to be safe. I’d murder anyone who harmed her.’ She shifted in her seat, put her head against the side window and peered ahead. ‘There is someone in there. A man moving about.’
She swung open the car door, jumped out, ran to the shop and battered the door with clenched fists. ‘Open up. Open up.’
Charlie watched. Should have discussed a plan, he thought.
The shopkeeper appeared at the other side of the door and waved Martha away, flapping his hand. ‘We’re closed.’
Martha carried on battering the door. ‘Open up or I’ll call the police.’
Charlie thought it should be the bloke who called the police. Martha was causing disruption and the door didn’t look up to the abuse she was giving it. But the man slid back a couple of bolts and inched the door open a crack. It was enough. Martha hurled herself into the shop, got hold of the man and shoved and manhandled him to the counter at the back.
Mesmerised, Charlie watched. Goodness, she was fierce. From where he sat in the car, the two wrestling in the darkened shop looked as if they could have been embroiled in passion rather than fighting. He was flailing, arms waving. She was leaning over him, gripping the collar of his shirt and shaking him. Charlie couldn’t hear what was being said. Shouted, more like. He slowly realised that he better get in there and put a stop to things before the woman he was beginning to love was arrested and charged with assault.
By the time he reached her, Martha had her victim bent backwards over the counter and was threatening him with a pen. ‘If you don’t tell me where Jamie Walters is, I’ll poke your eye out with this biro.’
She was red with fury, shaking, and, it seemed to Charlie, had completely lost her senses. The man she was attacking with a yellow biro was about twenty, absurdly thin, long-haired and dressed in faded jeans and a green and yellow floral shirt. He was shouting at Martha to get off him. The poor boy had probably been in the back of the shop, relaxing, welcoming the day with a joint, and then been cruelly jolted from his mellow moment by this onslaught.
‘Gayfield Square. He lives in Gayfield Square.’
Martha released her grip, stood back and exhaled. ‘Gayfield Square, just across the road.’ Her brow was sweat-beaded. There were tears in her eyes. ‘I’m going to get Evie.’
Charlie took the defeated young man by the elbow. ‘You all right?’
‘Yeah. I’m a bit . . . you know . . . shaken up. Didn’t expect that. Wow.’ Gripping the counter, he made his way to a seat. ‘I mean, wow. Christ. You her old man?’
‘No. Jamie Walters is. He took their daughter without asking. You don’t want to do that to Martha.’
‘No. You have to watch out for mothers, I’m thinking.’
‘Well, mothers on the rampage, anyway. They could take over the world.’
‘Yeah.’ He reached over and took the small remains of a joint from an ashtray. ‘My body’s OK. Just my mind’s a little knocked about.’ He lit up, inhaled and offered Charlie a puff.
‘Nah, thanks. I better catch up with the crazed mother.’ He turned to go. Turned back. ‘Where in Gayfield Square?’
He met Martha at the corner of the square. She was weeping.
‘I’ll have to go back and ask that bloke the number. I don’t know which house. And I can’t face him. I was awful.’
‘He’s fine. A little shocked but he’s taking something for it.’ He led her along the street, a terraced row. ‘Here we are. I remembered to ask.’
The main door was open. They climbed to the first floor and knew they’d arrived. The smell, a thick, herby, pungent mix of pot and patchouli joss sticks, hit them when they were halfway up the stairs. When they reached the landing, the door in front of them was alive with colour – psychedelic whorls of purple, green, turquoise, yellow and red so vibrant, so loud, that, looking at them, Charlie and Martha could almost feel their pupils dilate.
‘This is it. Has to be,’ said Martha. ‘This is where my husband who used to be boring is finding his youth.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Keep calm,’ she told herself, ‘don’t shout. Don’t beat anybody up. Just find Evie and take her home.’ She knocked. Waited. Knocked again. Jamie opened the door.
He stood staring at Martha. ‘Hi.’ He spoke quietly, not at all surprised to see her. He was barefoot, in jeans and a white T-shirt. ‘You’ve come for Evie.’
‘I have.’ Martha stepped past him and disappeared down the hall, which was lined either side, floor to ceiling, with framed prints. The scent of patchouli was stronger now the door was open. Music was playing, jazz; Miles Davis, Charlie thought.
Minutes passed, Jamie didn’t move. He looked at Charlie. Nodded, but said nothing. Martha came back up the hall, leading Evie by the hand and carrying her school bag.
‘I was just going to take her to school,’ said Jamie.
‘I’ll do that,’ Martha told him.
Evie stopped beside Jamie. ‘Bye, then. Thank you for having me. I had a nice time.’ She didn’t sound convincing.
‘You’re very welcome,’ Jamie smiled. ‘Come back and see us.’
‘She won’t be doing that,’ said Martha.
Jamie stuck his hands in his pockets, looked assured. ‘She’s my daughter. If I want to see her, I will.’
Martha led Evie to the top of the stairs. She signalled Charlie to take the child out of the building and returned to Jamie. ‘Don’t you dare do that again. Don’t you dare take my girl without telling me.’
‘She’s my girl, too.’
Charlie took Evie
outside. But he hung back listening to what was being said one floor up.
Martha hissed, ‘She’s not yours.’
Down the stairs she thundered. Hands still plunged in his pockets, Jamie watched. Then he ran, tumbled after Martha, leaned over the banister and yelled, ‘I always suspected that, you bitch.’
In the street, morning bustle starting, Evie trotted by Martha’s side and said, ‘That was my daddy. I remember him. There’s a picture of him in the book at the bottom of your wardrobe.’
‘You shouldn’t go poking in other people’s things.’
‘But he’s my daddy. What do you mean, I’m not his?’
Martha stopped, sighed, thought. ‘I mean you’re mine. You’ve always been mine. You always will be. No matter where you are or what you do, you’ll be mine. And you shouldn’t listen to other people’s conversations.’
Evie said, ‘I wasn’t listening. I heard. You were sort of shouting. Like whispering but loudly.’
Martha caught Charlie’s eye, offered a silent plea. Don’t say anything, not right now.
Remembering his own mother telling him to forget about her, Charlie thought, mothers on the rampage – they could make you cry.
28
Catastrophe
‘What did you have to eat?’ Martha asked.
‘Rice with bits in,’ said Evie.
Martha said, ‘What sort of bits?’
‘Green bits and beany-looking things and tomatoes.’
‘Was it tasty?’
‘It looked yucky. But it tasted OK. I didn’t eat all of it. The little boy didn’t eat any of it.’
Martha said, ‘Ah.’ She changed gear. Tried to sound relaxed. ‘What little boy?’
‘The lady’s little boy. Jason.’
Martha said, ‘Ah,’ again. She bit her lip.
Charlie put a comforting hand on her knee. A few minutes ago, after they’d put Evie in the back of the car, he’d held Martha by the shoulders. ‘Calm. Don’t sound upset. Don’t quiz Evie. Let it all come out at her pace. Don’t let her think she’s done anything wrong.’