by Sarah Till
“Mum, don’t do this. You’ll get upset.”
“No, Clem, I need you to know.” There was a sudden warmth about her now. She reached down and pulled out a holdall Dad had pushed into the seat beside her. “I carry this everywhere.” She pulled out a ream of hand-drawn pictures. “After two weeks, I went to the arts and crafts shop and bought some charcoal. I tried to draw her face, her body. Charlotte as a child. Charlotte as a teenager.” She showed me the badly drawn pictures. “I just couldn't get them right. Either the eyes or nose were wrong. Or the hair.”
“But you had photographs, Mum.”
“Yes. From ages ago. But I wanted to see her that day, in the morning when she got up, how she looked then. But I couldn't see her because she was gone.” Another cigarette was lit and she sucked on it deeply. “On the other hand, she was everywhere. In town. On the bus. I saw a girl begging and went right up to her to make sure it wasn't my daughter. Someone asleep on a bench in the city, I shook them until they turned over. I stood behind girls in town, convinced they were her, until they turned around and they weren’t. She has a little mole on her upper arm, and I’ve found forty-seven girls so far with a mole in that place. Forty-seven. She was everywhere, Clem. People in the street, I asked them if they had just seen the blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl who’d dashed around the corner out of my sight.”
“Oh, Mum. I didn't know.”
“Yes. And that wasn't all. I stopped going out at all to avoid the cruelty of thinking I saw her. That gave me more time to think about what had happened. Was she dead? Had she been abducted, being kept somewhere by someone and tortured? Had she run away, with nowhere to go? On that first night, I walked up the road and searched the park. There was freezing fog and my hands were blue. I imagined she was out there somewhere, afraid to come home because it was late, freezing. After two days, I thought she had been kidnapped.”
She turned to look at me and touched my arm.
“It’s OK, Mum. It’s OK.”
“It was after about a week that the news reports started to filter through. Body washed up in river. Body found in a shallow grave. I made a list. A list of all the distinguishing features Charlotte had. I photocopied it for each time I heard a report so I could keep track, tick off the bits of Charlotte that didn’t match. At the bottom of each list, I wrote who the body finally belonged to.”
She produced a bunch of lists in a plastic folder and my hand went automatically to my bag.
“Every person found dead since the day Charlotte went missing is in here. All the days and weeks I waited for the right information, the right combination of circumstances for it not to be Charlotte in the river or the shallow grave. I went to the library and learned about the decomposition of bodies. I wanted to know, if she had been murdered, what state her body would be in. It varied according to how she would have been disposed of. I went to London with posters. I stopped people on the street and got arrested. I had all those digital photographs done. So, now you know what I was doing when I should have been your mum.”
I stared straight ahead.
“Look, Mum. It’s not too late. I’ll help you.”
“But I’m past help. I mean, look what I've done. I’ve had all this plastic surgery, and do you know why?”
“So you can look like Charlotte?”
“Yes. Yes. But not for the reasons you think. I’m not some crazy old bat who is modelling herself on a demented version of her missing daughter. I did it so I could see her again. I just need to see her one more time, Clem. Just once.”
As she cried, my heart broke. I had no children, so could never feel the depth of pain she must feel at losing a child. She had gone to all those lengths, all the pain of constant surgery, so she could look in the mirror and see my sister again. On top of that, she was carrying the guilt of neglecting me.
“Don’t worry about me, Mum. I’ll be fine. Just concentrate on getting yourself right. Who knows, after this week you might have her back.”
She managed a little smile through the sobs.
“Yes. I’ll have my biological daughter back, but I won’t have Charlotte back. I’ve missed her graduation. Her first day at work. Her eighteenth. Her twenty-first. The birth of a child. Who knows what else? A wedding? Did she tell everyone who knew her we were dead?”
A small wave of relief surfaced amongst the despair. It seemed she accepted that Charlotte wasn’t being held captive.
“So, you’re happy to approach her directly? Not today, but maybe later on in the week, after Dad has cleared it with the police and missing people? There won’t be a scene, no rushing in and insisting she’s been captured?”
She was looking out of the window.
“No. I realise that she’s probably run away. I was quite sure that she was dead at one time. I did the rounds with every psychic and fortune-teller for about two years. They told me so many things that I didn't know what to believe.” I thought about the shovel and the moor but decided not to mention it. “Of course, there was always the possibility that she had left. Just gone, for whatever reason. I went over everything that had happened, every word we exchanged, every look, all her things. I couldn't think of one single reason why she would have gone. But somehow, she did. Do you know how hard it is for me to admit that? She was such a loving girl, homely, that it doesn’t seem possible. Only the night before she went out, we were laughing in the lounge. Planning your sixteenth birthday. So, why did she go if we were planning? And if no one took her, it must have been her own choice. And you... you know what that makes me? A bad mother.”
I shook my head.
“No. That would make me a bad sister, too, and I’m not. Maybe she had a reason, Mum. If she was pregnant?”
“I don't see how she could have been. She wasn't having sex. She never said anything to me, never asked to be put on the pill. We never even discussed it.”
“Maybe she couldn't find the right time. It was difficult, you know, all the coldness between you and Dad, the gossiping. You always seemed to be in the middle of some important business.”
She looked straight ahead and sucked on her cigarette.
“So, you're blaming me and your dad, are you? Be careful, Clem. You don't know the full story.”
“No. I don't expect I do. And I'm not blaming anyone. Just saying that she must have had her own reasons.”
“Hmm. Well, we’ll see, won’t we?”
She took out the Thermos flask Dad had prepared and poured us both a cup of tea. We sipped at it slowly. I was making myself drink it slowly so we didn’t have to go. Even in the cold car, I felt closer to her than I had for years. Her list was a lot like mine. A gradual elimination process, parts that don’t make the whole, until we have the answer. It occurred to me that neither of us had the answer yet. I had no man and she had no daughter. That wasn’t strictly true, though. We just didn’t have the one we wanted, the perfect fit for what we needed to complete ourselves.
In my rear-view mirror, I could see a figure walking down the road. She looked familiar; the swing of the bag, the head slightly tilted downwards. I nudged Mum.
“That’s her. Don’t shout or get out of the car. Just try to get a good look at her.”
We sat perfectly still. Mum’s eyes followed Caroline down the road as she walked very slowly towards the house. She passed so close to the car that I saw the dolphin tattoo she had on her left hand in which she held her phone. She was talking and laughing and her hair was tied up in a yellow ribbon. She went into the house, shut the door and the lounge lights came on. Mum was quiet for a while.
“Well? What do you think?”
“I think it’s her. I’m almost sure. I would be able to tell closer up.”
“But we can’t...”
“I know, Clem, but at least I have hope.” She wobbled a bit on her tyre as she leaned over to hug me. “Thanks for doing this. I know I haven’t given you what you need over the years. I’m sorry for that.”
“Oh, never mind that, M
um.”
I did mind of course. I minded at my graduation as they both nearly missed my presentation as they scanned the hall for Charlotte. I minded every time we had lunch as my treat to her and her eyes scanned the passing crowds, so distracted that she couldn’t follow a conversation. I minded when she engaged all my friends over the years in the Spanish inquisition about Charlotte and where they thought she might be. Or when she reminded me that Charlotte had been much cleverer, prettier, stronger, funnier than me.
I minded at my twenty-first birthday party when she left early because there had been a report on the news about a body being washed up on a beach in Cornwall. I minded when she constantly reminded me that I didn’t have children and if Charlotte had been here, she would have had children. Even so, I did understand in an abstract way that she was in pain. A wounded person who, every time someone else's child was found dead, went through a cycle of pain that cut deeper into her soul. Another addition to the list, waiting for the time when it would be a perfect fit, all the boxes ticked, sweet relief from the pain of waiting.
Part of me wanted to drag her out of the car and go to number four Carlisle Crescent and present her to Caroline. Who would then become Charlotte. Dad had begged me to wait so that there would be no trouble. I knew that he was strongly against the spying, but what choice did he have? It was either this or Mum walking up to her door and insisting she was her daughter. We waited for a short time and another person trotted up the path of number four Carlisle Crescent. A lanky teenager with a shock of short cloned hair slunk up to the door. She turned and briefly looked at the car, and for a moment I reeled back sixteen years and saw my sister, complete with black anorak and thick black mascara, peer at me as she left the house that evening. I managed to speak through the surreal shock.
“That must be Amy.”
But Mum was distraught. She was sobbing and I gave her a tissue out of my bag.
“How could she do it, Clem? How could she? I don’t understand how she could live here all this time, put me, well, all of us, through this. And the child. How could she keep my own granddaughter from me?”
Somehow, I hadn't imagined it like this. In my mind’s eye, I'd imagined a happy scene of camaraderie as we waited in the car for her to come home. I'd expected jubilation when we saw her, when Mum recognised her. It seemed to have made matters worse. I started the engine.
“Let’s get you home. We’ve seen them now. Might as well go home and have a cuppa.”
She was pointing excitedly at number four through her tears.
“Ooh. Wait a minute. There’s a man going in. Look.”
I turned off the engine and stared. The shape made his way up the path, stopping just short of the door for a moment. I recognised the curl of his hair, the lips that broke out into a huge grin as the door opened and Caroline emerged. She was wearing a thick woolly jumper dress and jeans, her hair falling over her shoulders now. I quickly scanned his body for evidence of a bag. After all, he had said that he would bring her things to her, hadn’t he? Wasn’t he just returning the neatly folded clothes and the two pairs of shoes and the handbag? I quickly grabbed my camera phone and clicked a photo of them. The flash went off and startled Mum, but Tim and Caroline didn’t notice because they were engaged in a long kiss, their limbs entwined. He picked her up, still kissing her, and she wound her long legs around him as he carried her inside.
Chapter Twenty
I drove away with Mum still sobbing beside me. Huge tears rolled down my own cheeks and I could hardly see the road. She was looking out of the window, full of her own grief and wondering, carried away by the thought of her own daughter deserting her. I didn't try to speak all the way home because I was beyond words. I turned the corner to my parents’ house and stopped the car abruptly. Dad rushed out and eased Mum out of the car.
“Oh, hello, Clem. I sorted it out with the missing people folks. They say that the person registered at the address is not Charlotte. They couldn’t tell me who lives there but they said that if we thought it was Charlotte, we could just knock on the door and ask, but we must be prepared for it not to be her. As far as they are concerned, the case is closed and they think the likelihood of it being her is remote.”
I nodded but stared straight ahead. Mum came round and stood at Dad's side.
“Clementine's been very good. I got a bit upset and she just listened. I'm feeling a little bit better now, George. I'd like to go inside.”
She shuffled up the path and Dad grabbed the tyre from the passenger seat.
“Did you two have an argument, Clem? Is that why you're crying?”
I still stared ahead.
“Nope.”
It was all I could manage.
“So, did you see her? Did your Mum think it was her? Did something happen?”
“We saw her and Mum thought it was her.” I felt sick now from crying. “I need to go now, Dad.”
“OK, love. Never a dull moment, eh? Never a dull moment. Oh, look!” He bent down beside the car and when he rose he was holding a shiny penny. “See a penny pick it up, all the day you'll have good luck.”
My foot was on the accelerator before he could embark on the second verse. I sped down the main road and rallied round the corners until I screeched to a halt outside my house. For the first time since she had arrived, I wished Jenni wasn't there. I wished I had the house to myself, where I could rush inside and stand in the shower crying like so many times before when I'd been let down. As it was, I knew that Jenni and Johnny would be laughing in the lounge and any crying in the shower or in my room would wake the children. So, I wiped my eyes on an old tissue out of my pocket. I grabbed my bag and rushed into the house. Sure enough, the sound of hushed giggles filtered through my consciousness. I hurried past the door and went to my room.
The letters and the photographs tumbled from my bag as I threw it on the bed. There they were, Tim and Caroline, in various poses and locations. How could I have been so stupid? Why had I believed him? He could never have loved me when he was still in love with her. I pulled a plastic bag from my wardrobe and put all the Tim remnants inside. I needed a few minutes to regroup, so I lay on my bed. My phone flashed a message at the side of me and I noted the time; eight o'clock. In four short hours, which had gone by like minutes, I had a rerun of the past and saw my new boyfriend reunited with his beloved Caroline.
As usual, I tried to look for a chink of light through the dense darkness. At least I wouldn’t have the problem of explaining to Charlotte why I was dating her ex. I smiled a little until it struck me that this could be the final blow to my family relationships.
Charlotte and Tim. And Amy. They would be Mum and Dad's family. I would be forced to watch them salivate over their love for eternity. It was as if all the photographs I'd stolen from the Caroshrine had just come to life right in front of me. I'd have to watch all three of them come to Sunday lunch at Mum's. I toyed with the idea of telling Charlotte about me and Tim but then realised that it would cause more trouble. So, I would sit there, the mad sister, staring at Tim, confident that our secret would be sealed forever in my heart. He would squirm uncomfortably every time he saw me and I would have my revenge.
The only problem was that I didn't want revenge. I wanted Tim. He ticked the most of my boxes and was the closest I'd ever come to completing the list. The list which seemed trivial compared with Mum's list of dead bodies. He had led me to believe that he wanted me, and wanted to make a go of things, then he’d gone to her. My head told me that now I would never see him again. I would never see his grin or hear his laugh. He would never kiss me or touch me again. I shook my head and told myself it was for the best as my heart contracted with pain and told me that perhaps I should ask him for an explanation. Why send flowers on the same day he went to her? Why tell me he wanted to try when all he wanted was her? My heart banged against my chest to insist that I do something about this situation. Talk to him, at least. Find out what he has to say for himself.
M
y hand went to my phone and I felt my cheeks flush as I selected Tim's number. It rang out and my heart beat even faster. Then silence. He had dismissed my call. My head resounded with, 'What did you expect? He's with her' as the thought did a lap of honour in triumph over my broken heart.
I must have fallen asleep in my clothes because when I woke, I was very hot and my usually curly hair had frizzed into tight ringlets. I jumped up stripped off, pulling on my dressing gown. I felt groggy from oversleep and numb from the stress of the previous day. I could hear Jenni laughing downstairs and a deep voice responding. Johnny must have stayed the night. I rushed downstairs and the two love-birds were feeding each other Corn Flakes across the table whilst Samantha and Jacob ate Ready Brek. Johnny straightened when he saw me.
“Oh, I hope you don’t mind Clem. We stayed downstairs on the sofa.”
I waved my hand back and forth. Last night’s shock had rendered me speechless and I was only slowly recovering.
“No, not at all. I’m not going into work today, Johnny. Me and Tim have finished. I don’t think I'm up to it. Feminine hygiene will just have to manage for a day without me.”
Jenni thought for a minute.
“Hang on, I thought you were with your parents last night. Did he call you? Did he do it over the phone? Oh, no. Not by text.”
“Who said he ended it?”
Already irritated, I snapped at Jenni. She rallied well.
“Just sayin’, girl, none of my business. Anyway, you’ve only known him five minutes.”
I fumed now.
“Have you been talking to my Mum? That’s what she said about Lenny.”
Jenni laughed.
“Lenny! I’d forgotten about him! And that was only two weeks ago. Clem, baby, it’s true. You hardly know the guy and let’s be honest, nothing’s really happened between you, has it? Nothing except you finding out he had a girl he really loved.”
“Loves.” I corrected her harshly.
“Oh. Is he back with her?”