You Never Told Me

by Sarah Jasmon

  She picked up bananas, carrots, and then came to a stop in front of the cheese. What did she even need? Her mind was blank, overwhelmed by the choice. It was a few days on the canal, not a trek in the great wilderness. Though everyone else seemed to be buying for the apocalypse. A trolley was pressing into her and, behind, a towering cage of new produce blocked her exit. She grabbed at a wedge of Edam and wriggled her way out, escaping to the relative quiet of the toiletries. Nobody needed toothpaste or shampoo, apparently. Which reminded her she needed toothpaste. And tampons. She closed her eyes to think what else. Bread and fresh milk, pasta, butter, something different for tea tonight, a pizza maybe. And something green: kale, spinach. Too many things. The names revolved in her head, each in turn pushing the others out so she had to keep starting again. She should have made a list.

  A small girl came up beside her, giving her a questioning look. Who was she with? Charlie was still looking around when she dropped to her knees to peer underneath the shelves. A woman with an overflowing trolley, baby wedged in the seat, zigzagged up.

  ‘Get up, Sammy,’ she said, her voice a balance of irritation and frayed patience. She gave Charlie a suspicious look, as if she’d put the child up to it.

  ‘But there’s a penny under there!’ The little girl was on her stomach, still wriggling in pursuit.

  The mother reached down to grab at an arm, her voice rising in frustration. ‘I don’t have time for this!’ Keeping a firm grip, she tried to manoeuvre away but the trolley veered off, knocking into a shelf stacked with nappies. The girl took her chance to run back to the treasure hunt. Charlie began to edge away. It was all a bit much, the noise, the stress. Would she have been any different if things had worked out the way Max had wanted? She sneaked a look at the baby, who was lying back in his seat and gazing into some cheerful oblivion. Martha and then Poppy had been solid babies as well. She could remember them both curling into her shoulder with an unexpected heft and density when she’d gone to visit after their births. That was one thing she’d liked, that twist of protective delight as they’d clung on to her finger. She gave herself a shake, remembering how they’d also fought to be free of her, stretching themselves into outward curves to get back to Eleanor or Jon, they hadn’t been fussy which. She just wasn’t a baby person, that was all there was to it.

  The mother was staring at the packs of nappies, scattered all across the aisle, as if she didn’t know how they’d got there. The baby gave a start, as if just catching up with events, and began to wail. The girl, her mission accomplished, skipped past, only to be grabbed in what must have been a painful grip, if her yells were anything to go by. Charlie began to pick up the nappies and stack them back in place. An assistant put his head round the corner and stared at her, his expression labelling her the cause of the disturbance. Charlie waited for the mother to explain, but instead she gripped her trolley, gave her daughter another shake, and managed to turn round and lead them all away. As she went, she gave Charlie a critical look up and down, mirroring the assistant.

  Left on her own, Charlie glanced down at herself. So she hadn’t washed her hair for a couple of days, and her clothes weren’t exactly stripy boating chic. Her jeans were ripped, and not in an artful way, and she’d picked up a long smear of oil on one knee. She was wearing a pair of old sandals she’d found in the locker on the front deck, curling leather flats that weren’t at all right for the weather. They fitted her though, which would make them too big for Britta, so they must have been left by the boat’s previous owners. The strap was coming away on one side, and her feet were grubby. That was who she was, the sort of person mothers herded their children away from. Because that was what mothers did. They were cross and impatient and sometimes they shouted, but they were always there, always ready with arms to wrap you up in, and they stood up for you against people who weren’t nice. And what had Charlie had? A mother who whispered and backed down and was always telling her not to say things. Who planned to escape but without telling anyone, who expected her to change her name but didn’t tell her why. And the sadness grew and grew inside Charlie’s chest, because she hadn’t asked, she hadn’t stayed. She’d left her mother behind, and now her mother had left her behind and she didn’t know what to do.

  FIFTEEN

  ‘Charlie, you have to breathe.’ Eleanor’s voice was steady down the phone. ‘I want to help you, but I don’t know what the matter is.’ Charlie could hear the words, but she couldn’t remember how to respond to them. She was trying to do what Eleanor wanted, but her chest wouldn’t let any air in. The tears that had started inside the store were still shuddering through her and she wasn’t sure how to make them stop. A man came round the corner of the building with an empty trolley, turning away abruptly as he saw her standing there. She moved further along, sinking down onto the line of gravel that bordered the wall. ‘Charlie?’ Eleanor’s voice came from her phone. ‘Charlie, talk to me.’

  ‘I’m here.’ She lifted the handset up again. It weighed so much. She wasn’t sure Eleanor had heard her.

  ‘Charlie, listen. I want you to tell me what you’re looking at.’

  Charlie let the words filter into her brain. What was she looking at? She gave a gulp. ‘There’s some grass.’

  ‘Good, what else?’

  ‘An empty Coke can. And some flowers.’

  ‘That’s good. What kind of flowers?’

  ‘I don’t know. Yellow ones.’ The world was beginning to settle down around her, getting back to manageable proportions. What had she done with her shopping? It wasn’t with her, so she must have left it inside. She didn’t think she’d paid for it. On the other end of the phone, she could hear Eleanor telling Poppy to be careful on the climbing frame. Then she was back.

  ‘Sorry, she’s all over the place today,’ she explained, her tone calm and unruffled. ‘Are you going to tell me again about the name? I didn’t really understand what you were saying.’ She listened in silence as Charlie went through the previous evening.

  ‘And I told Martha she could come and stay,’ Charlie finished, giving a last hiccuping sob. ‘Though you probably won’t want to send her now.’

  ‘I can just hear what she’d say if I tried to stop her. She hasn’t shut up about it yet.’ Eleanor’s voice was so normal. ‘Look, I’m going to have to go. The park just filled up with about a million kids, and I can’t see Poppy. Are you going to be all right? Have you had anything to eat?’ She didn’t wait for a response. ‘It’s a nice thing that Mum wanted you to have her name, you know. Maybe she was trying to make up for something.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Charlie watched as another shopper came round the corner, paused, disappeared, though she wasn’t really thinking about them. ‘Sorry for calling like this. Is everything all right your end?’

  ‘Not bad. We’re due to exchange next week.’

  ‘Exchanging?’ Charlie realized she meant the house, with all the space and garden, the annexe. She had an uncomfortable feeling about the whole thing, but what did she know? For some reason, she remembered how crushed Martha had sounded the day before. Was that anything to do with tensions at home? Maybe she should at least mention that she wasn’t sure Eleanor should be doing this. ‘About the house—’

  But Eleanor was adamant. It was the right plan, they were doing it and everyone was on board. Martha was getting to that age, surely Charlie could remember what it was like.

  With that last, slightly barbed, rebuke ringing in her ears, Charlie let the call end. It was only afterwards that she realized she hadn’t mentioned Max’s email.

  Back on the boat, she wandered about, unable to settle. She had a glass of water, wondered about heating up some noodles. It felt like too much effort. She continued to pace, picking things up and discarding them. There was a guitar propped up in a corner of the living room. She’d thought at first that it was her old one, rescued from years of neglect. That, though, was currently in a charity shop somewhere in Derbyshire, if it hadn’t already been sol
d. This one was a beauty, the polished veneer deep in colour, unscratched, expensive. An odd purchase for a woman who’d never shown any interest in music. There was a book as well, neatly placed on the floor next to the instrument. Classical Guitar for Beginners. Charlie tried to picture Britta sitting in the quiet space of the cabin, practising each tiny step, over and over again.

  She lifted the guitar up, taking some time to remember the knack of tuning. It was years since she’d played. The first few chords made her shudder with a discomfort that matched her mood. Then muscle memory kicked in and one perfect sound hung in the air. It made the back of her throat ache. She stayed where she was until the last shiver dispersed, before placing the guitar back, a little further behind the sofa. She didn’t feel like playing after all.

  The guides were still scattered across the floor from her planning the night before, alongside the boat paperwork and the accordion file. She picked the books up first, tapping them together so the edges were straight and placing them carefully on the shelf. It felt important to get it right, to make them sit there in a perfect stack. Once she was satisfied, she moved on to the papers. Each went into a separate compartment, the one with her name on going in last. She stroked her finger across the top line as she slipped it in. Charlotte Nilsson, daughter of Britta Nilsson. The box had better go back under the steps.

  As she manoeuvred it in, she realized that the space went back further than she’d realized on her first investigation, right under the front deck by the feel of it. If she knelt down and got her whole arm in, she still couldn’t feel the back of it. With her breath held in, she inched her fingers across, not wanting to miss any other hidey-holes. It wasn’t until her hand was right in the back corner that she felt the envelope.

  Her fingertips were black and she had to stop to sneeze before she could look at it properly. A5 size, and old. She knew that without thinking. It was in the soft feel of the paper, the way the flap was curling out, the gaps in the sides where the edges had given up the struggle to stay together. Nothing written on the outside. Charlie put the tread back onto the step and sat down, her legs not quite up to the job of standing. The envelope, stuffed to capacity, gave way in her hands, and the contents spilled onto her legs, dropped to the floor.

  A newish page with figures in a column, costs for something now beyond understanding. A pencil sketch of Skíðblaðnir, crude but recognizable. She looked festive, with flowers on the roof and bunting looped along the handrail. There were odd words written in what Charlie assumed was Norwegian. They were clumsily formed, somehow childish. The change in alphabet, she supposed, maybe reflecting the time Britta had last used it. She’d have to look them up later, find out what they meant. Below, this time in English, was a sentence, finished off with an exclamation mark. The words ran along in wavy lines, bouncing cheerfully: One day we shall sail to London! Charlie’s throat squeezed tight, a wave of sorrow cutting off her airway. Why had there not been time for her to get there? She wanted to howl it out, to bellow it to the world. Instead she whispered, just to the silent boat, ‘I’ll go for you. I’ll go to London.’ What was she expecting? Some sign of recognition, or forgiveness? If she did, nothing came back.

  Then Charlie noticed something tucked into the back, a fragment of newsprint, faded and yellowed and fragile. She eased it out slowly, afraid of damaging it.

  It was a quarter-sheet from a newspaper, the edges showing where it had been torn along the bottom and the left-hand side, the date along the top line shown as 26 June 1965. The Sneasham Gazette.

  The first side was dominated by an advert for Nescafé, picturing a smiling housewife holding out a steaming cup. Beneath it, an article was headed Waterways group in quest to keep local canal open. It seemed like an odd item to have treasured for so long, about a threat to the canal from a planned motorway. The campaign was for a bridge to be built over the canal, saving the navigation. Under the article, and taking up about as much space, was a grainy photograph of the determined group. Charlie didn’t spot the face until she read the accompanying text: Norwegian boater Margareta Sørensen leads the charge for canal preservation. ‘This is my home,’ she told our reporter, ‘and I will fight for it.’

  The dots of the photograph came together better if Charlie held it at arm’s length. Even then it was hard but, with her eyes slightly closed, she could make out the same features as the woman in the photograph with Britta. Almost as an afterthought, she turned the page over to see what was on the other side.

  More advertisements, a reminder to get entries in for the summer fete, and a short column with a subheading in small capitals: GRANDMOTHER LEFT TO DIE IN VILLAGE TRAGEDY. There wasn’t much detail in the story, which was strange given the dramatic potential. The body of a woman had been discovered in a house. She was thought to have died several days before, of a seizure. With her was her daughter, a new mother herself with a baby of just a few days old. The girl was reported to be in a state of shock and would be questioned in due course. Long-distant dramas, small-town happenings. Charlie went back to the canal story. Bob had been right, and Margareta had at least been to this place, Sneasham. And Sneasham must be on the canal, so it was a possible place for her to start her search. That would sort her route out, anyway. She could even try and spot where the original photo had been taken, ask around for people who might remember a young Norwegian girl coming to join the older woman, perhaps for a holiday. The segments began to form a shape in Charlie’s head. That might be it. Britta had come over for a brief visit, whether Margareta was a sibling or cousin, or even just a friend. Then she’d gone home, coming back several years later to stay. It would make sense for her to count her residency from that second date. It would be the more significant one, anyway. If only she’d kept in touch with her family. Then Charlie might already know this Margareta. She stopped, imagining a different life where foreign relatives had come to stay with them, or they had gone on trips to Scandinavia for their summers.

  Whilst she’d been reading, the sun had gone down far enough that she was finding it hard to read the small letters on the page. She got to her feet, stretching out. Her legs were stiff, and she hobbled across to the window. Draw the curtains and put the light on. Make some tea, find something to eat. As she went to pull the thin fabric across the windows, a pair of feet walked past. She could see them – battered old desert boots, she hadn’t spotted any of those for a while – and legs in faded jeans, but the top half was cut off from view. She was more or less used to having people passing at close quarters now, so would have ignored whoever it was. But these feet slowed, then stopped. Again, not entirely unexpected. People did stop – to look at the canal, take in the view. Sometimes they went as far as discussing the boats, making judgements in loud voices. One or two went further, stooping to peer inside. Libby Rae had a store of anecdotes: the couple who’d sat their toddler on the roof to take a photo; the elderly lady who’d put her head through the bow doors and asked if they did tea and coffee.

  This person, whoever it was, came up to the side of Skíðblaðnir and rapped on her metal hull.

  SIXTEEN

  It was ridiculous to feel threatened. Even so, she stood a little way back from the window, her skin buzzing with alarm. If she held herself at a certain angle, she could see through the gap in the curtains without, in turn, being seen. Not that it helped much. The figure was tall, a shadowed bulk in the dim light. There was no way of seeing his face without making herself visible, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to let on that she was in. Mustn’t move so that the boat rocked. At least she hadn’t put the lights on yet.

  The rap came again. No different from someone knocking at her front door. But who knew she was here? She went through the list in her head. Eleanor. Maybe Jon, if he’d listened to Martha’s chatter. Martha, of course, though she surely wouldn’t have much concept of where the location actually was. For a moment, Charlie wondered if it was Max. No, she’d know him, even from the sight of his feet and the outline of his shape.
And he didn’t know where she was anyway. Someone checking about the mooring? Maybe she wasn’t supposed to stop here, or she’d taken someone else’s place. She sat for a moment longer, waiting to see if whoever it was would go away. The trouble was, the longer she left it, the more idiotic she’d seem if she did go out. Though there could be reasons for a delay. She’d been in the shower; asleep. How about that for too much overthinking. Impatient with herself, she scooped up her phone and made her way to the front of the boat. She pleaded silently not to be told that she’d have to move, not now, not in the dark.

  ‘Hello?’ It was no use staying inside the boat with the door open a crack. She had to go out onto the front deck to unzip the cover. Too late, she realized she could have opened the side hatch in the kitchen, had this conversation from a much safer place. Her position, down below the waterline, made her feel instantly at a disadvantage.

  ‘Hi, wow, it is you!’

  The voice was almost familiar, though Charlie’s first response was to demur. ‘Sorry, I think you must have—’ Then she stopped as the visitor squatted down to her level. ‘Dave?’

  She invited him on board. She had to, really. It had started to drizzle, for one thing, and she could hardly leave him standing on the bank getting wet. And she was pleased to see him, in a way. It was just being in a different place, that sense of being off-grid, out of the loop. She hadn’t really expected anyone to find her.