You Never Told Me

by Sarah Jasmon

  The days settled down into a steady rhythm, with towns and villages, roads, bridges and valleys slipping by. Charlie had the sense that she hadn’t been there at all, not really. Nothing stuck in the passing, no more trace of her being left than there might have been of her mother. How close had Britta been to following this route? She seemed to be there as the world contracted to what was inside the boat, or that which was seen from her deck or porthole. Locks lifted or sank, junctions turned. Charlie could see from the map that known places were nearby – Wolverhampton, Birmingham, Coventry. They were just words on a map, though, with nothing to do with her or her boat. Time had little meaning either. A day might feel like a month, the only marker the next bridge, the next mooring.

  The sense of distance, of separation, was amplified by an incident on the second day. She’d taken Bella out for a last walk before turning in for the night. They’d played on the bank, Bella charging tirelessly after a chunk of wood. She insisted on carrying it back to the boat and, when they got there, collapsing with it on the bank. Charlie let her chew for a while, soaking up the silence, the isolation. The sky was holding the blue of the day at a hover, as if someone had hit pause. There was a sliver of moon, the tiniest, most delicate fragment hanging in the gap between the trees on either side of the canal. As Charlie stood there watching it, colours had built up in the corresponding patch of sky in the other direction, so many shades it was hard to differentiate them. Purple fading into pink and yellow and a clear light that was almost beyond colour, before merging back into what remained of the blue. It didn’t change whilst she looked at it, but only when she glanced away. It wasn’t that it got dark exactly, more that it blurred so much as to become dark air. And around her, so fast that she didn’t believe they were there to begin with, bats began to fly. Breathless, momentary. Moving without sound, a flit almost impossible to catch with her eyes.

  She’d taken her phone out with her to snap a photograph of Skíðblaðnir at her mooring, something to send to Martha. The moment for doing that had passed but she still had it held loosely in her hand. And then Bella, tired of her stick, came up at a run, bouncing at her with both front paws. For a small dog, she could build some serious momentum. Not expecting it, Charlie stepped back, almost losing her footing on the bank. As she twisted in an attempt to stay out of the water, she let go of her phone. It fell on the grass, but too close to the edge. Charlie dropped to her knees, making a grab for it. But at exactly the moment she got her freeze-framed hand to the spot where it had been, it slid down the edge and into the water with the quietest of splashes. She’d stared, unable to believe the timing, before making a final lunge just as the floating case had begun to sink.

  At least she still had it, even if it was turned off and buried in rice. Which meant no calls or texts or checking emails. And her fingers crossed that the drying process would actually work. She could try now, brush the dust from its screen and try the button to bring it back to life. Make the move too early, though, and the circuits would fizzle into burnt uselessness. A bit of patience wouldn’t hurt. In a way it was a relief. If she couldn’t check for messages, they didn’t exist. If only all her problems could be dealt with so easily.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Sneasham wasn’t much more than a big village, though the wharf buildings near the moorings suggested that the canal had once been busier, and more important, than it was now. Charlie had decided that the best place to start her search for Margareta would be the library, assuming there was one. She was lucky. Going down the main street, with Bella bobbing around on the end of her lead at all the new smells, she went past a Post Office, a hardware shop and a beautician’s before seeing the blue and white sign. The library itself, tucked down a side street, was not much more than two rooms, but it was busy. A children’s story group was in full swing in one corner, and there was a cluster of computers in another, most of them being used by a chatty group of older people.

  Charlie waited at the desk, half tuning in to the librarian’s discussion with the young man at the front of the queue as they tried to identify a book from a misremembered name. Then there was a young mother with two lively toddlers, checking out a pile of DVDs and picture books. The librarian knew the children by name, coming out from behind her desk to ask questions about the books they were bringing back. Charlie smiled as they jumped about in front of her, acting out their favourite lines. She looked behind her to make sure Bella was OK. There was a hook to loop her lead around and a water bowl just outside the door, and she could see her from where she was standing, but leaving her alone still made her edgy. Bella was sitting as close to the door as her lead would allow, her gaze fixed on where Charlie had gone. The librarian cleared her throat and Charlie realized that the toddlers had moved on.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Charlie stepped forwards. ‘I’m trying to find some information about the canal, people involved in the restoration projects back in the sixties?’

  ‘OK.’ The librarian was about Charlie’s age, with purple hair and a very pregnant stomach. ‘Would information about the canal in general be of any use? Because we’ve got a local history section. I’m not sure there’s much about restoration though.’

  ‘I’m not really sure quite what it is I’m looking for yet,’ Charlie said. She screwed up her face, trying to decide how to explain. ‘I think my mum had some connection here, or at least visited, and the only thing I’ve found so far is a friend or family member who had something to do with the canals.’

  ‘There’s the census? You can view them online … But you said the sixties?’ Charlie nodded and she grimaced. ‘That’s a bit late for the accessible records. And did they live on a boat? Because then they wouldn’t show up anyway.’

  ‘I really don’t know that much at all,’ Charlie told her. She pulled the newspaper cutting out. ‘This is it, really. I’m guessing it’s from around here, but the woman I’m interested in might have just been passing through.’

  The librarian held the paper up to read the caption, then gave a wide smile. ‘If it’s Margareta you’re looking for, then I can probably help you.’

  ‘You’re joking?’ Charlie blinked. It surely wasn’t going to be that easy.

  The librarian laughed. ‘It’s hard to mistake a name like that. Look …’ She checked the time. ‘I’ve got a reading group now, and then it’s the U3A computer group, but if you want to come back at about four, we can have a proper chat.’ She held out a hand. ‘I’m Sally, by the way.’

  The timing was perfect, giving them the opportunity to wander through the rest of the village and explore a footpath off across some fields. There was no one else in sight, and the walk was almost too ridiculously perfect. Charlie watched Bella sniff and charge at hidden possibilities in the hedges or fall over her feet as she raced for a tossed stick. There were cows standing in the shade, tails flicking, and the grass was dotted with buttercups. Charlie wondered what it would be like to live there, to come out every day on the same walk and never get tired of it. Maybe it was possible for some people. Maybe it just meant finding the right place. The footpath curved in a generous arc to rejoin the canal, and they ambled back to Skíðblaðnir with the sun dappling through the trees, the breeze shifting the water of the canal just enough to form and re-form an endless camouflage pattern of browns and greens.

  Leaving Bella on the boat with a peanut butter-filled bone to keep her company, Charlie made her way back to the library. Sally was waiting outside, a leather jacket open around her belly. She waved as Charlie walked up, coming to meet her along the pavement. It was like meeting up with a friend. Charlie couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.

  ‘Let’s go for a coffee,’ Sally said, pointing towards the main street. ‘Partly because I really need one – have you ever met a U3A group with a grievance? – and partly because my mum’s just opened a café and she needs the custom.’ She laughed. ‘Though her cakes are pretty damn good.’

  ‘What exactly is the U3A?’ Char
lie asked, having to jog slightly to keep up.

  ‘University of the Third Age.’ Sally laughed at the expression on her face. ‘Like when you’ve retired but want something to do. They run a bunch of stuff here: language classes, art, wine-tasting, rambling. And there are talks. That’s where I met Margareta, she came to tell them about canal restoration.’ She pointed along the street. ‘There’s Mum’s place.’

  ‘Is this where you grew up?’ Charlie tried to imagine living in the Derbyshire village all her life, never moving away.

  ‘I left for uni.’ Sally laughed again. ‘It was good to try somewhere else. But then this turned up,’ she patted her bump, ‘and a vacancy came along in the library, so I came home for a bit.’ She held up her hands in a shrug as they reached the café’s door. ‘What you gonna do? Though I thought I’d be getting free childcare and then Mum had this bright idea, so the baby’ll just have to learn how to wash up really fast.’

  She led the way in. The café was tiny, just one room with three round tables and a sofa in the window. There were plants everywhere, hanging in macramé holders and balanced on shelves. A cheese plant with leaves the size of side plates dominated one corner and drooped above the counter.

  ‘I swear these have grown since I was here yesterday.’ Sally pushed a spider plant aside and rang an old-fashioned bell. ‘Mum, you there? Customers!’ She turned back to Charlie. ‘She’s a miniature plant whisperer. That’s why she opened this place, I reckon, more space for the plants.’ She rang the bell again.

  ‘I’ll be right with you!’ The voice came from the other side of a swing door. ‘Just putting the kettle on.’ Almost as she spoke, she was coming through, a short, round woman moving at double speed. ‘Let’s sit here. Tea? Coffee? Cup or mug? And you’d like some cake, wouldn’t you?’

  Charlie found herself in a chair, facing the rapid fire of questions. ‘Tea, thank you. No sugar.’ She couldn’t keep up.

  ‘I need coffee, Mum. And we’ll both have scones.’ Sally turned to Charlie and gave the briefest of winks.

  ‘You don’t need coffee, it’s bad for the baby. I’ll get you some of that ginger tea instead.’ Sally’s mother was already on her way back to the kitchen. ‘And the scones aren’t nice at the end of the day. I’ll do you some teacakes.’

  Sally chuckled, watching her go. ‘You don’t really need an opinion of your own,’ she said.

  ‘And this is at the end of the day? What’s she like in the morning?’ Charlie was feeling a bit winded.

  ‘Let’s just say she doesn’t do lie-ins.’ Sally was moving across to the sofa. ‘Come on, while she’s gone. We might as well be comfortable.’ She sank down into the cushions with a happy sigh. ‘Now, tell me why you want to see Margareta.’

  There was something about Sally that made it feel like she’d known her for ever. And when her mother came back (call me Jean, now) it was as if she’d been adopted into some kind of wider family. It made it easy to tell them everything, which was just as well because they wanted to know it all. She ended up going right back to before Thailand, and what made her take the decision to leave, via a comprehensive overview of her own family’s dynamics.

  Jean was studying the photograph of Margareta and Britta. ‘That’s down by the bridge, isn’t it? Where the stream goes under.’ She turned to Charlie. ‘We get a lot of boats. Some of them stay for years, and you get the ones who come back every so often.’ She turned to Sally. ‘Who was that girl you used to play with?’

  ‘Tabitha? I wanted to run away with her, live on the boat with her and her mum for ever.’ Sally was examining the photograph now. ‘You mean down by Dixon’s farm?’ She nodded. ‘I think you’re right. And what about Charlie’s mum, ring any bells?’

  ‘I don’t know. 1964. I was only five or so.’ She took the picture back and held it right up to her face. ‘She was Norwegian, you say?’ Charlie nodded, and she studied it again. ‘There’s something about her face—’ Her tone was doubtful. ‘Sneasham was small back then, everyone knew everyone. A girl started in my class at school who’d come from Manchester and that was exotic. I just think I’d remember if someone foreign lived here. Everyone knew who Margareta was, though she wasn’t one for making friends. Maybe your mum was on a boat, just passing through?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Charlie took the photo back and stared at her mother’s face again, as if this might tell her something. ‘As far as I knew, she wasn’t even in England until several years after this. I can’t believe Margareta’s still here. Do you think I’d be able to talk to her?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’ Jean got up and started getting the cups together. ‘Sally can call her and find out when she’s in.’

  ‘Why me? Because she can’t be mean to the pregnant lady? Except she won’t be able to see I’m pregnant on the phone.’

  ‘Because you’ve got her number at the library.’ Jean was halfway to the kitchen.

  ‘I’m not sure that’s ethical,’ Sally called after her. She turned to Charlie. ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘I don’t want to be any trouble,’ Charlie said.

  ‘Oh, you’re all right, I just like to wind her up. The number’s probably in the phone book. And it might be better having an introduction from someone she knows. Leave it with me.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Margareta lived in one of a cluster of almshouses, tucked away behind the remains of a country house. They weren’t easy to find, even with the instructions Sally had written out for her. Finally, Charlie spotted the hidden entrance to a narrow road which disappeared behind a row of cottages. It followed the line of a high, old brick wall, the mortar crumbly between bricks of a beautiful, mellow terracotta tone. An information board showed grainy images of the old manor house that had once stood in the nearby grounds. In the pictures, ladies in wide hats sat on a terrace; oak trees bordered a sweeping driveway. The wall and the cottages were now all that remained. The houses, when Charlie finally reached them, were charming – tiny, red-brick doll-houses with exaggerated eaves and perfect bow windows.

  The woman who opened the door was unexpectedly small, her blonde-grey hair cut bluntly at chin level. Her blue eyes were sharp, vivid, and she had an edge of energy to her that was unconstrained by age. Was she the woman in the photograph with Britta? Charlie was suddenly doubtful. She held out a hand.

  ‘Hi, I’m—’

  ‘Yes, yes, Sally has told me. Come in.’

  It was a surprise to hear her accent, even though Charlie had been expecting it. The words were clipped, holding a cadence that had lingered in Britta’s voice, though to a much lesser degree. An English husband and no contact with family from Norway had taken Britta’s accent away, she supposed. Would she find out today why there had been such a breach? She followed the small, brisk figure into the house with her pulse racing.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind if I bring Bella in?’ Jean had been adamant that it would be fine. It’s a lovely walk to get there, and you don’t know how long you’ll be, do you? And it seemed that she’d been right. The old lady was looking down at the dog with a half-smile.

  ‘As long as she has clean paws and doesn’t poop on the floor. Yes, yes. The dog is fine.’

  They went down a short passage and into a living room. With its low ceilings and rustic air, Charlie would have expected country florals and an open fire, the walls hung with botanical prints and horse brasses. Instead, despite the thick wooden beams and deep windows, here was a sense of space. Charlie stood and looked at the pale wooden floor, the delicate blue of the walls, the spare lines of the Scandinavian furniture. She could smell lavender, and the hint of freshly ironed cotton, a real smell, almost tangible. In one corner stood a brushed steel cylinder. It took her a minute to realize it was some kind of heater. A moment later, and she spotted the neatly stacked chunks of wood waiting next to it. There was nothing here even remotely folksy.

  ‘Come, come, we will go to the kitchen.’ Margareta hustled her into an airy room, this one
larger, surely, than the original building had allowed for. Much of the roof was made of glass, and the room was full of light even though, outside, the weather had again become dull and wet. Charlie could hear the odd tapping as a drop fell from an overhanging tree. One whole side was made up of sliding glass doors, the view an uninterrupted sweep of gently rising fields leading to a low hill topped with a cluster of trees. A covered area of decking held a basket armchair standing next to a low wooden table. On the table’s surface were binoculars and a pile of books.

  Inside, it was warm but not stuffy. A pale blue range stood nearby, radiating comfort. Bella nosed forwards, pulling at her lead. On the worktop was a loaf of freshly baked bread. Charlie’s stomach rumbled. She hadn’t felt like eating that morning. Maybe it was waiting for lunch, to go with thick vegetable soup, homely and filling. Margareta was at the sink, filling a round orange kettle. She took it across to the range, lifting one of the lids before setting it down. The whole place was like a blueprint of a perfect home, sprung into being from a dream. It was like finding her home, the perfect fit, the ideal. An image flashed into her brain, ready formed. Herself, wrapped in its charms, a new daughter to this unexpected fairy godmother. Taking up where her mother had left off. Why, though? Why had they never been here to visit?

  ‘I think you are here with questions about your mother.’ Margareta’s matter-of-fact tone cut across her daydream.

  ‘Yes.’ Charlie found herself linking her fingers together, squeezing them so that the bones tightened, hard against each other. For the first time she considered the possibility that Britta had left on bad terms, that Margareta might not welcome the connection. She suddenly felt she could deal with anything except that. ‘She died, you see, just a couple of months ago. I’m sorry, I would have contacted you, but we’d never known—’ Why was she apologizing? There wasn’t any way you could tell everyone a person had ever known in their lives when they died. ‘It’s just that she bought a boat, you see, a little while before she died, and I found this on board.’ She held out the photograph. ‘I think she was on her way to see you,’ she said, waiting for the old lady to take it. ‘She’d talked to her boat neighbours about making a journey, and I found this in her room.’