‘Oh?’
‘Pia insisted on paying for the weeks since she fired me. She also got that cow who refused to pay for my supposedly shoddy cleaning to backdate me, as well. Another bonus of Hotel NHS is that apart from the odd treat from the snack trolley, I’m not spending a penny. Not even on ciggies since they’re banned from now on. I’ve no idea what the hell we’re going to do if I’m not back on my feet soon, but I’ll worry about that another day. I’ve dealt with worse.’
‘You’re amazing.’ I gave her hand a squeeze.
Leanne laughed, but I could sense the tears hovering close by. ‘Yeah, look at me. Wonder Woman eat your heart out.’
‘Ugh, a few more days!’ Joan said, once we were driving home.
‘I know, it’s really hard. But you understand why the doctors think it’s best to keep her in a bit longer.’
‘No, you don’t understand! I want her to say in longer.’ Joan shook her head in exasperation. ‘A few days might not be long enough for Sam to find Nana and Grandad!’
‘It will probably take quite a bit longer than that. And you know that we might not be able to find them at all. Or what will happen when we do.’
Nana and Grandad? That was new.
‘Yes, yes, I know they might hate Mum or be horrible or whatever. I know all of that but I don’t think they will; I think they’ve spent years and years missing her and praying that she’ll come home one day. I just feel it.’
I waited a moment before answering, thinking about the ‘research’ Joan had conducted in the library while I was coaching. This consisted mainly of reading books where solving the mystery and reaching the happy ending was the only outcome. ‘Well, let’s hope we can find them soon.’
Joan twisted towards the window, sinking into her hoodie. ‘I don’t have to hope because I know that we will,’ she muttered.
Once I’d left Joan reading while Nesbit curled up at the foot of the sofa bed, I poured myself a glass of wine and pulled out my phone, clicking to open the internet. The Buttonhole website was advertising a new quilting course. There were pictures on the Facebook page showing a recent Knit and Natter Night, and Mum was in at least half of them, face glowing and wearing a patterned tea-dress that I knew she’d have sewn herself. To my shock, her name had been tagged. Mum had never taken any interest in social media, but clicking on the link, it took me to her profile. She had set it to private, so all I could see was a profile picture and basic information – but it was enough to send my head spinning. Mum, sitting in a pub garden in the sunshine, lifting up a huge gin and tonic and smiling as though she hadn’t a care in the world.
I knew that profile pictures lied.
I knew that even if she was as happy as this snapshot implied, that was okay.
It was better than okay – I wanted her to be happy. In a way, it proved that instead of being completely selfish, my decision had been the right one for her as well as me, because she’d certainly never looked this happy before.
It made me think that maybe we would be able to start again.
But at the same time, Joan’s words about her grandparents reverberated inside my head.
Why wasn’t my mum missing me, grieving her only child?
Had her behaviour the past few years been my fault? Had I been the one holding her back?
‘Stop gaslighting yourself!’ Steph barked, when I called her in a snotty, snuffling mess a few minutes later. ‘One word: tooth-gate.’
She spent another half hour laying out the case for why this whole train of thought was preposterous.
‘Of course it’s a shock to see her getting on with things when for so many years she acted like her whole life depended upon you. Even if she hadn’t created this suffocating, all-consuming relationship, it would be weird to be confronted with that picture when you’ve not had any contact in so long.’
‘I think it hurt so much because I still miss her, despite everything, and I feel like a fool when she’s not missing me.’
‘Ollie, of course she’s missing you. This is one photo. This is her coping as best she can. Karina probably took a hundred shots before finding one remotely usable. The question for you is, what do you want to do about it, if anything?’
‘Set up a fake profile and become her Facebook friend?’
Steph made a sound like a quiz show buzzer. ‘Incorrect. Try again.’
‘I don’t think I’m ready to meet this new Mum.’
‘Okay, that’s understandable.’
‘But I want to be. I don’t want to be so triggered by it; even a photo can affect me this much. I want to be able to think about her, to see her, without it meaning that I can’t sleep or eat or concentrate on anything good. I want us to have the healthiest relationship possible, whether that means never seeing her again, or inviting her to my thirtieth birthday party. And I want to be strong enough to figure all this out without doubting every decision.’
‘That’s going to take time.’
‘I hate time!’
‘And probably some counselling.’
‘I don’t have time for counselling!’
‘Maybe get through this summer, get through the Dream List, let things settle down with Joan, and then make the time.’
‘So what do I do in the meantime?’
‘Well, if I’m not mistaken, I think I heard someone mention a party…’
24
The following afternoon, Joan had her breakthrough. Tucked deep inside the pocket of a ratty rucksack that we found stuffed at the back of Leanne’s wardrobe was a birth certificate for Leanne Emily Armitage-Brown, born on 12 October 1988. Parents: Carole and Peter Armitage-Brown. Place of birth: Chester.
Joan didn’t have the internet on her phone so we skedaddled straight back to End Cottage and whipped open my laptop.
Carole Armitage-Brown had a Facebook account – all private, with a profile picture of a cat, so I made a friend request and moved on.
Peter Armitage-Brown came up on LinkedIn as a retired construction manager for a Cheshire building firm. He’d worked for the same company for forty-seven years. According to their website, they were doing pretty well. We scoured the blog posts and news features, but didn’t find anything specific about Peter. We even tried a website that used information from electoral rolls and directory enquiries, but that came up empty.
But maybe this was enough, for a Ranger on the hunt?
I sent Sam a brief message with a photo of the birth certificate, and he sent me back a selfie of him braced in the branches of an enormous oak tree gripping a chainsaw, with the caption:
Bit busy will call later.
‘I don’t think it’s safe to be sending messages when you’re up a tree.’ Joan frowned. ‘Especially not when you’re holding a massive saw.’
I was inclined to agree. I kept the photo anyway.