I must drift off to sleep because next thing I know there’s a knock on the door and I feel startled and a bit cold and there’s a stale taste in my mouth. I get up slowly and make my way to the door, and it’s Kirsty, bringing Olly back.
She hands the lead over with a smile, but it’s not bright like it usually is.
‘Everything all right?’ I ask.
Would she come in, if I asked her? Would she stay for another cup of tea and tell me what’s troubling her? But no, I can see Dotty’s awake and she looks like she’s on the verge of crying.
‘You asked about my family, before,’ she says. ‘Ben’s never met them. We don’t see them. They haven’t met Dotty.’
It’s a lot to take in, and I wasn’t expecting it. I think of Patricia, missing her granddaughters like mad, and these people living near Cheltenham who either don’t know they have a grandchild or know but haven’t met her. She’s a lovely little thing, Dotty. Once, when they came over, she sat on Patricia’s lap for a good twenty minutes tapping a couple of blocks together. She’s got thick, dark hair, which must come from his side, but her eyes are all Kirsty.
‘Why?’ I ask.
She shrugs. ‘Ben doesn’t get it. He wants us to get married but I couldn’t do that without involving them and I’m just not ready for them to meet.’
Perhaps it’s Ben, I think. Perhaps he doesn’t meet their expectations and she knows it.
‘Anyway, I’ve been thinking about it while we were out walking and I thought I should answer your question.’ She turns to go.
‘Wait, Kirsty.’ I want to ask her whether she’s happy, because surely that’s what it should all come back to, but I look into her watery eyes and can’t find the words. What is it with me and not being able to say what I mean? ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ I say, eventually.
She nods hurriedly, and then she’s gone, pushing the buggy back down the path and onto the street.
And all afternoon and evening, I think of her. Fancy being so beautiful and having money and a baby and all that, and still not being happy. Because even though I didn’t ask her, it’s clear that she isn’t, deep down. I’ll ask Patricia about the partner. Ben. It’s bound to be about him. And Patricia’s next door so she might have heard something. Arguments, that sort of thing. I hope to god it’s nothing more serious than that. That he doesn’t hit her. You don’t always know. There was a woman in the typing pool – Sheila – who confided in me and Dot once, pulled back her sleeves to show us her bruises. Dot was furious, insisting she leave him and saying we would do whatever it took to help her. I remember the rage in her eyes even now. Could Kirsty be going through something like that? I pull out my list.
1. Get in touch with friends and family
2. Contact the funeral parlour
3. Go to the supermarket
4. Clean the house
5. Find D
6. Help Julie get her husband back
7. Find out why Patricia is alone
I amend the seventh item to read ‘Help Patricia get her daughter back’ and tag an eighth thing on the end.
1. Get in touch with friends and family
2. Contact the funeral parlour
3. Go to the supermarket
4. Clean the house
5. Find D
6. Help Julie get her husband back
7. Help Patricia get her daughter back
8. Make sure Kirsty is safe
In one way, it feels like I’m not getting anywhere. But in another, it feels like I’m moving forward more rapidly than I have for years.
16
I’ve been looking for Dot’s address. A drawer here, a box there. Julie offered to help, but I didn’t really want her searching through all my personal things, so I said I’d rather do it myself.
‘Don’t be upending every cupboard in the house,’ she said. ‘Or it will feel impossible to put it all right again.’
She’s right, so I’ve taken it slow and steady. I’ve found all sorts. The cinema ticket from when Arthur and I went to see Rock Around the Clock and bopped in the aisles. All the letters and cards Arthur sent me over the years – always signed off the same way. ‘Here’s to forever.’ It’s been like living in the past. No, that’s not quite right, because in between I’ve been doing other things. So it’s been like living in a more vibrant present than I’m used to while dipping a toe in the past. Today, I’m tackling a box that’s been under mine and Arthur’s bed for as long as I can remember. I asked Julie to pull it out and bring it downstairs for me before she left yesterday, and I have a good three hours before she’s due here again.
I make a cup of tea, get settled in my armchair with the box at my feet, and open the cardboard flaps. The first thing I pull out is a notebook that seems vaguely familiar. It’s the size of a paperback book, with a black leather cover. I flick through, and the handwriting makes me catch my breath. It’s Bill’s. I close it again, not quite ready to see. Why do we have this? And then I remember Mother telling Arthur to have a look around Bill’s room to see if there was anything he wanted. He must have pocketed this small book, as a reminder. I open it up again, and just the shape of those letters brings him back. The way he laughed when I tried to tease him, the way he would eat anything you put in front of him and still ask for more. Even the smell of him, Brylcreem and talc. There’s nothing significant inside the book, I don’t think. Just scribbled notes and ideas. Lists. It’s probably the closest he came to keeping a diary, but he didn’t fill it with secrets or thoughts from the dark corners of his heart. I’m about to put it to one side when I do a last flick through the pages and catch sight of some different handwriting. Arthur’s.
It’s some scribbled notes, back and forth, between the two of them.
I’m going to ask Dot to marry me. What do you think she’ll say, Arthur?
You’re a lucky man, Bill. She’ll say yes, I’m sure of it.
What about you, and Mabel?
Do you think I stand a chance? You know her best.
She can be hard to read, but I’d say so. There’s no one else.
There’s no one else. How sure he was. And how wrong. How long before Bill died did they write this? It can’t have been long, but there’s no date. They had it all planned out. We made a great little foursome, and they wanted to keep it going. I don’t blame them; I did too. How different would things have been if we hadn’t lost Bill? Would we have stayed in that group, married and stuck together our whole lives? Would they have had children? And would we? And then I look back at Arthur’s first words. ‘You’re a lucky man.’ And it makes me feel a bit like a consolation prize.