‘I always wanted a sister, too,’ Patricia says, and I know she found the silence awkward and had to fill it. ‘I’m an only child. What about you, Julie?’
I’m not expecting it but when I turn to Julie I see a world of pain in her eyes. She opens her mouth to speak but no words come out. Patricia is next to her, so she scoots her chair over a bit and puts an arm around Julie’s shoulder.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I wouldn’t have asked if I’d known it was a hard topic.’
Julie waves a hand. ‘It’s okay. But I can’t talk about it.’
It’s quiet, so I speak into the silence.
‘I think you know I had a brother, Bill. He died young. Sudden. Unexplained heart condition. Funny really, that he had something wrong with his heart and it broke all of ours.’
Kirsty covers my hand with hers, and I want to ask her how she can have a sister she doesn’t bother with. Here I am, still mourning my brother after sixty-odd years, and Patricia, with no siblings. And who knows what Julie’s story is, but it’s clearly upsetting.
‘You should try again,’ I say to Kirsty. ‘What if something happened to her, your sister? You might never forgive yourself.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she says.
‘And I can’t,’ Julie adds.
‘So let’s change the subject,’ Patricia says. ‘What’s the latest on Dot, Mabel?’
By nine o’clock, I’m shattered, and Patricia must notice because she says she’s ready to go and asks if I’d like to come with her. Julie’s had four cocktails and has spent the evening flitting between our table and Martin’s, and I’m feeling pretty pleased with myself.
‘Yes, I’m ready,’ I say, and then I turn to Kirsty and Julie. ‘You two stay longer, if you want to.’
They shake their heads.
‘I’ll be up at the crack of dawn with Dotty,’ Kirsty says, standing. She yawns, as if on cue, and covers her mouth like she’s terribly embarrassed.
‘I’m just going to say goodnight to Martin,’ Julie says. ‘I’ll meet you outside.’
We stand in the cold, our coats pulled tight around us. Our breath coming out in little puffs like smoke.
‘I’ve had a lovely time,’ Kirsty says.
When I look at her, the light from above the pub door is illuminating her face, and she looks close to tears.
‘I used to go out all the time, but since Dotty, it’s hard. I don’t get much time to myself and my friends are all in London and I haven’t found it easy to meet people here. So thank you, for inviting me.’
Patricia roots in her bag and produces a small pack of tissues. ‘Those early years are hard.’
What can I say to that? I know nothing of the early years of motherhood. Just then, Julie topples out of the door with Martin in tow, and I beam.
‘All right, ladies?’ he says. ‘Shall we get you all home?’
He summons a taxi and we all get into it, and Julie tells the driver to go to each of our houses in turn. When Kirsty and Patricia are getting out, Julie calls after them.
‘Was it Rod Stewart, Patty?’
She turns, smiling. ‘Not my type.’
‘Gotcha.’
I can’t sleep for hours. It must be the excitement of doing something different, being out. When I got in, Olly looked at me in disgust, like he was a parent disappointed at his child for staying out too late, and I couldn’t help but laugh. It was strange, laughing out loud in an empty house. I came straight up to bed but it’s gone midnight now and I’m still wide awake. I go back downstairs, find my list and a biro.
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
Number five is still ongoing, but number six looks like it might be well underway. I daren’t cross it off just yet, though. I cross out number eight and change it.
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 Reunite Kirsty with her family
It’s a lot to do. I close the notebook, put it down on my bedside table. And I lie there until gone two, scheming.
21
Julie’s not coming until one, so I’m up early and ready as I’ll ever be to visit Reg Bishop. I’ve seen him, over the years, around town. Never to speak to, but I knew he was still around. He’s aged just as I would have expected. Carrying too much weight around his tummy, like most old men. For years he had a ridiculous comb-over but he seems to have given that up and come to terms with baldness. His house is not far from where Dot used to live, and I go past the end of her road on my way. What would she make of this?
It’s bitterly cold with a freezing wind, and people have started putting their Christmas lights up. How many more Christmases will I see? Can’t be more than a handful, at best. And that’s probably not a bad thing, given I’ll be spending any future ones alone.
I’m lost in my thoughts and almost miss Reg’s house. It’s a bungalow on a little cul-de-sac. Rendering that was probably once white but is looking decidedly grey. A few shrubs out the front. I take a deep breath and knock on the door, and he opens it so quickly I don’t have time to ready myself.
‘Mabel Mansfield,’ he says.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Beaumont.’
‘Beaumont, of course.’ Is that a sneer that flits across his features?
‘I came to see you because I’m looking for a friend, and I was told you’re interested in local history and might have an idea about how I could find her.’
He nods, smiles. ‘You’d better come in.’
Inside, it’s unbearably hot. Heating blasting out and gas fire on in the living room he ushers me into.
‘Cup of tea?’ he asks.
I tell him how I take it and he disappears. That must be his seat – slippers beside it and a book on the arm of the chair. I sit on the armchair opposite, after taking off my coat and cardigan.
‘You’ve made yourself at home!’ he says, making me jump. He gestures to the clothes I’ve removed and put on the arm of the chair.
‘I was a little warm,’ I say.
‘So this friend,’ he says, picking up my coat and giving it a shake before taking it into the hallway, presumably to hang up. There’s something a bit off about the way he says ‘friend’, but it’s not enough to take issue with. ‘It wouldn’t be Dot Brightmore, would it?’
I don’t look at him. ‘That’s right.’
‘I thought as much. So you lost track of her, over the years?’
‘She left town, just before Arthur and I got married. I never heard from her again.’
He lets out a whistle. ‘So that’s, what, got to be more than sixty years?’
‘Sixty-two,’ I say, still not making eye contact.
‘So why now?’
I don’t know how to answer this and I don’t feel I should have to, either. So I don’t.