7. Help Patricia get her daughter back
8. Make sure Kirsty is safe Reunite Kirsty with her family
9. Keep an eye on Erin
23
Mid December is a terrible time to have a birthday. I should know. Kirsty shares hers with Arthur, though I haven’t mentioned that to the others. I wouldn’t want them to be fussing over me, checking I’m all right, when it’s her day.
And I am all right. If I didn’t have them, if I wasn’t spending today at Kirsty’s party, I would probably be moping around a bit. Thinking about his past birthdays. He wasn’t a big fan of material things, didn’t collect anything or really have hobbies that required particular clothes or equipment. We tended to have a day out to celebrate. A pub lunch and a wander around a different town. That was the sort of thing he liked. Pottering. Finding a market or a nicely kept park with pretty flowerbeds or a river to walk alongside. Of course, it was always cold and often wet, the days at their shortest, but he said he liked the way the Christmas lights looked as it went dark in the late afternoon, and he said there was no one he would rather spend his birthday with than me. He was quite romantic, sometimes, especially if he’d had a drink or two with his ploughman’s.
‘You’re miles away,’ Julie says. ‘What are you thinking about?’
We’re on Patricia’s doorstep, Julie’s car loaded with food, wrapped presents in our hands.
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Just that Patricia must have a good weedkiller for these paths. I must ask her what she uses.’
Inside, it looks like a party shop exploded. Patricia’s made something she’s calling a balloon arch and there’s a tasteful happy birthday banner hanging above the windows in the living room. Everything’s in complementing pastel colours.
‘I’m making a playlist,’ she says, and she looks the closest to flustered I’ve ever seen her. ‘Tell me all your favourite party songs and I’ll add them.’
‘Before everyone gets here,’ Julie says, ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’
Patricia and I actually lean in.
‘It’s Martin, he’s moving back in.’ She looks from Patricia to me and back again, to gauge our reactions.
‘That’s wonderful!’ Patricia says, pulling Julie to her for a hug.
I’m pleased, too, but I don’t know how to tell her. ‘I hope you’ll set some ground rules,’ I say, and then I wish I could take it back, because that wasn’t what I meant to say at all.
‘Oh Mabel, I know you’re just worried about me getting hurt, but could you just be happy for me this once?’
She doesn’t wait for me to answer. She goes out to start bringing the food in and I station myself in the kitchen to make everyone a cup of tea. When I’m sure they’re both occupied, I slip my telephone out of my handbag and have another look at the last message I received from Kirsty’s mum.
Looking forward to the party. We’ll be there by three.
I check my watch. It’s quarter to two, and Kirsty will be here soon. Patricia’s invited her over for a piece of cake, since her birthday’s fallen on a weekday and Ben is at work. There’s no turning back now. The churning in my stomach has increased – I couldn’t even face my breakfast this morning – but it won’t be long, now, until I can pat myself on the back for a job well done.
The doorbell goes a few times. It’s all mums from the playgroup Kirsty goes to, and soon the house is full of young women and their babies. The whole place takes on the scent of baby lotion and milk. And then we all shuffle into the living room and go quiet while Patricia lets Kirsty in. She stands in the doorway with Dotty on her hip and one hand covering her mouth as we shout ‘Surprise!’ I’ve never been to one of these before. Plenty of parties, but no surprise ones. There’s a genuine thrill to those moments of anticipation, and then to seeing the person’s reaction. Kirsty’s crying now, and Patricia’s taken Dotty, who’s got her hands over her ears because she doesn’t like loud noises. Kirsty’s hugging everyone, and Patricia’s put the music on, but quietly, and I keep checking my watch because I know I won’t settle until the final surprise has been revealed.
‘Mabel!’ Kirsty shrieks, throwing her arms around me. ‘You’re all so secretive! Thank you so much, you’re too good to me.’
‘You’re welcome,’ I say, my voice a bit croaky. ‘It’s nothing, really.’
She gives my arm a gentle nudge. ‘It is not nothing! No one has ever done anything like this for me.’
Not even your family? I want to say. And then it crashes in; the thought I’ve been trying to keep out. What if they’re awful people? What if there’s a good reason why she doesn’t see them? What if this was a terrible mistake? But it’s too late. I’ve set the wheels in motion. And now all I can do is watch it play out in front of me.
I sit down on the sofa and keep my eyes on Kirsty. She’s having a glass of prosecco, chatting, moving from group to group. Patricia’s looking after Dotty so she can enjoy herself unencumbered. When it’s almost three o’clock, I feel like I’ve got a lead stone in my stomach, and I hear Arthur’s voice. What have you done, Mabel? But then the doorbell goes and Julie leaves the room to get it and when she returns, she’s got Kirsty’s parents in tow and a puzzled look on her face.
They’re not what I imagined, these people. They look out of place in Patricia’s house. The man is tall, thin, and stooped, the woman short and plump, like they’re a cartoon couple, each the opposite of the other. You can tell by the uncomfortable way they’re standing that they’ve made an effort with their clothes, but nothing they’re wearing is really working. She’s clutching a present, I see. A small box, probably jewellery. I move my eyes from them to Kirsty. I want to clock her reaction when she sees them. And then Julie says her name, loud enough to be heard over the music, and she looks up and her face falls spectacularly, and she’s on her feet, going over to where they’re standing in the doorway.
I follow them out of the room on the pretence of needing a glass of water. Kirsty’s ushering them into the kitchen, and I stand back, in the hallway, listening in.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asks, her voice screechy, as if it’s taking everything she has to keep it under control.
‘Your friend invited us,’ her mum says. Her voice and the way she’s hanging her head show her disappointment. ‘She said you knew about it.’
‘Do I look like someone who knew about it?’
‘I’ve brought you something,’ her mum says, and there is silence. I imagine her handing over the box, Kirsty opening it.
I’m just starting to wonder whether her dad speaks at all when he finally does. ‘Kirsty, you have to understand. We’ve barely seen you for years and out of the blue we get this message asking us to come here. We thought you’d maybe changed your mind, about wanting to see us.’
‘I don’t know who sent that message,’ Kirsty says.