“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know. I want to.”
“You’re all right, you are.”
“And you’re probably over a million years old.”
TWENTY-ONE
SARAH|PRESENT DAY
I use the computers at Sale Library, a big red-brick building with glass doors. I’m allowed thirty minutes and use them as wisely as I can.
I search the Web for Robin but there’s nothing new. I search Twitter, an alien territory for me, and find several accounts from people with similar names, many of which have been unused or have lain dormant for a long time. One account, “RobMarshallGuitar,” looks promising but is far more likely to be some male, middle-aged, potbellied heavy-metal fan than my sister.
I search “how to find someone’s address,” but the results are mostly American or talking about IP addresses. Just as I’m about to leave, I look for “RobMarshallGuitar Manchester,” and the one search result is for a review website. A scathing verdict on a curry house—the Spice Lounge—in Chorlton, which hadn’t followed the specific instructions about delivery. Could it be?
Just before my library computer time runs out, I find the address of the Spice Lounge and head back to the B&B, where I put on an extra sweater and then ask at reception which way it is to Chorlton.
If this curry complainant was really Robin, the frustrating thing was that she hadn’t been happy and wouldn’t have ordered again. I couldn’t call up as Robin Marshall and ask for the usual, check the address they have. No gifts from God like that here; it would take more effort. I need to remember to eat, to keep my blood sugar stable, so I stop into a corner shop for a Mars bar, something I haven’t eaten since I was a child.
The walk to Chorlton will take at least an hour. “It’s fine,” I say to the concerned B&B ladies, “I’ve got nothing better to do today.” I’ve got nothing better to do full stop, not until I can move on to the next step.
ROBIN|PRESENT DAY
It’s March 20. For the seventh year running that means something. And for the first time in seven years, Robin has been too distracted, too haunted by the ghosts of the present, to feel the anniversary looming.
Last night, she’d sat in her bedroom in the dark, curtains open. Against her bedroom door was propped a chair to keep it closed. An old trick Callum had used as a kid, when he was scared of his dad getting in. Taking out his fucking “executive stress” on his little boy. With the lights off and the curtains open, Robin had a clear view over the roof and into all of the flats opposite.
She had a flask of coffee at her feet, a phone charger and a flashlight.
She’d stayed curled on the windowsill, her only company the strangers opposite. Mr. Magpie had looked over once. She thrust her chin up, glared at him angrily with a steeliness that wobbled when she saw that he was holding his son’s soft toy in his arms like you’d cradle a baby.
Robin awoke hours later with her forehead pressed hard against the glass and the morning sun leaking under her eyelids.
She sat up with a start, confused by the shape of her own body. She was utterly exposed, framed by the window and on full display like the Amsterdam prostitutes she’d laughed at while on tour. She dropped out of sight, checked her phone. It was eleven minutes past six. And it was Sunday, March 20.
A thousand years ago or seven. The length of time didn’t make a difference—the bruise of guilt and sadness was permanent. It came at her as hard as it ever had, while she crouched on the floor of her bedroom and stared at the date on her phone.
She’d been coming offstage at a festival in Melbourne when she got the call. It was still summer in Australia, and everything was pink and orange and sticky. Mums and dads and toddlers had watched the band play from the shade of parasols, a polite audience in the morning before the real fun started.
Adrenaline still coursing, Robin had been wringing her T-shirt out with one hand and checking messages with the other. There were several missed calls from UK numbers and texts from her sister asking her to call back. Robin hadn’t known that Sarah had her number.
Sickness mingling with adrenaline, Robin called the old house and left a message on their answering machine. Sarah phoned back a few minutes later. It would have been around midnight in Berkshire.
“Hello, Robin,” she’d said.
“Hi,” Robin had said. She knew it was bad news. You don’t get a flurry of calls and texts from a family you barely see if it’s good news. “Is it Dad?” she’d asked.
Sarah had made a little strangled sound. “I’m sorry, Robin. It is. It’s Dad.” She’d started to cry without clearing anything up. “We didn’t want to tell you while you were away, but then he got pneumonia and it all happened so fast.”
Hilary took the phone from her and started to speak in a strangled voice.
“Darling, we didn’t expect it to happen this way. I’m so sorry.”
Still knowing nothing much, Robin sank down to rock on her heels. “What’s happened?” she asked, unsure if she really wanted to know. Couldn’t she just go back onstage, stay there forever and hide from whatever Hilary was about to say?
“A few weeks ago, he found out why he’s had some breathing problems. He had a terrible cough and it wouldn’t shift. You know what he’s like, he had to be strong-armed into the doctor’s, but, well, they found something.”
“Cancer?”
There was a pause and the slight break in Hilary’s voice as she said, “Yes, cancer. It was in his lung.”
“Was? Have they taken it out? Did he have an operation, can I see him?”
“Oh,” Hilary said. “I’m so sorry.”
There was a brief exchange of words on the other end that Robin couldn’t make out.
“Robin.” Her sister, Sarah, again. “Look, you were away and we didn’t want to worry you. We were going to call you as soon as you got back and get you round to see him so he could tell you everything himself.”
“Were?” Robin said, covering her eyes from the pink sun.
“He got ill really quickly. He was home and it all happened fast. We thought it was just a cold, that he’d be okay for a while yet. But—” She broke off, and in the background Robin could hear, “No, it’s okay, I can do it, let me tell her.”
Sarah carried on, her voice catching. “He died, Robin. I’m so sorry.”
“My dad’s dead and I’ve missed my chance to say goodbye? My dad’s dead? Dad’s dead?”