if,’ Emma persisted, ‘the answer to all your …’
‘Em, stop,’ Angie broke in raggedly. ‘Even if I wanted to meet someone, which I don’t, and even if he happens to be on that website, which I doubt, you have to admit that now really isn’t the time. So you go ahead and wave, use your bloody knickers if you want to, just please get off my case.’
Emma fell silent, so did Angie, but as the minutes ticked by Angie’s struggle to hold back her emotions started to fail. She was afraid to take a breath in case it turned into a sob, could barely move, aching with dread, guilt, grief, and despair.
Emma got up from her desk, but realizing her sister was about to hug her, Angie put up a hand to stop her. She couldn’t handle sympathy or tenderness right now; it would be the end of her. ‘I’m fine,’ she managed to say, and to try and prove it she quickly typed a search into Google. When the results came up she clicked a profile on the home page and turned the screen so Emma could see it. ‘How about him?’ she said recklessly.
Emma blinked first in surprise, then in confusion.
‘It’s Martin Stone,’ Angie told her. ‘I ran into him this morning at the retirement village building site. He knew Steve.’
‘Well he would, being who he is,’ Emma said carefully. ‘So why are you …? What are you saying?’
‘Nothing.’ Angie shrugged, feeling stupid now. ‘It’s possible we can get Dougie and Mark Fields a job on the site,’ she explained. ‘We’re waiting to hear.’
‘That’s good.’ Emma still seemed puzzled. ‘His dad’s name was Dougie,’ she stated, making an absurd connection. ‘Remember he was the mayor who did so much for this town like revamping the old cinema, and bringing in one-pound bus fares for every journey. He got the planning department to …’
Angie closed the screen down.
Emma frowned. ‘Why did you do that?’
Angie shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I’m sorry.’ She pressed her hands to her face. ‘I’m all over the place at the moment,’ she confessed. ‘I can’t seem to get my head straight.’
Realizing it was time to let the subject of Martin Stone go, Emma returned to her desk and another silence fell as they got on with their work.
Half an hour later, as she and Emma locked up and started through to the car park, Angie noticed the misty rain settling over her sister’s hair turning the stray strands into a sparkling cobwebby net. It reminded her of when they were young, walking to school in winter, or making dens at the end of the garden. She thought of how much they’d meant to their mother, how safe they’d always felt with her, and how she’d done her best to take care of Emma after their mother had gone. She loved Emma so much, and was so glad, relieved to have her it was close to making her cry, for without her she’d be totally alone. She just didn’t want to be a burden on her, making her worry about things she couldn’t change, or feel she had somehow to come up with the answers that were beyond them both.
‘I wonder if he’s married,’ Emma said as she unlocked her car.
Knowing exactly who she was talking about, Angie’s eyes flashed, but she had to laugh. ‘Of course he is,’ she replied, ‘and anyway, the way my luck’s going right now the only match I’m likely to get in the next few days is Liam’s DNA to that murder in Bristol.’ Even as she said it, she felt herself spinning off into a realm of madness. How could she even begin to joke about something like that; how could she even think of it without completely falling apart?
Twenty quid for topless shot. #SAVINGGRACE
Fifty quid to get your kit off. #SAVINGGRACE
You’re mad asking for suggestions. Look what you’re getting. #SAVINGGRACE
Run away and join circus. #SAVINGGRACE
They’re looking for dancers in Vegas. You’d be brilliant. #SAVINGGRACE
How many creeps does it take to change a lightbulb? Let us know when they’ve screwed you. #SAVING GRACE
‘That’s not even a joke,’ Lois muttered angrily.
‘But what we’re doing is,’ Grace responded. ‘We need to take it down.’
Lois nodded glumly, but as Grace started to delete all the nonsense suggestions, she said, ‘Tell you what, once you’ve got rid of all that crap let’s add something to our message like, Idiots and perverts don’t bother wasting our time.’
‘That’ll really put them off,’ Grace said wryly.
Lois laughed. ‘OK, but let’s give it a couple more days. You never know who might get in touch, and we don’t want to miss out if the best opportunity of all hasn’t quite got to us yet, do we?’
Two days later, having fitted in a lunchtime shift at the Bear Street chippie, Angie was at the food bank on Wesley Street, two roads back from the Promenade, in what used to be a betting shop. Balloons and bunting were pinned around the door to try and make people feel welcome, and tea and biscuits were in plentiful supply for those who’d been referred from doctors, the local authority, and various churches.
At her reception table just inside the entrance, one of eight spread out around the wood-panelled room, Angie had spent the last two hours listening sympathetically, fearfully and even in shared anger to the stories of why today’s hungry and largely blameless were there. In most of their stressed and often embarrassed faces, she kept seeing herself in the near future. She imagined coming here in some ludicrous disguise as some of them did, hoping no one would recognize her. How crazy was that when all the volunteers knew her and she could already see the shock on their faces when they realized her predicament, and feel their eagerness to help her in any way they could.
‘You’re only two pay cheques away from the streets,’ one of them would undoubtedly comment soulfully, using a phrase – a truism – that was often heard in this place. It obviously wasn’t a certainty for all, but it was for those who came here. They weren’t homeless – an address was required for a referral to the food bank – but many were known as the working poor, for they had jobs, in some cases more than one. Their earnings were so low and outgoings so high, however, that they were no longer able to put food on the table. So, as one dear old soul had put it in a husky, tearful voice today, they had to come here and beg.
‘You’re not begging,’ Angie had told him softly. ‘You’re just accepting a little help to get yourself through this difficult time. There’s nothing wrong with that.’
The old man was in his eighties, well dressed, hair neatly combed, he even smelled of aftershave. He’d clearly gone to some effort to make himself presentable today, probably hoping no one would think the worst of him. He was even wearing his service medals; a reminder to others that he’d mattered once. Those medals had made Angie’s heart ache. Apparently his wife had died a few months ago. She’d always been in charge of the money; she sorted their pensions, did the shopping, paid all the bills and since her passing he’d fallen into a depression. They had no family, just
