lips as he wrote.
‘It was exactly like The Sweeney,’ I said.
We threaded through the estate. Around us, the temperature loosened and stirred. Milk was rushed from doorsteps, car doors were pulled wide, and people hurried dogs along pavements before the day was stolen away by the heat.
‘Is the policeman going to look for her?’ Tilly’s bag scraped the concrete and clouds of white dust held the air. ‘What did he say?’
‘He said that Mrs Creasy is officially a Missing Person.’
‘Missing from what?’
Thinking made my feet slower. ‘Her life, I suppose.’
‘How can you be missing from your own life?’
I slowed a little more. ‘Missing from the life you belong in.’
Tilly stopped to pull up her socks. ‘I wonder how you know which one that is.’ She spoke with an upside-down head.
I realized I had stopped moving, and I turned away from Tilly so I could frown.
‘You’ll understand when you get older,’ I said.
Tilly looked up from her socks. ‘Your birthday’s only a month before mine.’
‘Anyway, God knows exactly where you belong.’ I marched away from the questions. ‘So it doesn’t really matter what anyone else thinks.’
‘Where do we start looking for Him?’ Tilly still pulled at her socks, trying to make them the same height.
‘Mr and Mrs Forbes.’ My hand followed the hedge as I walked. ‘When we’re singing hymns, they never have to look at the words.’
‘But we won’t find Mrs Creasy if she’s gone to Tamworth, even with God,’ Tilly shouted.
A cat began following us. It padded along the top of a fence, marking its journey with careful paws. I watched it stretch to the next wooden post and, for a moment, we had matching eyes. Then it jumped to the pavement, folded itself into the hedge and disappeared.
‘Was that next-door’s cat?’
But Tilly was too far away. I turned back and waited for her to catch up.
‘She hasn’t gone to Tamworth,’ I said. ‘She’s still here.’
3 July 1976
‘Go on then.’ Tilly elbowed me with the edge of her jumper.
I stared at the doorbell. ‘I’m working up to it,’ I said.
Mr and Mrs Forbes’ house was the kind of house which looked as though no one was ever at home. All the other houses on the avenue seemed bewildered by the heat. Fingers of weeds crept along garden paths, windows were dimmed by a film of dust, and long evenings lay abandoned on lawns, as if everything had forgotten what it was supposed to be doing. The Forbeses’ house, however, remained smug and determined, as though it was setting an example to all the other, more slovenly, houses.
‘Perhaps no one is in,’ I said, ‘perhaps we should try tomorrow.’
I slid the toe of my sandal along the edge of the doorstep. It was brushed smooth.
‘They’re definitely at home.’ Tilly pressed her face against a slice of stained glass in the door. ‘I can hear a television.’
I put my face next to hers. ‘Perhaps they’re watching a film,’ I said. ‘Perhaps we should come back later.’
‘Do you not think we owe it to Mrs Creasy to ring the bell as soon as possible?’ Tilly turned to me and adopted her most serious face. ‘And to God?’
Sunlight reflected from the brilliant white of Mrs Forbes’ Cotswold chippings, and I creased my eyes against the glare.
‘As a Sixer, Tilly, I have decided to assign ringing the doorbell to you, while I prepare my speech.’
She looked up at me from under her sou’wester. ‘But we’re not actually in the Brownies, Gracie.’
I gave a small sigh. ‘It’s important to get into character,’ I said.
Tilly frowned and stared at the front door. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps no one is at home.’
‘Someone is very much at home.’
Mrs Forbes appeared on the path which ran down the side of house. She wore the kind of clothes my mother saved for doctor’s appointments, and under her arm was a large roll of dustbin bags. She snapped one free, and a small group of pigeons tumbled from the roof in shock.
She asked us what we wanted. Tilly stared into the chippings and I folded my arms and stood on one leg, and tried to take up a very small amount of room on the doorstep.
‘We’re Brownies,’ I said, as soon as I remembered.
‘We’re Brownie Guides. We’re here to lend a hand,’ said Tilly, although she managed to stop herself from singing.
‘You don’t look like Brownies.’ Mrs Forbes narrowed her eyes.
‘We’re being casual.’ I narrowed my eyes back.
I said that we needed help from our neighbourhood, and Mrs Forbes agreed that she was, indeed, our neighbourhood, and suggested we might like to come inside, out of the heat. Behind Mrs Forbes’ cardigan, Tilly waved her arms around in excitement, and I waved my arms around back again to try and calm her down.
We followed Mrs Forbes’ heels down the side of the house, as they clicked a neat path on the concrete, and our sandals smacked and squabbled behind her in a tangle of keeping up. After a moment, she turned, and as Tilly and I were both still waving our arms around, we almost fell into her.
‘Does your mother know you’re here, Grace?’ she said. She held her hands up, as though she were directing traffic.
‘We told her, Mrs Forbes,’ I said.
Her hands dropped back, and the tap of her heels began again.
I wondered if Mrs Forbes realized that telling my mother something and my mother knowing about it were usually two very different things, that my mother’s fingers would often fly to her throat and she would strongly deny ever being told anything of the sort – even when my father presented her with witnesses (me) and a word-by-word account of the entire conversation.
‘She never asked about my mum,’ Tilly whispered.
Tilly’s mother was usually considered too unpredictable to ask after.
I straightened the back of her jumper. ‘It’s all right. Asking about my mum will cover
