‘I forgot this,’ he says, placing it on the floor beside me.
It’s decorated with what looks like real Liquorice Allsorts. I pick it up; it smells sugary, medicinal.
‘They’re real sweets,’ I say. ‘Where did this come from?’
He shrugs, and walks towards the door.
‘It was packed next to your box. I’m going upstairs to make an important phone call. Don’t just walk in, if that’s okay? It’ll seem unprofessional.’
I wave my hand in reply. His phone call might be far from professional, but I can’t take my eyes off the box covered in sweets. It must be Robert’s. It’s an old King Edward cigar box like mine. I knew he must have had one, but I’ve never seen it before. I assumed he’d thrown it away. What was it doing in our storage?
I don’t open it straight away. Like with presents, an unopened object is far more interesting than an unwrapped one. I turn it in my hands and hold it. She must have spent ages gluing them on like this.
I place it on the floor and slowly lift the lid.
There are more items in this one than in mine. Robert probably added some pieces himself. There’s his conker that Grandad told him to bake in the oven for seven hours. After that, he painted it with five coats of Ronseal in mahogany. I would have been three or four years old. I bring it up to my nose – I remember the scent as he painted it, but it doesn’t smell of anything now. The treatment was effective; it still looks as smooth and shiny as it did then.
I take out his other things: hospital wristband; a Pez dispenser, with a few rectangular sweets still inside; his first report from primary school; and birthday cards signed from Mummy and Daddy. I don’t have any birthday cards with my mother’s name inside. I run my fingers along the writing in one of them.
Underneath all of these is an old photo processing envelope. It lists different sizes and finishes of photographs – our old home address is scrawled on the form in childish handwriting. It’s dated 20 February 1987 – nearly seven months after my mother disappeared. There is a cylinder inside it. I stick my hand in and pull out a black plastic container. I peel the cap off it, praying there’s something inside.
There is.
A whole roll of film that might contain pictures of my mother that I’ve never seen before.
Friday, 4 July 1986
Debbie
The sun on my face is delicious. I feel like I haven’t been outside for weeks, when it’s only been days. Being inside feels so oppressive, like there are a hundred faces watching every move I make.
Outside, I feel free, away from prying eyes. Annie’s sleeping in her pram, and even though I’ve only had two hours’ sleep I feel calm for the first time in days.
Peter’s finally back at work (I didn’t tell him it was silly starting back on a Friday) and Bobby’s at school until half three so I’ve over two hours of freedom. I park the pram outside the newsagents and pull the hood up.
The bell dings as I push the door.
‘Is it okay if I leave it open? The baby’s asleep outside.’
‘Right you are, love,’ says Mrs Abernathy.
There’s that new song on the radio playing: ‘The Lady in Red’. It’s not like Mrs Abernathy to have the radio on. For a love song, it sounds pretty dreary – it’s no ‘Addicted to Love’, that’s for sure. I can’t remember it on Top of the Pops last Thursday, but then I can’t remember what I had for breakfast this morning. I do remember the ‘Spirit in the Sky’ video though, because it cheered me up. Mum wouldn’t approve. She keeps harping on about Bobby being baptised so he can go to a better secondary school. I told her that’s hardly the Christian way of thinking about things, but she just spouted her usual words of eternal damnation. I’ll probably be waiting for my children in the burning fires of hell, if my mother’s prediction comes true. It’ll be more fun there anyway. Though the temperature might get a bit much; it’s far too hot today.
Under the window is a giant freezer. I used to love picking an ice cream out of those as a kid – when Mum and Dad could afford one, that is.
I choose a lemonade ice lolly and, as I close the lid, I see him outside.
He’s getting out of his car across the road. I quickly pay for the ice and dash out of the shop. He’s walking in the opposite direction; he hasn’t seen me. I’ve never been an attractive runner, so I try to walk a little faster. He’s still a fair distance away from me. My flip-flops are smacking my heels – I’m surprised he can’t hear me. I look around; there aren’t many people.
‘Nathan!’
He stops and turns around. I stop trotting just in time, and the breeze blows my long dress so it clings to my legs. He’s still looking at it when I reach him.
‘Hi, Debs.’ He lifts his sunglasses and puts them on the top of his head. ‘Pete let you out of the house, did he?’
I just nod. There are tiny freckles on his nose.
‘Are you all right?’ he says. ‘Fancy a quick coffee?’
‘Okay.’ It seems the ability to think and speak has abandoned me.
He takes me by the hand and doesn’t let go as we cross the road. I should be worried that someone we know might see us, but I’m not. He only lets go of my hand when he pushes the door of the café.
There are at least six tables free, but he chooses one at the back next to the door to the toilets. He pulls a chair out for me, and I sit. I feel like my head’s out of my body – this whole situation feels so weird. We’ve not been alone since we were an item ten years ago.
That summer was so intense. We were sixteen, and secondary school had finished. We had no distractions from each other. Both of his parents went out to work, and we’d spend lazy days lying on his bed, listening to records and smoking cigarettes.
‘Promise you’ll never leave me for someone else,’ he said to me one hot afternoon.
We’d closed the curtains for shade and they blew gently in the breeze.
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I said, staring at the ceiling.
He rested his hand on my tummy and I placed my hand on his.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what I’d do if you did.’
He’s still as good-looking now – better even. He’s holding the menu, but staring into my eyes. I know, without glancing in the mirror, that my chest and neck will be red and blotchy.
‘I’m sorry I was a bit quiet at yours the other day,’ he says.
‘I didn’t notice.’
