My flip-flops aren’t on my feet any more.
Anna
The rain is battering against the bookshop window; it’s going to be quiet today. Even though it’s not Sunday, I’m hoping Grandad will come in today. I left him a message to say that Sheila’s not coming in, so he can have free rein of the till, but I haven’t heard back from him. Dad doesn’t seem worried – perhaps he’s been to see him. Maybe Grandad’s angry with me. If I don’t see him today, I’m going to bang on his door and sit on the doorstep until he opens it … or until I need to collect Sophie from after-school club.
Ellen’s in the back room, pricing books that she thinks might be valuable. She said she has never used the Internet before, but I find that hard to believe. Prisons must have computers these days.
‘Annie?’ she says. ‘Can you just help me again with this – the page is blank. I’m not sure it’s connecting.’
I have given up trying to tell her that I don’t like being called Annie, but it doesn’t seem to register. I sit next to her, checking the side of the laptop. I click to slide a switch to the left.
‘You must have put it into airplane mode by mistake,’ I say.
‘But why would I do that if I’m not on an aeroplane?’
I look at her as she stares at the screen, frowning. Surely she must know how laptops work. I click on the refresh button and the Amazon page loads. As I’m getting up, I notice there is another tab in the background. It’s a site I’m familiar with: Missing People.
Ellen has been on the computer for nearly an hour. I keep trying to catch her looking at the missing persons’ website again, but she’s too quick, and both times I’ve gone into the storeroom she’s minimised what she was looking at. I should warn her about using the Internet for personal use, but I haven’t introduced a policy for that yet; we’ve only had the laptop in the bookshop for a fortnight. And once she’s gone, I’ll probably use it myself.
I’m still looking towards the back room when I smell a waft of Obsession.
‘Anna?’
It’s Isobel. Luckily, I have the accounts on the counter so at least I look busy. She glances at them and wrinkles her nose.
‘I do hope you don’t have those in view when we have clientele,’ she says. ‘It’s highly confidential.’
I can’t win.
‘I was just having a quick check while the shop was empty.’
I slam the book shut and shove it under the counter.
‘I’ve popped in to see how your new volunteer is getting on. Is she in?’
Isobel breezes past – the smell of her hairspray never fails to nauseate me.
I try to listen in, but they are talking too quietly. It’s not like Isobel at all. Perhaps she knows Ellen more than she’s letting on.
After nearly half an hour, all I have managed to overhear are the words ‘vicar’ and ‘they might not want to know.’ Now they’re saying their goodbyes, I rush to the window so they don’t think I’ve been listening. I move the elephant bookend a fraction, concentrating on it as though it were the most interesting thing in the world.
‘See you soon, Anna,’ says Isobel. She hesitates at the door, glancing at the window display. ‘I must think of some other paperwork for you to do. We can’t have you twiddling your thumbs all day.’
She hums to herself, putting sunglasses over her eyes before leaving the shop. That woman notices more than I thought. I wish I could tell her what I’m going through – that I can’t concentrate on anything because the mother I can’t remember has come back into our lives and, at the same time, my marriage might be falling apart. But I can’t. She’ll tell the whole of Lancashire.
‘Annie.’
I turn quickly.
‘Sorry,’ says Ellen. She’s already in her jacket. ‘Isobel said it was okay if I left a bit early. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve got an interview for a new flat.’
‘Oh, okay. Yes, I suppose that’s all right.’
‘Sorry. I hope you don’t think I’ve gone above you … it was just she was asking about me finding a place to live and—’
‘Don’t worry about it. I know what she’s like.’
‘She told me about your mum.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. She keeps saying sorry. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’
‘I’m just surprised. I’m sure everyone knows about it anyway … it’s not a big secret.’
‘Do you still think about her?’
‘What? I … Of course. Why?’
She shrugs. ‘I’m getting too personal.’ She looks at her watch. ‘I’ve corrected my time now. I’d better go. See you next week.’
I watch her walk away until she disappears from view. I hurry into the back room and click on the Internet icon, then the ‘History’ button. Who was she looking for on that website?
I will never know: she’s deleted today’s history.
I’ve been standing outside Grandad’s for five minutes. People walking past are looking at me. I have thirty minutes until I need to collect Sophie from school. The curtains are closed, but when I press my ear against the window, I can hear the television on low. Today’s silver-top milk is still on the doorstep.
‘I know you’re in there, Grandad. Are you okay? Are you hurt?’
There’s a shadow moving behind the curtains.
‘Grandad! If you don’t answer the door in a minute, I’ll call the police – they’ll break the door down, you know. Then everyone will come and have a nosy – even Yvonne from across the road. She’s in, I can see her net curtains flapping. I’ve got my mobile right here, I will ring them.’
The left curtain flashes open.
Grandad’s standing at the window. He hasn’t shaved for days; he’s still in his tartan dressing gown.
‘Are you going to let me in?’
His shoulders rise and fall as he sighs. He rolls his eyes.
Moments later, he opens the door, but stands behind it so no one can see him.
‘Well, come in then,’ he says. ‘Don’t make a show of me.’
I
