come here for a drink, Grandad. I came to see if you were all right.’
I sit on the sofa anyway. He always makes a drink for visitors, so at least I know he still has his senses. Dad said that when Gran, Debbie’s mother, was alive, Grandad was never allowed to touch the kettle. Dad was probably exaggerating.
Diagnosis Murder is on the television, but it’s barely audible. I look to the mantelpiece. There have always been three pictures of Debbie on there: one on her Christening day; a faded school photo, her hair flicked at the sides like a Charlie’s Angel; and a third with Gran and Grandad – Debbie the only child.
Grandad comes into the living room carrying a tray of tea and biscuits. He’s changed from his dressing gown into his usual beige cords and burgundy jumper over a checked shirt. He must have a wardrobe full of the same clothes. He places the tray on the coffee table. I wait until he’s finished pouring the tea until I speak.
‘I take it Dad’s told you about the email.’
‘He has.’
‘At least we know she’s alive, that’s something isn’t it?’
‘Do we? How can we know if it’s really her? Anyone could’ve written that. What we should be asking is why? If it is her, then why now?’ He plucks a white cotton handkerchief from up his sleeve and presses it against his nose. ‘I wish to God it were her. I’d give anything to see her face again. I just can’t see her not picking up the phone, to tell us she was all right. She was our only child. A miracle, we called her at the time. She came to us later in life – we thought we’d never … I didn’t believe in all that religious stuff before Marion died. But you have to believe they go somewhere, don’t you?’ He looks up to the ceiling. ‘I hope to God we find out the truth about my girl.’
‘I’m sorry, Grandad. This must be so hard for you. But I have to believe that she’s out there. Perhaps she got into trouble? She might have been in prison. Or maybe she had an accident and has only just recovered her memory.’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘You’ve been watching too many films, Anna.’ He picks up his mug of tea and takes a sip. ‘It can’t be your mum. She’d have written to me, too.’
I stare at my cup on the tray.
‘But no one could’ve known about the shells. It could only have come from her.’
‘Hmm,’ he says. ‘Don’t go getting your hopes up, love. At least one good thing may come from this: we might find out what happened to her.’
‘I’m going to try and find her – or trace who wrote the email,’ I say. ‘If the police think it’s a crank, then I’m going to get to the bottom of it.’ I pull out the roll of film from my handbag. ‘I found this in Robert’s keepsake box. It might have some clues.’
Grandad shakes his head. ‘This is only going to lead to heartache, Anna. The police will say it’s some lunatic, obsessed with her or something – they won’t even be interested, they weren’t last time. It’s been too long.’
‘Last time? What happened last time?’
He flaps his hand.
‘A letter, in strange writing. I took it to the police and they said it might be her, or it might not. They logged it and that was that. Said she was an adult – that she left of her own accord.’
My shoulders slump. Robert mentioned another letter the other day, and now Grandad. But I can’t ask him more about it now – he looks exhausted. His eyes are bloodshot, even though he’s tried to hide it with reading glasses. I shouldn’t be talking to him like this. His only child. The bed she slept in upstairs still has the same duvet cover; her record player is still by the window.
‘I’m sorry, Grandad.’
He doesn’t look at me when he says, ‘It’s been hard for us all.’
The carriage clock chimes five.
‘I have to go,’ I say. ‘The after-school club closes in half an hour.’
‘They never had such things in my day.’
I smile a little as a tiny glimpse of the Grandad I know shows through. I lean over and kiss him on the cheek.
‘I’ll see myself out.’
I’m turning the roll of film in my hands, waiting in the queue. Who knew Max Spielmann would be so busy?
‘What are we buying here?’ says Sophie. ‘I’m hungry.’
She says it like she’s auditioning for Oliver Twist.
‘Pictures.’ I hold up the film. ‘This shop can change this little thing into photographs.’
Her mouth drops open and her eyes widen. She steps closer to me.
‘Is this a magic shop?’
‘Yes.’
The man in front leaves, but the woman behind the counter is typing something into the computer. She has one long coarse hair growing from her chin and she’s stroking it as though it were a beard.
‘Is that woman a wizard?’ says Sophie.
She hasn’t got the hang of whispering yet. My cheeks are burning.
The woman looks up quickly; I’ve half a mind to run out of the shop.
‘Not quite, young lady,’ she says, looking up. ‘I’m a witch. And you have to be good for your mum or you’ll end up in my rabbit stew.’ She smiles. ‘How can I help you?’
I put the film on the counter.
‘Can you develop this? I think it’s nearly thirty years old.’
‘That shouldn’t be a problem. As long as it’s been kept in its container.’ She opens the lid and slides out the film. ‘It looks intact. I’ll have to send it off though – we don’t do 34 mm any more in store. No demand, you see. I’ll post it off tonight and it should be back in two or three days.’
I fill out my details and she winks at Sophie as we leave. Sophie doesn’t smile back.
Out on the street, I feel like celebrating. I thought they’d say it couldn’t be done – that they didn’t do things like that these days.
But the pictures might not even come out.
I take Sophie’s hand and pull her away from the kerb.
‘Is there a word for that?’ she says.
‘Word for what?’
‘You always walk on the pavement near the cars.’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.’
‘What would happen if a car crashed into us and got you first? Who’d look after me?’
‘Don’t think like that.’
