think of the word.’
‘What word?’
‘For protecting you on the pavement. I’ll Google it. And I’m glad you’re thinking so practically.’
She starts skipping. My hands go up and down with hers.
I wish I were in her head.
The back of my neck prickles; I feel as though someone’s watching me. I turn around quickly.
There’s no one there.
I shouldn’t get my hopes up about the photographs. Grandad always says I should manage my expectations. But if I had a choice between forgetting everything over the past few days, or being hurt from finding the truth, then I’d choose the truth.
I’ve been watching her for weeks and she hasn’t noticed. She’s too busy living in that head of hers. I watch in the rearview mirror as she gazes out of the window. She’s looking around.
I glance over at the pile of pink notepaper on the passenger seat. It’s surprising how much meaning can be conveyed in so few words. Will it mean anything to her, to them?
I slide down in the seat of the car as someone passes. I don’t recognise him; he mustn’t be a neighbour. Streets have gone all Neighbourhood Watch nowadays.
The radio plays ‘Norwegian Wood’ by The Beatles. My fingers go to the radio – a reflex – and switch it off. Shutting the memories down. We used to listen to that together, didn’t we? I can’t remember if it was your favourite song, or mine.
Friday, 4 July 1986
Debbie
The oil from Bobby’s fish fingers spits from the frying pan; a drop touches my lips. I put my finger on my mouth to rub the sting away.
I can’t have imagined Nathan this afternoon. We had a conversation.
‘We have to see each other,’ he said. There must be meaning in that. But why would Monica say Nathan was at work? And if she was so worried about me looking hysterical in the street, why didn’t she pull over?
The front door slams shut. It must be ten past five. Bobby’s banging his legs against the chair under the dining table. Thump-thump, thump-thump.
‘Stop it!’
He doesn’t look up, but stops his legs.
It’ll take Peter another five seconds to hang up his jacket. Five, four, three, two—
I hear him throw his newspaper onto the settee. He usually says hello.
‘Everything okay?’ I say, peering through the kitchen doorway into the living room.
‘Hmm.’ He pulls off his tie. ‘I’ve brought in your flip-flops. They were on the doorstep.’
‘What? Again?’
I can feel my heart banging in my chest. Has Monica told him about this afternoon? Has Nathan? I’m sure I had them on after I picked Bobby up from school.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘They probably slipped off again when I was getting the pram in.’
‘It didn’t look like it. They were placed together, just outside the front door – like someone had put them there like that.’
‘How odd. Did Monica ring you?’
He looks at me, wrinkling his nose. ‘Are you being serious?’
Bobby must’ve seen my flip-flops slip off, picked them up. Or I might’ve put them there before I closed the front door. That could’ve happened. Monica must’ve mistaken my flip-flops for bare feet earlier – they must keep coming off without me noticing. Easily done. I’ll wear sandals next time I go out.
I don’t tell Peter I haven’t prepared our tea. Instead I say, ‘I thought I’d go to the chippy for us tonight. A treat for you – after working so hard.’
I sound like my fifty-two-year-old mother.
I should’ve become a Career Woman. I heard that Michelle Watkinson from college flew to the Bahamas last year, first class. Though she probably has to put up with letches feeling up her arse as she pushes the trolley up and down the aisle. She hasn’t spoken to me since I had children. And I haven’t put make-up on since Annie was born, so I wouldn’t be any good at her job.
I’m stuck, in limbo.
I don’t know why I’m trying to appease Peter anyway. It wouldn’t hurt him to offer to cook tea once in a blue moon. But I’d never say that. What if he knows something? What if he can read my thoughts?
‘Hmm,’ he says, again.
I interpret that as: You’ve done nothing all day. The least you could’ve done is stick a Fray Bentos in the oven and some chips in the fryer.
‘I’ll make you a cup of tea while you think about it,’ I say.
He goes straight to the baby; she’s lying on the blanket on the living-room floor.
‘Hello, my little angel,’ he says.
I fill the kettle, roll my eyes at the wall, and immediately feel guilty for it. I put a bowl of beans in the microwave and turn the dial. It’s handier than I thought it’d be. It pings, and I burn my fingers taking the bowl out. Peter’s already sitting in his chair at the table.
‘Had a nice day, have you?’ His tone is neutral.
‘Well, you know. Been stuck in the house for most of it.’
‘You should get yourself out and about.’ He leans back in the chair. ‘If I had the day to myself, I’d be out there. Spot of fishing, trip to the park.’
Day to myself? I want to shout. If I had the day to myself, I wouldn’t choose to be inside all day. But I don’t want to appear ungrateful.
‘But you don’t even fish.’
‘I’d take it up, probably.’
‘You can’t take a baby fishing.’
The kettle clicks off and the beeper sounds in his pocket.
‘For God’s sake,’ he says, the chair nearly toppling behind him as he gets up to use the phone in the hall.
I pour hot water into the mug with Mr Tea on it.
When did we become people like this?
