He glances at the balloon on the end of the bannister. ‘You really should get a coat stand or something.’
‘He’s got an email,’ I say, ‘about Debbie.’
Robert’s shoulders slump; he lowers his head, his eyes scanning the wooden floor of the hall.
‘Is it good news or bad?’ he says, finally looking up at me.
‘I don’t know. But he opened champagne.’
‘That could mean anything.’
He links his arm through mine and guides me through to the kitchen.
‘What do you mean by that?’ I hiss.
Dad’s leaning against the kitchen cupboards – he’s already pulled out two chairs.
‘Ssh,’ Robert says to me, sitting on the chair nearest Dad.
‘Okay.’ Dad clasps his hands together. ‘Sorry about this, Anna – it being on your birthday and all.’
‘She hates birthdays anyway,’ says Robert.
‘This came through yesterday.’ He picks up a brown envelope from the kitchen counter behind him, and takes out two sheets of A4. ‘Well, Monica received it a few days ago – I only saw it yesterday. I’ve done a copy for both of you.’
‘Why didn’t she show it to you straight away?’ I say to Dad.
He just shrugs.
My brother snatches one of the sheets from Dad’s hand.
‘Robert!’ I say, taking the other.
I glance down quickly. There are only a few lines.
I read it properly.
Dear Monica,
It’s time to tell the truth.
Debbie x
The memories of shells and sweet things are sometimes all we have left.
‘Is this it?’ says Robert, standing up. ‘It’s a crank letter. You’ve had them before, haven’t you, Dad?’
‘What?’ I say. ‘No one said anything to me.’
‘I suppose they didn’t want to upset you,’ Robert says.
I frown at him, making a note in my mind to ask Monica about it next time I see her.
‘But what if it’s not?’ I say quietly. ‘My memory box is covered in shells.’
Robert tuts. ‘That could mean anything. You’re just making it significant because it means something to you. It’s like these charlatan psychics. If Debbie were alive, why would she make contact now after so long?’
‘Something might’ve happened,’ I say to Dad. ‘It says it’s time. Why did she address it to Monica and not you?’
Dad shakes his head.
‘I’ve no idea what it means,’ he says. ‘Neither does Monica. We’ll just have to wait and see if she sends something else.’
‘If it’s even a she who wrote it,’ says Robert. ‘It could be anyone.’
‘Did you reply?’ I say.
We both look up at Dad.
‘I … I think Monica might have. I’ve been a bit shaken by it all, to be honest.’
‘It sounds a bit sinister,’ I say. ‘What does Monica think it means?’
Dad takes one of the glasses of champagne and takes a large sip.
‘Like I said, she doesn’t know.’
Robert looks at me and shrugs.
‘That’s because it’s a load of crap.’
‘Uncle Robert!’ Sophie runs into the kitchen and jumps onto Robert’s lap. ‘Did you just say crap?’
‘Of course not!’ says Robert. ‘I said slap.’
‘Which isn’t much better,’ says Dad, rubbing the top of Sophie’s head.
I walk into the living room and switch off the television. I look down at the email again. Monica received it days ago, yet didn’t show Dad. I look out of the window, leaning against the glass. I don’t know what I expect to see outside. But a thought strikes me.
Monica knows more than she is letting on.
3 a.m. Thursday, 26 June 1986
Debbie
I’ve been looking at the same page of this stupid magazine for over an hour, trying to read the words under the crappy night-light above my head, but I keep daydreaming. The article’s about making the perfect chocolate roulade, and getting the timings right for all the ‘trimmings’ on Christmas day. It’s from one of the women’s magazines Mum has been saving for months – or maybe years, judging by the state of them. She’s still trying to convince me that Good Housekeeping will make me a more fulfilled person and a better mum. But there’s nothing more depressing than reading about Christmas in June. I don’t know why she thinks I’d be interested in things like this – she’s not the best cook herself. I’m nearly twenty-seven, not forty-seven. I should be reading about George Michael or the G spot.
I throw it onto the bed tray, but it slips off. The sound is amplified by a rare moment of silence on the maternity ward. I hold my breath in the hope that it cancels out the splat of the magazine onto the floor. Please, no one wake up. This peace is mine right now, and I don’t want anyone else to ruin it. My normal life is far from peaceful.
Annie looks like a little doll; she’s been so quiet. It must be the pethidine. She’s got the same podgy fingers that Bobby had – they’re like tiny tree trunks. I didn’t think she’d suit the name. I’d suggested Gemma or Rebecca, but Peter wanted to call her Anna after his late mother. It’s just right for her.
I’ve lost track of time and I’ve only been here for one night. The sky is purple; is it nearly morning or is it still dusk?
It’s hardly ever quiet in here, but they’re all asleep now. The new mothers try to feed as quietly as possible, but they’re amateurs, all three of them. And it’s never completely dark. They like to keep the light on above their heads. Perhaps they’re afraid that if it goes out, their babies will disappear.
I pick up the magazine, as quickly as I can with damn painful stitches, and place it on my cabinet. There are seven birthday cards, still in their envelopes, ready for
