laughs. ‘Well aren’t you a clever little thing – thinking about logistics.’
I don’t like him calling me a little thing. My teacher, Mrs Wilson, says that people can’t be things; only objects are things.
‘I pushed you in this.’
He reaches behind the pillar next to him and pulls out a buggy. It has red and white stripes like the one in my gran’s shed. My face feels hot. Everyone must think I’m a big baby. Mummy used to call me that when I couldn’t walk all the way home from the shops without whining.
‘But it doesn’t matter,’ he says, leaning closer. ‘I’ve seen at least four big girls in buggies. It’s night-time you see – how else are they meant to sleep?’
I shrug and swing my legs off the seat. I pull the Mars Bar closer. I slowly unwrap it, looking at George, wondering when he’s going to stop me.
He doesn’t.
He just shakes his head, smiles and goes back to reading the paper.
I take a bite of the chocolate bar and it’s delish – that’s what Mummy says.
There’ll be no sleeping for me tonight.
It’s not Thursday, but I head to the newsagent’s anyway. I used to get the job papers for Sarah on Thursdays. She never looked at them much, mind. I just thought they’d give her a little push back into the world. The habit of buying them has stuck with me. I always leaf through them, seeing what jobs she might have liked, and ones she would tut and roll her eyes at. ‘As if, Mum,’ she’d say on a happier day. Catering – that had always been her thing. She’d wanted to be a chef since she was eight years old. It never happened though.
Anyway, why do I think about these things? It’s not even jobs day. At least I know I won’t bump into Sandra today.
It’s nearly the end of September; we only had a week of sun this year and that was in June. Now, it seems to be either raining, or just about to rain. It’s as cold inside the paper shop as it is out. Mrs Sharples is standing behind the counter, clad in about three jumpers, a quilted body warmer and fingerless gloves. I’m surprised the magazines and newspapers don’t blow away with that back door open. ‘Keeps my blood pumping,’ she says when people complain about the arctic temperature. She’s the type who’s grateful for waking up in the morning.
‘Morning, Maggie.’
She’s using that tone – what is it? I haven’t heard it in a while.
Pity.
Something must have happened. I wonder if she comments on bad news pertinent to every customer or reserves that honour for me. I scan the array of front pages. There it is. The Lincolnshire Gazette. It’s the only copy next to the many local papers bulging from the shelf. ‘Have to give the people what they want,’ Mrs Sharples usually says. It’s only Mr Goodwin who reads the Lincolnshire Gazette – it’s probably days old.
My head is telling me not to buy it – don’t give her the satisfaction – save the paper for Mr Goodwin. But my hands betray me. Before I know it, they’ve reached for the copy. I tut at myself. Predictable as night and bloody day. Oh well. Mr Goodwin won’t miss it – he doesn’t know what year it is, never mind what week.
‘Ah, you saw it then,’ she says.
I try not to roll my eyes at her.
‘What’s that?’
I hold the paper with both hands and look at the front page. Why am I play-acting? Mother said I’d never work on the stage with my hammy expressions. Mrs Sharples knows I’m pretending. I’m hoping my ruddy cheeks hide the blushes.
‘Oh yes,’ I say, anyway.
‘I do hope she’ll be found.’
‘Yes.’
Of course we hope she’ll be bloody found, I want to say, but I just fake a smile. As well as I can.
‘Must be terribly difficult for you to read articles like that,’ she says.
‘It’s difficult for anybody to read.’
‘I mean … Oh, never mind.’
She probably thinks she’s caught me on a bad day, though I’m hardly the laughing kind on the best of days. She gives me my change, her hands like little claws peeking from her fingerless gloves.
‘Apparently, the grandmother grew up in Preston.’
I look up from my purse.
‘Excuse me?’
‘The grandmother … of the little girl in the paper. I suppose you shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers. Can’t say I’ve heard the name. Preston’s a big place after all.’
Her light laugh fades to a hum. She’s always been one for stating the flaming obvious.
‘Right you are, Mrs Sharples.’
I fold the paper and put it under my arm. I reach the threshold just as she shouts, ‘I’ve told you, Maggie. You can call me Rose. We’ve known each other long—’
‘Will do,’ I shout back.
But I won’t. Nosy old bat.
I lay the newspaper across the kitchen table, straightening out any creases. Ronnie used to like his paper ironed – fancied himself as one of those posh types. I only did it for him on Sundays, and his birthday. ‘It’s not because I like it straight,’ he’d say. ‘It stops the ink running.’
‘Get away with you,’ I said.
I wish he were still here with me. I’d iron it every day.
Oh, stop it, you daft fool. I can hear his voice in my head. You know you’d only iron it ’til the novelty of me being back wore off – two days, tops.
I sit down at the table. I’m daft having these conversations with myself, but after forty-six years of marriage I usually knew what he was going to say before he did.
Grace. That’s the little girl’s name.
She’s wearing her school uniform in the picture – it’s on the front page. I can’t make out the name of the school from the badge on her jumper, though I’m not sure if that’s my eyes or the quality of the print.
She was last seen walking into a newsagent’s.
Newsagent’s.
I look up at the wall. How odd. I wonder if she was
