‘Did the police give any indication of what they thought might have happened to my brother?’ Once again, I find myself desperately wishing we were a more open-minded family, speaking about our tragedies. I tried. I really did, still do. But mine is the perpetual lone voice, whistling in the wind.
‘They searched the entire village and beyond. They questioned everyone who lived here and even those who didn’t, stopping tourists and visitors and the like, checking local hotels and guest houses and interviewing people who’d stayed there when he went missing but nowt came of it. The bolt was pushed back, you see. When your parents got up the next morning, the bolt was pushed back, the door unlocked and Simon was gone.’ Mr Waters shakes his head wearily. ‘It was as if he just vanished into thin air. And without a body, there’s not much they could have done. No body, no evidence, you see.’
I wince, his last sentence slicing into me. He’s right. Of course he is, but after years of not speaking about it, saying it only in my head, it feels alien to hear it spoken out loud.
‘Aye, I’m sorry, lass. I spoke out of turn there. Got a big mouth on me, I have. Comes with living alone. Nobody to rein me in or tell me when to shut up.’ He shakes his head sadly and I cannot reassure him fast enough, everything tumbling out of me, a flood of words to make him see that this is exactly what I want to hear. Need to hear, whether I want to or not. Sometimes, we have to face our demons in order to overpower them.
‘No, please. Don’t apologise. You’re right. You are completely correct. Mum and Kim refuse to talk about this. It’s refreshing to broach the subject and speak freely. Moving back here has pushed it all back into my mind, Simon going missing, and I can’t seem to think about anything else. With that and the sleepwalking, it’s like I’ve stepped back in time. There are days when it’s like I’ve never been away.’ The more I speak, the more I realise this is true. Despite having lived in London for over five years, then spending another five years living abroad, reluctantly relocating back to the UK once the children were born, it feels as if I have never been away. Woodburn Cottage has dragged me back to the person I was all those years ago. The Midnight Child. That’s me. Nothing has changed. My life has come full circle and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not.
‘It were an awful time for you all for sure. And then there was the accident. Your poor old dad…’
I nod. It’s no surprise that this episode of our lives has never left him, the memories still fresh in his mind. Negative events have a tendency to jar, leaving a deeper imprint than positive ones.
There was talk at the time of Dad planning his own death, neighbours and local gossips putting their own slant on it, making sure their warped version of events was being talked about, but the coroner recorded it as accidental. He had been upstairs painting the bedroom windows when he fell. Disturbed by heights, he had been leaning out, attempting to paint the outside rather than going up a ladder, when he leaned too far and fell to his death on the patio. Why would he go to the bother of painting and then suddenly throw himself out of the window? Why not just jump? And much like Simon’s disappearance, we accepted it and moved on, rarely speaking of it, each of us going about our daily duties like little automatons, programmed to do our work and simply exist. They were joyless, silent years, speaking of anything other than our loss.
Is it any wonder I now need to unearth our family secrets? I have been forced into muteness for so many years now and refuse to endure it for any longer. All those decades of pent-up worry and concern. All those years of being denied the true facts by those closest to me. I am practically bursting at the seams, so many questions scratching at me, itching to be free.
‘Anyway, it’s good to have you living here, Grace.’ Mr Waters’ eyes crinkle at the corner as he smiles. He dips his head, slips his hand in his pockets. His skin is tanned, leathery and well-worn but his mind is as sharp as ever.
‘It’s good to be back here,’ I reply. And it is. Despite my worries and the disquietude I harbour because of my sleepwalking, despite the need to know about Simon that has hijacked my life of late, I am glad to be back in Woodburn Cottage. And I’m glad that Mr Waters still lives next door. He is a part of my past and not the monster Kim painted. Her view of the world is crooked, her view of people often murky and lacking in compassion.
‘I just wish I could ’ave helped more when the police questioned me but I had Jean to think of, you see.’
‘Jean?’ I bite at my lip, narrow my eyes, unsure where this is heading. Jean was a timid, mouse-like creature.
‘Aye. It were her problems, you see. Mental health they call it nowadays. Back then, we just knew it as a funny turn or were told by doctors that she were just bad with her nerves. And she had plenty of ’em, those funny turns. I kept things running as smoothly as I could in the house but it weren’t easy. The night Simon went missing, Jean and I had slept in the front bedroom. She were convinced that aliens would see us if we slept in our usual room out the back. The week before that, she had told me that the newsreaders were sending signals to her through the TV aerial and were planning on kidnapping her.’ He shakes his head and sighs. ‘As I said, it weren’t always easy and I admit to losing my temper wi’ her on more than one occasion but I did love her and always tried my best. I often think that if I hadn’t been trying to console and quieten her down, then maybe I would ’ave heard something and could ’ave helped a bit more wi’ police enquiries, but as it was, I were hunkered down wi’ my wife, trying to calm her and reassure her that nobody was trying to hurt her or take her away.’
A sadness balloons inside me, the strands of Kim’s words all weaving together, forming the fabric of Mr Water’s life. All those gossipmongers and tittle-tattlers, standing in queues at the marketplace, dissecting this poor man’s life, sprinkling it with untruths, embellishing it for the sake of entertainment and a need to feel superior about their own sad little existences. A tapestry of heartache and depression and grief. We weren’t the only family suffering. Behind every closed door lies a combination of sweetness and sorrow. And yet, hearing of this makes me less burdened, as if a sharing of our problems makes us all the more human. We all have something to hide. Something to drag us down and make us wonder if life is always going to be this difficult.
We say our goodbyes and I make my way home, feeling lighter than I was just ten minutes ago. Things are easier to bear knowing Mr Waters is close by, knowing he had his own set of problems and is in a position to understand mine. He is like a comforter, a reminder of a past that, although not particularly pleasant, belongs to me. Simon has been hidden away for long enough. It’s time to let him out into the light again, to hear his name spoken, to think of his lovely, smiling face without feeling riddled with fear and guilt.
And Kim can either come with me on this journey that I intend to travel, or she can step aside and watch. I don’t care either way.
14
The phone is ringing as I step through the door, its shrill tone jangling at my nerves. I snatch it up and breathe a hurried hello into the handset, then stop dead as I hear Gavin speaking on the other end of the line.
‘Hi Mum. You okay?’ My son’s voice will always have the power to stop me in my tracks. I hadn’t realised how much he sounded like his father until his father passed away and I could no longer hear him. It is uncanny the similarity in tone and timbre, and it catches me off guard, my chest tightening, my scalp prickling.
But then I can’t stop myself and I smile, a broad grin borne out of relief, something else that occurs whenever I speak to either of my children. A warmth spreads through me, heating up my blood, making me feel very much alive, the not half-dead creature I have become of late.
‘Gavin! It’s so lovely to hear from you. I’m absolutely fine but all the better for hearing your voice.’
I take a seat and lean my head against the small cushion of the high-backed chair. I want to savour every word that passes between us, to listen endlessly to my son’s voice, be reminded of the boy he once was and the man he has become. The miles may have carved a distance between us, both of us separated by continents miles wide and by oceans and seas fathoms deep, but for me, he will always be close by. My son. My boy. Forever etched in my heart.
‘Good, good. Glad to hear it. I’ve got something to tell you and I think it might please you.’
I place my free hand over my eyes, shielding it from the glow of the rising sun. My lungs feel solid, every breath suspended deep in my chest. Outside, a magpie pecks at the lawn, tugging at an unsuspecting worm, yanking at it relentlessly until its long, slim body slithers into the bird’s beak and disappears down its throat. I close my eyes and wait, thinking of how cruel animals can be to one another just to survive. How cruel people can be to each other. How cruel Warren was, doing what he did to me. I stop, take a breath, block it from my mind, focusing instead on the moment. On my son.
‘That’s lovely. Pleasing news is always welcome.’ My voice sounds disembodied, the words I speak coming from somewhere else. Somebody else. I think of this piece of news, visualise a wedding, a lavish affair in a country thousands of miles away, a country I don’t recognise; Gavin and Gemma tying the knot and settling in to their lives half a world away. Then I think of a grandchild, seeing them only once every decade, our bond too difficult to forge, fractured and severed by time and distance. What I don’t expect is what he says next.
‘I’m coming home to live again. If you’ll have me, that is? Or should I say, us.’
Blood rushes to my head. The room spins. My heart is a rapid beat in my chest, a small pulse of excitement throbbing beneath my skin. Coming home? To the UK? Or here, with me in Woodburn Cottage? Either is fine by me. More than fine. It’s the best news I’ve heard in a long, long time. Dare I hope that this is true and not some kind of false, empty promise made on whim, Gavin completely unaware of how devastating it would be for me if it doesn’t come to fruition. Dare I actually truly hope that after five long years, he is really coming back to England for good?
‘Home? Here with me?’ I swallow. A tic takes hold in my jaw, a small gavel thumping against my skin. ‘I mean, of course it’s okay. More than okay. It’s amazing news. You are more than welcome.’ Already, I am mentally planning how to redecorate the spare bedroom, the one that used to be mine when I was a child. I could buy some new bedroom furniture, a new bed perhaps. Maybe some new blinds, or even some of those modern shutters that everyone seems to be getting fitted. Their house in Perth is spacious, minimal. They won’t want to be surrounded by any fancy frills or clutter. It will make them feel hemmed in, claustrophobic even after having all that space. I think all of these things as Gavin tells me about how he has been offered a new job, the one he has always dreamed of and how it is too good an opportunity to turn down even though he expected to spend the rest of his days in Australia and had no plans to return to England.
‘Sales director for the whole of the UK, Mum. Double the salary, which we will really benefit from as it’s more expensive living here in Australia than it is in England. We’ll hopefully be quids in. So we won’t be with you for too long. We’ll have a deposit saved up for our own property in no time at all. As soon as we find the right house, we’ll be out of your hair, I promise.’
‘I don’t mind, darling. Stay here as long as you like.’ Already, I am grieving for them moving out, feeling an emptiness within before they have booked their tickets back to England. I have to stop this, getting ahead of myself. A hundred hoops have to be jumped through before any of that happens. I should simply enjoy the moment, hold onto the excitement and build-up to their arrival. This a positive memory in the making. I shall cling onto it, treasure it. Every good thing that happens here is a step towards banishing the bad stuff.
‘We’ve got a month left on the lease for this place so the move should be easy and will hopefully work out really well for us. The board would like me to start as soon as possible so once we’ve got our tickets booked, it’s all systems go.’ I can hear the exhilaration in his voice, can almost feel the adrenaline as it surges through him at the thought of this next step in his life. He is on his way up that corporate ladder, my boy. His father would be proud.
After gaining his degree in engineering, Gavin decided to go backpacking with Gemma, take a year out before he settled down to the world of work. He got a work permit once he reached Australia and was offered a job in Perth a few months later. That felt like the end for me and I immediately resigned myself to having a long-distance relationship with my son and possible grandchildren. I didn’t expect him to ever come back. They were so enamoured by the lifestyle over there, embracing the outdoors and their new social circle that I genuinely felt their future was sealed. And now here we are, coming full circle. Gavin returning to my childhood home in Hempton. North Yorkshire may not have the sweeping golden beaches of Perth or the year-round sunshine, but it has its own unique charm, a softer, gentler allure that once experienced, is hard to forget.
‘This is marvellous, darling. I am so happy for you both. Give Gemma my love.’
We talk some more, Gavin promising to give me the dates for flights once they are booked, telling me not to do anything too fancy to the spare room. ‘Honestly, Mum, we’ll both be so busy working, you won’t even know we’re there.’
I pray he is wrong about that. I want to see him as often as possible, and Gemma too, to hear their voices, to have some life breathed back into this house again. They will bring it alive, the two of them, giving it the happiness and joy it so desperately needs. I am not enough, just me, a middle-aged, sad, old lady rattling around this place on my own day after day. It needs some vibrancy. Some youth and laughter and happiness. And if anybody can provide that, it is these two wonderful people.
I am bereft as we end the call, an emptiness settling around me, a tight veil of anticipation that refuses to loosen until my son sets foot in that door and I can hug him, to feel the strength of his arms around me as he reciprocates my affections. We have a lot of years to catch up on. His visit to England for his father’s funeral was brief. Too brief. Here one minute, gone the next. Barely time to talk or grieve. He stayed for only two days. I was too wrapped up in my grief and shock to notice his presence, to truly appreciate the fact that he was here. But that is all about to change. Our lives are about to change. For the first time in a long time, things are looking up.
‘That’s good. It will help you to get over everything that’s happened. You know my feelings about you living there on your own so we won’t even go into it. I’m happy for you, Grace. I really am.’ Kim is stirring her tea, her eyes downcast as she speaks. The biscuit makes a sharp snapping sound when she breaks it in half.
Even when we are out, purportedly having a good time, socialising, drinking coffee, eating cake, she cannot seem to help herself, taking every opportunity to reaffirm her superiority over me, making sure my family affairs gain her approval. I sip at my latte, regretting taking her up on her offer of coming here to our usual place, the small café on the corner of the high street. I should have gone with my gut instinct, stayed home and revelled in the happiness and warmth I felt after speaking to my son, but here I am, being put in my place again by somebody who is certain she knows my life better than I do, and feels it is her duty to control it and steer it in the right direction.
