‘You don’t remember me? How can you not remember who I am, eh?’
I want to tell her that I have led a full life with many occurrences, both good and bad, and I am almost certain none of them involved her. But I don’t. Instead, I smile and grit my teeth, apologising for no other reason than to get her out of my way.
‘Janine Francis? I went to school with your sister, used to go to your house for tea? Once played in your garden and fell into a patch of nettles? Course that was probably before you were born. You were much younger than me and Kim so I doubt you’ll even remember me. And then Kim went away for a while, didn’t she, with her illness?’ She bites at her mouth and sighs, her tombstone teeth tugging at a loose piece of skin.
I am about to ask her what she means by Kim’s illness when she speaks again. ‘I used to come to your house when you were little. Me and Kim would be getting ready to go out to the pub and you would hang around the bedroom asking to come with us. We’d sometimes put a bit of make-up on you, make you look like a little doll. And then your mum would give us what for and make us wash it all off.’ She sighs and shakes her head, her eyes twinkling, those large teeth resting against her bottom lip, graceless and inelegant.
The memory of her presence in our house gradually slides into my brain. An image of a loud teenage girl prone to temper tantrums when things didn’t go her way muscles its way into my mind. I smile and nod, then hold out my hand for her to shake which feels silly and inappropriate. I am just about to snatch it back when she takes it and smiles, her other hand covering mine as she throws back her head and laughs, a hearty, loud guffaw that seems to rattle every shelf in the shop.
‘I knew we’d get there in the end. Once met, never forgotten, eh?’ She winks at me, nodding furiously, a glint in her eye that indicates she has lots more to talk about. I listen to her chatter incessantly about her family, how they never left Hempton. ‘Love it here, we do. Wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.’
She talks relentlessly, saying plenty, most of it inconsequential. Empty babble that goes on and on and on. She mentions old school friends of Kim’s, tells me about her husband and children, the passing of her parents last year, how she gave them the best send-off ever. ‘Dad always said he wanted to go out with a bang and that’s exactly what he got.’ She goes on to explain that after the service, they let off fireworks in their back yard. ‘We must have spent £100 on a whole load of bangers and Catherine wheels. Still,’ she says suddenly lowering her voice, ‘it was worth it. We only get one set of parents, don’t we? Speaking of which, how’s your Mum getting on in the home? Sad to see her decline and end up in there but after recent events and what happened in the town square that time, I suppose it’s for the best, isn’t it?’
My muscles go into spasm, every ounce of blood turning to ice in my veins. I want to ask. I don’t want to ask. I can see by the look on her face that she is desperate for me to query her statement. I won’t. I refuse. Turns out, I don’t have to.
Before I have a chance to move away, it spills out of her, the sordid story of how, her mind trapped in the cruel grip of dementia, my mother had begun to undress in the middle of the town while passers-by looked on, horrified. When they attempted to help, she swatted them away, screaming that she would kill them all just like she killed the others. Kim has made no mention of this. I had enough to contend with at the time with Warren passing away so unexpectedly. Something squirms and swells in my guts, an uncoiling of anger towards my sister. I realise that I have been shielded from the worst of what took place with Mum, my sensitivities spared while my attentions were focused elsewhere.
Regret unfolds inside me. I feel a slow spread of warmth towards Kim, the fact she kept this piece of news from me, allowing me to deal with my own heartache while she quietly and swiftly dealt with her own: getting Mum assessed, finding a suitable care home, sorting out Woodburn Cottage and getting rid of all the clutter that Mum had acquired over the years. And she did it all without complaint or requests for assistance. Perhaps I was too rash back at the café. Maybe I overplayed my hand, was too quick to judge and come to a hasty conclusion.
My face heats up. I need to leave, to get away from Janine’s salacious gossip and her manic expression, a smile that borders on a sneer. What sort of a person would revel in talking about such an unsavoury business? Anybody with an ounce of integrity would show compassion, remain quiet about what happened, allow my mother and her family to keep their dignity intact, but not this woman. I haven’t seen her for probably four decades and here she is, talking openly and with a little too much fervour and excitement about an illness that has taken our mother from us and caused us untold heartache.
I place the basket down at my feet and for the second time today, walk out of a public building without saying goodbye, leaving behind a bemused individual who may or may not be aware of how close they came to being slapped hard across the face.
It’s as I reach the door that I hear it again, her grating voice that carries over the air like the shriek of a dying animal, an injured wolf howling from its lair. ‘So, what do you think she meant by it then, your mum? Who did she kill?’
The shop door slams shut behind me as I pull it closed, my vision attenuating, my legs pumping furiously, not slowing down until I reach the safety of Woodburn Cottage. I yank open the door, all but fall inside and lock it with trembling fingers. I lean back onto the wooden panels, the solidity of it giving me some succour, safety from the outside world.
Blinking back tears, I bite at my lip and whimper like a small child. They can all go to hell, every single one of them. Every neighbour, every onlooker, every purported friend that listened to the ramblings of my distressed and mentally ill mother and then gossiped about it afterwards, and especially Janine fucking Francis, the woman whose face looks like it has been subjected to a rigorous scrubbing against a particularly sharp cheese grater. As far as I’m concerned, they can all rot in hell.
16
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I keep my tone even, almost at a whisper. My words are met with a stony silence. ‘I’m not cross, Kim. Quite the opposite, in fact. I feel guilty that you had to deal with this on your own. I could have helped. It must have been horrific for you, having to sort out all Mum’s things without me there to help you and having to deal with that incident in the town.’
I can almost hear her sigh with relief, a low moan at the other end of the line. I picture her sitting down, running her fingers through her hair as she leans back and closes her eyes, her mood loosening and softening yet with an undercurrent of suspicion and trepidation. Always on edge, waiting for thinly veiled criticisms. Always waiting for me to snap. ‘Who told you about it?’
‘An old school friend of yours. Janine somebody or other. A brash woman with flabby arms and huge, yellowed teeth. She looked like a baby walrus. Had all the grace and elegance of one too.’
For the first time in a very long time, Kim laughs. A hearty, genuine chuckle that is infectious. I smile and eventually join in, laughter gripping me until tears stream down my face and I have to sit down to compose myself.
‘Oh God, she was a real character,’ Kim says, gasping and wheezing as she tries to catch her breath. ‘I’d forgotten all about her.’
‘She hasn’t forgotten about you,’ I reply, my mind raking over our conversation. ‘She told me all about you, the stuff you used to get up to when you were teenagers.’
Even without her being in the same room, I can feel the change in Kim’s demeanour, another shift in her mood, a stiffening of her inner core as she braces herself for some imagined slight, some insult that is about to be thrown her way. ‘What stuff? What did she mean by that?’ And it is back, the sharpness in her voice, the previous moment forgotten, the happiness of earlier quickly disintegrating.
I wonder what I’ve said, how such an innocuous comment can result in this swift and unexpected change of mood.
‘She just told me about how you would put make-up on me while you were getting ready to go out, that’s all. And how Mum would tell you both off and make you wash it off me.’
I remind myself that this is why I get exasperated by Kim, why her sullen ways and unpredictable manner always put me on edge. Sometimes, it isn’t worth the effort continuing with our conversations, the stilted chats that make me feel as if I am treading on hot coals. ‘Have I said something wrong?’ I prepare myself for her answer, for the volley of abuse that I expect her to fire my way.
Instead, she turns it around, blindsiding me with her answer. ‘Maybe I should ask you the very same thing after you stormed out of the café and refused to reply to my texts and the list of missed calls that must have come up on your phone.’ She is breathless, as if those words have been stored up in her head, waiting for an appropriate moment to come hurtling out.
I take a couple of seconds before replying, trying to formulate my answer, to get it pitch perfect and not add any further fuel to the fire. ‘I’m sorry about that. I misinterpreted what you said. With the sleepwalking, I think I’m just tired, that’s all.’ I am not about to elaborate any further. And I am not going to ask what she meant by it. Not now when things have once again hardened between us, the atmosphere thick with growing animosity. Another time, perhaps. Or maybe not. I doubt Kim would ever open up to me. When it comes to our past, her shutters are permanently down, fixed into position with rods of iron.
Instead, I lighten the mood, shift the focus away from our failings and foibles, keep the conversation light, superficial. Easier that way. Safer.
‘I’m going to redecorate the bedroom for Gavin and Gemma coming home. Nothing major – just a lick of paint and some new furniture. I was thinking of going for grey, keep it neutral. What do you think?’
And within seconds, our anger has been squashed back into that dark, dusty corner, the place that absorbs and hides our family secrets: secrets that are too painful to examine. We talk about muted shades of paint and quilt covers and oak wardrobes and anything that stops us from speaking openly about things that should be discussed. We don’t deviate, keeping on about inane, pointless subjects until I tire of it and say my goodbyes, promising, despite my inner objections, to meet for coffee in our usual place later in the week. It’s easier to agree than turn her down. Routine is what keeps us going. Without that, what exactly do we have?
The person on the other end of the line couldn’t sound wearier and more disinterested if they tried. I am a voice from the past, a nuisance, somebody who is making more work for an already understaffed force. I have to do it though, regardless of the lack of funds and the necessary number of experienced staff to help me. I have to do it for Simon, for Mum. I have to do it for me.
‘And you haven’t come across any new evidence?’
Already I know that I am beating my head against a brick wall. I knew this before I made the call, that it would remain a cold case unless anything new turns up. I have nothing to offer them except my anger and frustration, and a deep and growing need to find out what happened to my brother.
‘No, not as such.’ My heart speeds up. My top lip is damp with perspiration.
‘Not as such? So, you have something new?’
I close my eyes, wishing I had thought this through, seen my point of view through calculating and precise eyes. The eyes of a young police officer who wasn’t even alive when Simon went missing.
‘No. I don’t have anything new on my brother’s case but could somebody not take another look at it? Just cast an eye over the witness statements? Maybe see if any forensic evidence can be found and sent off for analysis? Also, I noticed that last year another boy of a similar age went missing. Maybe there’s a connection?’ Even as I say it, I know it’s unlikely. Four-and-a-bit decades. How could they possibly be connected? And yet I will be remiss in my duties as a sister if I don’t mention it.
There is a short silence at the other end of the line. I can hear her breathing, this Sergeant Duffield who is probably young enough to be my daughter. Her exasperation at this strange woman who wants to talk about a case from forty-odd years ago seeps through the line, waves of resentment and irritation at being subjected to a time waster.
