I place the album back on the shelf and sigh. Perhaps I should resign myself to the fact that I will never know anything about him, that he was simply a working-class man with working-class ethics and behaviours: a man who laboured hard and smiled rarely, giving little or nothing of himself away. That was how it was back then; hands-on parenting for men wasn’t something that went on in towns and villages like ours. Things were different, the roles of parenting more clearly defined. Men worked, women took care of the house and the children. It’s just how it was. So why did Kim say those less than favourable things about him? Yet more family skeletons stuffed away in a cupboard. If we have nothing to hide then why not bring them all out into the open? No more whispers and frown and veiled insults. It’s time to come clean.
The knocking at the door pulls me back into focus, sending a sharp blade of disquietude down my spine. Please God, don’t let it be Janine Francis. Not that awful woman trying to force her way into here again, elbowing past me, desperate to glean as much information out of me as she can, her nose for other people’s dirty linen like that of a bloodhound following the scent of its prey.
It’s Mr Waters standing there, his smile broad, his eyes warm and welcoming.
‘Come in,’ I say beckoning him inside, relief coursing through me.
‘Aye, I’ll not bother if it’s all the same wi’ you.’ He passes me something, his big old hands rough and leathery. ‘I’ve got t’ kettle boiling. I just wanted to give you this. Carrie sent it to me, said she wanted you to ’ave it. Thought it might bring back some memories for you.’
I stare down at a grainy photograph, the colours faded to a pale ochre, the edges yellowed with age. It’s a picture of three children dancing around a small paddling pool. My eyes fill up with tears, the image catching me unawares. A fist punches at my chest, hindering my breathing.
Me, Carrie and Simon. Three children playing in the garden on a summer’s day many decades ago, ignorant of what the future held for us, blind to the dangers of the world. Blind to the lifetime of misery that lay ahead.
I swallow, blink back my unhappiness, the misty memories of a yesterday that vanished into the ether. ‘Thank you,’ I manage to say, my words a stutter as I struggle to contain my emotions. ‘This is wonderful. Please say thank you to Carrie as well. This means such a lot to me.’
He smiles, turns to head away. I speak before he leaves, keen to ask him, to get him to fill in the blanks of my life. ‘Mr Waters, what was my dad like? As a person, I mean. What sort of a man was he?’
He stops, casts a glance at his feet then looks at me, his rheumy gaze searching for something I cannot give. An answer perhaps, as to why I am asking. Why after all these years, I have suddenly taken an interest in a man who has been dead for most of my life.
‘Well, he were a quiet sort, you know? Kept himself to himself. A hardworking man. Not the type to stand and chat in the street, if you know what I mean. Some thought him a bit morose but I’m not one to judge. Everyone has their own problems. Why do you ask, lass?’
I shrug, try to answer as honestly as I can without coming across as self-pitying or excessively emotional. Why do I want to know? Perhaps it’s to prove Kim wrong. Perhaps it’s because I don’t want my father to have been a rude, callous individual. Perhaps it’s because I want to think of him as a loving, demonstrative man even though I know that this was clearly not the case.
‘Not sure really. My memories of him are dim. I see snatches of him in my head but I’m not sure if they’re real or imagined. I guess moving back here has shaken up a lot of old thoughts and I’m just trying to put everything together, to conjure up as many memories as I can and put them in the right order.’
I want to ask if he was the ogre Kim has made him out to be, but it’s a step too far. I wouldn’t want to embarrass Mr Waters, to expose him to our crude family affairs. He had his own sets of problems and more than enough to contend with back then with his wife’s issues. Why force him to relive it all, to drag him back to a time when everything was full of shadows and fraught with difficulties?
‘Well, all I can say is, it were a real shame what happened to ’im. A terrible tragedy, but your family accepted it with good grace, never complaining or asking for pity. You just got on wi’ your lives like the good people that you are.’
He heads away and I am envious of Carrie, wishing I had had a father like Mr Waters. Any father would have done. I realise that I have missed having a dad. That’s what is driving me. There is hole in my life. A Simon and a father-sized hole, a gaping fissure where the wind blows through. I need to stitch it up, to put an end to this longing, this need to know. I just don’t know how to do it, whether I will ever bring it all to a close.
I spend the remainder of the day wandering around aimlessly, a rudderless being with no idea of what to do next. Nothing appeals to me, my writing a dry and unattractive idea. I cook our evening meal, run a bath and have an early night, telling Gavin and Gemma that I’m exhausted and no, I have no idea why I’m so tired and no, I don’t think I’m coming down with something, and that yes, I’ll call them if I suddenly feel unwell or need anything.
My book fails to hold my attention and I eventually turn off the light and curl up on my side shortly after 9 p.m., quickly falling into a deep and welcome sleep.
My legs are wobbly. I feel quite sick, butterflies dancing about in my belly, fluttering and flying, making me wish I had turned around and gone back inside. But I didn’t. I kept on walking because I wanted to know what was going on out here in the garden. And now I’m out here, still walking, I don’t know what to do.
I can see her, my mummy, and she is still on her hands and knees, crouched down in the small space next to the shed. Something is wrong. Very, very wrong. I can feel it. I’m not a grown-up but I know when something bad or nasty is happening and that’s what is going on out here. Something bad. Something very bad indeed.
One foot in front of the other. I keep on going, moving closer and closer. Until I stop. Am forced to stop. A large shadow blocks my way. Strong arms spin me around, pushing me back into the house. I wait until they loosen then turn back and run towards my mummy, towards the shed where she is still kneeling. I want to see her, to hug her. I want her to stop crying, to ask why she is out here in the dark. I hear his gruff voice whispering my name, pleading for me to go back inside, but I ignore him. Instead, I keep on running, stopping only when I stumble over something that sends me crashing to the ground. I land on my hands and knees, my chest wheezing as I try to catch my breath.
I sit up, my bottom wet from the grass, dirty and soggy from the squelchy mud after all the rain of the last few days. My hand lands upon something. Something solid. Something heavy, wet, velvety. Shoe shaped. I pick it up, spin it in my hands, staring at it, confusion biting at me. It’s a slipper. It’s Simon’s slipper. Why is it outside? Is Simon out here with Mum and Dad?
My hands land in a puddle as I scramble to my feet, cold air catching in my throat. It’s hard to breathe. I’m dizzy, a bit sick. It burns at my throat, the vomit, bouncing around in my tummy as I slip and slide in the mud. I’m tired, confused. I want to go back inside. I want to stay here. I want my mum. I want my mummy…
29
I sit bolt upright in bed. My throat is sore, dry as toast. I’m gasping, retching almost. I clap a hand over my mouth to silence the noise. It was a dream, wasn’t it? Or a recollection of the past, a memory resurfacing, clambering into the spotlight, crying out to be noticed? No, it can’t have been. It had to be a dream. And yet it strikes a chord with me somewhere in the back of my mind, like a memory I have stored there from my childhood, those shadowy, elusive images that present themselves rarely.
I take a shaky breath, sour air swirling in front of my face. I know the feeling of my hand resting on that slipper, can almost smell the cloying odour of mud and decay. It is so real, so true, an accurate representation of that night. The night I stumbled upon something. Something I shouldn’t have. A witness to a heinous act.
I stare at my hand, the sensation of sitting on the wet lawn growing stronger and stronger, settling on me like a heavy shroud. It happened. It was real. The more lucid I become, waking up and tossing aside the fog of sleep, the more I know it actually did take place. They were all out there that night – Mum, Dad, Simon. At least I think Simon was there. It was his slipper: the blue ones with a deep red lining, bought for him by our grandparents, posted to him in a small, cardboard box. I recall his excitement as he opened it, thinking it was a new toy car or the set of motorbike cards he had been hankering after, and then the look of disappointment etched into his features as the contents became apparent to him. Those blue slippers. The ones he was wearing the night he disappeared. They were never found. Everyone presumed he had been wearing them when he left. Or was taken.
I desperately need to call Sergeant Duffield, and yet what would I say to her? That I had a dream I think may have been real? She would think me mad, a raving lunatic. I would lose all credibility. Anything else I told her would be dismissed as unreliable, the ramblings of a crazy woman who is clinging onto the past, refusing to see reason and yet, I don’t know what else to do, and I have to do something. Doing nothing isn’t an option.
There is a chill in the air as I slip out of bed, shower and get dressed. The house is quiet, the hour still early. Gavin and Gemma are still sleeping. I pad downstairs and make breakfast, the kitchen soon filled with the rich aroma of toast and coffee, the house slowly coming to life.
Everything is still and calm outside. I stand looking out into the garden, thinking back to that night, that dream. The vision that is embedded in my brain: the one of my mother on her hands and knees, scrabbling about in the dirt, the earth still wet after many recent downpours. The police had it in their heads that Simon had wandered, fallen into the river, got washed downstream by the raging current. That didn’t happen. He would have been found. People don’t just disappear. The river always expels the dead, their bloated bodies washing up on a riverbank, miles away, their clothes snagged by a fallen tree or overgrown shrubbery. It spews them out somewhere. The river swallows nothing. Especially its victims. They resurface once the swell has dissipated, the current slowing down. And Simon has never resurfaced.
So, where is he? I think I know the answer to that question. A sickly sensation sits in my stomach, reminders of that dream nipping at me, refusing to go away. I should do something – anything. I’m just not sure what that something should be.
‘Morning. Early start for you after an early night, I guess?’ Gavin is standing beside me.
I jump, his voice catching me unawares. ‘There’s coffee in the pot. Toast?’ I say, opening the breadbin and dipping my hand inside. ‘Or would you prefer a full English?’
Even in the midst of impending dread, trapped by the thought of doing the unthinkable, the sight of my son, his voice, the closeness of him, always injects some levity into my life. It’s a gift he has, an extraordinary gift of being approachable, genial, permanently cheerful. People warm to him, are attracted to his easy manner.
‘Toast is fine, thanks. You sit down. I’ll make it.’
He flits around the room, stirring coffee, buttering toast, and I am in awe of how easily he has adapted, slipping back into his role of being a wonderful son with such ease. Warren’s face blooms in my mind. It’s at times like this I feel his loss keenly. He would have been sitting here with us, discussing Gavin’s new role, going through the finite details, advising him, barely able to conceal his delight at the way his son’s life is heading.
A fresh cup of coffee is placed in front of me and I have to stop myself from leaning out and grabbing Gavin’s hand, asking him to stay with me today, to keep me company and not head off into York to his new office. Today is going to be difficult, a day of fighting off memories, a day of trying to formulate a proper plan. Working out what I should do next. A day of mourning my brother. The brother who, I am now convinced, never actually left this house.
The day rolls on. I do nothing, wandering about in a haze, too exhausted by everything, too drowsy and lethargic to even think about what I need to do next. I’m stalling. I know that. Stalling and riddled with anxiety. What if I’m wrong? What if I’m unstable, my own memories too wobbly, too damn vague to be trusted? I bite at my lip, nibble at my nails, chew at the inside of my mouth. I’m not wrong. I am certain of this. That’s why I am suddenly full of doubt, holding back and using every delaying strategy possible. It’s a big thing that I am about to undertake. Huge. And when I go ahead with it, if my instincts are to be trusted, it will open up a whole chamber of horrors and throw up more questions than answers.
