Why Don’t You Come for Me (28 page)

Shelley could not help thinking that if Jo had created some sort of scene, then perhaps it should be her rather than Maisie who offered the apology, but her sympathy was tempered by a strong suspicion that Maisie’s unsuccessful attempt at commiseration might well have been a front for a fact-finding mission. ‘I’m not sure that I really understand,’ she began. ‘How come Gilda knows about all this? She’s only lived here for ten minutes.’

‘It seems that Gilda knew Jo years and years ago, when they were both at the same school together; so when Gilda saw the kidnapping case in the papers, she knew who it was, even though she hadn’t seen Jo for quite a few years. Then of course she bought The Old Forge, never thinking for a minute that she would be living nearly opposite someone she had been at school with. She recognized Jo straight away, although apparently Jo couldn’t remember her. It’s such a small world, isn’t it? Remind me to tell you in a minute about a very similar coincidence someone told Fred and me about, when we were wardening the other day at Holehird.’

Shelley didn’t want to get diverted into funny coincidences at Holehird, so she interposed quickly: ‘You’re sure Gilda had the right person?’

‘Oh, absolutely no doubt about it … You don’t forget the people you were at school with, do you? I once bumped into one of our old head girls, I don’t know how many years after I’d left. She was much older than me, but I still recognized her. And you know, when I thought about it, I could see that Gilda was right about Jo being the woman whose little girl disappeared. She does her hair differently now, but apart from that she hasn’t changed very much.’

Shelley nodded. While Maisie had been talking, she too had reached back into her memory and plucked out an image, half remembered from newspapers and television.

‘I can’t imagine why she never told any of us,’ Maisie continued.

‘I suppose she wanted to put it all behind her – make a fresh start.’

‘I don’t see how you ever could – not a thing like that. They never found out what happened to the little girl, did they?’

‘No.’ Shelley’s voice was thoughtful. ‘Didn’t the husband disappear, too?’

‘Well it certainly wasn’t Marcus who was involved,’ said Maisie. ‘I don’t know about the husband. It’s the little girl I remember. She looked such a sweet little thing.’

Shelley delved further into the recesses of half-forgotten headlines. ‘He fell off a cliff – that was it. The police decided he’d committed suicide; a lot of people at the time wondered if it was guilty conscience.’

‘People will say anything.’ Maisie shook her head. ‘Anyway, it must have been awful for her to be reminded of it, and coming completely out of the blue like that. Of course, if we had known about it already, then it wouldn’t have been so bad. If only she had told us … Well, any damage is done now. You know Jo better than I do. Should I have a word with her, do you think? Tell her I’m sorry about what happened, and reassure her that we’re not all talking about it?’

But we are
, Shelley thought. Out loud she said, ‘It’s difficult to know how to approach it. I would just leave it, if I were you. Let it all blow over – she obviously doesn’t want to talk about it, so I’d say least said, soonest mended. I have to get back – I promised Brian I would only be five minutes. There’s some bookkeeping I’m supposed to be helping him with.’

As she walked away, Shelley wondered what Brian would make of it all, and come to that, what she made of it herself. Was there something a bit strange about keeping such a big thing a secret – or would that be the natural thing to do? She had almost reached her own gate when she encountered the two little girls from The Hollies and The Old Forge, coming the opposite way. They both said ‘hello’ to her, but a second later she heard the younger one instructing the older one in a low, urgent voice: ‘Look out. Mrs Perry’s in her garden. Stay on this side of the road and don’t let her see us or she’ll keep us talking for ages.’ Shelley smiled to herself. How quickly the young catch on. As she opened the front door of Ingledene, she glanced back and saw that they had managed to evade Maisie and were just going out of sight round the bend.

Charlotte thought there were distinct advantages to hanging out at Rebecca’s house. It not only got them away from Harry and Sean, but also brought them into the orbit of Mrs Iceton’s catering, which meant lunches of pizzas and microwave chips, rather than her mother’s healthy summer salads. In spite of these advantages, however, Charlotte could not quite decide whether she liked it at The Old Forge or not. The house both attracted and repelled her. It was rather gloomy inside and had a funny smell, although this was partly compensated for by the contents. The Hollies was furnished in the minimalist style of a holiday let – an arrangement intended to reduce the amount of housework her mum needed to do in order to keep everything pristine – whereas Mrs Iceton did not seem to worry about housework, so clutter was scarcely an issue. The living room looked as if someone had taken up residence in a little-frequented junk shop, scattering their discarded newspapers, clothes and coffee cups among the furniture and bric-a-brac while the owner of the business was otherwise engaged.

Charlotte had never seen anything quite like it. There were objects of all kinds just lying about, and all these things seemed to have a story attached. The artificial flowers under a glass dome had belonged to Mrs Iceton’s grandmother, while an enormous plant in a crazed china bowl whose dust-laden, leathery leaves flopped haphazardly across a menagerie of dulled bronze miniature animals, was known as ‘Esmeralda’ and revered as the oldest living thing in the house. She learned that what appeared to be a tiny ancient pair of binoculars were something called opera glasses, and that the ancient photo album on which they rested, a volume covered in dusty grey silk, from which a plaited brown and green tassel drooped over the edge of the table, contained black and white photographs of Rebecca’s grandparents’ wedding day. The wedding dress in the photographs was kept in a trunk upstairs, from which she and Becky had been allowed not only to remove it for examination, but also to try it on. Everywhere was a confusion of old and new. A plastic mug full of pens sat between an apparently random collection of pebbles and a china pierrot which could have been won at the fair. The pierrot wore a permanent expression of mild surprise, which could have been induced by finding himself in the range of a precariously balanced pile of books. There were books everywhere, and they all looked to Charlotte as though they belonged in a second-hand shop. Even the paperbacks were brown and faded. Her own mother sometimes bought second-hand paperbacks from the Oxfam shop, but these books all looked much, much older than any of them.

Rebecca’s bedroom was almost as much of a muddle as the rooms downstairs. There seemed to be just as many books here too, some of them still to be unpacked from the cardboard boxes in which they had arrived at The Old Forge months ago. Charlotte had offered to help with them, partly because she liked reading and partly because she liked Rebecca, who, even though she was nearly as old as Harry, never patronized her.

‘I’m glad you came to live here,’ Charlotte declared as she knelt in front of a carton of books, passing out the contents volume by volume to Rebecca, who was stacking them spines outwards in a pile on the floor, now that they had filled all the available shelving in the room. ‘It means there will always be someone to hang around with when we come up in the holidays.’

‘And I’m glad you’ll be here.’ Rebecca readily returned the compliment. ‘It’s really nice to have a friend in the holidays, because all the girls of my age who lived near our last house already had their own friends, because they all went to the local schools.’

Basking in the implied compliment of ‘my age’, Charlotte asked: ‘But don’t you have friends at your school?’

‘I’ve got lots of friends at school, and sometimes I get asked to stay with them, but I can never invite them to stay with us because Mum always says she needs to get straight first, and somehow she never does. You couldn’t put anyone in the spare room here – the bed’s all dismantled up against the wall and you’d have to climb over loads of boxes and other furniture to get at it.’

‘Why have you got so much stuff?’ asked Charlotte.

‘It mostly came from my grandparents. They never threw anything away, Mum says. In fact, I think some of it belonged to my great-grandparents. There are some boxes that haven’t been unpacked in years – they just move with us. Mum’s got a lock-up unit down in Essex which is stuffed full as well.’

‘What’s in all the boxes?’

‘I haven’t got a clue.’

‘There might be something really valuable.’

‘Mum wouldn’t care if it was. I don’t think she’s all that interested in money.’

‘But you must be quite rich, if you go to boarding school?’

‘I suppose. I don’t really know. Mum never talks about money. She wanted me to go to boarding school because she went herself. She thinks it’s better.’

‘How about your dad? Did he go to boarding school?’

Rebecca hesitated in the act of balancing a book. ‘I think that’s high enough; I’d better start a new pile.’ She glanced towards the door, put a finger to her lips and slipped across to check that the coast was clear before she spoke again. ‘You can’t shut these doors,’ she said. ‘None of the latches work properly. You know what I told you before – about my dad?’

Charlotte nodded, eager for confidences.

‘Well, it sort of wasn’t exactly true. That’s just what we tell people, because Mum says it’s easier to pretend to be a widow.’

Charlotte’s eyes widened. It was outside her sphere of experience for adults to invite children to be a party to shared deceptions. ‘How do you mean – it isn’t exactly true?’

‘It is true and it isn’t. It all depends which dad you’re talking about.’

‘How many dads have you got?’

‘The thing is, Gilda isn’t my real mother. My real mother died of cancer when I was a little baby.’

‘Your birth mother,’ Charlotte put in helpfully. Being an aficionado of daytime television was a great help when it came to defining familial relationships.

‘Right. She was my mum’s – that’s Gilda’s – best friend, and when she knew she was dying she asked Gilda and her husband to adopt me because they couldn’t have any children of their own. Only, she didn’t know Gilda’s husband all that well, and she didn’t realize that he wasn’t really very nice. He used to drink too much.’

‘So what happened to him?’

‘Gilda threw him out. So she isn’t a widow at all; she just tells people that because it sounds better than admitting you’ve got a drunken husband somewhere.’

‘What about your real dad?’

‘He’s the one who really is dead. He was killed in a plane crash before I was born. It’s no secret that I’m adopted, but it’s easier for Gilda if we mix my adopted dad and my real dad into the same person – which makes her a widow.’

‘It sounds more complicated to me. How long have you known about all this?’

‘As long as I can remember. Mum says you have to tell adopted people that they are adopted, and she has kept my real name because my actual mother wanted that. A couple of years ago she took me to see the outside of the hospital where I was born, and the house where my parents used to live, and she’s shown me photos of my real mum and dad, although she hasn’t got many, just a couple of when they were on holiday – stuff like that.’

‘And you can’t remember your real mum at all?’

‘Of course not. I told you, I was only a baby. I can’t remember my father or my stepfather, either.’

‘Your parents might have been really rich – there might be a big inheritance or something,’ suggested the materialistic Charlotte.

‘I shouldn’t think so. The house where they lived was pretty tiny.’

‘It’s a really romantic story. A friendship between your two mothers, going on beyond the grave.’

‘I suppose so. Come on, don’t stop.’

Charlotte obediently reached into the box for the next volume. ‘
Anne of Green Gables
,’ she read. ‘How funny – she was an orphan, too.’

‘It’s not exactly funny being an orphan,’ Rebecca chided. ‘You don’t get comedians going out on stage, saying, “Hey, I’m an orphan”, and getting a huge laugh.’

‘Sorry.’

‘It’s OK. It’s not a big deal.’

‘Becky! Charlotte!’ It was Gilda’s voice, from the bottom of the stairs. ‘Harry is here, wanting to know if you’re going home for lunch.’

In response to an imploring look, Rebecca shouted back, ‘Can’t Charlie stay here for lunch?’

‘Of course – if she wants to.’

‘Yes pleeeease,’ Charlotte shrilled.

‘I’ll go and tell him.’ They heard a door shutting somewhere below.

Charlotte leaned across the almost empty box and gave her friend a hug. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do when you go to stay at your aunty’s. Why don’t you ask if you can stay here?’

‘But I like it with Aunty Carole. I go to stay with her every holidays.’

‘Don’t you like being at home with your mum?’

‘It’s all right.’

‘At least she doesn’t nag all the time, like mine does.’

‘No-o. But Aunty Carole’s … well, better at knowing the sort of things I like to do and helping me choose the right sort of clothes. Mum tries, but she’s too old-fashioned. She knows she isn’t any good at it, so these days she gives me the money and Aunty Carole takes me – she knows the right shops. And plus it’s sometimes difficult – it’s a big pressure, you know, being adopted.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, I feel like I have to be, sort of … grateful, because you know … Mum has given me a home and a good education and everything
and
she’s a single parent.’

Rebecca spoke as if she had given the matter a great deal of thought. Charlotte was impressed: that was one of the things she liked about Becky – you could have really grown-up conversations with her.

‘Plus, Mum is what Aunty Carole calls overprotective. I know it’s only because I’m precious to her – Aunty Carole says I’m all Mum’s got – but that makes her a bit weird and freaky about stuff. I often feel like she’s watching me, and she asks me all kinds of things, strange things sometimes. Like this one time she kept asking if the girls at school laughed at me? When I said they didn’t, I used to feel as if she didn’t really believe me. I know it’s only because she loves me, but it’s a bit intense sometimes.’