She produces a large biscuit tin but I wave it away. I’ve deliberately not mentioned the button. It is probably nothing more than a coincidence, a green button from someone else’s green coat, but I know where Sharon’s mind will go. Things are bleak already, without Sharon making them ten times bleaker. I change the subject.
‘I like your sweater,’ I say. ‘Very . . . chunky.’ I can’t help noticing she’s ditched the dressing gown in favour of a handknit and trackie bottoms.
‘My sister knit it. I couldn’t, not now, not with the arthritis.’ She kneads her wrists.
I sense a medical story coming on and quickly head her off. ‘Sharon, I was a bit snappy with you, over the newspaper. I’m sorry. All this waiting, it’s just—’
‘It’s bleedin’ cruel, that’s what it is. The not knowing. That’s over a week now.’
Sharon dunks a rich tea biscuit in her cup and devours it before it has a chance to disintegrate. Coffee drips down her multi-coloured front. ‘I hope you didn’t think I was out of turn, lass, speaking about your ma being depressed.’
‘No, it’s fine.’ I pick my words carefully. ‘It’s hard to tell what people are going through, especially from a distance. People slip through the gaps all the time.’
‘I blame Facebook,’ says Sharon, with the air of a woman who could change the world, if only folk would listen. ‘All those selfies and pictures of food. That’s not real. Waking up looking like a troll and cooking beans on toast – that’s real. Your mum never did Facebook, did she?’
I shake my head. ‘She didn’t like all the oversharing. The lack of privacy.’
Dad’s words, of course. It’s Dad that hates Facebook. Mum would probably have quite liked it, left to her own devices. She’d have shared images of ancient trees and cats falling off sofas.
Sharon is giving me her full attention. It’s disconcerting. ‘She’d stopped using her mobile phone, too. Did you know? Och, you must have known. She blamed the poor—’
‘Signal,’ I finish for her. ‘Rubbish reception round here. I used to email her my photos.’
‘Ah. That’s nice, lass.’
Sharon is still eyeballing me, but I change the subject. ‘So Liam’s getting divorced then?’
She’s gives a snort. ‘Aye, that’ll be the day. Not unless Miss High and Mighty helps him pay for it. She works for the council, you know. High up. Got that job through her dad, of course.’
She continues to gossip about the Coutts family. I’m barely listening, staring into the muddy depths of my coffee.
‘It costs a fortune, doesn’t it?’
‘What?’ I sit up, realising she’s circled back to divorce.
‘Divorce costs the earth, doesn’t it? I was just chatting to your ma about it only a few weeks ago. I can’t believe it.’ There’s a hitch in her voice. She takes another biscuit. ‘Thousands it costs, these days. Bloody solicitors. Your ma seemed to know all about it. She’d done her homework. Oh, listen – there’s Liam now. He’s been dying to see you. Oh sorry—’ She gets all flustered at the word dying, but I’m still trying to figure out how to deal with this. Why did my mother suddenly feel the need to overshare, to confide in a gossip like Sharon Duthie? She might as well have tied a red warning flag to the chimney.
Liam hasn’t altered much, though his face has filled out in some places and dropped in others. It’s as if a slightly disappointed grown-up has been photoshopped onto the boy I once knew. His social media posts show a laughing family man with a wee girl, a wife, cousins. Birthdays, Christmases. Witty comments. The edited highlights. At some point he changed his status to single, but I can’t remember being that interested.
In real life, Liam is frayed around the edges and a bit shy. His daughter, Caitlyn, is four, with serious eyes and a mass of tawny ringlets. She’s staring at me almost exactly like her mother stared at me when I told the Finella story at Brownies. I decide to go on the attack.
‘You know who has a hard stare?’
She shakes her head at me. She’s taken root on her father’s lap and he’s using her to hide behind.
‘Paddington. Paddington Bear has a hard stare.’ I remember that from my own childhood. I don’t know if it will work – I’m crap with kids. Her mouth edges into a smile.
‘I like Paddington,’ she says. Liam catches my eye and grins. I feel like I’ve passed a test.
I press on. ‘What else do you like?’
She thinks, making a little humming sound. ‘Pasta with tomato sauce.’
I bet she never dribbles it on her pristine school clothes. ‘Good choice.’
‘And my mummy’s house. I don’t like it here. It smells.’
Liam and I exchange an embarrassed look and the conversation dries up a bit.
‘Right.’ I get to my feet. ‘I have net curtains to wash – and I never thought I’d be saying that.’
Liam struggles out of his chair, Caitlyn clinging to his leg, as if she fears I’ll snatch her away. No chance. ‘If you need a hand – not with the curtains, with anything – just shout.’ Liam’s face turns red, and I assure him I will. He rushes on, ‘Have they called off the search yet?’
‘Um – will they? Call it off?’ My stomach grows cold.
‘Eventually. Probably after a week or so. They’ll downgrade it.’ He touches my forearm. I look down at his hand like it’s an alien. ‘I have a mate, a pilot. I can have a word. They do a lot of voluntary searches and so on. That might . . .’
I wait a beat before answering. ‘That would be helpful.’
Liam moves in and gently puts his arms around me. ‘You’re not alone. Don’t ever think that.’ I submit to his embrace, unsure of how to extricate myself.
Thankfully, he quickly switches gears. Liam has turned into a great organiser. The boy I knew was always late for class, never managed to get his homework done on time and was always minus his tie or his football boots. But now he makes a quick call to his mate with the plane and plucks an Ordnance Survey map from his mother’s magazine rack.
‘I’m going to the library to work on my job applications. I’ll scan this and we can enlarge it and mark it into sections.’
He swirls his fingers over the bumps and hollows of the east coast. The shoreline is a meandering serpent, and my mother is out there, lost among its coils. I can’t bear to think of it, but I can’t look away either. Finella’s river disgorges onto the beach just a little past this bungalow. It’s a hard climb down, or you can go into the village and follow the road to the sea. There’s a car park, with the usual tourist benches and bins. A board that highlights the sort of wildlife you’ll never see. I find the area on the map.
‘I think the police divers have searched the beach here.’ My finger hovers over the blue line of the river like a planchette on a Ouija board. It’s microscopic, but I can make out ‘Den of Finella’ in a fine Gothic script.
‘There’s an outside possibility she may have been swept into a cave. That she’s injured but alive. Remember your Finella story?’
I nod. A nerve twitches in my eye. ‘The story says Finella may have survived the fall, that she was washed into the sea and picked up by a boat.’
The map shifts abruptly, and Liam’s fingers find mine. He shakes my hand a little, as if I’m sleepwalking and he’s afraid to wake me.
‘You can’t do this on your own. Let’s set up a Facebook page – ask for volunteers. If we have feet on the ground and an eye in the sky . . .’ He doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. I nod miserably. The situation is being taken out of my hands. I will drift on in an agony of suspension, or things will start to come to light. Either way, my life is about to come apart.
10
Nine Days After
‘Liam’s helping me organise a search of the beach.’
It’s now Thursday, over a week since Mum disappeared, and we’re having elevenses at the kitchen table. It’s a morning ritual for Dad – and now River. I’m sure he should be doing schoolwork and not messin
g about in the scrapyard. I wonder if I should contact his guidance teacher to find out when he’s expected back, but they might figure out that it’s me who needs guidance.
I’ve made them strong coffee in their special mugs: ‘World’s Greatest Boss’ for Dad and ‘Caution – Mechanic at Work’ for River. My mother’s favourite Wallace and Gromit mug remains on its hook. A plate of Jaffa Cakes occupies the centre of the table, beside the milk jug. The bereavement leaflets that were pinned under there have been binned.
Dad strokes his beard. ‘No harm, I suppose. But who’ll help us?’
I detect a certain wistfulness in his tone. He is master of his own little universe, and there he can find all the help he needs. His idea of community extends to offering a raffle prize at the village Christmas fair. One year it was a voucher for a free car wash. Our head teacher won it, and I’ll never forget her face when she discovered that the ‘deluxe vehicle valet’ consisted of River and me with a couple of buckets and a bottle of Turtle Wax.
I think of my horrible teatime experience at the Coutts’s. I knew that being home again would bring all this stuff back. I expect my father is experiencing that same sense of shame, like the layers of our family are being peeled away to expose the not-very-clean bits.
‘The community will rally round.’ I look down at my hands. My ‘Beach Gold’ polish has all but chipped away, and I’ve started picking at the skin around my nails. I don’t know when I started doing that. ‘Liam’s put up a page on Facebook.’
My father slams down his mug. There’s chocolate on his beard, which makes me want to laugh. ‘Can no one have a fucking tragedy any more without putting it on Facebook?’
River is glaring at me too.
‘He’s trying to help. It’s what you do, when someone goes missing. He says she might have been swept into a cave . . .’
‘Ellie, stop!’ My Dad makes a noise like a groan, low in his throat. His hands are balled into fists on either side of his mug. ‘Just stop. She’s not missing. She’s drowned.’
River jumps up, goes to his side and hugs him awkwardly. It’s then that I realise my father is weeping. I bite at the skin on my fingers until I taste blood.
‘You’re making it worse! Can’t you see that?’ River’s eyes are black with pain.
‘I’m trying to make it better!’
‘You’re not making it better by pretending she’s out there alive, stuck in some shitty cave!’
I get up, stiffly. There’s a pain inside me that won’t let me straighten. River is standing behind my father, hands protectively on his shoulders. We glare at each other across the table.
‘We’re all hurting, River. But the search – it’s all arranged. We’re meeting up at Ned’s cafe tonight at seven thirty. If you don’t want to come, that’s up to you.’
‘And what will it look like if I don’t, eh?’
Suspicious. The word lingers, unspoken, between us.
I phone PC Lorraine Sampson. She answers straight away, and I rush in with my name and my pre-rehearsed speech.
‘I don’t mean to bother you, but I just wondered if you had my mobile number – in case you wanted to get in touch. With news. If there’s any news.’
A pause at the other end – I wonder if she’s trying to place me – and then she replies.
‘The search is continuing, Ellie. I have your dad’s mobile number, and if there are any significant developments, we’ll visit you in person.’
Of course they will. Haven’t I seen it on all those crime dramas? We have some bad news for you. Perhaps you’d like to sit down. But it isn’t a crime drama, is it?
‘Ellie?’
‘Yes. Yes, sorry.’
‘Thought we’d been cut off for a minute.’
‘Are you treating this as an accident?’
I don’t know where that came from. There’s another pause.
‘Do you have any information that you think might help us, Ellie?’
Lorraine’s voice is careful, considered. I feel weird, like a stone has been overturned within me and my insides are creeping with horrible possibilities. I take a shaky breath and hope she doesn’t pick up on it.
‘No. Nothing.’
‘And . . . has your mum ever gone missing before?’
The question catches me off guard. Why is she asking me that? Now the seconds are ticking by and she’s waiting for an answer. I bet she’s already asked my father, and I bet he said no. She’s testing us.
‘No.’ I hear myself say. ‘No. Never.’
‘Right. We have to ask.’
‘Yes. Absolutely. And I should tell you,’ I rush on, ‘that my friend is helping me organise a search party. We have a pilot, too, to check out the coast and all that.’
‘Yes, that’s brilliant,’ she says. ‘We can certainly get on board with that. We depend very much on voluntary groups in these circumstances because, well, our resources are finite, as I’m sure you understand.’
‘Are you going to call off the search?’
‘We’ll discuss that with you and your family at the appropriate time.’
Brisk. Impersonal. I thank her, say my goodbyes and break the connection. What the hell was I doing, reaching out like that? I’ve broken the rule. Dad’s words rush at me from some dark corner and I feel sick with dread. We’ll keep this between ourselves, as we always do.
My father returns to the house at 3 p.m. and announces that everyone can knock off early. They’ve all been a tower of strength, at this difficult time. Let’s get some tea on the go, he says, and bacon rolls.
‘Bacon rolls for how many?’ I didn’t sign up for this either. They’re all trooping in: Shelby, River, Offshore Dave and Julie. There’s no sign of Piotr.
My mother always sticks newspaper on the seats before they sit down, so I grab a copy of the Gazette and manage to get a couple of sheets under Offshore Dave’s backside before he collapses on the wooden chair, legs spread. His BO is off the scale, masked only slightly by the reek of diesel and tobacco. He leers at me, and I hurry away.
‘I’m clean, sweetheart.’ Julie sits delicately and crosses her legs. She’s wearing a navy gilet and matching pumps. ‘Just tea for me. Watching my calories.’
‘I’m not sure if I have enough rolls left.’
‘You’d better do some shopping.’ Dad’s face creases up beneath his beard, as if the whole thing is too confusing. I open my mouth to protest, but what’s the point. Thankfully, I manage to produce enough bacon rolls for everyone, and Julie helps to make the tea.
She winks at me. ‘A woman’s work is never done at Rook’s Scrappie, eh, hon?’
I feel my face stiffen. Once again, I’m reminded of why I was so desperate to leave: the suffocating sameness of every day, and all of us walking on eggshells around my father’s odd ways. The day I left for uni, I chucked all I could carry into a rucksack and told my mother to bin the rest. She had wept on that day, too. I didn’t come home as often as I said I would, and now sadness seeps through me. Trying to shake it off, I do a quick headcount.
‘Wait a minute. There’s somebody missing. Where’s Piotr?’
‘Who?’ River takes a huge bite of his roll.
‘Rocky.’ Julie sips her tea. ‘The gorgeous Rocky.’
‘Gorgeous, my arse,’ says Dave. He wipes his nose on the back of his hand. ‘Skulking outside. Probably eats nothing but sauerkraut and pickles.’
‘He didn’t want to bother you.’ River has demolished the remainder of his roll. ‘Mum always made us bacon rolls, and Rocky says it’s not fair that you should have to do it, with Mum gone.’
‘Fuckin’ fairy,’ says Dave.
I’ve been kneading a tea towel between my hands. Now I slap it down on the table, ignore my father’s disapproval and storm outside. Piotr is sitting on the step of Shelby’s caravan. He looks slightly nervous when he sees me marching towards him.
‘Don’t you eat bacon?’
‘I do. I like bacon.’
‘We
ll, get yourself inside. There’s a bacon roll for you. It doesn’t pay to be too polite around here.’ I turn on my heel. He follows me.
There’s a moment before we enter when I pause and look at him. He smiles, a little self-consciously. He has a dimple; just the one.
‘Thank you.’ I say it under my breath, and he dips his head.
After they’ve gone, I scoop the newspaper from the chairs and sweep mud off the floor. Offshore Dave has left oily fingermarks all over his mug. Sighing, I clear the table and fill the sink with hot water. Before Dad left, he made sure to mention the next meal, just in case I forgot. ‘Rustle us up something light, Ellie. Good girl.’
Yanking open the fridge, I crouch down and glare into it. Two eggs, a block of cheese, some wilted spring onions and a jar of curry paste. Worse than Saturday Kitchen. What the hell am I going to make with this? The freezer compartment is so frosted it takes me a while to persuade it open. Nothing to see but a half-empty box of fish fingers and an ice-cube tray with no ice. Bloody River – he never refills the ice-cube tray.
I pull out a plastic margarine tub and read the handwritten label on top. Lentil soup. Maybe I could defrost it, and then make rice pudding for afters? The handwriting is my mother’s, and my insides catch in pain. I prise the lid from the tub.
It isn’t lentil soup.
A large rectangle of something solid is wrapped in frosty cling film. I haul it out and unwind it, mummy-like, from its wrappings, like a child playing pass the parcel. Just as the music is about to stop, I unveil a stack of banknotes.
11
It’s River, not Dad, who cuts up rough about the lack of food. I’m still a bit shaken about the freezer find, and I’m not about to share it with anyone, not just yet. I cut him off sharply when he asks what’s for tea.
‘River, I have no idea. Rake around and find something. You’re big enough.’
‘I’ve been working all day.’ His voice is a whine that scrapes on my frayed nerves like chalk on slate.
The Unmaking of Ellie Rook Page 5
