by Ruth Hogan
I sat and drank tea with Mrs O’Flaherty from blue-and-white willow-pattern cups and saucers.
‘When that man came to fetch your things from the house, Wendy was sure she saw your mother inside and she was furious. But even more so when she heard from the chap that your mother was taking you and emigrating to Australia. “Joining the Ten Pound Poms”, he said.’
I tried to swallow the tea past the lump lodged in my throat. Amongst the photographs on the windowsill there was one that I recognised from the old house. It was the white-haired lady I used to see at St Patrick’s sitting behind Mrs O’Flaherty. She followed my gaze, and then my train of thought.
‘We missed you at St Patrick’s. But I used to light a candle for you.’
‘All those candles I used to light for my dad . . .’
She took hold of my hands in hers again and squeezed them tightly.
‘A candle lit in God’s house is never wasted, Miss Tilly.’ Then she continued, gently, ‘I know what you want from me, child, but I don’t know where he is. I wish I did, but I don’t.’
She hadn’t even seen Stevie when he’d been back to Wendy’s.
‘The only thing I know for sure is that he did come looking for you, but Wendy told him what the man had said and he went away with his heart broken. They all believed you’d gone. And so did I. Until now.’
She shook her head in disbelief and then fixed me with her steady gaze.
‘Don’t you give up, Miss Tilly. You can still find him. And I hope and pray with all my heart that you do.’
Before I left I promised I would visit her again, with Daniel, and that if I did find out anything about Stevie, I’d let her know. But where the hell was I going to look now?
Bermondsey?
Here in the public gardens, heavy plumes of tiny starburst blossoms bow the branches of the lilac trees, and the blackbird sings on under a sunshine and bright blue sky. It was here my mother sat with blood on her new dress. It was here to her home town that she brought me; the safest place, the perfect double bluff. Who would search for an arachnophobe in a spider’s web? Here, where she was cruelly cut off by her parents and abandoned by her god. Here, where my mother’s illness began, and where, just pregnant with her first child, she watched another die. She hid us in the last place in the world where anyone who knew her, especially Stevie, would look. It probably never occurred to her that the Australian story would actually work. Even though Queenie was here to support her, it was still the birthplace of all her terrors. But even so, she came back. Because of me. Her love was absolute.
I press my back into the hard wooden slats of the bench and stretch my arms behind me. The sun and scent of lilac are seducing me to sleep. Footsteps break the charm. Eli is sitting up and staring intently across the gardens. The elderly lady might easily have been one of Queenie’s friends from the look of her. She walks with a stick but her frail frame is still proud and straight. She has the posture of a dancer and the look of a showgirl. Her grey hair is spun into a candyfloss chignon fixed with two pearl hairpins, and her lips are a slash of red Chanel. Her female companion is about my age and looks as though she has stepped straight out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting. She is carrying a red balloon. They make a striking pair but it is the older woman who unsettles me most. She is somehow familiar. I don’t recognise her face. I don’t know her at all. But somewhere there’s a connection from her to me, like a ley line. It makes me nervous and I look away. I pass the time with fifteen Hail Marys, two Our Fathers and five ‘The Flight from Bootle’s. The poem and the prayers are my worry beads. When I look round again, the women are gone, but the red balloon is tied to the wooden bench where they were sitting. I feel sick, but nonetheless I am compelled to look. The bench is in the sunniest spot of the gardens, and a brass plaque glints against the blistered varnish of the dark wood.
In loving memory of a precious daughter, ‘Bunny’ Joy,
who was tragically killed, aged 6 years,
and her devoted father, Valentine,
who couldn’t live without her.
Forever loved.
42
Tilly
Today they were going to look for Bunny’s daddy. Tilly had promised. The Paradise Hotel was packed with guests and her mother and Queenie were rushed off their feet, so Tilly felt sure that she would be able to slip away unnoticed for a bit. She just had to wait for the right moment. Lil was banging and crashing round the kitchen trying to prepare twenty-two breakfasts whilst Cecily stood, with a dopey smile on her face, gazing at the photo she was holding.
‘Isn’t he gorgeous?’ she asked, thrusting the snapshot at Tilly, who inspected it carefully.
‘It’s Sidney,’ she replied.
‘Yes, I know it’s Sidney. Isn’t he lovely?’
‘No. He’s Sidney.’
Lil hurled a frying pan into the sink and turned to face Cecily, her hands on her hips and her face the colour of the tomatoes burning under the grill.
‘I don’t care if it’s Frank Si-bloody-natra! If you don’t sodding well shake your skinny-boned useless bloody arse over here and help me with these buggering bloody sodding bacon and sausages, I’ll swing you round the garden by one scrawny buggering leg until your guts and gizzards fly out of your bollocking bloody bum-hole arse fuck.’
Lil’s temper was always worse when she was really busy, and Tilly had learned an impressive number of new swear-word combinations from her. In fact, if the Brownies had a badge for swearing, Tilly thought she’d be able to get it without even practising. If she’d been a Brownie. Even Cecily had grown used to Lil’s outbursts, and whereas once she would have collapsed in tears, now she tucked the precious photo into her pocket and began turning the sausages in the pan, poking her tongue out at Lil while her back was turned. Over the months, Effie had worked her magic on Cecily, and with some make-up lessons and hand-me-down dresses had transformed her from an ugly duckling into a perfectly passable mallard.
Several dates with Sidney had followed and Cecily’s confidence had finally blossomed. Or as Lil put it, ‘That girl’s more daft in the head than ever now!’
‘Tilly, love, could you pop this through to Mr Johnson on table nine? He’s very particular about his sauce and someone forgot to put it on his table.’
Lil handed Tilly a bottle of brown sauce and she skipped off down the corridor to the guests’ dining room. Mr Johnson had already started on his sausages and was reading a magazine that was propped up on his teacup.
‘What’s it about?’ Tilly asked, as she plonked the bottle of sauce down in front of him.
‘Stamp collecting.’
‘Oh, so you’re a pervert then?’ she replied in her best ‘be nice to the guests’ manner.
Mr Johnson nearly choked on his sausage.
‘I beg your pardon, young lady?’
‘She said, “You’re a convert”.’ Queenie swept over like a guardian angel. ‘To brown sauce,’ she continued smoothly. ‘Most people prefer red, but Tilly likes brown best too, don’t you, love?’
Tilly nodded. She had absolutely no idea what Queenie was talking about, but had the distinct feeling that she had just been rescued and swiftly made her escape. Bunny was waiting for her in the back garden and the pair of them slipped out of the gate unnoticed and headed off towards the pier.
29 May
She looks so pale and still and small. They have washed her and brushed her hair, and the white sheet that covers her is neatly folded back, but already, to me, she looks like a ghost.
Tilly and Bunny skipped along the promenade hand in hand. Tilly waved to Ena and Ralph and then Conrad in passing, and when they reached the pier they sat down on a wooden bench to catch their breath and decide where to look. Tilly tried to remember what a policeman would do on the television if he was trying to find someone who was lost. Of course, if they had Lassie it would be easy. One word and she’d be off in a flash, and back before tea with the missing person in tow. But they only had Eli, who seemed on
edge, and was sticking very closely to Tilly, watching her carefully with troubled eyes. Tilly thought it must be because she had gone out without telling anyone. Anyway, he clearly wasn’t going anywhere without her. She chewed thoughtfully on a loose thread from the sleeve of her cardigan. Suddenly it came to her. Of course! A policeman would ask questions. Usually by knocking on doors and asking women in their curlers, or men wearing string vests and smoking cigarettes. But Tilly thought that failing that, the best place to start would be with Bunny. She just wished she had a pencil to lick and a notebook to write in. She put on her best ‘Dixon of Dock Green’ face and began her interrogation.
‘What does your daddy do?’
‘Magic.’
Tilly sighed and with exaggerated patience replied, ‘No, I meant what does he do for a job?’
‘Magic. He does tricks.’
‘Does he have any hobbies?’
With a pang, she thought about her own daddy, his garden, and the smell of creosote and matches inside his shed.
‘Yes. I already told you: magic.’
This wasn’t going well. Tilly gave it one more, slightly wild shot.
‘What’s his favourite colour?’
‘Pink.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘No. But it’s mine. It used to be red. But now it’s pink.’
Tilly sighed again. They didn’t seem to be getting anywhere, and she couldn’t stay out for too long or she would be missed and she didn’t want her mother to worry. She stood up and offered Bunny her hand.
‘Come on. Let’s just go and look in as many places as we can think of.’
The nurse says to speak to her and hold her hand because she will know that I am here. So I hold her hand, which is still warm. But I can’t think of anything to say, so instead I write this.
They trotted down the pier, searching through the constant ebb and flow of faces. But Tilly didn’t even know who she was looking for. Bunny’s description had simply been ‘He looks like Daddy’. When they reached the ballroom the doors were open and people were queuing to buy tickets for that afternoon’s tea dance. Tilly and Bunny worked their way along the line and into the foyer with its plush scarlet carpet and newly painted walls covered in photos and posters. Tilly was about to suggest that they should head back home when Bunny squealed with delight.
‘There he is! That’s my daddy!’
She was pointing at one of the photographs. Valentine Gray – The Great Mercurio. It was Tilly’s man. The man she had been seeing ever since she came to Queenie’s. Even from her first day. Who needed Lassie now? She grabbed Bunny’s hand and marched her out of the doors. She half ran to the galloping horses, pulling Bunny along with her.
‘What’s the matter?’ the little girl asked in a worried voice.
‘Nothing,’ gasped Tilly, not even bothering to stop and look at her. ‘I know him, and I think I might know some places where we might find him.’
They were at the galloping horses now and Tilly was eagerly scanning the faces in the crowd of people gathered around the ride. Bunny kicked her hard on the ankle. Surprisingly, it really hurt. She finally looked at Bunny, whose face was rumpled into a furious scowl.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you knew him? We could have found him ages ago!’
‘Because I didn’t know I knew him until you showed me his picture. Now, come on!’
She dragged Bunny round all the places on the pier where she had seen Valentine, her heart pumping with excitement. But the magician was nowhere to be seen. Tilly had one more place up her sleeve.
I didn’t even notice that she’d gone. If Queenie hadn’t asked me to go to the bank, I wouldn’t have known anything about it until the police came knocking on the door.
Just before they reached the public gardens, Tilly spotted him walking ahead of them, his black hat bobbing along in the sea of heads. He was holding a red balloon and walking so fast that Tilly had to run to keep up, holding on tightly to Bunny’s hand. Weaving in and out of the slowly moving crowd and terrified that she would lose sight of him, she wanted to scream out loud at everyone to get out of her way.
It was the bone-chilling sound that made me turn around and look. Like the howl of a dog in unspeakable pain.
Opposite the gardens, Valentine turned to cross the road. Bunny yanked her hand free from Tilly and ran after him, straight into the path of the busy mid-morning traffic, and without a thought Tilly followed. The last thing she saw before the blackness hit her was Bunny lifted high in her daddy’s arms.
I turned and saw Tilly run straight across the road as though she were chasing after someone. I couldn’t see who it was but I saw the car that Tilly didn’t. She rolled across its bonnet and landed head first on the cold, hard stone of the kerb. And now she is almost gone. The harder I cling to her, the further she slips away. She has been here for almost three weeks and each day she grows weaker. The doctor says I should prepare myself for the worst. Stupid, stupid man. How should I prepare myself? Buy a black dress and choose a coffin? Queenie keeps telling me to go home and rest, but how can I do that either? She comes and sits with us, smiling and laughing and holding Tilly’s hand and telling her about anything and everything. She even sings to her. Where do people learn to do that? I am almost frozen with fear and useless. I can only watch and write.
Tilly dreamed that she was riding on a bus through beautiful countryside on a sunshine-bright day. With her were Granddad Rory and Grandma Rose, Mr and Mrs Bow and the lady with the white bun from St Patrick’s, Marlene and Conrad with their eternal cigarettes, and Bunny and her daddy, Valentine Gray. Mr and Mrs Bow were chatting to her grandma and granddad, and Mrs O’Flaherty’s mammy was busy knitting, but Tilly couldn’t quite make out what it was she was making. Bunny was holding her red balloon and jiggling up and down on her seat with excitement. Tilly watched out of the window and wondered where they were going. She hoped it was to the seaside.
4 June
Dear God, please help me. I know you probably gave up on me a long time ago, but finally now I understand. I disobeyed you and I shamed Mum and Dad, and I still do, because I still love Stevie. I am wicked and selfish and this is my punishment. I married an ungodly man and mixed bad blood with bad blood to have a child. Her father taught her to sin against you and make friends with the dead; play with ghosts. I was too weak to stop him and I deserve to be punished. But Tilly doesn’t. She believes in you. She loves you and she goes to church. She’s just a little girl. I know you had to choose the punishment that would hurt me most, and you chose well. But there is another way. I will do anything to save her. I swear that if you let Tilly live, I will give her up. I’ll send her away so that she can’t be near me and catch the wickedness that taints me, and then she’ll stop seeing things she shouldn’t and forget. She’s not like me. She’s good and kind and funny and people love her. Give her the chance to grow into the woman I never found the courage to be. My daughter deserves a wonderful life. And if I let her go, I’ll still be punished – perhaps even more than if she dies.
They travelled on and on, but Tilly didn’t recognise any of the places they passed through: the little villages with duck ponds and greens for playing cricket; the patchwork fields and the tunnels of towering pine woods. She was growing tired but she was desperate to stay awake until the bus reached its destination. But Tilly wasn’t staying on the bus. Bunny wouldn’t let her.
‘You have to get off here,’ she said, leading Tilly to the door as the bus slowed to a halt in a street that looked safe and vaguely familiar.
‘This is your stop.’
When Tilly got off, Queenie was waiting for her.
When Tilly woke up, she knew she wasn’t dead because she wasn’t on the bus. She was in her hospital bed and Queenie was there, smiling and holding her hand.
43
Tilda
The trail of clues that has led me to Stevie was as fragile as a daisy chain but, against the odds, the links were made and held long enough fo
r me to find him. This week I shall visit both of my parents and neither of them will know anything about it.
It’s the first time I have visited my mother’s grave since her funeral. The bright summer sunshine is reduced to a confetti of scattered light through the dense leaves of silver birches. The cemetery is cool and green and shady and the trees, tall and spindly like ships’ masts, sway and clack in the gathering breeze. Crows and magpies swagger through the grass like avian pirates and hop on and off gravestones, charting their territory. My mother’s grave is just off the path in a row as yet incomplete. I have brought her red roses. A marble headstone in the form of a cross has been installed and in accordance with her final wishes has been inscribed with the words:
My God, I have put my trust in thee
She made a deal with him, and kept her promise to the bitter end. She was so desperate for me to live that she gave me up and I spent the rest of her life punishing her for it. The note she left asked me to forgive her. I wonder if she ever forgave me.
The Sea View Care Home is a large Edwardian villa with sweeping lawns carefully mown into broad stripes. In the distance where the stripes converge there is an iron fence that reminds me of a toy farm set I used to have when I was a little girl. Beyond the fence the fields drop gently away towards the glittering sea. When I first arrived I was shown into the residents’ lounge to wait for Mrs Parsons, the manager. It was lunchtime and the chairs were all empty except for one that was occupied by an elderly man staring straight ahead, apparently enraptured by the pattern of the wallpaper. He looked up at me when I entered the room and although his green eyes still sparkled, the expression on his weary, sunken face was a screensaver, registering neither emotion nor understanding. He ignored my greeting and returned to his study of the wallpaper. His name is Seamus and, according to the young woman who brought me in here, he arrived on the same day as Stevie and the pair of them became good friends. But he has no idea who I am and clearly no desire to find out. I leave him in peace and return to the corridor where the sound of cutlery on crockery and the smell of non-specific savoury food pervade the warm air. It reminds me of all the awful dinners I endured at the boarding school I hated so much. I need to be outside. I tell the woman at the reception desk that I’ll be in the garden. Eli is by my side and once we reach the lawns he lifts his head and sniffs the breeze, his black nose twitching. I can’t, or perhaps don’t want to, imagine Stevie sitting inside that stuffy lounge with its floral wallpaper and orthopaedic armchairs, but here in the garden, where the flowers are real and the views boundless, I feel closer to him than I have since I was that little girl who held his hand and hung on his every word. Eli suddenly takes off in the direction of the iron fence and, sensing his urgency, I follow. Stevie is here. But will he know that I am, or is it too late?
