The Wish List of Albie Young (ARC)

by Ruby Hummingbird

  And how, Maria wanted to know why: why Paris? Why did he want Cathie to go there?

  Two days later, she received a text message simply stating that Cathie would meet her at St Pancras International an hour before departure. Maria stared at the words for almost a full minute. She sent a large yellow smiley face back from the box of little pictures.

  Almost immediately, she was in a spin. She had to make plans: work out a walking route – nothing too much in case Cathie didn’t want to spend all day on her feet – and things to do, research the city more thoroughly. Her phone had maps, even of France. The man in the shop had mentioned it, she remembered. She returned to see him and he taught her more about how to go ‘online’ and use the Web. There was a little button she could press and the whole Internet was just there. She could look up a hundred details: the best restaurants, the exhibitions, the nicest hotels. All sat in her living room!

  Then she panicked over her attire: what does one wear to Paris? She scanned her wardrobe. Parisians were famously chic. She conjured up images of women in narrow-waisted dresses, flared-out skirts, elegant heels, expensive hosiery, blood-red lipstick and a sultry scent to boot. She wanted outfits to match the fabulous setting; she was also desperate to impress Cathie, this mysterious sister with whom Albie had been so keen to reconcile. She rarely spent money on clothes, and she took good care of the few items she owned, but today, she was keen to splash out.

  Idling along the High Street, she felt her enthusiasm waning, the faces on the various shop assistants unwelcoming. She stared down at her drab attire and started to doubt the need for anything new. Who would care now? She was just an old lady in their eyes, she was well and truly past it. Stopping to rest on a bench, she made the decision to head home: she would make do.

  A woman walked past the bench, two teenage daughters in tow, both trying to drag her into different shops. Maria gave them a weak smile. ‘Muuuum, pleeeaasseee!’ she could hear as they disappeared into the shoe shop nearby.

  She felt a dull ache in her stomach, then glancing up, she saw Rosie leaning against a shop front. Maria held up a hand in greeting. Kicking back against the stone, Rosie bounced over, ‘Hey, Maria, you shopping?’

  Maria could see her confusion: no carrier bags weighing her down.

  ‘I wanted to, but nothing here is really… me. I’m just not young enough for half these clothes.’

  ‘Rubbish, you could totally rock it!’ Rosie scoffed, batting this comment away with a hand and joining Maria on the bench. ‘What kind of thing do you want? I could come with you and help you look, if you like.’

  ‘It’s for Paris, so something suitable for that.’

  ‘You’re going,’ Rosie grinned. ‘Brilliant. Come on, I’ll help.’

  Maria felt embarrassed to be relying on Rosie yet again but it was such a comforting thought to have someone with her as she walked into the bewildering array of shops that she agreed immediately.

  ‘I love shopping!’ Rosie announced, standing up and beckoning Maria with a hand. ‘And of course, you need fabulous things for Paris.’ She steered Maria into a nearby department store. ‘Right, let’s get started.’

  Maria felt energised, pulling various items off the rail, stroking the soft fabrics, barely glancing at the price tags. When she was unsure if something suited her, she would look to Rosie for her opinion on it.

  ‘You should try it,’ Rosie would often say, making Maria add it to the growing pile. ‘You should wear brighter colours,’ she said, as Maria held up a red linen dress. ‘That’s gorgeous.’

  Maria twisted towards the full-length mirror, her eye drawn to the red. She wondered if Albie would have liked it, remembering his compliments she had always batted away: ‘That’s a lovely colour on you, Maria’, ‘You always look so elegant’, ‘That dress is wonderful’, ‘People will wonder what you’re doing, sitting here with me’. She swallowed down the regret, glad Rosie was here, chivvying her into the changing room.

  Maria felt like a celebrity trying on different dresses, skirts and shirts, emerging from the changing rooms to spin in front of Rosie, who clapped and whistled. A nearby shop assistant glanced across curiously as Maria headed back behind the changing cubicle curtain.

  With Rosie’s encouragement, Maria spent most of the last three months of her pension on different outfits, choosing a pair of soft pink suede pumps and changing into them there and then for her walk home. Albie’s money wouldn’t be used for this, this was all hers, her own vanity – she wanted to look good for Paris, for Cathie.

  A week later, she was standing in St Pancras in a new tan knee-length coat, her small wheeled suitcase by her side, handbag tucked tightly under one arm. She was proud of herself after a train and tube journey to get here. She hadn’t been to London in more than twenty years and it seemed even more vivid and busy than she remembered. St Pancras was a bustling, bright space. A young girl was playing a glossy black piano nearby, her long brown hair reminding Maria of Rosie, and a friend leant against it, laughing in delight. Shoppers clutching carrier bags stepped around Maria; a man with a briefcase strode past, jabbering into his smartphone. It was extra-loud and extra-bright – and Maria felt her stomach swirl with nervous anticipation.

  As Maria stood outside the ticket collection booth of the Eurostar at the allotted time, she panicked that the text message had been a hoax and Cathie wouldn’t be there at all. Maria glanced at the large clock overhead and bit her lip. She had sent a photograph that morning so that Cathie could recognise her. Cathie had sent one back in return, in her nurse’s uniform, her work badge still on the lapel. Surely if she wasn’t planning on coming, she wouldn’t have sent it?

  The woman from the photograph approached, the same height as Maria but a good few years younger, wheeling a silver suitcase behind her. Stopping in front of Maria, she held out her hand. She didn’t look all that similar to Albie, maybe the same shaped nose, similar dark blue eyes, but her expression was foreign, the mouth set in a hard line as Maria took the proffered hand to shake.

  ‘I nearly didn’t come,’ she said, ‘But…’ She left the sentence hanging.

  Maria didn’t feel self-assured enough to say more than, ‘Well, thank you. Shall we…?’ Maria nodded her head towards the Departures and Cathie silently followed.

  As they waited to show their passports at check-in, Maria was trying to work out how many years apart Cathie and Albie had been. She certainly looked in shape: dressed almost entirely in slimming black, only a sheer grey scarf breaking up the colour. Short cropped hair, dyed blonde, accentuated a thin neck. Maria complimented her on her silver stud earrings, not wanting to seem as if she was staring. When Cathie smiled a shy acknowledgement, a twinkle entered her eyes and Maria saw the connection to Albie for the first time.

  It was awkward as they queued for coffees and sandwiches for the train, Maria insisting on paying for everything. ‘It’s on Albie, it’s all on Albie,’ she said, feeling as if she had eight fingers on each hand, spilling change, searching for the envelope with the tickets, her handbag suddenly seeming to contain a hundred secret compartments. Cathie looked on, refusing sugar, a spoon, a cookie. Maria was so desperate to please, couldn’t seem to stop herself offering anything in sight. She must calm down.

  ‘So, you say he left a list, after he died…’

  Maria nodded. ‘A wish list. Things he wanted to do – for other people. That was how I found out about you.’

  Cathie didn’t say much else and Maria didn’t know how to handle this strange situation so followed her lead. Her new suede pumps were a little tight and she wanted to kick them off and rub at her feet, but she stayed standing in the holding area in silence because Cathie didn’t seem to want to sit down. She was fidgeting, patting at her hair, avoiding Maria’s eyes. Finally, the clock ticked to their departure time and they boarded the train in silence.

  Oh goodness, Albie, what have you done? Maria thought as she stepped inside. How would she be able to spend two whole days with som
eone so frosty, so polar opposite to Albie? She gave Cathie a nervy smile, distracted then by their surroundings.

  Maria had never been on the Eurostar, the first-class carriage roomy and smelling of leather and lemon scent. ‘This is exciting,’ she said, finding their seats and pleased to see the table in front of them. ‘We can have a picnic,’ she carried on, forcing her voice to be jolly, trying to channel Albie’s easy manner. God, how she wished he was here – it would be so much easier if he were here, directing, fussing, taking control.

  Cathie didn’t reply and Maria sank into her seat, barely noticing the soft leather, the comfortable armrests, still fretting over this tense start. As Cathie sat down opposite, Maria noticed her surreptitiously wiping at her eyes and realised then that perhaps Cathie’s seeming coldness was more complicated, that perhaps she was struggling with something. She thought then of Albie’s list, his desire to make amends. This weekend was important.

  Cathie had opened her book and Maria tried to follow her lead and bite down the questions, but she couldn’t help it. If she didn’t ask, she might burst.

  ‘I’m so glad you decided to come,’ Maria said, the carriage moving from light to dark as the train moved through the English countryside to the Channel.

  Cathie placed her book spine up on the table, fiddled with her earring. ‘I’m sorry you had to write me so many letters. I…’ She straightened in her chair. ‘It’s been a long time, I wasn’t sure how to react.’

  ‘I had no idea Albie had a sister,’ Maria said, ‘I thought you were a glamourous ex-girlfriend, or a wif––’ She stopped short then, worried Cathie would be offended Albie had never mentioned her.

  ‘Younger sister. Albie was six years older than me,’ she said in a tight voice.

  ‘I had no idea.’

  Cathie tilted her head to one side, her lips pressed together. ‘We hadn’t spoken in years. I only heard he had died from a letter sent from his solicitor...’ She bit her lip, head turning towards the window that was a blur of greens and greys.

  Maria didn’t ask about the letter, could see the emotion moving across Cathie’s face.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, gratified that Cathie looked back at her with a sad smile.

  The rattle of the approaching drinks trolley came as a relief.

  ‘Would you like anything?’ Maria asked, and then added, ‘To hell with it, we’re going to Paris.’ She had often drunk wine with girlfriends when she was younger – those days were a distant memory – and for a second, she wanted to feel the same sense of connection. She ordered a half-bottle of red wine and tried to relax as Cathie nodded for a glass.

  The wine was rich and smooth and Maria rested her head back and tried to relax as Cathie reached out to drink her glass. This was really happening, she was on the Eurostar heading to a glamorous city she had never dreamed of visiting, with a woman she had never met before. She had travelled to France once, almost fifty years ago, on the ferry – she and her partner had spent a week in Bordeaux. It had rained and he had grumbled about the lumpy bed and the lack of ‘normal British food’ for the whole week until she’d wanted to pelt him with Brie. That was a lifetime ago, before her passport had lapsed and she had holed up in Brighton. Paris, in her mind, was the epitome of elegance and now she couldn’t wait to see the sights through Albie’s eyes: the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, imagine his sad expression in front of the fire-ravaged Notre-Dame.

  Cathie seemed to soften a little as the train raced through the tunnel and into France. She showed Maria a photo of her two Morkie dogs, who her neighbour was looking after while she was away: ‘That’s Napoleon: he’s just had an operation on his leg, so brave. And that’s Pickle: she hero-worships him.’ Maria told her she was considering adopting a cat. This made Cathie smile and Maria leant back, feeling her muscles relax into the seat.

  ‘Trains do remind me of Albie,’ Cathie mused.

  She shared a story of a train journey with Albie when he was eleven and she was five. They had been heading to an elderly aunt in Bristol from Devon and, delighted by the lack of parental supervision, Albie had eaten an entire tin of travel sweets on the journey. On arrival, he had promptly vomited on the elderly aunt’s shoes. Cathie had smiled rather ruefully at the end of the story, perhaps feeling strange to be telling a story from so long ago, about someone with whom she had been so close and yet whom she hadn’t seen or heard from in decades. Maria didn’t push for more, not wanting her to feel overwhelmed.

  The train station was buzzing with busy commuters, jabbering into mobiles, following signs and arrows to platforms, the Metro, toilets, taxis. Maria and Cathie found the taxi rank and dived gratefully inside the first car. Maria had printed her itinerary sheet in the newsagent the day before – Mr Khan had insisted on waiving the 10p charge and Maria had left with a Prince Harry figurine in shorts that mostly resembled Paul Scholes – and directed the driver in broken French. She had spent the days before the trip trying to learn certain phrases – it had been years since her French O Level and her skills were rusty, to say the least.

  The hotel was a white-fronted terrace house, window boxes spilling with bright purple flowers, iron-wrought balconies outside the floor-to-ceiling shuttered windows in a faded rose pink. In the front courtyard, people sat chatting, smoking and eating around small circular tables, vases of spring flowers at the centre.

  ‘It’s perfect!’ Maria stared up at the house, a cornflower-blue sky soaring above them, sunlight flashing on the windowpanes.

  They agreed to meet an hour or so later in the foyer and Maria gave Cathie an awkward wave as she pushed into her adjacent room. The single bedroom was compact but luxurious, a speckled grey marble bathroom with a freestanding bath making Maria immediately want to run the gold taps and immerse herself in a luxurious bath. She crossed the room eager for fresh air, and as she opened the balcony doors, a breeze immediately made the cream chiffon curtains billow. The smell of thyme filled the room and she turned to unzip her suitcase and select something to change into.

  She had planned a meal in a restaurant overlooking the Seine, a route mapped out that would pass the Eiffel Tower. She chose charcoal linen trousers and a loose white shirt, her pink pumps completing the outfit. Applying some eyeliner and a slick of coral lipstick to which Rosie had given the thumbs up, Maria grinned at herself in the mirror, feeling more and more alive than she had done in months, perhaps years. As she examined her reflection, she reminded herself that she must try to discover the story behind this trip, the reason Albie had chosen Paris and wanted to make amends with his sister.

  They walked, the air punctuated with horns from boats, the gentle lap of the river, strains from street musicians, chatter from people in restaurants and cafés lining their route. It felt easier to talk to Cathie as they walked, not needing to make eye contact, able to be distracted by the sights. As it turned out, they had plenty in common.

  Lights danced on the water as they stopped on a bridge, its rails crammed with hundreds of padlocks – some with initials scored in, or hearts and private notes scribbled on. Up ahead a couple were posing either side of their padlock, their hands together, forming a heart shape.

  Maria looked away, reaching to tilt one towards her. ‘What a wonderful thing to do,’ she exclaimed, reading some initials on the metal surface.

  ‘They take them down every few years, I read,’ Cathie said, shattering Maria’s romantic illusions that the padlocks would stay in place for eternity. Would she and Albie have scrawled their initials on one, she wondered for a moment. Silly woman, she chided herself. Of course not.

  They both sucked in their breath as they stood, necks craned, underneath the Eiffel Tower – a towering architectural beauty under the azure sky. ‘It’s so much bigger than I thought,’ Maria said, eyes roaming.

  Cathie simply nodded, walking up the stairs and away. Maria felt her stomach drop: where was the thrill, the excitement?

  Cathie was waiting for her on the terrace across from the
tower, looking back towards the famous landmark, her eyes covered in a thin film. Maria joined her, both hands on the wall in front, waiting.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Cathie said, giving Maria a sideways look, ‘I’m nervous, I think. I know how much Paris meant to Albie, I know why he wanted us to come here together…’

  Maria pressed her palms into the cold stone. Was this it? She desperately wanted to press for more but didn’t want to shatter the moment.

  Cathie took a breath, looked back out at the sparkling lights of the Eiffel Tower illuminating the inky blue night sky. ‘Our mother had always wanted to come here, that was why it was so special to him.’

  ‘Did she never take you?’

  Cathie pressed her lips together, shook her head. ‘And when she got ill, she couldn’t travel. Albie was so heartbroken, always talking about Paris, talking about how she had never gone.’

  Maria felt a lump in her throat for Albie and his regret. She was hit with the uncomfortable realisation that she knew what it was like to wish desperately you had done something differently.

  ‘I had promised him we would go one day together, that we would take the trip our mother never did…’ Her eyes filled with tears at that moment and Maria wondered what had happened that meant Cathie had broken her promise.

  ‘Let’s go and have dinner,’ Maria said kindly, realising Cathie was wrestling with emotions, knowing she shouldn’t push her anymore.

  Maria had booked a table in a restaurant that looked out over the water. The kitchen was filled with sizzling sounds, the clatter of pans, and the most exquisite scents drifted into the dining room. They ordered quickly, a starter of onion soup with fresh, warm bread, and Maria picked the next dish.