The Wish List of Albie Young (ARC)

by Ruby Hummingbird

  ‘Nothing. I’m just watching yoooooooou.’

  ‘Well, don’t. Go and find something else to do.’

  ‘Whyyyyy?’

  ‘Because there are better things for you to be doing.’

  ‘But I like it.’

  I closed my eyes, swallowing the laugh down. ‘You’re a very odd girl.’

  ‘Genetic, innit?’

  ‘Cheeky.’

  A shadow passed over my body and I opened my other eye. She was standing on one leg again directly in front of my deckchair.

  ‘Seriously, go and find something to do.’

  ‘But I was doing something else and I got bored, Mother of Mine.’

  I struggled up into a sitting position. ‘Right, how can I help? You are clearly not going to leave me alone or stop standing on one leg until I can assist. Are you after food?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Milkshake?’

  ‘Nope. Let’s go to the beach,’ she suddenly shouted, making me jump. ‘Come on.’

  I was surprised. Normally, she never asked me to do things with her, had been so busy recently with her new set of friends. I felt a buzz of warmth in my stomach, a reminder of the tiny girl who had wanted her mummy by her side at all times, who had screamed at nursery drop-offs, flailing her little arms as she wept her name.

  ‘Go on then,’ I said.

  She finally lowered her leg and a grin split her face open. ‘Let’s get 99s and go swimming.’

  ‘Actually, that sounds perfect,’ I said, getting up from my chair.

  And it was. A perfect day. A stroll to the beach, the seagulls gliding past, the squeals of children splashing in the waves, the heat of a mid-summer day, the feeling of the sand between her toes, my daughter’s soft singing as she lay on a towel next to me, listening to Bonnie Tyler on her beloved Walkman. Just the two of us for a precious while.

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘And maybe a donut?’

  ‘I thought you didn’t want food?’

  ‘Well, a donut isn’t really food, food, is it?’

  ‘Whatever you say,’ I said, grinning, as I watched her race back through the doors of the balcony, calling ‘Come on, Mooootttthhhhhheeeeerrrr!’ behind her.

  Twenty-Four

  Maria was sitting on the bus stop bench opposite the skatepark, waiting for Troy to appear. She felt guilty for having been in Paris, was concerned he was punishing her for abandoning him so soon after promising him the use of her apartment. She’d texted him twice but hadn’t got a reply and she was worried. She almost gave up and stayed at home but she knew he didn’t have anyone else looking out for him and she didn’t want to give up. Anyway, it was a distraction from her own thoughts that had been chasing her on a loop these last few days.

  Timothy had started a new word game with her, had opened it with ‘MARTYR’, the Y hitting a double-letter score, but she hadn’t mustered the energy to reply. All this time, she couldn’t shake the things Cathie had said to her, examining them from every angle, wondering at them, picking out each sentence and turning it over in her mind. She’d started to believe some of it, somehow she’d known and relied on Albie, her rescuer, that she hadn’t deserved his attention in the first place.

  Then there was the list and the things it had triggered. The trip to Paris hadn’t gone as she’d hoped or imagined. She had failed to see that dredging things up from the past didn’t always go well. Sometimes it was best to let them lie. Perhaps she should give it all up, stop chasing things that had nothing to do with her? If she hadn’t happened upon the list, she wouldn’t even have known it existed.

  A figure was moving down the road, speeding up when she was close. ‘Maria, how was Paris?’ Rosie asked, beaming at her, her school pigtails flying, making her look even younger than she was.

  Maria couldn’t rouse a smile in return and Rosie’s face became full of concern. ‘Oh no, was it rubbish?’ She sat down next to her, sticking out her legs, tights laddered, black school shoes scuffed.

  ‘It was, well, it didn’t quite go as I’d planned.’

  ‘Does anything?’ Rosie said in a soft voice.

  Maria looked startled for a minute: such a grown-up thought out of her mouth. ‘I suppose not,’ she replied with a sad shrug.

  Rosie rotated her ankles as she sat there in silence.

  ‘I wanted to help heal a rift between two people but I think I just made things worse,’ Maria admitted in a dull voice.

  Rosie picked at a loose thread on her jumper. ‘You can’t always fix everything.’ She pulled on the thread so that it lengthened. ‘But it’s nice that you tried. That counts for something, you know.’

  Maria stared at her shoes: sensible leather lace-ups today, no rose-pink pumps. ‘Maybe.’

  Rosie nudged her. ‘It’s true. You care, no one can say you don’t.’

  Maria looked out at the road, at the skatepark where the teenagers gathered in small pockets. She could hear someone’s phone playing music.

  ‘I took Albie’s sister to Paris – he’d wanted to go with her. But it all went so wrong, she got so cross about the will, about the trip, about… I’m not even sure what… and now I don’t know what to do next,’ she admitted, feeling the hopeless hole inside her open up once more.

  ‘Look,’ Rosie said, her voice strong. ‘If she got upset with you about things that is her problem, she is projecting onto you.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Maria mumbled, marvelling at how wise this teenager could be.

  A bus pulled up at the stop and a woman holding an umbrella stepped off. The woman gave Maria a concerned look. ‘Are you OK?’ she asked.

  ‘Fine.’ Maria nodded, embarrassed. Was it really that plain to see?

  The woman moved away, one last glance back before she rounded a corner.

  ‘Honestly,’ Rosie said, as if there’d been no interruption, ‘she’ll come round.’

  ‘You seem so sure,’ Maria said, wishing she had the same confidence.

  ‘Of course,’ Rosie tutted, rolling her eyes, ‘I’m very wise.’

  ‘You are.’ Maria smiled, feeling her heart lift.

  Rosie scooted closer and rested her head briefly on Maria’s shoulder. ‘You’ll be alright,’ she said simply.

  Maria felt a tiny shock at the connection and found herself touching the spot where Rosie had rested when she pulled away. It threw her so much, she forgot to say goodbye to the young girl as she headed off. Then Troy was standing in front of the bus stop staring at her.

  ‘Y’OK?’ he said, body hunched over, the orange hoodie rolled up to his elbows.

  Maria nodded, relieved to see him. ‘Troy,’ she said, struggling to her feet, her bottom practically numb from being sat on the bench for so long.

  ‘Are you waiting for me?’

  There was hollering from the skatepark. Troy stared at the ground.

  ‘I wanted to see how you’re getting on. I texted you.’

  He looked over his shoulder at the nearest group of boys, some of whom were looking back at him. ‘I’m fine. You should go now, yeah.’

  Maria frowned, not wanting to be fobbed off. She couldn’t admit that she wanted the company too, was glad to be talking to him. ‘What have you been up to? I’m sorry I haven’t been at the apartment much, everything’s still waiting there for you…’

  Troy wasn’t looking at her, scuffing his trainer on the ground. There were sniggers coming from the park, someone wolf-whistled.

  ‘Have you been using the paints?’

  ‘Oi, Troy!’ came a shout from behind.

  He glanced behind him again. ‘Look, I haven’t, alright?’

  Maria straightened, tried to play her disappointment down. ‘Well, there’s plenty of time.’

  ‘I don’t have them, OK?’

  ‘TROY, mate.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, for— I really need to go.’

  Maria didn’t trust herself to reply, aware of the boys staring, Troy’s mood changeable, h
is fists clenching and unclenching. Why didn’t he have the paints? He had seemed so thrilled when she had given him them.

  ‘Well, if you wanted to come back to my apartment sometime, or we could go to the café perhaps for some food—’

  ‘I don’t need your fucking charity, alright?’

  ‘It’s not…’ Maria felt hot tears build in her eyes. She didn’t want this to become another confrontation. ‘It’s not… charity, I just hoped we could see each other again.’

  She didn’t understand Troy’s anger, his scowl as he stared at her. This wasn’t how it was meant to be. Why was everything going wrong?

  ‘What’s the point? You’ll just leave like everyone else when you get bored.’

  Taking a step towards him, Maria raised a hand. ‘I wouldn’t, that’s not—’

  More calling, Troy was fidgety. ‘It’s just better like this, alright?’

  Maria could see it was a losing battle, that he didn’t want her here. ‘I’ll go,’ she whispered.

  ‘Good, alright… yeah,’ the confidence had seeped out of his voice but he didn’t make any attempt to follow her as she moved away.

  She didn’t want him to see how upset she was. He had been through enough, she knew that. She shouldn’t have expected so much. What had she imagined? That one visit and a box of paints and he’d be her new best friend? It didn’t work like that. She trudged along the pavement, the sounds of the boys in the skatepark fading as she crossed another road. She couldn’t stop replaying his face when he’d seen the desk, clutching the artist’s set to his chest. Had that all been fake? Had she imagined it?

  The thought of returning to her silent apartment seemed too grim and she found herself walking in another direction, her legs aching as she turned the corner and saw the familiar steamed-up windows, the figures moving behind the glass.

  This place had always been a comfort, she thought, as she pushed open the door. Admiring the new look, the chic blue of the walls, the bright white of the tablecloths, the tiny pink spray of flowers in the centre. The place was humming with life and the smells of herbs, coffee and frying sausages were comforting. She could hear the clatter of the kitchen beyond, heard the tapping of the till. She looked around and realised not a single table was free, the room was so packed with customers. Albie would have loved to have seen everyone enjoying themselves, admiring the new fresh look of the place.

  Excusing herself, she squeezed between tables, lingering near the counter. Pauline was busy serving a customer, while Amrit was bent over a row of hot drinks, tapping chocolate powder on top of them. She could make out Keith through the hatch to the kitchen and tried to catch his eye, but he was focusing intently and didn’t see her.

  Amrit moved past her: ‘Hey, Maria.’

  Keith looked up from his spot in front of the grill. ‘All good, Maria?’ he called, flipping chicken fillets over on the surface, charcoal stripes on top.

  ‘Yes, thanks. I…’

  He took a ticket down from the shelf in front of him and read it. ‘That’s good, good,’ he said, glancing behind him and calling, ‘Amrit does that say sweet potato or normal fries?’

  ‘Sweet,’ she called back, nudging a shelf closed with her hip before re-entering the main room. ‘Sorry, Maria, it’s rammed.’

  ‘I can see, that’s wonder—’

  Amrit had already walked past, pulling out a pencil from her hair, a notepad from the pocket of her apron.

  Pauline was tapping things into the till, a harried expression on her face. She didn’t seem aware Maria was standing there.

  Maria looked around at them all: busy, distracted. A couple got up to leave from the table she had always shared with Albie. Maria stared at the empty chairs, the table piled high with empty glasses and plates, their dirty cutlery left on top, screwed-up napkins to the side. She could sit down, she could order something.

  How could she be surrounded by people and still feel lonely, she thought with a sinking heart as she found herself drifting back to the door, opening it and stepping outside. Barely noticing the cool wind that buffeted her from every angle, walking away from the comforting place and the people who didn’t have time for her. She would just be in their way: a nuisance. She wasn’t being useful anymore, they were perfectly fine without her. What had she imagined? Maybe Troy was right and she was treating everyone like they were charity.

  She walked, pounding the pavement, not really thinking where she was headed, just not wanting to stop, furious thoughts from the last few days urging her on. She had been stupid to think things were different now, that she had people in her life. She didn’t deserve all the wonderful things that had been happening recently, that wasn’t her life, and she had been silly to think it. After so many years, why would her luck suddenly change? She had deviated from her routine and got hurt.

  She was in front of the building before she even knew it, moving up in the lift and removing his key from her purse. His apartment smelt musty – the abandoned piles of his belongings from a previous trip where she couldn’t decide what to do with them. She had made it a mess and now she wished she hadn’t touched anything in the first place. She’d just made it worse.

  She made everything worse.

  Stepping into his bedroom, she moved to pull at one of the curtains, jamming it halfway along and giving up. Her own face looked down at her as she sank onto his mattress, the duvet folded up in a square, pillows plumped in a pile. Before, she had stripped the bed, removed the grey and blue quilt, the navy sheets and covers, had paused for a second to smooth at the pillow where his head had rested. Now, the stark bed made the room seem cold and unfamiliar.

  She sat there in the semi-darkness for a while, not getting up to turn on the light or move to make herself something in the kitchen. She glanced at the bedside table, the bare spot where she had first seen the list. It seemed to have only brought misery into her life recently: Cathie, Troy, even the café. It had been better when she had stayed in her apartment, not engaged in life, all alone. At least then she knew where she stood, didn’t alter her expectations of how her life would be.

  She felt exhausted as she lay back against the duvet, the material crackling without its cotton cover. Staring up at the ceiling, she tried to recall Albie’s face, tracing his features in her mind. What exact colour had his eyes been? Had he parted his hair to the left or the right? She blinked a tear away. Why hadn’t she paid more attention?

  He had meant so much to her and she had never even told him that. She needed him now, his strength, his low chuckle, his loyalty. He had always been interested in what she had to say, had always listened to her, an animated look on his face even when she was telling him about the launderette being closed, or the tea stain on her TV listings. How much time she’d wasted not telling him things. She thought of the list again, of reading her own name at the bottom. She thought then of what Albie had wanted to do for her and it finally made the tears come.

  I found her old Sindy doll in the purple flares and orange flowery top hidden in the back of the wardrobe, with a puzzled expression as I recalled that she had told me she’d thrown her out. Too old for dolls, I’d thought sadly at the time.

  She had been trying to hide the fact that she still wanted to keep her.

  I held the plastic doll in my hands, a doll she had played with for countless hours, a doll that had been a comfort when she’d had nightmares, a companion when she was bored.

  I clutched that tiny doll, wanting to smile, wanting to remember all the times I had seen her with it, lying on the back seat of the car on a long journey, Sindy tucked next to her, or abandoned on the floor when I called for dinner, or sat at the table when she’d had to do her homework.

  That doll was still here when she was not.

  I picked up the doll and walked across the room, throwing her in a small wastepaper basket as I left.

  Twenty-Five

  She returned to her apartment in the darkness, wandering the streets as couples and friends mo
ved in and out of Brighton’s restaurants and pubs. Laughter, music, chatter, life: she felt as if she was seeing it all through a thick pane of glass, always with her nose pressed up against it, looking in.

  She’d lived much of her life that way, she realised, had allowed herself to become this person. She deserved to be this alone. It hadn’t always been like that though and memories forced her to stop and catch her breath, one hand resting against a lamppost, the steel cold to her touch. She thought back to the days when she had an unstoppable energy for life, had woken every day feeling positive and focused. She’d been quick to laugh, to tease and be teased. Albie had been able to draw that person out, through his gentle probing over their tea and cake, his amused glances, his passion as he shared his thoughts. She had found herself opening up, laughing without muffling it with a hand and her stomach aching some days from it.

  Another wave of regret washed over her: at all they had lost. She had transformed when she was with him, but she never had enough confidence to thank him for that change, enough confidence to reach across that narrow gap and clasp his hand.

  And now she was letting him down.

  It was late, very late, and in the window of the first-floor apartment she could see a grey silhouette. It was the woman with the children, the room lit up behind her. She had tied her hair up in a knot on her head and was swaying slightly from side to side, a child in her arms, head resting on her shoulder. Maria could make out the woman’s mouth opening and closing as she smoothed the child’s head. Next to her stood an ironing board, the iron propped up and an enormous pile of washing beside it.

  Maria remembered those early days of motherhood: the bone-aching tiredness, the knowledge that even though your head hit the pillow you might have to wake and get out of bed again in an hour, a minute, another few hours. Always on someone else’s schedule. The insistent wail of someone you and only you are responsible for. The fact that the next day might be the same again. The lonely feeling you can have despite being with children, the need for another adult to hear you, to share the burden.