by Jessica Ryn
‘Oh, just people.’ She waves her hand around. ‘Mostly people I haven’t seen in forever – like people from school.’
Dawn’s mind spins at the thought of old school friends trying to find her. Perhaps Matthew Jenkins from year eleven has spent the past decade typing her name in that search bar at the top, wondering what had become of her. Matthew had been the best-looking boy at Marsden High. Almost every other girl used to stare and give themselves an extra squirt of Body Shop white musk whenever he walked past. He’d never actually spoken to Dawn or even looked in her direction. He was probably trying to play it cool, so she wouldn’t realise how much he fancied her. Dawn supposes he’d never properly got over her.
‘What shall we call ourselves?’ Cara’s fingers hover over the keyboard as she watches Dawn out of the corner of her eye.
‘Eh?’
‘Our fundraising project. It needs a name.’
Dawn stares out the window of the residents’ lounge, watching Teardrop Terry and Jack as they sweep the patio and water the geraniums in the oversized plant pots. ‘Do you know who St Jude was?’
Cara shrugs her shoulders and bites her thumbnail whilst she waits patiently for Dawn to explain what she’s on about.
‘St Jude was the patron saint of lost causes. I guess that’s what a lot of people think of us as being. It’s definitely what people would view this project as.’
Cara’s hands freeze in the air and her eyes light up like two full beams on the motorway.
‘St Jude’s Last Cause,’ she says slowly. ‘It’s perfect.’
Dawn watches over Cara’s shoulder as her fingers spin over the keys, putting details in the boxes and attaching links to places where people could donate.
‘We could get people from here to be interviewed,’ she says, seeming to warm more and more to the initiative. ‘They can talk about different ways that St Jude’s has helped them. Oh, and we need some photos of us all, of the café, everything!’
Cara almost trips over the computer stool in her hurry to round everyone up to help with photos. Not everyone wants to be in them; many people have lives to hide from.
Seeing Cara come to life makes Dawn’s heart squeeze with pride. She’s come so far this week. She looks around at the semi-circle of residents, all gathered around the coffee table. These people deserve a chance. And Dawn will be the one to give it to them. Whatever it takes.
‘I’ll take the photo. There’s no need for me to be in it. People won’t want to see my ugly mug,’ Dawn jokes lightly.
‘Of course you need to be in it – this was your idea. You’re the one who made us feel like we could do this.’ Cara places a hand across Dawn’s back, nudging her forward.
Cara’s enthusiasm for the publicity is infectious, and somehow, for the first time ever, Dawn’s need to be part of something feels bigger than her fear of being found by her past.
It’s been twenty years and he hasn’t managed to catch her. And even if he does, she’s not alone now. St Jude’s needs her, and she needs St Jude’s, along with all of those who sleep between its walls.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
And that’s how Dawn ends up smack-bang in the middle of a group photo between Grace and Teardrop Terry with an article underneath containing a heartfelt story of how St Jude’s had rescued her from the street and pulled her back from the brink of death. Some of Dawn’s answers to Cara’s interview questions carried a little more creative licence but hey, it was all for a good cause.
A lost cause. A voice of negativity whispers inside her mind. Dawn wishes it would shut up.
It’s difficult to get to sleep after all the excitement. Adrenaline continues to trickle through Dawn’s veins as she thinks about all the plans they’ve made; ways to help save the hostel and what will happen to everyone if they fail. She also keeps thinking about her face on the profile picture of that Facebook page. If she had her own account, how many people would she be able to search for? People she’s always wondered about.
Shaun kicks her shoulder as he turns over in his sleep and she listens tenderly to his gentle snoring. He probably has a profile himself she could look at, with pictures of his family or photos from the childhood he never seems to want to speak about. It might help her understand him. She may even be able to help him better.
Dawn shrugs off the duvet and pads quietly across the floor. She heads downstairs to the residents’ lounge, closes the door behind her and gently presses the power button on the communal computer, jumping when it roars to life in the stillness of the room.
Fortunately, Dawn has somehow managed to remember her log-in details for the email address the nice lady at the library had helped her to set up. She uses the email address to make herself a profile and copies the photo from the St Jude’s page to her picture. Her face is already strewn across the internet on the St Jude’s page, so having her own profile surely couldn’t make much difference now.
A frisson of excitement fizzes through her as she stares at the page. She’s a real person. She exists. Dawn Elisabeth Brightside, one word, has a place in the world. Now she just needs to make sure it stays that way.
She ‘joins’ and ‘likes’ the St Jude’s last cause page and ‘adds’ Cara as a friend. It’s a long time since she’s had one of them and it’s nice to see it in writing. Makes it real. Official.
Dawn tentatively puts some names in the search bar – just out of curiosity. Who knew there were so many Matthew Jenkinses in the world? She gives up the quest to find her first schoolgirl crush after clicking on at least ten profiles that probably don’t belong to him. Or maybe they do, who knows? When she thinks about it, she can’t even really remember what he’d looked like anyway.
There are a few others. Jane Davis from across the road; they had spent every day of the summer holidays playing in the fields behind their houses, making dens under trees and daring each other to eat various unknown species of berries to see whether or not they were poisonous. Mr Griggs, her piano teacher with the dodgy breath; she’s often wondered what happened to him. Dawn had walked in on him cuddling her mum in the kitchen once. She said it was because his cat was poorly and he was sad. He never came over for any more lessons after that – Dawn had suspected back then that poor old Pickles must have popped his clogs. Shame though; Dawn never had finished learning how to play Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.
There’s others of course. Those who left her and those she had to leave behind because of him. Her midwife buddies, her best friend, Mel. And of course, Rob. But she won’t go there.
Even as Dawn types in the names of people she used to know, she’s aware she’s doing so to keep her hands busy, so she can’t type in the words that her fingers want to. The letters that spell out her dad’s name. She could have a tiny look but why should she?
He could never be found before, and he’s the one who left her alone with Mum for all those years after promising to protect her forever. That hadn’t worked out too well, had it?
Of course, there’s the one other name that sings loud and proud around her mind above all the others. Dawn doesn’t type her name in the search bar; she knows there is no point. Instead, she sets up a new email address – [email protected] – and attaches it to another profile. She adds details. Rosie’s favourite book (Alice Through the Looking Glass), her favourite film (Titanic) and what she does for a living (editor-in-chief for a major publishing company.) After browsing through Google Images, Dawn finally settles on a picture that best represents Rosie. A young woman in her twenties, light-coloured hair threaded with highlights. Her brilliant smile zaps the camera lens from the sandy-white beach she’s standing on barefoot, in a light, floral sundress.
Before logging out, she searches for Dawn Elisabeth Brightside and ‘adds’ her as a friend. Dawn’s heart pounds with pleasure when she logs back into her account and sees the words: ‘Rosie Brightside has sent you a friend request’. A tear rolls unbidden down her cheek and plops onto the semi-colon
on the keyboard. Brushing it off with her little finger, Dawn briefly wonders if there’s ever been a time in her life when she’s used one before. Probably not. Perhaps she could make use of it now. Rosie would like that, she’d be proud that Dawn takes care with her presentation and punctuation. She’ll realise that she gets her high standards from her mum.
Hello my darling Rosie!
It’s so lovely to hear from you, and what a lovely photo of you. How is Fiji? You look like you are having the time of your life! I hope you are wearing plenty of sunscreen and eating properly? I miss you so much. Thank you for your friend request; at least we can stay in touch better from now on.
Love you always!
Mum
Xxx
Dawn notices the faint, metallic taste of blood and realises she’s been chewing too hard on her lip. She busies herself with logging out and changing accounts again.
Hi Mum!
Yes, I’m wearing plenty of factor 30 – I always do, it’s like I can hear your voice every time I’m on the beach lol. And yes, I’m eating well, but missing all your home-cooked meals. Work is going well, I’m so thankful you always taught me to follow my dreams.
Miss you too and love you very much,
Your Rosie.
Xxx
Dawn’s own account welcomes her back with a message alert. She clicks onto the icon through misty eyes and feels her shoulders heaving as she reads the whole message three times, each time as if it’s the first.
It’s almost getting light and the seagulls have begun their morning chatter by the time she prints out the photo she’s chosen for Rosie’s profile.
She’d better get back to bed soon, they are kicking off their fundraising with a Dover-wide roaming bake sale tomorrow and Grace would be up and about making preparations in an hour or so.
The hostel is silent as she creeps back into her room and Shaun stirs only slightly as Dawn rummages in the drawer of the bedside table until she finds what she’s looking for.
It’s such a beautiful book, despite the years of being packed up and unpacked, squashed into bag after bag, the corners dog-eared and creased. Dawn holds it with reverence and flicks through till she finds the next blank entry. Slipping the latest image of Rosie between the pages, she sets a mental reminder to borrow some Pritt Stick from the office tomorrow.
As the day’s sunshine begins to bleed between the gaps in the curtains, Dawn flicks carefully backwards through the pictures already glued in. The photo of Rosie graduating from Oxford. Rosie’s first and last days of secondary and primary school. One of them even shows the price of her school skirt, £4.99 from Woolworths, so it shows how long ago that was. Dawn used to love her piles of Woolworth’s catalogues, even before Rob started working there, and the back-to-school issues were always the best.
She continues to look back through the book, admiring the toddler pictures of Rosie taking her first steps and sitting up on a shiny new potty, one shaped like a real-life miniature toilet, £18.99 from Mothercare. She can’t think why she’d have spent so much on a potty, but it must have been worth it. Anything for her Rosie.
Then she gets to the first page. The one of Rosie only hours after Dawn had given birth to her on the bathroom floor. It’s the proudest she’d ever been of anything in her life, and as she’d held her in her arms, she knew she’d never felt love like it.
Dawn closes her eyes and in an instant she’s back there, in the flat above the British Heart Foundation, cradling her baby. She runs her finger over the photograph in front of her and gives into the sobs that remind her this photo is the only one that matters.
Shaun sits up and swivels back from the foot-end of the bed, pulling Dawn into his arms. She allows herself to cry freely; the sound muffled by his young chest.
‘Shh,’ he whispers. ‘You have me now.’
Chapter 22
Grace
THE STAFF FLAT IS hot and sticky, and Grace’s feet are tangled in the sheets from hours of fidgeting. Telling the residents that they might have to leave St Jude’s had been one of the hardest things she’s ever had to do.
Watching the sprinkles of hope gather in the lounge as they’d made plans to make a stand against closure had lit an ember of possibility deep inside and now she can’t switch her mind off. Her fingers itch for paper and pen, a colour-coded chart and a ten-step plan.
Grace hauls her legs from the bed and pulls on her clothes. She’ll make a warm drink in the office and get some work done. Anything’s better than lying there counting down the hours until she has to start prepping for the fundraising bake sale.
‘Why wait?’ Cara had gabbled with excitement at the meeting last night. ‘We have plenty of ingredients in the café. Let’s get up early and do a bake sale tomorrow? No time like the present, my nan used to say.’
Every one of Grace’s footsteps echo through the silent corridor. Everyone must be asleep. She unlocks the office door and walks through it, jumping when she sees she’s not alone.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Grace hisses.
Peter is sitting at his desk, slumped over his phone, the only source of light in the dark office. He puts his phone on the table but doesn’t look up.
‘It’s four in the morning. Have you been here all night? Didn’t you go home?’
Still nothing. Peter’s shoulders move up and down. Grace places a hand across them and Peter shrugs it off, keeping his eyes down.
Peter’s phone screen is still lit up with a message and Grace has read it before she can stop herself.
Not seen you at group for a while – you okay? Don’t be a stranger.
The display says it’s from Sponsor/Dave.
‘I tried to go home,’ Peter mumbles. ‘But I couldn’t walk past it. The off licence.’
Memories of Peter’s old life come flooding back to Grace. The state he’d been in those first few weeks after he’d moved in and how hard he’d worked to get rid of those jittery limbs each morning. He’s been sober for eighteen months; how had she so quickly forgotten to watch out for the signs?
‘Did you buy any?’ she asks.
Peter switches the desk lamp on and leans back into his chair. ‘Walking past an off licence or a pub hasn’t been an issue for ages, but the last few days… since the inspection really, I just keep hearing that whisper again. Just have the one, it will help you relax. I can even taste the whisky.’
‘Did you buy any?’ Grace repeats.
‘Why should I get a second chance at life when the people in this building are about to lose their beds? It’s my fault. It was my stupid date with that bloody woman that cocked up the inspection. Soon as she saw me, she probably made up her mind to mark us down.’
‘It was nothing to do with that, I’m sure. Much more likely to be because of the fire alarms and the million questions I couldn’t answer. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me.’ Grace points at Peter’s phone. ‘Are you going to message your sponsor back?’
‘I was going to. That’s why I had the message open. It’s an old one, though. I’ve left it too long – support is supposed to be a two-way street, that’s what they always say at group. I haven’t been the best partner. Wouldn’t blame Dave if he’s paired himself with someone else by now. Right now, giving up feels like a good option.’
Grace wheels a chair around beside Peter and sits in it. ‘You can’t give up now. Not after all your hard work. We all need you.’
Peter pulls off his glasses with force and swipes at his eyes before returning them to his nose. He looks briefly at Grace and she can see from his face that his shutters are back down. Closed for business. She had forgotten how prickly he can become after opening up.
‘What are you doing out of bed this early, anyway?’ he says.
‘Couldn’t sleep after that meeting. Kept thinking about some of those fundraising ideas the residents were coming up with and thought I’d come down and do some research. See if I could come up with something to help.’
Pet
er’s jaw visibly stiffens. ‘Uh huh.’ He plucks a file from the filing cabinet, opens it on the desk in front of him and picks up a pen.
‘What does that mean?’
‘Nothing. Just think it’s bloody cruel, that’s all. Letting them think they’re in with a chance of raising ten thousand pounds in so little time. How the hell are they going to do that?’
‘Not they. Us. We all need to work together.’ Grace pulls Jack’s file away whilst he’s still writing, and a long line of ink gets struck across his ‘Smart Goals’ section. ‘What are you doing, anyway?’
‘Just getting Jack’s files up to scratch. I’ve got a bit behind,’ Peter mumbles. ‘If I leave or this place closes down, it’s only fair on Jack that all his notes are in order.
‘I wish the inspectors could have seen how dedicated you are to your clients. When the files aren’t up to date, the work we do doesn’t always show through.’ Grace’s voice is quiet but the wistfulness in it echoes across the room.
He snatches the file back from Grace and stomps to the filing cabinet, flinging it open. The metal door crashes loudly as it bounces back against the office wall and Peter and Grace stand still in the silence that follows.
‘Peter, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…’
‘Just forget it. Okay? Just – forget it. I know my client files weren’t up to date, and I know that didn’t help.’ Peter slams the cabinet shut again, swipes his phone from the desk and heads for the door. ‘This fundraising shit, though – just keep me out of it. You might be happy keeping everyone’s heads in the bloody clouds with yours but I’m not interested.’
‘I just think we can buy them some time.’ Grace’s eyes sting with tears. ‘Having something practical to do will keep their spirits up,’ she carries on. ‘It will stop them focussing on the problem and get them focussed on the solution.’
