The Girl Who Just Appeared

by Jonathan Harvey

  ‘I was meant to be leaving yesterday, but I changed my mind and stayed at my friend Iggy’s. He was . . . working round here today . . . so I . . . just thought I’d swing by. I tried her at work and she wasn’t there, so . . .’

  That bit was true. And amazingly Alan seemed to buy my story. He returned to the kitchen. What did I do now? Now I was stuck here with a man I didn’t want to be honest with for fear of upsetting any sort of apple cart?

  Just then salvation came in the form of Sylvie. My phone started ringing in my bag. I snapped it up, saw it was Sylvie calling, no doubt having just read the email I’d sent her last night saying I now wasn’t coming to Canada. No doubt ringing to scream at me. I killed the call while pretending to answer it. I then spoke to the silent phone, giving the performance of my life.

  ‘Hello? . . . Oh, hi, Iggy! . . . Sorry? What? . . . Of course . . . Sure. No, that’s no problem . . . Yes, OK, I’ll meet you at the bottom of the road . . . Thanks.’

  Alan was coming through with a cup of tea for me as I returned the phone to my bag.

  ‘Sorry, Alan. Iggy’s job’s been cancelled. He’s heading back over the water so I need to jump in and get a lift back with him.’

  ‘Oh right. No worries.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you have the address where Rose is staying?’

  ‘In Greece?’

  ‘I’d love to drop her a line. She sent me the sweetest card. I’d love to reply.’

  ‘Oh, just drop her an email. She’ll pick them up while she’s there.’

  ‘Oh, but I think a card is so much more personal. Please, Alan. She’s been so kind to me. I might even send her some flowers.’

  Gosh, I was getting quite good at this thinking-on-your-feet stuff. And lying through your back teeth . . .

  He put down the cup and headed to the sideboard, pulling out a drawer.

  Flowers? To Greece? Really?

  Five minutes later I left his house with April’s address carefully transcribed onto a scrap of paper.

  Now I just had to work out what I had done with my passport.

  I had never felt more alone. There were no flights to Santorini for another two days and no amount of me groaning with frustration over the phone to various travel agents was going to alter that. Oh, there were flights before then, but they were fully booked. And taking a plane to somewhere incredibly remote like Venus and then scooting back in a dinghy wasn’t going to get me there any sooner. Why did April need to live in such a remote place? I looked into so many variations about how to get there my eyes started to blur staring at my laptop screen. There were routes I could take – Athens then a boat – but they wouldn’t really be getting me in any quicker than waiting the two days and flying there direct.

  I had checked myself into a budget hotel off Tottenham Court Road. Well, I say budget, the cheapest room was over £200, but the interior design certainly smacked of budget. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do for the twenty-four hours I would be here before setting off for Gatwick, but suddenly the enormity of what I’d discovered in Darren’s diary knocked me for six.

  I started to feel exhausted. I lay on the bed, but was unable to sleep. And that is when I started to feel so isolated.

  When I was little, my mum had been wonderful when I was poorly. I would be allowed to stay off school and she would make me a bed up on the sofa in the living room and I would be allowed to watch whatever was on television all day long. She would bring me frequent glasses of water or orange cordial, and lunch would invariably be Heinz tomato soup with plastic cheese grated in and toasted muffins. Heavenly. That is what I wanted now. I checked the room-service menu to discover they only did ‘twenty-four-hour sandwiches’ and thought better of it.

  I had always been so negative about my experience of adoption. I had always maintained my mother had been distant and aloof, more interested in her church and choir than me, but this memory of tomato soup challenged that. Reading about Darren and his relationship with his mother put mine into stark relief. I had been fed, clothed, watered. I had had my fevered brow mopped. We had gone on holidays. I had read books. I had been frowned upon for watching smutty programmes way after my bedtime. I had received an education. I had learned the cello. I had been allowed dreams and aspirations beyond the modest semi where we lived, and I had gone on to achieve some of them. Would I have had that in Gambier Terrace? More than likely not. And whatever Darren had done that day that Helen Chance had seen, wherever he had been taking me, I had to be grateful for it. For what I had ended up with was a damn sight more than what I had started with.

  Helen Chance had lied to me. She had made out she couldn’t remember me as a baby. And yet she had written a letter to Darren about me.

  I wanted to be angry with her, but found it impossible. I realized, rightly or wrongly, that she had wanted to protect me. What had happened that day had been gruesome, and she wanted to shield me from it. Maybe I would have done the same in her position, even if the eventual outcome had been positive.

  I had ended up with Tring. And Ted and Jean. And right now, right now I wanted them more than anything else in the world. They were beacons of sanity among the madness I had read about. But of course they were gone.

  I knew why I was pursuing what I was pursuing. I knew that for years I had felt like April in the diary, the girl with no history. My life began as a toddler, or at a few months old, or from when I had my first memory. I felt like the girl who just appeared, and I wanted to know from where and from whom.

  But why? Why did it matter so much? And why did I suddenly feel so disloyal to the people who were really my mum and dad?

  I felt the pain rise through me. I felt my body convulse.

  I started to cry. Loud animalistic howls. I turned into my pillow in case I scared the other residents. Surely they could hear me crying in Billingsgate! And once I started spasming and sobbing, I wondered whether I would ever stop.

  Finally. Finally it had happened.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Jude, it’s me. It’s Holly.’

  ‘Yes . . . I . . . Your name . . . your name came up.’

  He was sounding startled to hear from me. I immediately knew this had been a bad mistake. Never drink and dial!

  ‘How’s Henrietta?’

  Why? Why was I even doing this?

  ‘Well, at least you’re not calling her that . . . name . . . now. Progress, I suppose.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I offered.

  ‘She’s fine. Well, she’s had a bit of a cold, but yes. Fine, all things considered.’

  ‘What does that mean, all things considered?’

  ‘It means exactly what it’s meant to mean. She’s had a cold, but, well, on the whole she’s fine,’ he said. ‘And please don’t ask me to interpret “on the whole”.’

  ‘No, I won’t.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘How’s Liverpool?’

  ‘Oh yes. Fine.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Although I’m in London again. About to head to Greece.’

  ‘Oh right.’

  He sounded hurt. I still had the power to affect his feelings. It felt like a tiny victory, though I wasn’t sure why. I suppose the whole reason for calling him was to reach out and find someone who actually cared about me. Job done.

  ‘So, what, are you . . . going on holiday?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Still on the search for my family.’

  ‘They’re Greek?’

  ‘No. They’re there at the moment. On holiday.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  Why was this important?

  ‘Santorini,’ I said, as if it were incredibly important.

  ‘Ah, wonderful. Hen’s folks go there all the time.’

  Hen’s folks. If I went out with someone who forced me to use phrases like that, I think I’d have to top myself. I realized I wasn’t saying anything and it was me who had made this call.

  ‘Is she with you now?’ I blurted, unable to think o
f anything else to say.

  ‘No. She’s up in Birmingham seeing a pal who’s in the Birm Symph.’

  And she makes you say that instead of ‘Birmingham Symphony Orchestra’? Double suicide points, thank you.

  ‘So what have you found out about your family?’

  Oh gosh. Do I tell him? Do I tell him the truth? What do I say? How do I find the words? Even Rose can’t bring herself to say it to me, so how can I even dream of saying it myself? What are the words? I know there are words. I know there are proper, appropriate words, but I also know there are those that cause offence.

  I found it is easier to respond with ‘Oh, just . . . Mum’s in a home with Alzheimer’s and . . . well, some extended family are in Greece at the moment, so I’m hoping to learn some more from them. Fill in some of the gaps.’

  ‘God, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Not your fault.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Oh. Only mid-sixties or so?’

  ‘Have you been to see her?’

  ‘Yes.

  ‘How was that?’

  ‘Tough, but OK. It’s all made me realize how great Jean and Ted were.’

  ‘Oh well, that’s something.’

  ‘And I finally had a cry about Mum today.’

  ‘Jean or . . . ?’

  ‘Yes, Jean. I’m . . . sorry about the funeral.’

  ‘Oh. You know. I’ve accepted it. Grief and all that.’

  ‘And I’m sorry if I treated you badly. I’ve been a bit all over the place.’

  ‘Right. Well, thank you.’

  ‘I think I’ve just buried all my feelings in the quest to find my mother.’

  ‘Well, you have now.’

  ‘Yes,’ I lied.

  How would Jude react if I told him the truth? His parents were old hippies – he was the least judgemental person I knew. Surely he would be fine about it.

  But selfishly, almost fearing it would reflect badly on me, I yet again kept it to myself.

  ‘Sorry to call. Just wanted to hear a familiar voice.’

  ‘Do you . . . want to meet up for coffee sometime?’

  ‘I don’t know. What would Henrietta say?’

  ‘Oh, look, Holly, you may as well know. Hen’s an absolute control freak. She really does my head in. I don’t actually give two flying fucks what she thinks.’

  ‘Oh right.’

  ‘She never used to be like this, but since this drastic fucking weight loss, she thinks she can control every single part of her life. Including me.’

  Even though I had no intention of getting back with Jude, I didn’t think, this was, for some inexplicable reason, music to my ears.

  ‘I think I went with her on the rebound,’ he offered up.

  ‘Yes, but don’t beat yourself up about that.’

  ‘Well, you know . . .’

  I didn’t, but still . . .

  ‘Jude, I’d love to see you sometime, but I’m not sure we should if you think that means there’s a possibility of us getting back together again.’

  ‘Your call.’

  ‘Yeah, but I want you to be comfortable with that.’

  ‘It’s coffee, Holly. Not a proposal of marriage.’

  ‘Another one,’ I pointed out.

  ‘I could feel you distancing yourself from me. I didn’t know what to do,’ he said like an apology.

  ‘You could?’

  ‘I’m not stupid.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Well, let’s talk when you’re back from Greece or something.’

  ‘Yeah, OK. I can live with that.’

  ‘And if I work things out with Henny, please don’t tell her I said she was a control freak.’

  Henny? Henny?

  ‘Guide’s honour.’

  ‘It’s good to hear your voice, Holly.’

  ‘And yours, Jude.’

  ‘Call me Judith. Please. I tried to get Henny to, but she was like, “That’s so childish. No way.”’

  ‘Oh, Judith, she sounds like a bitch.’

  And we both laughed. For quite some time. And then I could feel the laughter turning to tears. So I quickly made my excuses and hung up.

  ‘Holly? It’s Sylvie. Well, I’ve checked online and you haven’t boarded your flight. Call me when you get this. Maybe you’ve been involved in a fatal road traffic accident. Or maybe you’re just a lazy, repugnant loon. Either way, call me.’

  Beep.

  ‘OK, so I know you’ve dropped the dog off at Teddy’s and stayed courtesy of moi in a rather expensive Thames-side hotel, thank you very much. Where the fuck did you go after that? Hmm? One word, Holly. Greedy.’

  Beep.

  ‘I’ve seen your email. Your incompetence knows no bounds. And your ingratitude even less so. And that does make sense, but you’re probably too stupid to get it.’

  Beep.

  ‘I will give you forty-eight hours, Holly. Forty-eight hours. To apologize and get on another flight or you can forget I even existed. Though it rather looks like you already have.’

  Beep.

  ‘Rude.’

  Beep.

  ‘You have no more messages.’

  I had been staring at the ceiling for the past – I checked the bedside clock – forty-three minutes. I felt slightly less alone than I had done a few hours before, partly down to Jude being quite sweet, but also thanks to Sylvie. She might have been vile – she might have been channelling Cruella de Vil – but even so, her rants felt familiar.

  But still, I knew that I stood on a cusp. I stood teetering at what was hopefully the edge of my journey of discovery. And still, I was facing that journey alone.

  I didn’t want to go alone.

  But who else would go with me?

  I sat up and grabbed the remote control. I flicked through the channels till I settled on Hell Hole. There she was. Jax, in tears in the toilet, gasping to the camera, ‘They all hate me. Please get me out of here. It’s not my fault I have a gift. Please.’

  I switched off. But knew what I had to do. Knew how to get me some company.

  I picked up my phone.

  I jabbed in a number. I heard it ring. Just as I thought it was going to answerphone, he picked up.

  ‘Hiya, Pips! How’s it going, kid?’

  ‘Good, good. Iggy?’

  ‘Aha.’

  ‘How d’you fancy an all-expenses-paid trip to Greece?’

  After being convinced that this wasn’t a wind-up, it didn’t take me too long to convince him to say yes.

  FOURTEEN

  Iggy kept giggling that he was a kept man all the way over on the plane. That was, when he wasn’t listening to my explanation of why we were heading to the sun. I didn’t go into too much detail but just said that Rose had lied to me and I had to confront her. She had said Darren was dead, but I had found out otherwise.

  If I’m honest, Iggy did seem to lose interest the more I talked about it, despite making all the appropriate noises and whistles through his teeth that my tale demanded. But they became less keen the longer we were in the air. And by the time we started our descent, he had nodded off and his head had lolled onto my shoulder.

  ‘Madam, can you wake your husband up, please, and tell him to put on his seat belt?’ an air steward in an orange jumpsuit with an equally orange face leaned in and hissed at me, while grinning like a constipated Cheshire cat. He had a camp Northern Irish accent. And very high plucked eyebrows. And hair like a toilet brush. And an overpowering smell of Pulse by Beyoncé. Due to the proliferation of orange about him, I assumed he could only be Northern Irish Protestant.

  Truth be told, I wasn’t that keen on the staff on this plane. They had all developed a fit of the giggles during the safety demonstration, which filled none of the passengers with confidence, it had to be said. And then, to add insult to injury, when Orange Face had distributed the menu cards – which involved him skidding round the plane (no wonder he needed a jumpsuit) and shoving laminated plastic strips in our laps – it was l
ike he was doing it against the clock. I half expected the other staff to be waiting at a finishing line, stopwatches at the ready, showering him with freshly popped champagne. ‘Cillian, gurrrl, you did it! Twenty-three seconds for eighty passengers! Way to go, babe!’

  The menu itself was anorexic. I’m not saying that the food therein would have suited people with eating disorders; it’s just that there were only three choices. I plumped for the chilli bean wrap, while Iggy thought he’d try the Tex-Mex wrap.

  When Cillian returned brandishing a chip-and-PIN device held aloft in his bright orange fingers, I passed on our orders. He sighed, bored, and said, ‘Chilli bean and Tex-Mex wraps are off.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  He looked at me like I was an idiot. He leaned in a bit further. This time he said it louder, as if I was foreign or deaf or both. ‘Chilli. Bean. And. Tex-Mex. Wraps. Off. You get me?’

  And this time he did a slicing action to his neck with his free hand.

  ‘Oh. But there are only three things on the menu.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Er . . .’

  ‘Look, do you want the lamb Caesar wrap or what?’

  Cillian was becoming impatient now. And I was becoming rattled.

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s just . . . well, lamb and Caesar salad don’t really go together.’

  He was sounding decidedly hacked off this time. ‘Oh, really? Forgive me. I didn’t know you were a chef, madam.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Do you want it or not?’

  ‘I just don’t see the point of making such a song and dance about giving out the menu cards if there’s only one thing available.’

  ‘Really? Well, maybe you should take that up with the airline, madam.’

  ‘I don’t know why you didn’t just make an announcement over the tannoy.’

  Cillian gave me an ‘Are you for real?’ look and then swiped the menu cards back from me and Iggy and headed further up the plane.

  ‘No food for us, laa,’ giggled Iggy. ‘We’re on the naughty step. Did you see the state of his eyebrows?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘He looks like a fucking Dolmio puppet.’

  The plane seemed to be populated by middle-class types, the sort of people who had only ever eaten brown bread, which made me think Santorini was either going to be as special as April had predicted to Darren or deathly dull. This being June, they were probably all going for pre-summer breaks, whereas I strongly doubted anyone else on board was tracking down a long-lost parent.