by Sarah Hope
Just at that moment Mr Tews enters the room and the class rise to their feet to greet him. I just have time to reach the desk at the back of the room next to Claire’s before everyone sits down again.
The morning passes so slowly and I can’t concentrate on anything Mr Tews is teaching us. This gets me into trouble twice and I’m given a slap on the back of my hand for being unable to answer a question directed at me. Catching Betty’s eye I watch as she turns to Pamela and sniggers. It hurts more to know she hates me than anything Mr Tews can do to me.
At lunchtime I manage to find Betty and corner her at the back of the school yard.
‘Please Betty, I know you’re upset with me but I didn’t know what my father had done. I didn’t know that he had hurt Albert until you told me this morning. Please just tell me if he is okay?’
‘I don’t believe you Enid. I can’t believe that you would put our friendship at risk by courting Albert. And that you didn’t trust me enough to tell me what was going on.’
‘I know, I’m sorry Betty. I know we shouldn’t have got involved together but I love him. Please tell me he’s okay?’
‘Your father broke his nose, but he’s okay apart from being in a rotten mood.’
Relief floods through my body when I hear that he’s fine. I’m so so angry at my father for hurting him but I’m glad Albert got away relatively scot free. He was lucky, the size of my father against poor Albert. It’s not worth thinking about what could have happened.
‘Thank goodness for that. I am sorry for not confiding in you Betty I just didn’t know how you would react.’
‘You could have trusted me. I’m supposed to be your closest friend.’
‘And he’s your brother I didn’t feel comfortable putting you in that position.’
Hugging we make up. I’m so pleased to have Betty back on my side.
‘Glad to have you back Enid. It’s been terrible listening to Pouting Pamela moaning at everything.’
‘Can you do me a favour please? Can you tell Albert I’m sorry about my father? I honestly didn’t tell him about Albert. I don’t know how he found out. I think someone from the factory must have seen us and told him.’
‘That’s what Albert said too. His mate at work gave him the heads up about your father knowing, so he got that big lad Harry to look out for him. He said he was glad he did because when your father came for him he thought he was going to kill him, he was in that much of a rage.’
‘I’m so sorry. Please tell him how sorry I am.’ My face reddens feeling the shame of my father’s actions.
‘He doesn’t blame you, you know. He wouldn’t have me say a bad word against you.’
This time the blush I feel creeping up my neck makes me smile.
Betty promises to send Albert my love and tell him I apologise for my father’s behaviour.
After lessons have finished I meet Mum at the gate with a smile on my face and my tummy fluttering with excitement at the prospect of Betty coming to school with a message from Albert for me tomorrow.
Waking up with butterflies in my tummy I recall how I felt waiting for Albert’s reply. Gently I kick Freda off the bed and lower my arthritic legs onto the rug. Looking through the bottom drawer of my dressing table I pull out an old shoe box. I savour every moment as I left the lid and sift through the contents until I come to a tatty envelope. Gently pulling out the faded letter I remember as clear as if it were yesterday the pure joy I felt as Betty handed it to me all those years ago. I read the words written in Albert’s cursive handwriting even though I’ve long since memorised them:
My dearest Enid,
Please don’t apologise for your father’s behaviour, no one judges you against him. Every time I close my eyes I see your face and look forward to meeting you again..
All my love, Albert.
What a gentleman.
Replacing the letter I glance up at my alarm clock and realise I have three hours until the coach leaves on the mystery tour. That’ll give me enough time to complete the sleeve on the jumper I’ve started knitting my boy for Christmas.
Rudely awoken from my nap I hit the stop button on my alarm clock. I always set it when I have a schedule to keep during the day because I know I’m prone to napping and I hate missing appointments.
I’m looking forward to going on the mystery tour although I will be disappointed if they take us to a town we have already been to. The organiser Ada still vows it was an oversight that we ended up returning to Oxford for the second time in a year two months ago. Still, I have a niggle that she’s losing her marbles. But what can she do? It will come to us all I’m sure. Although I do think she should pass on some of her responsibilities to Terence, her second in command. People are still talking about the lack of brussel sprouts at the oldies Christmas dinner and that was months ago now. I don’t partake in this gossip because I like to keep myself to myself and only really went to quiet the old biddies on the bus into town who like to try and take me under their wing so to speak.
Oh dear, it’s quarter to now and I haven’t even packed my tour bag. Grappling down the side of my chair next to the wall I locate my special book. I smooth the brown leather cover. I always take this any time I visit anywhere new. It’s where I document all the places I go to and any leads I make there. I suppose it’s a little redundant now the World Wide Web has come into existence but I still like to keep it up to date.
I open it to the last page I filled in when our mystery tour took us to Stratford-upon-Avon. A beautiful town. Not much information here, just the mundane; the date, how long the journey took, etc. Then I read the crushing words ‘No leads, no Reynolds listed’. Of course it doesn’t mean there are no Reynolds in Stratford-upon-Avon. It’s a fairly common name of course there are, it means no Reynolds that could possibly be my Peter. Looking back at the clock I slip the book into my bag, hoping to be able to write something of some worth in it on the way home.
By the time I get to the bus stop at the end of the road the coach is already waiting. The kind looking gentleman driver insists on collecting me here even though I tell him it wouldn’t kill me to walk the few hundred yards to the next road where he collects Mavis. Protocol he says, to pick me up at the closest stop to my home. I used to find it quite insulting to be honest, being treated like a frail old woman, but now I’ve kind of accepted that to go on these mystery tour trips I have to bite my tongue when nobody differentiates between me and the old wrinkles in the group.
‘Morning love.’ Oh that’s a shame it’s a different driver.
‘It’s Enid actually.’ These young folk have no respect for the older generation anymore.
I plop myself down next to Pat, I can’t stand the thought of listening to inane gossip all the way there, at least with Pat because her hearing isn’t what it used to be she doesn’t tend to talk too much.
It turns out our mystery tour is taking us to Banbury. An old market town, apparently famous for a nursery rhyme about a horse and a fine lady or something. I half-heartedly listen as our group leader, Ada, talks about the sights we will see, including a cross and a market. What’s so special about that, I don’t know. I’m more interested to know if they have a library. That’s where I’ll be heading as soon as possible anyway.
Being one of only three lone tourers in the group Ada never tires of trying to push us into unwanted friendships. The bossy mare thinks it’s her duty as tour leader to make sure none of her flock venture around the new destination alone and always has a list of sights to see or things to do somewhere about her person. She has this totally misconstrued idea that I’m lonely so she always forces me to join Alf, Slyvia and herself in exploring the unknown town or village. Being an accustomed tourer I’ve learnt the best way to get her off my back is to humour her and join them trawling around the place, soak up the so called sights and then escape when she lets her guard down.
This seems to suit us as it lets her feel that she has fulfilled her role as group leader, or busy bod
y, and I can have my independence and privacy to do the things I go on these soppy tours for.
Just as predicted as I vainly attempt to slip off the coach unnoticed she rounds us loners up.
‘Welcome to Banbury,’ this is said with a breezy smile and a sweep of her hand indicating a dreary bus station, as if we are too old and decrepit to remember which town we were travelling to.
Not getting the enthusiastic response she wants she takes one of her infamous lists out of her coat pocket and continues.
‘Banbury offers a wonderful 18th century church where Jonathon Swift, author of Gulliver’s Travels was famously laid to rest; a modern shopping centre still boasting the original outward features of the old Banbury goal and the famous Banbury Cross of the nursery rhyme ‘Ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross’...’
Coughing into my handkerchief I to try to hide my horror and amusement as she actually hums out the tune.
‘Oh, I almost forgot there is a ...’ she consults her treasured list, ‘Butcher’s Row hosting some lovely little tea shops where we can go for tea and cake. Maybe we can sample a Banbury cake!’
Thankfully my mind switches off as she argues the pros and cons of starting our personal tour with the Cross or the precinct. Does it even matter?
After a tiresome hour and a half of being shepherded around this dull market town I excuse myself and quickly slip away before Ada can complain. Hurrying back up the High Street I check over my shoulder to make sure they have continued in the opposite direction and approach an old woman dithering outside one of the shops.
‘Excuse me, could you tell me the way to the library please?’
Following her directions I arrive at an old terraced building. I push open a heavy wooden door nestled between what looks like offices, and enter a hallway displaying posters and leaflets advertising local tourist sights.
I go through a glass door into the library and. as is my little routine when visiting new places, I go straight up to the desk and ask for a local phonebook. Having secured the book I locate a chair in the non-fiction department. Sitting for a minute I relish the beautiful feeling of hope.
My fingers tingle as I quickly locate ‘R’ then ‘Re’. I run my index finger down the page and hover over the surname ‘Reynolds’. There must be at least fifteen ‘Reynolds’ residing in or around Banbury. Taking a deep breath I run my eyes down the list and there we have it; two ‘P. Reynolds’. My breath quickens with anticipation. He could be here.
One of these ‘P. Reynolds’ could be my boy.
Shakily taking my notebook out of my bag I copy the details into it.
It’s not unusual, I remind myself, to find the surname ‘Reynolds’. It’s also not unusual to find ‘P. Reynolds’ so I mustn’t get too excited. They are more than likely not to be my Peter, but a part of me none the less always holds the dream that one day I will find him. I have to have hope or what would be the point of anything at all?
Back outside, clutching my notebook, this dreary town seems to have been given an instant facelift and for the first time since arriving I look around and appreciate what I actually see; beautiful old buildings, bustling townsfolk and a growing sense of possibility.
Wandering across a zebra crossing I go to a phone box.
With my hands trembling I punch the number I had written down next to the first ‘P. Reynolds’. Breathless, I listen to the rings.
After what seems like an eternity a young female voice answers.
‘Afternoon?’
‘Could I speak to P. Reynolds please?’
‘Speaking.’
She must have misheard, I repeat myself emphasising the ‘P’.
‘Yes this is P. Reynolds, Patricia Reynolds can I help?’
‘Oh, is there another P. Reynolds there please?’
‘No, I think you must have the wrong number.’
My heart sinks. Of course this is normal. Since having taken retirement at sixty I have been coming on these oldie tours once a month without fail. This scenario has happened before, many many times. But it doesn’t make the inevitable crushing disappointment any easier to handle. Every time I feel as though Peter has been wrenched from my near grasp and in turn I feel as though my heart has been ripped out.
Shaking my head I remind myself that I still have one other number to call. Maybe, just maybe.
This time the phone doesn’t ring at the other end for long but cuts straight to answer phone.
‘Afternoon, you have reached Dr Patrick Reynolds’ office. No one is available at the moment but please leave a ...’
Replacing the receiver before the message ends, my breath quickens as I register the fact that, once again, I have failed to find my dear Peter.
How many towns and villages I have searched? How many newspapers; both local and national, have I sifted through for the slightest mention of his name or a photograph bearing even a small resemblance to the one I hold in my head? I remember exactly the soft contours of his face, his tiny red lips and his eyes the colour of the bluest sea imaginable. I have this vision in my head of what he would look like now and I just know in my heart that when I see him. I will know it’s him, I will know without a doubt that it is my son.
I feel the world closing in on me and it makes me panic. I know I’m getting older, reaching the age where I should feel fortunate to be alive with each passing birthday. Not that I do, I just feel empty, and each birthday just reiterates what I have lost. The guilt getting heavier and the regret growing. Each time I try to tell myself there is nothing I could have done. Nothing I could have changed. But I am not strong enough, I keep revisiting the past, what happened going over and over in my mind. My past coming alive again in my dreams. All the painful memories being lived again and again.
Knowing I don’t have long left to find him petrifies me. With each illness or funny turn I have it reminds me my time is running out.
Putting my clammy hand against the window of the phone box my heart quickens. My breath becomes shallow as I scramble to find the door handle. Stumbling outside I sit heavily on a nearby bench. The air closes in on me, what if I never find him? I feel myself propelled back to that fateful hospital room, feeling the heaviness of Peter’s newborn body in my arms, smelling the sweet smell of his hair and listening to his quick little breaths. My head feels heavy. What if all my years of searching amount to nothing? I feel tired, so so tired. Feeling my body shaking, tears stream down my face.
Trying to take a deep breath to steady my quickening breath I remind myself I have felt this despair before. My chest tightens painfully and I wish I had taken the doctor’s advice and gone for those blasted tests. Praying it will pass I clutch my locket in my hand and tell myself that I have life in me yet and I shall never give up on my Peter. I will never let go of my dream of meeting him.
I wipe the tears from my cheeks just in time before Pat finds me and bustles me onto the coach home.
Chapter Ten
Lynette
On the way back from confronting Ste I find myself driving in the direction of Mum’s care home instead of Rachel’s to pick Charlie up.
Having pulled into the visitors’ car park I look in the rear view mirror. I hardly recognise the pale white face with stark red rimmed eyes staring back at me. Hurriedly I wipe the tears from my cheeks. I just hope Mum doesn’t look too closely.
Heading towards the entrance I trip over the kerb and just steady myself before falling. Entering the home I am aware of a disturbance and somebody screaming.
‘Oh Lynette, I was just about to call you.’ Mum’s key worker, Betty, rushes up to me. ‘It’s your mum. She’s had a bit of a scare and won’t let anyone help her.’
‘What? What do you mean?’ Through my foggy mind I realise that it must be Mum’s screams I can hear.
‘She called us to her room saying she’d seen a mouse. Now no one can convince her there’s not one in there. We’ve tried everything, she won’t let us near her to try and calm her down. She even lashed
out at Julienne.’ She tells me this as we half walk, half jog down the hall to Mum’s room. Julienne is the new carer who Mum doesn’t seem to have accepted yet. The poor girl.
‘Oh Mum,’ huddled in the corner hugging her knees, barricaded behind her chair and various cushions piled around her she looks so frail. She’s always been petrified of mice, no wonder she’s got so worked up after thinking she saw one.
‘Mum,’ heading towards her corner I wonder in what time frame she’ll be in today.
‘Mum? Where’s Mum? Val I’m so pleased to see you. You’ll get these loads of jobsworths sorted out won’t you? Tell them Val. Tell them I saw a mouse. Huge it was. Might even have been a rat. Tell them.’
Just as I thought Mum has regressed again. She thinks I’m her sister Val. She’s been petrified of anything smallish with a naked tail since her cat was apparently attacked by a rat when she was a little girl.
‘Elsie, I’m sure there’s not a mouse here. Look Betty and Julienne have looked and there’s not a mouse in here.’ It feels strange addressing Mum as Elsie but if I have to go along with it to help her that’s what I’ll do.
‘Betty? Julienne? This lot you mean? They’d say anything to me to shut me up. There is a mouse I tell you that now. There is.’
‘Okay, okay. Let me look then.’ I go through the motions of looking for the mouse by lifting up Mum’s flowery duvet, looking under the bed and desk and generally hunting around the room. After spending five, ten minutes pretending to look for it I come to Mum’s hide away and kneel down in front of her barricade hoping I can allay her fears.
‘That’s it. There’s no mouse Elsie. I promise. I’ve looked.’ Spreading my hands I hope she believes me.
At that moment she pushes through the cushions separating her from the rest of the room, her arms wide open and hugs me tightly. Letting my body sink into her arms it’s all I can do to hold myself together.
