by Sophie Duffy
Someone has come in. The door creaks and clangs shut and I hear heavy footsteps. I turn and see Amanda, swaying up the aisle like a scary bride, sweeping aside thoughts of tennis. She sits down and squeezes my hand. Hers is warm and I realise how cold I am.
‘Any news?’
She shakes her head. The tinkle of bangles. The waft of
Charlie. ‘I came to see if you were alright.’
I check my watch. Gone seven o’clock. ‘I must’ve been longer than I thought. I’d better get back, sort out breakfast for those who can eat.’
‘Sit a while longer,’Amanda says, though I haven’t the energy to do anything other than be surprised at how comforting her voice is. Not the tiniest bit annoying. ‘Today is the time of weeping that lasts for the night while awaiting the joy that comes in the morning,’ she says.
‘Pardon?’
‘Psalm 30.’
‘Well... I hope you’re right.’
I hope there will be joy. But joy is so elusive, even the odd snatches of it flutter through your fingers, so hard to pin down and name as joy. So hard to recognise because once you examine it, the joy has gone, blown away on the wind.
I look up at Hilda. The blue dress. Blue. And I think of that other blue, that pale Basildon Bond blue. And I think of Rachel, dealing cards on the picnic rug on the floor of the shed. I think of the police gently questioning her and I wonder if she knows more than she is telling. I turn to Amanda. ‘Where’s God in all this?’
She doesn’t reply straightaway, deciding how to word such a delicate answer, or maybe praying for divine guidance.
I wait. I put my hands in my lap and wait.
‘He’s sitting here beside you,’ she says, so faint I can hardly make her out, her usual strident tones quite dissipated. ‘And He’ll go with you when you leave this place. You simply have to trust that He is there. Always there. Especially on a day like this.’
I look next to me, I can’t help it. But all I can see is the empty pew. The dusty, empty pew. ‘Have you ever thought about trying beeswax, Amanda?’ I hear myself say, joking, nudging Amanda in what could be seen as entirely inappropriate under the circumstances though I suppose I’m trying to find some let-up from this heavy worry.
Amanda looks surprised, briefly, but then for the first time since I have known her, she digs deep and excavates a slither of her deep-buried sense of humour. ‘It says in Ecclesiastes, Let thy garments be always white. But you don’t have to take this literally.’
And then she surprises me further.
‘In the Epic of Gilgamesh – do you know it? No? – well, Siduri, a woman of the vine, a wine maker, tries to stop Gilgamesh, this king, in his quest for immortality, urging him to enjoy the life he has.’ Amanda shuts her eyes and they move behind her closed lids as she quotes: As for you, Gilgamesh, fill your belly with good things; day and night, night and day, dance and be merry, feast and rejoice. Let your clothes be fresh, bathe yourself in water, cherish the little child that holds your hand, and make your wife happy in your embrace; for this too is the lot of man.’
‘In memento mori?’
‘More than that. Jesus said not to worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.’
‘But what about today?’
‘He also said: Come to me, all you who labour and are burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am meek and humble of heart; and you will find rest for yourselves. For my yoke is easy, and my burden light.’
‘How do you remember all this Amanda?
‘The same way you remember to sweep under rugs.’
Rachel is lying on her bed, a plate of uneaten toast beside her, making a friendship bracelet. She doesn’t look up as I walk in, concentrating hard on her handicraft.
‘Who’s that for, darling?’
‘Jessica. When she gets back.’
‘Do you know when that might be?’
‘Why does everyone think I know where they are?’
‘Well, I’m surprised they didn’t tell you where they were going. I thought you three did everything together.’
She carries on plaiting, still on her back, knees up, holding the bracelet close to her face so I can’t make out what’s going on inside her head.
‘They did ask me if I wanted to go,’ she says casually, as if they’d asked her down to the newsagent’s to get some sweets.
‘Oh?’ I put all my effort into this one word, restraining myself, holding back all the questions.
‘I said I couldn’t leave you,’ she says. ‘You’d worry too much. You know, cos of him.’
‘Him?’
‘Thomas.’
Thomas.
A wave of anguish threatens to topple me so I sit down quickly on the bed. Is that how she sees it? That she needs to protect me? What kind of burden have I loaded on her young shoulders? She was so young. A three-year-old. A little tot just out of nappies and starting playgroup. We were going along quite nicely...
I need to be the grown up here. Now. I need to see if there’s anything I can do to sort this mess out. ‘Martin and Claudia are worried,’ I say gently, calmly. ‘Bob and Tamarine are worried.’
‘Bob and Tamarine don’t care about Jessica,’ she says automatically, repeating stuff she’s heard, not really thought through.
‘Is that what Jessica told you?’
‘She only wanted to see her mum. Her dad won’t let her. Because of Tamarine.’
‘Bob doesn’t want her to get hurt, that’s why. He’s not being spiteful or mean. And it’s certainly not down to Tamarine. She’s tried to get Bob to give in on this one but he’s too scared.’ Rachel stops plaiting and lays her friendship bracelet on the bed, next to her. A woven bracelet of red and blue, Palace colours, set against a background of pink and purple striped duvet. I wish it was still Pocahontas but she is beyond all that now. She sits herself up, untangles her legs, unbelievably long, and gets off the bed. Crouching down beside it, she reaches underneath for something.
It is Bob’s camcorder. She holds it in her hand, gripping it tight, and then says: ‘You’d better watch this.’
Once Bob has got the camcorder connected to our TV, we all sit down to watch the film, an odd time to be seated together doing such a thing, Steve and I, Martin and Claudia, Bob and Tamarine, Roland and Dorota, Dad and Pat, and our delegated police officer who lurks on the arm of my sofa, notepad in hand. But this film is not High School Musical, Grease or Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. It is the film that our children have been absorbed in making these last couple of weeks, so absorbed in creativity that we have left them to it. It is so rare for them to get on and do things without squabbling or the constant need for adult intervention that we let them. No questions asked. So we could get on and do things ourselves, things we thought were more important. But what can be more important than spending time with your children? Cleaning loos, polishing pews, raking leaves? Are these important? Are they?
The blank TV suddenly turns into Jessica’s face. It is such a surprise to see her that some of us actually gasp. Bob puts his hand to his head and rubs it, that way of his when he is lost for words. I’ve seen it often enough as Jessica does something that exasperates him.
It is an extreme close-up of Jessica, jerky at times so it looks like she has hiccups. You can see her freckles, the deep brown of her eyes. The collar of her precious football shirt.
‘When did she pluck her eyebrows?’ Bob looks at Tamarine.
‘I did it for her two weeks ago, Bobby,’ Tamarine says. ‘She ask me. She want to look nice. Like young lady.’
Bob lets out a noise I have never heard him make before. His eyes are wet and he swipes at them with the back of his hand. ‘She’s ten-years-old,’ he whispers. ‘Ten.’
Then Claudia, quiet and contained for so long, starts to cry and moan and Martin puts his arm around her and she lets him, too weak to fight him off. Maybe she doesn’t even notice; sh
e is so focused on that screen, waiting for her son’s face to appear.
Dad keeps looking over his shoulder at the door, anticipating the return of his grandson, banging and crashing his way to join his family in this communal viewing. But no-one comes in. Those of us here, including Olivia and Rachel cross-legged on the floor, consume the heart-stopping film, none of us more deathly quiet than Martin, whose arm remains round his wife’s shoulder, still and limp, the way it lay on Thursday, (was it only Thursday?) hanging over the dentist’s chair.
The children have made some kind of documentary, a project for school. ‘What is family?’ It sounds like a feature you’d get in Martin’s Observer but this is much more profound, much more unpredictable.
Jessica introduces the project before her face fades to black. Then there is a shot of the playground at the park, children of all sizes, from toddlers on slides to teenagers messing about on swings and, dotted about, mums chatting, offering biscuits and shouting warnings. And the odd dad, standing around, awkward and out of place, or overly-confident, chucking their sons around like rugby balls. A general hum of noise and activity, nothing unusual, what you see in any London park, on any day of the year.
Cut to: Jeremy sitting on a wall down our street, outside the Khans’ house. Jessica’s voice asks a question off screen and Bob flinches. ‘What is family?’ Jeremy bites his lip and leans back on the wall, swinging his legs so he’s on the verge of falling back onto Mr Khan’s crazy paving. ‘It’s the people who look after you,’ he says. ‘That’s not always your mum and dad though they’re supposed to. Sometimes they can’t. Not all the time so someone else helps out. They are family too.’
I dare not peek at Martin or Claudia, knowing how they must feel hearing that, wondering if I could have done more to mediate but I was so wrapped up in my own stuff that I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.
Cut to: school playground. End of the day. Parents standing around chatting, loaded down like donkeys with PE bags, reading bags, backpacks, drink bottles, letters, while their children, unencumbered and light-headed after a day indoors, skip around and jump up and down, squawking and squealing.
Cut to: Rachel, hop-scotching over the far end of the playground, speaking breathlessly with every jump. ‘Family is the people you like live with. The ones you argue with and don’t have to make up with cos you have to just get on with it. And family is your grandparents cos they come and treat you and spend time with you and talk to you which is good cos your parents can be like busy with stuff, all that washing and meetings and rushing around. And family is your brothers and sisters and my sisters are a pain in the butt but I love them just the same.’
She stops and grins briefly at the camera, embarrassed at that word, ‘love’. And then turns her back, throws the stone and jumps off. The camera gets a bit wobbly at this point and you can hear Jessica mutter under her breath at a child who has come up to her. Then it goes dark. A moment later the screen is back, Rachel’s feet, scuffed shoes, hopping towards the camera and stopping. She has been asked a question but we don’t hear what it is. As the camera pans up to her face, we can see her expression while she considers her answer.
‘I had this baby brother. He was like small and wriggly and cried quite a lot. I used to hold him sometimes sitting on the sofa. He was warm and heavy. He felt nice. When Mum laid him on the changing mat, he used to wee and it would like squirt everywhere. And we’d go out, Mum, Dad and me, to the park, and Dad would push me on the swings, really high so that Mum used to panic and she’d push Thomas round the edge of the playground in his pram to like get him off to sleep and that. And then one day we went to bed and in the morning he was gone. To heaven. But I’m not sure where that is or if I’ll see him again. And now I’ve got Olivia and Imo and they are well annoying. And sometimes they’re nice. And that’s it.’ She turns and hop-scotches out of shot.
Cut to: St Hilda’s church hall. Tea and coffee after a Sunday morning service. People of all ages and backgrounds, all those people from the community, so diverse and yet gathered together in a squat ugly building, drinking tea and squash and biscuits, even a few young people who don’t think church embarrassing. You can hear Jessica breathing as she walks around the periphery of the room, filming the people in her path, dodging Desmond – the shot goes to the floor for a while as she tries to hide the camera from him, in case he asks her why she’s filming. She stops when she reaches Karolina who is scowling. Jessica perseveres. Karolina takes out her lipstick and slashes it across her mouth. Then she smiles, says hello in Polish. Dzien dobry.
Jessica: D’you like living in London?
Karolina: Is grey and dirty. Penge is very boring. But is okay. I get used to London one day I hope.
Jessica: D’you miss your family?
Karolina: (Sneers) No. I have my family here.
The camera pans down to Natasha, clutching onto her mother’s denimed leg.
Cut to: Interior of the shed. Two camping chairs set out like the set of Parky, Jessica sitting on one, Jeremy on the other. Rachel must be holding the camera.
Jeremy: Who is the most important person in your life?
Jessica: My dad I suppose cos he’s like around all the time. Tamarine nags him to get off his backside sometimes and make some more money but Dad says he’ll work when he wants to work. But at least he’s around a lot. When I get back from school he’s usually there and he asks me about my day and stuff and if everything’s alright. And I always say yeah, it’s alright even though sometimes I want to say, Dad, school was a load of pants, my teacher’s a muppet and I miss my mum.
Jeremy: And what’s it like being an only child? For the purposes of the tape.
Jessica: It can be boring. It can be a pain cos you don’t have no-one going through the same things as you. Not like her. (She points at the camerawoman.)
Jeremy: And what would you ask your mum, if you got the chance?
Jessica: (after a long pause) I’d ask her when she is coming back.
Fade to black.
Later. In the back room I come across Martin and Claudia sitting side-by-side on the zed-bed, his arm around her fragile shoulders. She is nursing Jeremy’s old school tie, scratching away at a Tipp Ex stain with her chewed fingernail. They look up as I come in, faces hopeful for a moment, then scared.
‘No news,’ I tell them straightaway.
But they are not looking at me; someone else has entered the room. Rachel. She stands awkwardly, the friendship bracelet on one wrist, her other arm behind her back. She says in a strange voice, like she’s in a school assembly: ‘People run away from something or to something.’ She sniffs. ‘That’s what I heard the police woman say to Bob. She was trying to get him to think where they might have gone. Bob wasn’t very helpful. Said Jessica would never run away from home. She was happy. He never hit her if that was what they were getting at.’ A pause while we wait for Rach to get to her point which I know is coming.
‘Anyway... ’ She reveals what is lurking behind her back: an envelope. ‘I should give this to Bob but he’s crying and I don’t want him to feel worse. It was in the shed, in a seed packet. Runner beans. It’s time to plant them soon, Granddad reckons. I knew it was there all along and I thought the police would have found it but I suppose they were like only looking to see if Jess or Jeremy were hiding in there.’ She hands it over to her uncle. Not a Basildon Bond blue envelope but a scruffy, brown one.
Martin carefully takes out the folded letter inside, a grubby piece of lined paper torn from a pad. He holds it so that Claudia can read it. Then he hands it to me. It is from Jessica’s mother. It is from Jackie.
Easter Saturday may be a time of waiting and reflection but today requires action. I am no longer happy to have things done to me. I am going to do things myself, like the little red hen. I am Vicky the Do-er.
It is dark by the time we hit the A303. No Jazz FM today. No music at all. Martin and I sit in silence, his Saab doing the work. I don’t know what is going through his
mind; it’s hard enough working out what’s going on in mine. I clutch onto the hope that we will find them. They weren’t snatched. They decided to go. But...
The wheels keep turning, taking us nearer to the West Country, to Devon, to a small seaside town famous for its black swans and Brunel’s railway. A long way from Lanzarote. How did Jackie end up there? Why did she never come back for Jessica? Which I suppose is what Jessica needs to ask her.
I say nothing to my brother. It is my job to sit here quietly, to be next to him and to do whatever it takes to get his son back.
Nine thirty and we arrive in Dawlish, Martin’s sat nav wrestling with its one-way streets and narrow lanes. Finally we pull up outside a small painted terrace house. It looks quaint and authentic, only the Sky dish out of place. A dim light gleams within and I take that as a ray of hope. Martin switches off the engine and instead of tearing out the car and hammering on the door, he waits. And now I know exactly what he is thinking: What if that ray of hope is darkened?
‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Let’s go.’ I open my door and clamber out, stiff and tired and anxious, into the cold evening. The sea sighs, a few streets away. And then I hear Martin get out and click his door closed.
‘Let’s go,’ he agrees.
I follow him to the house and while he rings the bell, I try to peek inside the window, hoping for a pair of familiar shadows but there is nothing to see. The closed curtains give away no clues.
