‘Sort of. He wasn’t horrible. There was a room above the café that he let me stay in,’ I add. ‘There was no proper bed and no shower. It was a storeroom and I had to go into the toilet to wash in the sink. He charged me rent, which meant I ended up working for next to nothing. I didn’t understand minimum wage at the time and the other people who worked there didn’t speak English very well. When my shift finished, I’d go out walking for miles. I’d go around all the touristy areas and then head out further. Then I started to remember…’
Mum has pressed forward to the edge of her seat. ‘Remember what?’
‘Olivia... Stoneridge. I got a phone and figured out the Internet, so I searched online for the name. Things started to come back but I didn’t know what to do. One of the girls from the café taught me to drive and she knew someone who sold cheap cars. I’d drive out this way but was too scared to come all the way into Stoneridge. It took me eight months to get this far.’
She stares at me and her nostrils flare wide. ‘You should’ve… you could’ve… Do you remember me?’
It feels as if I’m locked to her and I have to force myself to look away. My tea has been going cold on the side and I take a few seconds to sip it before twisting back. ‘Bits,’ I say. ‘It all melds together. I’m sorry but I can’t remember what was you and what was my other mum and dad.’
It takes a while but she nods. I think she wants to move on. Dwelling too much will mean tears, and who knows where we go then.
‘Do I call you Olivia… or Karen?’
There’s no question what she’d prefer. The name ‘Karen’ escapes through clenched teeth. It would break her heart if I said anything other than what I do.
‘Olivia.’
She sighs with relief.
‘I remember a flowery dress you used to wear,’ I add. ‘It was white but there were pink and green bits.’
This brings tears to the corner of her eyes. She blinks and wipes them away. ‘I did,’ she says. ‘What was I thinking?!’
She laughs through the tears and then takes a tissue from the box on the table to blow her nose.
‘I remember the beach,’ I say. ‘I think we played cricket or rounders. Something with a bat…?’
Mum’s face brightens. ‘That’s right – your father, me and you.’
‘I think there was a birthday party, too. I remember a cake and candles at a bowling alley. It must’ve been with you because we’d have never gone from the caravan.’
Another nod. ‘That was Nattie’s birthday – the girl from the café. You would’ve been five, I think. I can’t believe you remember that. I barely do.’
‘It’s only flashes, like when you wake up from a dream and you can remember the last bit. Everything’s really patchy.’
‘Perhaps being around the village will help you remember more…?’
Mum wipes her eyes once more but doesn’t push on to ask if I’m staying around. She’s about to say something else when there’s a loud scratch from the front of the house. She stands automatically, momentarily forgetting I’m there as she wipes her sleeve across her face and then tugs her hair back into a neater ponytail. She’s still on her feet as a man ambles into the room. He’s short and thickset with hairy arms and a mop of dark unruly hair, plus brown-black eyes to match. He frowns towards me as Mum lets out an ‘Oh’ of surprise as if she’s not expecting whoever this is.
Moments later, there are more footsteps and then a little boy patters into the room. He’s unsteady on his feet, wobbling from side to side. Mum scoops him up from the floor and cradles him onto her shoulder as he pokes at her ear. She glances over his head towards me, looking for a reaction.
The final person into the room is a man who looks like the first one to enter. He’s equally short with a thick mat of hair across his arms. He’s tanned with the sort of leathery brownness that comes from spending too long outside. His hair is shorter than the first man, but it’s still a mess of straggly black. He looks from me to Mum and back again, eyes shrinking to slits.
‘What’s going on?’ he asks.
Mum turns to me, balancing the child on her arm. She points to the second man, then the first. ‘This is my husband, Max, and his brother, Ashley.’ She then twists so that the little boy is looking at me. His eyes seem too big for his skull in the way toddlers do. There’s a thin covering of sandy straw hair but he has the same green eyes as my mother.
‘Say hello, Harry,’ she says. ‘This is your older sister, Olivia.’
Four
I reach out to take Harry’s hand and his tiny twiglet fingers grip mine tightly. It’s been a long time since I thought about having brothers or sisters. I’d never particularly wanted siblings before but, now he’s in front of me, Harry is the most wondrous thing.
He babbles something about ‘bricks’ and then lets me go. Mum places him on the floor and he toddles off to a box in the corner. He upends it, scattering a pile of Duplo bricks across the hard floor before plopping himself down among the plastic mess. I watch him but I can sense everyone else looking at me.
‘How old is he?’ I ask before anyone else can speak.
‘Twenty-eight months,’ my mum replies quickly.
It takes me a few seconds to figure it out – two years and four months. When do people stop having their ages announced in months?
‘He has your eyes,’ I say.
‘Yours, too,’ Mum replies. We glance to each other for a moment but it’s she who turns away almost instantly. She seems closer than ever to tears.
Harry is oblivious to it all, clipping a red brick into a blue one and then sucking his fingers. He’s jabbering to himself and I’m not sure if it’s actual words. I want to pick him up and hold him.
‘Olivia.’
The first of the men to enter says the name like a question and I turn to face him. This is Ashley, my mother’s brother-in-law; my step-uncle, I guess. If that’s a thing. The two brothers look similar but there are differences. Ashley is taller, with thicker arms. There’s a blemish that zigzags across his eye and another straight line of scar tissue on his top lip, under his nose. He’s unshaven, with dark stubble; but Max, my stepfather, is clean.
‘Hi,’ I reply.
Neither of the brothers speak. They stare at me as one, eyes narrow with suspicion.
‘You’re Olivia…?’
It’s hard to tell whether Ashley is asking a question. I hold my arms out, palms up as if to say, here I am.
‘What do you want me to say?’
‘You’re actually her?’
I don’t get a chance to reply because there’s a plasticky bang and then Harry starts to cry. He’s somehow trapped his finger between two bricks and is staring at it accusingly, not quite understanding what’s happened. Mum scoops him up, cooing about boo-boos and rocking him back and forth. Harry stops crying almost immediately and starts playing with her necklace instead. I get the sense this sort of thing happens a lot because she’s utterly unfazed as he drags on the silver chain.
Mum says she’s going to get a bottle and then carries Harry out of the room, checking on me over her shoulder before leaving. I continue to stand, smiling awkwardly as the two men goggle at me. The room suddenly feels cold. Ashley is eyeing me like I’ve been caught breaking into his car, while Max is full of bewilderment, watching on as if I’m a new creature he’s never seen before.
Thankfully, it’s not long before Mum returns. She plonks Harry on the floor and hands him a bottle of milk, from which he starts to guzzle and slurp. She looks up to me and then turns to Max and Ashley. The tension is impossible to miss. The warmth of the sun through the glass of the conservatory has been replaced by a simmering frostiness.
I know I shouldn’t but I can’t help myself. ‘What?’ I say, teenage half-shrug and all. I turn between the two men, daring one of them to actually say what they’re clearly thinking. Ashley, especially.
‘Nothing,’ Max replies. His brother is silent.
Mum looks
up from Harry and takes a step forward, putting herself between us. She speaks to her husband. ‘I think it’s a lot for everyone to take in,’ she says, running a hand through her hair. It’s a lot for her to take in as well. Her more than anyone.
His gaze doesn’t leave me as Ashley finally speaks. ‘Aye,’ he replies, nodding, somehow making it sound like a threat. ‘Where’ve you been?’ he growls.
I start to answer but Mum gets in there first. ‘She’s already been through everything once and I’m not going to stand here and make her repeat it all. We can go over it later if you’re concerned.’
There’s a spiky spark of annoyance and the sneering look Ashley gives her makes it clear there’s little affection between them.
It’s Max who breaks the impasse, stepping forward and stroking Mum’s arm. ‘Of course,’ he says, though his brother is unconvinced.
We all sit: Max, Mum and me on the sofa, Ashley in a wicker armchair that rocks slightly. I’m watching Harry and he’s back to being a happy delight. His bottle has been discarded as he bangs the Duplo bricks together again, apparently forgetting that he hurt his finger moments before.
‘It’s weird having a brother,’ I say.
‘Harry started nursery last month,’ Mum replies. ‘He’s there two mornings a week – it’s supposed to make children good at mixing if they experience being around other kids at a young age.’
It seems like such a happy little life at that age. Toys and food on demand, unconditional love and affection, somewhere warm and safe to sleep.
As Harry plays obliviously next to the window, it’s easy to imagine that he’ll never be allowed into the back garden by himself. I wonder how long it took Mum to be able to let him go to nursery, to let him out of her sight, even.
‘We can go to the police when he’s settled,’ Mum says. It’s matter-of-fact, as if this is the natural thing to do.
I turn to her. ‘Sorry…?’
‘They might come here if that’s easier.’
‘Who?’
‘The police.’
‘Oh…’
For the first time since we met in the café, she frowns at me; disappointed as if she doesn’t understand.
‘Is that what you want?’ I ask.
‘Isn’t that what you want? Someone committed a crime. They took you and effectively kept you prisoner. Unless you’ve already been to the police…?’
I shake my head and Mum looks to Max for support, even though he doesn’t say anything. We’re interrupted by a loud belch from Harry. We all turn to look and there’s an orange splurge on the front of his dungarees. He stares at it and then licks his hand before continuing to play with his bricks.
‘Oh, Harry…’ Mum sighs his name and then dashes out of the room. Her footsteps disappear along the hall and then there’s quiet except for the clink of plastic brick on plastic brick.
The brothers are watching me again and it’s impossible to ignore them this time; Max on one side, Ashley on the other. Considering he seems marginally the kinder of the two – and he’s family – it’s Max I look to.
‘So… you’re back,’ he says.
‘Something like that.’
‘Are you back for good?’
‘I’ve not thought any of that through. I didn’t know if Mum would want to see me…’
Max nods but there’s an under-the-breath snort from his brother. The conservatory doesn’t feel like a very welcoming place any longer. I want to leave but then remember that I didn’t come in my own car. I don’t know the way back to the village and I’d have to walk anyway.
It’s only a minute until Mum returns, cloth and clean pair of dungarees in hand. Harry grumbles as he’s plucked away from the floor and wiped down. Mum unclips what he’s wearing and tosses it to the side, changing him with the ruthless efficiency of someone who’s dealt with more than enough baby sick in her time.
Nobody speaks until she lifts herself back onto the sofa, patting my knee as she does so.
‘If you’ve not been to the police, then we should let them know as soon as possible. You’re still a missing person.’
‘What do you want me to say?’
She tilts her head, as if she’s misheard. ‘The truth. What you told me.’
‘It’s just… I can – if you want – but what then? I left more than a year ago. I don’t know where my – where the – other family is. They could be in Ireland or Europe, or anywhere.’
I’m looking to Mum but she glances sideways to Max and then across the room to Ashley. I know they’re both watching me and shiver under their attention. I don’t like this at all. I can’t believe there’s a right or wrong thing to do in this type of situation, that someone’s written a manual for it all.
‘Don’t you want them punished?’
Mum has tried to tone down her words but there’s steel there. Anger at what she’s been through, perhaps fury on my behalf as well.
‘I know what they did,’ I say, ‘it’s just… they sort of looked after me as well. I was never hungry; they didn’t hit me. I think I want to forget it all – for now at least. Can we do that?’
She bites her lip and I’m unsure if she’s angry, disappointed or both. I think she wants me to understand what it’s been like for her over the past thirteen years, that she wants someone to answer for all that. There’s a big part of me that wants to ask – but knowing that pain, feeling it, could change everything.
‘I can tell people if you want,’ I add. ‘It’s up to you – but won’t the papers want to come? We’ve got our own catching up to do before any of that…’
She starts to nod slowly and then it’s as if the spell has broken. ‘You’re right,’ she replies. ‘It’s your decision, your story to tell. I’m just glad to have you back.’
Five
For a while, we all sit and watch Harry play. He’s wonderfully oblivious, happy in his own world and unaware of how his family has changed. One day he might ask about what happened today.
I’m jealous of his innocence.
Ashley is shuffling in his seat, probably wanting to say something, though seemingly not to me. I risk a glance up to him and he’s not looking at Harry at all; he has eyes only for me. There’s a big part of me that wants to challenge him, pump my shoulders up and ask what his problem is – but it doesn’t feel like the time. Not yet. I keep reminding myself we’re related now – step-uncle and step-niece. How very twenty-first century. Broken Britain and all that.
I stand and ask where the bathroom is. Mum says there are two: one by the front door, the other up the stairs. With a smile for Harry, I head out of the room, following the hall until it reaches the intersection with the kitchen. There’s silence from the conservatory, so I continue to the front door; opening and closing the toilet door loudly and then padding my way back along the hall silently on the tips of my toes.
The only sound from the conservatory is the gentle clamour of Harry playing on the floor, interspersed with his calm gibberish.
It’s only a few more seconds until the conversation begins: ‘How’d you know it’s her?’
I’m not sure who’s speaking out of Max and Ashley. Max has hardly said anything but what little he’s said has been growled with the same gravelly tone as his brother. It’s like they swallowed glass as children.
‘What do you mean?’ Mum replies.
‘It could be anyone, couldn’t it? Not hard to figure out that Olivia would be, what, eighteen? Nineteen? Twenty? Anyone could claim to be her.’
I suppose this is what I expected all along. How does my mother know it’s me? She talked about remembering my eyes, but is that enough? Is it even true? I expected to have to prove myself, but nothing today has gone as I expected.
‘I know my daughter’s eyes.’
There’s a snort, which makes me pretty certain it’s Ashley who’s talking. I’m standing by the kitchen door but the sound is echoing along the wooden floors and amplifying. I might be able to hear them even if I w
as by the front door.
‘Eyes?’ he says. ‘You’re believing all this based on the colour of her eyes?’
He’s sneering and indignant but, in some ways, he’s echoing my own thoughts. Eyes? Is that what it means to be a mother? If there were ten kids lined up, each inside a full-length box with only a pair of eyeholes cut into the cardboard, could a mother pick out her own child?
Could she do it after thirteen years?
‘It’s not only the colour,’ Mum replies. ‘It’s more than that. You wouldn’t understand.’
‘Why wouldn’t I understand?’
‘Because you’ve never given birth and you never will.’
It’s definitely Ashley who has been speaking. There’s a short silence and I can feel the tension from along the hall.
‘You need to take a step back and think about this rationally,’ Ashley says, changing his tone. He’s tried force, now he’s onto logic.
‘Think about what?’ Mum says.
‘You’re being scammed.’
‘I know you used to run a garage – but not everything is a con.’ She sounds fed-up, perhaps ready for an argument.
‘What do you mean by that?’
The snapped, snarled reply has a definite undercurrent that’s hard to judge without being able to see his face. It sounds dangerous.
Mum replies instantly, cutting Ashley off. ‘Nothing. All I’m saying is that she’s my daughter. Call it intuition, whatever you want. I know who she is.’
‘Sounds more like naivety to me.’
‘It’s not. Olivia knew things. She remembered a dress I had. Natalie had a birthday party at a bowling alley when she was young and Olivia knew about that too. She remembered her father and me playing rounders on the beach one time.’
There’s a pause and I wonder if this is the end of the conversation. At least I’ve managed to get something across competently today. I can’t remember everything I said to Mum, only what I meant to say. It’s all a blur. I was supposed to be clinical and logical with my words but seeing her was too sentimental.
The Girl Who Came Back Page 3
