Maria in the Moon

by Louise Beech

  Fern looked sheepish. ‘He said he wondered why you hadn’t returned his call … asked if you were OK, I think.’ She turned back to stir the chilli; I could see she was blushing. ‘I think I said you weren’t too good but I was sure you’d ring at some point.’

  ‘Return what call?’

  The chilli popped and spat a drop of scalding liquid onto Fern’s arm, making her swear. ‘Didn’t you get my note?’ she asked, dabbing the spot with a damp cloth.

  ‘Shit, Fern, what note?’ I burnt hot but my hands felt cold.

  ‘I wrote a note and left it on your pillow. He called the other night when you were at your mother’s. I put it here – just here.’ She went to the sofa and pulled away the duvet and cushions, searching in the cracks and gaps and eventually pulling out a yellow square of paper with ‘Christopher rang. Call him’ scrawled across it. ‘I thought you’d seen it and just weren’t interested – you never said anything.’

  ‘Shit, I didn’t see it.’

  I stared at her scribbled words, imagining how warm they’d have made me feel if I’d seen them with the ink still wet. Now they were dry and I hadn’t responded. Christopher had rung.

  I pulled on my coat, grabbed my scarf, and said I wouldn’t be long.

  ‘Where are you going now? The food’s nearly ready.’ Fern followed me, wine spilling from her glass. Her mouth hung open like a thirsty dog. ‘It’s freezing and nowhere’s open.’

  ‘I’ll be back for dinner.’ I kissed her cheek. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Are you going to his? Have you got your best underwear on?’

  I closed the door on her string of excited questions, without giving her a single answer.

  Victor was smoking a cigarette on the doorstep; he watched me descend the metal stairs, gripping the railing. ‘Happy Christmas,’ he called, and said he hoped Santa had a bulging sack tonight.

  I laughed and wished him the joys of the season.

  Frozen black puddles reflected strings of lights and flashing angels. Gardens had been decorated with silly Santas and smiling snowmen. I walked on the grass verge so I wouldn’t fall, holding onto walls when I had to endure the path. Tonight I wouldn’t cut my knee as I had on that first Flood Crisis shift.

  Tonight there’d be no hurt.

  A group of carol singers hurried past me, practising their high notes, warbling in unison. Festive hats covered their heads, and tins of money rattled in their hands. Though I’d never visited the place, I remembered Christopher’s address from the sheet Claudia gave me at our training session. No star guided me, only three drunken girls in feather boas, who gave me shrieked directions. But I was bearing a gift that was part gold.

  The street when I found it was quiet. Christopher’s house was at the end of a cul-de-sac, near a huge field glistening with patches of ice. Far away, someone sang ‘Silent Night’. Pure words carried on the air. I wrapped my hand around the watch and counted the house numbers as I had so many times on the approach to my own flood-ruined place; one, three, five, seven, nine, eleven.

  I stopped at thirteen and stared at the brown door with a rusted brass knocker. No light shone to signal that someone was at home; my heart dropped. Still, I walked up the path, slipping and stopping to hold the fence to stop myself toppling over.

  At the red step I almost turned and left, fearing what this door might reveal. But I banged the knocker twice then stood back and waited. Eleven intakes of frosty breath and I prepared to leave. Then Christopher opened the door. White-faced, he blinked in the unwelcome light. His T-shirt was creased.

  ‘Katrina?’ The word was a sleepy question.

  Katrina. Was I her?

  ‘Were you asleep?’ I tried to look past the half-closed door and see what I’d never heard in the background on the phone, what I had tried to visualise some nights when I couldn’t sleep. But he blocked my view.

  ‘I think so. I was watching TV.’ He scratched his hair. ‘Might have been something with that woman off Building Fabulous Houses in it.’

  ‘It’s only eight-thirty,’ I said. ‘But if you were watching her, I understand.’

  ‘I’m tired.’ His hair was flat on one side but stuck up on the other.

  ‘I just woke up too,’ I said.

  ‘You were asleep in my street?’ Though he joked, he didn’t smile.

  ‘No, I mean, I realised. I remembered something.’ My breath hung in the air; his feet were bravely bare.

  He shivered, wrapped his arms across his chest. ‘You remembered more?’

  ‘Not things about me; about you. I remembered that day we were sorting through those hideous decorations at Flood Crisis and what you told me.’

  Across the street a group of teenage carol singers discussed which houses were likely to cough up the most money for a rap version of ‘Jingle Bells’.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ Christopher asked.

  The rapping teens called out to us and asked if we’d give them a fiver for a song; we both shook our heads.

  ‘About your wife: you told me she gave you the watch and left you tonight – on Christmas Eve. So, I was talking to Fern about suicide calls and how they increase this time of year and how depression is—’

  ‘And you thought of me?’ Christopher laughed, but it sounded more like a cough and he seemed to withdraw further into his hallway. ‘That’d make a great obituary: “He reminded me of crisis lines and depression.”’

  I tried to explain that that wasn’t what I’d meant at all and tried to describe how sad it made me when I imagined his wife leaving. That it made me sadder than anything I’d ever felt for anyone. Sadder than for any calls I’d taken. Sadder than when I’d broken up with Will. And not sad in a bad or pathetic way, I tried to explain, but sad in a raw and true way.

  ‘I don’t know what it means,’ I said and held out the red watch. ‘But you’re right – people come back.’

  He stared at it, then put out his hand and touched it like he’d never seen it before, reluctantly reclaiming it. He shrugged. ‘Yes, your friend came home.’

  ‘I was thinking the other night, that people have to go away to come back. But some people never leave. They do emotionally but they’re never actually gone.’ Now it was empty I put my hand back in my pocket. Nothing I was saying made sense. ‘But that’s not why I’ve come here. I wanted to ask you something.’

  ‘I’ve got a question too,’ he said. I could make out the sound of the TV inside his house, perhaps the theme-tune to CSI. ‘Why did you leave Flood Crisis? Was it because of that awful shift? I’d totally get it if it was. Or was it because you didn’t want to see me anymore?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t because of you. People will be going home soon and their houses will be repaired and they won’t need us, will they?’

  ‘Katrina, they—’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m Katrina anymore,’ I said. ‘I have to be Catherine, don’t I? At some point, I have to be Catherine.’

  ‘I knew you as Katrina.’

  The teens rapped in harmony further up the street, ‘Jingle Bells’ Kanye West style.

  ‘She’s gone,’ I said softly.

  ‘Is that your way of saying I liked a ghost?’ He leaned his head against the doorframe and studied me. ‘Did you come to remind me that my wife left two years ago tonight? And to tell me Katrina has gone? I know those things.’

  I shook my head. It started to snow. Soft flakes fell soundlessly on top of the ice, softening the sharp edges.

  ‘I’m sorry if I messed you about. I know I ruined everything. I should’ve just been brave enough to call you. But people make mistakes. Your wife made one when she left you. I did when I didn’t call you last week. I wanted to. I was going to. So many times. But I was scared you’d reject me, which is silly. You’ve only been good to me. And then tonight I just found out you’d called me and I felt worse. But kind of happy too.’

  ‘You didn’t know I’d called?’ He blinked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I rang twice.�
��

  ‘I know that now – I found out twenty minutes ago. Bloody Fern left me a note the first time and I never got it. Then she only just told me that you called last night.’ Snow was settling on my shoulders now and on the step. ‘I would’ve been so happy if I’d seen that note on my pillow. I’d have called you back.’

  ‘I thought you just weren’t interested.’ He shook his head. ‘It hurt.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I was … I am.’

  ‘You had a question.’ He let the door fall open some more, granting me a view of his hallway, of letters and newspapers on a small table, of blue-carpeted stairs, perhaps a bedroom beyond. ‘Just to avoid confusion, who’s asking?’

  ‘Catherine. Me. I am.’

  I held my face in my hands, not sure if it was to hide or warm it.

  The snow made everything new.

  I’d spent my life asking questions. I’d asked millions, over and over and over. At crisis lines I’d asked people if they were sure about dying. I’d asked if they were still there and about an acting teacher called Mr Westerly. I’d asked what a man with a strange voice could remember about his daughter, and then who he was as he died. I’d heard answers that had made me cry, ones that had surprised and angered me, ones that had revealed my own truth as much as the caller’s.

  Snow continued to fall.

  None of the questions I’d asked felt as heavy as the one I opened my mouth to ask now. I tried to form the words.

  Glancing at the avenue blanketed in new snow, I realised two streetlamps were out, either stubborn or broken. But there was still enough light to see. Even half lit the path was visible. I could see trees and faithful carol singers. Not all lights are needed to dispel the dark.

  Maybe I could have used other words, less oft-used ones. Maybe I could have phrased my question more eloquently. Maybe I could have picked one that did not sound like a prompt and that had not been asked so many times before, perhaps on a doorstep such as this.

  But I think I chose the only words there were.

  ‘Christopher,’ I said, ‘do you fancy going out sometime?’

  ‘Maria in the Moon’

  – an original song by Carrie Martin

  ‘Little girls made of sugar and spice,

  and all things nice;

  we should keep them safe in jars,

  upon a shelf.’

  Something a little bit magic happened when Louise told singer, Carrie Martin, about her latest novel’s themes and storyline. A soul-stirring tune Carrie already had in her head finally found its words, and the song was born – quickly, in a matter of days.

  With its stunning video, haunting melody, and emotive lyrics, it’s going to be a sure-fire winner. Wherever Carrie plays it – at gigs and festivals – it brings the house down. She has already garnered much love with her fantastic album What If and for her captivating performances, but Carrie feels this song is something special. And it really is.

  Your device does not support the Audio.

  Visit Carrie’s website – www.carriemartin.co.uk – to find out more about the creation of the song, about Carrie and Louise’s friendship, and how you can download the track and see the video.

  Acknowledgements

  I want first to acknowledge all the Hull and East Yorkshire folks who flooded in 2007. Hopefully, this book is a tribute to your bravery.

  As always, thank you to Karen Sullivan for everything. For the passion. For the belief. For the friendship. Thanks to West Camel for the always thoughtful, always helpful, always perfect edits. And to Kid Ethic for the stunning cover design.

  Thanks to my pal Jess Addinall, who squealed at me at every twist and turn of The Mountain in My Shoe, and demanded Maria in the Moon early! Hope you enjoy it now it’s here. Thank you to Chris Miller for the helpful advice when this novel was in its infancy, just after the floods.

  I must thank the following for their incredible support – Rosie Canning, Jeanette Hewitt, Janet Harrison, Cassandra Parkin, Tracey Scott-Townsend, Hayley at RatherTooFondOfBooks, Joanne Robertson, Anne Williams, Ellen Devonport, Tracy Shephard, Tracey Fenton, Sophie at Reviewed The Book, Jane Isaac, Victoria Goldman, Lorraine at The Book Review Café, Clair at Have Books Will Read, The Book Trail, Anne Cater, ShotsMag, NorthernCrime, Tony at MumblingAbout.com, Louise Wykes, Sumaira Wilson, Annie at The Misstery, Steph at StephBookBlog, Lucy V Hay, The Quiet Knitterer, Sheila Rawlings, ThisCrimeBook.com, GrabThisBook.net, Lisa Adamson (Segnalibro), Jen at Jen Med’s Book Reviews, Sue Bond, Kate Furnival, Katherine at Bibliomaniac, ChillersKillersAndThrillers, Steph Broadribb CrimeThrillerGirl, Books Underground, Portabello-BookBlog, Liz at LizLovesBooks, BlueBookBalloon, NeverImitate @ followthehens, Lauren Allen, Rebecca Boof at The Book Whisperer, Carol Lovekin, Emma The Little Bookworm, bloominbrilliantbooks, Janet Emson, LiveManyLives, The Last Word, Damppebbles.com, Claire Knight, Jules at LittleMissNoSleepDaydreams, The WelshLibrarian, Sarah Hardy, Karen at My Reading Corner, Chelsea Humphrey, Louisa Tregar, Gill Paul, Melissa Bailey, Kerry Fisher, Merith @bookfairiecymru, Nicola Smith at Short Book & Scribes, If Only I Could Read Faster, the Fudge Book Club, Donna Roussel, Annie de Bahl, and Richard Littledale.

  Huge thanks to Helen Cadbury for sharing my York book launch. You are hugely loved and missed by the book community. Also to Russ Litten for hosting the Hull one, and to Michael J Malone for the magical London one.

  I was profoundly moved when Claire McAlpine got in touch because How To Be Brave helped her though a tough period with her beloved daughter. It connected us (and Grandad Colin). Thank you.

  Also, to Melanie Hewitt, who said I’d ‘opened the door to reading again’ for her. I’m honoured to have done so.

  Thank you to the Prime Writers for all the writing encouragement; I won’t name you all for fear of leaving someone out, but you’re an endless support.

  Thank you to The Facebook Book Club (TBC) led by Tracy Fenton – again too many to name, but you’re a cracking group, where I have such fun.

  Also to Book Connectors – a place that’s such a haven for bloggers and authors.

  Thanks to the Women of Words gang – you know who you are!

  Thank you #BeechsBitches – Helen Boyce, Ellen Devonport, Gail Shaw, Frances Pearson, Donna Young, Donna Moran, and Barbara Beswick.

  If you enjoyed Maria in the Moon you’ll love…

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Louise Beech has been writing since she could physically hold a pen. She regularly writes travel pieces for the Hull Daily Mail, where she was a columnist for ten years. Her short fiction has won the Glass Woman Prize, the Eric Hoffer Award for Prose, and the Aesthetica Creative Works competition, as well as shortlisting twice for the Bridport Prize. Her debut novel, How To Be Brave, was a number one bestseller on Kindle in the UK and Australia, and a Guardian’s Readers’ Pick in 2015. The Mountain in My Shoe was longlisted for the Guardian Not the Booker Prize. Louise is currently writing her fourth book. She lives with her husband and children on the outskirts of Hull – the UK’s 2017 City of Culture – and loves her job as Front of House Usher at Hull Truck Theatre, where her first play was performed in 2012.

  You can follow Louise on Twitter @LouiseWriter and on Facebook at www.facebook.com/louise.beech, or visit her website: www.louisebeech.co.uk.

  Copyright

  Orenda Books

  16 Carson Road

  West Dulwich

  London se21 8hu

  www.orendabooks.co.uk

  First published in the UK in 2017 by Orenda Books

  Copyright © Louise Beech 2017

  Louise Beech has asserted her moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publishers.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-910633-82-3

  eISBN 9
78-1-910633-83-0

  Typeset in Garamond by MacGuru Ltd

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon cr0 4yy

  sales & distribution

  In the UK and elsewhere in Europe:

  Turnaround Publisher Services

  Unit 3, Olympia Trading Estate

  Coburg Road,

  Wood Green

  London

  N22 6TZ

  www.turnaround-uk.com

  In the USA and Canada:

  Trafalgar Square Publishing

  Independent Publishers Group

  814 North Franklin Street

  Chicago, IL 60610

  USA

  www.ipgbook.com

  In Australia and New Zealand:

  Affirm Press

  28 Thistlethwaite Street

  South Melbourne VIC 3205

  Australia

  www.affirmpress.com.au

  For details of other territories, please contact info@orendabooks.co.uk