by Jane Cable
Claire sounded as though she’d been asleep and I apologised for waking her. “I needed to tell you that your mum’s with me.”
“Why – what happened?”
“Err… I don’t know. Perhaps once you gave her my card…”
“I didn’t. I told her we’d seen you, but when I said it was you writing the letters for the fairies she went off on one so I didn’t think it was the right moment. But whatever I said worked if she’s there now.”
“Well… yes. We’re going to spend some time together, see what we can work out. You’ll be OK getting into college on your own?”
“No problem. I can catch the bus from the village.”
“Good girl. If you need us call on my phone – you’ll probably trip over your mum’s handbag in the hall.”
“She must have left in a hurry. Is she OK?”
I looked at Izzie trying to disentangle the tissue from her keys. “Yes. Bit emotional, but then we both are.”
“Sounds promising. Give her my love – and you, too, Robin.”
“Thanks, Claire.”
I turned to Izzie. “Now, black coffee, hot bath, or both? Or would you just like to go to sleep?”
“Are you emotional, Robin? You’re hiding it well if you are.”
“Of course I am.” I spread my hands on the table. “Churned up, scared… full of love for you, really. It’s hard to put it all into words.”
“You’ll… you’ll make me cry again.”
“No – I don’t want to do that.”
“I’ll have that bath then.”
“Come on – I’ll find you a towel.”
I took Izzie upstairs to the bathroom I thought of as Jennifer’s. It was clean but not very warm so I turned on the heater and went to hunt in the airing cupboard for a towel. Yellow and white stripes to match the curtains. Yellow and white tiles too; Jennifer had loved it, said it was a slice of spring even in the winter.
Izzie was sitting on the edge of the bath. “So this must be where Jennifer put the boys after their dip in the river.”
“Yes.”
“That was really when I started to love you; the way you were that day. And I did peep when you were in the shower – and I wasn’t disappointed.”
I sunk down next to her. “Whatever happened, huh?”
I meant it in a self-deprecating way but she carried on, her face serious. “We’re going to find out, Robin. As soon as I’ve had this bath we’re going to retrace our steps. First your version of events and then mine. It’s got to jog some memory, stir something in one of us at the very least. I can’t go on like this.” She looked up at me, her pupils huge. “Or do you think I’ve lost the plot completely?”
“No. There’s always a chance…” I stood up. “Right. I’ll get us some breakfast.”
But in reality I stood on the landing for a long while, listening to the pipes creak and groan as the water gushed into the bath and the gentle sloosh as Izzie slid into it. Comforting as the sounds were I felt sick inside – the moment of reckoning had finally come.
Chapter Seventy-Two
We retraced our steps across the garden, along the bottom of the field and into the woods.
At the top of the slope Izzie paused. “This was it, wasn’t it? We were OK until we reached the tree – everything was the same.”
“As far as we can tell.”
“Yes, it must have been. And then… then we walked down the slope and held hands and made our wishes. And it thundered. But there’s no thunder today.”
“We’ll have to pretend.”
The Faerie Tree looked strange, stripped of its finery. A necklace of brightly coloured wooden beads and some ribbons remained in the higher branches but I had never seen the trunk so bare. We held hands around it.
“Will you wish for the same thing?” she asked and I nodded.
“I thought we had to.”
“I don’t want to. It… it might all happen again.”
“What do you mean?”
She shook her head. “Come on, let’s get on with it.”
The tingle of her fingers stretching out to mine felt the same, but this morning there was no drumroll of thunder, just a backdrop of birdsong as we made our wishes.
We held hands as we took the path towards the pub.
“Is this then, or now?”
“Both. Don’t you remember?”
“In my memory we walked down to the river.”
At the car park Izzie asked “What happened next?”
“You gave me a lift home.”
She looked puzzled. “But that’s right – I remember that.”
“Well that’s good, isn’t it?” I held out my hand for her keys. “Only this time, I’d better drive I think.”
She nodded. “I do feel a bit… light headed.”
Through Botley and over the motorway. So far so good. But my hands slipped on the steering wheel as we turned towards Swaythling. ‘It’s only a place,’ I told myself, ‘a place like any other.’ Even so my stomach was churning as I parked outside the Tesco Express where the corner shop used to be.
“Why are you stopping here?”
“Because it’s where you dropped me. I… I had to get some milk or something.” I undid my seat belt. “No, Izzie – that’s a lie. I didn’t need any milk – I was ashamed I lived on a council estate and I didn’t want you to know.”
She put her hand on my knee. “Sshh, Robin – don’t get angry at yourself. It was a long time ago.”
“It was a web of lies.” I thumped the steering wheel. “No-one knew… no-one… about my mum, where I lived… I thought… I thought for a long time… my shame had killed her, and I loved her so much.”
“I know. Auntie Jean told me how close you were.”
All I could taste was bile. “How did you meet Auntie Jean?”
She shook her head. “In my version of events I met her that day.”
The car shuddered as a van sped past. “Izzie, I’m not sure we should do this.”
“We have to, Robin. I need to know who’s right and who’s wrong.”
Her hands were trembling as they rested on her lap; I recognised the hell she was going through. I thought about my Post Office book – I could end it by showing her that – I didn’t have to go back at all. But what then? How would her broken soul deal with proof in black and white? Perhaps, if we went through with this, I could find a way to save her from that.
So I went into the shop, bought nothing, then walked up the hill with Izzie following a few steps behind. There were traffic lights now at my turn off the main road, and low walls in front of houses where there had once been hedges. I crossed to the other side and followed the pavement into a street which now boasted speed humps. Everything had changed – everything was the same.
The cul de sac dipped down a slope; four houses each side with another six around the bowl at the end. Ours had been the last on the right before the road began its curve. I stopped a few yards away on the opposite side; it was so changed I hardly knew it. If it wasn’t my reality any more then perhaps I could make it Izzie’s.
Clearly number four wasn’t a council house these days; it had been extended with a glass enclosed porch and an enormous bay which must have almost doubled the size of the living room. The attic now had a dormer window facing south and the garage had been completely rebuilt. A child’s bicycle lay on the front lawn.
I sat down on the wall of the nearest garden, feeling less guilty than I should have because it was overgrown and boasted a for sale sign. Izzie joined me.
“It’s so different,” I told her. “It didn’t have that porch or the bay at the front.”
“They’ve converted the attic too.”
It could have been a guess, or… “Mm”. I must have sounded too non-committal.
“If I tell you I know the house with the privet hedge and the red front door was Auntie Jean’s, then will you believe me?”
“I don’t… I don’t disbeliev
e you. Not at all. It’s just…”
Her hand covered mine on the wall. “I know.”
But she didn’t. My brain was struggling to cope with the fact that Izzie knew where Auntie Jean lived. It changed everything, and nothing. I thought again about the Post Office book but bringing the two together made no sense. There was proof for both our realities and that could not be.
I stretched my legs across the pavement. Weeds sprouted through the cracks in the concrete, florets of yellow groundsel breaking up the grey. I closed my eyes and let the distant hum of traffic wash over me while Izzie sat silently beside me.
“What do we do now?” I asked her eventually. “We can’t go into the house.”
“I know. Just tell me – tell me what you remember.”
“I was whistling. I remember that. Because I was so happy. Because for the first time I really believed you’d choose me over Paul.” I looked up. “What happened to Paul?”
“It was messy. It was late before I had the chance to phone him and I wouldn’t leave you… so it all came out…”
“Excuse me – you’re blocking the pavement.”
I leapt up and started to apologise but the sight of a dumpy pensioner with unlikely jet black hair stopped me in my tracks. “Auntie Jean!”
Never before had I seen anyone’s jaw drop. “Robin – oh my god. After all these years…” She gripped me so tightly the air was knocked out of my lungs. I hugged her back and the tears which had been threatening for what seemed like hours escaped over my lashes.
She stood back and looked up at me. “Oh, you great big softie.”
I smiled at her. “You remember me.”
“Of course I remember you, you daft idiot – I’ve known you since you were in nappies.”
Izzie spoke softly. “Do you remember me?”
Auntie Jean peered at her, but there was no flicker of recognition.
“I’m Izzie.” There was a tremor in her voice and my hand reached out and found hers.
“Izzie… yes, of course. Sentimental old fool that I am I’ve still got your letter somewhere.”
“My letter?”
Auntie Jean beamed at us. “Well there’s no point standing around on the pavement – let’s go in and have a cup of tea. We’ve got so much to catch up on.” She hugged me again. “Oh, Robin – I just can’t believe you’ve come back.”
The living room was not as I remembered, but that was hardly surprising after twenty years. A brown three-seater sofa was pushed against the back wall with a matching recliner positioned to have an equally good view of the road and an impressive flat screen television. One wall was filled with shelving and I studied the photographs displayed along it; a family Christmas, Uncle Len sitting in a deckchair, and numerous pictures of what I took to be grandchildren.
Auntie Jean put the tray down on the coffee table and came to stand next to me.
“That was the last Christmas before Len was taken. He had a heart attack, bless him – very quick. There’s our Sonia next to him, and her partner Mark, and Joel and Kelly. Her oldest, Michael, was with his dad – you remember – Phil – you and your mum came to the wedding just after she came out of hospital.”
I nodded. “Yes, I do. And I’m sorry to hear about Uncle Len.”
“Oh, I still miss him. But Sonia only lives in Woolston so she pops round ever so often and Michael sometimes stays when he wants to get away from the other kids. He’s an apprentice at Hamble boatyard – thinks he’s very grown up.” Her laugh was the same raucous cackle and my mother’s echoed alongside it.
“So where’s life taken you, Robin?” She turned to Izzie. “So you found him before I did, then? Perhaps I should have given you a letter and not the other way around.”
“It was only at Christmas,” I jumped in. “I hadn’t seen Izzie for years but we… we bumped into each other in Winchester.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve been living in Winchester and you never came to see me.”
I looked at my feet. “No – it’s worse than that. I’ve been in Curbridge most of the time.”
“And you never came until now? Oh, Robin – why not? Didn’t you know I’d be worried sick about you?”
“I couldn’t face coming back. I was ill for a long time only then I didn’t know it. Depression they’d call it these days. I fell on my feet though; I lodged with a lovely lady until she died last year.”
“You could have come to me, Robin – you knew I had a spare room. I’d have looked after you.”
“I’m sorry, Auntie Jean.” I still couldn’t look at her.
“Two postcards, Robin, and then you disappeared – that was harsh. And I didn’t know what to do when they came to clear your poor mother’s house.”
I shook my head. “I did mean to come back but somehow I just kept on going.”
“And it wasn’t only me you abandoned – it was this poor scrap of a girl here too. I’d never seen anyone so thin and pale when I went over to see who was knocking on your mother’s door.”
Izzie was looking fairly pale now. The dark circles under her eyes were almost clown-like and her hands were shaking again as she clasped her teacup.
“You didn’t remember me?” she asked.
“Not at first, but I do now. Of course I do. You were the only one of Robin’s friends who ever came looking for him, miserable lot.”
“No, I mean you didn’t remember me then?”
Auntie Jean frowned. “I don’t think we’d met. You told me you’d had to track down his address through the register of deaths.”
Izzie struggled to raise her head. “Robin, I’m so sorry… I don’t… feel very well.”
I sat down next to her and held both her hands. “That’s OK. I’ll run back and get the car and I’ll take you home.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry Mrs…”
“Auntie Jean. Everyone calls me Auntie Jean. But you’re not going to walk out on me again, Robin, are you?”
I fished in my wallet and gave her a card. “You know how to reach me now.”
She stared at it for a moment. “Gardener and handyman. Robin, your mother would have been… surprised.”
Chapter Seventy-Three
As soon as we reached her house Izzie made for the stairs.
I hovered at the bottom. “Can I get you anything? A hot drink, perhaps.”
She stopped long enough to shake her head, but she didn’t turn, not until she was almost at the top. “Maybe… maybe in a couple of hours…”
“OK.”
I wandered into the living room and sank onto the sofa. Izzie was only yards away, upstairs; but she’d dismissed me. I could be no comfort. I could… the telephone shrieked in the hall. I rushed to answer it, dragging the offending object into the living room with me and closing the door, sending the handset clattering to the floor in the process.
“S… Sorry about that.”
The voice at the other end sounded hesitant. “Can I speak to Bella O’Briain please?”
I almost didn’t recognise the name. “Who’s calling?”
“It’s Fiona – her head of year.”
“I’m afraid she isn’t well. I’d rather not disturb her.”
The voice asserted itself. “Who am I talking to?”
“I’m Robin.”
There was a short silence. “I thought you’d split up.”
“I’m here looking after her. I’m so sorry, I didn’t think to phone her work.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
I arched my back against the door. “I’m not a doctor.”
“Robin, if I phoned again and said it was her friend Fiona, would you answer me then? I know she’s had her problems since Connor died – and I also know she has terrible migraines.”
Which was news to me, but I pounced on it. “I think it’s much more likely to be the latter, friend Fiona. Whatever it is she just wants to sleep it off.”
“Can I phone this evening then, to find out how she is?”
I balanced the phone on the arm of the sofa and ventured into the kitchen. Besides the inevitable empty wine bottle the table boasted two half eaten packets of crisps, two crumpled cans of tonic and the gin abandoned with its lid off. Not that there was much left anyway. Plates from a meal I assumed to be Sunday tea were pushed to one side and I packed them into the dishwasher. When I opened the fridge to put the butter away I started to peruse the contents, wondering what to make for tea. But would I be cooking it? I looked around the familiar room and found myself in no man’s land.
Bottles in the recycling, plates and glasses in the dishwasher, I turned to scrubbing the wine rings and bits of stale crisp off the kitchen table. Wringing out the cloth over the sink I glanced into the garden; the vegetable patch had not only been planted but was flourishing.
I slipped out of the patio doors to take a closer look. The glossy leaved perpetual spinach was almost six inches high and the runner beans along the fence would soon be ready for a net to climb. Fronds of carrot rippled in the breeze and the beetroot was every bit as advanced as my own. The lawn could have done with a cut and the shrubs were growing with gay abandon, but the vegetables were a paragon of garden virtue. It gave me hope.
I left it a full two hours before disturbing Izzie. With a mug of tea in each hand and a packet of biscuits under my arm I eased her door open. She was sitting up in bed staring into space.
“How are you feeling?”
“I took some Neurofen when I woke.”
“I’ve brought you some tea.”
Her voice sounded dead as she thanked me.
“Fiona called. She assumed you had a migraine so I let her.”
She nodded.
I put her mug down on the bedside table. “Shall I stay?”
“Yes. I want you to read something.”
“What’s that?”
“The letter I wrote you twenty and a half years ago. Auntie Jean gave it to me when you went to fetch the car.”
I perched on the end of the bed and she handed me a piece of paper. I unfolded it carefully.
“The address… is that the flat in Shirley?”
“Yes. I’m glad… I did live there, Robin… I knew I had.”
