Looking for Alex

by Marian Dillon

  ‘This looks like it. But there was an alley at the side, and a gate that wasn’t locked, and you could look through the window and see the drawings on the wall.’ She squints round at me. ‘They were right weird. We were trying to work out what they meant but then this woman banged on an upstairs window and we ran for it.’

  ‘But, Alex,’ I say, ‘if there was an alley at the side this can’t be it. Can it?’

  ‘It looked like this,’ is all she says.

  It’s getting dark and I’m beginning to feel chilled; the damp is seeping through my thin jeans and my legs are shivering.

  ‘Let’s go home,’ I say.

  She pulls a face and points to the street on our left. ‘Just let’s try down here.’

  ‘Do you know the way back?’ I ask, suddenly aware that I don’t.

  ‘Of course.’

  We go the way she wants but halfway along the street we come to a halt, startled by a sudden thin wail that seems to drop down from the sky. We look up to see an open window a few doors away, and when the noise comes again I realise that it’s a baby crying. It’s a bleak sound; if a baby could be said to despair then this one does. I have no experience of babies but somehow I know it’s the cry of a child that doesn’t expect to be comforted. I glance at Alex and see her face has gone white, her eyes are like two black buttons and her mouth is pressed tight. It’s unusual, for Alex to have no jokey comment at hand, something to make light of a heavy feeling.

  She walks faster as we near the house. ‘Come on,’ she says, and I don’t need persuading. But as we pass the house the front door opens and there’s a shout.

  ‘Hey, you girls!’

  We spin round to see a woman on the steps. She wears a summer skirt and a long, saggy cardigan, which she wraps round herself with folded arms. Her legs are bare and her face looks pinched with cold.

  ‘Can you ’elp me?’

  Startled, we look at one another. How? The woman comes down the steps towards us, and all the time the baby is crying. She tells us that the child is ill and she needs to get her to hospital. She says it’s too far; she can’t walk; she has to fetch her husband home.

  Alex says, ‘Where is he?’

  She jerks her head down the street. ‘Down t’club. Playin’ cards.’ She asks if we’ll come into the house and mind the baby while she goes for him and I look at Alex and she’s shaking her head.

  ‘Can’t,’ she says. ‘We have to get home. We’ll be late.’

  I speak up. ‘We could, just for a minute,’ I say, and Alex’s head springs round. She mouths, what? Turning to the woman, she says, ‘Can’t you ask a neighbour?’

  ‘Not anyone round ’ere.’ That’s all she says. She looks at us solidly, as though she doesn’t doubt that we will help. Maybe it’s because of that that I try to persuade Alex, no longer than ten minutes, I say, just while the woman runs down to the club. She’s reluctant still, and as I put my hand on her arm to draw her towards the house I see, quite suddenly, how it is to be her. For a moment I am Alex and she is Beth, the sensible, cautious one. I know we should not go into a strange house but I want to anyway, and the more she resists, the more I insist; her pull is my push.

  So we go, following the woman upstairs, our shoes clattering on bare wood. She takes us into a tiny bedroom that contains little but the cot and the grizzling child, who is kneeling up at the bars. She tells us to watch her and she’ll be back as soon as she can. She says nothing to the child, no words of reassurance, a little girl in a grubby pink babygro whose age I try to guess — somewhere between one and two maybe. When her mother leaves the room she stops making any sound at all. She flops down onto her back and stares up at the ceiling.

  Alex whispers, ‘I don’t like this.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘Why did you say yes, then?’

  ‘What else could we do?’

  ‘Go and get someone to help?’

  I say nothing. It’s cold in the room, and there’s a rank smell in the air that seems to come from a plastic bucket in one corner.

  ‘It’s a nappy bucket,’ says Alex, with a little of her old authority back. ‘Soaking, shitty nappies.’ She lifts up the lid on the bucket, and the evil odour escapes. Quickly she rams the lid down and turns back to the cot.

  ‘She doesn’t look very ill to me.’

  I was thinking the same but I’m not going to admit that yet. Cautiously I move nearer to the cot and peep into it. The child’s face is pale and her eyes are red from crying. Her nose is snotty, and there’s what looks like dried milk, or vomit, round her mouth, which starts to crumple as I approach. I stop, pick up a teddy from the floor and dangle it over the cot. She stares at it silently, her bottom lip still unsteady. The one-eyed teddy looks sorry for itself, with stuffing leaking from where the head meets the body. I jiggle it along the cot rail, singing a funny, dancy song — dee-di-dee-di-dee-di-da, diddly-di-di-da — and am rewarded with the ghost of a smile. She stretches up one arm and I let her grab the teddy and pull it towards her; she cuddles it with both arms, flat on her tummy. I reach in slowly to pull the covers over her, and she lets me, her eyes not leaving my face.

  I say, ‘There, that’s better.’

  The woman is longer than she says, the ten minutes stretch to thirty and now it’s utterly dark outside; our faces moon in the window when we look down the street for her.

  Then we see her coming, scooting along behind a tall, thick-set man. They come clumping up the stairs; we hear him shouting at her.

  ‘There’s nowt wrong wi’ ’er. She’s just got bellyache.’ Next to me I sense Alex stiffen. ‘Just let her cry, woman, stop fucking pandering.’

  He throws the door open, looks at us, hooks his thumb behind him. ‘Get yerselves ’ome,’ he says, before crossing the room to the cot. As we squeeze round the bulk of him I dart one last glance into the cot and see the baby staring up, but then Alex tugs my arm, pulls me along and down the stairs. The woman runs after us.

  ‘Wait.’ She goes into the kitchen. Alex says, come on, let’s just go, but I pull my arm free of hers and wait for the woman to come back. When she does she’s holding out a small paper bag. ‘’Ere. Some spice. Tek it wi’ yer.’

  I take it, shove it in my pocket, and then we’re out, breathing in lungfuls of cold, clean air. All the way home Alex complains to me: what the hell did I do that for? I must have been mad. Haven’t I heard of the Moors murderers? Do I know how much trouble she’ll be in for being late? On and on, round and round. Her voice is high and kind of scared, and not like Alex at all.

  When we get to the bottom of her road, a big sweep of detached houses, she says, ‘We don’t tell anyone, right? We say we forgot the time and lost our way.’ As our parents rarely speak to each other I don’t see that it matters, but I agree. I’m not keen to reveal I went into a complete stranger’s house on a dark Sunday evening. I run the rest of the way home and it’s only later, after a telling-off, and tea and homework and laying out of school uniform, that I wonder if the baby is okay. And, although I’m not sure why, if Alex is okay.

  After that, I don’t give another thought to why she was so unlike herself.

  *

  Outside the hotel room, traffic and birds were stirring. I sat up in bed, thinking: I missed it. That day, there was a tiny window into Alex’s life and I didn’t look through it.

  I slipped out of bed to go and wake up my laptop. The therapy website was still loaded, on the page for Alex Day. I clicked on the email address and in the box that opened up I typed:

  This is a personal message for Alex Day. I am trying to contact an old friend from Sheffield, and wonder if you might be her. If the name Beth Steele means anything to you, I would be very pleased to hear from you.

  Staring anxiously at the message, I wondered whether to add or change anything. Then whether to send it at all. Before I had time to think any more, I clicked the mouse and it was gone. After that, I slept.

  *

  25th July 1977 />
  After Alex and Pete leave I go downstairs, hoping that Fitz will emerge from his room and the day take on some sort of shape, whatever that is. His door’s closed though, and on the other side Bob Dylan’s grainy voice sings a song about the Jack of Hearts. I lift my hand to knock but courage fails me; the camaraderie of last night seems lost and I don’t know if he’ll be glad to see me. I wander towards the kitchen, thinking I might at least do something useful, but hesitate when I see a woman at the table, head down, hands pushed into the sleeves of a thick olive-green jumper. She doesn’t stir. All the dirty, curry-stained plates have been pushed to the far side of where she sits and in front of her is a large mug of black coffee, her hands cradled round it.

  ‘Hi.’ Waiting for a response that never comes, I stand in the doorway, twiddling the hem of my T-shirt. Then I decide it can’t hurt if I just clear up a little. I need to do something. ‘I’m Beth, Alex’s friend. I thought I’d wash up.’ I go over to the sink where I start to put dried-up pans in to soak. I find washing-up liquid behind the check curtain but there’s still no hot water to be had, so I fill the kettle and light the gas under it. I begin collecting dirty plates from the table, moving carefully around her.

  ‘Are you staying here now?’ Her voice is clipped, abrupt, and her eyes remain fixed on the mug of coffee.

  I pause, facing her, a plate in each hand. ‘Only for a while, not like…’ I was going to say not like Alex but I stop because just then she looks up, and the sight of her face takes the words away from me. It’s all angles, with pale, bloodless lips stretched between two dark hollows under jutting cheekbones. Her bleached-blonde hair is cut short, close to her head, accentuating a stalk-like neck underneath. The baggy jumper hides the rest of her but it’s obvious how desperately skinny she is.

  ‘It’s nice of you to do that,’ she says, looking at the plates in my hand. ‘I’d help only I’m feeling a bit feeble today.’

  ‘That’s okay. I should earn my keep, as my mother always says.’

  ‘Must have been one of Fitz’s curries.’

  ‘Yeah. It was good.’

  She takes a sip of her coffee, using both hands to steady the mug.

  ‘Are you Celia?’

  ‘You guessed.’

  The kettle begins its frantic whistling and I take it over to the sink. I remember Alex saying Celia had been ill and thought it must have been serious to end up looking the way she did. Next time I look round she’s turned to face me, examining me with pale grey eyes, like two ten-pences.

  ‘Have you come to take Alex back?’

  ‘I…no. I don’t think so. I don’t think she wants to go back.’

  ‘Well, somebody ought to. Take her back, I mean.’

  I concentrate on scrubbing the next plate in the pile.

  ‘You’re both seventeen, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She says she can’t go home.’

  ‘Well, she has her reasons.’

  ‘Oh, everyone has reasons. But she shouldn’t stay here. She’s too young, in lots of ways.’

  ‘How old are you?’ There’s no real way of telling, with her body so wrecked.

  ‘Oh, I’ve been around a bit. I can look after myself.’

  That seems debatable but I ignore it, in search of further information. ‘What about Pete? How old is he?’

  ‘Oh, Pete, he’s, well, he’s sort of ageless really. But if I had to say…no, wait, I know this.’

  She closes her eyes and sits motionless for ages, until I think she’s forgotten the question and a pile of clean plates sit dripping suds onto the wooden draining board. As I plunge the first of the pots into now tepid water she speaks.

  ‘‘Thirty-four. Pete is thirty-four. That’s how old he is.’

  She smiles, pleased with herself for remembering, I suppose, but I’m shocked to learn that Pete is older than I thought.’So Pete is double Alex’s age. That can’t be good, can it?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about can’t, but it isn’t.’

  ‘Why isn’t? What do you mean?’

  ‘You don’t need me to tell you. You’re halfway there already.’

  She begins to get up from her chair, a process that looks as though it might consume what small amount of energy she has left. I think she must have decided she’s said enough and that she’s going back up to her room where she hid out last night. But first she crosses to the glass-fronted cupboard, opens one of the doors and lets down the flap. By now the washing-up water is grey and scummy and making little difference to the state of the pots, so I refill the kettle and wait for it to heat up. I watch what Celia’s doing out of the corner of my eye, noticing how her jumper and jeans are both several sizes too large. She takes a battered cake tin out of the cupboard and prises off the lid, then looks for a plate and finds the last one, a large dinner plate. There’s a packet of Ryvita in the tin; she puts two on the huge plate, places the tin back in the cupboard and pulls out a pot of Marmite. Then she scrapes a thin layer onto the Ryvita. All of this she does incredibly slowly and methodically.

  ‘Breakfast in bed,’ she says. ‘See you later.’

  ‘That’s your breakfast?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not hungry. I had loads to eat yesterday. Too much.’

  She disappears just as I hear the garden gate bang and think that Alex and Pete must be back, but when I turn to the window I see a young lad come hurtling down the path on a red bike, a Chopper. He slews to a halt outside, then bangs on the glass and peers in, his grin turning to an O of surprise when he sees me, a stranger. I go to the back door.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘‘S Fitz in?’

  ‘Er…yes, he’s in his room.’

  ‘Brill. I want him to fix my bike.’

  ‘He might be in bed.’

  ‘Lazy git. I’ll get him up.’

  He pushes past me into the kitchen, over to the hall and makes straight for the stairs. He’s all of ten or eleven, a little lad in tight shorts and a Scooby-Doo T-shirt, with a long fringe, a cheeky face, and a chippy voice.

  ‘Wait, not up there, he’s in here.’ I point to the door of the front room.

  ‘Eh? Why?’

  ‘Because I’m staying in his room.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I… I just am.’

  He glowers at me for a moment, then turns and trots back towards Fitz’s door. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Dan, you stop right there!’

  Fitz’s voice startles both of us and the lad hesitates, hand on the door-knob.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I’m getting dressed right now! I don’t want everyone seeing all my bits!’

  I feel myself blushing, picture the slow rise of colour up my neck and onto my face. ‘I’ll finish the washing-up,’ I say loudly.

  Dan trails into the kitchen after me. ‘Where’s Pete?’

  ‘Out. I don’t know where.’

  ‘With that punk bird?’

  ‘If you mean Alex, yes, he’s with her.’

  He looks round the kitchen. ‘Blimey, it’s a bit clean in here. Got any biscuits?’

  I laugh. ‘I don’t know. I’ve only been here one day. Have a look in the cupboard.’

  ‘Nah. There never are. What’s your name?’

  Before I can answer Fitz’s door opens and he comes out, yanking a T-shirt over his head. ‘Dan, you ask too many questions.’

  ‘Well, it’s the only way to find out, innit? Go on,’ he says to me, ‘what’s your name?’

  ‘Her name is Beth. Okay? She’s a friend of that punk bird. Here, take this.’ Fitz puts a handful of change into Dan’s hand. ‘For biscuits and a bottle of lemonade. Go on, corner shop.’

  He’s out of the door and on his bike before you can say Scooby-Doo. Fitz turns to me.

  ‘My little cousin. He lives round here. He keeps coming round. Whenever my Auntie Rose finds a job for him he’s off.’

  ‘He wants you to fix his bike.’

  ‘Yeah, well, maybe later.’ He gives
me a look. ‘How are you this morning?’

  ‘Not bad.’ I sit down, suddenly nauseous. ‘Not great though.’

  ‘You look a little fragile. Want some tea?’

  ‘Please.’

  He pads around the kitchen, barefoot, not saying anything except to thank me for clearing up. His manner is distant again and he doesn’t seem to want to chat. I take the hint and stay quiet, which suits me. When Dan comes back I take my tea upstairs and lie down on the bed. I doze for a while, listening to Fitz and Dan nattering as they tinker around with the bike in the garden. I can’t make out the words, just the rise and fall of their voices. It’s strangely comforting, to hear them: Fitz’s soft Irish and Dan’s chirpy voice — what I take to be Cockney, although I’m later told it’s nothing like the real thing. Hearing their chatter makes things seem more normal.

  I’m woken by a gentle tapping on the door.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s me. Fitz.’

  I sit up and lean back against the wall. ‘Come in.’

  He hovers in the doorway. ‘I thought I’d better check on you. It’s half-past five.’

  ‘I feel a lot better, thanks.’

  ‘You did too much weed last night.’

  ‘I was only keeping up with you lot.’

  ‘But we’re used to it.’ He comes a little nearer and sits down on the end of the bed.

  ‘Has Dan gone?’

  ‘Yep. His bike’ll hold out for another few stunts.’

  ‘Is Alex back?’

  ‘No.’

  I look down at my hands, fighting a hot surge of anger. ‘Do you know where she is?’

  ‘Me? No. I don’t get involved in all that.’

  ‘All what?’

  Fitz puts his head on one side and gives me a quizzical look, with that slight twist to his mouth that’s becoming familiar. ‘Beth, have you not yet sussed out how Pete makes his money?’

  I remember yesterday’s plentiful supply of dope. ‘I think I just did.’

  He nods. ‘You didn’t hear it from me.’

  Celia’s words float into my mind: somebody ought to take her back.

  ‘How did Alex meet him?’ I ask. ‘Do you know? I mean, what’s she doing sleeping with some ageing hippy?’