Peggy rolls her eyes again. ‘Sometimes, Marjorie Crawford, you really push your luck.’
Marjorie sticks her tongue out and they all laugh.
‘Seriously, though,’ Peggy says when Marjorie leaves the room to go to the loo. ‘This keeps happening, and she’s told me a few times that she’s looking for something. Sometimes she says it’s a letter, but she doesn’t know who from, and sometimes she can’t remember what she’s looking for. But what’s a bit odd is that now and again I get the impression she does know what she’s looking for but she doesn’t want to tell me.’
Eleanor feels a beat of interest; she knows so little about her mother’s life now.
Peggy sighs. ‘I’m probably imagining it. She’s probably after a shopping list from 1975 or something.’ She laughs and starts gathering up magazines, utility bills, recipes, postcards.
Eleanor picks up one of the postcards and turns it over. She recognises her own handwriting:
Dear Mum, just to let you know I am in Buxton now, working and staying in a pub. The landlord and landlady are nice but they said the job is probably only for the summer. I am still feeling very sad but I’m all right. Please give my love to Peggy and say sorry I haven’t sent a separate card but I’m being careful with money. I hope you are OK. E x
She looks at the picture on the front. She can barely remember the landlord there, but she’d worked in so many different pubs and cafés at that time, they sort of merged into one. She can see a couple of other postcards in the pile Peggy is straightening. ‘I’m surprised she kept them,’ Eleanor says, flipping over the cards and finding similar messages.
‘I think she kept them all. I still have mine, too. We were both so worried about you, Ellie, driving round the country in that motorhome thing you used to have – what did you call it? Dolly?’
‘You mean the old camper – Doris.’
‘Doris, that’s right.’ Peggy shakes her head. ‘You were so young, and you were in such a dreadful state.’
‘I’m sorry. I never wanted you to worry.’ She plucks a couple more from the pile. ‘But I suppose I didn’t really think . . . Oh, look at this one, this was a nice place.’ She shows Peggy the picture of the little tea rooms in Bakewell where she’d worked for a few weeks.
‘Ah, yes, I think that’s the one where we drove up to try and find you.’
‘Sorry?’ She thinks she’s misheard. ‘You—’
Peggy reads the back of the card. ‘Bakewell. Yes, that was it. Pretty little town. You didn’t stay there long, though, did you? We just missed you.’
‘You . . . you and Mum went to Bakewell?’
Peggy nods. ‘I think it’s the furthest your mum had ever driven. She was nervous about going all that way on her own, so I said I’d come with her. Truth was, I wanted to see for myself that you were all right. We’d missed you by two days, the lady in the café said. She told us you’d only been there to cover holidays, and she didn’t know where you’d moved on to. We didn’t have a clue where to start looking, so we bought a Bakewell tart and drove back home.’
‘But . . . you went all the way up there to look for me? She drove?’ As far as she knew, her mother never drove further than Lewisham shopping centre; Bromley if she was feeling adventurous.
‘You didn’t know?’
‘I had no idea.’
‘I thought I’d told you. But I suppose we weren’t in touch very often at that point, were we?’ She smiles. ‘That’s not meant as a dig; I know you were in a bit of a mess. But your mum said she wanted to talk to you; that was why we came.’
‘Talk to me? About what?’
‘We’d had a bit of a chat, me and your mum.’ She looks at the postcard again. ‘Ellie,’ her voice is soft, ‘your mum knows things would have been easier if she hadn’t been the way she is. She was coming to realise it at about the time you left, but of course she knew it was too late by then. It was good that you sent postcards – at least we knew you were alive. But you never gave us your address at first, and then when this one came with the picture of where you were,’ she fans the air with the card, ‘well, your mum reckoned there couldn’t be that many tea rooms in Bakewell, and off we went.’
Eleanor’s hands suddenly feel cold for some reason. ‘You went all that way,’ she mutters.
‘As it happened, she was wrong about that – there were a lot of tea rooms in Bakewell! Took us ages to—’ She breaks off as Marjorie comes back in. ‘Do you remember, Marje? Traipsing round all those bloody tea shops in Bakewell.’
‘Bakewell?’ She turns to Eleanor. ‘Weren’t you living there at one time?’
‘That’s what we’re talking about. That day we drove up there, you and me. Looking for Eleanor. Remember?’
‘Looking for Eleanor?’ Marjorie looks thoughtful. ‘Yes, yes, that’s right. But we never did find her, did we?’
‘Mum, I didn’t . . .’ She feels a lump of emotion swelling in her throat. It’s hard to speak, and when she does, her voice sounds thin and weak. ‘I didn’t know you came looking for me.’
Her mother leans forward. ‘Sorry, Eleanor, I didn’t catch that.’
She clears her throat. ‘I said, I wish I’d known you drove all that way to Bakewell.’
‘Bakewell? Weren’t you living there at one time?’
*
Eleanor had intended to set off first thing, but her mum forgot she was leaving today and bought ingredients for a vegetarian lasagne, so she ends up staying longer. Her mum spends all morning preparing the lasagne but then forgets to light the oven, so everything is later than anticipated, and by the time Eleanor puts her bags in the car it’s gone six. ‘Mum, don’t stand out here in the cold – I’ve got to scrape the windscreen yet so I’ll be a few minutes.’
‘Go in and put the kettle on, Marje,’ Peggy says. ‘I’ll be with you in a bit.’
‘I think I will if you’re sure you don’t mind. It was nice to see you . . .’ She pauses.
Eleanor realises immediately. She’s forgotten my name.
‘Yes, very nice to see you. Safe journey.’
This is the moment where any normal mother and daughter would embrace. Eleanor hesitates. If she’s going to do it, she needs to do it now. ‘I’ll try and come down again soon,’ she says, stepping forward, but Marjorie is already turning away. ‘I’ll give you a ring, Mum.’
‘Right you are, darling.’ Marjorie waves her hand briefly as she makes her way up the steps.
‘You’d better go in too, Peggy. It’s freezing out here.’
‘No, I’m all right. I see your mum every day, but I don’t get to see you very often, so I’m not sitting in there while I could be out here chatting to you. And anyway, I’ve got more meat on my bones.’
Eleanor smiles and goes back to scraping frost off the windscreen. ‘I’m sorry it’s been such a brief visit. I hadn’t realised how much you were having to keep an eye on her.’
‘It’s not that bad, really; not yet, anyway – she has good days and bad days. I’m just glad I can help out a bit.’
Eleanor tosses the windscreen scraper onto the passenger seat and turns to Peggy, who pulls her immediately into an embrace. ‘I’ll look after her, pet, and I’ll keep you posted.’
Peggy’s hugs are always tighter and warmer than anyone else’s, and they last longer. They make Eleanor feel about six years old again, but in a good way.
‘Thanks for all you’re doing,’ she says, affection for Peggy surging through her. Then comes the familiar pang of sadness at the realisation that, while she always has Peggy’s full attention, her own mother usually seems distracted. Sometimes she still feels like a child, desperate for her mum’s attention and approval.
Peggy kisses her cheek. ‘Drive safely, sweetheart,’ she says, finally releasing her. ‘Text me when you get in or I won’t sleep a wink.’
‘I promise.’
As she sets off, she realises she didn’t ask after Martin and Michael. Peggy doesn’t see much of them these days, and doesn’t s
eem to expect to. ‘They’re boys,’ she’d shrugged last time Eleanor asked. ‘Daughters are closer to their mums.’ Then she’d looked uncomfortable and changed the subject. It wasn’t the only time she’d said something like that. Her boys weren’t interested in cooking, she said once when a very young Eleanor was helping her in the kitchen, then she’d sighed and muttered, Your mum’s so lucky to have a girl. She said it so quietly, Eleanor wasn’t sure she was supposed to hear, but she realised that it meant Peggy really did like having her around and wasn’t just ‘looking after’ her to help out.
Eleanor: 1973, south-east London
The first Christmas after Eleanor’s dad died, Peggy and Ken invited her and her mum upstairs to spend Christmas with them and the boys. Eleanor was relieved. She’d been dreading it just being her and her mum on Christmas Day. She couldn’t even imagine how it would work without her dad. He was the one who carried the turkey in on a big plate and then carved long, thick slices for everyone; and it was he who poured brandy over the Christmas pudding and set it alight so that blue flames danced around it. They always turned the lights off for that bit. It was bad enough last year when he was staying at Granny Crawford’s and she hadn’t been able to show him what she’d got in her stocking when she woke up, but at least he’d been there for Christmas dinner and had stayed the night. He’d gone back to Granny’s on Boxing Day, though, and she’d cried when he said he’d see her next week.
This year, it was much worse because she knew she would never see him again, and she kept feeling sad when she remembered things, like helping him decorate the tree. He would put the fairy lights and the tinsel on, but he always let her hang the baubles. Her mum said she could help this year, but she only let her hang the ones that weren’t glass and it wasn’t much fun. The worst thing was when she was making her Christmas-present list and, without thinking, she wrote the list in the same order as always: Mum, Dad, Peggy, Grandma. She’d bought him a shaving brush last year, and there was a tiny moment when she wondered what to get him this year before she remembered. She couldn’t bear to cross his name out, so, eyes blurred with sudden tears, she tore the page from her notebook and wrote a new list: Mum, Peggy, Grandma . . .
Her mum seemed extra sad as it got nearer to Christmas, and on Christmas Eve, although she felt a bit guilty leaving her on her own, Eleanor couldn’t wait to go up to Peggy’s to help get everything ready. She spent most of the day in Peggy’s kitchen, singing along to the radio – Peggy knew all the words to ‘I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day’ – and helping to make mince pies and cheese straws. Then Peggy showed her how to make Marmite whirls: after you’d made the cheese straws, you gathered up the leftover pastry, rolled it out and spread it with a thin layer of Marmite, then you rolled it up like a Swiss roll, cut it into slices and cooked them until they were crisp.
When they’d finished baking, Peggy brought out the Christmas cake, which she’d said Eleanor could help decorate. She’d put the marzipan on and made the royal icing already, so Eleanor got to do the best bit: spreading the thick white icing over the top and sides of the cake and forking it up so it looked like snow. Then she carefully pushed silver balls into some of the peaks where they sparkled like frost when they caught the light. Finally, she arranged the three plastic Christmas trees and the Father Christmas on top, then stood back to admire her work. ‘Perfect,’ Peggy said, smiling. ‘You’ve made a lovely job of that, Ellie.’ After they’d tidied the kitchen and put everything away in tins, Peggy made them both a cup of sweet tea, then took a new loaf from the bread bin and, holding it in the crook of her arm, deftly sawed off two chunky slices. She spread them thickly with pale yellow butter and sprinkled one slice with demerara sugar, then put the other slice on top and cut it in two. ‘There,’ she said, pushing the plate towards Eleanor. ‘Special Christmas treat – a sugar sandwich.’ Eleanor had never heard of such a wondrous thing. The combination of the crunchy sugar crystals, the soft bread and the cool, creamy butter was delicious, easily the nicest thing she had ever eaten.
*
They started doing cooking at school one cold and miserable February afternoon. They were to bake rock cakes, and Eleanor was excited about making something all by herself. She remembered what Peggy had told her: Read the recipe carefully and follow the instructions – you won’t go far wrong. So she read the recipe twice and made sure she didn’t rush anything. She kept rubbing the butter into the flour until it ‘resembled fine breadcrumbs’; she made sure she stirred the mixture until the fruit was ‘properly incorporated’; she was careful to grease her baking tray properly. When she took her cakes out of the oven, they looked exactly like they did in the picture. Miss Miller pronounced them ‘nigh on perfect’ and gave her a gold star. She couldn’t wait to get home and show her mum and Peggy, so she hurried along the icy pavements, holding her satchel steady against her hip so it didn’t bounce too much and damage the newly baked cakes.
As she opened the main front door, she caught a hint of a rich, meaty smell and assumed it was coming from upstairs, but when she opened the inner door, the savoury scent enveloped her. She shouted ‘Hello’ as she hung her coat and satchel on the hall stand. The living-room door was open. There were no lights on, but she could see her mother lying on the settee. ‘Hello, Mum,’ she said more quietly, but her mother didn’t stir.
She went through to the kitchen, which was warm and steamy, and Peggy was there. Eleanor immediately felt better.
‘Hello, sweetheart.’ Peggy was washing up. On the stove, a steak-and-kidney pudding wobbled about in a saucepan of boiling water, the lid clattering away on top as the steam tried to force its way out. Peggy wiped her hands on a tea cloth. ‘That’s good timing – I was just about to put the kettle on. Mum’s having a bit of a rough day and the boys are at their grandma’s, so I thought I’d come down and do dinner for the three of us.’ She filled the kettle and lit the gas underneath. ‘How was school?’
‘Quite good. We did cooking – look what we made,’ Eleanor held up the white paper bag containing the rock cakes.
‘Ooh, what a treat! Your mum will be pleased! You take some plates out of the cupboard and I’ll make the tea.’
As Eleanor opened the paper bag, the warm, fresh-baked cake smell rose up to greet her. She put a cake on each of the plates. Then Peggy put two of them on a tray together with cups and saucers. She smiled at Eleanor as she poured boiling water into the teapot, replaced the lid and set it on the tray. ‘I’ll have mine in here, pet. I’ve got to keep an eye on that pudding.’ She pronounced it ‘pud’n’.
Eleanor tried not to look disappointed.
‘But I can’t wait to try this.’ She took a cake and turned it round to look at it properly. ‘It certainly looks like the real thing.’ She took a bite and looked thoughtful as she chewed, then she smiled. ‘That, young lady, is the best rock cake I have tasted in all my born days!’
Eleanor felt a smile spread across her face. Happily, she picked up the tray and took it through into the living room.
‘Oh, hello.’ Her mother pushed herself up into a sitting position. She didn’t smile. ‘I didn’t hear you come home.’ Her hair was all flat on one side, and her face looked creased. It must be one of her bad days; she’d told Eleanor the last time she came out of hospital that she felt much better in herself, but that she still had good days and bad days.
There was nowhere to put the tray down because the coffee table was covered with things – a newspaper, her mum’s cigarettes, lighter and ashtray, a cup and saucer. ‘Just a tick.’ Her mum leant forward, pushing her hair back off her face, and moved everything to make space.
‘Where’s Peggy?’
‘She’s keeping an eye on the pudding, so she’s having hers in the kitchen.’
Her mother sighed.
Eleanor poured the tea, then chose the plate with the best cake for her mum. As she waited for her to say something, she became aware of the clock on the mantelpiece ticking loudly and the faint sound of rai
ndrops starting to hit the window. She bit into her own cake, enjoying the way her teeth broke through the crisp outer surface and sank into the soft, slightly chewy middle. It tasted wonderful, even if she said so herself. She watched her mum break off a small piece and push it into her mouth, then take a sip of tea, her eyes cast downwards as usual.
The best rock cake I have tasted in all my born days, Peggy said. So why was her mum only picking at it? Eleanor took another bite, but she suddenly felt self-conscious. When she swallowed, she found her mouth had gone dry, and the cake made a hard lump in her throat. Her mother had broken off another piece but hadn’t eaten it yet and was just sitting back, sipping her tea. Eleanor was working up to asking, Do you like it? What do you think? but her throat had begun to ache and she was worried she might cry.
Her mum ate another tiny piece, little more than a crumb, really, then she put her cup and saucer back on the tray and looked up at Eleanor as though she’d forgotten she was there. She smiled. ‘Good day at school?’
Eleanor nodded.
‘Good. Do you have any homework to get on with?’ She’d picked off another piece of cake, but was just crumbling it between her finger and thumb.
Eleanor felt the tears brimming. She blinked them away and cleared her throat. ‘Yes, we’re supposed to write up the recipe and method for making the cakes.’ She waited.
‘Off you go then. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.’
Eleanor: the present, North Yorkshire
As the miles roll away beneath her wheels, little things keep dropping into her head: how her mum appeared to forget her name when she was seeing her off; how, when Eleanor had asked what time it was, Marjorie had looked at her watch intently. ‘I can’t tell,’ she said. ‘I can’t remember how to say it.’ She seemed restless, too, opening drawers and cupboards and rummaging through them. When Eleanor asked her what she was searching for, she looked down at what she was doing. ‘There was something I wanted to show you. Or tell you, or something.’ She paused. ‘No, it’s gone again.’ It was the third or fourth time she’d said this in two days, Eleanor realised. And there were the phone calls, too. At first, she wondered if it was something that happened in people with Alzheimer’s, some sort of tic, perhaps. But her mum seemed so lucid when she said it, the effort of trying to remember creasing her forehead every time. What could it possibly be? It must be quite important, given the urgency, the desperation almost, with which she was rifling through those papers. Eleanor is beginning to realise that she doesn’t know her mother as well as she thought she did – she’s still reeling from the discovery that Marjorie drove to Bakewell all those years ago to try to find her.
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