The Mountain in My Shoe

by Louise Beech

  Number 2 not nowing Dad

  Number 3 get up early

  Number 4 not been abel to finish stuff

  Number 5 teachers

  Number 6 Stan Chisick but just today

  Number 7 wen Berndete goes

  Number 8 wen Mum gets upset

  PS I done 8 of each cos I am nearly 8.

  42

  Bernadette

  PC French’s mouth hangs open and Bernadette almost feels sad for her. Then – so suddenly that she actually enunciates a sharp little oh – Bernadette realises what it is that has always felt so right and so familiar about Conor.

  He looks like Richard. God, he looks like him. He has the same soft hair; the same tone in his young voice. It’s only now, with knowledge, that the similarities present.

  Bernadette suddenly recalls with exquisite sharpness the moment she realised she loved Richard; really loved him. It wasn’t when she first saw him on their curious ‘wrong’ date in the Cup and Saucer café. It wasn’t when they married. It wasn’t even when he first said he loved her during the rain in Loch Lomond.

  It was a month after they’d wed when he found her reading alone in their bedroom. He asked why she went away to read, rather than sitting with him in the living room. Not wanting to hurt his feelings, Bernadette said she concentrated better when reading alone. It was true but she didn’t want him to think it was something he’d done. Richard said he understood, that sometimes you had to go away from a person to really know they were there; like that corny saying about setting something free to make sure it’s truly yours. Said he could face anything knowing she was at Tower Rise waiting for him, and that he would always be on the other side of the door while she read.

  ‘But how did your husband find out Conor existed?’ asks PC French, pulling Bernadette back to the present.

  ‘This,’ says Bernadette, holding out the lemon Lifebook. ‘This is the book I couldn’t find earlier today, the one about Conor. Richard must have come across it at home and read it and recognised himself and put all the pieces together. It was with him all this time.’

  The sound of a helicopter has them looking up into the night sky, at the yellow lights and spinning blades.

  ‘Are they coming back?’ asks Bernadette. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘Let’s go back to the car and we’ll find out,’ says PC French. ‘This is all quite a shock for you.’

  ‘Where am I supposed to go now?’ Bernadette asks, not sure whom she’s addressing.

  ‘Let’s go back to the car and if there’s no news we can take you home or get someone you know to collect you. I’ll call the moment we know anything. Is there anyone we can contact to be with you?’

  Bernadette shakes her head. Her parents live too far away and she wouldn’t trouble them anyway. She has never troubled them with her worries, never wanted to upset them. There’s no one else. This is her life now she’s left Richard. Just her.

  They walk back to the car, Bernadette with the two pictures and Conor’s Lifebook under her arm. She asks if PC French will explain to Frances about Richard, as she doesn’t think she has the energy, and the police officer assures her she will.

  At the car Bernadette views Frances with new eyes; this woman slept with her husband. There is no anger. It’s unlikely Frances knew there was a wife.

  A date jumps into Bernadette’s head as though from the pages of a book. One she’d always taken as a curious coincidence. Way back when she first read Conor’s date of birth in the Lifebook she had touched the numbers, felt it was some sort of sign that their relationship would be significant – it was the day she’d met Richard. And now it helps her realise that Frances knew Richard before she did. It was no affair. It was before they met.

  But what about this Ruth woman? Who is she? Does that have anything to do with this new situation?

  PC French chats with the other officer and tells Bernadette there’s no news yet; they are still searching. She should go home. But Bernadette doesn’t know if she wants to return to her two packed bags at Tower Rise. It would feel as though she’s lost a fight. Like she’s returning a failure.

  But there’s nowhere else she can go. ‘I’ll go home then,’ she says eventually.

  ‘Can we drop you off?’ asks PC French.

  ‘No,’ says Bernadette. She knows who to call, who should take her home.

  PC French takes Bernadette’s phone number. ‘We’ll be in touch with any news,’ she says.

  Bernadette walks away from the car, along where white boats line up as though being judged in a beauty contest. She glances back only once; Frances is looking out the back window and her eyes remind Bernadette of Conor’s when he watches her leave each Saturday, bright with hopeless optimism, trusting her to come back but resigned to the fact that she might not. While Richard could be brusque – and he did some harsh things over the years – his eyes never looked at her with anything but hopeless optimism.

  Bernadette starts to run.

  Conor is safe, and so is his Lifebook, but the night isn’t over until they find Richard.

  43

  Bernadette

  Bob Fracklehurst took Bernadette from Tower Rise into the night five hours ago and she decides to ask him to take her back home now. This is what she calls it when she rings Top Taxis from the phone box near Queen’s Gardens: home. After five years of booking this trip twice a month they know where it is, so she asks the receptionist if Bob can take her there.

  ‘Home, love. Where’s home?’ asks the woman, and Bernadette realises she doesn’t recognise the voice. This isn’t Barbara, the gravel-voiced woman she’s never seen but visualises as robust and ruddy-cheeked, the one who always says ‘Eh pet’ after every sentence. Of course – Bernadette has never rung the firm at this late hour. She recalls how her request earlier surprised Barbara, had her asking if Bernadette was running away with the bloke next door.

  ‘Is Bob still working?’ Bernadette asks now.

  ‘Yes,’ says the woman, ‘but he’s on his last job.’

  ‘Would you be good enough to ask him if he can pick me up from Queen’s Gardens? Tell him it’s Bernadette Shaw. He said earlier he wouldn’t mind if I needed a lift.’

  ‘Just hold please.’ The woman disappears; Bernadette waits.

  The frothy fountains across the road are lit up blue, as though charged with electricity. When was the last time she saw them at night? Perhaps returning from some rare office party with Richard, neither of them having had a drink, him driving and grumbling about the fools he has to work with.

  Bernadette’s arm aches. She looks at her elbow. Remembers she has Conor’s Lifebook and two drawings tucked there. Pulling out the wrinkled one, she opens it and looks again at Richard’s face, at her husband, at Conor’s father. Richard who right now is missing; lost at sea.

  ‘Bob says he’ll be there in about ten minutes.’ The voice pulls Bernadette out of the water. ‘He’s just on North Road.’

  Bernadette waits on the corner by the bus stop. She doesn’t want to be alone for too long. Company will prevent her thoughts from opening cupboard doors that she’d rather not, stop her seeing pictures in her favourite survival stories of emaciated men pulled from the sea after weeks in a lifeboat. Be safe, Bob said when she got out of his cab earlier. She still doesn’t feel it though. When his familiar car pulls up she is grateful to climb inside and escape the dark.

  ‘I’m glad you called,’ he says, turning the music down.

  More than ever he reminds Bernadette of her father. Something in the way his grey hair curls about his ear as though stroking it. Something about how he says he’s glad she called like he really is. She wonders how she didn’t notice such similarities between Richard and Conor.

  She suddenly misses the dad who never said much in the way of praise or love when Bernadette was growing up, but whose absolute there-ness could be depended upon. She could look into the greenhouse and he’d be there, always, tending his plants and tomatoes. She doesn’t
often talk to him now – her phone calls home usually mean conversation with her mother – but she knows that should she ever need anything, he’ll be there.

  ‘I worried about you all evening,’ says Bob.

  ‘You’re kind.’ She doesn’t know what else to say.

  ‘Are you okay, love?’ Bob frowns at her.

  Bernadette nods. ‘Yes. Sorry, this has been a long night. And it isn’t even over yet.’

  ‘Where do you want to go?’

  ‘Tower Rise,’ she says.

  ‘To pick up your bags?’

  Bernadette pictures them by the door. ‘My bags?’

  ‘You told me earlier you were leaving your husband,’ says Bob, heading towards the BBC building. ‘Tell me to keep me bloody nose out but I was actually quite relieved when you said it. I’ve sensed it isn’t the best marriage. All you haven’t said on our journeys put it in me mind. I don’t really like taking you back there. See – I’ve said it all and it’s none of my business.’

  ‘Richard isn’t at Tower Rise,’ says Bernadette. They pause at the lights and she watches red turn amber, like a dying leaf, and then green as though reborn. ‘He’s gone missing – in the River Humber.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Bob reaches for a cigarette and opens his window a crack. ‘What was he doing there?’

  ‘Rescuing someone,’ says Bernadette softly.

  ‘I’m sorry. Did he manage to save them?’

  Bernadette nods.

  ‘I saw the helicopter earlier,’ says Bob. ‘I always think, poor sod, when I see one. They’ll find him. They know what they’re doing, don’t they?’

  His taxi joins the A63 and the river appears, a fat black snake that squirms and slides. It parallels them on the opposite side to where Bob picked Bernadette up. Lights that normally enchant have her tonight thinking of candles at a funeral, so she doesn’t look at them. If Richard is still out in those thick, churning currents his chances of survival must be remote now. Maybe there will be a message on the machine when she gets back to Tower Rise – your husband is safe, hypothermic and in shock, but safe. Then she will have to consider how cruel it is to divorce a man recovering from near death. Because even though he is Conor’s father and that this somehow endears him to her, she still wants to leave him.

  ‘Remember we talked about coincidences earlier?’ says Bernadette.

  ‘Yes.’ Bob puts out his cigarette. ‘My Trish said they were little clues.’

  ‘They definitely are. There were all these curious things happening to me. Richard went missing, and so did Conor, the boy you take me to see, and also this important book.’ She looks at it on her lap, touches the textured lemon cover. ‘I thought none of it had anything to do with the other, that it was just some bizarre fluke. But it was all connected. I should have known.’ She pauses. ‘Bob, tell me more about this woman who was with Richard when he fixed your computer. Did she tell you her name?’

  Bob appears to think. ‘If she did, I don’t recall. But I’m a bugger with names – faces, yes, names, no.’

  ‘Did they seem like they knew each other well?’

  ‘It’s hard to say.’ Bob glances at Bernadette and she knows he doesn’t want to say the wrong thing. But wrong things are what she needs to know. ‘She didn’t really say anything, just seemed keen to get out of there to be honest. Glamorous creature, red lipstick and that. She looked about thirty but I felt like she was actually younger. He didn’t acknowledge her particularly, just said she was his sister, staying here for the weekend. That was it.’

  Bernadette actually wonders for a moment if Richard does have a secret sister. There have been so many revelations tonight, what would one more matter? But no, it isn’t possible. His mum never talked of a daughter and there was never such a female at Christmas gatherings or at their wedding. Why would he hide one? She has to remember that Richard didn’t hide Conor. She was the one who did that.

  ‘When they find your husband,’ says Bob, ‘it’s maybe best to ask him.’

  ‘I will do.’ Bernadette doesn’t know if she can wait that long.

  Bob drives down the narrow lane to the foreshore and they have the best view of the Humber Bridge, brightly lit ahead like a creature from The War of the Worlds. On the right – just before the bridge’s north tower – thick trees and a faded sign on a chalk wall announce Tower Rise. They enter, approach slowly, and Bernadette puts a hand to her neck as though being strangled. The place has that effect, like the air alters, gets thicker, clogs up her throat.

  Bob parks by the steps. ‘I guess you don’t need the usual receipt writing out?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Bernadette doubts this is a journey she can claim the money back for. Befriend for Life always require receipts for meals eaten with Conor, transport to and from his home, but though this trip concerned looking for him she feels better paying for it herself.

  ‘It’s so black in there. Do you want me to come up with you?’

  ‘No, really. I know my way in that dark.’ Bernadette opens the car door.

  ‘I’ll wait with my headlights on until you’re safely inside,’ insists Bob. He pauses. ‘I hope you hear good news soon.’ He pauses again. ‘I guess I’ll see you a week on Saturday?’

  For a moment Bernadette has to get her bearings on the dark, gritty driveway, think what he means. Of course. She’ll be seeing Conor. Life will continue. It occurs suddenly to her that someone will tell Conor his father isn’t Paul or Andy but her husband. Does that mean he’ll be able to visit her at Tower Rise? Will Richard pursue his rights and want to see Conor? How will that affect her relationship with the little boy? What about the boundaries set in place by BFL? Is there some sort of code that states what happens when the volunteer’s child turns out to be her husband’s son? Can she still volunteer at all? So much to think about, but she can’t now.

  There is someone she has to call.

  ‘Bernadette?’ Bob is unfastening his seatbelt as though to get out, and she realises she has been standing there, lost in thought.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she says quickly. ‘Thank you so much, Bob.’ She goes around to his open window, not sure what her intentions are. He knows; he nods and says, ‘Be safe.’

  Before ascending the steps, she looks up at their unwelcoming, dark windows and wonders briefly if Richard got out of the river where it passes the end of their driveway and is sitting in the dark, waiting for her to come home.

  Will he ask where his tea is? Insist she goes in the pantry to think about it? She wouldn’t do it now. She’s not that woman anymore. She’s still a woman who prefers one thing – one child (she never dreamed of more), one husband, one friend – but she just wants one answer now.

  Bernadette goes up the stairs to their flat. Behind her, Bob drives away and the light goes with him. She unlocks their door, lets it swing open and flicks on the switch. Her two bags sit by the lounge door. Does time even move on when you lock a door behind you? The stagnant air, rich with damp and old paint, sings a tired song here. She is home.

  Is Richard here?

  She listens. Silence.

  The lounge is just as it was; bare table, no tea for Richard, no crisp napkin or polished cutlery. Cushions she sewed out of gold fabric sit symmetrically at opposite ends of the sofa, like they’re sulking after an argument. Tonight the damp patch by the wall shelves looks like a drowning man. Bernadette’s beloved books are all over the floor where she pulled them off the shelves in her desperate hunt for the Lifebook. She puts them back – but not all of them.

  She places the Lifebook on the coffee table in full view; no need to hide it now. How guilty she felt concealing Conor, as if he didn’t exist. How often words about her day with him formed in her mouth only to be swallowed again because she couldn’t share them with Richard.

  Now everything is where it should be. Conor is safe with Anne. The book is here. But Richard’s whereabouts remain a mystery and she shouldn’t be here at all. She was never coming back; she was leaving with all she
could carry and going who knew where. But here she is.

  Bernadette presses play on the answering machine, hears You have no new messages and isn’t surprised.

  What now?

  She searches the flat, making sure a wet and exhausted husband doesn’t lie in wait. However he feels about having a son, Bernadette must remember he discovered also that she lied to him for five years. He will be angry. She makes sure the front door is on the chain so she’ll have to let him in, giving her time to prepare.

  Then she continues her game of prove-the-monster-isn’t-there.

  Perhaps he is in their bedroom, has fallen asleep still clothed. No, the room is empty. Maybe he went into the place that should have been a nursery – where else would be more fitting for a man who has just discovered he’s a dad? But this room is empty too.

  Bernadette stands in the doorway a moment. She doesn’t flick the switch, can’t stand to see the daffodil-yellow walls fully lit and mocking her childlessness. How unfair it seems that Richard has a child after all. And yet it is she who has loved this child, taken him out, written about him in a book.

  The baby she and Richard lost was too young to be named or be legally registered. Bernadette grieved privately, not naming him, even in secret, because that might make the loss all the more painful. She preferred to think that somehow the baby chose not to come into a marriage that was falling apart. That he made his presence known and then went to some other place. Might he have healed them?

  She’ll never know.

  Bernadette closes the door on the nursery and checks the bathroom and the kitchen, sure she’ll find them also clean, orderly and empty.

  She is alone.

  44

  The Book

  Hull Social Services Report – Yvonne Jones (Social Worker)

  Conor Jordan – Access Update

  Date: 16/08/2009

  Conor now sees his mum every month at her new home in Doncaster, going with either Len Coupland or myself. Frances Jordan has a five-month-old girl called Kayleigh and she resides there. Conor enjoys seeing his baby sister. Understandably, there are often tensions between Conor and his mother. He swings between dramatic shows of affection towards her and swearing suddenly and asking to leave. But we’re always able to mediate and calm him. Frances tries to be patient when this occurs.