by Rosie Blake
‘Er…’
I reached for the kettle as he carried on chanting. I tried to get a word in. How the hell do you dump a man who blocks you out with ‘Las’? Was he waking up my neighbours?
‘Stewie, STEWIE!’ I shouted.
Dad burst into the room, panting lightly, an empty mug raised in his hand, hair dishevelled.
I pointed at the phone, apologetically whispering ‘Sorry’.
He sloped off again, hand on his chest.
‘Stewie,’ I breathed out slowly. ‘Listen, I think you know things haven’t been great between us recently. You like things and I like um…other things.’ Eloquent, Isobel, really eloquent.
‘But it were good,’ he protested.
‘It were not good, I mean, it wasn’t good, well it wasn’t bad, Stewie, it just wasn’t right, you know?’
There was a long silence on the other end and I thought I had lost him in a tunnel or something. ‘Stewie?’
‘I’ll give you some time to think about it,’ he said.
‘I don’t need ti—’
‘Then we’ll talk.’ And with that he hung up and I was left staring at my mobile.
Well that went well.
Dragging a chair over to the Aga in the kitchen, I curled myself into it, mug of tea warming both hands. My brain full of Stewie and our relationship. I wondered why it had taken me so long to say anything to him. Maybe it was being away from LA and my life there that allowed me to realise what was really important. I didn’t miss any of it, well, I missed Mel and Dex, but I felt so hemmed in there in the miniscule box flat and the never-ending jobs to nowhere. It felt good to be here. I should have talked to Stewie months ago. We had never really got off the ground – seeing each other too sporadically – but Stewie had been nice to me and recently I had prickled at everything. It wasn’t fair; he needed someone who would really appreciate him. I vowed to call him back, to sort things out.
I had come this way to make a change, to find Andrew Parker. I needed to do that now, make that a reality. It would surely help me to see him, to see what kind of life I might have had if I’d stayed in England. I pulled over the laptop and logged back onto my email muttering as I waited for it to load. ‘Come on, come on, come on.’ Hooray! A reply! Grinning, I pressed to open it and waited to see the information I needed.
Dear Ms Graves,
Thank you for your email. ITV West is pleased that you enjoyed the news programme on 13th July,
but is sadly unable to assist you in this matter.
We know there are plenty of villages near Exeter that do excellent fish and chips so we hope this
is some consolation.
Yours sincerely,
Linda Raddick
Dear Ms Raddick,
It wasn’t the fish and chips I needed – I am, in fact, desperately seeking someone. We were torn apart twenty years ago and I am searching for him now. He was in the village on the news item and I need to know where this village is so I can try to find him, find my way back to him.
Izzy
Dear Ms Graves,
Thank you for your interest in ITV West. I am afraid I have been unable to track down the name of this village and wish you all the best in your search.
Yours sincerely,
Linda Raddick
Look, Linda, woman to woman, I need the name of
this village. I have flown from LA to find this man. LA is a long way to fly from and I need you to help me with this last part. You are holding the final piece in my jigsaw, Linda, it literally all rests on you. Please, Linda, have you ever known true love? Have you ever looked across at a man (or woman, Linda, we don’t know each other!) and felt truly happy? Because I know I might be able to find that kind of love, that kind of breathless, crazy love if only you were able to find out where he was, which village they were in. Please, Linda, you are my last hope.
If you care a jot for me (we’re basically pen pals), you should act.
With many thanks,
Izzy x
Dear Ms Graves,
Fortunately, something has come to light. This particular news item was filmed in the village of Kenley. Thank you for your interest in the show! There is no need for further communication on
this matter.
Linda Raddick
YES, LINDA, YES! I was punching the air over the laptop when her reply came through. Mum had arrived in the kitchen to whip up dinner and joined me in a dance that involved a lot of hip waggling and yodelling. Dad had peeked a head round the door and legged it back to the safety of his sitting room.
‘Why are we yodelling, darling?’ she panted.
I opened my mouth to reply and realised it was too soon to tell her. What if I didn’t find him? What if she tried to dissuade me?
‘It’s twenty per cent off Monsoon this week.’
‘Oh well, that is something to celebrate,’ Mum said popping a bottle of Prosecco. ‘To Monsoon,’ she cried, ‘and their fabulous jersey dresses in all colours.’
‘Hear, hear,’ I agreed, clinking glasses with her and feeling the sharp bubbly loveliness on my tongue. Hugging my secret close to myself, I felt warm all over.
*
Dinner was sea bream with a hollandaise sauce and Dad walked in tentatively, looking relieved not to have to yodel as he went to unload the dishwasher and lay the table. I was sitting cradling my head in my hands looking dreamily at the screen of my laptop thinking of Linda and Kenley.
Mum looked up from stirring something. ‘Well, darlings, what is new with the world?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I finished the crossword,’ said Dad.
‘Fabulous. Finished it, finished it or cheated a little by making up an imaginary word in one of the lines to make everything fit?’ she asked.
Dad opened a bottle of wine. ‘The latter,’ he said, hanging his head.
Mum came and kissed him on the cheek. ‘One day, one day you will actually finish it.’
Dad sat down and poured the drinks. I closed my laptop and moved it to the window seat.
‘And you, darling?’ Mum asked, pouring the sauce over my fish, her chair squeaking on the tiled floor as she sat.
‘Isobel was shouting at someone on the phone again,’ Dad said, already munching.
‘Tittle-tattle,’ I said, trying to kick him in the shins and missing.
He smiled at me slowly, his bushy eyebrows wiggling in amusement.
‘Who were you shouting at?’ asked Mum.
‘Stewie,’ I sighed, my happy bubble bursting for a moment as I thought back to the phone call.
‘And who is Stewie?’ she asked, pointing her fork at me.
‘Boyfriend. Well, ex-boyfriend. Well I don’t know…’
How had I never told them about Stewie? Wouldn’t I have told them about him if I had been really into him? I knew the answer to that and felt guilty; my parents waiting politely to eat their food, clearly not wanting me to feel worse. I needed to tell them about everything, try to get them to help me get my thoughts in order. What was I doing scarpering around the place instead of just thinking things through…?
‘Iz,’ my mum said in a very gentle voice. ‘Don’t worry about this Stewie.’
‘Oh I’m not,’ I said, smiling at her.
‘Well that is a relief, darling – I’m not going to lie. I mean it is simply NOT a grown man’s name, it is a baby food, so don’t think more on it,’ she said, patting my hand and taking her first mouthful. ‘Oh I am an actual genius,’ she announced, holding a finger to her lips. ‘An actual genius.’
Chapter 9
Devon
It was a scorching day, bright with possibility, and I leaped out of my narrow single bed in my joie de vivre, forgetting the eaves above my head so I now had joie de buggery hell that hurt. Rubbing at the lump emerging, eyes
watering, I thrust the curtains back. The sun light burst in and, as I opened the window, the sound of seagulls outside filled the room. The smell of Dad’s famous fry-up wafted through my room and I cast about for an appropriate outfit to mark this important first day – the real start of this adventure. Today I would find answers, well Andrew Parker, and then, hopefully, answers.
The outfit I selected that seemed to best reflect this mood was a cut-off pair of denim dungarees over a coral vest top. Slapping on some pink lip gloss and a flick of eyeliner, I was raring to go. Shovelling breakfast into my mouth as my mother moved round the kitchen humming along to Holst’s ‘The Planets’ (Mars = terrifying), I felt a gnawing excitement in my belly. This must have been the feeling that Ranulph Fiennes had on exploring the Antarctica or that other man before he hiked up Everest. Although neither will have been as well dressed.
Backing Mum’s comedy Smart car out of the drive (Dad: ‘It’s not a car it’s a toy’), I received a double thumbs-up from her in the kitchen window. Bumping over the grassy driveway and reversing into the little lane, I waited as a teenage girl on a horse trotted by, plaits flying as she bounced past. Then I was off, window down, music blaring. Chris de Burgh had always been a favourite of my mother and now, as I listened to him singing about his ‘Lady in Red’, I realised with a soaring heart that by the end of the day I could be Andrew’s ‘Lady in Shit-hot Denim’.
What did I remember of Andrew Parker? I pictured a grinning boy, upside down in one of the school trees, celebrating a victory at conkers with a lap of the playground, sharing a Walkman on the pier, his laughing face on the day when we’d got Jenny and Lyndon stuck in a plastic barrel because we’d dared them to see if two people could fit at the same time (transpires that was a no), his pleasure over ‘Zoom’ ice lollies: ‘It’s like the banana bit zooms me to heaven.’ We had spent so much time together and then, of course, we had got married. How had the little boy morphed from childhood? What would his interests be now? I remember his personality lifting a room/treehouse; he was someone everyone liked, easy, and I hoped I would be able to get to know him all over again. He had been the one to get away and now I was tracking him down again.
I pressed down on the gas and sailed along the A30, accelerating past dozens of caravans and cars loaded up with bicycles and surfboards going the other way. When I finally turned off the M5 into a little hamlet just south of Exeter, I was a little wearier. The adrenaline had worn off and Chris de Burgh had sung all his songs twice now. I had almost started wishing his lady could have worn another colour. I was in need of a coffee.
The village of Kenley seemed to emerge from a winding road of overgrown hedgerows crammed with blackberries, thistles and dotted dandelion heads. The black faded letters on the white sign stood on poles hidden by the long grass and there seemed to be honeysuckle cottages with neat low stone walls in every direction. Explosions of colour – fuchsias, of oranges and blues – were displayed in every border and one man was bent over plucking up weeds in his gloved hand. I moved past, to the centre of the village: a triangle with a white-chained loop around the edge, a couple of large oak trees providing some shade from the day. A pub sat along the length of one side of the common, signposted ‘The Bell’, a rambling thatched cottage with faded pink roses climbing up its walls. A small car park just off the road seemed empty and I pulled into a spot.
Opening the door and unravelling myself from the tiny vehicle, I was struck by the strength of the noon sun beating down on me. Reaching for my bag, I thought I should probably seize the day and set off for a walk around the green to find the spot Dad had spoken from. The Bell had been in the top left of the screen, so I moved across the triangle and over the common heading for a row of houses, all white paint, timber beams and large wooden doors. The air smelled of bonfire smoke and sunshine and I pictured the occupants of the village beyond all pottering around their squares of lawn, pruning and planting whilst drinking jugs of elderflower juice served on a tray with a picture of some chickens.
Turning my back to the houses, I looked at the pub and tried to align myself with where my dad had stood, looking to my right to see where Andrew might have been. A couple of stone steps led to a green painted door surrounded by a trellis of honeysuckle. A sign to one side announced the house was in fact the local post office and my heart skipped as I recognised it from the TV. I pictured Andrew walking up the stone steps, pushing the green door open. I rushed quickly over to it, heart skipping as I saw the ‘Open’ sign on the windowsill inside. Pushing open the door, I heard a bell and was struck by the smell of polish, paper and flowers. A small woman on a stool put down the book she was reading and stood up behind the counter.
‘Hello,’ I said, nodding at her.
‘Hello, dear,’ she said, waiting expectantly as I stepped inside the store. The room itself was tiny, lined with newspapers, magazines and a corkboard on which were pinned higgledy-piggeldy flash cards with handwritten adverts; cleaning services, gardening, babysitting and prams and other paraphernalia being sold for £30 ONO. There were a set of shelves in the middle with homemade marmalade, honey, rows of gorgeous-looking shortbreads and cookies.
I picked up some local honey – Dad would love it – and moved over to the counter.
The woman tore off a brown paper bag from a pile of them and placed the honey inside. Her hands were skeletal, the veins popping out, bright blue. Her eyes were the same colour and she smiled as she tapped the amount into
her till.
‘That’s two ninety-nine,’ she said.
I handed her a fiver. She handed me the change. This was my cue to leave. I remained standing.
‘Anything else I can get you?’ she asked, clearly sensing I had something else in mind.
I wondered how I was going to gear up to it. Without thinking a great deal about it, I simply blurted out: ‘I’m looking for a man.’
‘Aren’t we all, dear,’ she replied.
I felt myself growing hot and laughed. ‘No, not just, well you see, a specific man. I think he came here, to your shop, last Wednesday, 13 July around 14.27, I mean to be precise about it.’
‘That does seem precise, yes,’ she said, eyes crinkling kindly.
‘Well he didn’t stay long, but I thought perhaps you might remember him, that he might live round here.’
‘Well what does he look like, my love, and then I might be able to help you?’
‘He was tallish, with sort of curling blondy-brown hair and he had chinos on – or cords – I’m not sure and they were brownish and he had a red jumper on. I thought it made him look very dapper,’ I trailed off as the woman stood looking at me.
‘Well now,’ she said, finger to one lip. Catalogue pose for thinking. ‘Well,’ she repeated.
I waited, practically falling over the counter in my enthusiasm, certain that she would know him and be able to point me in the right direction.
‘Tallish, you say.’
‘Hmm, hmm.’ I nodded.
‘Blond, with curls,’ she added.
‘Yes, well not blond, blond but dark blond and not so much curly as wavy, very matinee idol.’
‘Matinee,’ she repeated.
Another pause; her mouth moved into tight line that puckered her skin.
‘I’m afraid he doesn’t ring a bell, my love,’ she said.
I felt like she’d reached across the counter with a pin and pushed it into my skin. I physically deflated in front of her, shoulders down, arms limp at my sides.
‘Oh.’
I couldn’t believe it, she couldn’t remember him. Couldn’t recall him at all. And he had definitely been in this very room, less than a week before. Nothing.
She looked up at me. ‘I’m sorry, my love,’ she said.
I went to apologise for wasting her time, went to glance at the clock over her head, work out the time it would take me to get home, and then saw it.<
br />
Black, in the corner of the room, screwed into the wall. A small black CCTV camera.
‘Does that work?’ I asked, pointing towards it.
She followed the line of my finger, not quite with me.
‘Oh.’ She took a reverential step backwards. ‘My son made me put it in; I didn’t want it but he’d read something in the papers and said I should get it for protection,’ she explained.
‘So do you keep the discs?’ I asked.
‘Only a few days’ worth, but…’ Realisation seemed to dawn and she stopped. ‘When did you say he was in here?’
She called her son and told him he was to get over there right this minute from his workplace. I looked aghast at this and then realised he worked in The Bell as a chef. It took him all of about two minutes. He appeared, complete with chef’s hat, huffing lightly, wondering why he had been summoned in such an urgent way.
‘Darren, this young lady needs our assistance,’ Maureen announced. Maureen had introduced herself while we were waiting. She lifted up one-third of the counter and ushered us both through.
I gave him an apologetic smile and a half-wave. ‘Hello.’ My voice sounded loud in the small space.
He looked at me, eyes narrowed; he had flour on one cheek.
I let his mother explain. He nodded and beckoned me over to a machine that looked not dissimilar to my DVD player.
‘Right then…’ Plucking a disc out, he slotted another in and pressed ‘Play’. The date in digital numbers in the corner of the screen showed it was from yesterday, a grainy image of the empty shop inside. He took it out and tried again.
‘Wednesday last week, we need Wednesday last week.’ I inhaled sharply, making him jump. ‘Sorry, sorry, just excited,’ I sputtered, eyes wide as he reached for the next disc.
WEDNESDAY! The disc was Wednesday.
‘It was 14.27 p.m. I said, er, give or take,’ I added when Darren looked at me.
‘Odd, isn’t she?’ Maureen said, smiling at him like I wasn’t there. She’d found some giant glasses from somewhere and her blue eyes looked enormous behind the thick lenses.
