by Maeve Haran
‘Could we say a prayer for him, Gran, like we do in Assembly for the children who’ve got Aids in Africa?’
Stella nodded, a little startled. She wasn’t a great one for prayer. ‘Why don’t you make it up and we’ll both say it together?’
‘Dear Higher Being – we say that because there’re kids at my school who believe in lots of different gods – could you make sure my brother Jesse is safe and sound and that he comes home soon and tell him that I really, really miss him and I won’t complain about him borrowing my scooter any more even though he looks stupid on it? Amen.’
‘Amen,’ endorsed Stella, giving her another hug.
‘You will find him, won’t you, Gran, and bring him home again?’
Stella hesitated, torn by the desperate desire to reassure, but equally scared of making empty promises. ‘I promise you this: I’ll do my damnedest!’
‘Thanks, Gran,’ Izzy offered a small smile, ‘you actually sounded quite fierce. Like someone in Game of Thrones.’
‘I assure you,’ Stella hugged her granddaughter, ‘Game of Thrones hasn’t got anything on me. Now, since it’s a school night, I think we’d better ring your mum and dad and get them to come and take you home.’
‘It’s OK,’ Izzy shook her head, ‘I’ve got my scooter with me. They think I’m out with Freya and Bianca. They’ll only make a huge fuss if you say I’ve come here.’
Stella waved her goodbye. ‘Take care now, remember to stop at all the roads!’ She turned away, unbearably saddened that at eleven Izzy had already learned how to negotiate the complicated world of adult relationships.
‘Are you sure you’re all right, going to Brighton on your own?’ Matthew asked her as she packed a small case. ‘Do you think you’ll manage? Do you need me to come with you?’
He made it sound as if she were travelling to the Hindu Kush rather than forty miles away. Poor Matthew, even when he meant well it came out as patronizing.
‘I won’t be on my own. I’ll have Emma.’ Stella realized that no, she definitely didn’t want him to come. He would only get diverted by something completely different – some Morris-y antique he found in the Lanes, for example – and be of no use whatsoever. Stella repressed the thought that this wasn’t really it, that she actually wanted to be alone, and what this might mean. She suspected it wasn’t entirely to do with Jesse.
‘No, we need someone to keep the home fires burning. Be a refuge in case things get even worse between Emma and Stuart and Izzy needs us. She’s going to their neighbour and Ruby will have her childminder but she could still turn up here. Who knows, Jesse might even turn up here. Besides, your hands seem to be full.’
He looked up at her quickly, suspecting sarcasm. He knew she was no fool, even if he occasionally treated her like one. ‘Well, there is a lot to do for the concert,’ he conceded. ‘How many shows have they got in Brighton?’
‘Two, I think. The last one’s on Friday.’
‘And you’re planning to stay down for it?’
‘No idea. The main thing is to find Jesse and try and get him to come home.’
He took her hand briefly. ‘You’re a good grandmother.’
She squeezed his back. ‘Maybe a better grandmother than mother. I’m not sure I did such a good job on Emma.’
‘Em’s all right. She just needs to learn a few lessons. Maybe all this will help her.’
Stella thought of Emma and Hal clinging on to each other in the coffee shop. ‘I bloody well hope so.’
The next morning Stella set out for Brighton, making a giant detour to look at containers. She had printed out all the information she could find and hoped it would be worth it. Emma was coming later.
The Box was hard to miss. It stood out like a set of child’s bricks piled on the edge of the Regent’s Canal, a stone’s throw from the hip Broadway Market. Forty units were ranged in two tiers with a wooden deck in front overlooking the canal. The back of each unit was a vast panel of glass and the front painted in bright pinks, oranges, yellows and greens more reminiscent of beach huts than office space. A nice young thing called Eleanor, who only seemed to be a year or two older than Jesse, showed her around.
‘The whole point of The Box,’ Eleanor enthused, ‘is cheapness and community. Renting a desk is three hundred pounds a month and you can rent one for as short a time as you want, so you can start your own business here with no vast overheads.’
‘Are most people starting up on their own?’ Stella asked, amazed at their nerve. She would never have dared start a business at their age. She got out her phone. ‘Would you mind if I recorded our conversation so I can include it in the package I give our local council?’
Eleanor giggled. ‘Lady Gaga, eat your heart out, here comes Eleanor Douglas! Yeah, go for it!’
‘So how is it different working here from the average office, apart from being cheap?’
‘The people! If you think about it, you spend longer at work than at home, so you ought to enjoy it. We do yoga at lunchtime and have talks from various bods about business development and exciting shit like that. Ooh, should I not say that?’ She put her hand in front of her mouth, remembering she was being interviewed.
‘I think council officials can cope with the odd swear word. They probably find themselves sworn at quite a lot, poor things.’
‘OK, there’s a cafe – actually, it’s a business, but we all use it too.’ She pointed to one of the units which had tables and chairs dotted all around on the deck in front of it and pots of geraniums in the same shade of bright fuchsia as the paintwork. It looked very enticing.
Stella thought about the girl in the storage unit and how much she’d enjoy being here instead of that horrid scary place she was using.
‘We even have a communal Nutribullet!’ enthused Eleanor.
‘That sounds ominous. What on earth’s a Nutribullet?’
‘It makes the best smoothies on the planet. My favourite’s kale and spinach.’
‘Right.’ Stella nodded doubtfully.
‘But the best thing of all is these units were cheap to build. And quick! They were all made off-site and swung into place on a giant crane. It only took a few days.’
Stella’s phone rang, breaking into the conversation. To her surprise, it was Duncan. ‘Sorry, Duncan, I have to be quick. I’m in a wonderful office made out of shipping containers called The Box. Why are you laughing?’
Duncan was suddenly in fits on the other end of the phone. ‘Only in England! Do you know what a box means in the US?’
‘No idea.’
‘Only a woman’s vagina!’
‘Duncan!’ Stella corrected, almost getting the giggles as well. ‘I think maybe you’ve been seeing too much of Amber.’
Duncan pulled himself together. ‘Anyway, I just phoned to tell you. The Tour has landed. Without drunken brawls, seductions of minors or cars driven into swimming pools. So far. Any news of Jesse?’
‘He contacted his girlfriend. He is in Brighton. Roxy’s doing an appeal and I’m on my way down to look for him.’
‘Where are you staying? We’re at The Old Galleon. Right on the front. It’s not five-star, but we’ve got the whole hotel. Lessens Cameron’s chances of giving offence. Come and find us whenever you want.’
‘I will.’
‘Stella? Don’t worry too much. We’ll all look for him. You’re not on your own.’
Why she should believe that an ageing rock star and his exceptionally rich manager were likely to spend their time combing the streets of Brighton to find a lost boy, she had no idea. But she felt comforted all the same.
She said goodbye to Eleanor.
The journey to Brighton took less than an hour, yet as soon as Stella got off the train she felt as if she were hundreds of miles away. The station was filled with light and the blue-painted steel arches above the concourse had a jaunty seaside air, even though it was a ten minute walk from the beach. She bought herself a Millie’s cookie and laughed as the seagulls att
empted to share it with her, swooping down mischievously from their vantage point in the sky. She decided to walk to her hotel, breathing in the salt air mixed with traffic fumes as she went.
At last she could really look for Jesse. Emma was due to arrive in Brighton in the evening and Stella had promised to pick her up from the station in a taxi so that they could go straight to Kirsty’s house and start their enquiries.
For now she had the rest of the day to check in and have a look around for herself.
The hotel was perfectly nice, clean and in a good position and had none of the over-familiar, nylon-sheet-and-cruets atmosphere of an old-fashioned seaside B & B. Fortunately, she reminded herself, Brighton had always had an attitude that was anything but provincial. No wonder it was called London-by-the-Sea.
When she opened the door of her room, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It would have been small even for a cabin, with just enough room between the bed and the wall to fit in the smallest of beside tables. The rest of the room was taken up by an enormous dark wood wardrobe of the kind that no one had wanted since the IKEA revolution and which you could probably pick up in one of Brighton’s countless antique shops for a fiver. Inside were five or six bent coat hangers which no doubt had come with the dry cleaning of previous occupants. Still, the duvet cover and valance were at least in plain white cotton, so that was a start.
God knows what Emma would say but this was what you got for the money she could afford – well, actually, which she couldn’t afford, but which she was prepared to shell out in an emergency like this.
Obviously, there was no sea view but, Stella found, if you opened the window, you could climb out onto the crenellated flat roof of a big bay window – health and safety must have missed barring it – and there, in the distance, was the English Channel.
She unpacked her toothbrush and hung up the few clothes she’d brought before deciding to make a start. A map would help. She asked for one at the desk and was handed a version featuring all the interesting landmarks from the Brighton Dome, where Cameron would be performing, to the Prince Regent Swimming Complex (poor Prince Regent, with his vast bulk, he probably couldn’t get into the water at all), to such useful venues as the Brighton Buddhist Centre, and the Laser-Zone. Stella sat down on the bed overwhelmed by the memory of Jesse, aged twelve, having his birthday party at one of these places and being disqualified for running too fast. No appeals that he was the birthday boy could overrule the decision. Jesse had almost cried and Stella had wanted to kill the stupid jobsworth who had ruined his day. Dear, sweet, thin-skinned Jesse! If only they could find him and bring him home!
Armed with the map, Stella set out into the bright afternoon towards Brighton’s famous seafront. Even though it was a weekday and not even the official holiday period there were crowds everywhere and a permanently festive feeling in the air. People smiled and walked slowly, enjoying the sunshine. Brighton had always been a special place, unconventional and exuberant, as colourful and eccentric as a pantomime dame, but with a sprinkling of sophistication.
There were so many foreign students clogging the pavements, chattering in German, French, Spanish and Swedish that Stella decided every school in Europe must surely be empty. There were nearly as many of them as the famous starlings she had heard about that gathered in their thousands to roost on the West Pier at dusk.
She wandered past the gracious but slightly peeling hotels lining the promenade down onto the lower path which bordered the beach. Here there were rows of fishing boats, a carousel with small children squealing happily as they rode the brightly painted horses, and rows of deckchairs occupied by lots of happy sun worshippers. And everywhere the atmospheric cry of seagulls.
She stopped to look at the sandwich board advertising a ‘clairvoyant to the stars’ with black-and-white pictures of faded luminaries from Frankie Vaughan to Joan Collins. If she hadn’t been such a sceptic she might have paid for a consultation to see if the gypsy could throw any light on where to look for Jesse.
Her heart thudded. Crouched on some kind of drain cover, right in the middle of the beach, his hoodie pulled up so he resembled a marooned pixie, was a young man she convinced herself was Jesse. At first she had thought he was a statue or one of those buskers who pretended to be Yoda, then she saw his fingers flying over the keys of a mobile phone.
Stella stumbled across the shingle towards him. Just before she got there, he turned, fear in his eyes at being descended on by this ageing madwoman.
It wasn’t Jesse.
‘I’m sorry,’ Stella flopped down beside him, ‘I thought you might be my grandson.’
The young man looked her up and down. In fact, he was older than Jesse, probably about eighteen, and his face had a hard look that Jesse’s entirely lacked. His pale skin looked grey, and his eyes made her think of a fish that had been laid out too long on the slab.
‘Run away, has he?’
‘Yes.’
‘How old?’
‘Sixteen.’
He shrugged. ‘Trouble at home?’
Stella nodded; it was true after all.
‘Stepfather? I had a sodding stepfather. He wanted my mum and the brat but I didn’t figure in the happy ending. He’d hit me and she just sat there doing fuck all to stop him. She probably wanted me out too.’
Stella felt the familiar anger and frustration creep up on her. No, Jesse didn’t have a stepfather, especially a violent one. He had two perfectly good parents who ought to have been able to sort this out.
‘Has he got a dog?’
Stella looked startled. ‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Easier to find him if he has. There’s only one hostel that takes dogs. Eight quid a night and all the dog food you can eat.’ He grinned at his own joke and Stella wanted to hug this young man with his wry sense of humour whose life had already gone so wrong. ‘You could try the Hostelpoint or the YMCA.’ He pointed back towards the pier. ‘But they’re pricey – think they’ve gone into the hotel business, all en suite bathrooms. Brighton’s not too bad. They don’t like the homeless frightening the tourists. They have a rough-sleepers team who find you places to stay. You need a referral, though. They could give you a list of shelters.’
‘Thanks, I’ll try that.’ She got out her purse and handed him a fiver. The look he gave her back was full of world-weary cynicism. ‘Maybe I should set up as a homeless information centre.’ And then, as an afterthought, he added, ‘Has he brought a tent? There are sometimes a few tents up by the Max Miller Walk. Till they get moved along.’
Stella stood up. If Kirsty didn’t have any firm information, they were going to have to be a lot more organized in their search. She turned back towards the seafront, noticing with surprise that they were directly opposite The Old Galleon where Cameron and Duncan were staying. For now, though, she wanted to fetch Emma from the station and go straight to Kirsty’s.
She was right about Emma’s response to the hotel room. Her daughter took one look at the bed and said, ‘Mum, we can’t sleep in that!’
‘Well, we’re going to have to.’ Her encounter with the young man with the violent stepfather had not made her more sympathetic to Emma’s protests. ‘It’s all I can afford. Now let’s get straight off and find this Kirsty.’
The address Dora had given them was in Prince Regent’s Close. It seemed, like Shakespeare in Stratford, that everything in Brighton from fish-and-chip shops to massage parlours were named after poor old Prinny.
It was a small end-of-terrace house, painted pale lilac, with an ancient camper van parked in the drive. Kirsty’s parents had, it seemed, left London for the laid-back atmosphere of Brighton and its lower house prices. They were helpful but baffled when Emma and Stella knocked on their door. Neither of the parents could really remember Jesse and Kirsty announced, as if this settled the matter, that she hadn’t even heard from him on Facebook.
In that time-honoured British fashion they were offered tea and biscuits, as if this might help, and
they all sat in the small sitting room discussing her grandson.
Finally, Emma remembered to get out the photo she’d given the police to show Kirsty’s parents in case they happened to see him.
‘Oh my God,’ Kirsty’s mother suddenly enthused, ‘this is the boy Foxy Roxy’s been tweeting about!’ They looked genuinely interested for the first time.
‘Isn’t he into that weird music?’ Kirsty offered. ‘The Incredible String Band?’
‘Yes,’ Stella replied, feeling she had to defend her grandson. ‘He says he likes their purity, how they haven’t been tainted by the usual commercialism.’
‘He hasn’t joined Hare Krishna, has he?’ Kirsty’s mother asked, offering them more Bourbon biscuits. ‘They’re quite big in Brighton. I’m always seeing them chanting in Churchill Square.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Stella suddenly realized with a sinking heart how many possibilities there were to explain Jesse’s continued absence. ‘No, I’m sure he wouldn’t.’
‘I’m sorry we couldn’t be more helpful. Leave us your number so we can get in touch if we do hear anything,’ Kirsty’s father said kindly as they got up to leave.
Stella looked around the room for her handbag, her attention diverted by the family photos. One in particular caught her eye, clearly taken in a beach hut. Kirsty and her younger brother sat smiling next to the parents and probably grandparents. A young man in his twenties, an uncle perhaps, sat barefoot in front of them. They were all tanned and happy. It was the kind of moment every family treasured. Of course, anyone could look happy in photographs. It didn’t mean they actually were happy. All the same, Stella felt a stab of jealousy at what looked like a lovely family outing.
She saw Kirsty studying the same photograph, then look swiftly away. Was that a look of guilt in her eyes? Stella told herself she had to be imagining it.
