by Linda Green
I hesitate, wondering if I should tell him about the phone call. I decide to wait to do it in person.
‘I know.’
‘Maybe she simply wandered off.’
‘Maybe. I did lose her balloon from the party. I don’t know exactly when, but I must have let go of it at some point.’
‘That’s it, then. She’ll have seen it and followed. That’s how she’ll have left the park.’
I turn my head away from the phone so Alex doesn’t hear me sigh. Usually his optimism is refreshing. Right now it seems ridiculously naive. I don’t want to stick a pin in his bubble but at the same time I know we both need to be realistic.
‘I don’t think so, love. I don’t think she’d have left the park without me. Not even for that.’
There is a moment’s hesitation at the other end of the line.
‘Well, I’m sure there’s an innocent explanation of some kind. Look, I’m leaving now. I’ll come straight there. It might take a while, mind, with Friday-night traffic. Is anyone with you?’
‘Dad came but he’s gone off looking for Ella. Mum’s got Otis.’
‘Right, well I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
‘I gave the cops a photo of her. They’ve sent it to the media. Just so you know, like.’
‘Great,’ he says. ‘Hopefully someone will find her pretty sharpish.’ I wish he wouldn’t sound so upbeat about this. I want him to scream and shout and swear down the phone. I want to know he is feeling the same pain inside as me.
‘I’ll let you know then, if I hear anything, like.’
‘Yeah. Thanks. It’ll be fine, I’m sure. They’ll probably have found her by the time I get there.’
‘Yeah,’ I say, ending the call and wishing I could believe him.
*
Dad comes back half an hour later. Tony is with him, for once out of his overalls, in jeans and a T-shirt. He gives me a hug. I think it’s that which upsets me most. The only other time I can remember him giving me a hug was at Grandma’s funeral.
I look across at Dad. He shakes his head.
‘We’ve done all the roads around here. Asked everyone we saw. Cops are all over the place too.’
‘She’s probably a long way from here by now,’ I say.
Tony looks down at his feet, scuffs a trainer in the dry grass. Sometimes I swear he is still my ten-year-old kid brother, struggling with the news that he is going to be an uncle.
‘Someone must have seen summat,’ says Dad. ‘They’ll come forward when it’s on the news tonight. Calendar TV van’s outside the park. Their chappie was filming the search, like.’
‘Did you talk to him?’
‘Only to find out if it’ll be on the teatime programme.’
I look up at the sky. My life has turned into a bloody soap opera in a matter of hours. People are going to be stuffing their faces watching the telly, seeing a picture of my little girl. My little girl, who isn’t here any more because I wasn’t fucking paying attention.
I walk a few steps away. I can’t deal with this right now. Not here, in the middle of a park with loads of people everywhere.
‘Why don’t you go home?’ Dad says. ‘We’ll stay here. We’ll call you as soon as she turns up.’
I shake my head. ‘No. I’m not leaving, not without her. I brought her to the park and I’ll take her home again.’
Dad looks at Tony. They don’t know what to say because I’m upset and they can’t handle it. They used to leave all that stuff to Mum to deal with. I wish Mum were here but she can’t be because she has to be with Otis, and the one thing I am sure of is that I don’t want him to be here.
One of the coppers comes back over. The one who asked me for all the names on my phone. I can’t remember what his name is. I’ve lost track of them all now.
‘Is there anybody in at your house?’ he asks.
I shake my head.
‘Only we’d like to go and search it, if that’s OK.’
I look at Dad. I know exactly what he is thinking but he doesn’t give me a chance to say anything before he jumps in: ‘She’s not fucking there, is she?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but we need to search the missing person’s home. It’s standard procedure in these cases.’
‘You can stick your standard procedures where the sun don’t shine, sonny. Some pervert’s got my granddaughter and you want to try and pin this one on us.’
‘Dad, leave it,’ I say. ‘You’ll only make things worse.’
‘Worse? How can they be worse than this? Ella’s missing and they think her own family’s got summat to do with it.’
‘Please understand that we have to rule out the possibility that she might have got back home somehow. She could be hiding somewhere in the house, thinking she’s in trouble. We have to eliminate every possibility.’
I sigh and nod my head, knowing he’s right.
‘I’ll go with them, if you want,’ says Tony.
I nod, realising he’ll be more use there than here. I fish my house keys out of my pocket and hand them to him. ‘Thanks.’
The copper looks at me. ‘We’d like your permission to search the whole property – garden, outbuildings, everywhere.’
‘Fucking hell, what is this?’ says Dad.
I grab hold of his arm. ‘Enough.’ I turn back to the copper. ‘That’s fine. Whatever you have to do.’
‘And forensics need a toothbrush or hairbrush and something with her scent on too. An item of clothing.’
‘Right,’ I say, trying hard to keep my voice from breaking. ‘Tony, give them her red toothbrush from the bathroom and her Frozen pyjamas. They’ll be on her bed.’
He looks at me, nods and swallows hard. I’m glad he’s going now. I’m not sure I could cope if he started crying.
Tony walks off with the copper. Dad turns straight to me. ‘I can’t believe you let them do that.’
‘They’re trying to find her, Dad.’
‘No, they’re not. They’re trying to pin this on us. Just because we live in Mixenden.’
‘I don’t live in Mixenden.’
‘No, but we do, and that’s good enough for them. You see this on the telly, don’t you? Cops trying to fit someone up just because they come from the wrong side of the tracks. They’ve probably seen that your brother’s got previous by now.’
‘Jeez, don’t be so bloody paranoid. They’re just doing their job. I don’t care what they do. They can turn the whole place upside down as far as I’m concerned. As long as they find her, I really don’t give a shit.’
Dad looks down and scuffs the grass with his shoe. I know now where Tony gets it from.
*
It’s nearly seven when Alex texts me to say he’s here. Dad has gone off searching the streets again. I wonder if I should warn Alex that the park is still crawling with coppers. He probably won’t have thought about that – I know I wouldn’t have if it was me turning up like this when everyone else has been here for hours. But before I can do anything about it, I see a figure running up from the far end of the park. I know instantly it is him because he’s crap at running, always has been. It’s not lack of speed; he simply looks weird running, something to do with the way he brings his knees up. I used to take the piss out of the way he ran on the treadmill at the gym. Although as I look at him now, the only thing I feel is an overwhelming sense of love.
He runs straight into my arms, almost knocking me off my feet, and holds me, holds me tighter than he has ever done in his life. So tight that he manages to squeeze some fresh tears out of me. When at last I look up, I see that his eyes are red too.
‘She’s gone,’ I say. ‘Someone’s taken her.’
‘We don’t know that for sure.’
‘Then why are you crying?’
Alex scrunches up his face and looks up at the sky. ‘I didn’t want to think it; I wanted to believe she’d just wandered off. But when I got here and saw all the police . . .’ His voice trails off and he shakes his head.
‘Even if they have, we’ll get her back. We need to be positive, to keep strong for her sake.’
‘Well I’ve been trying to be strong since it happened because I’ve had to deal with all this crap myself in the middle of the park with other people gawping at me, and right now I don’t want to be strong any more, right now I want to bawl my fucking eyes out.’
He nods, pulls me back close to him and lets me do exactly that.
6
Muriel
The sirens keep coming. I had no idea the mother would make such a fuss. She couldn’t be bothered to look after her child when she had her, but now the girl has gone she is trying to ease her guilt. She knows it is her fault, you see. Knows that she has neglected her child and now she is trying to save face. That is what it is like these days. People don’t care about their actions until they are caught. Until someone else is pointing the finger, and then all the excuses come out. Suddenly they are the doting parent who has had this terrible thing happen to them. She will insist it is not her fault – it never is. The police will find out though. It will take time, of course. The police won’t say what they have found straight away. There will be a lot of sympathy for the mother at the beginning, but the truth will come out in the end. And when it does, and only then, I will take the child back. Will explain that I have been acting in loco parentis. They will thank me then. Too few people are prepared to do their public duty these days. Everybody walks by on the other side of the street. Not that I want thanks. I was simply doing the right thing. And as soon as they understand that, I will hand the child over. Not to the mother, for they will have found her unfit by then, but to the authorities. They will have to decide what to do with her. For now I am her guardian. And as such it is my duty to take care of her properly.
I move away from the landing window and go back downstairs to the lounge, where the child is playing with Melody. It is such a help that she loves the cat. I fear it would have been very hard to settle her otherwise.
‘I want to go back to park now,’ she says as I enter the room.
‘Your mother has asked me to look after you for a little longer. It isn’t safe for you to go back, you see.’
‘Are the big boys still being naughty?’
‘Yes. Yes, they are.’
‘Is Daddy coming to pick me up?’
‘Not this evening, no. They’ve asked me to look after you tonight. You can sleep in Matthew’s room.’
The child starts crying. ‘I want to go home.’
I walk over and crouch down next to her. ‘You can stay and play with Melody.
‘I want Charlie’s birthday cake.’
‘Who’s Charlie?’
‘Charlie Wilson. I went to his party. His cake is in my party bag. Mummy’s got it in her car. And she’s got my balloon. Did you see my red balloon?’
I shake my head, and the child’s face falls further.
‘How about I make you crumpets for breakfast in the morning?’
‘I want my balloon. Mummy’s got it.’
My hand is on her shoulder. Her body is shaking. I hold her to me. For a moment she resists, her body rigid. And then it gives. Her arms loop in turn around my neck as she sobs into my shoulder. Her warm tears dampen my blouse. My left hand is rubbing her back, the other tight around her. I smell her. Breathe her in. The sweetness of her youth mixed with the dust and heat of the day. I ache inside because I know that she needs me. Needs me in a way that Matthew doesn’t any more.
‘How about I run you a nice warm bath after tea? I’m sure you’ll feel better after a bath.’
She nods, snot dripping from her nose.
‘Let me get you a hanky,’ I say. I return from the kitchen and hand her a pale blue cotton handkerchief embroidered with seashells. She looks at it and back to me, a frown creasing her brow.
‘To blow your nose,’ I say. The frown increases. I realise she has never seen a proper handkerchief before. ‘Like a tissue,’ I continue. I take it back from her and hold it over her nose. She sniffs rather than blows. I wipe her nose anyway, fold the handkerchief and hand it back to her.
‘You can keep it in your pocket, in case you need it again.’ She looks down. She hasn’t got a pocket, of course.
‘Never mind,’ I say, taking it back from her. ‘I’ll look after it for you. Now, what would you like for tea?’
‘SpongeBob Squarepants pasta,’ she says.
‘Right, well I have various pastas but not that one, I’m afraid. Would you like pasta tubes or twists?’
‘Tubes,’ she replies. ‘With tomato sauce.’
I nod.
‘And cheese on top.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Can I watch TV now?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘I always watch TV while Mummy’s cooking tea. She lets me.’
‘I don’t have a television, my dear. I don’t find I need one.’
The girl stares at me, incredulous. They use them as babysitters, you see. Dump their children in front of the box and do whatever it is that is more pressing than looking after them.
‘Is it in other room?’ she asks, looking towards the door.
‘No, I really don’t have one. Go and see for yourself.’
She gets up and trots through to the other room. A few minutes later she returns, tears streaming down her face.
‘Good heavens, let’s not get into a state about it. It is possible to survive without television, you know.’
The crying intensifies. Clearly I need diversionary tactics.
‘Why don’t I go and get you one of Matthew’s toys to play with?’ She looks up momentarily. I take this as a yes.
‘I’ll go and have a look upstairs and see what I can find. You stay here with Melody.’
I walk up the stairs and past Matthew’s bedroom. There are no toys left in there, of course. But as he grew out of things I took them up to the box room, partly because I couldn’t bear to part with them and partly for my grandchildren. Older toys are so much better than the rubbish you get nowadays. And quality lasts, unlike all of that plastic tat people’s houses are full of today.
I pause at the top of the next flight of stairs. It is a long time since I have gone into this room and I have to steal myself to do it.
I open the door halfway and squeeze inside. It is like entering a museum of Matthew’s childhood, albeit a rather chaotic and muddled museum in desperate need of a curator. The exhibits may not be neatly labelled and displayed in cases but they are organised inside my head. And I have a clear picture in my mind of each thing being used or played with by Matthew. Why, I can practically date them all: Rocky the rocking horse (Matthew was admittedly not very original with names), with him sitting astride it wearing a cowboy hat, Christmas 1999; pair of stilts, Matthew standing on them in shorts and black plimsolls, a huge grin on his face, summer 2002; Monopoly, Matthew staring intently at the board, desperately trying to work out how to beat his father, 2004. The list goes on, the shutter firing inside my head as each captured image comes sharply into focus. I stop and catch my breath, run my hand across his little easel before glancing down at the chalk dust on my fingers. It all comes to dust in the end. Memories and dust.
In the distance I hear more sirens. I peer out of the tiny window. I can’t understand where all the police are coming from. You certainly never see them in Halifax town centre when you need them. The park is usually quieter at this time in the evening, a lull in activity while the children have their tea before a final play outside. Matthew will be worried. He doesn’t like noise or upset, changes in routine. I know he will be hiding in the trees, seeking sanctuary in the folds of the cloak they provide. He may be rocking and singing to himself, but no harm will come to him there. I wish I could go to him but I can’t. The child needs me. And I need to stay here to protect the child.
I turn, and a flash of red ribbo
n in the corner of the room catches my eye. The bottom half of my face breaks into a smile. The top half, still preoccupied, reluctantly allows itself to follow. I step over an abacus and the easel and reach out to grab the extended paw. The rest of it comes out easily. Mr Boo. It has been such a long time. I hold the bear to me before examining him more carefully. The red ribbon around his neck is frayed a little, the stitching is loose around his left arm, and the fur is worn in places but probably no worse than I remember. And that was always part of his charm. Matthew adored him, right from when he was tiny. It was my mother who gave the bear to him, I think on his first Christmas.
I pick my way back towards the door and down the stairs. When I get to the landing I hear the child crying, having obviously worked herself up into a state. I hurry down the last flight of stairs and back into the lounge.
‘Now, if you dry your eyes and stop this nonsense,’ I say with the bear still behind my back, ‘I’ve got a present for you’. The tears stop instantly. I produce Mr Boo and hold it out to her. A smile breaks across her face. They are as maddening and inconsistent as our weather, children. But this is one of those rainbow moments. And I feel a satisfaction from having quelled the deluge. A satisfaction I haven’t felt for a long time.
‘His name is Mr Boo,’ I say. ‘He was Matthew’s favourite toy when he was your age.’
She takes the bear and hugs him to her. ‘Will Matthew want him back?’
‘No. He’s yours to keep. You can take him to bed with you tonight.’
‘Iggle Piggle,’ she says in an uncertain voice. ‘I take Iggle Piggle to bed with me.’
I look up at the ceiling to compose myself. ‘Not here you don’t. Here you will have Mr Boo.’
She hesitates before replying.
‘Can I take him home with me tomorrow?’
It is my turn to hesitate. I believe in being honest with children where possible, but having stemmed the flow of tears, I have no desire to start it up again.
‘Like I said, he’s yours to keep.’
She hugs him to her and lowers her head to talk to him in the same sing-song voice which Matthew used. I watch for a moment – the curl of the fingers, the dimples, the very colour of the hair.
