by Clare Boyd
Silence.
‘Peter?’
‘I’m surprised you remembered my name.’
‘Forget all that crap for now. Rosie’s missing.’
‘What?’
‘She’s gone. It looks like her bed hasn’t been slept in.’
‘Call the police. I’m coming home.’
Before I called the police, I called Vics.
‘Darling, I haven’t seen her. Do you want me to come round?’
‘No, stay there in case she comes over.’
After reporting Rosie missing, I charged upstairs to look in her drawers, as the police had suggested, to see if any clothes had been taken. Then I remembered her diary.
It was under her pillow.
‘Mum!’ I called down from the banisters. ‘Come help me with this bloody passcode.’
My mother joined me upstairs and we sat her on her bed with the plastic pink toy on my lap.
‘Let’s go all through the birthdays again. Try Noah’s.’
I typed it into the number keypad. The pink door stayed closed. ‘Nope.’
‘Try her birthday.’
Nothing.
‘Peter’s?’
Nothing.
‘Oh God,’ I groaned. ‘It could be anything.’
‘Yours next,’ Mum offered.
‘I’ve tried that already. I’ve tried all of them,’ I sighed despairingly. But I typed it in again anyway, for the hell of it.
The door popped open to reveal the thick pink notepad.
I looked at my mother triumphantly. ‘She must have changed it.’
I placed the diary between us.
‘What’s this?’ Mum asked, unbending the flimsy plastic pink arm of what I had always assumed was a mini-light.
‘It’s a lamp for after lights out, I think.’
‘But she always uses her torch.’
‘That’s true,’ I said, picking the yellow torch up from the table next to her bed.
My mother waggled the extendable arm of the light.
The notepad was about half full. I flicked through the pages.
Dear Mummy... Dear Mummy... Dear Mummy... on every page. My face flushed with shame.
‘It’s to me.’
‘She loves you so much, Gemma.’
A lump formed in my throat. ‘And I haven’t been there for her.’
‘By the time we have kids, it’s too late to realise how inadequate we are for the job,’ my mother said. She wrapped her arm around me in an awkward but heartfelt squeeze.
I added, ‘You did all right, for a Campbell woman.’
‘We’re a substandard lot. But we try our best.’
‘I love you, Mum.’
‘Love you too, darling.’ She twitched a series of sniffs, as though smelling the air for breakfast, and pinched her pink-tipped nose. ‘Right come along. Time to get reading.’
Why are there so many gaps in the writing? I wondered as I skimmed through the paragraphs.
‘Wait a second... Look there are two pens.’ I unclipped them from their Velcro holders by the side of the notebook. One was black and the other was white.
‘What?’ Mum asked.
‘I remember now. When I bought this for her the box said it had invisible ink.’
I scribbled the white felt-tip pen on a blank page, which left no markings on the page, and then clicked the switch to the mini-UV-light. ‘Shit. It’s not working. Shit!’
I was convinced that the blanks held the key to her whereabouts.
My mother turned the diary over. ‘Triple AAA. I’ll nip down to the shops. You start reading the rest.’
I read from the back. There were no dates.
TOP SECRET
* * *
Dear Mummy,
* * *
It is 7 days after you left. Granny Helen comes into my room to wake me up every morning but she doesn’t know that I am already wide-awake. I wake up early to look outside to see if your car is home. Daddy says that you are not feeling very well and that you need to get better before you come home. Did I make you ill, Mumma?...’
My tears dropped onto her writing and I blotted the page with my sleeve. As I continued to read, I noticed that there were six lines left completely blank in the middle of her entry, which I guessed was where the invisible ink began. I checked previous entries, spotting more and more blank spaces.
By the time I heard Peter pull up outside, I had no information about Rosie’s whereabouts, but I had seen sides to her that I had completely forgotten about, that I had neglected to see. Her sincerity. Her fear. Her vulnerability. I couldn’t bear that I had not found time to listen, really listen, and really hear. She needed this diary to feel heard; my attention might have come too late. I pressed the diary to my chest, heartbroken.
Peter came into the room.
‘Oh my God, Peter, where is she?’ I cried, falling into his arms.
He hugged me tightly, and I hoped he would never let go. ‘The police’ll find her.’
‘Peter, I didn’t push her. I didn’t hurt her head. She rolled, I swear to God.’
Peter drew away and took me by the shoulders. ‘I know, I saw her do it again when Noah hit her and I have been trying to call you for days. Where have you been?’
‘It’s doesn’t matter now. I’m back.’
‘It’s been hell without you.’
I smiled sadly, wishing I could feel vindicated, knowing I had stayed away too long.
‘I thought you said she was calmer without me.’
‘I have never wanted to hear her tantrums more. She’s been so good it’s been awful.’
‘I came home to tell her about Kaarina. I’m not going to run away from it anymore.’
Peter nodded and smiled, and then he scratched his hands through his hair. ‘Oh God, where the hell are the police?’
I looked out of the window and saw Mira and Barry Entwistle’s house.
‘Mira,’ I hissed.
‘Gemma, no,’ Peter cried, following me as I almost tumbled down the stairs.
‘I have to ask her.’
I sprinted over to their house and knocked on the door repeatedly.
Barry opened it. ‘Hello Gemma. How can I help?’ he asked, twitching his nose so that his glasses popped up and down.
‘Where’s Rosie?’ I screamed in his face.
Peter pulled me back. ‘Sorry, Barry, we’re looking for Rosie. Might you have seen her anywhere?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ he said, frowning at me.
‘Is Mira there?’ I cried.
‘She’s gone to work. Do you want me to call her and ask her about Rosie?’
Peter answered, ‘Yes, that would be really kind, Barry, thank you,’ and he yanked me away. I tried to look over Barry’s shoulder.
‘He was hiding something, I can tell,’ I sneered, as Peter frogmarched me back home.
‘Behaving like that is not going to help Rosie.’
Chastened, I stopped writhing.
Before getting back inside, I heard a car. My heart leapt. I hoped it was the police, but it was Mum’s red Mini.
‘The batteries!’ I cried.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Mira had woken up that morning with butterflies. It was the day she would be calling her son. His letter was waiting for her on the bureau.
Her mind was alert, as it had been all night. But she wasn’t tired. Her eyes were wide open to the beauties of the world around her.
The drive to Woodlands had taken her breath away. The pink sky, the frosted branches, the bunches of brown leaves scurrying along the road next to her seemed to be saying ‘Good Morning Mira!’ and ‘What a wonderful day it is today!’
The children at school were a delight, even when they weren’t. She hugged them and laughed with them and admonished them gently.
When Patricia politely asked her to come out of the classroom for a word, Mira was not worried. She was on a high. Nothing could bring her down.
‘Mira, I’m afraid your mob
ile telephone has been ringing quite insistently from your coat. I would ask you to turn it off before it sends me to the loony bin.’
Mira’s mortification was quickly replaced by terror. Barry never called her at work. Nobody ever called her at work. Not even Deidre.
Having apologised to Patricia, she scuttled off to find her phone.
Four missed calls from Barry in the last fifteen minutes.
She called him back.
‘Mira, love, the Bradleys have been round and they’re saying Rosie is missing.’
Mira was confused and spoke without thinking. ‘But I only saw her last night.’
‘You saw her last night?’
‘Yes, she came to visit me in the shed and then she...’ Mira’s heart was in her mouth. She dropped the phone and let out a small cry.
Without a thought of Patricia or Year Two, she shoved her jacket on, checked the keys to the shed were still in her pocket, and fled from the school.
She sped recklessly through the lanes. The joy and beauty of the drive earlier was now a blur. Her fear seemed to be spreading and ripping through the landscape like a hurricane.
She screeched the car to a halt on the roundabout and ran across the drive and round to the back of the house. Forcing her legs to move faster than they were able to, she was stumbling over her own feet. Her mind worked overtime as she imagined the state she would find Rosie in. The temperature outside had dropped to -4°C last night. There was no heating, running water or food in the shed. The kettle was empty.
‘Rosie! Rosie!’ she rasped through the door, desperately short of breath.
As she fumbled with the key, struggling to turn it in the rusty lock, she noticed a white piece of paper sticking out of the bottom of the door. Her heart stopped. Filled with dread, she scanned the scribbled note that Rosie had written on the back of a seed packet. Help me, Mummy…
‘Oh God, Rosie!’ she screamed as she scrunched it into her pocket and tried frantically to force the key again and again. She was ready to kick the door down, but then the lock clicked open.
Rosie was curled on the floor under Mira’s tartan blanket, her lips blue, her teeth and bones chattering.
‘Oh my child, oh my Lord above.’
‘Thirsty,’ she croaked.
Mira shook a watering can, finding a small amount of water to pour into a mug, which she put to Rosie’s shivery lips. As Rosie sipped, Mira pressed her fingers onto Rosie’s wrist, to measure her pulse. She counted. The child’s steady heartbeat and the process of counting calmed her. The panic subsided. Wisps of relief seeped into Mira’s consciousness. Gradually, her own breathing became normal. She sat there with her, for a few beats, stroking her forehead, aware now that Rosie was going to be well.
‘Let’s get you home, Rosie Rabbit.’
Mira scooped up Rosie’s juddering body and carried her across the garden.
Barry came out and trotted next to her. ‘Is she okay?’
The sound of his weedy voice curdled her stomach.
‘She’ll be fine once she’s warmed up,’ she spat back at him.
Weighed down by the child’s body, she staggered on. With each step, she became more and more fearful of letting Rosie go. She braced herself for the abuse she would receive from Gemma and Peter.
She looked down at this beautiful child, clinging to her for strength in such a dear, trusting manner, and she recognised the terrible errors she had made. Rosie’s tantrums might have been coming from Rosie’s mouth, but the real cry for help had been coming from Mira’s past. By confusing the two, Mira had put Rosie in danger. She had torn a family apart. She did not deserve Rosie’s trust.
When Peter and Gemma opened the door to her, Gemma’s face crumpled and she let out a cry so piercing and full of heartache that Mira almost collapsed with Rosie in her arms still.
As Peter took her from Mira, Rosie reached out for Gemma. Her weak arms wrapped themselves around her mother’s neck while Gemma kissed her daughter’s face until there wasn’t an inch of skin that hadn’t been touched by her love.
‘Thank you, thank you,’ Peter choked. ‘Thank you for finding her.’
‘But it was my fault!’ Mira cried, stepping back from them, waiting for retribution. ‘I locked the shed, I wasn’t thinking, she was in there and... oh, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for everything.’
Gemma’s pale and drawn expression hardened. ‘She’s safe now. Thank you for bringing her home,’ she stated tersely.
Her gaze returned to Rosie’s face, her wide smile returned, full of happiness and gratitude and forgiveness. Through that smile, Mira recognised Gemma’s absolute devotion to Rosie. Beads of sweat broke out across Mira’s forehead, from the exertion of carrying Rosie, and from the searing sense of shame. Gemma’s dignified restraint was worse than a punch in the stomach would have been.
Peter took Rosie from Gemma. In a huddle, they began to move inside. Mira watched on, at a loss, fixed to the spot. But before Gemma had a chance to slip through the door, Mira touched her shoulder and Gemma spun around as though ready to throw that punch.
Mira spoke hurriedly but gravely, ‘I’m not asking for your forgiveness and I don’t blame you either if you never give it, but if I could explain… I don’t know how to say it… I’m not making excuses, but nobody looked out for me when I was a girl and I thought if I could look out for Rosie, it would make up for it somehow. I’m sorry, so sorry,’ Mira paused, trying to hold back the tears. ‘If I could take it back… Oh… I’m sorry… I tried to save Rosie when I should’ve tried to save me. I’m talking nonsense. Sorry, I’ll go.’
Gemma opened her lips, as though poised to say something, but they pursed again, tears gathering above her lashes.
‘Goodbye Mira,’ Gemma said.
Faced with a closed door, Mira murmured to herself, ‘Yes, sorry, yes, I just wanted to… Yes, I’ll leave you alone now.’
Humbled and chastened, Mira turned away, to return to her own home next door, as though she was drawing away from them, up into the sky, pulling back the lens of a camera from close-up to wide angle. She found herself looking at the bigger picture. They were her next-door neighbours, but their stories were miles apart. She had her own life to focus on now. She had her own child to find. And his letter was waiting for her on the desk.
* * *
Barry was standing by the bureau. His eyebrow and top lip twitched in unison as though they were connected by a thread. Oliver’s letter was pinched between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.
Mira sensed danger. On her return from next door she and Barry had drunk a finger of brandy and eaten some sponge cake together. She had tried to talk to him about what had happened, but he had been snippy with her and she had found it difficult to seek out his eye contact.
‘Can I have that?’ she demanded now.
The letter was hanging at his thigh. It was like seeing a baby dangling out of a window in the arms of a mad-man. She knew she would have to be cautious with him, gently-gently wheedle and sweet-talk him into giving it up.
‘Let’s put it away, eh?’
‘I should never have given this to you,’ he said. He waved it in the air carelessly.
Mira wanted to lurch at him, to snatch it, but the risk was too great. The letter held precious information. There would be no other record of his contact. She tried to remember Oliver Ivory’s address, but she could not.
‘It’s my property,’ Mira stated.
‘Because of this, you almost killed that girl, love,’ he said, flicking at the paper.
‘What happened to Rosie was an accident. It has nothing to do with the letter.’
‘It has everything to do with it.’
‘Give it to me,’ Mira ordered, thrusting her hand out for it.
‘NO! I WILL NOT!’ he bellowed. The flesh on his face shook. ‘I forbid you to contact him.’
‘What gives you the right to forbid me, Barry?’ A door in her brain opened and years of stored-up animosity b
egan to spill out of her mouth. ‘You know nothing about real life. You’ve cut yourself off from the rest of the world, just like your dear mother did, keeping this fusty old house “just so”, and planting geraniums for all those bored housewives, and whinging on at me when they have petty complaints about molehills on their crochet lawns…’ She wiped her mouth of spittle. ‘And yet somehow you think you know what’s best for me? I had a life before you. I carried a baby in this belly. I’m OLIVER’S MOTHER, for crying out loud!’ She was panting and sweating so hard, she thought she might die.
‘You’re not his mother anymore. You gave him up!’ Barry shouted back, clutching the letter to his chest.
Mira squeezed her eyes shut. ‘I won’t hear it!’ She held her hands over her ears and yelped.
A moment later, she felt his hand patting her shoulder and smelt his breath as he spoke, ‘My Mira Meerkat, leave it be. It’s too late now. There, there now.’
Her eyes shot open. She looked down to his other hand for the letter. It wasn’t there.
Malevolence swelled in her veins.
‘Where is the FUCKING LETTER, Barry?’
His jaw slackened. He stared at her as though she were a monster. She felt like a monster. He retreated. His eyes began blinking at double-speed behind his darkened glasses. The back of his legs came up against the fireplace tools, jangling the shovel, the poker, the tongs, the brush, unbalancing the stand until it crashed down, letting the tools splay onto the carpet. Carefully, carefully, she moved towards him. If she approached too fast, he might run.
‘Step back,’ he thundered. His arm shot out towards the fireplace mantel to grab the box of matches. With an unsteady hand, he lit a long match and pulled the letter from his back pocket.
Cowed, Mira shrank back. ‘Oh God. Don’t, please don’t,’ she whined. ‘Please Barry. You don’t understand. He’s everything to me, please don’t.’
‘He’s everything to you, is he? Everything, you say?’ Barry retorted, high and mighty.
Mira wailed, ‘Why can’t you understand that? Why can’t you understand that I need him?’
‘I understand more than you think. Just you watch!’ he cried petulantly, holding the match to the corner of the letter.
