The Secrets of Sunshine

by Phaedra Patrick

‘Maybe we could drive home,’ Mitchell said as he tucked a bag under his arm. ‘I’d prefer to go back and get a good night’s sleep. If we set off now, we shouldn’t be too late.’

  Liza and Poppy fixed him with a stare. They didn’t reply and headed out of the hut without waiting for him.

  Mitchell reluctantly followed them. He wondered what Anita would make of Poppy sleeping on the ground of a forest. There might be earwigs, and were scorpions ever found in the North Yorkshire countryside? However, he suspected she might have shared Poppy’s excitement.

  A couple of hours later, after Jean had given them a tour of her house and recording studio, Mitchell found himself sitting on a tree stump around a small fire with Liza, Poppy and a straggly group of young musicians.

  The evening sky was still denim blue and the air was thick and hot, so he wasn’t sure why a fire was necessary in this weather. However, tinfoil-covered potatoes baking on the end of sticks, poking into the fire, made his stomach groan with hunger. The paltry scones felt like ages ago.

  ‘This is the life,’ Poppy said, peeling off her socks. She wriggled her toes in the soil on the ground.

  ‘You’re getting your feet mucky,’ Mitchell scolded. ‘You have a smear of dirt on your cheek, too.’

  ‘Try it, Dad.’ Poppy giggled. ‘It tickles your toes.’

  Jean stood up. She had changed into a short black dress with tassels around the hem. ‘And now, what you’re all here for… our musical jamboree! Each musician will perform a song they’ve been working on. Be fearless and have fun. Let’s welcome Delilah first. Come on up, sweet pea.’

  Mitchell fought the desire to get into his sleeping bag and zip it up over his head. Anita had loved going to the theatre and any kind of performance, but creativity and putting yourself on display were not his type of thing.

  A pointy-faced girl sporting a cream night slip and peacock feather earrings waved her arm. The guitar sitting on her lap was almost as big as she was.

  ‘Just listen, Dad,’ Poppy whispered to him. ‘You might enjoy it.’

  Delilah crooned a song about her boyfriend leaving her for a forty-year-old woman. It went on for around five minutes and felt much longer. The best way Mitchell could describe it was experimental.

  ‘Astonishing.’ Jean clapped her hands together. ‘Delicious. Next up, let’s bang our drums for Ian.’

  Ian wore a hat with bunny ears attached to it. He strummed a ukulele and sang out of tune about never finding true love, even though he looked to be in his early twenties.

  ‘Maybe if he wore a different hat…’ Mitchell whispered to Poppy.

  She hiccuped a laugh. ‘Shhh, Dad.’

  After each subsequent song about unrequited love, or relationships that had gone terribly wrong, there was clapping and whooping, and shouts of, ‘Nailed that!’ and ‘Awesome!’

  Poppy sat cross-legged, swaying to the music. She cupped her hands to her mouth and cheered. Mitchell relished watching her. Nine was such a bittersweet age. She was still so young, his little girl. Last year, she could still convince herself the tooth fairy existed, but he increasingly saw glimpses of the young woman she was going to become. Her youth felt like sand slipping through his fingers.

  The sky turned dusky pink and then sapphire, and the next turn fell upon Poppy.

  ‘You don’t have to do it,’ Mitchell assured her.

  Sometimes she retreated into herself, her body shrinking like a wool sweater in a hot wash. In her last school pantomime, she’d hidden behind all the other kids onstage.

  Delilah held out her guitar. Poppy gnawed her bottom lip and Mitchell felt sure she’d refuse it. However, her eyes became determined and she set the instrument on her knee. When she strummed it, an out-of-tune note rung around the forest and Poppy smiled apologetically. After putting the instrument back down, she sang without it.

  Her song was about how flowers in a garden need sunshine and water to make them grow. She stumbled with her words, but somehow it was innocently beautiful.

  When she’d finished, rapturous applause rippled around the fire and she swooped her arm across her middle and bent into a shy bow.

  Mitchell clapped his hands furiously. ‘Encore,’ he said as she returned to his side. ‘I’ve never heard that one before.’

  ‘I made it up.’ She shrugged.

  He stared at her, not sure if she was kidding. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yep. We had to write songs at school ages ago. I remembered some of it.’

  ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘I sang it in a concert, before Mum…’ She looked away, her face in the shadows. ‘She was there.’

  He frowned, trying to remember. ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t know. You were probably in work anyway.’

  ‘Oh, Pops, I’m sorry,’ he started. His body deflated as he wondered what else he might have missed while he worked and lived in the city. He imagined Anita sitting proudly in the school audience as Poppy performed her song, and himself staring at his computer screen, calculating dimensions and measurements for the new bridge instead. Regret was a heavy burden to bear.

  ‘She said you were busy.’ Poppy sniffed, as if trying to show she didn’t care. ‘Anyway, it’s your turn next.’

  ‘But I want to talk about—’

  She interrupted his words. ‘I don’t.’

  Jean stood up in front of them and waved her hand in his direction. ‘And now,’ she said, her voice full of drama. ‘All the way from Upchester city, for one night only, we have Mr Mitchell Fisher.’

  Mitchell just wanted to wrap his arms around Poppy and apologize again for not being there to hear her song at school. ‘Move on to the next person,’ he told Jean. ‘I’m not musical.’

  Poppy gave him a small smile and Mitchell couldn’t tell if she was angry or sad with him. ‘Go on, Dad,’ she said.

  Everyone started to chant his name, and he couldn’t think how to wriggle out of joining in. He took a deep breath, and held his hands up to refuse again, but someone shoved a guitar into his arms.

  He gulped and tried to think of a song that he wouldn’t totally murder. The only time he’d ever sung was to Poppy when she was smaller, or to Anita if he was trying to tell her about a song on the radio.

  Finally, he settled on an old favourite, the first one that came to mind and probably older than most of the people around the campfire, ‘Yesterday’ by The Beatles. He placed the guitar on the ground – he didn’t know how to play – and started to sing softly, not thinking of how the words might resonate with him personally.

  At first it was just an old song to him, and he sang about troubles, and someone saying goodbye, and a shadow hanging over him, and not being the man he once was. An image of him holding Anita’s hand in the hospital and whispering goodbye to her dropped into his mind and wouldn’t leave. It stayed there like a footprint in setting concrete.

  A sadness rushed through him, and his throat grew smaller. An ember rose from the fire and he thought of how Anita sometimes sent him signs. Silly, he knew, but a red admiral butterfly, a rainbow, the pop of cider bubbles on the tip of his nose, could make him feel she was still with him. He could sense her now, and each word became harder to squeeze out. As Mitchell reached the final verse, he reduced the song to a rasp.

  When he felt his tears swelling, fuzzing his vision, he bailed out before he reached the last couple of lines. He held a cupped hand to his mouth. ‘Damn campfire smoke,’ he muttered.

  When he sat back down, Poppy had surprise in her eyes. ‘Not bad.’

  ‘That’s charitable of you.’

  ‘It was nice. Was it about Mum?’

  He nodded slightly. ‘It won’t be a regular thing.’ He shuffled back from the fire and stared into the flames for a while. When he turned to face Liza to ask if it was her turn next, she wasn’t there.

  ‘She went for a walk in the woods,’ Poppy said.

  ‘Did my singing scare her away?’

  ‘Maybe. She said she was too hot, and
she had watery eyes.’

  Mitchell looked over towards the trees, wondering if she’d heard his emotion breaking through in the song. ‘The smoke can do that,’ he said. ‘I need to stretch my legs, too. Do you want to join me?’

  ‘Nope. Can I stay here? I like the music.’

  Jean appeared and sat down beside her. She took off her shawl and draped it around Poppy’s shoulders. ‘I’ll sit with you, if you like?’

  ‘Is that okay, Dad?’

  ‘Well, all right,’ he said. It was good to see Poppy relaxed and happy, and he wanted to move away from all the lovelorn anxiety for a while. ‘I won’t be long.’

  As Mitchell headed into the trees, their trunks glowed orange from the reflection of the fire. He didn’t believe in ghosts or werewolves or the like, but it was easy to spook yourself when twigs cracked underfoot and the full moon beamed through the branches.

  With each step, his skin cooled and his surroundings fell darker. The clapping around the campfire grew faint and the music faded away. Within a hundred metres, he suddenly felt far away from everything. He couldn’t hear anything but nature, and when he looked up he could see the stars shining brightly through the canopy of trees. There wasn’t any smoke from catering chimneys or chugs of car fumes to smog up the sky.

  He reached a clearing in the woods and, when his eyes adjusted to the moonlight, he detected the shape of a large fallen log and then the silhouette of a person sitting on it.

  He stepped backwards to move away and let them be alone, just as he needed to be. A twig snapped under his shoe and he heard a sharp intake of breath.

  ‘Who’s there?’ a woman’s voice called out.

  Mitchell’s pulse sounded in his ears. He walked to the centre of the clearing. ‘Sorry to disturb you.’

  ‘Mitchell, is that you? It’s Liza.’

  ‘Oh.’ He stood motionless, not sure what else to say because he couldn’t see her properly. Something scampered across the ground in front of him and he thought it might be Sasha, but it was small and rodent-like. ‘I’ll leave you in peace,’ he said. ‘Are you okay out here on your own?’

  ‘Sure.’ She didn’t speak for a while and her silence was strange to him. ‘I’m okay. You go back.’

  ‘I don’t like to leave you alone in the forest.’

  ‘I’m used to it here, and you don’t want to miss Jean’s marshmallow toasting session. She buys these really big fluffy ones.’

  ‘That sounds good.’ He stepped in the opposite direction, then moved back again. ‘You should come, too.’

  ‘I need more time to myself. A song reminded me of Yvette and it triggered a few memories. I need to run through them in my head.’

  ‘Okay, well… if you’re sure.’

  ‘Yes. Please go, I’m fine.’

  As Mitchell stepped away and back into the trees, he wasn’t sure if he heard a forest animal, or a small sob ringing out from behind him. He battled a strong urge to go back towards Liza. But Poppy had been on her own for long enough and, with some hesitation, he made his way back to the campfire.

  Poppy thought toasting marshmallows was the most exciting thing in the world. She gave a small yelp when Jean handed one to her.

  ‘Is it still hot?’ she asked, lifting the stick to her mouth.

  ‘Yes, so make sure you blow on it,’ Mitchell said. He wondered if there was anywhere to clean your teeth out here.

  Poppy cupped her hand under the marshmallow and ate it. ‘Dad, it’s yum,’ she said and offered one to him. ‘You’ve got to try it.’

  He reluctantly took a bite and wasn’t expecting the taste to be so wonderful. The goo warmed his mouth and left a powder coating on his lips. He ate the rest of it and hoped there’d be some marshmallows left for Liza to eat.

  ‘Told you it’s nice,’ Poppy said, before she skipped off and sat down beside Delilah.

  Mitchell became aware of Jean closing in on him. She sat down next to him with her legs crossed.

  ‘Okay?’ She smelled of vanilla with a hint of patchouli oil, and her eyes looked tired.

  ‘Surprisingly, yes.’

  ‘This isn’t your thing?’

  ‘I’m more of a city person.’

  She studied him. ‘Why?’

  He thought about it for a while. ‘Nature is too unpredictable. Things sprout wherever they want, and where you don’t expect them. The city is more solid and contained.’

  ‘That’s the kind of thing Yvette would say, too, but she loved it here. She came at least twice a year to escape the rat race.’

  ‘From what you said about Sheila, I’m surprised she allowed the girls to come here at all.’

  Jean lifted her face and reflections of the flames flickered on her cheeks. ‘Sheila used to play in musical tournaments, at grand hotels and venues across Europe. She liked to compete and show she was the best. Without me returning to the UK to help out with the girls, she wouldn’t have been able to do that. Liza, Yvette and Naomi all loved staying here with me. They could leave their cares behind and run free. Maybe that’s why Yvette came here that last time I saw her.’ She looked over at Poppy. ‘Kids should be allowed to roam free and have an adventure, don’t you think? The grown-up world can wait.’

  Mitchell thought of how Poppy had to grow up too quickly after Anita died. There was nothing intrinsically wrong with his plans and strategies pinned in the hallway, even if a diversion now and again was good. ‘Perhaps if it’s done in a structured way,’ he admitted.

  Jean reached into the pocket of her dress. ‘I’ve got something to show you. It’s a postcard Yvette sent to me after she disappeared. Liza’s already seen it.’

  Mitchell looked at the glossy photo of a group of flamingos on the card. He turned it over and held it up to read by the firelight.

  Darling Auntie Jean,

  I’m so sorry we quarrelled. You’ve always understood me the most. If anyone would sense how I’m feeling, it’s you. I’m more like you than you know and I don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing.

  Yvette x

  ‘Why does Yvette say she’s like you?’ he asked.

  Jean took the card from him. ‘That’s what I’m worried about. When Sheila and I fell out, I ran away to Germany without a word. I suppose I was punishing her. Even though it was a long time ago, Yvette knew about it. I’m afraid I’ve not set a good example to her. Maybe she’s got back with this Victor, especially if she knows Sheila wouldn’t approve. He’s dreadful, I can feel it.’ Without warning, she clamped her hand on his wrist, her fingernails digging into his skin. ‘You’ll help find her, won’t you, Mitchell? Bring her home safely. I’m worried sick about her.’

  He shifted uncomfortably, unable to make a firm promise. ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘Good, good. I know you won’t let us down.’

  When Poppy rejoined him, the fire was dying down. She sat next to him and rested her head on his shoulder. ‘Have you seen the sky, Dad? It’s so black out here.’

  ‘We should get some sleep,’ he said, feeling worn out after his conversation with Jean. ‘Do you know where your sleeping bag is?’

  ‘Yep. Um, are you okay?’

  ‘Just a bit tired, that’s all.’

  They shook out their bags and clambered inside them, fully clothed. Poppy pulled her floppy cat out from her bag.

  As they lay there, Mitchell listened to her breathing growing slower. He saw the silhouette of her arm reach up. ‘Do you think Mum is up there in the stars?’ she asked sleepily.

  He didn’t answer, in case his voice faltered. ‘Pull up your sleeping bag,’ he said. ‘So that bugs don’t crawl on your face in the night.’

  ‘Okay.’

  He watched Poppy’s eyes blink in the darkness as she looked up at the stars for a while, and then as they closed.

  ‘Good night, Poppy,’ he whispered. ‘Sleep tight.’

  ‘Night, Dad. Love you.’

  ‘Love you, double that,’ he said.

  Mitchell wasn�
��t sure what time it was when he next woke up. The fire was low, and he could make out the dark shapes of guitars propped against tree trunks. People looked like giant caterpillars in their sleeping bags. The outline of someone moved towards him and his limbs stiffened. Fingers prodded his shoulder.

  ‘Mitchell,’ Liza whispered. ‘Are you awake?’

  ‘I am now.’

  She shook out her sleeping bag beside him, then sat down on it and cradled her knees. ‘I can’t sleep.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. There’s probably foxes around here, maybe even wild boars.’ He raised himself up onto one arm. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I told you I was fine, but I’m not really.’ She paused. ‘I don’t want to load stuff onto you.’

  ‘If it helps us find Yvette…’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, relieved. ‘I just don’t know what’s going on. Everything seems to be falling apart. I used to be so close to Naomi and Yvette, but when Jean told us about Victor…’

  ‘You told me Yvette wasn’t in a relationship,’ Mitchell confirmed.

  ‘That’s right. She never mentioned Victor to me. And why did Jean get such a bad feeling about him? Why would he be furious with Yvette?’

  He could tell she needed reassurance, but he had never been good at that kind of thing. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Maybe everything will look clearer in the morning. Jean said the forest makes everything look beautiful, even the darkest things.’

  Liza didn’t speak. She unzipped her sleeping bag, climbed inside and lay down a few inches away from him. He could feel the heat from her body.

  There was a rustle and she clumsily reached down and took hold of his hand. His fingers tensed and, not sure if he’d offend her by moving them away, he let them stay. Burnt wood cracked and a few embers danced upwards from the dying fire and, as time slipped by, Mitchell felt his eyes closing.

  He was keenly aware of Liza’s hand still lying loosely in his own. But as he slowly drifted off to sleep, he decided he liked the comfort of it there.

  13

  Carl’s Letter

  The sound of yawning filled the car as Mitchell, Liza and Poppy travelled back to Upchester. They were too tired to speak to each other properly and communicated in a series of small sporadic sentences, hums and okays.