The Face At the Window

by Ruby Speechley

  I finish my biscuit and carry my coffee. It’s uncomfortable to walk so it’s more of a waddle. Someone is standing by my bed.

  ‘Hey, is that you, Rosie?’ I’m frowning and smiling at her standing awkwardly by the baby’s cot, half hiding behind a helium balloon she’s holding which says, ‘It’s a Boy!’ in enormous blue writing.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you.’ I thought only family were allowed. I smooth my hair down with my hand. I must look a mess. I grab my cotton dressing gown from the end of the bed and put it on, wrapping it tight. I’m not keen on an employee seeing me like this, without make-up and oh God, this red eye looks hideous.

  ‘He’s a big baby, isn’t he?’ She smiles. I think she’s really taken with him.

  ‘He is. Almost nine pounds.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘We’ve called him Thomas.’

  ‘That’s nice. He was so still when I came in, I was scared. I thought for a second he wasn’t breathing. Anyway, I forgot to give you this.’

  ‘Ah thank you. That’s good of you. Just put it on there.’ She gives me our front door key. I’d forgotten she still had it.

  ‘Anyway, I can’t stop, I just wanted to make sure everything was okay.’ She looks towards the door then hands me the balloon.

  ‘Thank you, it’s really kind of you.’

  ‘I was so excited to hear the news.’

  It’s really sweet of her to come but thankfully, she doesn’t stay long. Maybe I wasn’t very welcoming, but I’m so tired. Perhaps Georgio sent her. I lie on the bed and shut my eyes.

  Nick comes back a few minutes later with a sports bag of things from home. I unpack Thomas’s babygros. All ones I’ve carefully selected from John Lewis and Debenhams. Soft good quality cotton. I take out another nursing bra and nipple cream and several pairs of knickers which are all tangled with static. I pull them apart. There’s a dark green pair with black lace I’ve not seen before.

  ‘What are these?’ I pinch them between my thumb and forefinger.

  ‘Huh?’ Nick is sitting on the side of the bed staring at Thomas sleeping.

  I sling them at him.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ He stands up and examines them in his hands.

  ‘What’s wrong is they are not mine.’ I glare at him.

  ‘Whose are they then?’

  ‘You tell me,’ I sob.

  ‘I don’t know, do I?’ He chucks them on the bed, an angry glint in his eye.

  I want to ask him if he’s been seeing someone, but I don’t want to spoil this precious bonding time with our baby, so I bite my tongue.

  Chapter Thirty

  24 July 2018

  Scarlett

  We get up early the next morning and Mum’s already on her way out for her first appointments at the salon. I make instant coffee and pour it into two ceramic travel mugs, grab a couple of pain au chocolate in their cellophane packets and we’re straight out of the door.

  It’s a short walk to the local MOT garage and thank goodness there are no urgent advisories on it this time. I drive the scenic route to Dunstable via the A6 and skirt round Luton to avoid the morning traffic.

  We drive into Dunstable high street and the sat nav takes us off Oldhill and around to Birchside, a cul-de-sac of neat terraced houses. Kids of all different ages are out playing on bikes and scooters.

  I pull up outside number sixteen, a red front door and a tiny patch of grass on one side and a row of bins on the other. One of the two upstairs windows is wide open, not the whitest net curtain blowing in the breeze. Was one of those my bedroom? Did Dad look after me here as a baby or had they already split up by the time we moved?

  ‘Are you okay?’ Amy asks.

  ‘Yeah, I was, but now I’m dead nervous.’

  ‘We’ll do this together. Unless you’d rather go alone?’

  ‘Oh no, please come with me.’

  We get out of the car and go and knock on the door, Amy right beside me. No one comes. I try the bell.

  ‘Could be in the back garden on a day like this.’ Amy walks along the pavement but there doesn’t seem to be any access. I look through the letterbox. A waft of heat and stale cigarette smoke hits me.

  ‘I’m coming,’ a woman’s voice shouts. She’s shuffling towards the door using a frame.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know if you’d heard,’ I call.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asks.

  ‘My name’s Scarlett. I’m looking for someone.’

  The woman reaches the door and opens it a crack.

  ‘I thought you were the Kleeneze…’ She can barely speak she’s so out of breath. ‘…lady.’ Her arthritic hands grip the moulded handles, her knuckles white. Her face is flushed and she reeks of cigarette smoke. ‘Who’re you looking for then?’

  ‘My dad. We lived here soon after I was born. Could you tell me how long you’ve been here?’

  ‘A good ten years, I expect. I can’t in all honesty remember.’

  ‘You probably wouldn’t have known them then. Thanks anyway. Sorry to have disturbed you.’ I turn to go.

  ‘Someone called Joan lived here before. On her own, like me.’

  I turn back. ‘That’s very helpful, thank you.’

  The door closes.

  ‘That’s disappointing.’

  ‘It is nearly twenty-one years ago. Let’s try the next-door neighbours. Left or right first?’

  ‘Right.’

  I ring the bell. A young family live there and only moved in six months ago. We try the other side. Similar story, retired couple with two chihuahuas have lived there for five years.

  ‘What now?’ Amy asks. ‘Across the road or left and right?’

  ‘Let’s try left again.’ I move out of the way to let a string of children scoot past.

  ‘Shall I try right? Be a lot quicker.’

  ‘Okay.’

  There’s an older man at number twelve. He’s hard of hearing but he lives with his son who tells me they’ve been there fifteen years.

  ‘Scarlett.’ Amy waves me over. It’s another elderly lady at number twenty. Smartly dressed in a tweed skirt, blouse, white ankle socks and lace-up shoes. Her hair is short and bouffant, as Mum calls it. She’s got plenty of clients who still have that style.

  ‘This is Mrs Weaver. She’s lived here for twenty-five years.’

  ‘Oh really. Nice to meet you, I’m Scarlett.’ I hold out my hand and she takes it in both of hers, shaking it absentmindedly because she’s staring at me like I’m her long-lost daughter.

  ‘Is it really you?’ Her Scottish accent is strong. ‘That poor little baby?’

  ‘Did you know my mum – Kelly?’

  ‘No, no dear. Kept to herself. Joan looked after you both.’

  I gently tug my hand away.

  ‘Can you remember if my dad was living there too?’

  ‘Oh goodness no, child. I shouldn’t think she’d ever get over a thing like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  The woman stares at me, like she’s made a huge mistake and I’m not the person she thought I was. She shakes her head, mumbles ‘sorry’ and shuts the door.

  ‘What just happened?’ I ask Amy.

  ‘I have no clue.’

  I ring the bell and knock on the door a few times, but Mrs Weaver doesn’t answer.

  ‘That’s so odd. She seemed perfectly fine talking to me and then it was like the shutters came down.’

  ‘Do you or your mum know anyone called Joan?’

  ‘No, but we used to receive a Christmas parcel from someone with that name every year when I was growing up. I think I asked Mum once who she was.’ I unlock the car and we get in.

  ‘And what did she say?’

  ‘I don’t remember, someone from work probably, or… I think it might have been someone Granny knew.’

  ‘That doesn’t really help us, does it?’

  ‘No.’ I start the engine and wait for an older boy on a bike to get out of the road.

/>   ‘What do you think she was talking about when she said she didn’t think your mum would ever get over a thing like that?’

  ‘I have no idea. And I don’t seem to be any closer to finding out who my dad is.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  24 July 2018

  Scarlett

  We swing by Cole’s house but his car isn’t there, so we carry on to home. I drop him a message on Snapchat, but he doesn’t reply. He must be really hacked off with me following him around.

  ‘Ha ha, look at this reply on Insta.’ I show Amy my phone and she cracks up. I scroll through my feed, liking a few new Love Island celeb beach poses. Cole hates me following them, but I told him loads of them have brains too, like that gorgeous Dr Alex.

  Mum’s out so we go searching for her address book. I want to find out if Mum’s got a new address for Joan so I can go and ask her some questions. I don’t remember the last time we had a Christmas card from her, though, but then I’ve not been checking.

  We take a drawer each in the kitchen.

  ‘It’s red and slim with gold lettering that says “Addresses”.’ I can’t think when I last saw it. Didn’t she get a new address book for Christmas last year? Would she have transferred everything over and chucked the old one? I don’t think so. Mum’s a bit of a sentimental hoarder. It’s probably got too many memories in it, like old boyfriends’ numbers from back in the day before mobiles. She’s kept all my birthday and Christmas cards from when I was born. Now there’s a thought.

  ‘Mum’s got a box of my old birthday cards somewhere. She showed them to me once. I wonder if there are any from Joan.’

  ‘Probably is if you lived with her, but it’s not going to tell you anything about her, is it?’

  ‘I suppose not. Unless she’s written a message.’

  ‘There’s no address book in here.’ Amy shuts the drawer.

  ‘Come and help me then, it’s a right mess in here. I think we need to take it all out, then put it back as we sift through.’

  ‘How big is it exactly?’

  ‘About a quarter of A4.’ I grab all the papers in one go, tip them up, flick through, then hand them to Amy to put back.

  ‘Not likely to miss it then, are we?’

  ‘Let’s face it, it’s not here.’ I slump down on a chair.

  ‘Is there anyone she writes to? What I mean is, when’s the last time she would have needed to look up an address?’

  ‘Christmas, of course!’

  ‘Bingo.’

  ‘She keeps a shoebox of cards for next year and holds onto favourite ones from last year. There’s a big tick list of who she sends a card to and who sent us one back. I’m sure Joan will be in there somewhere.’

  ‘So where’s this box?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe her bedroom?’

  We both laugh. I can’t help it, this is all so absurd. If Mum would tell me about Dad, I wouldn’t need to go through her things behind her back. I hate lying to her, snooping round her stuff, but what choice do I have?

  We stop for a cold glass of water and sit in the garden. I Snapchat Cole again, asking if he’s still mad at me. Then I check through Instagram. His wife’s blocked me again. I set up a new profile and add a new comment. Not getting away from me that easily.

  We find the shoebox under Mum’s bed. The list is there and the address book. I take it into my room and flick through every page, not knowing what Joan’s surname is.

  ‘Here it is. It’s under Morris. Exactly the same address.’

  ‘Not crossed out?’

  ‘No, but there’s tiny writing after the postcode – says “died, 2007” and she’s drawn a teardrop.’

  ‘That’s it then, I suppose. Line of inquiry ended.’

  ‘Who was she, though? That woman said Joan looked after “us” not just me.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask your mum?’

  ‘Do you think I’ll get a straight answer?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘I’m not giving up. She cannot keep fobbing me off.’ I slam the address book shut. ‘Talking to Cole about him becoming a dad has got me thinking more about Father’s Rights and mine too. Mum’s wrong not telling me anything. I’m going to find out who my dad is, and she can’t stop me.’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  25 July 2018

  Scarlett

  ‘Why don’t we go for a picnic along the canal this afternoon,’ Mum says on Wednesday morning.

  I was thinking of calling Cole and trying to arrange to meet him later except the mouse will probably be back from work. I Snapchat him anyway, saying I miss him.

  ‘Can we?’ Amy asks. She’s been deprived of any kind of day trips growing up, so she jumps on any suggestion.

  ‘Scarlett?’

  I shrug. It’s Mum’s day off and she doesn’t wait for my answer. It might be a good time to ask her who Joan is.

  ‘I think it would be lovely to stroll down the towpath on a glorious day like this. I’ll make us some sandwiches.’

  I Snapchat Cole again that I want to see him, but he doesn’t respond. That’s decided then.

  When we arrive, I help Mum lift the cool bag out of the back of her Mini. We find a shaded spot and spread out a blanket to sit on. Mum hands out the sandwiches: cheese or ham and pickle. We munch on them in silence. The air around us is thick with floating spores of pollen and tiny insects. I finish my sandwich and throw a tiny piece of crust into the water and watch the cascade of ripples.

  Amy and I stand arm in arm at the grassy edge, our reflections dark outlines shimmering in the water.

  ‘When are you going to ask her about Joan?’ Amy whispers.

  A waft of meadowsweet wafts towards us on a wisp of breeze. I search around and pick some of its tiny creamy-white flowers and crush them in my palms, the sweet smell changing to an antiseptic aroma.

  ‘Mum, who was that woman who always used to send me a bar of chocolate every Christmas?’

  ‘What made you think of that?’

  ‘Don’t know really – been having random little memories of when I was a kid, maybe because I’m going to be a proper grown-up when I turn twenty-one.’

  ‘Twenty-one used to be when you came of age in my mum’s day before they lowered it to eighteen.’

  ‘What does that actually mean?’

  ‘You couldn’t vote or marry without consent then.’

  ‘Wow, that’s old.’

  ‘Twenty-one is still celebrated as the big milestone, which is why we need to plan your party.’

  ‘We can sit down and make lists when we get home.’

  ‘Is a barbecue in the garden okay? There wasn’t something else you had in mind was there?’

  ‘What like jetting off to Ibiza with a bunch of my friends?’

  ‘I wish I could afford that for you.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, I’m joking.’

  ‘Ibiza in the back garden it is then. You’d better start writing your invitations. I’ve got a special guest coming to see you from America.’

  ‘Oh. Not Joan, is it?’

  ‘No, she died ten years ago.’

  ‘That’s a shame. It felt really special receiving a present from her every year. Did I ever meet her?’

  ‘Lots of times, especially when you were a baby. We stayed with her for a while.’

  ‘Do you mean we lived with her?’

  ‘Well, yes, she really helped me after you were born.’

  ‘So how did you know her?’

  ‘She was one of my mum’s best friends.’

  ‘Is that because you’d split up with my dad?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about this now, Scarlett,’ Mum says over her shoulder. I turn away, rolling my eyes at Amy. I wish Cole were here. He should be with me now, kissing me all over. It’s not fair that he’s stuck with the mouse when it’s me he wants.

  I stand up and announce I am leaving. I march off in the wrong direction in a mist of tears. If I can’t have him, I may as well be d
ead. I wipe my eyes on the back of my hand. Amy comes after me, but I don’t feel like speaking to anyone, not even her.

  ‘Is it about Cole?’ she asks. ‘He’ll see what a big mistake he’s made, I know he will.’

  I stop abruptly and she almost crashes into me. I spin round to face her, arms crossed. ‘How can you know any of that?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he? He loves you. We just need to stick to the plan.’

  ‘And what is the plan apart from trolling the mouse and following them around?’

  ‘I’ll think of something else, I promise.’ She pauses. ‘I’ve seen the way he looks at you.’ Her eyes lift and she gazes into mine, beyond the surface, and I see for the first time that she’s a little bit in love with me herself. I immediately forgive her for everything. There is no one as loyal to me as her. I know she’ll help me get Cole back, but if he’s going to stay mad at me, is that what I want? Maybe I should cut my losses and destroy him instead.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Monday 13 August 2018

  Gemma

  I curl up on the bed in a kind of twilight created by the closed curtains, waiting for news. I wish I could go to work but how would I be able to carry on as normal when my baby is missing? How could I concentrate? In my mind’s eye, Thomas is crying until he’s red in the face and suddenly I realize I’m leaking milk. Where are you, baby? Are you safe? What have you done with him, Rosie?

  I need Mum but I don’t know what I can do to win her back. She must be so disappointed in me, her only daughter. Will my parents ever have the chance of meeting Thomas? My younger brother will be on his school holidays. Out with his mates, completely embarrassed by his big sister. I check my phone hoping to see a message from Mum saying she knows we have different opinions, but what’s happened to Thomas is terrible and she’s thinking of me and prays he is found safe and well soon.

  But there’s nothing.

  I try calling Nick but it goes straight to answerphone. Is he really looking for Thomas? I’m not sure I’d know where to start. They could be anywhere by now. I don’t trust him. What’s he up to?