Ruby Tuesday

by Debbie Chase

  The landlord, Robert, served us, a powerful-looking man with muscular arms—it must be because of the hand-pulled pumps—who, for some strange reason, sported an old-fashioned handlebar moustache, putting me in mind of a cyclist or a weight lifter from the nineteen twenties. He began to pour pints from the many hand pumps lined up along the bar. I noticed that the guys were having ESB, extra-strong bitter, while we three girls opted for wine. The pub was pleasantly blurry to my intoxicated brain, which was why I suppose that I didn’t take much notice of what Robert said at first.

  “Hey, you two look-a-likes. What’s happened to Michael?” He was innocent of the background story to Michael but knew he had a connection with me and Rose—or the two look-a-likes, as he always called us. “He hasn’t been here for a couple of days, and….” He leaned across the pumps and lowered his voice to a whisper. “He hasn’t paid his bill.”

  “Really?” said Rose. “He came to our house yesterday. I thought he was still staying here.”

  Robert shook his head. “Nope. Not seen him since day before yesterday. I’ve not a clue what to do about the room. I rang his mobile, but the number I’ve got is a no number.”

  “Well, he is a naughty boy,” said Vanessa, draping herself over the bar like a tea towel drying on a beer pump and wagging a wayward finger.

  Everybody laughed except Robert, who, although smiling, gave her a stern warning. “Oy, no tipsiness in here, Vanessa.” Which was a pretty stupid thing to say, as we were in a pub. Robert was well known for his own teetotalism, probably brought on by his mum and dad’s notorious drunk and disorderly conduct around Emsworth. I noticed with a smile that Craig put a proprietorial arm around Vanessa’s waist and pulled her close.

  “I’ll contact him tomorrow,” said Rose, taking charge. “We need to find out what’s going on here, don’t we, Ruby?”

  I nodded while Robert said, “Yeah, please, if you could. I have to know if I can re-let the room, and…,” He raised his eyebrows, “I need my money. I’ve got bills to pay, you know.”

  We left the pub in a haze, Rose hanging on my arm like a handbag, a fleeting kiss on the cheek from James as we said goodnight, and then suddenly it was the next morning, and I awoke to a thin burst of sunlight pouring through the windows. Trees swaying violently in a strong wind shed their leaves in a crimson and gold blur. A sick headache thumped across my brow and Rose, snoring heavily behind the room divider, mumbled in her sleep as I turned onto my side and tried to doze off again.

  ~*~

  Breakfast was a dismal affair, brought on, of course, by the news we had to give Mum and Dad about Michael not having been at the pub for a couple of days. “It’s only what Robert said last night,” Rose assured them. “He could have turned up by now and be safely asleep in his bed in the Coal Exchange.” She picked and poked at some frothy-looking scrambled eggs. The kitchen smelled stuffy with warmth and frying, and a strong wind howled around the house like ghosts.

  “When did you last hear from him, Mum?” I asked.

  She looked into space, thinking, pulling her robe around her as if she was cold. “A couple of days ago,” she replied. “Umm, he texted…what’s today, Sunday? He texted on Thursday and said he would be in touch at the weekend. I thought we might see him today.”

  Dad carried on eating, cutting hungrily through the bacon, eggs, and mushrooms arranged as neatly as a still life painting on his plate, spreading thick slices of toast with butter and strawberry jam. He took a sip of coffee, dark enough to be called black, and said, “Hmm.”

  “Is that all you can say, Stan?” asked Mum. “My long-lost son has disappeared from my life again, and all you can say is ‘hmm’?”

  “May,” replied Dad, glancing at her, his eyes a piercing blue, while calmly making an egg sandwich with leftover toast. “He’ll turn up again when he’s ready. We should leave him to it.” Egg yolk ran down his chin in a yellow river as he munched heartily.

  “Chin, Dad,” said Rose, patting her own chin with an outstretched finger.

  “I’ll ring him,” said Mum defiantly, reaching for her phone and scrolling down to find the number. She mumbled to herself, “I can’t understand this. Michael isn’t like that. He wouldn’t just disappear.” Rose and I waited with bated breath, watching the hopeful expression on Mum’s face. I scooped milk and cereal with a spoon and chewed thoughtfully, and then sipped orange juice, the taste cold and tangy in my parched mouth.

  “It’s ringing,” said Mum. It rang for a while before, with evident disappointment, she hung up and placed the phone carefully on the table. “I’ll try again later,” she said.

  “I could text,” offered Rose, “If you want me to.”

  Mum nodded okay, and Rose began tip-tapping with her long nails onto the keypad. “Okay, I’ve just said, Hi, hope you’re okay. Please get in touch. Would be good to meet up again.”

  She looked around the table expectantly. Mum nodded, and Dad said while adding sugar to his coffee and stirring it quickly, “Yes, then all we can do is wait for him to contact us.” He patted Mum’s hand with his fingers and gave her a small smile. “We could always pop into the Coal Exchange for lunch, have a look around. Maybe he’ll have turned up, and we can talk to him.”

  Tears welled into her eyes, and jumping up, I tore off a piece of kitchen roll and handed it to her. “Lunch?” she said, sniffing hard. “With all that you’ve eaten now, you won’t be hungry at supper, let alone lunch!”

  Despite Dad’s laughter at Mum’s comment, I knew they were both worried, and I hoped fervently that nothing bad had happened to Michael. What was going on, though? I’d checked my phone this morning, and still nothing from Blake either. Had all lines of communication disappeared? I had an awful feeling now that I’d been played, that he’d had no intention of contacting me and had disappeared, never to be seen again.

  He was probably already with somebody else. Another girl that had turned up in St. Malo just as I had. Somebody new and green, somebody who, just as I had, would believe every word he said. Somebody else he could serenade with silly love songs. My heart ached so badly, I had to take long, deep breaths to steady myself.

  I prayed that he would turn up eventually. After all, I knew everything about him. I knew he was a Londoner born in the West End and that his mum was called Elaine and his dad Alf. His mum worked as a legal secretary—just like my mum, but in probate and not conveyancing—and his dad was a taxi driver—he drove those lovely big black London cabs. He had a younger brother, Will, who wanted to be a famous musician just as Blake did, but for the moment, he played in a local band in the West End pubs and clubs. I knew he loved thick black coffee and croissants for breakfast and that he loved to vape but really wanted to be able to smoke proper cigarettes without ruining his health. Oh, and he loved to run and to work out with weights but didn’t get a lot of time for that because his music came first.

  All this flashed through my mind as, glancing at Mum, I wondered how she really felt about Michael now. Why had he done it? Why had he turned up out of the blue, made Mum so happy, and then disappeared, never to be seen again? Hold on a minute, though. Maybe I was jumping the gun. How did we know he wasn’t going to reappear? He’d seemed so nice, so genuine. No, I couldn’t believe for a moment that he wouldn’t turn up again.

  “Well, okay, maybe not lunch,” stated Dad. “If he doesn’t get in touch by tomorrow, I’ll go pay his bill at the pub and then we’ll investigate.”

  “Investigate?” Mum, Rose, and I said at exactly the same time, and then giggled because we couldn’t believe it just happened.

  “Hmm,” said Dad nodding his head.

  “Stan, don’t keep saying hmm,” said Mum irritably. “If you know something, then spit it out.”

  “I don’t know anything,” replied Dad. “But he did mention a lady he knows who lives in Bosham.”

  “A lady in Bosham?” asked Mum, scan
dalized. “He didn’t mention a lady to me.”

  “Don’t worry, May,” assured Dad. “We’ll find him.” He stood up and began to amble slowly from the room. He stopped in the doorway and said, as if an afterthought said, “Oh, by the way, you two girls, glad you’re on speaking terms again.”

  Rose gave me a sidelong glance. “Yeah, I finally came to my senses.”

  “Stan,” Mum shouted indignantly. “Surely you’re going to help with the dishes?”

  “Back in a minute, dear,” he shouted back.

  Rose and I exchanged a wry glance while Mum looked at her phone yet again. “No call back from Michael yet,” she informed us in a flat empty voice.

  Chapter Nine

  The house looked empty, abandoned, its windows like sightless eyes. I felt a tiny surge of annoyance at the state of the place—after all, it had so much going for it. It was in Bosham, for God’s sake, a fabulous place. The harbor was just a short walk away, and there was an ancient church, restaurants, shops, and sailing clubs. It was surrounded by other massive houses—massive, well-kept houses, though—set in a fantastic large mature garden, with lots of trees and bushes and grass. Okay, any flowers had died by now, but in the spring and summer, I’d no doubt it would have looked pretty good.

  Mum, Dad, me, and Rose had come to investigate after finding out some interesting information from Robert at the pub. After waiting a few days with still no sign of Michael, Dad and I had gone to the Coal Exchange, paid Michael’s bill and, after a very enlightening conversation with Robert, had come home with the address that Michael had checked in with. And it definitely wasn’t an address in Swansea.

  “Yeah,” said Robert, looking intently at the bookings on his laptop. “He used 3 Larchwood Avenue, Bosham as his check-in address. Bear in mind, though, this could be a wrong address. I mean, he has given me a dodgy phone number.”

  Frowning, Dad checked the phone number for Michael that he had on his mobile, and peering at the screen of Robert’s computer, said, “No, you’ve got it wrong, Robert. That’s a two and a three, not two twos.”

  “Aah, okay, I’ll change that.” He fiddled with the mouse, and using the keyboard, began deleting numbers and putting new ones in. “I stand corrected.”

  “Even so,” Dad said, “He’s not picking up anyway. May has rung him hundreds of times. In fact, if I was Michael, I’d report her as a stalker.” He gave a short bark of laughter, to which Robert joined in, attracting the languid attention of a couple of lunchtime drinkers sitting at the bar.

  “Hmm, I think this calls for a visit to Bosham, don’t you, Ruby?”

  I nodded, and Robert said, “Yeah, if the address exists.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Dad as we finally left the pub. “Why didn’t he tell us he had a house so close by, in Bosham? And why was he living at the pub? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I don’t know, Dad,” I replied. “Maybe if we go to the house, we’ll get some answers. Maybe the house belongs to the ‘lady from Bosham’ that was mentioned before.”

  Dad nodded and frowned. “Good point, Ruby. Just wait until your mum knows about this.”

  Well, Robert, I thought as, a few hours later, we stood in the garden of 3 Larchwood Avenue. The address certainly does exist, but where is Michael?

  “Wow,” said Dad, gazing at the house, his hands on his hips. “This place must be worth a fortune.” He shook his head as if baffled that Michael could have afforded to buy such a place on a salary as a reporter for a local newspaper.

  Rose was already at the sitting-room window, peering through, her hands cupped around her face. “It’s more or less empty,” she said. “Only a dodgy-looking three-piece suite with holes in it and the stuffing spewing out. Even bare floorboards—or maybe they’re supposed to be like that? Oh, and a picture on the wall.” She peered intently. “A black and white photo of a woman holding a child, a little girl.”

  “I wonder who she is?” said Mum, joining Rose at the window, looking through the glass intently like a burglar in training.

  “His girlfriend? His wife?” mused Rose.

  “Well,” I said, “Whoever she is, she’s very pretty.” She had long black hair with a fringe cut straight across, skimming her eyebrows and emphasizing her slanty eyes. The little girl was dark too, with great luminous eyes set beneath high cheekbones. Eyes that seemed to follow you wherever you went. Something about her features, the nose and the mouth, reminded me of Michael, and the certainty that she was Michael’s daughter flitted into my mind. Oh my God, Mum’s granddaughter.

  “She looks like Cher back in the day,” commented Mum of the woman.

  “‘I got you, babe,’” crooned Dad, coming up behind Mum and sneaking his arms around her waist.

  Mum jumped and shrieked, “Stan!” as he bellowed with laughter.

  “Ssh,” whispered me and Rose together, putting a finger to our lips. “Somebody might be in—”

  “Yeah,” said Dad sarcastically. “That’s sort of what we’re hoping, isn’t it? You know, why we’re here—really?”

  We all ignored him as we crept around to the back of the house and peeked into what was obviously the dining room. A long shiny wooden table stood in the middle of the room, flanked by four chairs, and a large earthenware vase filled with dried grasses stood solitary in a corner. The kitchen was clean and tidy but sparse, just a bright pink kettle on the work top with a jar of instant coffee and an open bag of sugar, around which a few granules sparkled in the meager light falling through the window. A packet of biscuits, crisps, and a couple of cans of beer stood nearby.

  “Somebody’s been in there recently,” said Dad, nodding towards the coffee and the sugar, the little pile of provisions. “And a bright pink kettle? It’s got to be a woman, hasn’t it?”

  “Sexist!” groaned Mum.

  “Men love pink these days, don’t ya know,” pointed out Rose in a silly voice.

  Dad tried the back door handle, but it was locked, and then we noticed that the long narrow window next to the door had a broken window pane. Dad snaked his hand in, careful to avoid the jagged edges of the glass, but there was no key in the lock. “That’s how he got in,” said Dad. “I wonder if he’s in there now.” Without missing a beat, he bellowed, “Michael, come on out. We’re here to help you.”

  Mum, her hands to her crimson cheeks, said, “Stan, ssh! You’ll have the neighbors out! And anyway, Michael might not be in there.”

  “Oh, and who exactly do you think is in there?” asked Dad, giving her a sideways glance. “A bevy of women protecting their ‘pink kettle’?”

  “Ha ha, very funny, Stan. No, anyone could be in there. Um…squatters,” she suggested quickly.

  Dad gave a wry smile and shouted for Michael again. “We need some action around here, May. We need to know what’s going on with him. If the neighbors do hear us…. Well, they may be able to help. If there are squatters, they’re in trouble!”

  I shivered and hunched into my coat, pulling my beanie tighter on my head and my gloves tighter on my hands. The last of the leaves rustled on the trees and fell slowly to the ground, bulking the crispy carpet underfoot. Tiny raindrops spat at the ground, and, for warmth, I suppose, Rose too hunched her shoulders to her ears and clung to my arm.

  We did another circuit of the whole house and grounds, spying in the windows, tapping on the doors. Dad tried putting his hand through the hole in the window again, but this time attempted to unlock the door with a length of silver wire that he just happened to have in his pocket. “A little trick I learned in the army,” he told us with a wink, but still no luck. Dad had done a very short stint in the services when he was young.

  “Fat lot of good that little trick did you, eh?” remarked Mum sarcastically.

  We tramped over the grass so many times that leaves of gold and crimson and orange stuck to our boots and raindrops, heavy
now and persistent, soaked into our coats and our hats.

  “One last time,” said Dad before bellowing again like an angry bull, but there was nothing, no response whatsoever, not even from the neighbors. No twitching curtains or opening of doors, and no indignant person standing on their front step wondering who was making all the noise. Full of disappointment, we wandered out to the car, Mum’s eyes watering again, and began to clamber in. Mum was in the front, Rose and I in the back when we heard a voice, shrill and panicky.

  “No, wait! Mum, wait!”

  And there he was, Michael, bearing a close resemblance to one of the old homeless men I’d seen sleeping rough in the doorway of the Scope Charity shop on Emsworth High Street. He’d outgrown his designer stubble, which was now a thick bushy beard coating most of his face and chin. He wore grubby jeans and a pale blue jumper, threadbare at the elbows and neckline, and as he ran towards us across the sodden grass, I noticed that his feet were bare. What on earth had happened to the handsome boy next door?

  “Oh, Michael,” said Mum, getting out of the car and opening her arms to him. “Whatever is the matter?” Dad peered at them from the driver’s seat. I saw that his knuckles were taut and white as his hands clutched hard at the steering wheel. Rose made to get out of the car, but I held her back with my arm.

  “She’s gone, Mum,” he sobbed. “She’s gone…and taken Leah. I’ll never see her again. I know I won’t.”

  He wept, such a sad sound, tearing at our hearts as they stood so close, his forehead on Mum’s shoulder, her chin on Michael’s neck, one body, two heads, just like conjoined twins.

  ~*~

  I stood at the window in mine and Rose’s bedroom staring at the garden, which looked changed somehow, subtly altered, by a thin dusting of snow. It coated the path and the lawn and the flower beds like sweet, creamy icing on a wedding cake. Trees stood still as statues, their twisted branches glowing white against the landscape. Tiny flakes blew crazily in a stiff cold breeze, splattering against the window and staying for a moment pressed to the glass in the intricate patterns of a kaleidoscope. The heat of the radiator against my legs felt too comforting, too warm, making it all but impossible to go outside. I moved slightly away.