trap door. I flick a tiny worm off the end of one of the leeks. Then it comes, in fits and starts: “Have you…? Heard anything new?”
“About what?”
“About - Well. I mean about your wife. About Heather, I mean. Have you heard anything?”
I laugh. I don’t mean to but it just falls out of my mouth. Graham recoils, almost ducks behind the fence. I lean closer, crushing the leeks against the slatted border that separates our little yards. Too close. We’ve been too close for years, never saying what needed to be said, never looking each other in the face.
“Five years, Graham,” I say. “No. I’ve not heard one bloody thing in five years, and I don’t expect to. Ever.” I smile again, enjoying the discomfort it causes, and dump the leeks back over his side of the fence. They splay into an awkward fan on his boots. He drops his gardening gloves where he stands and turns to go, and it’s my turn to call after him: “But if I do, you’ll be the first to know.”
#
Two weeks later the house was overrun by sugar-high five-year-olds, chasing the birthday boy, beating him with balloons, fighting over a newspaper-wrapped pass the parcel, collapsing in front of a video of Robin Hood when Lydia could take no more. She’d made him a cake in the shape of a hedgehog. Angela had sensibly opted to go and play at a friend’s house rather than suffer the chaos. Alex, who was learning to walk at the time, was knocked over by the whirlwind of children and split his lip on the hearth. I retired to the pub after an hour.
She’d left the day after Matthew was born, but his birthday forever remained the painful anniversary of Heather’s disappearance. And Matthew had begun to ask questions about her. There were children in his class whose parents were divorced, even one girl whose father had died when she was three. But no-one else’s mother was a missing person, an invisible memory. Lydia and Alice carefully suggested that until he was a bit older perhaps it was better to tell him the simpler version of events, the one the police insisted on telling me, in which Heather was presumed dead.
I couldn’t do it. Even the half-truth was better than that. On the night before his birthday that year, his present from me was an attempt at honesty.
“Mummy is lost,” I told him.
“Where?”
“We don’t know.”
“How did she get lost?”
“She ran away.”
“Why don’t you go and look for her?”
“I can’t. I have to stay here and look after you and Angie and Alex. The police are looking for her.”
Matthew’s eyebrows lowered into a tense echo of my own. “When are they going to find her?”
“I think, maybe, she doesn’t want them to.”
“She’s hiding?”
“Yes. Sort of.”
Matthew’s voice became progressively quieter, and the pauses between became longer with each question, as his brain tick-tocked through the reasons for her disappearance.
“Will she come and live with us when she comes back?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know if she’ll ever come back.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes people just want to run away and never come back.”
“I miss her.”
I couldn’t stop myself: “But you don’t even remember her.”
“I still miss her. I want a mummy.”
“You have Lydia.”
“She’s
Alex’s
mummy. And Angie’s.”
“She’s yours too. She loves you.”
“I want mine.”
He wasn’t even angry. That came later. At five, he was lost. Just like her.
“I know,” I said quietly. “I know.”
“I miss her.”
“Okay.”
“Does she miss me?”
“I bet she does.”
He knew I wasn’t any good at this. His face crumpled into a sneer of pain. “You’re lying.”
#
The birthday guests were gone when I returned from the pub. Alex was asleep, Matthew was sitting on the kitchen counter, crying, and Lydia was on the phone. I drop into my younger self again as the front door closes behind me, though just a footstep ago I had been in the garden
“About what?”
“About - Well. I mean about your wife. About Heather, I mean. Have you heard anything?”
I laugh. I don’t mean to but it just falls out of my mouth. Graham recoils, almost ducks behind the fence. I lean closer, crushing the leeks against the slatted border that separates our little yards. Too close. We’ve been too close for years, never saying what needed to be said, never looking each other in the face.
“Five years, Graham,” I say. “No. I’ve not heard one bloody thing in five years, and I don’t expect to. Ever.” I smile again, enjoying the discomfort it causes, and dump the leeks back over his side of the fence. They splay into an awkward fan on his boots. He drops his gardening gloves where he stands and turns to go, and it’s my turn to call after him: “But if I do, you’ll be the first to know.”
#
Two weeks later the house was overrun by sugar-high five-year-olds, chasing the birthday boy, beating him with balloons, fighting over a newspaper-wrapped pass the parcel, collapsing in front of a video of Robin Hood when Lydia could take no more. She’d made him a cake in the shape of a hedgehog. Angela had sensibly opted to go and play at a friend’s house rather than suffer the chaos. Alex, who was learning to walk at the time, was knocked over by the whirlwind of children and split his lip on the hearth. I retired to the pub after an hour.
She’d left the day after Matthew was born, but his birthday forever remained the painful anniversary of Heather’s disappearance. And Matthew had begun to ask questions about her. There were children in his class whose parents were divorced, even one girl whose father had died when she was three. But no-one else’s mother was a missing person, an invisible memory. Lydia and Alice carefully suggested that until he was a bit older perhaps it was better to tell him the simpler version of events, the one the police insisted on telling me, in which Heather was presumed dead.
I couldn’t do it. Even the half-truth was better than that. On the night before his birthday that year, his present from me was an attempt at honesty.
“Mummy is lost,” I told him.
“Where?”
“We don’t know.”
“How did she get lost?”
“She ran away.”
“Why don’t you go and look for her?”
“I can’t. I have to stay here and look after you and Angie and Alex. The police are looking for her.”
Matthew’s eyebrows lowered into a tense echo of my own. “When are they going to find her?”
“I think, maybe, she doesn’t want them to.”
“She’s hiding?”
“Yes. Sort of.”
Matthew’s voice became progressively quieter, and the pauses between became longer with each question, as his brain tick-tocked through the reasons for her disappearance.
“Will she come and live with us when she comes back?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know if she’ll ever come back.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes people just want to run away and never come back.”
“I miss her.”
I couldn’t stop myself: “But you don’t even remember her.”
“I still miss her. I want a mummy.”
“You have Lydia.”
“She’s
Alex’s
mummy. And Angie’s.”
“She’s yours too. She loves you.”
“I want mine.”
He wasn’t even angry. That came later. At five, he was lost. Just like her.
“I know,” I said quietly. “I know.”
“I miss her.”
“Okay.”
“Does she miss me?”
“I bet she does.”
He knew I wasn’t any good at this. His face crumpled into a sneer of pain. “You’re lying.”
#
The birthday guests were gone when I returned from the pub. Alex was asleep, Matthew was sitting on the kitchen counter, crying, and Lydia was on the phone. I drop into my younger self again as the front door closes behind me, though just a footstep ago I had been in the garden
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