‘It’s a shame they don’t have apple restaurants.’
‘Shut up and answer the question.’
‘Don’t tell me to shut up.’
‘Rachel! What was he like?’
‘My name isn’t Rachel, it’s Diana!’
‘RACHEL!!!!’
I like winding him up.
My life seems to be spent in restaurants at the moment. And it’s true about the apple thing. Talk about a lost market!
I give in.
‘Yeah, he was nice.’
Still, at least I’m really making this ‘eating for two’ thing work.
‘Did you tell him that Ben had his first wank over him?’
‘Jamie, what do you think?’
‘Well, sometimes we say really inappropriate things through nerves.’
‘No, I didn’t say that. I wasn’t inappropriate at all.’
God knows why I have done this, agreed to come for tapas with Jamie. Though I did put the proviso that Mr Batti didn’t come with him. Fortunately for me, Jamie shamefacedly had to admit that he and the Batti-boy were no longer an item, and he really regretted putting that relationship status on Facebook.
‘So you should be,’ I’d said, like a reproachful mother. Which is how I feel about him now. Is that bad? It doesn’t feel bad. It just feels . . . odd.
‘And you haven’t heard from this private investigator?’
‘No. By rights she should be invoicing me for five hundred pounds I don’t have.’
‘What have you done about finding her?’
‘Well, nothing. It’s up to her to find me now.’
‘She could be dead.’
‘Don’t be dramatic.’
‘Well, you’re the one that saw her being cartwheeled into the back of an ambulance, love, not me.’
‘Stretchered.’
‘Cartwheeled’s camper.’
‘I know. I’m still getting used to it.’
‘Oh, behave. You love a bit of camp. Basing your look on Doris Day?’
‘Shut up.’
‘Going out with a bloke with a bigger handbag than you? Pur-lease!’
It’s been a month since I met Les. We’ve not seen each other since but we’ve stayed in touch via the odd text, email and phone call. He wants me to go to the Midlands and meet his wife. I said maybe after the baby is born. Well, definitely after the baby is born.
So much has happened this past month.
I feel like I’m treading water somewhat right now. I’m a month off my due date. It’s an exciting time, as it feels like Christmas is coming. Actually scrap that, it feels like ten million Christmases are on their way. It’s an exhilarating feeling. But not one I can do much with or about, except just go along for the ride. The positive side of this is that my feeling of euphoria has returned and is overriding most things. I get teary at adverts on the TV. I cry at videos on Facebook of deaf kids hearing for the first time. But mostly I am going round with a ridiculous smile on my face. I am now one of those irritating people who will post an inspirational meme on Facebook saying things like ‘DON’T SWEAT THE SMALL STUFF’. With a picture of a still lake behind it.
And that is probably just as well because, well, it’s all kicked off at work. JuJu Quick has dumped Venus and gone to our biggest rival, Earth Travel, because – and I quote – ‘I got sick of hearing myself sing every time you put me on hold.’ So, it doesn’t always pay to be a sycophant. The lack of this income stream has sent Ben into a tailspin. He’s running round like a headless chicken, threatening us all with the sack if we don’t ‘pull in someone big’. I jokily pretended I’d set up meetings with Christopher Biggins and the Chuckle Brothers and he visibly blanched.
Apparently that’s ‘not funny’.
Whereas I found it highly amusing.
The way I am feeling I would be more than happy for him to lay me off. More than happy. I’d be happy to walk away now, but I won’t. If he dares get rid of me, rather than the other way round, he’ll have to pay me a month’s income for every year I’ve worked there, and he’ll begrudge that. Oh, he will really begrudge that! So I’ll leave the ball in his court, thank you very much.
Mind you, I don’t have this blasé, gung ho attitude towards the job and my precarious position therein because I am high as a kite on pregnancy and impending motherhood; it’s because I now have a buyer for Mum’s house in the New Forest, which means that, kerching, in the next few months I will be more or less quids in.
And if you were wondering whatever became of my private investigator Kelly Hopper, well, only yesterday I got the following email:
From: EastBoldreVicarage@cofe.co.uk
To: Rachel@Venus.net
Subject: KELLY HOPPER
Dear Rachel,
I hope this message finds you well, and adjusting to life without your dear mum.
I really hope you don’t mind me writing to you like this but I have a visitor staying with me. Kelly Hopper.
Anyway, long story short (I usually hate that phrase but seems so appropriate here LOL) she’s not in a good way. Been in and out of psych wards past few weeks after collapsing at work after the bailiffs took everything she had. Poor lamb. But worry not, she is getting better. Think more than anything she just needs some TLC. (And some prayer LOL.)
Now she has become more lucid she has asked me to pass on a message to you, which is that she discovered two things. One, the whereabouts of your father. He is living in the Midlands somewhere but she can’t remember where. But she did find and speak to him, she just can’t remember what was said. But she will – as soon as she’s back on her feet – get in touch with her contact and make inroads again. She’s really sorry about that, but the bailiffs took her notebooks.
The other thing to tell you, and hopefully this will make sense to you: Shirley Burke is dead. Not been heard of for years, has literally vanished off the face of the earth. So either dead or living homeless on the streets. Hopefully that will mean something to you.
She has asked me to pass on her bank details as she is going to write an invoice for her services. I will attach it. (But between you and me I won’t blame you for not paying it till you have at least a phone number, etc. LOL.)
I really do hope this news is of some comfort. It’s the best that I could get out of her as she appears to be somewhat incoherent, to say the least.
Love and light
Tom x
I was less perturbed by the content than by the fact that I’d discovered a LOL’ing priest.
So it turns out Shirley Burke is definitely dead.
Well. Definitely dead or possibly living on the streets. There’s decisiveness for you!
A thousand pounds, eh? I read the invoice and thought . . . well . . . there’s no hurry, is there? It’s not like Kelly’s been kicking my door in.
I respond when I get in this evening. Just a day later. No biggie.
From: Rachel@Venus.net
To: EastBoldreVicarage@cofe.co.uk
Subject: Re: KELLY HOPPER
Hi Tom
Great to hear from you. All good here, getting bigger every day LOL.
Oh God, now I’m at it!
Thanks for letting me know about Kelly. I went to visit her just as she was being taken off in an ambulance, so I wondered what had happened to her.
If you could please let her know I have met my father. She had got in touch and passed on my phone number. It was a very positive, productive meeting and we have kept in touch. So naturally I am very grateful.
I am of course happy to pay Kelly’s invoice, but I need to wait till payday, sorry. I’m sure she will understand – it has been a while since I’ve seen her.
Thank you for everything you did for my mother’s funeral. I’m not sure how much I will be returning to the New Forest as I finally have a buyer for the house, so I will have fewer ties there. I still have two friends in Beaulieu so no doubt I will be down now and again, so who knows? Maybe one day our paths will cross again.
Once again, thanks for everything – all best
Rachel x
I’m just about to shut my laptop down when I hear an email ping into my inbox. I think it might either be an out of office from the vicar, or he has replied incredibly quickly, but instead I see it’s an email from my dad.
From: LWilson1962@hotmail.com
To: Rachel@Venus.net
Subject: Just thought you should know
Hi Rachel, Les here.
Hope you’ve had a good week.
Listen, I’ve had some info from one of my pals ‘oop north’ which I thought I better share with you.
Shirley’s mum died a few days ago and it’s her funeral tomorrow. I know everyone reckons Shirley’s not been seen for a long time and they weren’t in constant touch. But if she was ever going to return home, it would be for her mum’s funeral, right?
I’m going to go. I want to see what she looks like. Don’t worry, I’m not going to cause any trouble. But I just want to go and see for myself if she is there, etc.
Do you fancy coming with me? I know you said you had no desire to see her, but thought I would check on the off chance. If you wanted to come, it’d mean you’d have to get a train from Euston to Birmingham New Street by ten tomorrow morning and I’d drive us there. It’s a palaver but you never know.
I was thinking about what I told you about what SB said at the trial. About how she’d been stalking the other woman, going to her family funerals and all that. Well, now it’s my turn to stalk her. Nobody’s going to wonder who I am, are they? People aren’t too nosy in a crematorium.
You probably won’t want to come, but thought it best to check anyway.
Hope you and brewing baby are okay.
Love ya
Les x
P. S. Her Indoors sends her love.
I reply immediately.
From: Rachel@Venus.net
To: LWilson1962@hotmail.com
Subject: Funeral
Hi there
You know full well what I said at the restaurant.
But isn’t a girl allowed to change her mind?
Fuck it. I’m in. See you at New Street at ten.
R x
P. S. Love to Her Indoors!
I wonder if this was such a good idea. We’re not even at the crem and my heart is racing. Is that good for the baby? Surely it can’t be. But there’s no way I couldn’t come today. I know. I know I said all those weeks ago that I had no desire to meet Shirley, but I just can’t help myself. She’s what bonds Les and me. She’s what broke Mum and me. Maybe I could just catch a glimpse and make do.
My mind is telling me she is dead.
Kelly Hopper said she is dead.
But my heart is telling me, you just never know.
My heart is wanting her to be here.
But I know full well that whatever you want from life you rarely get. So I know today any hopes will be dashed.
But at least I have Les for company.
We sit on Springfield Avenue, watching the house. The funeral isn’t for another forty minutes but cars are pulling up outside and people are venturing into the house.
We sit there, eating burgers from a Burger King we passed. I feel for all the world like Cagney and Lacey or Scott and Bailey on a stakeout.
None of the women who’ve gone into the house yet have been old enough to be Shirley.
‘How old would she be again?’ I ask, as we stare at the blandly painted white council house. The one next door is far more racy. It has wagon wheels attached to the brickwork either side of the door.
‘Nineteen in 1981?’
‘Aha?’
‘Fifty-five.’
‘That’s nothing. But all of these look too young.’
‘Maybe they’re her daughters.’
We quickly look at each other.
I have never stopped to think that Shirley Burke might have children of her own. Maybe she has. Maybe she is a good mum. Maybe they have no idea, like I had no idea. Maybe they know and don’t care. Maybe they didn’t know and found out and all sorts went down. I want to go over the road and knock on the door and ask.
‘Where are you, Shirley?’ I say quietly, then realize I am feeling slightly repulsed by my burger. It must be the acid reflux. I fear I am going to be sick. I take the Gaviscon from my coat pocket and have a swig. I drink this stuff like it’s milkshake these days. I return it to my pocket and pull the collar of my coat up.
‘Incognito?’ Les asks.
‘No. Bloody freezing.’
And with that, as if by magic, it starts to snow.
I see he’s smiling.
‘What you so happy about?’
He turns and beams at me. ‘Just realized.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve never seen snow with my daughter before.’
And we both sit there and watch it fall together. Our first snow.
And through the snow we see the hearse arrive and pull up outside the house.
‘Let’s get to the crem. Ringside seat.’
He turns the key in the ignition and puts the car in gear.
At the front of the crem is a huge iced bun made of flowers. It makes me quite emotional. As I bring a hankie to my eyes I see people looking round and know that they think I am crying for the loss of – what was her name? – I check the order of service.
Mary Burke.
The flowers tell me that Mary liked cakes, or made cakes. It’s such a simple thing, but it tells me so much. It also tells me that she was loved. Someone has gone to the trouble of getting a load of flowers made to look like an iced bun. You don’t go to all that bother if the person is a pain in the arse. As the crem starts to fill up, I am reminded of my own mother’s funeral, not so long ago. That affair was much more spartan and sparsely attended than this.
Mary Burke obviously did a few things right.
But of course, she also did a few things wrong.
Like – give birth to Shirley Burke.
But then, was that Mary’s fault?
I look at the order of service again. There is a picture of Mary on the cover of the booklet. It shows a sweet, white-haired old soul in a hand-knitted cardy, possibly in a nursing home, smiling vacantly at the camera. She looks lovely, innocent, incapable of being the mother of someone who did such a dreadful thing.
But then I flip the booklet to the back cover. There is a picture of Mary in what looks like the seventies. She’s standing at a counter. It looks like she’s in a cafe. She’s got tongs in her hand and she’s posing with a scone in the tongs. She’s wearing a uniform and a little hat. The smile is frozen on her face. And I have to say, it’s not a nice smile. She looks tough in this picture. Hard-faced. You wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of her.
She does look like the sort of woman who could have given birth to Shirley.
She looks like the sort of woman who’d steal a baby herself.
I don’t like the look of her in this one.
I open the order of service to see if it says who is doing the readings. It does.
I don’t recognize some of the names.
Shirley isn’t mentioned anywhere. If she is coming then she isn’t taking part.
But one of the readings, a poem I’ve never heard of, is going to be read, it says, By Mary’s daughter Josie.
Josie must be the sister that went on the stand at the trial. The one Les thought was sensible. I elbow him – he’s busy scouring the room for potential Shirleys, but I’ve examined them all and I don’t reckon any of them are her; none of them are sat on the front two rows, for a start – and I point to the name in the order of service. His eyebrows rise and he checks out his own booklet.
It’s impossible, isn’t it?
Shirley Burke is not going to be here.
This really has been a pointless day.
We are both being vaguely ridiculous.
Yet at the same time it is reassuring to know that I am not alone. I am not the only person on this planet who has these strange feelings, who wants to know what a woman is like that I’ve not seen for thirty-odd years. Thirty-six years. A woman I wouldn’t know if I passed her in the street, and her me. If I were here alone I’d feel like a freak. But the presence of Leslie proves that I am not losing the plot. I am not stalking my lover’s mother-in-law or partner like Shirley Burke was once upon a time.
Or . . . am I? Are we really that different?
Yes. Yes we are. I would never do what she did. I would never . . .
God, I could really eat an apple right now.
Why didn’t I bring any with me?
Suddenly some music comes over the loud speaker and a vicar instructs us to stand up. The music is familiar but I can’t pinpoint what it is exactly. It’s from an advert. Possibly for British Airways. Anyway, who cares? The coffin is being brought it . . . hurry up, coffin, I’m not interested in you . . . and behind it a woman walks, linking a man. I look quickly to Les.
Is it her? Is that her?
He shakes his head.
‘Think it’s the sister.’
She’s very gorgeous, the woman at the front of the procession. Possibly had a bit of work. Big flicky hair. Wouldn’t look out of place on Knots Landing. Tiny waist, sort of woman you could hate. Looks very good for her age, but is probably sixty, or just under.
There are other women behind her but they are all much younger, more my age. And then some younger than that, and various blokes. But nobody who could fit the right age group for Shirley.
The gorgeous one turns out, of course, to be Josie, the sister. When she reads her poem she has a broad Lancashire accent. Very Coronation Street.
I wonder if this is the sort of accent Shirley has or had.
It must be. They were/are sisters.
During the eulogy Shirley gets a mention from the vicar. But only in passing.
This is a family who do not acknowledge her presence. The eulogy is all about how proud Mary was of Josie and her modelling career.
We hear all about Mary’s life. So much so that when I’m heading towards Les’s car in a foul mood afterwards – how dare Shirley really be dead! How dare the family be so decent as to not warrant her with anything more than a fleeting mention? – he hurries after me and says, ‘We’re in.’
‘We’re what?’
‘We’re in. We’re going back to the house.’
‘Which house?’
‘Mary’s house. Josie invited me. I said I was a regular at the Station Cafe.’
I roll my eyes. The vicar had gone on and on about that blessed cafe in the eulogy.
‘We’re going to her house, Rachel.’
‘What’s the point? She’s clearly dead.’
‘We’re going. And that’s that.’
He opens the car and climbs in deftly.
I enter like a medium-sized elephant would. And with half the grace.
‘Oh. And if anyone asks. You’re my wife and that’s my baby.’
I give him such a look. ‘That is gross. That is . . .’
‘That’s gonna put them off the scent, bab. Now come on. I’m gonna find out one way or another. You don’t even have to say a word.’
‘You haven’t got any apples, have you?’
‘No, bab.’
This really is proving to be an impossible day.
I don’t know how he does it. I’m a nervous wreck. He’s gabbing away quite merrily to everyone in the house, whereas I am a pathetic mess. I am convinced I have a neon sign above my head that says, ‘I AM BABY DIANA. YOUR SHIRLEY STOLE ME.’
Any time one of the family comes towards me I just panic.
It’s a shame, as they all seem quite nice. Lovely, in fact.
I might go to the toilet. That’ll kill some time. I’m not really in the mood for small talk.
As I pass Les en route to the hall he is in cahoots with a woman who’s about twenty.
‘Shame what happened with Shirley, isn’t it, eh?’
‘Oh God, yeah.’
‘Do you still see her? I wasn’t sure if she’d passed on or not.’
‘Haven’t a bloody clue, Geoff.’
Right. So he’s saying his name’s Geoff. Good to know.
‘So you haven’t heard from her?’
‘None of us have. Nana Mary, never. Not for bloody years. Can you imagine that?’
I hear Les whistling through his teeth.
‘She came about ten years ago. Flying visit. I think Nana Mary had just had her cancer scare. I think it was then. Think she’d just finished her chemo. But I never saw her. She just saw Mary and Mum. Didn’t say much. Apparently she looked dreadful. And she’d gone all la-di-dah.’
I’m about to head up the stairs when I see something I’d not seen before.
Under the stairs there’s a little table.
On the table is a bowl of fruit.
Crowning the bowl of fruit is a beautiful Granny Smith apple. It is beckoning me.
I look around. No-one can see. So I lean in to take it.
Which is when I see another thing.
It’s a photograph in a frame.
Mary has a headscarf on. Josie is standing next to her in a back garden.
There is a woman on the other side.
My legs buckle and I feel sick.
And I realize that Shirley Burke is not dead at all.