I spotted Dad’s van as soon as I turned into our road: bright blue with Wilkins Electrical Services splashed across the side. It was weird to see it parked outside the house so early. Dad’s never usually home before six. His final job of the day must’ve been cancelled – either that or something was wrong.
I let myself in and called out, but the house felt empty. He wasn’t in the kitchen or the lounge. I dropped my bag and raced upstairs calling out again, my tummy starting to churn. Why was his van outside if he wasn’t in? Where else could he be? It didn’t make any sense. At the top of the stairs I noticed a narrow shaft of light shining down from the trapdoor to the attic.
We hardly ever use our attic for anything except storing junk. Mum always says she can’t face going up there because she knows what a terrible mess it’s in. I climbed the old, rickety ladder and pulled myself up through the hole in the ceiling. It was dark and gloomy, difficult to see through the dust even with the light switched on.
Dad was sitting in the middle of the floor surrounded by a load of old photo albums.
“Maddie!” He jumped slightly and started to gather the albums up as if I’d caught him doing something wrong. “You startled me. I didn’t realize you were back…”
“Didn’t you hear me? I called up.”
“Sorry, love, I was miles away.”
He looked exhausted, as if he was coming down with something. I used to think my dad was invincible, like a superhero; that nothing could ever happen to him, but not any more. I picked my way across the bare floorboards and kneeled down in front of him. “How come you’re home so early? What are you doing?”
“Nothing really. Just sorting through a few of these old photos. It’s difficult to stop once you start – so many memories…”
There was a small pile of photos on the floor. I picked it up and had a quick look through the pictures as my eyes adjusted to the gloom. The first one was of me, Charlie and Nan at the Natural History Museum. We’re standing in front of this huge T. rex, both of us clutching hold of Nan’s hands as if we’re scared it might actually come to life behind us.
There was another one of me and Charlie on our own. I must’ve been about six and Charlie two. He’s sitting on my lap and I’ve got my arms wrapped around him, holding him in place. I can’t believe how small he looks; he’s got a dummy in his mouth and he’s wearing a blue and white striped sleepsuit, the sort you wear when you’re a tiny baby.
I glanced up at Dad. “Why have you taken these out of the albums? Is it…is it because of Nan?”
Dad looked at me, confused, as if I was speaking a different language. I carried on, flustered. “I mean were you looking for some old photos of Nan? Is that why you came up here?”
Dad’s hardly mentioned Nan at all since she died – not to me in any case – almost as if he buried all his memories of her on the day of the funeral.
I wondered how he’d react if I told him about rounders, about seeing her by the sycamore trees – how she’d helped me whack the ball across the field. He’d probably make a big joke out of it; say it sounded as if I’d had a whack to my head, never mind the ball. Sometimes I wonder if he even thinks about her any more.
“Look at this one,” he said, handing me another photo. It was Nan blowing out the candles on her sixtieth birthday. She’s leaning down and the glow from the tiny flames has made a kind of golden halo around her head. Charlie’s standing next to her with a plate in his hand, ready to grab the first slice. I remember Nan laughing about the number of candles and how there wouldn’t be enough room on the cake if she made it to seventy.
“Can we put this up somewhere? We could get a nice frame for it.”
“Of course we can, and some of these as well,” he said, holding his hand out for the rest of the photos. “I can’t see the point of them gathering dust up here where no one can see them.” He shoved the albums back in a box and pulled me up. “Come on, let’s go down. Mum and Charlie will be back any second and I could murder a cup of tea.”
It was brilliant having Dad home early. He played football with Charlie in the garden and then sat with me for ages while I struggled through my maths homework; one simultaneous equation after another. I couldn’t remember ever finding maths so difficult before – it was like someone had mixed up all the wires in my brain. I could tell Dad was surprised; he didn’t say anything but I caught him looking over my head at Mum a few times.
But then, right before dinner, Dad said he was just nipping out, grabbed his jacket and disappeared. When I asked Mum about it, she said he was meeting Sharon again, but she didn’t laugh this time, not even when Charlie started to jiggle his eyebrows. Apparently Sharon needed Dad’s help with something but Mum couldn’t discuss it with us because it was grown-up stuff and we wouldn’t understand.
I hate it when she says that, as if Charlie and I are the same age. He might be too young but why couldn’t she tell me what was going on? I watched her carefully all through dinner, trying to work out if she was upset or worried, but she hardly said a word. As soon as we’d finished eating and everything was cleared away, she sent us both up to bed.
“We all need an early night,” she said firmly, “and I don’t want any arguments.”
I lay in bed for hours, curled up on my side, watching the numbers change on my clock, my ribbon twisted round my hand. I knew I wouldn’t fall asleep until I heard Dad’s key in the door, until I knew he was home. I wanted to ask him about the woman in the cemetery anyway. I was still desperate to find out who she was and why she left that note saying sorry, and I hoped that Dad might have the answers.
I thought about writing my own note to Nan. Vivian said it can help to put things down on paper even if no one else sees. I could tell her how Mum tried to make an apple and blueberry crumble using her own recipe but it came out all wrong – that Nan was the only one who knew how to make it exactly the way I liked.
Mum came into my room at one point to check on me. I hid my ribbon under the pillow so she wouldn’t see and pretended to be asleep. She used to think it was cute when I was little – Maddie and her purple ribbon – but not any more. Now it’s just something to nag me about – something I should’ve outgrown years ago, like Charlie sucking his thumb.
It was only after she’d gone, and I was still lying there awake, that I realized Dad never actually explained why he’d come home so early, or why he was up in the attic going through all the old photos. And then I realized something else. I had no idea if it meant anything or if it was just a coincidence, but once the thought was in my head it was impossible to get it out.
There were photos of me and Charlie and Dad and Nan in the special pile he’d made but not a single one of Mum.
I must’ve dropped off in the end because the next thing I knew it was morning and my alarm was ringing. I jumped out of bed and threw on my uniform. What if Dad wasn’t back yet? What if he’d stayed out all night? What if he’d been taken ill? I tried to remember if Dad had ever stayed out all night, apart from when Charlie was in hospital, but I couldn’t think of a single time.
I was fumbling with my tie, my fingers like sausages, when Charlie came bursting into my room. “Breakfast’s ready,” he said. “Mum said hurry up or you’ll be late.”
“Is Dad back?”
He gave me a funny look. “Of course he is! Come on, Maddie, hurry up, it’s pancakes! Mum said to tell you it’s a special treat and you’ll miss them if you don’t come straight down!”
Dad was standing right in the middle of the kitchen with the frying pan in his hand, about to toss the first pancake in the air.
“Stand back, Mads,” he said, as if it was a perfectly normal morning. “You know I don’t have the best track record when it comes to this!”
Charlie was jumping up and down, so excited you’d think it was Christmas.
“Do it! Do it!” he cried. “Come on, Dad. I’m starving!”
No one mentioned Sharon or how late Dad got back or where he’d been, or how we never normally have pancakes on a school day. It was just “Pass the lemon”, and “Can I have more sugar?” And “No, Mum, I do not want sliced pears on my pancake”. I began to relax a little. Dad was home and nothing terrible had happened. I ate my pancake with a big squeeze of lemon and lots of sugar, trying as hard as I could to enjoy the moment.