Abbeyhill has changed from the place in my memory. It helps that it’s a sunny day today. Everything looks brighter, more hopeful with a wash of sunlight.
Or maybe that’s wishful thinking.
In my hotel room last night I lay awake going over everything. I wish I could say that when I planned to find out about Frank I actually imagined meeting the guy. I just expected to find out more than I’d known before, like learning the history of an ancient monument you’d grown up by.
If he’s there, what will I say to him?
What do you say to the guy who cared so little about his son that he removed himself from his life? To him I’m as good as dead, anyway.
If it was me, I’d want to know.
I remember the stillness of Phoebe’s eyes when she said that to me, how it contrasted with the wild dance of her hair as the breeze whipped it around her face. Until she said it, I don’t think I would have considered doing anything with the information Doug had given me.
But I’m here because of her words.
I don’t know what time Frank’s likely to be at home – if it’s even still his home – so I opt for mid-morning first. If there’s no answer, I’ll try again around 6 p.m. and again at 9 p.m. In between I’ll head back to the hotel and try my hardest not to get drunk. I haven’t had any alcohol since I arrived yesterday but I can’t guarantee what happens today won’t send me seeking solace in a bottle.
I’ve told Ailish I’ll ring her as soon as I find anything. She knows to respect that and won’t try to call me before. She still feels bad about our fight but no matter how in control of your life you are, sometimes you just need someone who loves you enough to give you a great big push.
What would Ma have made of me being here? Never mind the irony that her absent husband was likely living in the same city as us for at least some of our time in Edinburgh. Would she be angry with me? The kid in me who never wanted to make his mother cry worries a little now. I hope she’d understand, even if I suspect she wouldn’t.
The taxi drops me off a few streets away, a deliberate move on my part to give me a chance to get myself together. I walk past houses in various states of repair, most of them proudly cared for but the odd one here and there with broken fences and cars parked across gardens, as if they’ve been dumped in a hurry. Most are semi-detached houses now; back in the day they would all have been council flats. Some of the buildings still have the flight of concrete steps outside rising to the first floor from the driveway. There are lines of spring flowers standing sentry-like along some of the garden paths. Black wheelie bins, pink plastic bottle boxes and green and blue recycling bags edge the pavement. Each one is a glimpse into the lives of the residents – beer bottles and folded pizza boxes in one set, bags of brightly coloured wrapping paper and children’s toy packaging in the next.
I don’t get stage fright before a gig but right now every nerve within me is on high alert.
The streets are empty, but I feel as if the world is watching.
It strikes me that this is one of those moments in life that can’t be anything but monumental. My story as Frank’s son will be forever altered the moment that door opens. Even if he’s long gone, or dead after all, my life has already changed just by being here.
There it is: the junction with Airdrie Road and the small sign that marks its beginning. He’s already closer than he has been for twenty-three years.
I follow the houses on the odd-numbered side of the road. Each one is divided into two flats. Which would Frank choose, ground floor or first? Head in the clouds or best placed for a speedy exit? I wonder…
151… 153… 157… 159…
I slow beside the house next door to the address I’m looking for and glance away from the well-kept garden to the edge of the pavement. There are two black bins and four recycling bags outside 161. And painted in hasty white strokes on the bins: 161A and 161B.
My heart skids to a halt. I wrench breath into my body.
Doug said his colleagues had tried to get an answer from 161B on four occasions but failed. It was a neighbour who’d confirmed Frank lived there, although they hadn’t seen him for a while. But he has to be here now because the bin and recycling bags have been put out. By Frank, or someone who knows him.
The latch on the gate opens with a creak and flakes of old green paint stick to my hands when I push it open. Brushing them away, I walk up the path to 161B. Ground floor: ready to run. Figures. My fist shakes as I raise it to the dirty white uPVC door and knock.
Please be in. Please be home.
I wait, listening to my breath and the distant hum of traffic. The whoosh of a bicycle passes on the pavement beyond the gate and somewhere a woman laughs.
Nothing.
My heart sinks. I knock again, louder this time, staring at the closed door for longer than is comfortable. Nobody’s home. I knew this was a possibility and there are still two more opportunities to visit before I have to return to Mull.
It isn’t over, I tell myself. It’s just the first strike.
So I’ll come back at teatime – and, if necessary, at 9 p.m. as well.
I retrace my steps down the cracked flagstone path and reach for the gate.
‘Can I help you?’
The door has opened and a young woman is standing on the step, a baby wriggling against her shoulder. She has dark hair pulled back into a straggly ponytail and looks as if she hasn’t slept for weeks.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you. I’m looking for Frank Mullins?’
‘Who?’
I approach her carefully, pulling the crumpled photograph of my father from my back pocket and holding it out. ‘Frank Mullins. Originally from the Isle of Mull? I was told he lived here?’
She glances at the photo but hardly long enough to make out Frank’s blurry image. ‘No, sorry.’
‘Oh.’
They got it wrong. Or maybe he did live here, defaulted on the rent and the landlord moved this lady in instead. I can better believe that of Frank from what I’ve discovered about him.
‘Can I ask how long you’ve lived here?’
She doesn’t return my smile. ‘Three years.’
How can the police have made such a mistake? There must have been an error with the council tax record. Maybe they wrote the number down wrong? A hundred possibilities race through my mind. But the bottom line remains: this isn’t where Frank lives now. My search is over.
‘I see. Sorry. I’m his son, by the way. Not that it matters to you, or should matter to you. I haven’t seen him since I was nine. And – I just wanted to see if I could talk to him.’ I realise I’m rambling to a complete stranger who doesn’t know or care about Frank Mullins. I raise my hand in apology. ‘Anyway, sorry to disturb you. Have a nice day.’
A flush of indignation and embarrassment claims my face as I hurry back to the gate. I need to get out of here now. The last thing this poor woman needs is a nutter sobbing in her garden.
‘You have his eyes.’
I daren’t turn back. My feet are frozen to the spot, my hand resting on the green gate, my heart in my mouth.
‘What?’
‘And the colour of his hair. He frowns like you do, too.’
I look at her, not quite believing I heard her speak at all.
‘What did you say your name was?’ she asks.
‘I didn’t. It’s Sam.’
‘I’m Elspeth. Ellie, to everyone’ – the baby gurgles loudly and she gives a nervous laugh – ‘except this one. This is Barney, my son.’
Is Frank the kid’s father? My stomach twists as I walk back to the young woman. There’s nothing to stop him fathering more children, I guess. He’d be – what – in his sixties now? It’s biologically possible; even if morally, practically and emotionally inadvisable, given his past record.
‘Is Frank…?’ I nod at the baby.
Ellie’s eyes widen and her hand flies to her mouth. ‘Hell, no! Oh my gosh.’
‘I’m sorry. I just… I didn’t know…’
When she takes her hand away, she’s laughing. ‘You’re fine. Wow. That would be something. No, Sam, Frank’s not my partner.’
‘Right.’
Her smile softens. ‘He’s my dad.’