The Last List of Mabel Beaumont(25)

‘Coffee?’ she asks.

Julie looks at me. ‘Would you like to go for a coffee, or would you like to get home?’

I’m surprised to find I don’t want the evening to end. ‘Coffee,’ I say. ‘Or, rather, tea.’

Patricia laughs. ‘You can drink whatever you like, Mabel.’





Julie insists on paying for the drinks and Patricia and I find a table. I’m hoping she won’t go for one with high stools, so I’m relieved when she opts for a low table with big, squashy armchairs. The whole place smells of freshly brewed coffee, and there are framed abstract prints on the walls. Arthur would have said it was trying too hard, and I probably would have agreed with him. He liked an old-fashioned café with checked tablecloths. But I look around, taking it all in, and I decide I like it.

‘So, tell me about yourself,’ Patricia says, smiling.

I’ve always disliked that question. What is there to say? I glance over at the counter, but Julie’s still queuing.

‘I’m eighty-six,’ I say. ‘Recently widowed…’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s all right, we had a good run.’

She nods, and I realise she expects me to go on. But what does she want to know?

‘Do you live in Broughton?’ she asks.

‘Yes.’

‘Have you always?’

‘Yes.’

People didn’t move about the way they do now, when I was younger. You stayed put unless you had a good reason to go elsewhere. A job, or a person, I suppose. That way, you had the people who loved you around if you needed them.

‘Why did you come here, from America?’ I ask.

She looks surprised at the question. ‘I have to say, people often ask me when, but they rarely ask me why. Let’s see, I was working as a model and I got to travel all over the world and I fell in love with London. There was something magical about the place.’

‘A model, you say?’

‘Yes. I did all sorts. Some advertising campaigns, some catwalk.’

‘You are tall, I suppose.’

She laughs, and it’s unexpected and surprisingly joyful, like the room is suddenly full of bubbles.

Julie arrives with a tray and unloads the drinks. Coffee for them, tea for me. And three slices of Victoria sponge.

‘I didn’t ask for cake,’ I say.

‘I thought I’d treat us,’ she says.

It’s a long time since I had cake and when I take a bite I’m flooded with memories of birthdays and silly hats.

‘Have you told Patty about our mission?’ Julie asks, once she’s settled.

‘Mission?’

‘To find your friend? She might have some ideas.’

‘Oh,’ I say. I feel a bit hot and uncomfortable. I’m not sure I’m ready to talk about Dot to anyone else.

Julie doesn’t notice, and ploughs on. ‘Mabel had this best friend, when she was younger, but she hasn’t seen her since they were in their twenties. We’re going to try to find her.’

‘Oh boy,’ Patricia says. ‘That sounds like a challenge.’

‘I thought it was common in America to believe us Brits all know each other,’ I say.

Patricia laughs again. More bubbles. ‘Only the ones who haven’t been here.’

There is a beat of silence, and I take another mouthful of cake, close my eyes briefly to appreciate it.

‘When you knew her, all those years ago, where did she live? Around here, I mean,’ Patricia asks.

‘Manor Lane, number forty-two.’

‘Have you been there?’

I’m not sure what she’s getting at. ‘You think she might have been there all this time?’

‘No, of course not, but someone there might know something about where she went. Worth a try, surely, since it doesn’t involve going very far.’

I want to say that the house has probably changed hands many times since Dot’s family left it. And besides, the rest of the family didn’t leave along with her, so it’s not like the next owner would have a forwarding address for her specifically.

‘That’s a brilliant idea,’ Julie says. ‘Why didn’t we think of that, Mabel? I don’t know. Good job we’ve got Patty on board.’

I think about that phrase later, ‘on board’. Is this a group project now? How many more will join in? And will any of it help? When I’m drifting off to sleep, I let go of the worry about it all, the questions about whether or not I’m doing the right thing. I let myself remember the dancing, the way it felt to be moving around that big space with songs I hadn’t heard for years playing at volume. And I remember the cake, the lightness of the sponge, the richness of the icing. So when Arthur is there beside me, suddenly, I smile at him.

‘It’s been a good day,’ I say.

He doesn’t say anything.

‘Why are you here, Arthur? Have you got something to tell me, or to show me?’

He smiles the way he always did when he had a secret and he wasn’t quite ready to give it up. Playful. It makes him look young. And it infuriates me. I reach across to give him a gentle push, but the bed is empty.





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