The Last List of Mabel Beaumont(39)

‘She could be anywhere,’ I say.

It’s the truth. Even if she’s stayed in London all these years, she is one of almost nine million there. And if she didn’t, she could have moved anywhere, even overseas. She could be on a beach in Greece, in the background of family holiday photographs like the ones Patricia just showed us, or living quietly in rural France, or loudly in an apartment somewhere like New York or Chicago. She could be dead. What if we spent weeks or months looking and discovered she was dead? Would that be worse than not knowing?

At school, once, in Geography, we did a project in pairs. We had to choose a city we’d like to live in, anywhere in the world, and research it and present our findings to the class. Dot and I worked together, but we spent most of the time arguing over the choice of city. I wanted to go for somewhere in England and she was looking at places that were much more far-flung.

‘It’s not realistic,’ I said. ‘You’re never going to live in Nashville or Hong Kong.’

Dot shrugged, her eyes flashing as if I’d insulted her. ‘Why not?’

In the end, we wrote about Manchester.

Julie and Patricia look at one another and I see something pass between them. Perhaps they’ve discussed this, in the background. Said that if I show signs of wanting to give up, they should support that. Perhaps they haven’t believed, all along, that finding her is possible.

‘I don’t know where to look,’ I say, and I feel a tear tracking down my cheek.

Julie reaches across and rubs my knee. ‘We don’t always have to know what the next step is. Sometimes we have to wait a bit for inspiration to strike. Don’t lose hope.’

Hope. I’m sure Julie hasn’t lost hope of getting her marriage back on track. And Patricia hasn’t lost hope of her daughter returning to her. So perhaps she’s right. Perhaps I need to wait a while, keep believing, and see what happens.





19





While I’m waiting for something to happen, I decide to poke my nose in where it’s not wanted, as Arthur would have said. It’s something I never would have done a few months ago, but the more I engage with the world, the more I find to be interested in and curious about. I start with Erin. I go into the supermarket and ask when she’s due a break, and she says she’s got ten minutes in half an hour, and if I don’t mind hanging around she’ll meet me on the bench opposite. I take Olly and we wait. I’ve brought a flask of tea. I could stay all day, if the bench wasn’t quite so uncomfortable. I watch the people walking past, all of them caught up in conversation, or with headphones on or looking at their telephones. Every time someone opens the door of the café behind me, I get a waft of the smell of coffee.

Then a couple of men come to a stop right by the bench, and I hear one of them calling the other one Martin. I look across without being obvious about it. I’m invisible to these men, I know that. He’s about the right age. Could I see him with Julie? Possibly.

‘Come on, Mart,’ the other man is saying, ‘it’s been ages since we had a few beers.’

‘I know, I know, but I’m trying to stay in Estelle’s good books…’

Estelle! That’s definitely the name of the woman he left her for.

‘Tell her I’m having a crisis. On Friday. Friday seems like a good day for a crisis. Tell her you’re the only one who can help me. And then meet me at the Carpenters at eight, okay?’

He’s walking away, confident. Martin holds a hand up in a wave.

‘Hi Mabel.’ It’s Erin, dashing across the road between cars.

I make a mental note of the time and date that Martin will be in the pub, and then smile at Erin.

She takes a seat beside me, hands me a rustling brown paper bag. ‘Croissant,’ she says, ‘if you want one. It’s from yesterday. They put them in the staff room for a bit before throwing them away.’

‘I thought they’d go to food banks,’ I say.

Erin rolls her eyes. ‘Hannah and I are always on at Kev about that. But he says it’s dangerous. If they’re out of date and someone gets ill and it’s traced back to our shop, blah blah blah. Meanwhile he doesn’t mind his staff having them.’

‘Well, thank you,’ I say, opening the bag as if it’s a present.

I can’t remember when I last had a croissant, and I close my eyes and take a bite. It’s a tiny bit dry but still buttery and flaky and almost perfect.

‘What did you want to talk to me about?’ Erin asks, bringing me back to Broughton, to the bench, to the matter in hand. ‘Sorry to rush you, it’s just, I have ten minutes and you know what my boss is like about lateness.’

‘Right,’ I say. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you told me, about your parents. It isn’t right, someone having to hide who they are. Not now, in this day and age.’

She shifts a little uncomfortably. ‘You mean about me being gay?’

I nod. ‘Yes, that. It was unheard of when I was growing up, but now it’s everywhere, as far as I can see. Pride marches, all those people just celebrating being in love, being free. And here you are, right in the middle of all that, feeling like you can’t be yourself with your family. It’s just not right.’

‘But what can I do?’