The Last List of Mabel Beaumont(41)

‘Oh yes,’ I say. ‘Hello. Have you found something out?’

‘I just thought I’d mention that I’ve been in touch with an elderly gentleman in Broughton who has an interest in local history and I thought he might be useful to you. He lives on Upper Street.’

And suddenly I know the name she’s going to say before she says it. Reg Bishop.

‘Reg Bishop, his name is.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, Reg Bishop.’

‘Oh, do you know him?’

‘No. Well, a little. From years back. I’ll get in touch.’

‘Would you like his number? He said he was happy for me to pass it on.’

Did she mention my name? Is he expecting to hear from me?

‘Yes please.’

Julie rushes in with my spiral notepad and a biro, and I write down the number Trisha reads out, and then I thank her and hang up.

‘Well?’ Julie asks, bringing our drinks in. ‘She called me this morning and I gave her your number because I thought it might be exciting for you to hear it from her directly.’

‘I know him,’ I say. ‘Knew him, I mean.’

‘This Reg Bishop?’

‘Yes.’

So strange, to have not said or heard a name for decades, and then for it to be repeated over and over, on the telephone, in your house, by your own voice.

‘Was he a friend of yours?’ she asks.

I know she’s just being friendly and interested, but it feels like she’s prodding me with a stick.

‘Not really,’ I say. And then I look out of the window and sip my tea, determined not to say another word on the matter.

It’s not until hours after she’s gone, after I’ve had my tea and have got the television on for a bit of company, that I turn and see Arthur sitting on the sofa.

‘Reg Bishop,’ I say aloud. ‘Remember him?’

Arthur doesn’t speak. He can’t, I realise. He isn’t there. And yet, I can see him.

‘Used to call himself Reggie, didn’t he? Thought of himself as a bit of a ladies’ man. Bill liked him, but I don’t think you ever did. Even before what he said at Bill’s funeral.’

Is that sadness I can see, marring his features? I don’t think the name Reg Bishop has ever been spoken aloud in this house before today.

‘I’m going to talk to him,’ I say. ‘But it’s just about finding Dot, nothing else. I don’t want you to worry.’

I’ve turned away while I speak and when I look back over my shoulder, the sofa’s empty. What did I expect? Olly gets up and sniffs around, and I wonder for a second whether he can sense something, or whether he’s just been disturbed by me talking to myself. He comes to me and I think perhaps he’ll finally let me give him a bit of fuss, but when I reach to scratch him underneath his chin – his favourite spot, according to Arthur – he backs away.

I stare at the page on the notebook where I wrote his name and telephone number. Could he possibly know anything about Dot, about where she went? I doubt it, but I’ve been waiting for something to happen, and perhaps this is it.





20





‘First round’s on me,’ Kirsty says, rushing off to the bar before anyone can protest. She hasn’t even asked us what we want.

The Carpenters is busy and loud. I can almost hear Arthur asking What did you expect? Although I think he’d be so shocked by this turn of events – me out for drinks on a Friday night with three new friends – that I actually can’t predict what he’d say. I almost called it off when they came to collect me, almost told them to go on without me. They all look so glamorous and though I spent a long time choosing my outfit, I know I look frumpy and old beside them. Kirsty must have realised I was wobbling because she asked if I had any lipstick and painted my lips bright red, and it didn’t make me look younger but it gave me the confidence to go, somehow. And it was strange, while she was standing there, inches from my face, concentrating, the minty scent of her breath reaching my nostrils, with Julie and Patricia chatting in the background, I felt so happy to be a part of something. But now we’re here and I can’t see any tables free and I’m wondering again if this was a good idea.

We used to come here, Dot and Bill and Arthur and me. It wasn’t called The Carpenters then. It was The Boot. You wouldn’t know it was the same place. Dot and I would have a gin and tonic and make it last all evening, and the men would have two or three pints. Dot wasn’t a big fan of it, spending the evening like that. She said it felt like we were waiting to go somewhere and do something, rather than the pub being the main event. She loved dancing, that was what it was. Loved moving, chatting, walking. She found standing around in a pub boring. I look around, as if there’s a chance I’ll see her, over there by the slot machine where there used to be a jukebox, choosing something by Elvis or Buddy Holly, grabbing hold of someone’s wrists and starting to dance in the middle of the pub.

Julie marches off and then waves Patricia and me over, and she’s found a little tucked away table and I’m relieved but I just hope we won’t miss Martin altogether. I thought about letting Patricia or Kirsty in on the secret, but I think it will be more authentic if I’m the only one who knows. I’m good at keeping a straight face, at not letting on. I’ve been doing it all my life.