The Last List of Mabel Beaumont(71)

‘Nothing,’ I say.

‘That’s sad, after all you did for her.’

And though it’s exactly what I’ve been thinking, I’m not ready to hear her criticised, so I make excuses for her.

‘It’s a whirlwind, being seventeen,’ I say.

I hope I’m right, hope she is too busy revising for her A levels and going to parties and meeting girls to think of me. I hope she isn’t miserable, and on her own, and feeling like she outstayed her welcome.

‘It is that. Do you remember it, Mabel? All the emotions. God, I don’t miss being young.’

I do. I remember it, but unlike Julie, I do miss it. The way my body moved however and wherever I wanted it to, the way I felt like there was more life ahead than behind, the way people noticed me. Would I do it all again? I would, but I’d do it differently. Go back to those years with Dot and take it from there.





34





One week on, and it’s a different day entirely. The kind of February day where you can feel a whisper of spring on the breeze. Not here yet, but on its way. And I have Julie with me this time, which makes me feel bolder.

‘I’m back on the dating apps,’ she says.

She’s trying to put a brave face on, and I want to tell her she doesn’t have to.

‘He’s gone?’ I ask.

I turn to look at her in the bus seat next to me and she does a stiff little nod. ‘Gone.’

‘Do you wish he’d never come back?’ I’m looking for forgiveness, I suppose. But the answer is obvious, isn’t it? Surely it would have been better if he’d stayed away.

‘No,’ she says, surprising me. ‘Because I would have always wondered. But this way, he came back and it wasn’t right, so now I can move on.’

Moving on. It’s a thing people talk about these days. Next person, next love. I don’t know where they find the strength for it, the courage.

‘When I met you,’ I say, ‘I could see that you were sad, and I thought it was all about Martin, but it’s not, is it? There’s something else, too.’

She doesn’t answer at first, and when I look at her there are tears on her cheeks. I unzip my bag, rifle through for a tissue. It’s a bit dogeared, but clean. I pass it to her, and she takes it but just holds it in her hand, as though she’s not quite sure what it is, what it’s for.

‘It’s not that I don’t want to talk about it,’ she says, eventually. ‘I just don’t think I can.’

One day, she’ll be ready. And I hope I’ll be there. I wonder whether Martin recognised it, whether he knew. Whether he did what he could to fix it. Or whether he just thought it was part of her, unfixable. I reach across and put my hand over hers, and we sit like that for the rest of the journey.

‘You again,’ the pie man says. There’s a smile in his voice. ‘You must really want to find this Joan person.’

‘I do,’ I say.

And it’s just then that I see her. Quarter to twelve on a Tuesday morning, walking towards the pie stall with purpose. She spots me and puts her hand up in a wave. She has no idea, I think, that she might be the key to this mystery I’ve been puzzling over for months.

‘Hello, Mabel. No Arthur today?’

I’m thrown, so caught up with Dot. But of course, the last time I saw her, I was with Arthur. She couldn’t know that he’s gone.

‘Arthur passed away,’ I say. ‘A few months ago, now.’

Her face drains of colour and she puts a hand on my arm, and I think I can just about feel the warmth of that human touch through the layers of my blouse and cardigan and coat.

‘I’m so sorry to hear that. He was a lovely, lovely man.’

‘Did you love him?’ I ask.

Julie gives me a sharp look. I’ve gone so far off plan, but in this moment, it’s something I really want to know.

‘Love him? Heavens, no. Whatever made you think that? My John was the only one for me.’

I think back over what Arthur said that day. That he thought Joan had had a thing for him, and that he thought she knew Dot a bit. If he was wrong about one, he could easily have been wrong about the other, too.

‘Just something he said,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

Julie pokes me sharply in the ribs and I realise I haven’t addressed the matter in hand.

‘I’ve been looking for you,’ I say.

‘For me?’

‘Yes, I, well, I’m looking for someone, for a friend, and I wondered whether you might be able to help.’

Julie cuts in. ‘I’ll tell you what. Shall we all go for a coffee and talk about this a bit more?’

Joan smiles. ‘That would be lovely.’

We find a café nearby, the sort with red and white checked tablecloths. A bit old-fashioned, but I suppose we are, too. Julie goes off to queue for two lattes and a pot of tea and I hope fleetingly that she’ll bring over some cake. She usually does. Joan and I head to a table in the window, well away from anyone else.

‘So who is it you’re looking for?’ Joan asks, once we’re settled.

She’s got her back to the window and I’m facing her, so behind her there are swarms of people hurrying past. It makes me think about the futility of this search. There are so many people, even in a town like Overbury. But I found Joan, didn’t I? And we found Dot’s brother, not that he’s replied to Julie’s Facebook message. I can’t lose hope completely, because if I do, what will I have left?