The Last List of Mabel Beaumont(82)

We’re in earshot of the others now and Julie gives Patty a nudge as she climbs in past her.

‘Are you ready to tell us who he is yet?’

‘I think I know,’ I say.

They all turn to me.

‘Do you?’ Patty asks. ‘Go for it.’

I nod. ‘It’s Michael Silver, isn’t it?’

There’s a collective gasp and it frightens Dotty, who starts to wail. I give her my finger to hold again.

‘How did you know?’ Patty asks.

Julie looks like she’s about to explode. ‘Michael bloody Silver! I thought he was one of the good guys.’

‘I’ve seen the way you react when he’s on television,’ I say. ‘And he’s the right sort of age, plus Sarah has those gorgeous blue eyes. I just put it together.’

‘That’s my big secret,’ Patty says. ‘I fell in love with Michael Silver, and he was married, and didn’t want to have anything to do with our child.’

Her voice doesn’t shake, but a look crosses her face, and I think that you probably never get over something like that.

‘And he’s never once met her?’ Julie checks, shaking her head.

‘Never once.’

We’re quiet after that. What is there to say? I spend the next few miles watching the fields and trees rush by outside the window, thinking that there are worse things than not getting to spend your life with the person you love because of circumstances and society. What Patty suffered is worse. Indifference. Is that what I could be faced with today? But no, I play back our telephone call in my head, as I’ve done over and over, mostly in the early hours of the morning. If she was indifferent, she would have said she wasn’t interested in seeing me, wouldn’t she? Her tone was playful, fun. She sounded happy to hear from me.

It seems like hardly any time has passed when Kirsty pulls up on an ordinary residential street and says, ‘I think this is it.’

It’s unbelievable, how close she’s been. I peer out of the window at Dot’s house. It looks like it was built in the 1930s, and the lawn at the front is small and neat.

‘Do you want to go alone?’ Julie asks. ‘Or do you want one of us to come with you?’

I know she wants me to take her. She’s been on every step of this journey with me, but I need to do this by myself. There will be time, after, for introductions, I hope. There will be time for me to show her this gaggle of women who I love like family.

‘On my own, if you don’t mind,’ I say.

She nods, clearly disappointed. And I want to thank her, but there’ll be time for that later, too. I get out of the car, slide the door shut, walk up the path and stand on the doorstep. This piece of wood is all that separates us. I look at my watch. Dot said eleven and it’s five to. What is she doing, inside? Rushing about, making sure things are ready? Frozen, in a chair? Or standing on the other side of this door, her heart beating wildly, the way it did the day we kissed?

I knock, take a step back. When I turn to the car, Kirsty gives me a little wave, and I imagine them all in there, picking over the Michael Silver news. I could go back there and join in. It would be so easy. But just as I’m thinking it, there’s a sound. A chain being pulled back, a door opening. And there she is. Dot Brightmore. A smile on her face so wide, and her eyes full of sparkle. She looks entirely different, and just the same. And I love her. God, I love her. I want to reach out and pull her into my arms and tell her that I was wrong, and I was stupid, and I’m here, now, and I know we’re old women and I’m five minutes early but I hope it’s not too late.

‘Mabel,’ she says. ‘It’s really you.’

We stand there, stuck, and then she turns and leads me inside. Her house is like a treasure box. All mismatched furniture and photos and shiny things. I just know she has chosen everything here herself, because she loved it, not caring what went with what or what other people would think. In the living room, she gestures for me to sit down and I choose a hot-pink armchair. She sits down on the edge of a floral chaise longue, and we start to talk.

For half an hour, we swap life stories. She tells me about her sons and grandchildren, and I notice the way her face changes when she says their names, as if those simple words are bursting with the essence of them and the joy they’ve brought her. If we had found a way to be together, she wouldn’t have had this, I remind myself. We talk about jobs we’ve done, where we’ve travelled. Not far, in my case. She has been to places I can’t imagine – Morocco, Brazil, Canada. She was always the bold one. But when I hold my life up for her to see, I’m not ashamed of it. It’s been small but special, in its way. Isn’t everyone’s?

‘I’m sorry you lost Arthur,’ she says.

She looks at me, slow and steady. And that’s what takes us back to the 1950s, to that awful and wonderful time.

‘My friends,’ I say.

‘What?’

‘I really want to keep talking, but some friends brought me here, and they’re sitting outside in the car, and I feel like I shouldn’t make them wait too long. One of them has a baby, and…’

Dot laughs. ‘Well, you should bring them in,’ she says.

I want it to just be me and her, but it isn’t practical. I needed these women to hold my hand on this trip, so inviting them in is the least I can do. I open the front door and wave them over with my arm, and I watch, Dot standing behind and to the side of me, as they get out of the car.