And I watch her rush back across the road, between cars, not waiting for the lights to change. There’s so much I want to tell her. Not to waste a second of that precious youth. To hold her family close while she has them. To go after love like it’s a war and she’s losing. But what would I have said, if someone had told me those things when I was her age? I try to picture it, me walking around town aimlessly with Dot, some old woman coming up to us to impart her wisdom. We would have laughed and walked away, thought nothing more of it. Because the young think they know it all already, don’t they? They don’t know how they’ll feel later. How lonely and wistful. That’s the trick of it.
A few hours later, I’m back home and Julie bustles in with her usual cheery hellos. Olly lifts his head, realises it’s not Kirsty come to take him for a walk, and goes back to sleep.
‘I was thinking,’ I say, ‘it’s been a long time since I had a night out.’
How true that is. For years, I was out every Friday and Saturday night. At the pictures or a couple of drinks in the pub on a Friday, dancing on Saturday. It shaped my working week. We spent Monday to Wednesday gossiping about the events of the previous weekend and Thursday and Friday planning for the coming one.
Julie’s in the doorway, and she looks different. New haircut. It’s all sleek and shiny.
‘Out?’ she asks.
‘Yes, dinner or just drinks. I don’t know. I thought maybe we could go somewhere. Ask the others too, maybe. I like your hair, by the way.’
She puts a hand to it. ‘Oh, thanks. Kirsty found a picture in a magazine for me to take in. I’m so pleased with it.’
‘Good. So what about Friday?’
‘This Friday?’
‘Yes, why not? Unless you’re busy painting your nails or reorganising your fridge or something.’
She laughs, throws her head back. ‘Cheeky. All right then, let’s do it. I’ll send Patty and Kirsty a message.’
‘Kirsty will be here in a bit.’ Olly’s head pops up again at the sound of me saying her name. ‘So no need to message her. What will you wear, do you think?’
Julie sits down on the arm of the sofa, pulls out her telephone. ‘What will I wear? I don’t know, Mabel, does it matter?’
‘Well, it’s nice to look your best, isn’t it? Maybe you could go shopping for something new. See what Kirsty thinks.’
‘Patty’s free,’ she says. ‘Right, what needs doing?’
Most days I think up something or other for her to do, but I know the washing basket’s empty and she changed my bed yesterday. I could ask her to put the hoover round but she’s not a cleaner and I’d rather just sit and have a chat with her.
‘I’d love a cup of tea,’ I say. ‘Make one for yourself, too.’
‘I think sometimes you forget I’m here to work,’ she says, disappearing into the kitchen.
I want to say that I never forget that. That I’m starting to like her more than anyone I’ve spent time with in years and I’m painfully aware that she’s paid to be here.
There’s a buzzing noise, and I try to work out what it is. ‘Is that your telephone, Julie?’ I call.
‘No, not mine. Maybe it’s yours? Hold on, I’ll have a look.’
I often forget I’ve got a mobile telephone. I keep it in the back room, in a drawer in the sideboard, and Julie puts it on charge for me every few days. She rushes in now with it in her hands.
‘For me?’ I ask.
‘Well, we won’t know unless you answer it, will we?’
I look at the screen blankly, and she reaches out and slides her finger across the screen, then gestures for me to put it to my ear.
‘Hello? Mabel Beaumont speaking.’
‘Hello Mabel, this is Trisha Smith, I spoke with your friend Julie recently about the house your friend used to live in?’
‘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.