‘How old were you?’ I ask.
‘Seven, when he died. Probably eight when Tony came on the scene. And he had this daughter, Lou, who was a couple of years older than me. His wife had died, too, so they were both single parents. I can understand, now, that they took comfort from each other, but at the time, I was so angry. It felt like Mum was choosing him over me, and over Dad. Plus he wasn’t very nice to me, never wanted to get involved with anything I was doing. I’ve just… never really been able to forgive them for it.’
‘So once you were grown up, you cut them out of your life?’
‘There was never a conscious decision to do that. But while Lou lived with them until she was in her early twenties, I went to university and never moved back. I’d see them now and again, but Tony and I just don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things and every time I’d see them, it was like Mum had moved slightly more towards his way of thinking. We just didn’t seem to have much in common. When I met Ben and we decided to start a family, I wanted it to be a fresh start, and not to drag my existing family problems into it. Me and Mum and Tony and Lou never felt like a family, to me. It just didn’t work.’
I think of my marriage, then. Is that how she would have seen us, too? Just not working? Maybe I’m wrong about all this, and what Kirsty did is actually the braver thing, the more honourable thing? Maybe it’s sometimes better to cut ties.
There’s a cry and it makes me jump, and I see Kirsty reach for a white plastic device on the floor beside the sofa.
‘Monitor,’ she says, holding it up. ‘I’ll go and get her.’
While she’s gone, I get up to stretch my legs. The kitchen’s got an industrial look to it, with lots of stainless steel that you’d think would be terrible for fingerprints but there’s not a single mark on it. I wonder whether Kirsty spends hours cleaning or whether they have someone come in to do that for them. Arthur suggested we do that, once we retired. He thought we could stretch to it. But I said having a cleaner wasn’t for people like us. What would we do, when she was there? I felt like she’d judge me. I’m not above cleaning my own toilet.
Kirsty reappears. She’s holding a sleepy-looking Dotty, who has creases on her reddened skin.
‘Hello, Dotty,’ I say, taking one of her fingers and doing an approximation of a handshake with it.
She pulls away, nestles into Kirsty’s neck.
‘She’s still half asleep,’ Kirsty says.
I think about what I know of Kirsty, the way I’ve seen her mother Dotty. If I’d found out all of this about her family first, I would perhaps have thought her uncaring, but I can’t, because I’ve seen the way the love oozes out of her when she is with her daughter. Is it possible that some families just aren’t right together? Could it be that way for Erin? I wonder whether she’s had that talk with her parents yet, whether they’ve accepted her.
‘I should go,’ I say.
‘Thanks for listening,’ she says. ‘And thank you for Olly. Shall I give you a bit of space to say goodbye?’
I nod, and she disappears with Dotty into another part of the house. I go over to the sofa where we were sitting. Olly’s climbed up and curled in a ball. I sit beside him, lean in. Soft snores. It’s good to know he feels so at home here already. I put a hand on his back and he shifts slightly in his sleep, so I try a stroke of his head, but then he opens his eyes and gives me a warning look. It’s a look I’m so familiar with, but today it makes me feel heavy and sad.
‘You’re going to live here now,’ I say to him. ‘Kirsty’s going to look after you, and you’ll have Dotty to play with. Be gentle, all right?’
I don’t say I’ll miss him. Or that I love him. He’ll know, won’t he? I get up and go to the door, slip my feet into my shoes.
‘I’m going,’ I call out to Kirsty, and for the first time I realise she’ll have no reason to come round now. Will I only see her in passing, on the street or in the supermarket, from now on?
‘Just doing Dotty’s nappy, are you okay to let yourself out?’ she calls from whichever room she’s in.
‘Fine.’
‘I’ll take good care of him, Mabel.’
I know it’s true, and I’m glad she doesn’t come out into the hallway because I’m a mess. I call a goodbye, my voice on the edge of breaking. He’s just a dog, I repeat to myself. Just a dog. But it’s as if he’s the last link to Arthur. And he’s been with me, these past few months. We’ve been through it together. It’s funny, though, I would never have said I felt that close to him. But now I’ve cut that tie, sent him off to live a better life, and I wonder what it will mean for mine.
25
With Olly gone, I find I’m often waiting for Julie to arrive. The fact that Arthur anticipated my need for company like this surprises me anew every time I think of it. If the shoe had been on the other foot, it wouldn’t have struck me as my job to look after him from beyond the grave. But when Arthur decided to look after me on the day of Bill’s funeral, he took it seriously. It was a lifelong promise, for him. Longer than life, even.
I still see him in the house. Standing in the kitchen, leaning back against the counter with his arms folded across his chest as if he’s about to ask me what I fancy for tea. Lying next to me in bed, silent and still, but not like he was on the day I found him. More like he was on every day that preceded that. Quietly there. Sitting on the sofa, his trousers hitched up and his white socks showing. It’s as if he’s waiting. And sometimes I don’t see him but think I can smell him, as if he’s just walked through the room. Is he wanting to see that I follow his instructions: Find D? I won’t know, I suppose, until I track Dot down. If he keeps appearing then, what will it mean? That that wasn’t what Find D meant after all? Or that he’ll always be here, like this? Or that it’s just my old brain playing tricks? It’s not a frightening thing, coming up against him in these small rooms we shared for so many years. It’s comforting, actually. It’s like a slow goodbye.
I hear Julie’s key scrape in the lock and prepare myself for the energy she brings.
‘Morning, Mabel,’ she calls from the hallway.
There’s something different in her tone, though I think she’s trying to sound like normal. I wait for her to pop her head around the door, and when she does, she looks a bit tired and deflated.
‘Has he left you again?’ I ask.
I’m not sure why I say it. I’m aiming for light humour but I see straight away I’ve missed the mark.
‘Why would you ask that?’
‘You just don’t look like yourself, that’s all.’
She stands there unwinding her scarf, removing her gloves, finger by finger. ‘It’s bitter out there,’ she says.
I’ve no intention of verifying that until much later. It’s tempting to spend these short days inside by the gas fire, now I don’t have Olly to think about, but I do feel better for having a walk in the afternoons.
‘So,’ I say, ‘is there something? You look tired.’
She laughs, but it’s not her usual raucous laugh, the one that makes people turn to look at her in the street. It’s a constrained laugh, and that is somehow more worrying than tears would be.