I look across at Reg, who’s looking a bit affronted at the suggestion that men don’t keep in touch with old friends, and then back to Cathy.
‘When was that?’ I ask. ‘When did your mother die?’
‘In 1998,’ she says, with no hesitation.
‘So Dot was alive and well up to that point, as far as you know?’
‘Oh yes. She didn’t stay in London, mind, not after her and Thomas had children. They moved out to somewhere in Hampshire to be near her parents. Portsmouth, maybe.’
I want to shake her, to ask her to think and be sure. After all those dead ends, I’m finally getting somewhere. But I’m dependent on Cathy Milton to progress. Who would have thought, all those years ago, when Dot and I were playing with our dolls and Cathy was whining and asking to join in, that we would be in this position now? There’s something else to process, too. She said they had children.
‘How many children did she have?’ I ask.
‘Two. Both boys. John and William, I think they were called.’
‘And is there anything else you can tell me? Anything that might help me find her?’
There’s a note of pleading in my voice, because it feels like I’ve learned so much, and in a way, I have. I know that Dot got married, what her married name was, and that she had two children. I know she moved out of London and that she was alive twenty-five years ago. But does any of that bring me closer to finding her now? I’m not sure whether it does or not.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t think so,’ she says.
But she offers me her telephone number, and I take it, and give her mine.
‘We weren’t always kind to you, when we were children,’ I say.
She dips her head, as if it hasn’t occurred to her.
‘Thank you for your help,’ I say.
I stand, and she stands, and then we both look over at Reg, who’s finishing off his tea. He makes an indecipherable grumbling noise and then he gets up and we go to leave.
At the door, Cathy has a question for me. ‘Why are you looking for her, now, after all these years? I know how close the two of you were but I assumed you’d had a big falling out when you weren’t at the wedding.’
It’s a difficult one to answer. I take my time, put my shoes back on.
‘I don’t know why she went,’ I say, ‘or why she didn’t stay in touch. And now, I probably don’t have all that long, and I’d like to get to the bottom of it, if I can.’
Cathy nods.
‘She was my best friend,’ I add. And I’m not sure why.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Yes. I remember. And I know she was lost, after your brother died…’
‘We all were.’ Still are, I want to add.
‘You can never really know anyone fully, can you?’ she asks.
It reminds me of what the vicar said about Arthur, in those days after his death, and I didn’t know how to answer it then, but I think perhaps I do now.
‘No,’ I say. ‘No, you can’t.’
‘Well, I’ll be in touch if I think of anything,’ she says.
Back in Reg’s shiny car, he turns to me. ‘One step closer.’
And then he reaches across and puts his left hand on my right knee, his sausage fingers giving it a squeeze, and I’m so shocked I’m slow to react and he’s taken it away before I can insist that he does just that.
I don’t speak a single word on the drive back to my house, and when he pulls up outside, I’ve got the door open before he’s put the handbrake on.
‘Slow down, Mabel! Look, I know it’s disappointing that Catherine couldn’t lead you straight to Dot, couldn’t confirm whether she’s… still with us, but I really think she helped, don’t you?’
But I’m out of the car and walking up the path to my front door. He gets out too, and I’m fiddling with my key when I hear his door slam shut.
‘Mabel, have I done something to upset you?’
I turn around and he’s right behind me. ‘Don’t ever put your hand on me again.’
He laughs and holds both hands up. ‘Come on, it’s hardly as if I was making a pass at you. We’re a bit old for all that, aren’t we? It was nothing, Mabel. Just reassurance.’
‘We’re not friends, Reg. We were never friends, and it’s no different now, just because we’re old. I don’t need you to drive me places and I certainly don’t need you to touch me.’
As I say those last words, I see Julie rounding the corner.
‘What’s happening, Mabel? Are you all right?’
Reg starts to back away, but Julie has to come past him and she gives him a sharp look.
‘You try to do someone a favour…’ he says.
‘I want you to go,’ I say.
‘You heard her,’ Julie says.
So he goes. And once he’s pulled away, Julie puts her arms around me and it’s only then I realise I’m feeling a bit shaky.
‘What did he do to you?’ Julie whispers it into my hair, and I feel so safe like that, with her, and it’s all I can do not to start weeping.
‘It’s nothing,’ I say.
‘It didn’t sound like nothing to me. Come on, let’s get you inside and get the kettle on.’
And it’s just what I need. I let her lead me into my home and get me settled. And then she sits and listens while I tell her all about my dealings with Reg Bishop, both recent and in the past.
27
When I wake up on Christmas morning, Arthur’s lying next to me.
‘Happy Christmas, Arthur,’ I say, just like I have for the past sixty-two years.
I desperately need to empty my bladder, but I know when I do, he’ll go, so I hold on as long as I can. Think about other Christmases.
‘Do you remember the year we were short on cash and decided not to give each other presents?’ I ask aloud. ‘You’d gone out at the last minute on Christmas Eve and bought me some Quality Street, said you couldn’t bear to give me nothing at all, and I was so cross with you because I’d stuck to the rule we’d made together and ended up looking like the mean one. We didn’t really speak for half the day, but it was forgotten by dinnertime and then we shared the chocolates on the sofa in front of a James Bond film.’
It’s no good, I have to go. When I return, the bed is empty, just as I knew it would be.
I go downstairs and make a pot of tea, tell myself it’s just like any other day. Because it is, isn’t it? It’s just a date. Julie helped me put the artificial tree up a week or so ago. I wasn’t going to bother but she asked if I had one and I admitted I did. She went up in the loft for it. That was always Arthur’s job. We used to get a real one, years ago, because there’s nothing quite like the smell of them, but when Arthur suggested getting ‘one of those fake things’ a few years back, I went along with it. Yesterday, when Julie was leaving, after she’d checked three or four times that I’d be all right today without her calling in, she put a big gift bag under the tree and said I wasn’t to look in it until this morning. So I take my tea through to the front room and bring the bag over to my armchair.
There are three presents inside, all wrapped nicely with bows and ribbons and things. Neatly labelled. One from Julie, one from Kirsty, one from Patricia. I pushed cards through their letterboxes but I didn’t think about presents and now I feel awful. Perhaps they took pity on me, what with it being my first Christmas on my own. I open Patricia’s first, and it’s a beautiful blue cardigan, the softest wool I’ve ever felt, and when I check the label, I gasp out loud because it’s cashmere. I hold it up to my cheek. This would have cost a fortune. I know she’s got money, but why would she spend it on me? I’m a bit taken aback, and I finish my tea before opening the others. Kirsty’s is a calendar and matching diary with a dog that looks just like Olly on the cover. So thoughtful. And Julie’s, well, at first I’m not sure what it is. It’s a necklace, that much is obvious. But there are small silver discs with letters stamped on them and I can’t work out what they spell. M-A-B-D. I’ll have to ask her next time she’s here. I’ll have to ask her to put it on for me, too. The clasp is a bit fiddly.