Page 2 of All Our Missing Pieces

‘Then you shouldn’t have to wait a minute longer.’

Laughing, their faces wreathed in carbon-copy smiles, the two women left the hotel, walking past Beatrice and shoulder to shoulder out into the rain.

Beatrice stood where she was, frozen, the flowers blurring into a kaleidoscope of colour in front of her eyes.

What did I just see?

But she knew: there was no doubt what had happened, no other possible explanation.

Hoisting the strap of her purse more securely over her shoulder, she left the hotel and hurried down the rainy street, heading towards the destination she hoped would hold the key to her own past.

But the door remained firmly closed.

Impatiently, she sat back and took another sip of her British Airways coffee, weak and bitter. At least in London there’d be Starbucks. Starbucks and Big Ben and Madame Tussauds and red buses and Arctic Monkeys gigs.

Her time in Dublin and expedition to Clonmara had, on the surface at least, been a failure. Her own replaying of the moment she’d witnessed in the hotel lobby hadn’t happened – was no closer to happening than it had been when she had left Philadelphia. The scant information she’d left home with – the name of the village, the mention of a big house where a family lived, made rich by the textile industry that had flourished there – had barely been augmented at all by the information she had gleaned from a few old men she’d talked to in a Clonmara pub.

Instead, she had a whole load of new questions.

Her hands twisting in her lap with impatience, she glanced towards the window again, but she could still see only grey nothingness.

Along with all the other things waiting for her on the far side of the Irish Sea, she reminded herself, was the need to work, to support herself while she tried to uncover the truth about her past. It wouldn’t be all fun and games – she’d have responsibilities, too. She thought about the letter, printed off from her email, her mother copied in, folded carefully in her hand luggage along with her passport and boarding card. She had a job to go to – although not a place to live.

That was for her to arrange.

Beatrice felt herself smiling as she remembered the conversation with her mother a few days before.

‘They’re a lovely family,’ her mom had said, and Beatrice could picture the smile of approval, even though thousands of miles separated them. ‘Two children, four and two, a girl and a boy. Father’s in finance and she works in fashion. And you’ll be able to live in.’

Beatrice’s heart had sunk. This wasn’t quite the freedom and independence she’d imagined. Being a nanny was one thing – being nannied by her employer was something else entirely.

‘But I—’ she began.

‘Now, sweetheart.’ Again, Beatrice could picture her mom’s face, the serious expression that preceded a mild scolding. ‘You’ve not lived away from home before and⁠—’

‘I lived away for four years at college,’ Beatrice pointed out. ‘No one died.’

‘That was different. You were only in Boston and you were living with other girls.’

‘Exactly! Other girls, as opposed to a strange man. Anything could happen. I’ve been on the nannying forums online, Mom. I’ve read the stories.’

‘Beatrice!’ Now there was a hint of alarm in her mother’s voice, and Beatrice wondered if she’d played her trump card too soon. ‘Perhaps it won’t be suitable after all. Maybe you should⁠—’

‘Calm down, Mom. It’ll be fine. I just feel like it might be better if I don’t actually live with the family. I could find a room somewhere nearby – in a youth hostel or something. A YWCA.’

Her mother sighed. ‘Perhaps you’re right. You know your dad and I⁠—’

‘Worry about me. Of course you do,’ Beatrice soothed, sensing victory. ‘But I’m an adult. I can look after myself. You don’t need to worry.’

Her mother laughed. ‘Worrying about you is my job. One day you’ll understand.’

But right now, Beatrice couldn’t imagine ever worrying about anything. What lay ahead of her was an adventure – a literal journey of discovery. The next time she saw her parents, she’d be a completely different person.

Or the same person, but with a completely different identity.

She turned the page of her notebook. Unlike the previous page, which held only one word, this held four. She ran her fingers over them but the ink had long dried and her pen had left no impression on the paper.

Big house in Spittlefields.