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It probably doesn’t help my appeal that I don’t need kids to complete me. The extreme, self-sabotaging ways I acted out as a teenager led to that decision. At fourteen, Caz took me to my appointment at the clinic for my first abortion, then spent the nightwith me at the flat, holding my hand and emptying the bucket each time I vomited. A few months later and the second time I told her I was pregnant, she rolled her eyes and gave me money to pay for a termination, then left me to my own devices. The third time, a month before my sixteenth birthday, she tried to encourage me to have it, as she had friends who would take the baby abroad and ensure I was ‘well compensated for it’. ‘Who are these people?’ I asked. ‘Couples who can’t have kids?’ She shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’
It was the last time I fell pregnant. And that was out of choice, not circumstance or because I was scared I might make the same mistakes as Caz. It was just something that didn’t appeal. I’ve since been told by exes that my decision to remain childless makes me ‘selfish’, ‘self-absorbed’ and even ‘ungrateful’, but I don’t believe it makes me any of those things. If anything, it makes me selfless because I’m not bringing a child into this world who isn’t one hundred per cent wanted. Over the years I’ve re-examined my decision, especially since I’m now approaching an age when I won’t be able to change my mind. But I’m still of the same opinion.
Anyway, enough of this self-reflection. I’m here for a reason, so I pick up another letter. There’s a reference in this one to a distant cousin of Gwen’s, a woman called Meredith. Ahh, the elusive Meredith! She cropped up in a few conversations with Gwen over the months but I never got to the bottom of who she was in Gwen’s world. Here, Bill asks Gwen if she misses her or regrets what happened. I don’t have her replies so I’ll never know what their problem was or if they patched things up.
When I’ve finished skimming through the rest, I can’t bring myself to throw them away. Despite how often I lied to Gwen, I do feel a sense of loyalty to her, so I put the letters back into the bin bag to take home, along with the porcelain cat and baby stuff. I don’t want anyone else intruding on her private moments.
I could do with a cigarette, so I skulk out into the garden and make my way to the fire pit in the garden. None of the neighbours can see me from here. Charred remains of paper lie in its base and I assume they’re more of Gwen’s bills and receipts. I shuffle them around with a bamboo cane, and underneath I spot what’s left of a black-and-white photograph. I reach inside and pick it up. Pictured are two young women and the top half of a man. One girl I recognise as a much younger Gwen, and I find myself envying her natural allure. Even in this photo, you can tell she is aware of the power she has over others. It’s a confidence I’ll never know. The other girl has a resemblance to her and I wonder if they’re related. They’re standing next to one another by a rowing boat and there’s a large lake behind them surrounded by hills. Both girls’ expressions are positively stony. I dust off the charred edge. On the back and in faded writing, it reads,Cousin George and daughter Meredith, August 1965, Lake District.So Meredithwasfamily. The plot thickens. I slip it into my pocket, although I’m not sure why.
Then I realise that, by moving the photo, I’ve exposed a second scrap that also hasn’t burned completely. Closer inspection reveals it relates to a speeding fine and is dated five months ago. There’s a pin-sharp image of Paul caught on camera behind the wheel of his van driving at 39 mph in a 30-mph zone. And what’s this? The name attached to it is not Paul Michael, but Paul Michael Fernsby. So Michael isn’t his surname but his middle name. It’s then that I notice the fine wasn’t sent to this address, but to a different one, somewhere in Oxfordshire. I quickly google it. But unlike that last address I searched for online, this one actually exists. I clutch the letter to my chest and feel my heart beating hard and fast against it. This is huge.
‘You don’t know it yet,’ I whisper, ‘but I’m coming for you, Paul.’
CHAPTER 39
HARRISON DOUGLAS, NEIGHBOUR
She passes the window, the second time I’ve seen her around here in a few minutes. Earlier, I was upstairs waking up the baby from his mid-morning nap when I clocked her standing on her tiptoes in the alleyway behind our house, trying to peer over the wall into next door’s garden. Paul hasn’t made it easy by attaching a wooden fence to the brick wall to keep it private.
Now she’s out front, pacing up and down our row of terraced houses. If she was up to no good, she probably wouldn’t be wearing trousers, a blouse and a jacket. Not exactly breaking-and-entering clobber, is it? I eye her up and down. She’s not my usual type, a bit older and bit plainer than I like and not enough curves. But since we had the baby, Chantelle’s got about as much interest in shagging as I have in breast pumps. So beggars can’t be choosers and all that.
I shouldn’t even be here today. I should be shit-faced on Carl’s stag weekend with the rest of the footy team in Fuerteventura. But when half of Chantelle’s colleagues went down with another new Covid variant, they called her back to work and that was my trip shafted. Now I’m on daddy duty. I pick up Ruben from his cotand put him over my shoulder along with a tea towel, as he’s prone to sick burps and projectile vomiting when you least expect it. I learned that the hard way with two stained Superdry sweatshirts.
‘Everything alright, luv?’ I ask as I step out into the street.
She’s lost in her own world and almost shits a brick in shock. I try not to laugh.
‘Yes, it’s fine,’ she says.
‘It’s just that I saw you in the alley and now you’re out here.’
‘Oh right, well, I spotted the house on Rightmove so I thought I’d check it out before I made an appointment to view it. I don’t know this side of town very well.’
‘Paul is selling up?’ I reply. We’re not best mates or anything like that, we’ll just talk about the footy or rugby if we see one another. But I told him I’d keep an eye on the house while he was working away. I thought he might’ve mentioned getting shot of the place though. ‘I suppose it makes sense,’ I add. ‘He isn’t around much.’
‘Why, where is he?’
‘He works on the rigs in the North Sea, so he’s gone most of the year.’
‘Are you friends?’
‘I got to know him a little when he came to look after Sue.’
‘Sue?’
‘His mum. She used to live here.’
‘And she doesn’t anymore?’
‘No, she died a couple of months after Paul moved in with her.’
‘Oh, how sad. What happened?’
‘She had Alzheimer’s or something like that and was living on her own when he came back. To be honest, we didn’t even know he existed until he came round to say hello. He didn’t say as much, but reading between the lines, I reckon they must’ve had a barney back in the day. But he returned at the right time because, soonafter, he had to call an ambulance a couple of times when she went proper nuts. The paramedics kept knocking her out and wheeling her off for a few days at a time.’
She shakes her head. ‘That’s awful. My mum had a few incidents like that with her dementia. It’s horrible to watch.’
‘He was out when she fell down the stairs ... nasty business, broke her neck.’ I mime pushing my head to one side like I’m hanging from a noose. ‘We only found out about it later that night when he came round to tell us ...’ I stop myself when I see that her face has paled. ‘Ahh, probably shouldn’t be telling you all this, should I? Don’t want to put you off. We could do with some fresh blood round here.’ I give her a wink and her cheeks redden.
