Forget Her Name(39)

Sharon sees my expression. ‘I offered to help her get a referral. You heard me. She didn’t want my help. This may be a charity, but we have rules about referrals. We have to do things by the book.’

I grab my bag and run after the woman.

‘Catherine, don’t!’

But I ignore Sharon’s warning.



Dusk is falling outside. The street lights have come on. I walk down the road and soon spot the woman, who has not gone far. She has stopped at the corner by La Giravolta, head down, while her daughter continues to cry.

‘Hello?’

She looks up at my voice. She is shaken and upset. ‘What do you want?’

‘I don’t want to offend you, but I thought maybe . . .’ I’m not sure how she will react as I start to rummage in my handbag for my purse. I take out a twenty and hand it to her. ‘Just to tide you over. If you want it.’

She stares at the note in disbelief, then takes it. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘I’ll let you have it back.’

‘No, it’s fine.’

‘Honestly,’ she says, pushing the note deep into the front pocket of her jeans. ‘Cross my heart. Soon as I get my social through.’

I smile and say nothing, but we both know that’s unlikely to happen. Not in her circumstances.

‘What’s your name?’ she asks abruptly.

‘Catherine.’

Her smile surprises me. ‘That’s a nice name.’

She does not tell me her name in return and I don’t ask.

The child is leaning forward in the dusk, peering round the side of the buggy at me, curious and damp-eyed. She’s still clutching the soft toy to her chest.

I grin at her, and the little girl shrinks away, instinctively wary.

‘Right, better get this one home for her tea. It’s nearly dark.’ The woman is no longer looking at me or the kid. She’s staring ahead at the oncoming car lights with a distracted expression, her mind already elsewhere. ‘See you later, yeah?’

And with that, she’s gone.

As I watch her push the buggy down the road, a car drives past in the opposite direction with excruciating slowness, perhaps waiting for the lights ahead to change.

The car is a silver Jaguar.

The driver’s window is partly open, an old familiar Christmas carol blasting out into the evening. ‘Good King Wenceslas’. One of my mum’s favourites, it always reminds me of home and the sweetly nostalgic Christmases of childhood. I listen with a smile, singing along to the refrain under my breath.

The driver looks at me.

I glance at him casually, still smiling, and our gazes lock. Just for a fraction longer than is entirely comfortable. Long enough for me to pause, wondering if I know him. He certainly looks as though he knows me.

My dad used to drive a Jag when I was a kid. This one isn’t quite the same as his; Dad’s was an older model with one of those silver leaping jaguars on the bonnet.

The driver is in his sixties, I’d guess. Grey hat, iron grey moustache, his coat collar turned up. He’s unsmiling, head turned, staring straight at me. Not ahead at the road.

My smile fades.

The lights ahead change to green.

For a few seconds he doesn’t react, still looking at me, then one of the drivers behind sounds a horn, and he drives on, suddenly accelerating.

A moment later, the Jaguar is lost in traffic ahead, rear lights red in the darkness, soon indistinguishable from all the rest.





Chapter Twenty-Three

Mum and Dad have been arguing again. I can tell as soon as I walk into the kitchen.

Mum’s face is bright with fury, her cheeks flushed, eyes wide and damp. Dad is standing by the kitchen window, staring out at the dark garden. From the way his silvery hair is ruffled, I guess he’s been running a hand through it in agitation.

When he turns towards me, I recognise the sullen, shuttered look on his face. It’s clear she’s been nagging him about something, as only Mum can, in that shrill, persistent way she has. But what about?

‘Catherine, darling, there you are at last.’ Mum gives me what is meant to be a brave, appealing smile. ‘You’re so late this evening. I was just saying to your father that he should go out in the car to pick you up from . . . that place where you work.’

‘The food bank. I’m a volunteer.’

‘That’s right.’ She sounds apologetic, but I know she isn’t. ‘I hate it when you don’t get back on time. I worry.’

There’s a heaped plate of scones on the kitchen table. Fresh-baked, by the gorgeous smell of them.

‘It’s nearly Christmas, Mum. I had to stay late at work, then I did a spot of present-shopping on the way home.’ I drop my bag on the table and help myself to a scone. It’s cheese, I realise. ‘These smell amazing. Kasia’s?’

‘Well, I certainly didn’t bake them myself,’ Mum says sharply.

Kasia wanders in from the cold pantry at that moment, carrying a whole cooked ham. It looks delicious, breaded on one side and dotted with black cloves.

‘Hello.’ I look at her, surprised. ‘I didn’t know you were still here.’

Kasia shrugs, saying nothing. But her English is not brilliant, so she rarely says much to anyone.