Where the Missing Go(2)
But I do have plans tonight, so that’s something. And now I’ve showered and made strong coffee, to clear my head, because I’ve set myself a task for today.
The first photo album has a layer of dust on it that makes me sneeze as I pull it down from its place on the living-room shelves. I was always good about keeping these updated and making sure that we turned our digital snaps into glossy hard copies that I could paste into their pages. But I don’t dwell in the past, contrary to what some people think. I rarely look at them.
Today I need to, because I’ve decided that the picture I have been sharing online and in the letters and emails I write – Sophie’s last school photo – could be misleading. As of this summer, she wouldn’t have been at school, she’d have just finished sixth form. So I worry that it could give the wrong impression – that it could even be a bit unhelpful, to use one that’s clearly of a schoolgirl: Sophie’s white shirt bright against her navy jumper, her shining blonde hair pulled back into a neater than usual ponytail. She got her hair from me, though mine has long needed some help from the hairdresser to maintain its fairness. The smile’s all hers though – sunny, with a twist of mischief, lighting up that sweet round face.
Today I want to find a good, clear one of her out of uniform. I wipe my grey fingertips on my shorts and carry the album over to the coffee table, opening it carefully – and I feel my stomach sink. I thought I’d put the albums in order on the shelf ages ago, but this isn’t the one I wanted to look at. This album is one of the very first ones, the photos already looking dated in that peculiar way. How does that happen? It can’t just be our clothes – they’re T-shirts and flip-flops, evergreen summer wear.
Yet this first shot belongs to a different age. It’s Mark, Sophie and me, sitting on some anonymous park bench, each one of us with an ice-cream cone in our hand. Mark’s thinner than he is now, and I look rounder, rosier, but that’s not what makes our photographic selves seem like strangers to me. Maybe it’s something in our expressions: we’re both so carefree, ready for a future that would, surely, bring only more good things. And of course there’s Sophie, a chunky two-year-old with a tuft of fair hair, her legs sticking straight out in her dungarees, too short to reach the edge of the seat.
I turn the page.
Oh, I remember this, too. I took this one. Sophie had fallen asleep on the sofa, one little fist still clutching Teddy, the far-too-expensive stuffed bear Mark had insisted on buying her one Christmas. They’re collector’s items, not for kids to actually play with, I’d laughed. But she’d loved her new toy, dragging him around the house by one leg and insisting on him sharing her pillow at night. I’d had to sneak him away once she fell asleep to wash him in unscented powder, so that he wouldn’t smell different. Even when she was older, Teddy would somehow end up tucked under her pillow every night.
I don’t know where Teddy ended up. It didn’t matter so much, keeping tabs on that kind of thing, when we still had her …
The phone shrills from the kitchen and I start a little, the sound too loud in the quiet house. I pad in, wiping at my eyes with my sleeve – I’ve no hanky, as usual – ‘Hello?’
‘Hello, love?’ It’s Dad, his voice scratchier than it used to be.
‘Dad, how are you?’ I’m pleased I sound so steady.
‘I’m fine, I’m fine. Now, we were just wondering, your sister and I, if you’d like to drive over here this afternoon. We thought we could go for a meal at this new Italian that’s opened. They’ve got’ – he pauses thoughtfully – ‘sushi.’
‘Italian sushi? Are you sure?’
‘Oh, something like that. Tapas maybe, I can’t remember all these things. But it should be very nice. Would you like to come? Charlotte says you can stay over in her spare room.’
‘Oh. Thanks, but I can’t.’
‘Or you could stay at mine, if you think it would be a bit noisy with her boys running around, I could make up the sofa.’ Dad’s downsized to a little terrace, a cottage really, even nearer my younger sister Charlotte and her family. He’s been hinting that I should do the same – he keeps telling me that it’s ‘so easy to look after, a small place’. I think they both want me closer to them, where I grew up.
‘Thanks, Dad. But I really can’t. I’m going out.’
‘Oh!’ He sounds pleased. ‘And where are you off to on a Saturday night?’ he asks jovially.
‘The helpline,’ I say crisply. ‘You know it’s my night.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. I just thought by now you might … do you think they’d mind if you didn’t go tonight?’
‘I wish I could … but I can’t let them down. It wouldn’t be right.’ I bite my lip. Actually, I’m sure they’d be fine. I’ve done more than my share of shifts, and I’m always ready to pick up others when a message goes round asking to swap. I’ve got more than a few favours I could call in. ‘Next time maybe.’
‘Next time, yes.’
Suddenly I can see him, neat in the checked shirt he always wears for gardening, alone in his tidy little kitchen, stooping slightly these days. It scares me to think about how much he’s aged in these last few years. They’re sweet to keep trying, I know that. ‘Actually, I’ve been meaning to come over some time,’ I say. ‘I had an idea, the other day. You know that night when you were outside the cottage?’