Cath Staincliffe - Half the World Away

When Daphne was ‘away’, Tom was cared for by a nanny until, at the age of seven, he was parcelled off to boarding school. He detested it. When the time came to transfer from prep school to the linked public school, he refused. Clamoured to try for the local grammar instead. Francis wouldn’t hear of it. Tom ran away repeatedly until the school recommended he leave. He moved to the grammar school and scraped into university, choosing philosophy because he quite liked the sound of it but, more importantly, because he knew it would annoy his father. Their encounters were always conducted with an icy politeness that would, on occasion, erupt into vicious mud-slinging. When Tom left for Manchester, Francis told him not to bother coming home until he’d graduated and could stand on his own two feet.

The doorbell rings and I let Tom in. He’s on his phone, ‘Maidstone Avenue house is an inventory check and boiler inspection, and we’ve a viewing at four for Leybourne Close.’ He listens intently, says, ‘Five-fifty a month, all inclusive.’ Listens again. ‘Yeah, well, it’s a bit of a shit-hole but demand’s high. OK, Moira, catch you later.’ He closes his phone. ‘So?’

‘We’ve filled in the press release,’ I say. ‘Missing Overseas said to notify people. I’ve covered Erin and Jake and Amy. Nick’s doing his family…’ Tom can fill in the rest.

I point to the kitchen, where Nick has rigged up the family computer. It’s the only room with a large table.

‘Social media?’ Tom says, as he unzips his laptop.

‘I asked them to tell their friends on Facebook and so on,’ I say.

‘Edward says Missing Overseas will use Facebook and Twitter,’ Nick says. ‘I’m on LinkedIn.’

‘That still going?’ Tom says. Before either of us can react to the dig, and its juvenile nature, he says, ‘You?’

‘Why should I be on LinkedIn?’ I say. ‘I’m a bloody school secretary.’

‘OK, the press,’ Tom says. ‘I know someone on the Metro. They should do a feature.’

‘The Big Issue,’ Nick says. ‘Edward says he’s hopeful they’ll do something, talk about Lori as part of a broader piece.’

‘What about local news, TV and radio?’ Tom says.

The message alert sounds on the computer and Nick reaches over to open it. ‘It’s up,’ he says, and we crowd around the monitor. He clicks the link in the email, which takes us to the Missing Overseas website and Lori’s picture appears, with the agreed text:

Lorelei Maddox

Age: 23

Missing since 2 April 2014.

Lorelei has been missing in China since 2 April 2014.

She was last seen in Chengdu where she was working as a private English teacher. Lorelei is 5’3” tall and of slim build with dark hair and blue eyes.

Do you have any information?

‘Daddy and I need to talk to you about something.’

We are at the table and the boys have just eaten. I suggested to Nick we have something later, left-over stew in the freezer that needs using up.

‘The holidays?’ Finn beams.

‘No, Finn, not the holidays.’

‘A party?’

Nick touches his arm, mouths, ‘Shush.’

Isaac is still, wary.

‘You know Lori’s gone to China-’ Nick says.

‘Are we going?’ Finn jumps in.

Nick shakes his head. ‘Just listen. Well, Lori hasn’t Skyped us for a while and her phone’s not working and she’s not at her house in China, so some people are trying to find her.’

‘Is she lost?’ Finn says.

‘She might be,’ I say.

‘She should ask a policeman,’ Isaac says.

‘That’s a good idea,’ I say. ‘Perhaps she will.’

‘So,’ Nick says, ‘we’re going to be telling everybody she’s missing and asking them to help look for her.’

‘There might not be a policeman,’ Finn says.

‘A grown-up then. Ask a grown-up,’ Isaac says.

‘Lori is a grown-up,’ Finn says.

‘Anyway, we hope we find her soon but we wanted you to know what was happening.’ Nick gets to his feet. He pours himself a whisky.

‘We’ve made this,’ I say, ‘to show people.’ I have a copy of the press release. The ink’s running out on the printer so the picture is faded, the text striped with white lines.

‘Missing,’ Isaac says.

I read the rest of it out for them.

‘Hmm – like Poncho,’ Finn says.

Oh, God. Poncho was Lori’s hamster when she was about eight. Finn wasn’t even born. But it’s a family myth, how Poncho disappeared behind the radiator in the kitchen and was never seen again. How Lori sat up all night keeping vigil, with a saucer full of Poncho treats to tempt him back. How she fell asleep sitting up.

Eager to distract them from the fact that there was no happy reunion with Poncho, I say, ‘But Poncho couldn’t ask anyone the way home. He couldn’t talk, only make noises. What noises do hamsters make?’

Isaac says hamsters don’t make any noises – Sebastian has one and it never says anything. Finn says they squeak. They bicker about that for a while and I clear the table.

I stick the ‘Missing’ sheet up on the cork board. It’s as if I’m waiting for it to hit me, as though we’ve unlocked the floodgates and the water is rushing towards us but we can’t hear the roar, can’t see the torrent racing our way. There is just the caught breath of a pause, a frozen heartbeat, the unnatural stillness, pinning me in place.

‘Mummy, phone!’ Finn stands at the kitchen door, waving the handset. I’m fetching the washing in. I dump the clothes in the basket and take it from him. ‘Hello?’

‘Mrs Maddox?’

‘Yes?’

‘My name’s Dawn Jeffreys. I’m Lori’s friend, in Chengdu.’

‘Dawn, yes.’ My pulse speeds up – there’s drumming up my spine. I move to sit on the bench, willing her to say, Don’t worry, she’s here, I just spoke to her, everything’s OK.

‘I heard about Lori, that she’s missing. I’m so sorry.’ The line is clear but her Australian twang is unfamiliar so I have to concentrate hard to follow.

‘You haven’t seen her? Or heard anything? You don’t know where she is?’

The sparrows are fighting over the bird-feeder, jostling for purchase.

‘No, I’m sorry.’ There’s a slight delay between one of us speaking and the other person hearing it.

‘When did you see her last?’ I say.

‘Thursday, the third of April.’

After the blog. Suddenly that seems good. We thought that the Wednesday was her last contact. But Dawn saw her on Thursday. I feel giddy. So it’s not twenty-one days now, it’s twenty.

‘Didn’t you think it was odd,’ I say, ‘that there was no word from her?’

There’s a pause and I hear a muffled sound, gulping. Dawn is crying. ‘We broke up,’ she says, her voice choked, ‘that Thursday. I thought she needed some space… I…’

Oh, God. The racket from the sparrows drowns her out, forcing me inside through the kitchen to the stairway, far enough from the kids’ television to hear her.

‘Everybody here is doing what they can,’ she says. ‘The police have been talking to us.’

‘Was she OK about the break-up?’ Could this be the reason for Lori’s silence? A broken heart triggering a crisis? I’m shaken, then feel a flicker of anger that Dawn rejected her.

‘It was her decision,’ Dawn says.

Lori ended the relationship. Why? I struggle to reorient myself. ‘Right,’ I say.

‘And she was around on the Friday – there was a party,’ Dawn says.

The Friday. Nineteen days. ‘Do you think she might have gone away somewhere?’

‘I don’t know,’ Dawn says. ‘No one here has heard anything from her.’ She gulps again.