Elizabeth George - Missing Joseph

“Can’t. These don’t work in the snow.”

These were the Wellingtons that she bounced upwards in his direction. They were enormous. They looked nearly twice the size of her feet. Over their tops at least three pairs of knee-socks were folded.

“Don’t you have some proper boots?”

She shook her head and pulled her knitted cap down to her eyebrows. “Mine’ve been too small since November, see, and if I tell Mum I need new ones, she’ll have a conniption. ‘When are you going to stop growing, Josephine Eugenia?’ You know. These’re Mr. Wragg’s. He doesn’t mind much.” She bounced her legs back against the frosty stones.

“Why do you call him Mr. Wragg?”

She was fumbling with a fresh packet of cigarettes, trying to rip off its cellophane wrapper with mittened fingers. Brendan crossed the road, took the packet from her, and did the honours, offering her a light. She smoked without answer, trying and failing to make a ring, blowing out steam as much as smoke.

“It’s pretend,” she finally said. “Stupid, I know. You don’t have to tell me. It makes Mum see red, but Mr. Wragg doesn’t care. If he’s not my real dad, I can pretend my mum had a big passion, see, and I’m the product of her fatal love. I pretend this bloke came to Winslough passing through on his way to wherever. He met Mum. They were crazy for each other but they couldn’t get married, of course, because Mum wouldn’t ever leave Lancashire. But he was the big love of her life and he set her on fire the way men are supposed to set women on fire. And I’m how she remembers him now.” Josie flicked ash in Brendan’s direction. “That’s why I call him Mr. Wragg. It’s dumb. I don’t know why I told you. I don’t know why I ever say anything to anyone. It’s always my fault, isn’t it, and everyone’s going to know it eventually. I natter too much.” Her lip trembled. She rubbed her fi nger beneath her nose and threw her cigarette down. It hissed gently in the snow.

“Nattering’s no crime, Josie.”

“Maggie Spence was my best mate, see. And now she’s gone. Mr. Wragg says she won’t probably be back. And she was in love with Nick. Did you know that? True love, it was. Now they won’t see each other again. I don’t think it’s fair.”

Brendan nodded. “Life’s that way, isn’t it?”

“And Pam’s been gated for forever because her mum caught her last night in the sitting room with Todd. Doing it. Right there. Her mum put on the lights and started screaming. It was just like a fi lm, Pam said. So there’s no one. No one special. It feels sort of hollow.

Here.” She pointed to her stomach. “Mum says it’s just because I need to eat but I’m not hungry, you know?”

He did. He knew all about hollow. He sometimes felt he was hollow incarnate.

“And I can’t think about the vicar,” she said. “Mostly, I can’t think about anything.” She squinted at the road. “At least we have the snow. It’s something to look at. For now.”

“It is.” He nodded, tapped her knee, and continued on his way, turning down the Clitheroe Road, concentrating on the walking, putting his energy into that effort rather than into thought.

The going was easier on the Clitheroe Road than it had been on the way into the village. More than one person had forged through the snow, making the walk out to the church, it seemed. He passed two of them — the Londoners — a short distance from the primary school. They walked slowly, heads together in conversation. They looked up only briefl y as he passed.

He felt a quick stab of sadness at the sight of them. Men and women together, talking and touching, promised to cause him unending grief in the coming years. The object was not to care any longer. He wasn’t quite sure if he’d be able to manage it without seeking relief.

Which is why he was out walking in the fi rst place, pushing steadily forward and telling himself that he was merely going to check on the Hall. The exercise was good, the sun was out, he needed the air. But the snow was deep beyond the church, so when he fi nally reached the lodge, he hung about for five minutes just catching his breath.

“Bit of a rest,” he assured himself, and he scrutinised the windows one after the other, looking for movement behind the curtains.

She hadn’t been to the pub for the last two nights. He’d sat and waited until the last possible moment, when Ben Wragg called time and Dora bustled through picking up glasses. He knew that once half past nine arrived, it wasn’t very likely that she’d pop in. But still he waited and dreamed his dreams.

He was dreaming them still when the front door opened and Polly walked out. She started when she saw him. He took an eager step her way. She had a basket over her arm and she was wrapped head to toe in wool and scarves.

“Heading to the village?” he asked. “I’ve just been to the Hall. Shall I walk with you, Polly?”

She came to join him and looked up the lane where the snow lay, pristine and betraying. “Fly there, did you?” she asked.

He fished in his jacket for his leather pouch. “I was going there, actually, not coming back. Out for a walk. Beautiful day.”

Some of the tobacco spilled onto the snow. She watched it fall and appeared to be studying it. He saw that she had bruised her face somehow. A crescent of purple on the cream of her skin was going yellow at the edges as it began to heal.

“You’ve not been at the pub. Busy?”

She nodded, still examining the speckled snow.

“I’ve missed you. Chatting with you and the like. But of course, you’ve got things to do. People to see. I understand that. A girl like you. Still, I wondered where you were. Silly, but there it is.”

She adjusted the basket on her arm.

“I heard it’s resolved. Cotes Hall. What happened to the vicar. Did you know? You’re in the clear. And that’s good news, isn’t it? All things considered.”

She made no reply. She wore black gloves with a hole at the wrist. He wished she’d remove them so he could look at her hands. Warm them, even. Warm her as well.

He said in a burst, “I think about you, Polly. All the time. Day and night. You’re what keeps me going. You know that, don’t you? I’m not good at hiding things. I can’t hide this. You see what I’m feeling. You do see it, don’t you? You’ve seen it from the fi rst.”

She’d wound a purple scarf round her head, and she pulled it closer to her face as if to hide it. She kept her head bent. She reminded him of someone in prayer.

He said, “We’re both lonely, aren’t we? We both need someone. I want you, Polly. I know it can’t be perfect, not with the way things are in my life, but it can be something. It can be special. I swear I can make it good for you. If you’ll let me.”

She raised her head and looked at him curiously. He felt his armpits sweating. He said, “I’m saying it wrong, aren’t I? That’s why it’s a muddle. I’m saying it backwards. I’m in love with you, Polly.”

“It’s not a muddle,” she said. “You’re not saying it backwards.”

His heart opened with joy. “Then—”

“You’re just not saying it all.”

“What more is there to say? I love you. I want you. I’ll make it good if you’ll only—”

“Ignore the fact that you have a wife.” She shook her head. “Go home with you, Brendan. Take care of Miss Becky. Lie in your own bed. Stop sniffing round mine.”

She nodded sharply — dismissal, good morning, whatever he wanted to take it for— and set off towards the village.

“Polly!”

She turned back. Her face was stony. She wouldn’t be touched. But he would reach her. He would fi nd her heart. He would beg for it, plead for it, he didn’t care what it took. “I love you,” he said. “Polly, I need you.”