Elizabeth George - Missing Joseph

Despite what had happened between them last night, she’d put another cup of that horrid tea on the table in front of Maggie this morning, saying, “Drink this, Margaret. Now. Before you leave.” She sounded hard — not like Mummy at all — but at least there was no more of her saying it was good for her bones no matter the taste, filled to the brim with the vitamins and minerals that a woman’s developing body had to have. That lie was gone. But Mummy’s determination was not.

Neither was Maggie’s, however. “I won’t. You can’t make me. You did it before. But you can’t make me drink it again.” Her words were high and shrill. Even to her own ears, she sounded like a mouse being swung by its tail. And when Mummy had held the cup to her lips, with her other hand locked on the back of Maggie’s neck, saying, “You will drink this, Margaret. You’ll sit here till you do,” Maggie had flung up her arms, dashing the cup and its liquid, hot and steaming, against Mummy’s chest.

Her wool jersey soaked it up like a desert in June and moulded itself into a scalding second skin. Mummy cried out and rushed to the sink. Maggie watched in horror.

She said, “Mummy, I didn’t—”

“Get out of here. Get out,” Mummy gasped. And when Maggie didn’t move, she dashed back to the table and yanked her chair away from it. “You heard me. Get out.”

It wasn’t Mummy’s voice. It wasn’t anybody’s voice that she’d ever known. It wasn’t Mummy at the sink with the ice-cold water flooding out of the tap, taking handfuls, throwing them against the wool jersey, with her teeth clamped over her lower lip. She was making noises like she couldn’t breathe. At last when she was through and the jersey was soaked with new water over old, she bent over and began to pull it off. Her body shuddered.

“Mummy,” Maggie had said in that same mouse voice.

“Get out. I don’t even know who you are,” the reply.

She’d stumbled into the grey morning, had sat by herself in a corner of the bus all the way to school. She had slowly come to terms with the extent of her loss over the course of the day. She recovered. She developed a brittle little shell to protect herself from the whole situation. If Mummy wanted her out, she would get out. She would. And it wouldn’t be hard to do at all.

Nick loved her. Hadn’t he said it over and over again? Didn’t he say it every day, when he had the chance? She didn’t need Mummy. How dim it was to think she ever had. And Mummy didn’t need her. When she was gone, Mummy could have her nice private life with Mr. Shepherd, which is probably what she wanted in the fi rst place. In fact, maybe that’s why she kept trying to make Maggie drink that tea. Maybe…

Maggie shivered. No. Mummy was good. She was. She was.

It was half past seven when Maggie left the river lair. It would be after eight by the time she made the walk home to the cottage. She’d go inside, majestic and silent. She’d go up to her room and close the door. She’d never once speak to Mummy again. What was the point?

Then the sight of Nick’s bicycle had changed her purpose, taking her across the street to the tearoom with its recessed doorway out of the wind. She would wait for him there.

She hadn’t thought the wait would be so long. Somehow, she’d believed that Nick would sense she was lingering outside and would leave his mates to fi nd her. She couldn’t go in to him in case Mummy phoned the pub on a search for her, but she didn’t mind waiting. He’d be out soon enough.

Nearly two hours later, he’d emerged. And when she sneaked up beside him and slipped her arm round his waist, he jumped with the shock of it and gave a cat’s yowl. He whirled around. The movement and the wind caught his hair and flung it into his eyes. He fl ipped it back, saw her.

“Mag!” He grinned. The guitar on the radio climbed a few high, wild notes.

“I was waiting for you. Over there.”

He turned his head. The wind dashed his hair about his head once again. “Where?”

“The tearoom.”

“Outside? Mag, are you daft? In this weather? I bet you’ve gone all ice. Why di’n’t you come in?” He glanced at the lighted windows of the inn, nodded once, and said, “Because of the police. That’s it, isn’t it?”

She frowned. “Police?”

“New Scotland Yard. Got here round fi ve, from what Ben Wragg was saying. Di’n’t you know? I thought for certain you would.”

“Why?”

“Your mum.”

“Mummy? What…?”

“They’re here to sniff round Mr. Sage’s death. Look, we need to talk.” His eyes darted down the road to North Yorkshire in the direction of the common where the car park across the street was supplied with an old stone shed of public toilets. There was shelter there from the wind, if not the cold, but Maggie had a better idea.

“Come with me,” she said and with a pause for him to grab the radio — whose volume he lowered as if in understanding of the clandestine nature of their movements — she led him through the gates of the Crofters Inn car park. They wove between the cars. Nick low-whistled his admiration of the same silver Bentley that had been parked there several hours before when Josie and Maggie had walked to the river.

“Where are we—”

“Special place,” Maggie said. “It’s Josie’s. She won’t mind. Have you a match? We’ll need one for the lantern.”

They descended the path carefully. It was slick with the night’s developing coat of ice, with rushes and weeds made constantly damp by the river that tumbled through the limestone boulders below. Nick said, “Let me,” and went on ahead, his hand extended back to her, to keep her steady and on her feet. Each time he slid an inch or two, he said, “Steady on, Mag,” and firmed up his grip. He was taking care of her, and the thought of that made her warm inside to out.

“Here,” she said as they reached the old icehouse. She pushed against the door. It creaked on its hinges and scraped against the fl oor, rucking up part of the patchwork carpet. “This is Josie’s secret place,” Maggie said. “You won’t tell anyone about it, Nick?”

He ducked inside the door as Maggie fumbled for the nail barrel and the lantern on top of it. She said, “I’ll need the matches,” and felt him press a book of them into her hand. She lit the lantern, lowered its glow to a candle’s softness, and turned back to him.

He was gazing about. “Wizard,” he said with a smile.

She moved past him to shut the door and, as she had seen Josie do earlier, she sprayed the floor and the walls with toilet water.

“It’s colder in here than outside,” Nick said. He zipped his bomber’s jacket and beat his hands against his arms.

“Here,” she said. She sat on the cot and patted the spot next to her. When he dropped down beside her, she took up the eiderdown that served as a coverlet, and they wore it like a cape.

He loosed himself from it long enough to produce the Marlboros he favoured. Maggie returned him his matches and he lit two cigarettes at once, one for each of them. He inhaled deeply and held his breath. Maggie pretended to do the same.

More than anything, she liked the nearness of him. The sound of his leather jacket rustling, the pressure of his leg against hers, the heat of his body, and — when she gave a quick look — the length of his eyelashes and the heavily lidded, sleepy shape of his eyes. “Bedroom eyes,” she’d heard one of the teachers call them. “Bet that bloke’ll be giving the ladies something nice to remember in a few more years.” Another had added, “I wouldn’t mind something nice from him now, actually,” and they all had laughed, stopping abruptly when they realised Maggie was close enough to hear. Not that they knew anything about Maggie and Nick. No one knew about them except Josie and Mummy. And Mr. Sage.