Elisabeth Carpenter - 99 Red Balloons

‘How do you feel about Grace’s abductor?’

‘I don’t feel anything about him.’

She purses her lips. She can’t force me to say things, to think about things I don’t want to. We sit looking at each other. I don’t want to speak to her any more. This is all a waste of time. I wish someone would wipe the memories of the past few weeks – can she do that? No, of course she can’t. This is what I’ve been left with, to pick up the lie-of-a-life of the person I thought I was.

Emma gave me the contact details of Maggie Taylor and David Pearson: my grandmother and father; people I’m biologically related to, but wouldn’t recognise if I passed them on the street. They’re staying in a B&B in the city – or rather they were. They’ve probably gone home by now. I don’t know what to say to them yet. It’s too big, too important – I can’t just pick up the telephone or turn up at their door.

‘Have you looked at your birth certificate yet?’ she asks me.

I shake my head.

I look at the clock: only five minutes left. If I just sit here in silence, then it will nearly be over. I close my eyes in the hope she won’t talk to me any more.

I scrolled through thousands of archived newspapers, looking everywhere to find out what Catherine’s birth daughter – the first Stephanie – died from. In the end, I found a copy of her death certificate from the General Register Office. Even though she died in Germany, it was on an RAF base. Accidental death due to road collision . She was only four and a half years old. Poor little girl – she’s the one who’s been forgotten.

Did Catherine and Michael ever talk about her? I wonder if they talked about my birth parents – or if they simply buried it so they didn’t have to think about it. If I search Mum’s – Catherine’s – house, I’m sure I would find a photograph of that poor child hidden away somewhere. I don’t think I lived up to the memory of that little girl; I was always a disappointment to Catherine. I still can’t imagine what she was thinking – to replace one child with another. And Michael. Why did he go along with it all? He seemed so decent, so loving, so honest.

I will never know why. And that’s why it’s so frustrating. At some point in the future I’m going to have to ask Catherine. And hope that she tells me the truth.

‘How is Jamie?’

‘What?’

‘You were daydreaming again.’

She can’t help herself. She needs to fill the silence. Perhaps she should get some counselling for that. I open my eyes.

‘He’s fine. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t be fine, is there?’

No matter what his father says. Neil thinks I’m going crazy, and it’s his excuse to have his son all the time. But Joanna doesn’t actually want to have Jamie all the time, the self-involved person that she is.

But I can’t tell Maria that. She’s not interested in petty things; she wants to know about the big stuff. Like how I’ve been left feeling so empty that I don’t know how I’ll ever feel normal again; that everyone has read about me in the newspaper and they pity me when they look at me. I want to escape and start again, but someone already did that for me, didn’t they? Catherine decided she wanted another child and that child was me. I’d understand if she’d treated me with love and compassion, but she didn’t. I’m named after her dead child, and I don’t know what to do about that. I am Stephanie; I’ve made that name my own.

The tears fall down my face, thinking about what I have, what could have been, but I don’t really know the answer to that because my real mum is dead. I’ll never know.

I have Jamie and he is my everything. But I don’t think I’ll get over the sadness that I feel.

‘I Watch the Sunrise’ is the first hymn. The chords of the church organ echo through every inch of the place. I haven’t heard the song for a while; I let the harmony wash over me. The ladies in the choir loft at the back are singing beautifully. I whisper the words, trying hard not to take in the meaning of them. I can’t fall apart.

I thought the next funeral I’d go to would be my own. When I visited Ron at the funeral home, I expected him to look fast asleep. Everyone said it would be like watching him sleeping, but it wasn’t. He looked as though the life had been sucked right out of him: an empty shell. His skin was cold, so cold, like a statue. It only had a hint of him – or someone that could be related to him, but the essence of who he was had vanished.

I vowed never to visit another after that.

Until Sarah.

When I found her on her bed, I thought she was sleeping. I might have even smiled at her; she looked so peaceful – without the furrowed brow she always had when awake. That changed in an instant when I saw the vodka and the pills next to her.

I visited her every day at the funeral home, so she wasn’t alone. I didn’t have time to visit Jim before today, but in a way, I’m glad of it.

‘I’ll be seeing you, Maggie,’ were the last words he said to me. He was walking towards my front gate and he didn’t turn around as he said goodbye. I suppose the living always look for a sign after a person’s died – a hint of a final farewell that would be ignored had you seen them the following day.

‘Jim was a popular man,’ says the priest now the song’s finished. ‘He would do anything for anybody.’

I wonder if someone told the vicar to say that or if he already knew? He was right about what he said though. People throw that phrase around a lot, but Jim put others first all the time.

It’s hard to picture him in that wooden box at the front. It’s a thought I banish from my head, otherwise the tears wouldn’t stop. There’s a large photo of him next to the coffin. He’s holding up a cup of tea, as if saying cheers to us all. Next to it is the picture of him and Sylvia at their wedding. Perhaps they’re together now.

‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ begins to play, and the rain starts hammering against the stained-glass windows. I almost want to laugh; it’s like he’s playing a joke on us. I’ve known him for over fifty years, but for sixteen of those, he was my best friend. I reach into my pocket and bury my face into the tissue as I cry. I don’t care who sees me.

The church hall has a row of tables at the back, laid with sandwiches, cakes and sausage rolls. Jim had written down all the details of what he wanted: the food, the music, his coffin, and the words to be carved on the headstone underneath Sylvia’s. Typical Jim: he didn’t want to be a burden to anyone. I hope he knew how many people loved him, the light he brought into their lives. I keep thinking about it, but I wouldn’t have coped over these years had it not been for him. Only months had passed between Ron and Sarah dying, and Jim had been at my door on the day of her funeral.

All the familiar faces are here to see him off: Mrs Sharples from the newsagent’s; Sandra and her poor husband, Peter; and Sheila, the harlot from the library (though at least she had the sense to wear black, and a skirt to the knee). The older you get, the fewer the people who come to your funeral. There were hundreds at Sarah’s – her friends from school, from work – near enough the whole village. Everyone talked about the sadness of it all. You don’t hear uncontrollable weeping or the words gone too soon when you attend an old person’s funeral.

Anna’s brought her three boys – Jim’s grandsons – all lovely in their matching suits. The youngest was holding his mother’s mobile phone in the church; I expect it kept him quiet. I’m sure Jim wouldn’t have minded, though there were a couple of busybodies who tutted at them – they call themselves Christians too. I had worried that the boys might have been a bit young for a funeral when Anna told me they were coming, but they’ve been a credit to her.