Elisabeth Carpenter - 99 Red Balloons

‘Ah, Maggie.’ Anna walks towards me with such confidence; it helps that she’s tall. Unlike me, the only short one in the family. I could never be called graceful. ‘Come and meet my boys.’

She takes hold of my hand and guides me towards her sons, sitting in a row on plastic chairs, eating cake from paper plates.

‘Hello there, young men,’ I say. ‘Don’t you look smart?’

The eldest nods, and says, ‘Yes.’

I’d crouch in front of them if my knees and I were thirty years younger.

‘How are you bearing up?’ I ask them. ‘Upsetting, funerals, aren’t they?’

The middle one shrugs. ‘Mum says Grandad had a good innings. I remember him from when I was three.’

‘Eliot!’ scolds Anna. ‘Sorry, Maggie.’

‘It’s all right, love,’ I say, smiling at her. ‘I’d forgotten how honest little ones are – and not afraid to speak the truth, like us old folk.’

The eldest looks at Eliot. ‘You don’t remember Grandad. I’m the only one who remembers him ’cos I was five when we last saw him. He gave me a pound for sweets.’

‘No, he didn’t.’

‘Yeah, he did.’

The little one holds up his plate. ‘Can I have another cake, Mummy?’

Anna takes his plate.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ I say.

I’d forgotten how exhausting little ones are, too. No wonder Anna looks so harassed all the time.

Sheila from the library’s sitting in the corner, dabbing her eyes. I’m sure she’d have worn a widow’s lace if she could. I’d say hello to her, but she probably wouldn’t know who I was. Only had eyes for Jim, that one. And any other male that came into the library, no doubt.

I push open the church hall doors.

There are a few people I’ve never seen before, smoking outside, chatting. There’s always relief when a funeral has finished. The worst bit’s over with. For now.

The rain has stopped, but the clouds are still heavy in the sky. It’s only a short walk to the gates of the cemetery. Jim will be buried here, along with Sarah and Ron. Now, when I visit them, I can bring something for Jim too. I know more people dead than alive.

Ron’s ashses are buried near the yew tree in the middle, which is probably older than the lot of us put together. Someone’s tied a wind chime to one of the branches; the sound of it tinles in the air.

The honeysuckle I placed in his vase the other week has withered and died. I grab it and cast it aside.

‘I’ll bring you some nice flowers next week,’ I say aloud.

I pat the top of his headstone, and walk the familiar path to Sarah’s.

Most of the air in the red balloon tied next to her grave has gone from it. I pull it apart to release the last few breaths, roll it into a ball and put it into my pocket.

‘We’ve found her, love,’ I say. ‘David found her. I don’t think I can believe it.’ A gust of wind catches the chime, and I smile. ‘That sounds like the ice cream van you used to follow.’ A car horn sounds in the distance. Everyday life going on as normal.

I look up to the clouds – they’ve all but covered the sun. Zoe… Stephanie is out there, under the same sky – living and breathing. It breaks my heart that I haven’t seen her yet.

‘I’ll bring Zoe to you, Sarah. One day. I promise.’

Emma has a retro radio station on in the car, but I switch it off.

‘How was it today?’

I lean back in the seat.

‘Same as last week. What am I supposed to say to that woman? As if talking about it will change anything.’

She looks in her mirror and indicates to set off.

‘But talking about it might change how you feel about it. I hope it works for Grace when she comes out of hospital – they’ve arranged talking therapy for her as well.’ She glances at me with a small smile before pulling into the road. ‘You can always talk to me, you know, if you don’t want to go back there.’

I turn my head to look out of the passenger window.

‘You don’t want to hear all of my shit – you’ve been through enough.’

‘We all have. But Grace is making a good recovery.’

‘Physically maybe.’ I turn to Emma. ‘Shit, sorry, Em. You’re right. Grace will be fine.’

‘It’s what I have to believe, Steph. I have to be grateful that she doesn’t remember being in that boot or being slapped around by that maniac.’

‘If it’s any comfort, I don’t remember when it happened to me. I know it’s not the same. They say he didn’t hit me or anything…’

She reaches over her hand and takes mine in it.

‘I’m so sorry, Steph.’

I blink so I don’t release the tears; surely they’ve run out by now. I feel as though I’ve been crying for weeks. I need to think about other people. I look at Emma while she’s driving. Her brow has been in a slight frown ever since Grace was found – it’s like she’s constantly thinking about what happened to her little girl.

Grace told DS Berry that she remembered only fragments of what happened to her. She said that Scott had tied her to a chair and put children’s cartoons on for her to watch, but forgot to feed her, didn’t take her to the toilet. It was heartbreaking listening to Emma relate it all back to me. She raised Grace in such a loving environment, unlike her own with Jean. It haunts Emma to know that her little girl has suffered, like she did as a child.

‘Will you ever look for your real mother, Jean?’ I say. ‘To see if she’s still alive?’

Her frown deepens. The night Grace was found was the first time Emma had ever mentioned her real mother. She’d been standing by the window in the hospital room, looking through the blinds, her arms folded.

‘I still have a picture of her,’ she’d said. ‘It was in the rucksack that I packed when I left. In my own little mind, I thought if I didn’t bring that photo with me, then I’d forget what she looked like. Even then I knew I might never see her again. She was that sort of person – the type who could compartmentalise her life.’

‘So you do remember her?’ I’d asked gently.

She’d pulled up a chair next to mine.

‘I’ve never had trouble remembering Jean, Steph. In some strange way, I loved her. She was my mother – it was the only home I’d ever known. But at the same time, I wanted to forget about her. The horrible things she would do – make fun of me in front of her friends. Once, she cut my fringe so short, until it was only about a centimetre long. She thought it was hilarious, so did her drunken friends. I wore a hat to school for nearly a month after. The first day I did, the teacher made me take it off. Everyone in class laughed at me, but I took it, I didn’t cry. The teacher, Miss Davison was her name, she was lovely – she said I could put it back on again. I wanted to ask if I could come home with her, but I never did. I knew what the answer would’ve been.’

‘Oh, Emma. I didn’t know. Mum… Catherine… never said anything like that. She said that Jean had left you without food for days.’

‘It was three weeks.’

My hand went to my mouth, and she nodded slowly.

‘I know. It felt longer. But I got into a routine. I was last year of primary school, so not as young as Grace. I got myself to school every day, had free dinners. I knew how to survive, how to save food so I wouldn’t run out too soon… hide money I found down the sofa dropped by her friends . To think none of them helped me. Shocking when you think about it – the horrible situations people witness, and then justify their inability to change it by leaving it to someone else to deal with.

‘It wasn’t the first time she’d left me. But it had never been as long as that before. After two weeks, it was the school holidays. No school meals. And then Catherine… She was like my guardian angel, which sounds crazy now, but she seemed to appear from nowhere. She didn’t, obviously. Someone must have told her about me – she used to volunteer for that homelessness charity. Do you remember?’