Chris Curran - Her Turn to Cry

Was it possible not to breathe for this long and still be conscious? ‘And?’

‘Everything seemed all right. I checked the wardrobe, and she had taken most of her clothes, like Charlie said. But Sid had told me to have a good nose.’

‘And?’

‘Well I looked under the bed.’

Please don’t say it.

Cora took both her hands, squeezing hard, and Joycie made herself endure the touch. ‘Darling, this might be nothing, but I found a mat with some stains that looked to me like blood.’

She could only whisper, but somehow she got the words out. ‘What did you do?’

‘It wasn’t a big mat so I just rolled it up and walked out with it. Dropped it on a bit of waste ground on my way home.’

‘And said nothing about it?’

‘That’s right. I reckoned that was best. Didn’t even tell Sid.’ She dropped Joycie’s hands and leaned back. ‘Wouldn’t have told you except you seemed so sure you needed to know everything. And that is everything. So if I was you I’d leave it now. Your dad’s dead and gone, and I wouldn’t be surprised if your mum was too.’

It felt as if a chunk of rock was lodged deep inside her. She wanted to scream at Cora to tell her more, but she knew there was no point. Not yet anyway. She managed to stand and say, ‘Thank you.’

This time Cora brushed ash from her skirt, put away her lighter and cigarettes, clicked her bag shut, and followed her to the front door.

Marcus bounded along the hall. ‘I’ll drop you, shall I?’

‘Just take me to the tube station, please love.’ Cora leaned forward and kissed the air beside Joycie’s cheek. ‘All right, darling? Hope I haven’t upset you.’

‘I’m OK, and you’re right; I need to put it behind me.’ Marcus glanced at her, but she avoided his eye.

When she closed the door she leaned against it, her jaw clenched. So that bloodstained mat was a real memory. There one day and gone the next. And Cora got rid of it. It all fitted. But she was certain of one thing. What Cora had told her wasn’t the whole truth, and she couldn’t rest until she found out what that was.

She had been bluffing when she said there were other people she could ask, but, of course, there must be. People who had no reason to hide the truth. Joycie just had to do what she’d avoided all these years: to allow herself to remember.

Joycie is nine and a bit too old to cry so she’s trying to keep her chin from wobbling. She’s in the school playground all alone, or, at least, there are kids around her, but she can’t see them because the smog is so bad. They’re playing what they call ‘Hide and Seek in the Fog’ but is more like Blind Man’s Buff. Her friends are shouting her name and saying, ‘Cooee, come and get me.’ Now and then one of them taps her on the shoulder or screams close to her ear then disappears back into the surrounding mist.

She feels bad, her throat hurts, and she’s hot in her thick coat. The smog smells awful, smothering her in a wet blanket. She doesn’t want to play any more, and when the whistle goes she breathes again and heads for school. But she can’t tell which way to go. She turns round and round on the spot. And big sobs are coming out, making her ashamed to be such a cowardy custard.

‘Joyce Todd, what on earth are you doing out here?’

It’s Miss Hendry, and she grabs Joycie’s collar and pulls her along. And there are the lights and almost at once they’re inside school. She must be in trouble, but she doesn’t care, just wants to lie down on the cool floor of the corridor. Instead she leans against the wall and closes her eyes.

Then she feels Miss Hendry’s cold hand on her forehead. ‘Joyce, dear, where do you live?’

She parrots the address. At least this one in Acton is easy to remember because they stay in these digs every winter.

‘Ah, just down the road, that’s good. And Mummy will be home, I expect?’

She nods and Miss takes her hand again, and they are back in the playground. At the school gate Miss stops and points at the orange haloes of light gleaming through the fog.

‘Just keep on the pavement and follow the lampposts. Tell Mummy to put you to bed with a warm drink. And you’re to stay home tomorrow.’

Joycie’s legs are moving, one foot floating after the other over the shiny pavement. She can see the lamppost in front of her, its light a wavering orange moon. When she reaches it she holds the post for a moment then pushes on towards the next one.

Mrs McDonald, the landlady, opens the door at her knock. ‘You’re early, ducks, what’s up?’

‘Sent me home.’

Mrs McDonald’s hand rough on her cheek. ‘No wonder. You’re burning up. Well your mum’s in, so up you go.’ A laugh that’s more like a bark. ‘She’ll be pleased to see you so early, my love. I think she gets lonely on her own all day.’ Then she’s gone, back to the kitchen, laughing at something as she goes. She must have a funny programme on the wireless.

The stairs rear in front like a mountain, but Joycie pulls herself up by the banisters. At the door to their rooms she taps and taps, then calls her mum, but quietly because they mustn’t annoy Mrs McDonald or wake up Mr Grant next door, who does night work.

But her mum doesn’t come, and Joycie is too hot and tired to knock again. She pulls off the thick coat and spreads it on the floor so she can lie on it and rest her head on the cool lino.

‘Bloody hell, Mary, it’s your nipper.’

Mr Grant’s voice, but coming from their own doorway. A sickening feeling as the world lurches and she’s up in the air, held over Mr Grant’s shoulder. Hot skin against hers and stinky sweat.

Mum’s voice: ‘Bring her in. And for God’s sake be quiet, will you. I bet old McDonald’s down there earwigging again. Then you’d better go.’

She’s in bed, and Mum’s giving her warm milk, but it tastes bad, and Mum smells funny too: a bit like Mr Grant. And it’s all wrong anyway, because Mum is only wearing her slip, even though it’s the middle of the day.

‘Concentrate now, Orchid baby.’ Marcus always called her Orchid in public. He had been so pleased with the pictures he’d taken on the way to Irene’s funeral that he’d decided to do their next shoot by the river too. So she was standing on Westminster Bridge in a red silk evening gown with the Houses of Parliament behind her.

It was very early on a morning that promised to be warm, but the ground was still shining with dew, and the mist on the water sent wafts of chill air around her feet. She wore strappy silver sandals and no underwear – nothing to spoil the line of the dress – and the black feather boa the magazine had sent to go with it gave no warmth. Marcus gestured for her to stretch out one leg to emphasize the fall of shining silk.

Joycie still remembered Mrs McDonald’s address because her dad had rented the same digs every winter until her mum disappeared, so Marcus was going to drive them there after the shoot. The landlady had seemed like an old woman when Joycie was a little girl, but thinking about it now she was probably only in her forties. So there was a good chance she might still be living in the same house.

Marcus came forward and teased out locks of black hair to tumble round her face.

‘Fantastic, baby.’

But she knew it wasn’t much good. All she could think of was getting to Acton. It was likely Mrs McDonald could tell her something about Mr Grant. He was certainly living there the last time they stayed in the March before her mum’s disappearance.

Joycie wondered for a moment when she had started to think of Mum as disappearing rather than leaving them.