Chris Curran - Her Turn to Cry

But Joycie was looking at the smaller envelope that had fallen out last of all, her breath catching in her throat. In place of an address was a line of writing: Dear Joycie, Irene asked me to get this to you. All my love Deirdre.

Marcus glanced over. ‘What’s that?’

‘A note from Irene, I suppose.’

‘Aren’t you going to read it?’

She pushed it back with the jewellery into the large envelope. ‘When we get home.’

***

Back at the house she ran up to her room. ‘I’m going to get changed.’ Closed the door and emptied the big envelope onto her dressing table. Then she took the smaller envelope over to the window and ripped it open. But instead of reading it she stood with the note pressed against her chest.

She loved this house. It was tall and thin with three floors. Her bedroom overlooked a long green garden, a bit unkempt but that was the way she and Marcus loved it. Today it was full of daffodils, clumps of late snowdrops lighting up the darker corners. The trees were covered with a haze of palest green buds.

A deep breath as she unfolded the note.

My darling Joycie,

We haven’t seen much of each other lately and I don’t blame you for wanting to put the past and everyone connected with it behind you. Of course I have been following your progress in the papers and your photographer friend seems to be a nice young man. So I really hope you have found happiness with him.

In that case you might decide to ignore this letter. However I can’t go to my grave without saying this. The last time we met I told you someone had dropped off an address at the theatre for me with a note asking me to get it to Mary Todd’s daughter. It was obviously someone who knew Mary and could maybe help you find out what really happened to your mum. You said you weren’t interested because she deserted you, but you know how fond I was of Mary and I never believed she meant to leave you forever. I feel so bad that I didn’t try to find her myself or make more effort to persuade you to look for her.

Anyway here’s the name and address. Susan Lomax, 44 Trenton St. Manchester. It’s up to you, but I really hope you decide to look into it.

I’m sorry I can’t leave you anything more than a few old paste jewels, but I remember how you liked dressing up in them when you were little. So I thought you might be glad to have them.

With fondest love,

Irene

The writing was wobbly, clearly written when Irene was ill, and her signature tailed off as if she was unable to keep hold of the pen. Joycie held the scrap of paper to her lips as hot tears welled from deep inside.

I never believed she meant to leave you forever. That was what Irene had always said and for the first few years Joycie had believed it too. But her mother didn’t come back, didn’t try to get in contact, and Joycie told herself she’d stopped wanting her to. Irene hadn’t seen the person who left the address so it could have been anyone and even if it was her mum or someone close to her, Joycie had decided it was too late. She didn’t want to listen to a load of excuses. But Irene had been so good to her and this was the only thing she’d ever asked from Joycie.

Your photographer friend seems to be a nice young man. I really hope you have found happiness with him. Irene was right about Marcus. He was more than nice and life without him was unthinkable. But as for finding happiness, well that was something else.

Marcus had declared his love for her not long after they met, but she said it was too soon. Still he asked her to move in. Said he couldn’t bear rattling around here on his own. It made sense too with them working together all the time and she needn’t worry, she could have her own room.

The house belonged to his parents, but they’d decamped to the country when his dad retired from the civil service. It always amazed her that people could own two houses. Her early life had been lived in theatrical lodgings in the towns and seaside resorts where Sid and her dad performed. A bedroom for her mum and dad, one for her, and another room for sitting and eating, with a tiny kitchenette if they were lucky. The bathroom was usually down the hall, shared with the rest of the tenants, and sometimes the toilet was outside. It was wonderful to have a whole house just for her and Marcus.

She knew he hoped for more, but decided not to think about that. Finally she told him she had a problem with closeness and it wasn’t fair to ask him to wait for her. What she didn’t say was how much she dreaded him finding another girl he felt serious about and who could love him properly. ‘I do love you, Marcus, but not in that way,’ she had told him. He must have guessed by then that the idea of loving anyone in that way made her skin crawl.

She had never admitted, because it wasn’t fair to lead him on, that sometimes when he touched her the shivers that went through her felt wonderful.

Marcus wanted to come to Manchester with her, but she wouldn’t let him. This way she could still change her mind. It was cold on the train and she felt very alone. At the station she went into the buffet to get warm, and to try and steady her nerves. She pulled up the collar of her black coat, although the woman behind the counter didn’t give her a second glance. People hardly ever recognized her. Without the make-up and glamorous clothes she was just a skinny pale-faced girl.

‘So you knew Irene had the address all along,’ Marcus had said.

‘Yeah, that was why she contacted me the last time I saw her. Must have been two or three years ago. Said someone left a note at the stage door asking if she was still in touch with Mary Todd’s daughter and could she give me that name and address.’

‘But you never went?’

‘Irene begged me to. Even offered to go with me, but I wouldn’t even take the details. Didn’t want to see or hear about my mum. She dumped us, Marcus. Me and Dad. Went off with one of her fancy men, so everyone said. I reckon she heard about me getting known as a model and thought I must have money.’

That had been when the nightmares started up again. They stopped after a few months, but with Irene’s death they’d come back and with them flashes of memory. Joycie knew she had to do more than pretend there was nothing wrong.

When her dad died she didn’t let herself cry. It was nearly three years after her mum went and they were fine, just the two of them. But he killed himself, leaving her all alone and without a word from him. So she told herself she didn’t care. There was no way to make that better, but perhaps Irene was right. If she could see her mum, or find out for sure what had happened to her, maybe she could get a bit of peace.

She asked the taxi driver to drop her at the end of Trenton Road and come back in an hour. It seemed like an area where a taxi might cause a stir and anyway she could take a look at the place before deciding what to do.

The street lights were already on in a damp dusk and the pavement gleamed under her feet. Terraced houses, front steps shining with red polish, a couple of clean milk bottles on the pavement beside each one.

She stopped opposite number 44. There was a glow from somewhere at the back, but the front room was dim and the net curtains meant she couldn’t see in.

A deep breath, collar pulled tighter at her throat, asking herself what was the point of this, what was she hoping to find? But she was outside the door now and tapping on it.

A child crying, the door opening, the woman looking back into the hallway saying, ‘Watch him, Carol. Don’t let him climb on the table.’