deep in the room. I slapped a hand to the glass, shouting, before I realized what it was. My own reflection in a dressing-table mirror, which had been left on its side against a four-poster bed. Dad had come running at my shout, but drifted away again when he saw I was all right. And I was glad he didn’t come up. Something else I could see, through the grimy glass panes, was a box of rations stamped BRITISH ARMY .
I made my way back down the stairs, and in the quiet following my own voice I listened again to the hoarse bark of the dog and looked over the fences of the nearby gardens to see if I could locate it. Dad had his hands in his pockets and was staring at the ground when I came round the house, and he didn’t bother to comment on the absence of Frank or Sukey. Of course, he had come and knocked before, had stood and waited before, had searched and peered and then come home alone before. After a few moments he got out a pencil and wrote a note on the back of an envelope; he always carried a little bundle in a rubber band. I didn’t read it before he pushed it through the letterbox.
“Hello?” It’s a man’s voice, thick and slurred. I’m on the sofa in my sitting room. The phone’s just stopped ringing and it’s pressed against my ear.
“Hello. Who is it?” I say.
“Peter Markham. Who’s this ?” The words are clearer now; there’s a whine to the voice.
Peter Markham: I know that name. “Is that Elizabeth’s son?” I ask.
“My mother’s name is Elizabeth. What do you want?”
“Oh, did I call you ?” I say.
“ ’Course you phoned me.” He says something under his breath. “Bloody” something. “What is it you want?”
“Perhaps Elizabeth asked me to call you,” I say.
“Asked you? Why?” he says. “Where are you calling from?”
“I don’t know why,” I say. “It must be important.”
I hold the receiver away from my ear and pause to think, gripping the phone until the plastic creaks. When did I see Elizabeth? And what did she ask me to call about? I can’t remember. I rest the receiver on the arm of my chair and flick through the bits of paper on my lap, shuffling past the number for Peter Markham, a shopping list, and a recipe for gooseberry crumble. The drone of a car somewhere in the distance is like a fly buzzing under glass, like a memory flinging itself at the surface of my brain. I pick up the phone and hold the next note under the lamp: Where is Elizabeth? My stomach drops. “She’s missing,” I say aloud.
There’s a crackling noise as Peter breathes hard into the mouthpiece. “Who is this?” he says, his voice sharp.
“My name’s Maud. I’m a friend . . . of Elizabeth’s,” I say. “I had your number and I was a bit worried about your mother.”
“It’s the middle of the night, for fuck’s sake.”
I look at the clock above the gas fire; it says three o’clock. It’s not daytime. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m not so good with time now. Oh, dear, I am sorry. I’ll leave you in peace. As long as Elizabeth is all right.”
The voice begins to sound muffled again, groggy. “I already spoke to your daughter. Yes, Mum’s all right. I’m going to put down the phone now, okay?”
There is a click at the end of the line, and a long beeping noise. He has hung up. I quickly retrieve my pen. Elizabeth all right says son , I write. Said fuck on phone , I add, though I’m not sure why it’s significant.
I replace the receiver carefully and find I’m thinking about Mrs. Winners. I haven’t thought of her for years. She was the first person on our street to get a telephone. It was solid and beautiful, with a polished wooden base. She was very proud of it and always stood by the window when “ ’phoning” so everyone could see, waving as you went by and pointing to the receiver. The shallowest pretext moved her to invite people in to use the phone, and I was amazed at the things she could find out through it. Not only news about her
I made my way back down the stairs, and in the quiet following my own voice I listened again to the hoarse bark of the dog and looked over the fences of the nearby gardens to see if I could locate it. Dad had his hands in his pockets and was staring at the ground when I came round the house, and he didn’t bother to comment on the absence of Frank or Sukey. Of course, he had come and knocked before, had stood and waited before, had searched and peered and then come home alone before. After a few moments he got out a pencil and wrote a note on the back of an envelope; he always carried a little bundle in a rubber band. I didn’t read it before he pushed it through the letterbox.
“Hello?” It’s a man’s voice, thick and slurred. I’m on the sofa in my sitting room. The phone’s just stopped ringing and it’s pressed against my ear.
“Hello. Who is it?” I say.
“Peter Markham. Who’s this ?” The words are clearer now; there’s a whine to the voice.
Peter Markham: I know that name. “Is that Elizabeth’s son?” I ask.
“My mother’s name is Elizabeth. What do you want?”
“Oh, did I call you ?” I say.
“ ’Course you phoned me.” He says something under his breath. “Bloody” something. “What is it you want?”
“Perhaps Elizabeth asked me to call you,” I say.
“Asked you? Why?” he says. “Where are you calling from?”
“I don’t know why,” I say. “It must be important.”
I hold the receiver away from my ear and pause to think, gripping the phone until the plastic creaks. When did I see Elizabeth? And what did she ask me to call about? I can’t remember. I rest the receiver on the arm of my chair and flick through the bits of paper on my lap, shuffling past the number for Peter Markham, a shopping list, and a recipe for gooseberry crumble. The drone of a car somewhere in the distance is like a fly buzzing under glass, like a memory flinging itself at the surface of my brain. I pick up the phone and hold the next note under the lamp: Where is Elizabeth? My stomach drops. “She’s missing,” I say aloud.
There’s a crackling noise as Peter breathes hard into the mouthpiece. “Who is this?” he says, his voice sharp.
“My name’s Maud. I’m a friend . . . of Elizabeth’s,” I say. “I had your number and I was a bit worried about your mother.”
“It’s the middle of the night, for fuck’s sake.”
I look at the clock above the gas fire; it says three o’clock. It’s not daytime. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m not so good with time now. Oh, dear, I am sorry. I’ll leave you in peace. As long as Elizabeth is all right.”
The voice begins to sound muffled again, groggy. “I already spoke to your daughter. Yes, Mum’s all right. I’m going to put down the phone now, okay?”
There is a click at the end of the line, and a long beeping noise. He has hung up. I quickly retrieve my pen. Elizabeth all right says son , I write. Said fuck on phone , I add, though I’m not sure why it’s significant.
I replace the receiver carefully and find I’m thinking about Mrs. Winners. I haven’t thought of her for years. She was the first person on our street to get a telephone. It was solid and beautiful, with a polished wooden base. She was very proud of it and always stood by the window when “ ’phoning” so everyone could see, waving as you went by and pointing to the receiver. The shallowest pretext moved her to invite people in to use the phone, and I was amazed at the things she could find out through it. Not only news about her
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