Looking for Mrs Dextrose (32 page)

If only she knew she had her son back.

“I’ll find you, Mum,” I gasped under my breath, running, running, running.

Who was this woman? I didn’t even know what she looked like. I didn’t even know her name! She was ‘Mrs Dextrose’. That’s what everyone called her
– even her own husband. But what was her first name?

Delia! I bet that was it. Delia Dextrose. Had a ring to it. Seemed to fit her era. If her husband were in his early-seventies, she’d be there or thereabouts… although knowing him as
I did, I bet he had married someone younger. She might even be in her fifties, having had me in her early-twenties.

Why did I know so little about her? My mother.

At least I had tried to quiz Dextrose, that night we’d bonded beside the Lonely Highway, but he had said he was too tired to talk. Why hadn’t he wanted to tell me about her? Was he
hiding something?

Generally in
The Lost Incompetent
he had portrayed her as the battleaxe at home – typical bravado, I had taken it with a pinch of salt. Yet there were moments…

He had dedicated his book, “To the wife”. And once he’d admitted to missing her during his travels, recalled how she looked after him during his umpteenth night of shameful
behaviour. He had sounded almost contrite.

Mrs Dextrose must have had the patience of a saint and the loyalty of a batman.

What would she look like? I had seen just that one photo. Her on the yacht, headscarf and summer dress, swinging from the mast, looking so contented – boy, that must have been taken a
while back. Would she be a little old lady now, with a cardigan and stoop, or upright, strident and vital, with blood in her cheeks and a gleam in her eyes? What colour hair would she have? What
lipstick would she wear? What would she sound like? Would she have an accent?

How often had she thought about me since the adoption?

How much did she care?

What if I actually found her?

What on earth would I say to her?

I stopped and bent double, wheezing violently, my mouth drier than a sand sandwich. Though I was fantastically thirsty there was no time to find liquid. I scrabbled for the map
again, used my recuperation time wisely.

At a crossroads, I looked up and around for street signs. Pigeon Square and Museum Avenue… so close! Rather than head into the complicated maze of roads that might have
offered the shortest route from A to B, I plumped for the least confusing: straight up Museum Avenue, left onto Beegster Street.

14.26. Had to move, body unwilling.

The museum loomed before me on my left: a great block of sandstone with ionic columns, tourists milling about outside (they had to be tourists, since they were going to a museum). Several times
I had to sidestep into the road, oblivious to the nose-to-tail traffic, then skip back to safety. More than once my fatigue caused my ankle to give and I toppled dangerously before, more by luck
than design, regaining my balance.

What was I going to do when I got to the statue?

Mrs Dextrose wouldn’t be there, having waited dutifully beneath old Charlie Partridge, tapping a foot impatiently, on the off-chance that her husband might finally remember her and return
to sweep her off her feet. Still, that statue had to be the key. Had to be.

At the junction of Beegster Street I swerved left, arms flailing outward under momentum. Passers-by stopped and stared. My face was burning up. Every breath felt like razors scoring my throat.
Every muscle burned. 14.29.

I didn’t bother waiting for the traffic lights on the junction of Beegster and Rafferty. I didn’t check for cars. I just ran across. Horns honked, someone shouted
(“Wanker!”), tyres screeched, I paid them no heed. I remained unscathed. Good fortune. Hell, I was owed some.

Shops on the ground floor of an austere building to my left were blocking my view of the statue, but I knew it was up ahead, could sense it.

And then what would I do?

A few feet from the kerb, on the corner of Beegster and Vine, it came into view, perched on a plinth in a rectangle of green surrounded by railings: the Statue of Sir Charles Partridge.

The road was clear. I charged across. A park gate before me. I swung it open, flew across the grass. Stumbled and fell at the feet of Sir Charles, gasping for air like a mountaineer above the
clouds, yet aware, incredulously, that I had made it after all the tribulations.

This was it: my physical goal. But not the emotional one. No time to water the ponies.

Pulling myself to my feet, I looked around. Wrought iron benches were lined around the lawn, each unoccupied. Not a single old lady in sight, who might have piqued my hopes.

I turned 360. Across the roads on every side were tall, architecturally ostentatious old buildings: ornate window frames, pious figures carved into the stone, marble and gold touches, the
settings of high society. I scanned the pavements around their bases. Nothing stood out. But what was I expecting? Mrs Dextrose waving a handkerchief – “Coo-ee!” – lofting
herself on tiptoes?

14.32. It had taken almost half an hour to reach the statue; the return journey would take longer on my quaking limbs. At what time must I be back? 15.15? Left me less than quarter of an hour to
search.

No chance. Not a hope in hell.

The statue. Five stone steps led up to the plinth, a wilful block of polished granite bearing an inscription:

I looked up. The bronze full-figure, twice a man’s size, towered overhead, silhouetted against a canvas wash of ozone blue. I had failed to notice what a lovely day it
was.

Taking a few steps backwards, I could fully appreciate Sir Charles’ heroic stance. He wore breeches, high boots and a leather flying jacket with its collar pulled up around his neck. His
hands were on his hips, chest puffed out, gazing from beneath an old flying helmet with an expression of beatific superiority. So extensive was his moustache that I could have pulled myself up on
it and perched on his head, like a vulture, or a wise monkey.

Don’t ask me why – because I couldn’t tell you – but that’s what I decided to do. I climbed the Statue of Sir Charles Partridge.

Mounting the five stone steps, I heaved my chest onto the plinth and dragged my legs up and over. One hand in the crook of his arm, a foot on the top of his boot – another heave. Other
hand on his shoulder, tight grip around one handlebar of that moustache, same on the other, the soles of my trainers scrabbling for purchase…

All the while, my mind could not help drifting back to my childhood comics, in which errant tykes with catapults were chased off flowerbeds by park keepers known as ‘Parkie’.

But no one shouted, no one saw, and suddenly I was sitting – precariously – on Sir Charles’ polished helmet many feet above the ground, gazing out at what he had surveyed for
all those frozen years.

There was no one fitting a possible description of Mrs Dextrose, just city gents prowling the pavements and families on the stroll. I had to be proactive. Had to prove to
myself that I had tried.

Then something struck me: something I’d been staring at but not seen. A large sign above the double doors on the ground floor of the building directly across the street. ‘Victoria
Hotel’.

A hotel! Had Sir Charles been trying to tell me something?

14.38.

It was a chance slimmer than a lady’s personal cavity – but it was a chance. It was all I had. Instantly enlivened, I considered throwing myself to the ground, make time, until
vertigo rang the bells of good sense.

I flung myself up the red-carpeted marble steps and through the gilded glass double doors. I was in an atrium. To my right, reception desks, staff in maroon, acting occupied;
ahead, further glass double-doors with restaurant tables behind; to my left, a corridor leading towards a heavy dark-wood door; beside that, red-carpeted stairs curving upwards.

My mind was spinning. The foolish thing had begun entertaining the idea that Mrs Dextrose might actually be found. That she had resided here ever since the abandonment by her husband. Live in
the lap of luxury, bill him afterwards? Perfectly feasible.

What on earth was I going to say to her?

The back of my head tingled.

Calm down. Think. How to find her? No sense careering headlessly around the hotel, banging on doors, shouting her name.

The receptionists.

I ran across to the nearest uniformed young chap at the desk, who was tapping at a computer.

“Excuse me!”

He did not look up. His uniform was gold-braided though his tender age made such trimmings feel rather pantomime.

“Excuse me!”

“Yes?” Professional smile, acne.

“I’m looking for Mrs Dextrose,” I blurted out. Even as I was voicing it, the futility flooded back. What had I been thinking? Idiot. Stupid, delusional idiot.

“First Floor, Helena Suite.”

I started. “What?”

“First floor. Helena Suite.”

“Mrs Dextrose?”

“Yes.” Unprofessional raised eyebrow.

Fuck.

Incredible.

I’d only bloody found her
.

The staircase wound upwards in a spiral. I took its steps three at a time, prancing like a sprite, temples pounding, and found the first-floor landing. Left or right? I’d
been too hasty to ask.

Intuition? Left.

I was in a wide corridor, doors on either side, some distance apart. I ran. On each door was a nameplate.

‘Edward Suite’…

‘Alice Suite’…

‘Alfred Suite’…

‘Helena Suite’.

‘
Helena Suite
’.

My mother… behind that door? Could it really be possible?

What should I do?

Suddenly I was stumped. A little boy confronted by a situation beyond his experience. Eight years old again. The door in front of me grew to the size of a giant’s, like something from
Alice’s Wonderland. I stood there, dazed, until I heard a knocking.

When I followed the sound I saw my own knuckles rapping on the varnished wood.

“Yes, come in!” A man’s voice, from behind the door.

A
man’s
voice?

It had never entered my head that I might not like what I found.

I pushed down the door-handle and felt as if I were floating; everything seeming unreal.

Inside was not as I might have anticipated.

The Helena Suite was no boudoir. There wasn’t even a bed. Inside, at the far end of an airy, expansive room was a stage, on which were standing, in one long line, a number of ladies of
middle-age and above, wearing swimsuits. Before them were arranged more rows of chairs, though these were only sporadically occupied by small groups of generally younger individuals.

Sunlight flooded in though four vast picture windows bearing creamy linen drapes.

Silence fell and everyone stared. At me.

Was one of these ladies my mother?

A young woman near the door, blonde-haired, in a light grey business suit and clutching a folder, addressed me. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“I… I’m looking for Mrs Dextrose,” I said. Although I spoke the words timidly, they echoed around the room, gathering gravitas.

Silence.

Then a silver-haired old lady on the stage, wearing a polka dot swimming costume and turquoise swimming cap, clutching a handbag as if her life depended upon it, stepped forward.

“I’m Mrs Dextrose,” she said.

My mouth fell open. I couldn’t stop it. My heart was beating like a jack-hammer.

Then another of the women on the stage stepped forward, then another, and another.

“I’m Mrs Dextrose!”

“I’m Mrs Dextrose!”