North Sea Requiem (34 page)

“The nurse asked if we had brothers and sisters 'cos they might have nits too.” Maureen was terrified. And confused.
Maybe Charlie would be better off somewhere else. Somewhere he could run and sing and sleep in a real bed.

That night before going to sleep, she knelt down beside her bed, clasped her hands like her mother taught her, and said her prayers.

“God bless Mum. God bless Dad. God bless Charlie. God make me a good girl.” She opened her eyes. Then quickly closed them. “God bless Annie Ross's mum and help her come home.”

Her mother came in to kiss her good night.

“Said your prayers?”

“Yes, Mum.”

“Good girl.” Her mum ruffled her hair in that way Maureen didn't like.

When the lights were out, and the wind still, and the night dark but bright with stars, Maureen was almost asleep when she heard it. Not the song, but the tune. The one she had taught Charlie. He didn't know all the words, but he remembered most of them. He learned the tune even after her singing it only two times. It was a song she learned in school choir. She listened again. Yes, it was Charlie. Singing the song she had taught him, his voice was high and sweet and true. And the woman, the lady as Maureen thought of her, she was joining in. Faintly, but singing along with her brother—

Dreams to sell, fine dreams to sell,

Angus is here wi' dreams to sell . . .

Throughout the town, there was a sense of busyness. More police walking the streets, and many volunteers, going into shops and cafés and bars, into the Victorian market, the bus station, the train station, the petrol stations, distributing the poster that Don had the printers make up, headed MISSING.

Underneath was a picture of Joanne. Hector volunteered the photograph, one he had taken of Joanne leaning against the guardrail on the riverbank. She had been joking with Rob, unaware Hec had his camera out. Her hair flying in the wind, her head slightly to one side, her eyes bright even in black and white—you could see that if you met this woman, she would light up your life.

Most of the phone calls to the police station were people asking
for
information. And the sightings—they were for days and
times before the disappearance. One person thought she had seen Joanne on the Dochfour Drive bus, but she couldn't remember the day, only that it was early afternoon. That being the bus that passed her parents-in-law's house, it was dismissed.

Annie Ross went into the newsagents on Glen Urquhart Road near her school. She had stopped the home delivery of the
Girl
comic. As they now regularly stayed at McAllister's house, she preferred to collect it herself and pick up the
Bunty
for Jean. When she saw the poster with her mum smiling out at her, she ran outside to grab her sister. She always complained Jean was a slow coach, always hated waiting for her sister to catch up; this time she was grateful.

“The comics aren't in yet.” She surprised Jean by taking her hand, saying, “I have a sixpence, let's catch the bus.” She could see one in the distance. She was desperately hoping it wouldn't have the picture of their mum. There was no picture. It had fallen down and the conductress hadn't put it back up, as she had no sticky tape.

“Two halves to Dochfour Drive, please.” Annie held out the money, then took her sister's hand again. That was what scared Jean.

“What's happened to Mum?” she asked quietly, knowing Annie might answer, knowing no grown-up would.

“I don't know.” Annie was staring straight ahead, kicking the seat in front as though she were six, not eleven. “She's gone off somewhere and forgot to tell anyone.” That was what she was trying to believe, but failing. She knew their mother would never leave them.

“Let's say a prayer.” Jean closed her eyes tight. Still holding Annie's hand, she started, “Dear God, please tell Mum to come home. Amen.” That was it. No more.

Annie was close to crying. She opened her eyes. They'd
missed their stop. She rang the bell. They hurried down the stairs. Hand in hand they walked back to their grandparents' house. Granny Ross was waiting for them. Desperate for something to do, she was in the garden weeding the rockery. She looked up. Seeing her granddaughters walking towards her, holding hands, she could not stop the tears. She rushed into the house, calling out to the girls, “I think I left the gas on.”

•   •   •

Maureen Forbes saw the poster taped to the inside of the phone box on the corner of her street. The border of the pane of glass cut off the words, but she recognized Joanne Ross; she had seen her dropping Jean and Annie off at Sunday school and thought she looked happy, not like her own mum. She knew Mrs. Ross was missing—everyone in their class was talking about it. And she was scared. She didn't know why she was scared, but why had the police come to their house, twice that she knew of, to ask about Mrs. Ross?

She was in a hurry to get home. She was eleven and a half and only her mother knew she had started her periods three months ago. She had been terrified, no idea what was wrong. She thought she was really ill.

She ran into the house. Her mother was in the sitting room, sleeping with the curtains closed. Maureen could tell from the way she was breathing and the small bubbles of spittle coming out of the side of her mouth that Mum had taken too much of her medicine. Nothing would wake her for a long time.

She went into her parents' bedroom, to the double wardrobe. Mum left the pads in a brown paper bag in the back, behind her shoes. It was dim in the bedroom. Mum always kept the curtains shut. Maureen felt around for the bag. Her hand caught something unfamiliar, something leather. A bag, it felt like. She took it out. It was not new; it was not her mother's. She put it back.
She had what she came for, went to the bathroom, went back to her bedroom. But curiosity about the bag made her check her mother. Moira Forbes was snoring lightly; it was safe.

She opened the wardrobe again and took the handbag to her bedroom. It was brown, not very big, closed with a clasp in silver, and had a shoulder strap as well as handles. Inside was a purse, a hankie, a wee spiral-bound notebook full of what looked like scribbles, a pencil, and a fountain pen—a blue-marbled Conway Stewart that looked old.

Maureen took out the family allowance book. Her mother had one, so she knew what it was. She opened it. She read
Mrs. Joanne Ross
. Underneath, it had
Annie Elsie Ross
and
Jean Joanne Ross
and their dates of birth. She was so shocked, she didn't even register Annie's middle name—Elsie—a name that in better times she would have teased her almost friend about.

The back door opened. “Hello. Where's my girls?”

She shoved the bag under her bed. But she kept the family allowance book, putting it under her pillow. “I'm doing ma homework,” she called out.

“Good girl.” Her father went into the sitting room. She knew she would be left in peace, as Dad would be busy cooking. Then he would waken Mum.

That night, as she often did, she wanted to talk to Charlie, but she was scared, terrified her dad would find out. She was absolutely forbidden to visit Charlie when he was in his wee room out the back. The one time her dad had discovered her secret was because Charlie had nits—caught them from her. It was the first and only time he spanked her.

“Never ever go out there again. You only play with him when we are all together,” he told her. “I'm only thinking of you, Maureen love—you might catch his disease. How could I cope with three of you sick?” It was the only time he admitted that Mum is
sick, she remembered.
Charlie isn't sick,
she told herself,
he's just different.

Tonight was not a night to risk going down to the shelter. Tonight, when Dad woke Mum up for her tea, her mother started sobbing loudly and long. “It's no' my fault, I'm so sorry, Malkie, but it's no' ma fault.”

Maureen thought she would put in the little balls of cotton wool she sometimes used to block out her mother's crying.

In the night, when her mother had quieted, and after her father had come in to say night-night, and she had heard him shut their bedroom door, she felt under the pillow for the small cardboard-covered book, making sure it was safe. She was scared but did not know why. She was trying to forget the shelter in the garden, the strange woman, Charlie, her mother, her dad, who was trying his best to pretend everything was normal, but Maureen could see how worried he was. Most of all she was trying to ignore the poster with Mrs. Ross's face, looking out of the telephone box, smiling saying,
Hello, Maureen.

•   •   •

Next morning Moira Forbes was coming in the back door and heard someone ringing the doorbell. It was barely light, but to her nothing and no one was strange.

Mal answered. He was in pajamas and dressing gown. “Good morning.” He looked at his watch, his gesture and the look of surprise as exaggerated as a mime artist. “Nothing wrong, I hope?”

His pallor, the way he tried to brighten his voice but the voice coming across as too bright, too controlled, his arms protruding from his pajamas, stick thin, worried the policeman, making him think there was more than one person unwell in the house.

“Good morning, Mr. Forbes,” DI Dunne said. “We'd like another word with you, and I'd like your wife to join us.”

“My wife is not well enough to talk to anyone. I'm right worried about her . . . woman's troubles, I'm afraid. She might need an operation. The doctor will be around later.” He hadn't called a doctor.
But the policeman will never know that,
he was thinking. “Come in, come in.”

In the sitting room, Mal Forbes sat down without inviting the detective and constable to sit, making the policemen stand over him. In his despair, Mal Forbes had forgotten his manners—and betrayed his anxiety.

He shot up out of the chair. “Sit down, sit down, do you want tea? Can I get you a drink? I'm so sorry. My manners. Sorry. It's just the wife, she's not at all well.”

Moira Forbes was listening in the kitchen, hearing what she thought of as her husband's working voice. The sitting room was at the front of the house, the bedrooms in between, so from the kitchen she could not hear the conversation. Not that that bothered her; she was sublimely unaware that their situation was critical. But she knew that her Malkie was upset at her.

What were you thinking?
He'd said again and again.
Moira, this has to stop. You have to let her go.
Then he said,
We'll be in real trouble when she tells everyone what you've done.
He'd even cried a wee bit before shaking his head and washing his eyes and face and telling her he'd look after her. Take her to the doctor for help. That had really frightened her; she was certain that doctors were looking for an excuse to put her in the asylum along with all the loonies.

Mae Bell she hated.
Coming here, asking all those questions about Bobby and the accident.
“What accident?” she'd asked. But the American woman said Robert had told her he was worried someone was out to get him.

Moira vowed that the woman would never be found.
Not wi' all my pills inside her to keep her quiet.
Moira was particularly proud that she'd thought of giving the woman her medicine inside the
gingerbread. The woman had eaten a slice,
said it was delicious but you could see in her face she tasted something strange—too late!
Moira smiled, remembering the way the woman wrinkled her nose and took a sip of tea to take away the taste.
But there was medicine in the tea, too!
Moira laughed out loud at that recollection.

Says she's Bobby's wife, indeed,
Moira fumed.
He loved me. Besides, all that happened years ago, the aeroplane disappearing, all that. What's the point in looking for answers now? There aren't any. They're all gone.

She was listening for the conversation with the police to end. Often she was certain she could hear through walls, but not this time. She went back to quietly stoking her rage.

It's her, thon woman, she's the one made me put the wee lad in the cellar again. He should be out in the garden these evenings; he loves the flowers and the birds. Sings back at them so he does. Note-perfect.

She started drumming her fingers on her thighs.
Mal says we have to let her go. Give her answers, then she'll go back to wherever she came from. Hah! I'll make sure she goes back to where she came from—in a coffin—just like thon nurse.

The boy had to be put in the cellar along with the American woman and Joanne. Normally he slept in the nice part of the shed. She remembered making lace curtains and cushions—when she could still operate the sewing machine—lately she couldn't figure out how on earth the machine threaded. She bought him toys and made sure the bed was nice, but as he grew older he was less and less happy to be shut in a shed for long periods of time. That was when she had to threaten him with the cellar. She used the cellar more and more to hide him away.
But that's because I'm right tired
.

Moira told herself she had to hide the boy.
In case someone sees him and takes him away. We look after him; we keep him safe and warm. We wouldn't give him away to strangers,
that was her logic.

Although Maureen was curious about her little brother, she
accepted her mother's wisdom. “We don't want him taken away, do we?” her mother had said. “He can't help it he's different—it's the Lord's judgment on his sins.” What sins a wee baby could commit was as yet beyond Maureen's capacity to argue.

“Yer dad, he's a good job, brings in good money so we can have a nice house an' nice clothes, an' a wee holiday or two, and mind you never let your dad know you and Charlie is friends.”