The Astonishing Return of Norah Wells (7 page)

Willa sits on the bottom step of the entrance to Holdingwell Primary.

Why's Ella being so weird?
she asks Louis.
And why's Mummy late?

But he's not answering. He must be busy sleeping or eating.

A shiny beetle disappears into a crack in the concrete steps. Maybe there's a mummy in there who's prepared seeds and bits of grass for his tea and a soft nest for him to sleep in.
Snug as a bug in a rug,
that's what Mummy says when she puts Willa to bed.

Willa wishes that Ella were coming to pick her up. Having a sister at Holdingwell Academy makes up for being called Gingernut; even the older girls look at Ella like they wish they had her for a big sister.

Willa gets up and walks over to Mr Mann.

‘I don't think anyone's coming to get me,' she says.

Mr Mann looks at his watch. ‘Where's Ella?'

‘It's Mummy's turn. And she's not here.' Ella told Willa to act upset so Willa sniffs and makes her eyes go sad as she looks at the parents' cars parked along the road.

‘Well, why don't I give her a call?'

Mr Mann has the parents' numbers stored in his mobile, in case of an emergency.

Willa nods. ‘Thank you.'

Then she goes to the gates because no one stands next to their form teacher at going home time, not unless they're in pre-school.

A man wearing a woolly rainbow jumper stands on the pavement holding a music case. A massive rucksack sits at his feet like he's been camping. He gets out his trumpet and starts playing a tune that Willa recognises from Ella's Louis Armstrong CDs. Something about being back home again in a place called Indiana. Mummy says not to give homeless people money, but the rainbow jumper man is really good and if playing's like his job, he should get paid, shouldn't he?

Willa takes her Fantastic Mr Fox purse out of her schoolbag, fishes out a fifty-pence piece and drops it in the yellow cap at Rainbow Man's feet. He nods and smiles at her with his eyes as he plays.

Everyone should have a family and a house to live in, thinks Willa, including beetles and homeless people.

‘Willa!' Mr Mann booms from across the playground.

Several of the kids turn round and look at her.

She's been told off for talking to strangers before, on school trips and stuff. Which she thinks is stupid. Strangers are interesting. Anyway, she's not talking to him, she's listening to his music.

Mr Mann strides across the playground and waves at her to come over.

‘Your mother isn't answering her mobile,' he says.

His eyes go crinkly with worry. She wishes that Ella hadn't made her lie to him.

And Willa doesn't want Mummy to get in trouble. She thinks about telling Mr Mann about Ella's plan, about Mummy and No One Woman not knowing that they're meant to be collecting her and about her having to call Mummy on her mobile once she's waited a bit, but if Ella found out she'd feel let down.

Willa scratches the scar under her eye.
Make Mummy come soon, Louis,
she whispers in her head.

‘Mummy's probably doing an emergency operation,' Willa says. ‘She'll be here soon.'

‘I tried the hospital. They said she's gone home.'

‘Oh.'

‘It's getting late, Willa. I'll have to try your dad.'

Willa digs her nails into her palms. If Daddy finds out he'll be cross at Ella for not collecting her.

‘Daddy's in meetings all day. Mummy will come soon, Mr Mann – she never forgets.'

‘I'll give it another five minutes,' he says, then he walks away to talk to a parent.

Willa checks that Mr Mann isn't watching, takes her mobile out of her pocket and dials home.

Fay stands in the hallway, swaying with tiredness. She makes a list of all the things she needs to do for Willa's birthday. It has to be perfect.

She closes her eyes and remembers holding Willa as a baby, her skin so soft and warm.

When Fay opens her eyes she sees Louis padding down the stairs. He keeps looking over his shoulder. She makes eye contact with him and says:

‘What were you doing up there, Louis?'

Louis lowers his head, drops his tail and walks past her back into the kitchen. Willa must have let him into her bedroom this morning.

Fay rifles through her bag for her phone. Whenever she's on a night shift Adam leaves her a trail messages.
I love you
…
I miss you
…
only a few hours to go
…
sleep well when you get home
– I'll wake you with a kiss.
Like the prince in
Sleeping Beauty
, she'd once joked. Some days, Fay feels so overwhelmed by the love she has for Adam that she is scared it is in fact all a fairy tale, that one day it will dissolve with the dawn.

She sits down on the bottom step and tips out her bag. She must have left her phone in her locker. She's too tired to go back for it now. A long night shift and an operation on a little girl's heart that hadn't yielded the results she'd hoped. All Fay wants is to soak in a long, hot bath and go to sleep and to wake up to a house full of Adam and the girls.

As she repacks her handbag she spots a trumpet case standing in the doorway to the kitchen. A case that has been part of Fay's life since she was a medical student at the Royal Free in London, and had shared a room with Norah. She hasn't seen it since Norah left. Ella must have had it hidden in her room somewhere. But what's it doing here?

She turns the case over in her hands and then freezes. There are new stickers, ones she doesn't recognise: Amsterdam, Strasbourg, Sydney, Berlin. God, Berlin…

A creak on the stairs.

A rush of footsteps.

And then a pause.

Fay looks up and, for a second she thinks she sees a ghost.

Despite the baggy clothes and the lines around her eyes, Fay recognises the woman who asked her to watch her baby –
just for a few hours
–
and never came back.

Fay's worried she's going to throw up.

‘Fay – it's you,' Norah says.

It had taken years to get over the disappearance of her best friend. And then more years to make this house, the girls – and Adam – her own.

She looks down at Norah's feet. ‘You're wearing my slippers.'

How had she let herself in? God, did she still have a key?

‘Sorry.' Norah removes the slippers and places them neatly on the stairs.

The phone in the hallway rings. Fay jumps.

They stare at each other.

‘The phone…' says Norah.

‘I know.'

Fay goes over to the table by the front door and picks up the receiver.

A pause. A sniff.

‘Willa?' Her little girl. Fay feels something collapse in her chest.

‘You didn't answer your mobile, Mummy.'

‘Sorry, darling, I forgot it at work.'

Fay feels Norah hovering in the background.

‘Ella hasn't shown up.'

‘What do you mean, Ella hasn't shown up?' Ella always shows up.

‘I've been waiting for ages.'

Norah brushes past Fay, picks up her trumpet case and heads to the door.

‘Is Mr Mann there? Can he watch you until I get to you?'

‘Yes, but come quick.'

‘Good. I'll be there as soon as I can.'

Another pause. Another sniff. ‘Mummy?'

‘Yes my darling?'

‘Is she there?'

Fay's chest tightens.

‘The woman from this morning?'

The surge of nausea comes back. Willa's seen her?Fay grips the edge of the table. Adam. He must have seen Norah too. And he let her stay – then went to work like any old Friday?

God, Norah's been here for hours.

‘Ella said she was no one. She said not to talk to her, but —'

Fay takes a breath. ‘Yes,' she says. ‘She's still here. I can't talk now, Willa. Just stay where you are. I'll be with you in a minute.'

‘Can the No One Woman come with you?'

Fay pauses. So it's started. Norah's only been back a few hours and already Willa's slipping away. Her whole life is slipping away.

It feels like they're sitting in a truck: six seats, two screens for watching DVDs in the back, a boot big enough for a week's worth of luggage – and Louis.

‘Is this Adam's car?' Norah asks.

Fay grinds the gears. ‘It's the family car.'

‘It's big,' Norah says, looking around.

‘It's safe,' Fay replies.

‘Safe. Right.'

‘And it's good for holidays,' says Fay. ‘It's easier to drive.'

It's what you choose a godmother for, isn't it? To step in when there's a family crisis. When a mum disappears. Norah had told Adam to let Fay help – she should feel grateful.

‘So you help Adam out?'

‘What?'

‘You help him look after the girls? The school run, that kind of thing?'

‘You could say that.'

‘Thank you.' Norah feels the hollowness of her words. You say thank you when someone picks up your shopping, not when they look after your family for six years. ‘I'm glad they've had you, Fay.'

‘Have.'

‘Sorry?'

‘They
have
me. I'm still here.'

‘Right. Yes.' Was there really a time when they could talk through the night, finishing each other's sentences? Norah feels like she's talking to a stranger.

‘It must have been hard,' Norah says. ‘For all of you.'

Fay turns the car into Holdingwell High Street. She doesn't answer.

‘I've missed you,' Norah says.

Fay shakes her head.

‘What?'

‘You can't do this.'

‘I only said I missed you.'

Fay shifts gear.

Norah has to take it slowly, give them time to adjust. She looks out at the town. Like a time warp, she thinks. A few more shops, maybe: a Costa, a Tesco Express, three mobile phone stores. But otherwise, nothing's changed.

‘So how have you been?'

Fay shrugs.

She looks at Fay's ring finger. She'd often wondered whether her best friend had got married. Fay had always insisted she didn't want kids; she said she spent enough of her time looking after other people's children at the hospital. But a nice man to love her, to make her feel like she mattered – that wouldn't be so bad, she'd said. But she'd never found anyone who lasted: they were all too much like her, sensible surgeons, lawyers, accountants all obsessed with their work. On the rare occasion that Fay had brought a date to the house for supper, Norah grilled him, letting him know that she wouldn't let just anybody get into bed with her best friend. Adam would sit there, hunched over his beer, silent, wishing that he was alone with Norah. Later, when Norah told him off for being rude, he'd complain that they looked down on him for having left school at sixteen and for his job at the recycling plant.
I'm not good enough for them,
he'd say
. Just like I'm not good enough for that friend of yours.

‘Any handsome consultants in the picture?' Norah asks.

‘What? No, of course not.'

Of course not?
 

‘I've been busy, Norah. Families don't take care of themselves.'

Fay had always been on Norah's side. She'd understood how hard Norah found giving up her concerts, looking after the girls, putting up with Adam's inability to register that he'd brought children into the world. But Norah had walked out on her too.

‘I'm sorry,' Norah says. The word hangs between them, too small to fill the space. ‘I should have got in touch —'

‘Yes.'

‘But I couldn't.'

‘You
couldn't
?'

‘It was complicated.'

Fay shakes her head.

‘I wanted to…'

Fay stares straight ahead.

Yes, Norah had thought of getting in touch with Fay to let her know that she was okay and that she missed her. But she hadn't trusted herself. Talking to her best friend would have made her want to come back.

‘So it looks like Adam's found someone else,' Norah says.

Fay takes a sharp breath. ‘Someone else?'

‘The house. It's changed, everything's changed. It's not Adam's —'

‘Not Adam's what?'

‘Not Adam's style. Someone must have moved in with him.'

Fay winds down the window and breathes in the rush of air. ‘Yes.'

Ahead of them, the lights at the pedestrian crossing turn red.

‘Is it serious?' Norah asks. ‘The relationship?'

Fay doesn't slow down.

‘Christ Fay – it's red!'

Fay slams her foot on the brake. They're thrown forward and then jolted back into their seats. And then they sit there, silent, as a mother crosses the street pushing a pram.

‘Are you okay?' Norah asks.

Fay raises her eyebrows as if Norah's asked the most stupid question in the world.

‘You look tired,' Norah adds.

‘I've had a long shift. I usually have a sleep when I get home.'

A sleep? What was she doing at the house if she was meant to be having a sleep? None of this made any sense.

‘So it's Ella who collects Willa from school?'

‘Yes.'

‘So why didn't she?

‘She's temperamental.'

‘Temperamental?' Ella was never temperamental. Norah's little girl had a steady, generous character.

‘She's a teenager,' Fay adds.

Norah doesn't like Fay's tone. And she doesn't get why she's being critical of the goddaughter she loved like her own child. At times, Norah had been jealous of how natural Fay was with her, how she did all the right things, things a mother should have done. She got Ella measured for her first pair of shoes and took her to the library to get a reader's card and helped her with her homework.

She adores you,
Fay had reassured Norah when she shared her anxieties.
You're the best mum in the world, remember
?

Yes, Norah remembers. But that was a lifetime ago.

Fay flicks the indicator.

‘I'm sorry,' Norah says again. ‘Maybe we can talk, after we've picked Willa up. I can explain —'

Fay pulls up outside Holdingwell Primary, switches off the ignition and stares out through the windscreen.

‘I don't think there's anything to say, Norah.'

‘Nothing to say?'

‘It's been too long.' Fay opens the car door.

Willa stands alone in the playground with her teacher. When she spots Fay she smiles, hitches her school bag onto her shoulders and runs to the car.

‘Mummy!'

The word echoes around the playground.

‘Mummy!' Willa yells again. And for a second Norah thinks she might be calling her, that even after all this time, that even though she left her when she was a baby, Willa might know who she is.

But when Fay steps out of the car Willa runs up to her and throws her arms around her plump waist and sings the word again. ‘Mummy!'