The Missing One (16 page)

As I crawl along the road, I start to sing.

‘
She'll be coming round the mountain when she comes, she'll be coming round the mountain when she comes
… ' I don't know where the urge to sing this song came from, but out of nowhere I find a memory of my mother stroking my hair and her voice – ‘
She'll be riding six white horses when she comes. She'll be riding six white horses
… ' I'd forgotten that she used to sing to me. But now her voice floats up so clear it's as if she's in the back seat next to Finn.

I have edited out so many of the good bits of her as a mother. The rows and hurts are the more tenacious memories. The good bits must have faded into my subconscious. I search for more good memories.

We made a honey cake once. That's one. We mixed whole-wheat
flour and butter and spoonfuls of honey, and when it came out of the oven it fell apart, and we ate it anyway, in warm sticky chunks at the kitchen counter.

She read to me. That's another. She read
Grimm's Fairy Tales
about dogs with saucer eyes, evil godmothers laying curses, needles jabbing into pale fingers, the sinister baby-stealing Rumpelstiltskin who must be named. I'd rest my head on her belly, and feel her voice vibrate beneath my ear. But I remember the anxiety too – the fear that at any moment she'd get up and go. Once, I reached up a hand and touched her hair, and she looked down at my face and her expression changed, her features contorted – she burst into tears.

She could make me feel so good when she chose to, but I could never touch her sadness. I just felt it there, squatting between us with its saucer eyes fixed on my face. Sometimes, just looking at me seemed to cause her pain.

‘Again again!' Finn says. I realize I've stopped singing.

‘
Singing ay ay yippee yippee ay
… ' I peer through the windscreen, trying to remember the other verses. ‘
She'll be wearing pink pyjamas … Oh, we'll all come out to meet her … Oh, she'll have to sleep with grandma when she comes
.'

I sing on, and on. Every time I stop singing, Finn says ‘Again again!' so I keep singing. ‘
She'll be comin' down a road that's five miles long
.' And somehow the singing makes me feel less afraid. It works.

I glance at the mileage counter and slam my foot on the brake, peering through the windscreen.

‘Mamamamamama.'

‘Wait a minute, Finn. Wait. I have to think.'

Fog swirls over the bonnet. I have to be close to the turning because we've come three miles now.

I edge forward, five or six miles an hour, braced to slam on the brakes if a car should pull out of a side road.

‘
Oh, we'll kill the old red rooster when she comes
… '

I imagine a vehicle ploughing into our flank, crumpled metal.

I crawl along like this for maybe ten more minutes. I've missed it. I've missed the turning. I'm about to stop and turn back when a sign – carved on a log – looms in the headlamps: Isabella Point.

The arrow points left. I turn down a single-track road, bumping over potholes and lumps of broken tarmac. If I can find Susannah – if she's in – I can explain myself, and ask her for the name of a nearby B & B.

It's better than dying of hypothermia in January in the car, plunging off a hidden cliffside in the fog, or knocking on a psychopath's door.

The headlamps bounce off something white – a mailbox with a red flag. Next to it, fog swirls around another wood-carved sign: Isabella House.

Finn had gone very still. I glance over my shoulder at him. His heart-shaped face is blank, but his eyes are still open.

It is impossible to see anything of the house through the fog, but I think I can see a slight glow and my heart gives a bounce. Please let her be home. Please. It's only just gone eight. Not really late. Please let her be in.

I get out and suck in a lungful of freezing, salty fog. I can
hear the sea crashing onto rocks not too far off and a bitter wind bashes my ears. I zip up the parka, pull the hood up and go round to get Finn out. He is still wearing his all-in-one suit. He is bundled up, stiff-limbed, but thank goodness for that, in this freezing air. I bury my nose in his neck for a moment, inhaling his sweet, sleepy, apple-juice smell. ‘What an adventure,' I whisper. ‘What an adventure.' He looks at me with big eyes, clearly unconvinced.

I beep the car locked as I climb the icy steps with Finn. Somewhere in the house dogs begin to bark, savagely. There are lights. The lights really are on. There's a deck running across the front of the building, but it's impossible to see anything beyond a few feet. The waves sound louder up here and the wind howls in the trees. The fog is damp on my face and I can taste the sea.

I stand by the front door, listening to the dogs, and I feel as if I've climbed up to a high cliff and am about to plunge off, not knowing if there's water below.

Then the door opens.

Two golden retrievers burst out. I hoik Finn higher. The dogs weave around us, huffing and growling.

‘Get back, stay.'

The voice is low and authoritative. She steps into the light and for a moment we look at each other in silence.

*

She is tall, a few inches bigger than me, wearing a fisherman's sweater and old jeans. I recognize her from the picture on her website, though she is more angular and tired-looking. Her shoulders are broad and straight, her hair is twisted up
behind her head and there is a deep frown line between her eyebrows. But the thing that really stands out is her eyes. They are an extraordinary pale-blue colour.

She is holding the door open with one hand and I see thick silver rings, one on her thumb, and a couple of silver bangles. A pair of reading glasses dangles from a beaded chain round her neck. I realize she is waiting for me to speak.

‘Hello,' I say. ‘I'm so sorry to just show up your doorstep like this. I – I – I emailed you and I tried to call you earlier – I'm Kal MacKenzie. I think you may have known my mother? Elena Halmstrom? I'm Elena's daughter, from England.'

Her eyes widen. She glances at Finn, blinks, then looks back at me. ‘You're
what
?'

‘Elena Halmstrom – I think she was your old friend who went to live in England? You sent her … Elena … I'm her daughter. I'm Kal. I'm Kali.'

She takes a step back, as if I've threatened her – the colour drains out of her face. Her eyes fix on Finn again, then back on me. Then she squares herself, seems to raise herself up even taller.

‘Kali?'

One dog circles us, pushing me from behind so that my knees buckle. I wrap both arms around Finn. The other dog joins the first and they barge, as if trying to knock me off the deck. She doesn't notice or try to stop them, she just stares.

‘Look, I'm so sorry to just knock on your door like this.'

‘Kali?' Her voice is hoarse. ‘You're Kali? Elena's Kali?'

‘Yes, yes, well, Kal. I know this is … '

‘And this – him.' She swallows hard. ‘This … little boy … '

‘This is my son, Finn.'

‘Shit.' She covers her mouth with both hands. ‘Holy shit.' She backs away, staring at Finn as if he is a terrible apparition.

‘I'm so sorry. I know I should have got hold of you first, but I was rather stranded … the B & B I thought I'd booked turned out to be shut and I couldn't find anything else – I just didn't know where else to go.'

She takes her hands away from her mouth. Her face is still very white. But she opens the door wider. The dogs bundle back in. She steps aside, and I see her take a big breath.

‘Well, Kali,' she says. ‘I guess you'd better come inside.'

It's warm and beautiful inside – pale wooden floors, off-white walls and a pleasant smell of essential oils, cooked onions and woodsmoke. I feel myself relax, just a tiny bit. This is civilized. This is OK.

The lights are soft, and I can see a log fire burning at the end of the corridor in what must be her sitting room.

Susannah doesn't speak.

‘I won't … ' I begin, but she shuts the front door and passes me without a glance, then just walks off down the corridor, taking long strides, not looking back. She clearly assumes I'll follow. So I do.

The hairpin that roughly holds her hair off her neck has a big silver wasp on it. The pin comes out of the wasp's body – an oversized sting. It flips gently as she strides down the corridor. Finn grabs the neck of my sweater with one small
fist and keeps his other arm wrapped tight round me. I hug him close.

The fireplace is medievally huge. In front of it is a thick white rug. Two large brown sofas, with plenty of cushions, face one other, and on one there is a crumpled blanket and a biography of Barack Obama, spine cracked, face down.

Finn clings, silently. I hold him away from the dogs' noses, praying that he won't start to scream again.

There are books and plants and paintings everywhere and above the fireplace hangs a huge abstract in swirling blues and greens. Susannah turns to face me, with her back to the fire. Her eyes really are a peculiar colour – a light blue-grey, as if the pigment has been bleached from them; wolf's eyes. The dogs stop by her feet, one on each side, looking up at me.

‘Well.' She takes a breath. ‘You look exactly like her, and your son … ' She stops. ‘Your son is so much like … ' But she stops there. Again, she looks shaken.

I have never thought about whether Finn looks like my mother, but I suppose he might. He has the same half-moon eye shape and our heart-shaped face. But he also looks like Doug. He has Doug's chocolate-brown eyes, and a dimple on his chin, like Doug, not on his cheeks like my mother and me.

I glance at my feet. I probably should have taken my boots off at the door – I'm making dark wet stains on the rug. I move back a few steps, away from Susannah and onto the wood floor. Finn is heavy and my arms are getting tired now, holding him so tight.

‘I'm so sorry to just show up like this,' I say again. ‘I just wasn't sure where else to go.'

‘Yeah, well. I'm amazed you found your way here in this fog, at this time of night. That's quite an achievement.'

‘I drove very slowly.'

She stares at me for a beat too long. Then she thrusts out her arms. ‘OK. Why don't you take off your things and give them to me? I'll hang them up.'

I look around, unwilling to put Finn down until I know that the dogs are safe. She seems to understand this and whistles them to her side. They flank her. I turn around, and unpeel Finn's hands from my neck. I sit him on the sofa, and, with my back to her and the dogs, I unzip his suit. For once he doesn't struggle to get up and run off. He looks at me, and I can see the doubt in his eyes. I kiss his head. ‘It's OK, sweetheart. I'm here. Mummy's here. Are you a bit sleepy? What a long day it's been, eh?'

Then I take off my own boots and coat.

Beneath all this weather gear, our clothes are warm and dry, though Finn's hands are chilly, just from the brief time outside.

I pick him up again and he doesn't object, and with one hand I try to gather up our things. She doesn't move or try to help. She is just watching.

When I hand everything to her, she still doesn't move, and I feel, for a moment, as if we are an art exhibit that she's assessing. I see her take in Finn's face, his hair, his hands, then she looks up and down my body, just briefly, from my feet to my head. Finally, her eyes meet mine and
I see something in them that is not irritation or shock at an unannounced visitor. It is suspicion. And then she looks away, and for a moment I wonder if she is afraid.

But of course, she can't be. This is her house. I'm the uninvited visitor. If anyone is scared it should be me. I wonder what my mother would have said to her about me over the years. If they really were in touch then Susannah probably knows about my explosive adolescence, the running away to France, my failure to go to India, my feckless year waitressing in Brighton.

I have an irrational urge to defend my past self – to tell her that whatever my mother has said, I did eventually put myself through A levels, and undergraduate and graduate degrees. I have a career, a husband. I wonder, for a moment, who Susannah thinks I am. What version of me does she think she knows?

‘What are you doing here, Kali?' Her voice is icy. It makes me jump. ‘Why have you brought this … child … this little boy to my house?'

She is absolutely right of course. It is incredibly rude, and odd, to show up like this. I suddenly want to seize our belongings out of her arms – and run.

‘She sent you, didn't she? She told you not to call first.'

‘What? My mother? Oh. No. No. God no. She didn't.'

Her head flicks to look at something behind me. I glance round, but there is no one else here, just the empty corridor leading back to the front door.

‘I did call the studio – I don't have your number here. There was a bit of a mix-up. I booked a B & B, but I
suppose they didn't get my reservation, and the ferry was late – well, it didn't show up, then the next one left early … I just didn't know where else to go. I'm so sorry. I emailed – did you get my email? And I left a message on your gallery answerphone. I just need … If you could give me some numbers of bed and breakfasts … '

I can see a kitchen through an archway behind her. The fire crackles and a log falls with a thud, but she doesn't flinch. The dogs turn in unison to look at the log, then back to look at me again, slightly accusingly, as if I made it fall.

‘Elena didn't send you here?'

‘No.' I shake my head. ‘No.'

I can't just blurt out that my mother is dead. I don't know what that will mean to her and it seems tactless to announce it within minutes of entering her house. It is possible, I realize, that I'm about to deal this woman an awful blow.