The years she stole, p.1
The Years She Stole, page 1
THE
YEARS
SHE
STOLE
Jonathan Harvey
PAN BOOKS
For my husband, Paul Hunt,
and my Best Woman, Julie Graham.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE: SHIRLEY
RACHEL
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
SHIRLEY
Chapter Five
RACHEL
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
SHIRLEY
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
RACHEL
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
SHIRLEY
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
RACHEL
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
SHIRLEY
Chapter Twenty-Two
RACHEL
Chapter Twenty-Three
EPILOGUE
ALL SHE WANTS
THE CONFUSION OF KAREN CARPENTER
THE GIRL WHO JUST APPEARED
THE SECRETS WE KEEP
THE HISTORY OF US
PROLOGUE
SHIRLEY
Birmingham, 1981
The cracks. If I don’t step on the cracks in this pavement then all will be well, all will go according to plan. If I don’t step on the cracks then the gods will smile down on me, I will be the lucky one, I will succeed in my mission. But it’s hard to monitor the progress of my feet when I’m ducking beneath the branches of a weeping willow. I spit the leaves from my mouth and wrestle the fronds that stick to my coat, hoping against hope that the soles of my shoes haven’t made contact with the cracks underfoot.
Free of the tree, I look up to the sky. All I can see is bunting. There really is no escaping it today. Every street in this neighbourhood is criss-crossed with red, white and blue triangles flapping in a breeze I cannot feel. I wonder if the residents have kept these decorations locked away since the Silver Jubilee. Four years seems a long time to keep something in a drawer on the off chance, yet so few of them look brand new.
Did people really do that four years ago?
‘Oh don’t put them in the bin, Marjorie. We might have a royal wedding in a few years. Stick them in the bottom of the sideboard instead. I feel another street party coming on.’
‘Whatever you say Gilbert.’
I very much doubt it.
Some mums and dads are in the middle of this street, starting to arrange trestle tables. I see a little girl, red faced, crying in a deck chair. She is wearing a bowler hat covered in tin foil. Sellotaped onto the tin foil is a cut-out of the happy couple, Charles and Diana. But that little girl is looking anything other than happy. I know how she feels.
The next time I look down – I will spend a lot of time looking down today, avoiding eye contact, it’s the only way – I see a bandy legged crow strutting towards me. He seems as unimpressed by the day’s events as the little girl. I shoo him away with a jab of my right foot.
I know that time is running out. I hasten. If I don’t do this quickly, soon the streets will be full and I will be noticed. I cannot afford to be noticed, not after all my intensive planning. Today is the climax of everything I have been working towards for so long and I must not screw it up. I have practiced for this day so many times, now I need to come good.
I have had umpteen elocution lessons. I now sound so different you’d never guess it was me. All trace of my accent has disappeared. Well, when I want it to. And today it is imperative.
My father’s car is a Jaguar. And he drives it rarther farst.
The man in the moon came down too soon.
Yes. You would hardly know it was me.
And today I don’t want anyone to know it’s me. If anyone stops me, or asks me the time, I have to sound convincingly un-me. I’m even thinking in received pronunciation. That’s what the elocution teacher told me this new accent is. Received pronunciation. RP for short. It suits me, too. It lends me the air of a lady. And till today is over, I need anyone who sees me to see someone other than me.
You know, this old lady’s coat I’m wearing suits me. The pinched waist accentuates my bust and the A-line drop is very forgiving on my thighs. Burgundy is not a colour I’d usually choose but then I wouldn’t normally be wearing a chestnut wig either. It looks good on me, whoever ‘me’ is today. Again, the neutral lipstick isn’t normally my kind of thing. But then there’s nothing normal about what I’m about to do. In fact, this is a very abnormal thing.
I chose this city because it is nowhere near my home town and I have no links to it, but I’ve grown to like it over the last few weeks. I wasn’t sure how to proceed when I first arrived, but then I saw her. And somehow I knew she was my destiny.
I’m no midwife, but as soon as I saw her I knew she was days from dropping. She was waddling along outside Birmingham New Street station. When she got on a bus, I got on too. When she got off, I followed suit. She lived in a nice area. Semidetached houses, wide roads, weeping willows, the works. The sort of place where mothers leave their babies outside the front door in prams all the time. It could be any area in Britain. She lived in a nice house on the corner of two roads. Across the road from the house was a bus stop. It turns out nobody seems to mind if you sit at a bus stop all day, watching. Everybody just thinks you’re waiting for a bus. And from said bus stop you have a wonderful view of the back garden.
Four days ago she returned from the hospital with her husband – he must be her husband, the area is too well-to-do for illegitimacy, plus they’re both wearing wedding rings – and a plump baby in a carrycot.
Three days ago she started leaving the baby out in the back garden in a pram in the sunshine for twenty minutes at about ten o’clock. The baby seems as good as gold. Not a peep out of her.
I am of course hoping this is a regular thing.
I am of course hoping she is out there today.
What sort of parent leaves their child unattended outside their house? It’s like an invitation to abduct. She may as well stick a big sign in the pram. An arrow pointing downwards.
PLEASE. TAKE MY BABY.
Honestly, the everyday habits of the suburban mother never cease to amaze me.
And today is a most excellent day. No-one will give two hoots about me, all eyes will be on their television screens. Today is not royal, it is regal!
I turn from this street to the next, the bunting is sparse now. I wonder if her road is republican – no trestle tables here.
I reach the bus stop and look across the street.
My heart sinks. There is no pram there. I feel a panic rise in me as I lower myself onto the pebble-dashed seating. I have to try and be calm so I can think rationally.
If it isn’t going to happen today, it will happen one day.
I just really want it to happen today.
I look again at the house. Quite a new build. Mid-seventies maybe. Windows not too big, this is good. And the road we’re on is on a slope. It was meant to be the perfect site. A hop over the wall, or a push through the back gate that leads to the back path to the garage. Either would do. Lots of greenery to hide behind. A welcoming house. Nothing foreboding here. A perfectly pleasant house. An inviting house.
A woman ambles up and sits next to me. Shit. This is not part of the plan.
She’s about my age. She has been crying. Why is everyone so sad today? It’s meant to be a day of national celebration, for God’s sake. I look away. I don’t want her to remember me tomorrow. ‘Oh yes, there was a woman in a burgundy mac at the bus stop.’ I just want to blend into the background. And actually it’s good that she’s in some sort of distress. Maybe someone she loves has just died. Perfect. She’ll be in no mood to remember me if that’s the case. Yes, crying at the bus stop, today, right at this moment. This can only be a good thing. In fact, it can be a most excellent thing.
Eventually a bus comes and she gets on and it drives off. And as it sails out of view I see something magnificent. The pram is now in the back garden.
Deep breaths. Deep breaths.
I stand. I cross the road. And I head to the back gate. I open it as quietly as I can. I can hear pop music floating out from the open back door. I will have to be quick. As I approach the pram I hear raised voices. Heart in my mouth, I quicken my pace.
RACHEL
Marrakech, 2017
Chapter One
‘Rachel? It’s Pam. I think you should come home. Your mum . . .’ I hear a catch in her voice. ‘Your mum’s not got long.’
I don’t know what to say. And, coward that I am, I say nothing. Just then my phone vibrates and I don’t know what’s going on. Is Pam sending weird messages down the line?
‘Pam?’
‘Yes?’
I then realize I have another call coming through so I look at my handset. I have had a mobile phone for about a zillion years; you’d think I’d be able to handle ‘call waiting’ by now. I hit a button, any button, and soon I hear my PA’s voice.
‘Hi Rach, it’s me.’
‘Oh, hi Didi. Actually, now’s not a good time.’
‘What time is it?’
Er, My Mum’s Dying Time?
‘I’ll call you ba
I never say ‘wee while’. And for some reason I even said it with the whiff of a Scottish accent. I’m in shock. McShock, even.
I don’t know where this Scottish thing is coming from.
I realize that by cutting Didi off I have now cut Pam off as well.
Instead of trying to find her number I find myself pacing the room, glad of the air con. I feel the leather flooring beneath my bare feet and each step feels like a step on ice.
My mobile rings once more and in a daze I answer. It’s her again.
‘Pam, sorry about that.’
‘There’s something weird going on with your phone,’ she says. ‘It’s not going ring ring, it’s just going beep. Like a long beep.’
‘I’m abroad, Pam. I’m working.’
‘Oh, right. Where are you?’
‘Morocco.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘Marrakech.’
‘How soon can you get back?’
‘I’ll look into flights and let you know. I better get onto it now.’
Again I hang up without so much as a goodbye.
I lie on my bed for five minutes, staring at the ceiling. I am catatonic. The stillness is reassuring; it brings me comfort. It also brings me out in a bit of a sweat.
I stay there another five. And another five.
It’s as if I am paralysed with shock. My head is blank with white noise. This will not do. I have to get. My. Shit. Together.
As the sweat is still trickling down my neck I grab a towel and dry it, while I open my laptop and start looking into plane times. Then I remember that I have a PA who is paid to do exactly this job for me.
I phone her.
‘Oh, is it a better time now?’ she asks, with a slight hint of sarcasm to her tone.
‘Didi, I need you to do something for me,’ I say with brisk efficiency. ‘I need to come home. I need you to get me a flight to London as soon as possible.’
‘But you’ve got three dinners to go to tonight.’
‘My mother’s dying, Didi. I need you to prioritize this and do it now.’
‘I’m so sorry, Rachel.’
‘Me too. Call me back.’
She calls back ten minutes later.
‘D’you want the good news or the bad news?’
‘The good news.’
‘That guy I met last week? He wants a second date.’
‘What’s the bad news?’
‘There are no more flights to London tonight.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘No.’
SHIT.
‘Okay. Get me onto the first one in the morning. I’ll let Pam know.’
‘Great. Who’s Pam?’
‘My mum’s next-door neighbour.’
‘Actually. Ben was wondering whether this was actually necessary.’
Ben is my boss. Ben makes Madonna look easy-going.
‘Whether what’s necessary?’
‘You going home.’
‘To see my dying mum?’
‘That’s right. In fact, he said, “Over my dead body.”’
‘Tell him to go fuck himself.’
‘Do you really mean that, Rachel?’
‘Yes, I do. And forget booking the flight. I’ll do it myself.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind doing that –’ and then she lowers her voice – ‘I just can’t do it on your company credit card. I think he’s still a bit het up about the JuJu Quick hoo-ha.’
I really can’t be bothered to argue. I hang up.
Let me explain. JuJu Quick is an international pop star. With huge ideas above her station. I work for Ben’s company Venus Travel and we organize all her travel around the world. Recently we had a massive problem on our hands when the address of the five-bedroom town house I had found for her to stay in while she was recording a new album in Toronto was leaked to the press and she threw a hissy fit. We very nearly lost her as a client. In fact, Ben was so desperate to win her back he promised her a week in Marrakech, so I have come to the hotel we have planned for her to check everything is in place for her arrival. I also have to go everywhere on her itinerary and make sure it’s up to her sort of standard. Basically I have to go to every shop she’s likely to go in and eat in every restaurant we have booked for her. Tonight I was meant to be doing three in one go.
My phone rings again.
‘Any joy?’ Pam asks, all niceties dispensed with.
‘No,’ I reply, trying my best to sound both disappointed and frustrated. ‘I’ve been on the phone to the airline. I can’t get a plane till tomorrow. I promise you, Pam, I’ll be home as soon as I can. I really must go, Pam. This’ll be costing you a fortune.’
‘Well . . .’
But before she can say any more I hang up and head to the bar.
If you think travelling on your own as a woman is bad, try travelling on your own as a pregnant woman. In the hotel I get pitying, sanctimonious looks. Outside in the souk, the stallholders assume I have mislaid my husband or that ‘he come along later’. But in the hotel there’s no escape, you can’t pretend. They know I’m on my own and the absence of any man is the elephant in the room. Or the elephant in the riad.
In Marrakech hotels aren’t really called hotels; on the whole they’re called riads. A riad, as far as I’m aware, is a traditional Moroccan house with a garden or courtyard at the centre of it and the building constructed round it in a sort of square shape, with rooms off the central space.
The riad I am staying in is very fancy. It has to be; JuJu Quick only does fancy. Fancy schmancy, my mum would say. And this place is the epitome of that. Hence the leather floor in my room. And hence the feeling that I’m in some old episode of Ab Fab where they come to this hot country to pick up knickknacks and rugs. Knick-knacks and rugs are what the souk is famous for. Honestly, you could get lost in that city-wide maze of a market for weeks. It’s got to the point where I daren’t go out there, I’m so sick of getting lost and asking for help to get me back here.
I go up to sit on the roof of the riad looking out over the sun-bleached city, the canvas coverings of the outdoor market stalls, the tiled roofs of the souk, the clock tower overlooking the main square, in the distance the Atlas Mountains. Although it’s blisteringly hot here and I am grateful for the shade of an olive-green canopy, over there the mountains are dusted with snow. I take a deep breath, slowly exhale, and think of the words that Pam has said on the phone.
My mum has not got long left.
I order a non-alcoholic mint julep and try to put those words to the back of my mind. Like it’s normal to feel so little when you hear your mum is about to die. Like it’s normal to think, well, if I just stay here long enough I might not make it in time and will be saved the deathbed farewell. If only I wasn’t pregnant. If only I could drink a proper drink, a proper mint julep, and ease the journey to blocking it all out. I’d even drink gin tonight, and I hate gin. There’s something about the taste, makes me feel anxious and sicky. And I love a good drink!
But I can’t. I’m just not capable. After everything my mum has done to me I still love her. So I take out my phone and try looking for flights online.
I’ll be honest. When we had to do our damage limitation exercise with JuJu, it was my idea to send her to Marrakech, and why? Because although I have done a whole heap of foreign travel through work, it’s one place I’ve always wanted to visit but as yet have not had an excuse to. When I suggested it, Ben thought it was a glorious idea.
I was first drawn to Marrakech because of my slight obsession with Doris Day. Although not close to my mother now, growing up we did share a love of old movies. They were some of the few times I remember her being happy, curtains drawn on a Saturday afternoon, cigarette on the go, television on in the corner of the room with some Technicolor dance routine or Doris Day emoting over a picket fence.
The Man Who Knew Too Much has long been one of my favourite Doris Day films and, even as a child, when I first saw the shot of that bus squeezing under the arch as it entered the riotous town square on its arrival in Marrakech, I knew I would have to visit it one day. I just never thought it would take me till I was thirty-six. Thirty-six and up the duff. In retrospect, not the best place to come when heat is an issue for you. The staff at the riad have been very kind and furnished me with my own fan, with which I waft myself now. They’ve also given me my own parasol for when I venture outside. All very good but I can see it in their eyes every time they look at me. Weird Englishwoman about to drop, coming here in the heat, silly moo.
