The Mummyfesto (36 page)

‘Hello,’ I said. ‘My elderly mother’s gone missing. She has Alzheimer’s. She might not even remember her own name. I’m trying to check if anyone of her description has been brought in.’

I gave her name and description, right down to the hole in the left arm of her pink cardigan. The receptionist was very helpful. She went through her list on the computer; she even rang through to A & E to double-check. Nothing.

‘Have you reported her missing to the police?’ she asked.

I felt stupid. I should have done it right away. Well, as soon as Alice had gone, anyway. But I’d been so sure I’d find her. So positive she’d wander around the corner any moment.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I didn’t want to bother them.’

‘Perhaps it’s time you should.’

I thanked her and put the phone down. She was right, of course. I couldn’t spend the entire day going up and down the same streets. She wasn’t here. I didn’t know where she was and I certainly didn’t know if she’d be able to find her way home.

I dialled the general number for reporting crimes in Halifax: it felt less extreme than calling 999. I still didn’t want to accept that it was an emergency. Wanted to believe that I’d be apologising for bothering them in a minute when she appeared at the window.

The man who answered went through a whole load of questions with me. He seemed to be taking it pretty seriously. Which, far from making me feel better, actually made me more concerned.

He told me Mum’s details would go out to all officers immediately. That he’d send a patrol car round within the next fifteen minutes.

‘Fuck,’ I said as I put the phone down. And for the first time that day, I started to cry.

They sent a PC and a WPC, who was one of those sympathetic liaison officer types. I showed them through to the
front room and offered them a cup of tea. I talked incoherently at them. All the usual things you do in a crisis.

‘Can you think of any places she might have gone?’ the female officer asked. ‘Favourite spots, friends’ houses, a park?’

I shook my head. ‘She really doesn’t go far afield. She used to go to Ackroyd Park and Shroggs Park when we were younger, but we haven’t been for years.’

‘What about family?’ asked the WPC.

‘She’s a widow. The only brother she’s still got alive is in Scarborough. And me and my husband. That’s it.’

The male officer spoke for the first time. ‘I think in the circumstances it would be sensible to put this out to the media. Local radio, evening rag, local TV, that sort of thing.’ I shut my eyes and looked up at the ceiling.

‘Hopefully it will all be sorted within the hour,’ said the WPC. ‘But the media can be very important in this type of case. Thousands of extra pairs of eyes, you see.’

I nodded. I didn’t see how I could say no. Even though I knew the media would probably twig who I was and it would end up as headline news by teatime. The male officer got up and left the room. A couple of seconds later I heard him talking on his radio in the hallway. The WPC came and sat next to me on the sofa.

‘Do you have a recent photograph?’ she asked. I thought for a moment then pointed to the small framed photograph of Mum on her seventieth birthday on the mantelpiece.

‘You can have that one. It’s a couple of years ago, but it’s probably the best we’ve got.’

She nodded, took the photo out of the frame and went out to give it to her colleague.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘If it’s OK with you, PC Sullivan is going to wait here in case your mum comes home, while someone shoots over to copy that photo and get it out to the media. In the meantime I’m going to go for a drive around in the patrol car. Would you like to stay here or come with me?’

I opted to go with her. I thought she’d be better company for a start. And I knew I’d feel better actually doing something rather than sitting around waiting. I got in the police car. Pauline across the road was looking out. I gave her a little wave, trying to pretend that everything was fine, or at least let her know that no news was good news.

The policewoman’s name, which I’d forgotten when she’d first introduced herself, was WPC King, but she said to call her Jenny. She was probably ten years younger than me, but for some reason seemed a hell of a lot more sensible and grown-up at that moment.

‘We’ll do all the local streets first,’ she said, ‘then fan outwards from there. We’ll probably find her sitting on a park bench somewhere, having lost complete track of time, really we will.’ She gave me a reassuring smile. I didn’t like to tell her that Mum had no idea what century it was, let alone what time it was.

We criss-crossed the lattice of terraced streets around Mum’s home. Streets I had grown up playing in. Streets
it turned out I still knew well enough to be able to direct her this way and that.

‘We’ve sent people to check out the parks,’ she said, when we’d drawn a blank. ‘So maybe we’ll just do a run up and down the main road next, if you think that’s a good idea?’

I shrugged. It was pointless asking me. I had no idea where she was at all. My stomach rumbled, reminding me of the fact that I hadn’t had any lunch. Although as I didn’t think I’d be able to stomach anything right now, it would have to go unheeded. I looked at my watch. It was nearly three o’clock already. I just hoped we’d find her before nightfall. The thought of her being out all night was almost more than I could bear.

It was the second time we went up the main street that I saw it. A tiny flash of pink the other side of the thick steel school railings.

‘Stop,’ I said. Jenny pulled up sharply on the kerb. I pointed to a figure slumped on the ground around the other side of the railings, by the front gate. ‘I think that’s her.’

I flung open the passenger door.

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Jenny.

I bit my lower lip and blinked hard as I hurried across the grass as fast as I could in my heels. Rawson Junior and Infant School was where Deborah and I had gone. The building hadn’t changed much. It was just the railings which were unfamiliar. I’d often tutted as I’d driven past, hating the fact that it looked more like a secure training
establishment. Paul has said it was just the way things were nowadays. That local authorities were more concerned about safety than aesthetics.

As I rounded the corner I saw her move. It was the first time I knew for certain that she was alive. She was sitting on a low wall rocking back and forth hugging her legs.

‘Mum,’ I called.

She turned around. I noticed her red puffy eyes, a solitary tear still visible amongst the wrinkles on her face.

‘What are you doing here?’ I asked.

‘I’m waiting for Deborah,’ she said. ‘It’s about time she came out, but I’ve not had sight nor sound of them. I tried gates but they’re locked. Do you think she’s all right, our Deborah?’

I stopped in my tracks and screwed up my eyes.

‘Who’s Deborah?’ whispered Jenny in my ear.

I hesitated for a second before I answered. ‘She was my sister. She was killed in a road accident just over there,’ I said, nodding back towards the main road. ‘When I was seven.’

Jenny nodded. ‘Take as much time as you need,’ she said. She walked back towards the car. I heard her voice talking into the radio. Telling them it was all over now. For them, at least.

I sat down on the step next to Mum, put my arms around her and pulled her to me. Just as she’d done with me all those years ago. And I rocked with her. Stroking her hair, letting my tears run into hers. Lil Webster. A tough old bird. Or at least she had been, until that day.

We sat for a long time. Until the rocking had stilled somewhat. And I finally felt able to speak. ‘It’s the Easter holidays,’ I said. ‘None of the children are here today. That’s why the gates are locked.’

She looked up at me, her face visibly brightening. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I’m a silly old bugger, aren’t I?’

‘Come on,’ I said, helping her to her feet. ‘Let’s get you home.’

The police had, of course, notified the media about Mum being missing before I found her. They’d given them her name and photo and all the details. Which meant they had to tell them she’d been found safely too. And give them some brief details about the circumstances. It didn’t take them long after that. By the time the local news came on that evening, they’d pieced it all together.

‘
Tonight, the Secret Heartache of Lollipop Party Candidate’s Family
,’ was the headline. I’d declined their offer to be interviewed. Just issued a statement saying I was relieved Mum had been found safe and well and thanking those who’d helped. And asking that we now be left in peace. They filled in the gaps themselves. They even found archive footage of the court case when the drink-driver had been sentenced to just five years for ending Deborah’s life. And the reaction to the news that he had two previous convictions for drink-driving.

I sat and watched it in Mum’s living room with tears rolling down my cheeks. I’d never even seen it myself. It felt unreal, watching my father read out a statement, his
voice cracking, barely able to conceal his anger. And my mother, standing forlornly next to him, her face deathly pale, clinging on to his arm as if she might not be able to stand without him.

The same mother who was asleep upstairs now, the day’s exertions having proved too much for her. But who, for all I knew, had waited outside the school gates for Deborah on other days. And had returned home never quite understanding why she didn’t come out.

I suppose I should have anticipated it. Bad luck comes in threes and all that. Or simply realised that I was next in line. Having taken potshots at the other two, it was only to be expected that they’d reload and come back for me. I suppose I’d naïvely believed that there would be a period of grace after Jackie. I wasn’t to know that at the very time the rest of us were sharing in her heartache, wringing our hands over how much she and her mother had suffered, the parasites were already lining up their next target. And it was me.

The ammunition had actually been provided by Will, albeit unwittingly. One of his so-called friends had tagged him on a photo on Facebook. Unfortunately the photo showed him sitting in the park with a joint in one hand and a can of Special Brew in the other. Short of a having a heroin needle stuck in his leg, it couldn’t really have been much worse.

I was alerted to this fact by a phone call from a reporter from the
Sun on Sunday
. Clearly they’d just ‘come across it’ on Facebook. It wasn’t part of a systemic campaign to sabotage the Lollipop Party’s attempts to get elected. No, no. She even made it sound as if she were doing me a favour by alerting me to my son’s misdemeanours. As if the
Sun
were now the arbiter of moral standards and simply whispering some gentle advice in my ear rather than maliciously trying to get some dirt on my teenage children without any regard for the impact that would have on them.

‘We wanted to give you the opportunity to make a comment,’ the reporter said. ‘We could turn the story around and do a first-person piece from you on the pitfalls of being a parent, if you like. Something along the lines of how even middle-class professional people’s children can go off the rails. It might sound better coming from you like that.’

I wasn’t stupid. I was well aware they would twist whatever I said to suit their needs. I said I’d get back to them when I’d had a chance to see the photograph and talk to my family. She said she would email it through to me so I could look at it.

I stared at the photo on my screen. Struggling to reconcile the youth in the picture with the son I knew to be so much more than that. Unfortunately, within twenty-four hours that was how the rest of the country would know him. Because whether I liked it or not they were going to print the photo. And there was nothing I could do about it.

To be honest, I didn’t know what I could say. The photo pretty much said it all. I couldn’t deny it was my son. I couldn’t deny that he’d done those things. And if I tried to say he wasn’t like that normally, that I’d no idea what had been going on, people would simply conclude that I would say that, wouldn’t I? Because I was his mother.

I phoned Sam. ‘Hi. Is it OK for me to pop round in five minutes. I need to ask your advice.’

‘Yes. Yes, of course. Is everything OK?’

‘No, not really. I’ll explain when I see you.’

‘Sure,’ said Sam, her voice full of concern. ‘Come right over.’

‘Are you sure it’s convenient with Oscar and everything?’

‘Yeah, Rob’s here. The doctor’s already been this morning. It’s fine. Honestly.’

‘Thanks. I’ll see you in a bit.’

I packed my laptop away and poked my head around the door of the study. David was stuffing envelopes with Liberal Democrat leaflets. He stopped as soon as he saw me. Tried to cover them up with some papers. Under normal circumstances I’d probably have had a big scene with him about why exactly he was not only not supporting my campaign but now actively campaigning against me. It wasn’t normal circumstances, though. I had far more important things on my mind.

‘Are you OK to hold the fort for half an hour? I need to pop to Sam’s.’

‘Yeah. Sure,’ he said, seemingly perplexed by the fact I hadn’t said anything about the leaflets.