While My Eyes Were Closed (18 page)

‘Thanks,’ says Claire. ‘If you’re sure, I’ll run you down the station now.’

Alex nods. Tony stands up too. ‘Come on, Dad,’ he says. ‘We’ve got nowt to hide. We’ll get this out of the way and then go and do leaflets and Facebook and that.’

‘Great,’ says Claire. ‘What are you going to do on Facebook?’

‘Tony’s setting up a Find Ella page,’ says Dad. ‘Unless we’re not allowed to do that now.’

‘Course you are. It’s just important to keep me informed, that’s all. I can get our press office to link to it from their page, you see.’

Dad looks at her. It is his grudging-respect look, though I’m not sure Claire realises that. Dad stands and picks up his mug of tea. ‘Right you are then. Let me finish this and we’ll be off.’

*

Mum lets out a long sigh when they are gone. It is like the war, just the womenfolk left at home to wring their hands. I know full well what she’s thinking.

‘Try not to worry. Tony’ll be fine,’ I say.

‘I don’t like them knowing, that’s all. People make judgements. He’ll be a bad apple in their eyes.’

‘Yeah, well. It was a long time ago. And it wasn’t exactly crime of the century, was it?’

‘He’s my son, though, Lis. I don’t like people thinking badly of him.’

‘I really don’t think they’ll be bothered, Mum. All they want to do is find Ella. They’re not going to be interested in trawling up his past, are they?’

Mum nods. I think she is about to squeeze my hand again. I’m not sure I can cope with that right now.

‘I’d better cancel my clients for tomorrow,’ I say, standing up and reaching for my phone.

*

I am on my own when Alex comes back. Mum has gone home to start on Sunday lunch. If a nuclear bomb went off, when the dust cleared, you would still see Mum doing Sunday lunch for anyone who had survived.

‘You OK?’ I ask as he comes in and sits down at the table. It is a stupid question. I must get it from Mum.

He simply shrugs.

‘What did they ask you?’

He runs his hands through his hair and looks up at the ceiling.

‘I had to give them the name and contact number of the client I was meeting. They wanted my car park ticket to prove I was there and everything.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

We are silent for a moment. ‘You’ve seen what they’re saying, haven’t you?’ I ask. ‘On Twitter and Facebook and that.’

‘Yeah,’ says Alex. ‘I didn’t say anything in case you hadn’t seen it. I didn’t want to upset you.’

I look at him and raise my eyebrows. He looks down at his hands.

‘Maybe they’re right,’ I say. ‘Maybe I am a crap mother.’

He looks up straight away. ‘Come on, you mustn’t let them get to you. They’re sad bastards with nothing better to do than take a pop at other people. It doesn’t matter what they say. None of this is your fault.’

‘I bet your mum and dad don’t think that. Did they say anything on the phone?’

‘Of course they didn’t. All they care about is finding Ella. They’re not blaming anyone.’

I make a noise and look away. The look of disappointment on Sylvia’s face at our wedding still haunts me. Alex tried to claim her discomfort was due to the prawn cocktail disagreeing with her, but it was pretty obvious to me the only thing she had a disagreement with was his choice of bride.

‘Did they ask why I didn’t cry? Yesterday, at the press conference.’

‘No. They asked how you were, that’s all.’

‘Only because they didn’t want to rock the boat by saying anything to you. I bet it’s what they wondered when they watched it, though – why their daughter-in-law is some lowlife cold-hearted bitch who doesn’t even cry when her own daughter goes missing.’

Alex gets up and comes to me, kneeling down and hugging me as my tears start to fall. Because I am
crying now. Away from the lights and the cameras I’m bawling my fucking eyes out.

‘Stop it,’ he says, brushing away the tears. ‘Stop it right there, because I am not going to let you do this to yourself. I know how much you love her and I know what a brilliant mum you are, and I really don’t give a toss what anyone else says or thinks.’

‘So why didn’t I cry at the press conference? That’s what I was supposed to do. That’s what everyone wanted.’

‘And that’s probably why you didn’t cry. Because I’ve never known anyone who’s less of a victim than you are. And I’ve never known you do anything simply because it’s expected of you. You’re your own person, it’s one of the things I love about you. And I also love the fact that you don’t normally give a toss what anyone else thinks.’

I sniff loudly. ‘I didn’t want him to think I’m weak,’ I say. ‘Whoever’s got Ella. I didn’t want him to think that I’m going to crack.’

I feel Alex’s tears mix with my own on my cheek and run down my neck. We stay like that for a long time, huddled together against the world.

‘Do you think we’ll get her back?’ I whisper as he strokes my arm.

‘I don’t know. I keep wishing I’d told you to ring the police when you first called. I can’t believe I took the piss out of you. I feel so stupid. I mean that ten or fifteen minutes could have been crucial.’

‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Don’t you start beating yourself up – you’ll probably be better at it than me for a start.’

He manages a hint of an upturn at the corner of his mouth. His stubble is rough against my face. I actually like him with stubble, although it feels stupid even to be thinking that right now. I wonder if he won’t shave until Ella is found, whether her absence will be recorded unofficially in the length of his facial hair. I am reminded of one of Ella’s favourite books,
Mr Follycule’s Wonderful Beard
, in which the previously clean-shaven Mr Follycule wishes for a beard and by the next morning has one which grows at such an alarming rate it stretches halfway across town. She once asked Alex if he could wish for a beard to see if his would do that. Maybe that is what he is doing, trying to grow a Mr Follycule beard for Ella. Maybe I will have to stop him when it gets to a foot long. Gently sit him down and tell him that it’s no good, it won’t make her come back.

‘I can’t bear to think about what might have happened to her,’ he says, closing his eyes for a second.

‘I know. Me neither. I think I’d know, though. If it were the worst, like.’

‘Do you?’

‘Yeah. I’m not sure how. Maybe it’s a stupid mum thing, but I think I’d know.’

He pulls me in and buries his face in my hair.

‘Let’s hope you’re right then,’ he says. ‘Because I’m not sure I could bear it otherwise.’

*

Sylvia and Graham arrive dead on two. Normally this would irritate the hell out of me. Today I do not give a shit. Sylvia glides in, her silver hair looking immaculate as ever, the scent of lilies impregnated in her skin. She holds my shoulders (possibly the first time she’s ever done this in my entire life) and says quietly, ‘Hello, Lisa. How are you bearing up, dear?’

I slap her across the face and tell her to take her composed compassion and stick it up her arse. At least I do in my head. In real life I manage to say, ‘Oh, you know,’ and smile weakly at her.

Sylvia turns to Alex and kisses him on both cheeks. ‘This must be so awful for you. I still can’t quite believe it.’

Alex nods in acknowledgement and goes to help Graham, who is struggling up the path with their overnight bag. He walks with a slight limp. Did something to his knee years ago while playing golf; nothing they can do, apparently. We go through the same excruciating greeting routine. Now I wish I’d said no when Alex asked if it was OK for them to come. I couldn’t though, not really. They are trying to be nice, to say and do the right things. That is the problem though, that is what I am sick of already. Everybody being so bloody nice, behaving so damn reasonably.

Graham struggles to bend down and take his shoes off. When the children were little I made Alex say something about the fact that most people had the courtesy to remove their shoes without being asked to, except he
said it in a nicer way than that of course. There was a bit of a do about it. Sylvia said it must be a ‘northern thing’ as no one did it in Surrey. Dogs not being capable of crapping on the same pavements people walk on in the south of England apparently.

‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘It’s fine.’ Graham looks up at me, opens his mouth as if to say something before closing it again, presumably having thought better of it.

‘Good journey?’ asks Alex.

‘Yes, straight through,’ says Graham. ‘I thought it would be much busier, to be honest. What with it being the end of the school holidays.’

He pauses, having caught my eye. Ella should be starting school tomorrow. Her new uniform is hanging upstairs in her wardrobe. Right now I don’t know if she will ever get to wear it.

‘Otis is at a friend’s,’ says Alex, obviously keen to move things on. ‘He’ll be back about four. We’re going to Lisa’s mum’s for lunch if that’s OK. We weren’t really up to cooking or going out anywhere.’

‘No. No, of course not,’ says Sylvia. ‘You must both be exhausted, you poor things. We watched the press conference. It didn’t feel real, to be honest, seeing you both on the television.’

I try to imagine her watching me, wonder if she criticised what I was wearing. I can’t even remember what I was wearing.

‘I know,’ says Alex. ‘It didn’t feel real to us either.’

‘Do the police have any leads?’ asks Graham. ‘Anything at all to go on?’

‘Nothing major. But there were lots of calls afterwards apparently. They’re still going through them all.’

‘Well that’s something,’ says Sylvia. ‘Let’s hope it’s not too long.’

I nod. Although I’m no longer sure exactly what I’m supposed to be hoping for.

*

‘You’re looking well, Sylvia,’ says Mum as she shows them into the living room. The carpet has been freshly vacuumed; you can smell it and almost see the lines, like when people cut the lawn with those old-fashioned mowers. She has plumped the cushions too. Not even Ella going missing can stop her doing that.

‘You really shouldn’t have gone to this much trouble,’ says Sylvia. ‘Not in the circumstances.’

I take it that is the phrase which is going to be used all the time here. This is starting to feel like when someone has cancer and no one dares say the C-word.

‘It’s no trouble,’ Mum says. ‘Can’t have you driving all that way and not having a decent meal waiting for you; it wouldn’t be right.’

I roll my eyes. I can think of a lot of things which aren’t right at the moment – being denied a hot meal is not one of them.

‘Well, it’s very much appreciated,’ replies Sylvia. ‘Alex always says you do a lovely roast.’

Alex glances at me, perhaps sensing that I might not be able to take much more of this.

‘Shall we go through, Tina?’ he asks.

‘Yes, I’m about ready to serve up. Vince, will you get a bottle of wine out of the fridge.’

‘We haven’t got one in there, have we?’

‘Yes, we have, love,’ she replies through gritted teeth.

‘Why?’

Mum fixes him with a look.

‘We’ve got guests, haven’t we?’

‘I’ve never had wine with my Sunday lunch. Couple of pints of Stella to wash it down, maybe.’

‘Really,’ says Graham, ‘there’s no need to go to all this trouble on our account.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ says Mum. ‘It’s not often we get the chance to entertain.’

‘Oh, so it’s a fucking social occasion now, is it?’ They turn to stare at me. I can’t put the cork back in now, though. It is too late for that. ‘Ella is missing or has everyone forgotten that?’

‘I didn’t mean—’ starts Mum.

‘Yeah, well, whatever,’ I say, blinking back the tears as I walk out of the living room and go through to the kitchen. I imagine their faces behind me; Sylvia’s raised eyebrows, whispered sympathy, someone saying I’m not coping very well. Maybe I’m not. I don’t know what coping is in this situation, mind. As I see it, you either
get through each day or you slit your wrists, that’s about the size of it.

Alex is the first to make it into the kitchen. He puts his arms around me and kisses me on the top of the head.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I shouldn’t have lost it like that, but this is doing my head in. It doesn’t seem right, us sitting down to a meal when we have no idea where she is.’

‘I know. They’re hurting too, though.’

‘Then why don’t they show it? Bawl their eyes out or whatever. It’s this pretending everything’s fine and avoiding the subject I can’t stand.’

‘I should have told them not to come.’

‘My lot are worse than yours, to be honest.’

‘We can go home if you want. We don’t have to do this. They’d understand.’

‘No,’ I say, running my fingers through my hair. ‘Mum’s gone to a lot of trouble, and your parents haven’t driven all that way not to see you.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yeah. Let’s just get it over with.’

Alex goes back into the living room. A few minutes later he returns, followed by Mum.

‘I’ll get it all dished up now, love,’ she says, her eyes moist. ‘I’ll save a bit for Chloe for when she gets home, mind.’

I nod and manage a hint of a smile. The others come
in and sit down silently at the table. Sylvia appears to still be in shock.

‘Vince, give our Tony a shout, will you?’ says Mum before turning to Sylvia. ‘He’s upstairs doing the Facebook thing.’

Sylvia and Graham look blankly at her.

‘We’ve set up a Find Ella Facebook page. Tony says it’s got thousands of likes already.’

‘Right,’ says Graham, seemingly unimpressed.

‘Her picture’s being shared all over the Internet,’ says Dad, coming back into the kitchen.

‘And that’s a good thing, is it?’ asks Sylvia. ‘Only I thought parents usually tried to keep photos of their children off the Internet.’

‘Yeah, well, this isn’t usually, is it?’ says Dad, glancing in my direction.

‘No,’ says Sylvia as I dig my nails into the palms of my hands, ‘I suppose it’s not.’

*

Both Alex and Dad offer to pick Chloe up from the station but I am having none of it. I need to get out of the house; I need to breathe, to be with people who aren’t trying so hard not to upset me that they are doing so in the process.