Chapter 13
ALICE
It takes longer than expected to drive to South Yorkshire.
We’ve made a few detours to get the KFC Georgia had asked for, and we stopped so I could take photos of the stunning scenery as we got closer: lush green valleys, rolling hills…
the beauty so often depicted by the Brontes, but all of it very different to the Yorkshire Michael described.
So much untamed beauty being eaten away, bit by bit, by industry and concrete.
It reminds me of Shropshire in a way. But it’s mostly taken longer because Spence has been arguing with the Google Maps woman.
‘At the next junction, turn right.’
‘Nope,’ Spence replies, driving straight past the junction where we’re supposed to be turning.
‘Dad!’ Georgia intervenes. ‘Why don’t you just do as she says?’
‘Because she’s wrong.’ He’s always been a terrible pilot.
I’d forgotten that. I can’t really remember the last time we travelled this far together.
When we were younger, we often packed up and would drive with just the flip of a coin as a navigation tool.
Music would be blaring through the stereo and there would be nothing but the need for an adventure away from sixth form, then later, the worries about his impending parenthood and my tendency to spend whole weekends holed up in my bedroom, studying.
Then there were the days where we would drive anywhere just so Georgia would sleep, often me taking the wheel, so Spence could too.
I fidget in my seat and flip down the visor.
I’d hardly slept last night, and it shows in the dark smudges under my eyes.
I’m yet to put the weight back on since Ryan left; my cheekbones are more prominent than in the photos of us together, which I find myself flipping through when the torture of insomnia hits.
It’s still me staring back, but there is something missing, something I can’t quite identify.
The car smells like coleslaw and the Yankee Candle air freshener that I learned had been hung just prior to Spence’s date last night. He still hasn’t told us anything more about this mystery woman, despite us pestering him with questions.
We drive through the high street, Kate Bush’s ‘Wuthering Heights’ blaring out of the speakers from Georgia’s ‘trip to Yorkshire’ playlist. There are the usual hairdressers, a Greggs, a few shops that are boarded up, but the betting office looks like it’s prospering.
I feel a tug somewhere deep in my solar plexus like I’ve been here before.
My head turns towards a fish and chip shop; it’s closed but something deep within me knows that it is the same place Alice and Michael went that night.
Spence pauses at some traffic lights, the engine rumbling.
‘Huh,’ Georgia says, chewing loudly as she leans forwards. ‘I thought it would be prettier, like he would live in one of those cute little villages we came through.’
There is something bleak about this place, but as we sit idling at the lights, I spot a group of people crowded outside a bakery.
There is a sense of community in the way conversations are being passed, hands on arms, a wave to another person across the road carrying a bag of shopping.
As the road begins to dip, I spot a black structure, a wheel on top, a relic of the past and the foundations of this small town.
‘What’s that?’ Georgia asks, pointing.
‘It’s a pithead, I think…’ I reply, bringing forward some of the research I’d done at the library, before the black sculpture disappears behind more town buildings. ‘It’s what used to bring the pit cage up and down. Most of them have been demolished now…’
The lights change and we continue along the street.
I fidget, look at my reflection again, and wish I’d opted for the shower rather than using Georgia’s dry shampoo that smells like cherry cola.
I flip it back up and turn my head, watching as we edge out of town towards the council estates on the outskirts.
‘This is it.’ I try to rationalise that the confidence with which I say the words is because I’ve read Millbank Street so many times at the top of the letters sitting inside my bag in the footwell, rather than the sensation of familiarity that the road sign sitting against the red-brick wall is emanating.
The street itself is unremarkable. Back-to-back red-brick Victorian cottages packed along the long road. Spence slows down, as I lean forwards counting the numbers… 23, 24, 25…
‘Your destination is on the right.’
I lean forwards, eyes scanning the houses that lead up.
But right where number 26 should be is a Tesco Express.
Shit.
The blue letters are underlined in red, as if this imposter of a building needs to be emphasised even more than the glass frontage gaping out at cars parked outside.
‘That can’t be right.’ My voice is tight. I look up to where the original red brick is still visible, two double-glazed windows sitting above the sign, stark against the dark brick.
‘You have arrived at your destination.’
‘Shut up!’ we say in unison. Spence turns off the ignition. He looks to the road, fingers tapping against the steering wheel. I reach inside my bag and pull out the letters; even though I know his address by heart, I’m hoping that the number will read differently.
‘We came all this way for a Tesco Express?’ Georgia says, scrunching up her face.
I turn towards the right. Mike said he could see the pithead from his window but from here I can’t see anything.
‘Shall we go in?’ Spence asks tentatively, but I’m still looking from the paper to the shop outside and back again hoping to see some sort of mistake.
‘Al?’ he repeats.
‘I…’ I look at the words on the page again, the past and present battling against each other.
‘Someone might know something about him?’ His voice is gentle, but I know from his tone that he thinks there isn’t much chance of finding out something from the staff behind a Tesco Express counter.
‘May as well.’ I shrug, even though my shoulders are already perched high.
Outside the shop, my eyes scour up and down the street. For a second, I can almost see Michael, hands tucked into his denim jacket, dark hair falling forwards, blue eyes focused on the cracks in the pavement. I blink and the image fades.
I turn, covering my eyes with my hand and stand on tiptoes. I can’t see the whole wheel at the pithead, but it’s there, I look back to the windows above the shop; he would have definitely been able to see it from there. My stomach drops towards the pavement.
The blue doors hiss open, and we step inside. Meal deals stare from the fridge instead of a pair of blue eyes. Georgia heads straight for the chocolate aisle despite Spence protesting that she’s just wolfed down a takeaway. ‘They’re for the way back!’ she answers as I make my way to the counter.
‘What can I get you?’ the woman asks. She’s small, attractive with a neat grey bob and plum lipstick. The words stick in my throat. Get a grip, Alice. You know how to do this.
‘Actually, we’re looking for an old friend who used to live at this address?’ The words come out slightly strangled.
‘Fire away,’ she answers as she moves behind a plastic container and fiddles with the roll of scratch cards.
‘His name was Michael. Does that ring a bell?’
‘Ah, yes!’ she says, smiling and coming back to us. My heart quickens.
‘You know him?’ Hope flickers in my chest, along with a pull of something like regret. Do I want to meet him, Michael as he is now?
‘Oh no, not as such, but he sure is popular… Wait a tick.’
She turns and walks into the back of the store, the door closing swiftly behind her.
Georgia approaches, basket filled with chocolate, grapes, nuts and a magazine.
Spence promptly takes half of the chocolate out and tells her to put them back on the shelves.
She complies with a grumble about it being a long journey home and not to blame her if she gets hangry.
‘Ah, here we are!’ The woman is back. The optimism I felt a few moments ago splats on the floor. On the counter are my letters. Each one delivered, each one still sealed. Spence reaches for one and cocks his eyebrow, recognising my handwriting.
‘I’ve asked around,’ she says, fiddling with her nametag which reads Judy is happy to help! ‘But no takers, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh… These are my letters,’ I say with an apologetic smile, heat flushing my cheeks. ‘My mistake, I must have the wrong address. He lived around here in the eighties. Are there any families that still live close by that might know who or where he is?’
Happy to help Judy lives up to her name. ‘Well, there’s a few folks who have lived here a while, and there is Mr Evans who comes in on a regular basis, but I couldn’t tell you where he lives. I can ask next time any of them pop in?’
I chew my bottom lip. ‘That would be great.’ I pull out a notepad and write down my name, number and as an afterthought, my address.
‘He was an…’ I’m about to say that he’s an artist but Michael kept much of that to himself.
‘He was a painter and decorator around here in 1985…’ I trail off.
Then, as though he’s right beside me I hear his voice, a low Yorkshire drawl…
‘That mural we passed – aye, that were me.’
‘Is there… a mural painted on a wall close by?’
‘A mural? Oh, I don’t know if mural is the right word for it, but Victoria Street is where the local Banksys try their hand.’
Thanking her, we head outside.
‘You wrote to him?’ Spence asks, opening a packet of wine gums and offering me one as he leans back against his car.
‘Yeah… thought it was worth a shot.’
He chews thoughtfully. Georgia has her earpods in and is staring at her phone screen. She catches me looking and pockets it.
‘What did you say?’
Joining him against the car, I reach into the bag and pop one in my mouth. ‘Nothing much, just, you know, stuff about me, about my life.’
‘Right. So, what’s this mural?’
‘It’s something he mentioned. He painted it, it’s probably nothing but…’ I open up Google Maps on my phone and find Victoria Street. ‘It’s not far…’
‘Come on then,’ he answers. Georgia asks to stay in the car.
‘Absolutely not. Come on, the fresh air will do you good.’
She wrinkles her nose and looks around. ‘Doesn’t feel very fresh around here.’
She has a point; there is a bin outside the shop, overflowing.
Ten minutes later and we find the right street. It’s long, similar to Millbank, but with the exception of a working man’s club with a sign outside advertising Friday night karaoke.
I look to the wall. It’s covered in posters with pictures of missing pets, plenty of graffiti. A gust of wind kicks up a crisp packet, and leaves scatter along the path.
I step closer.
Against the outside of the wall, there is the edge of a lighter colour, a whitewash over the dark brick.
My hand reaches forward, fingers catching on the rough brickwork.
I hook my finger under the stack of paper and adverts packed over one another – a local football match, bingo at the town hall, and then just the pulp left behind from old posters.
I chip away, my nails catching beneath the layers of the past until I start to uncover faded lines of black and white.
Spence and Georgia help, and little by little we start to reveal an image: a face, an ear, a lock of hair…
We continue whittling away: a nose, a chin.
Cars pass, the wind continuing to dance with the debris.
Finally, Spence pulls back a large section, the plaster and paper scrunched in his hands.
There’s a buzzing sound in my ears, my pulse thrumming against the tendons of my neck as I step back. ‘Holy shit,’ Georgia says.
Spence doesn’t even correct her because he can see what I can.
‘Is that…?’ she continues.
‘Me?’ I ask, stepping closer again. It’s a side profile, the lines aged and worn, but the similarity is astounding. It’s all shades of grey, white and black, except for the eyes which are still, even now, brown.
‘But how is that possible?’ Georgia asks.
‘It’s not,’ Spence replies. But I only half hear him. I move forwards again, my fingers tracing the outline of the lips. I get closer still, my finger pressing against a small mark just above the Cupid’s bow. I pull my hand back, resting it just above where the mole I hated as a kid sits.
Spence looks to my mouth then back to the image on the wall, creases forming in his forehead.
The world feels like it’s out of sync. I can hear ‘Sweet Dreams’, the sound of feet walking along this road, the smell of paint, and the low laugh of a stranger who feels more like a friend.
‘He…’ I begin, my voice wistful. Spence crouches down, taking out his keys, nicking away a section of plaster.
He stands back as we all lean in. Parts of the initials are missing, but we make out an M a C and an L.
‘It can’t be…’ I say, the words falling away.
Inside my head, facts from his letters press against each other: my name, my address, new home, new job, love of history, the missing ring, the salad cream…
the way it feels like he’s writing to me.
I know you’ve got a soft spot for history, so here’s a bit of mine.
‘It can’t be me… I wasn’t even born, but it—’ I lean forwards again. ‘Is it me?’
The tips of my fingers are grazing along the lines. I reach forward and pull away more old posters, paper clutched in my fist.
‘Let’s not go jumping to conclusions.’ Spence drags his hands through his hair but even though he’s trying to be the voice of reason, there is no denying the similarities between the woman looking off into the distance, into the future waiting for her. ‘It’s pretty worn and…’
‘I need to find him, Spence.’ I grab onto his forearm. He looks down then meets my eyes. ‘Was it me he…?’ I swallow, shaking my head, so many theories tumbling over my rational thoughts.
‘She just looks similar to you. That’s all.’
He’s right. It is impossible.
So why does it feel like I’m looking at my own reflection?