Chapter 21
ALICE
The next morning finds me standing in my hallway, another letter from Michael in my hands. The letters are getting closer together, like the more I find out about him the more he wants to talk to me.
I glance at my watch. I’m meeting Spence and the girls at the station in twenty minutes. My stomach tightens at the thought. The crowds. The smell. The rush of London. Part of me wants to cancel, to stay here. Safe. Reading Michael’s words. But I know I can’t do that.
The envelope taps against my palm. I could save it for when I get back. But impatience gets the better of me, and my fingers are already ripping open the envelope. His familiar slanted handwriting is pulling me into his world, my heart fluttering like a cliché.
Dear Alice,
Today has been one of those rare perfect days, well rare for around here, anyhow. Even though I’ve not had a drop, I felt two pints down all day. It’s amazing how just one letter can change your life, isn’t it?
I don’t miss the irony.
So what is this letter, I hear you asking. Well, I don’t know if it was meeting you, or why I felt that maybe there is more for me than painting skirting boards, but I filled out an application for that art college, St Martins. You might have heard of it?
I smile. He’s doing it. Chasing his dreams. St Martins… St Martins… Where have I heard that before? I realise it’s from a Pulp song.
Anyway, they asked to see some of my stuff. I’m almost embarrassed to tell you that most of it consisted of pictures of you. Christ, that makes it sound like I’m a right bloody weirdo, but I just couldn’t get you out of my head, your dark hair, brown eyes.
I swallow. He’s describing me again. I shake the thought away. Lots of people have dark hair and brown eyes… right? The image from the mural flashes in my mind. I bring my eyes back to his words.
I’m rambling, sorry, I’ll get to the point… They’ve asked to see more of my work, to base it around a theme. And Kate got me thinking about my life, about this place that I call home. Because there’s beauty in the mundane, hidden in the cracks buried beneath the weight of everything.
My smile stretches wider because the tone of this letter is full of optimism. It’s still him, still dry, but he’s changing. Searching. Just like me, I guess.
I’ve started putting together a portfolio: people in the crowd, hands touching shoulders, weeds flowering between the cracks – I even stopped outside an old shop that’s been boarded up for the past year.
It’s the kind of place you just walk past, immune.
The window was cracked, bits of rubbish hanging around beneath the wall, but instead of seeing the dirt, the grime, I could see how light was still filtering through.
There was just something so beautiful about it. It reminded me of the canal that night.
I’ve got a cat in hell’s chance of getting in, but it’s worth a shot. Can you imagine me sitting in a studio, living off Pot Noodles? I know I’m a bit old to be a student, but I can feel my life slipping through my fingers.
I wanted to tell you how much I think about that night, not about the things I should have done or said differently, but about the way you made me see myself in a different light. I want to thank you for that, and even though I know you won’t get this letter, it feels important to write it down.
I feel a sting at the back of my eyes as I read.
Anyway, if ever you’re in London and happen to be by St Martins College, check it out for me, would you? And if they’re all youngsters give me a heads up so I don’t look like a total knob if I do get in.
I huff a laugh.
Oh, and there’s a pub right by it, according to the prospectus, The Coach and Horses. Been about donkey’s years. Reckon I’ll be spending plenty of time there… Maybe one day we can catch up. I’ll see if they have salad cream for your chips. Sounds like something city folk would do.
Anyway, take care.
Michael.
How is this happening? I tell myself again that it’s a coincidence, that this letter has arrived talking about London when I’m twenty—shit, no—ten-minutes away from leaving, means nothing.
But just when I need him, Michael is here. Again. Making it harder to tell which way is forward. I wonder, not for the first time, what it says about me. That losing myself in Michael’s words feels easier than the day ahead.
The taxi notification pings on my phone. I slip the letter in my bag, grab my overnight case and close the safety of my new home behind me.
* * *
Spence is wearing a hangover behind sunglasses and a flat white as we wait on the platform. The air is still taut between the two of them, but Georgia is acting a little more like herself, leaning into Ruby as they laugh at something on her phone.
I haven’t mentioned this morning’s letter. Or the reference to St Martins. I’d checked the pub on the way here. The Coach and Horses is still there, right in the thrum of Soho.
Josie has got us rooms at a hotel close to the event, all fully comped.
I had no idea what to wear and so I stared at the contents of my case before settling on a blue halter neck dress for the event, ripping off the dry-clean only tags like a plaster.
Ryan is stateside, and while there may be people from my old life there, I’m trying to look at it as nothing other than what it is.
A night out in a place I used to live, with my favourite people.
Still, I fidget with the overnight bag on my shoulder, like it weighs more than it should.
Spence reaches over and takes it from my shoulders, adding it to his own.
‘I can…’
‘I know, but your fidgeting is driving me mad.’
He turns his head towards the oncoming train, eyes flicking to Georgia’s lilac converse in the way he would when she was younger.
Don’t stand too close to the edge; mind the gap; hold my hand.
She’s standing straight, a cup of coffee in her hand, curls smoothed, and lips glossed.
She catches me smiling at her, but looks away, saying something into Ruby’s ear.
I frown. I get her being pissed off at her dad – that comes with the territory – but what have I done to deserve the cold shoulder?
We make our way through the packed train, finally finding a space with a table and a charging port, which Georgia immediately makes good use of.
She’s come out of her shell since last night, and it’s good to see her laughing and joking with her friend, but I don’t miss the tightness around the corner of Spence’s mouth.
Georgia shrugs off her light jacket. The weight from Spencer’s shoulders that seemed to lie so heavily on him the night before has eased a little, as though speaking about some of his fears has stitched together something that could just as easily tear apart.
‘So, who is she, this TikToker?’ I ask, taking a cereal bar and biting into it.
‘From what I can gather, she plays pranks, but like kind ones?’
‘Kind pranks?’
‘Like getting a girl tickets to an event, but Perri has arranged for her to play a guitar solo with one of her idols. That kind of thing.’
‘Oh. Cool.’
We arrive at Birmingham New Street, the connection tight, and so the four of us end up having to run across the concourse, just making the next train in time.
We’re all out of breath and the urgency and relief we all feel when we rush through the doors eases the tension even more.
Georgia even egged him on over her shoulder: Come on, old man!
She sits on the opposite aisle next to Ruby, which means Spence and I are sitting knee to knee.
He pinches the space between his eyebrows.
‘I told you to take it easy on the Shiraz.’
‘I know, you were right…’ He scrapes a hand over his face.
‘Can I have that in writing?’
‘Never.’ But he’s smiling.
I reach into my bag and pull out a bottle of Lucozade.
I’ve never tried it before but after reading Michael’s letter I managed to find a bottle.
I pass it to Spence, the tips of his fingers touching mine.
He pauses for a second, before bringing the bottle towards him, scrunching up his nose as he smells it.
‘What the hell is this?’
‘Michael says it’s the best cure for hangovers,’ I continue, trying to stop the smile as I say his name.
‘Oh, he does, does he?’
‘Says it works “like magic”.’ I add a Yorkshire accent for emphasis.
‘It looks radioactive,’ Spence says, before he takes a sip.
‘Any good?’
He passes it to me and I lift the rim to my lips.
His attention is brought back to Georgia, who asks him if we will have time to visit Buckingham Palace.
His face lights up at the olive branch of conversation his daughter is offering him.
He nods with a smile and some of that tension that has been building up between them falls away further.
When I first left to go to university, I worried that our friendship would struggle.
I almost deferred, but Spence would have none of that.
We were both starting very different lives, him as a single parent, me surrounded by academics, libraries, dusty pages and old photos, living in a house I shared with three other students.
But every time I came home, my backpack heavy with textbooks and gifts for them both, Spence would be waiting at the platform.
In the early days, with Georgia secured to his front in a sling, then she would be in a pushchair, and as the three years passed, her chubby hand would be waving when I disembarked.
We haven’t mentioned Heather, despite Georgia being preoccupied with Ruby. But I haven’t missed Spence’s thumbs dashing across his phone and the way he avoids my eyes after he’s sent a message.
The train continues and I reach inside my bag, pulling out my laptop.
Spence looks away, eyes focused on the scenery passing by.
Life going on, regardless of the lives trapped inside this small carriage.
My screen springs to life. Spence glances at it briefly as I open my Facebook account, inwardly wincing at the background picture of me and Ryan.
My fingers make quick work of bringing up the nostalgia forum.
My heart speeds up at the ‘approved’ notification.
I go to the recent posts; there are people commenting on the good old days, the bad days.
I want to put my own post on there, but something about having Spence next to me makes me pause.
Spence drains the last of the Lucozade bottle, twisting the cap back on slowly.
I minimise the window and do a quick Google search about St Martins, which tells me that in the eighties it was based in Soho, right in the thick of things: record shops, cafes…
I find a picture of a group of students chain-smoking and no doubt talking about the Sex Pistols verses the New Romantics.
I scan their faces, but he’s not there. It sounds a world away from Mike’s northern roots, but I could also picture him there, fingers black from charcoal rather than from down the mines.
Spence interrupts my thoughts. ‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘Since when do you ask before speaking?’
He raises an eyebrow sardonically. ‘You think it’s you, don’t you? On the mural.’
I let out a long breath, meet his eyes and give a small nod. ‘I know what it sounds like, Spence. Really, I do. But there are just so many things that he says, too many coincidences to not consider if I was, somehow, there. If we’re connected somehow.’
He rubs his chin. Tongue in his cheek. ‘You know you’re talking about time travel, right?’
I swallow hard with a nod. ‘I know. But I’ve been researching time walking and this theory about sleepwalking and… What if it’s possible? It would mean he was waiting for me. To write back, I mean.’
‘Or the real Alice.’
‘Or the real Alice.’ I nudge him with my shoulder. ‘I haven’t completely lost my mind, you know. I’m looking for her too.’ I admonish myself because I know I’ve been focusing on Michael more than Alice.
The train slows into Milton Keynes. I close the laptop screen and turn my body to face him, trying to find the words to explain what this means to me.
‘There’s just so much he knows about me and…
You know that feeling when you walk into a room and you’re looking for something, but you can’t remember what it was, and then you walk back out and the thought comes to you and you say, oh yes, that was it!
’ Spence quirks an eyebrow but nods. ‘That’s kind of what it feels like, as though I’m living my life, but in the back of my mind, I know I’m looking for something. ’
‘Have you got his letters with you?’
I hesitate as if trying to remember but know full well that they are sitting in the inside pocket of my laptop bag. ‘Yeah.’
‘Can I read them?’
‘Why?’
‘Because I want to know. I want to know what it is about this man you’ve never met, and who’s probably got liver spots, a shake, and quite possibly a hearing aid… What is it that makes you feel like you know him.’
‘I just do.’
I take out the letters and pass them to Spence, my hand holding on to them for a fraction before I release them.
The train jerks into motion, and I let it take me.
And even though I’m further away from Yorkshire than ever, I feel like I’m being pulled closer.