Chapter 26
ALICE
St Martins turned out to be a dead end. We haven’t been able to find any details of a Michael Jones ever having gone there. I feel the weight of that, heavy inside. I could tell how much it meant to him and how crushed he would have been if he didn’t get in.
I pull my suitcase beside me, slide the key in the lock of my front door, the base brushing the post back. I dump my case and bend to pick up the mail, heart already speeding up as I flip through. Mike’s handwriting quickens my pulse.
The envelope is bigger, sturdier. It feels like there is something inside, about the size of a Post-it pad.
I bring the envelope closer to my ear, giving it a little shake.
I try to work out what’s inside, the same way I do on birthdays and Christmas.
It used to drive Ryan mad. He was always impatient.
Spence always joined in, feeling around the shape, a v forming between his eyebrows as he tried to guess before me.
I’m itching to open it.
Instead, I decide to enjoy this for a little longer.
I open the blinds, crack open the curtains and make myself a coffee.
I feel around the edges of the envelope, carefully pushing against the outline of what’s inside; there is something else, a rectangle that bends slightly.
Cardboard? I chew my bottom lip, moving the Post-it shape around a little.
Unable to resist it any further, I tear away the seal.
I pull out the large rectangle which is from the back of a cereal packet.
Sugar Puffs. My fingers outline the honey monster calling out: Tell them about the honey, Mummy!
I smile. No hint of bubble wrap to protect the package or mention of vitamins or vegan-friendly encouragements to be seen.
I reach in, my fingers catching the edge of something plastic.
I look down at the clear rectangle in my hands.
It’s a cassette tape. I turn it over. Slotted inside is a list of songs.
It’s a mixtape. Finally, I pull out the letter.
Dear Alice,
I hope you’re good and surviving the weather. It’s like a bleedin’ furnace around here! Still, it’s almost summer solstice and we’ll be complaining about the rain before long. Never happy with the weather, us Brits.
When I was in secondary, we went on a trip to Whitby Abbey.
None of us took it seriously, messing about on the back seat of the bus.
It always smelt of ham, cheese and Marathon bars.
Anyway, when we were walking around, half-listening to the tour guide, me and my mates decided we’d go back.
It was a bit of a lark, something we never thought we’d do, but Kenny was always one to hang on to our mad plans and conned his dad into taking us. It became this kind of tradition.
(There is a point to this, and I know I need to just get to it, but before I do, I just need to get a few things off my chest.)
I know you’re not getting these letters, and if by some miracle you are, you’re not writing back.
I think I’ve known that all along, really.
I wanted to thank you, though – that night opened something up, like meeting you was the kick up the arse that I needed to make a change.
I’ve sent in my drawings, so my future is in the hands of the powers that be.
Drawing you led me to seeing things in a new light, and now my hometown doesn’t feel like a prison, I had the key to those invisible shackles all along.
Get me. Sounded like bloody Wordsworth then.
Maybe I will fit in with all them arty folks?
Anyway, the point I’m getting at is there are no hard feelings from this end. I’m wishing you well and hope that you found what you were looking for in your new place.
On the longest day of the year, you can always find me at Whitby Abbey. So if you ever need a friend, or someone to talk to if life gives you shit, that’s where you’ll find me.
As is also tradition, I’ve put together a mixtape for the journey and made you a copy. A good road trip needs good music. It’s a kind of road map for where the year has taken me so far, and where I hope it will go on to.
Hope it helps you find your way.
Good luck, Alice. And thanks.
Wishing you well,
Mike.
I blink a few times, his words blurring as tears start to fall down my cheeks.
He’s saying goodbye.
I sit down on the sofa, the letter held tightly in my hand. I reach inside my pocket and quickly search for the date for the summer solstice: June 21st. That’s in a week’s time.
This is it. I know where he is going to be.
I reach for the tape, opening the casing.
I try to picture his hands, ink-stained and calloused, writing this list. My fingers follow the indentation of his writing on the card – each title listed, the artist then song.
I bring the cardboard to my nose; there is something musty, familiar, but I can’t place it.
I take out the tape, holding its weight in my hand.
He’s written on the label running across the tape: 1985 – The Year of Alice.
My throat constricts, heat at the back. I have nothing I can play it on, but I do have Spotify.
I open the app and go about adding all of the songs in order:
Joy Division – ‘Atmosphere’
Talk Talk – ‘It’s My Life’
The Smiths – ‘Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now’
David Bowie – ‘Ashes to Ashes’
The Cure – ‘A Forest’
Echo and The Bunnymen – ‘The Killing Moon’
Kate Bush – ‘The Man with the Child in His Eyes’
Buzzcocks – ‘Ever Fallen in Love (With Someone You Shouldn’t’ve)’
Joy Division – ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’
Eurythmics – ‘Sweet Dreams’
I’ve never heard of half of them, but as soon as I hit play, the hairs along my arms rise.
The first song is moody, a slow but soulful introduction, but despite the sombre voice, there is a sense of optimism, like the song is about change.
It’s so very Mike that I can feel my whole body reacting as the music fills the space around me.
It’s like he’s saying so much through this song alone.
A message about not walking away in silence.
The singer hums in the background, and I picture Michael doing the same…
humming as he walks, hands in pockets. He’s asking for closure.
Asking me not to walk away. A small laugh escapes me as I think of the eighties songs I’d been listening to.
This is not Madonna. This is a whole other vibe entirely.
I pour a glass of wine, folding my legs beneath me as the next song plays. More upbeat than the first, talking about committing to life, how it never ends.
A slow smile crosses my face.
Whitby Abbey.
It’s time I met my ghost.
And this time, even though I’m afraid of what will happen when I do… I’m not going to let him disappear.