Chapter 9
ALICE
By the time I return from my massage, I’m feeling very zen, aided by the glass of afternoon fizz. While waiting for an Indian head massage, I’d emailed Royal Mail, describing the letter, and hoping they can give me a realistic explanation about how it’s only just been delivered.
I’ve also started to put together a profile for my namesake, Alice.
Things he mentioned in his letter. My own belief in love and relationships as a whole might be broken, but if I can get this letter back to her, it might do something to ease the ache inside my own chest. And there is something so…
dare I say romantic about the way he writes to her that makes me even more determined to find her.
What if she went all Mrs Haversham when she never got the letter?
I haven’t got much to go on, a first name, a date, a place I knew she was in the vicinity of for a night, and…
well, that’s it really. Still, you never know where just a name and a place can take you.
I’d also circled a job in the obits department of the local newspaper.
It might not be the same tier as the London News, but it’ll be something to occupy my mind, help me step back into historical research, and help me make some contacts in the local news industry while I figure out what to do next.
I slide the key in the lock, make a plan to wrap myself into a pair of soft pyjamas, get a takeaway, and binge-watch Bridgerton. I’d never got round to watching it, no matter how many times I told Ryan we needed to keep on top of what was popular with our readers.
Just having that plan in mind makes me feel more grounded. Stable. Ish.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it and head straight upstairs, my plan of action a bullet-point list in my mind. Number one, change into pyjamas.
I heave my biggest suitcase onto the bed, the zip unlocking a blast from my past. The whole room suddenly smells of us.
My legs feel like they’re too weak to hold my body.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, bringing a turquoise jumper to my face.
I can almost feel Ryan’s strong hands rubbing my shoulders as I sat at my desk.
What am I doing?
I throw the jumper back on top of the case.
This is not part of the plan. I do not want to spend the whole evening battling with the memories of my life before I moved home. I make a mental strikethrough of my list and replace the top entry with go to the laundrette. The washing machine isn’t plumbed in yet.
I begin ripping out items of clothing, things that I need in my life right now. Not the dresses and high heels that I would wear to the many parties we were invited to. No. What I need are pyjamas, leggings, joggers, trainers.
Once the pile is collated, I throw them to the bottom of the stairs ready to put into a bag.
The dresses and sharp-creased blouses I shove back into the case, then getting to my hands and knees, I push the case under the bed. The air is still thick with the lavender incense-stick Ryan favoured when he would write.
I open a window to let out the smell, head back downstairs and fill a large bag of elastic-waisted comfort clothes and close the door behind me.
The laundrette is a few miles away, but after the glass of Prosecco at lunch, I don’t risk driving.
Instead, I walk to the bus stop that I used to pass on my way to college, just a few streets from where my parents used to live.
They moved to a small village about an hour away not long after I finished uni.
I never had my own room there. It never felt like home.
More often than not, I would stay at Spence’s anyway.
Part of me thinks that maybe I should just bite the bullet, have a few strong coffees and drive the hour to my parents’ house, but the last thing I want to do today is rock up with a bag of laundry like I’ve just come home from uni.
The bus is fairly empty. I climb on, heaving the bag onto my knees, taking the time to watch my old neighbourhood pass me by. Not much has changed really. The bookies is now a kebab shop; the White Lion is now a wine bar.
I get off at my stop, and pop into the corner shop to buy some laundry tablets.
Rain is beginning to fall in fat droplets as I scurry along the path, my hair immediately drenched and plastering to my scalp and cheeks; the bag strap weighing down my shoulder.
The laundrette is further along than I thought.
Thunder cracks above and I swing open the door just as lightning flashes white.
The room is empty, save the row of machines sitting resplendently and flush against the perimeter of the room.
Two machines are whirring and clunking, going about their business.
I shake my head. In London, people are not as trusting, but around here, it’s fine to drop off your undies, grab a coffee and come back, safe in the knowledge that your knickers will still be waiting for you even if the cycle has finished.
The strip light above hums, the room filled with clean cotton and tumble-dried warmth.
It’s oddly comforting despite the thunder-clap outside.
Rain is streaming down the window, my own dishevelled reflection staring back at me.
I open a washing machine door and begin piling the clothes inside the cavernous drum.
I hold a black pair of leggings in one hand, a white shirt in the other.
No matter. I’ll do two loads. It’s not like I need to be anywhere anytime soon.
I shove a load of coins in, setting it to a gentle wash.
I crouch down, putting the whites back into the bag, my hand stilling, catching on the edge of something.
Another crack of thunder is swiftly followed by a flash of white.
My hand is shaking as I untangle the envelope from a white vest top.
The handwriting blisteringly familiar. Michael.
It must have somehow got mixed up in the pile of laundry I threw to the bottom of the stairs, right beneath the letterbox.
Another letter from Michael is not on my to-do list: pyjamas, Bridgerton, take-away, that was the plan.
But.
This could be helpful.
This might provide more clues to help me find Alice.
Yes. This is good.
Not so good a delivery service from Royal Mail, but still…
I make my way to the row of empty blue plastic chairs, and stare at the envelope in my hands.
The postmark is the same, the stamp still has a much younger picture of the queen I grew up with.
My finger skates across the name, the address.
I catch my reflection in the door of the washing machine, warped and distorted like I’m not even really here.
I give myself a mental shake then I turn it over and slide my finger beneath the seal.
Dear Alice,
Do you ever feel trapped? Like you’re walking around wearing someone else’s life, as if they swapped it like a second-hand coat when you weren’t paying attention? Like it looks the same but doesn’t fit properly?
My throat is tight, dry. Because isn’t that exactly how I feel right now?
Sitting in a laundrette, so far away from the life that I should be living.
It strikes me now how familiar his words feel.
I’ve never met Michael, and yet it feels like I’m hearing from a friend I’ve known all my life, as though he’s here, sitting beside me.
I keep replaying the night we met, how I felt like I already knew you, how I felt the most me that I’ve felt in a long time.
I didn’t say it at the time, but you know when you turned all the vinegar bottles forward facing? I do that too, with my art stuff.
I smile at that. We have so many things in common.
I don’t know why I didn’t say that to you at the time, that I loved how you try to organise the chaos, just like me.
Maybe I should use it next time I have a job interview?
Hi, I’m Michael, expert bottle organiser.
Mind you it’s better than what I said last time…
I play a mean hand of dominoes and hate cold baked beans.
I guess what I’m trying to say when I’m not babbling about bloody baked beans, is that sometimes it feels hard to share things about myself.
It’s just habit now. Keeping my cards close to my chest. Blokes like me aren’t artists.
They graft. They go to the pub, they get married, have kids, live in the same estate.
It’s been the same around here since the turn of the century. Is it wrong to want something more?
I blink fast. I can hear his voice so clearly, almost see dark hair falling over his eyes as he writes…
or maybe my mind is just Jon Snowing him – he could be bald for all I know.
And given how long ago this was written, he probably is.
The rain lashes against the window, headlights lighting up the grey street, puddles being splashed against the now almost empty street outside.
The sound of the machines becomes more weighted, louder.
The way he writes has got to be genuine; nobody fakes this kind of ache for something more.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve tried to make a living out of my art. I got a few gigs a while ago, did a few album covers for a local band, Concrete Fingers… They were U2 wannabes, they even had names like The Line, Robbo, you get the gist.
Concrete Fingers. This is something, well, concrete, isn’t it? I reach for my phone to Google them, but in my haste, I realise I’ve left my phone on the bedside cabinet. I’ll look them up when I get back.
They got quite a name around here, but the height of their success was blowing the electrics down the pub during old Billy Martin’s wake.
Mam reckons it was a sign from God; I reckon it was a sign that the landlord should stop trying to siphon leccy from the bank next door, but that’s another story.
I laugh, the sound too loud for the empty room.
A car horn blasts from outside. I turn and look, surprised at the smile that is stretching across my face in the reflection.
He’s funny in a wry, sardonic way. Christ, do I have a type.
I shake my head and try not to get too comfortable while I carry on reading.
Despite the storm outside, I feel like I’m cocooned in here, warm, safe, lost in a world away from my own problems.
It wasn’t all bad news though, they got their names in the local rag, along with the album cover so you know, all publicity is good publicity, right? I got a few more local bands asking me to design their covers after that.
Remember the mural we passed, next to the hairdressers?
Aye, that was mine too. My best work pretty much covered by posters advertising Smash.
Maybe one day in the future, someone will peel off the posters and claim it’s a bona fide work of art.
Until then though, it’s For Mash Get Smash.
(You get bonus points if you read that with a robotic voice.)
I have no idea what that means but it’s another thing I can check when I get back. My body is humming with questions, the electric purr of the washing machines echoing the rush of excitement that I’ve learnt to trust, the beginnings of a story, history waiting to be unpicked.
The tattoo shop down the road still uses some of my designs from time to time.
So if you ever come back to Yorkshire and bump into someone with a tattoo of a name on a scroll, or a bulldog with a rose between his teeth, that’s probably my work.
That last one was meant as a joke but turns out there is a market for rose-bearing bulldogs.
Who knew? Tim slips me a few bob now and then if he uses one of my designs.
Kate still keeps telling me that my talent is wasted on Trippy Tim and his needles, and that I should go to that art college.
But I reckon she’s just blowing smoke up my arse.
Lads like me who have seen the pithead from their bedroom window since they were a nipper don’t go flouncing off to London art colleges, do they?
I look around the room for a pen and paper; I need to write down everything I can investigate.
This letter is a goldmine of clues. I spot a pile of belongings sitting in a cardboard box.
Lost property, I figure. I root around and pull out an eyeliner and an old receipt from Tesco.
I scan the list and the date, and figure I’m safe to use it – the milk and ham would be a month out of date by now.
I sit back down and start compiling a list, adding art college to the bottom. Then return to the letter.
Oh, I tried salad cream with a bag of chips today… You’re not wrong, although I’m not about to ditch tomato sauce just yet.
My hands drop, the edges of the paper resting on my knees.
The spin cycle clatters in time to the ringing in my ears.
That’s weird, right? I don’t know anyone else who has salad cream with chippy chips.
I shake my head. It’s just a coincidence.
Nothing more. Still… I lift the letter and continue reading, ignoring the way goosebumps have just run along my arms.
Let me know how you’re getting on, and if you don’t want to keep getting letters from some random guy then no bother, just fire me your address so I can return the ring. No strings.
Michael.
I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here, or how many times I’ve read Michael’s words before the list of facts starts tumbling over and over again.
This can’t all be coincidence. But what other explanation is there?
I read his words again. I force myself to be analytical, to take away the emotion, to concentrate on the facts. But the more I do, the more these coincidences start to look like something else entirely.
And know it doesn’t make any logical sense to do what I’m about to do, and the chances of him still living there are slim, but I’m going to do it anyway.
I’m going to write back.