Chapter 11
ALICE
I tap the top of the postbox for luck. The sun is smiling down on me so I’m hoping that the third time is the charm.
And I know that three letters in a few days might be a bit over the top, but there has been something almost meditative about writing to him.
Almost as though we’re having a conversation.
No reply yet, but that doesn’t mean anything.
He could be on holiday. Or in an old people’s home, my voice of reason pipes up.
I squash that down quickly. I’d asked the postman about the letters earlier, almost scared him to death when I yanked open the door.
He looked at me like I was unhinged, but he said he’d ask when he got back to the main depot.
After, I’d stared at a blank page for a long time. The pen in my hand hovering, waiting for my permission. I didn’t know how to start. I’d written Dear Michael? Dear Sir? Hi? Hey? Before crossing them all out and resting my forehead against the desk.
I tried to picture him as he’d be now. Grey hair rather than the black I conjured up in my mind, hearing aid, dodgy knees, but the thought just made my stomach drop and the words I wanted to say came out all wrong.
Stiff. Forced. Not because there is anything wrong with writing to him as he might be now, but because it felt like I was scratching out the connection that I’m feeling.
The Michael I know is thirty, smells of turps and paint.
He’s the man who has made me laugh and speaks as though he knows me.
So I started writing to him like he’s still there, in 1985, waiting for her to reply.
Because even though I know the similarities between us must be a coincidence, I can’t help but think that his letters found me for a reason.
That I’m somehow tied to their love story.
After an hour of failed attempts, it was only when I considered this that the words started to flow in the same way as they used to, before Ryan left, before my career took a nosedive.
I’ve told Michael about that. Questions coming back in my mind like he was sitting across from me as I wrote.
I know what you mean about feeling like an imposter, that feeling of not really fitting in.
I pictured him taking a sip of builder’s tea, blowing over the rim.
When did that start?
It started when I was a kid, I guess. I was a spare part, or more like an extra part? You know like when you try to put together a flat-pack piece of furniture and there are a few extra bits lying about the place even though the wardrobe is still standing?
Aye. You could be describing me.
Wrong-sized screw for the wrong shaped hole.
That’s me.
Talking to him makes me feel seen in a world where I’m quickly becoming more invisible.
Christ, maybe this is my subconscious telling me I’ve got a screw loose? I’m a bit old to have an imaginary friend. My lungs expand with a long breath in. He’s not imaginary. He’s out there somewhere, I just need to find him.
With a renewed sense of determination, and a slow exhale, I slide on my sunglasses and make my way to the library.
I’d requested microfiche copies of newspapers from Yorkshire in 1984 and 1985.
An online search for Concrete Fingers has come up blank so far.
But today, with the sun out, and the streets humming with a kind of optimism, anything feels possible.
I could just go to the address on the top of his letters, but I’m not quite ready for that yet.
Besides, it was always a golden rule for me and Ryan – build up a relationship first, then meet face to face.
Sources are much less intimidated and more likely to open up if they feel like they already know you.
There is also the distance to consider; it’ll be a five hour round trip and he might not even be there when I arrive.
Better to wait. To have a time and place to meet.
My phone vibrates. It’ll be Mum again, asking if I’ve got a job, no doubt.
I’d finally visited my parents at the weekend.
An awkward Sunday dinner where I ended up sliding back into my old role, making the gravy while my nieces and nephews stormed around the house demanding help with their sticker books.
Washing up when Kyle started regaling them about his antics at work, the heads around the table thrown back in laughter while I savagely attacked the gravy tin with a bright pink dish scrubber in the shape of a smiling face, the cut-out smile distorting into a frown as I rubbed away the baked-on roast chicken juices.
I pull out my phone, my stomach puckering at Giuditta’s name on the screen. After over a week of radio silence, I’d gritted my teeth over the end of my career, but my jaw unlocks at her name.
‘Hello?’ I say, putting my finger in my ear against the traffic and moving aside to let a double pushchair past.
‘Darling! Sorry to be so late getting back to you, I’ve had an absolute mare of a time. Henry got D he’d read the broadsheets first. But on a Sunday, I always wanted something indulgent, something that went with warm croissants and good coffee, and the delicious aftermath of slow morning sex.
His jibes were gentle and good humoured, but I knew what he thought of the stories about celebrities, make overs and star-crossed lovers. To him, dropping down to a freelance feature writer for The Weekend was like asking Tom Cruise to star in an episode of Emmerdale.
‘Get me the pages when you have a chance, no urgency.’
No urgency. No hint of the absolutely-no-later-than-the-end-of-the-week deadline that I’m used to. No. This is a maybe we’ll put it in October. Maybe we can fit it in around the main centre spread.
‘How does that sound? Darling?’
‘Great!’ I say over-enthusiastically, stepping back as a dog on an extendible lead cocks his leg against the bench next to me. ‘I can get something over to you by the end of September?’
‘Wonderful. No rush, and take care, won’t you? We miss you around here. No, not that one! The font is completely wrong and—’ The call ends.
I don’t know why there are tears already forming behind the brown tint of my sunglasses. It’s a good outcome. And there was no mention of the typos in my email. A small tug of doubt makes me wonder if she even read it properly.
Still. It means that not only do I want to find Michael for me, I also have a purpose to my search. And purpose is good.
I nip into the small cafe next to the entrance area. Automatically, I go to say two skinny lattes with a sugar-free hazelnut shot. That familiar misstep of walking in a life that’s not mine any more makes me stumble over my order.
‘Flat white, please,’ I correct myself.
The cool air of the library greets me. The hushed silence unlocks the tension in my fingers, as they grip the takeaway cup. The microfiche I’d requested has arrived, and I’m led upstairs, along corridors, until I’m inside a small alcove, two large microfiche readers sitting like dinosaurs.
I place the coffee on the windowsill, paint flaking away, ring stains from other readers patterning the surface.
I tuck myself into the chair and begin scrolling through, starting with 1984.
The white light behind the screen flickers, the first headline snaps into view: MINERS’ STRIKE HITS FIFTH MONTH.
The machine hums as I turn the dial, the reel speeding by quickly like a film roll: riots, Thatcher’s face appearing and disappearing.
Other photos flash by, and for a second my heart jumps: a man holding a paintbrush, dark hair, pale complexion, a spark of mischief in his eyes.
But then I read the caption: Phillip Baker shows off his new business…
Just another face amongst the others lost to the past. I find one photo of a local band in Yorkshire, but no mention of Michael.
After three long hours, the coffee cup is empty, and my eyes are dry and tight.
I return to the desk and request a list of all newspapers from Yorkshire from 1980.
‘I don’t suppose you know if there were any weekend supplements back then?’ I add to the man behind the desk. He has a kind face, soft eyes, like he’s permanently happy with his lot in life. He laughs softly, bushy eyebrows raised. His hair is dark despite his years, neatly clipped and styled.
‘And there was me thinking I looked young for my years.’
Heat rises in my cheeks.
‘I… I didn’t mean to—’
He gives another soft laugh, blue eyes glinting.
‘I’m just messing with you. Yes, they did.
My mum was a sucker for The Weekend glossy in The Guardian.
Used to circle all the book recommendations while the viccy sponge was in the oven.
After, off we’d pop to the local bookshop.
And if I’d been good, I would be treated to a Beano and the first slice before my little brother got his sticky mitts on it. ’
‘She sounds like a legend.’ I smile, imagining this man in his youth, and a mother who smelt of baking and the fresh pages of a book.
‘She was.’ He takes in my expression. ‘Cancer.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Oh, don’t be, she wouldn’t want that. Ray of sunshine, she was.’ He begins tapping on the keyboard, glasses perched on his nose. ‘You might want to check out the smaller press too?’
‘That would be great.’
He turns to his computer and begins searching and writing down a list.
‘Is there any chance I could get copies of them too? From 1980 until May 1985?’
He lets out a low whistle. ‘It’ll take a while. I can but try.’
‘Anything you could get would be really helpful.’
‘Leave it with me. Shall I give you a bell when they come in?’
‘That would be great, if you don’t mind?’
‘Not at all. Love a quest myself.’
I glance at the clock. Shit. I’d forgotten I was supposed to be going to Spencer’s to babysit Georgia.
Spence is going out on a date.