Chapter 19
ALICE
I drain the last of my coffee. A student working opposite me closes her laptop and smiles a goodbye. Someone coughs behind a hand, the sound muted, the library alive and yet half-asleep.
I know he refers to his parents though and it sounds like they’re close…
Was he staying there? I can almost hear Spence’s voice teasing: Single and still at home in his thirties?
What a catch. A quick Google search confirms that was pretty typical for the time and place, especially for a single man and the economic crash.
I bank that information, ready to defend him.
It all tracks. If this is the right family, then that might mean his surname is Jones.
I look to the photo of him next to me, holding it in my hand. Michael Jones. Something in me shifts.
I prop the photo next to my empty cup and pull up the photo of the mural. Pinching my fingers together against my phone screen, I zoom in on the initials. That could definitely be a J. It’s hard to tell. I look back to the photo with a smile. I’m getting closer.
I scroll the land registry archive, typing Michael’s address, trying to pinpoint the details of who owned the property in 1985.
The connection is slower here and I crick my neck as I wait for the information to load.
I shrink the window and instead open Facebook.
It’s been so long since I’ve used it and I’m on my final password attempt before I get logged out until I remember the correct one.
My old feed loads, and I swallow down the grinning photo of me and Ryan, the status of ‘engaged’ mocking me from the past. I straighten and begin searching for nostalgia sites.
There’s a group called Everything Yorkshire; I select the group and wait for admin approval.
I have no idea what I will say… ‘Hi there, I think I might be losing my mind and that I’ve sleepwalked to 1985 and met my soulmate?
’ I groan, shaking my head, and receive a sharp look from the Jilly Cooper fan.
I knock my fist against my chest as though I’m trying to settle some kind of imaginary heartburn.
She reaches for a Harlan Coben next, placing it over the copy of Riders that I must have read at least three times.
I go back to the land registry site, still nothing.
It looks like it’s stuck. I exit the site, log in again, repeating the search.
Researching is time-consuming, but being here, going back to the life I used to love before I started writing current affairs with Ryan, is like stepping into a pair of old slippers.
I check my email. Finally!
Dear Miss Barker,
Thank you for getting in touch regarding your recent deliveries. We’re afraid we have no record of missing letters having been found at Shropshire Sorting Office.
It’s quite the conundrum!
Any undelivered letters would have been sent to our National Returns office.
We do our utmost to ensure our mail is delivered and so a small investigation would have been carried out, which does include opening the letters.
As you mention the letters in question had a return address inside, it’s likely that they would have been returned to the sender.
If this wasn’t the case, then the letters would have been held for a set period before being securely destroyed.
I’m keenly aware that this doesn’t help with your rather interesting situation and so I’ve forwarded your email to head office who will hopefully be able to help you further.
If there is anything else I can help you with, do get in touch.
Kindest regar—
Huh. I hate the idea of some stranger reading Michael’s words, but these letters are unopened. There is nothing that shows they’ve been tampered with, so I guess they weren’t returned?
Well, that’s that, then. I don’t know if I feel relieved or frustrated. If it’s not a Royal Mail cock up, then how are the letters being delivered?
I lean back in my chair, swinging from side to side.
Moving on, I have a surname, a place… I should be able to find his birth certificate.
I open another tab, log into the General Registry Office.
My fingers mistype – not enough sleep and too much caffeine – but finally I get the words into the search bar.
Michael Jones. District? I search for Stonewell and it comes up with Stonewell and Millbank which I double-click. Born… 1955… ish?
OK. Deep breath. I move the cursor and click enter.
I tap my fingers against the desk, receiving another sharp look.
She’s moved on to Barbara Taylor Bradford now.
I mouth ‘sorry’ and link my fingers together.
Come on. It’s like the connection is deliberately trying to fray my nerves.
The screen starts to load and I lean forwards, holding my breath tight.
One result. Then another. Just two, great, that won’t take me…
Oh. The connection seems to catch up, firing results like a scattergun.
I do a quick tally: thirteen, that’s not too…
Shit. I notice this is just page one. Of seventeen.
Right. There are a lot of Michael Jones’s born in Yorkshire in 1955 it seems. I let out a breath… That’s going to take some time.
I re-open the land registry now that the connection has picked up.
Annnnd… no record for that year. I look up at Michael smiling.
‘Not making this easy for me, are you?’ I say, daring a whisper.
I flick back through my notes. Thatcher’s ‘Right to Buy’ council houses came into effect in 1980.
I tap my fingers against my bottom lip. So, any time after that would be plausible.
I start the search a year earlier because maybe—
My phone buzzes; a message from Spence. The last few hours have gone by in a blur:
Hey. Had to pick up George early. Can’t make dinner.
That old surge of fierce protectiveness floods through me in the same way as it would when she was a four-year-old being shoved aside by bigger kids in the soft play area.
There’s something going on, and whatever these ‘things’ are that she’s not handling well, they are way more than just ‘complicated’.
Everything OK?
The dots that show he’s typing appear but then disappear. Chewing the inside of my cheek, I prompt:
Want me to come over?
He gives me a thumbs up. Spence never uses the thumbs up.
Be there in an hour?
A giant thumbs up this time.
I’ll bring wine.
The dots appear then stop again and unease settles in my stomach.
I grab my things, tucking Mike inside my notebook carefully, and dash out of the library.