Chapter 28
TWENTY-EIGHT
NICK
They set grimly to work as soon as they got inside, opening Edie’s bureau drawers and sifting through the many bits of paper inside. Nick went through to the kitchen to make them some tea. It struck him that he’d never picked the kettle up and found it stone cold before. His nanna had loved a brew so much that it had always been at least lukewarm, whatever time of day he was visiting. He clicked the switch then stood with his hand pressed hard to his mouth, his eyes wet.
‘Ah, come here, pet,’ said Tracey, coming into the kitchen with her arms outstretched. She squeezed him tightly like he was a little boy, but he felt the trickle of one of her tears on his neck.
They each took deep breaths and stood apart, putting matching hands on hips. The physical distance between them over the years was an uncomfortable bedfellow with sentimentality. So he clapped his hands and cleared his throat. ‘Come on then. Let’s get started.’
They sorted through Edie’s bits and pieces, loading trinkets of no clear purpose or nostalgia into the black bags. In went half-consumed rolls of Polos, takeaway menus and confusing gadgets from the JML catalogue. Tracey found a set of coasters from the 1970s, clutched them to her chest and nestled them into her handbag. Nick found a Christmas decoration he’d made at primary school – an angel made from a toilet-roll tube and cotton wool – and put it on the coffee table until he could decide if it would be weird to keep it for himself.
They’d worked in silence for a while, when Tracey said, ‘Do you want to talk about Richard then?’
When Nick had got home the previous night, worn out from his stint at A I felt sick to my stomach and couldn’t work up the courage to call again.’ She paused, looking crushed by the memory. ‘But then, when you were born, I gave it one more try. He answered this time – I told him he had a son called Nicholas – and he hung up. I never saw or heard from him again. Until, it seems, he saw me on the Community Kitchen documentary and started joining some potentially lucrative dots.’
Nick nodded, and they said nothing for a while, silently placing items in little piles or in bin bags.
‘If it’s any consolation, he doesn’t seem to have changed his ways. He lives alone in Italy, sweeping floors, and seems to have rubbed a lot of people up the wrong way. You had a lucky escape.’
‘I was lucky in more ways than one, son. I got you,’ said Tracey gruffly. ‘So judging by what you’ve told me, you won’t be keeping in touch?’
Nick laughed quietly. ‘No. Although if he hears that Nanna left me and Travis the house, then he might come sniffing about again. And I’ll tell him where to go. He seemed to be of the opinion that our family was loaded.’
Tracey blushed. ‘Well, I was young and keen to impress. I might have sold him a story about being a bit more flash than I actually was.’
Nick shook his head and smiled. Tracey had always been a woman of smoke and mirrors, putting on the razzle-dazzle for all to see.
Edie had always said she was going to leave the house to the boys – she’d been open about it for years – and her solicitor had confirmed it a few days ago. She’d left Tracey a generous nest egg, since she had no need of property with her rootless lifestyle, and the boys had been left the house. They could keep it, sell it, whatever they wanted to do, but they were to share the proceeds and set themselves up for the future. He wanted his nanna back more than life itself, but this gift she’d left meant he had a chance of building the home he’d been needing for himself. And, with any luck, Ruby.
Tracey sniffed. ‘Well, you do right, son. You don’t need him. You’re living proof that you don’t need a dad as long as you’ve got a few strong women in your life.’
He thought of Ruby, being mostly without her dad too, and his stomach clenched.
‘I don’t want that for Ruby,’ he blurted. ‘She’s got a dad. I’m right here, but she must think I’m a million miles away sometimes.’
‘This is going to work itself out, son. You might have the DNA of that waster out in Italy, but you’ve been brought up with the morals of a local patron bloody saint! And I’m not talking about me.’ She winked, then her face grew serious.
‘Oh, pet. I know I’m your mam. But I can admit I was just a bairn myself when you were born, and your nanna raised the both of us. You’re Edie’s bairn, through and through – responsibility definitely skipped a generation. Now Travis – he’s more like me. He’s not one for settling down, that lad. But you’re a family man. So stop being so hard on yourself. You’re a great dad. Just have a look at those stitches on your leg and give your head a wobble.’
She slapped her knees and got up. ‘Right. I’m making another brew.’ And she walked off. Sentimentality over.
He sat for a minute, trying to shake off the weird feeling of being mothered, then went back to the task of tidying, getting up to stretch his legs and tackle another part of the room for a while.
Walking over to the mantelpiece, he saw a photograph propped up, with an old, yellowed envelope tucked behind it. He picked it up.
It was a picture from the Community Kitchen, an old one, maybe from the eighties or nineties. It was a shot of Edie and a woman he didn’t recognise, most likely a regular to the Kitchen. She had black curly hair and a smile that didn’t reach the eyes, and had Edie’s arm around her shoulders. She wore a thin jacket, zipped halfway up her chest, and in between the fabric, around her neck, was a necklace. Nick blinked.
He held the photo closer to his face. He’d seen this necklace before. It was a chain bearing an ornate seashell. Gold with pearly stripes. And the last time he’d seen it was when it had been yanked from Wren’s neck in Italy. His mind raced. He remembered Wren saying that it was her mam’s and that she’d died. Could it be her…?
He turned it over. On the back was written: Edie and Caron Rowbottom, 1991.
He’d wished so hard that he might see Wren again. But then, seeing her with her boyfriend, and the confusion that had ensued, that feeling had disappeared as fast as Wren’s coat-tails as she’d vanished through the automatic doors. He’d felt glued to the floor by uncertainty and had just let her go, feeling like he had no right to follow them. And if he was honest, he’d felt crushed by the discovery that she wasn’t, after all, single. She must have been glad to leave Nick, her little secret, behind in Italy, until he’d inconveniently reappeared. But, boyfriend or not, she deserved to see this picture of her mother, even if she had no interest in seeing Nick himself.
‘Mam,’ he shouted through to the kitchen, ‘I’m just popping out.’
He pulled up to the Community Kitchen and climbed out of the van, limping a little on his sore leg. He’d managed to strain the stitches a bit, running out of Edie’s house. He went straight inside and found Cath, who was just undoing her apron at the end of her shift.
‘Cath,’ he said, not stopping for pleasantries. ‘Do you know who this is?’ he asked, thrusting the photo under her nose.
She smiled and cocked her head to one side. ‘Ah, look at her,’ she said. ‘This must have been years ago.’
‘I know, how time flies and everything. But do you recognise the woman with my nanna? The woman wearing the necklace?’
Cath took the photo and squinted at it. ‘Oh, love. I don’t really know. There’s been that many come through here, it could be anyone.’
Nick sighed, his shoulders slumping. It had been too much to hope for, he supposed. Cath was right – over the years, the Kitchen had looked after thousands of people. It had hardly been likely that she would remember this one particular woman out of all of them.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked, her brow creasing with concern. ‘Is it important?’
‘Kind of. But don’t worry. I’m fine.’
He reached for the photo just as she turned it over, and she pulled it back again, frowning. ‘ Rowbottom . Caron Rowbottom. Now I do know that name. Not the commonest name in the world. I’m sure that journalist was called something Rowbottom.’
Nick’s eyebrows rose. ‘The journalist?’
‘Yeah. The one from the Echo . She was interviewing your nanna.’
‘ That journalist? What…?’
‘Yes, that’s right. She had a funny first name… some kind of bird.’
Nick stared at her, something inside him starting to vibrate, as if he was a bottle of lemonade that had just been shaken. He could barely catch his breath. ‘Wren?’
‘Yes, that’s the one,’ she said, beaming. ‘Wren Rowbottom. Lovely girl.’
‘She is,’ he said, his heart pounding as he snatched back the photo, making Cath jump. He grabbed her by the shoulders and planted a kiss on her cheek. ‘Thanks, Cath.’
And he raced back to the van, not even noticing the throb in his calf.
It was late in the day, but he was glad to find the doors of the Northumberland Echo still open when he arrived. His bloodstream was flooded with adrenaline and the realisation that he needed to see Wren so badly it hurt. And the fact that Wren, his Wren, was the journalist that Edie had been talking about made the adrenaline surges feel like rocket fuel.
He paused in the lobby, hesitating now. His Wren. That was how he thought of her, even after everything. He considered the devastation he’d caused with her boyfriend, the messy, awful fallout, and wondered again if he was doing the right thing. Alex seemed to have been cheating on her, and in Italy she’d been cheating on Alex. And Nick was in the middle of it all, wishing that it could all be as simple as things had been back then, when he and Wren were in another world. But as complicated as this situation was, she deserved to have this photograph.
He entered the office to find what could only be described as chaos. There were piles of paper everywhere, and a woman in a crumpled suit was standing in the middle of all of it.
She looked wearily at Nick. ‘I’m sorry, but we’re closed.’
‘Oh. Sorry, the door was unlocked, so… I’m not here on official business if that makes a difference?’
‘It might. How can I help?'
‘Um, I’m looking for Wren. Wren Rowbottom? I’m told she works here.’
The woman’s face spread into a genuine smile, but it faltered. ‘Ah, Wren. It wasn’t my favourite day at work, telling her she was out of a job.’
Nick's eyes widened.
‘We're closing down,’ she said. ‘It’s a sign of the times, unfortunately. But she’ll be snapped up elsewhere, I’m sure of it. She’s a very talented writer. Can I ask why you’re looking for her?’
Nick swallowed. The first thing he wanted to say, to his surprise, was, ‘I think I might have fallen in love with her on holiday.’ He couldn’t say that. And he didn’t want to say too much about Wren’s mam and her personal life, in case this woman, who seemed to be her ex-boss, wasn’t to know such details. So he said, ‘I’m Edie Macmillan’s grandson. From the Community Kitchen? I’ve a message from her.’
Her face softened. ‘My condolences. Your grandmother was a tremendous woman. But I’m sorry, Wren is moving to a new place and hasn’t left me a forwarding address yet, and even if she did, I wouldn’t be allowed to give it to you.’
Nick’s shoulders sagged. ‘Of course. I understand.’
The woman eyed him. ‘I can pass on a message for you when I speak to her next? Or you can try the bookshop?’
‘The bookshop?’ Nick looked at her, confused.
‘Yes. Cravenwick Pages. It’s closed now, but it’ll be open again in the morning. It’s run by Wren’s friend, so she might be able to help?’ She shook her head, realising something. ‘Ah. On second thoughts, Libby won’t be there. She’s just had a baby, and she’s still in the hospital. But Wren is there a lot of the time.’
The bookshop? The place where he’d installed those new windows and been scared half to death by the pregnant owner? Nick reeled. How many different ways had Wren been in his life without him even being aware?
‘Thanks,’ he said, turning to go, stupefied with surprise. ‘I’ll try there.’ He walked towards the staircase, shaking his head slowly.
‘And if you do find her there,’ the woman said behind his back, ‘tell her to ring me with her new address, once she’s stopped sofa surfing.’
‘Will do,’ said Nick, and he went down the stairs and out onto the pavement.
So Wren was sofa surfing and changing address. It didn’t sound like the movements of someone in a relationship. A little flame of hope lit inside him. Like Wren’s boss said, the bookshop would be closed, but he wanted to go and look at it, still in disbelief that Wren didn’t just have a link to that place but was friends with Libby herself. He rounded the corner, realising that must have been the reason she was at the hospital yesterday.
The bookshop was there, further down the street with a light on in the upstairs window. What if…? If Wren had been between addresses and staying with friends, and Libby wasn’t home due to being in hospital… His eyes locked on the warm, orange glow from the window. What if Wren was up there now? His pace quickened. He could knock on the door. What’s the worst that could happen?
He came to a stop directly outside and looked up at the very window he’d replaced a little while back. She could be just on the other side. Then he noticed that the light inside was flickering. The shapes and shadows that it cast on the glass looked weird, like the lamplight was flaring and moving around. And then he noticed the wisp of black smoke from the window frame.
‘Fuck,’ he whispered, running over to rap on the door. He rapped, then he hammered, then he bodily thumped the wooden door until it shook.
‘Wren!’ he yelled up at the window. ‘ Wren! ’
He’d drawn the attention of a group of boozed-up teens over the road, and they wandered over to see what was going on.
‘Call the fire brigade,’ he yelled over his shoulder as he continued to bang his fists against the wood. But there was no response from above.
Adrenaline surged through him like fire itself, and thoughts swarmed inside his mind. Was she even in there?
He screamed up at the window again… Nothing. She might be out. But she might not be. He had to do something – right now.
The bookshop hadn’t been in the best repair when he’d worked there, and he held that thought as he took a few paces back and focused on the door. Then he ran at it full tilt, shoulder down, and prayed that the lock and hinges were as flimsy as everything else in the building.
The door didn’t budge.
He backed up again, a few steps further this time, and threw his whole weight at the door. This time it gave.
He crashed through into the shop and saw smoke drifting down through the door to the flat. He covered his mouth with his shirt and ran towards it.