The Isla Dewar Collection E-Book

Isla Dewar

• Herausgeber: Polygon
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 893

Beschreibung

Snap up a pair of Isla Dewar's feel-good novels in this exclusive bundle from Polygon. First, delve into a feel-good summer reading mystery with It Takes One to Know One, where Charlie Gavin, abducted as a baby, joins the Be Kindly Missing Persons Bureau to help lost souls like himself. Then indulge in the lifelong friendship of Anna and George in A Day Like Any Other, a novel that shows it's never too late to find yourself, packed with humour, insight, depth and honesty. 'A realist, observant and needle-sharp, Isla Dewar can be very funny' – The Times   Titles included in this bundle are: It Takes One to Know One A Day Like Any Other

Leseprobe

THE ISLA DEWAR COLLECTION

Isla Dewar

eBook Bundle

It Takes One to Know OneA Day Like Any Other

This eBook was first published in Great Britain in 2023by Polygon, an imprint of Birlinn Ltd

Birlinn LtdWest Newington House10 Newington RoadEdinburghEH9 1QS

www.polygonbooks.co.uk

Copyright © Isla Dewar, 2018, 2020

The right of Isla Dewar to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical or photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher.

eBook ISBN 978 1 78885 629 4

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication DataA catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library.

PRAISE FOR ISLA DEWAR

‘A realist, observant and needle-sharp,

Isla Dewar can be very funny’

The Times

‘The best, the funniest, cleverest, the most enjoyable writer in Scotland today. I can guarantee that you too would enrich your life beyond all measure by discovering Isla Dewar’

Robin Pilcher

‘Dewar has a very sharp sense of humour and writes with a great deal of wit’

Newcastle Evening Chronicle

‘No one can tell a story quite like Isla Dewar’

Lancashire Evening Post

‘A warm-hearted and gifted storyteller’

Catherine Ryan Hyde

IT TAKES ONE TO KNOW ONE

Isla Dewar’s first book, Keeping Up with Magda, was published in 1995. Dewar found success with her second novel, Women Talking Dirty, the film of which starred Helena Bonham Carter. She contributed to the collection Scottish Girls about Town and has also written for children. Her most recent novel, A Winter Bride, was set in Edinburgh in the 1950s. Born in Edinburgh, Isla lives in the Fife countryside with her husband, cartoonist Bob Dewar, and a bunch of pheasants outside her kitchen window.

It Takes One toKnow One

Isla Dewar

For Sonny who wasn’t in the worldwhen this book was started.

1

It Never Just Drizzles in Hollywood

The man was not what Martha expected. She’d thought he might be middle-aged, complex and wise or perhaps a little alcohol-raddled and cynical. But Charlie Gavin was fidgety. He drummed his fingers – not an impatient tapping on his desktop, more a well-rehearsed thumb and finger drum solo. He arranged his pens into a perfect parallel row. He wiped a minuscule few specks of dust from the phone.

‘You’re married?’

‘Um . . .’

He stopped arranging his pens and looked at her, eyebrows raised. ‘Um?’

‘Separated,’ she told him. This wasn’t actually true. But it was as near to the truth as she was prepared to go.

He said, ‘Oh, man, that’s tough. Children?’

‘A daughter, Evie. She’s seven.’ Oh, man? Had he really said that? She thought people only spoke like that in the movies.

‘A difficult age, seven. It’s a time when you’re becoming aware of the world and innocence is drifting away.’

‘I suppose,’ said Martha. ‘But then I think every age is a difficult age. That’s life. We move from difficult age to difficult age. Just when we relax because one difficult time is over – wham – we get embroiled in the next one.’

In fact she thought seven an excellent age. Her daughter was still a child and, right now, lived a life uncluttered by the hassle of getting on in life. She didn’t have a mortgage, didn’t have bills to pay and could go out to play when school was over. Meals she didn’t have to plan or cook were regularly provided. She got kissed and cuddled and tucked up in bed every night. She was loved, and she knew it. Life was a breeze when you were seven. Reviewing the innocence and comfort of her daughter’s existence, Martha felt proud and a tad envious. She wished she’d been smart enough to enjoy being seven when she’d been there. Still, she didn’t want to openly disagree with Charlie. It wasn’t the thing to do in a job interview.

Charlie agreed on the matter of difficult ages. ‘I’m thirty-seven. Forty’s looming. It’s hard.’

He tapped his desk, gazed into the distance and looked to Martha to be considering his life so far and the difficulties that lay ahead. She took in the room. It was large, airy, painted a fading blue with a desk at either end. One wall was filled with framed prints – Monet, Degas, Cezanne and Matisse. Charlie had the desk by the window. Martha presumed she’d be behind the one near the kitchen door, if she got the job. A fire burbled in the grate. A black cocker spaniel stretched on an ancient Chesterfield sofa and yawned from time to time. He snored and farted as only dogs can without shame or apology for his lack of social graces.

Martha was disappointed Charlie Gavin looked nothing like Sherlock Holmes or Sam Spade. He dressed carefully – grey trousers, grey shirt open at the neck and a black velvet jacket. His hair was too long and curled over the collar of his shirt. He frequently ran his fingers through it. He didn’t look thirty-seven. His face was unlined, almost as if it was waiting for life to happen, make its mark. Or maybe, Martha thought, his scars went deeper than the odd wrinkle. Perhaps he nursed a wounded heart.

He was lucky. Well, his face was lucky. Running worried fingers over her own face this morning while looking in the mirror, Martha decided that every dire moment, doubt and downright tragedy was written there. At best she could say she looked like a woman of the world. But she wasn’t prone to self-flattery. She was sure she looked baggy-eyed, emotionally battered.

‘I mean,’ Charlie said, ‘I’m this old, almost middle-aged, and I still don’t know what I want to do when I grow up.’

Martha knew what he meant. She ran her fingers through her hair and wondered if his habit was infectious. ‘I wanted to be a cowboy when I was little.’

He perked up. ‘Did you? So did I. It seemed like the life to me. Wandering the range, sleeping under the stars – just moseying, me and my faithful horse. Moonlight, I was going to call him.’

‘Excellent name,’ said Martha. ‘Mine was to be Durango.’

‘Oh,’ he lit up. A glint of envy in his eyes. ‘That’s a good name.’

Martha nodded ‘I thought so.’

They sighed in unison.

‘Of course,’ he said, ‘there would be insects out there on the range what with the heat and all.’ He examined his sleeve and brushed off an imaginary horsefly. ‘And the diet wouldn’t agree with me. All the beans. Then there’s the weather.’

‘I know,’ said Martha. ‘It really rains out on the range. Sheeting downpours. That’s the movies for you. It never just drizzles in Hollywood.’

‘Exactly,’ he agreed. ‘After wanting to be a cowboy, I wanted to be a famous jazz trumpeter.’

‘Oh, do you like jazz?’

He nodded. ‘Some of it. Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk. Mostly I like the hats. Jazz men wear cool hats.’

‘I suppose they do,’ said Martha. ‘I never did get along with hats. I don’t have the head for them. And I think you have to be tall.’

‘Exactly,’ said Charlie. ‘I feel self-conscious with a hat on. I love the names, though. Sonny Boy Williamson, Satchmo.’

‘Yes,’ Martha agreed. ‘Blues players too. Blind Lemon Jefferson, Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf. I’d love to have been a blues singer. Big Voice Bessie Green, or something. I’d have worn a low-cut slinky dress, belted out my woes, then I’d have taken a seat at the bar, drunk bourbon and shot the breeze with the band.’

‘Yeah,’ said Charlie. ‘That’s the life.’

‘Still, you play the trumpet?’

‘No.’

‘That could have been a bit of a drawback.’

‘Yes. It was just a dream. I was fourteen. A trumpet was not on the agenda. It was way out of reach.’

Martha briefly felt inclined to tell him about her struggle to buy a guitar when she was fourteen. But something about him – a flicker of regret and, perhaps, anger that spoke of a damaged childhood – made her stop.

She said, ‘Still, this seems fine to me. I’d be happy with this.’ She waved her hands to indicate the room, and then folded them on her lap. ‘What exactly is it you do, Mr Gavin? As a private investigator, that is.’

‘Call me Charlie, everybody does. I look for people. I’m a specialist. I don’t do any other kind of investigating.’

‘But how do you do that?’

‘We all leave trails behind us. I try to find them. Then follow them.’

‘And what does that entail?’

‘Oh, I talk to the people left behind. I follow the daily paths of those who have gone missing and gather information along the way. I look at old newspaper reports and electoral registers. I find out what was happening in the lives of the missing when they disappeared.’

She leaned forward. ‘Do you have a lot of success?’

He shrugged. ‘A bit. I’ve found that some missing people want to stay missing.’

‘I see,’ said Martha.

‘Then again some missing people are desperate to come back. They just don’t know how.’

Martha noted Charlie seemed a lot happier now she was asking the questions. She thought this was not a good thing in someone in his line of business. ‘I expect you’ll be out of the office a lot. Looking for people.’

‘Yes, a little,’ he said. ‘Though I prefer to be here. I like it here with the fire on and the dog sleeping. I sometimes get people to go places for me.’

‘You have more staff?’

‘Not exactly. The occasional helper.’

His fingers moved up to his hair again. He drummed the top of his head. ‘Mrs Florey who had the job worked from ten till four every day. She liked to get away before the rush-hour traffic got too heavy. She cycled.’

‘I wouldn’t have to do that,’ said Martha. ‘I live five minutes’ walk away. Portobello is not that big, anyway. Why did Mrs Florey leave?’

‘She wanted to see the world – the foothills of Mount Everest, the Australian outback and such like. She thought if she didn’t do it now, she might die and never do it. She’s seventy-two.’

‘Oh. I don’t think you’d have that problem with me. I’m a home-loving sort.’

‘Me, too.’ He looked embarrassed. ‘I like to be at home beside the fire with Murphy and a good book.’

‘Murphy? Is that your wife?’

‘The dog.’ He pointed to the snorer and farter on the sofa. ‘He hasn’t got very good manners but he’s excellent company. I’m not married. Nobody would have me. I’m not a good catch.’

He looked at the clock and checked its time by glancing at his watch. ‘Half-past ten. I get a bacon sandwich from the café across the road every morning at quarter to eleven. It would be part of your duties to pick it up.’

Martha told him that would be fine. ‘I’m partial to a bacon sandwich myself.’

He nodded, rearranged the pens on his desk and ran his hand over the phone. ‘You’d have to type up my reports and answer the phone. That sort of thing.’

Martha smiled and said she could do that.

‘Well,’ Charlie said, ‘that’s wonderful.’ Slapping his palms on his desk, he stood up. ‘When can you start?’

‘A week on Monday? I have to hand in my notice at my present job.’

‘Jolly good. I’ll look forward to seeing you then.’

He swept her from the office, along the corridor to the door that led onto the street, repeating, ‘Jolly good, jolly good,’ as they went. ‘Ah, I almost forgot. No pink.’

‘No pink?’

‘Don’t wear anything pink to work. It’s the rule. This office is a pink-free zone.’

Martha shrugged. ‘OK.’ An odd request, she thought. But what was it to her? She didn’t have much pink in her wardrobe.

It was raining. The air smelled of wet beach and ozone. The sea was a step away, round the corner. Charlie greeted the wetness from above with amazement, holding out his palm to gather some drops. He leaned over, tapped the brass nameplate on the wall – Charlie Gavin Be Kindly Missing Persons Bureau – bade Martha goodbye and went back inside. Seconds later he was back in the street again, tapping the nameplate again and shouting after Martha. ‘Mrs Walters.’

She turned. ‘Yes?’

‘You can type, can’t you?’

‘Of course.’

‘And shorthand? Do you do that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ah, excellent.’

They were standing yards apart talking with raised voices. Passers-by looked on with interest. And it was still raining, a fine drenching drizzle.

‘And previous experience,’ he shouted. ‘What about that?’

‘I work in an insurance office. Been there for two years and before that I briefly worked for a small publishing company. Both posts were secretarial.’

‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Just the thing. Um, why do you want to leave your present job?’

‘I feel I’m not getting the chance to develop my full potential.’

He gave her the thumbs up. ‘Good answer. See you Monday next.’ He went back inside, tapping the nameplate as he passed.

Martha stood staring at the doorway. Had that just happened? Had that man just conducted a job interview in the street, yelling questions through the rain? What kind of boss would he be? She dreaded to think. And what kind of private investigator suddenly thought of the questions he ought to ask when the interview was over? A seriously bad one, Martha decided. Charlie Gavin was a disappointment. She’d hoped he might be the one. But clearly he wasn’t.

He reappeared. Tapped the nameplate for the umpteenth time and ran to the café across the road. Now he was wearing a raincoat that was slightly too big for him. Martha thought it a very Humphrey Bogart garment. Well, that was something – a Humphrey Bogart raincoat. He went up a notch in her estimation.

Seconds later he emerged from the café carrying a brown paper bag. The bacon sandwich, Martha decided. They must have had it ready for him. He saw her and appeared delighted she was still there. Pointing up at the sky, he shouted, ‘Drizzle. Obviously this ain’t Hollywood.’

He went back to his office, came out again, tapped the nameplate and disappeared inside.

2

A Life in a Shoebox

Charlie’s heart had skipped a beat when Martha walked into his office. He’d first noticed her years ago. Back then she’d been Martha Campbell. Her married name was new to him. But once, though she didn’t know it, she’d been his hero.

Six o’clock on a Friday evening, he’d been buying a newspaper and had spotted her standing at the bus stop across the road. She’d been wearing jeans turned up at the bottom to reveal pale thin ankles, a white T-shirt and a black leather jacket several sizes too big. She was carrying a guitar in a battered case and was scowling the sort of scowl only an adolescent could manage. This is me, you got a problem with that? the scowl said. It had made him smile. There had been a time when he’d been master of that scowl.

‘Who’s that?’ he’d asked Sheena, the woman behind the counter.

‘Our Martha,’ Sheena told him. ‘Lives in John Street. Her father died a while back. She’s been a worry to her mother ever since. A bit wild.’

‘She plays the guitar?’

‘Not very well, I hear. She’s in a band. Her mother’s praying she’ll grow out of it.’

‘A rock’n’roll band?’

‘That’s what I hear.’

‘I didn’t think girls did that sort of thing.’

‘Neither did I. It’s not right. But Martha’s heart is set on it. It’s a phase, her mother says. It’ll pass. That’s what you do when you have kids, spend your days waiting for phases to pass.’ Sheena had peered out the window at Martha. ‘That lass did no end of paper rounds to get the money for the guitar. I was right glad when she’d saved enough. She was the worst paper-girl I’ve ever had.’

Charlie’s heart went out to Martha and her guitar. Who wouldn’t like someone who was a diabolical paper-girl?

At the time Charlie had been trying to sort out his life. He was considering his future, and had been for some time. He was confused. Lonely. He didn’t know who he was.

He wasn’t working. The only jobs he’d held had been casual labour on building sites. He’d been surprised he hadn’t been called up to do National Service like everyone he knew and had asked his Auntie Ella, who’d brought him up, why this was.

‘Oh,’ she’d said, ‘they probably knew all about you. They have records and they’d have seen that you have flat feet and had a touch of diphtheria when you were little. You wouldn’t be suitable.’

He’d stared at his feet. They seemed perfectly normal to him and the diphtheria was news. ‘Was I ill?’

‘For a while. I was right worried, I can tell you. But you were a tough wee thing. You made it through. You’re fine now. Only maybe not for army life.’

It occurred to him that if he was fit enough to work on a building site, he was fit enough for the army. But he didn’t complain. He was muscular, tanned, there were passing girls to whistle at and it brought in enough money to buy weekend booze, natty shirts and get him into jazz clubs which were more about sitting with a beer listening to music than drinking and dancing.

Oh, he accepted he’d never learn to play the trumpet and bring audiences to their knees weeping at the beauty, pain and honesty of his music. But he felt there must be something he’d be good at, a hidden talent he might stumble upon. It would be satisfying. It might even make him rich. If only he could stumble on that talent soon.

Recently things had changed. His Auntie Ella had left him twelve thousand pounds. It had been a surprise. It had opened possibilities.

Lying on her deathbed in hospital, Ella had gripped his arm. ‘There’s something I have to tell you.’ He’d leaned close. She smelled old. Her voice was a rattle, a whisper. She lifted her head from the pillow. This message was urgent. ‘Look in the biscuit tin. It’s to make up for what I did. I did a terrible thing.’

‘What terrible thing? You’ve never done anything terrible.’

Four o’clock in the afternoon and visiting time was over. People were heaving on winter coats, kissing the cheek of the one they’d come to see, and trudging along the gleaming polished floor to the door. Matron, a fierce rock of a woman, small and solid as a wrestler, who tolerated nothing less than instant obedience, was standing, arms folded, at the end of Ella’s bed. ‘You have to go. It’ll be tea time soon and doctor’s coming on his rounds.’ She glared the glare of a woman who had never known defiance. Charlie had pleaded for a few more minutes.

‘She’s telling me something important.’

‘You can see her tonight. Seven till eight.’ Matron glared harder. Pointed at the door. Charlie left.

He didn’t go back. He got drunk. He was easing the dread. Auntie Ella was dying and he didn’t know what to do about it. He’d known for some time this would happen. But now it was actually happening, it frightened him. He’d be alone in a tiny flat that smelled of Ella and Ella’s cooking.

Once he’d thought about going to Canada. There were opportunities there. But he didn’t want to leave Ella. She was old and forgetful and he was all she had. She’d taken him in when his mother died. He owed her a lot. He owed her everything he was, everything he had – his sanity, for example. If she hadn’t taken him in, he’d probably have ended up in a children’s home. ‘You don’t want to think about them,’ Ella had said, shaking her head, drawing in her breath. ‘Fearful places. Beatings. Hungry bairns. Cruelty to make you weep.’ He reckoned she’d given up a lot to raise him. How could he abandon her after such a sacrifice?

After leaving the hospital he’d walked, hands in pockets, not really noticing where he was going. He moved along pavements considering terrible things – murder, theft, fraud – wondering what Ella had done. She was a gentle, timid soul. Born to sit on life’s sidelines smiling slightly. She was no criminal mastermind. In the end Charlie decided that Ella might once have taken a bus ride and forgotten to pay. Her conscience would have been burdened with guilt for a long time over such an oversight. He smiled at the thought. And stopped, looked round. He’d walked so far from the hospital, he was yards from the Bull and Barnacle, a rough and rowdy drinking hole. It was his favourite pub for watching people who lived their lives openly, wildly, shouting and fighting and swearing. It fascinated him.

He took a stool at the bar and ordered a pint. The conversations around him were unpleasant but bawdy. He found that after another two pints this no longer bothered him. Life became pleasantly blurry and he became more sociable than he actually was.

Halfway through his third pint, the pleasant blurriness seeping through him, he’d been thinking the world was lovely, absolutely bloody lovely, and his fellow men were all his friends. Except the bloke on his right who’d been saying abusive things to the woman standing next to him. She had her back to Charlie. All he saw was white high heels, a tight red skirt, a flimsy but absurdly bright yellow-and-turquoise top and long blonde hair. Attractive, but not his type. The man had been calling her a cow, a bitch, a pervert. He’d said he hated the bloody likes of bloody her and told her to bloody go and bloody stand somewhere bloody else. He didn’t bloody want her anywhere near him. ‘Someone might think I’m with you.’ He’d shoved her. Raised his fist.

Charlie had stepped forward. ‘That’s no way to treat a lady. You don’t hit women.’ He was feeling gallant. Alcoholically gallant.

The man turned and the blow that had been intended for the woman crunched into Charlie’s cheek. It wasn’t painful. The pain would come later. The shock had taken his breath away. As he reeled back, clutching the bar, knocking over chairs, spilling beer, the woman had turned, smiled and said, ‘Thank you, darlin’.’

Even in his dazed state Charlie could see he’d made a mistake. This was no woman. Women didn’t look like that. They didn’t sound like that. This person had a voice that might suit a sailor, deep, salty, rough. She also had the beard to go with it and was missing a front tooth. The shock had made him reckless.

‘God, you’re ugly.’ Charlie’s cheerful blurriness and sociability had abandoned him. Now he was being drunkenly honest. Not good. The woman turned on him, too. Her blow landed on his stomach. He keeled forward and spat out a mouthful of regurgitated beer. The next punch hit him on the side of his face and the next sent him spinning to the floor. Now his assailants found it more convenient to kick him. It saved them bending down.

Curled up and praying for the beating to stop, Charlie had breathed in stale beer and tobacco and the foul smell of the filthy sticky wooden floor. Somewhere above him a woman, a real woman, was shouting, ‘Outside. Outside the lot of yez.’

He’d been dragged face down across the room and thrown onto the pavement. When he’d come round he was in the gutter. His jacket was ripped, his pockets were empty and he was bleeding from his nose and mouth. He could barely move. In time, he’d crawled to the pub door, pulled himself to his feet and hobbled back in.

By now the pub had filled up. A thick blue layer of cigarette smoke curled and shifted along the ceiling, the air reeked of alcohol and curses. The man and woman who’d set about him had bonded and were standing at the bar each with an arm round the other’s shoulder. Charlie had said, ‘Bloody hell.’

The room had silenced, the swearing and drinking momentarily stopped. Everyone had turned to look at him. ‘You,’ the barmaid yelled. ‘You at the door.’ She’d pointed, arm rigid. ‘Get out and stay out. You’re barred. Don’t show your ugly mug in here again. You’re trouble.’

Charlie said, ‘But . . .’

The barmaid had screamed, ‘OUT.’

Charlie left. He thought this was the safest thing to do.

He’d walked home. Nothing else for it, he’d no money and, besides, he doubted he’d be allowed on public transport in his present state – ripped clothes, reeking of beer, bruised and bloodied face. It was after midnight when he reached the flat. His key had been spared and was still in the back pocket of his trousers. A mercy, he’d thought. He’d hung his jacket on the hook by the front door, splashed cold water on his face, wincing a lot, lay fully clothed on his bed and slept.

The banging on the door woke him. He’d opened his eyes, winced again – daylight hurt. He considered himself to be a master of light – he could tell the time by the colour of the day. Two in the afternoon. The banging continued. He should answer it, but moving was a problem. He’d heaved himself upright and shuffled from the bedroom to the front door. Not a long trip, but a painful one.

Perhaps it was their bulk, or their dark uniforms, but policemen always made him feel guilty. Seeing two of them standing in his doorway, surveying him, taking in the torn shirt and bruised, pulpy face, Charlie had felt bound to confess. Fair cop, he’d thought to say, ‘I’ll come quietly.’ He knew for a fact he’d done nothing. He’d been set upon while defending a lady’s honour. Except that the lady in question had turned out to be a man who’d taken exception to being called ugly. He’d started to prepare his version of events.

‘Mr Gavin?’

‘Yes.’

‘Perhaps we could come in. The hospital couldn’t get hold of you last night. I’m afraid we’ve got bad news.’

And Charlie knew this visit had nothing to do with the happenings in the pub. His Auntie Ella was dead. He’d never know what the terrible thing was.

The funeral had been quiet. Only Charlie, a couple of neighbours Ella had been friendly with and a woman who was the barmaid at the pub where she cleaned. Gazing at his feet and not looking at any of the three people who’d come along, Charlie gave a short speech.

‘Thank you all for being here today. It would make Auntie Ella happy to know you came to say goodbye. I’ll always be grateful to my aunt. She took me in when I had nobody. I think she saved my life. All that, and she made a mean scone.’ He’d shoved his hands into his pockets, stared into the mid-distance rummaging through his mind for something more to say. He’d known he ought to invite the mourners out to a hotel for a cup of tea. That was the expected thing on such occasions. But the thought had filled him with dread. He didn’t know these people, had nothing to say to them. He could have invited them back to the flat. He’d had tea and perhaps there were biscuits in the tin. ‘Biscuits,’ he said. Auntie Ella had said to look in the biscuit tin. There was something there to make up for the terrible thing she’d done. What? Custard creams? Bourbons? He was fond of them. ‘The biscuit tin,’ he’d said. He was near to tears and desperate. He’d be alone now. And that aloneness would go on for a long time. Maybe for the rest of his life. He’d wanted to get on with it. ‘Biscuits,’ he said again. The small gathering murmured understanding. In moments of grief and mourning there was nothing like the comfort of biscuits.

He’d discovered the money when he got home. He’d gone straight to the tin, an old and dented thing with a picture of the Forth Railway Bridge on top. Twelve thousand pounds in cash was stuffed under the lid in single and five-pound notes, all crumpled. Charlie had counted it, and then counted it again. He’d arranged it into hundred-pound bundles spread on the table in front of him. And counted it again. He’d never seen so much money in his life. It should have delighted him. But no, it filled him with guilt. How much had Auntie Ella denied herself to save this amount? The piles in front of him were the result of years of scrimping. It hurt to think of what she could have bought – a new coat, a decent sofa, a fridge. This flat where they had lived was bare, uncomfortable. Life had been frugal.

The furniture here was old, worn and dented or chipped from years of use. The kitchen had three pots. The bedrooms each had a narrow bed and forlorn wardrobe. Built in the early twenties, there was an inside toilet, but no bath. Washing was a delicate operation done in the kitchen, always hurriedly and always while singing or shouting, ‘Keep out,’ so each would know the other was in no state to be seen. Nakedness had been fleeting.

‘Be safe and be kindly,’ Auntie Ella always said. ‘If you’re safe you’re never sorry. And if you’re kindly, kindliness will come back to you.’

Charlie didn’t know about being kindly, but safe was a good idea. He’d put the money back into the tin and had taken it to the bank where he’d placed it on the counter. One of the tellers had fetched the manager.

‘Best place for it, lad,’ Mr McGregor had told him. He’d pointed at the tin. ‘Seen it before.’

Charlie had wondered if Mr McGregor had visited Auntie Ella and been offered a biscuit.

‘People putting money in tins they keep under the bed rather than in the bank. It isn’t safe. And there’s no interest on money stashed under the mattress.’

They’d been in his office. Mr McGregor behind his giant polished desk, Charlie on a chair that had placed him rather lower down than the manager. He’d felt like a schoolboy, seeking approval from his headmaster.

Mr McGregor had leaned back. Looked serious. A man in his fifties, balding with steel-rimmed glasses, his suit dark grey, shiny at the elbows, his shirt perfect white, he’d looked like a bank manager from central casting. ‘Buy a house, son. You could get a lovely bungalow. Three bedrooms, nice little garden. You’d be set for life.’

Nobody had ever called Charlie son before. The word almost stopped him breathing. He didn’t have a father. He didn’t have a mother. Auntie Ella called him darling from time to time. She loved him, fussed over him but rarely gave him advice other than, ‘Be kindly and be safe.’ So fatherly advice – the first he’d ever been offered – was welcome, but a bit embarrassing. Charlie was tempted to take it. He wanted to please this man. But he was going to Canada. There was nothing now to keep him here.

He needed a passport. To get one he needed his birth certificate. He was here. He’d been born. He must have one. Back home, he’d searched the flat. He’d started with the drawer in the living-room sideboard where Ella kept all her papers. Here he’d found several recipes for interesting things to do with mince, along with old electric and gas bills and a few Christmas cards. He binned the lot.

He’d searched the other drawers and found nothing. He moved to the kitchen, but there the drawers and cupboards only contained ancient utensils – a potato peeler, a couple of knives, old pots with shaky handles.

Next came the search he dreaded – Auntie Ella’s bedroom. He knew that he’d have to empty Ella’s drawers and wardrobe before he went to Canada. But without that birth certificate he couldn’t get a passport and there was only one place it could be – that room.

It smelled musty with a faint undertow of Ella’s Lily of the Valley perfume; a tiny, frighteningly tidy, sparsely furnished room. The flat had always been immaculate, nothing ever lying around. Sometimes Charlie thought his aunt behaved as if she expected tidiness inspectors to break down the front door and rush in checking for mess. But then, Ella had a fear of unexpected visitors. She’d jump at any knock on the door.

He’d felt like an intruder. This had been Ella’s sanctum and after he was seven years old he’d rarely come in here. He’d moved softly on tiptoe across to the small dressing table beside Ella’s bed and opened the top drawer. He’d found a bible. In other drawers he’d found a hardly used lipstick and an old powder compact with a faded picture of a rose on the lid, a hairbrush, a set of curlers and Ella’s scant collection of underwear. Nothing more. There were two skirts in the wardrobe along with three blouses, a cardigan, a coat and two pairs of shoes neatly lined up at the bottom. He’d raked in Ella’s coat pockets knowing she’d be unlikely to keep a birth certificate there, but he was desperate.

On his hands and knees he’d looked under the wardrobe and under the bed. Only dust. He’d sat on the floor feeling hopeless. It wasn’t the missing birth certificate that depressed him; it was the heart-stopping austerity of his aunt’s life. The woman had nothing.

Ella had earned money as a seamstress. The only people who’d called at the flat were customers who wanted curtains made or clothes altered – hems taken up, waistbands loosened, jackets taken in or let out. The only time Ella left the flat was on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday nights after ten when she cleaned the pub in the High Street.

How he’d hated these nights. Even now, years later, a low growl of worry spread through him at the thought of a Tuesday, Thursday or Saturday spent alone. He’d sit by the door wearing his striped pyjamas and thick red dressing gown waiting for Ella to come home. He’d start at every creak or night-time groan in the flat and hold his breath at footsteps passing in the street. He’d read, or study the pictures in his book. It was the story of two children lost in a deep dark forest. Dangers lurked. Witches, dragons, wolves, evil goblins watched the innocent pair from behind bushes and trees as they wandered through the density of trees and further and further from home. He’d put his fingers over the lost ones, keeping them safe from grasping claws and reaching arms and wild glinting eyes.

Ella always came home at half-past midnight. Charlie would hear her key in the lock, exhale a gasp of relief and run back to bed. By the time Ella had come in, put her bag in its place in her room, taken off her coat and stuck her head round the door of his room, he’d be under the blankets, eyes shut, pretending to sleep.

From when he was seven Charlie had done the shopping. Auntie Ella would give him a small list and some money and send him to the butcher’s and the grocer’s. She didn’t like any of his friends dropping by and hated when he’d gone to play at someone’s house. ‘Be back by five,’ she’d say. He’d sigh. But who was he to complain? Auntie Ella had saved him from life in a children’s home. Her descriptions of the cruelties that went on in such places made him weep for the ones who had no Auntie Ella to open her arms to them. He’d prayed for them. It had been a nightly ritual, kneeling by his bed, fingers laced, eyes squeezed shut, begging God to keep the orphans safe.

Remembering all this, he’d sighed and heaved himself to his feet. As he’d pushed himself upright, his eyes had swept the top of the wardrobe and he caught a glimpse of something. A box. Ah, all the important papers will be in that. How like Auntie Ella to hide it away. Keeping it safe.

He’d taken it to the living room, set it on the table and opened it. Inside he’d found his life – a baby tooth wrapped in tissue paper, a lock of pale blond baby hair, a tiny pair of shoes, all his school reports, the valentine card he’d made for Ella when he was six, Christmas cards he’d given her, a photo of him on the beach standing at the water’s edge, painfully thin in woollen swimming trunks holding a bucket and spade, a few buttons he recognised from childhood shirts, a pressed flower, his certificate for perfect attendance at Sunday school. All that and no birth certificate. He’d lurched from memory to memory, but had been shocked that his entire life so far could be stuffed into a small shoebox. It was time to move on, time to reach out for bigger moments. He’d go to Canada.

A week later he received a letter from the General Register Office for Scotland replying to the one he’d sent asking for a copy of his birth certificate. There was no record of anyone called Charles Gavin born in Glasgow on the fourth of March 1932.

The following afternoon he’d gone to Register House to look for himself. He’d searched through 1932, moved on to 1933, 1934 and 1935 but couldn’t find anything. He’d looked for Ella Balfour – 10 November 1898 – and couldn’t find her either. ‘But she existed,’ he’d shouted. ‘She was my aunt. She brought me up. Saved me from the children’s home.’ He’d beat his chest. ‘Look. It’s me. I exist. I’m here.’ He’d been escorted from the building.

He hadn’t known what to do. He was a man without a past. Without a future, he’d thought. Every so often he’d grip his own arm, punch his thigh. ‘I’m here. Flesh and blood.’ He’d wondered if his mother, whoever she was, hadn’t registered him. Auntie Ella had been vague about his parents. ‘Your mother was a beauty. Long fair hair, perfect skin. Mairi, she was.’

‘What about my father?’ Charlie would ask.

‘He was rich. I didn’t know him really.’

She’d been equally vague when asked about herself. ‘Oh, I had a little flat in Glasgow before you came along. But I moved here to be by the sea. My sweetheart died in the war, you know. Oh, he was a lovely man. Tall, handsome just like you’re going to be.’

Charlie had decided he was a fool. He should have asked more questions. He should have found out more about his mother and father. He shouldn’t have been so accepting.

He’d bought a house in Bath Street – three storeys of disrepair, bad plumbing, scary wiring and rotting floorboards. But he liked the space, large rooms and a wild garden at the back. He’d moved in with just a suitcase, sat on the floor and thought he really ought to get some furniture. ‘Cups,’ he’d decided. ‘Spoons, towels, a kettle.’ He’d bought a mattress, a record player, a kettle, some cutlery, two towels and a cup. All a man needs, he’d told himself.

He’d spent his days lying on his mattress looking up at his dust-streaked windows listening to Louis Armstrong and Charlie Parker. He’d eaten at cheap restaurants, drank a lot, felt sorry for himself but had rather enjoyed that. He’d indulged himself in his sorrow. He was a man who didn’t exist.

Every day he’d go to the newsagent’s to flirt shyly with Sheena as he bought an evening paper to read in the pub nearby. On the day of spotting Martha, he’d told Sheena she was looking good today, which she wasn’t. She’d laughed as he headed out the door and said, ‘Get a job. You need to do something. Your flirting technique’s terrible.’

Charlie stopped, stared across the road. ‘Who’s that?’

It had been Martha. Looking fierce. A girl who knew everything about herself – who she was, where she was going, and didn’t care what anyone thought. Her jaw was set and she stared up the road, willing the bus to come. How dare it not come? Didn’t it know she was waiting?

If Charlie fell in love with her, it was only for five minutes. She’d been too young for him. And at the time his preference had been for women of experience, older than him with plump pillowy breasts and smoky voices. They’d be wiser and perfectly capable of drinking him under the table. But the girl across the road had stopped him breathing. He was lost in wonder. He’d stared. He’d envied her confidence, her ambition. He should be like that. He should look for himself, find out who he was and then move on from that.

He’d seen her often. Sometimes she’d had a boy with her. He’d been puppy-like, following her. Then, a few years on, she’d been pregnant. After that she’d disappeared, didn’t turn up at the bus stop for a while. Later, about three years on, his heart had leapt when he saw her with a young child, a girl. She’d been leaning down talking to her, laughing at something she’d said. It’d been a good laugh. Hearty, warm.

Ten years after that first sighting across from the newsagent’s, when Martha walked into his life once more, it had happened again. Charlie stopped breathing. He fiddled with his pens. He flicked non-existent dust from his phone. He couldn’t think of a decent job interview question to ask her. And when he’d come to himself, she was gone.

Oh, the joy when he’d come out of the café with his bacon sandwich. There she’d been, standing in the rain. He’d smiled and said something inane about the weather and Hollywood. Back at his desk, feeling like a responsible employer, he’d opened his paper bag and as he sniffed deeply the aroma of hot bacon and melting butter, it came to him that actually, after being too tongue-tied when she was sitting in front of him, he’d interviewed the poor woman as she stood on the pavement being soaked by relentless drizzle.

‘Fool,’ he’d said. ‘Fool. Fool. Fool.’ And banged his stupid head on his desk. He cursed himself for not getting the interview right. He thought he never got anything right. He stood. Pulled on his raincoat. Whistled on Murphy to stop snoozing on the sofa and come with him. He felt it coming on – the sadness. It always came on when he’d messed up.

Before it got too bad and the blackness gripped him, he’d go home and see how the people there were doing.

3

The Second-Stupidest Thing You’ve Ever Done

‘so,’ said Sophie, ‘did you get the job?’

Martha said, ‘Yes, as a matter of fact I did.’

‘Oh dear, I was hoping you wouldn’t.’

Sophie was sitting at the kitchen table. She wore her work outfit – a pair of men’s dungarees, a voluminous checked shirt that had belonged to her husband and a blue apron.

Martha took off her coat, hung it on the post at the top of the stairs and kicked off her shoes. ‘Well, I got the job. So nyaah.’ She stuck out her tongue at her mother and looked round. ‘Tea?’

‘I never say no to a cup of tea,’ said Sophie.

‘How’s work going?’ asked Martha.

‘Got two in the oven. Another one to go. Then I have to put it all together.’

She baked cakes for birthdays, anniversaries, indeed for any occasion that her customers thought would be enhanced by a specially decorated piece of baking. Her cakes came in any shape, size or colour. Today’s cake was to be in the shape of a bicycle for a district nurse who was retiring. ‘The wheels are tricky, but I’m worrying about the handlebars.’

‘Why take all those difficult cakes on?’

‘Money,’ said Sophie. ‘We need money. Especially now you’ve given up a well-paid job with a good company for a small-time one-man detective agency. You had prospects. Now you’ve a silly job. You’ve no sense.’

Martha put tea into the teapot and sighed. ‘Mother, I’ve told you already. It takes over an hour to get to work at the moment. I have to leave before eight every morning and I don’t get home till after six. I hardly see Evie these days. She’s seven. She needs a mother. Anyway, it isn’t a detective agency, it’s a missing persons bureau. The Be Kindly Missing Persons Bureau.’

‘Evie’s got me. I can sort out her problems. That’s what a grandmother is for.’

‘I’m missing seeing my own daughter growing up.’

Sophie shrugged. ‘That’s the way of things in the modern world. Also, you have to consider you might be a bad influence now you’re working at a detective agency. You’ll be mixing with criminals.’

‘No, I won’t. Charlie traces people who have gone missing.’

‘I know why you did this. You think this Gavin chap could be the one. The one who’ll find Jamie.’

Martha shook her head. ‘Oh, he’s not the one. Definitely not. I don’t think he could find anyone. I have a feeling he’s a terrible detective.’

‘Then why take a job with him?’

‘I’ve already told you. No commuting. I can leave here a few minutes before nine and be home just after five.’

‘You’ll never meet anyone working there. The only people you’ll meet will be lonely people who have lost the ones they love. It will be depressing and tragic.’

Martha said she wasn’t looking for anybody. ‘I’m happy as I am.’

‘I don’t believe you. Nobody’s happy as they are. Everybody wants a little bit more of what they’ve got. New gadgets or curtains or a bigger house. Or they want something completely different, a new way of life. If people were happy as they are the world would come to a stop.’

‘So you’re not happy as you are?’

‘Of course not,’ said Sophie. ‘I’d like to be thinner and richer. And I don’t think you can be happy living with your mother in the house where you were brought up.’

‘It was your idea. When the Jamie thing happened, you said Evie and I should move in here with you. You said it would save me paying the rent and you’d look after Evie while I was at work.’

‘And I do. I love doing it.’

Martha said, ‘So why are we arguing?’

Sophie sighed. ‘We are arguing because I can’t believe you are leaving a very good job in insurance to go and work in a sad little agency. It’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.’ She sniffed, ‘I take that back. It’s the second-stupidest thing you’ve ever done.’ She looked round the kitchen. ‘This place could do with a good clean up. And I need to sort out the cupboards. Everything’s all jumbled up.’

‘It’s not too bad.’

‘It’s a mess. I think I should put the things in the food cupboard in alphabetical order. Then I’d know where they are. A for . . .’ She couldn’t think of anything beginning with A. ‘B for biscuits and beetroot, for example.’

Martha said, ‘It’s a longstanding jumble. I know it well.’

Sophie got up. ‘In that case, I’m going for a walk. The doctor says walking’s good for me. You can take the cakes out of the oven.’ She disappeared down the hall and minutes later reappeared heaving on her coat. ‘I don’t believe that this has nothing to do with finding Jamie. You think that detective man can help you.’

‘No, I don’t think he could,’ said Martha. ‘But Jamie is my husband. I’d like to know where he is and what possessed him to disappear like that.’

‘He was selfish and irresponsible.’ Sophie was incensed. She stomped down the hall heading for the door. ‘He couldn’t face a life of marriage, bills, endless routines and bringing up a child.’

‘Something’s weird about it all,’ Martha said.

Sophie stomped back up the hall. ‘You’re looking for a mystery where none exists. Jamie was bored. He’s a quitter, that’s all.’

Martha said, ‘Perhaps.’

She heard Sophie march to the front door and go out, and looked at her watch. ‘Twenty minutes.’

Sighing, Martha sipped her tea and stared at the cooker waiting for the cakes to be ready. It left her mind free to roam through what she now called the awful time. The black time.

4

The Chip Thief

It had started when Martha had told Jamie she was expecting their second child. She’d thought he’d be delighted. ‘We’ll be a proper family – husband, wife and the regulation two children.’ She grinned at him.

He nodded. ‘So we will.’

They were eating lunch in a diner in Stockbridge. Martha’s treat – she’d started saving for this, sneaking small secret amounts of her weekly housekeeping allowance into her knicker drawer every week since missing her first period. This time she was going to do everything properly. This pregnancy was going to be beautiful. She’d be relaxed, glowing. Baby would arrive in the world smiling. She planned to move through her expectant months wearing soft, wafting clothes listening to Mozart and eating healthy things. She imagined herself an earth mother. Barefoot and pregnant. Clear-skinned and calm.

The wonderful, uplifting, remaining seven months would start with her telling Jamie her good news here in this place where rock’n’roll roared out and the walls were festooned with American heroes – Steve McQueen, Buddy Holly, Elvis, Paul Newman. Jamie loved it here. He loved everything American. He loved that his burger was served with fries and not chips. Never chips.

Unfortunately, Martha’s financial reckonings were wrong. Things cost more than she’d budgeted for, so she claimed not to be hungry and ordered a cup of coffee for herself. She smiled watching Jamie and Evie eat, almost enjoying the feeling of martyrdom. It was good to feel saintly about forsaking a meal so loved ones could enjoy a burger. Then again her stomach was making strange and embarrassing gurgling noises.

Jamie had bought a new Stones LP and seemed more interested in reading the sleeve notes than he was in Martha’s announcement.

‘You don’t seem very pleased.’

‘Of course I’m pleased. Who wouldn’t be? It’s great news.’ He smiled, a slight upward flicker of his lips. ‘I’m going to be a daddy again. Cool.’ He returned to the sleeve notes.

Not wanting an argument, she’d left it at that. Jamie lit a cigarette and watched a group of people at a table nearby. Martha followed his gaze. The people were probably the same age as she and Jamie, but looked younger. They had youthful confidence, were dressed to shock – jeans, cowboy boots, beads, T-shirts. One of the girls had a pink feather in her hair. She was rolling a cigarette and telling everybody she wouldn’t have a burger, she’d turned vegetarian this morning. This seemed to impress the group. Jamie nodded agreeing and pushed away his plate, disowning it. He had, however, finished the burger that had sat on it.

Wafts of patchouli drifted across to Martha. She absently picked up one of Evie’s fries and ate it.

The child wailed, pointing at her. ‘You ate my chip. It was my favourite. My best chip. And you ate it. I was savin’ it.’

Martha blushed. ‘Sorry.’ She pointed at the plate. ‘There are other chips. Look, there’s a good one. I think that’s the chief chip.’

Evie shook her head. ‘I don’t want the chief chip. I want that chip you ate.’ Red-faced and tear-stained, she pointed at Martha’s mouth. The place where the chip was last seen.

The patchouli group turned and stared at Martha. Harsh, accusing looks. She was a cruel mother. A chip thief. They were young enough to think they knew everything and young enough, also, to disapprove of anyone boring enough to have married and produced a child. They sneered. She cringed.

Bored by this drama, Jamie drew his cigarette along the base of his ashtray, looked at his watch. ‘Must go. Have to be back at work in fifteen minutes. Don’t want to be late.’ He pointed at Evie’s plate. ‘You shouldn’t have done that. I hate it when someone pinches my chips, too.’

Martha went to the counter to pay. And on her way back to the table glanced at the patchouli people. She heard one of them say that when she had children she’d let them do as they liked. ‘They’ll be free spirits. They’ll grow up with no hang-ups.’

Jamie had disowned her. He was outside, leaning on the wall, smoking another cigarette, acting aloof.

They walked up the road slowly, tiny steps at a young child’s pace, heading for Princes Street. Martha spoke about the new baby, the changes that were about to come into their life. It would be good for Evie to have a brother or sister. A boy would be wonderful, but in a way it would be handy to have another girl. ‘We wouldn’t have to buy new clothes. I think it’s cool to have a family while we are young. We can grow up with our children.’ She prattled on, not really looking at Jamie, just letting her thoughts flow. ‘We’ll have to get a bigger house in time. The kids can share a room at first but they’ll want their own space soon enough.’ She stopped, frowned. ‘What d’you think of Luke if it’s a boy? And Emma for a girl. Evie and Emma. Sounds good.’

Jamie stopped walking. Looked a bit panic stricken. ‘Shit. I’ve forgotten my LP. Left it back at the diner.’ He whirled round and started to run back. She watched him go, thinking that really he didn’t need to run so fast. His head was back, arms working like pistons. He was travelling. Something about the urgency in his voice and his sudden speedy departure upset Evie. She reached out, calling, ‘Daddy. Daddy!’

‘He’s only gone to get his record,’ said Martha. ‘He’ll be back.’ She leaned on the railings, looking into Queen Street Gardens. ‘I’d love a big garden,’ she said.

Ten minutes passed, twenty, half an hour. Where the hell was he? She decided to walk back to meet him, thinking he’d probably met somebody he knew and couldn’t get away. She would rescue him.

She turned the corner expecting to see Jamie coming towards her. The street was empty. As was the diner. Sonny and Cher were booming out on the radio, ‘I Got You Babe’. Martha stood in the doorway looking round. She couldn’t believe Jamie wasn’t here. ‘Did my husband come here to pick up an LP he’d forgotten?’ she asked.

The waitress said, ‘Yes.’ She pointed to the table where Martha and Jamie had been sitting. It had been cleared and wiped. ‘He left with his friends.’

‘What friends?’

The waitress pointed to the table the patchouli people had occupied. ‘The people there.’

Martha said, ‘Ah. Right.’ How odd, Jamie hadn’t mentioned that he’d known these people. He hadn’t said hello to them. Surely he would have introduced her. She went back into the street, looked to the left and right. Nobody there. She went back into the diner. ‘Are you sure he left with these people?’

‘Yeah, positive.’ The waitress looked offended at being doubted.

Martha looked round once more. But the place was definitely empty. She dipped and glanced under the table. Bobbed back up, caught the waitress’s eye and blushed. ‘He might have been playing a joke.’

The waitress shook her head. ‘No. No joke. He’s not here.’

Martha shrugged. She must have missed him. How odd. He’d probably gone back to work. He’d taken a different route. One he’d decided was quicker than the one they had been walking.

She caught the bus home. Spent the rest of the afternoon playing with Evie, dreaming about being a proper family – husband, wife and two kids like the people in her school reading book – and ignoring the raw churning in her stomach. Something odd and fearful had happened.

At six o’clock she started getting Evie ready for bed and put two lamb chops under the grill to cook slowly. Jamie usually arrived home at half-past. He’d sit Evie on his knee and read her a story. After that he’d slip out to his shed to check his record collection. There wasn’t space in their tiny living room for his hundreds of albums. Tonight, however, Jamie didn’t return at his regular time. Tonight he didn’t come home at all.

A miserable ache of a February night that Martha would never forget – the awful, awful night. The night of silence, her imagination in overdrive and a burning anxiety raging through her. She moved between the kitchen and the living-room window, staring out. Waiting for Jamie to appear. ‘Where the hell has he got to?’

She put Evie to bed, read her a story, and when she asked where her daddy was, told her he’d be home soon. Jamie would come, banging the front door shut, shouting apologies, the chill night air clinging to his coat. He’d laugh and tell her he was sorry, he’d had to work late and hadn’t time to phone her.

Eleven o’clock and still no sign. Martha sat in the living room, hands folded on her lap, nerves singing in her stomach and doom scenarios in her head – Jamie dead after being hit by a bus, Jamie suffering amnesia in hospital, Jamie attacked by thugs and lying bruised and bleeding and undiscovered in some park somewhere. She phoned every hospital in Edinburgh and, no, a Jamie Walters had not been admitted to any of them.

She phoned her mother, who told her not to worry. ‘He’ll have gone out to the pub with some workmates. He’ll come home blind drunk smelling like sin and begging your forgiveness. It happens. And, no, don’t phone the police. Not yet. You’ll both end up being embarrassed. Just remember men snore and men make stupid remarks and forget your anniversary and are annoying. And sometimes they go off on their own to do manly things like get drunk and pretend to be younger than they are. Just relax. He’ll be home soon enough.’