The Unexpected Find Page 4

  And now it was very late, well after midnight. She turned on to the towpath, and came to the narrowboat. The moon had set and only a dim park lamp lit the little door into the deckhouse. Inside the air was chilly and damp. She never left a heater on when she wasn’t there. Her father had left behind lots of money and a cash card for her, and for a while she had felt really rich. But after all this time she was beginning to wonder how she could make it last. She lit the gas heater, and thought about boiling up some water and filling a hot-water bottle, but she couldn’t be bothered. She undressed and crept shivering into her bunk, rubbing her feet together until they got a little warmer. She tried hard not to think too much about her father – what could have happened, where he could be. During the day it was easier, but at night, before sleep came, it was practically impossible. She couldn’t go on denying what was staring her in the face. That for every day that passed, the odds that something had gone seriously wrong were increasing, and all she could do was wait while disaster rushed towards her like a boulder bouncing down a hill. Think about something else, she told herself. She chose Russell’s paradox – that was a good one.

  “Is the set of all sets that are members of themselves a member of itself?” she said aloud, and by trying to make sense of it she was soon asleep.

  Much later, William woke. He could hear dance music thumping right through the house, so he knew his mother wouldn’t be back yet. He turned on the light and sat down at his table, opening his notebook. He wrote and drew a picture of a monster, and a Roman soldier. Then he heard the street door open, and his mother coming up the stairs. She stumbled and said a rude word. He knew that she would probably go straight to her room, because she never felt very well after she had been out with Jerry, but he turned the light out and went back to bed anyway, just to be on the safe side.

  3

  Judy had been keeping her head down. There was no more trouble from Tyler and Josh. She had heard in school that Josh was moving to another part of town, and apparently Tyler never went out after dark at all.

  She had a bit of a scare when her maths teacher said that he was thinking of getting her some extra maths teaching, and he would talk to her father about it, but she managed to fix that by very carefully making some ridiculous mistakes in her end-of-term exam, and even leaving a couple of questions unanswered. It was brilliant; just enough to get the pressure off, but not bad enough to start worrying people. The business of keeping up appearances had been a game at the beginning; outsmarting everybody was fun. But it’s tiring being on your guard all the time, and the hardest thing is being on your guard against the dark thoughts – the little voice that whispers, Something has gone wrong. He may never come back.

  The end of term brought some relief from the lies and the forged notes. Judy had the whole Christmas holidays ahead of her and she wouldn’t have to worry about parents’ meetings and end-of-term plays. But not being in school also made it harder to ignore that little voice. So Judy kept herself busy on the narrowboat, doing stuff that needed doing – like taking the generator apart and greasing the bearings and finding places indoors for some of the more sensitive pot plants that struggled in the cold weather. She had plenty to read, and was playing chess on her computer with someone in New Zealand who was much better than her and beat her every time. Trouble was, it didn’t take long for Judy to run out of ideas to keep boredom and worry at bay. Most of the time she ended up lying on her back on her bed, staring at the ceiling. One afternoon she was doing just that; the pale winter sun was already on its way down on the other side of the canal, and was shooting its last few arrows of light through the window of the narrowboat, illuminating a shelf of books that were mostly her father’s difficult textbooks and favourite poetry. As she followed the light with her eyes she saw something sticking up from one of them – a marker of some kind. She reached up and took down the book – an anthology of poetry – and, wondering which poem he’d been reading, opened it at the marked page.

  It was a poem called “The Thousandth Man” and before she could read it, Judy saw that the book marker was an envelope, the edge ragged where it had been torn open. The envelope was addressed to her father – it had once contained the famous letter from Rashid that had sent him away from her. There was no letter inside now; her father had burnt that, Judy remembered. She turned the envelope over in her hands. Along the top on the back was a sender’s address, but most of it was torn off. She could make out a postcode, though, and part of the name of a town or district. A name, a number, a real place. Judy thought of her father in Sweden, and for some reason this cheered her up a bit. After all, Sweden wasn’t on the other side of the world. It wasn’t Australia, or anything.

  Quite suddenly she decided to get the place ready for Christmas, and she pulled out the decorations so she could string the fairy lights along the deck and hang tinsel in the bay tree. While she did, she daydreamed. In one of her daydreams she was sitting listening to the radio on Christmas Eve – the carol service from King’s, perhaps – and she heard a thump as someone jumped on to the houseboat, and a voice called, “Jude, Jude, put the kettle on. I am very much in need of some refreshment,” in that daft voice that her father put on when he was pretending to be upper class. She had decided that she would definitely not throw herself at him and hug him but when he came in she would be cool and dignified, and would say, “What took you so long?” Then he would explain everything and say that there was no one in this whole wide world who had a daughter who would do for him what she had done – wait, stick it out, and trust that everything would be OK. Then she would hug him. After that, in her story, they decided to have a proper English Christmas, with turkey and crackers and silly hats, and hang up a stocking over the stove to see if Santa Claus could squeeze himself down the stovepipe. And on Christmas day it would snow a bit, and they would go for a walk along the canal and he would say, “You see, I ordered Christmas, and it has been delivered.”

  A few days before Christmas, when William came home after a visit to the museum, to look yet again at the Roman and early English artefacts that had been dug up in the local area, he found a note from his mum on the kitchen table.

  William, guess what? it said,

  Jerry had a big win at Doncaster and we’re off to Spain for a holiday. I’ve been feeling a bit off lately, so it should do me a bit of good. I know you won’t mind.

  I’ll ring Nan and tell her to come and get you. I bet you’ll have a great Christmas.

  See you, love Mum.

  William didn’t mind, not really. Christmas wasn’t something he looked forward to very much. The museum was always closed, there was an awful lot of shouting and fighting out in the street, even people being sick on the pavement, but the worst thing was that his mum usually came back from some party feeling very odd and wobbling about. Once she had put on some loud music and made him dance with her. He waited for Nan to call, but she didn’t: not that day, and not the next day either. So he found her number written on the wall in the hall, and rang her. There was an answering machine. “This is Marjorie Parkinson, “Nan’s voice said, “I can’t answer right now, so please leave a message.” William didn’t leave a message, he didn’t have time to think of what to say, but he knew where Nan lived so he took the number seventeen bus and got off at her street. He went up her little garden path and rang the bell. There was no answer.

  “Hello, William, have you come to see your nan?” It was the woman who lived next door. She had come up her own path with her shopping bags. “Haven’t you heard, she’s in the infirmary, poor dear, had a bad fall, and they’re worried about her heart on top of it all. She’s in ward nine, but I think you’d better give her a few days before you visit.”

  William said thank you, and that he would give her a few days. Then he went home.

  So Christmas came and went, and it meant very little to Judy or William. For Judy, it meant some nice music on the radio and a cheery greeting from the chess player in New Zealand, a day ea
rly of course. William stayed in too, sorting his collection and eating crisps and drinking coke. He didn’t dare go outside.

  And soon it was New Year’s Eve. Judy was on her bunk reading Boole’s Laws of Thought, which was a tough enough read to take anyone’s mind off their worries. It had been a cold day, with heavy frost on the way, but Judy had lit the stove when she got up that morning, so it was warm and comfy in the boat. For the first time in ages Judy felt herself relax. And then she heard it: the thump of someone stepping on to the stern deck. For a moment she didn’t move. She just waited, head down over her book, her hair draped around it like a curtain. But her heart started beating like a drum, while joy and relief gathered themselves to engulf her. The bit about being cool was going to be much, much harder than she expected. Then there was a knock at the door, and a man’s voice called, “Hello, is there anyone at home?” Judy’s head sank down on to her book. She recognized the voice instantly. It was Mr Greaves. She held her breath, silently begging him to please, please go away, but the knock came again. “Hello…?” and the little brass doorknob turned. Stooping low, Mr Greaves let himself in.

  “Ah, there you are. I’m so sorry to intrude, Judy, but there was no answer, and I saw the smoke from the chimney so I thought something might have happened to you.”

  Judy said nothing. She sat up and slid her legs over the side of the bunk.

  “Well, I must say, what a pleasant little home. Sorry to disturb your reading. School project?” he asked, peering through his spectacles at the book that still lay on Judy’s pillow.

  “Oh … the Laws of Thought. Not exactly homework then. Beyond me, I’m afraid. Actually, I came here for a little chat with your father. I thought this might be better, since he seems to find it hard to get away… Do you mind if I sit down for a moment?” he added, turning away from the bunk and sliding in behind the table to sit on the bench. Judy took a deep breath.

  “Dad’s not here just now. He had a bit of business up North – he was here for Christmas, of course.” Even to her, the lie sounded thin and tired.

  Mr Greaves looked straight at her, and then it was upon her, the thing she had been dreading all this time.

  “He wasn’t here for Christmas, Judy,” Mr Greaves said plainly. “Maybe you don’t know where he is, maybe you do know but aren’t saying. The point is that you have been lying about this for a long time, and it can’t go on.”

  Judy almost gave in. Mr Greaves knew anyway, why go on with it? She opened her mouth to speak. Then she shut it again. It wasn’t just about her. The questions would start – about her father, and Rashid. She might ruin everything.

  “I’m not lying, he’ll be back soon.”

  Mr Greaves sighed and shook his head. “Judy, you are one of the brightest pupils I have ever come across.” He paused while his eyes moved to the book lying on her bunk. “So perhaps you can explain why there are no shoes larger than size six over there by the door, no overcoat on the peg in spite of the winter weather, only one bed made up, only one teacup on the draining board, and why there is nothing, nothing at all in this little space that suggests an adult lives here. Unless your father is a ghost.”

  Judy jumped up, hit the table with the flat of her hand.

  “A ghost?” she shouted. “He’s alive and he’ll come back soon, he promised, you—” and she used a word that in school would have got her into a great deal of trouble. But Mr Greaves was different.

  “Oh dear, I’m so sorry. What a stupid thing to say. It was just a form of words. Of course he’s alive. But please, Judy, I need you to tell me what’s going on. Then perhaps I can just go home for my tea.”

  “No.”

  Mr Greaves wrinkled his brow.

  “Judy, I can bend rules. In fact, I spend a lot of my time doing just that. But I can’t deliberately break them. I’ll lose my job.”

  “So that’s what this is about – your stinking job?”

  “That’s not fair, Judy, not fair at all. Even if I do lose my job, I’ll be replaced by someone who is a lot less of a rule-bender than I am, so it won’t help you one bit. Some people have a bad impression of the social services, but I know a very kind and thoughtful man; we’ve been friends for years. He has done a lot of good for a lot of people, and I am going to talk to him. I have to.”

  “You’ll have me put into a care home?”

  “For a short while, perhaps. It won’t be hard to find a foster home for someone like you; there’ll be plenty of takers. And they’ll be trying all the time to get you back with your father.”

  “I know all about foster homes, my mum told me. She said she lived in hell until she was seventeen and got away. If Dad hadn’t come along…”

  “Ah, I see, there is a background to all this. Listen, Judy, you must not give up hope. There is so much you could do and be. You will grow up, and your life can be anything you make it. I mean it; it’s not just words. There is always a way. I wouldn’t be doing this job if I didn’t believe that. You just have to take your life into your own hands.”

  Later, there would many evenings when Mr Greaves sat in his book-lined study and regretted his last words to Judy; because when the kind friend of his came round to fetch her, she was gone. The police were informed, of course, and Judy’s photograph was added to the other photographs of missing children that they had in their files and on posters that hung in various public places around the town. There were a lot of photographs – there always are. People just disappear. Sometimes they want to, sometimes they don’t … but they are still gone. There are tears of loss and sorrow for some of them, and for others, nothing at all.

  4

  When Mr Greaves had gone, Judy sat for a long time on the edge of her bunk, staring at the floor. It was time to leave. She had absolutely nowhere to go, but that wasn’t what bothered her most. Just one more day, and he might come home, or there at least might be a postcard or a letter. She had promised to wait.

  But it had gone on too long. To stay here and be dragged into the system, with people checking everything, asking questions, investigating her father, and then to live the kind of life that had just about destroyed her mum… It was impossible. In a day or two at the most the “nice friend” of Mr Greaves would come, all full of smiles and kind words, but if Judy put up a fight those kind words wouldn’t stop the nice friend from fetching a couple of policemen. She had to go. Dad would understand. He would have to understand.

  Once Judy had made the decision, she realized that she had to get moving or she would end up sitting there staring at the wall until they came for her. She stood up and looked around. The November cactus on the window shelf would have to go outside again and take its chances with the other plants. She made a mental list of what she needed to do: disconnect the generator, empty the fresh-water tank. What to take, what to leave behind? She pulled a holdall out from under the bench and began to throw things into it. Books, clothes, towel and washbag… The holdall now weighed a ton, and she tipped everything out on to the bunk and started again. Toothbrush, definitely. Sleeping bag, waterproof coat, clothes – warm ones – torch, pencil and paper, one book only … or maybe two. She took the cash card from its safe place, but she knew that she would have to empty the account and chuck the card as soon as possible; everyone knew it was dead easy to trace transactions. Lastly: passport. She zipped up the holdall and stared at the little living space still filled with most of her stuff. She had often been lonely since her father went, but just as often comfy and peaceful, listening to the radio or reading, or just lying on her bed and thinking. There were some things about living like this that weren’t much fun – dealing with the portable loo was one of them – but mostly it was nice. Really nice.

  She took a last look around, found a pen and some paper, sat at the table and began to write. Dear Dad,

  I promised I would wait, but you didn’t come back. You didn’t even send a message. If you ever see this…

  She looked at what she’d written and scribbled
it out viciously again and again, almost tearing a hole in the paper. “If you ever see this…” If? The thought was unbearable, that he might not ever come back. She tore up the note and took another sheet of paper, writing, When you see this, you’ll have to come and look for me. I have to go now. I’m sorry. Love, Judy.

  Turning off the light, Judy climbed out on to the stern deck, locked the door and hid the key. As the winter evening settled down around her she shivered, stepped off the narrowboat and walked away.

  Where to go? She was free to go anywhere. After only a hundred metres Judy sat down on a bench, while the lamps that illuminated the towpath for evening strollers flickered into life. She remembered once when she was younger being very cross when her father had forbidden her to stay out late with some friends.

  “I have no freedom!” she had wailed.

  “Freedom is not all it’s cracked up to be, Judy,” her father had said. “Just imagine nobody to tell you what to do, nobody to care for you or need you. And no love, of course. Freedom is rather hard work, confusing and tiresome, I would say.”

  A line popped into her head: Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose. It was from a song that her mother used to sing before she got ill, when she was happy. Well, now Judy knew what it meant. She looked back along the towpath to where the narrowboat lay moored, faintly lit by one of the park lamps. Was she doing the right thing? Then she saw a man standing on the towpath trying to peer through the window of the narrowboat. For a split-second her heart missed a beat, but he was nothing like her father. Too short, for a start. He was wearing a half-length overcoat, and a long scarf wound at least twice round his neck. As he moved towards the stern of the houseboat she could see that he walked with difficulty, dragging his left leg. He stepped on to the boat, and seemed to be trying the handle of the door. That was it then. Mr Greaves hadn’t wasted any time at all; he must have suspected she would do a bunk. She had to get out of town as quickly as possible. Down to the bus station. She could buy a ticket to … anywhere, it didn’t matter.