---

I am heading out for a walk with Victoria when Joyce appears out of her front door, making me think of a cuckoo clock.

‘Sylvie! Do you fancy coming round for a cuppa?’

‘OK, why not?’

She always seems to know when I’m passing, but it’s nice to have someone to talk to, too.

The heat of her house hits me again as soon as I get inside. There’s a partially completed jigsaw on the table, coloured pieces strewn across.

Joyce sees me looking. ‘Grandchildren sent me it for my birthday. Want to get it finished and framed so I can show it to them,’ she says proudly.

‘Oh,’ I say.

She nudges me. ‘Don’t suppose you want to finish it for me? I’m not really into jigsaws – who is? – but it was very sweet of them, so I want them to see it all put together. They obviously think of me like a proper old granny to buy me that, eh?’

I push away the twinge of sadness that Mum never met her granddaughter.

‘It’s the festival in Bristol,’ Joyce says, turning the box over – hundreds of brightly coloured hot-air balloons floating in a cloudless blue sky. ‘It’s where Tommy’s from, Bristol,’ she says. She points upwards and I can hear him banging about upstairs.

‘This would be more your mother’s thing than mine, I think,’ Joyce says, forcing a jigsaw piece into place. ‘She used to pop round sometimes asking if Tommy or I could help her with the crossword clues. Don’t think she really needed the help, though, if I’m honest. She knew a lot more than us.’

It’s comforting to think of Mum having neighbours she could call on.

‘And I saw your mum’s friend was round to visit you? Now isn’t that nice?’

She rubs me on the top of the arm.

‘I hope it makes you feel a bit better. About your mum and everything? She did have people that cared about her, you know. You see?’

I process what she just said properly. ‘Sorry, but who are you talking about?’

‘Well, I don’t know his name, do I?’ She scowls and thinks. ‘He was with a woman. His wife, I suppose. The older couple that came around.’

‘Peter and Judith? Not sure it would have been Peter. He hasn’t seen her in years.’

Judith straightens up as if I’ve slighted her. ‘Well, I’m just telling you what I saw. I just see the odd thing when I’m passing, or at the window, you know. It isn’t like I’m checking up.’

‘I just don’t think—’

‘Suit yourself,’ she snaps at me. ‘I’m only telling you what I’ve seen.’

‘How long ago did you see him?’

‘Oh, it was summer, late summer. Thought maybe he was doing some work around the house or something, but I saw them out the back a few times, drinking tea in the garden. And I thought that was quite nice. I asked her if she’d got herself a fancy man. She didn’t like that!’ Joyce gives a mischievous laugh. ‘Do you know him as well then?’ she asks.

‘Yes,’ I say, and she looks at me, now clearly on the scent of more information.

‘Old family friend, that’s all.’ I think of the day at the theme park, Peter and Mum on the ground while we were on the ride, all the teeth and hair and screams.

‘These your grandchildren?’ I pick up a photo on the mantelpiece, changing the subject. A boy and a girl – around seven and eight – with pale blonde hair and blue eyes.

‘That’s them. Katy and Ethan. Twins.’

‘Do you see them a lot?’

She takes the picture off me and puts it down, wiping her hands down her jeans.

‘Oh, not so much now,’ she says. ‘They moved to Australia last year, so…’ She twists her hands together. ‘My daughter, Caroline. Her husband got offered a job over there. They had to go. Be daft not to, wouldn’t it? Oh, they’d be mad not to take it. They’ve a great life over there. Lovely house, beach, sunshine. They’re always outside, not like here.’

‘You going to go over there and see them, then?’

‘Saving up, but we’ll see. Getting a bit long in the tooth to be sitting on a plane for that length of time, aren’t we?’

‘You should get yourselves over there.’

‘We’ll see. Never been on a computer in my life before this, neither of us had. You can get them up on the screen and everything, you know. It’s quite amazing.’ She gestures to the laptop sitting on the table, a green light blinking on the front. ‘I’m always on the damn thing now.’ She shakes her head.

I scan her face, wondering if she’s been on SomeoneMustKnow, too, reading about Victoria, the picture of me.

‘Bloody bingo on it every night.’ A man’s voice.

We turn and her husband has appeared in the doorway. He is tall and broad-shouldered; takes up most of the door frame. He’s wearing a checked shirt and a green gilet.

Joyce laughs. ‘Eeh, give over. I’m allowed some vices, aren’t I, at my age? What am I going to do? Bloody jigsaws all day every day? Sylvie, this is Tommy, my husband. Tommy, Sylvie and little Victoria. This is Margaret’s lass, Tommy.’

‘I know that, thanks, Joyce.’ He tuts.

‘And anyway,’ Joyce says, ‘I’m on it for all sorts, thanks very much. News, recipes, everything. You’re just jealous because you can’t work out how to use it.’ The exchange between them remains light-hearted, but it’s gaining an edge.

‘Ha! News?’ Tommy nudges me. ‘She’s always looking up bloody conspiracy theories. Ask Joyce and she’ll tell you Elvis is still alive and kicking and living in Milton Keynes, and the prime minister’s a bloody lizard in disguise. Ghosts, UFOs; it’s a load of old mumbo jumbo.’

Joyce rolls her eyes. ‘I don’t think that. I’m just interested, that’s all. Maybe I don’t want to become so set in my ways as you. I remain open-minded.’ She looks at him over her glasses.

Tommy laughs and shakes his head, defusing some of the tension. ‘Have you given her the veg, Joyce?’

‘Not yet. Sylvie, Tommy has gifted you some of his prized carrots and asparagus from his allotment. He spends enough time there.’ She gestures through to the kitchen, a bulging, striped carrier bag sitting on the side.

‘Put hairs on your chest that lot, and the bairn.’ His voice is deep and booming. ‘Speaking of… you sorted out the vermin problem round there yet?’

‘Tommy!’ Joyce cuts in.

‘What?’ His voice is booming, self-important. ‘I don’t mind telling you, Sylvie love. I called the council out a number of times about the bloody things. I know she wasn’t happy about that, your mother. But it wasn’t about getting your mother into trouble or anything like that. They were getting everywhere in the street. You can’t let things like that run and run. Those little critters multiply like no tomorrow. They gnaw through electricals, spread disease and all sorts. Won’t help with selling the place.’

Joyce fixes him with a hard stare but he ignores her.

‘She’s getting the place sorted the best she can, aren’t you, petal? It’s not her fault it’s like that, Tommy. It’s the way she found it.’

‘I am. I’m getting it sorted out. Sorry you’ve had trouble with it,’ I tell him.

‘Traps?’ he asks.

I nod.

‘And?’

‘Well, I don’t know. My friend put them down. I haven’t been able to…’

He tuts and looks up at the ceiling.

‘I’ll have a look for you, will I?’ Joyce smiles at this, proud.

‘OK,’ I say, and we all troop round, Joyce running back for the bag of vegetables.

Tommy claps his hands together and then rubs them. ‘Right, then. Where are we looking?’

I point him through into the kitchen and under the sink.

Tommy is crashing around under the sink, mangy bleach bottles and carrier bags clustered around his feet where he’s kneeling down.

‘What are you doing with all this flaming tape?’ he says, tearing it off the cupboard door, all the strips sticking together and onto his fingers in a large knot. But before I have time to answer he says, ‘Oh, blimey,’ his head buried in the cupboard, bottom in the air, and he starts retreating.

‘What’s wrong?’ I say, but he doesn’t answer. Joyce and I go through.

‘Tommy, what is it, love?’

‘Who the bloody hell put these traps down?’

‘A friend,’ I say.

‘You don’t want to be using glue traps.’

‘I didn’t know. I… She just…’

He holds up a board with a shiny surface, a lump of dark fur matted to it. The stench hits me in the back of the throat. Joyce lets out a squeal. Tommy steps towards us, his arm holding the trap out in front of him, and I instinctively reel backwards, almost knocking Joyce over.

The bulk of the mouse’s body flops down, revealing a raw bloody patch of flesh. And something else, something pink is detached, remaining stuck on the board.

‘It’s torn or bitten its own foot off and ripped off a big lump of fur, trying to escape,’ Tommy says, holding it aloft as if it’s a fish he’s proud to have caught.

My mouth is filled with hot, sour vomit that I am forced to swallow down again.

‘Is it dead, love?’ Joyce says from behind me, her hand on my shoulder.

‘I bloody hope so for the damn thing’s own sake. What a terrible way to go.’ Tommy is shaking his head. ‘Right, shoo, you two. Get yourselves through there while I clear this mess up.’

He chivvies us along with his hand without making contact and we both obey, not wanting to be anywhere near the little rotting corpse.

Tommy bangs about for a while, cupboards opening and closing, the tap running. Then the sound of the back door unlocking. A few minutes later he comes back through, holding two devices with plug prongs in them.

‘We used these and they helped, didn’t they, pet? Because once mice’re in one house, they get into the others too. And didn’t we know it! You plug these devices in and they send out ultrasonic wotsits, or something that the little critters don’t like, so they keep away.’ He makes a wave motion with his hands. ‘Less barbaric than those glue traps. Bloody hell, it’s torture. You want to have a word with whoever put them in for you.’

I feel a hot flush of shame that I let Michelle use them, about the problem Mum created. Joyce rubs my back soothingly.

Tommy pushes his hands into his coat pockets. ‘Anyway, ladies, on that delightful note I’m away. Give us a knock if you need some more help with this, you hear me?’

‘Bye, love.’ Joyce tiptoes on one foot to reach up and kiss him.

After he closes the door behind him, I apologise, my hand on my forehead to try to suppress the cringe washing over me.

‘Oh, don’t bother,’ she says. ‘I honestly think he’ll be glad of being useful. He retired a couple of months back, you know, and he’s never in. Out every day at the allotment or I don’t know where. If he stays in the house, he gets cabin fever by lunchtime. Not me, but he’s terrible.’

I look out of the window, at Tommy disappearing at the end of the street, striding purposefully.

‘You don’t have to go out at night, you know? Because of the baby crying,’ Judith says, out of the blue.

‘It clears my head. I get that from Mum. She used to do it, too.’

‘Where do you go?’ Joyce says, genuinely interested.

I shrug. ‘Around. Sometimes to the supermarket. Or the lake.’

I expect her to tell me it isn’t safe, that I shouldn’t go there on my own at night, but she just smiles and nods like she isn’t surprised, like she gets it. ‘Well, mind how you go, eh?’

It’s obvious Joyce is considering whether to say something else or not.

‘Everything alright, Joyce?’

‘Yes, it’s nothing… I just. Never mind. It isn’t helpful.’

‘Oh, come on, please just say it.’

She unfolds her arms. ‘I think it was the mouse that did it. One of them anyway.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Your mum.’

I shake my head, exasperation rising.

‘She was up in the night a lot anyway, but especially so with this flaming mouse. We’d hear her crashing about. I mean he wouldn’t say so, but that’s partly why Tommy wanted her to get it sorted. For her own safety and so she could get some sleep. I mean, yes, and us. But he’s a right old softy really. They were driving her crackers, but she’d not get anyone round. She didn’t want to set proper traps because she said they were cruel.’ Joyce bites at her nails. ‘She wouldn’t have liked them things your mate used. She was trying to catch them in jam jars with jelly beans. I think it was making the situation worse, to be honest. They were scoffing all the bloody jelly beans and inviting all their mates round, no doubt, for a flaming party. I think she must have heard one and got up to get it in the night, and then fallen.’

I wince again to think of Mum stepping out into the dark during the night, landing at the bottom of the stairs.

---

That evening, when I’m going up to bed, I notice a thick brown envelope on the mat. It stops me in my tracks and I pick it up and turn it over. I wonder if it’s from Sam – an offer of money to talk to him. Or something from Michelle – one of her thoughtful little gifts. She might be trying to make things up to me after the other day. I didn’t hear the letter box.

A sense of déjà vu. The days in Manchester with Aunty Alice stretched to weeks and then months. Around birthdays and Christmas, I would find a gift left on the doorstep. They always looked so strange there in the bright morning sunshine. Make-up brushes or nail varnish, a diary. I knew they were from Mum, although there was never a card.

Occasionally there’d be a phone call, too, but then no one on the other end, just silence. I promised myself I wouldn’t, but once or twice I’d cracked and phoned the house. Mum answered, but she’d never speak. She’d just sit on the line in silence, sometimes for up to ten minutes or more. Occasionally, I would talk anyway, about what Alice and I had been up to – walking the dog, a short holiday to the seaside. Other times I wouldn’t say anything either; just sit there in silence too, breathing, trying to send some kind of feeling down the phone, to let Mum know that I missed her. Hated her too. Alice would just shake her head or shrug her shoulders apologetically at me.

After a while, though, I hardened. I could feel it inside myself. I started refusing to go to the phone on the odd time when Mum did ring. Why should I? She’d abandoned me when I needed her the most. I started to busy myself with other things. Eventually, the pain wasn’t quite so raw.

The front of the envelope is completely blank. It feels light, empty even, but I shake it and something shifts around. I tear off the top, grey powdered paper poofing into the air, and hold it open. Inside is a solitary photograph, a Polaroid. I go and look out into the dark street, but it’s still completely deserted, a faded impression of the living room reflected onto the window. I take a deep breath and slide the photo out, not yet daring to turn it over.

When I thought I was pregnant with Victoria, Nathan and I sat in the bathroom, me on the edge of the bath, him on the loo seat. ‘You’ve got to do it now,’ he’d said, ‘or it might be invalidated’. He was shaking the instructions at me. He took a deep breath. ‘One, two, three!’ he said, but I kept my eyes closed, and then he was grabbing my shoulders gently and laughing. ‘It’s happening, Sylv. You’re pregnant. We’re pregnant. It’s happening. We are going to have a baby!’ He threw his arms around me and we fell backwards across the bath. A wave of something rushed through me. I couldn’t be completely sure if it was excitement or dread, or where one began and the other ended.

This time, there is no one here to take a look for me, though. I have to do it myself.

‘One, two, three,’ I find myself saying out loud. I flip the Polaroid over and force my eyes open. It takes a few seconds for them to focus. The photo is dark, it’s hard to make it out, at first. But it becomes clear, then. It’s a picture of the lake, taken at night.

Michelle’s words float up, about the bus tours to the lake, SomeoneMustKnow and Sam digging around. I keep having this sensation of being in front of a two-way mirror. Everyone sees me, but I can’t tell who’s there.

Saliva collects in my mouth and I try to swallow but it won’t go down. It makes me think of what it feels like to drown.