Geordie picked up the post from the hall mat and sorted through the various envelopes, separating the takeaway flyers from Christmas cards and a squishy parcel in a brown bubble pack, until he came to the one he’d been expecting. He recognised the writing on the front immediately but instead of opening it, he placed the rest on the stairs and made his way upwards, legs creaking as he took each step.
A voice from the bathroom called out, ‘Was that the post? Did my parcel come?’
‘Yes, it’s on the stairs.’ The swish of the shower curtain and then the clunk of the boiler as hot water gushed into the bath told Geordie he had a few minutes of peace and quiet, time for himself and his thoughts.
Opening his side of the wardrobe he crouched and from the bottom shelf pulled out a battered box. By its side was a Quality Street tin. It was scuffed by time and full of photographs that he’d once salvaged, scraping all of them together like a scavenger who needed to feed on images of what once was. Stiff, formal snaps of his parents and grandparents, sepia tones and sparse in number, but at least he could see their faces, hold onto a fragment of his history. Others were of him as a young man, again few and far between as were the ones of him and Sylvia and Carmen, his long-ago family.
The other box once contained a new pair of Dr Martens work boots. On the lid was a faded black-and-yellow emblem, an iconic brand name that was once worn by factory workers, postmen and labourers. Geordie smiled when he read the price label on the end, £2/6s/4d and gripped by nostalgia he said it out loud, ‘Two pounds, six shillings and four pence. Those were the days.’
Taking the box to the bed he sat, then lifted the lid, pulling away the crinkled brown wrapping paper to reveal a post office savings book and the piles of letters inside. Each one held a message of love that he’d written to his little girl, every Christmas since he’d left.
The fifty envelopes differed in size, always containing a Christmas card, a letter, a twenty-pound note, a photograph taken in a booth or a Polaroid and later, developed at Boots. The handwriting on the front was either black or blue biro and the addresses were like a road map, a trail that tracked his life’s journey for just over half a century.
Placing the envelope that had just been delivered on top, Geordie rested his hand on the pile knowing that underneath were lines and lines of words telling of his travels, a shipyard, another rented room or flat.
He’d bared his soul, shared hopes for the future and dreams that they would meet again. Been honest about his regrets for the mistakes he’d made and explored solutions, worked out how he could have done things differently.
And even though she couldn’t reply there were many questions. A one-sided conversation that parents, not ones like him, were lucky to have with their children, in the same room, not somewhere out of reach. He asked about school and her friends and interests, what pop groups she liked or he tried to guess. He wondered what she was good at, was she artistic, academic, sporty? Was she built like him, tall and stocky or willowy and petite like her mum? Her hair had been blonde when she was little but had it darkened a shade? One thing Geordie knew was that her eyes would still be brown, nothing could change that. So many questions. No answers. Just the face of a tearful six-year-old who for him never grew up.
Realising she would be in the same predicament, he’d include a yearly photo of himself so she’d know what he looked like, even though the booth ones made him look a bit rough, like a mugshot of a criminal. And there were others, of the places he lived, stately homes and gardens he’d visited, scenes from the top of a hill during a walk, his allotment, all the stuff he would have said in person or on the phone.
He shared with her his love of opera, films and books and would list the titles he thought she might like. He hoped she knew why they’d named her Carmen, his choice of a beautiful name for a beautiful baby. Did she remember the rhyme about the pearl? He would always write it on the back of the last sheet of paper, just in case.
Then later, when she would be in her teens he’d tentatively broached the subject of how much she knew about why he left, worries over what she’d been told and the unfolding of his side of the story. It was ridiculous in a way because if her mind was set, if Sylvia had broken her promise then the words were all for nothing. But then there was always a chance that knowing he’d taken the time to lay it all out, to converse with his living, breathing yet part-imagined daughter, she would understand and forgive him.
When he’d felt brave enough there was an introduction to the love of his life, along with an apology for not loving her mother as much, and an assurance that he had tried so hard to make things work if only for her, his little pearl.
Geordie swore that he would have gladly stayed, sacrificed his own happiness for hers and lived a lie for the rest of his life if it had meant not losing her. He swore this as his oath.
The hardest part was explaining why he had never searched for her after she disappeared with her mother. It was harder in those days with only house phones and letters to keep in touch. But Sylvia had been so bitter, rightly hurt when Martha had barged into their home and tore their life apart.
Bitterness. It was like a plague that infected all of them because he’d felt it too, towards Martha who had been riddled with it, as well as being jealous and insecure but with age Geordie came to realise that she was also a victim. He never saw her again after that night in Tilbury because he’d fled, ashamed and unable to bear the look on the face of his wife and child and by the time he’d found the courage to return and talk things through, they were gone. No forwarding address, no telephone number. The cord was cut.
Geordie felt suddenly weary so closing his eyes, rested back onto the pillows. Against the blackness of his eyelids the past played like a reel of cine film, taking him straight back to 1969.
Tilbury, London 1969
The shock of finding them gone was actually worse than when he’d opened the door to find Martha on the doorstep. It was the day after Boxing Day. The house was a land version of the Marie Celeste. He’d sneaked back under the cover of darkness, still sheepish and unsure what the neighbours had heard. As Geordie moved from room to room he tried to work out what Sylvia had taken. Going by the looks of it, anything she could carry in the three suitcases that were no longer stored under the bed.
It wasn’t as though they had a lot. They were just getting started really. Money was tight so there wasn’t much in the way of valuables or knick-knacks but knowing she’d left her precious crockery and some of Carmen’s toys made Geordie hopeful that Sylvia was coming back. And she hadn’t smashed his records or ripped the pages out of his books. The two things that confused him, that pulled him both ways were the missing titles and the photos. Why had she taken two of him yet left the one of their wedding day? And Sylvia didn’t read the same books as him so why take the copies he knew were gone?
Carmen! Had she taken them? Because if she had, it meant only one thing: she didn’t think she was coming home. The thought of his little girl taking things that linked her to him broke Geordie in two, sobs wracking his body as he sat in the darkness, praying for them to walk through the door.
Once he’d composed himself he lit a fire and settled into his armchair, resolute, clinging to hope. He was going to wait for his wife to calm down and eventually she would bring their daughter home. Then they could talk, make sensible arrangements and part on good terms.
Three days later she still hadn’t turned up and Geordie began to panic. He’d suspected they’d gone to stay with Sylvia’s elderly aunt in Brighton so after remembering their address from a day trip he rang directory enquiries and got their number. Geordie rang there constantly, begging to speak to Sylvia, or Carmen, or for an address where his wife and daughter might be but Mavis vehemently denied they were there or any knowledge of their whereabouts.
Unconvinced, he took the train to Brighton and marched straight up to her front door in a row of identical terraced houses, convinced they were there and determined to see Carmen and make Sylvia promise to keep in touch. Instead of an agreement, he got a punch in the face from Roy, Mavis’s husband.
Geordie didn’t give up, though, and waited all night at the end of the street, watching the house from an alleyway. The doors opened straight onto the pavement so he would see clearly if they came outside. The only other way out was via the back alley and from where he lurked, he had a view of one entrance.
By midnight he was perished and starving but being skint, had to sleep in the bus station. After a cup of tea offered to him by a kindly caretaker, Geordie returned to Mavis’s the following morning and kept vigil all day, hoping Sylvia and Carmen would reveal themselves. Nothing. After one more night shivering in the bus station he trudged back to the street and watched the milkman on his rounds, then Roy leaving for work and later mums walking their kids to school. There was no sign of Carmen and Sylvia. Geordie accepted it was hopeless.
He was about give up, frozen, tired and starving when he spotted Mavis opening the front door, and beckoning him over.
Looking from side to side, worried that Roy was going to ambush him, Geordie took a chance and raced across the road to be met by the beady eyes and pursed lips of Mavis. She had a line of rollers down the middle of her hair and the one on her fringe bobbed as she wobbled her angry head, her voice harsh. ‘You’d make a rubbish spy, Geordie Wilson. I’ve been watching you for the past two days, you daft apeth. You’d best come inside, I’ve got Sylvia on the blower.’ Mavis turned and marched up the hall, pointing at the green phone on the stand.
Wordlessly, Geordie made his way along the gloomy hallway, his eyes trying to accustom themselves to the light and the hideous orange-and-brown swirly paper that made the walls feel like they were closing in, or was that hunger and nerves? He glanced at Mavis who stood firm at the bottom of the stairs, arms folded across her chest, obviously going nowhere. Picking up the receiver he spotted a birdcage in the corner of the parlour opposite, a yellow budgerigar flicked his bell. Ding ding. Let battle commence.
