Page 8 of The Man Who Didn't Call
‘Why are you doing that?’ Rudi’s antenna was up. ‘Mum? Why is your hand on Sarah’s leg? Why are there flowers tied to that tree? Why is everyone being—’
‘Rudi,’ Jo said. ‘Rudi, what about I spy? I spy with my little eye something beginning with “W”!’
There was a pause. ‘I’m too old for that,’ Rudi said humpily. He didn’t like being kept out.
My eyes were still pressed shut, even though I knew we’d passed the spot.
‘A whale,’ Rudi began reluctantly. ‘A watering can. A wobile phone.’
‘OK, Harrington?’ Tommy asked, after a respectful pause.
‘Yes.’ I opened my eyes. Wheat fields, tottering dry-stone walls, footpaths like lightning forks across horse-cropped grass. ‘Fine.’
It never got any easier. Nineteen years had sanded down its edges, planed over the worst of the knots, but it was still there.
‘How’s about we discuss Eddie some more?’ Jo suggested. I tried to say yes, but my voice trailed off. ‘In your own time,’ she said, patting my leg.
‘Well, I do keep wondering if he’s had an accident,’ I said, when speech felt possible. ‘He was off to southern Spain to windsurf.’
Tommy’s eyebrows considered this. ‘I suppose that’s a reasonable theory.’
Jo pointed out that I was friends with Eddie on Facebook. ‘She’d have seen something on his page if he’d got hurt.’
‘We shouldn’t underestimate his phone having died, though,’ I said. My voice wilted as each avenue of hope shut down. ‘It was a mess. He—’
‘Babe,’ Jo cut in gently. ‘Babe, his phone isn’t dead. Itringswhen you call him.’
I nodded miserably.
Rudi, eating crisps, kicked the back of Jo’s seat. ‘Borrrrrrrrred.’
‘Stop it,’ she said. ‘And remember what we agreed about speaking with your mouth full.’
Rudi, unseen to Jo, turned towards me and offered me a view of his half-masticated crisps. Unfortunately, and for reasons unclear, he had decided that this was an in-joke between us.
I slid my hand into the side pocket of my bag, closing my fingers around the last piece of hope I had. ‘But Mouse,’ I said pathetically. Tears were hot and close. ‘He gave me Mouse.’
I cupped her in the palm of my hand; smooth, worn, smaller than a walnut. Eddie had carved her from a piece of wood when he was just nine years old.She’s been with me through a lot, he’d said.She’s my taliswoman.
She reminded me of the brass penguin Dad had given me as a desk-mate during my GCSE exams. It was a stern-looking thing that had scowled ferociously at me from the moment I’d opened each paper. Even now, I loved that penguin. I couldn’t imagine trusting anyone with it.
Mouse meant the same to Eddie; I knew it – and yet he had given her to me.Keep her safe until I get back, he’d said.She means a lot to me.
Jo glanced back and sighed. She already knew about Mouse. ‘People change their minds,’ she said quietly. ‘It might just have been easier for him to lose the key ring than to get in touch.’
‘She’s not just a key ring. She . . .’ I gave up.
When Jo resumed, her voice was gentler. ‘Look, Sarah. If you’re certain something bad has happened to him, how’s about you scrap all these private communications and write something on his Facebook wall? Where everyone can see it? Say that you’re worried. Ask if anyone’s heard from him.’
I swallowed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean exactly what I just said. Appeal to his friends for information. What’s stopping you?’
I turned to look out of the window, unable to reply.
Jo pressed on. ‘I think the only thing thatwouldstop you is shame. And if you really, truly, honestly believedsomething terrible had happened to him, you wouldn’t give a rat’s about shame.’
We were passing the old MOD airfield. A faded orange wind sock frilled over the empty runway and I suddenly remembered Hannah’s great hoots of laughter when Dad once observed that it was like a big orange willy. ‘Willy sock!’ she’d yelled, and Mum had been torn between helpless laughter and reproach.
