ringing. I snatch it from my bag, panicking that it’s an emergency at home. Christ, it’s Mimosa House.
‘Hello?’ I say shakily.
‘Oh, Caitlin.’ I recognise Helena’s voice immediately. ‘I don’t want to worry you, but—’
‘Is Mum OK?’
‘I’m sure she is. I’m sorry, and it shouldn’t have happened, but she’s somehow managed to wander outside. You know how she lurks by the door with her coat on? A visitor must have assumed she was on her way out and held the door open for her … At least, we think that’s what happened.’
‘Oh, God. How long has she been gone?’
‘An hour or so. We’ve searched the streets around here, been into all the shops and restaurants, asked anyone who might have seen her. The police have someone out driving around looking for her. I don’t want to worry you, Cait, but you know how vulnerable Jeannie is …’
My stomach lurches, and my instinct is to call Adam – to share this with him – but what can he do in Manchester?
‘I’ll come over right now,’ I say quickly.
‘I think that’s best. Maybe you could think of places that might mean something to her, anywhere she might go.’
I glance at Darren. Concern flickers in his eyes. ‘I’ll try, Helena. I’ll be with you as soon as possible, OK?’
‘What—’ Darren starts.
‘My mum. She’s gone missing. She lives in a care home and …’ My eyes blur, and my mouth is trembling.
‘Can I do anything?’ He touches my arm.
I shake my head. ‘I’ve got to go, help them look for her …’
‘Let’s get you a cab.’
I look around wildly, but there’s no cab in sight. Then I spot it – a bus, pulling into the stop ahead. I plant the briefest kiss on Darren’s startled lips and run.
10
Where the hell has she gone?
I try, as I hurry through faint drizzle in my unsuitable sandals, to thrust myself into Mum’s muddled world. Before Mimosa House, she’d lived in Hackney, which could be Jupiter for all she knows now. No point in trying to be logical. Mum doesn’t know one day from the next, and the seasons are indistinguishable; she once raged that no one had given her any Christmas presents in August. There are no friends I can think of, or people she might be trying to find. Petty arguments killed any friendships years before she moved into the home. Last Christmas, she received only three cards: one from me and the kids, one from Helena and a whopping padded satin thing from Adam that came in a flat white box. You could smell the guilt emanating from it. As far as I know, there’s no one else in her life, unless you count the ever-patient GPs, hairdressers and chiropodists who frequent the home and tend to various parts of her. I must tell the kids that should I show any signs of becoming like Granny, they must set me up in a tiny cottage by the sea with limitless alcohol and strong fags, as I fully intend to take up smoking again. Martin is fervently anti-smoking – the reason I gave up, in fact. I shall save all my fag ends and dispatch them to him in a Jiffy bag.
Mimosa House is in sight. My head swims with a terrible image of crushed Fox’s Glacier Mints glinting in the road, or her old brown cardigan flattened by a tyre, with a pigeon pecking at it. Helena is hovering anxiously in the foyer and buzzes me in. She is trying to emanate calmness, but I can see fear in her eyes. ‘I’ve been racking my brains,’ she says, ‘and there’s only one place your mum ever talks about.’
‘Glasgow? She wouldn’t have gone to King’s Cross, would she, and caught a train?’
Helena smiles kindly. ‘I think that’s unlikely.’
‘And the police have been out looking for her?’
‘Yes. We’ve still got staff out looking too. She can’t have gone far, Caitlin.’
I nod, feeling helpless and sick. Mum could have been mugged – although she has nothing to be mugged for, apart from her mints – or knocked down by a car. Her road sense is worse than Travis’s. I picture her
‘Hello?’ I say shakily.
‘Oh, Caitlin.’ I recognise Helena’s voice immediately. ‘I don’t want to worry you, but—’
‘Is Mum OK?’
‘I’m sure she is. I’m sorry, and it shouldn’t have happened, but she’s somehow managed to wander outside. You know how she lurks by the door with her coat on? A visitor must have assumed she was on her way out and held the door open for her … At least, we think that’s what happened.’
‘Oh, God. How long has she been gone?’
‘An hour or so. We’ve searched the streets around here, been into all the shops and restaurants, asked anyone who might have seen her. The police have someone out driving around looking for her. I don’t want to worry you, Cait, but you know how vulnerable Jeannie is …’
My stomach lurches, and my instinct is to call Adam – to share this with him – but what can he do in Manchester?
‘I’ll come over right now,’ I say quickly.
‘I think that’s best. Maybe you could think of places that might mean something to her, anywhere she might go.’
I glance at Darren. Concern flickers in his eyes. ‘I’ll try, Helena. I’ll be with you as soon as possible, OK?’
‘What—’ Darren starts.
‘My mum. She’s gone missing. She lives in a care home and …’ My eyes blur, and my mouth is trembling.
‘Can I do anything?’ He touches my arm.
I shake my head. ‘I’ve got to go, help them look for her …’
‘Let’s get you a cab.’
I look around wildly, but there’s no cab in sight. Then I spot it – a bus, pulling into the stop ahead. I plant the briefest kiss on Darren’s startled lips and run.
10
Where the hell has she gone?
I try, as I hurry through faint drizzle in my unsuitable sandals, to thrust myself into Mum’s muddled world. Before Mimosa House, she’d lived in Hackney, which could be Jupiter for all she knows now. No point in trying to be logical. Mum doesn’t know one day from the next, and the seasons are indistinguishable; she once raged that no one had given her any Christmas presents in August. There are no friends I can think of, or people she might be trying to find. Petty arguments killed any friendships years before she moved into the home. Last Christmas, she received only three cards: one from me and the kids, one from Helena and a whopping padded satin thing from Adam that came in a flat white box. You could smell the guilt emanating from it. As far as I know, there’s no one else in her life, unless you count the ever-patient GPs, hairdressers and chiropodists who frequent the home and tend to various parts of her. I must tell the kids that should I show any signs of becoming like Granny, they must set me up in a tiny cottage by the sea with limitless alcohol and strong fags, as I fully intend to take up smoking again. Martin is fervently anti-smoking – the reason I gave up, in fact. I shall save all my fag ends and dispatch them to him in a Jiffy bag.
Mimosa House is in sight. My head swims with a terrible image of crushed Fox’s Glacier Mints glinting in the road, or her old brown cardigan flattened by a tyre, with a pigeon pecking at it. Helena is hovering anxiously in the foyer and buzzes me in. She is trying to emanate calmness, but I can see fear in her eyes. ‘I’ve been racking my brains,’ she says, ‘and there’s only one place your mum ever talks about.’
‘Glasgow? She wouldn’t have gone to King’s Cross, would she, and caught a train?’
Helena smiles kindly. ‘I think that’s unlikely.’
‘And the police have been out looking for her?’
‘Yes. We’ve still got staff out looking too. She can’t have gone far, Caitlin.’
I nod, feeling helpless and sick. Mum could have been mugged – although she has nothing to be mugged for, apart from her mints – or knocked down by a car. Her road sense is worse than Travis’s. I picture her
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