in some alley or shadowy corner of the park, alone and scared. No longer vexed Jeannie ticking me off for letting myself go.
‘Caitlin,’ Helena says gently, ‘please don’t cry. We’ll find your mum. Let’s go.’
As we set out, I’m thinking, Glasgow. It’s where she belongs, even now; she has only ever
tolerated
London. Dad, a Londoner himself, had promised that they’d have a better life here. As if in defiance, she’d talked about home constantly, which had tipped into the shipyard fantasies. Jeannie the shipbuilder, slamming in rivets with her bare fists.
‘Helena,’ I say suddenly, ‘I have an idea.’ Ships, rivers, water.
‘What is it?’
‘The canal. I just have a feeling …’
‘It’s worth a try,’ she says, and we hurry along dank side streets, calling her name.
‘I’m Jeannie!’ cries a drunk man, tumbling out of a ratty-looking pub. He sings after us, ‘I dream of Jeannie with the light-brown hair.’
We reach the bridge that spans the canal. There’s a flight of steps on each side leading down to the towpath. While Helena hurries down one, I take the other. There are moored narrow-boats, some with yellowy glows at their windows. Now my hunch seems ridiculous, that Mum might have mistaken a murky East London canal for the Clyde.
Folk music drifts lazily from one of the boats. There’s a sweet, woody smell of dope. I clack along the towpath in my spindly sandals . One of the heels feels unstable and I pray that it won’t snap off. Boots would have been better after all.
Although I’m almost too scared to look, my eyes skim the water. Silvery reflections shiver on its surface. There are a few floating cans and a plastic milk carton. What if Mum hasn’t floated, but is lying at the bottom with the rusting shopping trolleys and God knows what else?
How the hell will I tell Adam about this?
He was right. Mimosa House isn’t the right place for her. Not safe enough. It’s the twenty-first century, for God’s sake; aren’t they able to instal a security system that’s capable of foiling an old lady with dementia? It’s not as if she hasn’t tried this before. She has crept into the kitchen and towards the open back door while the chef was having a ciggy. She’s lurked by the front door, hoping to attach herself to someone else’s family as they leave. Helena has found her rattling the bar on the fire-escape door in a bid for freedom. Imprisoned – that’s how Mum feels. Incarcerated with lots of old people talking nonsense and a blaring TV that seems permanently tuned to
The Flintstones
. Tears drip down my cheeks, and a sob escapes. If I’d done what Martin had suggested and moved her in with us, she’d be alive now.
‘Scuse me? Are you all right?’
The voice gives me a start. A head has popped up from the folk-music boat. A stocky, bearded man emerges.
‘I’m just looking for someone,’ I say quickly.
He grins and a gold tooth glints. ‘Feisty lady, Scottish, worked in shipyards all her life?’
Relief swells over me like a wave and I hurry towards him. ‘Yes, have you seen her? Is she OK?’
The man beckons me closer. ‘Jeannie’s in here. She’s good company, your mum. A lovely old bird.’ He takes my hand and helps me over the railings.
I step on to the deck, which wobbles uncertainly, and follow him down a short flight of creaking steps. There’s a thick smell of woodsmoke. Low benches run along each side, on which several young men and women sit, tightly packed as if on a train, plus Jeannie with her tweed coat buttoned up to her neck.
‘Mum!’ I exclaim, peering into the gloom. ‘What are you doing here?’
She jabs a finger at the table. They are playing cards. A couple of cigarettes and a joint emit smoke from a scallop-shell ashtray. ‘Playing poker,’ she retorts. ‘What does it look like?’
‘Everyone’s been worried sick! I’ve been charging about all over the place looking for you—’
‘She’s a ferocious player,’
‘Caitlin,’ Helena says gently, ‘please don’t cry. We’ll find your mum. Let’s go.’
As we set out, I’m thinking, Glasgow. It’s where she belongs, even now; she has only ever
tolerated
London. Dad, a Londoner himself, had promised that they’d have a better life here. As if in defiance, she’d talked about home constantly, which had tipped into the shipyard fantasies. Jeannie the shipbuilder, slamming in rivets with her bare fists.
‘Helena,’ I say suddenly, ‘I have an idea.’ Ships, rivers, water.
‘What is it?’
‘The canal. I just have a feeling …’
‘It’s worth a try,’ she says, and we hurry along dank side streets, calling her name.
‘I’m Jeannie!’ cries a drunk man, tumbling out of a ratty-looking pub. He sings after us, ‘I dream of Jeannie with the light-brown hair.’
We reach the bridge that spans the canal. There’s a flight of steps on each side leading down to the towpath. While Helena hurries down one, I take the other. There are moored narrow-boats, some with yellowy glows at their windows. Now my hunch seems ridiculous, that Mum might have mistaken a murky East London canal for the Clyde.
Folk music drifts lazily from one of the boats. There’s a sweet, woody smell of dope. I clack along the towpath in my spindly sandals . One of the heels feels unstable and I pray that it won’t snap off. Boots would have been better after all.
Although I’m almost too scared to look, my eyes skim the water. Silvery reflections shiver on its surface. There are a few floating cans and a plastic milk carton. What if Mum hasn’t floated, but is lying at the bottom with the rusting shopping trolleys and God knows what else?
How the hell will I tell Adam about this?
He was right. Mimosa House isn’t the right place for her. Not safe enough. It’s the twenty-first century, for God’s sake; aren’t they able to instal a security system that’s capable of foiling an old lady with dementia? It’s not as if she hasn’t tried this before. She has crept into the kitchen and towards the open back door while the chef was having a ciggy. She’s lurked by the front door, hoping to attach herself to someone else’s family as they leave. Helena has found her rattling the bar on the fire-escape door in a bid for freedom. Imprisoned – that’s how Mum feels. Incarcerated with lots of old people talking nonsense and a blaring TV that seems permanently tuned to
The Flintstones
. Tears drip down my cheeks, and a sob escapes. If I’d done what Martin had suggested and moved her in with us, she’d be alive now.
‘Scuse me? Are you all right?’
The voice gives me a start. A head has popped up from the folk-music boat. A stocky, bearded man emerges.
‘I’m just looking for someone,’ I say quickly.
He grins and a gold tooth glints. ‘Feisty lady, Scottish, worked in shipyards all her life?’
Relief swells over me like a wave and I hurry towards him. ‘Yes, have you seen her? Is she OK?’
The man beckons me closer. ‘Jeannie’s in here. She’s good company, your mum. A lovely old bird.’ He takes my hand and helps me over the railings.
I step on to the deck, which wobbles uncertainly, and follow him down a short flight of creaking steps. There’s a thick smell of woodsmoke. Low benches run along each side, on which several young men and women sit, tightly packed as if on a train, plus Jeannie with her tweed coat buttoned up to her neck.
‘Mum!’ I exclaim, peering into the gloom. ‘What are you doing here?’
She jabs a finger at the table. They are playing cards. A couple of cigarettes and a joint emit smoke from a scallop-shell ashtray. ‘Playing poker,’ she retorts. ‘What does it look like?’
‘Everyone’s been worried sick! I’ve been charging about all over the place looking for you—’
‘She’s a ferocious player,’
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