The Astonishing Return of Norah Wells (8 page)

Clutching at the tufts of hair tucked behind her ears, Ella leaves the post office and walks to Holdingwell Primary. She leans against the brick wall round the corner from the main gates and looks at her phone.

@sunnysideofthestreet sends her a message, another one of his lyrics:
I can see the gleaming candlelight still burning bright
…
It's from that Louis Armstrong song he's obsessed with, ‘Back Home Again in Indiana'. It's one of Ella's favourites. She knows what he's saying: don't give up on Mum. It's the opposite of @blackislight's message. Maybe Ella should get all her Twitter followers together and let them have a big old debate about what she should do about Mum.

Every now and then Ella checks that Willa's still there, waiting.

One by one the cars fill up with children, and their mums and dads drive them away. The playground empties. The sun sinks. Eventually Willa is standing there alone with Mr Mann.

On the day Mum left Mr Mann had waited with Ella too. And when it got dark and Mum still hadn't answered her phone and they couldn't find Dad's number, Mr Mann had driven her home.

The crow flaps its long black wings.

Ella hears the engine of Fay's people carrier pull up outside the gates. She'd ordered this model especially from America:
safest family car in the world
, she called it. Mum couldn't even drive.

It's more fun to walk,
Mum had always said as they trudged to school through the rain. And Ella had bought it. Her excuses for being different from everyone else. For not being a proper mum.

Even from here, Ella can tell that Fay is upset. Her shoulders hunched, staring at Willa through the windscreen. If this were a normal day Fay would rush out of the car, scoop Willa into her arms, swing her round and kiss her all over.

It was Fay who had Willa on the night Mum disappeared.

Dad had come home from the pub and found Ella and Mr Mann on the doorstep. She remembers how Dad's eyes blurred in and out of focus behind his grimy glasses as he tried to get the key in the lock, and how he'd called Mum's name over and over through the dark house.

That was the day Fay became part of their lives. Even though she's this amazing surgeon who saves people's lives, she took a break from work and came over every day. She went with Dad to meetings so he'd stop drinking. She played with Willa and changed her and fed her mushy, organic food and took her out in her pram. Fay looked after Ella too, but Ella always made it clear that she knew who her real mum was – and Ella knew that, secretly, Fay was relieved. Fay only wanted Willa. Willa was special: she was a baby, and she couldn't remember Mum. It didn't take long for Fay to stop correcting people in the park and in the shops and at school when they said things like
what a cute little girl you have
and
you must be so proud
and
she looks just like you
–
which was an outright lie
.
The only person Willa looked like was Mum.

Fay watches Fay step out of the car. Willa runs up to her and hugs her. She watches Mum's reaction through the windscreen. Ella wants to yell out at her,
She's not yours, she'll never be yours.

All those years, Ella kept thinking that the police would find Mum. That someone following Ella's @findingmum
campaign would spot her and tell Ella and then Ella would tell Dad and Fay and they'd bring Mum home.

She's coming home
, she'd say to herself, over and over until she believed it.

Ella pulls out a packet of cigarettes she swiped from Dad's secret stash. Her fingers tremble as she flicks the lighter.

How dare Mum breeze back in, thinking she can just pick up where she'd left off?

Pictures of Mum flash in front of her. Mum the last time she saw her, the morning she dropped her off at school: her tired smile, Willa asleep in the pram. And Mum today, standing on the doorstep and then walking up to Willa at the school gates, kissing her. It's like the last six years haven't happened. All that hoping and waiting and searching.

Well, Ella isn't going to join in. She isn't going to go home and play happy families.

She reaches for her phone, sends a tweet and then scrolls down her contacts.

Who cares what Dad thinks. There's only one person she wants to be with right now. She's going to see Sai and she's going to stay there for as long as it takes for Mum to leave.

As she parks the car on Willoughby Street, Mummy hits the kerb. The three of them lurch forward.

‘Sorry,' Mummy mumbles.

Since they left school, Mummy's stalled, gone through a red light and scraped the underside of the car by going over a sleeping policeman too fast. And Mummy's the one who's always telling Daddy to drive more carefully. Plus, she hasn't said a word to No One Woman, which is weird if No One Woman's meant to be a guest and even weirder if No One Woman is Auntie Norah from Australia, which must make her either Daddy's sister or Mummy's sister – and if she's Mummy's sister surely she'd be really excited about seeing her and have lots and lots to tell her.

Willa looks at the back of No One Woman's head: the sun bounces off her hair and makes it look like it's on fire. Mummy's hair is white blonde. If they were sisters, surely they wouldn't look so different?

‘Why's Daddy so late home?' Willa stares out of the car window. Daddy is standing on the doorstep in his suit with his briefcase at his feet. He usually comes home early on a Friday and has a nap with Mummy, and then makes dinner to give her a break.

‘He had lots of work to do,' says Mummy.

‘And why's he standing outside?' Willa can see that Daddy's brow is all knotted up, that he's worrying about something.

‘He's probably inspecting the roof,' says No One Woman. ‘It's meant to be fixed already.'

Willa and Mummy stare at No One Woman. Mummy's probably wondering the same thing as Willa, which is how No One Woman knows about the roof and that Daddy's always complaining about how slow the roofers are.

‘That's what he said this morning,' No One Woman adds.

‘This morning?' Mummy asks.

‘We met. Before he went to work. He gave me a key.'

Daddy gave No One Woman a key?

‘Oh,' says Mummy.

‘Ella saw her too,' Willa says. ‘We were just leaving for school. Daddy hadn't gone to work yet.'

‘Oh,' Mummy says again.

It's not just Mummy's driving that's been weird. It's her words too. It's like she's too tired to use proper sentences.

Daddy turns round, holds a hand over his eyes and stares at the three of them sitting in Mummy's car.

‘Daddy!' Willa yells, waving through the window.

She jumps out and runs up to the house and throws her arms around Daddy. She expects him to give her a bear hug back and then lift her up onto his shoulders, like he usually does, but his hug's all limp and she can tell he's looking past her at Mummy and No One Woman.

Mummy comes up behind Willa and No One Woman follows her.

Beyond Mummy and No One Woman, Willa spots the Miss Peggs in their garden. They think they're being subtle but they're not, mainly because they always wear purple, so they stand out, and also because they stretch out their necks and stare, which makes it obvious that they're spying. Like now: they're watering their flowers but Willa knows they're only pretending because they keep looking up at No One Woman. The Miss Peggs like to keep an eye on what goes on. They're on the Neighbourhood Watch committee, which is where people get together to make sure nothing bad happens on Willoughby Street.

Willa waves at them and calls over, ‘Did you get my card?'

‘Yes, thank you, dear,' Miss Rose Pegg calls back.

Then they both go back to staring at No One Woman.

The Miss Peggs have lived here their whole lives, so they probably know that she's Auntie Norah.

Daddy reaches out to give Mummy a kiss on the cheek and misses, because Mummy turns away too fast. Usually Mummy and Daddy give each other a proper kiss on the mouth and Ella rolls her eyes and Willa pretends not to look.

‘Where's Ella?' Daddy asks.

Willa doesn't know what to say. If he finds out that she's with Sai he'll get cross.

‘She didn't show up,' Mummy says.

When they get into the hallway, Louis bounds up to them and Willa tries to give him a cuddle but he walks right past her and jumps up at No One Woman – which he never does to strangers. And No One Woman bends down and cuddles him, like she's known him her whole life. It's another clue that she must be Auntie Norah, who helped Ella and Mummy and Daddy adopt Louis. Dogs remember people for a really long time.

Mummy says, ‘Why don't you go up and get changed out of your school clothes?'

‘I'm fine.' Willa wants to stay here with Louis and Mummy and Daddy and No One Woman.

‘I think it would be a good idea,' says Mummy. Which is Mummy's way of saying that she wants you to do something and that you shouldn't argue.

‘Can I take Louis?'

Mummy looks at Louis sitting next to No One Woman and nods. ‘Just this once.'

Willa grabs Louis by the collar and yanks him up the stairs with her. Even if No One Woman is Auntie Norah, she needs to know that Louis belongs more to them than he does to her. You don't get to be away for ages and ages and expect people and dogs to love you again straight away.

 

When Willa gets up to her room she closes the door, sits on her bed and pats the quilt beside her for Louis to jump up.

‘What's going on, Louis?' She rubs him in the spot behind the ears that's guaranteed to make him go all floppy and happy. Except this time he doesn't respond. His tail thumps the bed and he keeps looking at the door, as if he wishes he were still downstairs.

‘Fine,' says Willa.
If you're not going to tell me, I'll have to find out for myself.

She gets out of her school uniform as fast as she can, leaves it on the floor even though Mummy doesn't like that, throws on some leggings and an old jumper, gently opens the door so that it won't creak and tiptoes to the top of the stairs. Louis follows her out and plops down beside her, but his ears are standing up stiff, like when he hears the foxes in the garden.

Willa's been training herself to hear things like animals do: their hearing is a thousand times more sensitive than a human being's, and Willa reckons that's why they always know what's going on, like when a thunder storm is coming or when a burglar's about to break in.

Willa wants to hear all the things animals can hear. And right now she wants to hear what Mummy and Daddy and No One Woman are saying.

‘I need to make a phone call,' Norah says. ‘Reception still best in the garden?'

Adam nods. His shoulders are stooped and, behind his glasses, he's rubbed his eyes raw. She can't remember the last time he wore his glasses in the day.

‘Everything's going to be okay, Adam,' Fay says. ‘You can deal with this.'

His eyes are fixed on Norah; he doesn't seem to hear.

Fay wants him to hold her, to tell
her
that it's going to be okay. That Norah coming back doesn't change what they have.

‘Adam?' She puts a hand on his arm. ‘We need to tell her.'

‘I think she's worked it out, Fay.'

But Fay's not so sure. She knows Norah, that she sees what she wants to see – and Fay being with Adam? That's not something she would ever have expected.

They watch Norah pacing up and down the lawn.

Fay remembers Norah sitting for hours in the garden, her phone clenched between shoulder and ear, a cigarette balanced in her tiny fingers, Willa on a blanket under the tree.

She's calling the people from her new life,
Fay wants to tell Adam.
The people she swapped us for.

Fay looks out at her garden. When Norah lived here, the grass was overgrown and the colour of wheat. Any plants were accidental, seeds blown in by the wind. A bramble bush so overgrown that it took Fay half a day to pull out; she'd had scratches on her arms for weeks.

And now? A green carpet of lawn, flower borders, a peach tree, a greenhouse for her peonies, a herb garden Willa helped her plant, a water feature and a shed filled with a lawn mower and rakes and brooms and secateurs and flower food and weed killer.

The only thing missing are fairies at the bottom of the garden,
Adam had said on the day it was finished.

How do you know they're missing?
she'd answered.

And he'd smiled and kissed her and whispered the words between her lips:
You're right, my Fay
.

Adam places a hand on the back of her head and smooths down Fay's hair. She feels so relieved she wants to cry.

‘Sorry,' he says.

Her mind scans through what it is, exactly, that he's sorry about.

Sorry for not telling you that Norah's back?
 

Sorry for letting you believe that the life we've built together means anything? For letting you believe that I loved you?
 

Fay lets out a breath. She's so tired her mind keeps skipping from hope to disaster. She has to get a grip.

Norah sits on the low stone wall by the herb garden, crushing a sprig of rosemary between her fingers.

Adam's eyes drift back to Norah.

Spellbinding
. That's the word reviewers used to describe Norah's trumpet performances
.

You're like a drug,
Fay used to joke.

That's the effect Norah has on people. And that's what drew Fay to Norah when they were students: the best friend who shook up Fay's plodding, sensible days.

Plodding. Sensible. Was that what she was to Adam? He'd called her his anchor once. At the time, she'd liked it. Now she pictures the heavy thud of metal sinking into the bottom of the sea.

‘She has to speak to the girls,' Fay says. ‘She has to explain.'

Adam doesn't answer. He keeps looking out at Norah.

‘Adam?'

He turns round.

‘The girls?' she says again.

‘Yes. Of course.' He yanks at his tie, his breath jagged.

Just a few hours into Norah's return and he was panicking again. God, they were back at square one.

‘She can't just walk back in and expect —' Stay calm, Fay thinks. It's what you're good at. It's what he likes about you. ‘Adam, it's not my job to sort this out.'

She's done enough. It's time for Norah to step up and take responsibility for walking out on her family. And it's time for Adam to stand up for Fay.

‘I'll deal with it ,' Adam says. ‘I promise.' But from the way he's looking at her she knows that he longs for her to sweep in and clear up the mess.

Because that's what she does.

When Ella skips school, fails her exams, smokes in her room; when Willa has nightmares and sleepwalks; when Louis is sick because he's eaten too much – it's Fay who straightens everything out. Calls a family meeting, lets everyone talk in turn, even if that means Ella shouting at her. And she encourages Adam to take a lead, lets him sit at the head of the table and tells him to be firm, that this is what being a father looks like – what love looks like.

She takes a breath. ‘Why don't you go and start dinner?'

‘Dinner?'

‘The pizzas. It's Friday.' The night Adam cooks with the girls. It's all Fay can think of: keep going as normal. ‘It'll be good for Willa to have a bit of continuity.'

‘Right, the pizzas.' He looks relieved. ‘Yes. I'll do that.'

‘I'll go upstairs and get changed.'

She turns to go.

Adam reaches for her hand and draws her back round. ‘I'm sorry.'

Sorry. Again.

It's all anyone seems able to say.

Louis bounds past them, through the glass doors and out into the garden. He leaps up at Norah.

Willa stands in the doorway, looking at Adam. ‘What are you sorry for, Daddy?'