Who Do You Think You Are?. Claire Moss
let it go and eventually it just ate her up.’
‘He was her son! What was she supposed to do, just forget about him?’
Leanne’s face was grim and her voice was strained. ‘I know he was her son. But I’m her daughter. And so’s Lisa. And you’re her son too. She should never have, I don’t know, given up like she did. She should have kept going for us as well as herself.’
‘Leanne,’ I said, trying to keep my voice calmer. ‘She had cancer. That was what killed her, not worrying about Pete, not “giving up”. She could have “let him go”, as you put it, years ago, she’d still have died. I know you’re pissed off with her for dying – ’
‘I am!’ she was shouting again, her pale, freckled face growing red. ‘Too fucking right I am! She were only sixty-five. Who dies at that age?’ She stood up and threw the magazine she’d been holding down to the floor. ‘People who can’t be arsed to keep going, that’s who! And it were ‘cos of him, the selfish little fucker.’
‘Leanne, calm down! Look, it’s hard for all of us; we’re all still upset, we’re all angry. It’s natural to feel like this. But you’ve got to understand, it wasn’t Pete’s fault. And I think, well, I think if Mum were here now, she’d have wanted me to look for him. She’d have wanted to know what happened – she’d have wanted us all to know.’
Leanne swallowed and sat back down. ‘What do you think you’re going to find out? That there was some conspiracy in the National Union of Mineworkers to get rid of him and that he’s inside one of them concrete pillars on the Tinsley Viaduct? Or that Thatcher took a contract out on his head and he’s in hiding in Argentina or somewhere? He was just some bloke. Whatever happened to him, however it happened – I mean, I don’t know any more than you do – but, Ed, you know I’m right. He’s not coming back, I’m sure of it. He’d have done it by now if he was going to, he’d have found us. It’s what I always told Mum, it’s what I always used to say.’ Her right leg was jiggling up and down rapidly. ‘I wanted to get him declared dead. I tried to persuade her to look into it. I’m sure we could have done it – there were never any sightings of him, not that we heard about at least. He never touched his bank account either.’ She laughed drily. ‘Not that there were owt in it anyway.’ She sighed. ‘But Mum wouldn’t have it. ‘
We were quiet a few moments. ‘I’m not going to stop looking,’ I said eventually.
‘Are you hoping for some sort of scoop?’ I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, you know, say you did find him – dead or alive, in the Tinsley Viaduct or in Argentina – it’d be a pretty good exclusive for you, wouldn’t it? Reckon some of the national papers might publish it.’
I sucked my teeth. Joking or not, I felt like hitting her. How old did you have to be, I wondered, before your first reaction during an argument with your sister stopped being to give her a dead leg? ‘Leanne, I’m not doing this for my career, I’m doing it because – ’
She shook her head. ‘I know. I’m sorry. I know why you’re doing it.’ She bit her lip. ‘I think really it’s been worse for you than it were for me or our Lisa. We can remember him better – we knew him, properly knew him. You were nobbut a kid yourself and he were a grown man. You’ve built him up in your head to be this hero – especially with Dad being gone and all. But he weren’t. He were an ordinary lad: went to work, went out on a Friday night with his mates, gave girls the run-around. He were nowt special. Well, I mean, he were, of course he were, and he were our brother. But – ’ she spread her hands ‘ – he’s gone. I got used to that idea years ago, and I think you should too.’
*
I went back to the library two days later. Tash was at her desk, the same as before, her eyes fixed on her computer screen. I waited a second before going over to her, assessing the impact of seeing her again. I’m not very good with women. A problem compounded by the fact that I give every appearance of being good with women. I’m good with people. I make my living from being good with people. My solid working-class background followed by a career surrounded by middle-class media types has endowed upon me an ability to get along with anyone who crosses my path; to ask the right questions, give the right responses, make the person I’m talking to feel special. So when I’m talking to a woman I’m not interested in, or am only half-interested in, it’s pretty easy for her to start to feel special too. The trouble comes when I have to talk to a woman I like, or who I think I might start to like – and I was beginning to suspect that Tash might be falling into that category.
What had begun as straightforward attraction – coupled with the loneliness of washing up twenty years too late in the town I had left when I was still a boy – was, after taking her out the other night, starting to turn into something deeper. I had found myself thinking about her when she wasn’t there, found myself gripped at odd moments by grief for her family who I had never known, spent long minutes trying to picture her ex-husband, trying to imagine who he could be to have abandoned her at such a time. So that now, seeing her again after having had a few days to build her up in my head, I was able to start acting as I always do when confronted with someone who is managing to get under my skin: like a charmless half-wit who did an online course in the art of seduction and got a B+.
I was on full alert for any signal that she might have devoted similar amounts of mental energy to me in the intervening few days. The enigmatic quality she had was one of the things I liked so much, but it did leave a man hanging somewhat. We’d had a good time the other night, and I was sure I’d picked up enough of a vibe to believe she liked me – or at least that she wasn’t actively repelled by me. But there had been nothing when she said goodbye, no hint of even wanting to meet again. Maybe, having been through so much so recently, all she wanted was to steer clear of men altogether. Now I began to worry that by turning up again so soon I was doing the thing guaranteed to scare her away. Too late now, I thought. The only thing worse than turning up again too soon would be turning up too soon, muttering to myself in the doorway of the library, then turning on my heels and disappearing again.
She looked up as I strode towards her and spontaneously broke into a broad grin. ‘Hi! What a welcome surprise.’
‘Well, that’s always nice to hear. I’m not interrupting am I?’
‘You are interrupting, but you’re interrupting me watching cricket on the internet.’
‘Oh, right. What match is it?’ I have no interest in any sport but was willing to feign one now.
‘England and South Africa, one day international.’
‘What’s the score?’
‘England are batting, 226 for 3.’
I nodded. Good or bad? I wasn’t sure so I kept my face neutral. A Yorkshireman who didn’t get cricket was beyond shameful.
She clicked a button and sat back in her chair and looked up at me. ‘I haven’t got a clue what any of that means, by the way. My dad was into cricket and I never could be bothered to find out about it when he was alive. I thought I’d give it a go now but – ’ she shrugged ‘ – I have absolutely no idea what’s going on. Why do they keep hitting the ball and then just standing there and not running? No wonder they’re all fat.’
I laughed. Thank God. A girlfriend who knew more about sport than I did would be far too demeaning. Not that she was going to be my girlfriend of course.
‘Well, maybe I’ve got something else for you to concentrate on instead.’
‘Oh no, you haven’t brought me work have you? And I thought you just wanted an excuse to see me again.’
‘Well, that too, I mean, of course, you know…’ I stuttered to a halt.
‘What have you got for me then?’ She obviously felt sorry for me and was willing to gloss over my ham-fisted attempts at charisma.
‘Would