Page 60 of The Stolen Child

Doddington Estate, Battersea Park Road, London

Sally awoke the next morning a little before nine o’clock. Her head felt woozy, and her stomach groaned in protest as she tried to sit up. Memories of her late-night shellfish feast and her breath reeking of fish made her stomach heave. She ran to the bathroom, ill from the night’s overindulgence. Sally wasn’t a drinker, yet she’d drunk more last night than she had in the entire time since she’d left the orphanage. She put the kettle on to make tea.

She didn’t regret the hangover, though. They’d needed that blowout. It had been so much fun with Elsie, dancing and singing along to their favourite songs, celebrating and planning for a future that seemed achievable now.

And then she remembered her mother. The image she had burned in her memories of her mother sitting in front of her dressing table, brushing her flame-red hair, pouting her perfect ruby lips, spraying peach perfume liberally onto her neck and her wrists.

Once she’d made a pot of tea and had drunk her first cup, Sally walked out to the small hallway of her flat and picked up the London phone directory from the floor. It sat, gathering dust in the corner, rarely used. Her heart raced as she brought it back to the kitchen table. She laid her hand on the cover, and she could almost feel it throb under her touch.

‘She’s not going to be listed,’ she whispered to herself, trying desperately not to let herself get her hopes up. But her hand shook as she flicked through the pages. Sally’s breath came in shallow bursts as she tried to find the courage to move to the ‘F’ section of the book. Because she knew that there was another possibility, worse than her mother leaving her behind for a new life, unburdened from her responsibilities.

She might be dead.

Sally steadied her right hand with her left, then she flicked through the pages, slowing down when she reached the surnames that started with ‘Fo’. She traced her finger down the page, stopping halfway through the second column.

Fox, Lizzie, Ms, 12 Campbell Road, North Islington, London.

The room stilled, her hand stopped trembling and the words blurred as Sally blinked back tears.

That was her mother. It had to be. And, without any real thought of running through the pros and cons, Sally knew that she had to visit her. See her for herself. She caught a sob in her throat as she imagined feeling her mother’s arms round her one more time.

What would Sally say to her if she found the nerve to visit her? Her body began to shake as a hidden memory resurfaced. Her mother, clicking the latch on her small suitcase, avoiding Sally’s questioning eyes. And then the moment her mother had turned her back on Sally, walking away from her daughter, who sat quivering in the back of Mrs Burton’s car.

Why did you send me away, Mum? Did I do something wrong?

Sally shook the thoughts away. If she did go to see her mother, Sally would keep these questions to herself. She wasn’t sure she was brave enough to ask them, or to hear the answer.

Sally stood up and made her way to the bathroom. This was the most critical first impression of her life. Her mother was a glamorous woman – she remembered that much clearly – who spent a lot of time sitting in front of her dressing table, getting ready to go out. So Sally took her time, teasing her hair into place, then applying her make-up carefully. She knew what she was going to wear. High-waisted mint-green flared trousers, a small gold buckle belt that cinched in her waist and a bell-sleeved silk print blouse in creams, with mint-green and light-blue patterns swirling prettily together. She’d bought the blouse for 50p in her favourite second-hand shop and had worn it on her first day of college.

Once she was ready, she looked at herself in her mirror, turning sideways to check her appearance from every direction. Would her mother be proud of her daughter? Would she think Sally was pretty? Her hammering heart told her that, no matter what she might tell herself, she still desperately needed her mother’s approval.

Sally made her way to Battersea Park Station and, with the help of a kind ticket agent, worked out her route to North Islington. Her mother’s house was only a three-minute walk from the station. Less than an hour later, she arrived at Campbell Road. Had she been living this close to her mother all this time? A mere sixty minutes from the only person to whom she was related in this world?

Sally felt a tension headache begin to pound as she ran through the words she’d practised in her mind during the train journey here. She looked at her small Timex watch, surprised it was only eleven. It felt as if a day had passed since she’d written down her mother’s address on the back of a brown envelope. Was it too early to call? She hoped not. Sally paused at a corner shop and went inside to buy a box of Milk Tray chocolates.

‘For anyone special?’ the shopkeeper asked as Sally paid him.

‘For my mother,’ Sally replied, and felt a flush of warmth move from her chest to her face. She loved how that sounded on her lips.

My mother.

Campbell Road was an eclectic group of old houses comprising red, grey and white brick, with many of them derelict. A couple of cars were parked up along the street. A group of kids played chase with each other, dodging cars as their drivers honked their horns to move them out of the way. A man wearing a heavy knitted cardigan leaned on his front door, smoking a pipe. He paid her no attention as she passed him by. A stench filled the air. Putrid damp and decay. Several houses had ‘Sold’ signs pinned to boarded-up windows and doors. Graffiti scarred the facade of a large corner house, painted white. Windows were broken in another.

She counted down the numbers from 103 until she came to 20. Then she slowed to almost a standstill. Her heart raced again as she willed herself the courage to walk the last few feet. Sally noticed a woman with hair in large round curlers. She wore a bright-red housecoat. Smoke drifted upwards, as she took a deep drag of her cigarette. Two more steps and she arrived outside number 12. Pink flowery curtains were closed in the window beside the black front door and grey-brick home. Their bright colour was a lonely but hopeful sight in a grey landscape. A promising sign, Sally told herself, lifting her hand to knock on the door.

She felt the eyes of the woman in curlers watching her as she rapped the brass knocker. The woman said, ‘She won’t be up, love.’ She sniffed, then added, ‘She’ll have been up half the night.’

Sally ignored her. She knew her type, always watching, judging, gossiping. She had half a dozen neighbours on her landing who were the same. Sally took a step back, preparing herself for disappointment. But then a flash of movement on her left caught her eye. The curtains twitched. Sally knocked a second time, and then she heard the sound of footsteps making their way towards the front door.

Sally crossed her fingers, holding her hands behind her back.

Please, Mum, let it be you.

And her wish was granted because the door opened to reveal Lizzie Fox.

She was older, but nonetheless impossible to mistake. Her hair was still vibrant red, back-combed high on her head. Dark kohl eyeliner framed her green eyes, and her signature ruby red lipstick stained her lips. But the colour bled into new lines running around her mother’s mouth.

Her mother looked at her, and Sally watched her, hoping she would see instant recognition in her eyes. But there was no Hollywood reunion.