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  Jen checked the clock. Freddie and Liz were at work, which gave enough time to pack and consider the plan. A group she hung around with in Troddington market square squatted in a house in town. A few of the road’s residents grew suspicious of the abode, whose occupants multiplied. The police might turn up but it would do as a first step to getting away from the past.

  Jen received significantly lower grades than predicted in her exams. The ambition to become a doctor shattered and her life prospects sank. Before exam results day, she’d refused to drink from the bottle of vodka doing the rounds in a friend’s car. Previously, the smell of cigarettes made her queasy. Now, drinking and smoking blurred the sharp edges. The harder stuff followed. If she died, so be it.

  Freddie and Liz tried to reason with her, explaining the potential consequences of Jen’s dubious choices. Jen cringed when Liz asked about her sex life. Believing Jen wanted to be intimate with anyone was ridiculous. Men flirted with her. They sat outside school in their vans, picking up their teenage girlfriends and trying to add Jen to the list. She resolved never to be so easy. The barriers she’d created were impossible to overcome anyway.

  The girls teased that Deggsy had his eye on her. He was in his twenties and had a reputation with the ladies. The only male she wanted near her was Johnny. It felt unfaithful to consider a relationship with anyone else, even if she’d never see Johnny again.

  Deggsy served a purpose by waiting in his car. Jen refused to let him into the flat. Her seedy life didn’t belong in the Normans’ home. She needed to break the habit of letting them down.

  Deciding to leave had been torturous. Leaving Mandy with their parents even more so. Jen wished she could take her sister away but a squat wasn’t a suitable place to raise a child. Besides, Patricia would never let Mandy go. Two missing daughters didn’t lend well to the perfect mother persona.

  Jen hated herself for taking the coward’s way out in writing Mandy a letter. It sat in the hallway, alongside another for the Normans. Knowing no amount of words could make it right, Jen kept them short.

  She pulled out the tin tucked behind a fish ornament and emptied it of the notes. Freddie and Liz were saving to take Jen to New York. She played along, knowing it would never happen. Allowing them to believe in a future with her seemed right but it could never be. Since Kelly died, Jen felt sick with dread at the Normans discovering the truth. Each morning she woke, wondering if it was the day Freddie and Liz cast her out. Living in fear became exhausting. She knew stealing from them was wrong, but hoped they would understand it was an act of survival.

  Deggsy’s car gave a pathetic toot. Jen sniggered at how the souped-up BMW lacked oomph. She wondered if it reflected on the owner; all show and not much to back it up. For the meantime, she needed him. He led the squat and offered her a place to stay, with a new family. The prospect of living with druggies and ravers was paradise compared to the Taylor household.

  Liz’s scarf hung on the coat stand. Jen inhaled its scent and faltered. Could she leave? She had no choice. The Normans lived on the estate. Distressing reminders smothered her every day. She had to get out. Freddie and Liz deserved to have their uncomplicated lives back.

  Comforted by the token, Jen wrapped the scarf around her wrist. She posted the keys through the letterbox and vowed never to set foot on the Rembrandt Estate again.

  62

  Present

  The drive through Troddington is familiar this time. My stomach clenches at the sight of Mabel’s Parlour. There’s a sign on the door, “Closed due to bereavement”.

  Shoppers and cars bottleneck, desperate to glean information from the cordoned off alleyway. Priscilla deserved better than this. I want to open the window and shout that a person I knew died there. Instead, I turn up the stereo. The Jam sings A Town Called Malice, summing up Troddington past and present. The link to Johnny strengthens my resolve to continue.

  I need to focus more on the earlier good times before a single impetuous act ruined everything. The Rembrandt Estate used to be my place of belonging. Television programmes that use council estate residents as viewer bait are annoying. To the outside world, those who live on council estates are often portrayed as spongers, addicts or workshy.

  My heart remains within the council estate. I had to leave, but will always be a part of the Rembrandt Estate’s 1980s community. We looked out for each other. The woman next door could be having an affair with your husband but if an official turned up, you’d say she was out. You’d bawl her out later but never grass.

  Upon approach, it’s clear the estate has altered. There’s an imposing sign, similar to ones you see at holiday parks. It extends a welcome to the Rembrandt Estate. A group of ecstatic people wave underneath the banner. If the residents are like their eighties counterparts, not a single one is in the photograph. Back then, only an idiot would have agreed to their image being on display. That way led to defacing with devil’s horns, if you were lucky or engaging in a depiction of a sexual act, at worst. This sign is free of graffiti, proving even more how the estate has changed.

  I park on Turner Road, deciding to use the walking time to summon courage. Dad must see I’m in charge, as if he could ever be a threat. If he wasn’t deferring to Mum, he was apathetic to most things, except the pub. Hostility for his absences simmers. This anger is one I can use to get answers.

  I become the child, taking the dare to walk past the scary house. My attempt to ignore the Roses’ past home fails. There are no horrors, only a haunting of Johnny. I remember the boy, wondering if he’s changed as a person. His Facebook profile picture holds no clues. Compared to my memories, it’s flat and lifeless.

  I can almost hear Rose shouting, accompanied by Rob’s incessant swearing. Benny squeals as Johnny gives chase around the garden. I swallow against the lump in my throat. Benny lives only in the mind while he’s still missing.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  I startle at the question, annoyed at my whimsy. This isn’t the time to disappear into nostalgia. A harried woman is at the gate, gripping a wriggling toddler. I offer apologies and move along.

  The estate has shrunk. Of course, it’s not possible, unless half was bulldozed. The people of Troddington would love that. I’m Gulliver, treading on a land in which I don’t fit. My presence as a stranger looms large.

  The world was huge when I was a child. In a recent sentimental moment, I bought a Mars bar then checked the packaging, convinced I’d picked up something else. They’ve shrunk too. Eating a whole Mars was impossible when I was younger. I never made it beyond two-thirds. Johnny always finished the rest.

  Forgetting the layout, I overshoot Renoir Road and linger on Munch Drive. I wonder which of the eighties residents stayed. The front door to their flat is now red rather than white. I turn away. I didn’t ask Claire or Ellen about all the past residents still living here. Facing them, I wouldn’t know what to say.

  The park in between Renoir Road and Pollock Road was a space for igniting wild imaginations and strengthening friendships. It’s diminished to a tiny patch of concrete, edged by a strip of grass and weeds. Two women cast their children sideways glances, offering disinterested praise for cartwheel displays. Both adults look like they’d rather be somewhere else. My presence disrupts their conversation. I am on their territory.

  Visitors to the estate when I lived here were also interlopers. We knew enough of each other’s business to recognise friends and relatives. Strangers raised our interest. For the kids, it was someone to interrogate and annoy. For the adults, their official-looking person antennae prickled. The customary response was to hide or make the person feel so unwelcome they left.

  The women stare, expecting me to give a reason for being here. I assess the park, stripped of its playful soul, and ignore the assessing glares. Let them reap gossip about an unknown woman standing outside Mike Taylor’s house. They won’t know who I am but he will.

  A curtain sways from a bedroom next door, of what was the Smiths’ home. Feli
city must have moved. She wouldn’t have denied herself the opportunity to get one up on Mum. Whose is that shadow flitting through the nets? The spirit of nosey neighbour Felicity lives on.

  Towering fencing panels fortress Dad’s garden, hiding from the other houses in the terrace. I disrupt its introversion as I raise the gate latch and enter. Was Mum responsible for the fences? For someone who treated her home like a National Trust exhibit, it doesn’t fit.

  A jungle of lawn reaches knee height. Flowerbeds have turned to mud. A rotting patio set slumps upon mossy slabs. The garden has been punished. Is this Dad’s way of retaliating against Mum’s obsession with keeping it immaculate? It was the first impression of her residence, and therefore always nothing short of perfection. Dad must have put the fences up too. Someone got brave. I almost admire him.

  I rap my knuckles hard on the patio door. It’s gloomy inside. A veneer of water stains obscures my vision. I check the bedroom windows. The curtains are open. It’s a weekday and early but Dad was never a late sleeper.

  The net curtains next door move again. The sun reflects upon the window, shielding the snooper. I express my annoyance via the medium of my middle finger. It’s immature but I don’t care. I won’t be returning.

  I could have gone to the front of the house. It’s partly habit directing me to the back. Mum only allowed us a key to the “tradesmen’s entrance”. The front was for guests only. The family’s soiled shoes on the beige porch carpet wouldn’t do. I want Dad to recognise me as he approaches the patio door. A swiftly opened door without the slow reveal of glass gives me less time to see who he is now.

  An elderly man shuffles forwards. He wears a careworn face and an outfit too loose for his body. As he steps into the light, it displays a shell of my dad. His skin and clothes are grey. Dad has faded. Years of being Patricia Taylor’s husband had done this.

  I refuse to greet him, in response to the lack of discernible love on his face.

  He grimaces as he slides open the door. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  I don’t reply. He will provide the answers. I move alongside Dad and enter the house of my past.

  63

  10th January 1981

  Mike whistled as he parked the van in the driveway. Moving to the Rembrandt Estate was a new start. Patricia had delivered an ultimatum; if Mike didn’t get them out of the two-bedroom house in Steadingham, she’d leave. He could keep their daughters and Liam would go with her. It was probably a bluff but he didn’t want to take the risk.

  Mike believed in the estate’s ability to bring his family closer together. It was his last hope. He refused to allow Patricia’s disinterest in Jen and Mandy to dampen his spirit. With the move, his wife might finally be content. He gave a prayer of thanks to the council housing gods who’d bumped them up the list after he’d begged. The Taylors got a perfect new house on the estate everyone talked about. His drinking companions at The Fox, in Steadingham, raised a glass to his fortune.

  While pleased with their son’s luck, his parents were also sad to hear the news. Having Mike live nearby for so long had been a gift. Steadingham to Troddington was seven miles, neither of his parents drove, and bus services out in “the sticks” were sporadic. Mike promised to visit often and did so until they moved to Spain after a windfall on the football pools. Patricia couldn’t wait to leave her in-laws behind. She detested their “lowly” roots as a cleaner and dustbin man. No longer enduring them dropping by unannounced or her father-in-law farting after Sunday lunch was bliss.

  Mike directed Liam to the rear of the van. His son lingered behind. Liam may have been only ten but already acted like an opinionated teenager. He also spent more time with Patricia than was healthy. Mike tried to engage him in fishing, snooker, and darts. Liam always looked horrified at the prospect of being with his dad. The Police commanded Don’t Stand So Close to Me, on the radio. Mike refused to make the obvious connection.

  ‘Turn off that drivel,’ Liam said. ‘Don’t you have any taste, you simpleton?’

  Mike tapped him on the head. Thinking parental authority had ended the rudeness, Mike lifted furniture. Liam held a box of his dad’s treasured vinyl high. The precious cargo dropped to the pavement. Despite the agony of the shattering sound of his albums, Mike forced himself to accept it as an accident.

  Jen bounded across the garden, excited at the prospect of living on an estate with other children. Before, they were stuck in a village where the only entertainment was a walk to the Post Office, set up in the front of Mrs King’s house. Jen was hopeful of the friends she could make. The Rembrandt Estate would be her utopia.

  Mike placed a chair on the pavement and sat, enjoying Jen’s happiness. From the moment Patricia said she was pregnant again, he doted on Jen. Since her birth, his shame for not atoning for a cruel mum and an apathetic dad gnawed away at him.

  With their first child, Patricia declared she would have an abortion. Mike pleaded to keep the baby and Patricia allowed him to think she’d relented. He should have known she had no intention of aborting the child. Patricia was always cunning. Mike passed the test and Patricia embraced the opportunity to cement a future as a wife and mother. At five months pregnant, they married. Patricia hid the bump under a carefully designed dress. Visibly pregnant brides screamed vulgarity, shotguns, and neediness.

  When Liam was born, Patricia fell in love for the first time. She’d wanted a son to worship her, as her brothers had. From the moment she looked into Liam’s eyes, Patricia hadn’t relinquished ownership. Mike was pushed aside.

  At Jen’s birth, Patricia handed the child to Mike and stated it was his turn. He knew he disappointed Jen when he hid in the pub or at work, but dared not express the depth of his affection for her. If he showed indifference, Patricia would think he didn’t care. She destroyed what others valued. His skewed logic proposed that, if she wasn’t aware of his devotion to their daughter, she’d leave Jen alone.

  Seven years later, he realised he’d made a mistake he couldn’t rectify. Sometimes, he wished he could take his girls away. Liam was a lost cause. It was a foolish idea anyway. Patricia would never allow the family to splinter. Image was everything.

  Mike considered how he shouldn’t have slept with Patricia and allowed Mandy’s conception. The moment of weakness resulted in another neglected child. Patricia needed a boy. Mandy signified another female disappointment.

  Sensing his melancholy, Jen slipped her hand in his. He winced at her attempt to scavenge a crumb of love and avoided the inevitable confusion on her face. Amends had to be made. This estate could be their chance.

  He dropped Jen’s hand and continued unloading the van. Liam had disappeared.

  Jen sat on the edge of the kerb. She often wondered if her dad was friend or foe.

  64

  Present

  ‘How dare you walk into this house as if you never left it?’ Dad says. He moves to the side as I push past.

  Sitting at the dining room table without an invitation, I refuse to be intimidated by anyone in the Taylor family again. Dad slumps against the wall. Before, witnessing his defeat would have seemed justifiable. Now, I realise his weakness doesn’t give me strength. I will not be another woman who makes him feel worthless.

  ‘I’m not here to fight. Please sit.’ I pull out a chair as if I’m hosting. He takes a seat and focuses behind me, determined not to make eye contact.

  The dining room and kitchen have changed beyond recognition. Gone are the robust oak units boasting a parade of china bird ornaments. No more are the cream and terracotta curtains with matching pelmets. The interior decorator wannabe that lived here is erased. Clinical white walls are covered with marks and stains. Scratches are gouged into the table. Mum’s Eternal Beau collection no longer dominates the kitchen with its floral and ribbon pattern. Plates, cups, and even a butter dish were on display. The cardinal rule was never to use any of it.

  Dad watches me assessing the rooms. ‘It’s not how your mum had it.’
r />   ‘No.’ I keep my reply short. I’m not here for small chat.

  ‘I changed everything after she died. It needed to be different.’

  I wonder if his annoyance is aimed at me or memories of Mum he’s still fighting. The changes he’s made are better. The house may not be beautiful but it’s finally a lived-in home.

  ‘You should have come to her funeral,’ he says.

  ‘I didn’t know she was dead until recently. No one told me.’

  He straightens his crumpled collar. ‘No one knew where you were after you did a runner from Freddie and Liz’s.’

  I resolve to stay calm. This isn’t the time to rake over old issues. I remind myself of the task. Can Dad help me find out what happened to Kelly? Maybe I’m being selfish and considering my needs first. I must face him and bury the past but Kelly deserves the focus to be on her for once.

  ‘What was that?’ I ask, in response to a sound in the hallway.

  ‘Probably the cat.’

  My finger traces a wooden ring on the table. ‘I want to talk to you about Kelly Pratt.’

  ‘Nice dive, Jen,’ he says. ‘You could never deal with being told off. Not coming to your mum’s funeral was out of order.’

  My nails dig into my palms. ‘I spent years being mistreated by your wife, but you were oblivious. Easier to be in the pub and not see the abuse taking place under your own roof. I wouldn’t have gone to her funeral if my life depended on it. Unlike you, I’m not a hypocrite.’