Читать книгу Once Lost - Ber Carroll - Страница 12

Chapter 7

Louise

Joe has left his phone behind. It rings intermittently throughout the morning, singing out to me from where it lies on the dining table. I studiously ignore it.

According to the White Pages, there are 273 ‘J Mitchells’ in New South Wales, 166 in Victoria, 120 in Queensland, and another couple of hundred scattered across the other states. This stage of the search is going to take longer than I anticipated, albeit not as long as the UK and America. Why, oh why can’t these stupid phone directories state a first name rather than a mere initial? It would make life so much easier all round. It would save me making all those unnecessary calls, and save those on the other end from receiving them.

Now the home phone is ringing. Whoever is trying to contact Joe is certainly persistent. Sighing, I slide my laptop off my knees, carefully putting it on the sofa next to me, before going to answer the phone.

‘Hello.’

‘Oh, hello.’ The voice, female — Irish? — sounds surprised to hear me. ‘I’m looking for Joe, who’s obviously not around. You must be Louise, the new flatmate.’

‘Yes,’ I confirm.

‘It’s Mary Connelly here, Joe’s mother,’ she supplies in a rush. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of him all morning.’

‘He left his phone behind,’ I explain, feeling guilty now that I didn’t answer it the first time and save her all those calls.

‘Is he at the gym?’

‘Err … I’m not sure.’

Now that I think about it, I’m not certain that Joe came home last night. If he did, I didn’t hear him.

‘Can you give him a message for me?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Tell him Samuel is home, and we’re all getting together tomorrow afternoon, about two. Tell him I expect him to be here on time. And if he’s been staying out all night drinking and womanising, tell him I’m not impressed.’

‘Yes, Mrs Connelly,’ I say meekly.

‘It’s Mary.’

‘Yes, Mary, I’ll pass on the message.’

I put down the phone and return to my laptop, a grin creeping across my face. Mary sounds like the proverbial Irish mother, deeply involved in her family, her authority unquestionable despite her children being adults, their good behaviour and manners still of paramount importance, and her offspring never too old or accomplished for a good scolding.

Joe is in trouble with his mum.

I’m positively giggling now, as I copy all the J Mitchells in the White Pages to an Excel spreadsheet so that I can easily categorise and sort them, depending on the information I gather. Each time I go through this process, I learn something new, and I’m becoming more and more efficient at it. If I were any good with words, I could write a how-to book on this subject: Finding a missing mother in ten easy steps. Except that I haven’t found her.

The phone rings again, and this time I answer immediately.

‘Louise, it’s Mary again.’

‘Hello, Mary,’ I say, not at all surprised.

‘You must think me terribly rude. Of course, you must come tomorrow, too. You’re here without your family, and Joe says you don’t know a soul, and I’d love to meet you …’

‘Really, Mary, that’s very kind of you but there’s no need—’

‘There’s every need. You’d be doing me a favour. Some female company, a chance to reminisce about home—’

‘But I—’

‘Remember, tell Joe it’s two o’clock. Sharp.’

Mary, quite evidently, is an old hand at claiming the last word. I’m left with the dialling tone in my ear, and the feeling that I’ve been whipped into line by a woman I haven’t even met.

Thankfully, all the phones, home and mobile, stay quiet for the next hour or so, and the only telephonic activity is my outward calls, as one by one I work through the names on my spreadsheet. Progress is slow, some numbers ringing out, many of the people answering needing to be convinced that my enquiries are genuine and that I’m not some prankster trying to steal their identity. I speak to twenty-five people, and not one of them is Janet, or has a Janet in the house. To say that the task is time-consuming would be the understatement of the century, but I am used to it, so I plod along.

Last week, Joe handed me a book and insisted I read it.

‘Best book I’ve read this year.’ His expression implied that he would like me to open the book and begin reading it right there and then.

‘Thanks, Joe, but I’m not a reader.’

‘Everyone is a reader,’ he exclaimed in a shocked tone.

‘Not me.’

After a few moments of silence, his gaze alternating between me and the apparently brilliant book lying unclaimed on the coffee table, he finally asked, ‘But if you don’t read, what do you do with your time?’

I shrugged and laughed, and didn’t answer his question.

The truth is I watch TV, like everyone else, and I surf the net. Sometimes, if the mood takes me, I can while away an hour or two sketching.

But more than anything, I spend my time searching. Trawling through phone directories, electoral rolls, registries of births, deaths and marriages.

I wonder how he would have reacted if I’d responded more honestly. ‘I search, Joe, and trust me, that sucks up more time than any other conceivable pastime. You know that sense of unease when you’ve lost something really important? I live with that every day of my life, and the process of searching seems to settle the uneasiness, and makes me feel as if I’m doing something constructive. Maybe one day, when I’ve nowhere left to search, or — being optimistic — when I’ve actually found her, I can waste some time on a book.’

Joe writes books, hence his obsession with them. His first two novels were on the shelves of the bookshop I happened across during the week. Okay, so I didn’t exactly stray into the bookshop, I went in there with the specific intention of checking if his books were in stock. They were. Only a couple of copies, on the second shelf from the top, not at eye level, which even I understand is bad. Before leaving the shop, I moved his books down a shelf and faced the covers outwards. Of course, it was only a matter of time before one of the shop assistants noticed and returned them, spine out, to their designated place in the alphabet. Still, though, my small act made me feel good.

I like Joe, a lot. And though I protested about accepting Mary’s invitation to lunch, and still feel a little railroaded into going, I’m curious to meet his family. Because families, like mothers, are a source of fascination to me. The different personalities and dynamics. The openness, affection and acceptance, co-existing with undercurrents of discontent, age-old grudges and rivalries.

I find everything about families utterly compelling, especially how much they are taken for granted.

While one part of my brain is focused on my spreadsheet and the data I’m collecting as I work my way through the phone list, another part is already imagining Mary Connelly with her husband and their three strapping sons, standing outside their solid, single-level house. A grassy fenced backyard, a kitchen big enough to accommodate a thick, wooden, no-nonsense dining table, and — it goes without saying — at least four bedrooms: one for Mary and her husband, Richie, and one for each of the boys.

A close family. Everything shared.

Except, of course, the bedrooms.