‘Yes. Reverend Brooks. But please call me Jack.’
She walks back over to the cupboard and returns with two slightly stained cups and saucers.
‘No sugar.’
‘That’s fine.’
She eases herself into the seat opposite. ‘Oh dear. I forgot the milk.’
‘Shall I get it?’
‘Thank you.’
I walk over to the small fridge and pull it open. Inside, there’s nothing but a couple of ready meals, some cheese and a half-pint of milk. I take out the milk. It went out of date a day ago. I take a quick sniff and bring it over anyway.
‘Here we go.’ I add a splash to both brews.
‘We never had lady vicars in my day.’
‘No?’
‘The Church wasn’t a place for women.’
‘Well, times were different then.’
‘Priests were always men.’
I hear this view a lot, especially from older parishioners. I try not to take it personally. We don’t always move at the same pace as progress. Life, at some point, starts to leave us behind. We struggle along with our walking frames and mobility scooters but, ultimately, we’ll never catch it up. If I make it to seventy or eighty, I’ll probably find myself staring at the world around me with the same sense of bewilderment, wondering what the hell happened to all the things I thought were true.
‘Well, things change,’ I say, sipping my tea and fighting a grimace.
‘Are you married?’
‘Widowed.’
‘I’m sorry. Any children?’
‘A daughter.’
She smiles. ‘I have a daughter. Joy.’
‘That’s a lovely name.’
‘We called her Joy because she was such a happy baby.’ She reaches for her tea, hand trembling slightly. ‘She went away.’
‘Oh?’
‘But she’s coming home. Any day.’
‘Well, that’s good.’
‘She is a good girl. Not like that other one.’ Her face darkens. ‘A bad influence, that one. Bad.’
She shakes her head, eyes clouding, and I can see her drifting away from me, slipping through those invisible gaps in time.
I swallow. ‘Do you mind if I just use your bathroom?’
‘Oh. No. It’s –’
‘I’ll find it. Thank you.’
I walk out of the room and up the narrow staircase, past more biblical quotes on the wall. The bathroom is on my left. I shut myself inside, flush the loo and splash my face with some cold water. Being in this house is getting to me. Time to leave. I walk back out on to the landing and pause. There’s a door to my right. A small sign tacked on the front reads: ‘Joy’s room.’
Do not do it. Get down those stairs, make your excuses and go.
I gently push the door open.
This room, like the rest of the house, is frozen in time. A time when Joy still lived here. It doesn’t look as if it has been touched since she disappeared.
The bed is neatly made with a faded floral bed cover. At its foot is a small dressing table. A brush and comb are arranged on top. Nothing else, no jewellery or make-up.
A plain wardrobe stands in one corner and beneath the window a low bookcase is stuffed with dog-eared paperbacks. Enid Blyton, Judy Blume, Agatha Christie, plus a few more turgid titles such as Jesus in Your Life, Christianity for Girls and, wedged on top of them, on its side, a large, leather-bound Bible.
I walk over to the bookcase and pull out the Bible. It’s light. Far too light to contain the word of the Lord. I sit down on the edge of the bed and open it. Like my Bible, there is a hidey-hole inside. But unlike mine, this one is self-made. The middle pages have been hacked out with scissors or a knife to create a small space, just big enough to hold a few precious, secret things.
I take them out carefully, one by one: a pretty shell fashioned into a brooch. A packet of Juicy Fruit chewing gum. Two cigarettes and a mix tape. Of course. Swapping mix tapes. It’s what best friends did, along with clothes and jewellery.
The writing on the inlay card is tight and crammed. It always was when you tried to write the titles and bands in such a small space. The Wonder Stuff, Madonna, INXS, Then Jericho, Transvision Vamp. I smile fondly. Those were the days.
I put the cassette to one side and take out the final item. A photograph of two girls, arm in arm, smiling into the camera. One girl is winsomely beautiful, with wide blue eyes and blonde hair in a long plait. A teenage Sissy Spacek. The other girl is brunette, hair cut into an unflattering bowl. She’s very thin, her eyes dark hollows in her face, and her smile is guarded, more like a wince. Both wear silver necklaces with letters dangling from them. M for Merry. J for Joy.
‘Fifteen years old. Best friends. Disappeared without a trace.’
A chair scrapes across the floor downstairs. I jump. I replace the items in the Bible and put it back in the bookcase where I found it.
The photograph still lies on the bed. I stare at it.
Merry and Joy. Joy and Merry.
Then I pick it up and slip it into my pocket.
‘You know, when you’re sixteen you can leave home. No one can stop you.’
They were sitting on the bed in Joy’s bedroom. Merry wasn’t often invited in. But Joy’s mum was out shopping.
‘We’re not sixteen for almost a year.’
‘I know.’
‘Where would we go?’
‘London.’
‘Everyone goes to London.’
‘So where?’
‘Australia.’
‘The water goes the wrong way around the plughole there.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah – I read it somewhere.’
Joy nudged up the volume on her small stereo. They were playing the mix tape Merry had made her. Madonna blared out – ‘Like a Prayer’.
‘I love this song,’ Joy said.
‘Me too.’
‘Oooh.’ Joy suddenly turned. ‘I got you something.’
‘What?’
She reached into her bookcase and pulled out the hefty black Bible. She had carved out a secret compartment inside. Merry knew this was where Joy hid things she didn’t want her mum to see. She opened it up and took out a small paper bag. She held it out.
Merry took it and tipped the contents on to the bed cover. Two silver chains fell out. One with the letter M dangling from it. One with a letter J.
‘Friendship necklaces,’ Joy said.
Merry held one up, letting the letter catch the light.
‘They’re beautiful.’
‘Let’s put them on.’
She smiled at her friend.
‘I’ve got an idea –’
The front door slammed downstairs. Their eyes met.
‘Shit.’
‘Joy Madeleine Harris. Are you playing that heathen music up there?’
Joy leapt from the bed and ejected the tape from the stereo. She stuffed it in the Bible. Footsteps marched up the stairs. Nowhere to go. The bedroom door burst open.
Joy’s mother stood framed in the doorway, a slight woman with a haze of golden hair and fierce blue eyes. She was smaller than Merry’s mum, and less prone to violence, but she was still scary when she was mad. She glared at Merry.
‘I should have known.’