Christmas on Primrose Hill (47 page)

The woman snorted suddenly, contempt in the gesture, her eyes landing on Nettie for just a moment before she looked away again.

Nettie tensed, understanding immediately. She knew absolutely that her mother had been here.

‘Not my problem, mate,’ the woman muttered, her eyes on their feet now.

Nettie turned away, her hand to her mouth as she kept the emotions dammed up. It was never going to end, this.

Her eyes found the small postcard straightaway. Though it was small and almost hidden by the way the sheet at the window had been pulled back, its deep blues and greens, that streak of bitter orange, were stark against the neutrality of the room, and besides, she would have known it anywhere. She walked over to it as though drawn by a pulley – her fingers lifting it easily from the damp wall, the Blu-tack no longer sticky.

‘Or perhaps it is. Perhaps you’re missing too. Maybe there are people looking for you . . .’

Her father’s voice sounded far away to Nettie. White noise had filled her head like a wind, her chest as tight as a tin box as she walked back to him and wordlessly pressed it into his hands.

Silence rang out like a gunshot as he looked down at the image of
Child with a Dove
and saw the proof that her mother had been here, and she had run. There was no point in standing here, being here. She wouldn’t be coming back.

It was a moment before anyone did anything. No one spoke or moved. The woman seemed to understand that some momentous shift had occurred in the small room.

Nettie felt like she was suffocating as hope was gradually extinguished after all. She couldn’t bring herself to look at the woman again; she couldn’t bear to see the approbation in her eyes. She just wanted to go.

But her father walked over to the woman; she shrank from him as he approached but automatically stepped in front of the high chair and shielded her son, her arms visibly trembling as she held up the edge of broken plate.

He held out the postcard towards her. ‘She always loved this painting. We saw it together at the Tate before it left the country. It was one of the last things we did before she disappeared.’

The woman looked ashen, fear blackening her eyes.

‘Take it,’ her father said.

The woman didn’t move.

He extended his arm closer still, the postcard just inches from her now. The woman flinched, before taking it from him, her body tensed as though she sensed a trick – perhaps fearing he would hit her as she reached out. Nettie wondered if that was why this woman was hiding too. Was there a man – a bad man – looking for her too?

Her father stepped back. ‘If she comes back, please tell her we were here. And that we love her.’

He turned and, taking Nettie by the elbow, walked towards the black door.

‘She won’t be coming back!’

They faced her again. The woman was in the middle of the room now, shaking with anger, her eyes fixed on Nettie.

‘She upped and left ’cos of what
you
did.’

What. You. Did. Each word was like a stab between the ribs and Nettie closed her eyes in pain; she knew it was true.

The woman threw her arms in the air, indicating to the squalid flat, her voice broken. ‘We had a good thing going till you showed up there and ruined it all. Broke her heart you did.’

‘I . . .’ But Nettie couldn’t finish the sentence; she couldn’t even start it. How could she tell this woman she’d been frightened by the version of her mother she’d seen? That it had been her but
not
her?

‘Yeah. She said it was only a matter of time before you found her here.’ The woman’s face had twisted into a sneer, her hatred of Nettie a visceral force, because she knew, she instinctively knew that Nettie’s rejection of her mother in that moment had been a rejection of her – and people like her – too. ‘Well, you’ll never find her now. She said she couldn’t just sit here and wait for you to knock on this door . . . She’s gone, good and proper.’

Her cruel laugh twisted the knife and Nettie looked at her father. ‘Let’s just go, Dad.’

Her father looked at the woman again. He had diminished in size since they’d entered the room, as though his ribs had been compressed, a vertebra removed, his spine shortened. ‘If she comes back, tell her we love her,’ he said with a quiet stubbornness that refused to believe the finality of the woman’s words. ‘And that we’re sorry.’

‘Didn’t you—’

‘Both of us.’

The woman lapsed into silence at his tone, before nodding at him. And grabbing Nettie’s hand, he walked them through the door and back out into the light.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

They were almost back at the square when they realized their error, the suddenly remembered prospect of the journalists round the corner a wake-up call to the reality facing
them
at home. They hadn’t said a word on the walk back, eyes barely seeing what was around them, sitting in silence in the cafe, their lunch untouched before them as they faced this, the one thing that even a good cup of tea couldn’t remedy.

They had sat on the bus in mute shock. Several times Nettie had looked sidelong at her father, terrified of what she might see in his face. He would have every reason, every right to blame her, but she saw only grief, numbness, emptiness – everything he’d managed to hide from her for the past four years. It was all there now, her own desolation reflected right back at her. She’d got what she’d wanted at last, the affirmation that he felt the same despair; that it wasn’t just her, alone in this. But there was no companionship in grief; it didn’t halve her pain to see his, and she’d never felt more desolate.

They stopped on the pavement, shielded by the corner house and feeling like refugees – frightened, exhausted, displaced. Their home had become a battlefield. Were they to walk the gauntlet past this army of reporters when they could barely support themselves from the day’s brutal discovery?

The light had begun to fade, a banner of vivid purple streaking across the indigo-washed sky, and lamplit rooms were beginning to dot the facades of the houses.

‘What do you want to do?’ she asked.

Her father sighed, depleted of this morning’s energy, robbed of this morning’s hope. ‘I’m fifty-eight. It’s not a good look for a man of my age to be shinning garden fences – as my hamstrings discovered to their cost this morning.’ He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘You go through the back. I’ll deal with this lot and open the back door for you. They owe me an easy ride after those cups of tea yesterday.’

Nettie shook her head, taking his hand. ‘No, we’ll go together. I’ve got to face them sooner or later. I’m not going to hide anymore.’

‘You’re sure?’

She nodded. ‘It’s not like we don’t know what they’re going to do. They’ll ask us questions about Mum and we just have to say, “No comment.” Who knows? Maybe once they see they’re not getting an interview out of me, they’ll push off.’

‘Quite right, Button. Fortune favours the brave.’

They began walking again, turning the corner with inflated chests as they took a deep breath each – and immediately stopped walking again.

Nettie couldn’t believe it, her eyes so wide the cold air made them water.

‘What the devil . . . ?’ her father murmured, his feet shuffling beside hers as they took in the sight, walking along the west side of the square. Their mouths were wide open as they walked in wonder, the hairs upright on the backs of their necks, as they tried to understand what they were seeing.

They walked along the pavement, staring at the yellow ribbons that had been tied to every railing on every side, all the way round, a tea light in a jam jar placed on the ground below each one so that the entire square flickered.

Nettie covered her mouth with her hand, eyes brimming with tears.

‘Who did this?’ her father asked, his voice a croak. ‘Why?’

They rounded the corner to their side of the square and saw the quiet huddle of bodies swaddled in overcoats, gloved hands clasping steaming mugs as voices murmured quietly and feet were gently stamped to keep warm. But they didn’t belong to the journalists and photographers who’d made camp overnight – in fact, the only evidence there’d ever been there was the bin in the playground overflowing with takeaway coffee cups. These were faces they knew – Mrs Wilkins next door, Fred from the basement flat two along, Sheila who always collected for Marie Curie Cancer Care and knocked every March with her basket of daffodils, the new family with twins at number 18 . . .

Mrs Wilkins stepped forward, either the designated or self-appointed leader of the exercise.

‘Sandra?’ her father asked as they stopped in front of the group. ‘What is this?’

Nettie turned in a slow revolution as the crowd swelled, more people beginning to spill from their houses now that they had arrived.

‘We’ve been waiting for you,’ Sandra said.

‘You did this?’ her father asked them all, his voice split like a log.

‘We wanted to show our support,’ she replied, placing a hand on his arm. ‘The way those animals hounded you from the house, we wanted to find a way to show you that we haven’t forgotten what you’ve been through – and are
still
going through. You’ve both done so much for the community’ – she included Nettie in the comment with a kind smile – ‘we couldn’t just sit by and do nothing, pretend that it’s all OK. It’s not OK.’

‘I . . . I don’t know what to say,’ her father murmured.

‘How did you make them leave?’ Nettie asked.

‘We didn’t,’ Mrs Wilkins said. ‘They just upped and left, the lot of them, a few hours ago. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.’

‘I’m so sorry. It was my fault,’ Nettie said quietly, feeling ashamed that her actions had brought this into all their lives. She glanced at the seven-year-old twins. How frightened must they have been? Had they even been able to play in the playground while those strangers had been camped out there? Of course not. ‘If I’d had any idea it was going to happen . . .’

‘What have
you
got to apologize for, Nettie?’ Mrs Wilkins said stoutly. ‘All that money you’ve raised? We couldn’t be prouder of you.’

Nettie rolled her lips, trying to keep the tears back. She didn’t deserve their admiration. If they only knew what she’d done to her own mother . . . ‘I can’t believe you did all this,’ she murmured, pointlessly trying to dab her eyes with the backs of her hands.

‘Well, we can’t take responsibility for the idea, but when we heard about it on the radio today, we knew we had to step up for you – just like you have for all these other people.’

Nettie blinked. Radio? ‘Sorry, what do you mean? What’s on the radio?’

‘About the ribbons. Evie heard it, didn’t you?’ Sandra asked, motioning to the young Indo-Chinese woman who lived in the first-floor flat in number 13. She stepped forwards.

‘That’s right. Apparently, people who have a loved one missing are putting yellow ribbons outside their houses for Christmas all over the country,’ Evie said quietly. ‘Look.’

She pulled her phone out of her coat pocket and quickly bringing up Jamie’s Twitter page, scrolled through the tweets that had supposedly mobilized this . . . movement. He may only follow eighteen people, but six million people followed him.

‘
She raised £2m for others in 2 weeks. Time to show some love back. Like and RT #teambunny. If u’re missing someone too, tie a #yellowribbon. #lovenettie.
’

There had been over four million retweets already.

‘Jamie Westlake’s been promoting it all day – Radio One, Capital. He’s been everywhere. Because it’s the last day of the campaign, right?’ She put a hand to her chest. ‘I’ve got to say, I’ve been absolutely loving it. I couldn’t believe it when it came out that
you
were the bunny.’

‘But . . .’ Nettie’s head was spinning. If he’d urged everyone to vote #teambunny . . . ‘What happened with the song vote?’

‘You won! Didn’t you know?’

Her stomach flipped. Jamie had hijacked the vote to support
her?
Nettie shook her head, trying to imagine the emergency meetings being held in Dave’s hotel room even now. The record label would be going nuts. Coco Miller would be . . . actually she didn’t want to think about what Coco Miller would be doing in response to this. Mike would fire her now for sure.

‘Did you see the video?’ Evie asked, swiping the screen and bringing up a new page. Nettie double-blinked, trying to keep up as Evie handed over her phone again. Her father came and stood by her shoulder as Nettie pressed ‘play’ on the white arrow and the screen cut to a close-up of Jamie.

His khaki eyes held the camera in place – who could look away from them? Not her. Not ever, even though this was as close as she’d get now. She was back to being behind the glass, a fan, a stranger, her connection with him only extant for as long as she remained one of what Jules now called the Westlake Eighteen. But with the campaign now at an end, there was nothing else for the Blue Bunny to post. The account was closed, the campaign done. Christmas had been counted down, almost £2 million had been raised. It was over.

The camera panned away slowly to show him strumming his guitar, and as the scene enlarged, she saw he was standing on the fourth plinth in Trafalgar Square, the bunny head sitting beside him, empty. It seemed like a statement – that she wasn’t there? That not just anyone could put on the suit?

The video cut to him standing on the top of the Shard, and then the O2 – in fact, all the places she’d been, even the postbox in Belgrave Square, him sitting on the top like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to be playing his guitar there. And amid all these scenes was actual footage of her – speeding down that bloody ice ramp, knock-kneed and unable to stand at the bottom as the rabbit head was pulled off, revealing her white, terror-stricken face; batmanning, planking, money-facing . . . all the daft and crazy things she’d done compiled into a sort of greatest-hits film. And then her pièce de résistance – Blakeing him at the ball, the skit that had almost killed off the campaign, before cutting back to the present again and showing a small copper bath of iced water being upended over him too. But whereas she had almost fallen off the plinth in shock, screaming and jumping around, he kept perfectly still, not missing a word of the song as he raked his sopping-wet hair back with one hand, those eyes never leaving the camera, before picking up the chords and resuming playing the guitar.