Page 49 of The Pieces of Us

The warmth I feel – from the booth, the wine, the steady chatter of our fellow diners – dissipates with every step of our journey back to Myrna’s cottage.

I feel embarrassed, with my baby bangle and my postcard and a note signed off with a single letter.

I’m wondering what I was thinking when I started this wild goose chase back on Scottish soil.

I think of my pregnant teenager back in Glasgow.

I’ve left my sense of liberation back in the pizza place with my uneaten crusts.

‘I shouldn’t have come here,’ I say to Asim. ‘Leaving them at home … What was I thinking?’

‘Hey.’ He stops walking and puts his hands on my shoulders. ‘You’re doing the right thing, Cat. Not just for you – for everyone.’

I don’t believe him, but I let him hold me for a moment.

‘Let’s get back and make a plan for tomorrow,’ he says.

‘I’m glad you’re here,’ I say, but I don’t think he hears me.

Back at the B when I open them again he’s looking at me. ‘Sleepover,’ he says and grins.

I giggle. ‘Sleepover.’

He reaches towards me, across the space between our beds, his arm so long his fingers almost graze the edge of my pillow. I hold his hand, and I don’t remember either of us letting go before I fall asleep.

I wake up at 3 a.m. and take a few seconds to remember where I am, hearing Asim snoring quietly. I watch his face the way I often watch Minnie’s, comforted by the fact that I’m not alone, until I doze again.

It’s a struggle to open my eyes to the chirp of my phone alarm, but Asim is already up and dressed. He smiles. ‘Good morning. I took the liberty …’

I sit up, the duvet wrapped round me, feeling shy. But I welcome the takeaway coffee cup in his outstretched hand. There’s a black-marker cat face on the lid with triangle ears, whiskers and a big grin.

‘Myrna only has instant,’ he whispers conspiratorially. ‘We’ll have to drink these up here and hide the evidence.’

My flat white is hot, creamy, perfect. ‘This is a good start to the day,’ I tell him, feeling more positive than I did last night.

I reply to the morning’s good luck/sending love check-in texts, but keep it brief:

Nothing to report! Speak soon xxx

‘Breakfast?’ Asim offers. ‘Myrna’s sausages smell great.’

‘You go ahead,’ I tell him. ‘I’m good with my caffeine. I’ll see you down there?’

After he goes, I stand at the window to finish my coffee.

My eyes scan the distance, and I realize I have a tiny slice of sea view between buildings.

I don’t know any more about my lineage than I did when I arrived, but something is pulling me towards Donegal’s majestic sea cliffs.

Maybe I’ll bring Ruby and Minnie here. Maybe that’s why I’m here – to remember that the world is bigger than it seems. That lots of new places and people are within our reach if we can find it in ourselves to be brave.

I join Asim in the small dining room downstairs.

He smells of something woody, slightly spicy.

It reminds me of Hugh’s cigar box, which is tucked down the side of my suitcase.

It’ll soon return to its usual place in my underwear drawer, but for now it’s home to the baby bangle and the postcard and the note from Beth.

I don’t know where those things will take me in the future, but for now they’re safe in that box.

‘I’ve only been away one night, and I miss them already,’ I tell Asim as I butter a piece of toast. ‘I miss it all, the chaos and the panic. I miss it so much.’

‘They’ll miss you too,’ he says, moving a little closer to me over the small bistro-style table. It has a glass top over a tablecloth in vibrant pink with a floral print. I like Myrna’s style: colourful, eclectic, homely.

I look out at her cottage garden, at the blue borage, the rainbow of roses, the delphinium. ‘Shall we get started?’

‘Let’s do this.’ He stands up and I take his arm before he offers it.

We both know where we’re going, but we take our time to get there, straying from last night’s route.

I laugh as he pulls me into a tiny cafe with an ice-cream decal on the window. ‘We’ve only just had breakfast.’

‘Ah, who cares?’ He chooses raspberry ripple, I go for mint choc chip. We sit on the first bench we find and eat in silence.

‘Did you hear me last night, when I told you I was glad you’re here?’ I keep my eyes on my ice cream.

‘I did,’ he admits. ‘I liked it.’

‘I wasn’t sure you’d heard me.’

‘I don’t miss a thing, Cat,’ he jokes.

‘Well, I’m glad you heard,’ I tell him, marvelling at the bravery this trip appears to have unleashed in me and my closely guarded heart.

I’m not sure if I’d be saying this if we were at my kitchen table.

I have no idea what things will be like between us when we go back to our normal lives, but I hope I can take some of this energy home with me.

‘I like you, Cat McAllister, even if you are the most complicated woman I’ve ever met,’ he says. ‘I like you. For me it really is as simple as that.’

‘I like you too, Asim Khan.’ We’ve finished our ice creams. ‘Come on. Let’s go back to number forty-four.’

‘Let’s do it,’ he says. ‘But first …’ He leans in, and I meet him halfway, and we kiss.

Number 44 looks exactly as it did last night: cold and lonely.

‘We’ll work our way down the street,’ Asim says. ‘You start this end, I’ll take the other. Meet you back here.’

Fifteen minutes later, we’re back where we started. Before he says a word, his face tells me he’s got nothing.

‘I got a bit excited when an old woman answered at number sixty,’ I tell him. ‘But she’s never heard of Beth Muir.’

‘There’s no one home at a few of the houses,’ he says. ‘We’ll come back later.’

‘Asim, we can’t just keep coming back to this street, knocking on doors.’ I take another look at number 44, then turn and walk away.

‘What else can we do, Cat?’

‘I don’t know,’ I snap.

He takes hold of my arm. ‘I’m being serious, Cat. What else can we do? There’s so little you know about her. Have you thought about using a tracing service? Like a private investigator type thing?’

‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘I can’t afford it for starters.

And I’m fed up with waiting for answers from other people, answers that are never guaranteed from people who might never get back to me …

’ I turn away from him. ‘Sorry. I sound so ungrateful. I’m just frustrated.

Not that we haven’t found a trail to Beth.

More that I’ve decided to come here with so little to go on. And dragged you here with me.’

‘Hey … we’ve only just started. And you haven’t dragged me anywhere. Come on. Let’s go into the town. There will be people who’ve worked here for decades, who know everything about everyone. Keep your chin up.’

We spend the whole day asking questions – in shops, hairdressers, churches, cafes; at the post office, the library, the town hall.

Or, rather, one question: do you know a woman called Beth or Elizabeth Muir?

After two hours the woman volunteering in the charity shop says yes, she does know someone called Beth Muir, and I can feel the goosebumps spread down my arms, a visceral response to a surge of hope.

Then she gives us the small print: her Beth Muir is her thirteen-year-old granddaughter.

‘We think Beth was young when she had you, right? So there’s a good chance she’s not a Muir any more,’ Asim points out.

He’s right, but this makes our search even more frustrating.

Every third person we speak to knows an Elizabeth.

Sometimes it takes a bit of digging to establish that it’s not the one I’m looking for.

I can only take so much of hearing an initial yes turn into a resounding no, and by the end of the afternoon I’ve exhausted my reservoir of optimism.

Asim does his best to keep my spirits up. ‘It’s like selling a house,’ he says. ‘You just need to find the right person, and it’s job done.’

Finally, for the third time in twenty-four hours, we find ourselves on our way back to Bayview Cottages. ‘One more time,’ I tell Asim. ‘Then we’ll call it a day.’

‘Deal,’ he says. ‘One more time.’

‘I’m exhausted,’ I tell him. ‘I can hardly think straight.’ As we approach number 44, I stop in surprise. ‘Asim, look. Is that a car?’

‘I think so,’ he says, but I’ve already picked up my pace, not taking my eyes off the red Mini.

We’re still quite a way away when its driver’s door opens, and a woman gets out.

She has dark hair and a large bag over her shoulder, and she’s wearing a parka with a furry hood.

I stare at her, as she closes her car door, takes hold of her bag and walks up the path towards number 44.

When we reach the car, the woman is still on the doorstep, rummaging in her bag. She turns round and our eyes meet, and she smiles briefly before looking away again. There’s nothing familiar about her.

‘Wait here,’ I say to Asim, my voice sounding desperate. I squeeze his hand before letting go.

This is the moment. I have nothing to lose. ‘Hi,’ I say, walking up the path.

‘Hello,’ the woman says a little hesitantly.

She’s older than me, but I can’t work out if she’s old enough to be my mother. Looking at her smooth hair and dark blue eyes, I see nothing of myself. ‘Do you live here?’ I ask.

She pauses. ‘No, I don’t. Can I help you with something?’

‘I … I’m looking for someone. Her name’s Beth.

Beth Muir. Or Elizabeth.’ I’m on autopilot, reeling off the words I’ve been saying all day.

There’s a flicker of something on the woman’s face before her attention is back in her bag, her eyes searching its contents.

I keep talking. ‘I think Beth might have lived here about thirty-five years ago. I’m not sure how long for.

’ I sigh, feeling my body sink with fatigue. ‘Can you tell me anything?’

‘I’m sorry,’ the woman says, even more distracted now. ‘This isn’t my cottage. I’m just taking care of it for the owners.’

‘Who owns it?’ I ask.

‘Um … I don’t …’

I pick up on a shift in her energy, a discomfort. ‘It’s OK,’ I say quickly. ‘I’m not a crazy person.’ I glance behind me, at Asim waiting, standing tall and steady on the pavement. ‘I’m just keen to find Beth. Or someone who knows her. Or knew her. She … she’s my mother.’

‘I’m sorry,’ the woman says. ‘I really can’t help you at all. The cottage used to be a holiday rental, but it’s going up for sale. I’m just taking care of that side of things.’

‘Ah. OK. Well, I’m sorry to bother you.’

‘That’s OK,’ she says, her forehead softening a little.

‘Could you do me a favour? The next time you’re speaking to the owner, could you give them my details? Perhaps they know something that could help me …’

‘I can do that,’ she says.

‘Great. Let me give you my number and email address.’

‘I’ve left my phone in the car,’ she says. ‘Hold on.’ She goes back into her bag, finds a pen and takes a receipt out of her purse.

I take both from her and start scribbling. ‘My name’s Cat,’ I tell her. ‘And I’m trying to find a woman called Elizabeth Sarah Muir. Possibly known as Beth.’

She keeps her eyes on the piece of paper covered in my handwriting. ‘Where are you staying while you’re here?’

‘Myrna’s B & B.’

‘Oh, it’s nice. Well, I’d better get on.’ She tucks the receipt back into her purse. ‘I’ll pass this on.’

‘Thanks, I appreciate it. I’m sorry to bother you … um …’

Finally her eyes meet mine again. ‘Sandra,’ she says. ‘My name is Sandra.’ She smiles briefly, and then she’s gone, the door to number 44 closed behind her.