Page 57 of The Pieces of Us

Mr Dunlop’s house doesn’t seem as big as it did all those years ago.

It’s certainly been well maintained by whoever has lived within its walls.

The blond sandstone has been cleaned, the storm door – flanked by immaculately pruned bay trees in shiny blue pots – is now a dusky grey, the driveway is covered in smooth gravel.

I still don’t know what rooms are behind some of those windows.

I stand on the pavement, looking for clues.

But the house gives nothing away. I don’t know who lives there now.

I hope it’s a happy family with lots of noisy kids, dragging toys up and down the stairs, pressing sticky fingers against the stained-glass window.

I hope the enormous snooker table is long gone, replaced by a robust table perfect for birthday celebrations and science projects.

There are no cars here and the storm door is closed.

If I walked quietly across the gravel driveway, I’d be able to see into the front window.

This is the first time I’ve seen the windows without heavy curtains forming a shield against the outside world.

Maybe I’d spot a washing basket on the floor, a tangle of pyjamas and socks in various sizes.

Plump, cosy sofas built for scrambling legs and biscuit crumbs.

The remnants of a rushed breakfast on the coffee table.

The only books in sight have dog-eared corners and bright covers.

But I don’t do that. I can’t move from this spot. So I put my hands in my pockets and stand and watch and remember what he did to me. What I thought was love but was so far from that.

My old home town has transformed beyond my wildest assumptions. Empty units stand where businesses once thrived. I seek out the familiar, buying a prawn sandwich and an umbrella in Marks Mam’s beloved lavender bushes are long gone.

There’s no sign of life. I walk gingerly towards the door and grasp the tarnished brass knocker my younger hand reached for so many times. It still feels too big for my fingers.

‘You’ll no’ find any folks in there, hen.’ The woman wears a patterned headscarf, her wool coat is buttoned up to her neck. She’s laden with shopping bags that look too heavy for her slight frame.

‘Oh, it was just on the off chance,’ I tell her. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone, really.’

I turn back to the door – our door – and stare at the brass knocker.

‘The Hamiltons moved out a few years ago,’ she says. ‘I’m no’ sure what happened, but it was no secret that they had money troubles. Between you and me, Alec was a bit of a gambler.’

I turn round. ‘Thanks for your help.’

‘I heard the house was being repossessed, but I’m no’ sure exactly. There was a for-sale sign for a year or so, then it came down. But there’s been nobody there all that time.’

‘Do you live near here?’

She laughs. ‘Right next door since the day I was born, hen.’

I look at her more closely, driving my mind back nearly thirty years. ‘Mrs Campbell?’

She narrows her eyes at me. ‘Aye?’

‘I used to live here.’ I walk towards her through the weeds. ‘My name’s Beth Muir. My parents were –’

‘ Oh. John and Niamh. I remember. Quiet chap, bonny Northern Irish lassie. And all those weans.’ She laughs. ‘You made some racket, so you did.’

‘I’m sure we did.’

‘I liked hearing you all, hen. Always sounded like a happy house. Your maw was good to me; used to get me a pound of sausage from the butcher’s if she was going up the town and my back was playing up.’

Face-to-face with the elderly woman, I can see her clearly in middle age and remember her kind eyes and her back problems. She lived alone and I have a vague recollection of overhearing one of those stories that aren’t for small ears, something about a one-time husband who may have had something to do with the back problems.

‘Haven’t seen you for a long time, hen.’ Mrs Campbell’s voice becomes softer, and I wonder what memories she has of me, what stories she might have overheard that weren’t meant for her ears either.

‘I haven’t been back for a long time,’ I admit.

‘How are your mother and father these days?’

‘They’re both dead. A few years ago. Mam first, Dad not long after.’

‘Och, I’m sorry to hear that.’ She touches my arm lightly with a gloved hand. ‘Why don’t you come in for a cup of tea? It’s due to bucket down in a wee while.’

I look up at the gloomy grey sky. ‘Yeah. Sure. That would be nice.’

Mrs Campbell’s house is smaller than ours, but the layout is similar enough to deliver a sharp jab to my chest when I walk into the hall. I take a deep breath and follow her into the kitchen.

‘You all right, hen? You tired?’ She removes her headscarf and coat, smoothing down her grey hair then her green cardigan. ‘Would you look at the state of me? I’m no’ dressed for visitors today.’

‘You look lovely,’ I tell her. ‘Can I do anything?’

‘Absolutely not. Just sit yourself down and I’ll put the kettle on. Then you can tell me what you’ve been doing with yourself for all these years. And all your brothers and sisters … where are they these days?’

‘Ireland, mostly. Pretty scattered. I live just outside Belfast … Reenie’s in the city. Sandra’s in Donegal and the boys are in Dublin. Aoife’s the only one who’s ended up further afield. She’s in the south of France.’

‘Ooh la la,’ Mrs Campbell says, and I laugh at the phrase in her broad Ayrshire accent. She laughs too as she puts a mug in front of me. ‘Help yourself, hen. Tea in the pot, milk and sugar. Or sweetener if you’d prefer.’

‘Just milk for me.’

‘Fancy a wee biscuit?’ She delves into one of her shopping bags and pulls out a packet of shortbread rounds. ‘I used to bake my own … Don’t do it so much these days.’

I let her form a sugary pile on a plate, taking the chance to look around.

She sees me glance at the children’s drawings fixed to a wooden-framed pinboard and a smile spreads across her face.

‘My sister’s grandweans,’ she says. ‘Wee treasures, they are. I don’t have any weans of my own, so they’re the closest I’ve got. ’

‘Neither do I,’ I tell her. ‘Have kids, I mean.’

‘Time for you yet, though? Things are different these days. Women having babies in their forties. Putting their careers first. Too right, I say.’

‘I think it’s probably too late for me. I’m forty-six.’

She gasps. ‘Forty-six? Never. I thought you were much younger than that. I could have worked it out, of course, if I’d done my sums. But who wants to be doing sums at my age?’ She sips her tea. ‘Well, that Irish air has served you well, hen.’

I smile. ‘Thank you. But I feel a lot older than I am, coming back here. It’s like a hundred years have passed.’

‘Aye. Life’s funny like that.’

I’m sitting with a woman I haven’t spoken to for nearly thirty years and who I barely spoke to in all the years we were neighbours.

But for some reason it’s the most comfortable I’ve felt in months.

We drink our tea and eat the shortbread rounds and at some point I open my mouth and ask her if she knows what happened to me, if she knows why I left and then came back and then left again with the rest of the family with no fuss or fanfare.

And she looks at me with those kind eyes and tells me she had no idea back then and even less of an idea now and I believe her, so I tell her everything.