This might sound rather odd, BamBam wrote, but the best advice I can give is NOT to talk to them like they’re children. None of that patronizing, slow-talking nonsense. They’ll spot such bullsh*t a mile off. Just ask lots of questions and essentially treat them like you would an adult.
So with a general air of suspicion and mistrust, Andrew thought. Though he replied: Thanks, mate! and worried for two hours about the implications of his now being the sort of person who used the word “mate.”
As it turned out, Peggy’s eldest, Maisie, happily ignored them all for the duration of the journey—only lifting her head away from the book she was reading to ask where they were, or what a particular word meant. Her younger sister, Suze, on the other hand, conversed entirely through the medium of “would you rather” scenarios, which made things infinitely easier than Andrew was expecting. She had a twinkle in her eye that made it seem like she was constantly on the cusp of laughing, so Andrew was finding it hard to treat the questions with the gravitas they clearly warranted.
“Would you rather be a horse that can time-travel or a talking turd?” was the latest conundrum.
“Would it be okay for me to ask follow-up questions?” Andrew said. “That’s what Peggy—your mum, I mean—and I normally do.”
Suze yawned as she deliberated. “Yeahhh, okay,” she said, apparently satisfied that this was aboveboard.
“Okay,” Andrew said, suddenly aware that both Peggy and Suze were looking at him intently, and trying not to feel embarrassed. “Can the horse speak?”
“No,” Suze said, “it’s a horse.”
“That is true,” Andrew conceded. “But the turd can talk, though.”
“So?”
Andrew didn’t really have a response to that.
“The problem you’ve got here,” Peggy said, “is that you’re trying to apply logic to the question. Logic is not your friend here.”
Suze nodded sagely. Next to her, Maisie closed her eyes and took a deep breath, frustrated at the constant distractions. Andrew made sure to lower his voice.
“Okay, I’m going to go with the horse.”
“Obviously,” Suze said, apparently baffled as to why it had taken Andrew so long to get there. She tore open a bag of lemon sherbets and, after briefly contemplating, offered the bag to Andrew.
As the train snaked into Newcastle, the Tyne Bridge sparkling in the sun, Peggy took out the photograph of Alan and “B.”
“What do you reckon, kiddos. Think we’re gonna find this lass?”
Maisie and Suze shrugged in unison.
“That seems about right,” Andrew said.
“Oi,” Peggy said, kicking him gently in the shin, “whose side are you on?”
—
Peggy’s sister, Imogen, was, by her own admission, “a cuddler,” and Andrew had no option but to submit to her bosomy bear hug. She drove them to her house in a car with an alarming amount of gaffer tape holding it together, with Andrew sitting in the back next to the girls feeling a bit like an awkward older brother.
Imogen had obviously been busy that morning as the kitchen was teeming with cakes, biscuits and puddings, many of which Andrew lacked the critical vocabulary to describe.
“I see you’re catering for village fetes now,” Peggy said.
“Oh give over, you all need fattening up,” Imogen said. Andrew was glad that while cuddles were compulsory, pokes to the belly were apparently restricted to family.
Later that evening, with the kids in bed, Imogen, Peggy and Andrew settled down in the living room and half-watched a romcom, Imogen thankfully interrupting a dire scene involving bodily fluids to ask about Alan and the ducks.
“You’ve never seen anything like it, honest to god,” Peggy said.
“Well, it’s very sweet what you’re doing,” Imogen said, stifling a yawn. “I mean, you’re both mental, obviously . . .”
Peggy started to make their case again. She was sitting with her legs tucked back to one side, her sweater slipped off her shoulder. Andrew felt an ache somewhere in the region of his stomach. It was then he glanced over and saw that Imogen was watching him. More specifically, she was watching him watching Peggy. He looked away and focused on the TV, glad the room was dim enough to hide his reddening cheeks. He got the impression that Imogen wasn’t someone easily fooled, and just as he’d had that thought she cut across Peggy’s questioning of the protagonist’s Irish accent.
“So what does your wife make of your chances of finding this person, Andrew?” she said.
Well, what would she make of them?
“She hasn’t said much about it, to be honest,” he said.
“Interesting,” Imogen said.
Andrew hoped that was the end of it, but then Imogen spoke up again.
“Surely she must have been curious, though?”
“Imogen . . . ,” Peggy said.
“What?” Imogen said.
“I don’t tend to talk too much about my work at home, to be honest,” Andrew said, which was technically true, he supposed.
“How long have you two been together?” Imogen said.
Andrew kept his eyes on the screen.
“Oh, a long old time,” he said.
“And how did you get together?”
Andrew scratched at the back of his head. He really wasn’t in the mood for this.
“We met at university,” he said, as casually as possible. “We were friends for a while—mainly bonding over our shared hatred of all the idiots on our course, or the ones who’d taken to wearing berets, at least.” He took a sip of wine. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt compelled to keep going. “She had this way of looking at me over the top of her glasses. Used to make me feel a bit faint. And I’d never met anyone I found it so easy to talk to. Anyway, we were at this party and she took me by the hand and led me away from all the noise and people and, well, that was that.” Andrew looked at his hand. It was the strangest thing. He could practically feel the sensation of that firm grip, confidently pulling him out of the room.
“Ah, sweet,” Imogen said. “And she wasn’t particularly intrigued about you coming all this way . . . with Peggy,” she added pointedly.
“Imogen!” Peggy snapped. “Don’t be so bloody rude. You’ve just met the man.”
“No, no, it’s fine,” Andrew said, keen that this didn’t end up in an argument. Thankfully, a neat solution presented itself. “In actual fact, I better give Diane a ring now, if you’ll excuse me.” His left leg had gone numb from his sitting position, so he had to limp away to the guest bedroom as fast as he could, like an injured soldier retreating from no-man’s-land. The room was freezing, the window having been left open on the latch. He wondered if he should actually fake the phone call in case anyone could hear him. Just come out with some generic stuff about how the journey had been, what he’d had for dinner—the sort of thing he imagined most people would say in real life.
In real life. He was going to get fucking committed for this. He slumped onto the bed. Out of nowhere, the tune came into his head—Blue moon, you saw me standing alone—and then came the feedback and static like a wave smashing against rock. He tried to shake it away, getting so desperate for it to end he found himself facedown on the bed, pounding the duvet with his fists, shouting into the pillow.
Eventually, the chaos subsided. He lay still in the resulting silence, fists clenched, short of breath, praying that his shouts hadn’t traveled. He looked at his reflection, pale and tired, in the dressing table mirror, and suddenly he felt desperate to be back in the front room with a glass of wine in his hand and the rubbish telly on in the background and—even if half of it was suspicious about him—the company.
He wasn’t sure what made him do it, but he found himself pausing outside the living room door, which was open just wide enough for him to hear Imogen and Peggy speaking in hushed tones.