The Vanishing of Margaret Small
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for Neil Alexander
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Acknowledgements
A Note from the Author
About Neil Alexander
About Embla Books
First published in Great Britain in 2022 by
Bonnier Books UK Limited
4th Floor, Victoria House, Bloomsbury Square, London, WC1B 4DA
Owned by Bonnier Books
Sveavägen 56, Stockholm, SwedenCopyright © Neil Alexander, 2022
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
The right of Neil Alexander to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Excerpts from What’s It All About by Cilla Black published by Ebury Press. Copyright © Cilla Black 2003. Reprinted by permission of The Random House Group Ltd.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978-1-4714-1311-7
This book is typeset using Atomik ePublisher
Embla Books is an imprint of Bonnier Books UK
www.bonnierbooks.co.uk
Praise for Neil Alexander
‘Calling all fans of uplit! A tender, thought-provoking and totally gripping novel … from a wonderful storyteller … deserves to be a huge hit.’
Matt Cain
‘A beautiful story of human spirit and its power to thrive against the odds. I’m so glad that I read it and got to meet Margaret.’
Anstey Harris
‘A fantastic, feel-good story … rich in nostalgia and a joy to read. A book that will keep you smiling long after you finish.’
Matson Taylor
‘Beautifully observed and poignant. An outstanding debut.’
Alex Brown
‘A captivating and charming story. Margaret will warm the cockles of your heart.’
Imogen Clark
‘Compelling and authentic … Margaret’s story is quiet but her voice is mighty.’
Julietta Henderson
‘This an evocative, endearing, entertaining and thoroughly delicious character portrait and a terrific first novel.’
Donal Macintyre
‘Margaret is the most original and memorable character that I’ve come across in years – she’s completely unforgettable … one of those stories that sits heavy in your heart long after you’ve finished reading it. An absolute joy.’
Fiona Mitchell
To my mum, Lorna, who always encouraged my love of reading.
And in memory of Mabel Cooper, who inspired me to write this story.
Prologue
5 NOVEMBER 1947
I was seven years old when they vanished me. The Rat Catcher done it. He stole me from Grandma. In the beginning, you see, I lived with Grandma, for Mother had died soon after I was born.
On days when I was naughty, Grandma told me I was cursed. She said my red hair was the work of the Devil; that I was a changeling, swapped by the fairies, all for what my mother had done. What my mother had done, she wouldn’t say. I learned very quickly not to ask. If I did, God help me, she’d get angry, give my legs a good hiding with the belt.
There was this man, you see. His name was Mr Grey, but everyone on our street called him the Rat Catcher. Oh, he was a sneak! Tall and crooked, with a long silver ponytail that snaked all the way down his back. He worked for the Board of Control – them lot who put you away for good. His job was to nick children from their houses, take them up St Mary’s in Canterbury. Not just any children, mind – only the ones like me, what was different.
The day they vanished me was a black day. Grandma was cooking in the kitchen. She put me in the sink, so I could watch the fireworks from the window. Part of the window was boarded up with wood, where the glass had been blown off during the war, but I could still make out the Catherine wheels and the Roman candles, the loud noises and bright lights, flashing up in the sky.
When the knock at the door came, I thought it was more fireworks going off, but it got louder and louder until Grandma put down her knife and went to answer it. It was him. Mr Grey. I’d met him once before, when Grandma took me to see him in his big office. He done all these tests on me, asked me lots of questions that I didn’t know the answers to. Things like: ‘Where is London?’ I said to him, it’s near where Grandma comes from, which is true, for she’s from a place called Lewisham. It ain’t far from there, I’m sure of it. But Mr Grey said I was wrong. He said, ‘Margaret, I’m afraid you’ll need looking after all the time.’
Grandma must have known he was coming, for she had my suitcase all ready. She handed it over to Mr Grey. Then she gave me my favourite doll, the broken one with only one eye. Grabbing its little arm, I carried it towards the front door. I stopped, turned to look at Grandma.
‘You come, too,’ I said, holding out my hand.
She stayed where she was.
She said, ‘You’d better get going, Margaret. You don’t want to keep the nice gentleman here waiting.’
I looked at Mr Grey and shook my head.
‘I don’t want to.’
‘You do as you’re told,’ she said, her voice colder this time.
Fireworks was still going off outside. The coalman’s cart went rattling past, a group of lads hanging off the back. Laughing and shouting they was, chucking penny bangers on the street. The night smelled of burning wood. Mr Grey put me in the car, slamming the door shut. I climbed up on the seat, looking out the back window. Grandma was standing by the front gate, hugging her coat. She was smoking a cigarette and waving. I waved back at her. Mr Grey started up the engine and I watched her go inside. It was the last time I saw her. She never came to visit me after that – not once. Never had me home for the holidays, neither. Not even a birthday nor Christmas card.
1
‘C’
I’m watching you from a coffee shop on Whitstable High Street, dragging your battered tartan shopping trolley with its slightly wonky wheel. Everything about you looks wonky: the clear-framed glasses, held together with sticking plaster, which slip down your nose every so often, the fingerless pink gloves, and the white trainers with their purple shoelaces undone. Head low, eyes down, you shuffle along with a slight limp. You’re smaller than I thought you would be now – much smaller – but I can’t help smiling. Like the town itself, there’s something charming about you. A little rough round the edges, perhaps, eccentric, even! You blend in well here. This really is the perfect place for you.
Stopping at the flashing yellow light, you look both ways before crossing the street, slowly, towards the cafe. You pause on the pavement outside, directly in front of where I’m sitting. Peerin
g in, you squint at the cafe’s cosy interior: the wooden counter with its coffee machine and display of home-made cakes, the chalkboard sandwich menu and the magazine stand. I cradle my latte in both hands. It’s as if you’re looking through me – a ghost.
Your glasses have slipped to the end of your nose and your head is tilted back, neck stretched, mouth wide open, flecks of briny white spit forming threads at the sides. You stare straight ahead, your grey hair clinging tightly to your forehead in wet ringlets. Part of me wants to wave. Part of me wants you to recognise me, but you don’t. Leaning in closer, you mutter something to yourself. I can’t make out the words – bloody something-or-other – then you turn around, drag your trolley off in the direction of the harbour, its wheels clattering along the pavement. I’m tempted to run after you, to stop you in the street to say hello, but I don’t want to rush in too soon – it might upset you. By now, you will have received the gift I sent you. It was just a little something to let you know I’m here, watching out for you. Did you like it?
As you disappear from view, I sit for a minute, deliberating over whether to follow you or not. In the end, my curiosity gets the better of me. I can’t help myself. Taking a deep breath, I leave my coffee unfinished, pay the woman behind the counter. Pushing open the door, I step outside and follow you down the High Street.
2
8 AUGUST 2015
Like a lot of old folk, I live on my own. It suits me fine. When I was younger – in my twenties and what have you – I used to long for a husband, but I’m 75 now. If I had a husband, he’d likely be dead as a doorknob. I’m no better off.
In my whole life, nobody ever asked me if I wanted a man. Nobody said, ‘Why don’t you marry?’ They think it’s impossible, you see. They think people like me don’t have feelings. Humph. I could teach them a thing or two about feelings. If I could have any man in the world, it would be the singer, Michael Bolton. What I wouldn’t give to run my fingers through his lovely permed hair.
‘Lots of people live on their own. There’s no need to be frightened, Margaret.’
This is what Frances, the social worker, said when they moved me into the flats on Cromwell Road in the eighties. You’d think it would be easy for someone like me, living alone, for I never had no family or nothing. I still ain’t got used to the peace and quiet, though, not really. When you’ve been in a hospital most of your life, moving into the community feels strange. It takes a long time to get used to. Not that I’d ever want to go back to the hospital. Life is OK now. Things could be better, yes, but they could also be a lot worse.
I’ve lived in Whitstable for thirty-odd years. The town’s changed loads in my time. It used to be mostly pubs, pound shops and charity shops. Like a lot of places in Kent, though, Whitstable’s gone to the snobs. They have a Costa Coffee now, and what Wayne, my support worker, calls ‘shabby chic’ shops. I call them ‘rip-off’ shops myself – they charge a fortune for repainted furniture, and old cups and saucers that don’t even match. You won’t catch me buying any of that rubbish. Some people have more money than sense. There are more tourists coming here now, too. You can hardly move for them in summer. I don’t like it. It’s hard to wheel my trolley down the High Street when there’s a group of Japanese people in the way. Some things ain’t changed, though. V. C. Jones, the fish and chip shop, is still there, and Peter Cushion’s seat. Peter Cushion was a famous actor who done vampire films. He used to live in Whitstable, but he’s dead now. At least I think he is, for I’ve never seen him on his seat. It’s on the beach, next to the car park in Island Wall. On Fridays, I like to get a small cod and chips and sit there looking out over the bay.
An odd thing happened this morning. An envelope came in the post with fifty quid and a letter inside. Apart from catalogues, coupons for pizzas, and bills, I don’t normally get letters, so this stood out: the words on the envelope was written in black ink, long and twisty, like liquorice laces. It made no sense to me. Wayne usually reads my post, but it’s his day off. I kept looking at it, over and over again. Who would want to send me fifty quid? It ain’t my birthday until April, and I’m far too old for Valentines. I ain’t got many friends, neither. God knows who it’s from. I put the money in my purse, and the note in my pocket for safekeeping. Maybe I’ll ask one of the staff in Sainsbury’s to read it to me.
I go to Sainsbury’s every day, except when they close it for the holidays. My favourite part is the beginning, when you go through the sliding doors. As soon as they swish open, you get a big whiff of all the fresh food. It’s like being on Blind Date when the screen goes back. I don’t get people who shop for things on the computer. Don’t they want to touch what they’re buying first?
The vegetable aisle is quiet today. I hate it when it gets busy. I avoid coming then. Mornings after nine is good because most people are at work. I don’t feel so rushed. I can take my time, talk to the staff, or whatever. I like to spend a good hour choosing what I’m going to have to eat. Today’s Saturday so I’m making soup for lunch and corned beef hash for tea. I’m a good cook. If I learned one thing at St Mary’s, it was cooking. And cleaning, of course. My flat is always spotless.
I tear off a plastic bag and squish it open at the top. I fill it with four tomatoes, making sure I’ve rolled each one slowly around in my hand first, carefully sniffing it for freshness. I then spend twenty minutes or so picking through all the lettuces. I choose the one I like the look of most and put it in my basket.
‘Corned beef, is it?’ says Gail on the meat counter.
She’s always so happy, Gail. And her make-up is lovely. To look at her, you’d never guess her husband ran off with a tart. Another reason I don’t get involved with men. They’re more trouble than they’re worth. I watch Gail cut four slices of meat and weigh them on the scales.
‘One pound and three pence,’ she says, wrapping the meat in plastic and printing off a sticker.
She pats the sticker gently on the side of the package, handing it to me. I hold it for a moment. It feels soft to the touch, light and clingy, like a baby’s blanket.
I reach for my purse, clicking it open and taking out the folded fifty-pound note. I’d forgotten I put it there.
‘You pay at the till, love,’ says Gail. ‘Remember?’
‘Of course.’ I nod, putting the money back in my purse. ‘Only someone posted this to me this morning. I’ve no idea who sent it, though.’
Gail smiles. ‘I wish someone would send me a bit of extra cash. I’m working my fingers to the bone saving for a fortnight in Fuengirola. It’s expensive now with the euro, and there’s no money in sliced meat.’
I want to ask Gail to read my letter, but a small queue has formed behind me. When I go to hand it to her, I hear the man behind me mutter ‘stupid cow’ under his breath. There’s no need for that sort of language in Sainsbury’s, so I move on.
There are so many soups to choose from. Sometimes it feels like they’re all calling out to me from the shelves like the men on Blind Date: ‘pick me, pick me’. As I make my choices, I hear Cilla’s voice in my head: ‘Soup Number One! What’s your name and where do you come from?’ I can’t help laughing; it’s nice to be the centre of attention for a change. The words on the labels make no sense to me, so I go by the photos. I take a Heinz tomato and a Campbell’s cream of chicken. I then whisper an apology to all the soups I’m not taking home. I hope they won’t be too upset. Before going to pay, I nip over to the drinks aisle and grab a can of cider, placing it in the basket next to my other shopping.