Prologue
January 1989
The Theatre Royal, York
The auditorium was empty, its seats all in shadows. The house lanterns, trained on the set-less stage, were off. The city outside was bleak, the frozen cobbles noisy with crowds anxious to get to wherever they were going. But in here, it was quiet. He watched her, walking to the middle of the stage in her thick duffle coat. Knitted mittens dangled on a string from her sleeves. She flexed her fingers, raised her head, looking out into the theatre’s silence.
What was she hearing? He wondered.
The whispers of players past?
The echo of every forever still to come?
Love and pain swelled in his chest.
‘You look like you belong on the stage,’ he called to her, his voice slicing through the dust motes in the air.
She turned, facing him. His daughter. Her round cheeks were mottled. Her hazel eyes were wide, liquid with spent tears. All he wanted was to go to her, scoop her up, cradle the precious weight of her close and convince her that it was all going to be ok. I promise.But they were strangers, the two of them. Just strangers. Until now, he’d never allowed them to be anything else. It had felt the kindest way. He’d known since before shewas born that he was going to have to leave her. His hope was that what she’d never had, she wouldn’t miss.
She lived with her grandparents, her mother’s parents, in a nearby village. He’d visited often these past four years, catching the bus over whenever the longing had got too much. Hidden, he’d waited for her to appear, for hours some days, then watched her for as long as he could bear to: walking to the shops, or feeding the ducks at the pond, or trotting around the green – chasing no one, listening to the air, studying the sky with her all-seeing gaze locked on empty space.
Every birthday, he’d telephoned the house, permitting himself that one small contact, desperate for every morsel of news he could glean.
He’d been working at this theatre for as long as she’d been alive. He’d started as an office temp and never left. He’d been alone today. It was a slow time of year, and the rest of the small team were away. He’d headed out at two for a walk he hadn’t particularly wanted, but which instinct had told him to take anyway.
He always followed his instincts.
His intuition had propelled him up Blake Street, onto Davygate, past Bettys tearooms. And there she’d been, on the pavement outside the tearoom entrance, sobbing, her grandparents, Belinda and John, knelt before her, trying, vainly, to calm her.
Belinda and John hadn’t noticed him. Caught up in her, they’d ignored the stares of all the frozen passers-by. He could easily have continued on his way, and they’d have been none the wiser.
But, ‘Belinda,’ he’d said. ‘Can I help?’
All he’d wanted was to help.
And although Belinda and John had been stunned to see him – and John as hostile as ever – they’d also been desperateto get their granddaughter home, only they’d left the car all the way out at the Park & Ride. She couldn’t have caught the shuttle there, not the way she was. So, they’d agreed that he should take her and Belinda with him to the theatre, where they could wait in the warm whilst John fetched the car.
He’d been reeling as they’d set off on the short walk back. He hadn’t been able to believe it was all happening, after four years of him keeping such agonising distance. Yet, he’d also been reassured by the certain conviction that everything was unfolding as it must.
She’d been too upset to walk. Belinda had carried her, and she’d kept crying, making conversation impossible. But when they’d reached the theatre, he’d asked her if she’d like to see the auditorium, and she’d calmed down.
Whilst she’d made her way on to the stage, he and Belinda had remained in the wings. In lowered tones, Belinda had told him that there’d been another incident the day before. The worst yet. She’d run away, and by the time they’d eventually found her, she’d been in an awful state. Her psychiatrist had recommended she rest today, but she’d been so shaken, Belinda and John had wanted to give her a treat. So, they’d brought her for tea at Bettys, which they’d assumed she’d love, only when they’d arrived, she’d become inconsolable, hearing music, seeing dancers, not understanding why no one else could.
‘There was plenty of dancing at Bettys during the war, of course,’ Belinda had said. ‘But never since.’
‘Can I talk to her?’ he’d asked.
‘Oh, Noah,’ she’d said. ‘I don’t know … ’
‘Please,’ he’d persisted. ‘You have my word I won’t say anything to upset her.’
Belinda had hesitated a moment longer.
Then, ‘All right,’ she’d agreed. ‘God knows I’ll try anything.’
He approached her now, still struggling to believe he wasdoing it, and she, centre stage, stared up at him with confusion, but no caution.
Maybe he was fooling himself, but he felt as though she knew she could trust him.
