a party in the restaurant and I was doing the till. She gave me a lovely bottle of wine for Christmas, said she’d see me soon, then bounced out of here, all excited about seeing you. And, of course, going off on holidays with gorgeous fella of hers.’
Hard to put into words the feeling of total deflation. I was so hopeful Kitty might have been here all along and just through some complete fluke, I hadn’t spotted her yet.
‘So where do you think she might be?’ Joyce asks me, worriedly.
‘Well, let’s work it out. You last saw her at around one o’clock this morning. And she’s definitely not at home now, but her car is there …’
‘Yeah …’
‘So wherever she is, chances are she hasn’t gone too far …’
Oh God. Sudden shock goes through me like I’ve just been electrocuted. Suppose Kitty was on her way home from work, and then got abducted by some sick, pervy sociopath who now has her locked up in a cellar somewhere?
Joyce really must be a mind-reader. She immediately grips my arm, quickly grabs a glass of still water from a passing waiter and makes me gulp down a few mouthfuls.
‘Angie, the worst thing you can do is let your imagination run away with you. Trust me, there’s some perfectly innocent explanation for all this. Have you spoken to her boyfriend?’
‘No, he’s not answering his mobile either. I can’t get a hold of him at all …’
‘Oh, that’s right, of course. Kitty told me he’s gone home to his folks down the country for Christmas and that she wouldn’t be seeing him till Stephen’s Day.’
‘Unless …’
‘Unless what?’
And there it is, the simple bloody answer to all this! Been staring me in the face all this time. Why didn’t I think of it before now?
‘Maybe there was some emergency with … well, with her foster mother? Something so urgent that Kitty just had to drop everything and run?’
The sudden relief at saying it aloud is almost overwhelming. Of course that’s what must have happened. Explains away everything, doesn’t it? I was an utter gobshite not to have guessed earlier!
It’s a v., v. long and complex story, but the brief potted summary is that Kitty has no family to speak of, never even knew her dad, and her birth mother passed away when she was just a baby. She grew up in one foster home after another but says none of them ever really worked out and she just drifted around from Billy to Jack, rootless. Then when she was about fifteen, she was placed with an older, widowed lady called Mrs Kennedy and the pair of them just idolised and adored each other right from the word go. To this day, Kitty considers Mrs K., as she affectionately calls her, to be the only real family she ever had, even though she was only homed with her for over a year.
But when Kitty was only about sixteen, the poor woman started to become seriously ill with Alzheimer’s, followed by a series of strokes. Awful for her and just as bad for Kitty too, though she never let on. Instead, she just did what Kitty always does: tried to keep the show on the road single-handedly for as long as she could.
Anyway, it got to stage when authorities decided Mrs K. couldn’t care for herself any more, never mind a sixteen-year-old, so on what Kitty calls the most Dickensian day of her life, they broke them up and packed Mrs K. off to the best-equipped care home going, for someone with her condition. Meanwhile, Kitty was sent off to yet another foster family, and from that point on, she just completely clams up whenever I gently probe her for more about her back-story.
Mrs K. is being well looked after, though, and to this day, Kitty still visits her at the care home every chance she gets. Only trouble is, it’s just outside Limerick, a bloody two-and-a-half-hour journey from here. Kitty’s amazing though; drives down to see her every day off that she can. I’ve even gone with her a few times, but find it all just sad beyond belief. There are days when Mrs K. doesn’t even recognise Kitty; confuses her with one of staff nurses in care home and for some reason keeps calling her Jean.
Also, I’m just not a born natural round ill people, like Kitty is. Kitty will laugh and joke and even bounce round other wards to visit all Mrs K.’s pals; you can always tell what room she’s in by the loud sound of guffaws that follow her about everywhere. Like a one-woman Broadway show. Whereas I never know what to say or do, just sit tongue-tied in corner, then end up coming out with weak, useless crap along the lines of, ‘Well, she’s certainly looking a whole lot better, isn’t she?’
Even worse, the days when Mrs K. doesn’t know us are lately becoming the good days; sometimes she won’t talk to us at all, just sits rocking away to self and singing theme tunes from TV shows, bird-happy, away in own little world. Keeps confusing me with one of the tea ladies called Maureen, and every now and then will screech at me, ‘How many times do I have to tell you, Maureen? I hate bloody egg and onion sandwiches!’
Heartbreaking. My own family may not exactly be the Waltons, but Kitty’s story at least makes me appreciate what I have that bit more.
So maybe I’m finally on the money here. Because if something did happen to Mrs K., I just know in my waters Kitty wouldn’t think twice about hotfooting it all way to Limerick, would she? And she couldn’t phone me to explain on account of … well, maybe there being no mobile signal down there?
Has to have been what happened. And the only reason it didn’t occur to me before now is that for past few years, although Mrs K.’s mental state is deteriorating fast, she’s been so physically strong that not even Kitty was worried about her for the longest time.
‘Joyce, I think I should call the care home. Now.’
‘Of course,’ she says firmly. ‘You can use the phone from my office; you’ll have a bit more privacy. It’s just off the kitchens. Come on, I’ll show you.’
Obediently I follow her and the pair of us weave our way through the Christmas boozers, worry now vom-making in my throat. Don’t know what Kitty will do if anything’s happened to Mrs K. Especially not now, at Christmas. She’s the only person in the whole world that Kitty considers family; it would just be too bloody unfair by far.
Joyce efficiently brings up number of Foxborough House care home on her computer and even dials for me. Hands trembling nervously now as the number starts to ring.
‘Foxborough House, how may I help you?’ comes a polite, breezy, unstressed voice.
‘Hi, there, I was wondering if I could enquire after Mrs Kathleen Kennedy? She’s in room three eleven on the ground floor.’
‘May I ask if you’re a family member?’
Gulp to myself, stomach clenched, somehow sensing bad news. The worst.
‘Family friend.’
‘Well, I’m happy to tell you that Mrs Kennedy is absolutely fine, just ate a hearty dinner, in fact.’
‘Sorry, you mean … She’s OK then? There’s no emergency with her?’
‘No, none at all.’
‘And, well … I was just wondering if Kitty Hope had been to see her at all today? She’s my best friend and—’
Receptionist’s voice instantly brightens tenfold at the very mention of Kitty’s name.
‘Oh, yes, I know Kitty well! Such a fantastic, lively girl, isn’t she? We all love it so much when she comes to visit, she really cheers up everyone’s day round here. But you know, the last time I saw her was about a week ago. I remember distinctly, because she mentioned that she’d be away for Christmas, but that she’d be in to see her mum as soon as she got back. At New Year, I think she told us.’
Joyce looks hopefully at me and I shake my head. So, no emergency, then.
Kitty’s still gone AWOL.
1.05 p.m.