The Atlas of Us

I close my eyes and smell Mum’s scent: floral perfume, mints and paint oils. With it comes a memory of her smiling down at me, her paintbrush caught mid-sweep, a blot of black ink smudging the eye she’d been painting – her own eye. The ink crawls down the canvas, distorting her painted face. I was eight at the time and had just got back from a disastrous day at school.

‘What’s with you, grumpy face?’ she’d asked me.

I’d hesitated a moment before stepping into the spare room she was using as a studio. Our house was just a small three-bed semi but my father had insisted on turning the largest room into a studio for Mum. It had always felt off-limits to me. But she’d beckoned me in that day, gesturing towards her paint-splattered chair, a bright blue leather one she’d found in the local charity shop.

‘Tell me everything,’ she’d said, kneeling in front of me and taking my hands, getting green paint all over them.

‘I don’t want to go into school tomorrow,’ I’d said, resisting the urge to pull away from her and clean the paint off my hands. I’d never got on well at the private school Dad had been so keen to scrimp and save to get me into, the teachers always seemed to regard me as inferior to the other, richer kids. Mum had warned him it would happen. ‘There’s nothing worse for a snooty bourgeois than an aspiring bourgeois,’ she’d said. Is that what she’d thought of me when I married a company director – a snooty bourgeois?

‘Why not, darling?’ she’d asked.

‘My teacher told me off today.’

She’d raised an eyebrow, smiling slightly. I remember thinking that mums aren’t supposed to smile about things like that and part of me was annoyed. Why couldn’t she be like other mums?

‘Why’d your teacher tell you off, Lou?’ she’d asked.

‘I told the truth.’ Her smile had widened. ‘She read out a poem she’d written to help us with our poems and I said it was rubbish.’

Mum had laughed then, those big white teeth of hers gleaming under the light. ‘You told the truth, that’s wonderful! “Beauty is truth, truth beauty. That is all ye know on earth and all ye need to know”,’ she’d added, quoting her favourite Keats poem.

‘But she hates me now.’ I’d crossed my arms, turning away. ‘I can’t go into school.’

‘Of course you can! You can’t let fear rule you, Lou. You have to fight against fear, stare it right in the face.’

‘You okay?’ Sam asks, pulling me from the memory.

I open my eyes, Mum’s words echoing in my mind like she’s right there with me.

You can’t let fear rule you, Lou.

‘Can I see the bag please?’ I ask Sam.

‘Of course.’

He hands it to me. It’s dirtier than in the photo, caked with dried mud, and there’s a grotesque tear across the child’s face. I imagine Mum shopping in one of Thailand’s markets with it, reaching into it for a purse to buy some odd Buddhist ornament, half a smile on her tanned face.

I take a deep breath then unzip it, peering in. There’s a hairbrush in there, a bright red lipstick and something wrapped in a plastic bag. I pull the brush out first, examining the hair on it. It looks dark, just like Mum’s.

But then lots of people have dark hair, right?

I place the brush gently to one side and look at the lipstick. Mum sometimes wears red lipstick. She’s not alone in that though, plenty of women do.

But what about her passport? That can only belong to one woman.

I clench my fists, driving the surge of grief away. It’s not over until it’s over.

I reach into the bag again for the item wrapped in plastic. It’s square-shaped and feels heavy, its surface rough beneath the material of the plastic. I pull it out and lay it on top of Mum’s bag. Its front cover is made from strips of thin wood interweaved with each other and an image of the earth is etched in bright turquoise into it with four words painted in gold over it.

The Atlas of Us.

There’s a bronzed key lock on the side but it looks broken. I open the heavy front cover, see two lines written on the inside page, the ink only a little blurred – amazing considering how much it must have been thrown about in the water:

To my darling, my life, my world. The atlas of my heart.

Your love, Milo

It feels impossibly romantic. Maybe Mum had met someone? And yet she still hadn’t got in touch with me to tell me about them. I can imagine what Will would say if he were here. ‘Accept it, move on. Your mother doesn’t want to involve you in her life any more.’

I flick through the atlas. On the first page is a hand-drawn illustration of the United Kingdom and Ireland. Opposite is a paper pocket. I run my fingers over it, surprised to feel something inside. I reach in and pull out a dried purple flower encased in cellophane. There are other items too: a yellowed tourist leaflet from a place called Nunney Castle, a ticket to an awards ceremony in London, a photo of a cobweb flooded with light and a business card belonging to a journalist called Nathan Styles. There’s a crumpled piece of notepaper too with a pencil sketch of a sheep teetering on a tightrope, its eyes wide with comical fear, a note scrawled in handwriting I don’t recognise above it:

Exmoor by Claire Shreve

A watercolour of grey pooling around the edges of moss green valleys, ready to plummet downwards and destroy everything below.

I’ve never heard of a Claire Shreve. Is she one of Mum’s friends? I flick through the rest of the atlas and see more illustrated maps – including one of Thailand – and pockets too, some bulging with items.

‘Do you recognise any of it?’

I look up at Sam. ‘Just the bag. And the passport of course. I’m not sure about this atlas, I’d have remembered it if I’d seen it. It’s quite unusual.’

‘Okay. Shall I see if I can find a photo on the boards? Or …’ he hesitates, ‘… you might prefer to see her?’

My head swims at the thought. Then I remember Mum’s words again: You have to fight against fear, stare it right in the face.

‘I’d like to see her please,’ I say.

‘I’ll take you.’

I follow Sam towards a pair of bright blue gates to the side of the temple, criss-crossed with red stripes, the spikes on top gold. The smell instantly hits me: meaty, horrific. I tuck the note back into the atlas and place my sleeve over my nose as I follow Sam towards the temple. A Thai woman is standing in front of the gates, a clipboard in her hand, a bucket of surgical facemasks next to her. Beyond the gates is a temporary trailer, people milling around it. I’m thankful it’s blocking the view of whatever’s behind it.

Sam nods at the woman, who hands me a surgical mask. I put it on, gagging at the TCP smell.

‘Brace yourself,’ Sam says as he leads me through the gate.

I walk around the corner of the trailer towards a large area fringed by spindly green trees, the hill darting up behind them. At first, I think it’s dirty clothes spread over the plastic sheets in the middle. But as I draw closer, I see a bloated leg sticking out of one mound, a tangle of black hair fanning out from another and realise it’s bodies, scores of them, half covered by different coloured sheets of plastic. People are walking around in blue scrubs and wellies, and then there are the relatives and friends, hands over mouths as they crouch over the bodies, some crying, most looking frantic and exhausted.

I want to turn around and get the hell out of there. But instead, I force myself to follow Sam as he walks towards the bodies and try to control the whirlpool of terror inside.

‘She’s here,’ Sam says softly, coming to a stop in front of a blue sheet. He crouches down, taking the corner of the plastic between his fingers, then peers up at me. ‘Ready?’

‘Wait.’ I look up at the bright blue sky, tears welling in my eyes. Everything will be different after this; even the sky might look different.

I have to do this. I have to know.

‘Ready,’ I say. I hear the crunch of plastic and look down.

The colour of the face hits me first: dark red, bloated. Then the hair, long, curly and tangled around a swollen neck. There’s nothing there to recognise. It’s all distorted, grotesque. How can I find my mum in that?

I quickly look away again, stifling a sob. Could it really be her? It takes a while before I’m certain my voice will sound normal. ‘I can’t be sure,’ I say. ‘She has the same colour hair. But I – I can’t be sure. Is she wearing a bracelet? She always wore her bracelet.’

There’s a pause, more rustling then Sam’s voice. ‘No. There’s a necklace around her neck though, quite distinctive. It’s a gold typewriter with blue gems for keypads?’

Hope flutters inside. ‘I never saw her wear something like that. Do you think that means it’s not her?’

‘She could have bought the necklace at a stall here, plus her passport was inside so …’

His voice trails off but I understand what he’s trying to say. The chances are it is Mum. I feel the tears coming, the world tilting, and stumble away, leaning against a nearby tree as I try to control my emotions.

Sam follows me, placing his hand on my back. I don’t flinch away from him this time.

‘Mum left when I was twelve,’ I gasp. ‘I’ve barely seen her since. The last time was over two years ago at a party, it was awful.’ I don’t really understand why I’m saying all this now, to a virtual stranger. But the words continue to come out in a rush. ‘We had a terrible argument and I didn’t hear from her after, no matter how many times I called. Your mum keeps me posted with what she’s up to. But my mum won’t speak to me, her own daughter, and – and now I can’t even be sure if it’s her body back there.’

I start crying again in loud, shuddery hiccups and Sam wraps his arms around me. He smells faintly of sweat and TCP, the plastic of his outfit crinkling against my cheek. I ought to pull away. What would my husband say? But I need this right now, human touch, even if it’s a stranger’s touch. We stay like that for a few moments, surrounded by death and mourning relatives.

Then there’s a strangled sob from nearby. I pull away to see a man with curly blond hair crouching down next to the body we’ve just been looking at. An Indian man wearing scrubs is standing over him, brow creased.

‘This is Claire’s necklace,’ the blond man says. ‘It’s hand-crafted, one of a kind. She wears it all the time. Oh God.’

Relief rushes through me as I look down at the atlas in my mum’s bag, thinking of the note I found in it. Is it the same Claire?

‘What if it’s not Mum?’ I say to Sam, clutching onto this new possibility. ‘There was something in the atlas written by someone called Claire! And if that’s Claire’s necklace …’

‘But your mum’s passport and bag were with the body, Louise,’ Sam says softly.

I refuse to acknowledge what he just said, can’t possibly now there’s a glimmer of hope it might not be Mum. I look towards the blond man who’s now kneeling next to the woman, his head in his hands. Hope surges inside me. ‘He seems convinced he knows who she is,’ I say.

Sam follows my gaze. ‘He does, doesn’t he? Maybe it’s not your mum.’

I look up at the sky. Still the same. I promise myself that if – no, when – I find Mum alive, I’ll make her talk to me, really talk to me and we will repair what came apart since she left.

Then something occurs to me. ‘Maybe the reason that woman had Mum’s bag was because she knew her? If so, that man might know where Mum is.’

I go to walk towards him but Sam stops me. ‘Louise … give him a minute.’

I look into Sam’s eyes. I can tell he thinks I’m grasping at straws. Maybe I am, but what other leads do I have? ‘I have to find my mum, I have to bring her back to me, back to her grandchildren. I don’t care what it takes, where I have to go, but Mum’s going to be on that plane back to the UK with me.’

I shrug off his arm and march towards the man. He looks up when I approach, his eyes red.

I hesitate a moment. Maybe Sam’s right. But then I think of Mum out there somewhere, possibly injured in some filthy hospital with doctors who don’t speak English.

‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ I say softly, kneeling down to his level and putting my hand on his arm. He’s wearing a powder-blue suit, more expensive-looking than any of Will’s.

He shakes his head in disbelief, tears falling down his tanned cheeks. ‘I knew she was in the worst possible place for the wave to hit. But I never dreamed I’d find her body. She’s been through so much, gone through so much, and always come out fighting. Oh God.’

His voice cracks and I feel like crying with him. It could have been me kneeling here grieving for my mother. It was for a few moments.

‘I think my mum knew your wife,’ I say gently.

The man flinches. ‘Friend, not wife.’

‘Friend. Sorry. She had my mum’s bag when she was found,’ I say, gesturing to the bag slung over my shoulder. ‘And there was an atlas with a note written by someone called Claire Shreve in it?’

He frowns. ‘Are you sure that’s your mother’s bag?’

‘Her passport was in it. It’s quite a distinctive bag too.’

‘Did your mother know Nathan Styles?’

I think of the business card in the atlas. ‘No. Why?’

He ignores my question. ‘What’s your mother’s name?’ he asks instead.

‘Nora McKenzie.’

His face flickers with recognition. ‘The name rings a bell.’

All my nerves stand on edge. ‘Really? Did Claire know my mother?’

‘No, I don’t think so. Sorry, I’m not very good with names, especially now.’ He looks down at the body again, face crumpling. Then he takes in a deep breath, composing himself. ‘I need to make some calls then I really must sleep. But maybe it’ll come to me once I get some rest. Where are you staying?’ I tell him the name of my hotel in Ao Nang and he nods. ‘I’m not far from there. There’s a small café just a few minutes’ walk from it.’ He pulls out a pen and business card from his pocket and scribbles down the café’s address before handing it to me. ‘Shall we meet there tomorrow morning, at nine?’

I want to tell him he needs to remember right now but then I put myself in his shoes again.

‘Perfect.’ I look down at the business card: Jay Hemingford, Journalist. ‘Thank you, Jay.’

He smiles very slightly then looks back down at Claire Shreve. I leave him alone and follow Sam through the gates, the crowds and noise a contrast to the quiet solemnity and hushed sobs of the makeshift morgue behind us.

‘Mum mentioned you booked a hotel in Ao Nang,’ Sam says. ‘There’s a bus coming soon that’ll get you there. You should go check in and get some rest then start again with a fresh head tomorrow. I can come by the café tomorrow morning after you’ve met with that man to see if I can help with any information he gives you?’

‘That’ll be great, thanks.’

‘And my mum gave you my number right? So just call if you need me.’

‘I will. I really appreciate your help, Sam.’

‘No problem. I better get back to it.’ He shoots me one last pained look then jogs away.

When the bus arrives, I step onto it like I’m sleepwalking, slumping into a chair near the back and staring blankly out of the window as it starts rumbling down the road. There’s a young boy crying for his mum in front of me, his dad cuddling him to his chest as he tries to hold back his own tears. I wish I were a child again so I could cry for my mum. I’m relieved that wasn’t her body, but that’s not to say there won’t be other temples, other bodies to see … one of which might really be hers.

The bus bumps over a pothole, and something digs into my hip. I look down and realise I still have the atlas. I must remember to give it to Jay Hemingford when I meet him tomorrow so he can return it to Claire Shreve’s family.

I hesitate a few moments then lift the atlas to my nose. It smells of salt, of mangoes too, I think. I go to open it, unable to resist. It’s clear Claire Shreve wouldn’t want random people poking their nose in. Maybe if I just look in the pocket next to the Thailand map? If Mum met Claire Shreve out here and they visited the same places, there might be some breadcrumbs leading me to Mum’s whereabouts. And anyway, if they did know each other, surely Claire Shreve would want to help me find my mum?

I find the right page then reach into the pocket. The first item is a photo of three people I don’t recognise: a young girl with curly red hair, a petite brunette a few years older than me, then a young blond man. There’s a hint of a palm tree in the background and, behind them, a large elephant statue with blue jewels all over it. I turn it over, but there’s nothing on the back.

I go to the next item, a creased napkin with a pencil drawing of a rock jutting from the sea, someone standing on it with their arms wide open, like they want to catch the scribbled moon above.

And then the final item, a piece of orange tissue paper patterned with flowery swirls. Attached to it with a safety pin is part of a torn note, three words scrawled across it:

The bad things …

I shiver slightly, despite the heat, then tuck it back into the pocket before leaning my forehead against the cool window, thinking of that first note I’d found.

A watercolour of grey pooling around the edges of moss green valleys …

I’d visited Devon for the weekend with the girls the year before. Will had meant to come with us but something big had gone down at work. He’d suggested cancelling it but I’d thought, what the hell, why can’t I do it alone? It wasn’t easy. The drive down there was a challenge with two grumpy, tired kids. But once we’d got into the stride of things, it had been a little adventure – just me and the girls enjoying long walks and scones crammed with jam and cream, no frowning husband and Daddy to tell us we’d get fat.

God, how I’d love to be back there right now on safe and familiar ground, away from the fierce heat and the strange smells and sounds. The past few years, I’ve dreamed of spreading my wings a little. But I’d meant trying a holiday to Greece instead of Portugal; meeting new friends whose lives revolved around more than the school run and bake-offs; romantic dinners somewhere other than the local Italian. I didn’t mean this – fumbling blind in a country with bamboo houses on stilts. I’d rather see thatched cottage roofs and feel Exmoor’s sharp westerly wind fierce against my skin …

Chapter Two

Exmoor, UK

1997

In Exmoor, there’s a feeling that, at any moment, something might suddenly plummet. Like the sky that September day when Claire drove towards the inn for the first time, a watercolour of grey pooling around the edges of moss green valleys, ready to plunge down and destroy everything below. Or the sheep that stood nonchalantly on steep verges dipped in purple heather, unaffected by the tightrope they walked between the drop below and passing cars.

When Claire arrived at the inn, a white three-storey building that seemed more suited to the plains of America than this windy British valley, she too felt as though she might plummet at any minute. She’d been holding it together so long, but the conversation she’d had with her husband the night before had sent her into freefall, the fragile walls she’d built up around herself the past few years starting to crumble.

She didn’t check in as soon as she got there as she normally did on trips for the magazine. Instead, she’d headed straight for the signposted path leading towards the cliffs, praying the fresh air would bring her some peace as it always seemed to on her travels. As she entered the cocoon of trees behind the inn and followed the rippling river towards the sea with her Jack Russell, Archie, she didn’t think much, brain muted from the drive there and all that had happened the night before. Instead, she watched as the scenery changed from the lush foliage of the surrounding forest into a valley of grey rocks.

It had rained overnight and now the air was fresh, the sky overhead a light grey mist. Archie clambered over the small rocks, nudging his wet nose under the stones, nibbling at the weeds that lay drying beneath them. She was pleased the inn’s owner Henry Johnson had insisted she bring her dog to try out the pet-friendly rooms. She wasn’t sure how she’d have coped here completely alone. Sure, she was used to travelling solo with her job, but that was before the floor fell out from beneath her marriage.

Soon the path rose up and away from the river, a steep bank of grey rock either side. In the distance, the river’s mouth opened, bubbling over pebbles and out into a frothing sea. As she drew closer, metal barriers appeared with notices warning of sheer drops. She stopped at one of the barriers, looking out over the cliff, tummy wrinkling as she imagined tumbling into the furious waves below. Her publishing director wouldn’t be too pleased considering press day was just around the corner.

She allowed herself a small smile before pulling her camera out of her bag and lifting it to her face, taking the usual obligatory photos for the magazine … and some for herself too. She had a scrapbook of photos from trips such as these just for herself. They weren’t amazing photos; the magazine couldn’t afford to send her on a course. But she’d learned on the job how to take a half-decent picture and now she enjoyed it, capturing moments she might have otherwise struggled to remember later as she wrote articles to crazy deadlines.

When she’d taken enough photos of the roaring sea and craggy cliffs, she led Archie down the slope towards the lime kiln she’d read about, a hut-shaped structure that merged into its surroundings. Its entranceway gaped open and Archie ran towards it but she yanked him back, noticing the sign at the front warning people not to enter for their own safety. When she was a teenager, she would’ve marched right in, regardless of any signs, just like her dad used to. One of her earliest memories was of when she was five and they were visiting the Wailua Falls in Kauai, Hawaii, a stunning double-tiered waterfall that dropped over a hundred feet, surrounded by tropical green flora. Her dad had heard you could get the best photos by scrambling down the steep cliffs towards the base of the waterfall. So, as Claire watched from the safety of the viewing area with her mum and sister, he’d managed to do just that, taking the iconic photo Claire still saw in travel magazines showing two streams of water silver-white as they gushed into the green lagoon below. Looking at that photo, you could almost feel the splash of water on your face, hear the roar of the waterfall.

Ten years later, Claire had visited the Big Falls waterfall in California with her friend Jodie. Inspired by her dad, she’d crossed the river and scaled the jagged hillsides around it to reach the waterfall’s base, getting an amazing photo looking directly up the waterfall, the blue sky and bright yellow sun reflected in its sheen.

Put her in the same situation now and she wouldn’t dare do that. Life had taught her taking the risky path simply wasn’t worth it.

‘This way, boy,’ Claire said, pulling Archie away from the cliff edge and towards the cluster of boulders leading down to the ocean. They picked their way over the rocks towards the sea, fizz from the waves speckling Claire’s jeans. It was strange how still things felt at that moment, so calm and beautiful, despite the frenzied nature of the waves nearby. She was completely alone here, just Archie, the roar of the sea and the squawk of birds for company. Is this the way it would be from now on, just her and Archie? It was unlikely anyone else would take her barren, broken body, after all. Even at thirty-one, it seemed a daunting prospect. What about in twenty, thirty, forty years? Would she end up like her dad, ill and alone in some grotty flat, despite all she’d done to try to avoid a destiny like his? At least she’d been with him at the end. There would be no child holding her hand and mopping her brow now.