I pull up at the side of the road and stare out of the window, my jaw slack with disbelief. The satnav is right: I’ve arrived at Shining Hill Home Estate. But it’s not a mansion. It’s a trailer park. There’s a faded sign chained onto a galvanized pair of gates, and beyond it I can see rows of mobile homes stretching into the distance. I check my piece of paper again: 431 Shining Hill Home Estate. Brent Lewis must live in trailer number 431.
Part of me wants to phone Dad instantly and tell him how wrong he’s got it about his friend, but I decide to investigate first, so I lock the car and proceed cautiously into the trailer park. No one stops me, and I soon work out where 431 is, from a map on a board. As I make my way down a line of trailers, I get stares from some people sitting outside their mobile homes, and I can’t help glancing around curiously myself. Some of the trailers are really nice-looking and well kept, with plants and pretty curtains, but some are awful. One has broken patio furniture piled high outside it, almost blocking the door. Another has the sound of screaming coming from it. Another has all its windows broken in.
I arrive at number 431 and approach it. It’s a very plain trailer—not run-down but not very appealing either. The door is shut and the blinds are down, and there are no signs of life. There’s a piece of paper taped to the door, and I glance at it as I knock. It says: Notice of Eviction.
I scan the notice, which is all about Mr. Brent Lewis of 431 Shining Hill Home Estate and his failure to pay six months’ overdue rent and the steps which must therefore be taken, signed Herb Leggett, Manager.
“You a friend of Brent?” A voice hails me, and I turn to see a skinny woman standing on the steps of the trailer opposite. She’s wearing black jeans with her hair thrust into a ponytail and is holding a small boy on her hip.
“Is Brent around?” I say. “I’m not a friend exactly, but I’d like to see him.”
“You a social worker?” Her eyes narrow. “Police?”
“No!” I say, shocked. “Nothing like that. I’m just … my dad knew him years ago.”
“You British?”
“Yes. My dad is too.”
The woman sniffs and nods. “Well, you just missed him. He took off yesterday.”
He took off? Oh God. What’s Dad going to say?
“Do you have a forwarding address?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Said his daughter was stopping by next week, to clear things out. I can ask her.”
“Could you?” I say eagerly. “I’m Becky Brandon; this is my number.…” I get out one of my business cards and hand it to her. “If she could ring me, that would be great, or maybe you could ring me. Or …”
The woman shrugs again and tucks the card into her jeans. Immediately the small boy pulls it out and throws it on the ground.
“No!” I leap forward. “I mean … let’s not lose that. Shall I put it somewhere safe for you?”
The woman shrugs yet again. I really don’t have high hopes that she’s going to talk to Brent’s daughter. All the same, I tuck the card safely into the window frame of her door.
“So, I’ll look forward to hearing from Brent’s daughter,” I say as brightly as I can. “Or you. Whichever. I’d be really grateful. Anyway … er … lovely to meet you. I’m Becky, by the way.”
“You said.” She nods but doesn’t volunteer her own name.
I can’t keep babbling on at this woman, so I give her one last friendly smile and turn on my heel to leave. I still can’t believe this is where Dad’s friend has ended up. It’s such a shame.
As soon as I’m on the road again, I dial Dad’s number.
“Dad!”
“Darling! Did you see him?”
“Not exactly.” I wince. “Dad, I’m afraid you were wrong. Brent Lewis has been living in a trailer park, and now he’s just been evicted because he didn’t pay his rent. I couldn’t get an address.”
“No. No!” Dad gives a short laugh. “Darling, that’s not right. It can’t be the same Brent Lewis. I’m sorry you wasted your time, but—”
“Well, it was the address I got from his sister. It must be him.”
There’s a longish silence.
“He lives in a trailer park?” says Dad at last.
“Yes. I mean, his trailer’s quite nice,” I say hastily. “Not broken or anything. But now he’s been evicted.”
“This can’t be right.” Dad sounds almost angry. “You must have got it wrong, Becky.”
“I haven’t got it wrong!” I say, nettled. What does he think I am, an idiot? “I saw the eviction notice myself. Brent C. Lewis. It didn’t say what the ‘C’ was for.”
