‘That’s really not important,’ I said.
‘But at least you’ll still be getting the flat. Now please, let’s not talk about the sculpture any more, it’s gone and that’s the end of it. Yes, Jack, I’d like that glass of water if you wouldn’t mind fetching it.’
‘We’re all still in shock,’ I said, and I was already getting up to give auntie Ada a hug.
‘Are we? I wonder,’ answered auntie Ada, and after I had poured myself another cup of tea, which I didn’t really want, I made a silent return to my footstool.
‘Has Jane been in touch at all?’ Jack came back from the kitchen with two glasses of water. He handed auntie Ada hers, and then he offered the other to me. ‘Recently, I mean.’
After a long, unmelodious guffaw, auntie Ada was baring her teeth. ‘Has Jane been in touch?’ she snarled. ‘Why, Jack, what are you suggesting? That Jane came back to England to steal back the sculpture she gave me?’
Auntie Ada was right. Jack’s suggestion, if that was really what it was, was far too outlandish. ‘A coincidence is probably more likely than what you’re implying,’ I said.
‘I’m not implying anything,’ said Jack, ‘except perhaps that sometimes people talk.’
‘Did you talk, Jack? Because obviously George did.’
Jack raised both his hands above his head. ‘You’ve got me,’ he said. ‘Balaclava man was Sharon from the hairdressing salon. She’s fat and she’s always wearing gloves, so she fits the description. Oh yes, and she also has blue eyes.’
‘Jack didn’t know about the sculpture. Daddy told us only yesterday… Auntie Ada, are you sure that it’s missing? Mightn’t you have moved it somewhere else?’
‘I think that if I had I’d remember.’
‘Then Jack might have a point.’
Auntie Ada clambered out of her armchair and disappeared into her bedroom.
‘Should we tell the police?’
‘It isn’t up to us to tell them anything,’ said Jack. ‘You think your father might’ve told other people?’
‘And they just happened to burgle auntie Ada the day after he died?’ No sooner had I spoken the words than their meaning resounded in my ears: the day after he died, and already I was speaking of my father as though he had been dead for a year, almost coldly, with the detachment of time that hadn’t yet elapsed. But that wasn’t how I felt. While I juggled with clues about the disappearance of “a thing” that had not made any difference to anyone’s life, in another compartment my grief was being held in abeyance, pleading with me to go home and lock myself up in my box room and cry.
By Jack’s distracted gaze I realised auntie Ada was back in the room, but I didn’t turn around.
‘In case you thought I was lying again,’ I heard her say while she was still behind me. ‘Here, these are all from The Times.’ Loose newspaper pages were being spread out on the table.
Socialite, author, philanthropist, Jane Knox Parker…
‘Jane’s dead,’ I said.
‘Unless you think The Times are in on the burglary too.’
‘That’s terrible.’ Jack leaned forward to turn around one of the pages.
‘I’m so sorry, auntie Ada.’
‘That’s just how I remember her,’ said auntie Ada, steadying herself by resting her hand on my shoulder to look over at the page in front of Jack.
‘It’s a lovely photograph,’ said Jack.
‘Let me see.’ Cupping auntie Ada’s hand with mine to hold it in place, I rose from my stool to crouch beside Jack. The obituary had used a formal portrait, which was too funereal. The contrast with the photograph Jack had in front of him couldn’t have been greater. Relaxed and smiling broadly, two women sat beside each other on a sofa next to… ‘Oh my God, auntie Ada, isn’t that Rock Hudson?’
‘And that’s Jane sitting next to him and looking quite magnificent,’ said Jack.
‘Oh my God, auntie Ada.’
‘“The late Jane Knox Parker sharing an intimate moment with companion Miss Elizabeth Briggs and close friend Mr Rock Hudson.”’
‘Imagine how miserable I’d have been if I’d gone with her,’ said auntie Ada.
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘is that what they mean by “companion”?’
‘“Jane Knox Parker, 1921 – 1969”,’ Jack read out in a whisper.
‘Three years older than me and she looked ten years younger,’ said auntie Ada. ‘She died one month before your father, peacefully in her sleep after a short illness. At least that’s what they wrote.’
‘Let’s go home, auntie Ada, daddy said in his note that you have to look after me now. And he also said he’d like Jack to stay and help us run the shop.’
13
Preparations
Did I believe auntie Ada’s story that when the notes were being read out she had already left the room? If she honestly thought that she had no right to hear what my father had written, why couldn’t she have asked me to stop? And if she thought that she didn’t have the right to ask me to stop, why couldn’t she have said she was leaving? My dear Jane, a heartbroken man’s affectionate words to his daughter, written just before he died and read out when he was dead. Could they really have caused auntie Ada not only to flee, but to also leave behind a brooch that should have been more precious to her even than the Giacometti sculpture?
‘Are you sure these were the only two notes?’
Even if her brother’s pointed omission had made her feel slighted, auntie Ada had always been a very curious woman.
‘I don’t think she’s telling us the truth, do you?’ I’d been sharing my doubts with Jack, who seemed reluctant to have an opinion.
‘I’ve no more idea than you have how much Ada heard, and there’s no way of knowing unless she’s forced to admit to another lie. What good would that do? She’s already been through enough. If they give her some comfort, I think that she’s entitled to her secrets and her grievances.’
‘And to lies, too?’ And when Jack shrugged his shoulders, ‘I can’t decide either,’ I said.
‘You don’t have to. It’s not necessary to decide everything now.’
Jack put his hand over my shoulder and pulled me to the side of the pavement. Ladies’ summer hats adorned the crowd of dummies in the window; overlarge and fussy, they seemed hopelessly out of tune with the hats women wore in the streets. But the display of so many dummies and so many hats staring out at passers-by was mesmeric, and we were standing side-by-side looking in.
‘I’ve been meaning to say that I’m happy you heard from your father himself about his good night kisses.’
So it wasn’t for the hats or the display that Jack had made us stop. ‘It was supposed to be our secret,’ I said, not turning to look at him but taking a swing at his arm with my shoulder.
‘See? We all need our secrets.’
‘But how did you know? Daddy told me you were fast asleep, that he waited until you were snoring. Snoring like a man, he said.’
‘Yes, well, the earlier he could kiss you good night, the earlier I could have him back in bed. The first time I saw him sneaking out of the bedroom…’
‘You followed him.’
‘It nearly made me cry when I saw him standing over you in the dark, watching you sleep before he bent down to kiss you. And I guessed he must’ve told you…’
‘From his note,’ I said. ‘Tonight I would have kissed you goodnight without hiding.’
It was unpleasantly hot and humid again, and we were walking home from Angel Station. Sometime in the middle of the night we had both thrown some water over our faces and given our teeth a quick brush, and Jack had replaced his bloodstained T-shirt. I was still in the clothes I had worn to look pretty for Karl. Auntie Ada had asked for a little time alone, to rest, maybe have a quick bite to eat before getting ready. Jack promised that he’d wait with me at the house, but later he’d be off, he wouldn’t be staying.
‘Ada needs the space to settle in, and I could do with a few days to myself, to
give all of us a chance to think things over. And to get some clean clothes, now that I’m not wearing Mia-Mia’s.’
Every single mention of auntie Ada brought with it another suspicion of lies. The more I turned the burglary around in my head, the less it made sense. How could auntie Ada not have noticed that the sculpture was missing? The only thing she had to remind her of Jane, that was how she had described it, and yet her first reaction when I saw that it was missing had been to shrug it off as a valueless copy that got smashed while she was dusting.
‘If auntie Ada hadn’t wanted the police to get involved, why would she have rushed off to Florence and asked her to call them?’
‘Because she panicked,’ said Jack. ‘And to be fair, it can’t have been much fun being crept up on by Sharon in a trench coat and a black balaclava. That’d be enough to scare anyone out of their wits.’
‘Assuming the burglary actually happened, an hour ago she was accusing you of being the mastermind, and you’re still making jokes and trying to find excuses for her.’
‘Oh, but she wasn’t really accusing me, she was defending Jane. Poor woman, she’s had shock after shock after shock, it’s hardly any wonder that she’s being a bit unstable. And why would you even doubt that the burglary happened? The sculpture is obviously missing.’
‘It’s missing but she doesn’t seem to care about getting it back.’
‘And she’s explained to us why.’
‘I don’t believe she hadn’t noticed it was missing, and I’m not sure it’s missing because it was stolen. Don’t you think it’s possible she smashed it herself? I mean deliberately, not while she was dusting. Jane’s death must’ve really upset her. Then she saw those pictures in the paper, and maybe she got jealous.’
‘Jealous of what, Jane canoodling with Rock Hudson?’
‘Of Jane canoodling with Rock Hudson and her new companion.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Jack. ‘But even if she did, she didn’t know you knew that the sculpture was a genuine Giacometti, so why would she have gone to all that trouble of inventing balaclava man and calling the police?’
‘Because unless she was still in the room when we both read them out, she didn’t know what daddy might’ve written in the notes… And if she’s lying and she was in the room and she does know, then maybe she smashed the Giacometti this morning because she was angry… But then why would she have called the police?’
‘Listen, Jane…’ We were already at the heart of the spaghetti maze that led to the house, around one more intestine and we’d be there. When Jack stopped, I stopped too.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘It’s not necessary to decide everything now.’
‘I’m just worried that it’s all been too crazy, you’ve not even had a minute…’
‘To think about what happened to my dad?’
‘To think about yourself… Ada’s right in a way, this isn’t the time to be worrying about “things”. It doesn’t really matter what happened to the sculpture.’ When Jack gave me his hand I took it, and we zigzagged one last time before…
I hadn’t been mistaken. A woman in dark glasses and a headscarf was hesitating at the bottom of the steps, looking up at the house as though to gauge the likelihood of it collapsing if she went any further.
‘Jesus,’ said Jack. ‘These people are like vultures.’
‘These people?’
‘Hacks.’
‘Is that another word for Germans?’
‘It’s another word for tabloid scum, not for Germans,’ said Jack. ‘It looks like our sergeant’s been busy. Don’t say a word, I’ll handle this.’
‘But Dr Schmidt isn’t a hack, she’s Karl’s mother.’
‘Ah, so that’s the Reichian therapist. Then I’ll leave all the talking to you.’
‘Dr Schmidt,’ I said coldly, letting go of Jack’s hand as we drew near the gate.
Karl’s mother jumped, but managed to compose herself quickly.
‘Jane,’ she said, ‘I wasn’t sure if you were in.’
‘I wasn’t,’ I said.
‘No,’ said Dr Schmidt, and after a short awkward silence, ‘I’m so sorry about your father; I came over to tell you in person as soon as I could. Inspector Cambridge came to see us this morning to have a word with Karl, and he told us what happened.’
‘I see.’ I was annoyed with the Inspector, who should have known to keep his mouth shut, and irritated with Frau Angela’s presumption. Had she asked herself before just turning up if I would want to see her? Could she really have imagined that the answer might be yes? And yet here she was, and I was too polite to ask her to leave. ‘Jack, this is Dr Schmidt. Jack’s a family friend.’
‘This is an intrusion, I know,’ said Dr Schmidt after shaking Jack’s hand, ‘but after everything that’s happened… Jane, could we talk somewhere more private?’
‘Jack was there, Dr Schmidt. He probably knows more about what happened than you do.’
‘I have a couple of phone calls to make, and a million things to do in the shop. Perhaps you could offer Dr Schmidt a cup of tea?’
‘Angela, please. And thank you.’ Dr Schmidt bowed her head to Jack, and as she tilted it in my direction she took her sunglasses off. ‘Just ten minutes,’ she said. ‘I think it’s important.’
I agreed with a half-hearted nod and led the way up the steps.
I showed Dr Schmidt straight to the kitchen, and after I had made and poured the tea, I joined her at the table. Jack, as promised, had already disappeared into the shop. He had asked for my permission to put up a sign to say that owing to bereavement the shop would be closed until further notice.
‘How are you feeling?’ It was too big a question, but Dr Schmidt had asked it in a way that seemed to take the complexity of my emotions for granted. I felt it more as an acknowledgment, rather than a question.
‘I’m feeling like I’ve just lost my father.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Dr Schmidt. ‘And that goes without saying, but at the same time it’s important to be said. Talking is extremely important.’
‘It hasn’t really sunk in yet.’
‘That’s perfectly normal.’ Dr Schmidt put down her cup and sat upright, with her hands in a knot on the table. ‘In my experience your feelings will crystallise slowly. Right now there’s just too much to process, and it can’t all be processed at once, so this isn’t the time, I think it’s too soon. But my door is always open if you think it might be helpful to speak with a professional. You’ll feel better if you’re able to let go of your anger.’
‘I don’t know if I feel any anger.’
‘You mustn’t feel bad if you do,’ said Dr Schmidt.
‘We finally managed to talk.’
‘You made peace.’
‘Yes.’
‘But then your father…’
‘Yes. And I miss him.’
‘As I say, my door is always open.’
‘Dr Schmidt, your son tried to rape me.’
‘Karl is immature, and that’s my fault…’
‘I was asking him to stop, I asked him again and again and he wouldn’t. He was violent, Dr Schmidt, and if I hadn’t found the strength to push him off, both our lives would’ve probably been ruined. He’s seventeen years old. He tried to rape me and it was his fault. Can’t you see? It’s Karl who needs help, not me.’
‘Jane, this could destroy his career if it ever…’
‘It won’t,’ I said, ‘but I think you should go now.’
‘We told Inspector Cambridge…’
‘I don’t care what you told Inspector Cambridge, and it’s not Inspector Cambridge you should care about either, or Karl’s career. But that’s between you and your son.’
‘Karl’s genuinely sorry, he wants you to know that.’
‘And you can tell him I’ll never be able to stop feeling sorry for him.’
I was glad to have got rid of Dr Schmidt so conclusively. Had auntie Ada been around, the conversation could have
hardly moved beyond commiseration; to take all the blame for the violence of her “immature” son, Karl’s mother would have had to come back. It wasn’t untrue; Karl really was immature. His genius and the mollycoddling by his mother had combined to make it hard for him to know where the lines were that should never be crossed.
When auntie Ada arrived with her suitcase, Jack had showered and had nothing clean to wear. I had washed his T-shirt from the night before, but the stains hadn’t budged, so he had taken off the one he had changed into and I had washed that as well. It was hanging on the back of a chair in my father’s bedroom, drying in the scorching patch of sun that now flooded one third of the room – Jack had pulled the heavy curtains wide open. His jeans were dirty too, but they would have taken too long to dry, and they were wearable. He insisted that he didn’t need underwear or socks, and I left him stretched out on the bed while he waited for his T-shirt to at least not be soaking.
I wanted Jack to stay, but the deeper truth was that I missed Mia-Mia and my father. “The truth” again… Dr Schmidt had been right about one thing: my feelings were in constant flux, and apparently so was the truth. I missed Mia-Mia and my father only because Mia-Mia had been Jack, and through Jack I had discovered that behind his façade of indifference my father had been someone else.
‘Hello, Ada.’ At last Jack had emerged from the bedroom fully dressed.
‘I hope you’re hungry,’ auntie Ada smiled at him over her shoulder.
‘Starving.’ He was stretching out his tallness at the kitchen door, while auntie Ada chopped up vegetables for a chicken casserole.
‘Are you sure you have somewhere to go?’ I asked Jack from my perch on the stained wooden worktop.
‘It’s bad luck to swing your legs,’ auntie Ada told me.
‘I’ve spoken with Sharon already,’ said Jack.
‘Who’s Sharon?’
‘You know Sharon, she’s the blue-eyed fat girl who stole your auntie Ada’s Giacometti.’
‘That was never a woman,’ mumbled auntie Ada.
The Madness of Grief Page 16