by J. A. Baker
The funeral directors placed Suzie in our dining room in an open casket for visitors to pay their respects. It filled me with horror, the thought of my dead sister squashed into that narrow oak box, her lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling. I had no idea if her eyes were actually open or closed because I refused to look. The whole thing felt macabre and contrived. Suzie, the centre of attention even in death. A stream of people traipsed in and out, arms laden with flowers and wreaths, their faces lined with sorrow and anguish, some genuine, many in it just for the sensationalistic gutter-gossip that accompanies the death of a child.
The service was a blur of prayers, hand wringing and tears. I felt numb, unsure of how I should conduct myself. All eyes were on us, assessing our reactions, making sure we did the right amount of crying that is deemed necessary for such a traumatic occasion. Adults I had never met before, stood around weeping and talking about the unfairness of it all, hugging my mother and telling her that they would do anything for her. ‘Anything at all,’ they said as they filtered away one by one, until we were left alone with our black funeral attire and even blacker thoughts.
The weeks after the funeral were hollow, the house silent and vacuous. We rattled around, going through the motions, each of us too locked in our own torturous maelstrom of misery and anguish to communicate with one another. My father’s physical condition worsened, putting my mother under unbearable pressure. He could have done more for himself. Even as a child I could see how he used his illnesses to his advantage, playing the martyr when anything mildly physical was asked of him. He had chronic bronchitis and seemed to revel in his condition. He also turned his anger on me. After Suzie’s death, anything and everything was my fault.
The day we went to see Dr Tavel, I thought we were going to see a relative. I have no idea why I thought that. Whether or not I had been told so, I will never know. I have no recollection of any conversations that would have led me to believe that, but I do recall the surprise and mild disappointment when we pulled up outside his surgery, which was surrounded by large conifers. It was eerily dark and quickly became patently obvious we wouldn’t be spending the afternoon chatting to cousins and aunts while reminiscing and eating cake.
Looking back, I am not even certain if I knew that it was me he was assessing. It was all very relaxed and informal. We sat on a sofa, my mother and I, while Dr Tavel sat on a large leather armchair facing us, his large, brogue covered feet shuffling around every time he asked me a question. I remember thinking how strange it was that he didn’t have a stethoscope. Every doctor I had ever met always had a stethoscope hanging round his neck. He was clean shaven and wore expensive looking clothes. His questions were worded so I could understand them but he often watched my mother when I spoke. I don’t fully recall the nature of the questions but do remember how I often struggled to give an answer, or at least the answer I felt he was looking for. Sometimes, after I had spoken, he would sit in silence tapping his pen against the side of the chair, his eyes flitting between me and my mother. I was too young to understand what was going on. I was more impressed by the comfort of the huge sofa and the vibrant colours of the oil paintings that hung on the walls of his office. I wasn’t unduly perturbed by it all, more mystified really. All I knew was that my sister had died in the most tragic of circumstances and our family, already teetering on the brink of collapse, no longer functioned and was heading for catastrophe. One thing I was certain of however, despite being only nine years old, was that apart from my mother who did all she could to make the best out of a bad situation, they all unequivocally blamed me.
Fourteen
Her face is everywhere as I take Tillie out for her morning walk. Somebody has been out and about in the village, a family member perhaps, or even the police, and plastered posters on trees and lampposts declaring a small reward for any information that leads to Nancy being found alive and well. I stop and study the photograph while Tillie sniffs at a patch of grass and avidly circles a molehill, her nose buried deeply in the soil, vacuuming up smells with her cold, wet, twitching nose. In the picture, Nancy is leaning against a big, old fireplace, an array of photographs behind her. Her smile radiates warmth and happiness. I surmise it was taken last Christmas judging by the flickering candles all around her. She will have spent the festive season with her family, surrounded by her children and grandchildren. All happy, all smiling. All together.
I walk further through the village towards the small group of people at the end of the lane. They are gathered around some kind of wagon. As I get closer I can see it’s a low loader. Nancy’s car is being hooked onto it by a burly looking chap in navy overalls and a fleecy jacket, while a policeman stands chatting to a middle aged couple who are wearing walking clothes. I move closer, keen to mingle and be seen to be doing the right thing, be socially appropriate. The couple bid their goodbyes to the young, pale faced policeman and head off towards the river as I approach. I slow down and nod. “Morning. Still no sign of her?” I shake my head and sigh deeply, hoping my faux concern will be enough to convince him of my innocence. I check myself. I AM innocent. What I am guilty of is aiding and abetting a mentally ill man who did what he did because of his diminished responsibility. No more than that.
“Not as yet. We’re following up all lines of enquiry and some of her family have done their bit as well.” He points over to the trunk of a nearby tree where Nancy’s face beams out at us.
“Yes, I noticed. I hope she turns up soon. Must be dreadful for them. Such a worry.” I lean down and stroke Tillie who has started to whine and nuzzle her face in against my leg.
“Yes, they’re very concerned. And rightly so. This is completely out of character for this lady.” He looks me up and down, sending a small vibe of fear through my veins. “Do you live locally?”
“Over there,” I reply, pointing to the long sloping roof of my house with its black slate tiles and large picture windows that overlook the river, completely out of place against the emerging foliage and branches of the nearby conifer trees.
“I don’t believe we’ve spoken yet, Mrs. . .? ”
“Whitegate,” I answer a little too quickly, “Phoebe Whitegate.” I must stay calm. Hold it together, Phoebe. Hold it together old girl. I watch as he lifts a pen out of his pocket along with a small white notepad and steel myself for a barrage of questions. I decide to pre-empt him. Take control, best way to do it. Who questions, leads. Isn’t that what they always say?
“I hope this lady turns up soon,” I look down at Tillie who is running around in circles excitedly. “She needs a lot of exercise,” I mutter and roll my eyes dramatically.
Much to my relief he smiles back and leans down to stroke her. Tillie responds by rolling on her back and wiggling her tiny legs in the air comically. He laughs as he rests down on his haunches and ruffles the fur on her underbelly.
“I have a Labrador. He’s as soft as the day is long and as greedy as hell,” he says through clenched teeth, “Costs us a fortune he does. Spends all day troughing.”
“Ah, I can imagine. But we wouldn’t have them any other way would we? Man’s best friend and all that,”
He stands up and brushes his black trousers down with his large hands.
“I’ve had Tillie here, since she was a pup. I couldn’t bear to be parted from her,” I say as I reach into my pocket and bring out a doggie treat. She watches me closely, her eyes fixated on the gravy bone between my fingers. I hold it out to her and she lunges at it, gulping it down greedily without missing a beat.
“We got Laddie from a rescue centre but it’s as if he’s always lived with us.” He coughs and smoothes his jacket down. “Anyway, as I was saying, Nancy’s family can’t state enough, how out of character this is for her. I was wondering if you’ve seen anyone matching her description?”
I shake my head and jut my bottom lip out to express how mystified I am by the whole episode.
“She set off walking by the river by all accounts.” He stares over at the
muddy track that leads through the trees, running parallel with the river, then looks over to my house. A pulse taps away at my temple as I watch him narrow his eyes while he ponders the route of the water, trying to work out what happens to the path once it nears the large barn conversion.
“Is there a bridge over there to the other side of the river? Through those trees?” He points to a copse of cedars adjacent to the rear of the house.
I shake my head and smile, hoping I look sincere enough, helpful enough, not too inquisitive or chatty. I need to get the balance right. It’s hard work this lying business, “No, the path continues straight on.”
He considers this for a minute before speaking, “So that means it must run past the back of your house?”
I nod, “Yes. It cuts through my garden. The path was built as a right of way and the house was built around it from what I’ve been told.”
He stares at me.
“I only moved in a short while ago. I’m new to the village.” Realisation dawns and he smiles again revealing a set of slightly crooked teeth that aren’t completely unattractive despite overlapping with each other,
“Ah, I see. This must be a bit of a shock to you then?”
I widen my eyes and suck my teeth, “Absolutely. I only wish I’d actually seen her and could help but I’ve spent the last few weeks unpacking and dragging furniture around.”
“When you’re not out walking this one eh?” His eyes crease up at the corners as he smiles. He looks down to his notepad and begins to write. “Do you live there alone?”
I don’t know if I am imagining it but I could swear his tone has changed, developed an icy edge to it. I feel a sudden rush of blood to my head at the unexpected question. I should have known it was coming and been ready to deal with it but somehow he has caught me off guard and I feel quite lightheaded and queasy. I can feel my nostrils begin to flare as I inhale deeply to steady myself,
“Yes. I live alone. Too big a house for one person really but I’m hoping for grandchildren at some point,” I smile and raise my eyes in mock exasperation, “My son is in his late twenties and settled down with a lovely girl. I’m keeping my fingers crossed.” There I’ve said it. No choice really. I can’t have them hanging round the house quizzing Martyn. Everything would fall apart and then our lives would be over.
The tone of his laugh is much higher than his voice, “You sound like my wife. Our boys are only in their teens but already she says she can’t wait for them to have kids of their own.” He slips his notepad back into his top pocket and I want to clap my hands with relief. “Women! Give them a houseful of children and they’re happy. If only us men were as easy going as the fairer sex, I reckon the world would be a far nicer place.”
I smile and nod and allow him one last stroke of Tillie before saying my goodbyes. By the time I get home both the policeman and the tow truck carrying Nancy’s small Fiat have all gone. As if she has never been here. Apart from the posters And left exposed to the elements, they won’t last long either. The world will forget about Nancy. And then perhaps I can relax and not feel as if a damning piece of evidence is about to reveal itself.
I neither know nor care where Martyn has got to when I get in. I unclip Tillie and head to the kitchen then back into the living room. I entertain the idea that he is laid out on the bed upstairs, dead. The thought of it fills me with shivers and I quickly shut it out of my mind, unable to work out if I would be pleased or horrified. No more Martyn. I swallow hard. At the end of the day he is still my husband and he needs me. I need him. Truth be told, I think I’ve spent my whole life needing him. He was the one who rescued me from the brink of emotional collapse after spending years bearing the brunt of Suzie’s death, taking the blame for it all, spending my childhood in the shadow of my sister’s memory. Martyn was the one who taught me how to be strong again, how to face the world with a smile. As a fledgling doctor, he saw something in me; he was able to cut through the veneer I had managed to surround myself with and see straight through it all. Somehow he was the only person who was able to identify the real me. I’m pretty sure that at the outset he viewed me as some kind of assignment, a problem he had taken upon himself to solve. That was Martyn all over. Always looking for a new challenge, something to tax him. I didn’t mind. I was glad of his help and the fact somebody had shown an interest in the real Phoebe. I was his project. And he was my saviour.
I head upstairs and stop along the way. The sight of my own reflection in the mirror catches me unawares. How is it the lady over the road looks more like my own sister than I do? Quite unfair really. Suzie looked my mother whereas I resemble my father’s side of the family with a more sallow complexion and broader features. I stare at the deep grooves either side of my mouth that give me the appearance of someone who is permanently sad and disapproving, and sigh wistfully. Suzie was a natural beauty, her skin like bone china. I turn this way and that, hoping to see a side of me that I like and eventually give up. I am what I am and no amount of yearning is going to change that.
I potter about upstairs, folding clothes, straightening bed linen, doing anything to pass the time. I think of the tow truck outside and am suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of lightness. Her car is gone and soon she too, will be no more than a dim and distant memory. Every year on the anniversary of her disappearance, flowers will be appear by the riverside, the odd poster may reappear, only to be ruined again by the incessant winds and mists. Life will return to normal. As if she never existed.
The sound of an engine outside draws me to the window. Outside Anna and her family are off out somewhere together. I imagine they’re one of those families who, at the first sign of warm weather, all pile in the car and dash off to the seaside or somewhere in the countryside where hordes of families gather, brash and loud, their faces stuffed full of McDonalds or ice cream. The kind of settings Martyn and I used to avoid. Then I hear Tom’s voice in my head telling me not be such a snob, telling me I am hypercritical and disapproving. I bite my lip, suddenly guilty. I’m definitely becoming too insular, locked in my own little world. I make a mental note to be nicer to her next time we meet. Anna has been unerringly kind to me, even when I’ve been frosty and downright rude to her. That’s the problem. I’ve never been particularly good at this socialising malarkey even when I was a child. Too frigid and reserved. And as Tom was often fond of telling me, far too judgemental.
One by one, they slide into the back of the car, Mike jumping into the driver’s side until there is only Toby left. That evening a few days back still haunts me. The look on his face - his inquisitive expression. It’s only a matter of time. I breathe hard and remind myself that he no longer lives locally and in a few days’ time he will be back in Lincoln, immersed in his work, too busy to spend time thinking about some random neighbour of his sister’s. He stands next to the passenger door and takes a look around him. Then before I have chance to do anything, he looks up and for a fraction of a second, our eyes lock. With a gasp, I try to duck down out of sight, but it’s too late and too obvious to escape his attention. He’s already seen me. His face doesn’t show any expression. In fact, his stare is cold with perhaps a hint of hostility. I check myself. This is silly. I’m overreacting and imagining things. I think back to the other evening, his unrelenting studious expression as he observed my every move. He can’t know me. Can he? I certainly don’t recognise him. I’m pretty sure such a handsome face would have lodged itself in my consciousness. I quell the small, still voice that nags at me and sets my pulse into overdrive. The voice that insists he must have worked at the surgery when Martyn did. That is too great a coincidence surely? I definitely don’t recognise him. I was on first name terms with all the doctors who worked there and my memory may not be as good as it once was but know for a fact he wasn’t one of them.