The Art of Forgetting

by McLaren, Julie

  Alongside the article are two photographs. One shows a slim girl with long, dark hair, standing outside what appears to be a caravan. The caption reads: Linda Lucaretti on holiday last summer. The second shows an older woman, elegant and still attractive, holding a photograph and looking sad. There is also a map showing the streets between Linda’s home and the railway station with arrows somewhat unnecessarily marking out the route she would have taken.

  It is all so poignant, so simple. If Linda had gone missing today, CCTV cameras would have established whether or not she arrived at the station and which train, if any, she had boarded. They would have tracked her through the streets of London if that was where she went. But in those days, if nobody saw you for certain, the trail would have gone cold very quickly and that is what seemed to have happened. It is hard to imagine the agony of waiting with so little to go on, even harder to think of the desperation when the search seemed to have fizzled out.

  Back home, with the children in bed and Patrick snoozing in his favourite chair with his iPad on his knees, Laura closes her eyes and tries to work out what to do next. Now she has a name and a rough address and suddenly Linda has become a lot more real. There is the grainy photo, there is the map and there are the quotes from her mother. That poor woman! To lose your only child, just when you thought she was old enough to look after herself, when all the risks of childhood – illnesses, accidents, strangers whisking them away – seemed to be past. She should have been safe enough at nineteen, and Hilda would have been looking forward to the next phase: the wedding, the grandchildren. A lump rises in Laura’s throat as she imagines not having Lily. She has to get up and make a coffee to push the thought out of her head.

  That is why this is becoming so difficult. What had seemed like an innocent enough enterprise, a way to fill her days and find out the end to a story, is turning out to be something more serious. Suppose she decides to track down Linda’s mother, if she is still alive – she’d have to be in her eighties – and still mentally active and prepared to talk to her. Would it be fair to bring up the subject of her daughter? And what would she tell her? That her daughter had blackmailed someone at least once and maybe that had led to her disappearance? The more Laura thinks about it, the less certain she becomes.

  By the time Patrick wakes up, she has decided. Linda’s mother is probably dead, but even if she isn’t, there is no justification for throwing an old woman’s life into turmoil. She will stop all this nonsense and concentrate on finding another job. Failing that, she will find something else to do – volunteer at the food bank, do hospital visiting – anything to be useful. This isn’t useful and it could actually be damaging. It has to stop.

  But it isn’t as simple as that, because she talks to Kelly later and she has a completely different take on the subject.

  “OK, I get your point, but let’s at least find out if the mother’s still alive. I know we can’t just turn up and tell her random stuff about her daughter, but we could try to establish whether Linda ever came back. If she did we can drop the whole thing, but if not, if she never turned up, surely we should at least try to take it a bit further? We know something that no-one else knows, probably. What gives us the right to bury it, without even finding out what the consequences might be?”

  Laura tries to argue, but her heart isn’t really in it and she feels guilty about that part of her that doesn’t want to give this up. It is a real-life mystery, connected to her own family, and she wants to know what happened.

  “I’ll think about it,” she says, then remembers that her mother said the same thing to that man, all those years ago. Four little words, only five syllables between them, and yet they may have triggered something that was huge, that would change things for ever. If she had said a different four words, a different five syllables, none of that would have happened and maybe there would be no story to tell, no mystery to solve. She wonders about changing her mind, but Kelly is halfway to the front door, rummaging in her bag for her car key and talking about something else. It is too late.

  Chapter 3

  It is Kelly’s first free day, and Laura is standing with her at the end of Linda’s street in a village not far away. It is on the edge of a small estate probably built in the late Fifties to accommodate the influx of Londoners seeking a life in the countryside whilst maintaining their jobs in the capital. Their own family had done the same thing, except they hadn’t moved to an estate but had bought and extended a run-down cottage, but Laura recognises and acknowledges the shared history.

  “OK,” says Kelly. “There’s only one thing for it. You take this side, I’ll start over there, and let’s hope they’re not all out at work.”

  “Oh,” says Laura. She hasn’t thought through the implications of this exercise and the idea of knocking on strangers’ doors and asking about someone who could have moved away years ago does not appeal to her. “Wouldn’t it be best if we did it together?”

  It is hard to say whether Kelly sees her sister’s reluctance for what it is. A slightly raised eyebrow is all Laura has to go on, but it doesn’t really matter. Kelly has always been politically active and knocking on doors is second nature to her. So they set off down the first front path together and Kelly presses the bell. No answer, nor on the second attempt. There is no car in the drive so they try the next house. A young woman opens the door, a toddler clinging to her side and an expression that Laura understands immediately clinging to her features. She would have apologised and moved on, leaving the young woman to cope with whatever domestic crises were afflicting her, but Kelly has no children yet and does not recognise the signs.

  “Well, that was a good start,” she laughs, as they close the gate behind them, the torrent of abuse still ringing in their ears. “Do you think we should be more discriminating? Let’s walk up to the end and see if any of the houses look like possible candidates.” By this, Kelly means houses that appear to be unmodernised, or have nothing to indicate that a young family lives there. No bikes, scooters or people carriers in the drive, no stickers or England flags obscuring the upstairs windows.

  They are about halfway up when they see an elderly man in one of the front gardens. He is pruning the shrubs which are growing over the low garden wall and threatening to obstruct the pavement. The grass in the garden is long and the house looks as if it needs a coat of paint.

  Kelly stops and smiles at him. “You’re doing a good job there! Fancy coming and doing mine afterwards?”

  That is Kelly all over. The fact that she doesn’t even have a garden, let alone any shrubs, will not have worried her at all. The old man straightens and rubs his back.

  “You’ll be lucky! This isn’t even mine. I’m only doing it as a favour for my neighbour. She can’t really manage it any more but it’s a shame to let it go. That’s mine,” he says, indicating the garden next door. It is only separated by the two front paths and a miniature picket fence, but it is as different as it could be. Laura notes its neat geometric lawn and flower beds, its ornamental wishing well and its collection of small stone hedgehogs, many of them frozen in the act of carrying out routine garden maintenance.

  “It’s lovely,” she says, picking up on the pride in his expression.

  But it is Kelly who sees the opportunity. “That’s so kind of you. I suppose you’ve been neighbours for a long time. Are you one of the original residents?”

  The ensuing conversation is slow going, but worth it. Harry, as he introduces himself, has indeed lived in the same house since 1958, when it was first built.

  “Sea of mud it was, that winter. None of the roads were made up and the house was running with damp. No central heating in those days, just a boiler and a coal fire, but the wife was so keen to move in, so keen to have our own place and get out of London, I don’t think she would have cared if the roof was missing!”

  With a certain amount of gentle coaxing, he tells them about the changes that have taken place in the street and, at last, he lists the other origina
l residents of Dawlish Drive. He ticks them off on his fingers or waves in the direction of their homes as he remembers.

  “Yes, there’s Ron and Marge at number 12, they’ve got their Michael’s lad and his wife and kids all living there – they lost their house, you know. Very sad and a nightmare for them, all squashed up after all those years on their own. And there’s Ena at number 28, she’s a widow too, but her John keeps her garden nice for her. Nice chap. He came round and strimmed all this last year, when it started getting out of control. That’s all on that side, and on this side there’s me, of course, and Hilda, that’s the lady who lives here, and the Johnsons at 33, right down the end, but I don’t think they’ll be there much longer. Not really coping, and I think their kids are after selling the house and putting them in a home.” He shudders. “I suppose it comes to us all, but I hope I conk out before that!”

  “Would that be Hilda Lucaretti?”

  Harry looks surprised, and a little concerned at Kelly’s question, but she moves quickly to reassure him. “It’s just that our mother was friends with her daughter, Linda. She’s got some kind of dementia now, and she’s forgetting everything apart from things in the distant past, but she talked a bit about Linda. We were hoping to fill in some of the gaps so we can talk to her about those times. We’re afraid we are losing her so quickly.”

  Kelly stops, genuine emotion constricting her throat despite the only partial explanation for their visit. Laura finds her own eyes pricking as Harry clears his throat, blinks and attacks a section of the straggly shrub with his secateurs.

  “Nasty business. I know all about that, believe me. Come on, I’ll introduce you. I doubt she would have answered the door to you otherwise,” he says, but then he stops. “You do know about what happened, don’t you?”

  “Well, Mum seemed to think Linda went missing,” says Kelly, “but she is quite confused and we certainly don’t know what happened after that, if indeed it’s true.”

  “It’s true right enough, more’s the pity. Disappeared. Just like that. Never came back. They never found her, alive or dead. Broke Hilda’s heart, it did, and she wasn’t the same afterwards. Such a lively young woman, despite being on her own, and she had a beautiful singing voice, but all that stopped. Still, she likes to talk about Linda now, so don’t worry. She says it keeps her alive in her heart.”

  Suddenly, Laura feels appallingly guilty. They are about to intrude on an old woman’s grief, for reasons which are self-indulgent at best. They have found out what they wanted to know – Linda had not returned – so now there is no reason to stay.

  “Look, we don’t want to disturb her. We only came on the off-chance,” she says, but Harry is shuffling up the path, tutting at the weeds poking through the cracks in the concrete, and Kelly does not seem inclined to support her. She is right behind Harry and turns only to give Laura one of her looks.

  There is quite a long pause before the door opens, and Laura begins to envisage another sad scenario in which Linda’s mother is discovered dead in her bed. Or maybe she is sitting in her favourite armchair, a photo of her missing daughter looking down at her from the mantelpiece, forever nineteen and on the verge of womanhood. The rest of the world has moved on, grown older, had children, had grandchildren, been floored by dementia ... She is shaken out of her reverie by the door opening a few inches and a face appearing in the crack.

  “Ah, there you are, Hilda. I was just having a bit of a go at the garden, like I said I would. These two young ladies were passing by and lo and behold, their mother turns out to be a friend of your Linda’s. Any chance of a cuppa?”

  The door opens further, to reveal a skeletally thin woman, her hair still a faded blonde and pulled back from her face. She is made up, but her lipstick is uneven and there is mascara on one of her cheekbones, which jut out almost unnaturally, enhanced by a livid smudge of rouge.

  “Your mother?” she says, looking at Kelly, who is beside Harry on the doorstep. “What’s her name?”

  “Judy Bakewell,” Kelly tells her, and there is a blink of recognition in the woman’s sunken eyes.

  “Oh, yes, Judy. I wouldn’t have remembered her surname, but I remember her, all right. How is she? I mean, is she still ...?”

  Kelly starts to tell her, but then they are ushered inside with apologies for keeping them on the doorstep. The rest of the story has to wait whilst Hilda makes tea and shuffles back and forth, carrying in one cup at a time.

  “I can’t carry a tray any more,” she says, holding out her hands to demonstrate the thinness of her fingers and wrists, and her tremor. “Actually, there’s a lot of things I can’t do these days, but I’ve still got all my marbles, so I suppose I should be pleased about that.”

  More apologies follow as Laura picks up the story and explains about Judy’s rapid decline, but then Hilda starts to talk about Linda. It is clearly true, what Harry had said, as she barely pauses for twenty minutes. She tells them all about the last time she saw her daughter and what had happened in the weeks following the disappearance.

  “It was so frustrating,” she says, replacing her cup on its saucer with a clatter. “To begin with, there was such a lot of activity – posters going up all over the place, articles in the newspapers, people in and out of the house at all hours. It felt like something would have to happen. Somebody must have seen something, somebody must know. But everything drew a blank. No-one could remember whether they’d actually seen her on that day, or at least, for everyone who said they had, there was another who said they hadn’t. The man over the road saw her coming out of the house, but that was it.”

  “That must have been awful,” says Laura. Guilt is still wrenching her insides, together with another feeling which transposes herself into that situation – a teenaged version of Lily on the posters – and that is making her tearful.

  “It was, my dear, it was. But then it got worse, because tongues started wagging. You see, Linda was a very pretty girl – you can see that.” She looks across at the mantelpiece, crammed with photographs. “She was just like any other pretty girl. She liked the boys and the boys liked her. There hadn’t been anything serious, but there were quite a few of them, and people started saying she’d probably run away with someone. A lot of local boys were pulled in and interviewed, and of course their parents didn’t like that. So then the word was that she’d met someone in London. There was no evidence for it. Having said that, I’m pretty sure she was involved with someone at that time as she had that look about her, kind of glowing and she was often late back in the evening. But I can’t see how it could have been that serious. She would’ve told me. We were close, very close. Almost like sisters.”

  More than forty years on and she still gets a lump in her throat, thinks Laura, watching as the old woman composes herself. She must have told this story hundreds of times, but it still hurts, even if there is some comfort in memories. It’s true what they say: you never get over the death of a child. And this is as bad as a death, possibly even worse. She’s never arranged a funeral, she has no grave to lay flowers on, no memorial to visit on her child’s birthday. She has had four decades and more of limbo. It’s no wonder she looks so thin.

  Laura looks at the photographs. Linda as a chubby-faced toddler, as a baby in a wicker crib smiling and waving her arms, and then through childhood into a strikingly pretty young woman. She has long, wavy hair almost reaching to her waist, large dark eyes and a good figure. She looks confident and self-assured, laughing and looking directly at the camera, aware of her own attractiveness. What happened to you, thinks Laura with a sigh. She is trying to picture her walking down the street that day, as if the answer will pop into her head, when she becomes aware that Hilda is still speaking.

  “... And that’s when I found the notebook. It was hidden under her mattress and it was full of all sorts of things. I couldn’t make much sense of it, but your mother was mentioned and I knew they’d been friends for a bit. It said she’d attracted a viper. I thought that mu
st be important – surely it meant somebody dangerous – so I went to the police but they said it wasn’t enough to go on. Most of it was just the sort of things young girls think about and I don’t think they took it seriously. So I decided to go and see Judy, your mother. I knew it was a long shot, but I thought it was worth a try. I showed it to her but she said she couldn’t make head nor tail of it any more than I could, nor the police.”

  She pauses, takes a sip of her tea. Nobody says a word and she looks around at the expectant faces around her before continuing.

  “I have to say that I thought she was a very nice young girl, very polite, and her parents … your grandparents. Are they still alive? No? I’m sorry to hear that. They were very kind to me, and they sent me a lovely card with their best wishes about a week later. I still have it somewhere, with all the others. I never throw anything away, as I always think – well, I always thought – when she comes back I’ll show her all this. I stopped thinking that after a while. You have to, or you drive yourself mad, but I couldn’t get rid of it. Boxes and boxes of stuff, all in the attic. Now that will be a job for someone when I’m gone!”

  Hilda gives a hollow little laugh and there is an awkward moment when nobody knows what to say. Laura suspects that they are all transfixed by the mental image of an attic stacked with Linda’s possessions – and worse still, boxes of letters and cards, some probably from strangers, hoping she would return soon. It will all end up at the tip, its significance blown away like dandelion seeds in the wind, at the moment of Hilda’s passing.

  This seems like the time to make their excuses and go, so Kelly rises and starts to stack the cups and saucers, but Hilda gives herself a little shake and continues.

  “She did the right thing in the end, you know, your mother.” She pauses whilst Kelly puts the cups back on the table and sits down. “It was a lot later, possibly too late, we’ll never know now, but there was a suspect and the police did follow it up. All came to nothing, of course. I was angry at the time, very angry, but she was just a girl and there was no point in hating her. Suppose it had been the other way round? Would your grandparents have spent the rest of their lives hating my Linda?”