by Lisa Gordon
“Did Mum remember exactly what happened?” pressed Gaby gently.
“Well,” said Aunt Pen frowning, “not everything. She was very confused. She said it had happened so fast and that it was hard to recall the exact sequence of events.”
“What did the lifeguards say? Why do you think they failed to see Alison?”
Aunt Pen responded immediately: “According to your father, the sea was very choppy that day and the lifeguards had been busier than usual rescuing swimmers who got into trouble. The coastguard explained that things happen very fast in the sea: one minute Alison may have felt quite safe; the next she may have been quite out of her depth. She may have been stunned or winded by a strong wave and quickly swept out to sea. It all happened very quickly.”
Gaby listened with interest. “Clinton was swimming. Why didn’t he notice where Alison was? Wouldn’t he have been swimming with her?”
“Poor Clint was devastated,” recalled Aunt Pen. “He was frantic when she went missing apparently. Clint was watching out for you, which was why he lost track of Alison. He was always such a protective brother.” Gaby’s blood ran ice-cold as she listened to what was a calculated lie; she knew Clinton had had no idea where she was. Gaby felt a chill run through her as she contemplated what a skilful actor and manipulator Clinton had been all these years. The proverbial wool had been firmly pulled over everyone’s eyes.
“What about Mum and Dad? Why did they let us swim alone, unsupervised, if the sea was so rough that day?” This was a question Gaby had feared asking as she did not want to offend the memory of her mother with such a critical question.
Aunt Pen sighed. “Well, I believe Meagan was throwing a strop on the beach. Your folks were both very flustered trying to calm her and they didn’t realise where you three were.” She paused, looking Gaby in the eye. “Let me be totally honest with you, Gaby. Your folks were extremely loving and well meaning, but they were also the pioneers of what we call today the ‘have-it-all generation’. They wanted the big family and the high-powered jobs and all the trappings that went with it. It was a lot to juggle and sometimes a ball got dropped. You know what I am saying …” Gaby nodded without interrupting. “Our mother used to say that your mum got the brains and I got the common sense and it was pretty true. Your parents were highly intelligent, successful barristers, but they were not practical people. So when you ask why they were not watching you kids on the beach — that is the kind of sensible, practical thing that often escaped their attention.”
Gaby mentally painted the picture once more and it made sense. Her aunt was not yet finished though, and there was clearly more she felt she needed to say. “Your mother was devastated, Gaby. She could not cope with the feeling of injustice, of the why. She kept asking: Why Alison? How could God take away a child with so much potential, so much to offer?” Alison had proved to be extraordinarily talented, intelligent and she was so outgoing — a beautiful child. Alison could have been anything. Where was the sense in it? As you know, your mother and I had a strict Christian upbringing, but after that she lost complete faith in God, in life. She hated God and failed to see the point in life; she said it was a random, stupid existence. She said there was no divine justice. She lost her will to live and she quickly went downhill.”
Gaby detected an odd emotion stirring within her, something akin to anger; she questioned why her mother had thought that she should be exempt from the tragedy, injustice and pain that no human being was immune to. To Gaby’s mind, anguish, despair and suffering were so synonymous with life on earth that she had often pondered why people had the need to believe in a place called hell. And what about her other three children, didn’t she love us as much?
Aunt Pen rose to refill the kettle and Gaby’s spirits rallied for an instant as she remembered that Aunt Pen’s answer to any crisis was a pot of tea. She mused that should her aunt have a say, the UN would be replaced by Twinings Tea Company.
The tyres of her car crunched over the gravel driveway of 21 Warwick Road, Solihull — her family home. Usually it was familiar and welcoming, but today the sight of the three-storey red-brick Victorian mansion brought on an unfamiliar mix of vexatious emotions. The sun was now shining; however, the tall, densely leaved chestnut trees shaded the front of the house. Remaining focused and disallowing the rupture of any emotion, Gaby made her way purposefully up the stone steps and rang the doorbell. Anne, Gaby’s stepmother, answered within a minute and was delighted to welcome Gaby inside. Gaby explained that a school reunion had sparked a thirst for school memorabilia and old photographs, and she was eager to peruse the collection of family albums stored in the loft. Gaby regretted her abruptness, but she was intent on avoiding another session of tea and trivial chatter; she feared her composure would not hold. However troubling the evidence she may uncover within the old photographs might prove to be, she needed to find out whatever she could and as soon as she could. After months of tormented self-questioning, she had uncovered a thread and her drive to pull on that thread was overwhelming — she could not stop herself, no matter what she unravelled in the process.
Feeling rather snubbed, Anne retreated to the garden while Gaby raced up the three flights of stairs propelled by an increase in nervous energy. On the second floor, she used the extension pole to unclip the trapdoor which led to the loft; the collapsible ladder slid down to the floor and she climbed up into the dark abyss. The sunshine that day had warmed the loft considerably and the atmosphere inside was humid and sticky. Gaby flicked the light switch to her right, and a tidy yet dusty array of boxes and old soft furnishings appeared. Gaby knew exactly where all the old school magazines and photographs were; she had been responsible for their methodical and careful cataloguing and storing. Gaby also knew that within the family albums were photographs of all the usual ‘happy’ events that had been celebrated — 18th and 21st birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, graduations. If Clinton had ever been dating Sally Corbett, she was sure to feature in the albums somewhere. But who was Sally Corbett? Gaby recalled her only vaguely. She hurriedly unstacked the boxes and ripped off the masking tape sealing the box marked 1998, her final year at school. Her high-school magazine was a third of the way down. Gaby found herself a place to sit, closer to the light, and began to page through the back of magazine where the Form VI class photos were, eyeballing each in search of the girl Emma had described as a “blonde Diana Ross”. She soon found Sally, a tall, slender girl with a narrow face, bright blue eyes and the trademark hair. Setting the magazine to one side, she went in search of some family albums. As she was not sure during which time frame Clinton had dated Sally, she selected albums at random. As she flicked through them, it seemed as if dozens of Clinton’s blonde girlfriends were staring off the pages up at her. By the fourth album, Gaby was beginning to think she had missed Sally or that perhaps (hopefully) Emma had been mistaken about Clinton’s relationship with her. Gaby suddenly felt a mild sensation of relief as she told herself it had all been gossip, hearsay, schoolyard tales; I bet Clint never even knew Sally, she thought. Gaby’s tension was beginning to abate; how silly she had been and what an outrageous overreaction she had had. Of course Clinton was not linked to the death of some former classmate; suddenly it all seemed too ridiculous to even contemplate. She felt almost ashamed about the thoughts she had been harbouring. Gaby was about to set the albums aside, thinking she could do with a cup of tea and a chat with Anne to bring her back to reality. That silly Emma and her ill-conceived game muttered Gaby, shaking her head. She flicked causally through the final pages of the year marked 1997, which featured Meagan’s 18th birthday party at the Polo Club. What a night it had been, she thought nostalgically.
“What?” gasped Gaby suddenly, blood immediately flowing from her head, her hands trembling as she squinted at the album. There it was: a beaming Clinton with his arm around a radiant Sally.
Gaby tried to focus on the image, willing herself to connect with Sally in some way; if only she could remember things ab
out Clinton better. The photograph began to blur and the page of the album started to melt into a blotchy collage before her eyes. She looked up and tried to take a deep breath, but it was impossible for her to fill her lungs with the fresh air she needed in the clammy, muggy atmosphere of the loft. Gaby could feel strands of hair adhering to the perspiration gathering at the back of her neck; she reached over to her handbag and searched for a clip, then twisted her hair up, securing it and hoping it would help her to feel cooler. She tried to calm herself by breathing deeply again and for the first time in her existence, she understood why people resorted to cigarettes.
“Frizbee!” Gaby could hear Anne shouting to the family German Shepherd outside in the garden. Gaby’s world had been rocked on its axis. She thought back to the reunion, which had been fewer than twenty-four hours before. She again wondered why she was paying such attention to her drug-induced hallucination; perhaps it was merely the desperate meanderings of a depressed mind. Was she so eager for an explanation to her nightmares that she was willing to accept this appalling scenario as the truth? Gaby knew, however, that it was not merely an hallucination: it was a memory and, what’s more, it felt right. Gaby had always navigated her life with logic and reason and had never been swayed by gut feel or anything instinctual, but for the first time ever, the feeling within her, within her heart, was so strong and so tangible that it was impossible to ignore — or rather impossible not to believe.
She placed the album marked 1997 back in its box and set about scanning the other albums again. She knew that there was another face which had tugged on a memory strand. Before long, she found her: a fresh-faced girl with a wide smile and short, bobbed honey-blonde hair. She featured repeatedly alongside Clinton in the family albums from 1999 to 2001. Gaby racked her brains; yes, she did know the girl’s name … Melanie, no … Melinda, no … Aha! Melissa. Yes, it was Melissa and her surname was something funny … that’s it … Broom-something. Yes, Broomhead, Melissa Broomhead. Gaby was sure that Melissa had been at school with her and Meagan, and she was hoping that she was correct. She stumbled among the old boxes searching for her St Anne’s school magazines again. Clinton had attended St Chad’s, the brother school of St Anne’s, and since there were many joint social events held each year, it made sense that he would meet girls from St Anne’s whom he may have dated at some point. Sally had been a more introverted pupil, but Melissa was easy to find: she was on the hockey and squash teams and had been a student councillor. Gaby was banking on finding a reference to Melissa in the ‘What they are doing now?’ section at the back of the school magazine. The two magazines following Melissa’s final year showed no reference to her. In fact, they held very little reference to anyone at all; it was apparent that whoever had been in charge of the page had either found little of interest to report or simply had not bothered; nevertheless, Gaby pressed on with intent and in the third magazine, found a full page of follow-ups on previous students, including one mentioning Meagan’s First Class degree at Leeds. More germane, however, was the segment on Melissa.
Melissa Broomhead (1996), former Head of Karney House, Captain of the First Hockey team and Student Councillor, is studying English at Bristol University after spending her gap year teaching in Kyrgyzstan. She plays for the Bristol University Hockey Team and is Secretary of the Student Union.
Magazine in hand, Gaby found herself climbing down the ladder and careering down the staircase, almost stumbling and falling as her shaky legs threatened to give way. Once on the ground floor, Gaby made her way to the large French doors opening on to the patio. She could see Anne at the edge of the rockery eradicating some weeds. Remaining inside the house she called out: “Anne, do you mind if I use your PC to go on the Net? I want to go on ‘Friends Reunited’.” Anne waved her approval with a muddy trowel as Gaby had anticipated. Anne had her own computer as Gaby’s father could not abide people in his office, let alone using his PC.
Anne’s laptop was in the small room on the first floor that had once been the bedroom in which Sylwia, their childhood confidante and carer, had slept. It was tucked away and would afford Gaby the privacy she needed. Gaby immediately went to the Bristol University website, scrolling quickly to Alumni. After working her way through some useless cyber pages, she found that she could go no further without a password, which, not being a former student of that university, she could not obtain. Undeterred, she typed ‘Melissa Broomhead’ into the search box and found herself shouting “Yes!” when an archive article from a student newsletter popped up. The article was quite long and involved; however, it did include the pivotal information Gaby sought: Melissa, at the date of the article, was working for a leading advertising agency in London.
Fumbling in her bag for her mobile, Gaby rang ‘Enquiries’ and within a minute, was on the phone to the agency. The phone rang and rang, echoing hopelessly through a web of microwave links and signals. Suddenly, Gaby sighed and flicked the phone off, realising it was Saturday afternoon. She looked at her phone with frustration and noted for the first time that there were three text messages and two voicemails: Piers, of course, still seething from her sudden, weakly explained departure that morning. She dropped the phone into her bag; how could she even try to explain this to Piers?
She flicked back to the homepage of the ad agency’s website and directed the cursor to the ‘Who are we?’ icon. After a short wait, a page full of photographs and bio’s of the most eminent members of the agency appeared. Gaby selected the partners and members of staff with the most unusual names and wrote them down. She then navigated to 192.com and proceeded to search for phone numbers. She was impeded by the fact that several partners and members of staff were ex-directory and others did not live in London or the obvious commuter belt suburbs. On her sixth attempt, she struck gold:
Jocelyn DeVillepain — 125 Finchley Road, Swiss Cottage, NW3 0FD 020-7654 3298.
Something she could not explain had taken over her — an autopilot which would not allow the dread she felt inside to impede her quest for answers. She could not rewind, she could not erase; she had to play it forward and prove or hopefully disprove her hypothesis.
Having no regard for the impertinence of her actions, Gaby rang the number.
“Hello,” said a rather distinguished older male voice.
“Hello there,” greeted Gaby perkily. “My name is Gaby. May I speak to Jocelyn please?”
“She is rather busy at the moment; is she expecting your call?” asked the man curtly.
“I am afraid she is not expecting my call, but I would greatly appreciate two minutes of her time,” said Gaby, reverting to her BWH solicitor’s voice.
“What did you say your full name was?” asked the voice with growing impatience.
“Gabriella Harvey.”
“Please hold.” Gaby heard the sound of the phone being placed on a hard surface and footsteps. Seconds later, there were muffled voices, then the return of the footsteps. “I am sorry, she is very busy. Can you tell me what this is in connection with?” he demanded.
“Okay. It’s about a friend of mine who works at D,V&E, Melissa Broomhead,” said Gaby in a serious tone, adding, “I really apologise for disturbing you both on a Saturday, but it’s urgent.”
“Please hold.” This time it sounded as if he was carrying the phone with him. The line went dead and Gaby presumed he had pressed the privacy button. Three agonising minutes went by, every second of which was accentuated by Gaby’s thudding heart. She began to anticipate a hostile response if and when the line reopened.
“Hello?” was the slightly quizzical and concerned greeting from Jocelyn.
Gaby was relieved and began with an apology, “I really am sorry to have bothered you ...”
She was cut short by Jocelyn, who interrupted impatiently, “Who are you exactly and what do you want to know about Melissa?”
“I am an old friend of Melissa’s; we were both at Bristol and also taught in Kyrgyzstan together,” lied Gaby. “Uhm, I’ve been living
and teaching in Zambia for several years and I lost touch with Melissa and I am trying to trace her. All her numbers and addresses seem to have changed. Forgive me, but I thought you might be able to help.” Gaby hoped that the facts she had thrown in would add an element of believability. The ensuing silence was filled only by Gaby’s thudding heart. Eventually Jocelyn spoke, “I am very sorry to have to tell you this, Gabriella, but Melissa died some years ago.”
“Oh my God! What happened?” exclaimed Gaby. Although the surprise in her voice was somewhat exaggerated, the horrifying tremor she felt inside was very real.
“It was some years ago, maybe four or five,“ replied Jocelyn, choosing her words carefully. “She died while on holiday on Vancouver Island. We believe she fell, hit her head and drowned. I am very sorry to be the one to break this to you. There is not much more I can tell you.”
“Yes, I understand. I really appreciate your taking the time to talk to me. It’s awful news.” Gaby thanked Jocelyn once again and ended the conversation.
If there was any durable rule which Gaby stuck to within her work as a lawyer, it was that any coincidence was to be regarded with suspicion and this was the most remarkable coincidence she had ever come across. Her investigations were only just beginning. She reached under the desk and withdrew a telephone directory. She had noticed from the school magazines that both Melissa and Sally had been day-girls as opposed to borders and thus had probably lived within the Solihull or Warwickshire areas. There were no Broomheads listed; however, there were four Corbetts in the directory. Several phone calls eliminated three of the Corbetts: one was a young student; the second were Australians; and the third a retired couple too elderly to fit the bill of Sally’s parents. Although there was no guarantee that the fourth Corbett listed was any relation to Sally, Gaby wrote the address down.