In the kitchen, I poured a glass of red wine and drank half of it in one gulp. I thought of Rita taking things over, and the people who’d wanted to talk, and of Martha in the graveyard. Seeing her had been the biggest shock. That blast of memory. Her awful mother. What had happened to her?
I finished my wine and poured myself another. Sipped and tasted plums. The purple fruit we ate in the garden. Damsons too. Colours and tastes. The red of Gabriella’s lipstick. The yellow of her dress.
Three days. That was the longest I’d stayed whenever I’d visited my mother, and I’d kept indoors. Quick visits, avoiding people and places in the village. Any longer and the past would start rolling in like a carpet of thorns, inviting me to tread across it, searching for answers that never came. Already it was happening. I felt the spikes of memory stabbing at my skin.
I made an instant resolution. I’d explain to Rita. I had urgent things to deal with in Athens. The House of Flores and everything else would have to wait. Maybe Rita would offer to help and I’d pay her to sort things out.
Three or four days. And I’d go.
I nodded to convince myself. Drank more wine. Tried to ignore the voice inside my head. Challenging my thoughts. Telling me that no matter how often I thought I could resist the call, no matter how much I berated myself for considering it again, I would never stop asking the same questions that had haunted my whole life.
4
1982
‘Where have you been?’ Mum demanded, hands on hips.
‘The House of Flores,’ we said simultaneously, not daring to say we’d been roaming the village after that. Mum liked to know where we were. I imagined her charting our progress through the day, like a general moving troops across a board.
‘Well,’ she tutted. ‘Your father should know better than to keep you so late.’
She would have gone on if Rita hadn’t been there, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea. Like us, Rita’s family owned a shop – the butcher’s on the High Street. She had a habit of bringing gifts – crime books for Mum and leftover meat. Offal was her favourite and today she’d brought a parcel of liver for our tea.
Now she winked through her green wing-tipped glasses and asked us how we were getting on at school. She always asked the same question. We always gave the same answer. ‘Fine, thank you very much.’ It usually put an end to anything else.
‘Flour,’ said Mum, getting out a nearly empty packet. ‘We need flour to fry the liver.’
I groaned inwardly. Why did Rita feel the need to bring offal? It wasn’t as if she ever ate it with us. She’d watch Mum cook and then she’d go home. I imagined her in one of her pleated skirts and perfectly matching blouses, tucking in to prawn cocktail and steak and chips, while we chewed tasteless strips of liver. It wasn’t fair.
Gabriella sauntered out the room. ‘Not too loud,’ Mum called after her. A moment later, Siouxsie and the Banshees pounded through the ceiling.
I was about to follow, when Mum collared me. ‘Anna,’ she said. ‘I need you to buy flour.’
‘Do I have to?’
‘Yes.’ She grabbed her purse and handed me a pound note. ‘Plain flour. And bring back the change.’
Making a face, I stomped off. This was injustice. Why did I always have to go on errands? Not only that . . . How could Mum tick me off for being late and then send me to face the dangers she was worried about?
As if to prove my point, a gang of boys were hanging around outside the phone box, smoking and sharing stubs. My heart beat faster as I passed, but they didn’t call out like some of the boys in the village did and, when I glanced across at their ripped-up clothes and spiky hair, I guessed they were Gabriella’s friends.
Three bulky women huddled by the shop door, handbags hoisted into the crooks of their arms. I dodged around them and headed for a shelf at the back. No plain flour. There was self-raising. Would that do? While I was considering, the women lowered their voices. I took a step towards them and listened.
Vandals had set fire to the railway bank. A boy had nearly died playing chicken on the line. A neighbour’s son had been caught shoplifting in the off-licence: a can of Red Stripe and a packet of Discos.
I yawned. Not much of a story.
‘Not much of a mother,’ said one of the women.
I chose a bag of flour and heard the words Lemon Tree Cottage. Recognising the nasal tone, I looked across. It was Mrs Henderson, our next-door neighbour, her mean face eager with news. The woman was like an empty bottle of vinegar, that was what Mum said – sour-smelling and you could see right through her.
‘His name’s Edward Lily,’ she announced. ‘He’s English. The wife was Spanish.’ She paused. ‘Killed herself.’ A gasp. I moved a step closer, picked up a packet of custard powder and examined the label intensely. ‘They say she was mad.’
So that part was right.
‘And the daughter’s much the same.’
The figure at the window.
‘Daughter?’ said the third woman. ‘I heard it was his new wife.’
‘Daughter,’ said Mrs Henderson firmly. She didn’t like to be contradicted. ‘Lydia.’
A man came into the shop and the women stopped their conversation. I took the flour to the till and while Mrs Bloom was ringing it up, Martha Ellis, a girl in Gabriella’s year, sidled in. She wore a thin dress and a drab cardigan. Her sandals were scuffed, her hair limp around her shoulders. I gave a grimace of recognition and concentrated on opening my purse and handing over the note.
Martha lived on Acer Street in a semi-detached house with a pebble-dash front and pots of flowers in the garden. I used to see her sometimes sitting on the doorstep with her school bag propped against her knees. Other times she’d be trailing after girls in the playground until they told her to get lost. Martha was like that, always going after people, not caring whether they wanted her or not.
I took my change, pushed my glasses firmly onto my nose, gave Martha one more grimace and a wide berth, and left the shop.
At home, Dad was back. Siouxsie was still thudding through the ceiling and was competing with the radio. A newsreader was commenting on the end of the Falklands War, but when Mrs Thatcher spoke, Dad leaned across and switched it off. ‘That’s enough of that,’ he said, heading to the fridge and pulling out a bottle of milk. Piercing the top, he drank straight from the bottle.
I handed the flour to Mum who didn’t notice that I’d bought the wrong thing. She shook it onto a plate, seasoned and coated the liver pieces and heated up the oil, before throwing in chopped onions and the liver. Soon the meaty smell curled around the kitchen. Sitting at the table, I wrinkled my nose and pinched it shut.
And still Mum was going on about us being late, banging down a saucepan on the stove, chuffing like an engine. Dad rolled up his sleeves and waited until the steam had evaporated. He was like that – as calm as Mum was fiery. ‘You’d think it was her that had the Latin blood,’ he said. ‘Not me.’
Jasper appeared, sidling through the half-open back door. He wound himself around the legs of my chair and I smoothed his tawny fur. I wished I was as silent as a cat. It would be easier to listen in, to find out all the things I wanted to know.
Dad had the newspaper and was scanning the headlines, reading out interesting snippets. Mum was yelling to Gabriella that tea was ready while Rita, who was off to a murder mystery at the local stately home, slipped on a coat with a collar that looked like a dead rabbit. She promised to come back the next day with news of who’d done it and a packet of kidneys for our tea. ‘Or a pig’s heart if you’re lucky.’
Gabriella appeared. ‘Christ,’ she said, sitting down and prodding the meat with her fork. ‘Do we have to have this?’
‘Don’t blaspheme, and yes, we do,’ said Mum. ‘It’s full of iron.’
‘Yeah,’ said Gabriella, picking it up. ‘Feels like it.’
‘No need to be rude,’ said Dad, flicking out his serviette and tucking it into his shirt. ‘Remember. You
’re lucky to have anything.’ His voice was firm, but his eyes crinkled like they always did when he didn’t mean what he said.
‘Eat,’ said Mum, looking at me even though I hadn’t spoken. ‘You too, Anna.’
I cut a tiny piece of liver and stuck it in my mouth, while Gabriella dropped a slither down to Jasper. I grinned, waiting for my chance, keeping one eye on Mum who was eating her food with a solid determination and the other on Dad who was shovelling it in.
After Dad had finished, he fetched a can of beer and talked about the house that he was clearing. It had belonged to a rich old lady on the outskirts of the village. ‘There’s a library with books stacked ceiling to floor,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘First editions galore. And a gramophone collection. You should see it.’
‘Sounds like a lot of work,’ said Mum, frowning.
Dad shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But time is limited. Apparently, the son wants the house on the market as soon as possible. And that reminds me. I heard Lemon Tree Cottage has a new owner.’
‘Is that so? They must be brave. That place has been empty for years. I wonder who it is.’ I was about to tell them, when Mum clattered her knife and fork onto her plate and cast a long and significant look at mine. I took the hint and carved into the liver. And while Mum sorted out the rice pudding, I fed a chunk to Jasper.
‘Talking of music,’ said Gabriella, pushing away her plate and getting up.
‘Who was talking about music?’ said Dad. ‘Gramophones. That’s music, isn’t it?’
He laughed as she moved behind his chair and dangled her arms over his shoulders. I narrowed my eyes. What was she after?
‘There’s a concert. At Top Rank.’
‘Ah,’ said Dad, taking both her hands.
Mum looked up from the floor where she knelt, hauling out the pudding from the oven. ‘You’re not going,’ she said. ‘You’re too young.’
‘But everyone’s going. Bernadette’s mum says she’ll take us and we’ve only got to find someone to pick us up.’ Gabriella paused. ‘Dad?’
He looked across at Mum who was peeling off the foil from the dish. ‘Esther?’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t—’
‘I said no. She’s too young.’
‘But it’s not fair. Everyone else is going.’
‘I doubt that very much,’ said Mum, reaching in the cupboard for bowls. ‘But I don’t mind phoning around to check.’
Gabriella made a face. We all knew that it was only Bernadette who was allowed to do what she liked.
‘Never mind,’ said Dad. ‘How about a Dad-and-eldest-daughter day instead. Trip to the flicks and a Wimpy?’
Envy prickled and I looked across at Mum to see how she’d taken it, but she had a funny expression on her face, a cross between disapproval and pleasure, and suddenly I felt left out, as if I was on the edge of my family looking in. It took a moment for the emotion to wash through me and then I shut it away, and let my thoughts drift across the day instead: the face with the cloud of hair in the window; back to the boys in the playground; onward again to the man who’d stared at Gabriella.
Next time I spied on Lemon Tree Cottage I’d go on my own. People were always looking at my sister. All kinds of men and boys. Just because she was beautiful didn’t mean she was theirs.
Then I remembered how dark the cottage had been. What would it be like at night? Those shadows in the ragged garden and the jackdaws next door pecking at the roof. Imagine living there. Anything could happen and nobody would know. I shivered and held a final piece of liver down to Jasper who nipped my fingers as he snatched it away.
5
The bell jangled as the door pushed open and letters and papers shunted across the floor. Stepping forward, I closed myself in. The darkness fell about me like a shroud.
The House of Flores: a grandiose name for a secondhand shop. Dad had chosen it, proud of the business he’d built from scratch. He’d been eighteen when he’d begun, saving for a rusty van to transfer people’s rubbish to the dump.
Now the place smelled of dust, closed-up rooms and the faintest whiff of tobacco. It smelled of my father and my sister; of lost dreams and grief. I drew up the blind on the door and the light pooled in. The place was cluttered as it always was; the walls a mosaic of paintings, hung haphazardly, with no attention to theme. The Modigliani was still there. Unsold. The girl with the almond eyes. For a moment the air shivered as my sister pirouetted past. I conjured her face and she was laughing as she danced, and Dad, watching from the counter, was cleaning an oil lamp with the greatest precision, treating it like a chalice.
Facing up to ghosts and demons and all the other hangers-on was the best way to exorcise them. So I tried it, gazing deliberately at every part of the shop: the counter with its out-of-date computer and out-of-date phone; the door that led to the back room; the antique-looking chairs stacked against the wall; the elaborate tables littering the carpet; the stuffed animals and gilt-edged mirrors. And the window displays with their dusty pieces of pottery and glass, tarnished silverware, cracked lamps and candlesticks. It was like being in a church or a crypt, and had the same stillness and hush.
Afterwards, I picked up the letters and placed them on the counter. I chose an envelope at random. And then I felt worse. It was an electricity bill. Red. Did that mean we’d be cut off? We. What was I talking about? There was no we. There was only me. I dragged out my reading glasses and ripped open more post and made piles: bills, junk, payments from clients.
A red and white mini stopped outside. Rita squeezed out and strode to the door. She looked ready for work and I had a sudden fear she was expecting me to open the shop, business as usual. ‘Morning,’ she said, coming in. ‘Did you sleep well?’ And before I answered, she grimaced, saying, ‘Of course you didn’t. Stupid question.’
Rita was the kind of person who’d camp on the sofa if she thought she was needed, so I told her I’d slept fine.
She seemed satisfied and turned to the post on the counter. ‘Martin and Martin,’ she said, tapping her fingers on the pile. ‘That’s who you want. Solicitors on the High Street.’
I felt the yoke of responsibility tighten: the will, the house, the shop and all its contents. How would I manage? The disarray, the sheer volume of stuff was colossal. I yearned for my simple flat in Athens, my uncomplicated job teaching English. The people who knew nothing about my past. Three or four days, I repeated in my head.
‘In any event,’ said Rita, picking up an envelope and turning it round in her hands, ‘I thought I should tell you.’ She stopped and frowned, glanced across and away before continuing. ‘How things stand.’
‘I have work in Athens,’ I said quickly. ‘Students. And a flat. I need to get back there. There’s no question of my living in the village and keeping the shop open. No question at all. I’m definitely selling. In fact, I was wondering—’
‘Of course,’ she said, interrupting. ‘I knew you’d say that. No. I was thinking more about . . .’ There was a nervousness to her voice I hadn’t heard before. ‘The house clearance.’ She put down the envelope and walked to the window.
‘House clearance?’
There was a pause. ‘Edward Lily.’
The light outside dropped. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Edward Lily,’ she repeated, leaning forward to pick up a vase from the display. ‘His things are due here in a few days.’ She turned to face me, her expression at once apologetic and guilty. ‘He died, you see, a few months before your mother. His solicitor asked for the contents of Lemon Tree Cottage to come here. Edward Lily’s sister is dealing with it, apparently, although our point of contact is Martin and Martin. I believe she’s picked out most of the things she wants and now the rest will be dealt with . . . by us. It seems your mother had already agreed it with Edward Lily. Before he died, I mean.’ She stopped. ‘Are you all right?’ She looked worried now, behind her glasses.
I shook my head. No, I wasn’t all right. Edward Lily. Another name from the past. And,
like Tom, another man investigated for my sister’s disappearance. I’d been obsessed with Edward Lily for a while, spying on his house, his daughter. I’d even broken in one time. And Mum. She’d known he was a suspect. Why would she have taken his house clearance on? Why would she have wanted to relive those memories, because surely that’s what would have happened, if she’d delved through his possessions? Besides, she’d always hated house clearances because they’d taken so much of Dad’s time.
Rita was looking at me, waiting for an answer. ‘I can’t understand why Mum would have accepted this,’ I said finally. ‘And anyway, I’d assumed I’d be scaling down the House of Flores, not taking more work on.’
Rita gave a rueful smile that, despite everything, made me feel guilty. ‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘I understand.’
I frowned, thinking back. Edward Lily had left the village a year after Gabriella had disappeared. Or had it been eighteen months? In any event, I hadn’t known he’d returned. ‘I thought Lemon Tree Cottage was empty,’ I said, voicing my thoughts.
‘Edward Lily moved away,’ said Rita. ‘But he never sold or emptied the cottage. He came back, about a year ago, to live there permanently.’ She paused and fiddled with the vase. ‘Look. I know it’s a lot to ask, but it was something your mother wanted to do, and, well, I promised I’d help her.’
‘But I can’t understand why she cared.’ I stared hopelessly at a broken grandfather clock as if it might speed up my understanding. The shop was full of broken things. What was I supposed to do with them all? And knowing what a house clearance was like, it would take far more than three or four days to complete. I could be stuck in the village for weeks.
Now was the time to ask Rita if she’d consider taking payment to oversee the whole thing, but she was staring back at me, her lips parted as if she was holding her breath, waiting for my answer. I doubted she’d say yes. And then it occurred to me, if my mother had accepted the clearance, the least I could do was to honour her wish. Rita obviously thought it was important. I spoke cautiously. ‘I suppose if Mum agreed . . .’
The Missing Girl Page 3