The Missing Girl

by Jenny Quintana

  He started on about the clearance again, predicting how long it would take to finish, offering advice and extra help, from him and his lads. He had plenty of contacts, he told me, and more importantly a van. ‘A man with a van,’ he said, finishing his coffee, ‘can shift anything.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Fancy a drink?’

  For a moment I was taken aback. ‘It’s a bit early,’ I said.

  He grinned. ‘It’s never too early.’

  What was I supposed to say since I pretty much thought the same? Casting about for a proper excuse, I told him I’d been planning to go to the library. It was partly true since my intention was to go there in the next day or two to use their Wi-Fi. Why not bring it forward?

  He waved his hand in dismissal. ‘Library? Pub? Is there a contest?’

  I gave a smile. ‘Maybe another time.’

  He didn’t move, only smoothed out the paper bag and folded it into squares. ‘I’d like that,’ he said finally.

  And suddenly I realised I’d like that too.

  After he’d gone I sat for a few more minutes gazing out at the passers-by. An old man trudging along, hands in the pockets of his greatcoat. A couple of teenage girls, arm in arm and giggling as they passed. A boy. Moody. Kicking at the pavement. A never-ceasing stream of people. It was endless. Perpetual. Eternal. I smiled at the answer to David’s crossword clue. And then I saddened: so many people; so many different lives. No wonder some of them went missing.

  12

  1982

  The image of the guinea pig stuck in my head. At teatime, I gazed at the slices of tongue on my plate and asked to be excused. Mum let me go without question. She and Dad were quiet, so I guessed their problem hadn’t been resolved.

  I slept badly, waking several times through the night, each time remembering the broken, bloodied body. I lay in the darkness, desperate to go into Gabriella’s room to tell her what I’d seen, but each time I convinced myself to confess, I thought of her slow, reproachful gaze and her words: Don’t you feel sorry for anyone?

  The next morning, when I went downstairs, Gabriella was still in bed. Mum was in the kitchen on her hands and knees, scrubbing the oven. She’d already scoured the racks that now stood gleaming on the draining board and I noticed she’d emptied out a cupboard of pots and pans ready to be cleaned.

  ‘Can we go into town today?’ I asked, trying to be casual and taking a piece of cold toast from the rack.

  Mum pulled her head from the oven and wrung out a cloth in a bucket of soapy water. She pulled at the fingers of her Marigolds with a plop and, ignoring my question, asked me to sit down.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to have a word,’ she said.

  I had a vision of the dead guinea pig and my stomach clenched.

  ‘It’s only . . .’ Mum stopped. Maybe I should confess before she spoke again. ‘She’s of a certain age.’

  I stared at her. ‘Who?’

  ‘Gabriella.’ She tugged a lock of her hair. ‘She’s of a certain age when she does things.’

  ‘What things?’ Now I was certain she wasn’t talking about the guinea pig, I took a bite of toast.

  Mum spoke rapidly. ‘Look, Anna. I’m worried about your sister. I think she might be doing things that we – me and your father – might not like.’

  I couldn’t think of anything Gabriella had done wrong – apart from smoking. Had they found out about that?

  ‘Can you help me, Anna?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Let me know if you see her talking to anyone . . . I mean, anyone we don’t know.’ She smiled brightly. ‘Is that all right?’

  I opened my mouth to say that it wasn’t, but the words disappeared with my breath. It was the way Mum looked at me – intense and sad at the same time. The feeling that something drastic had happened swept through me. I sighed heavily and nodded, chewed my toast halfheartedly. I was lying. I had no intention of spying on my sister, or at least I had no intention of reporting back to Mum.

  Later, Mum finished the oven and the pots and pans, and cleaned the bathroom, bleaching every tile on the wall, scrubbing the bath as if she’d take the colour off.

  Gabriella didn’t emerge from her room until lunchtime. She wandered sleepily into the kitchen, still in her pyjamas, while Mum was making sandwiches, cutting the bread with fierce jagged strokes. She barely looked up when Gabriella appeared and although I was expecting Mum to yell about wasting the whole morning, she didn’t say a word.

  Belinda Stock’s parents had got divorced last year. She’d described in detail the rows they’d had, the plate smashing and yelling and clothes thrown from windows. Nothing like that had happened with my parents, but there were other scenarios to consider. Jane Taylor’s dad had gone to buy a packet of Silk Cut from the corner shop and disappeared for three months. Her mum had cleaned the house from top to bottom and side to side until finally he’d come home.

  The cleaning was familiar enough, so in the evening, after tea, I followed Dad into the garden. I found him leaning against the damson tree smoking. For a few moments, we stayed in silence. I was reluctant to ask my question. In an instant yes or no could change my life.

  Finally, I spoke. ‘Dad. Is something wrong?’

  He looked at me. ‘Why do you say that, Anna?’ And when I shrugged, ‘There’s nothing for you to worry about. Nothing that will affect you.’

  I took a breath. ‘Is it because of Mum? Are you . . .’ I hesitated. ‘Are you getting a divorce?’

  He threw away his cigarette, swung round and grabbed my shoulders. ‘No,’ he said, lowering his face until it was level with mine. ‘Your mother and I would never do that. Whatever happens, we love each other. And we love you too. You and Gabriella. Nothing can alter that.’ I nodded. I wanted so much to believe him. I wanted it so badly, I didn’t move. I didn’t tell him how much he was hurting me, his fingers digging into my flesh.

  In the morning, despite Dad’s promises, nothing seemed to have changed. Mum’s face was white, her eyes glittering. Dad was unshaved and late for work.

  He roused himself when I appeared and stood unsteadily. Mum followed him out the room and they talked in low voices. I strained to catch what they were saying, but all I heard was Mum telling him to stay away. Stay away from what?

  Mum stopped cleaning and moved on to clearing out the cupboard under the stairs, making piles of old raincoats and broken toys. I offered to help, and she accepted, holding up each item for my opinion: a deflated space hopper, a set of plastic Wombles still in their packets. Her mood lightened until she found an old pair of sandals that had belonged to Gabriella.

  My chest tightened as I watched her crying. I fetched a tissue from the box in the living room. And when I gave it to her, she touched my hair. I leaned against her hand, wanting to ask her what was wrong, but I was too afraid to hear her answer, so I stayed silent, waiting for her to speak. She drew me against her chest, and I breathed in the scent of her perfume, Lily of the Valley, the one she always wore. Dad had said there was no divorce. How honest had he been? Why else would Mum be so upset?

  Mum sighed and blew her nose. ‘I’m sorry, Anna. I’m being silly. It’s these sandals. Look at them.’ She tried to smile. ‘Wouldn’t it be lovely if things stayed the same?’

  I volunteered to go and fetch Dad, but Mum shook her head, and when I suggested finding Gabriella, she only cried again.

  By lunchtime, Mum had bagged up the unwanted items from the cupboard and was in the kitchen making chutney. I decided to give her a test, asking questions about weekends and holidays and scrutinising her response. She answered fully and with no suggestion that our future as a family was about to be cut short. I concluded Mum had a secret, but not necessarily plans for divorce.

  The trouble was, now I had two secrets of my own: Martha’s shoebox and Mum’s request for me to spy. I badly wanted to share both with Gabriella.

  She was in her bedroom, dressed up and spraying her hair with a can of Harmony. I asked her where she was going and
when she replied, ‘Nowhere’, my stomach dropped. It was the kind of answer she gave to my parents, not to me.

  ‘Can I come?’ I said in an optimistic voice.

  She knotted a yellow scarf and laced a studded belt. ‘Not today. People to see.’ I sniffed loudly, and as if to recompense, she threw me a bangle. I took it and slipped it on my wrist. ‘And don’t tell Mum I’ve gone out,’ she said. ‘You know what she’s like. Especially recently. Tell her I’m doing my homework and don’t want to be disturbed.’

  ‘She’s not going to believe that.’

  ‘Tell her I’m in the garden then. Anything.’

  I agreed to do as she asked, but as soon as the front door closed, I followed. I’d spy like Mum had asked me to, though I wouldn’t tell her what I found. At the gate, my plan took a tumble. Mrs Henderson and Brian blocked my way.

  ‘Is your mother in?’ said Mrs Henderson primly. ‘I’m here to offer my services for the fête.’

  Beside her, Brian shifted awkwardly. Neither of us were looking at Mrs Henderson. We were both gazing after Gabriella disappearing down the street.

  ‘Well?’ Mrs Henderson’s face loomed in front of mine. She was waiting for an answer.

  I took one last look along the street, empty now of Gabriella, and reluctantly opened the door. Mum appeared, her face dropping when she saw who it was, but she invited them through to the kitchen anyway. Good manners. Another of her rules. And hospitality. Although in their case it didn’t extend to a seat in the living room.

  The code of conduct didn’t apply to me. If Brian thought I’d entertain him, he had another thing coming. I flounced off, leaving him no choice but to follow his mother. And I passed the time watching telly and flicking through magazines, waiting for them to go.

  Eventually, the front door banged. Mum was muttering to herself about not needing any help from that woman as she poked her head around the door and asked about Gabriella.

  ‘She’s upstairs,’ I said, not taking my eyes away from Danger Mouse who was saving humanity from Baron Greenback’s plan to flood the world with custard.

  Mum nodded but didn’t comment. As she left again, I wondered if I could persuade her to let us have jam roly-poly again for tea. With custard.

  The credits rolled. I yawned. Most of my friends were on holiday. They were lucky, especially the ones who’d made it abroad. Even our usual trip to north Wales had been cancelled. ‘Your father says we shouldn’t go this year,’ Mum had said when I’d asked her why. ‘He thinks we need to save our money.’

  ‘What for?’ She’d shrugged and looked away. More secrets.

  Still, as far as I knew, Belinda Stock was home, so I let myself out without telling Mum. Not that she’d be bothered about me going out. She only cared about where Gabriella went.

  The day was baking hot and I quickly regretted my tight jeans and long-sleeved Snoopy top (fifteen pence from the jumble sale). Belinda lived near school in a modern house with a dormer window. There was no answer when I rang, but I stood in the porch for a good five minutes anyway, pushing on the bell and thinking that if I stayed there long enough, she’d come.

  Eventually, I gave up, strolled to the end of the road and then on to the top of Acer Street. Tom walked by on the other side, the wheels of his cart rumbling on the pavement. He stopped beneath a tree and looked up. A bird was singing in its branches. I listened too, identifying a blackbird. I was about to move on when a door slammed. I glanced idly down the houses to see who it was. Gabriella was coming out of Martha’s house. I gaped as she fixed on her Walkman and sauntered off in the direction of home. As if visiting Martha was the most natural thing in the world.

  A few seconds later, the front door opened again. This time Martha appeared with a shopping bag. She walked towards me. It was too late to hide. Fiddling with my glasses, I took a step as if I’d been moving all along, but it didn’t fool Martha and she gave me a sly smile as she passed.

  At home, I stomped upstairs and into Gabriella’s room. ‘What’s up?’ she said, putting down her copy of NME.

  Biting my lip, I tried to ignore the worm of jealousy trapped inside my belly. I put my hand there to still the feeling, but it wouldn’t go away. ‘You didn’t tell me you were going to see Martha,’ I said accusingly.

  Gabriella frowned. ‘Why did I need to?’

  ‘Because I always tell you what I do.’

  ‘Do you?’ She stared back at me.

  For a moment, I regretted asking, but it was too late now. And besides, I was bitten with curiosity. ‘So when did you arrange it?’

  ‘I didn’t. I was going to Bernadette’s but changed my mind when I met Martha.’

  ‘You met her?’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t mean to. She was just there.’

  Martha was never just there. Gabriella knew her reputation as well as I did. ‘Where?’

  ‘On the street. Sitting outside her house. What is this? I told you before, Anna. I feel sorry for her.’

  Gabriella rolled her eyes and started reading again. Knowing I was being stupid, I hovered by the window, chewing my nails, desperate for more details.

  ‘Was her mum there?’ I said.

  ‘No,’ said Gabriella, her eyes not moving from the page.

  ‘Her dad?’

  Now she looked at me. ‘No. He’s gone away.’

  I was glad about that. I didn’t like to think of him being with Gabriella. Still, I wanted to know. ‘Where?’

  ‘No idea. I didn’t ask.’

  I scowled. ‘He was probably in the pub. He’s always there.’

  ‘Well, he wasn’t in the pub today. He’d gone off somewhere with his work. Martha said. And their car was gone.’

  ‘What? The Morris Minor?’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘For God’s sake, what’s wrong with you? Why do you care?’ Fumbling under her pillow, she pulled out a handful of sweets and threw me a Bazooka Joe. ‘Forget it, Anna. I don’t like Martha more than I like you. I feel sorry for her. That’s it.’

  Glumly, I unwrapped the pink slab of gum and stuck it in my mouth. A few months ago, we’d have sat down and gone through every move Martha had made. Now I was ignored. On my own. I contemplated how I was going to get through the rest of the summer holidays with no friends and no sister to be with. If only I could whisk Gabriella away to the middle of nowhere, like the cottage in Wales, and have her all to myself. It would solve everything.

  At teatime, I brought up the question. Why weren’t we going away this year like everyone else in the village had done?

  ‘We’re saving money,’ said Dad, wearily sawing his pork chop. ‘I thought your mum explained that.’

  ‘Yes, but what for?’ I looked at Mum.

  ‘Nothing you need to worry about,’ she said quietly.

  I sighed, thinking about all those times I’d complained about our trips to Wales. Now there was nothing I wanted more than to sit on a stony beach with Gabriella in the rain, eating sandwiches and waiting for the sun to come out. The two of us, away from annoying people like Martha. Away from the miserable atmosphere that was taking over our house.

  I was about to start complaining again when Dad cleared his throat. ‘This might be a good time to tell you . . .’ He glanced across at Mum and then back at us. ‘We’re thinking about moving house.’

  I lost my ability to speak. Moving house, my lips mimed. I’d lived here all my life. ‘Why?’ I said, finding a word at last.

  ‘We’re thinking of making a change.’ He looked down at his plate.

  ‘But where will we go?’

  ‘Maybe London – near to Uncle Thomas.’

  ‘But London’s expensive. You always say that.’

  ‘Not all of it . . . and we might stay with your uncle for a bit, until we get sorted out.’

  Gabriella was staring at Dad now, fork suspended halfway to her mouth, face etched with disbelief. ‘You aren’t serious,’ she said.

  ‘What about school?’ I chimed in.

  �
�We might get you into a grammar,’ said Dad.

  ‘But you hate grammar schools.’

  ‘If it makes you happy.’

  ‘It won’t make me happy. And what about the House of Flores? We can’t leave that.’

  Dad looked at me sadly and shook his head. ‘Sorry, Anna. But you’ll see, it’ll be for the best.’ He turned to Gabriella. ‘How does it sound to you?’

  ‘Rubbish. I’ve got O levels.’

  Dad rubbed his chin. ‘I know that, but—’

  Gabriella dropped her fork. ‘I can’t change school now, can I, Mum?’

  Mum shook her head, but didn’t reply to Gabriella. Instead she spoke to Dad. ‘It’s not feasible, is it?’

  ‘We can make it—’

  ‘No, we can’t, Albert. And what’s the point? It won’t solve anything.’

  Gabriella’s chair scraped on the floor as she stood. ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ she said, giving Dad a deadly look. ‘You can’t expect me to leave my school now. Or my friends. I won’t go.’

  She left the room and I held my breath as my parents exchanged a glance I wasn’t supposed to understand.

  13

  The library was an old building that perched on the edge of the village. I recalled the librarian prowling the narrow aisles with one finger pressed perpetually to her lips. The place had been dark and atmospheric with corners perfect for skulking children to swap sweets and secrets. Perfect for me to pick out tales of adventure set in boarding schools, in jungles or on seas; and then to slide into the adults’ aisles to find poetry and Poe.

  Now the place was brighter and had the addition of several computers and a young male librarian with a beard and a cheerful manner. I settled down and googled an ancestry site, paid a temporary subscription on the first one that came up and typed in Albert Flores. There were three results: birth, marriage and death. I tapped my fingers on the keys and found my grandparents. Hannah and Luis, married in 1932. And their first child, Thomas Flores, his birth and death. For Gabriella Flores, there was one result – birth.

  ‘Anna.’ I jumped at the tap on my shoulder. It was Rita, clutching a book.