The Missing Girl

by Jenny Quintana

  I hoped Gabriella would ignore her. Instead she chatted, offered candyfloss, asked her to go on the ride. I gritted my teeth waiting for Martha’s reply. Luckily, she shook her head and refused, although she stayed anyway, fiddling around with the pocket in her dress, looking like she wanted to speak, even though she had nothing to say. Finally, she mumbled about meeting her mum and disappeared. Gabriella gave me a look as if it was my fault, but for once I didn’t care.

  It was the same merry-go-round as last year, and the year before that and probably the year before that. I recognised the red and yellow dome criss-crossed with bright coloured bulbs, and the column in the centre decorated with organ pipes and golden cupids. It was the same boy in charge too. Black-haired and dark-eyed with a wide grin and a wink for Gabriella. We paid and I got on first, choosing a blue and white horse with startled eyes. In front of me a small girl with a short white dress and frilly knickers was scrambling onto a pink pony. Her mother was hovering, jumping off at the last minute as the music came on and we started to rotate.

  The pace picked up. I swivelled in my seat, searching for Gabriella. A man in a cap sat behind me, quietly smoking a pipe. A boy in shorts was beside him, clinging to the twisted silver pole. I looked about me anxiously. Where had Gabriella gone? And then I spotted her standing at the side chatting to the dark-haired boy. I swallowed hard and held back my tears. She’d changed her mind, or else she hadn’t wanted to get on in the first place.

  The ride spun faster. The volume of the jangling music grew. Gabriella disappeared again. I craned my neck to see where she’d gone and caught a glimpse of her figure walking across the green, back the way we’d come, to look for the boy from Our Price, I guessed. She was always leaving me on my own. Like the time she’d gone off to Martha’s.

  And now the music jarred. The horses were shabby and seemed smaller than they’d been the year before. The spin was sluggish. The merry-go-round was childish. No wonder Gabriella hadn’t bothered. And when the ride finished at last, I peeled myself off the horse and stumbled to the edge of the platform, pushing past the anxious mother. I was stupid. The ride was for babies and their parents.

  The mood of the fête had changed. Young women paraded past the beer tent waving at the young men inside. Older women and children sat under trees on blankets, delving into picnic hampers for last-minute treats. Off to the side, a group of boys were playing football. Teenagers lay on the grass listening to a ghetto blaster: ‘Come on Eileen’ full blast. The band had come to a standstill; its members shading beneath the stretch of the cedar tree, hats off, instruments resting beside them. Even the merry-go-round had stopped and a man in overalls crawled between the horses.

  I spotted Dad in the beer tent, showing no sign of his earlier rage. I wandered closer. Martha stood to one side of the entrance, with her back to me. I scowled. Did she know where my sister was? I didn’t want to ask, but I had no choice.

  ‘Have you seen Gabriella?’ I said.

  Martha turned. She seemed different somehow. Her hair was tied back awkwardly with a scarf. She reached up self-consciously, took a strand that had fallen loose and wound it around her fingers. I recognised Gabriella’s gesture and my anger ignited. ‘So, where is she?’ I snapped.

  ‘How should I know?’ she said, glaring back resentfully.

  I looked away, trying not to give Martha the satisfaction of thinking she had information that I wanted. Clenching my fists, I counted in my head. I wouldn’t ask again.

  Shouting came from the beer tent. The sound rose as a glass smashed. Women were gathering nervously, standing on tiptoe, pushing closer to the entrance. Mrs Ellis appeared, her grey dress hanging on her broomstick body, her face pinched and white.

  The argument spilled out. A thin man came first clutching a bloody nose, his glasses knocked askew. He staggered and fell on the ground. Mr Ellis followed, his hands clenched in two great fists. A dark-haired woman rushed forward with a handkerchief and dabbed at the victim’s face. ‘You should be ashamed,’ she yelled at Mr Ellis, her small face defiant. Dad stepped into the arena and spoke quietly to Mr Ellis. Others came forward, remonstrating. Women were involved. ‘He’s not worth it,’ one of them yelled. I wasn’t sure who she was talking about.

  Next to me Martha watched the scene with her father at its centre with no change of expression. I was about to move away and carry on my search when she spoke. ‘You should take care of your sister,’ she said. ‘He could be a pervert for all you know.’

  ‘Who?’

  She was silent for a second as if deciding whether to reply. ‘The one she was speaking to.’

  I waited a beat and said again, ‘Who?’

  She glanced away and then back as her face hardened. ‘It’s none of your business.’

  ‘It’s more my business than yours.’ I tried a different tack. ‘What did he say to her?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t hear, did I?’ She paused and now a sly smile crept across her face. ‘But he gave her something.’

  ‘What?’

  She leaned towards me until her breath was hot on my neck. ‘A letter.’

  I stared at her, open-mouthed. ‘A man gave my sister a letter?’ She nodded and I scowled. Martha was a liar. Everyone knew that. I made a great show of shrugging and looking around as though not interested before I said, ‘It’s probably someone from church.’

  She laughed. ‘No, it isn’t.’

  I flushed. ‘Well then, it’s our Uncle Thomas. He’s visiting today.’ It was a stupid thing to say and Martha was bound to know it wasn’t true.

  ‘Why would your uncle give Gabriella a letter?’

  ‘Because that’s what he does.’ I was burning to know who she was really talking about, but I didn’t want to show it. And now she was staring over my shoulder as if she saw the man right there. I wouldn’t look. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. Instead I gave her one more glare of contempt and strode away.

  A few minutes later, I scanned the green. There were no suspicious men, of course, although how could I tell since I didn’t know who I was searching for? Maybe the letter was from the boy from Our Price, or someone from school. Or else Martha had written the letter herself – a pathetic note telling Gabriella how much she liked her.

  At the jam stall Rita was busy packing up. Mum was standing alone, shading her eyes as she searched the green. I skirted her vision and kept on walking, in the direction of the lake, hoping to find Gabriella.

  She was standing alone beneath the cedar tree. Relief surged through me. There was no letter. There was no man. Martha had invented him. Martha with her stupid dirty clothes and her stupid hairstyle. When had she ever worn a scarf? A scarf! Heat rose until my cheeks burned. Realisation struck. Gabriella had given it to her. She’d taken it from her own hair and given it to Martha. And Martha had been trying to make me jealous, flaunting it. I bit my lip. Gabriella was no better. Why did she have to feel so sorry for everyone?

  Stepping closer, I called out Gabriella’s name, but she looked across and her eyes were blank. I wasn’t sure she even knew I was there. I stayed anyway, frozen by her indifference, waiting for acknowledgement, until finally she set off across the green without a backward glance.

  Feeling helpless, I watched her walking, arms loose at her sides. And then my throat went dry. A sheet of paper dangled from her hand. It was the letter. Martha had told the truth. And if she’d told the truth about that, why would she have lied about the man? I looked around uneasily. The crowd was thinning out now, people traipsing away from the green. I followed slowly, my mind whirling. Who was the man?

  That evening, Gabriella stayed in her room. Mum went to church, to pray, she said, and Dad shut himself away in the kitchen.

  I grabbed my book of poetry and lay on the rug, reading and not understanding ‘Leda and the Swan’ until the doorbell rang. When Dad opened the door, Rita’s voice filtered from the hall. I crept across the living room and listened.

  ‘They were together at the
fête,’ said Rita.

  There was a pause. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Mrs Henderson. The old gossip. I heard her talking about Gabriella to her cronies.’

  ‘Well, she can’t know anything.’ Dad’s voice was sharp.

  ‘No, she can’t. But . . . you must realise what this means.’

  Back inside the kitchen, they closed the door.

  Frowning, I returned to Yeats, but now the poem seemed even more confusing. I tried reciting the lines out loud, and from memory, but my concentration had gone. Throwing the book down, I switched on the telly. The news was all about the funeral of Princess Grace. It was too sad to be thinking about death, so I switched it off and paced the floor until, at last, the front door opened. Rita was leaving. Tiptoeing back into the hall, I peered into the kitchen.

  Dad was trying to light a cigarette, but the flame wouldn’t catch. He stopped when he saw me and gave a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Was that Rita?’ I asked awkwardly.

  He nodded and tried the flame again. ‘Rita. Yes. She was looking for your mother.’

  ‘Is something wrong?’ I said carefully, seeing how his hands were shaking.

  The flame caught and he inhaled. He met my gaze and looked away. ‘Nothing for you to worry about, Annie,’ he said. ‘Nothing that affects you.’

  It was the second time he’d said that to me, and this time I definitely didn’t believe him.

  As soon as Mum came home, she and Dad disappeared into Gabriella’s room, closing the door and shutting me out. I stood at the foot of the stairs yearning to follow, but not daring to interrupt. Sinking onto the bottom step, I hugged my belly, trying to unfreeze the ice that had formed there. I was an outsider. An orphan. A changeling. Different somehow. Shut out from my family. I closed my eyes and imagined the three of them connected by a cord that didn’t include me.

  It was quiet in the house for a long while. The pendulum swung. Jasper appeared and mewed for his food. I took him into the kitchen, opened a can of Whiskers and spooned out chunks into his bowl.

  Silence exploded. A door banged. Feet stamped on the landing. ‘She had no right,’ yelled Gabriella. ‘It’s nothing to do with her. Who does she think she is?’

  ‘She was trying to help,’ said Mum.

  ‘She was telling tales. You’re all against me.’

  Dad spoke. His words inaudible.

  ‘For Christ’s sake. How can you say that now? For Christ’s sake. Leave me alone.’

  Silence came back. It was Mum’s turn to shout now, to tell Gabriella not to blaspheme, but she didn’t say a word. There was only Dad again, speaking quietly, trying to keep the peace, like he always did.

  I crept up a few steps, ears straining to hear. ‘Nothing’s changed,’ Dad was saying. I imagined him taking Gabriella’s hand, pulling her close and stroking her hair. ‘We’ll talk. We’ll work things out.’

  ‘No we won’t,’ said Gabriella, her voice breaking as she spoke.

  ‘Of course we will. You know we will. Come back inside.’

  The door clicked as he persuaded her. And once again, I was left alone, standing on the stairs, feeling dizzy as the carpet seemed to shift beneath my feet. Gripping the banister, I raked through my mind trying to understand.

  Gabriella didn’t come down for tea. Mum laid the table and ladled out stew – meat and vegetables, dumplings on top – but she spilled sauce on the cloth and then played with her food, pushing it around with her fork. Eventually, she cleared her throat. ‘Were you listening, Anna?’

  Shaking my head, I speared a dumpling that wasn’t cooked properly and tasted of grease and salt. A piece lodged in my throat.

  ‘You must have heard something,’ she said, fixing her gaze on mine. I shook my head again.

  ‘Now’s not the time,’ said Dad, intervening.

  ‘That’s what you said before.’

  ‘It’s different.’ He spoke quietly.

  ‘Different how?’

  ‘One thing at a time.’

  ‘Is that the best you can say?’

  I held my breath, wanting them to tell me what was wrong. Dad remained motionless, with only a pulse throbbing at his temple.

  Mum cleared the table and took the plates to the sink. ‘Anna,’ she said. ‘We need to—’

  ‘Esther. Stop. That’s enough.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. If we don’t say, Gabriella will.’

  ‘No, she won’t,’ said Dad, suddenly shouting. ‘I’ve told her not to.’ He turned to me, his face white, his jaw clenched. ‘Leave us, Anna, please.’

  I was glad to, walking heavily up the stairs to find Gabriella.

  She was kneeling on the floor, stuffing clothes into a suitcase. A hot wave of panic moved through me as I grabbed her arm. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘What does it look like?’ She shook my hand away.

  ‘You’re packing,’ I said, but my voice was raw.

  ‘So what?’

  ‘You can’t leave me. What’s happened?’

  She shook her head, but her shoulders slumped. ‘Nothing’s happened.’ She pushed another jumper into the case.

  My tears welled. Gabriella had secrets. She’d never had them before. But instinct told me if I kept on, she’d never tell me anything again. ‘All right,’ I said miserably. ‘But you won’t go, will you?’

  Gabriella sighed. ‘I will, one day.’

  A tear slid down my face. She came across and slipped an arm about my shoulders. ‘But I won’t forget you, small person,’ she said. ‘You’re my sister. Nothing changes that.’

  I stared at her, taking in her words. ‘Then stay,’ I said. ‘Sisters stick together.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘I told you. Nothing changes that.’

  I nodded and rested my head on her shoulder, but in a moment she’d moved away and gone back to her suitcase, squeezing shut the lid and shoving it under the bed.

  The days stumbled forward. Each morning, Gabriella missed breakfast and instead of protesting, Mum didn’t speak. Dad insisted on taking us to school, until the day that Gabriella screamed in his face that she wanted to go alone and if he didn’t let her, she’d leave home for good. I listened with my heart thudding, thinking of the suitcase tucked under her bed. Dad froze for one moment at the onslaught before he gave in and let us walk.

  At school, I hardly came across her. And when I did, she barely acknowledged me, surrounded as she was by spiky-haired boys who jostled for her attention. Martha was there too. Snapping up Gabriella’s smiles, grabbing titbits of affection. There was nothing left for me.

  In the afternoons I waited at the gates, rushing to get there early before Gabriella disappeared. Sometimes she talked, answering questions about her day, or letting me chatter, exaggerating stories to make her laugh. Most times she was silent. And the atmosphere was dense with a layer of sadness I couldn’t pass through.

  On those days, when we got home, Gabriella stayed in her room, refusing my attempts to persuade her to come down for tea. I yearned for Mum to yell and make her. Instead, she’d take up a plate of sandwiches that she’d later fetch untouched. I watched with a mixture of resentment at the special treatment Gabriella was receiving and sadness for the absence of my sister.

  Dad’s birthday came. It was Saturday and the family were invited. It was a tradition and although Mum grumbled as she busied herself in the house, cleaning, checking there was enough food, the visit wasn’t cancelled. Uncle Thomas and Donald arrived first. ‘Surprise!’ said Uncle Thomas when I opened the door and he produced an egg from behind my ear. It was a trick I’d seen him do a hundred times before, but I laughed anyway as he chucked me under the chin and strode off to the living room to join my parents.

  Donald stepped past, chewing his pipe, stopping to press an object into my hand. An ammonite. I grinned. He was a geologist. He was also Uncle Thomas’s closest friend. At least that’s how my parents described him. I followed and watched them settle on the sofa next to Dad. ‘Thi
s is nice,’ said Uncle Thomas, pushing off his shoes. He had a big hole in one toe of his sock.

  Grandma Grace was a large woman with a robust frame, who moved clumsily, in a direct contradiction of her name. She sat on the hard-backed chair, leaning heavily on her stick as if it were a staff and she was about to go on a pilgrimage. Granddad Bertrand, who was as large as she was, shuffled in behind, plonking himself into the armchair, sinking downwards, letting his arms hang over the sides, as if he’d melted.

  Gabriella was absent, as I knew she would be. I’d tried to prise her from her room, but she’d refused and given me the listless look I’d grown accustomed to. Surely Mum and Dad would insist she socialised – family was important, Mum said, the mainstay of society (along with church) – but still Gabriella didn’t appear.

  Settling on the rug in front of the fireplace, I watched Mum, with a painted smile, handing round fish paste sandwiches and fruitcake on the best plates, along with English tea in gold-rimmed cups. The conversation ranged from Uncle Thomas’s magic shop in north-west London – an Aladdin’s cave of whoopee cushions, loaded dice, and fake beards – to the Falklands War. Even Dad, who’d been as brooding as Gabriella over the last few days, roused himself and joined in the discussion. ‘The Belgrano might be a Thatcher triumph now,’ he said, ‘but next election . . .’ He waved his hand. ‘For whom the bell tolls, all right.’ Meanwhile Granddad Bertrand dozed and Donald, apart from sending the occasional wink in my direction, remained aloof, refilling his pipe.

  ‘You’d think,’ said Grandma Grace, thumping her stick down as if to put a stop to the conversation, ‘they’d have had enough of wars and suchlike.’

  The adults noisily agreed with her. There was a lull and I think we all knew what was coming next because we couldn’t have a family gathering without Grandma Grace telling the story of how my parents met. Mum cleared away, banging plates together, stacking them unevenly. Dad stood and fumbled in his pocket, muttering about tobacco.