I left the house, heading for Devil’s Lane. After the rain the ground had shifted, exposing thick white roots like gnarly bones. The lane stretched ahead of me, endless and dreary. The hedges crowded in, narrowing the path. What would happen if I met a stranger, a murderer? There’d be no place to go except back the way I’d come; running, arms flailing, tripping over stones, the sound of fear rushing in my ears.
I pulled Gabriella’s parka close about me, hauled myself over the stile and onto the green. The grass was like a swamp. I jumped over puddles, but the edges of my jeans were soon soaked and water seeped into the tops of my shoes. I squelched along past the swings, trying not to think about the worms rising to the surface of the earth. A couple of crows were busy pulling at the ground by the gate.
A boy, older than me, sat sideways on a swing in the playground, sipping from a can. Another two sprawled on the roundabout, smoking. Had they been here all night? My heartbeat sped up as the boys watched me with narrow, lazy eyes. I changed my course abruptly, increasing my pace and making for the gap in the trees.
The steps were slippery with wet leaves and I held on fast to the rail. The plants lining the slope had a rancid smell like rotting vegetables. In summer we hid beneath the willow tree at the water’s edge, spying on passers-by. Now the branches were skeleton bones, dark and spindly and bare.
The lake was deep enough to drown in. It had happened to a girl one winter, when the water froze over, when she’d been skating. She wasn’t the only one to go out on the lake, but she’d ventured the furthest and the ice had cracked beneath her. Mothers had used the tragedy to frighten their children, to keep us away. It hadn’t worked on Gabriella. I could picture her now, stepping out, reaching the centre, grinning, breath frosting, giving a triumphant wave, hand painting a semicircle through the freezing air, while I stayed behind the railing, planning how I’d save her. I kicked a stone across the path. Why had she always taken risks? What had been the point?
I stamped along the path, shoving my hands deep inside Gabriella’s pockets, playing with the scraps of paper and the dust I found there along with a pebble and a Bazooka Joe. I unwrapped the bubble gum and stuck it in my mouth, pulled out a bus ticket and examined it. It was a return to town dated a few weeks before. I had a vision of Gabriella in Our Price, mooning over the boy with the drowsy eyes.
Pushing aside my thoughts, I headed away from the lake and planned my route: through the woods and on past Lemon Tree Cottage, down the lane and back to the village. Amongst the trees, I stepped carefully, following the way I always went with Gabriella. The ground was soft beneath my feet, a yielding bed of bracken, and around me branches drooped as if reaching out to clasp me. I resisted the urge to stop and let myself be taken; instead I moved on, peering through the gaps in the trees, searching for my sister.
Once I thought I saw her – running ahead, weaving amongst the trees – but it was only sunlight glinting through the branches and the movement was the wind brushing its fingers through the leaves. And then I thought I heard her voice, the sound of her laughter, but it was only water flowing over stones in the stream, or silent birds finding their voices.
I was seeing ghosts. Wood sprites. Titania’s fairies. Things in my imagination. Why would Gabriella be here? It was stupid of me to consider she’d be hiding in the woods. Folding the parka close around me, I stumbled onwards until I reached the path leading to the lane.
Someone was there. This time I was sure. A girl. Fair hair tumbling around her shoulders. I tried to call out, but the words were caught in my throat. I moved quickly, following the figure with the light-coloured dress that drifted as she ran.
Reaching the lane, she stopped and turned in one abrupt movement. I gasped. For a split second I thought it was Gabriella. Her face was pale. Her features small. Her eyes wide as she stared back at me. And as we looked at each other the world quietened. The rustle of leaves. The sound of my breath. Even the birds forgot to sing.
‘Gabriella,’ I said, but she didn’t hear me because I spoke the name so quietly, the letters disappeared into the breeze. I stayed watching, paralysed with hope, not daring to make a sound in case I frightened her away.
The girl was the first to recover, swivelling and continuing on her way. I watched as she vanished into Lemon Tree Cottage, my stomach sinking with despair.
Of course it wasn’t Gabriella. It was Lydia. Gabriella’s hair was black now. She was younger too. And she’d never have worn a dress that flowed about her like a shroud.
I continued onwards, past the cottage, with only one glance at its dark walls. And as I reached the road and the tears stung and blinded me, I held my hands outstretched like a sleepwalker, as if I might grasp everything that came to me before it disappeared.
17
A piece of coal dislodged and slipped onto the hearth. I watched it smoulder. How much would it take to set the carpet alight?
If the house burned down, I’d go back to Athens and ignore my responsibilities. I’d forget these people who picked and pried and wanted to judge. They didn’t need to say what they thought. I recognised it in their eyes. Like Mrs Henderson. And Martha who hadn’t tried to disguise her dislike.
After the storm, I’d hurried home shivering, stripped off my soaking clothes and wrapped myself in a blanket. There was coal left in the scuttle, so I’d piled it into the hearth and lit the fire and fetched a bottle of wine.
Now, as I drank, I thought back to what Martha had said; the way she’d made me feel. She’d shown her true self, that was for sure, blaming me for losing Gabriella. It was as if Martha had never stopped thinking about her. Maybe she hadn’t. I remembered how desperate she’d been to be Gabriella’s friend. And for a while Gabriella had responded: encouraging Martha, spending time with her. And what about the letter? I closed my eyes as my mind ticked backwards. I sifted through the facts, unpicking them from emotions.
The village fête. Martha had talked about a man. He’d given Gabriella a letter. I hadn’t believed it at first, preferring to think Martha was winding me up. Then I’d seen the letter in Gabriella’s hands and I hadn’t been able to deny it.
The coal burned. Taking my father’s tongs from the set, I threw it back on the fire. Dad. The man whose heart had broken. I wished he’d kept it together for a little while longer, if only for me.
Later, I went out, closing the door softly behind me. I walked through the village, following the dim light of the street lamps, and the moon. Things looked different now, their colours stolen by darkness, leaving shades of black and grey. Houses crouched like tired old men, trees and hedges trembling in the cold air. I hunched into myself, flexing my fingers against the chill, pushing forward. It was my memories I wanted to freeze, to crack and shatter into a million pieces I could never recombine.
I was on Acer Street, my mind sharpening as I looked about me, remembering Tom, a ghost in the gloom clanking along with his road sweeper’s cart, or Gabriella, dashing past to get home.
Now there was only silence, and the slow sweep of the wind through the trees.
Most of the houses had lights shining. Martha’s was in darkness, a brooding block of stone. All I could think about was the smell inside: tobacco and flowers. A garden filled with roses and foxgloves and pinks. Martha must have inherited her mother’s green fingers because the tiny stretch of grass at the front was clipped short, the border neat, soil turned over; fresh pots of flowers lined the path.
Where was she: in bed at nine o’clock, or downstairs in the dark, staring at the TV? Was that movement in the upstairs window, or a trick of the eye, a fluttering of nothing?
All these years, she’d stayed in the village, living her life, going through the motions, her little routines. How pathetic and miserable that had seemed to me. Now I wondered, as I made my way home, had my life been any better?
I stayed away from the shop, feeling sorry for myself. More sympathy cards arrived from people I didn’t know, telling me how much they’d loved my mother
. The certificates I’d ordered came. I scanned each one of them and propped the envelopes with the cards on the mantelpiece, feeling no appetite for a family tree.
Eventually, I returned to the House of Flores and made up for lost time, working hard with Rita and Mattie, shifting Edward Lily’s things, deciding what to donate to charity, to sell or leave with the shop. Some of it was useless: broken ornaments, scratched furniture, teapots with chipped lids. Other things told tales of Edward Lily, about his travelling, his interest in acquiring things. I lingered over a Russian samovar, the brass dull with age; a muted Afghan rug; a row of Indian elephants carved in ebony.
Dawn came, as I’d suggested. She spent a long time sniffing and dabbing her eyes and fussing around before taking a fruit bowl shaped like a fish. We exchanged phone numbers and I told her to drop in or ring if she wanted anything else. As she was leaving, David appeared. He’d changed out of his work clothes, and wore clean jeans and a blue shirt which creased across his body. ‘Last check round?’ he said, producing a bunch of keys and jangling them in front of me.
‘What’s left?’
‘Some gardening tools et cetera in the shed, and a couple of boxes Dawn put together. Oh. And the chair.’ He grinned. ‘I could bring the boxes here, but if you want to come and check everything is in order,’ he stopped and looked away shyly, ‘I’d appreciate your company.’ My colour rose as I nodded and turned, crashing into a green baize card table and cursing silently as I headed for the back room to tell Rita and Mattie where I was going. They said they’d take a break while I was gone and I suggested we meet again at two.
For a few minutes, we drove in silence. Then David mentioned the House of Flores and I found myself responding, talking freely about my father’s business. I asked him about his career emptying houses. Was it preor post-Japan?
He paused, before saying, ‘I was a history teacher first.’
‘Why the career change?’
‘My wife died.’
‘Oh God. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s all right,’ he said, swerving to avoid a pheasant. ‘It was a long time ago and we had no children.’ Did that make a difference, or was it something to say, a distraction, a ploy to put a stop to questions? I’d done the same enough times myself. But he was talking still, telling me about his wife. ‘Beth was ill for a long time. I stopped work to look after her and I didn’t feel like going back. I sold the house in London, went off to Japan – the cathartic bit I was telling you about – and when I returned, this came up, an acquaintance of an acquaintance, you know how it is. We did a bit of business together and then I started on my own.’
‘Why here?’
‘Pin and map, a bit like Japan.’
There was a long silence. I twisted the strap of my bag. David asked about my job. I told him about teaching in Athens, and, as if to justify myself with something more interesting, the travel articles I wrote.
‘What about in England?’ he said.
‘I had a business. A shop in Paddington.’
‘What did you sell?’
‘Gifts, mainly from India.’
‘Why?’
‘I was travelling, brought back jewellery, scarves, things like that, sold them and then expanded.’
It had been my mother’s idea. I’d come back from Delhi with silver earrings and bangles shaped like serpents with precious stones for eyes. ‘Beautiful, Anna,’ she’d said. ‘You could sell these.’ And so I had. I’d gone again to India, bought tapestries and carvings. I’d rented a market stall and when a shop had come up for let in Paddington, I’d looked around the neglected shell and had a vision.
Mum had lent me the money. I suspected Uncle Thomas had encouraged her. He’d been worried about the distance between us. ‘Try,’ he used to say to me. ‘Reach out a little more.’ He’d emphasised the little because he’d known no matter how hard I reached out to my mother, I’d never have grasped a thing.
‘What made you stop?’ said David, breaking into my thoughts.
‘Money,’ I said. ‘Nobody wanted gifts from India in Paddington. Too hippy.’ He laughed. ‘Still, it lasted five years and failure gave me an excuse to travel again.’
‘And what about the House of Flores? Are you planning to keep it open?’
‘God no. I could never do that.’ I spoke without thinking and gave him a sidelong look to see if he’d noticed, but he was staring ahead, concentrating on the road. I tried again. ‘What I mean is, it would feel like going back.’
He glanced across at me. ‘I know what you mean. There’s no point. Although revisiting isn’t a bad idea, before the final valediction.’ He frowned. ‘Is that the right word?’
I shrugged. ‘Yes, I think it probably is.’
The cottage seemed lonely when I stepped back inside, and cold, though it was hardly surprising since all of Edward Lily’s belongings had gone. I wanted to ask David how he felt, working in empty houses as the last of the memories were stripped away, but he was already heading for the living room with his crossword and settling in the chair.
I wandered upstairs, letting my fingers drift across the walls. The rooms were empty as David had said they would be. I stood in each one, absorbing their melancholy. I pictured Lydia, when I’d first seen her, staring out of the window. Had she wanted to escape or was she glad to be on the inside looking out? Years ago, I’d thought Gabriella was here, hiding out, or even imprisoned. My mind had been full of expectation and now that hope had gone. Perhaps that was the point. This was the final farewell, or valediction as David had said. The last visit to a house that had once been important to me for no other reason than fantasy.
Downstairs, a couple of boxes had been left on the kitchen floor. These must be the things Dawn had collected. Lydia’s possessions. The things she and Edward Lily’s sister had left behind. Crouching, I opened the lid of the first. There was a piece of material folded on the top. I lifted it out and discovered a shawl, black satin, with red roses. The shawl was faded and threadbare in places, and some of the tassels were missing, but it must have been beautiful once. And I remembered Lydia wearing something similar in a photo, standing on one of the bridges in the Plaza de España.
Holding the material to my face, I breathed in the scent. No hint of perfume, only the musty fragrance of the past. Leaving it on my lap, I looked again. More clothes. And now it seemed awkward delving through Lydia’s old dresses and skirts. They were feminine, unlike anything I’d ever owned: gauzy and flowing, light-coloured and long.
In the second box were children’s books, the titles the same as those that had stood on mine and Gabriella’s shelves. I picked out Roald Dahl and Enid Blyton and classics: The Railway Children, Little Women, Treasure Island. The books were well read, their pages turned down, with scribbles in the margins. I was surprised Lydia hadn’t wanted these. Although realistically, I thought, was there any point in keeping them? My books were in the loft. I’d forgotten all about them until I’d looked there. Travel light. That had been my way of thinking. Still, I made a mental note to check these hadn’t been left by mistake. I moved on, pulling out a wooden fan with a hand-painted figure of a flamenco dancer, a silk scarf, an embroidered handkerchief. Whispers from the past. Sparks from Lydia’s life. The air was alight with them.
Footsteps in the hall made me start. Guiltily, I held my breath and listened. The front door opened. David must be going to the van. Now I was alone, the cottage seemed oddly silent and still. Turning back to the box, I imagined my father urging me on. If you look hard enough, you’ll find a fossil. If you prise it out gently, you’ll discover it’s a gem. I touched the shawl again and held it to my face. A vivid picture of Lydia appeared and all of a sudden I understood why Dad had thrilled at every house clearance. Bringing people’s lives back, for the briefest of moments. It was a way of cheating time. A way of finding out secrets too.
I stared at the rest of the things in the box: half-empty perfume bottles, a mirror with a dented frame, a heart-shaped jew
ellery box with pairs of tarnished earrings and a bracelet inside. Things that had belonged to a teenage girl abandoned now in the cottage. Dawn had told me that Edward liked to bring his daughter treats. Food because she didn’t eat. Perhaps he’d brought her gifts too. A way to trigger an interest in life.
Whistling roused me and I hurried to the window. David was walking across the lawn, hands in his pockets. He gave a cheery wave. I smiled back, watching as he picked his way through the long grass towards the end of the garden and squeezed past a trellis, disappearing into the far section where the shed must be. Leaning forward, I squinted, feeling relief at the flash of his sleeve.
Shaking my head, I chastised myself for being dramatic and returned to my task. Most of the contents of the second box were spread out on the floor, but there were a few more books, a couple of china dolls and mementoes from Spain: a pair of wooden castanets, a postcard of the Madonna. I pushed my hand down the sides of the box for one more look. Feeling around, I pulled out a piece of card. Blank. Brown-spotted with age.
I turned the card over, expecting to see nothing, but there was a drawing. A portrait. A face. A chill crept through me. Could this be true? I closed my eyes and opened them again.
It was a picture of Gabriella. The face was fuller, the mouth not quite right, the hair not long enough, but it was her. I sat back on the floor, the cold from the stone seeping through my jeans. Shivering, I held the picture close, staring until my vision blurred. A question drilled through my head. Why was there a picture of Gabriella lying amongst Lydia’s things?
The Missing Girl Page 14