Missing Christina

by Whitford, Meredith

  “Oh yes, I daresay,” Granny remarked when I said so. “It’s the sort of thing that would have interested her. But it’s ancient history now. I shouldn’t be surprised if Jon hardly remembered the whole thing. By the time he was at Oxford I think he was a little ashamed of some of those rather childish hobbies. And,” she shot me another sharp glance over the specs, “I daresay too that Adrian told your mother about meeting that poor girl. Because, Jaques darling, you do know, don’t you, about your mother being married to Adrian?”

  “Yes of course. It came up when the aunts were here, remember? And I suppose it is the sort of thing you’d mention, that you’d met a girl who’d been murdered. But, hang on, how come Adrian met her?”

  Granny finished Aunt Barbara’s present and put all the stuff on the table. “Pour me a drink, darling, and I’ll tell you.” By ‘a drink’ she meant a lethally strong gin and tonic. For once I had the same, and Granny settled back in her chair and began.

  “I know we’re not supposed to talk about poor Adrian, although really, darling, it’s so silly to make such a fuss just because he was perhaps a bit of a you-know-what, although I’m sure he loved poor darling Tia, you know, they were really very happy, although of course it was terrible what happened to him, but I shouldn’t be surprised if there was more to that than we ever knew. But I always rather liked Adrian, he was a sweet boy, and his mother was a dear friend of mine in the war, when we both worked at Bletchley Park, and it was through me that she met and married your Grandpa’s brother. So you see, Grandpa and I always saw a lot of them, of Adrian’s parents I mean, because his father was your Grandpa’s brother and his mother was my dear friend. Delia, her name was. Adrian was a little older than your father, but they were rather good friends when they were growing up, as well as being cousins, I mean, and to be quite frank with you, Jaques, I think Grandpa was always a little jealous that Adrian was so good at games and loved hunting and shooting and all that sort of thing, while poor darling Jon was collecting stamps and taking piano lessons. Grandpa and his brother were a little competitive, you see. Adrian’s father was the older brother, and inherited the title, and I think Grandpa always felt rather second-best. So when Adrian ran into his little trouble at Cambridge –” She gave me a doubtful look, and I assured her that I know what she meant and no details were required. (Like hell – I died to know.) “Yes, well, all very shocking and naughty, of course, but although it was a long time ago and things have changed, it was hardly unheard of even then, but of course no one could say that to George – that was Adrian’s father – or to your grandfather, to them it was the end of the world. I think men always make much more fuss about that sort of thing than women do, and I’m afraid your grandfather made such heavy weather of telling me about Adrian that when I realised what he was talking about I said “Is that all!” and he was terribly shocked and offended, but you see, dear, in a way I’d seen much more of the world than your grandfather; after all, I did work at Bletchley Park so pansies were nothing new to me, dear me no!

  “But George and your grandfather got in a frightful bate about it all, and George took Adrian away from Cambridge and sent him out to Australia, to friends of his out there who had a sheep station, or was it cattle, right out in the middle of nowhere, where he couldn’t get into any more mischief. Of course, to be fair to George, in those days it was illegal, being queer, I mean, and I suppose Adrian could have gone to prison or something, although of course George had enough influence to stop anything quite so bad happening. But of course we couldn’t let Jon see anything of Adrian, I quite agreed with that because even if you don’t think it’s terribly shocking you don’t quite like the idea of your own son… and Jon was only, what, fifteen, sixteen. Poor Delia had a terrible time, for Adrian was her pride and joy, they had no other children, and of course George blamed her for Adrian being you-know-what.” She paused to refresh our drinks.

  “Well, anyway, Adrian was only just nineteen and in those days that was under-age, he was still a minor and had to obey his father, and of course he didn’t have any money of his own, not yet. So off he went to wherever it was in the Outback until he was twenty-one, and his father hoped that plenty of hard work and no chance for you-know-what would make a man of him, because of course Australians are never queer, or so George thought, although I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they had their share, look at Peter Allen even if he did marry Judy Garland’s girl. Jackarooing, it’s called – working as a sort of cowboy.

  “Jon wasn’t supposed to have anything to do with Adrian but as I said, they were always rather good friends, so I turned a blind eye when Jon wrote to Adrian sometimes. After all, I didn’t think Adrian would be, well, doing or saying anything wrong, because he was fond of Jon and always rather protective of him, Jon not having any brothers and not getting on very well with his father at that time, though later they became quite close, unlike Adrian and his father, who hated each other’s guts.

  “So to cut a long story short, when Adrian turned twenty-one he left the cattle station at once, and he’d come into all his uncle Louis Fyffe’s money – he was Adrian’s godfather as well as his uncle, and was more of a father to him than his own father ever was. Anyway, Louis left his sister Delia some money but all the rest to Adrian.

  “Of course we all expected Adrian to come home as soon as he was free of that cattle station, and I know Delia desperately wanted him home, but he decided to travel a little before he came back, and I suppose who can blame him. I remember he went to Ayers Rock, because he sent me a lovely postcard of it, and he brought your father back a boomerang.

  “But anyway, after the cattle station Adrian went down to Adelaide, and you see he knew all about Jon’s pen-friends, he’d always taken quite an interest because I think he quite liked stamps too when he was younger. And because he didn’t really know anyone in Australia he went to see that poor girl, I remember he wrote to your father about it, it’d all be in one of his letters to Delia, he only ever wrote one letter to everyone, and then he went to Sydney and I think the Barrier Reef, and then Delia wrote and begged him to come home for Christmas, and he did, because already poor Delia wasn’t very well, she died only a few years later. And I remember as if it were yesterday Adrian suddenly walking in, here at Williamscourt I mean, that Christmas, and saying “Hello, Mum,” and Delia crying because he was much taller and he’d filled out, and of course he was tanned like an Indian from the sun and really he looked too handsome for words, and grown-up.

  “And we were all here, me and Grandpa and Jon and the girls, as well as Adrian’s parents and old Aunt Lilian. And I remember Adrian telling Jon about that poor little Belinda girl, he said something like 'That pen-friend of yours has disappeared, everyone thinks she was abducted or has been murdered,’ and he had a copy of one of the Australian newspapers and he showed it to us and really it was all something of a talking-point for a while, although of course we soon forgot about it because really it didn’t mean very much to us and I think Jon was already losing interest in stamps and writing to pen-friends, he’d just started university, after all, and had lots of other things to think about, and the next year Adrian met darling Tia and married her and oh dear of course we never dreamed… oh dear, I suppose it’s just as well we can’t see ahead… But anyway, Jaques darling, that’s why I remember about that poor little murdered girl, and it was definitely your father she wrote to, not your mother, you see.”

  “Oh. Yes, I see.” It didn’t make any difference, of course. It couldn’t matter less. Probably Mum just came across some mention of the case, remembered the name, and perhaps thought of using the business for one of her novels; there’d been something like that in the notebook I’d read in New York. But I remembered the kindness of Dr Elder’s email, and I was in the mood to do a favour in return. “I don’t suppose any of Adrian’s letters would have survived?” I asked Granny.

  “Oh, probably. Delia kept them all, right from when he first went to prep school. He was only se
ven, poor mite. I was so glad your grandfather agreed with me that Jon should stay home until he went to Marlborough, I would have hated to miss his childhood. And I know I put all Delia’s private things away when she died. They’d be in the attic.”

  “I might go and look.”

  “Whatever for?” She sounded so disappointed, as if I were leaving her forever, that I explained about Dr Elder’s email; I’d like, I said, to help her with her research. “Oh, well then, yes. Try the trunk near the attic door with ʽDelia’ on it.”

  The attics at Williamscourt are half now-disused servants’ bedrooms and half one big space into which we put anything too good to throw away and which might come back into fashion (lava lamps, bean bags) or be necessary. The family cradle was stored up there now Hugo had grown out of it, and the rocking horse until he was big enough for it. There were trunks of clothes, all neatly labelled – if you needed a wedding dress this was the place to come – and, near the door, trunks with various people’s names on them. I edged past the one with Grandpa’s name, and found ʽDelia’. A smell of lavender and mothballs rose up when I opened the lid. Inside were tidily sorted bundles of documents, photo albums and the like. I wasn’t interested in “Adrian – school”, but I tucked “Adrian – Australia” under my arm and scurried back to the warmth of Gran’s room.

  Reading your own old letters is usually pure embarrassment; reading someone else’s brings a half-shameful sense of voyeurism. Yet these letters had all been kept, put away with the knowledge that one day someone would read them.

  Adrian hadn’t written often from Australia, and who could blame him. The first was an aerogramme, coldly informing his mother he’d arrived, and did she know the cattle station was nearly the size of Wales and 300 miles to the nearest town. The station manager’s house was pleasant, but he would be living in barracks with the other jackaroos and stockmen, half of whom were Aboriginal and, so far, very nice. Love to everyone but Lord Randall.

  “He really did hate and resent his father…”

  Another few aerogrammes or postcards, an envelope of faded photos. Adrian had written about every two or three months, and evidently he had known that anything he could say about his life in the Northern Territory would be incomprehensible at home.

  I am well, hope you are well. The children here do their lessons by radio. If you need the doctor he comes in a plane. We need rain. Queen Margaret Downs, which is what this place is called, is one of the biggest in Australia. Yesterday was 106 degrees.

  Eighth one in, we found it. Dated October 1967, it was quite a garrulous letter, Adrian heady with freedom. He had turned twenty-one and had already heard from his Uncle Louis’s lawyers about the money, and they’d sent a cheque for 'immediate necessities’.

  …Which will include clothes now that I’ve hit civilisation, Mother, for I’ve grown out of everything. The people on the station gave me a 21st party, which was very sweet of them. I’ll miss some of them. I got a 'lift’ from the Flying Doctor to Alice Springs, and while there went to see Ayers Rock. I will send some photos of it. Anyway, I am now in Adelaide, which is a very pretty small city and feels like London after that cattle station. Probably from here I’ll go on to Melbourne and Sydney. I’d like to try some surfing while I’m here. Quite what I’ll do after that, I am not sure.

  Chris – sorry, I mean Jon – this bit’s for you. I met that little pen-friend of yours, Belinda Tate. Last Saturday she very kindly showed me around some of the countryside near Adelaide. Did you know they make wine here? Also we saw some of the surfing beaches here so I might give it a try before going to Sydney. Belinda is a nice girl, rather gauche and parochial for my taste, and a bit ʽstraight’ – sings in the church choir, that sort of thing. She’s OK to look at, long fair hair. Nice but nothing special, altho’ it was kind of her to give up her time to show me around. She sends you her regards, and I think she would like to hear from you. I expect to leave here in a few days…

  After that the letter was more travelogue and vague ideas of going to the States before coming home. Love to all but Lord Randall. The other letters in the bundle were briefer, and from Melbourne or Sydney, ending with a promise to come home for Xmas since it meant so much to Mother.

  It was all quite boring, really, but what had I expected? That Adrian had somehow foreseen that two months later the girl would be abducted? That she’d confided to a stranger plans to vanish forever, or that she was in fear for her life?

  “I wonder if Dad remembers it?” I asked Granny.

  “Ask him, when he arrives.”

  “I will.”

  But I never did. Because when he came back to Williamscourt he had that doctor with him, and now she was his wife. He had taken her away to Cornwall with him, and there he had married her. Present at the wedding, but currently stashed with his other grandmother, was their eleven-year-old son, Orlando.

  Nine

  “Why Orlando?” I asked him. This was after the shouting, the tears, the scolding, the hard silences; after Dr Crusher, weeping and insulted, had hurled the fact of the child’s existence at us. Poor silly wretched woman, perhaps she had actually expected to be welcomed. Uxor mortuus est; vivat uxor.

  I quite wanted to hit Dad, or kill him; certainly I had no wish to speak to him again, but in that moment between Dr Phibes running sobbing to the car, and Silvia slamming the drawing room door, I went after him and asked that question. All the rest of it was too much to take in, but that I had to know – because Mum had chosen our Shakespearean names, and we were proud of them, they were ours and of our mother, yet he had dared to name this unknown bastard brat Orlando. The name was even from the same play as mine.

  “Dawn chose the name,” he said, and I was satisfied on some level to see that he couldn’t look me in the eye.

  “And you couldn’t say no? Couldn’t tell her why she should’ve called him Brooklyn or Kirk or Wayne?”

  “As a matter of fact, no I couldn’t. You see, she had nothing else.”

  “She had another woman’s husband.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean, Jaques. Everything was secret and underhand, there was no pride or fun or happiness for her. The child had to have her surname, not mine, so letting her choose his Christian name seemed the least I could do.”

  Fuck her. “How jealous she must always have been.”

  “Yes,” he says sadly, “she was. She’s human, Jaques. She loves me.”

  “But why’d you have to marry her now?” I cried. “Couldn’t you wait? Don’t you care how it looks, how we feel? Mum died only a few weeks ago – couldn’t you wait?”

  “Does it really matter how it looks? Do you really worry what the neighbours will think?”

  I didn’t answer that. I said, “And Mum knew, didn’t she. She left that child money in her will. Did you know she knew?”

  “No,” he said. “And that is why I married Dawn now, at once – because your mother knew and never said a word. How do you think that makes me feel?”

  I fished my phone from my pocket and held it out to him. “Here – go and ring up someone who cares.” Childish, I know, but the whole thing was on a childish level. “How do you think she felt? How much did it hurt her?”

  He looked at me then, his eyes very blue against the wind-burnt colour of his face; they must have had good weather down in Cornwall. “Mind your own business. And grow up. I married Dawn as soon as I could, for her sake – because it’s important to her to be married, which to her means being respectable, and so that we have Orlando legitimised at last. That matters, you see; he matters.”

  “Damn, I forgot to bring my violin.”

  On reflection, had our positions been reversed I would have hit me then. It’s rather to his credit that he only said, “None of this means I love you kids any less. Nothing could ever make me love you less. I loved your mother, too, and you can believe that or not, as you choose, and if you choose not, then you’re welcome to choke on it. I hope that before too long you’ll come and
see us and meet your little half-brother. I want all of you to do that, when you feel ready. But until you can treat him and Dawn decently, don’t bother coming here.”

  He had said that before, inside when we were all yelling at him and Granny was calling him “Jonathon” in a tone that would have stripped varnish. Get out, he’d said; you’re all adults, you’re all rich, you’ve all got houses of your own. If you can’t accept my wife and son, get out. Be out by Saturday, when I come back and Dawn and Orlando move in.

  We’ll go, we’d all said. But…Half-brother. I had another brother. It felt odd. Toby was my brother.

  He looked past me to the car and waved to Dr Scarpetta, tearfully waiting: shan’t be much longer. “And remember, Jaques, time wounds all heels. Come and meet Orlando one day.” He kissed me, then hurried down the steps to the car. As he drove away, I saw the dogs in the back seat, their faces full of dawning dismay that although they were home at last, they weren’t staying. Kingsley’s bulldog face always looks glum, but now the expression on Martin’s sharp little Yorkie face almost made me cry.

  “Well?” everyone demanded when I went back inside. Backing up to the fire to warm my hands I said, “Well what? It’s the same – suck it up or get out. Oh and he says it was Dr Dre called the kid Orlando.”

  Silvia muttered something she didn’t quite want Gran to hear. Then, aloud, she said, “What about Granny? Is she supposed to stay here, with that ghastly little woman and her brat? Granny, come and live with one of us, or –”

  “Oh darling,” Gran quickly said, “you know I’m too old to move. Unless it’s to some nice retirement home, half my friends seem to live in them now and very nice most of them are if you’ve got a little money. But although I am very angry indeed with Jonathon and I dislike that woman, he’s my son and I must accept his wife, even if she is such a common little woman, and the child.” She added, rather grimly, “But if it’s a disaster, and I suspect it will be, then I’ll throw myself on your mercy, darlings, or go into a home, but meanwhile I’ve got my own flat, so I shall be quite all right.”