“Why d’you think it’ll be a disaster?” Silvia asked curiously.
“Because Jonathon is twitching with guilt and wishing he’d never done it.”
“Done what, shagged some tart and got her pregnant, or married her?”
“Both,” Gran said, and stared at Silvia until Silve turned away.
There was something odd going on with Silve. She’d come home avec Hugo but sans PoorMatthew, and she’d looked so tense and been so bloody snappy that Toby and I had lured her to the old nursery and given her the traditional beating-up – with cushions, as if we were still all six – until she came clean. Lying on the ancient carpet with her head in the fender and cushion-feathers in her mouth and hair, she’d said, snuffling, that PoorMatthew hadn’t come home with her because his family were having some big Christmas-to-New Year bash to celebrate his sister’s engagement. “He said that since I wasn’t prepared to be part of his family, officially part, then I couldn’t expect him to dump all his family obligations for my sake, even despite Mum dying. And he said it wouldn’t be right for me to stay with him because it was too soon after Mum.”
Well, well, PoorMatthew had sewn ’em back on at last.
“Marry the poor sod,” I said, but all Silve did was cry into a cushion. After that we never got another word out of her, although I suspect that Granny had.
As for Toby, he’d come home for Christmas all right, in fact he’d come home for good. New York, he told me, was over. Peter? Over. He had talked to Uncle Quentin and learnt that he now owned a substantial part of Awopbopaloola, so now he was staying in England to manage part of the parent operation.
So that made three of us, alone and fucking miserable, and wondering if everyone was right and we did have to grow up.
*
On the day of Dad’s return, we waited on the front steps until his car arrived, heaving with dogs but without Dr Zhivago. She, and no doubt Orlando, were in the brand new BMW behind, followed by a moving van. We waved to Dad, loaded the cat carriers into my car, kissed Granny and Yvonne, and went without saying a word. Somehow it didn’t feel as good as we’d expected. Pride really is cold comfort.
Ten
It was not a good time for any of us. Toby was the only one with enough to do. I’d withdrawn from a Coward revival (and just as well, for it bombed and was taken off after two weeks), so until September, when I’d start rehearsing Othello, and next year when I’d the promise of new play and a film, the only work I had was a rather juicy little part as a schizophrenic in Waking the Dead, and two weeks’ post-production work on a film I’d finished shooting not long before Mum died. Meanwhile there was only some voice-over work, dull but lucrative. I’d desperately wanted to be the next Dr Who, but the letter saying ʽin your dreams’ had arrived just before Mum’s death. I was supposed to be writing a play, but that’d been dragging on since 2002 and secretly I knew it was no good. So I rattled around at home, me and my three cats, waiting for Toby to come home at night and cook – he was getting increasingly good at that, and (obviously switched at birth) seemed to like it.
One day when I’d finally forced myself to attend to some business, I came across an unlabelled folder containing those letters from Belinda Tate, and the one from Adrian about her. Time to do a good turn.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Belinda Tate
Date: 20.02.08
Dear Dr Elder,
While going through my mother’s papers etc after her death I found two letters – to be accurate, one and a half, one’s rather torn – from Belinda Tate. Apparently her penfriend was my father, not my mother; in those days he used his second name, Christopher. Anyway, my mother had put the letters in a box with a lot of 1960s stuff. Also I found a letter from a cousin who was visiting Australia in 1967 and actually met Belinda Tate.
The letters are old and falling apart, but I can send photocopies or scans if that’s any use to your researches. (None of the letters says anything much, certainly nothing about her disappearance.)
Best regards,
Jaques
And again, quick as a flash, You’ve got mail! This woman must spend her life glued to her computer.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Re: Belinda Tate
Date: 20.02.08
Dear Jaques,
This is great news! Thanks so much for letting me know. I’d love to see the letters. Every bit counts in research, even tho’ I’m sure that, as you say, they’ve got nothing to do with her disappearance. It would be particularly good to see the letter from the cousin who met her, to get an outsider’s view of her – it’s amazing how differently people remember her.
In case I sound obsessed with Belinda Tate, I’d better explain that my father was the detective in charge of her case, and I’ve inherited all his notes and papers etc, and he always wanted a book written about it. I didn’t have much intention of doing so, but I managed to get a research grant to do it and a year’s sabbatical, so I’m now pretty caught up in it.
Scans of the letters would be great. Or photocopies. I will probably be in England at the end of this year, and would be very glad to see the originals then. Historians always like original documents! I will gladly pay any expenses involved in sending me the scans or copies.
If you or your father would be interested in reading some of my book, I’d be glad to send a few chapters as I progress with the writing.
What’s the weather like there? It’s 42 degrees (Celsius) here.
All best wishes,
Marian E.
Forty-two degrees? Shit.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Re: Tate.
Date: 20.02.08
Dear Marian,
Scans of the letters are attached. No expense involved. Am glad to help.
Wouldn’t mind reading anything you’ve written, if you don’t mind sending unfinished MS. I googled the case and got a lot of conflicting info (as usual), and it seems you have access to the real info.
It’s 4 deg here and thinking about snowing.
Yours,
Jaques.
And to prove that no good deed goes unpunished, also suddenly plopping into my inbox was one from [email protected]. CC’d to [email protected] and [email protected], it read:
Dear Kids, I apologise for how roughly I treated you all that day. I’m ashamed of myself, but I was under great strain. Look, can we start again? Won’t you come and meet Dawn and Orlando? Granny’s fine, but missing you. I too miss you all and would love to see you. All love, Dad.
No, I thought. Not yet. I rang up Silvia and over the background shrieks and crashes of Hugo in a temper, asked if she’d got Dad’s email.
“Christ, you don’t think I’ve got time to check my mail till Hugo’s in bed, do you? Hugo, put that down NOW. I said NOW. I’ll tell Daddy. Oh shit, Jaques, I’m going round the bend here, Hugo’s crawling and teething…. What’s Daddy Dearest want?”
I told her, and she snorted like a racehorse. “Fuck that. Emotional blackmail. Great strain my arse.”
“Still… we’re going to have to see them one day.”
“Not yet. Though I wouldn’t mind seeing Gran. Shall we ask her up to town one day soon, give her lunch?”
“Yes, let’s. Hey, Silve, I’ve got an idea.”
“Well, treat it carefully, it’s all alone in a new place.”
“There goes another rib. No, look – Mum’s will’s not probated yet but Uncle Quentin said the other day that we could go down and clear out her Devon house, apparently that university library is being a bit pressing about getting all her papers. Fancy doing it with me? Better not bring Hugo.”
“Oh God, Jaques, you’re a lifesaver! Yes, let’s. Matt will have Hugo for a day or two – it’d probably take us a couple of days, wouldn’t it.”
�
��Easily, what with the drive down there. And I’ve no idea how much stuff there is to sort and pack. Better take your Range Rover.”
“Yes. Look, I’ll check with Matt about having Hugo, but it should be all right for tomorrow? Or the day after? Soon, anyway?” She sounded wistful.
“Whenever. I’m free.”
“Good. What about Dad? Email back ʽnot yet’?”
“Unless Toby’s gagging to go.”
He wasn’t. I’d heard my mobile give its text tone while I was talking to Silvia, and now I read: got dad’s e? don’t want 2 go, do u? 2 soon.
I texted back: S and I don’t want go or not yet. Suggest we both send polite email saying, later smtm. S and I going mum’s devon house soon, want 2 come?
Reply: cool. can’t go devon tho. c u 2nite, talk then.
Silvia and I settled on going to Devon in two days’ time, when Poor Matthew would be able and glad to have Hugo. She would pick me up at eight in the morning, in her Range Rover, and we’d stop at the university library and pick up all the stuff they deemed necessary to pack up Mum’s material; probably we’d spend the night at the house or a nearby hotel. Toby, who had started getting very managerial at Awopbop, even wearing suits quite often, assured me that he would be able to mind the cats just as well as I could, so would I please go and pack a bag and shut up.
Silvia arrived slightly before eight, irritatingly chirpy in that parental I’ve-been-up-since-six way. She looked dressed for a Vogue shoot, not a long journey and a dusty rummage through old papers – tight moss velvet jeans, chestnut boots with four inch heels, ivory silk shirt, a long cardigan thing apparently knitted out of feathers. Her nails gleamed with damson varnish, her lips were the same glossy colour, and she had jade and topaz earrings. When I raised an eyebrow she said not to be silly, she had old clothes in the car and wasn’t she allowed to forget she was a mother sometimes? She then nannied me through finishing breakfast, getting dressed and into the car, and we set off at 8:09.
At least we had a good day for it, one of those sudden blue and sunny winter days. Traffic was light, Silvia is a smooth and confident driver, and there was something decent on the radio. I’m ashamed to say I’d forgotten what good company Silve can be, and how well we get on when circumstances allow. We didn’t talk about our parents, or PoorMatthew, or anything personal except Shakespeare and the fact that Silve was now below her pre-pregnancy weight and was going back to work, doing Paris and Milan and, indeed, a Vogue shoot very soon.
We were at Exeter by lunchtime, and tracked down the university librarian. Although I’d arranged all this with him, he nearly passed out when he realised who we were and why we were there. If it hadn’t been for Silvia giving him her No. 2 smile we’d still be there, his damp hands clutching ours and his dandruff gently mingling with Silvia’s feathers. He got himself together enough to whistle up some underling to carry an enormous quantity of flatpack archive boxes to the car, together with liners, labels, sealing tape, a CD with the inventory spreadsheet – he kept saying, “Can you manage? Can you manage?” – and even some marker pens. We assured him we could manage, me being able to read and Silvia to write, and he asked for our autographs. “For the wife.” So did the underling. “These’ll get a bit on eBay.” Finally we escaped.
Silvia had brought lunch, baguettes of ham, brie and sliced artichoke hearts. We ate in the car, drank some coffee, then headed for the North Devon coast. Mum’s writing house wasn’t far from Barnstaple, a little outside Croyde, pretty famous for its surfing, and even in February wetsuited idiots were out there on their boards. Rather them than me, Silvia said and I agreed.
The house had been so very much Mum’s private writing retreat that none of us, not even Dad, had ever been here. I suppose subconsciously we’d expected something of outstanding beauty, say a thatched cottage wreathed in honeysuckle, or some modern architect’s pride and joy, for we actually passed the house twice before we had the brains to check the address. It was so ordinary, you see – the sort of probably 1930s house you see endlessly along suburban streets. Its only interesting feature was the semi-circle bay windows on the right, top and bottom. It had recently been painted but already the sea air and constant wind were making the paint fade and peel. The front garden was mostly a crazy-paved terrace, with a few Michaelmas daisies around a scrubby lawn.
There was a garage at the side, one of the old-fashioned sort with doors that lock in the middle, and inside only just room for the Range Rover. Silvia turned off the engine and we looked at each other.
“Not what I –”
“– was expecting. No. Well, shall we explore a bit, then bring all those boxes inside.”
Mum had this house well secured. There was a locked screen door at the front and decorative grilles at the windows, and as I struggled with the keys I noticed a very discreet and therefore very expensive alarm system. This was a problem, because I didn’t know the security codes. But on the tab on the keyring was written “T-2”. So that was all right: I knew how Mum’s mind worked. Toby’s birthday minus two. Toby was born on the 11th of October 1985, so: 9883. (Or, of course, 981763. Or…) But the first number worked, and we were in and the alarms turned off.
We were in a small, ordinary hall, the walls and carpet cream, everything else white. The air smelt of vanilla and cinnamon. Mum’s Barbour hung on the hall stand, her wellies and walking shoes on a mat beneath it. A narrow table on the opposite wall held a bowl of white silk flowers and a fat candle, half used. I opened the table’s single drawer, found nothing more exciting than a flashlight and a box of matches. “Shall we explore?” I wanted Silvia with me for this first recce; if there were secrets here, I did not want to face them alone.
“Upstairs first, or down here?”
“Here.” I opened the door on the right. There was just enough light for Silvia to find the pull-cord on the curtains. She swept them open, and the room sprang up to greet us. Long, rather narrow; probably two rooms knocked together. Honey-coloured parquet floors with two vivid rugs. White walls, heavy cream curtains. A fireplace in the outer wall, with a gold-framed portrait above it. Bookcase. In the middle of the room two squashy toffee-apple-red sofas, the 1960s kind made to resemble lips, stood back to back, separated by a table holding lamps, ashtrays, a stack of magazines. Each sofa was long enough to lie on; each had a footstool, cushions, throw rugs, a bronze glass cube to serve as coffee table. I could imagine lolling on the sofa at this end, watching the sea through that huge bay window. The other one faced the big plasma TV in the windowless end wall. Under it a sleek steel unit held a stereo, VCR and DVD player, with drawers for CDs, tapes and DVDs. At the side of the room a square archway, if there can be such a thing, led into the kitchen, a slick new affair of black and white. The back door was at the end of a short passage holding the boiler, airing cupboard, stairs down to a cellar, and a broom cupboard. I went outside, and found only a wheelie bin and a garden shed, not locked, holding the usual stuff and three surfboards which even to my inexpert eye looked old-fashioned and clunky.
Another door from the kitchen led back into the hall beside the stairs. On the right was a newly fitted bathroom, austere but luxurious with white tiles. A cupboard in a corner hid a tiny laundry. Everything was as spotless and impersonal as a good hotel; new cakes of soap, beautifully folded towels, a basket of miniature toiletries. That very neatness spoke of Mum’s personality, of the way she would never leave a room or a house messy when she knew she would not be back for some time.
Only one more door on this floor. A bedroom. White Ikea-looking furniture, a narrow double bed covered with an old patchwork quilt of pinkish hexagons. The walls were the same almost-pink. Green armchair in a corner, pink curtains, a stone jar of silk flowers. On the chest of drawers, a photo of Dad with the three of us, and one of Silvia and PoorMatthew with the newborn Hugo. At the foot of the bed was a wheelie trolley with a TV and a stack of DVDs. Books in the bedside cupboard. On some deep, and deeply ashamed, level I was glad to note that
pillows were piled on one side of the bed only and that there was only one nightstand, one reading lamp. As if reading my mind, or speaking her own suspicions, Silvia said, “She never brought anyone here, then. It was just for writing.”
“Just for writing, yes. Upstairs now?”
Except for the sea sloshing away outside, the house was so silent that the hum of the central heating coming on, on a timer, startled us both. I wished I could stop thinking of all those horror movies where one of the more dispensable actors, always the brunette if female, climbs stairs… But the only surprise here was a couple of Hockneys on the stair wall, and another stone jar of silk flowers on the landing. The air smelt of the sea, and of the scented candles Mum liked to burn when she was working.
All the right-hand doors upstairs were locked, and I remembered Mum saying she only ever used part of the house. But at the front was what we’d come for: Mum’s study. Yellow walls, cushioned vinyl on the floor. Crammed bookcases. Six white filing cabinets. A daybed soft with rugs and pillows. For a desk, a deep shelf had been built into the contour of the bay window, and on this stood a PC and a laptop with a printer between them, a photocopier, phone/fax machine and scanner, an ashtray, a glass tray holding three vanilla candles. An old portable typewriter stood on top of one of the filing cabinets. I was glad to see, beside one of the computers, a thick stack of manuscript, held down by the Tower of London paperweight I’d given Mum when I was ten; I’d had no idea she’d kept the tacky bit of tourist kitsch. I glanced at the last page, and the header read “slaughter2007 page 806/806”, so it was the final book, and completed. Mum’s literary agent had been hassling me about that.
Missing Christina Page 8