Behind the study was a bedroom just big enough to hold a single bed with a blue version of the patchwork quilt downstairs, a chest of drawers, a Hoover and a lightweight stepladder. On the bed was a box of light bulbs and dusters.
“Where shall we start?” Silvia asked.
“With coffee.”
I knew the kitchen would be well stocked with basics, so that Mum had only needed to bring milk and perishables. In the fridge we found six cans of lager and twelve of Diet Coke, a pack of mini Mars Bars, soda water, three bottles of white wine, jars of strawberry jam, minced garlic and horseradish, lemon juice in a squeezy bottle, long-life milk and a vacuum pack of coffee beans. The freezer was stuffed with microwave-ready meals, a sliced loaf, butter, ice cream. While Silvia prepared coffee I explored the other cupboards. Plain white china, the sort you can buy in any chain store, and only three of everything. Cutlery and glasses from the same source. A frying pan, a saucepan, the minimum of utensils, the basic cleansers. Toaster, microwave, electric kettle, blender. A cupboard full of tins of baked beans, soup, tuna, fruit. Drinking chocolate, dried herbs, peanut butter. Porridge oats in an air-tight jar. Raw sugar. A bottle of The Famous Grouse. Three cartons of cigarettes, matches, candles, a pack of cheap lighters.
“She would come down here,” I told Silvia, “with a litre of milk, a chunk of cheese and some fruit, change her clothes, open a can of Coke, and go straight upstairs and start writing.”
“I know. She told me too.” Her tone said: do you really think you’re the only one Mum ever talked to? I apologised, and slunk out to the car for our bags and all those archive boxes. Handing me a mug of coffee, Silvia said, “She told me how impossible it is to write when you can be interrupted at any time. Virginia Woolf, remember – ʽa room of one’s own’. She had a room in RFR for a while, but it didn’t work.”
“And so she started coming here to write.”
“Yes, after her first two Slaughter novels took off.” For a moment we looked at each other. Silvia finally said it. “That Orlando child’s eleven, Dad said. So – born in 1996. Dad must’ve started… with her… 1994 or 95 at the latest. So Mum started to come here.”
“She may not have known for a while.”
“Bet she did,” Silvia said quite cheerfully. “But tell you something, Jaques, she really did also need a private place to work. She told me it was impossible at home, there was always noise, always interruptions, the cats walking on her keyboard…. She got so that she couldn’t write if there was anyone else in the house. She’d come down here and do nothing but write. Up early, big brekkie, write till two, fuelling herself on Mars Bars and Diet Coke, then lunch, a snooze, then she’d go for a walk or a swim, shop if necessary, check her emails, turn her phone on, early dinner, watch TV or read, perhaps write for another hour or so, then a hot bath and bed by eleven. Occasionally she’d go to the pub in the evening.”
“I wonder why this house, though?”
Silvia shrugged. “She liked being near the sea, and she didn’t know anyone down here so no friends popping in. Well, what shall we do first?”
Mindful that the day was almost gone and we’d probably have to sleep here, I suggested clearing out Mum’s bedroom. “Everything except valuables to go to charity?”
“I’ll get some bin liners.”
To my relief, Silvia took the chest of drawers, which I knew would hold things like undies. I couldn’t have coped with that. The wardrobe was easy – hanging on the left were a black overcoat, black trouser suit and green silk shirt, and a Jean Muir Dress, with, under them black high heeled boots and shoes; Mum’s emergency ʽbest’ things. I checked all the pockets, found nothing, and folded the clothes into the charity shop bag. At the other end of the hanging rail were cotton shirts and fleeces. Espadrilles and trainers on the floor, and a pair of ugg boots. On the shelves, jeans and t-shirts, black tracksuits, two heavy sweaters. In the first drawer, black leather handbag, belt and gloves. In the second, two swimsuits, a cotton beach wrap, and flip-flops in a plastic bag. In the handbag I found only tissues, a lighter and a ten-pound note. Everything else went into the charity bag.
It had taken me less than five minutes, and in the same time Silvia had cleaned out the chest of drawers. The only things she had put aside were an unopened bottle of scent, a pricey-looking leather manicure set, and the ʽsilver’ brush, comb and mirror set we kids had clubbed together to give her years ago. Of course the silver wasn’t silver, wasn’t even pewter, but no one ever told us that and Mum had treasured the gift, so much so that she’d kept the things here, tarnished though they were, their basic five-poundishness showing through. Silvia was staring at with tears in her eyes. I said, “Of course she kept them. Mothers do.”
“I know. I know I’ll keep everything of Hugo’s. It’s just that they’re so tacky and we were so proud, and she pretended to love them so much. No – she did love them, because we gave them to her. But she kept them. Used them,” she added, pulling a few fairish hairs from the brush. “Well – keep or give away? And this manicure set, look, I think it’s real gold and tortoiseshell, look, the label says Asprey’s. Worth a bit?”
“Would you like it?”
She thought for a moment then said, “No. Let some charity shop make a quid or two out of it.”
So that was almost that. The drawer of the bedside table held only sleeping pills, reading glasses, hand cream, a book of cryptic crosswords. I pocketed the pills, binned everything but the glasses; a charity shop might like them as well. We added Mum’s dressing gown from behind the door, and her slippers. Done. Silvia said she’d do something about dinner if I’d take the bags to the charity shop, so off I went, the car full of my mother’s private past.
When I returned the house was warm, Ella Fitzgerald was singing Cole Porter, and microwaved something smelt good. Also, Silvia had opened a bottle of wine. Getting out plates, I noticed a safe let into the back wall of the cupboard, into the wall of the house itself. I must have exclaimed, for Silvia said, “If it’s a mouse, kill it with the frying pan.”
“Not a mouse. Look.”
She came to peer over my shoulder. “A safe? Oh.” Her tone said: Secrets?
“I suppose we’d better look. What if there’s something valuable?”
“Yes, but we’ll eat first.”
We both ate very quickly, bracing ourselves, though we wouldn’t admit it, for what we might find in the safe. But we were damned if we could find a key or any clue to the combination lock. We tried all our birthdays, Hugo’s, our parents’ wedding date, historical dates, everything we could think of, but Mum had outwitted us. Finally we used our brains and realised she must have noted the combination somewhere, and the only place would be in her study. But we found nothing, until we thought of the address book in the top drawer. Nothing useful under L for Lock or C for Combination, but under “S” was “Saffie” with a phone number. The only Saffie Mum had known was the Ab Fab one. So back to the kitchen we went, and we deleted the London code from the number, and we were in.
Cash, yes. Five hundred pounds. An unused-looking Visa card. Sleeping pills. Two manila envelopes thick with paper, a photo album. A jewellery box containing two wedding rings and a diamond solitaire engagement ring. A bunch of keys. An unused PAYG mobile phone. Cigarettes and a lighter. In protective cases, a videotape and a DVD.
Eleven
Of course we looked at the things. We didn’t scruple. Mum had left the contents of this house to me, knowing I would see what the safe contained; if it had been anything more private she would have left instructions to destroy these things unseen. She had always understood about curiosity.
Without discussing it we played the DVD first. Perhaps we had a sense of getting the possible worst out of the way.
It was a professional copy of bits of old film; chapters had been inserted. We simply started with the first. It was amateur film of a wedding, in colour, and ran for less than a minute. The bride and groom appeared arm in arm at the church door,
posed for a moment, kissed, then vanished in a cloud of confetti. The groom, Adrian, fair-haired and blue eyed, was unmistakably the man in that locket of Mum’s. The bride, I hardly recognised as my mother. Young, of course, her skin taut and unlined. Pale hair drawn back into a coronet of curls, a ringlet beside each ear. Sixties makeup. Enchanted radiance in her face, and utter, gleeful trust in the way she looked at her husband. The camera followed them to their car, and we saw our father, gangling and rawboned in what was probably his first morning suit, Quentin ditto with some people I didn’t recognise, and Aunt Barbara in pale pink with a Juliet cap. Granny ran forward and threw more confetti, the groom kissed the bride again, and the car doors closed. That was all.
The next bit’s only title was “1969”. A party, some formal occasion. A large, long room, perhaps a ballroom, with several sets of French windows standing open. The camera was fixed on the main doors at one end, filming everyone who entered. For perhaps thirty seconds people unknown to me came in, spoke, smiled to the camera, took drinks, moved on. Then Mum, with Adrian. She wore a black evening dress that left her shoulders bare, and diamonds at her throat and ears. As at her wedding her hair was up, but in a less fixed and formal way. Beside her, holding her hand, Adrian Randall wore black tie, a frilly shirt, medium length hair. They looked very pleased with themselves, or with each other, and alight with happiness. For a moment they looked into the camera, Mum tucked a strand of hair behind her left ear, Adrian whispered something to her and, laughing, they moved out of shot. A jump cut in the film: now people were dancing; a waltz, it looked like. The young in one other’s arms. Mum and her husband, smiling gently at each other, moving together with graceful skill. Three times they passed in front of the camera, then the film ended.
Chapter on. “1972”. A village cricket match. I recognised the pavilion at Williamscourt. Tall and blond, moving with the ease of a natural athlete, Adrian was batting, taking strike. Quentin at the other end. It’s not a game I’ve much time for, but I could tell Adrian was good, sixes and fours pouring off his bat. The score mounted faster than the scorer could change the numbers. Williamscourt Wanderers (oh please) 91. Then, disaster. Adrian hit a beautiful stroke, and both batsmen ran. Watching the ball’s trajectory, Quentin cannoned into Adrian, sent him flying, and a fielder threw in the ball and hit the wicket fair and square. Run out. The camera followed him part way, caught Mum with curly, hippy hair and a long muslin frock running past Quentin to Adrian, touching him as if he’d break. He reassured her, kissed her, walked with her to a group of deckchairs, spoke to his parents and my grandparents. It ended there.
The videotape held only the same material. The photo album held the sort of photos albums usually do; nothing very interesting except for the changes in fashion from the later 60s to the early 70s.
The fatter of the manila envelopes held a copy of Adrian Randall’s will. He had referred to Mum as 'my beloved Christina, my friend and companion as well as my wife’; we didn’t bother reading the rest of the lengthy document. There was also an old passport in the name of Adrian Louis Fyffe-Randall, its pages thick with visas. As well, there was the January 1968 record of a deed-poll change of name from George Adrian Louis Randall to Adrian Louis Fyffe-Randall. And, under the will, the record of the inquest into Adrian’s death, with some photographs which even in black and white were unbearable to see, the colour ones unspeakable.
In a manila envelope were perhaps a dozen letters, two or three handwritten on thick, creamy paper headed with an engraved address in Belgravia, the others typewritten on aerogrammes to foreign addresses. All were from Mum to Adrian. Sylvia and I exchanged a glance and knew we couldn’t bear to read them, or not more than a quick glance – most were about invitations she’d received while he was away, or business; marital chat about family, house repairs; private jokes and references and all full of affection and hopes that he would be home soon. That was enough for us.
The next envelope spilt old cards and letters across the table. Six birthday cards, Adrian to Mum, expensive but ordinary cards with a few fond but commonplace words. Four postcards, from France, Germany, New York, Norway – having a lovely/boring time, missing you, all love, darling. His writing was neat and rather old-fashioned, with extravagant capital letters. Under each signature he had drawn a tiny heart.
The letters seem to be in no particular order. The first was dated 20.ix.71, written on the headed paper of the Perthshire hunting lodge of people I knew to have been Grandpa’s friends.
Tia my darling – I hate it when we quarrel. I shouldn’t have come here, but it wasn’t for the reason you thought, just the fun of killing defenceless birds. No one here interests me. I am sick of tramping up and down Glen Bollox with tweeded examples of inbreeding, and I miss you. Why not come up? (If you do, bring tweeds, stout boots + evening frock.) Or send me a telegram saying I’m urgently needed home on business; no phone here, but loyal natives bring messages in cleft sticks. I. love you and only you. Forever, A. ♥
There was a telegram dated October 1973, saying: No need to worry, I will get rid of Quentin as soon as I’m home stop we definitely did not repeat not agree for him to stay on but try to put up with him for now all love Randall.
Then one on Williamscourt paper, dated November 1970.
Tia Mia Galatea Dear, have no fear, wish you were here. Tho’ I’m glad you’re not, given the circs., not least the weather – cold and wet here; no fun. Got Aunt L. safely planted yesterday, Lord Randall rising to a cup of tea and a bun afterwards (why waste money, she was only a woman, etc etc, and had no money to leave.) She was a nice old girl, if ga-ga for the last 20 years; used to tip me ten bob when I was at school. Rumour has it she’s left me her set of Galsworthy.
Jon is talking of quitting Oxford to join some rock band. He played me a tape – surprisingly not that bad, altho’ the drummer can’t count. Told him to finish his degree, then to come and see me in London; told him that if the band seems to have a chance I’ll arrange studio time, demo disc etc, perhaps even a contract. What would you think of us starting a record label??
Anyway, my darling, after all that Ld Randall took me aside and hit me up for money, the bastard. Says he has a tax bill to pay. Yeah, and Queen Anne’s dead; i.e. old news. Quoth I, “Another?” and he didn’t take that too well. I would’ve told him where to stick his bill but that Mother confided things are quite difficult for money, etc etc. So I told him I won’t give him any cash but if he gives me his outstanding bills I will see about settling them. It’s all he’s going to get out of me, the sod. Also I told him we must do something re death duties, avoidance of, and he took it rather badly; he’s immortal, you see.
I’ve volunteered to run Jon back to Oxford Sun afternoon, so I will be home that night. Wish it could be sooner but have to stick around for post-funeral things, and to cheer Mother up. She sends you her love, as usual, and says she hopes you’re getting plenty of rest and drinking milk etc etc. Jon also sends love, says good news about baby etc. Ld Randall would probably say the same if he wasn’t in such a temper about money etc. Miss you like mad, sweetheart. Sunday night Seems long time away. We’re no good apart, are we. Take care of yourself my darling angel. All love ever, A. xxxx♥
“Baby?” Silvia said dully.
“It can’t be right – I’m their first! Her first! Oldest is best, she always told me.”
“No – a girl is best.”
“I bet she told Toby youngest is best.”
“I bet. Jaques, it must have died.”
We looked at each other, sharing the betrayal, then Silvia shook the contents of the smaller envelope onto the table. First was a yellowed newspaper cutting about the suicide of 'well known society obstetrician, Mr Phillip Swaine-Jones’. Found in the study of his Harley Street house – dead for at least two days – family away for weekend – study found sealed and gas fire on – smell of gas alerted Mrs S-J when she returned from their holiday cottage in the Cotswolds – clutched in deceased’s hand, the writ
brought against him by various of his patients, including the Hon. Adrian and Mrs Fyffe-Randall, for negligence resulting in stillbirths, maternal deaths – stories of drunkenness on duty –
A copy of a medical report. An affidavit from some doctor – Mrs Adrian Fyffe-Randall had been allowed to go so far past her due date of confinement that her child (male) was stillborn… 1970, it was. Medical details followed, but we felt too sick to read them. Nor did we read the bill for cremation of a stillborn male child, Henry Fyffe-Randall.
“They had a baby and it died,” I said in reluctant belief.
“I nearly did that too,” Silvia said, and put her hands over her streaming eyes. “With Hugo – I went past my due date and Mum went ballistic with my doctor. She’d already warned me she’d had some trouble like that having us three. So I was taken straight into hospital to have Hugo induced. But she never told me about this baby!”
“Or me.”
“She wouldn’t have. Jaques, you don’t know, you see, because you haven’t got children. If Hugo had died like that, been stillborn, I could never have borne to talk about it. Yet I wish she’d told me. Oh God, poor Mum. And she never had another one with Adrian, and he was murdered.” She took her hands down, scrubbed at her eyes with a tissue, and looked at me. “She loved that Adrian, didn’t she. He’s the man in that portrait over there, isn’t he. I bet this was his house and they used to come here together.”
“Yes. I mean, why shouldn’t she have… But I don’t want her to have! I only want her to have loved Dad!”
“Me too. Do you think she came here to – to remember Adrian?”
“We know she came here to write, but…” I’d found another document in the big envelope: the deeds to this house, which had been bought by Adrian and Christina Fyffe-Randall in 1968. “It was his house. Silve, in a letter I found, one he wrote to his mother, he talked about surfing in Australia…" Simultaneously we turned to look out the sea-facing window. Too dark to see anything now, but this was a famous surfing beach. This house had been Adrian’s, he’d come here in summers to surf. Perhaps it’d been a short-lived interest or he would’ve bought a more spectacular house somewhere. And Mum had kept it, made it her refuge. Perhaps it had been rented out after Adrian’s death. Dad and Dr Crippen, that baby born in 1996 – and Mum fled here to Adrian’s house. Or was it perhaps the other way round, Mum unable to forget her first husband and Dad looking for comfort with another woman? When I asked Silvia this she shook her head, crying again, and said she didn’t know. Then she leapt up and said, “Those locked rooms upstairs. I’m going to look.”
Missing Christina Page 9