Missing Christina

  Marian sat up, astonished. “He married your mother?”

  “Yeah. She married Dad about three years after Adrian was killed.”

  “I didn’t know. There’s nothing online about that. So she was Christina Randall twice?”

  “Uh-huh. Well, Fyffe-Randall the first time, because Adrian changed his name; the uncle who’d left him all the money was called Fyffe, and he’d loved him.”

  A door slammed in the room below us. I heard a voice.

  We sat up, guilty as two teenagers when the parents come home unexpectedly. Sprung. And we hadn’t shut the door to this room. “That’s my brother,” Marian whispered. “He’s early.” She glanced at her watch, then up at me. “Or no, he’s not…” Reflexively I too looked at the time, and Jesus, where had the afternoon gone?

  “Maz? You home?” this untimely brother bellowed up the stairs.

  “Busy!” she called back, so loudly I was quite frightened, then she reverted to whisper mode. “Look, he’s cool about this sort of thing and we don’t interfere in each other’s lives, but…”

  “You want coffee?” came from downstairs. “Did Jaques Randall turn up?”

  “Yes, and he can hear you. Coffee – give us ten.” Back to me. “But…”

  “I know. But. It’s private, isn’t it. And a bit embarrassing.”

  “Yes. And we’ve said we don’t really do this. So… d’you mind… bathroom.” She pointed towards a door on the inside wall. Off I obediently trotted, and in a very nice, tiny shower room, at top speed I made myself clean, tidy and respectable. As I came out Marian scuttled in. She’d tidied the sofa, and I killed a couple of moments by smoothing the quilt and fluffing the cushions. The room seemed to me to stink of sex; the rain had stopped, and I opened a window. When she came back I was sitting by her desk idly riffling through a folder of Belinda Tate printouts and photocopies. She raised an eyebrow: do I look OK? She was still a bit flushed, and I was sure I had I JUST FUCKED YOUR SISTER tattoo’d across my forehead. “Give it five,” I muttered.

  She nodded and, smooth as silk, said, for anyone to hear, “But I was going to show you that bit of film of Belinda Tate, wasn’t I.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  She frowned: you’re not fooling anyone. “It’s copied from bits of old home movies a cousin of hers gave me. The quality’s not too good, but it’s OK.” She opened her laptop, fiddled around, swung the monitor towards me. “I warn you, some it’s rather unpleasant. Well, very. Old Mr T groping her.”

  Snow on the screen, then a very home-made-looking caption, marker pen on cardboard: The Funeral of Timothy John Brough 1946-67, KIA Vietnam.

  “This is the later of the two bits of film,” Marian said. “This is the way I received it, they were copied out of order. The funeral was at St Peter’s Cathedral in North Adelaide.”

  Now the screen was showing the front of a church I recognised from my damp wanderings around the city the day before. Victorian Gothic, small compared to English cathedrals, only the size of a chapel, but it’s a cathedral if it’s got a bishop, isn’t it? To my surprise the film was in colour, and its quality not too bad. It showed people clustered on the church’s steps and forecourt. Most of them were in black or at least dark colours, all but the youngest men wearing hats. Old-fashioned clothes. Two girls, one tall and well-rounded in a tidy grey suit, with dark curly hair. The one beside her, holding her arm, was shorter and much slimmer, with 1960s-straight blonde hair halfway down her back. She was side-on to the camera, all I could really see was a neat black dress with white collar and cuffs, sunglasses (it was a bright day), and that she had absolutely spectacular legs. “Belinda’s the blonde, of course,” Marian said softly. “The other’s her cousin Anne.”

  Belinda was just any girl out of any film or photo of the sixties. Or was there, speaking of the sixties, something in the way she moved? I’d been watching Marian more than the film, but now my attention was well and truly caught. Something familiar about her. The photos I’d seen. No, more.

  Now three men were surrounding the two girls. Anne’s brothers, Marian said, and then their parents, the mother (“Coralie Johnson.”) dark in her colouring, well-dressed, dabbing at her eyes as she kissed the girls. “Here come the Tates.” The camera was fixed, we had to wait until people walked in front of it. Right. A big woman, legs like tree-trunks, great bust and belly straining her inappropriately bright blue floral dress. White accessories, a hat too small for her broad face. For a second the camera caught the tail-end of a smirk before she turned on a patently false look of grief. She dived straight for Belinda, whose shoulders immediately slumped defensively, and tugged at a piece of her hair, then bent and pulled stupidly at the hem of her dress. I could tell from the shapes her mouth made that whatever she was saying was unpleasant. “Should have worn a hat,” Marian supplied, “and your dress is too short. Nag nag nag. At a funeral!” In fact Belinda’s dress wasn’t all that short, not for 1967, and none of the other girls, and there were several, were wearing hats; I had an idea they’d gone out by then. Mr Tate said something evidently quite sharp to his wife, for she stepped back, sulking. He put his arms around Belinda and Anne, but with practised synchronicity they wheeled away behind the young men, and he was left to embrace his sister. He at least seemed genuinely upset; well, why not? The dead boy was his nephew, presumably he’d been fond of him. Yet grief sat hardly on that unlined, somehow childlike face, a face that had never known stress or upset, was made for chummy grins and good nature.

  Now an undertaker’s car pulled up, and everyone moved back. There was one moment when Belinda took off her sunglasses and glanced straight into the camera. A flash went off, someone taking snaps of the occasion for the family album and probably trying to get the newcomers, but it was that quick photo that the Tates had offered the police when Belinda vanished. Now she really did remind me of someone. I shoved my hair back behind my ear, and squinted more closely at the screen. That rather long, crooked nose was unfamiliar, but the shape of her face, and something…

  A stocky, balding man was helping a woman out of the car. She was draped and swathed in deepest black, a veil hanging crookedly from a wide hat-brim. Clearly she was weeping, and she all but fell into the man’s arms; I didn’t need Marian to tell me these were the dead boy’s parents. One of the undertakers opened the front passenger door and a tall skinny girl, also smothered in black, got out and at once took her mother’s arm. “Jennifer, Tim’s sister. She was about twenty-three, I think, and there were no other siblings. Mrs Brough had a sort of breakdown after her son died, and who can blame her. My mother went to interview her about Belinda, but she wasn’t taking much in, she had nothing to say. She hadn’t much liked Belinda, it seemed, and she didn’t approve of Alf and Winsome adopting her.”

  Now the hearse, and behind it two official-looking cars, flying flags. Marian murmured that although Tim Brough hadn’t been the first Australian, or even South Australian, I think she said, to be killed in Vietnam, it was only just dawning on people that “our boys” were dying there, it was the start of the turning against involvement in that futile war. These cars had brought Army officials, the Premier’s representative, a Federal Minister, MPs.

  An awkward jump-cut. Now we were at the burial. At least a hundred people gathering as close to the grave as they could. Lots of young men, probably friends of Tim. Family nearest the grave. Belinda half-hidden by her male cousins, but, with Anne, holding Jennifer’s hands. She had the sunglasses on again, once or twice half-raising them to wipe her eyes.

  The usual burial service, then an army bugler stepped forward. Mrs Brough passed out. End of film. More snow.

  Another amateur caption: “Tate Family Xmas 1966. Naracoorte.”

  “This is the unpleasant bit,” Marian said, and I wish I’d told her I didn’t want to see it, didn’t care, please stop the film.

  A big, tastefully furnished room (Belinda’s aunt’s house, Marian said) was dominated by a huge Christmas tree at one end
, and full of people filing in to take their seats. If the 1960s had ever really been swinging, they hadn’t swung as far as the Tate family. All the women had short hair, rigidly set or back-combed, bright red lipstick and blue eyeshadow. With the exception of Anne, the cousin, they all wore print shirtwaister dresses or gathered skirts and blouses. Hems were on the knee, they all wore stockings and heels. The men all had short hair and wore flannel slacks or long shorts with knee-length socks, lace-up shoes and short sleeved shirts with a tie or spread open at the neck. One very young man wore army uniform – obviously Tim, with less than a year to live. Even the children looked old-fashioned, the boys in grey shorts, shirts and ties, the little girls in smocked and puff-sleeved gingham. There were none of today’s T-shirts, jeans, trainers, fashionable dresses, no silks or denims, nothing ethnic or revealing.

  Marian identified a few people as the camera panned to them: Mr Tate’s sisters and their husbands; Tim of course, and Anne; the rest were in-laws, more distant cousins, a great-aunt. “And there are Alfred and Winsome Tate, at the end.” His thick dark hair was cut very short, with a razor-sharp parting. He wore smartly pressed flannels and an open sports shirt, and was looking around the room in simple pleasure, smiling and chatting, very much at ease in his low armchair. To his left, on a higher straight chair, sat Mrs Tate, putative murderer. Her greying dark hair was set in the style favoured by the Queen, but she wore no makeup or jewellery, and her dress was creased and pulling at its seams.

  “Here comes Belinda now,” said Marian, “and then, I’m afraid, the gross bit.”

  Belinda had her back to the camera, all we could see was some rather fluffy shoulder-length fair hair and a thin back in a green cotton dress. She was carrying a tray full of jugs of coloured liquid and stacks of glasses, and it was too heavy for her, you could see her childishly frail arms trembling with the strain of carrying it. Rather belatedly a male arm came into shot and helped her put the tray on a table. Anne beckoned to her and patted the seat beside her. Belinda started towards her, but the children were in the way at the Christmas tree end so that she had to go past her father to reach the sofa.

  Gross, yes. He grabbed her round the waist, said something which even I could lip-read as “Come and give your old dad a Christmas kiss.” Belinda didn’t want to, her body was stiff with reluctance, but he pulled her off balance and onto his lap. One hand was on her knee, sliding up under her dress, the other pinching and stroking. Now the old pervert kissed her, much too close to her mouth, nuzzled her neck, felt her breast. He was moving against her in an unmistakeable way, and all the time he was grinning that same happy, witless grin.

  “Look at Mrs T,” Marian said softly. She was sitting bolt upright now, her face a twisted smirk of satisfaction, contempt and disgust. Hatred, even, for daughter or husband or both.

  “No one’s taking any notice,” I whispered. “It’s disgusting. He’s all but jerking off on her. Why doesn’t anyone stop him?”

  Marian’s voice would have curdled milk as she said, “Some of them tried, sometimes, but I told you – people thought differently then. Good old Alf, nice old boy, bit free with this hands, but… And he was the sort of person who thought he knew everything and everything he did was right, he just laughed off any criticism. But no, no one’s noticing specially, because it’s just good old Alf giving Belinda a Christmas cuddle. – Good, she’s got away from him now.”

  Even the back of her neck flushed with humiliation and anger, Belinda was edging past others to sit beside her cousin Anne. For a moment the two girls’ shoulders touched, and they whispered together, something that made Belinda smile and look up straight into the camera, tucking a strand of hair behind her left ear with her left hand.

  When she smiled the left corner of her mouth turned up before the right. Even under the shoulder-length, badly cut, thick hair covering most of her face you could see the way her smile lit her face with animation. She was pretty when she smiled. When she spoke her hands flew, gesticulated. She had fine, slender hands with long fingers and very white nails. When she talked her left eyebrow rose slightly. When she was given one of the presents from under the tree she handled it gently, opened it with her left thumb, smiled gratefully at the giver. She turned often to speak to Anne and the boy on her other side, and when she leaned back to talk to Tim her neck had a slender, graceful arch. Her nose was too long, her teeth were uneven, but oh yes, yes, now I knew what had happened to Belinda Tate.

  But no. No. Impossible.

  Or was it?

  I was mistaken, that’s all, because this film wasn’t good quality. Or – a chance resemblance. We all have a double, it’s said.

  But it wasn’t just her face. It was her expressions, her gestures, her… everything. I wasn’t mistaken. I knew her. If the film had had sound I would’ve known her voice.

  Adrian, I thought. That’s how.

  She was my mother. Mum used to be that girl, she was Belinda Tate.

  Sixteen

  I am a very good actor. I am good at improv. I am disciplined at work. I once played Guildenstern (Stoppard, not Shakes) through to the end after breaking my wrist three minutes into the last act, and never showed a thing.

  I’d never needed those skills and that discipline more than I did when that film came to an end.

  “Interesting,” I said. “And unpleasant, as you warned me.” My voice sounded quite normal, for the circumstances. “Very unpleasant. I’ve never actually seen…”

  “Nor had I.” She was looking at me rather oddly. “And I’ve watched it three times and it’s still horrible. Jaques…”

  I was saved by a shout of “Coffee’s done, if you want it,” from downstairs. The excellent, timely brother, the wonderful beamish boy.

  “Coffee would be nice. And could I – er – the bathroom again? Oh and by the way, could you let me have a copy of that film? Dad would like to see what his pen-friend was like.”

  “Yes. Yes of course. I’ll send you the file.” She was frowning a little as she stood up. “I’ll see you downstairs.”

  My face in the mirror looked bleached, taut. I was shaking. My eyes were too bright – with tears, I didn’t realise until one fell onto my hand.

  I’d lost all chance with Marian and I’d lost my mother. I’d lost Marian because I’d lost my mother. My mother who had brought us up not to lie, who’d always told the truth. Except that she hadn’t. All her life had been a lie. What had she told us of her past, her youth? That she’d been orphaned young, had been in care for a while. All very nasty and dull, she’d said, I don’t like to think about it. My grandparents, she’d told me once, her parents, had died a long long time ago, and do you mind if we don’t talk about it, darling? Well, perhaps they had.

  Uncle Quentin. He’d been, he was, her cousin. That much wasn’t a lie, they looked so like each other. That’s who the girl in that film had at first reminded me of. Same chin, same… Christ, no wonder that baby photo had seemed familiar, it was Hugo to the life. Spitting image.

  I washed my face in very hot water until some colour came back into it. I peed, flushed, washed my hands, tidied my hair, started to tuck it behind my left ear with my left hand as she had done in that film. Stopped myself, left it. Went downstairs to be pleasant.

  Was introduced to her brother, who although he was taller, darker and heavier was so like Marian he could only have been a close relation. Family resemblances… He said he was a huge fan of mine, loved my stuff, had always watched Relative Causes, the whole family’d liked it, hadn’t they, Maz? He’d liked most of my films but hey, that sci-fi/fantasy hero one was ace, he’d loved that, and that rock ’n roll film. Hey, I wouldn’t autograph a couple of DVDs for him, would I? I would. I did. And I kept up the friendly chatter, I drank my good coffee. Baz was asking if I’d like to stay to dinner. I could tell Marian wanted me to, and it just about broke my heart to say no. For a moment I wondered: need I say no? Could I stay, and tell her what I’d discovered, and take comfort from her hard
intelligence and, perhaps, her body? No. If I kept quiet, she’d never work it out, there was no way she could make the leap to the truth. It was important she didn’t, for if she did I knew she would say, quite rightly, that she could not keep it secret, people had a right to know, it wasn’t just solving a mystery. People had been hurt, a community shattered, when ’Belinda’ vanished. They had the right to know what had happened. There was a duty to the truth. I could ignore that, but Marian could not, she would not. But it was my mother’s secret.

  So, regretfully I said I really had to go, I’d to meet someone for dinner and had to catch an early plane for Sydney tomorrow.

  And so, after half an hour, I was saying goodbye to Baz, and walking down the corridor with Marian, to the door.

  “I think the rain’s stopped for good,” she said as she handed me my coat. “Though I suppose you’re used to rain.”

  “I am, yes. I enjoyed the storm.” Colour surged up her face, and I bent my head and kissed her lightly on the lips. “You are lovely to make love with.”

  “So are you. I wish… no, never mind. I didn’t expect it, but I’m not sorry it happened. I know it can’t happen again, though.”

  “I’m afraid it won’t. Can’t. Marian?”

  “Yes?”

  “Two things. Did you ever learn what Belinda’s birth mother’s name was?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Just wondered.”

  She gave me a bit of a look. “It was Herne.”

  Somehow I kept a blank face, covered any reaction by kissing the top of her head. She moved away, just a little, but enough.

  “What’s the other thing?” she asked, rather curtly.

  “What’s 'Baz’ short for?”

  “What? Oh. Yes.” She laughed. “Barnabas. And our older brother is Charles. Our parents tried so hard.”

  Poor things, they had, but this was Australia. Chaz, Maz and Baz.