Missing Christina

by Whitford, Meredith

  Fucking hell, they are worse. Can’t ever tell C. this – but she’d mentioned that a farm near the Tates’ was for sale, the sale including a big “Colonial” mansion she’s always liked. So I took 2 days mid-week when C. unavailable, and drove down to Dixieland. Dressed myself up, slicked my hair down, used accent I learnt in the N.T., wore a hat, ect, and went to Tates’ farm pretending I was representing someone who was interested in the one for sale nearby and was looking for more land in the area. Christ, I can see why C. says the country in England is different. Dull and flat down there, endless fields of wheat, a few sheep. Not as dull as the N.T., but awful. The Tates’ farm is a run-down looking place, farmhouse squalid – thought of “Cold Comfort Farm” (one of the few books C. and I have both read.) Had made a few enquiries and discovered that Mr Tate owns more than 10,000 acres and is pretty well-off, made a fortune during the war supplying meat and wool ect etc to armed services but likes to think he’s on the breadline. Anyway, farmhouse is a dump, no money spent on it for decades, whole place run, I think, as a one-man operation until Mr T. took one of C.’s cousins into partnership 3 years ago. I stopped off at the farm, spun my yarn about looking for land to buy – Mr T. (struck me as thick as two short planks) said flat No, and laughed. Wasn’t asked into house, thank God, because the bit I could see was pretty horrible – once a v. decent place, I think, but run-down and dirty. Saw what C. meant when she said Mrs T. too lazy ever to get off her fat bum. A very nasty piece of work, Mrs. T. – v. snooty, plenty of airs and graces, but something creepy about her. Spinning my yarn about buying land, I managed to slip in a question about family – “I suppose your sons will inherit, are they in partnership with you?” sort of thing. Expected to be told to mind my own business, but Mr T. just laughed. Mrs T, though, took it as a cue to get in a few digs about “my husband’s nephew” who thinks he knows everything, and then said, straight out, to a stranger, that they only had one useless daughter they’d adopted but she’d turned out no help to anyone, thought she was Lady Muck, of course they’d spoilt her, she was allowed to do what she liked up in the city instead of helping out her parents… she went on and on, and I got out of there as fast as I could. For “cover” I went to the next farm I came to, spun my yarn again but was sent off with a flea in my ear. Quite nice people, tho’, especially after the Tates – I mentioned them, and it was quickly clear that the Tates are not popular. Then I got out of there and came back to the city. Luckily neither the Tates nor their neighbours asked for any credentials or whether I was representing a firm of agents or anything like that. Perhaps other people have been sniffing around because of that big place for sale. (I’d mumbled that my name was John Roberts, first thing that came into my head, tho’ at the neighbours’ place I think I said Robert Johns. I’d hired a different car, so can’t see any way the Tates could find out who I am.)

  One thing: must find a way to ask C. – she’s said the Tates are rigid teetotallers but Mrs T. smelt of booze. Wine, or port, or something.

  But it is pretty clear C. is right and no point in asking proper permission to marry her. So what to do?

  Not at all to my surprise, there was another of Mum’s footnotes here:

  He never, ever told me about this!!! I’m ashamed that he saw the place and met the Tates; it’s to his credit that it didn’t put him off me. Just the same, I wonder if that visit did somehow alert Mrs T – she was not intelligent, but she had a sort of sixth sense about anything to do with me.

  Elope, is the only way. I put it to C. Said it would mean simply going away without telling anyone, leaving everyone and everything behind. She thought it over for a long time then said no-one has ever loved her except her grandmother (despite the fact she was only a granny-by-adoption) and that although she is v. fond of a couple of her cousins and an aunt, and her room-mate Kathleen, there is no-one here she actually loves. Told her to think it over – she’d have to leave everything, and become a different person, at least until she is 21. New name, fake background. We are in love but have only known each other less than 3 weeks – does she want to take such a final step? Made it clear I want to marry her as soon as poss – can do it in Scotland without parents’ consent.

  Bought C. an engagement ring – had to choose it myself since we can’t go into a jewellery store for her to pick the one she wants, not if she’s going to “disappear”. Luckily she likes it.

  I’d half thought of going to court to get a judge’s permission for us to marry but C. said that as soon as Mrs. Tate found out there’d be hell to pay, she’d find a way to stop it and make C.’s life a misery. That made me realise that I’d better tell C. a few things about me. Well, one thing. Went down to beach with her at night and when no-one was around told her why Ld Randall had sent me to the N.T. Tricky, because I don’t really know how much she knows about things like that. She said, Well, Oscar Wilde and so on – but what was I trying to say, that I was a poofter? Oh and by the way, what do men actually do together? I said that’s very hard to explain, and anyway it’s in the past, it was what boys do together in 10 years at boarding school; I did admit that I’d thought I was in love with P---- at school, and that when we went up to Cambridge together it’d gone on until Ld Randall caught us together. Hard to explain what it’s like living with other boys and men and hardly ever meeting girls. Even told her about that woman who tried to seduce me at one of Uncle L.’s shooting parties, and what a mess I made of it. I could tell she thought that rather funny, but was trying not to hurt my feelings. Finally she asked if I’d ever slept with a girl, so I had to tell her about N., the nanny up on the cattle station. C. at once said, Was I in love with N.? Told the truth and said of course not, just sex, she was the sort of girl who goes in for casual flings. C. then asked, Was N. prettier than her? No. Finally she asked if I’d ever want to sleep with a man again and I said I am sure not, now I’ve got her. Bloody hell, I love her, don’t want anyone else.

  Oh, Ade. He did try so hard. But quite recently I discovered that the “lambda” he uses later on in this, is or was a code for homosexuality. So I suppose he never could quite suppress that part of his nature, although I believe he wanted to. Now, I don’t mind, but I don’t know what I would have thought if I’d known then, in 1967, that he was having encounters with men. Probably I would have been too innocent for it to matter to me. And he really did love me, and I him.

  Then she said she had something she had to tell me and it was horrible, so could I please not look at her while she told me. I said it didn’t matter to me what it was, nothing could stop me loving her. Actually I thought she was going to tell me she’d slept with several men, and tried not to mind.

  But what she told me is that her father has been “touching” her – groping her, feeling her up, trying to kiss her, since she was 11.

  I’ve never been so fucking furious in my life. I wanted to go straight back to that shitty farm and kill the old perve.

  I managed to keep calm enough. Managed to ask her if she meant actual rape; incest. She said it’s been “just” touching and pawing and making her sit on his lap, anything to get his hands on her and all over her. Not only her – she says he does it with everyone female between about 10 and 40 – arm around waists, bit of groping, “give us a kiss”. She said one of her uncles-by-marriage had once warned Mr. T. off but he’d refused to understand and said the uncle had a dirty mind. She also said that Mrs. T. hates anything to do with sex, is disgusted by it, can see it in the most innocent thing, would never let C. wear make-up or scent or short skirts ect (partly also “in case she turned out a harlot like her mother” – quote.) This is why, she said, she likes the way I never tried anything on with her, any sort of heavy petting or touching. Said she loves me and I’m the first man she can bear to think of making love with, but is afraid she might not be much of a wife.

  All I could do was hug her and tell her I love her, and we’ll do our best, and I’ll always look after her whatever happens. But, bloody hell. I want to kill bo
th the Tates. At least make a lot of trouble for them somehow.

  At this point I found I’d had enough for now. What I was reading was too personal. Also it was sad, or perhaps I mean it was saddening to me. My mother that poor little clever unloved girl, and Adrian, so young and confident in some ways but hiding the truth about his sexuality from himself. What was clear that those two really had loved each other, which made me think of how lucky Mum had been that it was someone genuinely loving and kind who had come along. No doubt she’d been as bright as everyone said, but probably she’d also been quite naive in many ways. Would she have seen through someone who was just out to use her? And how far had Adrian turned her into the sort of person, wife, he wanted? I didn’t believe too much of what Quentin had so drunkenly said at Silvia’s wedding but there was probably some degree of underlying truth to it, and Mum –Belinda – had gone from one sort of control to another; a better, kindly, loving one, but perhaps with its own tyranny of gratitude. Or perhaps it had all been the most marvellous fun for her – escaping the Tates (no wonder she’d called her first book Escape), having money, being fashionable, travelling, having a posh house, designer clothes, jewellery, everything. She would have enjoyed working in a publishing house, too; just her sort of thing. But had she after all been homesick, had she missed her friends and cousins? Had she been afraid all the time, thrown into such a new world?

  The whole thing was making me feel claustrophobic in a strange way, as if I’d become trapped in someone else’s life. Dust from all these old papers was making me sneeze and I was getting a headache. So I put everything back in that deed-box, locked it and put it away, fed the cats then went to the gym for an hour, walking there and back at a good, brisk, head-clearing way. One the way home I stopped at a nearby restaurant I liked, but someone recognised me and I had to go through the autograph-and-photo business, smiling and being pleasant. Back at home I tried watching some telly, then took a pill and went to bed. But I couldn’t sleep. In the end I got up, and opened the deed-box and started where I’d left off. I wanted to know the rest of the story.

  At last C. and I have agreed we will simply elope, run away. No one can know anything about it. She will pretend she’s got a job in Melbourne or Canberra, and write to the Tates after she’s left Adelaide to tell them so and that she does not want anything to do with them, so will be using a new name.

  But how to do it? She’ll need a birth certificate in a false name, to get a passport. In a spy novel I’ve just read someone did this by using the name of a child who was born in the right year (C. will have to pretend to be over 21) but died young – you get that child’s birth cert., and thus a passport. Best if, as a “cut out” as they say in spy novels, she uses a different name in England, so that if anyone finds out what name she leaves Australia under, the trail will go cold after that, she’ll have a new identity.

  Last night I remembered a boy I was at prep school with. O’Brien minor. Had a sister called Kirsty, a name I’d never heard before. I’ve always remembered that her birthday was on Bastille Day, because we were learning about the French revolution and O’Brien, who was a bit dim, put his hand up: “Sir, sir, that’s my sister’s birthday!” I’m afraid we teased him a lot about that. Point is, soon after that the family emigrated to South Africa, I don’t know why, the father’s job I suppose, and a year later I heard they’d all been killed – was it a car crash? An aeroplane accident? I knew the family had come from Carlisle, and the parents were George (like Ld Randall, and it was O’Brien Major’s Christian name) and Rose, although how I’d discovered that I don’t know. So: Kirsty O’Brien, born 14.7.46 in England, died abroad. Easy to deed-poll that name to Christina Something. The nicest man I’ve ever known is one of the dons at Cambridge, he’d known my grandmother, and his name is Bryant. Christina Bryant? C. likes this. But we still need a birth certificate so she can get a passport. I said I’d spend a day or two in the Newspaper Reading Room at the State Library, looking for children’s death notices. (I think C. is a bit shocked at herself for agreeing to all this illegality. She says she’s never broken a law in her life, hasn’t even jay-walked, in fact didn’t even dare leave the school grounds with her blazer unbuttoned, which was apparently the worst crime anyone could commit.)

  C.’s room-mate Kathleen came to see me tonight. I thought she’d found out our plans and was going to blow the whistle on us but on the contrary, she’s all for it – but the reason she’d come was to make sure I’m not “messing Bel around”. (She calls C. “Bel”.) Asked if I realise C. is in love with me and believes in this lovely future I’m promising. She said that if I let C. down I won’t break her heart but I’ll break her. Asked if I knew much about C.’s life with the Tates, that she’s adopted, ect, and that no-one has ever tried to look after her, except Kathy herself this last year and C.’s cousin Anne, a bit. Said C. has never let herself trust anyone but them before. Said if I let C. down, she, K., will find some way of making me sorry. Took me a long time to reassure her. Pointed out I’d given C. an engagement ring, etc. Gradually convinced her – but then asked if I can trust her. If the Tates kick up a stink when C. disappears, and if the police get involved, probably the first person they will ask (blame) is K. She eyed me, then said, “You can trust me. I’ve met the Tates. I spent most of last June’s long weekend with them – partly out of curiosity, I admit, to see if they could possibly be as bad as C. says, and if so, to sort of protect her. Well, they’re worse that she’s said. Er – has she said anything about what Mr Tate does?” I said yes, and suggested a few things I thought he deserved. She nodded vigorously and said she hated a kiddie-fiddler and wondered who he’d started on, and when. She said, “So if you promise to get her away, and marry her, and treat her right, I swear I’ll never say a word. All I’ll know is C. got a job in Melbourne and has been so badly treated by the Tates that I’m not surprised she doesn’t want them to know where she is.” So we shook hands on it, and then she gave me an envelope. Inside was a birth certificate for Alison Ivy Lang, D.O.B. 6.6. 1946, born at Port Lincoln, daughter of Ivy Elizabeth Lang, nee Taylor, and Norman David Lang, of such and such an address. “My sister,” Kathy said. “She had polio, she’s too badly crippled to live at home. She’s too crook to travel, she’ll never need a passport. I’ve got the birth cert. because my parents live in Port Lincoln but I’m here, near Ally, so I’m responsible for her. No-one will need Ally’s birth certificate for ages and if they do I’ll just say I lost it. If anyone finds out Bel used it to get away, I’ll be shocked and angry and say it seems very unlike Bel, I’m really let down by her.”

  “And you’ll never tell anyone?”

  “Cross my heart. But could you see that Bel gets in touch with me sometimes? There must be ways. Just so I know she’s all right.”

  I promised, and gave her back the birth certificate to give to C., who brought it back to me next day to hide it at my flat. I asked K. if there was anything I could do for her in return. No. Then, as she was leaving, I said that C. had said the Tates were teetotallers but I’d heard Mrs. T. was not averse to a drink? K. laughed and said, “She takes this 'tonic’. Some doctor suggested it ages ago when she was pretending to have a nervous breakdown. You get it from the chemist shop. It’s just cheap plonk with some iron and herbs in it. She’s supposed to take a tablespoonful a day but she swigs it by the glassful, and I don’t mean a wine glass, I mean a big tumbler. I saw it that weekend, a big glass of it morning and night. So she’s probably squiffy half the time, as well as being a spoilt, filthy-tempered bitch. Never let her find out where Bel is.”

  I never knew Kathy had done this. I was better looked-after than I realised. She simply gave me her sister’s birth cert. She would not accept money but later Adrian arranged for an anonymous donation to the Home where Alison Lang lived. He also worked out a way for me to keep in touch, anonymously, with Kathy; but after she married we rather lost touch.

  THINGS TO DO

  Get passport and visa application forms
. – DONE

  Get C. to buy extra make-up ect so we can disguise her for p’port photo. Buy her clothes.

  Once p’port application sent in, I should go to Sydney for a couple of weeks. This is another 'cut out’, so I can send letters and photos home to 'prove’ I’ve been travelling around all this time. That way if necessary I can say Yes I met Belinda Tate once or twice back in October, then left Sth Australia. Can’t see that anyone can make a connection between us, but best to be prepared.

  Get mail to my flat held at PO while I’m away; arrange for C. to collect mail sometimes at PO. Leave key to my flat, and cash for C., just in case. See if I can book plane tickets to England with open departure date.