Missing Christina

Write to Mr and Mrs McPherson in Aberdeen to ask if C. can stay with them while in Scotland – I’ll have to spend Xmas and New Year at home. (Also ask if they want to work for me as they did for Uncle L, now I’ve inherited his London house. If not, can they recommend servants. Want to get settled in there as soon as poss after New Year.)

  Book C. a hotel room in London.

  Buy travellers cheques for her and work out how best to get her extra money at need if I’m not on hand.

  I think we’d better pretend I chanced to meet C. here in Australia, but in Sydney – she’s fair-skinned but too healthy-looking to pass as English who’s never been away. Think of 'cover story’ for her. Working holiday in Aust.? Came into some money when turned 21, decided to go home? Can I get her a job in the F &R publishing Co.? Ask C. about all this, she’s good at thinking things up, she’s got imagination.

  Passport application done and posted. Amazing thing is that C. looks so different without the long fringe she usually wears, and without hair hanging down the sides of her face, that she hardly needed all the disguising make-up and the reading glasses she’d bought to wear in the photo. I bet she’s been hiding behind all that hair most of her life, and it’s gorgeous hair but she has a stunning face, I hadn’t quite realised until I made her put her hair up for the photo.

  Odd thing: when she started to fill in the p’port application I noticed C. was writing with her left hand. She said she’s naturally left-handed but Mrs T. made her use her right hand – this is why C.’s left little finger is crooked: Mrs T. hit it and broke it once when she started writing left-handed. I’d noticed she uses her left hand for a lot of things but not for writing – but now she said that the moment she started to fill in the p’port application she felt as if she had begun to be someone different, and it came naturally to write left-handed. Her left-handed writing is quite different from her right-handed.

  C.’s cousin Tim was killed in Vietnam a few days ago. C. very upset – he was one of the cousins she got on best with. His parents and sister shattered – never quite believed he could poss be killed over there, it seems. Big funeral planned, full military honours etc. Asked C. if she’d rather I stayed till that’s over, but she agrees it’s better if I go now – they say a p’port might take anything from 2-4 weeks, so best if I get myself to Sydney now and pretend I’ve been there, or travelling for ages. C. has my hotel details; best if I don’t try to ring her but can send postcard. Hate hate hate leaving her, but it’s not for long.

  Canberra. Pretty boring. Wrote to Mum, sent photos.

  Sydney. Hotel OK. P’card to C. and Mum. Raining. But λ

  Manly Bch. Met up with Bob from Queen Vic. Downs. Surfing. Party.

  Heading up coast with Bob and mates, surfing, booze.

  Surfers’ Paradise. Tacky. Wet, cold. Can go up to Barrier Reef with bunch of blokes I met here. λ

  Barrier Reef too far north. Getting sick of this. Missing C. Wondering. Nearly 3 weeks.

  Sydney. 4 messages to ring Miss Lang. 2 letters from C. Jesus fuck. Should never have left. Mrs. T.’s got her.

  C. writing from work, sounds desperate – Mrs. T. acting oddly at funeral then went home. Next Friday rang up C., said Mr T. so upset about dead cousin he had returned to city, C. must come to Glenelg flat after work, Mrs. T. will pick her up. Think despite all C. is fond of Mr. Tate, so she said OK. Got to flat, no Mr. T, Mrs. T. at worst, screaming, violent, raving (drunk??) Had moved all C.’s things out of hostel, said she is to live in Glenelg flat with Mrs. T. Accusations of 'carrying on’ – doesn’t know about us, luckily, just general raving, accusing C. of whoring, drinking, etc. Locked C. in cellar all weekend. Monday drove her to work, sat all day in public waiting area, frog-marched her off to lunch, waited, drove her home. Kept her up most of night ranting and raving. C. says the old bitch has finally flipped. Same next day. No-one at C.’s office knows whether to believe her when she says Mrs T. is responsible for bruises, black eye etc. C. can only write from work and put letter in office out-basket. Kathleen worried, rang her, can’t do anything, tho’ C. was able to tell her to ring me here. But I was away. Mrs. T. finally caused so much trouble at C.’s office that C.’s boss banned her from building, threatened call cops. C. able to see doctor in city in lunch hour, doctor believed her, very concerned, said should go to police or to a judge to get a 'place of safety’ order. C. doubtful, says can stick it out till I’m back and passport has arrived and visa. Doctor gave her sleeping pills and tranquilisers – v. effective, but mostly because C. is putting them into Mrs. T’s 'tonic wine’ to keep her under control. Dangerous? More – Mrs. T. cut off C,’s hair one night – warm night, C. put hair in ponytail, Mrs. T. sneaked up and chopped ponytail off. C. sound more upset about this than the rest – guess she’s used to Mrs. T. but her hair, her lovely hair. Says it looks ridiculous even after hairdresser tidied it. Except for when at work, C. virtual prisoner, Mrs. T. on her all time. C. has no idea what’s set Mrs. T. off but thinks funeral got her away from farm and she can’t stand being back there so cooked up mad reason to return to city, using C. as excuse. She daren’t go near my flat, and Kathleen can’t get mail from PO to see if passport has come.

  Immediately booked flight back to Adel., got last one tonight.

  Rang C. at work. OK to meet for lunch.

  She looks terrible. Hair short, ragged, although she tried to get a hairdresser to tidy it up after Mrs T. cut it off. Has lost about half a stone, looks dead tired, nervy. Asked if p’port has come yet – no. I want her to go and hide in my flat till it comes but she’s afraid of being found, would rather put up with Mrs. T. until can get away once and for all. I said she should go to New Zealand – Aussies don’t need passports for there. Same answer. Also said that while Mrs. T. is making her do all the housework she’s cleaning all her finger-prints off everything, so that if she’s ever found no-one can use her prints to prove she’s B.T. All I can do is go to flat at night, C. will signal whether things are OK by arranging her bedrooms curtains a certain way. Will meet her every lunch-time. (Gave her enough money to have hair tidied up a bit better at good hairdresser.)

  Left flat and took room at motel near C.’s flat.

  Realised that now C. really will have to leave everything behind and just vanish. Can’t take anything with her without Mrs. T. noticing. Before it was just a matter of her having decent clothes for England but now she’s got nothing, so I’ll have to buy her a few things. Only thing she insists on taking is her grandmother’s seed-pearl necklace, only thing she has of hers. Smuggled it out today – says that Mrs. T. destroyed so many of her things that she’ll say that’s how the necklace got lost, if Mrs. T asks for it.

  Passport and visa OK. Want C. to leave tomorrow but she says better to go on Friday – she’ll pretend to go to work as usual, but as soon as she’s out of the flat will ring office to say she’s sick. That way Mrs T. will think she’s at work and won’t realise till she fails to come home. This will give us all day Friday to get away. Sensible, tho’ am afraid to wait. C. refuses to fly to Melbourne or Sydney, says Adelaide airport too small, she’ll be noticed, also Adel. is sort of place where she’d be bound to run into someone she knows. Tried to talk her round, but she insists we drive to Melb., can do it in one day if we share the driving, doesn’t matter how late we get there. So I’ve booked her on Saturday Qantas flight to Heathrow; also booked room for her at Brown’s Hotel in London. Have bought her some traveller’s cheques, will wire extra money. Decided she must go first, alone, so that, again, if anyone makes connection between us I can prove I was in Sydney long after she disappeared. C. nervous about travelling alone, being in UK alone; told her she’ll be fine, and will give her addresses she can go to for help if necessary. Most unlikely police or Tates will believe she’s gone abroad, v. little chance anyone will check at airports. Told her to make sure she leaves her bankbook showing she’s withdrawn no big sums lately.

  Am trying to think of ways to make Mrs. T. pay for what she’s done.
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  Posted C.’s “Ruby Tate” birth cert. to myself in England; safer that way. C. has got tonsillitis, hope she’ll be OK for flight.

  Saturday. Done. C. safely on her way. Mrs. T. still asleep (booze and drugs) when she left as usual yest’y a.m. Ducked down side street to where I was waiting, took her to my motel. We dyed her hair light brown (it looks darker than normal in passport photo), did her make-up etc. Hair looked pretty good when she’d set it ect. C. hid in back seat until we were well out of the city. Bloody long tedious drive to Melb., but little traffic, no hassles – C. of course didn’t have a driving licence she could show if we got stopped for any reason but drove part of the way regardless. Got into Melb. late but I’d booked room at motel near airport. First time we’d shared a room, but both too tired to do more than shower and fall asleep holding hands. This morning she dressed and did her make-up, and she looked smashing and not at all like Belinda Tate. (Her tonsillitis has almost gone, so perhaps it is pyschosomatic? Or just the pencillin? Hope she’s all right on the plane.) Really nice dress and matching shoes, engagement ring, nice ear-rings, short hair looking fashionable, trendy make-up, new watch, fur coat over arm, flight bag over shoulder – the real, classy, international traveller. I flew to Sydney with her, to maintain my 'alibi’ there. (Left car in airport car park; bought it for cash and never put it in my name, so should be OK.) Horrible moment when had to say goodbye but it’s only for a bit over a week, today’s the 9th and I’ll be home Mon or Tues of next week, will fly up to Scotland to see her then home for Xmas etc. Then back to Scotland to marry her.

  Tues. night. Fucking hell. Never thought of this! That insane cow Mrs. T. is claiming “Belinda” was abducted from Glenelg Beach like those children a year or two ago. It’s on the telly news and all over the papers. Not sure what to do. C. will be leaving London tomorrow, having obtained the Kirsty O’Brien birth cert. from Somerset House ready to change the name by deed poll. She’ll be safe in Scotland. No indication police suspect she’s gone anywhere under her own steam, let alone abroad, but I wonder what investigations are going on behind the scenes. Sent anonymous letter to Adelaide police saying I had reason to believe Mrs. T. had killed “Belinda”, suggested they ask neighbours, Belinda’s friends ect, about last few weeks. Am now glad that the night before C. left I gilded the lily a bit by smashing her old watch and putting it in the flat’s backyard and doing a few other things (blood in boot of Mrs T.’s car and so on) to make it look as if “foul play” had taken place.

  Saturday. “Abduction” story has blown up in Mrs. T.’s face. She’s been arrested. Am leaving tomorrow for England. Will go straight up to Scotland to see C.

  Monday. News this a.m., Aussie Prime Minister drowned yesterday in Victoria.

  Arrived London. Had appointment with Uncle Louis’s solicitors Tues. in London. Papers to sign, ect ect. He has left me his house in Belgravia and the one on Jersey, plus his interest in Fyffe & Randall Publishing, plus a lot of investments and property. Of course he left Mum some money but tied up so Ld Randall can’t get his hands on it and gamble it away; also he left a bit to Jon and his parents, and to charities ect. I had no idea he was so rich. He inherited a lot from his mother, whose father was one of those Scottish captains of industry with fingers in many pies and whose sons were all killed in World War One, and he made a lot more by investing in property and all sorts of things. I think too his wife had money but she was killed in 1941 in the Blitz. Anyway, I have inherited nearly 600,000 pounds AFTER taxes and death duties ect and I own a lot of houses and land all over the place ect ect. One thing I found out from the lawyers is that I now own nearly half of the publishing company, not that it makes a lot of money these days, but that means I can make sure C. gets a job there and we can “officially” see a lot of each other that way, and fall in love, ect ect.

  After lawyers, up to Scotland to see C. I suppose we both wondered if it would be the same, but the moment we met again it was all right. I really do love her, and she loves me. She looks very different, I suppose because she’s away from those god-awful Tates, but also because she’s bought some really nice clothes ect and looks confident and all that sort of thing. I had to tell her about the “abduction” story Mrs Tate cooked up and she was very upset about the way it must have worried everyone, and wasted police time ect ect. I showed her all the newspaper cuttings about it and she was horrified. I think she couldn’t help being pleased that Mrs T. had been arrested, but if she’d been charged C. would’ve felt she’d have to do something to stop it. But the latest news I had was that Mrs T. was considered insane and there’s no evidence about what happened to “Belinda” so nothing much will happen. C. was upset on her cousins’ behalf, ect, because they’d done nothing to deserve all this scandal.

  Home to Williamscourt for Xmas. Have been homesick for it more than I realized. Rather a shock to realize how much money needs to be spent on the house ect; Ld Randall has really let it go to rack and ruin. He expected Uncle L. to leave him some money or to leave Mum a lot and is furious that there is none he can get his hands on. Mum is being very soppy about me being home again, she really has missed me, altho’ she does go on rather about how much taller and bigger I am now, and how tanned ect. I’m taller than Ld Randall now, which he doesn’t like. In fact I can make life easier for Mum now by making Ld Randall be nicer to her, I mean I can bribe him to treat her better and not bully her. I will take her to London soon and buy her some decent clothes and make her get her hair done ect. But she seems to think I will live here now, so I’ll have to be careful about breaking it to her I will live in London, in the house Uncle L. left me. I think I will have to be careful about C., I mean introducing her gradually as my girlfriend, because I think Mum will be jealous, she seems to want me to herself, which I understand but I can’t stay here and just be her “little boy” any more.

  January. Married C. today, Mr and Mrs McPherson as witnesses. They are in secret of “elopement” but because there was so little about “Belinda” in UK papers that no-one took much notice before more shocking news of dead PM. Now to London, to get C. a flat and a job in F&R until I can start introducing her to my family and get them used to the idea she’s my girlfriend and I’m going to marry her. And she has to get used to the idea that she’s safe, I’ll never let the Tates find her.

  C. has changed name by deed-poll from Kirsty O’Brien to Christina Bryant. I’ve given her money to open a bank account in that name, and she is getting a driving licence ect. I’ve taken a flat near Sloane Square for her, and have got her a job at Fyffe and Randall, which is now to be called Randall, Fyffe and Randall. She likes the house I inherited from Uncle L., and we’ll have fun re-decorating it soon. She says she’s never lived anywhere so nice, although deep down I think she likes her flat best. Mr and Mrs McPherson are going to stay on as cook-housekeeper and butler/chauffeur/handyman as they did for Uncle L. They like C. very much. Soon I can start pretending I met her at the publishing house – or perhaps we’ll say we met in Sydney or something, we’ll sort that out – and then we can start ’going out together’. There’s a ball in March which I’ll take her to and gradually get it through to my family that I’m going to marry her.

  The next few pages had yellowed old cuttings from newspapers about the “Belinda Tate” disappearance stuck in with brittle pieces of Sellotape. I glanced through them and found them interesting only for the way the headlines changed from the first, hysterical ANOTHER GLENELG ABDUCTION? to BELINDA 'ABDUCTION’ A HOAX, MOTHER CONFESSES.

  After that the Journal held nothing else relevant – Adrian had apparently used it for a while as a sort of day book/ledger; there were various amounts of money listed, each with a cryptic note beside it. There were a few quickly jotted names and addresses/phone numbers and then, half way through, the Journal ended, had probably been put away and forgotten. Idly I wondered if Adrian had ever learnt to spell the abbreviation for et cetera. And the word Messiah, and a few others.

  Well, what now? />
  I knew I wasn’t going to show Marian any but the most essential of these documents. That journal, for instance, was too private. Or was it? What a story it was; the private story. Marian’s book would be a scholarly setting-out of facts, the solution to a mystery. There was more to it than that. Not a book but perhaps a screenplay? A film? A telly series? It was worth thinking about – for later, much later. For now, I’d get all the material together, everything from Marian’s first email to Mum, and the Belinda letters I’d found, then Adrian’s letters home to England. And Adrian’s private letters to Mum – I wouldn’t be showing them to Marian either, I knew that; not to anyone. I’d put all the material Silvia and I had found in Mum’s writing house in my own safe; now I fetched it all out and began to put it in order. I let myself get confused – two lots of material, one relevant to Marian’s book, one to the story of Adrian and Christina. I started again, and put into my own pile the copy of Adrian’s will, with his private letters, and the transcript of the inquest into his death, and the ghastly photographs that went with that. Black and white photographs, some most horribly in colour. Odd how I can watch (and act in) the most gruesome films and telly shows without turning a hair, yet these photographs made me sick. Or, rather, not so odd, because after all I am very well aware of the difference between make-believe and real, I know how all those special effects are done. But I made myself look at the photographs as I sorted them out, putting them into an order that would tell a story. I had a vague, worrying feeling that I was missing something important – but what? Surely there was no more proof to be had?

  I rang up Marian. It was the middle of the night there, and she answered slowly, sleepily.

  “Come to England,” I said.

  “All right.”

  Twenty-one