Missing Christina

by Whitford, Meredith

  “When did she die?” I asked.

  “Oh, 1968 I think. Actually not long after we met Christina. Her husband had died years before and I remember she didn’t want to be buried with him.”

  Carefully not looking at Dad I asked, “How did she die? She wouldn’t have been all that old?”

  “No, in her sixties, I suppose, she was the oldest of the family. How? She fell down the stairs one night. Someone had broken into her house, lots of her antique silver was taken. She was a nasty old bitch but a game one, they found her with the poker from her bedroom fireplace in her hand. She had a heart condition. They said that was what killed her, the fright and the fall. I wish I could say anyone missed her. I think I’ve got some old photos somewhere, no idea where, but I could look. Or perhaps I gave them to Christina.”

  A small silence fell. I could tell Uncle Quentin was ready for us to go; he looked flushed and sweaty as if all these memories had tired and worried him. I glanced from Marian to Dad, and in tacit agreement we rose, thanked Quentin for the delicious tea and so on and so forth. Yes, we really must get together again soon. That shooting weekend, Jon – perhaps put it off a little? Don’t forget to ask for the raspberry macarons, will you. A pleasure to meet you, Dr Elder. Bye-bye.

  “He seemed to have no idea about the Tates, did he,” Marian said as we walked to the car.

  “Or didn’t want to mention it. But I don’t think he knew.”

  “It’s going to be a very great shock to him, then.”

  “To everyone,” Dad said grimly.“We’d better do it soon, I suppose. If I ask everyone to Williamscourt next weekend? Will that suit?”

  We agree it would. Later, after Dad had dropped us off, Marian said, frowning, “Mr Herne, Quentin, didn’t ask who I was or what business it was of mine.”

  “Nor he did. Perhaps he just took it for granted you’re my girlfriend. But it is rather odd, isn’t it. Perhaps he’s heading for a crack-up, he took Mum’s death very hard.”

  “He certainly seemed a bit loosely plugged in at times. What was that ’red and green must never be seen’, for instance? That was random.”

  “No – yellow and green... his name.... but the Q is purple.” I’d stopped dead, and Marian, holding my hand and walking on, tripped as she was brought up short.

  “Jaques? What is it? Are you all right?”

  “Fine. No.”

  “You look as if you’re going to faint.”

  “No... come inside. I have to look again. Oh Christ. Oh Jesus Christ. ’Q’ is purple unless it’s bright red...”

  “Jaques, you’re frightening me!”

  “Come inside. I have to look at those photos again. I think I know who killed Adrian.”

  *

  It took me a long time to explain. First, she’d only vaguely heard of synaesthesia and to my annoyance didn’t believe me until she’d googled it. Then she asked a million questions, all in the tone you’d use to someone wearing a little foil cap to stop aliens stealing his thoughts. Finally she was convinced. But what had that to do with, well, what I’d said about killing Adrian?

  For answer I got out the photos taken at the time of his death, police shots most of them, although a few were in colour. She winced as she looked at them, and when I scanned them and brought them up, enlarged, on my computer she muttered something about not normally being squeamish but those macarons (“So different from my Mum’s macaroons.”) had been delicious but she shouldn’t have eaten three.

  “Go and be sick if you must,” I said quite roughly, “then come and look.”

  She wasn’t sick, but she sat down beside me and looked, still with a slight air of patronising someone deluded.

  “You’ve seen most of Adrian’s letters now. Remember how he always signed off with a little heart?”

  “Ye-es...”

  “Dad told me that when he got there that night, the night Adrian died, before the cops moved his body, he noticed that Adrian had drawn a little heart in his own blood, to remind Mum he loved her.”

  “That’s very sweet, but –”

  “It’s bollocks. She knew he loved her. Look, he’d been stabbed in the back, then his throat was slashed. He would have bled out in seconds; or the shock would have killed him. He had just enough time left to crawl a few feet to the steps of his house. Just enough time to draw what everyone thought was a heart. But you’ve seen his handwriting. So come and look at this photo from over here, as if you were standing behind him, so to speak. It’s not a heart.”

  “I’m not sure...”

  I reached for that journal of Adrian’s, and couple of his letters. “Look!” I insisted. “he had a way of using those old-fashioned capital letters. He wrote his capital Q’s like the digit 2. Granny and Dad do it too, it was the way they were taught.

  “Now do you see? He must have recognised Quentin and tried to tell Mum and everyone.” It was so obvious to me that I was annoyed she didn’t seem to get it. “I remembered I’d seen that capital Q in one of the colour photos. To me Q isn’t red, it’s purple. But I’d seen it written red. In these photos. Marian, don’t you see?”

  I could almost hear her mind whirring as she considered it. After a long silence she said, “I do see it now. But... but it’s not proof. You could argue that it’s anything, a sign you’re sure is a Q. And that nice little man we met today with his silly teapot and his dusty books? He was her cousin. He loved her. Why would he kill Adrian?”

  “He didn’t like Adrian. And because he was her cousin. Perhaps he was even jealous of Adrian. And I happen to know he despises homosexuals, which is why we’ve never told him about Toby.”

  “Toby your brother?”

  “Yes, that Toby.”

  “He’s gay?”

  “Yes. Does it matter?”

  “To me? Not a bit.”

  “Good. But, you see, I told you how Quentin thought Adrian was so controlling and all that sort of thing – and he’s clearly got no idea of the real story – perhaps he thought he was protecting Mum. Saving her from someone he loathed.”

  Marian sighed. “I suppose that makes sense in a way. But that means that when he finds out the Belinda Tate story... Jaques, what can you do?”

  “No idea.” There was another long silence, and I caught her looking at me from the corners of her eyes. “I haven’t quite convinced you, have I?’

  “I think it’s possible. But...By the way, what colour is my name?”

  “Silver and blue. Your surname is red.”

  Well, at that point we both decided we needed a drink, and that led to ordering pizza and drinking far too much until Marian, saying she felt sick, went to bed. I sat up for a while, thinking of a stoned Adrian telling Dad he’d killed someone before that doctor. How easy it might have been with that old lady. She’d insulted Mum’s mother, so she too should die in a fall. Or perhaps it was just as Quentin had said and Adrian had had nothing to do with it. His wife’s aunt, after all. And on that note I drank a double whisky then crashed into bed and into a deep, nasty sleep.

  Twenty-two

  I was woken by my landline and then my mobile phone ringing. It was half-past six, and from years of waking early for rehearsals and filming I expected to hear the doorbell ringing too as an impatient driver tried to rouse me. Because of the day before I expected it to be Quentin ringing, but it was Dad. His voice was thick and snuffly with tears, and at once I thought: Granny. It’s bad news.

  But when I asked a fearful question he said vaguely, “What? Granny’s fine. Oh God, I didn’t realise it was so early – sorry – but it’s Kingsley. He’s – well – the vet’s coming later and – he’s not been well for a while but last night..”

  At once I said, “Do you want me to come?”

  “Could you? I know you’ve more important things but – yes – and Toby, could you ask Toby to come, because he’s Orlando’s favourite and he doesn’t quite understand and he’s come to love the dogs and –”

  “I’ll come at once. I’ll
ring Toby and probably he can come with me.”

  “Thank you,” he said miserably, and hung up.

  You may think: in the middle of all I’d found out, of all that had happened and was about to happen, why did I worry about a dog? Pet-owners will understand. Kingsley wasn’t my pet, he was Dad’s, but we’d had him for thirteen years, he was part of my life. Dad had been driving home from somewhere up north when he saw a dog running frantically along the side of the road as if desperate to catch up with someone or something, and when he heard Dad’s car stop he turned and looked with what Dad, who never anthropomorphises, described as desperate, hopeful relief and then despair that it wasn’t after all the people he’d trusted and perhaps loved, the people who had lost him or abandoned him. Dad wasn’t much of a dog-lover, and didn’t care for bulldogs, but he said it was obvious the animal was suffering; he was too thin, his paws were bleeding, and (it was a hot day) he seemed thirsty. Common humanity demanded that Dad do something; there’d be a vet or a police station in the next town. So he heaved the poor dog into his car, managed to give him some water from the emergency bottle in the glovebox, and watched him gulp the lot and look for more. At the next petrol station Dad stopped, took all the bunches of cheap, fading carnations out of a bucket, and gave the dog the rest of the water in the bucket. He said, “Stay!” without much hope, but the dog sat, and stayed as Dad went inside, paid for all those carnations and the bucket, several bottles of water, a small bag of kibble and some milk. And somehow he forgot about looking for a vet or a police station. I can remember him arriving home with this poor bedraggled animal. We kids were delighted, of course, for we’d never had a dog, and we rushed around finding bowls and feeding the dog all the meat in the fridge. I don’t think Mum was too pleased at first, but soon she was bathing the dog’s paws and stroking his head, and later I went with Dad to buy a dog bed, collar and leash, two dozen cans of Pal, toys, and food bowls. One of these had DOG written on its side, and I remember wondering for whose benefit this information was supplied. The vet came and said the dog was about two years old, and healthy enough although malnourished. Somehow there was no question of not keeping him. His name came about because Kingsley Amis said or did something that annoyed Dad, who anyway thought Sir Kingsley hadn’t written anything good since Girl, 20, and said, “And do you know, he looked just like an overfed, conceited bulldog, and...” He broke off, and we all looked thoughtfully at the dog. “Sit, Kingsley,” Dad said experimentally. Dog did. “Roll over, Kingsley.” Dog did. “Fetch the ball.” Dog did. Next day a silver nameplate was added to his collar. Two years later a friend of Dad’s who’d been transferred to New York said he couldn’t find anyone to take in his Yorkshire Terrier but he hated to have the puppy put down... And so Martin joined us.

  And now Kingsley was dying. I dressed, and although it was so early I woke Marian to tell her. She was very sorry about the dog, but felt rather sick, she’d drunk too much last night. “Of course you have to go. Oh, poor dog. Ours had to be put to sleep not long ago. I’m sorry. “Then, delicately, she said that she would come with me if it would help in any way but probably it was better if she didn’t, because this was a family thing, strangers not wanted. Up to me, though.

  I said it would be better if I went alone; I’d probably stay at Williamscourt overnight, anyway I’d let her know. Would she be OK?

  “Oh, I’ve got lots to do. I’ll be fine. Please tell your father I’m sorry about the dog. See you later.”

  Toby took the news rather badly, and he was crying when I picked him up. Neither of us spoke all the way home. When we got there Orlando was sitting on the front steps, dolefully fiddling with a pile of Lego. For once he didn’t run to meet us, just sat there. Somehow in no rush to go inside we sat down beside him. Tears in his eyes he said, “Doggie’s sick and Daddy’s sad.”

  “We know. It’s sad. We’ve had Kingsley for a long time, you see.”

  “Mummy doesn’t like him but I quite do now. Is he going to Doggie Heaven?”

  I had no idea how to answer this, but Toby said, “Oh, definitely. He’ll be happy.”

  “Daddy won’t be. Is dead forever? He won’t come back from Doggie Heaven?”

  “I’m afraid he won’t.”

  “Oh. Your Mummy went to Heaven, didn’t she. Will she look after Kingsley?”

  Over his head Toby and I looked at each other. This was unbearable. Luckily, just then Orlando’s nanny came out, hurrying, and told Orlando he’d be late for school, come on, into the car. Following her he glanced back at us and said, “Perhaps Kingsley will send us a new doggie?” The nanny spared us answering by bundling him into the car.

  Slowly we went inside. I’d seen Silvia’s car outside, but to my surprise our cousin Fleur was with her – because, I discovered later, she was staying with Silvia and Matthew while she looked into starting her own business making wedding dresses. Nothing can ever make my sister less than beautiful, but in an old tracksuit smeared with what I hoped was baby food, and with her hair scraped back in a ponytail and her eyes red, she was probably glad there were no paparazzi lurking. Dad was in his favourite armchair in his study, holding Kingsley on his lap. Even to the most inexpert eye the poor old dog was dying, his eyes bleared, every rattling breath an effort. We patted and stroked him, and it was the first time he’d been unaware of our presence, couldn’t wag his tail. Martin was sitting very upright, watching Kingsley, occasionally whimpering and trying to lick him.

  “He got very bad late last night,” Dad said in a monotone. “Sort of yowling and... We rang the vet but couldn’t... he was still able to drink a little but he got worse. The vet’s coming soon.” Silvia, crouched at his feet with her hand in Kingsley’s fur, choked off a sob; she’d always adored the dogs, she had two of her own; in fact, she had learned to knit so she could make a blanket for Kingsley’s first 'birthday’. Also, as I’ve said before, although Dad doesn’t play favourites with us kids, Silvia was special to him.

  Granny came in with a tray of tea things. I was almost beyond surprise that Lady Hyde-Howard was with her. She explained in a whisper that Dad had rung her in the night when Kingsley first became very bad and he couldn’t reach the vet, for she’s a dog person, she breeds prize-winning Labradors. Saying there’s nothing like a nice cup of tea, Gran poured us each a cup. I could tell she was worried about Dad, but doing her best to hide it behind this sort of domestic bustle. We drank the tea. No one spoke. I caught Toby’s eye and found he was looking at me. He jerked his chin towards the outside and I followed him. I don’t think anyone noticed us go.

  “It’s too like Mum, isn’t it,” he muttered.

  “Yes.”

  “Sitting and waiting for her to die. Just waiting.”

  “I know. And you had more of it, all night before I got to New York. I wish Dad had waited to tell us, waited till it was over, I mean. I know Kingsley means the world to him but he’s got no idea, has he. He wasn’t there.” I hadn’t quite realised until I said it that I still rather resented Dad for that, for hiding from it, swallowing pills instead of making the effort to go with or instead of me to New York.

  “Yeah. I love that old dog a lot but it feels like, like...”

  “Almost a mockery.”

  “Yeah. I wonder who told Orlando about Doggie Heaven? Dawn?”

  “She’d be brisker. Probably Lady H-H. She means well.”

  “Christ, carve that on her tombstone.”

  We eyed each other, both with the same sudden idea. We could do something useful: dig a grave for the dog. At the very end of the garden there’s a pets’ graveyard, with markers going back to the 1830s. In my time only a few animals have had to be buried there – four cats, Toby’s hamsters, one of Silvia’s goldfish.

  Toby fetched a shovel and trowel from the little shed at the back, and we found a suitable place and began to dig. Neither of us could quite remember just how big Kingsley was, so we went by guess. Two feet deep would do.

  “I wish I’d never rea
d Pet Sematary,” Toby said when we’d finished.

  “Oh, thanks a lot. That book scared the shit out of me. Under the wide and starry sky, dig the grave and let me lie…”

  “Shakespeare?”

  Jesus, did no one know anything? “Stevenson’s Requiem. I think. Oh, fuck, Tobe.”

  “I know. And if Dad cracks up again, well, I dunno...”

  “Nor do I. This on top of –” I stopped myself, too late.

  “On top of what?” Toby demanded.

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t give me that shit. What?”

  In other circumstances I would have talked my way out of it. As it was, I told him. Told him everything.

  He stared at me, his mouth hanging open. At last he said, “For real?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, fuck. Fuck-a-doodle-do. No wonder you’ve been looking weird lately.”

  “I have?”

  “Yeah.” He stared down at the shovel in his hand, then marched very deliberately to the shed to put it away. He came back with the same rigid steps. “I wish you’d told me.”

  “I haven’t really had a chance to.”

  “But Mum...fuck, what a story! Does Dad know?”

  “I told you – he’d always known. Well, since before they were married. He said it was her own private business, no one else needed to know.”

  “Well, I guess so... but it’s interesting, isn’t it. I mean – what a story! And it’s all going to come out soon? This girl you’re bonkers about is writing a book and everyone’ll know?”

  “Yes.” I felt enormously tired.

  “Best let the news out bit by bit first. Get PoorMatthew’s people to spin it.”

  “Hadn’t thought of that. And... now... I know it has to come out, people have to know – people in Adelaide, I mean – but now I wish it didn’t have to.”

  He thought about it, kicking at the earth we’d piled neatly around the grave. “I don’t mind, actually. Poor old Mum. Good for her. No wonder she was so tough.” I shrugged. “Well, she was. Nothing fazed her. – I say, Jaques, I guess we’d better go back inside.”