by Gaby Koppel
It’s my job to introduce Sandra to Mrs Friedmann. She’s the actress who will play the dead girl’s mother in the film. And I suddenly realise this is the least OK thing I’ve ever had to do. Mrs F will be there for sure, from the moment Bill shouts “action!”. We’re asking a mother to re-live the moment she lost a child, which is like pressing broken glass into an open wound. To cover up the awfulness of it, we talk like bereavement counsellors.
Maybe that’s a way of making ourselves feel better about what we do, to anaesthetise ourselves just a little from the rather brutal hypocrisies we dance through to get the job done. We sort of pretend that we are just doing this to solve a crime, to bring a murderer to justice, and hence it’s all coming from a noble place, really it is. But nobody goes into programme-making purely to do good in the world. We aren’t police officers or charity workers, so what we are really driven by is ego. If we had to choose between catching a killer and winning a BAFTA for a film that failed to do that, which would we choose? Most of us wouldn’t have to pause for one moment thinking about that one.
Though Sandra and Mrs Friedmann have been cast in part for physical resemblance, when they are standing together the similarity is slight. It’s puzzling that two women of similar height and weight should occupy their space so differently. The actor floats in a white trench coat of light fabric, worn over white jeans and strappy, high heeled sandals. Mrs Friedmann labours on drainpipe legs in a navy suit and comfortable shoes that throw her bulging varicose veins into sharp relief. She moves with effort, shoulders creaking with the burden of each step. Today she seems to have abandoned her black turban in favour of a bulky brunette wig.
We follow her heaving form upstairs. We’ve got a navy dress and cardigan ready for Sandra, and a wig. She’ll change in the bedroom, with guidance from Mrs Friedmann. I leave them to it.
Downstairs they are recreating the moment of the upsherin. In the front room, the sideboard has been set with platters of little rolls, fishballs and miniature Danish pastries. Bill is briefing the crowd of family and friends with the help of a Yiddish interpreter who may not have been strictly necessary, but there were a lot of notes from Sarah about cultural sensitivity and that seemed to tick a box. The children jostle to have a look through the viewfinder and even the adults nudge each other, grinning.
Mid-morning, I call Mutti. She still sounds pretty lugubrious, but I can hear the grinding of the electric food mixer in the background, which gives me hope. I end the call and look around. I’ve wandered down the road, away from the house with its noisy crowd of kids. And now my eye catches a familiar figure in a brown wig loping into the distance. I shout as loud as I can,
“Mrs Friedmann!” No response. I walk towards her, calling. Then I break into a trot, and a moment later I’m running as fast as I can. As I catch up with her, she whirls around. There’s an ecstatic expression on her face.
“I saw her.”
“Saw who?”
“Bruchi.”
“Mrs Friedmann,” I say. “You can’t have.” She puts a hand on each of my arms, and shakes me.
“I did, I did! I saw the children in the front garden, and there she was, just like before. She’s come back. I saw her. Her shiny hair, so lovely her hair. We washed it this morning, you know.”
“Maybe you saw Chloe out there – the little girl who has come to play Bruchi in the film?”
“No, no, it was her. You think I don’t know my own child? It’s a miracle, b’ruch ha shem. Come on, we find her now.” She tugs at my sleeve, in excitement, pulling me along.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“I come out to get her, and she disappears.” She points into the distance.
“She’s gone – that way.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, come on, we can find her.” Surely a mother can’t mistake her own daughter? Mrs Friedmann starts striding towards the crossroads, and I follow. At the junction she looks both ways, hesitating, then goes straight across. She’s picked up so much speed now, even with her uneven gait, that I have difficulty keeping up. We take a left at the main road and then another left at some traffic lights. I think we’ve done a circle around St Kilda’s, and now she’s gone through a gate and up a pathway with a wall on one side and a fence on the other.
The path ends in a small park. It’s divided into separate plots – we pass a mini obstacle course of bridges and beams built out of wood, a wilderness, and play areas for toddlers and older children. Then, in a clearing behind a line of trees, a rope has been slung between two posts. There’s short piece of cable hooked over it, with a pulley on one end and a rubber disc on the other, it’s a primitive sort of zip wire, and none too safe-looking. A mismatched group of children are there now, taking turns to take rides. In turn, they grab the rope and run uphill to the end post with it, then jump up and wrap their legs round the rope, sitting on the rubber disc, as they hurtle downhill, screaming and laughing as they go.
Two of the boys are sporting skullcaps and earlocks, one girl of about twelve is in leggings, wellies and a dress that might just be a long jumper. An older boy is wearing a woolly hat in Rastafarian colours. But there’s no sign of an orthodox girl of ten with long, strawberry blonde hair. Mrs Friedmann looks bewildered. There’s a dirty mark on her face. A tear is wobbling just inside her eye, she wipes it away.
“She’s gone.”
“Maybe,” I say, “it was someone else.” Mrs Friedmann puts her face into her hands.
“No, no, no, no. She’s out there somewhere.” Her voice falters.
“So who was the child that was buried?” I ask and immediately feel like a monster. But if I’ve said something horrible, it’s barely registered. She’s in a daze. I rub her arm. “Mrs Friedmann?” My gentlest voice is not gentle enough. She jolts as if she’s waking up, then gives me a desperate, terrified smile. I look around the park, at the children sliding round on the rope and pulley next to the railway embankment. Bruchi’s not here, that’s certain. But the person who killed her may be. My skin tingles.
Mrs Friedmann comes towards me and puts her head on my shoulder. I can feel her trembling. When the tears subside, we trail back to the house, her hand hooked round my arm.
Bill is talking to a ten-year-old girl with long, strawberry blonde hair. Mrs Friedmann starts as she sees her, looking bewildered.
“You have met Chloe haven’t you, Mrs Friedmann?” I say cautiously. “You remember we chose a dress for her to wear?” She nods, staring intently at the girl, as if trying to make sense of what she’s seen.
“Oh yes. I’m sorry. You said… You must think I’m so stupid.”
“Nobody thinks you are stupid, believe me.” She gives a doubtful nod.
“Thank you.”
Next scene is outside – filming the witnesses known to have passed the house at the time Bruchi disappeared. After that, we’re supposed to interview Mrs Friedmann, but I wonder whether she will be able to go ahead with it. While I’m talking to Bill, I see her going upstairs with a tall, slim woman who I don’t recognise.
Half an hour later, we’re filming an actress in jeans pushing a buggy down St Kilda’s. As she reaches the end of the road, a red Ford Ka is supposed to drive past at speed in the opposite direction. It takes a long time to get the actress and the car passing each other at the right place. We are on take four when Mrs Friedmann and the other woman come out of the house to join the huddle of people watching.
“This is my sister, Leah,” she says. Leah is wearing a darker brown wig, but while Mrs Friedmann’s looks bedraggled, this woman could be modelling for a shampoo commercial. The hair is long, layered bob, and so realistic that I find myself staring at her hairline to see the joins. Leah conforms to all the complicated rules of the Orthodox Jewish dress code. But while her sister is squashed by it, she exudes an air of sexy sophistication.
“How do you feel about doing the interview?” I ask Mrs Friedmann.
Leah puts an arm round her siste
r, “She’ll be fine, won’t you?”
“Yes,” she replies, “What could be wrong?” It’s as though the earlier incident never happened.
And that’s how she is when we come to do it. She listens as I explain how we will operate. Bill will ask the questions, she’s to look at him, not at the camera. We can stop at any time, and repeat any question or answer she’s not happy with. But all my careful briefing seems unnecessary. Mrs Friedmann faces the camera with unswerving gaze. She smiles a broken smile, sighs, looks thoughtful, and when asked to go back over an answer, repeats her previous response, word for word. She’s like a pro. At just the right moment, her lip trembles, and a solitary tear tumbles down her cheek. It’s made of glass.
When we’ve wrapped, I wish her goodbye, and look for the woman who cried on my shoulder in the park. She’s not there.
“Thank you for looking after us,” says Leah.
“Oh, I haven’t done anything above and beyond the call of duty,” I say. It’s the kind of automatic thing I say at moments like these to cover up the joins and make people feel OK. In that moment I understand perfectly that it’s a trite cliché, a phrase taken off the shelf, a bit of social sticking plaster. But there’s something about this woman that tells me she’s not taking it, that she disapproves of the self-negating message I’m broadcasting. The “Oh, little me?” suggested in the innocuous phrase rings round my head and she gives me an odd look, a kind of “C’mon, girl what are you saying?” that makes me feel embarrassed. I’m actually going red, and I can’t believe I’m taking unspoken lessons in self-belief and even feminism by a woman who wears a wig because her natural given hair might render the men in her community completely overwhelmed with sexual desire.
“I think you have,” she says. “You’ve done a lot.” And before I can demur, she says, “Come to Shabbes lunch, and we’ll talk about it. Maybe you’ll find out there’s more to us than wigs and black hats.”
“OK,” I say, “you name the date. But only if I can bring my heathen fiancé.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll have him in a black hat before you can say the Shema.”
As I drive home, I’m making a mental list of the stuff I’ve still got to do for the second day of the shoot. When I get in to the flat, the red light is flashing on the answering machine. The LED announces three messages. I’m expecting a call about some new curtains I ordered six weeks ago in what seems like another life. And if things are getting anywhere near back to normal, Mutti will have phoned at least once. Make that twice. With any luck, she’ll have important news on key developments in the continental coffee circle, as if I’m gagging for the latest on Mrs Breslauer’s varicose veins.
I flop down at my desk to rattle though a list of contributors for tomorrow. There are calls to the man with the scruffy white minibus and to the cab company to confirm cars for the actors. I’m in the kitchen preparing dinner when I remember the messages. While some eggs are boiling and green beans steaming for my salad, I go out to the hallway and press play.
“Hello, its Jane here from JL Brown and Co. Your curtains are ready, could you come in and collect them, please.” Bleep. Silence. Bleep. Someone coughing. Bleep. “Hi Babes, it’s me. Do you want to go to a private view at White Cube on Friday night? Gimme a call.” Bleep. “Hello, this is South Wales Police, my name is Sergeant Andrew Evans. Could you please contact me urgently on the following number.” Come again? Is this something to do with work? I fear not. So what on earth has Mutti been up to this time? I rummage round for a pencil. Let’s hope she hasn’t been arrested for illegally parking in the disabled bay while under the influence. I scribble down the number and call as quickly as I can. The sergeant answers straight away.
“I am sorry to worry you. It’s about your mother Mrs Aranca Mueller. She’s in Heath hospital.”
“What happened?”
“We had a call from a Mrs Morris of 6 Lansdowne Square at eleven this morning, reporting that your mother’s milk had not been taken in. We entered the house and found Mrs Mueller collapsed.”
“From what?”
“Bit early to tell. Looks like an overdose.” I thought she was getting there. I thought – I was wrong. Evidently.
“Miss Mueller?”
“Yes?”
“Maybe you should get up to the hospital.”
“Oh yes. Yes of course.”
“As soon as you can.”
I have already driven halfway down the road when I remember that I’ve left the eggs and beans on the cooker. By the time I get back, the pan has dried up and its contents started to burn, I stand there with helpless tears stinging my cheeks. I try to tidy up, but I’m shaking too much, so I dump everything in the sink and head for the endless, monotonous motorway. I drive in silence because the smug radio presenters jag my nerves. More to the point, I need to work out what I’m going to do about tomorrow. I’ve got the cash float and the list of contributors. I’m stage manager, assistant director and head of catering. And now I’m driving at ninety miles an hour away from the location.
It’s after midnight when I get to the hospital, not the private glass and steel affair with the atrium and tasteful carpet but the sprawling University Hospital of Wales locals know as the Heath. I find Mutti still unconscious in intensive care, hooked up to a monitor and a drip. Her hair is pushed up away from her face, revealing white roots. She looks old and shrunken, a fairy tale witch with bad teeth and claws for nails. There’s a yellow tinge on her face, sagging lines laid bare under the clinical light. I know this isn’t the first time she’s tried to kill herself, but it’s the first time I’ve had to clear up afterwards. I imagine Dad sitting here in my place, as he must have done so many times. Though his long nose gave his face a perpetual look of mournfulness, he never seemed to despair of finding a rational solution to an emotional problem. It’s so lonely being here without him.
I fall asleep in the chair next to the bed, holding Mutti’s inert hand, and wake with backache. An exhausted looking adolescent with an oversized doctor’s coat appears. She says Mutti’s taken a lot of sleeping pills washed down with most of a bottle of vodka. It’s still touch and go. Too soon to tell whether there’s any brain damage. I gulp down some black coffee, and go outside to call Bill and explain what’s happened.
“I’m sure you can manage without me today,” I say.
A meaningful silence fills the chasm between us.
“Please, Bill, I’ll ask the office to send out their best workie with another float, and a copy of the call sheet. And I will personally brief them in exacting detail about what needs to be done.”
“Look, kid, I understand. Of course. The cavalry are coming in the form of some posh teenager with a few quid in an envelope. Don’t worry, we’ll manage somehow.”
In the end, Mutti comes round just after midnight. When she opens her mouth her teeth are still black from the charcoal they have given her to neutralise the sleeping pills. Now the witch is a monster too. I stay with her for a while, but still she says nothing. She’s furious to be alive, and the burden of keeping her that way is all mine.
Chapter 18
It’s the early hours when I let myself into my mother’s empty house that stinks of cigarettes and despair. I’m not sleepy, sensible television is finished, and it’s too late to call Dave, so I go into the study. Rummaging through my father’s in-tray, I find an invoice from the legal practice of L Zoltán. Mutti has paid him £100 plus VAT to submit a claim for compensation to the Hungarian government. And then there’s something else. It’s been pushed to the bottom, but there’s no disguising what it is. A letter from the building society, headed in giant red letters: “Mortgage arrears – notice of default”.
Is this what did it, then? The thing that pushed Mutti over the edge? She’s run out of cash. At an age when most sensible people have paid for their home, Dad and her were still living on the edge. Borrowing was the way they coped with life’s ups and downs, and now she thinks there’s no way out. I imagi
ne her sitting there in her kitchen niche with the vodka and pills lined up, brooding over the letter. But you don’t kill yourself because you can’t afford to go on living. Not these days. Any more than they sling you into debtors’ prison along with the ghost of Mr Micawber.
The one thing she’d never consider is just calling the building society to discuss the problem with a member of staff. Too easy. The concept of an affordable payment schedule wouldn’t appeal to her sense of drama. No, in a crisis she’s reverted to her national stereotype. However little I know about Hungary, one thing I have managed to grasp is that suicide is pretty much a participation sport over there. It’s not the last resort at all. It’s lucky I didn’t come in to find her swinging from the crystal chandelier that her mother schlepped out of Budapest.
I try to work out whether I’ve got enough spare cash to pay Mutti’s mortgage for a while. My account dips into overdraft at the end of each month, and surfaces into black after I’ve been paid, like a diver coming up for air. I’ll have to put in a call tomorrow and plead for a few days’ grace.
I take a shower, but I haven’t brought any fresh clothes, let alone anything to wear in bed and I feel grimy in every way, so I pop into Mutti’s bedroom to spray myself with some of her Madame Rochas and look for anything approximating to a nightie.