The Girl in the Red Dress

by Elaine Chong

  “I have to get ready to leave now,” I say.

  “You are coming back, aren’t you?” he asks and his voice trembles.

  I nod. “Yes, I’m coming back.”

  Back to Singapore, I think to myself, but not necessarily back to you.

  Haziq drives me to the airport. He insists that Mr Crane told him to accompany me to the check-in desk, but I insist he leaves me and my suitcases outside the airport terminal. He tries to argue with me in the politest of possible ways, but I stand firm. I’m terrified that Jian might suddenly appear, and though I know that Haziq is the soul of discretion, his loyalties would be tested if he thought I’d arranged to leave the country with another man.

  I’ve arrived with time to spare so I make my way to the SilverKris lounge with my business class ticket tucked securely in my purse. I need a drink and some peace and quiet before boarding the plane. I’m not a happy traveller, and I’ve yet to be convinced that it broadens the mind, especially if Colin is a typical example of the frequent flyer.

  I order a large glass of white wine, make myself comfortable in one of the oversized armchairs, and open up my phone to check for messages.

  My other phone has been secreted inside the lining of my suitcase. Probably an unnecessary precaution, but I wasn’t going to chance leaving it at home for Colin to find, and I didn’t quite trust him not to search my bag while I was in the shower this morning.

  There are several messages: one from Aysha, which assures me that Glück Glass has been left in safe hands and that she’ll report any problems to me immediately. Nothing from Connie. She’s probably sitting at my desk with one eye on the entrance to the gallery and the other on the screen of her phone. The other messages are business related, but as I won’t be doing any business until I get back, I make a mental note to call the clients personally once I’m on European time.

  The glass of wine arrives and, when I look up to tip the waiter, my gaze alights on a familiar figure sitting at the bar. Jian raises his own glass to me in a toast. He slides down from the tall stool and makes his way towards me.

  “May I join you?” he asks and sits down next to me without waiting for a reply.

  “How did you know I’d be here?” I ask.

  “I didn’t know for sure. I only knew your flight details.”

  “Who told you? I know it wasn’t Nancy, and the girls in the gallery wouldn’t dare.”

  “Well, you’re a creature of habit, Julia. My persuasive charm may have lost its hold on you, but it’s still working on others. I understand you’ve purchased an open ticket. Is that significant?”

  “You called my travel agent?”

  “She was very helpful.”

  “She’ll be unemployed when I get back here.”

  He attempts a smile. “When are you coming back?”

  “I’ve just had this conversation with my husband,” I say.

  I don’t often mention Colin, but when I do Jian’s eyes glaze over. It’s an emotional response to a subject that makes him feel uncomfortable, even though he knows I only share my husband’s bed in its most literal sense of the word. Hypocrisy at its very worst, I always think to myself, and now more than ever since I’ve discovered that Jian’s wife, Lì Húa, is having his baby.

  Today, he’s strikingly well groomed. I don’t recognise the new suit but, as always, it’s been tailored to fit his slim yet well-muscled frame perfectly. When Colin finds out that Jian is the person I’ve been seeing – and I now accept that he will find out (either I’ll tell him to his face when I get back here, or the person who ratted me out will fill in the details) – I know it will cut him to the quick. For some reason this makes me feel sad beyond words.

  Jian calls over the waiter and asks for his glass to be refilled. “What about you, Julia?”

  “No ... thank you,” I say, and I deliberately turn my attention to the electronic board on the far side of the lounge, which shows the gate numbers and boarding times.

  When his glass has been refilled, Jian reaches for my hand, but I ignore it and fold my arms around my cabin bag on my lap.

  “I suppose you’re still angry with me,” he says. “Perhaps I didn’t explain myself well enough ... my family situation ... how things are ... it’s just that…”

  “On the contrary,” I interrupt him. “I think you explained it more than sufficiently well. You’re never ever going to leave your wife to marry me.”

  He heaves an extravagant sigh. “I can’t, Julia!”

  I want to cry, scream; do something, anything, to voice my emotions, but I don’t. I remain stony-faced and speak in a monotone. “I don’t know why I ever thought you would. I mean ... if that was your intention then you’d have done it already.”

  “I love you and I want to be with you. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Well, that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” I say. “At this point, there’s only one thing I know for certain: I’ve finally made the decision to leave my husband because it would be cruel to go on pretending that I love him and want to spend the rest of my life with him. I’m coming back to Singapore, but I have no idea if the deal you’re offering me – because that’s what it amounts to, a deal – I have no idea if I want to take you up on your offer. It’s a bit crap, frankly.”

  His cheeks redden and his tone is defensive when he speaks. “You make it sound like some kind of business transaction. You don’t know what I’m offering you.”

  A strangled laugh escapes my lips. “I know what you’re not offering me and that’s all I can think about at this moment.”

  I stand up and sling the cabin bag over my shoulder. As I move to walk away, Jian catches hold of my arm. “Don’t leave like this, please Julia,” he implores me, but I know I can’t do this here and now so I pull away from his grasp and make for the exit as quickly as I can.

  Richard

  When I woke this morning, my plan was to take a quick look over my mother’s house to see if anything else was obviously out of place, but this is the second conversation I’ve had with Maggie in recent days which has left me feeling that something is being concealed from me. If my mother’s behaviour has been erratic or irrational, then Maggie is surely the person who would know best and she’s not telling and that irks me.

  I decide to stick with the original plan and slowly make my way from room to room. As far as I can tell, nothing is out of place; in fact, everything looks exactly as it’s always looked for as long as I can remember. My mother has never been a collector of stuff and, as a consequence, every piece of glass and china decorating the windowsills and the furniture is familiar to me because it’s always been there. In fact, the long sideboard in the dining room still holds a silver tray with a crystal decanter and two whiskey glasses and I know those belonged to my father.

  Upstairs, I venture first into my mother’s bedroom. It’s neat and tidy, although the bed has been stripped of its linen and the pillows piled in the middle of the mattress on top of the folded duvet.

  I realise that I wouldn’t know if anything had changed in this room because we were never allowed in here as children, Julia and I; it was one of the few rules my father instigated and my mother endorsed.

  As I cast my eyes around the room, searching for something, anything that might hint at my mother’s altered state of mind, I suddenly realise there are photographs missing. The last time I came into this room was shortly after my father died and I do remember there were framed photographs on the wall. Now there are blank spaces, the paintwork where they used to hang a slightly darker shade of green. They were family portraits, four of them, all of them taken while we were on holiday. I remember I remarked to my mother that we looked happy, and she said we were happy and that struck me as pleasingly reassuring.

  It’s enough to send me scuttling back downstairs to see if other photographs have been removed, and they have.

  My graduation photograph in my father’s study has gone (although my father possibly threw that
one out when he threw me out), also a photograph of Julia and Colin when they were married at St Peter’s church (that had pride of place on my father’s desk), an assortment of photographs of me and Julia when we were children, and professional portraits taken of my father when he was a young man. They’re all gone and only a telltale rectangle of a darker shade of paint to show where they used to hang.

  The only photograph still hanging on the wall is next to the casement clock in the hallway – it’s of my mother. I study it carefully because it’s the only photograph that hasn’t been removed. She stares solemnly into the lens of the camera. There’s no denying that she was a really good-looking girl, but something in her expression suggests an air of resignation. Perhaps she didn’t want to be captured on camera, I think to myself. Or was this just the prelude to a married life harnessed to a man, who didn’t love her enough to be faithful to her? I guess I’ll never know, and I’m faced with yet more questions. Why is this particular photograph still here? Why were the others removed, and where are they now?

  I want to ask Maggie, but I can’t because I don’t know where Maggie lives, and I haven’t got a phone number for her.

  Frustration burns through me like blue touch paper put to the match, but then it occurs to me that Edward Feering might know. Of course, I haven’t got a phone number for him either, but that’s an easier problem to solve. A quick search on the internet gives me what I need.

  “Hallo Richard,” he says when the call connects to the vicarage and I’ve introduced myself. “How’s your mother? Is she home already? I have to say I wasn’t expecting her back for at least a week.”

  I quickly explain the situation with my mother but before I can tell him why I’ve really called, he hurries on in the same, annoyingly upbeat tone of voice. “I’m sorry to hear that. Of course, it happens quite a lot, I mean, I see it a lot, doing what I do. Very distressing for the family as well, I always think. Thank God – and I do thank Him – there’s a much greater understanding of the condition nowadays and it doesn’t have to be all bad; lots of people go on having a very happy life for a long time.” He hesitates for a moment but not long enough for me to stem the flow. “Of course, it’s a bit grim at the end. I can’t pretend I haven’t been a witness to some harrowing scenes. I always think it’s even worse when they’re in their own homes and they don’t know where they are and don’t recognise their loved ones anymore.” He barely pauses to take a breath. “I sometimes think it’s a blessing when the end comes. A blessing for everyone really,” he adds as a kind of final flourish.

  “I’m not actually calling about my mother,” I’m at last able to interject.

  “Oh, right ho,” he says cheerily. “How can I help you then?”

  “Do you have a phone number for Maggie? My mother’s...” I don’t know what to call her. ‘Cleaner’ sounds a bit inadequate because I’m certain she does a lot more for my mother than simply keep the house clean.

  “I’m afraid I don’t,” Edward Feering says, and he sounds genuinely sorry.

  “You don’t know if she lives round here somewhere?” I say, remembering she told me this morning that she was passing by.

  “I think that’s very unlikely. I mean … it’s quite an affluent area.”

  The thought that Maggie couldn’t afford to live where my mother lives simply hadn’t occurred to me, and now I feel very, very stupid.

  “Is it important?” he asks. “Some of my other ladies have domestic help and I could check with them.”

  Is it important? I don’t know, but it looks like I’m going to have to wait till next Monday to find out.

  While I have Edward Feering on the phone, I decide that I’m going to question him about Aggie’s bungalow. Once again, he suggests I should speak to my mother about it, but when I remind him that she isn’t exactly in the best frame of mind to answer questions about ownership of property and that, given the situation, Julia and I might need to make plans for her future with some urgency, he relents.

  “I’m really not happy about this, Richard,” he says. “Your mother didn’t like talking about it and I feel like I’m breaking her trust.”

  “Well, my mother might not be in a position to make decisions about where she lives when she’s discharged from hospital, so my sister and I need to know what options are open to us. If she really does own this bungalow, then it could be the answer to our problems.”

  “Oh, she does own it. There’s no doubt about that.”

  “Aggie left it to her in her will, you said?”

  “Yes. She was quite meticulous about the whole thing. She didn’t want your mother to have the bother of sorting everything out afterwards. As soon as she found out – you know, that she hadn’t got long – your mother insisted she move out of the bungalow and move in with her, so she arranged to clear the place. All the good furniture and anything else of real value went to auction and then Marcie – that’s my wife – Marcie and I helped her to box everything up and we took it to a local charity shop. When she left, she had two suitcases with her. Everything else had either been sold or given away.”

  “So, the place is empty?”

  “There were a few bits of furniture left but that’s all.”

  “But it’s empty? I mean, nobody else is living in it? My mother hasn’t rented it out?”

  “Look, Richard,” he says. “I really can’t tell you anymore.” And this time I know from the tone of his voice that he won’t be persuaded.

  I thank him for his help and promise to keep him informed of any developments.

  I really need to get to work, but the question over the bungalow is like an itch begging to be scratched. I know I’m going to have to drive over to where Aggie used to live and see for myself because I can’t believe that my mother would simply leave the place empty.

  I was wrong.

  Tyne Lodge is almost hidden behind an enormous privet hedge and the double-gated entrance has been padlocked shut. I leave my car on the road and am easily able to vault over the gate, which confirms my fears that anybody could have broken into the place and I might be facing a band of hostile squatters. I’m brought up short by the sight of a neatly mown lawn and weed free borders. This isn’t what I expected.

  I’m peering through the front window, straining to see the inside of the house, when a voice calls over the neighbouring fence, “Oi! You there!” I quickly turn around and find I’m being challenged by a tough-looking man of pensionable years holding a shovel like a sawn-off shotgun. “Bloody estate agents!” he shouts at me. “It’s not for sale mate, so you can scarper.”

  I’m wearing a decent suit and an Italian silk tie, which Mamma Mazzi bought me for Christmas, so I’m slightly offended at being taken for the kind of rogue operator that trespasses on private property. Though I suppose it’s an understandable case of mistaken identity given the circumstances. Nevertheless, I stay where I am, because the shovel-wielding neighbour is glaring at me across the fence and he looks like the kind of man who strikes first and asks questions later. I’ve a few questions of my own to ask so I shout back to him, “I don’t know who you are, but this is my mother’s property.”

  “Yeah, right mate!” he yells. “You think I was born yesterday? You’re like a pack of thieving magpies. I’ve told you – it’s not for sale.”

  I decide to risk walking within striking distance so that I don’t have to shout, and cautiously approach the fence, although I know before I even consider the consequences that I’m not going to offer my hand to him. “I’m Richard Oakley – Lenora Oakley’s son.”

  “How do I know you’re who you say you are? You could be anybody. Mrs Oakley never said nothing about having a son,” he says belligerently.

  I take my wallet out of the inside pocket of my jacket, flip it open and show him my driving licence. “Is that enough to convince you?”

  He leans the shovel against the fence, folds his arms in front of his barrel chest. He peers at me like I’m some strange species of
animal that crept into the garden and he doesn’t quite know what to make of it. He says, “I haven’t seen you round here before. Has something happened to her?”

  “She’s in hospital. She had a fall and fractured her hip.”

  He grimaces. “Nasty. My missus done the same thing last year. Tripped over one of the grandkids’ bikes in the garden. I told the little beggars to put them away in the shed, but they never take no notice. Do what they like these days, kids do.”

  I nod my head in agreement – it’s seems like the sensible thing to do because I’m guessing that this could be the person who’s kept the garden from turning into the jungle of overgrown shrubbery I was expecting to find. In case I’ve jumped to the wrong conclusion, I ask him directly then thank him profusely when he confirms that he’s been looking after the garden and generally keeping an eye on the place to make sure no one breaks in.

  “No trouble,” he says, and his face finally cracks a smile He suddenly points at the hedge. “She didn’t want me cutting that thing back though; said she ‘prefers the privacy’. It’s a bit of a bloody eyesore, in my opinion.”

  I have to agree with him but suggest that my mother probably had her reasons for allowing the hedge to grow almost as tall as the bungalow itself.

  “Well, the house is empty, isn’t it,” he says. “Don’t want no squatters moving in.”

  “Have you got a key?” I suddenly think to ask.

  “For the house and the padlock on the gate there? Yes. Not for the garage though.”

  I can’t see a garage and must look confused. He indicates with his head the far end of the back garden, and now I can see a low concrete building partially covered by ivy.

  “There’s a lane that runs along the back of the houses,” he explains. “It’s supposed to be an access road but it’s full of potholes now. Nobody uses it.”

  I’m not really interested in the garage, but I am interested in the state of the house. “What’s it like inside?”