The Girl in the Red Dress

by Elaine Chong

“How long will Mrs Crane be staying with you?”

  That’s a question I’ve been asking myself ever since I learned she was here, but I’m not going to ask her, so I tell Maggie, “I really don’t know. She’s got a business to run so I can’t imagine she’ll be staying past the point that she and Richard are happy to leave me on my own.”

  “But should you be living here on your own now?” she asks. “I mean … Hillcrest’s a big house ... and with the stairs … after what happened … I just wondered … well, you could always move … you know … into that bungalow … I just thought…” The stuttering sentence seems to have exhausted her because she falls into a chair opposite me and grasps both my hands in hers. “I’ve been so worried about you.”

  I realise that she reminds me of Aggie not just the long dark hair and pretty, blue eyes, but in the way she struggles to contain her emotions and then they get the better of her. I like her, even though I don’t know her as well as I should after all these years. I like her warmth and her honesty, so I don’t hesitate to tell her, “Richard thinks I should give up Hillcrest and move into Tyne Lodge.”

  “It might be for the best,” she says.

  “I suppose it might,” I say, and then something inside me suddenly revolts. For even though I quail at the prospect of living with Aggie’s restless, murderous spirit, I really don’t want to leave my home. It feels like giving in, so I shake my head. “But no. No, I’m not doing that.”

  I’ve carried a little seed of rebellion with me all my life. It never had the chance to truly flourish, but it seems I’ve kept it alive. I fought with George all the time and he tried to smother it, extinguish it, but I guess it never died.

  I’ve always wondered why he only left me the house to live in but now I think I know the answer. He wanted to defeat me; wanted me to give it up; wanted me to surrender. He made sure that I could only ever be the keeper of the house but never the holder, the one with the power. It might be for the best to move out of Hillcrest, but I’m not going anywhere. Perhaps this is our last battle. If it is, I won’t let George win.

  Julia

  I could feel Maggie’s arctic eyes on the back of my head when I left the house. Why my mother thinks so highly of her, I can’t imagine, but at least she’s doing something useful by remaining with her while I go out. Fortunately, it’s not far to the high street and the florist’s shop. I just hope I can remember the way to St Peter’s after I’ve bought the flowers – the last time I was there was for the funeral and we were driven directly from Hillcrest in the back of a blacked-out hearse.

  I haven’t thought about my father very much since he died, but last night after Richard and Silvio had left, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. It was because of the balcony.

  My bedroom didn’t have a balcony until I asked for one. My mother had taken me to see the Franco Zeffirelli film of Romeo and Juliet. I was fourteen, and instantly fell in love with Leonard Whiting. Profoundly affected by the music and the romance and the drama, I went to my father and begged to have a balcony of my own. He held me close against his chest, kissed the top of my head and said, “You can have whatever you want, Julia. You’re my girl.”

  I was always his girl, and that’s why I don’t understand what’s happened, so I’m going to bring him flowers and ask him. It’s silly, really, but I can’t think of any other way to feel close to him again.

  I find the walk to the florists a welcome break. Caring for my mother hasn’t been quite the onerous task I thought it would be, but it feels good to get out of the house. I don’t do much walking in Singapore during daylight hours – it’s just too hot – but walking in England is a much more pleasant experience and I find that I’m enjoying the fresh air and the freedom.

  I discover that the shop carries a good selection of flowers and it’s hard to choose. I don’t want to buy white lilies – there’s something uniquely funereal about them and I don’t need reminding that I’m going to visit a grave. The orchids just aren’t up to scratch, but the roses look nice, so I buy a dozen yellow ones. Yellow is the colour of sunshine and happiness and I could do with a little bit of both of those things in my life at the moment.

  When I arrive at St Peter’s after a few false turns, the churchyard is empty of the living but there are lines and lines of graves, then I realise that I don’t remember where my father was buried, so I’m forced to search for him. When I find him, I see my mother has chosen a plain, rectangular, black granite headstone engraved with gold. Even the words are plain.

  George Arthur Raymond Oakley

  Died 15th January 2002 aged 67 years

  Rest in Peace

  Well, that didn’t take much imagination, I think to myself.

  I remove the roses from their cellophane wrapping and place them directly on the ground in front of the headstone. I spread them out in the shape of a fan, but they still look sad and lifeless, and now I wish I’d thought to bring a vase with me.

  I’m quietly berating myself for my lack of foresight when I spot someone walking purposefully towards me on the narrow gravel path between the lines of graves. It’s a man wearing baggy jeans and a rather shabby looking brown suede jacket, but they’re teamed with a dog collar so at least I know he’s not a vagrant. I married Colin at St Peter’s, but it wasn’t this scruffy individual who officiated at the service.

  “Hallo there!” he calls out to me as he approaches. “Edward Feering,” he says and offers me his hand to shake. “I saw you walk up the drive with those roses and I didn’t recognise you so I guessed you wouldn’t know the rules.”

  “There are rules?”

  “Not rules exactly … it was started by my predecessor.”

  “So, what have I done wrong?”

  He throws up his hands and follows it by an awkward laugh. “Nothing wrong, nothing wrong … it’s just that we don’t encourage the placing of cut flowers.” His expression veers from mock solemnity to an embarrassed smile. “They die so quickly, you see. Especially when they’re just left on the grass.” He looks pointedly at the yellow roses on my father’s grave. “What we like to see is sympathetic planting and by ‘sympathetic’ we really mean evergreen if possible, although I personally won’t say no to a hardy annual.”

  I haven’t the faintest idea what he’s talking about and I’m certain that my ignorance is written clearly on my face, but he carries on regardless.

  “I’m afraid it’s a matter of cleanliness. People want to leave flowers as a token of remembrance for their loved ones – which I completely understand by the way – but they don’t think about what happens to those flowers when they’ve died. I can tell you, it isn’t a pretty sight, although I actually think it’s worse when they’re left in a vase because we then have nasty, smelly water to get rid of.” He glances down at the headstone then back at me. “George Oakley,” he says.

  “My father.”

  He does the jazz hands gesture all over again only this time it’s followed by an enthusiastic cry of recognition. “Julia! How lovely to meet you at last! Is your mother out of hospital yet? I told your brother – Richard, isn’t it? – I said, as soon as she’s back in her own home, I’ll come around.”

  I can’t think of anything I’d like less, but my mother has always been a conscientious churchgoer, so he probably knows her quite well. I try really hard to respond with a friendly smile, but I’m definitely not issuing a visitor’s pass, so I tell him, “She was discharged on Friday and I’m staying with her while she recuperates. You can call round after I’ve left.”

  He nods his agreement as though I’ve just suggested the perfect plan. “Don’t worry about the flowers,” he says. “And just tell Lenora to give me a call when she’s ready to receive visitors again.” He suddenly leans towards me and says in a conspiratorial tone, “I didn’t know your father. He wasn’t one of my flock, if you see what I mean. I wasn’t here for the funeral either, but I heard what happened – you know the incident with the car? There was a lot of loose ta
lk afterwards and I just wanted to say that it isn’t our place to judge. Only the Lord knows what’s in our hearts and in our minds. I’m sure your father was a good man.”

  He gives me a quick, sympathetic pat on the shoulder then marches back the way he came.

  Was my father a good man? Once upon a time I might have agreed with him, but now I’m not so sure. And as for loose talk – well, I can well imagine what people said about him. I just find it hard to believe that my mother didn’t know about his other family until after he died.

  I’m not the kind of person who indulges in introspection but standing here at the graveside of my father I’m forced to consider the possibility that I might be quite a lot like him, because I managed to conceal the truth from Colin for eight years.

  Did my mother have her suspicions? I wonder. Colin said he long suspected. What was it he told me? ‘There’s always a paper trail, you just have to know where to look.’ He waited until I’d left the country to search my office, and he found what he was looking for: proof of my adultery.

  And then it hits me – you just have to know where to look. That’s what Colin said.

  My father kept the door to his study locked so that my mother couldn’t snoop, which suggests he had things he wanted to conceal from her.

  I look down at the grass beneath my feet – it’s my father’s final resting place. “What were you hiding behind that locked door, Daddy?” I ask him. “Whatever it was … well, the door isn’t locked anymore.” I kneel down in front of the headstone. Tears spring to my eyes because I know I’m never coming back here again. I whisper, “I did love you, and I think you loved me best, but I can’t understand why you cut me out … cut all of us out of your will. I can’t decide if what you did was wrong, but I know it wasn’t fair, so now I’m going to do everything in my power to put it right.” I gently place a kiss on the cold, hard granite. “Goodbye Daddy. Goodbye.”

  Richard

  When I went to bed last night, my mind was in turmoil. I tossed and turned, pushed and pulled at the quilt until Silvio sat up and ordered me to leave the bedroom.

  “Nothing can be done until tomorrow, Ricardo, but if you cannot rest till then, get up and let me sleep.”

  All I could say to him was, “I’m really sorry. It’s the balcony – I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  “I understand,” he told me. “You cannot let go of this worry, so do something else. Make tea. Listen to music.”

  So, I got up and I made tea, I lay on the sofa and I listened to the radio. I don’t remember feeling even remotely sleepy but the next thing I knew, Silvio was waking me with a cup of coffee.

  “I have to go,” he said. “Good luck with your sorellina.”

  “I’m not calling her ‘little sister’ yet,” I said. “At this point she’s Julia’s legal adversary and I don’t think she’s going to want to be a part of our family if she’s forced to share her very generous inheritance with us.”

  I watched Silvio weigh up my reply then wordlessly shrug his response. He lifted his fist to the side of his head with the thumb and little finger extended. “I call you later. Ciao, ciao.”

  As soon as he left the flat and I was on my own, my thoughts immediately returned to Julia’s balcony. I’m certain it hasn’t been used in years, and its safety has certainly never been checked, so it’s highly likely that over time the bolts have gradually loosened – the weather alone would cause deterioration. But last night I couldn’t get out of my head the idea that the bolts had been loosened deliberately.

  I still keep thinking that the balcony has been tampered with. Why and by whom, I haven’t the faintest idea. It smacks of paranoia, but with everything I’ve experienced over the last couple of weeks it’s hardly surprising that my imagination has got the better of me.

  I try to push all of these thoughts to one side because I need to give my full attention to the meeting this morning with Miriam. I can only hope that striking up some kind of relationship with the girl will help to smooth things over in time, if Julia persists in this quest to have the will overturned. Now she’s a part of our life whether we like it or not.

  Unsurprisingly for a Monday morning, the traffic is slow and heavy, and I arrive for the meeting at the offices of Silver, Reid and Bateman nearly thirty minutes late. Henry Silver is pacing up and down in front of the desk in reception. He has the look of someone who has asked to see the inside of the lion’s cage and is now waiting to find out if he’s going to be eaten alive or allowed to escape.

  “Ah good, you’re here at last,” he greets me.

  “Sorry … Monday morning traffic on the A12 … it’s always dreadful.”

  “She’s waiting for you.”

  “Okay. Let’s get started then,” I say, but he doesn’t move; he takes my elbow and draws me to the far side of the room.

  “I realise it’s a bit late but, before I take you in and introduce you to each other, I feel compelled to tell you I’m not convinced this is a good idea after all.”

  “What do you mean, not a good idea?” I ask him. “You were the one who instigated this meeting.”

  “I know, I know, and in principle it is a good idea, but I hadn’t met the girl before this. I remember her mother from the club. She was a delightful person, always happy to help you out, but the daughter’s cut from a different cloth. When she found out you weren’t here, I had a real battle on my hands persuading her to stay.”

  “Well, I’m here now.”

  “Just be warned, Mr Oakley. Something tells me that you and she have very different motives for agreeing to meet. I’m not at all optimistic for the outcome.”

  I follow him back to the reception desk, where he advises the receptionist that the meeting in room one is not to be disturbed under any circumstances, then he guides me through a short corridor into the main office.

  From there I’m led into a large, well-lit room with windows which look out over a paved courtyard garden. There’s an enormous table in the middle of it surrounded by chairs. This is clearly a conference room and not the type of intimate space, which encourages friendly conversation, but Henry Silver has already intimated that my half-sister has her own agenda.

  She’s standing with her back to the room staring out at something beyond the courtyard and she doesn’t turn away until Henry Silver calls her name and introduces me.

  “I won’t hang around,” he says. “I arranged this meeting for the two of you, but if or when you want me to be present, just press the buzzer on the wall next to the lights.” He points to a row of switches next to the door. “Take as long as you need.”

  When he’s left the room, she promptly takes a chair on the opposite side of the table, opens up a bag, pulls out a laptop computer and places it on the table in front of her.

  “Miriam,” I begin awkwardly, “this obviously isn’t the nicest way for us to meet for the first time.”

  “You’re late,” she snaps.

  She fixes dark, serious eyes upon me. There isn’t a single trace of interest or warmth in her expression, but I find myself wanting to laugh because she looks exactly like my father and the moment is surreal. She has the same slim upright figure; holds herself with the same unnatural rigidness; she even has the same air of haughty disdain. Her hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail and the hairstyle accentuates the sharp contours of her face. She really is the image of my father in every way.

  I’ve played this game before and my father always won because I never completely stopped wanting his approval, but I’m not playing today, so I smile back at her. “You look just like him. Julia and I look like our mother.”

  Her expression doesn’t change. “What do you want? I assume you want something because you’ve never bothered to get in touch with me before.”

  “It’s complicated,” I say, not wishing to reveal to her quite yet that Julia only very recently learned of her existence and now wants to take her to court. “My father … our father,” I quickly correct mysel
f. “…our father was … what shall I say … economic with the truth … yes, I think that’s the right expression. He didn’t disclose to anyone in our family that he had another daughter, so we only found out about you after he died. If he’d told us, things might have been very different,” I add.

  “You still haven’t explained what you want,” she says.

  “I want to get to know you,” I say. It sounds like nonsense, even to my own ears, but we have to start the conversation somewhere.

  Her mouth contorts into an unpleasant sneer. “Get to know me?”

  “Well, you have that advantage over me, I suspect.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I think you probably grew up knowing you had a brother and a sister?”

  “Half-brother. Half-sister,” she corrects me.

  I shrug my indifference. “Nevertheless, you’ve always known, and I expect you asked questions about us – it’s only natural you’d be curious. I suppose that’s why I’d like to know a bit about you.”

  She sits back in the chair and folds her arms in front her. “What do you want to know?”

  I try another smile. “I was going to say ‘everything’, but we don’t really have time for that today, so how about telling me what happened to you after our father died. It’s a bit of a mystery, frankly.”

  Her eyes narrow and the hostility she feels towards me is palpable. “You want to know what happened? I’ll tell you. I was left with my pious, overbearing grandparents in a fishing town called Urk. I was left there because my mother suddenly became an unmarried mother with nowhere to live and no money. Not the best outcome for someone in a place where the bible is the go-to reference book for lifestyle choices.”

  “I’ve never heard of Urk,” I admit.

  “Nobody outside of Urk has heard of Urk. It used to be an island and it might as well still be. It’s the arse end of Europe.” She unfolds her arms, pushes the laptop to one side, props her elbows on the table and rests her chin on a bridge of her slim fingers. “Shall I tell you why I hate you?” she says, and once again I’m impaled on the point of her malevolent gaze.