JT02 - To The Grave

by Steve Robinson

  “Of course, I’ll have to read the book,” she said to Joan when she caught up. “If I can find a copy.”

  “There’s bound to be one at the library,” Joan said.

  Mena hadn’t been to the general library in a while; there were plenty of books at home and at the hospitals to keep her going. “I’ll take a look tomorrow,” she said.

  After joining the Welford Road they were soon cycling back past the hospital on their right, then past the cemetery a little further down and to their left. They kept a leisurely pace, nothing too strenuous. It was still warm enough out for light blouses, although they both had pullovers tied around their waists in case it turned chilly later.

  “You know,” Mena said. “I can understand why Emma Bovary wanted more out of life.”

  Joan scoffed. “And look where it got her,” she said.

  “I know, but she wasn’t happy anyway, was she? What did she have to lose?”

  “She would never have been happy, Mena,” Joan said. If the wealthy Boulanger had married her, she would have tired of him soon enough, too. Then what?”

  Mena shrugged. “I suppose so.”

  “The grass isn’t always greener, you know,” Joan said. “That’s the message.”

  “I know,” Mena said. “I just felt that we had a lot in common, that’s all. I mean I can empathise with her even if I can’t condone her behaviour - the lies and the cheating, and her poor husband, Charles. I could never be like that.” She paused and then thoughtfully added, “My ideals are far simpler.”

  “Like getting away from your mother?” Joan said.

  Mena didn’t answer. She knew Joan was perceptive enough to need no confirmation but there was more to it now. Her own aspirations had deepened since meeting Danny and her thoughts had wandered to that river in West Virginia he’d spoken of; to the town he’d said he was from. Where was it? Grantsville. She supposed she couldn’t get much further away from her mother than that.

  “So how come you’re not out with Danny tonight?” Joan said. “Not that I’m complaining. We just don’t seem to see much of each other these days, do we? Not like we used to.”

  “I’ve not seen him since the dance,” Mena said and she knew it was a mistake.

  “Oh?”

  Mena kept pedalling. She pretended not to have noticed Joan’s inquisitive tone. She wasn’t ready to explain why she hadn’t seen Danny since the dance. Just thinking about it made her skin prickle.

  “Where did you get to anyway?” Joan asked. “I couldn’t find either of you when I got back to St Peter’s.”

  Mena knew she had to change the subject. “I didn’t think you were coming back,” she said. “We left.”

  Joan gave her a wink. “Followed my lead, did you? Well, come on. Don’t hold out on me. What did you get up to?”

  She had that devilish gleam in her eye and Mena knew exactly what she was thinking. “It wasn’t like that,” she said. “I didn’t feel well so Danny took me home.” She hated lying to Joan and she hated Victor Montalvo all the more for giving her cause to.

  She looked around for something, anything, just to turn the subject around, but her mind was back at the dance now and Montalvo was inside her head, blocking her thoughts. His words played over through her mind. I saw her first, he’d told Danny, like she was something you pick up in a January sale. And there was that sense that what had happened at St Peter’s in May was somehow perfectly acceptable to him. Now he wanted more and he’d even been out looking for her. She felt ill just thinking about it, but she couldn’t stop herself.

  “So how come you haven’t seen him?” Joan asked, adding further confusion to her thoughts. “You didn’t fall out, did you?”

  Mena was beginning to think that Joan’s efforts in the Civil Service were a waste of her natural talents; that her friend could have provided a far greater service to her country interrogating spies. The thing she hadn’t expected was that a part of her felt ready to break. Perhaps deep down she wanted to talk about it. Get it out in the open where it might catch in a breeze and blow away, all the sooner to be forgotten.

  “Come on,” Joan persisted. “Something must have upset the apple-cart. You’ve been in each other’s pockets all summer.”

  Mena felt her breath quicken. Why couldn’t she just leave it alone? She found herself nodding as she considered that something had indeed upset things. Now it was coming between her and the people she cared for - the people she loved. Her hands tightened around the handlebars and she kicked hard at the pedals, propelling herself ahead of Joan so Joan couldn’t see the red-faced anger rising inside her. Her emotions were suddenly in turmoil. She felt like she was gasping for air and all she could see was Victor Montalvo, grinning down at her with those impossibly white teeth, letting her know that it didn’t matter how fast or how far she went, she would never be able to get away from him. Never.

  Joan caught up. “We said we wouldn’t keep secrets from each other,” she said. “Did you have a row? Is that it? I’m sure we can fix it.”

  She just wouldn’t let up.

  “It’s not the first time either, is it?” she went on. “I bet something must have happened after your first date in May. That’s why you couldn’t talk about it when my dad dropped you home after De Montfort.” She laughed like it was nothing. “It happens all the time,” she added. “Tell me what it is. It’s probably not as bad as you think.”

  Mena had switched off - tuned her friend out. All she could hear now was the whir of her spokes and the road beneath her tyres as it raced hypnotically beneath her. She was back at St Peter’s church again. It was dark and Danny was there, only it wasn’t Danny, it was Montalvo and he was pressing himself against her, feeling her and kissing her. Kissing, kissing, kissing until she broke free and she was running wild between the headstones - running and grazing her legs and tripping. And then feeling his hand, tight around her ankle, pulling her back through the grass.

  “Mena? Are you okay?”

  She could feel her whole body shaking. Tears soaked her face now as they had then. She was lying on her back in that black graveyard and all she could see was his grinning face as he forced himself onto her - Victor Montalvo. She recalled the fear and the pain and she knew that, to the contrary, it was every bit as bad as she thought.

  Mena screamed. “He raped me, okay! Are you happy now?”

  She felt dirty.

  She could hear herself sobbing through the words as she spoke them and at the same time she stood on her pedals, channelling all that hatred fuelled adrenaline through them as she raced ahead, turning off the Welford Road onto any road she came to just to lose herself. She was scared. Telling Joan had brought her no solace. She felt more afraid now than ever; afraid because she knew she had to tell her mother and she would have to tell Danny too, of course she had to tell Danny. She would have to tell them all that she had been raped, and worse still, she would have to tell her mother that she was pregnant.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Tayte spoke very little while Joan talked about Mena, having learnt over the years when it was best just to listen. They had taken a stroll in the grounds as Joan had said she liked to do most days in the early afternoon, weather permitting. She only ever went to the stream and back nowadays - half a kilometre at most and at no great pace. “Use it or lose it,” she’d said as she put on her coat and changed her slippers for daisy print wellington boots.

  They were on their way back now, walking a bark-covered path that wound its way through formal displays of floppy winter pansies and bright cyclamen standing to attention. Joan had told him that she hadn’t seen Mena again that year; that when the summer of 1944 ended it took their friendship with it because of what happened. Learning that Mena had been raped both shocked and angered Tayte.

  “But I thought you were of the opinion that Mena was in love with Danny,” he said. “Jonathan told me the same thing based on what his father had said.”

  “I think I’ve gone on too lon
g about Mena,” Joan replied, a slight tremor in her voice at thinking of those days again, despite the time that had passed since.

  Tayte thought her pace quickened slightly. “But these are things I need to know about,” he said. “For my client.” He was beginning to feel so caught up in Mena’s story himself that for a brief moment his client’s needs seemed to come as an afterthought to his own.

  “I’m telling you exactly what Mena told me,” Joan said. “Do you think I could forget something like that?”

  Tayte didn’t, but he couldn’t understand why she sounded so edgy all of a sudden. “And she was definitely talking about Danny?” he asked, needing further confirmation.

  Joan stopped walking but she didn’t look at Tayte. Not directly. “I’ve already told you that Mena met Danny at St Peter’s church earlier in the year,” she said. “I knew Mena was going there to meet him and she never gave me any reason to think otherwise. Then after we’d been to see Madame Bovary we were talking about Danny and she got upset and said, “He raped me.” It just came out. And by the end of the year I heard that she was telling everyone she was carrying his baby. Danny’s baby.”

  Tayte thought Joan sounded a little as if she was explaining things to herself rather than to him - like she was going over the details to confirm what she knew, or thought she knew. “So if Danny raped her, why did you tell me she loved him? It kind of contradicts, doesn’t it?”

  Joan turned away and started walking again. “Yes it does, but there it is. I don’t know what else to make of it.”

  They continued in silence for a few long minutes and Tayte spent that time considering the uncertainty he felt had crept into Joan’s voice. Could there be another explanation? Right now it seemed that Danny Danielson had raped Mena and was every bit his client’s father. He figured Joan had no reason to lie about what she’d heard, but he sensed some doubt there. As they came back to the house and the conservatory they had previously left by, he thought that Joan’s sudden, contemplative silence was telling enough and he wondered what else she knew that she wasn’t saying. His instinct told him to drop it for now, but he thought he was close to something so against his better judgement, he persisted.

  “Is there anything else you want to tell me?” he said.

  Joan didn’t stop or turn to look at him.

  “Something about Danny perhaps?” He was fishing and he knew it, but he was sure she was holding something back and he wanted to know what that was. “What about Mena?” he added. “Was there something else about Mena?”

  Joan stopped walking then and when she turned around she had tears in her eyes. “I think it’s time you left, Mr Tayte,” she said. “I’d like to be alone if you don’t mind.”

  She tried to smile, Tayte thought, but he could see it was difficult and he immediately regretted trying to push her like that. It wasn’t like him. He watched her step through into the conservatory and a moment later she handed him his briefcase.

  “You can go around the house to your car,” she said. “The gates will be open.”

  With that she closed the doors and disappeared into the house, still in her boots and coat, leaving Tayte confused if not surprised that his visit was over.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Tayte was less than a mile into his journey back to the hotel when his phone rang. He was still in the Hertfordshire countryside, driving down a leafless lane that looked much like every other. He pulled over to answer it and put his hazard lights on. He didn’t have time to check who was calling.

  “Jefferson Tayte.”

  “JT. It’s Jonathan.”

  “Hi Jonathan. How’s it going?”

  “Good. I’ve managed to set things up with Mary’s son, Christopher. Just got off the phone with him, actually.”

  “That’s great,” Tayte said. “When can he see me?”

  “Right away.”

  “He’s keen. I like that.”

  “Yes, perhaps. Although I think the main reason he suggested seeing you now was because he’s flying to New York tonight and won’t be back until Wednesday.”

  “I see,” Tayte said. “Well, I’m glad he could fit me in. Where do I need to go?”

  “He’s at a gala lunch and conference in London,” Jonathan said. “It’s for the charitable trust I told you about. He said you were welcome to go along. You’ll have missed the main course by the time you get there, but if you’re quick you might catch dessert.”

  Tayte licked his lips. “Where’s it being held?”

  “It’s at the QE2 Conference Centre in Westminster.”

  Tayte got out his pad, pinning his phone to his ear with his shoulder while he wrote the details down.

  “I thought you wouldn’t want to miss him, so I told Christopher you’d be there. He said he’d have your name added to the guest list. Just ask for him when you arrive.”

  “How long a drive do you think it is from Joan’s house? I’ve only just left.”

  “I wouldn’t drive,” Jonathan said. “The traffic might not be too bad on a Sunday afternoon, but you’ll still have a tough time parking anywhere close. I’d drive to the train station in Hertford if I were you. You can leave your car there and pick it up again later. The conference goes on into the early evening so you’ve plenty of time.”

  “I’ll do that,” Tayte said. “Thanks.”

  He was about to say goodbye when he thought to ask Jonathan if he’d managed to get into the attic.

  Jonathan hesitated before he gave his reply. “I did,” he said.

  “No good?”

  “No. There are just so many nooks and crannies that are hard to get at.”

  “That’s no problem,” Tayte said. “Thanks for trying.”

  With that he said goodbye and set the car’s satnav for Hertford.

  The Queen Elizabeth II Conference Centre wasn’t difficult to find once Tayte arrived in London. He got off the Tube at Westminster by the bridge, and standing in what would have been the shadow of Big Ben if the skies weren’t so leaden, he was given directions to Broad Sanctuary, which was just off Parliament Square. It was spitting with rain again, but it only took a few minutes to walk the rest of the way.

  Inside the building, Tayte cleared security and reported to one of the reception desks. From there he was directed to the second floor. As the lift doors opened and he stepped out, a display screen bearing the word ‘GIFT’ greeted him. The ‘I’ was pictured as a gift-wrapped parcel in the style and colours of the South African flag and beneath it were the words, ‘Welcome to the Grace Ingram Foundation Trust annual charity conference’.

  Further in he gave his name to a young black girl wearing a floor-length dress that looked like the ‘I’ from the GIFT poster. She was standing beside a lectern next to a set of double doors and she had a big smile on her face that seemed to contradict the fading burn scars that reached up from her neck and fanned out across her cheek. Watching over her was a heavyset man in a tuxedo. The girl checked Tayte off the screen in front of her and she smiled again as the man opened the doors into a large conference room that was lit with subtle blue lighting around the perimeter and over the tables, which were laid out cabaret style in the middle of the room, seats facing the stage.

  Another young girl, also gift-wrapped in the flag of her nation, ushered Tayte towards the front of the room, keeping to the edge so as not to block anyone’s view of the stage. Looking around, it was apparent to Tayte that GIFT was a big-money business. He thought there had to be at least three hundred smartly dressed business men and women sitting at the tables, which were all crowded with wine glasses and bottles of water. He quickly noticed that the cutlery was gone, telling him that he’d missed both lunch and dessert. Ahead, the raised stage was lit up like a theatre set, minus the curtains, and the trust’s logo, GIFT, appeared over the central podium. The woman speaker standing behind it was in mid flow.

  “When my grandmother, Grace Ingram, began this trust almost fifty years ago,” she said with a dis
tinct South African accent. “She could have had no concept of just how much happiness her commitment would bring to so many lives.”

  To either side of the room, Tayte saw screens showing images of the work the charity was involved in. Some had pictures of smiling children, others of happy parents and of schools and hospitals. Several conveyed information about the corporations already involved with GIFT and every one showed an image depicting the results of GIFT’s work in South Africa, rather than showing the often desperate images that necessitated its creation. He supposed the young girl at the door was reminder enough of that. He saw a number of men in tuxedos, standing in the shadows between the lighting, their hands clasped in front of them as they stood and watched the room like FBI agents at a presidential visit.

  Tayte turned his attention back to the speaker as she continued her presentation.

  “But just as the monkey-bread seed grows into the ancient and mighty baobab tree we call the tree of life - as it provides shelter, food and water in the dry savannah regions to both animal and human-kind alike, without intolerance or prejudice - so has the Grace Ingram Foundation Trust grown to replicate that design. For so many South Africans - like the baobab tree - GIFT has come to symbolise life.”

  Applause erupted from the room, which seemed to embarrass the speaker. She appeared humble before her audience as she put her hands together and pressed them to her lips as if in prayer, closing her eyes and bowing her head. Tayte arrived at a table at the front of the room and was invited to sit down. There were only two people sitting at this table and he supposed it was Christopher Ingram and his wife. He nodded and smiled and the bald-headed man beside him, dressed in a silver-grey suit, smiled back.

  “That’s my daughter,” he said, indicating the stage, also exhibiting a strong South African accent as he spoke. “Her presentation is almost finished. We can talk after.”