Silent Faces, Painted Ghosts

by Kathy Shuker

  He doesn’t want me around the house. He wants to punish me. I told him I would behave better but he said he thought I needed the company of other girls. BUT I DON’T WANT TO GO.

  The beginning of her stay in the school in Sussex had been recorded even more emotively:

  It’s freezing here and dark. The bed is hard and the girls aren’t at all friendly. The food is awful. I hate it. If maman were alive she wouldn’t have sent me here. I miss her so much it makes me feel sick. Papa is very cruel. Does he want me to die here?

  There were similar entries and then nothing except some English clearly written by another hand:

  This is the smutty diary of a French slut.

  Josie hadn’t written in it again until she’d returned home when she described in detail how much she hated the school and how the other girls made fun of her and bullied her because she was different. She had started to mix English with the French.

  I can’t believe how much Tom has grown. He can even walk a little now with aids and stuff but it’s jerky and he falls over a lot. I think he’s forgotten who I am. It was sort of fun spending time with him. He’s a happy little thing, considering. He has a new nurse. Her name is Christine. I’m not sure about her yet. She seems lazy.

  I tried to tell papa that I hate the school but he didn’t want to know. He said it would do me good but I don’t think he cares about me anymore. Sami saw me playing pétanque by myself yesterday and he came to offer me sweets again. But I can’t say anything to him. He’s nearly as devoted to papa as he was to maman. He had a funny expression on his face the other day when I was with Tom. I’m not sure whose side he’s on.

  Her final entry before returning to England for the new term was an apology to the diary for not taking it with her.

  I daren’t be seen writing in you and there’s nowhere safe to hide you.

  Returning home for the next holidays, her accounts of school and of her relationship with her father were little changed. Upset by Josie’s clear loneliness and isolation, Terri could feel a simmering resentment building inside her at Peter’s intransigence.

  There was a knock at the door of the office and Peter walked in, bringing his coffee with him. Terri dragged her mind back to the present. The samples were in a box on the floor and she unpacked them and spread them out across the table. She and Christophe had settled on a selection of postcards, prints, notebooks and mugs.

  ‘Are you feeling all right?’ Peter enquired as he watched her do it.

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘You don’t seem quite yourself.’ He picked up each sample in turn, studied them, and flicked her an amused glance. ‘Missing Luc I dare say.’

  Terri said nothing.

  ‘There’s a mistake in the title of this painting.’ He handed her one of the postcards. A minute later he added, ‘The image on this mug is askew. It won’t do like that.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ she replied. ‘I had noticed.’ It came out more crisply than she’d intended and she checked herself, reluctant to meet his eye. ‘I’ll get on to it.’

  He frowned. ‘Hurt your professional pride did I? Well, anyway, they’re a good choice, I’d say. Yes, very good.’ He leaned back in his chair and picked up his coffee, regarding her thoughtfully. ‘I was wondering if you’ve seen much of Lindsey lately?’

  ‘Lindsey? A little, now and then.’

  ‘She’s dating Thierry, you know.’ He sipped at his coffee, looking at her over the rim of the mug.

  ‘Yes, I did know actually.’

  ‘Hm. Thought you might. I imagine fathers are always the last to hear. Is it serious then, do you know?’

  ‘With Thierry? No, I don’t know.’ She paused. ‘Perhaps you should ask her.’

  ‘Ask her?’ He looked astonished.

  ‘Yes. I’m sure she’d love to talk to you but she doesn’t feel she can.’

  ‘She can see me whenever she wants.’

  ‘Oh come on Peter, you know that’s not true. You’re so tied up in your work.’

  ‘I don’t think I need a lecture in how to treat my own daughter from you. You are presuming on my...my respect for you. Anyway I’m...’ He looked uncomfortable. ‘...I’m devoted to her.’

  ‘Then maybe you should tell her.’ Terri hesitated but couldn’t stop herself from adding, ‘If you must know, Lindsey’s besotted with Thierry but Angela insists that she doesn’t see him. And she’s too nervous to speak to you about him in case you don’t approve either and you send him away.’ She paused. Peter was staring at her with an amazed expression. ‘There’s a lot about your daughter you don’t seem to know. She can play the piano really well. She can sing too. She’d like to study music. She told me so.’

  Peter stared at her, a deep frown furrowing his brow, then he got up without another word, abandoned his coffee, and walked out leaving the door wide open. Terri closed it behind him, leant against it, took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. She had not intended to do that. She didn’t know what had got into her. She was interfering in matters which did not concern her. She put a hand to her head; this was crazy behaviour. It was presumptuous to think she could fight other people’s battles and she was taking the whole thing too personally.

  She walked back to her desk and tried to concentrate on the job in hand. The security man had not yet arrived. The first of the loaned paintings was being shipped in later that week so she hoped he wouldn’t let her down. Everything needed to be in place and working. She glanced at her watch and picked up the phone.

  *

  Peter exchanged a few words with the newsagent, paid for his magazine, and left the shop flicking through its pages. It was a British art periodical which he had on a regular order. Even if he affected disinterest in the current art establishment and its encircling sycophants, he couldn’t resist knowing what it was saying and doing. And, though she was uncertain when it would be printed, Terri had told him that an advertisement for his retrospective would appear in its pages. He began flicking through the magazine in search of it. He was becoming nervously aware of the event looming over him. It could be a glorious pinnacle to his career or an insignificant flop. He tried not to care but he couldn’t pretend to himself: he cared very much.

  He reached the road, abandoned the magazine for a moment, cast a glance up and down and then wandered across towards the tree-shaded car park. He found his car beside the trunk of one of the huge plane trees and eased himself in. Sitting behind the wheel, he continued looking through the magazine but could find nothing. The gallery in Nice were arranging the bulk of the publicity for the exhibition; perhaps that had been a mistake and Terri would have done it better. He tossed the magazine down on the passenger seat.

  He thought about Terri’s barbed conversation of the day before. What had got into her lately? But it was the revelation about Lindsey which occupied his mind most – he had thought about it off and on ever since. Was he really as unapproachable as Terri had suggested? Not to his own daughter, surely? He loved Lindsey. She must know that. Though perhaps he did not give her a chance to talk as much as he should...well, ever really. Not since she was little. He blew out a rueful breath. Maybe not even then. It was a chastening thought. He drummed the steering wheel with his fingers agitatedly. How would he approach it now? He never knew what to say. Madeleine had been the only woman he’d ever found it easy to talk to – perhaps because she always seemed to know what he wanted to say before he even said it. His eyes glazed over and he remembered another daughter in another time, a whole lifetime ago, it seemed. He’d never known what to say to her either.

  With his mind elsewhere, he watched a young family return to their car opposite, slowly install themselves and then drive off. A car drove into a space on the row immediately beyond. Peter watched a man get out of the driver’s side then walk round to hold the door open while an elegant woman slid out of the passenger seat. Peter stared more fixedly: that was Angela. The man looked familiar too: clean-shaven, square jawed, lean and muscular, wit
h a brushstroke of grey at each temple. Peter had seen him at the summer barbeque: an American fitness instructor, if Peter’s memory served him right, talking about opening a gym in Avignon, looking for financial backers. The name escaped him though.

  Closing the car door, the man moved across and pressed himself against Angela, pushing her, almost roughly, back against the side of the car. Peter saw her giggle – he could almost hear it in his head – and glance furtively round. The man leaned in and gave her a long, lingering kiss while his hands fondled her breasts then roamed down the sides of her body.

  Peter watched, open-mouthed. This was the kiss of a lover. His thoughts felt both frozen and yet racing, trying to make sense of it. A host of little actions and events played across his mind and began to form a pattern. He remembered odd words or gestures; glances he had caught at parties; phone calls cut short when he entered the room or text messages, earnestly read when Angela thought his attention was elsewhere. There had been nights spent away at short notice – ‘Jill has got tickets for the theatre in Avignon; we’ll stay over rather than be late back’ – and, yes, when he thought about it, a dreamy air of satisfaction about her the next day. He wondered when it had started, this catalogue of deception. With a deadening feeling of clarity he knew that it was not recent. He had seen it all and yet not registered it until now. Angela’s social circle had long been the centre of her existence; Peter lived on the periphery of her life.

  He watched the kiss end and wondered at the public nature of it. This was the village where he had lived for the past fifty years. Did everyone already know that his wife had a lover? Or maybe she had had several? Unwillingly, he continued to watch them. Angela glanced around again; she appeared self-conscious suddenly and they exchanged a few words before moving apart. She said something else, leaned forward again to give the man a brief kiss and, smiling, walked away. Peter saw her get into her own car, glance back once, and drive off. The man left moments later.

  Peter couldn’t move. He sat, staring out but seeing nothing, his brain numbed. He expected to feel anger, almost welcomed it, but instead a slow wash of pain, embarrassment and remorse flooded over him, each jostling for the upper hand. He’d been so stupid, so deeply stupid. It was all his own fault; in recent years he knew he had neglected her. Before he’d married Angela, friends had warned him that the age gap was too great, that he would live to regret it. Of course he had ignored them but perhaps they had been right. He was an old man now and Angela, though herself middle-aged, was still a very attractive woman. Could she be blamed for wandering? Was that how it had been: a search for younger flesh, more energy, more life? The first few years of their marriage had needed work, of course they had, but they’d been close back then, had enjoyed some real passion. Looking back now he realised how much had slipped and faded away over the years without him really noticing. He had put too much of himself into his art and not enough into cherishing her as he ought. Again he thought of Lindsey and felt another pang of remorse.

  He’d failed in so many aspects of his life. For years he’d tried to suppress the knowledge of it but now he felt its full force and a stealthy, enveloping cloak of regret and self-loathing swept over him. He caught sight of the art magazine on the seat and threw it roughly to the floor. The whole business seemed so pointless suddenly. Even his own retrospective was a waste of time. Terri had said she wanted to use the exhibition to interpret his life, or perhaps it was to use his life to interpret his pictures. Either way, what was his life? And some of the most important paintings of his life wouldn’t even be in the exhibition. There were so many things he wished he’d done differently.

  He finally gathered his thoughts and drove slowly and carefully out of the car park, taking the road home. He wondered what he should do now: confront Angela or pretend he knew nothing? Did anyone else in the house know? Maybe everyone knew, except him.

  Peter drove the car up the track home, parked in front of one of the garages and switched the engine off. Again he sat while his jumbled thoughts ran pell-mell. After all this time, what could he say to Angela now? And if he overreacted, it could ruin everything. In any case who was he to start handing out recriminations? As long as she didn’t make a fool of him in his own house, he thought he could turn a blind eye. After all she’d had to put up with over the years, he thought he owed her that. And he must try to show her some real affection; he was very fond of her. But if the money he had seen leaving their bank accounts was going into the pocket of her lover as he now suspected, then that would have to be addressed. There were changes to be made...in all sorts of ways.

  He eased himself out of the car to find Sami standing a few metres away, watching him with a concerned expression.

  ‘Vous allez bien, Monsieur?’

  After all these years, he’d never been able to persuade Sami to address him less formally.

  ‘Yes, I’m all right, Sami,’ Peter replied in French. ‘Could I have a word?’

  Sami raised a finger to touch his cap in his habitual gesture and waited for Peter to reach him. They walked slowly up the path to the house together.

  *

  Terri stretched her eyes and turned the page of the diary.

  Everyone loves Tom. He’s always smiling and trying to do something new. I’ve heard papa say several times that he’s just like his mother. It hurts like crazy when he says that. He doesn’t seem to see her in me but she must be there. It’s hard not to like Tom though. He’s fun and really affectionate. Still I sometimes wish he wasn’t there. Am I wicked to think that? But I can’t help it. It’s just that if he weren’t there, papa would notice me.

  Christine has it OK these days because Tom is going to a special school now. People sometimes think he’s stupid because he struggles to talk properly and he drools but it’s just because his muscles don’t work properly. You can see in his eyes that he’s really smart and sometimes he’s very funny.

  Papa is doing a lot more these days. He’s been travelling quite a bit. Christine said he’s probably looking for love. That made me laugh!

  All Josie’s diary entries were in English now and her handwriting had markedly improved. Over the preceding pages, she had recounted her slow integration into the English school and she was gradually learning to stand up for herself. It was noticeable however that she never took the diary back with her; all her notes were written during her holidays.

  I still haven’t had a letter from Michael and he promised he would write during the holidays. I can’t write to him if he doesn’t write to me first. And if he doesn’t write I’m not going to speak to him when I go back.

  Michael was a youth who worked at the stables where Josephine went riding from school once a week. For some time now her notes had been peppered with remarks about boys, complaints about her periods and frustration that her breasts weren’t growing quickly enough. The girl was growing up fast.

  Terri had grown to like Josie. She was passionate about what or who she liked and at times quite witty. She was prone to self-pity but by this stage likely to finish any melancholic lament with a self-deprecating jokey remark. What had made this bright, energetic girl ultimately go out and take her own life? It was the question which lurked constantly at the back of Terri’s mind but which she was scared to consider too closely. For, if Celia was right and Josie didn’t kill herself in the woods, then Terri was increasingly convinced that she threw herself off a London bridge nearly nine years after leaving Provence for good.

  Chapter 15

  Angela sat on the bench at the edge of the lawn and gently fanned herself. A fly landed on her bare arm and she brushed it off impatiently. There was an uncomfortable band of sweat around her hairline. August had arrived and with it the close, gripping heat which she so disliked. The daytime sunshine now sent the temperature soaring and the evening brought little relief; it was still sticky and humid. Despite Sami’s attentions and the use of the sprinkler at night, the lawn had a parched, crisp look. Under the broad brim of her ha
t she watched Lindsey swing the croquet mallet and hit the red ball. It cannoned into Peter’s black ball, knocking it out of the way, and Lindsey lifted her left fist in exultation.

  ‘Yesss,’ shouted Celia. ‘Good shot. Two more.’

  Smiling, Lindsey thumped the ball once more, this time through the next hoop.

  Celia celebrated again and this time the two players exchanged a gentle high five. Angela rolled her eyes. It was Peter who had suggested the game. ‘Let’s have a family meal Saturday night,’ he’d said and when she reminded him about the dance at the club that night he’d said, ‘Sunday then. We never seem to do that any more. In fact, let’s all have a game of pétanque beforehand. I’ll ask Corinne to come in as a special and get a meal ready. Then you won’t have to worry about cooking and you can join in.’ When she’d hesitated he’d said, ‘No. Croquet, of course. You’d prefer croquet, wouldn’t you? We’ll play that.’

  But they could not all play. The party was an odd number because Peter had insisted on inviting not only Celia but Terri.

  ‘But Terri isn’t family,’ Angela had protested. ‘Is she?’ she’d added for emphasis.

  ‘No...no, but we can’t very well leave her out, can we?’ he’d responded.

  Peter had been behaving strangely. Over the previous few days he’d been either silent and morose or unusually chatty, talking to her with a false bright air. She’d given into the suggestion – she could think of no good excuse not to – but had rejected the idea of employing Corinne just for a family meal and decided to prepare something herself. And now she’d chosen to sit the game out because she couldn’t face it in this heat. But she had expected Terri to play with Lindsey – she’d seen them chatting together while they all drank cocktails – and now Terri was playing with Peter while Lindsey partnered Celia. How had that come about? Had that been his arrangement, or hers, or Celia’s even? For a short while the frank conversation Angela had shared with Terri over dinner that night had dissipated some of her fears about the girl’s intentions, but they were rapidly returning. Angela had the growing suspicion that this entire event was about bringing Terri into the family.