True Murder

by Yaba Badoe

  ‘What’s the menopause?’ I asked.

  ‘Hallo? Ever wonder why so many women over the hill are alone, Aj? It’s called the menopause. It’s when a woman can’t have any more children. It’s when her eggs shrivel up and die and no one wants her any more.’

  Unwilling to believe that this would be Isobel’s fate, despite my ignorance of a woman’s reproductive cycle, I demanded: ‘How do you know she’s shrivelling up and dying? How do you know, Polly?’

  ‘Because Theo told me. She’s always telling him things that she’d never tell me. Like gruesome, grisly things I’d rather not know. Like things that make me want to puke and are so uncool that I swear I will never be like her. Not in a million, trillion years. Got it?’

  13

  TWO DAYS LATER, Peter Venus was back at Graylings again, and the day after that Polly and I were in London with him. Isobel wanted time to think. And to give herself the solitude she needed, she’d decided that Peter could have us for a change. It was time, she said, that he sampled the delights of being a full-time father.

  Life had taught me that despondent women, women who gaze into mirrors, should never be left alone. However, Isobel was so adamant about her need for solitude that, despite my misgivings, I was soon as excited as Polly about going to London. Moreover, I didn’t have any choice in the matter. Isobel wanted us out of her house and that was that. As it turned out, our fortnight in London was the happiest of my life.

  When I first decided that Aunt Rose would approve of Peter – because of the way he ate his pear over dinner – I hadn’t appreciated the tensions between him and Isobel. Now that I knew a little of what was going on, I found that instead of taking Isobel’s side wholeheartedly, as I had taken my mother’s, I couldn’t help liking Peter.

  Aunt Rose is an excellent judge of the masculine character. She appreciates it fully, a connoisseur indulging her passion. Unlike many of her contemporaries, who pray to God for patience to withstand their marriages, complaining bitterly about the men in their lives, Aunt Rose delights in their strength, laughing at their foibles. She likes men. And as far as I know, her inclination to indulge them, occasionally teasing and sparring with them, has made her happy.

  My aunt has never married. I don’t believe she regrets being on her own; like Peter, she enjoys sampling what’s on offer. She likes to taste without feeling obliged to sit down, over a lifetime, at the same table. So whenever I think of her, I’m reminded of Peter’s appeal to women, the subtle manner in which he eats fruit: delicately, slowly, as if it were the most delicious food in the world. That’s how he treated Polly and me in London.

  The houseboat he rented at Chelsea Wharf was magnificent. Simple to the point of being spartan, the kitchen was tiny, opening out to the largest room, a broad expanse of dining-room and salon, chairs strategically placed to catch a glimpse of water. I’d never been on the Thames before but I soon got to know its character: on a clear morning, a seal surfacing; at midday, shimmering and bright; dark beneath a sullen sky; at night, soft as a lullaby caressing me to sleep.

  I loved Peter’s boat: its separation from the rest of the city, and the berth I slept in above Polly. I grew to love Peter’s London as well. It was a world away from the streets of Lewisham I had walked with my mother, when she’d scanned the windows of newsagents looking for work and was careful of every penny we spent. Peter’s London was completely different.

  The best day of the whole summer holiday was when he took us to the Tate gallery, and in the evening a concert at Wembley. I remember it as a day he paid me particular attention by encouraging a trait he saw in me: sitting and staring, he called it; my habit of looking at pictures and people and dwelling on them.

  As I recall, we were walking through the Tate with Polly when a particular watercolour caught my eye. Peter and I looked at it together for almost half an hour. The painting reminded me of the canvas in his study at Graylings. It had the same windswept quality, the same bleakness. It was called Tench Pond in a Gale, a murky pond surrounded by trees. Beside it was another painting by the same artist, Paul Nash: another watercolour of trees, though lighter in mood and fresher in tone with splashes of pink and yellow among graceful greens and greys. But it was the darker picture that held my attention. Noticing that Peter liked it as well, I asked him how he could sit and stare at the canvas in his study for hours on end.

  He chuckled at my exaggeration and then he said: ‘It was a gift from my father, Ajuba. He was a Church of England clergyman. Whenever I look at the picture, I’m reminded of the man he wanted me to be. You see, he left me it in his will but he gave it to me before he died. It was my reward for getting into Oxford.’

  Polly, standing at the other side of him, asked: ‘Will you give it to Theo when he gets into Oxford? Like Gramps did with you?’

  ‘No, I want you to have it, kitten.’

  Incredulous, Polly gave Peter a shove. ‘Are you for real, Daddy?’

  ‘You’d better believe it!’

  ‘Really?’

  When he nodded, Polly draped an arm around his waist, while Peter, his hand on my shoulder, encouraged me to look at Tench Pond in a Gale from another angle.

  Sensing that the melancholy in the canvas was igniting something similar in me, I said: ‘But his pictures make you sad, Peter.’

  ‘Of course, little one. Sadness isn’t bad in itself. It’s how you deal with it that counts. It reminds me of the mistakes I’ve made. It takes me back to when I was a boy.’ He took a step closer to the picture in front of us, examining the brushstrokes carefully. I followed his example, curious to see what he could see.

  ‘I grew up in Cornwall, on Bodmin Moor. And whenever I see a Paul Nash, I’m back there again, walking my dog in the rain. It makes me feel clean, unspoilt by the intervention of time, even though time’s running out.’

  I tried to understand what he meant. Looking at the watercolour, I felt the sensation of a cold wind on my face. I heard the faint cry of birds in the sky, and for a moment I glimpsed the England that the Derbys loved: rugged, unadorned, an elemental landscape.

  When I had finished staring (Peter never rushed me; he moved at my pace, intrigued by what I saw) we wandered into the next room to see the paintings of a woman artist. She was a Polish exponent of Art Deco, Peter told us, an émigrée to France called Tamara de Lempicka who made a name for herself as a portrait painter. At the far end of the room was a canvas of a dark-haired woman, the Duchesse de la Salle, in jodhpurs and riding boots, a leg raised on a red staircase. Self-confident and powerful, her bearing reminded me of Miss Fielding. She seemed to be glaring at me, so I quickly turned away. Polly was transfixed by a self-portrait of the artist in a green Buggati. Beside it was a picture of the same blonde, or someone who looked like her, in a trailing blue scarf, and then another of a golden-haired sleeping child, her head cradled on an arm.

  The child was the image of Polly the first time she slept in my bed, when her skin had seemed translucent, and we became friends. The woman in the green car and the blonde in blue were both Isobel, glamorously self-possessed, with a glint of steel behind the apparent frankness of her eyes. Noticing the resemblance between the grown woman and the child, Polly, with an openness I’ve never enjoyed with my own father, confronted what was uppermost in her mind.

  ‘Do you like me, Daddy?’ she asked, taking Peter’s hand.

  ‘What a question! Of course I like you. You’re wonderful, kitten.’

  ‘Wonderful like Isobel’s wonderful?’

  ‘Polly, you’re nothing like your mother.’

  ‘Do you love me more than you love Isobel?’

  ‘I love you in a different way, kitten.’

  ‘Different enough so’s we can live together in London?’

  The intensity of her questions was beginning to make passers-by stare at us. I’m sure Peter would have liked us to move on but Polly, absorbed by the portraits, refused to leave the room. We sat down on a bench opposite, so we could talk and look at the
pictures at the same time. I think it was the bright lips of the woman in the painting, the tilt of her black beret above the seductively tied blue scarf, that reminded Polly of Isobel. The child beside her, fast asleep, was fragile as only a child can be.

  Peter looked from the portrait that could have been his wife to the one that resembled Polly. When he turned to her, he held her hand: ‘Sweetheart, I’d like you with me all the time, you know I would. Believe me, I’m working on it but –’

  She interrupted him with the full force of her personality. ‘It’s my choice,’ she said emphatically.

  ‘It’s what I want too,’ Peter reassured her, ‘but we’ve got to give your mother time.’

  ‘Why? I want to live with you now.’

  ‘I know you do, sweetheart. But let’s talk about this later.’ He was clearly embarrassed to be discussing custody of his daughter in a public place. But, much as I would refuse to be deflected from talking to my father when an opportunity arose, Polly’s need to pin Peter down overrode any sensitivity she might have felt about his unease.

  When? she asked. When would she be able to live with him again?

  While I gazed at the canvas of the sleeping child, drawn to the warm radiance of her skin, Peter held Polly’s hand. She laid her head on his arm as he explained why he had spent so much time in Paris. He was looking for another job. He was thinking of accepting an editorial post with the Herald Tribune. If his plans worked out, within a year or so he hoped that Polly would join him.

  Somehow, he managed to assuage Polly’s anxiety without realising that he was inflaming mine. I didn’t want to lose my friend. I didn’t want her to live abroad. With the consummate skill of a man adept with words, Peter persuaded Polly to see things his way. He explained that it would be easier for them to live together when Isobel was happier in herself; when she had settled down to a new life and found new interests.

  ‘But what if she doesn’t let up, Daddy? What if she doesn’t get any better?’

  ‘Believe me, kitten, she’ll get better. I know your mother. I’ve known her for twenty years.’

  Even though I loved them, the Venuses weren’t my family. Yet I didn’t want Polly to go and my affection for her overwhelmed any sense of propriety, compelling me to speak out. I believed that if I knew what the problem was, perhaps I could make it better. So in spite of myself I blurted out: ‘What has Isobel done wrong, Peter? Why do you have to leave her? Is it the menopause?’

  Unable to escape the boldness of my questions and our probing eyes, Peter sighed. Then, laughing at himself, he said: ‘Listen, both of you, Isobel’s done nothing wrong. The fault is mine. I’ve treated her abominably and I’m leaving. We simply can’t go on like this.’

  ‘But she wants you to stay,’ I insisted. ‘I know she does. She cries all the time because she wants you back. Doesn’t she, Polly?’

  Polly nodded half-heartedly.

  ‘I want you to understand,’ he said, a hint of impatience igniting his blue eyes, ‘that sometimes it’s better for people to live apart, making new lives for themselves. It’s time we moved on.’

  ‘Are you going to get a new wife?’ I demanded.

  Appreciating the power of two against one, Polly chimed in: ‘Are you going to live with Maria and her mom?’

  ‘Whatever gave you that idea, kitten?’

  ‘You mean, you’re through with them already?’

  ‘I made a mistake, OK?’

  Polly touched his cheek. ‘Hey, you needn’t be shy with me, Daddy.’ A grin spread over her face and she added, ‘I’m going to have to look after you, aren’t I, Daddy?’

  ‘No, you’re not; I’m going to look after you.’

  ‘Let’s both of us look after each other, OK? And we’ll look after Aj as well,’ Polly added, including me in their circle.

  ‘It’s a deal, Polly,’ Peter said. He kissed her hand as tenderly as a courtier would his lady. Polly appeared delighted. I imagine she believed that she finally had her father all to herself.

  That evening, Peter took us to Wembley Stadium for a Michael Jackson concert. It was then, I think, that I began to realise that, whether it involved people or paintings, the act of observing yet participating at the same time can be gratifying. While Michael, a hat on his head, a white spangled glove on his hand, moon-danced to ‘Billie Jean’, we leapt in the aisles, Polly and I, whooping with delight. And although he wasn’t Michael Jackson’s biggest fan, Peter demonstrated that our pleasure made the outing worthwhile. He got up and danced as well.

  On our return to the boat, he produced presents for us both: a pearl necklace for Polly, a silver bangle for me. Souvenirs, he said, of our splendid fortnight together. We were his girls, his favourite girls. But knowing that Polly was extra special, for a moment I was jealous. I wanted Peter to be my father, and the largest part of him I wanted for myself: an uncomfortable feeling to have, when Polly was supposed to be my best friend.

  The following morning, Polly found stains in her underpants and ran to tell her father that her period had started. He kissed her and hugged her and went out to buy sanitary towels for her, saying that now she was a woman she must pay particular attention to Isobel’s counsel. I desperately wanted to be a woman too. But most of all, as he petted her and made much of her, I wanted to be Polly.

  14

  WE DROVE BACK from London in the rain. Polly sat in the front beside Peter, touching his knee every now and again. The long, hot summer was coming to an end. On the journey I wondered what Isobel had been doing in our absence. Had she been able to think, as she wanted? Would she be pleased to have us back? I knew that Polly didn’t want to return to her mother; as the car sped down the motorway, little by little, the familiar mask of sullen indifference hardened over her face.

  Irrespective of biology and any affinity Peter believed she now shared with Isobel, Polly’s sympathy was with her father. She abhorred what was happening between her parents but she intended to brazen it out. Her reward would be to live with Peter. I knew it was what she wanted. She was still wearing the necklace, and she kept fingering the pearls, as though counting a rosary to calm her nerves.

  Unlike my friend, I wasn’t annoyed with Isobel. I felt there was something of my mother in her, and I associated maternal love with feeling needed. I believed I loved Isobel and that she loved me. When I was with her, my longing receded. Isobel’s unhappiness took me back to my mother. Their faces merged, they became one.

  As Peter turned into the drive, the rain drumming on the windscreen, the wipers beating back and forth, Graylings rose up dark and grotesque. There were no lights on, and for a moment I was seized with apprehension. What if, like my mother, Isobel had tried to hurt herself and, because I wasn’t by her side, no one had found her in time? I twisted the silver bangle around my wrist, trying to contain my unease and growing sense of guilt, until, one after the other, the lights came on in a blaze of welcome. She must have been asleep, waking up when she heard the car coming up the drive.

  Polly and I ran into the house, our heads covered by Peter’s raincoat. The noise of the storm excited us, and while Peter retrieved our suitcases from the car boot, we dried ourselves on his coat.

  Isobel was in the kitchen heating up soup. I sensed immediately that something fundamental had changed. She was no longer despondent. She was tense, expectant. She wouldn’t let me close to her. There was no kiss of welcome, no finger on my cheek. It was as though an invisible cord between us had been severed and she was drifting away, preoccupied with an implacable force that had taken root inside her.

  Dishing out our soup, she seemed pleased with herself, her mouth twitching in a grimace of a smile. She was watching and waiting in a cold silent place she had dug out for herself. But what was she waiting for?

  I heard a door slam. A moment later Peter strode into the room, his face tight with fury, and seeing Isobel’s cool, detached smile, I knew that she had done something bad.

  ‘Where is it?’ Peter shouted.
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br />   ‘What are you talking about?’ Her face gave her away. She knew exactly what he was after.

  ‘You know damn well what I’m talking about.’

  ‘Oh. That picture of yours?’ The smile spreading across her face left her eyes unscathed. They were cold. ‘Well, if you really want to know,’ she said folding her arms, ‘it’s with your books, your music, the Kenzo shirts, your Armani –’

  ‘What the fuck have you done, Isobel?’

  ‘Temper, temper. You should try to see it as therapy, Peter. Expensive and painful, but worth every penny. And I’m a new woman now.’ She spread her arms in a mockery of openness.

  ‘Tell me what you’ve done with it!’

  She laughed. ‘You said I should talk to someone, didn’t you? You said I should find myself a lawyer at the very least. “Find yourself a therapist,” you said. So I invited Guy Fawkes a little early this year.’

  ‘You didn’t!’

  ‘Yes, I jolly well did.’

  He lunged at her, incensed. ‘You bloody bitch!’

  ‘Don’t!’ I shouted. I couldn’t yet fathom what Isobel had done but the emotions she had ignited were terrifying. ‘Please don’t fight.’

  Polly ran to try to pull Peter off Isobel. He had an arm around her mother’s neck. ‘Daddy, stop it! Daddy! You said it’s people that matter. It’s people, not things.’

  Isobel kneed Peter in the groin and he doubled up in pain. I stumbled from the table, my face wet with tears. Then, seeing the raw hatred on Isobel’s face, her rage overwhelmed me, draining my body of strength; and the house, opening itself up to me, revealed what Isobel had done. How I managed to see beyond my tears I don’t know, but the memory the house foisted on my mind was searing in its intensity, hallucinatory in its power. I saw, but couldn’t speak. I was a witness, yet I couldn’t act. For what seemed an eternity, I was Isobel enraged.