Chapter Nineteen
Spring 1995
In her last year at school, Anna spent hours in the art rooms. She liked the quiet concentration, the smell of dust and acrylic paint, the sense of working for something other than exams. In addition to double periods twice each week, she was drawn there at odd times when she had a free lesson, to work on her project, browse through art books or stare out of the window. It didn’t feel quite like school, somehow, up there on the top floor where two rooms took up the whole of what had once been an attic. High windows were set into the eaves, and beams running across were used to hang mobiles or textile work. The art department was the domain of Mr Greaves and his younger colleague, Alys Hardcastle. Mr Greaves – Jim, to the sixth form – was a painter first, teacher second, and it was no secret that he preferred his A-Level groups to the raucous younger classes with their wide extremes of talent and ineptitude, compliance and bolshiness. Five years ago he had taught Rose; he was one of the few teachers Rose and Anna had in common. Rose liked him, mainly because he didn’t so much teach as guide, encourage and understand.
It was seeing Rose’s A-Level exhibition that had made Anna in turn choose art. Unlike Rose, she didn’t have any particular ambition, even though the department was very successful with its sixth form in particular.
For her special study, Rose had chosen two Viennese painters, Gustav Klimt and Egon Schiele. She filled notebooks with sketches and designs, commentaries and interpretations: her books were beautiful in their own right. She made fabric collages in homage to Klimt, using machine and hand embroidery; her drawings from life class imitated those of Schiele: graceless, graceful, knowing, with sinewy bodies, expressive hands, and eyes sometimes blank and sometimes boldly challenging.
Rose’s other project was all about mirrors. She painted a new and more complex version of her own portrait, endlessly refracted. She surrounded an oval mirror with a huge question mark, so that the viewer saw his or her own image framed and interrogated. She made collages from mirrors she bought in charity shops and smashed into splinters; the face of the onlooker was reduced to fragments and glimpses. In her own version of a Magritte painting, The Son of Man, in which a man looking into a mirror sees his own back view instead of a reflection, she substituted herself, seen as a smooth sweep of dark hair. In the series that grew from this, the girl saw herself reflected as a baby, a mask, a blank, a skull, a wizened old woman, a grimacing gargoyle. In one there was no reflection at all, only a calm, featureless sea with a strip of light at the horizon that was almost blinding. She titled the project Selves; it was specially commended by the examiners, who praised its boldness and innovation.
Five years later, when Anna’s turn came, she chose Charles Rennie Mackintosh, led perhaps by Rose’s interest in the early twentieth century and Art Nouveau. She knew she wasn’t stretching herself as she produced notebooks lovingly lettered in the distinctive Mackintosh style, copied chairs from the Willow Tea Rooms, drew furniture designs of her own. It was beautiful and stylish, but remote from her. ‘Why did you choose this?’ Jim Greaves asked her; she said something about liking the linearity, the cleanness, and how startlingly modern the Mackintosh designs must have looked in their own time. More of herself went into her other project, in mixed media, which she called Missing. Mr Greaves never said a word to her about Rose; she knew he didn’t need to. She made collages of torn paper, cut paper, showing fragments of possessions: an address book, a mascara wand, a key, a handwritten note, layering and layering them. She made a lino-cut of a single footprint and formed patterns with it, overlapping, heading off the edge of the paper. She took photographs, asking friends to pose; she did a whole series of paintings, back views of teenage girls walking or running away, full of details suggestive of railway stations, motorway services, lay-bys, ferry terminals. She made a mosaic of tiny faces, with the letters of the word MISSING placed randomly among them; another collage was made from bus and train tickets.
Her favourite was a painting she called Shore, on a tall, narrow piece of Daler board that emphasized its long perspective. A low tide lapped at the left-hand edge; footprints, sharply delineated in the foreground, walked along wet sand above the tideline; far in the distance the person leaving the prints was a tiny, undistinguishable figure, grey in the haze of a sea-mist. Jim Greaves preferred the pastel drawing of Rose’s bedroom, empty of its occupant, waiting; it reminded him of Mary Cassat, he said. He liked the composition, the fall of light, the purples and greens smudged into the shadows.
Anna threw herself into this work at the expense of her other subjects. It was better than talking, better than explaining. There was no direct reference to Rose in either words or images. In her commentary, she wrote only in general terms. People go missing. People are missed.
After the examiners came, there was a Friday evening viewing for the students’ families and friends, with wine and canapés, before the exhibition opened to the rest of the school. Anna didn’t invite her parents, and her mother was reproachful and hurt when she read about it in the local paper.
Anna’s mobile rang late in the evening, past eleven. She was getting ready for bed, deciding what to wear for work tomorrow.
‘It’s Michael. Michael Sullivan.’
‘Yes?’ She clutched the phone, and the room revolved around her.
‘Look, there are things I can tell you.’ He seemed to be speaking in a deliberately low voice, as if someone else were present, someone he didn’t want to overhear. ‘But – can we meet? I can’t do it on the phone. Are you still in Sevenoaks?’
‘No, in Essex. But I work in London.’
‘Is there any chance you could come down to Plymouth?’
‘I could get the train,’ Anna said, wondering why she was agreeing; but yes, of course she’d go. She would do whatever he said, go anywhere, for one morsel of information.
‘Is Saturday any good?’
‘Yes, I’ll come. I’ll look up trains.’
‘Send me a text message, and I’ll meet you at the station.’
‘OK. I’ll do that.’
Michael gave her his mobile phone number; then he added, ‘You might want to bring an overnight bag. It’s a long way.’
When she rang off her heart was racing; she felt dizzy. What did he have to tell her that couldn’t be told over the phone? And the overnight bag? It was possible to get to Plymouth and back in a day, surely. His suggestion sounded dubious, as if he planned to lure her off somewhere. But, in a face-to-face meeting, she could press him, look for clues in his expressions and body language. Whatever he planned to tell her, she would find out more, and more. She plugged in her laptop and looked up trains, finding one that would get her to Plymouth for half-past twelve.
It was no use trying to sleep. She tried, gave up, went down to the cold kitchen and made herself coffee. Saturday was an interminable distance away. It was a screen, a curtain that would soon be swept aside. When she got to the other side, she would have something to fill the twenty-year void. More practically and immediately, she would have to convey this change of plan to Ruth, who was expecting to spend Saturday wallpapering her mother’s bedroom, with Anna as assistant.
She phoned from the office next morning. ‘Ruth, I’m really sorry but I won’t be able to make Saturday after all.’
‘What, are you working again?’
‘No, but I’ve said I’ll meet someone.’ It sounded feeble, a fobbing-off; and, after all, she’d agreed to do the decorating as part of their arrangement.
‘Oh.’ Ruth sounded put out now.
‘Look, I know Sunday’s no good for you, but I’ll get on with the wallpapering then, OK?’
‘Have you done it before?’
‘Er, no.’
‘Well, it’s not that easy when you start, especially on your own. I’d rather you didn’t. It’ll have to wait.’
‘I really am sorry—’
‘It’s a man you’re meeting, isn’t it?’ Ruth broke in.
Anna hesitated. ‘Yes. An – old acquaintance.’ She was reluctant to explain; it might turn out to be nothing more than another disappointment, another dead end. She was about to say, ‘It’s not what you think,’ but Ruth spoke first.
‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Anna.’
Yes, Anna thought; me too. But she had to do this, and there was no one she could tell: not Ruth, not Bethan, certainly not Martin or her parents.
On Thursday, in her lunch break, Anna went to the flat to collect a pair of old boots she wanted for walking in the fields, and a few other items of clothing. Letting herself in, she heard a voice, a female voice laughing; she froze in the doorway, her key still in the lock, her instinct to back off quickly, but Martin had already seen her and was rising from the armchair. A sleek blonde woman sat on the sofa.
‘Anna? I wasn’t expecting you.’ He came towards her, holding her gaze; she moved aside so that the armchair was between them.
‘No, well. It’s only a flying visit.’ Her voice came out a little hysterically. This was the stuff of cliché, wasn’t it, of soap opera – walking in on Martin with another woman? She could only think that it hadn’t taken him long.
Martin made an awkward gesture. ‘Er … you haven’t met Lenka, have you? Lenka, Anna.’
The woman stood, smiling, extending a hand to Anna. ‘Anna, hello. We’ve spoken on the phone, I think.’ She spoke charmingly, with a Russian or Polish accent which, yes, Anna remembered hearing before. Lenka had left messages for Martin or asked for him to call her back; she was a financial analyst, whatever that meant. Her hand was cool, her grasp firm and assured.
‘We’re having a quick catch-up before a meeting at the Barbican this afternoon.’ Martin indicated the coffee table strewn with papers, his laptop open. Lenka’s dark jacket was over the back of the sofa; she was slim, almost skinny, dressed in a tailored white blouse tucked into a charcoal skirt, hair swept smoothly back into a comb. She was about Anna’s age, and the kind of impeccably groomed woman who made her feel gauche.
‘Right. Well, I won’t get in your way.’ Anna went through to the bedroom, and found her old boots in the back of the wardrobe. She couldn’t imagine Lenka wearing clumpy boots; sheer tights and high-heeled court shoes were more her style. Unable to remember what else she’d come for, Anna grabbed, at random, two sweaters, underwear and several pairs of socks, which she stowed in the holdall she’d brought for the purpose.
Martin was trying to pretend this was normal. ‘What are you doing for lunch, Anna? We’ve just grabbed a sandwich. Can I get you something – coffee, fruit juice?’ He stood in the bedroom doorway, and she noticed that he was wearing the indigo tie she particularly liked, one they’d chosen together on a short break in Florence. But she didn’t want to look at him.
Lenka was putting her papers in order, slipping a folder into her briefcase.
‘Thanks, no, I’m in a hurry. See you later. Nice to meet you, Lenka.’
Three lies.
Martin followed her out of the door and into the communal hallway; he turned her to face him, hands on her shoulders. ‘Anna! When are you coming back? I need to know.’
She twisted herself away. ‘I don’t know. Does it matter?’
‘Course it bloody matters!’
‘I’ll ring you some time. When you’re not so busy.’ She flicked her eyes in the direction of the open door.
‘For God’s sake! Don’t be stupid—’
But she was already halfway down the stairs; she heard him go back in, the door closing behind him. Heading down Hatton Garden, she wondered what he’d tell Lenka; then she remembered, too late, that she’d intended to collect her favourite earrings, silver and jet, a present from Martin last birthday. She hesitated, feeling the loss of them, then walked on. She couldn’t go back now without losing face.
Chapter Twenty
Sandy, 1967
Although Sandy feared that she would swell like a balloon, her pregnancy did not show until well into the summer, and even then she could conceal the bulge under a loose sweater or tunic. For the last two weeks before she went to Bridge House, she and her mother went to stay with widowed Aunt Vera in Paignton. The pregnancy was never referred to, though Aunt Vera – her mother’s sister – must have known. Sometimes Sandy caught her mother and aunt talking together in hushed voices, looking up at her with bright fake smiles as she entered the room.
At the beginning of November her mother took her to a red-brick Victorian building in Maidstone. It had a bleak, institutional look, though nothing outside announced that Bridge House was a home for unmarried mothers. Sandy had resigned herself to this, almost welcomed it, as a way of shutting herself away from everyone’s disapproval. But as she got out of the taxi in the forecourt, she was filled with dread, thinking of the workhouse in Far from the Madding Crowd, Fanny Robin’s last hope. How would she get through this? Could she switch off her mind, simply endure from day to day until her sentence was served?
The matron, a woman in her forties called Mrs Pickard, was less formidable than Sandy had expected. Over a cup of tea in her office, she told them that the girls could have visitors on Saturday or Sunday afternoons.
‘That’ll be nice, won’t it?’ Sandy’s mother said, in the crisply cheerful voice she was adopting for the occasion. She would come alone for visits, Sandy knew. Dad had refused to bring her, even though, as Mum didn’t drive, it had meant coming by train and taxi. His farewell to Sandy had been stiff and awkward; he’d see her in a few months, he said. At the last moment he had given her a kiss, the first for weeks; she felt the tremble in the hand that gripped her arm before he hurried indoors, closing the door behind him.
‘Don’t fret, darling,’ Mum had said, on the train. ‘Things will eventually get back to normal. He’s finding this very difficult.’
Mrs Pickard showed the way to the bedroom Sandy would share with two other girls, and the bathroom nearby. There were two drawers and a narrow wardrobe; a single shelf held two books and a stack of magazines. Sandy saw her mother’s face registering the sparseness, her smile wavering slightly.
‘I’ll be all right.’ Sandy wanted her gone.
‘You can phone home, dear, whenever you want,’ said Mrs Pickard. ‘There’s a public telephone in the hallway.’
So far Sandy had seen only two other girls, both heavily pregnant, coming out of what appeared to be a kitchen, each carrying a plate with a slice of cake on it. They looked at her with curious, hesitant smiles; Mrs Pickard introduced them as Tracy and Maggie. ‘Most of the other girls are out at the moment. This is the time when they can go for a walk or to the shops.’
When her mother had left, Sandy unpacked her clothes in the bedroom and looked out at the autumn garden, hating the feeling of being new, and the lack of privacy – where would she find solitude? She had never shared a bedroom before, only occasionally when she’d had a friend to stay. But alongside her qualms there was a feeling of relief: here, no one would judge her. Everyone was in the same situation. They’re only girls like me, Sandy realized, girls who’ve been silly or unlucky. Not the tarts and streetwalkers Dad said would live in a place like this.
There were sixteen residents of Bridge House, five of whom already had babies. One girl, who was keeping her baby son, left the home after a week of learning how to care for him. Most of the babies would be adopted at six weeks.
Sandy tried to avoid the babies. A year ago she would have thought they were sweet, but now they frightened her with their demands, their flailing hands, their messes and smells, their pink mouths that opened to wail in inconsolable distress. She didn’t want to think of the thing inside her as a potential human being. Her parents had stipulated to the matron that the baby must be taken away at birth; they thought it best, and when the case worker asked if Sandy agreed, she said that she did. A girl in the next bedroom could be heard weeping over the imminent parting with her baby, making Sandy glad of her decision. Why put herself through such a prolonged ordeal, if i
t could be done swiftly?
‘It’s final, that’s what it is,’ said Tracy, whose own baby was due in a fortnight. ‘Once you sign the consent form, that’s it. You can’t change your mind. You’ll never see your baby again. Ever.’
The inmates spent most of each morning doing jobs around the house: cleaning, helping in the kitchen, or working in the laundry. ‘Slave labour,’ some of the girls complained, but the work was not demanding, and it passed the time. Exercise classes took place before lunch, which was the main meal of the day. Afternoons and evenings were mainly free, and the girls made their own tea in the kitchen. It was like another kind of school: the friendships and rivalries, the squabbles when one girl used another’s make-up or was thought to do less than her share of kitchen chores. Sandy fitted into the daily routines. On winter afternoons, the curtains drawn against the early dark, the sitting room softened by a pool of light from a standard lamp and the glowing bars of an electric fire, Sandy felt that this would last for ever, her own life held in waiting for the emergence of the other she was carrying. For all the petty jealousies, the lack of privacy and the sparse surroundings, she felt safe here, where pregnancy was the norm, and all the girls shared the same doubts and fears.
In twice-weekly craft sessions they made ‘bounty boxes’ – shoe boxes covered in collage, lined with paper and filled with small toys and gifts. These boxes went with the babies to their adoptive parents. Sandy learned basic knitting, and sewed plain-and-purl squares together to make a patchwork blanket which could be used on a cot. Following a battered pattern book she made a duckling from yellow felt and stuffed it with kapok; she sewed on an orange beak and flipper-like feet, and embroidered black eyes with lashes. When the toy was finished she felt an unexpected pride in it; almost, she thought, she’d be sorrier to part with this duckling than with the baby. She made a collage to cover her shoe box, collecting pictures of flowers and animals from magazines and postcards. Then, when the box was finished and its contents packed inside, she took no further interest.
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