The Daughter

by Jane Shemilt

  The snow has started again; time to go home. I look around, expecting Bertie to be just behind. He’s not there. I know he came down onto the beach from the lane. The surf is high and fierce. In a few moments the waves have become sinister—­where is he? I shout his name over and over, but my voice is whipped away by the wind. I run up the beach, half staggering on the shingle. He might have started up the path back home, and then I catch sight of him hidden behind a boat. He is lying down, shivering; a wave must have caught him. My arms strain to lift him. He is soaking and awkwardly struggles out of my clasp to stand with his tail wagging.

  “Stupid, stupid dog.” I lay my cheek against his silky wet head. “Don’t ever do that again.”

  BACK IN THE cottage, everyone is up. The fire is blazing. I breathe in the scent of coffee and dough while I rub Bertie dry with a towel. Sam is wearing my apron and there is a shiny waffle-­making machine on the table with a red bow on top.

  “Your present,” he says. “I wanted to give you a taste to go with it.”

  Golden crisp waffles are stacked on the plate. His smile is friendly. The edginess of our meeting yesterday has gone. I feel I am meeting him properly now.

  Ed comes in from the sitting room; he avoids looking at me. He’s probably glad I fell asleep so early; it meant there wasn’t an awkward suppertime and at least I’d cooked them a good meal. He picks up a waffle and eats it whole. He is thinner than I had realized.

  “When’s Dad back, then?” he asks.

  “He sent me a message yesterday. He’s not coming after all . . . he says he’s unable to make it. Flight problems, I expect.”

  “I knew it. I told you he was on holiday.”

  He sits down. Sam, stirring more waffle mixture, briefly touches Ed’s shoulder.

  “It’s that woman’s fault, isn’t it?” Ed stares at me.

  “What woman?” I look at him, puzzled. Is he blaming Ted’s secretary for canceled flights?

  “Oh for God’s sake, Mum. You don’t have to pretend for me. I know.”

  “Know what?”

  “About Beth, of course. They came to see me to say good-­bye just before they left for South Africa. I bet it’s her decision. She probably wanted to stay on. Do a safari or something.”

  Her name sounds so casual in Ed’s voice. Just once, Ted had said. He’d called it a lapse and I’d decided to believe him. The room is quiet. I sense Sam look at me quickly. I struggle to keep my face calm.

  “He’d rather be with her. Obviously,” Ed says briefly.

  “It may not be that.” I reach for the chair and sit down. “Perhaps he’s held up somewhere.”

  “Stop protecting him.” Ed shrugs. “I mean, who cares? Why does it matter, really?”

  He’s wrong. I’m not protecting Ted, I’m protecting myself. I look around the room. My mind reaches for its touchstones. The boys. Michael. Bertie. My paintings. The cottage. Mary and Dan. Theo comes in and gives me a kiss, then kisses Sam.

  “Don’t dare kiss me,” Ed says to his brother, covering his head with both hands.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to touch your louse-­ridden head.” Theo reaches over for a waffle. “These look brilliant.”

  “Dad’s not coming,” Ed tells him.

  “What?” Theo says indistinctly, his mouth full.

  “Enjoying himself in Africa, with his girlfriend.”

  “Girlfriend?” Theo stops eating. “What girlfriend?” He turns to look at me.

  “Mum’s cool with it,” Ed answers. “So who cares?”

  “And it does mean”—­Sam balances two more waffles on the pile—­“all the more waffles for us.” He laughs.

  Thank God for Sam. I love him in that minute. Theo sees me smile and smiles uncertainly; in the moment of silence Sophie appears, in a red and orange sweater. She looks toward me, checking how I am.

  “Happy Christmas,” she says.

  SAM LEADS THE way into the sitting room, where he stands in front of the roaring fire and opens one of the champagne bottles he brought; the cork hits the ceiling and frothing liquid spills over his sleeve as he tries to pour it into glasses. He gives the first glass to me.

  “For courage,” he says. His brown eyes are kind.

  I smile back at him then and raise my glass. “Courage.”

  “Yeah, Mum. You have to be brave to have us lot for Christmas,” Theo says.

  Brave? They are rescuing me. I look outside quickly. In the garden someone—­Theo? Sophie?—­has scattered crumbs along the top of the far wall. The birds are little downward-­tilted triangles feasting, fluttering up and down, jostling for places. A vivid image comes to mind. Our honeymoon. A tent in the Serengeti. Birds flying around us at mealtimes. Alighting on our table, fighting for crumbs. Ted holding me. We held each other all the time. Heat and sex and happiness. The smell of hot canvas. My skin prickles. They have been together for a year. Not a one-­off lapse, after all. They are celebrating in Africa.

  “Mum. We’re waiting to open our presents.”

  He never stopped seeing her; he lied again and again.

  “Ed, wait for Mum.”

  How stupidly trusting I’d been. The signs had been there but I had refused to see them, and, as I close my eyes briefly, it’s as though I am breathing in the faintest scent of lavender.

  “Look, Mum.”

  I open my eyes.

  Theo and Sam have brought in a huge flat parcel from their car, propping it against the wall. Theo fetches the scissors from the kitchen drawer and hands them to me, but he keeps a hand on the parcel.

  “On second thought, Mum, you may want to wait to open this.”

  “Wait? Not a chance.” I have to focus on what’s important right now. The lavender scent fades in the warm smell of the burning apple logs and the pine from the Christmas tree. This will be one of Theo’s photos of New York perhaps, or of Sam. Theo and Sam against the New York skyline.

  I start to cut the paper.

  “It’s Naomi, Mum.” Theo sounds tense.

  I pull the rest of the paper off.

  All the photos are of Naomi. There is a large one in the middle, taken by the school for West Side Story. She must have been pregnant then. Her skin is luminous. There are at least a hundred other photos of her, different shapes and sizes. I take in three-­year-­old Naomi piggyback with Ted, five years old with an uneven fringe that she had cut herself, at ten with braces, waving from the branches of our tree, at twelve with a hockey stick and Nikita, laughing.

  “Theo . . .” I can’t continue.

  “I’m sorry, Mum.” He looks stricken.

  Sam says in an undertone, “I warned you. Let’s take it away.”

  He stoops to lift the heavy frame.

  “Wait. It’s wonderful. Don’t take it away. Leave it here by the wall.” I point to the space. “I’ll hang it just by Grandpa’s chair. That way I’ll see it every day when I sit here. I’ll be able to take it in, bit by bit.”

  “I found all these pictures when I went to clear out the loft with Dad.” Theo looks happier now. “I’ve wanted to give them to you before but I thought it would be better to wait. I probably shouldn’t have given them to you yet.”

  “It’s a perfect present.”

  Ed puts more wood on the fire. Sam has insisted on cooking Christmas dinner. He brought corn bread from America and somewhere found cranberries and stuffing. Theo and Sophie vanish into the kitchen as well; they don’t allow me in.

  “We want you to rest.” Sophie smiles shyly and quietly shuts the door.

  Ed is lying by the fire, his head propped on an elbow, reading one of his new books. His body is relaxed, as if he has said what he needed to yesterday. I watch his eyes scanning back and forth. Maybe one day he will see that it wasn’t easy, and maybe that’s as much as I can hope for.

  There is
quiet knocking at the door. Ed gets up and goes into the hall. There is a little pause, then: “Hey. Your tree looks great. Want to see it?”

  “No . . . I . . . just wanted to say my gran says the wood has run out . . . could we borrow . . .”

  The kitchen door opens; from where I sit I see Sam come out and put a glass of champagne in Dan’s hand. His voice is welcoming: “You can’t visit at Christmas without coming in for a drink.”

  Dan comes in, slips his shoes off. He glances toward me, questioning. I smile and raise my glass. He is wearing his hoodie again and his jeans have slipped down on his hips. He looks cold, as if he’s been outside for a while.

  Dan disappears with Sam into the kitchen. In a while I see Theo in the garden loading the wheelbarrow with wood and then pushing it out through the side gate to the lane, for Mary. She’ll know Dan is escaping the family meal with his parents and she’ll make his excuses.

  There is almost no room in the kitchen. On the table holly and ivy strands weave between candles. Sophie has fed Bertie and he sits at her feet. Sam puts a steaming plate with crumbling slices of turkey, stuffing and gravy in front of Dan, who looks awkward.

  “I didn’t—­”

  Theo cuts in. “We’ve wanted to meet you. Mum told us how you used the branches of the old apple tree. I took some photos of my sister once, and the branches around her were like the ones Mum said you used for your wood sculptures.”

  Sister. My sister. I haven’t heard those words in months. They make it sound as though she is still here. Ed looks at me. One arm is around Sophie and he raises his glass. He looks at me. His eyes are guarded, but not like they were before.

  BRISTOL, 2009

  EIGHT DAYS AFTER

  Ed’s eyes frightened me.

  I had woken that morning into the realization that it had been a week and a day since Naomi had gone. Some momentum should have gathered. Instead everything seemed to have slowed down. I was simply waiting. Worse, I was pinned down, immobilized by fear.

  “Enough.” I said it out into the silence as I kicked the duvet off. “Enough.” Today would be different.

  Ted had gone to work already. Theo had left early too. He’d put a note on the table to say he’d gone to assemble the materials for his scholarship exam. He’d applied for a photography course at the New York Film Academy the following year; the scholarship could be decisive, but I’d forgotten it was today. Normally I’d have sent him off with a good breakfast. We would have discussed timing and techniques, and I would have said good luck. Guilt reached deeply inside; I was letting everything go. Ed came down as I was making coffee. He sat at the table and as I passed him I caught the stale smell again.

  “So, Friday,” I said as I tried to remember his routine. “Rowing practice?” Anya told me his sports clothes had been on his bathroom floor, soaking wet, for days.

  He put two hands against the table and pushed his chair out so hard and quickly that I had to sidestep. He looked at me as he got up and that was when I noticed the fury in his eyes.

  “I’m not a fucking child,” he said just before he shut the door.

  Anya came in quietly. She had brought a little pale pink cyclamen plant, put it in a pot on the table, and nodded to me. I knew it was supposed to cheer me up. For a moment my attention was caught by the creamy petals with their sharp-­edged frill. Flowers went with illness and death and graves, but these were pink, like the ones I had carried at my wedding.

  “Thank you, Anya, they’re lovely.”

  She smiled as she began clearing the table. Anyone else’s presence would have been an intrusion, but her careful movements were balm. Without her, the house would have descended into dirty chaos by now. Ed was suffering like we all were. It was worse for him; no matter how often we told him it wasn’t his fault, I knew he felt guilty.

  I found a white cardboard sheet wedged behind my desk; Theo had bought more than he needed for his woodland project. I wrote “Naomi” in the middle in blue felt-­tip and then drew a series of concentric circles of increasing size aound her name: the first for family, the second for school. I wrote Nikita’s name here and ticked it because she had been seen by the police. James, another tick. Teachers, Sally Andrews, Miss Wenham. Tick. Tick. Tick. What about other teachers? Mrs. Mears, the drama teacher who had resigned? I needed to ask Michael.

  I drew another larger circle around the circle for school, for ­people she saw often but not every day. Anya? Anya’s husband? I looked at Anya quietly sweeping the floor. She sensed me watching her and smiled. I put a question mark next to Anya’s husband, to remind me to check with Michael if he had been questioned by the police.

  Neighbors belonged in this circle too. Mrs. Moore opposite, Harold her son, that shadowy figure at the window. Michael must have checked him too, but I put a question mark against his name in case.

  What else? The play. Anyone who’d worked in the theater. Reception staff. Had Michael checked?

  There was a sudden exclamation of pain. The broom clattered to the floor.

  “You okay, Anya?”

  “I stub my toe. Your doctor’s bag. I don’t see it there—­new place.”

  “Sorry. Shove it back under the bench. Someone must’ve kicked it out by mistake.”

  Doctor’s bag. Work. Another circle. Colleagues and patients. If I were to go back, something might jog my memory. Frank had said to be off for the duration, but it already felt too long. I wanted to do something. Even making this chart was doing something.

  I showed the board to Michael when he called in, around midday. I wondered what it was like to come into this house and whether you could smell grief at the doorway. He took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves; his arms looked strong. Something about his calm face and the focus of his gray eyes made me think of a soldier before battle.

  He whistled in admiration. “That’s like a professional inquiry layout. What about all the question marks?”

  As I handed him a cup of coffee, I wanted to laugh. “The whole thing is a fucking question mark.”

  He bent closer over my chart. “Some questions have been answered, so we can cross them off right now. Like the school,” he said.

  “Mrs. Mears?”

  “Yes. Her alibi checked out. She had exemplary references and records. Like all the teachers in the whole school.”

  “What about all the other staff?”

  “Done. All the ancillary workers, gardeners, cleaners, cooks, and caretakers. The receptionist and bar staff at the school theater. They’ve all been questioned and their alibis checked.”

  He’d been busy. That was good, of course, but my heart sank; I had thought I was being useful, doing something that might get us closer to her. In reality I was trailing behind.

  “Okay. Then there’s my office,” I said. “Should we look there?”

  “We’ve interviewed your colleagues at work. They talked about Jeff Price as well, but he was in the hospital with Jade, like you said.”

  I lowered my voice. “Anya’s husband?”

  “Interviewed. Alibi checked. You gave us a lot of this information on the first night.”

  My optimism was leaking away. What had happened to my memory? All I could remember was asking the police to find her. Begging and crying.

  I looked at my notes again. “What about the neighbors?”

  “Finished yesterday, with Mrs. Moore,” he said.

  “What did Harold say?”

  “He wasn’t there.” Michael sipped his coffee. “She told me not to bother going back. Apparently he can’t communicate well.”

  “He never goes out and I’m sure he can communicate. She’s protecting him.” I pictured the small woman, her back to the closed door of the room where she had hidden her son. I leaned forward urgently: “He’s always looking out of the window; he might have seen something.”

  �
��Then we need to see if he can tell us anything.” Michael stood. “Do you want to come?” he asked. “It could be useful, but if I need to question him in depth, you may have to leave.”

  I took several copies of Naomi’s photograph off the pile stacked next to my computer. As we crossed the road Michael paused and walked to the white van parked close to our house. Opening the door, he raised his voice, though I couldn’t make out the words. He needn’t have bothered. I didn’t mind about the journalists; they hardly figured in the roaring terror that filled every moment. Ted hated them.

  Mrs. Moore answered the door after a few minutes. She was wearing an apron tied tightly around her waist. Her face hardened when she saw both of us.

  “Said my bit already.” She nodded accusingly at Michael. “Told him yesterday.”

  “And Harold?” I tried to speak gently. “He could be helpful, Mrs. Moore. He watches out of the window, you can easily see the theater from here.”

  “He’s having his dinner.”

  “If we could just have a word,” Michael said quietly. “It needn’t take long.”

  Inside the dark hall there was a mirror glinting in the gloom. Mrs. Moore led us into a large, immaculately tidy kitchen.

  Harold wasn’t eating, he was drawing. A plate with a half-­eaten sandwich was pushed aside. He was wearing a striped short-­sleeved shirt, tightly stretched over his curved back; his bare arms were plump and scattered with moles. He was breathing heavily, his tongue protruding as he worked. A box of crayons was tipped on the table, next to a stack of drawings. They were all smudged with blue wax. Michael picked up a drawing and Harold snatched it back.

  I knelt by Harold’s chair and showed him the photocopied picture.

  “This is a picture of Naomi, Harold. You know Naomi.”

  Close up his face was completely smooth, no smile or frown lines.

  “Gone,” he said.

  “Ah.” Michael turned to Mrs. Moore.

  “He knows that from the TV,” she said grimly. “And he heard you talking yesterday. I didn’t want him involved. I told him to stay quiet in the other room when you came last time. He doesn’t know anything.”