by John Tagholm
‘What do you think happened to Flotsam?’
‘That’s the fascination, isn’t it? It’s my job to give these bones the life they once had. Not easy when there’s a thousand years between us.’
Beatrice smiled, for wearing a different cap, she would have pounced on this man’s statement as the beginning of a film about the dead of the Thames, or some such title, but now she could just listen and put that part of her to one side. She watched him pick something else from amongst the debris and place it in a plastic bag. Perhaps he was aware that she was looking at him because he turned towards her and then stood.
‘Getting to know Flotsam won’t be easy, but we’ll try.’ Out of the diffused white light of his laboratory, Dr Harold Wesley had more colour in his face.
‘I hope I can help.’
‘Well, I’ve found one or two more bone fragments, but so many animals have been dumped in the river over the years it’s hard to tell what you’ve got until you get them back to the lab.’
‘What are you working on now?’ He had returned to not looking at her.
She pondered her reply. ‘Have you heard of Joseph Troumeg?’
‘Sure, the food fellow. What’s he done?’
‘I thought I would make a programme about him.’
‘You don’t sound too convinced.’
Was she surprised that she’d conveyed her doubts so clearly? ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I’m still at the research stage, but I have a hunch he might be interesting.’
‘We’re in the same line of business, then. Examining other people’s lives.’
At this point she almost admitted that some of those people might say she should look at her own life, but she gauged this might be too familiar.
‘I’ve been told that I’m more interested in the dead than I am with living,’ he said and she heard him chuckle. ‘Could be right.’
‘I know what you mean,’ she said, and then corrected herself. ‘I don’t mean about you, but I sometimes wonder if it isn’t easier to delve into other people’s lives than it is into your own.’
She had come to the conclusion by now that although Harold Wesley appeared not to listening, he usually was and that, sooner or later, he would respond. In this case, it was later.
‘Look at this,’ he said and she leaned forward to see what he was holding. ‘It’s a flint spear, or at least it was attached to the end of spear and bound in place. It’s survived better than the iron and bronze versions.’ He handed the knapped flint to her and she felt the edges, still sharp after all these years. ‘And do you think they’re right, these people who tell us we should examine ourselves a bit more?’
‘Not always.’ She waited. ‘But sometimes.’
He took out a camera and photographed the grid that he’d created and then in a notebook quickly sketched the squares, marking those in which he had found the different objects.
‘It’s the routines that are so comforting, don’t you find? But I suppose that’s the same with all jobs.’
She wasn’t sure exactly what he meant, but she attempted to reply in kind. ‘When I’m directing, on location, or in the gallery, I’m wearing blinkers so it’s easy not to think about anything else.’
‘My point exactly.’
They were the only people on the foreshore, at the blunt end of a great meander which brought the river almost back on itself. At the top of the loop the huge docks had been built to join both sides of the Thames. She thought again of Flotsam, the life of a girl on these very banks, whose story they were now in the process of piecing together.
‘I wonder if Flotsam saw life in the same way that we do?’
‘Why not. If she’s as old as we think she is, then she may have been lucky and been born a high ranking female. You’d be surprised how advanced the Anglo-Saxons were. Women’s liberation wasn’t just the product of the late twentieth century, you know.’
She didn’t know and rather like her preconceptions of what an osteoarchaeologist might look and act like, her imagined view of Flotsam was somewhat wilder than a description which would include the words “high ranking”.
‘What I meant was, did she have the same idea of self that we do? Did Flotsam ever examine herself like we’re being told to do all the time?’
‘I doubt it. Probably too busy staying alive. But then I’m only an expert on ancient bones.’
He wanted to take more photographs from the bank and while he did so Beatrice tried Troumeg’s number again but without luck.
‘Who were you phoning?’
‘I was trying the apartment of the elusive Joseph Troumeg in Paris. I need to go and see him.’
‘My parents once went to his place in Mayfair. I don’t think he’s got it anymore. What’s he doing now?’
‘He wants me to make a series about his life in food.’
‘But you don’t?’
‘Not really. I don’t have the patience for that sort of film making.’
‘Which is what?’
‘Troumeg showing people how to make fancy dishes is a different prospect to a documentary about his life.’
‘Do you look down on food programmes?’
‘No. They’re hard to make, but it’s not what interests me.’
‘Well, it seems you have to catch your main ingredient first.’ And he chuckled again and Beatrice found herself joining in.
‘From what I’ve read of him he would be a dorade royale.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s a type of sea bream with a rather distinguished nose.’
‘And does he have a distinguished nose?’
‘Not exactly, but he is rather pleased with himself and he cooked me sea bream once and told me about the different varieties.’
‘I thought there was only one.’
‘Me, too, which is probably why I’m not going to make a food series.’
‘Will you have to go to Paris?’
‘I’ll certainly have to go to France. He was brought up there and I want to find out whether what he says about his childhood is true.’
Harold Wesley looked at her now. ‘Do you have reason to doubt his version?’
‘I suppose I do a bit.’
‘How come?’
‘It’s all too neat.’
‘Isn’t that what happens to everyone’s backgrounds the older they get, especially if they’re well known?’
‘I know, I know. It’s just a hunch I have.’
‘Useful, hunches. I rely on them.’
‘Really?’
‘With so little information available to us we have to make some deductive leaps, the sort of thing that the most sophisticated equipment can’t do.’
Beatrice realised that in the months that she had known Joshua she had never had a conversation like this. ‘Well, let’s hope we’re both lucky with our deductive leaps.’
‘By the way, most people call me Harry. Are you always Beatrice?’
‘Some people call me Beatrice. My mother always does, in the way that mother’s have. I hate Triss, which I’m afraid I get a bit. What do you think?’
‘What about Beattie?’
‘I don’t mind that.’
‘Well, Beattie it is then. You look like one.’
‘I shall take that as a compliment, shall I?’
But Dr Harold Wesley was already pulling out his steel needles and packing his kit, his back to her again and the river had turned and would soon wash over the ground he had so painstakingly searched. And so it goes, she thought, the washing in and the washing out, the sifting of evidence, the revealing and the burying, history moving further away with every tide, every new encounter.
‘Thank you,’ she said as they walked away from the river. ‘I enjoyed that very much.’
‘Me, too, Beattie, me too.’
CHAPTER TEN
She begins to bleed under what is now Cannon Street railway bridge, close to where platform two will one day end, at a point where she thinks her f
ather might have come to rest. Perhaps she had willed it to happen here so that her father could share this important moment. Almost from the first morning after his death she had felt different, a series of new sensations in her body and this sign seems to be the result. She is bleeding for her father, just as he had bled for her. Her mother had told her it would happen, had taken her into her arms to explain that it was nothing to fear but to celebrate. It meant that she had moved from being a child to a woman and if and when she wanted, she could have children. Her mother had described how this happened, gently taking her to the next stage in her life. The blood on her legs confirms this and she wipes it away with tufts of grass. In the centre of the river a blackened log with two broken and bare branches floats slowly by and she narrows her eyes and imagines it is her father acknowledging this rite of passage. She raises her hand and waves in return and thinks it might be the last childish gesture she will ever make. Her stomach aches and she hugs her knees close to her body for warmth and watches the log until it disappears from view.
On her return she doesn’t enter the house, but hesitates and watches her mother at work from the entrance. Leaning over her bench, deeply absorbed in what she is doing, she at first fails to register her standing there. When she does look up, she knows that her mother recognises what has happened. She sits her down and goes to fetch a cloth which she tells her to wear until the bleeding stops and then, kissing her forehead, tells her to wait for she has something special for her. Once more she returns with a cloth, but this one is gold, folded and tied with crimson thread. The glow from the material seems to light up the mother’s face and she senses this glow is transferred to her when she is handed the bundle. For these seconds reality is suspended as she slowly opens the cloth thinking this alone was the most beautiful of presents. When she comes to the brooch she hardly dares touch what she has revealed. Slowly her hand moves forward until the tip of her forefinger rests on the deep ruby stone. She feels its smoothness and marvels at the depth of its colour. Cautiously she picks up the brooch and holds it carefully to her chest and looks up to her mother, who nods her approval. It affirms all that her mother has told her, that she is important, that she is the equal of any man and that she would inherit all that belongs to the family. When she pins the brooch to the rough cloth of her tunic, its power and beauty seem to flow into her and although she wishes her father was by her side, she can feel their final embrace on the bridge. Tears form in the corners of her mother’s eyes and now it is her turn to become the comforter.
That night she dreams she is running down the hill towards the river, so light that each of her strides takes her a great distance and brings her to the water in no time at all. The bridge is empty and she stands alone at the centre, at the point where she had last seen her father. She runs her fingers over the stone before unclipping it and holding it in the palm of her hand. She then kisses it before tipping it down into the water.
She wakes sweating and feels under her bed for the gold cloth. Her head sinks back in relief when she sees the brooch is still there, the polished red at the centre reflecting the outline of her face.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Beatrice awoke from a deep sleep to find herself in the armchair by the telephone. The light told her it was late afternoon and her watch confirmed that it was shortly after five. She had returned home from her meeting by the Thames with the intention of phoning Troumeg’s apartment yet again, but she could neither remember sitting in the chair nor whether she had made the call. She tried the number once more, but without success and sank back in frustration, the setting sun reflecting in a window on the other side of the road. She stared at the rectangle of orange light, deepening in intensity until it slipped away and was absorbed into the London brick of the market building, the shadows darkening all the time.
She then made a series of calls to the list of friends and acquaintances of Joseph Troumeg that she had accumulated two years ago asking if any could help track him down. Some of them knew of the Paris apartment and nearly all confirmed that this was not the first time the man had evaporated before their very eyes. Why not just go to Paris and hope for the best, she asked herself? If he couldn’t be found, then she could enjoy a long weekend. Because, she answered, he might also be in New York, or San Francisco, or simply not answering the phone in Deal.
She picked up her mobile and scrolled through her contacts until she came to Ben Tynan, a predecessor to Joshua and a relationship which had suffered the same fate. She had once worked with him at The Digital Corporation where he was a producer specialising in investigative programmes, many of them to do with cyber security and internet fraud. He had left to form Scope, a firm offering advice to companies and individuals who feared hacking and the electronic theft of valuable data. He was the company’s owner, executive director and only member of staff.
‘And what brings you back into my jungle?’ Ben’s response to hearing her voice was flat and cautious to the point of hostility. ‘What do you want?’
At this point, not ten seconds into the call, Beatrice realised it had probably been a mistake.
‘C’mon Beatrice, you didn’t call to see how I am,’ he said, breaking the silence. ‘Which is fine, by the way, since you ask.’
She had no option but to respond. ‘Yes, I wanted some advice, but I see now that I shouldn’t have called.’
‘Same old, same old. Better get it off your chest, then.’
‘Do you know an easy way of finding out if someone has recently left the country and not yet returned?’
‘You’re aware of my day rates, I think?’
She waited. They had seen each other for several intense months but it had been clear to Beatrice early on that this was a relationship doomed to failure, entered into in all good faith but floundering for the usual reasons in a familiar routine. He was good looking, clever and, for a man, reasonably astute but it had been unwise for her to exploit him by getting back in touch.
‘Well, I’m glad to hear just a little embarrassment in your silence. What’s the name?’
‘Troumeg. Joseph. I think he’s in France but lives most of the time in London and Deal.’
‘And you’re making a programme about him.’
‘I might.’
‘Poor him. When might he have left?’
‘Probably not long ago, this year say. I can’t be certain.’
‘Unlike you, Beatrice. I’ll get back to you. This number?’
Did she feel any shame at exploiting this man whom she had hurt when she abruptly ended their relationship? Beatrice Palmenter had to admit that she didn’t but her decision to call him, clearly motivated by self interest, did puzzle her. Was she really that blatant? It was part of a pattern, though, which contrasted sharply with the conduct of her professional life which was increasingly successful and more controlled, as if one was in direct proportion to the other. She had cleared the decks again, banishing Joshua to the same graveyard as Ben and she was free to pursue her next project about which her thinking was clear and methodical. Within a few minutes of having spoken to Ben she had banished the memory of his tone of voice to continue the pursuit of her subject.
According to the family history as recounted by Joseph Troumeg, his mother met his father in Paris a few years before the war and Beatrice assumed they were both living in the capital at the time. If she could confirm this then it would further justify a journey to Paris. She scoured the information she had in her possession and went on-line in an attempt to find evidence of where exactly his parents might have been living when they met. She gathered from the official state web site that records of birth, death and marriage remain confidential for a hundred years unless a birth certificate can be produced showing a direct line of descent. She was sure that Ben could find a way around this but knew she couldn’t phone him and set this task as well as the other. Well, for the moment at least.
She found in an early interview in the Daily Telegraph that Troumeg’s mother’s name w
as Odile Leval and his description of her was typical. “Odile,” he said in the piece, “was ideal. The perfect mother, at least to me. I remember her watering my red wine at dinner at a very early age. She always treated me as a grown up.” Beatrice could only assume that Odile had married – here she checked the article again – at some point either before or after she had become pregnant with Joseph.
Ben Tynan phoned back ten minutes later. ‘According to passport records, Joseph Troumeg left London two months ago on Eurostar. It appears he has not returned. And no, I can’t tell you if he was going to Paris, or Lille or, indeed, any other part of France or Europe.’
And he was gone, his anger confirmed by the abrupt arrival of the dialling tone. This was no more than she deserved and yet she felt irritated for it meant that it would be more difficult to ask him for further help. The mild discomfort she experienced at her contradictory behaviour she pushed to one side.
She returned to the map of Paris and assumed that Joseph Troumeg, a man prone to disappearing at a moment’s notice without telling his friends, was somewhere to be found in this random gathering of streets. She phoned the apartment one more time without success before booking a Eurostar ticket for the following morning. She found a hotel not far from the canal, a reasonably short walk from the Gard du Nord. She located the Mairie for the 19th arrondissement, where she imagined a futile attempt to discover more of the family background of Joseph Troumeg against the united ranks of French bureaucracy, before printing out a map of the district in order to orientate herself. She returned to the scraps of information scattered about her room and saved on her computer, the abundant, well worn threads of Joseph Troumeg’s life. She realised she was beginning to stake out her ground in the same way that Dr Harold Wesley divided the foreshore of the Thames, placing a contrived pattern over random pieces of information in order to bring about a semblance of order. She thought of the expert alone with his bones in his meticulously clean laboratory under the white lights attempting to confirm some facts about a life a thousand years older than that of Joseph Troumeg and infinitely more difficult to access. There was a momentary regret that she would be away from his investigations while she conducted her own and she pondered phoning him for a progress report. That she didn’t might have had something to do with the result of her call to Ben, the thought of spoiling a relationship, although she didn’t consciously register this until later when she was packing a small bag for her journey.