An image crossed my mind of Greg, a few years from now, laying on my dad’s physiotherapy couch. It was not a pleasant thought.
‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Mowbray, but I’m certain I didn’t say anything to upset your son. In fact, as I recall, I said very little. He came round to tell me how much he’d cared for my friend Zara. Perhaps talking about it all stirred up the memories?’
‘That girl has been nothing but trouble since the start.’
‘Really? In what way?’
‘He’s easily upset is Owen. First she gets him all riled up with protests and what not and then she says she doesn’t want to be his girlfriend. He was in pieces, you know. I didn’t think he’d ever get over it. I won’t have her name mentioned in my house and I don’t mind telling you I’m pleased she’s disappeared. Good riddance, I say.’
I was taken aback by her vehemence. It looked as though Owen took after his mother when it came to temperament.
‘I’ll go and ask him if he wants to see you,’ she said, not hiding the begrudging tone in her voice. ‘Wait here. Don’t you mention that girl’s name, or you’ll have me to answer for.’
I felt suitably admonished and was desperately trying to work out how to approach the conversation so as not to alienate the entire Mowbray family. If there was the slightest risk I might jeopardise Greg’s new job prospects it would be safer to walk away right now.
I hovered in the front garden, admiring the climbing roses running riot across the fence, as well as around the front porch. I imagined what it would be like to be a green-fingered, home-cooking mum, with several little children tugging at my apron. But the image was fleeting, as soon as I factored in the sleepless nights and busy days, with no time to immerse myself in a good book, or lie uninterrupted in a hot bath.
I heard footsteps over the gravel pathway and there was Owen, standing in front of me.
‘You were deep in thought,’ he said.
‘Just admiring your mum’s handiwork. She’s a wonderful gardener.’
‘Mum said you wanted to talk to me? I don’t have anything else to say about Zara, I’ve told you all I know.’ He avoided eye contact with me as he spoke and put both his hands in his pockets. Was this a guilty man? If he was guilty, then what had he done and why?
‘You’ve met Greg’s sister, Becca?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘It’s just that she said you’d kindly offered her a room in your house in Brighton?’
‘Oh right, no, I haven’t met Becca, but she must be Mel’s friend. Mel is mum’s god-daughter. It was mum who organised it really. She told Mel there was room for another girl and I suppose Mel told Becca. Mum doesn’t like the idea of me living on my own, she worries.’
‘The thing is, Becca’s parents would prefer her to live on campus. She’s quite a shy girl, you see, so her parents would be happier if she was closer to the university. On-site, so to speak. No travelling involved.’
I realised I was waffling and that I sounded unconvincing. ‘Parents, eh?’ I added.
‘My place isn’t far from the university and she’d be with Mel. I would have thought that would be better?’
‘They’re just being over-protective, but what can you do. It’s the first time she will have lived away from home.’
‘Right. So, why didn’t she tell Melanie, or my mum come to that?’
‘She’s embarrassed, doesn’t want to let anyone down.’
‘Well, it’s not a problem. I’m sure Mel has other friends.’
‘Thanks for being so understanding,’ I said. He shrugged his shoulders and turned to go into the house.
‘I’ll be off then,’ I said.
‘Are you any closer to finding Zara?’ he said, without turning around. ‘I thought that’s what you’d come to tell me. I think about her every day. The only positive thing to come from all this is that she’s free of Joel.’
‘I’m not sure she’d see it like that.’
‘Trust me, he was no good for her,’ he said, picking off one of the large rose blooms beside the front door and crushing it in his hand. ‘Some things are not what they appear to be at first. Take this rose, its petals are delicate, but the thorns will stab you and make you bleed.’
Chapter 18
‘Who? That is the question. Why? Ah, if I only knew.’
The Mysterious Affair at Styles - Agatha Christie
After my chat with Gabrielle I had a new reason to take an interest in the news. She had given me a little more insight into Zara’s life, particularly the in-between years when we’d lost touch. There was just a chance that exploring Zara’s interests during those years might lead me to a previously undiscovered group of her friends, people who might know more about where she had gone and where she was living.
My attitude to world affairs had always been one of disinterest. Dad took a keen interest in politics and current affairs and often told me off when I continued to chatter on during the radio news bulletins.
‘If you don’t know what’s going on around you, princess, you can’t have an opinion,’ he frequently told me. I still doubted the value of having an opinion, as I could see it could get you into trouble. My problem is I am usually persuaded by both sides of an argument, so I find it less hassle to sit on the fence. What’s the point of getting angry about things you can’t change? There would always be inequality, people who loved war more than peace, people who had more wealth than they could spend in their lifetime and others who could barely afford to eat. Occasionally I would drop a few shillings into a charity collection box and walk on, without giving the beneficiaries of that charity a second thought.
Now my purpose was different. My focus was Zara and I believed it would help me to put myself in her shoes, to try to understand her passions. Each evening I would sit quietly as we watched the television reports of various atrocities taking place around the world. At first Greg commented he’d never seen me so quiet, but once I persuaded him I was preparing myself for the responsibilities of motherhood, he seemed happy.
‘When Bean starts asking questions I want to have the answers, just like dad always did. It’s no good if I don’t know what’s going on in the world. I need to think about our child’s future,’ I said. I was even believing my own argument.
But the news was all so depressing. There had been more race riots in America, and now British troops were trying to keep the peace in Northern Ireland. It had been a summer of love, with young people gathering in Woodstock, chanting peace and love and yet all around was death and destruction.
As well as finding out about Zara’s interests and concerns, I hoped to learn more about her parents. It struck me the lack of any closeness between Zara and her mother and father must have been triggered by something. I couldn’t believe they would have just drifted apart because of disinterest. Both Zara and Gabrielle were passionate characters and those traits must have come from one or other, or both of their parents. Passion and disinterest are unlikely to go hand in hand.
Zara had told me her mother and father had moved back to live in France some years ago. Perhaps Gabrielle was still in touch with them, although she hadn’t mentioned them when we spoke. I’d missed an opportunity to ask her during my visit and I certainly didn’t relish the idea of returning, to be met with her nonchalant air and icy stare.
There was one other person who knew Joel and Zara, albeit more as an acquaintance, rather than a friend. It struck me it would be worth having a conversation with Petula, the girl who worked in Joel’s studio on Saturday mornings. She had worked for Joel when Zara moved into the flat above the studio.
Since the day of Joel’s funeral I had only seen Petula once. She’d called round to our house to see Zara, but Zara had stayed in her bedroom. In those first few months after the accident Zara would speak to no-one, barely even passing the time of day with Greg and me. When Petula came to visit, I made her a cup of tea and we chatted for a while and when she left I promised to pass on her good wis
hes. Now I was desperately trying to recall that conversation and whether she had mentioned anything about looking for another job. I chided myself for being so inattentive.
Without any concrete clues as to where she might be working now I needed to try some of the more obvious places around the town. Spending a Saturday morning mooching around shops and cafés might be some people’s idea of heaven. I was unequivocal about it, but either way it wasn’t much of a sacrifice.
After an hour or so, I struck lucky. I walked up to the pick and mix counter in Woolworth’s and there she was.
‘Hello there. Petula, isn’t it? I’m Janie, Zara’s friend.’
At first, she looked blankly at me and then, as recognition dawned, a smile spread across her face. Her mass of copper-coloured hair and unblemished pale skin gave her a look of purity. I got the sense she would be surprised to be told she was pretty and embarrassed if a boy asked her out. I could have been wrong, after all I’d only met her a handful of times. For all I knew she could have a long line of admirers who she gaily strung along.
Luckily, there were no other customers needing her attention, so I felt safe to start chatting.
‘You must miss your old job?’ I said.
‘I was lucky to get this one.’
‘Had you worked for Joel for long?’
‘Just coming up to a year, I was learning a lot. He was kind, let me handle his cameras, some of them were really expensive.’
‘Have you kept it up, your interest in photography?’
‘No, dad says it’s an expensive hobby we can’t afford. Not ‘til I’m older, with a proper job.’
‘Joel was a good boss then?’
‘Like I say, he was kind to me, although…’ she paused and blushed, turning away from me as a customer approached. I hovered for a while, amusing myself by filling a paper bag with liquorice shoelaces and sherbet flying saucers - joyous reminders of schooldays and pocket money.
‘You were saying?’ Once the customer had paid and moved away I handed my bag to Petula.
‘I did feel uncomfortable sometimes, when he got a bit too friendly,’ she said.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, at first I was quite flattered, him being older, but then he kept grabbing me. He teased me, saying he’d only give me my wages if I gave him a kiss.’
‘He tried to kiss you?’
‘And then when Zara moved in, well I thought he’d stop, but he kept saying it was just a game. Good fun, as long as we didn’t get caught, he said. He showed me the developing room, I thought it would be a chance to learn, but then, well…’
‘Crikey, Petula, did you ever tell anyone? Did you tell your dad? You know that what Joel was doing was wrong, you’re only fifteen, he should never have taken advantage of you like that.’
‘Please don’t say anything, I shouldn’t have told you. It was my fault really, he could probably tell I thought he was good-looking. I was flattered someone like him should take an interest in me.’
‘You are a beautiful young girl and Joel should have known better. He took advantage of you in the most terrible way. You should be able to choose who you kiss and who kisses you, even with boys of your own age. Do you think Zara knew?’
‘No, I’m sure she didn’t. Although he seemed to like the danger, because sometimes he’d wait for her to come into the shop, then he’d call me out the back with an excuse.’
I didn’t want to hear anymore. The pictures that Petula’s words had conjured up in my mind were ugly. What she’d told me cast Joel in a new light, that was decidedly murky and unpleasant. I needed to talk to dad.
Dad’s usual Sunday morning routine involved an early brisk walk with Charlie and then back home for breakfast, followed by a couple of hours listening to the radio. There were a few regular BBC programmes he enjoyed. Some, like The Navy Lark, made him chuckle and others, like the weekend news round-up, would have him listening intently.
I arrived at the house mid-morning. Greg had promised to spend the morning considering ways of draught-proofing the kitchen windows, as the rattles and leaks were now getting to be a real problem. I had my doubts as to whether consideration would lead to any immediate action, but at least it was a start.
‘Hello, it’s only me,’ I called out, as I let myself in the front door. Charlie came padding out to greet me and having made sufficient fuss of him I followed him into the kitchen, where I found dad sitting, holding a mug of tea and listening to the radio.
‘Hello love, good to hear your voice. Tea? Or your strange concoction? The kettle’s just boiled. Have a seat a minute. I just want to hear the last bit of this programme, it’s about the protest marches in America. It’s so sad, all those young men dying and there seems to be no end to it.’
I made my drink and sat quietly while we listened to the rest of the programme. For once I tried hard to pay attention to all the facts and the arguments for and against the war in Vietnam. This was a war that was happening so far away it had always been meaningless to me. I didn’t even know where Vietnam was.
‘This is exactly what I want to talk to you about,’ I said, once I had his full attention.
‘The war? You’ve never been interested before. What’s changed your mind?’
I told him about my conversation with Gabrielle.
‘Zara was passionate about causes, maybe she turned her grief into something positive. Perhaps she’s out there somewhere trying to make a difference, to make her voice heard.’
Dad was quiet and looked thoughtful. ‘You don’t think she would have joined a cult, do you? I’ve heard about young people who have been persuaded to join a group and then they’re brainwashed, encouraged to do dangerous things, to break the law.’
‘You mean like a commune? Isn’t that more of an American thing? I can’t see Zara breaking the law, she’s such a gentle soul.’
‘You say she went on protest marches, that’s what her sister told you? That chap Owen mentioned something about it too, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, but peaceful marches, as far as I can make out. If she was protesting about war she must have believed in peace, mustn’t she? You might be right though, she could have joined up with a religious group of some kind. Perhaps her mental state left her open to influences?’
‘Would you describe her as a weak character, from what you know of her? Do you think she could be easily led?’
‘No, the opposite. She was gentle, but strong, if that makes sense. I’m certain she wouldn’t let anyone force her to do something she didn’t think was right, that she didn’t believe in. But I can see now she was so attracted to Joel that she didn’t recognise the truth about him.’
‘You know what they say about love.’
‘Perhaps she hoped he would use his photographic skills to support her with her causes, a sort of candid reportage. In reality though, I reckon Joel just liked to ogle pretty faces, either through a lens or otherwise.’
‘Well, I don’t know love, but I do worry about you. In a few months you’re going to be a mother for the first time. Shouldn’t you be focusing on that, rather than chasing down a wayward friend? Perhaps there are things in Zara’s life we will never know or understand and you may just have to accept that.’
‘Dad, I’m fine and the baby is fine. It’s bad enough having Greg trying to wrap me in cotton wool, without you doing the same. You’ve always taught me to follow my instincts and my instincts right now are that Zara is out there somewhere and she needs my help. I will be careful, but don’t ask me to give up, not yet.’
‘Poirot’s take on the problem?’ dad said.
‘’Arrange the facts, neatly, each in his proper place. Examine - and reject. Those of no importance, pouf! - blow them away!’ If only it were that easy.’
‘One step at a time.’
Chapter 19
‘I must confess that the conclusions I drew from those few scribbled words were quite erroneous.’ He smiled. ‘You gave too much rein to your imaginat
ion. Imagination is a good servant, and a bad master. The simplest explanation is always the most likely.’
The Mysterious Affair at Styles - Agatha Christie
It was a typically quiet Monday morning in the library van. I replayed what Petula had told me and thought again about Joel. Dad’s advice was to get back to basics, so the next thing to do would be to revisit the site where Joel died. My plan was to clear my mind of all preconceptions and consider it with fresh eyes.
Fortune Park runs for two miles, with roads either side of it. To the west is Upper Park Road, with Lower Park Road to the east. Three smaller roads intersect the park, dividing it into three distinct parts. The first part, nearest the town centre is full of amusements for young and old, a boating lake and a play area with a roundabout and swings. Beautifully planted flower borders line the pathways for families to stroll beside and admire. There are plenty of benches and large grassy areas where dad and I used to play ball before he had his accident. Mum never came.
‘You two go,’ she’d say, ‘it’ll give me a chance to give the house a good clean.’ It was as though she couldn’t wait to sweep all trace of us away for a few hours and have the place to herself.
The second part of the park is devoted to tennis courts and the third is all woodland, with tracks that weave in between the trees. This third part was my favourite. It was here you’d see squirrels scurrying up tree trunks and rabbits racing into their burrows. When dad was first out of hospital and still recovering I persuaded Aunt Jessica to take us there. She pushed dad in a wheelchair we had on loan from the hospital. I ran alongside them, shouting out with glee each time a white bobtail disappeared under a bush, or a swallow swooped through the branches. Dad would ask me questions, getting me to describe the trees, the shape of the leaves. It was on those walks I learned to be observant.
The Tapestry Bag: A gripping mystery, full of twists and turns (A Janie Juke mystery Book 1) Page 12