The art valuer is impressed. Clearly he knows his stuff.
‘My heart beats faster when I see genuine pieces by this artist,’ he tells Audrey. ‘Would you like to sell? We could put it to auction. Collectors fight for pieces of his from this period.’
Audrey nods. ‘Yes. Yes, it’s something I would perhaps consider, maybe next year. You’ve been very helpful, thank you.’
The doorbell rings just as Audrey and the art valuer finish up. Audrey takes a deep breath, fixes a smile on her face, and opens the door to John, his wife, and her children. They make niceties as they pass the art valuer on the step. Audrey doesn’t want to explain; she offers no introduction.
‘Now, what can I get you?’ she asks when everyone’s inside.
‘I’d love a beer,’ says John. He walks into the living room and throws himself onto the sofa. ‘But I won’t because I’m driving.’ The sentence is punctuated with the sigh of the martyr. ‘But you go ahead,’ he says to Anastasia. She gives him a sympathetic smile then turns to Audrey.
‘A vodka, lime, and soda, please. Double.’ Anastasia is not sitting down; she’s doing the customary thing of walking about Audrey’s living room, looking at her possessions as if she’s cataloguing and valuing them. She reminds Audrey of a vulture circling a dying animal; the intent is so obvious. If only you knew, Audrey thinks as she mixes the drink for her daughter-in-law. If only you knew your husband will one day be a millionaire. Audrey could tell her, of course – put her out of her misery – but, for now, she enjoys the game.
‘Is this the painting?’ Anastasia says to John, pointing with a manicured nail at the picture that’s still on the dining table. ‘The priceless masterpiece you talk about?’ She picks it up and looks at it critically; blows on the canvas, as if removing dust. ‘Really?’
John looks over. ‘Yes. That’s it.’ He looks at his mother. ‘Why’s it out? Why’s it not hanging?’
‘Oh … no reason,’ says Audrey. ‘It was a little dusty …’ She turns away from John, not wanting him to know she had it valued. She busies herself getting the drinks. The children unlock the back door and run out into the garden, where Audrey’s installed a swing for precisely this purpose.
‘Hold on, hold on,’ says John. ‘Is this to do with that man who just left?’
Audrey cracks open a can of soda water and pours it into Anastasia’s vodka. She doesn’t reply.
‘Is it?’ Nothing. ‘Mum! Is it to do with that man?’ John jumps up, comes over, pulls Audrey around so she’s facing him. He’s gripping her by her upper arms, and practically shaking her. She’s a rag doll in his grasp. ‘Did that man look at the painting? Is that why he was here?’ Spittle flies from his lips and Audrey flinches as it lands on her cheeks.
‘No,’ says Audrey. She wrenches her arms. John lets go of Audrey’s arms, almost pushing her away. He shakes his head vigorously, runs his hand across his brow. ‘What did he say? God, Mum, please tell me you didn’t give him the painting? Please tell me it hasn’t left the house!’
‘It’s there,’ says Audrey, nodding towards the painting. ‘You can see it’s there.’
‘But it hasn’t left the house? That man didn’t take it away to “clean” it?’
Audrey shakes her head.
‘Are you sure?’ asks John.
‘Of course I’m sure. The painting has not left the house.’
‘Good.’ John sits back down and runs his hands through his hair. ‘There’s a gang operating in the area. I saw it in the paper. They convince old ladies that their priceless family jewellery, antiques, and artwork need cleaning, then they take them away, swap them for copies, and hand them back. Most people don’t even notice. You’re absolutely sure he didn’t swap it for another piece?’
Audrey nods, then takes the vodka and soda over to Anastasia. She pours herself a sherry, takes a sip, and sinks into an armchair. John’s outburst has left her feeling quite shaken.
‘Trust me,’ she says. ‘The painting hasn’t left the house. Now. Let’s move on. How are you?’
‘Fine, thank you. How are you?’ John asks.
Audrey nods. ‘Fine, thank you. All good.’ She turns to John. ‘And how are you both? How’s business?’
John sighs. ‘Usual.’
‘Building your empire.’ Audrey smiles.
Anastasia gets up, rummages in her handbag for a pack of cigarettes.
‘Excuse me,’ she says. ‘I just have to …’ she nods towards the garden where the twins can be seen playing some sort of hiding game.
‘Help yourself,’ says Audrey.
She and John sit in silence for a minute.
‘Don’t you get lonely?’ he asks. ‘Here, all alone? It must be so quiet. I don’t know how you don’t go crazy.’
‘Maybe I do,’ says Audrey.
‘Really?’
Audrey sighs. ‘It was a joke. How would I know if I was going crazy? Presumably, I’d be the last person to spot it.’ John taps his fingers on the armrest. ‘Are you planning to live here forever?’ he asks. ‘Or do you think you’ll move again?’
‘I doubt I’ll move again. I’m very happy here. I love the garden, the view.’
‘It’s a big house for one person.’
Audrey snorts. ‘Did you see my last house?’
John rolls his eyes. ‘There were four of us there. I worry about you here. You know … what if you had a fall? Like Valya. Who would find you?’
Audrey shrugs. ‘People manage. I have neighbours.’
‘If I were you,’ says John.
‘Which you’re not.’
‘If I were you, I’d want somewhere smaller. Safer.’ He waits, but Audrey says nothing. ‘It’s better to move now,’ he says, ‘while you’re still able to, rather than wait until you can’t really do it yourself.’
‘Better for who?’ asks Audrey. She drains her sherry. ‘In fact, don’t answer that. Shall we get going? I’ll call them in.’
November 2012
Truro
Audrey stands outside the imposing stone building that is Truro Library and takes a deep breath. Her tummy’s a jar of butterflies, and she’s no idea why; she’s done the hard bit, driving along the A30, finding a parking space, and locating the library. She’s spent the past month day-dreaming about the exhibition she’s about to see, trying to recall the names and faces of various people she used to know in Bombay but now she’s actually here, she’s nervous.
She wants to go inside as badly as she wants to turn and run. Bombay was such an emotive time in her life. Her eyes are glued to the print-out that she’s clutching in her hand. Staring at the little image on it, she’s transported back to India so clearly she can smell it. But, at the same time, she’s swamped by the visceral weight of the grief she’d carried there after her parents died; then the giddy excitement of meeting Ralph – oh, the naïve excitement back when she’d believed he was the perfect catch.
Audrey puts a hand to the wall for support and fans herself with the print-out. Footsteps tap along the pavement and suddenly Lexi appears in front of her.
‘Hey, Mum,’ she says. ‘You found it okay?’ Audrey nods and Lexi takes a step closer to her. ‘What’s wrong? Are you okay? Are you having a funny turn?’ Alexandra’s face is peering into hers, her eyes suddenly full of concern. She speaks slowly, enunciates the words carefully, as if Audrey’s hard of hearing.
Audrey flaps the leaflet at her. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Do you need to sit down?’
Audrey shakes her head. The moment’s passing. She straightens herself up and takes a deep breath; notices only then how tired Alexandra looks.
‘Are you okay?’ she asks.
‘Me? Yes, I’m just,’ Lexi flaps a hand and smiles coyly. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Excuse me,’ says a voice behind them, and Audrey turns to see a couple of a similar age to her. They smile politely at Audrey and move towards the door, and Audrey examines them, wondering if they ever lived in Bombay; if their paths
had ever crossed hers in a restaurant or a jazz club. Names and faces flit before her eyes – people she knew forty years ago. But what damage has time done to their faces, Audrey wonders. Would she recognise anyone after so many years? Janet, she knows, won’t be here: her Prince Charming took her to Australia.
‘Ready?’ Lexi asks after the couple has gone inside.
Audrey nods. ‘Let’s do it.’
Inside, the library smells like every library Audrey has ever entered: a slightly stuffy smell of books, paper and ink. But, over and above the usual subdued hush of a library space, she hears the low buzz of conversation, unusual at this time of the evening. Audrey and Lexi register.
‘Thanks for coming. Enjoy!’ says the lady at the desk once she’s put a neat tick by Audrey’s name and asked if she’d like to leave her contact details.
Audrey turns to face the exhibition. It’s not massively busy, not thronging with people, but there must be a good two score and ten. They look familiar – not that she knows them, nor can she identify what it is that makes these strangers look familiar, but there’s just something about them that reminds Audrey of herself; an indelible mark, perhaps, of those who have India under their skin.
‘Right, let’s go,’ she says. She glances around the exhibition, picks a board that’s got no one standing at it and walks over. Within seconds, her nervousness disappears as she’s transported back to Tilbury; in the photograph, a liner’s preparing to leave. Audrey presses her hand over her mouth as if to suppress the intense emotions that wash over her as she stares at the picture. She remembers the sadness that had fuelled her flight to Bombay; the hollow grief and pointlessness that had been her existence since her dad had died; the unbearable sense of loneliness she’d felt as she’d realised there was no one in the crowd to wave her off.
Lexi moves quickly past the photos, lacking the interest that she herself has. Audrey realises with sadness that Alexandra doesn’t remember India at all. She looks at the faces in the black-and-white photograph and knows, without seeing the expressions on those people’s faces, what they would have been feeling as they waved off loved ones on what, for many, was a one-way journey to a new life as far away as Australia. Overcome with emotion, she rummages in her pocket for her hankie and dabs at her eyes.
‘SS Orcades,’ says a low voice next to Audrey. ‘Beautiful ship, she was.’
Audrey turns to see a woman standing just behind her. She’s of mid-height and elegant in navy slacks and a peach blouse, her grey hair cut short, pearl earrings highlighting the lustre of her pale skin, a dab of lipstick warming her face. Audrey thinks she might be younger than she is. She assesses her in a couple seconds; although there’s a familiarity around the eyes or in the bones, it’s not someone she knows.
‘Did you sail in her?’ Audrey asks.
‘No,’ says the woman. ‘Her sister ship. SS Oriana.’ She’s silent for moment. ‘How about you?’
‘Same,’ says Audrey. ‘Oriana.’
‘Beautiful ship, wasn’t she?’ says the lady. ‘They don’t make them like that anymore.’
Audrey nods and the woman smiles back at her. There’s another pause while both women turn back to the photograph and examine it intently.
‘I remember it so well,’ says Audrey quietly. She doesn’t really mind if the lady’s listening or not; it’s just nice to speak about that time. ‘The crowds, the noise. Well … I think I do, and then I see something like this and it reminds me of so many of the details that I’ve forgotten. About life on the ship.’
‘Me too. Quoits! Did you play deck quoits?’
‘Yes! There was a league. I’d never heard of it before but – goodness – the hours I spent playing and watching quoits.’
‘Well – there wasn’t too much else to do, was there? The pictures, I suppose, in the evenings. And tennis.’ There’s a pause as both women remember their times on board. ‘When did you sail?’
‘1970,’ says Audrey. ‘I was twenty-seven. And you?’
‘1960,’ says the woman. ‘I was twelve. I went with my parents.’ She stops talking, the starts again, the words coming out in a rush. ‘I don’t know why I’m here, really. India wasn’t kind to me.’ She breathes in and closes her eyes, as if letting a wave of emotion pass before she carries on, her eyes fixed not on Audrey but on the photograph. Audrey strains to hear her words. ‘My parents were killed in a car accident when I was twenty. I thought marriage was the way out. Married the wrong man.’ She shakes her head sadly. ‘I lost my children over it.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ says Audrey. She pauses, feeling the woman’s sadness; wanting to make her know she understands. ‘I lost my parents, too. And I also rushed into marriage – perhaps not with the wrong man, but a difficult man nonetheless.’ The women smile at each other; without words, they know. Then Audrey gives a little laugh. ‘Yes, I don’t know why I’m here either – except, well, there’s something about India that gets under your skin.’ She sighs. ‘Do you remember the smell of the night jasmine? I used to love standing in the garden and breathing it in.’
‘Oh, yes,’ says the other woman. ‘We had some in the garden, too. It was always my favourite.’ The other woman smiles and Audrey realises that, after that small exchange, this stranger knows more about what’s inside her than do most of the people who’ve populated her life in England, including John and Alexandra. All the things that Audrey’s struggled to deal with in her life: the desperate pain of losing her parents; the experience of sailing to India; life in Bombay; the struggles of marriage – this woman knows all of those things too. Alexandra is nowhere to be seen. In silent understanding, the two women move on to the next photograph together.
‘Well,’ says Audrey, as she tears her eyes off the last photograph. ‘That was incredible. What a trip down memory lane.’
‘I feel like I’ve actually been to India tonight. I’m so glad I came,’ says her new friend. ‘I wasn’t sure if I should or not – if it would bring back too many bad memories, but I’m glad I did.’
‘I’m glad I did, too.’
As if on cue, Lexi appears.
‘How was it?’ she asks. ‘Did it bring back lots of memories?’
‘Yes, yes, it was really lovely, thank you. And lovely to see you, too.’ Audrey stands awkwardly with her new friend, unable to introduce her because she doesn’t know her name.
She turns to the other woman. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you. It’s lovely to meet people who’ve experienced the same things …’ her voice trails off. ‘I’m Audrey, by the way. And this is my daughter, Alexandra – born in India but she doesn’t remember a bean of it, as witnessed by the speed at which she went through the exhibition.’ Audrey holds out her hand but the other woman doesn’t take it. She stares at Audrey, then her eyes swivel to Lexi, then back to Audrey.
‘Born in India?’ she asks.
‘Yes,’ says Audrey.
The woman is staring at Lexi. ‘But you don’t remember any of it?’
She shakes her head. ‘No. We left when my brother and I were two. We’re twins.’
‘Ah,’ says the woman slowly. ‘No. I don’t suppose you would remember.’ She’s still staring at Lexi. A mobile phone starts ringing and, without taking her eyes off Lexi, she fumbles in her bag, dragging her eyes away only once the phone’s in her hand. ‘It’s my cab,’ she says slowly. ‘I’ve got to go.’ She holds out her hand and Audrey takes it. Something appears to pass between the two women as they shake hands.
‘It’s been a pleasure. Thank you. For everything.’ The woman squeezes Audrey’s hand as she lets go.
‘I don’t even know your name,’ says Audrey.
‘Miranda,’ says the woman. ‘My name’s Miranda.’
November 2012
Truro
Audrey tilts her head to one side as she watches Miranda make her way out of the library. There’s something about the way the woman walks that makes her think of John; something in her bone structure that’s pure Alexandra. B
ut more than that, there was something in the way Miranda looked at Alexandra that makes Audrey feel faint.
For a second Audrey’s body twitches towards the door as her mind wills its physical mass to run after Miranda, and she has to put out a hand to support herself on a book shelf. She shakes her head: her mind must be playing tricks. Seeing the pictures has been like reliving the intense time that she spent in India – those years feel like they were yesterday. Standing there in the library, Audrey is impervious to everything around her. She’s remembering the intensity of the first time she met Ralph in Bombay; the strange shiver he gave her. And she’s remembering the story of how his wife died – the story that Ralph had told her the night he proposed: the tragedy of the young mother with postnatal depression. Suicide. The pile of clothes on the shore. Ralph saying that she couldn’t swim; that she knew about the currents. What was his wife’s name? Audrey racks her brains. They had the same initials … A … that, she remembers. Alice. It was Alice Templeton. She was missing, presumed dead, but had they ever found her body?
‘No,’ Audrey breathes. ‘Impossible. How? How could it be?’
‘Mum? Are you all right?’ Alexandra grasps her arm, peers at her face. ‘You look washed-out. Has it all been too much for you? Will you be okay driving back?’ She pauses. ‘You can stay with us tonight, if you want. I can make up the camp bed. Mark won’t mind.’
Audrey takes a deep breath. ‘Thank you. No, I’m fine.’ Her voice sounds to her as if it’s coming from the bottom of the ocean. Her head is too full of thoughts, gathering like storm clouds, to deal with Alexandra. ‘You head on back. I know you’ve a lot to do. Thank you so much for coming.’
‘Okay … if you’re sure,’ Lexi says. She gives her mum a hug. ‘It was great to see you. Drive safely.’
‘Bye,’ Audrey says as Lexi leaves. At least she thinks she says it – she’s not sure if the words come out. Inside her head is a vortex of thoughts. She reaches out a hand towards a library assistant who’s hovering by the door.
The Disappearance Page 25