Pale as the Dead

by Fiona Mountain

  ‘She gave me a photograph she said she took when she was twelve,’ Adam said. He dug his wallet out of his pocket and took out a colour snapshot of a canal, with boats.

  Natasha turned it over. X Bethany was written neatly in black ink.

  Was the picture taken somewhere near where she lived, where she’d gone on holiday? Where she’d gone now? Oxford? Cambridgeshire, where the Marshalls came from? How many canals were there in Britain? Too many.

  ‘I asked her who showed her how to take pictures,’ Adam said. ‘If it was her dad. She said her father never taught her anything she wanted to learn. We were in a café and she refused to finish her dinner, insisted we leave, right away, but she wouldn’t say why she was so upset. I learned my lesson. Didn’t try to bring her family into the conversation again.’

  She said her father never taught her anything she wanted to learn. What would make a person refuse to talk about their family, disown them to such an extent they changed their name?

  ‘How did you two actually get together? I know you met in a café, but what…’

  ‘I bought her another cappuccino. Then I asked her to come back to my flat. She said yes.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Just like that?’ Adam echoed, faintly mocking. ‘She trusted me.’ He paused for a moment. ‘She was an odd mixture. Came up with some madcap ideas sometimes. But she was old-fashioned in lots of ways. She was really into routines. She liked to go to the same restaurant on a Friday, always have breakfast together before I went into the studio. She said she liked being able to look forward to stuff that wasn’t too far away. She hated it if I changed plans at the last minute. Which I have to do a lot. She never let us part without making up … And she got angry, really angry, if I was late. Which I am all the time. She’d be completely over the top, in tears, almost hysterical.’

  Natasha didn’t like the sound of that, even though she could relate to it. Separation anxiety. One of the problems adopted children were supposed to suffer. She swallowed some wine.

  ‘One time she tried to hit me, another she actually passed out,’ Adam continued. ‘She was always terribly apologetic afterwards, promising never to be cross again. I told her not to make promises she wouldn’t be able to keep. That it didn’t matter anyway. But it seemed to really worry her.

  ‘The day she left, did she seem different in any way, do anything different?’

  ‘No. Except…’

  ‘Except what?’

  ‘The afternoon before, she was on the phone for ages. There’s one in the bedroom at the flat and she shut herself in there instead of using the hall phone. I asked who she’d been gossiping to and she said nobody. First sign of madness I said, talking to yourself, but she didn’t get the joke.

  The food arrived, interrupting the conversation. Natasha moved aside the magazines to make room on the table. She glanced at Adam’s choice of reading matter as she shifted them to the window ledge. The Independent, and three glossy women’s monthlies.

  She arched an eyebrow.

  ‘Only buy them to look at the photographs.’

  A shadow fell over the table, Natasha looked up. For a moment she couldn’t place where she’d seen the man before. Then it came to her. The Society of Genealogists. He was wearing the same moss green greatcoat over combat trousers and black T-shirt. His long dark hair was tied in a ponytail this time.

  He gave no indication he recognised her. ‘Well, Adam, aren’t you going to introduce us?’

  ‘Jake Romilly,’ Adam muttered. ‘Natasha Blake.’

  ‘Ah, Adam’s little secret.’ He stuck out his hand. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance at last.’ His voice seemed familiar. Was he the man who had answered the studio phone? He glanced round the restaurant. He was tall, strongly built, green feral eyes. ‘Great place.’ He turned to Adam who’d picked up one of the magazines and was morosely flicking through it. ‘I’m meeting a friend but it looks like she’s late.’

  ‘Or stood you up,’ Adam grunted.

  ‘Perhaps I’ll join you then.’

  ‘Catch you later, Jake,’ Adam said with finality.

  ‘Friend of yours?’ Natasha asked lightly, after he’d left.

  ‘Partner, sort of.’

  ‘You don’t seem to like him much.’

  ‘We’ve had our differences. He’s a talented guy though, if he wasn’t so lazy. Thrown out of Eton for drugs. Thinks the world owes him a living. He has a huge chip on his shoulder about anyone being more successful than him, at work, girls, you name it.’

  ‘I could swear I saw him at the Society of Genealogists the other day.’

  Adam spluttered an incredulous laugh. ‘Jake? I doubt it.’

  She wasn’t convinced.

  Natasha pushed a bowl of rice towards him. Adam switched his cigarette to his left hand to serve himself, sat back, studied her. ‘Anyway, where were we? Your turn now I think,’ he said quietly. ‘Tell me about you.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Because I want to know? You went to university here?’

  ‘Magdalen College. I read Ancient and Modern History.’ She looked at him. ‘I thought the past wasn’t important.’

  ‘It is to you.’ He looked at her. His eyes were the most incredible blue. ‘Where did you grow up? Somewhere wild and windy I’d bet.’

  ‘Not sure I have grown up yet.’ The oldest trick in the book. Compliments, personal observations and questions designed to make you feel interesting, special. Adam obviously had it down to a fine art. Natasha was annoyed to discover that guessing the game he was playing didn’t entirely deaden its effect. She guided things back on course. ‘You said memories aren’t as important as dreams. Did Bethany tell you about her dreams?’

  ‘She said she didn’t have time for them. Have you any brothers or sisters?’

  ‘This is weird. It’s usually me asking clients those kinds of questions.’

  ‘Do you ever give a straight answer?’

  ‘Not if I can help it.’ She didn’t feel particularly hungry now, but she went through the motions, helped herself to some of the prawns. The sauce was creamy and sweet-smelling. ‘I’ve got a younger sister. My parents live in Derbyshire, which is fairly wild and windy. That satisfy you?’

  ‘Is their marriage a happy one, would you say?’

  ‘That’s an odd thing to want to know. It works for them I think. My dad’s away a lot. Why are you so interested?’

  ‘Where did you spend your holidays when you were a little girl?’

  ‘Last question, OK?’ She had the feeling she shouldn’t be telling him all this but wasn’t sure why not. What harm could it possibly do? ‘We went camping in the south of France, sometimes stayed in a cottage on the coast at Whitby.’

  ‘Idyllic childhood.’

  ‘In some ways. How about you?’

  ‘Not idyllic at all,’ Adam lit another cigarette. ‘I guess your usual work isn’t this complicated?’

  You could say that again. ‘No.’

  ‘Bethany said she read somewhere that family history’s the most popular hobby in the UK.’

  ‘Over half a million people are actively involved in it.’

  ‘Do you professionals scorn dabbling amateurs then?’

  ‘Professionals built the Titanic but amateurs built the Ark. They’re my best source of income actually. When they get stuck or want advice. People tend not to dabble in genealogy though. Once you start you’re hooked.’

  ‘I best steer clear in that case.’ He studied the amber glow at the end of his cigarette. ‘I’ve an addictive personality.’

  ‘Have you ever tried to give up?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ve never liked the idea of old age. Enjoy yourself while you can and to hell with the consequences.’

  ‘Sounds a bit selfish.’

  ‘Not if what you do doesn’t affect anyone else.’

  ‘It always does.’

  ‘I can’t work you out,’ he said.

  That makes tw
o of us. ‘In what way exactly?’

  ‘You don’t strike me as a historian-type. It was a real surprise, when you turned up at Little Barrington in your sporty convertible. I’d imagine you working in something like television or advertising.’

  ‘Bundle of contradictions me. I used to want to be an archaeologist. But my life’s in ruins anyway.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ He gave a slow smile. ‘I bet you enjoy telling boyfriends they’re history?’

  ‘Mm. Sadly too often.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I wish I knew.’

  ‘Maybe you spend too much time hunting around in mouldy old documents.’

  ‘I don’t actually. Genealogy’s quite high tech and sexy now. There’s more web sites than for anything else, apart from pornography.’

  ‘Must be something in it then. Maybe I should give it a go.’

  ‘Pornography or genealogy?’ She couldn’t believe she’d said that.

  ‘Whichever you think would be the most fun.’

  Natasha stared down at her plate. Then she found herself wondering. What other pictures had Adam taken of Bethany?

  Sixteen

  NATASHA HAD A habit of going over conversations in her head, worrying about how she could have handled things better. It troubled her, how much she’d enjoyed the evening with Adam. She shouldn’t have flirted with him.

  It was past eleven when she arrived back home but she didn’t feel in the least bit tired. She drew the curtains, lit the fire, settled down on the sofa and picked up the diary. It made a difference knowing the writer’s name. Names defined who you were, given names just as much as surnames. It must be strange for women when they married, if they took their husband’s family name, like becoming a different person. She sneaked the photograph of Bethany into the back of the diary, couldn’t face her just now.

  Two pages in, Jeanette’s sister, Ada, fell ill. Dr Marshall diagnosed typhoid. Jeanette had taken her turn to sit at her sister’s bedside through the night.

  Papa came down to say Ada was asking for me. I went to her room and put my face well into the light as Papa told me. I said, ‘Here I am, darling.’ Ada opened her eyes very wide as if she was trying to see but there was no expression in them. When I kissed her, her skin was cold and clammy. We were all crying. At seven-thirty in the evening Mama came down and screamed, quite distraught, ‘She’s gone.’ I comforted her as well as I could and made her take some wine.

  This morning Mr Watkins came to take photographs of Ada in her coffin. She looked very beautiful.

  Another branch of the tree chopped off.

  A phrase stole into Natasha’s mind. In the midst of life we are in death. It didn’t really apply these days, at least, not in First World countries. Unless you were a nurse or an undertaker, you were shielded from death until you were nearing it yourself. Natasha knew plenty of people her own age who’d never suffered the death of someone close, never even been to a funeral. Until the last five years, when her grandparents, one either side, had died, Natasha’s only real experience of death had been that of an aged aunt.

  Jeanette’s mother though would have half expected to lose at least one of her children. Jeanette had come face to face with mortality long before she met her own early end.

  Natasha picked up the diary again.

  The lid was closed with wax. I always thought there were nails or screws or something of that sort. The simple observation was strangely powerful. A doctor’s daughter, with a doctor’s un-squeamish, straightforward approach.

  All very interesting but … As Natasha studied Jeanette’s handwriting she remembered what she’d said to Adam. Perhaps the diary held some other clue.

  I wish.

  Ada was buried at the churchyard in Ely. It was uncommon then for women to attend funeral ceremonies and Jeanette and her sister and mother remained at home.

  Natasha found herself rooting for Jeanette. She hoped she found some love and happiness before she died. At least she was soon back to her flirtations. Over the page she’d written. Dreamt I was dancing very wickedly with Mr Brown; highly improper but one can’t help one’s dreams!

  Natasha rested the diary on her lap, tilted her head and flexed her shoulders. Adam’s face stole into her mind and she thrust it away.

  About two years ago, after the messy and painful end of another relationship, she’d gone back to see the psychologist her parents had sent her to when she’d found out she was adopted. She knew it was a bad idea and she’d been right. She’d hated every minute as she had the first time, resented the prying questions. What about the physical side of your relationships? Fine, thanks. Why do you think you behave as you do? If I knew that I wouldn’t be here, would I? More than that she hated the inference that she was a text book case. Adopted child who has unrealistic expectations, who constantly needs to test anyone who comes close because they crave the unconditional love only one person in your life can ever really give. Adopted child who is possessive and who fears love, because even that one person abandoned them. Adopted child who therefore underneath believes they don’t deserve love anyway. And so is attracted to unattainable, unsuitable men.

  It sounded very neat and easy to overcome when you put it like that.

  Easier still to fall back into the same old patterns. Unsuitable, unattainable. Adam Mason certainly fit that bill. You’d never be able to trust him.

  Natasha picked up the diary again. The next entry was an amusing account of an admirer, a Mr Sandwell, whose advances Jeanette didn’t welcome, evidently. Jeanette had paraphrased an ‘enormous’ letter her fan had sent to her.

  Mama read it out loud to the horror-stricken exclamations of the victim, moi, and the roars of the whole family.

  He begins Dear Miss Marshall, excuses himself for not having written before and tells me I am far above him in position etc (which I am fully aware of). Then he goes on to say that he has been staring at me for several months. He compares me to a star in heaven and feels he is not good enough for me (quite right), but offers to put on livery and be my footman, or propose a compromise (oh, horror of horrors!) to be my lackey and my husband too. He goes on with a lot more twaddle and ends, Your obedient servant which is the only sensible part of the letter!

  Natasha stopped reading. She imagined Bethany, as a little girl, being shown the diary by her grandmother. Being told to hold it very carefully, sitting statue still as children do when they’re afraid of spilling their drink or breaking something, balancing the book on her lap, almost not daring to turn the pages. The writing unreadable as hieroglyphics to a little girl’s eyes.

  Had she struggled to read it herself, or had her grandmother helped her, telling her about their past, perhaps, other stories of the Marshalls and Pre-Raphaelites? Doubtless Jeanette’s exploits had seemed all the more significant when Bethany herself started dating. She’d have compared the differences in her own and Jeanette’s lives, and the similarities, seen Jeanette as a friend.

  Why had she left it behind?

  Why did she have it in the first place? If the diary wasn’t linked to Bethany and her family in a directly genealogical way, there had to be some reason why her ancestors had acquired it and handed it down the generations. Why it was important to them.

  About fifty pages on, she found what she thought that reason just might be. A reference that made her hold her breath as she read.

  Went to the Academy to look at the Rossettis. In front of the lady in a green dress, The Blue Bower, was that nasty, common-looking creature Fanny, who lived with Rossetti and because of whom his poor wife committed suicide.

  Papa has become Mr Rossetti’s habitual doctor. Just the other night Mr Maddox Brown summoned P. at two in the morning because Mr Rossetti had collapsed. He has had a wretched life since his wife’s death from poison she took herself. They had only been married two years and she found herself surplanted in his affections. No doubt his grief is remorse and for two years he’s seen her ghost every night. Ser
ve him right too.

  It was Lizzie Siddal whom Adam had said Bethany was obsessed with, whom her grandmother had definitely talked to her about.

  Lizzie. Whose example Adam had said he could imagine Bethany trying to emulate. And Lizzie had killed herself, allegedly.

  Because of whom his poor wife committed suicide.

  For some reason, Jeanette differed from her contemporaries, did not go along with the commonly held idea that Lizzie’s death was an accident.

  No doubt his grief is remorse.

  In some ways suicide was a perfect act of revenge.

  The image pierced Natasha’s brain: Bethany in her long gown, walking into the water, posing as Lizzie Siddal who was posing as Ophelia. Who both took their own lives.

  If Bethany was found dead, or killed herself at the same time as an exhibition opened in which the centrepiece was a photograph of her doing just that, it would make quite a point.

  She stood up, went to the bookcase and pulled out The Pre-Raphaelite Dream. As she did so she noticed, a few books along, a slim volume bound in white which she’d forgotten she had. A collection of sketches, an exhibition catalogue from the Ruskin gallery in Sheffield, entitled Rossetti’s Portraits of Elizabeth Siddal.

  She took both books back to her desk, turned to the index in the larger book and found two mentions of Lizzie, in a chapter entitled ‘Flower of Death’.

  Elizabeth Siddal was the archetypal Pre-Raphaelite beauty immortalised in some of the movement’s most revered works. She retains the reputation as an enigmatic, tragic figure. Silent, ailing and wan, with a mass of coppery-red hair and a melancholy disposition, she died two years after marrying Rossetti, from an overdose of the laudanum she took to ease her afflictions.

  On the facing page were the pictures of Ophelia and Beata Beatrix.

  Natasha looked from one picture to the other, saw an obvious similarity between the two.

  In Beata Beatrix, Rossetti’s post mortem tribute to Lizzie, a wild bird lets fall an opium poppy into her open hands, symbol of the drug that killed her. But it is not only in the memorial to her that the flower of death is represented. In her most famous incarnation as the drowning Ophelia, painted years before, it trails from her fingers like an omen.