We lay on the stubby grass beneath the damson tree, eyes closed, hands crossed over our chests as if we were dead. The scent of mown grass and lavender hung heavy in the air. A small plane droned somewhere far away and an insect settled on my face. I felt the lazy stroke of its wings but couldn’t be bothered to brush it away.
When I opened my eyes a red kite was wheeling recklessly, its wings outstretched, gliding in the endless sky. I watched until it dropped quite suddenly and disappeared from sight. Poor mouse. Or was the mouse already dead? Was it kites that ate carrion, or did they hunt live meat? I blocked out the thought of the bird tearing at a creature with its talons and turned to Gabriella.
She lay perfectly still, skin pale against her make-up and her dress. Like a fair-haired Morticia (or a vampire as Dad joked). Was her chest even moving?
‘Gabriella,’ I said. No answer. ‘Gabriella.’ I spoke loudly, my voice sounding urgent as I prodded her with my toe.
There was a long pause. ‘Yes?’
My heartbeat slowed back down. ‘Nothing,’ I said, trying to sound normal.
She opened one eye. ‘Did you think I was dead?’
‘Course not.’
I looked away so she wouldn’t see the truth on my face. I had this idea that if you imagined terrible things, they wouldn’t happen. They couldn’t happen because it would mean you were able to predict the future and nobody could do that. Now I tried to focus on something else. A vision of Lemon Tree Cottage popped into my mind and quietly disappeared. Gabriella would never agree to going there. Spying wasn’t her thing. I suggested visiting Dad instead.
She groaned. ‘Again? There must be something better to do.’
‘Such as?’
‘Listen to records, watch the telly . . .’
‘Tidy your room.’
I counted silently. By the time I got to five she’d agreed to come.
The House of Flores was narrow, hunched up amongst the other shops on the High Street. I used to think it was an old man propped up like that, and inside were the old man’s tumbled thoughts: the rickety tables and chairs, the cracked crockery and ornaments, the higgledy-piggledy paintings on the walls. One of the prints looked like Gabriella – without the messy hair. A Modigliani. It was a portrait of a girl with a narrow face and almond-shaped eyes.
Most days Dad would be at the counter, leaning over whatever item he was valuing, focused on his task. He’d describe it to us: age, purpose, material. Sometimes he’d make us guess. (‘It’s a portrait of a queen. They’re pearls for a princess.’ ‘No, no. That’s a duchess, and they’re not pearls, they’re paste.’) Other times we’d parade, trying on clothes – velvet dresses and capes, silk scarves and hats – dressing up as people from the past.
Now when we pushed open the door and the bell jangled to announce our arrival, Dad was nowhere to be seen. We listened in the dusty silence, until the sounds came, shifts and groans from the back room, furniture scraping on the wooden floor, a sudden bang as something dropped. ‘Madre mia,’ came his voice.
‘House clearance,’ mouthed Gabriella.
We both knew what that meant – Dad would spend hours sifting through a dead person’s life. He’d be home late bearing gifts and bombarding us with tales of what he’d found: a leather-bound copy of Paradise Lost; a porcelain plate with a painted dragon; a pack of photos, somebody’s life, childhood to adulthood, bound with a faded ribbon. A house clearance was a gamble. That’s what he said. All those hours spent picking out stories. Usually the things he found were worthless to anyone other than him. Other times, digging deep, he found a fossil. Something valuable. And if we were unlucky, he’d haul us in to excavate.
Gabriella put one finger to her lips and we backed out, eyes locked, willing the chime of the bell to coincide with the noise Dad was making. ‘Girls. Is that you?’ his voice filtered through. The door slammed and we were off, running along the High Street and back up Chestnut Hill, while bubbles of laughter exploded inside me and a stitch grabbed at my side.
‘Stop! Stop!’ I said, turning into Devil’s Lane and throwing myself onto the ground. Gabriella sat beside me and leaned against my shoulder. I listened to the sound of her breath and the stillness all around. Devil’s Lane was a shortcut to the green. Dark and stony, hemmed in by high hedges, with a few houses backing onto the fields. No one was sure how it got its name, although one tale told of a boy whose sweetheart had died from a fever. He’d made a pact with the Devil: his soul for one more day with her.
Sometimes, when we weren’t chasing shadows in the lane, we played What would you do if you only had one more day? Gabriella talked about hanging out in the music booth at Our Price, asking the boy with the drowsy eyes who worked there for a kiss. I found it more difficult to decide. In the end I thought I’d go wherever Gabriella went. There was nothing better than that.
Now she fumbled in her pocket and pulled out a packet of Old Holborn. I eyed it suspiciously. ‘Is that Dad’s?’ I said.
She grinned as she piled up a Rizla, funnelling the paper round and licking the edge with the tip of her tongue. ‘Problem?’ I shrugged. I’d seen her smoke plenty of times, so it didn’t surprise me. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘It isn’t his.’
‘Where’s it from?’
‘I bought it of course.’ She lit the skinny roll-up with a silver Zippo that was definitely Dad’s. ‘Borrowed,’ she said, her voice rough with smoke.
I watched her inhaling, picking out strands of tobacco from her teeth. She wore red lipstick. It stained the cigarette, making it seem it was lit at both ends. I imagined the two ends burning and crackling and colliding in the middle, exploding like a firework in her face. ‘You shouldn’t smoke,’ I said.
‘That’s easy for you to say, small person. Wait till you’re my age. Bet you’ll try it then.’
‘No, I won’t, and anyway, you shouldn’t encourage me.’
She put her head on one side. ‘Little Miss Righteous.’
I turned away. I hated it when she called me that. She ruffled my hair. ‘Only joking. I’m glad you care, really I am. I care too. If I ever see you smoking, I’ll knock it out your hand.’ As if to demonstrate, she pushed her cigarette stub hard into the ground and stamped on it with her boot.
At the end of the lane, we hopped over the rickety stile and mooched across the green, past the graffiti-covered playground. A few boys with spiky haircuts hung around, smoking and drinking from cans. They watched as we passed, their eyes stuck on Gabriella. I gave her a sidelong glance and could tell from her smile that she knew they were looking. She sucked up their admiration like I sucked up cans of Lilt and I had a sudden giddy sensation that she was slipping away. I put my hand on her arm and drew her to me. She didn’t pull back. The boys were behind us and I felt the heat of her side against mine.
By the time we reached the edge of the green the idea of Lemon Tree Cottage had resurfaced and this time I suggested going there.
‘Why?’ said Gabriella.
‘Because new people have moved in.’
‘And?’
I shrugged, trying to think of an answer she’d like. ‘There’s nothing else to do, except help Dad with the house clearance, or Mum with the tea.’
‘You can do that if you want.’
‘I made breakfast.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘I gave you lipstick.’
I narrowed my eyes back. ‘That was for one chore. And anyway Mum won’t let you get away with it.’ We both knew Mum was a stickler for turn-taking as well as preparing us for lives of domesticity.
Grinning as Gabriella gave in, I led the way out of the green and on to Chestnut Hill.
The road was little more than a single track at first, working its way through the village, skirting rows of cottages and weaving along past the church. Then it grew wider, and faster, as it burst out into the countryside and cars fled past, kicking up stones. Here the hedgerows ran like an unkempt fringe on either side of the tarmac, which was worn out, full
of potholes, and dips. There was a solitary field where the cows lolled hefty heads against a five-bar gate. And a mass of churned-up earth, crammed with the rising skeletons of homes – part of the new estate.
At the brow of the hill, we turned onto a stony lane that led to the woods and passed a cottage, its roof ruined by patches of thatch stripped back and yellowed underneath. Pecked off by jackdaws. I remembered the story, in the local paper. They’d declared it the strangest thing to have happened in the village for years. Now smoke trailed from the chimney despite the heat. A woman pegged out washing at the side of the house while a small child scrambled at her feet. She stared as we passed. And then a man in dungarees came out and leaned in the doorway smoking.
The second house was Lemon Tree Cottage. The place had no story apart from being empty and next to the house with the jackdaws. But with the thought of a madwoman in the attic, I looked with new interest.
The building loomed like a shadow behind a mesh of dark green. From the gate, a gravelled pathway forced its way through the garden, pushing on and around a line of broken terracotta pots. A plant with purple flowers shaped like stars clambered across the doorway and cascaded down the walls. There was no sign of life, no people or sounds, only a broody stillness that pressed on the air, as if forcing out its breath.
I was looking at the diamond panes of glass when suddenly a shape flitted past a downstairs window. I stared, mesmerised. It moved lightly, and was quickly gone, disappearing into shadow.
‘Upstairs,’ hissed Gabriella, nudging me.
A girl. Framed behind a window. Fair hair floating around her face.
Footsteps crunched on gravel. A man about Dad’s age rounded the back of the house. I froze like a creature snared in light. He was pale – his face and hair, even his clothes – and he looked straight at Gabriella. ‘Let’s go,’ I whispered, grabbing her arm. For a moment, she resisted. I pulled harder until she gave in. And then I hurried her along the lane, turning once to see the man staring after us from the gate.
3
On the day of the funeral, I woke up with a feeling of dread, and a mind tangled with dreams. The weather matched my feelings: a single clap of thunder and then the rain came, sluicing down the windows. I listened to the sounds, feeling the weight of what lay ahead.
Downstairs I made coffee. Leaning against the side, sipping from my mother’s cup, in the old-fashioned kitchen, with its tired lino and table, its chipped cupboards and sink, it occurred to me I was masquerading as someone who belonged here, the prodigal child returned, yet there was no one here to greet me.
In the living room, the feeling grew as I opened drawers at random. They were full of papers, letters and old address books belonging to my parents. There were photos too. I found one of Gabriella in Trafalgar Square, with pigeons dotted along her arm. My mind returned to the scrapbook. How many pictures of Gabriella had my mother pasted inside? How many articles and interviews had she kept?
Later, the ladies, led by Rita, filed into the house. They wore identical black skirts and shawls. Only Rita was different. I glimpsed a grey silk dress beneath her faux-fur coat. She’d always been elegant. And poised. Unlike my mother who’d been perpetually harassed.
Together, we waited for the cortège and when it arrived, we walked in silence to the cars, my heart dropping at the sight of the pale coffin and the respectful suited men. Slipping inside, I maintained my calm, but as the doors clunked and the car eased away, I felt as if my whole world glided with me, as if I’d lost control.
We drove down Chestnut Hill and out along the High Street. A child pointed and tugged her mother’s coat; an old man raised his hat; a woman in a belted raincoat hurried into a doorway. I craned my neck as we passed the House of Flores but the shop was shut up as I knew it would be, the sign swinging in the breeze.
The church was packed. Looking around, everything was familiar: the stained glass windows and mahogany pews, even the embroidered hassocks with their crosses and doves looked the same, though they couldn’t be, not after all this time.
Rita squeezed my arm as the pall-bearers settled the coffin and we took our seats at the front. Nicholas looked even younger in his starched surplice. He welcomed us all, saying why we’d come, to honour a loving wife, mother and friend. Rita stepped forward to pay tribute. She talked of my mother’s loyalty, of her commitment to God and her stoicism in the face of tragedy. She spoke loudly and confidently, her voice trembling only once when she mentioned Esther’s daughters.
More tributes followed. There was another prayer. A hymn. A baby screamed at the back of the church. I heard the crack of the door opening and the screams fading as the mother took it away. The organ played and I sensed Gabriella beside me, tapping her foot to a different kind of rhythm; the one inside her head.
Afterwards, they took the coffin away and we spilled out into the churchyard. People came forward one by one, to take my hand and offer their hushed condolences. Faces with lines and wrinkles and familiar eyes, weakened and peering through thick lenses. I wanted to pull out my sunglasses to protect myself from their good intentions, but the sky was grey, and the rain was back, the faint drizzle turning to a downpour. I hid instead behind the mushroom of black umbrellas that sprouted in one synchronised click as soon as the coffin was lowered.
And then I saw her. Mrs Ellis. She was making her exit, scurrying along the gravel pathway towards the lychgate. Thin and hunched, there was no doubt in my mind that it was her, that forward lean, those quick, short steps, even the shopping bag, the raincoat, the flesh-coloured tights and the old-fashioned lace-up shoes.
The rain came harder as I stared after the retreating figure. The wind picked up, grabbing at my clothes. In the distance, there was the faint rumble of thunder. Mourners, forgetting etiquette, were surging around me and on towards the gate. I quickened my pace to match theirs. I needed to see her face, though I could picture it anyway: narrow lips, self-satisfied smile, skin stretched taut over the angles of her cheeks, her jaw, her forehead. I could see too her bony hands wringing as she spoke to the reporter, telling the story of Gabriella: the story of the missing girl. And I thought again of Tom trundling his road sweeper’s cart, lips moving in conversation with himself. Mrs Ellis had spotted them: Tom and Gabriella. She’d been a witness, one of the last people to have seen my sister. And Tom – poor, befuddled, innocent – had been investigated. Although nothing had come of that.
My heart was thundering so fast I felt faint. But still I wanted to see her. I wanted to know how she’d changed. It was only as she passed through the gate, as I pushed forward and she looked back, that I understood. It wasn’t Mrs Ellis. This woman was too young, in her forties, we might have been at school together, and then I realised that we had been. This was Martha. Not so far wrong: it was Mrs Ellis’s daughter.
For a moment, the two of us looked at each other and the rest of the world dropped out of focus. There was only Martha, spotlighted. Martha Ellis who nobody cared about, who’d been bullied and ignored by everyone – except Gabriella.
I held Martha’s stare, and she looked away, her forehead creasing, as if she didn’t know who I was. And yet she must have. Her cheeks were sallow and sunken, her lips narrow strips. Her eyes darted about as though she had trouble seeing, until they stopped, quite suddenly, on me, and the cloudy look was replaced by recognition and something else. Fear. And I was glad. I wanted her to remember. I wanted her to feel the pain and the loss like I did.
She turned and hurried along the path, and the rain was dripping down my face, mingling with my tears, and Rita was pulling at my arm, and offering me a tissue, and urging me to put my jacket on. She marshalled me back to the house, speaking so fast my thoughts were left behind. And when we arrived, villagers, damp from the rain, stumbled in with their offerings: plates of triangular sandwiches and slices of cake.
I moved through rooms, greeting people, thanking them for coming. From time to time my mind flashed to Martha and I conjured up images: Ma
rtha perched on a doorstep; skulking in the woods; dragging after me on the green, telling tales in her whining voice.
Concentrating on the people around me, I braced myself for their sympathy. Time and again, faces loomed and words filtered. I held on to hard surfaces, to keep myself upright. I fixed my eyes on Rita and watched her making tea, offering sandwiches, bending to adjust an old lady’s shawl.
‘You look like Esther,’ said a man with silver hair who stopped beside me. I smiled politely, but I knew that I didn’t. I was dark, not fair; tall, but not elegant like my mother. The man stood for a moment, staring at me, examining my face. He too was tall, and looked straight into my eyes. ‘I don’t mean physically,’ he said as if he was reading my mind. I shifted uncomfortably. What did he mean then? He didn’t say.
The man moved on and I trailed after him, making my way to the kitchen. Rita and one or two others were busy washing up, but when I grabbed a cloth to help, Rita pushed me away. She gave me a cup of tea which was hot and sweet. I drank it quickly, impatient to help. Taking a knife from the drawer, I sliced a fruit cake into thick chunks. ‘You might want to cut those smaller,’ said Rita over my shoulder. I smiled, but kept the chunks the same. She’d always interfered in the running of our kitchen. Although Mum had thought she was indispensable. I don’t know what I’d do without Rita, she used to say.
Eventually, when the food was eaten and the clearing-up done, people left in twos and threes, helping each other exit. Rita was the last to go. She lingered at the door, doing up the buttons of her coat. I used to think she was like a film star, with her glamorous clothes and stylish hair. Now she offered to stay and keep me company.
‘I’m fine,’ I replied. ‘Really, I am.’
She nodded. ‘I understand, but I’m here if you want me and I’m more than happy to help.’ She tipped her head to level our gaze and squinted through her glasses. ‘The House of Flores. I know it’s early days, but . . .’ She stopped and produced a polka-dot scarf, tied it in place and patted my arm. ‘Not now, dear. I realise you want to be alone. I’ll meet you there tomorrow morning. Is that all right?’ And she was gone, striding down the path, before I had time to reply.
The Missing Girl Page 2
