The Missing Girl

by Jenny Quintana

  A clock chimed, a muffled sound at the back of the room, and a memory tapped in my head. The pendulum clock at home. When Gabriella disappeared, the clock stopped. The silence had been like an expression of her absence. One day, after my father had died and my mother was out, I’d taken a chair, climbed up and given the key a hefty twist, and as the ticking had begun again, it seemed as if my sister and my father might come home. After that, I wound the clock every night. If I wound hard enough, time might go backwards and we’d begin again. But of course, it didn’t. The clock kept going forwards: endless hours of time passing, of loneliness and loss. Of time without Gabriella.

  I took the photo of Lydia and a couple of Edward Lily into the main shop. It was gloomy outside, and the lamps cast shadows on the wall, yet I was reluctant to leave. It seemed safer here where there was no one watching me, no one expecting answers. Where the only questions were the ones I asked myself.

  8

  1982

  A few days after our visit to the Ellis house, Mum and Rita were due to go on a shopping trip to London. They went two or three times a year and the event had been written on the calendar for weeks.

  Since the day when Mum had forgotten to make our tea, the mood had been sombre in the house. My parents quiet, Gabriella and me wondering what was wrong. Mum became strict with us, insisting we came straight home from school and making us do our homework before tea. We wasted too much time, she said, wandering about the village or spending time at the shop. In the mornings, Dad began driving us to school. With the house clearance, he preferred a later start, he said. So instead of leaving home at six, he left at half past eight and dropped us off.

  Now we were watching the evening news. A teenager from York had disappeared – a photo of a fifteen-year-old girl with blonde hair and a fringe and wearing her school uniform flashed up on the screen. The next shot was of her parents, holding hands and speaking into the camera. Mum switched off the telly.

  ‘I’m going to call it off,’ she said, addressing Dad who was sitting in his armchair.

  He emerged from behind his paper. ‘Call what off?’

  ‘London on Saturday.’

  He looked at her for a moment or two. ‘There’s no need.’ He glanced across to where Gabriella and I lay sprawled on the floor. ‘We’ll manage, won’t we, girls? Chicken kiev for tea?’ We nodded vigorously. It was a treat when Dad was in charge of the kitchen. He didn’t boycott the microwave.

  Mum was tugging at her hair. ‘I’m not sure.’

  Dad folded the paper. ‘I can look after them,’ he said quietly.

  Of course he could look after us. What was Mum worried about?

  ‘We’re not babies,’ said Gabriella, retrieving her Walkman from the other side of the room and fiddling with a cassette.

  ‘Nobody said you were,’ replied Dad. ‘Everything’s fine. Mum’s going to London.’ He kissed her on the cheek.

  My mood lifted; their argument was coming to an end. I exchanged glances with Gabriella who shrugged and shook her head. Noticing, Dad reached out to her too. She sat on the floor leaning against his legs, her hair static against his trousers. I watched them in their own world, as they talked about music. And Mum, instead of making irritated noises like she usually did when Gabriella enthused about the Clash and Siouxise and all the other bands she liked, sat back and listened.

  Eventually, Mum disappeared. She was calling Rita on the telephone in the hall, planning their trip to London.

  When Saturday came, Mum got ready – combing out her hair, painting her lips, clipping on gold earrings shaped like teardrops. Beige was for church. For London, she wore a lilac dress with butterfly sleeves, fastened with a matching twisted belt. ‘What do you think?’ she asked, turning in front of the triple-sided mirror and clamping a gold bracelet on her wrist. I stared at the transformation. No hint of jam-making, scolding or church. Mum was double-sided like one of those wooden jumping-jack toys, with different characters drawn on either side.

  She rifled through the rest of her jewellery and pulled out an emerald ring. I’d seen it before: a thin gold band with a sparkling stone. She held it up to the light for a moment before putting it away. And when I asked her why she didn’t wear it, she said she was dressed up quite enough. Was the ring so expensive she didn’t dare put it on? More expensive even than the sapphire brooch Dad had bought her last Christmas which she was pinning onto her dress?

  Later, we dropped Mum off at the station to meet Rita. ‘Bread and lardy cake, Anna,’ she said, opening the passenger door and leaning to pinch my cheeks. ‘You will get them, won’t you? Oh, and some of those waxy circles I put on the tops of jam.’ She looked at Gabriella, opened her mouth as if to speak, but changed her mind. Turning to Dad instead, she said, ‘Are you sure I should—’

  ‘Yes,’ he said as he pulled her across and they kissed goodbye.

  I wound down the window and watched her sadly, missing her already.

  Gabriella gave me a sharp nudge in the ribs. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ I rubbed my eyes, mumbled about grit, and asked if she wanted to come with me to the baker’s and afterwards to the green.

  ‘Not today, small person,’ she said, untwisting her Walkman as she got out of the car. ‘Things to do.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ said Dad, opening the driver’s door.

  ‘Bernadette’s,’ Gabriella replied, looking surprised.

  ‘Oh no you’re not. You’re supposed to be helping me with the chicken kiev.’

  ‘I never said that.’

  ‘Oh yes you did, young lady. Back in the car.’

  ‘God. Are you serious?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is this something to do with Mum?’ And when he hesitated, she rolled her eyes. ‘Thought so.’

  ‘Back in the car then, please.’

  Gabriella made a face, but did as she was told. If it had been Mum talking, it would have been a different story. Dad always managed to get Gabriella to do things she didn’t want to do. I, on the other hand, would have needed no persuasion to help him make the tea, and I wondered, as we drove home, why he’d chosen Gabriella and not me.

  On the way to the baker’s, I consoled myself thinking about the village fête. Every year, Mum made jam for her stall. Fruit from the garden: plum and damson, and apple when we went scrumping in the orchard and brought back a bagful, stomachs aching from too much fruit. Unable to resist, Mum washed and peeled, cored and chopped, let it all slide into her giant metal pot, where it mulched and broke down and reacted with the sugar, and the house smelled sweet for days.

  At the baker’s, I collected the jam tops and asked the girl behind the counter for a cottage loaf and a lardy cake with a thick crust of sugar on its base. She shovelled bread and cake into paper bags while I examined the glass display with its iced buns and cream slices and doughnuts oozing jam. I was thinking about buying a custard tart when a man wandered in wearing a light-coloured jacket and a panama hat. I recognised him immediately. It was the man from Lemon Tree Cottage.

  Colour crept up my face and stained my ears, but instead of scurrying away, I focused my attention on a shelf of meat pies and listened to the conversation. The girl behind the counter was friendlier to him than she had been to me, giggling and blushing when he spoke. ‘Can’t get used to this weather,’ he said in a friendly voice as she rang up the cost on the till. He patted his pockets and pulled out a handful of coins. ‘Can’t get used to the money either.’

  Leaning forward and squinting at the pastry design on the top of a steak and kidney pie, I sensed rather than saw him stop beside me. ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘Hi.’ I straightened up and blinked back.

  He looked at me for a few moments with blue eyes behind round glasses. His face was narrow and his nose thin and pointed. I guessed he was handsome since he made me think of one of the old film stars like Paul Newman, or maybe Frank Sinatra, someone Mum would like. I dropped my gaze to the bag of doughnuts he was holding. Noticing, he
gave a smile and said, ‘To tempt my daughter.’ And added, as if he’d only just thought about it, ‘Lydia. She’s fussy.’

  Flushing again, I pictured myself staring up at the window of Lemon Tree Cottage and I rubbed my face, trying to disguise the blush. Was I imagining it or had his expression changed? Was there the faintest sign of recognition?

  ‘Well then,’ he said, after a few seconds. ‘Nice to meet you.’ He shuffled away as if weary, or in pain.

  I watched him, curious to know more. Edward Lily was intriguing with his fairy-tale cottage, doughnut-eating daughter and crazy Spanish wife. What other secrets did he hide?

  ‘Goodbye,’ I said suddenly, not wanting this encounter to go by without my saying something.

  He stopped again, and blinked rapidly. I’d spoken more loudly than I’d intended. My skin tingled with embarrassment, but he nodded and grimaced and glanced across at the girl behind the counter as he walked out of the door, leaving me with a peculiar feeling in the pit of my stomach, a nervous kind of fluttering. I hadn’t intended to draw attention to myself, and now I concluded he’d identified me as a spy.

  Mum came back from London with her hair made dirty by the air on the Underground, and her dress crumpled by the crush on the train. She showed us what she’d bought, a pair of purple satin shoes, which she slipped on and off and promptly put back in the box. But she looked more cheerful than she had done before, recounting her adventures in Oxford Street while we ate the chicken kiev (delayed due to Gabriella having distracted Dad with a trip into town and to Our Price). Dad was relaxed too, teasing Gabriella about the boy with the drowsy eyes in the record shop. I watched them enviously, wishing I’d been with them, but my mouth was greasy with butter and garlic and we had jam roly-poly with custard for pudding, so I wasn’t going to complain.

  After we’d stacked the dishwasher and Dad had insisted on Mum resting while he scoured the pans, Rita arrived, banging on the back door. We retreated to the living room where Rita and Mum searched for records and Dad fetched three glasses, a bottle of Cinzano and a bowl of Twiglets.

  We settled on the sofa ready to watch the adults embarrass themselves, which they did spectacularly, jiving to ‘Jailhouse Rock’. And when Smokey Robinson came on, Rita sat down and Mum and Dad danced, smooching to ‘Being With You’, gazing into each other’s eyes.

  I leaned against Gabriella’s shoulder, clamping her in place, thinking how everything was going to be all right. Whatever had happened to upset Mum and Dad was over. Things were back to normal. I was about to tell Gabriella about my encounter in the baker’s, with plenty of embellishments, when the letter box clattered, and before anyone else moved, I jumped up and ran to see what it was.

  A long white envelope lay on the mat. I stooped to pick it up. The name – Esther – was printed on the front in tiny letters. I held it to the light, scrutinising what was inside, but the envelope was thick, Basildon Bond, and revealed nothing.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Rita, appearing in the hall.

  I jumped and thrust the letter behind my back. ‘Nothing,’ I said.

  Rita raised her eyebrows and held out her hand. Caught out, I gave her the envelope which she studied for a moment and then, with no change of expression, slipped into the pocket of her skirt.

  ‘I’ll give it to your mother later,’ she said, turning away.

  ‘What is it?’ I said, feeling a prickle of annoyance. I was the one who’d found it. Why shouldn’t I give it to Mum?

  She hesitated. ‘Church newsletter.’

  It wasn’t. The newsletter came through the door folded into sections. I should know since I’d helped Mum fold and deliver hundreds of them. I watched suspiciously as Rita walked away from me. Why had she lied?

  Back in the living room, Rita chose the hard-backed chair and sat with her hands on her knees watching Mum and Dad dancing. Gabriella was listening to her Walkman, so there was nothing for me to do but pick up a copy of Smash Hits and nibble on the Twiglets. I leafed through the pages, my eyes sliding over pictures of Fun Boy Three and Elvis Costello.

  Mum came and leaned between us. Her breath smelled sweet from the lime in the Cinzano and her voice had the faintest slur. ‘Gorgeous girl,’ she said to Gabriella, kissing her face. She pinched my cheeks. ‘You too, Anna.’

  Looking up, I caught Rita staring at the three of us. She grimaced when her eyes met mine. I turned away. Rita had lied about the letter. Was she even going to give the envelope to Mum? I resolved that if she didn’t, I would tell, so I spent the rest of the evening waiting for my moment. It wasn’t necessary. As Rita was leaving, she slipped the letter into Mum’s hand and patted her on the arm. ‘Let me know if I can help,’ she said quietly as she made her way out the door.

  Mum dashed off to bed. Dad followed shortly after. And soon the fun of the evening was lost as they argued again, their raised voices bouncing through the walls.

  9

  The cafe was an antidote to the House of Flores. Minimalist. Although I wasn’t sure if that was due to lack of funds. Surely they needed something on the walls. An old photograph of the village perhaps? A painting of the woods?

  The lunchtime rush had gone. I ordered an espresso and a bacon sandwich from a young woman in a black dress, who had red lips and glossy black hair, save for one lock at the front, which she’d dyed purplish-blue like a magpie’s wing. Too young to have been around in the eighties, perhaps her mother had inspired her dress sense. That was a thought. I was old enough to be this girl’s mum.

  Choosing a seat at the window, I laid out the photos on the table. I must have inherited my father’s genes. Curiosity ran through our family like blood.

  Edward Lily had been handsome as a young man. I wondered about his wife. She’d killed herself, hadn’t she? At least that’s what they’d said in the village. Why? I could guess: loss, disenchantment, grief. The precarious nature of life.

  Outside, people walked quickly – heads bent against the wind, hands thrust inside their pockets. Martha appeared on the other side of the street. As I watched her, fidgeting along the High Street, pulling at her coat, hoisting up her shopping bag, I felt a return of the disquiet I’d experienced in the graveyard – that memory of Martha’s mother as a witness, the investigation of Tom and his release.

  Poor Tom. He’d been treated badly in the village. People had been so quick to proclaim his guilt; they’d stampeded on his life. The media had done that too, stirring things up like they always did, trawling through his business. It was only me who’d believed in his innocence. Me, I supposed, and Tom’s mother.

  Disquiet turned to pain. I allowed the emotion to take hold knowing from experience there was nothing else to do and soon enough the feeling drained and dulled to a bearable pang.

  Across the road Martha stopped. Had she seen me? She hovered on the edge of the pavement, but changed her mind, switching direction, and going back the way she’d come.

  Remembering my promise to go to Lemon Tree Cottage, I finished my coffee and took a few hasty bites of the sandwich. David would be waiting for me and there was no reason to let him down.

  It had been thirty years since I’d taken the route, but as soon as I set off I knew I hadn’t forgotten it. My feet carried me forwards, retracing the steps with certainty, through the village and up Chestnut Hill and out onto the main road.

  So much was the same and so much was different. The neglected tarmac punctuated by potholes, the scruffy hedgerows and the fields stretching off to my right. All unchanged. But the building works on the left-hand side had sprung into a mini estate, an ordered labyrinth of identical houses and drives, with neat roads connecting them, and low walls and privet hedges, and conifers in need of cutting back.

  When I reached the brow of the hill, and turned into the lane, it was as if time had stopped. There was the same stillness. The same feeling of being in another world. A tractor had made recent furrows on its way to the fields beyond. Copper-coloured leaves patched the hedges and shone in th
e afternoon light – the only bright splashes amidst the different shades of brown.

  Walking slowly, I pushed down my unease. This was the emotion I’d always felt in the lane. It was a habit, I told myself. An involuntary reaction.

  The first cottage looked abandoned, the thatch practically gone. A couple of the windows had been boarded up. In the garden, an old washing line drooped across the grass and a rusty lawnmower leaned against the wall.

  The clearance van was parked outside Lemon Tree Cottage. The house itself seemed brighter, more defined, like places did when you hadn’t seen them for a long time. There were certain characteristics I’d forgotten, like the lean of the chimney and the diamond panes of glass, but the garden was overgrown as I remembered it, with bushes and plants creeping too close to the walls. Through the open front door, I glimpsed the hall beyond and my fingertips tingled with the thought of going inside, of touching the furniture, the walls, of feeling the past on my skin.

  In the distance was the low chugging of the tractor and the cries of a squabble of seagulls, in from the coast, wheeling over the fields where the farmer must have been churning up the earth. Apart from dog walkers, or the odd farm worker, you might see no one here for days.

  David emerged from the cottage holding a standing lamp. ‘You came,’ he said.

  ‘Of course,’ and then, for something to say, ‘Are your boys here?’

  He made a wry face. ‘One of them decided he was sick and the other was tired and had to go home.’ I smiled and stepped to one side as he brushed past me to get to the van and manoeuvred the lamp until it fitted amongst the rest of the furniture. ‘Shall we go in?’ he said, slamming the doors.

  I nodded as if it was of no real consequence, but my heart was pounding as we walked down the path, and when I stepped over the threshold, my breath stopped.