The Missing Girl

by Jenny Quintana

  ‘Love stories are so much nicer,’ said Grandma Grace as both my parents left the room. ‘It was 1966.’

  I stifled a yawn, looking away and shoving my fist against my mouth, and only then realising that Gabriella had come in. She sat next to me and I nudged her, hoping to get a reaction, but she didn’t smile. She wore a ripped T-shirt that dropped from one shoulder, a crumpled black skirt and purple make-up. Her hair was backcombed. Electric. Donald, I noticed, was glancing at her curiously. Uncle Thomas, who was busy scratching his stomach, had adopted a glazed expression, preparing for the story to come.

  ‘There was a summer storm in London.’

  I closed my eyes and pictured an exaggerated version of the scene with the wind snarling through the Button family’s garden, ripping out plants, dislodging parts of the shed and the roof.

  ‘We had to find someone to get rid of the rubbish, all those fallen branches and suchlike. I went to the newsagent’s and there was the card: Flores Rubbish Removal. It sounded so nice. Flores.’

  Such a lovely name, I mouthed to Gabriella, but she wasn’t looking. She was picking at a thread on her skirt, winding it round her finger.

  ‘Such a lovely name,’ said Grandma Grace. ‘Esther was poorly that day. She had a stomach bug. So when Albert came along in his little van there she was waiting for him.’

  ‘Hardly,’ said Mum, coming back into the room. ‘I happened to be there, that’s all.’ She noticed Gabriella and took a hesitant step towards her. They looked at each other, a silent communication that excluded me. Donald glanced across. He must have realised something was wrong, unlike Uncle Thomas who was still scratching his belly, his head tipped back, eyes closed.

  ‘Well, you hurried down to the garden fast enough when you saw how handsome he was,’ said Grandma Grace, carrying on her tale.

  Mum shook her head, picked up an overflowing ashtray and, with another glance at Gabriella, left the room.

  ‘The truth is, your mother was miserable until she met your father,’ said Grandma Grace. ‘She was going through a phase, wasn’t she, Bertrand?’ No reply. ‘She was staying in her room, making excuses not to go to work. She did the accounts for a business. A foreign business. Note that, accounts. She wasn’t just a copy typist. Still, it wasn’t a good place to be, was it, Bertrand? That place. Central London. Too busy.’ She nodded as if agreeing with herself. Uncle Thomas scratched his shoulder. Donald reached for the newspaper.

  London. How serious had Dad been about living there? The more I thought about it now, the more I wanted to go. Things would be better if we moved away. There were so many things to do. We’d been on a day trip a few months before. Visited the National Gallery and fed the pigeons in Trafalgar Square. We’d bought seeds from one of the stalls and stood like scarecrows, counting the birds that landed on our arms to see who attracted the most. Mum had taken a photo. Click. The birds had flown away.

  I looked across at Gabriella, but she didn’t notice me, too busy with the thread. She’d wound it so tightly round her finger the skin was bulging and red.

  Grandma Grace had stopped talking and was smiling, trying to remember. ‘Do you recall, Thomas?’ she asked. ‘Esther was transformed when she met your brother.’

  Uncle Thomas was pulling at his jumper. ‘Is it hot?’ he said, ignoring her. ‘Or is it me?’

  ‘It was a fact,’ said Grandma Grace, taking up her tale again. ‘Esther mooned about like a sick child from the day she fell in love.’

  Snap. The thread gave way. Gabriella kicked out her leg. She caught the coal scuttle, which crashed against the irons.

  ‘Dear God,’ said Mum, coming in as Gabriella jumped up and ran out of the room. The front door slammed. There was silence as Mum looked around at the five of us.

  ‘Hormones,’ said Uncle Thomas, his voice muffled as he pulled his jumper over his head.

  And then everyone was talking again as if nothing had happened. I knew better. I saw the pain on Mum’s face. What had upset Gabriella now? Was it something Grandma Grace had said? I tried to think back, but it was the same old boring story she always liked to tell. I studied Grandma’s face for an answer, but she showed no sign that anything was wrong, too busy instructing Donald to take the cup and saucer from Granddad Bertrand’s drooping hand as he nodded off to sleep.

  Uncle Thomas was folding his jumper. He placed it to one side and exchanged a look with Mum. A tingling sensation shot through me as I realised. Uncle Thomas knew exactly what was going on. He was as much a part of the secret as I was not.

  15

  Martha was in the street when I came out of Martin and Martin with the word ‘probate’ resounding in my ears. She carried a mop with a shaggy, ropy head and the handle wrapped up in plastic. I nodded at her, hoping she wouldn’t want to speak, and as a precaution, took a detour into the butcher’s – Rita’s old family shop.

  The place was traditional with sawdust on the floor and chalkboards advertising the bargains of the day. Pheasants and rabbits swung from hooks. There was a whole side of an animal on the work surface, a pig or a sheep. The place was clean, the glass counter polished, but nothing hid the stench of old blood, the flesh and bones of dead animals.

  While I was considering what to buy, a woman in a headscarf came in. I gestured for the butcher to serve her first and stepped to the window to see if Martha had gone. She hadn’t. She was standing on the other side of the road, as if she was waiting for me to come out. How irritating she was. I didn’t want to speak to anyone in this village, let alone Martha. Not only that but the sky was purple, suggesting rain, and if I wasn’t quick I’d get soaked.

  The woman in the headscarf was looking across at me. She was in her late sixties, and I was sure I knew her. No surprise. Everybody was familiar in this place. Even the butcher, muscles bulging through his overalls as he sharpened his cleaver, looked like somebody I knew. ‘Anna Flores,’ the woman was saying in a loud voice as if announcing my entrance. ‘Mrs Henderson. Live next door. Sorry to hear about your mother.’

  The vinegar bottle. The village gossip. She must have been at the funeral and the wake. I hadn’t noticed. Or maybe I’d made a subconscious point of avoiding her. The woman had always been vile. I smiled tightly, irritation buzzing.

  She smiled back, a lizard smile, lips puckering. ‘If there’s anything I can do—’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said quickly. ‘You’re very kind, but I can manage. Rita’s helping—’

  ‘Oh yes, Rita. The woman’s a diamond.’ She addressed the butcher. ‘Isn’t that right, Peter? Your aunt’s a diamond. Do you remember when my Stuart passed away? Rita was very good to me.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ agreed Peter, hacking into the carcass on the work surface.

  Stuart. Her unappealing husband. Squarely built, always standing behind Mrs Henderson like a wall she never quite leaned on.

  ‘It must be difficult, though,’ she was saying now. ‘To understand, I mean, when you don’t have—’

  ‘Was it two chops or three?’ asked Peter.

  Taking my chance as she repeated her order, I sidled towards the door, but she was still talking, her eyes never leaving mine. ‘When you don’t have a husband,’ she said, finishing her sentence. ‘Or anyone else close.’ Her eyes glittered with interest. I was silent. I knew what she was trying to do. She wanted to talk about Gabriella.

  Peter was wrapping the chops and putting them on the counter. ‘I hear there’s a house clearance,’ said Mrs Henderson as she handed across a note. ‘Maybe I can help with that. Or else Brian can. You remember my son, don’t you? He’s very obliging.’

  My God. Did Brian still live at home? Wasn’t he older than me? Colourless and sly. That was how I remembered Brian. Mrs Henderson’s Achilles heel, the way she doted on him. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘But it’s all in hand.’

  ‘That’s good to hear.’ She paused. ‘Isn’t it Edward Lily’s house?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  She looked at me curiously. ‘Ho
w interesting.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, determined to draw the conversation to a close. ‘House clearances are always interesting.’ I took another step towards the door.

  ‘This one particularly, though, don’t you think? There were so many rumours about Lemon Tree Cottage.’

  Rumours created by you.

  ‘I rather wondered why your mother would . . .’ She let the rest of her words hang between us like a string of silent accusations. What was she trying to say? My mother shouldn’t have taken on the clearance. Why? Because Edward Lily had been a suspect? There’d been rumours he’d locked his daughter in the attic? He’d been an incomer? The latter was most likely. That fact would offend Mrs Henderson far more than anything else.

  ‘Mum took on the clearance because she was a kind person,’ I said firmly. ‘The job needed doing, so she accepted it.’

  Mrs Henderson raised her eyebrows, a hint of surprise at my tone. She turned to take her parcel, mouth already open to speak again. But I took my chance and slipped out the door, calling to Peter that I’d come back later.

  Martha was gone. Good. I wrapped my jacket about me with icy fingers. The sky had changed colour. Even in the few minutes I’d been inside, purple had become black. I headed for home feeling frustrated that I’d wasted time with Mrs Henderson and now was going to get wet. Had she believed my explanation about my mother? I doubted it since I hardly believed it myself. For a moment I regretted not letting her speak. If anyone in the village knew about Edward Lily and the house clearance, it would be her. Perhaps next time . . . I dismissed the idea. I’d had enough of listening to people like Mrs Henderson years before. I didn’t need to listen now as well.

  Head down, I walked fast and just as I got to the House of Flores, I saw too late that Martha was standing in the doorway. I stopped. There was nowhere for me to go this time, no excuse to ignore her. Anyone would think she was following me the way she was always there. Footsteps in the dark. Shadows in the graveyard. I must be getting paranoid.

  We faced each other. There were dark marks beneath her eyes and I felt the same old merging of pity and contempt. ‘Hello, Martha,’ I said.

  She looked steadily back at me. ‘Anna.’

  I shifted uncomfortably and cleared my throat. ‘I saw you at the funeral,’ I said finally. ‘In the churchyard, but I didn’t see you in the church. Were you there?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t like funerals,’ she said, and her voice was low and scratchy, as though the cords were out of practice. ‘I’m not equal to them.’

  Who the hell is? I wanted to reply. I moved to indicate I wanted to go, but she didn’t take the hint, and in the awkward silence that followed, I said, ‘Are you still at number twenty-five?’ She nodded. ‘I’m sorry about your parents. I noticed . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ said Martha, abruptly. ‘They’re dead.’ She spoke as if it was of no consequence, as if she was talking about a pair of distant relatives she’d never met, or a set of unloved pets. I wanted to ask if she’d been to their funerals, or if she hadn’t been equal to that either, but I clamped my mouth shut. However much I disliked Martha, it wasn’t her fault she had such awful parents.

  For a few more seconds I struggled to think of a reply. At last, in an effort to show sympathy, I said quietly, ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  She opened her mouth to speak, but seemed to think better of it as she shrugged and looked away.

  ‘Well then,’ I said, straightening and trying to give an air of conclusion. ‘I should get going.’

  Martha lowered her gaze. She looked so thin, standing there, like a reed. The wind might blow her away. And so tired. I softened towards her. Not sleeping I understood. Since I’d been home, I’d lain awake trying not to slip into my dreams – old nightmares of demons that sidled along walls and hid amongst branches and grabbed my sister while I watched from a distance, frozen, unable to intervene.

  ‘You look tired,’ I said to Martha now, my voice begrudgingly kind. ‘It’s lonely in a house after everyone’s gone. Do you find that?’ Her eyes were watery and pale. I spoke quickly and awkwardly, not wanting to see her cry. ‘Especially when it’s your childhood home. I’ve found that. I can’t imagine what it’s like for you. Your mother was . . .’ I stopped and struggled to think of a good quality.

  Martha was frowning and I could see the muscles in her scrawny neck moving as she swallowed.

  I tried again. ‘Do you remember when I came to your house? I sat in the living room with your mother and asked her questions. It wasn’t long after Gabriella disappeared.’ Gabriella. The name rested heavy in the air. ‘What happened to her?’ Martha’s eyes widened. A new emotion. A flicker of loss or pain?

  ‘Tell me,’ I said gently. ‘What happened to your mother?’

  Martha jerked as if I’d hit her and I realised, with a sudden rush of air inside my chest, she’d thought I’d been asking about Gabriella. Breathing out slowly, I counted to ten. ‘Your mother,’ I said, stumbling over my words now, trying to compensate for the mistake. ‘I only wondered what happened to her.’

  ‘She fell,’ said Martha at last.

  I flushed and lowered my voice. ‘I’m sorry. Was it at home?’

  ‘No,’ she said, looking behind her, as if someone was listening. ‘On steps. She slipped.’ I waited, not wanting to press her now. ‘It was on the green. By the lake. You know?’

  Of course I knew the lake with its putrid smell of rotting reeds submerged too long in stagnant water.

  ‘Were you there?’ I touched her arm.

  ‘Yes,’ said Martha, pulling away.

  I had an image: early morning mist and Mrs Ellis descending the mossy steps, clutching the rail for support. She would have done that, Mrs Ellis. She was always grasping at things: Martha’s hand as she dragged her home from school, her husband’s arm when she wanted him to leave a confrontation, the reporter’s elbow to show her sincerity. I pictured her falling, tumbling, turning in slow motion, down the steps and then, fierce and violent, striking her head on a stone. I saw the blood spreading, staining the ground. Did you push her? I wanted to say to Martha.

  I shivered and pressed my palm against my damp forehead. All these memories and wild imaginings were making me ill. Of course Martha didn’t push her. Martha was a mouse.

  ‘And your father?’ I said, forcing myself to speak.

  ‘Heart attack,’ she said, a pulse throbbing at her temple.

  Now I recalled his death. I’d still been at school at the time. The news had rippled around the village as news like that did. In his case it hadn’t made much of a swell. He hadn’t been popular, unlike my father whose funeral had been so full I’d been lost amongst the well-wishers. I had a sudden image of that awful day. Rita had chaperoned Mum, and Uncle Thomas and Donald had taken charge of me. I remembered being squeezed between the two of them in the church and later, at the wake, they’d argued, and I’d slipped away to Gabriella’s room. Rita had found me, hours later, lying on the floor. I hadn’t blamed Mum. She’d been a wraith by then, pale and thin, disappearing further and further into herself. She hadn’t had the capacity to take me on as well.

  I shook my head to clear my thoughts and bring myself back to the present. Still Martha didn’t move. I spoke again to fill the silence. ‘I’m dealing with a house clearance,’ I said. ‘Edward Lily. Lemon Tree Cottage. He’s dead, but you probably heard that.’ She nodded. ‘I’ll be in the village for a while longer. If you want to . . .’ I stopped abruptly. What was I suggesting?

  She looked at me, eyes blinking. When she spoke her voice was thick as if the words were sticking to her tongue. ‘You never wanted to talk to me before.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You didn’t like me.’ There was a hint of defiance in Martha’s voice.

  I studied her and my sympathy dropped. Her eyes were quick and sharp. She was slippery and sly. She’d always been like that. I looked away in distaste, all compassion gone. A line of sweat trickle
d down my side. My head was spinning. I needed to get home.

  Moistening my lips, I groped for words. ‘Why did it bother you what I thought? You only cared about Gabriella.’

  She shot me a look so full of malice it was like a piece of flint piercing my skin. ‘I blame you,’ she said, her voice thick. ‘You should have kept your sister close. If she’d been mine, that’s what I would have done.’

  I stared back at her, trying to understand. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know.’

  ‘No. I don’t.’ My voice was rising. ‘Tell me what you mean.’

  ‘All those men. And boys. Sniffing around her. Something was going to happen. It was obvious.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  But she was gone, turning in one sharp movement and hurrying down the street, the mop head jiggling beside her.

  I stared after her, blood banging in my ears. A new emotion rushed within me and this time I knew it was hate: a dark red hatred, rancid like rotting meat.

  The world was tilting around me. Leaning against the shopfront, I waited for the nausea to subside. My face was burning hot. A heavy drop of rain splashed hard on my cheek. And then it came. A deluge. Slewing sideways, soaking me. But I didn’t move. Because I was remembering another day in autumn, thirty years before, so different from this one, a golden day, sunny and warm. Such lovely weather for the time of year, that’s what people had said, the kind of day when good things happened.

  I gripped my hands, squeezing the memories home. Good things had happened. Mum had forgiven Gabriella. Her hair. She’d forgiven her for her hair. And the sun had been shining, and the birds had been singing and Mum had been making jam. And I’d found a feather on the way to school. And my glasses. What had happened to my glasses? They’d broken and Gabriella had smiled and we’d arranged to meet after school.

  That day in autumn – the kind of unexpected sunny day when only good things happened. That’s what people had said. But they’d been wrong. The precarious warmth and the shifting colours; the loosening leaves and straggling light. The beauty of the day had been too fragile. In the end, it had made no difference at all.