Why had my parents lied? Why had they denied Gabriella the truth about her father? Why had neither of them ever told me? Surely we’d both had the right to know the reality of the relationship between us. Not that it would have made any difference. Nothing would have changed the way I’d felt. Gabriella was my sister. Nobody could take that away from me.
I opened the door. The room was exactly as it had been the last time I’d been inside, just before I’d gone away to Greece. Mum had refused to change it over the years, although she’d never stopped me entering, and she’d always kept it clean. Uncle Thomas had said it was because she hadn’t wanted to lose hope. If she’d packed away Gabriella’s things, it would have been an admission that she wasn’t coming back.
I knelt on the carpet. The suitcase was beneath the bed. Mum had left that too, waiting for Gabriella to come home and unpack. I lay down, curled up on my side, remembering my sadness the day we’d argued, the spiral of fear when she’d told me she would go. I’d tried to stop her packing, but she hadn’t listened, only shaken me away. Afterwards, she’d put her arm around me. I remembered her words exactly. You’re my sister. Nothing changes that.
Eventually, I sat on Gabriella’s bed, staring at the certificate I clutched in my hand. Of course I was her sister. Why had she even said that? And then it struck me. The rows, the bad feeling between Gabriella and my parents, the time she’d run out the room when Grandma Grace insisted on telling that tired old story – the romance; the lie. Gabriella knew we were half-sisters. And on that day, perhaps she’d hinted at the truth, tried to let me know that having different fathers didn’t affect us. We were sisters. Nothing changed that. If only I’d pushed her to say what she’d meant. If only I’d asked her to explain.
Now I tried to clear away preconceptions of my mother, father, sister and myself. I wanted to start again, a blank canvas, laying out my thoughts and memories and looking at them afresh. But I was bewildered by the knowledge that had slowly begun to build. And I left the room searching for proof.
In my mother’s bedroom, I studied each item of furniture, each picture, painting and ornament. What was hidden here? What secrets would make my suspicions fall into place? Sitting at the dressing table, I stared at my reflection in the glass. A few grey hairs stood out against the dark and reminded me that I was older than my mother had been when Gabriella disappeared. What would Gabriella have looked like now? Artists could age missing children using complicated software and family characteristics. How would they have aged Gabriella? Would they have made her look like a fair-haired version of me? Or would the distinctions between us, the different genes we possessed, have pushed us further apart?
I drew open drawers and closed them again. What was I looking for? What could I hope to see that hadn’t already been found? Rifling through the jewellery box, I lifted up the pendant with its emerald stone. It reminded me of Mum’s ring, the one she used to take out and admire from time to time, but never wore. I’d always thought the ring was so precious she hadn’t wanted to lose it.
Where was that ring? I hadn’t seen it since I’d been home. Mum had been buried with her wedding ring. I couldn’t imagine ever getting married myself, and anyway, it should have been Gabriella’s since she was the eldest. But the emerald ring. I wanted to keep that.
I spread the jewellery across the dressing table and searched through. No ring. I opened drawers again, suddenly desperate to find it. And there it was, tucked away in a box in a satin drawstring pouch. I slipped the ring on my finger. It was loose, but then my fingers had always been narrow. Mum had been so thin after Gabriella disappeared, hardly eating. Perhaps the ring had become too big for her too.
Going to the window, I admired the stone in the light. Outside, people were walking in the rain, holding their umbrellas at different angles like a Renoir painting. I looked for Martha, but she’d gone. Instead, Mattie was wandering by. He stopped and took out his mobile, his face intense, reminding me of Rita. He saw me watching, grinned and waved in a wide arc. It was one of Rita’s gestures.
Sitting back at the dressing table, the ring slipped off my finger and clattered onto the wood. I’d have it altered, but in the meantime, I’d keep the ring with the necklace. The two seemed to belong together. Had Mum bought them in the same place? Taking the box, I turned it over and scrutinised the words. The lettering was gold, too small to read. I reached for my bag and took out my glasses. Now I made out the words. La Plata, La Calle Pájaro, Sevilla.
A drumbeat of memory sounded in my head. I tried to concentrate on what I was reading, but a dark cloud had settled around my brain, making me sluggish, stopping me thinking. With an immense effort, I shook off the feeling and stared hard at the words. I’d read them before. One more wrench of my mind, and I’d recall where.
And then I did. I’d seen the address typed on the invoices in Edward Lily’s house. I let the idea percolate in my brain. Why had my mother bought jewellery from his shop? Or had it been my father, buying gifts? I rifled through the jewellery again, examining boxes, but they were all imprinted with the names of shops in London. Was it a coincidence? This necklace and this ring?
Sounds from outside filtered in. A woman along the street was calling for her child. A trumpet sounded. Music practice. Far off a truck announced it was reversing. They were normal sounds. Normal life. They drew me back to the window. Mattie was still there, talking to a friend, gesticulating as he told a story. Rita again. I recognised her in the way he moved.
Downstairs, I resisted the urge to open that bottle of wine. Instead I sat at the kitchen table and ran my fingers across the wood, feeling the scratches of age. The kitchen hadn’t changed much. Glancing around, my eyes rested on the food I’d taken from the cupboards. Tins of Campbell’s soup – my mother’s diet for the last few years. Old packets of rice. A forgotten packet of Vesta curry. And neglected jars of jam, covered in dust, the writing on the labels smudged and faded.
I knew without looking that each label was dated no later than 1982. Mum never made jam again after Gabriella disappeared. The fruit in the garden wasn’t collected. Year after year it dropped and rotted, a rancid mess seeping into the ground. I hadn’t gone to the fête again either, not without my sister. Only once, shortly before leaving the village for London, I’d made my way down Devil’s Lane. I’d stopped short at the stile, heard the jangle of the merry-go-round and gone back.
Now I pushed myself to remember that last fête. The day had been marred by the incident with Dad. He’d hurt his hand – in a fight. That had been my assumption anyway, though Gabriella hadn’t believed it. And there’d been another fight. Mr Ellis had been involved. And Gabriella had abandoned me on the merry-go-round. And what about the suitcase, and Mum’s suspicions – telling me to spy on Gabriella? Or had that come before? I rubbed my eyes, trying to order my memories.
Stretching out my hand, I spread out the photos on the table. Edward Lily. Everything came back to him. And yet my parents had been so convinced he’d had nothing to do with Gabriella’s disappearance. I slotted his arrival in the village into my time frame. The summer of 1982. A few months before Gabriella went missing. When our family had started to disintegrate.
And Lydia, such a strange girl. I’d been uncharitable saying she was mad. I’d adopted the language of the village. Everybody had called her that. Except my parents. They’d never gossiped like other people did.
I examined the photo of Lydia in Spain and lifted it close to my face: the hair, the look, the secret smile. She’d been a beautiful, mysterious girl. I took the portrait of Gabriella from my bag and laid it beside the photo. The artist was truly talented the way he or she had captured Gabriella’s hair, her look, her secret smile.
My breath caught inside my throat.
I’d thought Edward Lily was obsessed with Gabriella even though she was young enough to be his daughter. And now I understood. I looked from the portrait to the photo. Sisters. No wonder I’d been drawn to Lydia so many times. No wonder I
’d felt the connection with this photo. I’d even mistaken Lydia for Gabriella once, that day in the woods when I’d been searching.
Edward Lily and my mother had been lovers. In love enough to exchange gifts. An emerald necklace. An emerald ring. Lydia was Gabriella’s half-sister. Edward Lily was Gabriella’s father.
And my father. He’d known. I was certain of that. And he’d made up for it, loving Gabriella as much or even more than he’d loved me. Working hard every day, stitching together a perfect tableau: the four of us. An ideal tapestry of family life. How he must have despaired when Edward Lily arrived in the village and threatened to unstitch all that embroidered cloth. How far would he have gone to stop Edward Lily from taking what he loved?
And how far would Edward Lily have gone to claim Gabriella back?
22
1982
Dad was crouching by the damson tree with an unlit cigarette dangling in his hand. I hunkered down beside him and we stayed that way in silence for a while.
I wanted to ask him what the police were doing next. Who would they interview? Had they really given up on Tom? I was glad because I knew he was innocent, but I wasn’t sure Dad thought the same. Eventually, I asked about Edward Lily. What had happened about him?
Dad looked at me steadily and for a moment I didn’t think he’d reply. And then he spoke, labouring each of his words so they hung like lead between us. ‘The police have interviewed him.’ I gazed at the ground, waiting for more. Dad cleared his throat and continued. ‘They went to the cottage and didn’t find anything and, anyway, he has an alibi.’
I let the words settle in my mind. ‘So he isn’t a suspect.’
‘He’s innocent.’ It was the end of the conversation.
Later that night in bed I brooded about Edward Lily. I closed my eyes and imagined him at Lemon Tree Cottage. He was standing at the gate as I’d seen him before, staring at Gabriella and me in the lane. And his daughter, Lydia, was floating through the house like a phantom with a cloud of hair. I shifted restlessly in my bed. If only I had that moment again, I’d change the future. Somehow. I’d walk in a different direction, take Gabriella away.
My thoughts switched to Tom. Dad was certain that Edward Lily was innocent, but what about Tom? What exactly had he told the police about Gabriella? Had he been as confused as they’d said he was? If only I could speak to him too before he got more muddled and forgot completely what he’d seen.
It was dark. I got up and peered through the curtains. The light was on in the kitchen, illuminating the front part of the lawn and the damson tree. At the edges, things were harder to pick out, the shapes of familiar bushes and shrubs made ghostly by the shadows.
I should go and see Tom now.
If only I was brave enough.
I’d been brave enough to go into the woods and dig up Martha’s box. But that was different. That was daytime. This was late at night. I glanced at the luminous hands on my clock. Almost ten.
The light in the kitchen went out. My parents must have gone into the living room. I was tired. I wanted to sleep. But the idea kept at me. Scraping away. If I didn’t go now, Tom would forget. I imagined him going through the motions of his life, watching the telly, eating his tea, following the rituals of his evening. Each movement clouding his memory.
I knew I had to do it. I had to sneak downstairs without my parents hearing, and out the back so the reporters wouldn’t see me and then over the neighbours’ walls until I reached the end of the row of houses.
Slowly I pulled on my sweatshirt, and made my way through the house, grabbing my coat, opening the back door and slipping into the night.
It was cold. Clouds drifted across the half-moon, extinguishing its light. There was a rustle in the bushes. A pair of gleaming eyes. But it was only Jasper, pleased to see me, mewing loudly and winding around my legs. I stooped and ran my fingers along his back – tiny bones beneath the fur, so vulnerable, so delicate, so easy to break. I breathed deeply, pushing away my fear as I heaved myself over the wall that divided us from the Hendersons’, and jumped into their garden.
I landed next to the empty chicken coop, banging my arm on the roof. Mrs Henderson was in the kitchen washing up. She looked up. Had she heard me? Could she sense that I was there? I froze, watching her face distorted by reflection and her eyes searching, worriedly, through the dark. I stayed where I was, shivering, teeth chattering, until she went back to her task. But her lips were moving – calling to her husband, I guessed – and sure enough, there he was, his square bulk as wide as she was thin, standing in the background. I sprang into action, scrambling over their wall, running across the next lawn, bending low, to the sound of the new baby crying from inside.
At the end of the row of houses, I jumped onto the pavement. The street was shadowy and quiet in the dim lamplight. I’d never been out so late on my own and now it seemed as though the village was alien, every shape an enemy.
Tom lived in a narrow street close to The Eagle. In daylight, I could run there in minutes, but in darkness, with all confidence gone, my pace was slow. I started at sounds, imagining footsteps, shouts, expecting a hand on my collar and a voice demanding to know why I was there.
At last, I arrived at Tom’s house – a stone-clad terrace. I waited at the gate but there was no movement, no light or sound. Clenching my teeth, willing myself to be brave, I stepped forwards.
The garden was thick with the dark. Keeping my eyes firmly on the path, I groped onwards, stopping only to listen. My breath. The rustle of leaves. The creak of a bough. A new sound – footsteps on the pavement. I crouched as a figure turned into the house next door. The doorbell rang. A rap on the glass. The light in their porch flared and Tom’s house lit up.
My throat went dry. The door and the walls were covered in giant red letters. Pervert, they said. Weirdo. Nutter. An upstairs window had been smashed in. The windows on the ground floor had been boarded up. Had Tom and his mother gone away? Hope choked inside my throat. But I wasn’t going to go home yet. Creeping down the path, I stood at the door; taking a deep breath, I leaned on the bell. Nobody came. I rang again and stepped back. I had to speak to Tom to find out what he’d seen. Next door, the light went out, but not before I’d seen the twitch of the curtains above me. I rang for a third time and the door opened.
It was Tom’s mother. A short, solid woman with grey hair and grey glasses and a face like a wizened orange. She stood blinking at me, whilst behind her, Tom hovered, his thin body stooping, his eyes large, like an owl, illuminated by the dim light that filtered from the room beyond.
There was kindness in the woman’s eyes. And something else. Fear? I snatched at the kindness as I asked her to let me in. But as soon as I was through the door the tears came. Hanging my head, I let them fall unchecked. ‘Poor child,’ said Tom’s mother, producing a handkerchief. ‘How can I help you?’
I took the handkerchief and blew my nose, pulling out words at last, trying to explain how much I wanted to know what had happened when Tom had seen Gabriella.
There was a pause, and then: ‘He’s innocent,’ she said quietly. ‘People accept that. Now.’
‘Can I speak to him?’ I glanced at Tom who was hanging his head. ‘I only want to know . . .’ My words faded.
‘You can try, child, but I don’t think he’ll reply.’
A car drew up outside. The engine stopped. A door swung open. Quickly, Tom’s mother pushed the door shut and we were left in the semi-darkness. I clenched and unclenched my fists. I wouldn’t be afraid. This woman was kind. Tom was kind. They would never harm me. Or Gabriella.
‘Where did you see her?’ I asked him quickly. ‘Was she in Acer Street like Mrs Ellis said? Was she with someone?’
Tom glanced at his mother. They exchanged looks and she answered for him. ‘He’s confused,’ she said. ‘He thought he saw a man. He thought he saw a girl.’
I nodded. I knew that already. Which was it? A man, or a girl? ‘What did the man look like?’
&n
bsp; Tom shook his head.
‘What about the girl?’
He shook his head again.
Now I wanted to grab Tom and shake the words out of him. Tom’s mother must have sensed my feelings because her look hardened as she stepped forward, blocking me. ‘You mustn’t push him, child,’ she said. ‘He’s too easily confused. But I know . . . I know he wouldn’t have harmed your sister.’
I bit my lip. I needed to speak to Tom alone, but his mother was herding me to the door, wanting me to leave. I allowed myself to be guided. It was only when I was on the doorstep that she spoke again. ‘I understand how you feel, child. I understand that you want to know, but my son has nothing to say. He’s told everything he remembers to the police.’
I stared at her, feeling the sharpness of my disappointment. I didn’t want to leave without learning something new. Closing my eyes, I imagined Tom and Gabriella passing each other in the street. I tried to picture her face. Was she friendly as she always was to Tom? Was she happy in those moments, looking forward to seeing me? I needed to fill in those blanks. Swallowing hard, I forced myself to ask: ‘Did Tom say she was smiling?’
There was silence and beneath the folds of her wizened skin her eyes glistened. ‘Please tell me,’ I urged. ‘Did Tom say if Gabriella was happy?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, child.’
‘What then? How did she look?’
But his mother wouldn’t answer. She only shook her head again and closed the door, mumbling that she was sorry.
A few days later, I found out that Tom and his mother had moved away, driven out by those in the village who hadn’t believed in his innocence, despite what his mother had told me. ‘Don’t worry,’ PC Atkins had said. ‘We know where he’s gone. Family in Colchester. If we need to, we can interview him there.’
But I’d had my chance. I’d never see Tom again which meant I’d never know how my sister had looked that day.
I went back to school three weeks after Gabriella disappeared. My friends surrounded me, pressing forwards, vying with each other as to who could get the closest, while Gabriella’s friends were shadows, barely visible, huddling in twos and threes. And Martha. She was on the edge of it all. Her face tear-stained, her eyes huge and watching. I turned my back on her. I had no time for pity.
The Missing Girl Page 17
