The Missing Girl

by Jenny Quintana

  Mrs Green asked me to go to her office. I perched on the leather sofa reserved for visitors while she sat at her desk. She took off the glasses she wore on a chain, polishing them with a cloth, leaving them resting on the shelf of her bosom, before picking them up and cleaning them again. She kept clearing her throat and restarting her sentences. ‘I’m so sorry, Anna . . . We’re so sorry, Anna . . . The whole school is so sorry . . . We’re all devastated . . .’

  I waited while she pulled out a handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her nose. She tried again. ‘Will there be . . . ? What do your parents feel about . . . ? A memorial service might be . . .’ She stopped.

  I stared at her. ‘A memorial service?’

  She rubbed her glasses vigorously. ‘A service to remember—’

  ‘I know what a memorial service is.’ I spoke loudly. For a moment, I had the feeling I was outside of myself, looking down, and I marvelled. Who was this girl with the broken glasses and the grubby socks speaking so rudely to the head teacher she’d barely had the nerve to glance at in the past?

  ‘We could have one at school,’ she said, finally finishing a sentence.

  ‘My sister isn’t dead,’ I retorted.

  ‘I’ll speak to your parents.’ She shuffled a pile of papers on her desk and looked away. ‘In the meantime, I hope . . . Please ask if . . .’

  I left the room.

  There was no memorial service. I knew there wouldn’t be. My parents thought the same way as I did.

  As well as Mrs Green, all the teachers, even those who’d never taught me, wanted to talk. Each of them had a different way of doing so. Mr Riley, the sports teacher, with his bluster. Miss Davidson, who taught geography, with her kindness.

  Teachers stopped me, pulling me from corridors into empty classrooms to offer me advice or to ask me how I was coping. Some of them spoke in low tones about loss and uncertainty, never once mentioning Gabriella by name, their words spinning in circles. Others were silent, communicating only with sympathetic smiles, passing over me when they collected in homework, or asked for shows of hands. Perhaps they thought if they spoke they’d remind me of the terrible thing that had happened. If they were silent, I might forget. And they could too.

  Soon, though, the attention stopped, and the hollowness inside me grew. Like the reverse of a cancer, it was an empty place, a chasm, pushing aside my organs, squeezing my heart into a smaller and smaller space, until I wondered whether it was there at all. I longed for a voice to fill that void, to shout at me, to tell me to sit up straight in class, to demand my overdue homework, or to touch my arm and say, I miss Gabriella too. Nothing happened. It was as if I didn’t exist, and worse than that, as if my sister had never existed either.

  In December my policeman came back. I was glad to see him in a funny kind of way. He was like a comfortable sadness with his mournful eyes hiding so successfully in the folds of his skin.

  I listened outside the kitchen door. Dad talked too fast, complimenting the police on their persistence, their doggedness, their determination to find the culprit. Then came the excuses; the reasons why Gabriella hadn’t been found. I pictured Dad silent now, with his head bowed and his arms slack. Mum was crying, a soft, persistent sound.

  ‘There must be something you can do,’ Dad said.

  ‘We’re doing our best. We haven’t given up.’

  ‘But you can’t stop searching. Please. Tell me what else you can do.’

  Covering my ears with my hands, I ran to my room. Where was Gabriella? Why didn’t she come home? Wild theories marched through my mind. She’d self-combusted. She’d burst into particles and not one trace could be found. She’d run away to be a dancer in Russia. She was hiding out in a nunnery. She was a scientist in Antarctica. Each thought I had, I rejected, just as each path I’d followed trying to find her had come to nothing.

  Outside, the wind lurked around the house, prising at the windows and the doors. I pulled out a notebook and wrote a heading, Suspects, and then Edward Lily’s name underneath. But I didn’t know what to write after that. Dad had said he was innocent, but why was he so sure? What if Edward Lily had hidden Gabriella in his cottage, or was, right now, trying to persuade her to leave and go with him to Spain? Or was she already there, learning flamenco, falling in love with dark-eyed gypsy boys? Or was she outside in the cold, longing for me to find her? Like Cathy in Wuthering Heights. Only Gabriella wasn’t a ghost. I refused to believe that was true. And why would Edward Lily want Gabriella anyway? I shook away the obvious. Stories about kidnapped girls. The things I’d read in newspapers. The things people said.

  My thoughts roamed back and forth as I picked through my theories, until finally, I threw the notebook down.

  It was late evening by the time I emerged. Mum had forgotten to give me tea but I didn’t care. Brave since my midnight trip to Tom, I grabbed the parka from its peg and went into the garden.

  The wind had blown itself out now and the sky was black and clear. The damson tree hunched in the moonlight like a tired old man, gnarly branches hanging as if it had given up the fight. I felt that way too, as I stood there shivering. In the distance an owl hooted; closer, a small shape zigzagged past. There was movement in the laurel bushes. The night animals were hiding, alert to intruders. Gabriella had never cared about danger, never been afraid. So what? I heard her saying. I’ll do it if I want to. Nothing frightens me.

  ‘Please God,’ I whispered as I listened to the crack of the damson tree, the rustle of leaves, tiny paws on broken twigs. ‘Please God, if anything happened to my sister, please say she wasn’t afraid.’ And as I thought of God I wondered, if she had died, had she been lifted upwards, taken to a different place, to heaven, like they said at church?

  But when I looked up at the vast, dark sky, I couldn’t contemplate my sister being lost there. It wasn’t possible. I went back inside.

  23

  I leaned forward in the chair in Rita’s living room and waited for her response.

  ‘It’s Gabriella,’ I said.

  No need to explain. I could tell from Rita’s face that she knew. Still, she studied the portrait I’d thrust into her hands for a moment longer before she handed it back and asked me where I’d found it.

  ‘In Edward Lily’s things.’

  Two spots of colour burned, one on either side of Rita’s face. And now I understood. She knew the truth. Rita had been my mother’s confidante; the keeper of her secret. And she’d tried to warn me – but not hard enough. In the churchyard, she’d hinted that my parents had hidden something and I should be forgiving. I hadn’t realised what she’d been trying to say, but now I did. And acceptance tipped into anger.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me he was Gabriella’s father?’ I said, my voice hissing as I spoke. She shook her head and there were tears in her eyes. I gritted my teeth. ‘Where did they meet?’ As if that detail mattered.

  She spoke quietly, her face still flushed. ‘In Edward’s shop.’

  ‘What shop? In Spain? My mother didn’t live in Spain. Or did she? Is that something else I never knew?’

  Rita shook her head. ‘Edward had two shops, one in Seville and one in London – Piccadilly. Your mother worked in the office there. They fell in love.’ She gave a small, regretful smile as she spoke.

  I stared, incredulous. Rita spoke so calmly as if it was a simple fact. As if no other complications mattered. ‘But he was married.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So why . . . ?’

  ‘His wife, Isabella . . . It wasn’t a happy marriage.’

  I looked away. It was no excuse. ‘Why didn’t he leave her, if he was so in love? And what about when Mum fell pregnant?’

  Rita grimaced as she glanced away. It was a guilty gesture. ‘He didn’t know, did he?’ I said.

  She shook her head. ‘Not at first.’

  ‘Mum lied and stole his child?’ I said, accusing.

  ‘It wasn’t like that. It was considered . . .’ Rita stopped and took a br
eath. ‘Your mother was advised not to tell him.’

  ‘Advised?’ I said, raising my voice. ‘Who by?’ But it was obvious. ‘Grandma Grace. It was her, wasn’t it?’

  Rita nodded and I visualised Grandma Grace with her determination and control, orchestrating the plan. Keeping her daughter away from an unsuitable married man with a suicidal wife and finding an uncomplicated, hard-working alternative. I imagined the scene. My good-looking, good-natured father arriving the morning after the storm. Grandma Grace offering him tea and then dashing up the stairs, two at a time, hauling her daughter from her bed, where she lay languishing, not because she had a stomach bug, and was too ill to work, but because she was suffering from morning sickness.

  My grandmother had created the story about how they’d married in a whirlwind of love and romance. I pictured her sitting in the hard-backed chair telling the tale each time with more detail. She’d told it so often she’d begun to believe it herself, while the rest of them, her husband, my father, my mother and Uncle Thomas, had been complicit, staying silent, knowing it was a lie. And Rita. Had Donald known too? Had it only been me who had been deceived? Gabriella and me. And then just me.

  I took a breath, trying to contain my resentment. Even after Gabriella had disappeared, nobody had told the truth.

  ‘Did she love my father?’ I said after a while.

  ‘Esther?’ Rita looked surprised. ‘Yes, of course. No question. Your mother made a mistake with Edward. She was young and he was handsome. Albert was the best thing that happened to her. He knew about the baby but he loved her anyway. They both wanted the same thing: a steady life, a family.’ She looked away and it occurred to me that perhaps that was what Rita had wanted too. Or maybe she’d been glad to lead the uncomplicated life that she’d had. No secrets of her own, she’d been free to guard the secrets of somebody else. And she’d done that brilliantly, I thought bitterly now, and left me completely in the cold.

  I forced my mind back on track. ‘So they agreed to deceive Edward Lily. When did he find out the truth?’

  Rita closed her eyes. For a moment I thought she was going to refuse to tell me. But she rubbed her temples and began again. ‘Edward contacted your mother. He was going to leave Isabella. She told him she was married with a child and that there was no future for them. He guessed, or she told him the truth about the baby. In any event, he agreed to leave her and Albert alone. Perhaps he felt guilty.’

  ‘How old was Gabriella then?’

  ‘She was a baby.’

  The christening bracelet – silver inlaid with green stones. It matched the necklace and the ring. Had he sent it to Mum as a farewell gift? And yet he’d returned. Why had he done that?

  ‘If he’d agreed to stay away,’ I said slowly, ‘why did he come back all those years later? What happened to change his mind?’

  ‘Isabella died. Lydia was ill. I suppose that’s what drove him to reclaim Gabriella.’ She fell silent. I wondered how much she knew and how much she was guessing. But the fact remained, Edward had come back.

  A shiver ran through me when I thought about the timing. Three months after Edward Lily had arrived in the village to claim his daughter, she’d disappeared. Tragic coincidence, or something else? But the police had interviewed him and they’d searched his cottage. And my father had said categorically that Edward Lily was innocent. He must have been sure. I wondered if the police had known that he was Gabriella’s biological father.

  Rita nodded when I asked her. ‘Your parents told them.’

  ‘Is that why he was exonerated?’

  ‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘He had an alibi. He was with your mother for most of that day.’

  I looked at her, startled. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s not what you’re thinking. It wasn’t like that. Their affair was over. Your mother was trying to convince him to leave the village. She knew Gabriella would find it hard to forgive her. And she thought it would be easier for you all to move forwards if he wasn’t there.’

  I shook my head in disbelief. ‘She lied to Edward Lily. She lied to Gabriella.’ I paused. ‘And so did Dad. Do you think they would have told her the truth themselves one day?’

  ‘I think they would have done. Only Edward took that chance away from them.’

  When had he told Gabriella? How long had it been before she disappeared? Scenes chased through my mind – the arguments with my parents; Gabriella’s anger when she ran from the room on Dad’s birthday. And then other thoughts – packing the suitcase; my sadness as she told me she would leave. And the letters. ‘Edward Lily wrote to my mother, didn’t he? You were the one who found the envelope on the mat. You said it was from church. I knew you were lying. It was from him, wasn’t it? What did it say? Was he threatening to tell Gabriella the truth?’ I spoke angrily, but I didn’t care. I wanted to wound Rita. To make her feel guilty.

  ‘Not threatening,’ she said, holding up her hands as if to defend him. ‘Edward wasn’t like that. He regretted giving Gabriella up. He begged Esther to let him see her.’

  ‘And when she refused? Did he write to Gabriella too?’

  ‘Yes. The police found that letter. But it was irrelevant because Edward had been cleared.’

  I hunched forward and spoke deliberately, allowing my hostility to seep through. ‘You said Edward was with Mum for most of the day. What about after that? He could have persuaded Gabriella beforehand to go to the cottage straight from school. He could have been planning to meet her there and to take her away. And then, when she refused . . .’ I closed my eyes, not bearing to think anymore.

  But Rita was shaking her head. ‘I don’t believe that. Nor did your parents, or the police.’ She looked at me directly. ‘Do you?’

  I didn’t know. Common sense told me the police must have investigated Edward Lily thoroughly before they dismissed him. I looked around the room, at a loss for what to say next.

  The room was surprisingly modern. Abstract paintings covered one wall. Bright blocks of colour. Despite Rita’s reliability, she was unpredictable. A contradiction. Perhaps that was why my mother had liked her. Rita appealed to the part of her that had been lost when she’d married. When she’d given up Edward Lily. The real romance of her life.

  Now Rita took off her glasses with a sigh and rested them in her lap. Without them she looked much older and I felt a pang of guilt at the way I’d spoken. It wasn’t her fault. She was my mother’s friend and she’d been loyal throughout her life. Still, she’d deceived me and I didn’t know if I’d ever forgive her for that.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me the truth when the clearance began?’ I said finally. ‘There was no one to stop you, no reason not to make things clear.’

  ‘I suppose I was afraid,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want you to think badly of Esther.’

  I thought about this. Here were new character traits I hadn’t associated with Rita. Vulnerability. Indecisiveness. Perhaps I could understand that. So much pressure with all those secrets. But still I wasn’t certain why Mum had accepted the clearance in the first place. Why would she have taken on the aggravation for a man who’d caused her all that trouble in the past? My mind reverted to my original thought. It had been her way to access Edward Lily’s life, to discover if he’d had something to do with what happened to Gabriella. By the time he died, he’d been back in the village for almost a year. Maybe she’d had cause to be suspicious. It must have been a strange time for them both.

  I broached the idea with Rita. She lowered her eyes as if weighing up whether to tell me or not. ‘They forgave each other,’ she said finally.

  I hadn’t expected her to say that. ‘But he ruined her life.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t do that, Anna. Not exactly.’

  Her chastising tone, her denial, made me bristle. ‘No, but he messed it up pretty badly. How could she forget that?’

  Rita looked at me as if I was twelve years old again and she was my mother’s friend, raising her eyebrows
at something I’d done. ‘That’s what people do when they get old,’ she said. ‘They see no point in being hostile, not when there’s nothing to be gained.’

  I was about to answer resentfully when I thought about it again. I tried to see it from my mother’s point of view. Perhaps forgiveness had been the only way to make sense of all that had happened. It was something she had the power to do. ‘Did she go to his funeral?’ I said eventually.

  Rita nodded. And I felt my resentment collapse. My mother had been going through all of that while I’d been in Athens caught up in my own selfish life. If only she’d told me. I might have helped. If only Rita had stepped forward before.

  ‘She must have guessed I’d find out eventually.’ My voice was full of reproach. ‘And you. Why didn’t you tell me when the clearance began?’ I asked again.

  Rita looked away. She had no real explanation. And I wondered if I ever would have discovered the truth. If I hadn’t found the portrait, who would have told me? Everyone was dead, apart from Rita. Maybe Rita would have kept quiet forever and I would have gone back to Athens knowing nothing about Gabriella and Edward Lily.

  I should have been angry with my parents and yet, my anger was dispersing. Secrecy had been natural to their generation. It was how things had been. Parents didn’t tell their children about illegitimacy, mental illness, divorce. It was their business, not ours, and who was I to say otherwise.

  ‘I’m sorry, Anna,’ Rita said. ‘I really am. I didn’t know what I should do. Old secrets. You get used to them.’

  I sighed and looked at the portrait. Now I didn’t see it as something fearful. It was only Edward Lily loving his daughter enough to draw her picture.

  And yet it bothered me. Why wasn’t there other artwork in his house, or art materials? It seemed odd. And if Edward hadn’t drawn the portrait, who had? Rita had offered no suggestions either. I looked across at her paintings. Rita: well-organised, efficient, in control. Yet contradictory, unconventional too. Brought up in a family of butchers yet beautiful and elegantly dressed. A churchgoer. A reader of crime novels. Single. No children. An artist. What else was there to know about Rita?