Killing The Girl

by Elizabeth Hill

  Who is Lisa? I wondered.

  Doors closed and silence resumed, but just as I judged it safe to leave, the door rattled and Celia asked, ‘Is anyone in there?’

  ‘Me. Be out in a minute.’ She’d be leaving soon, and I would have to concentrate on waving her goodbye. Maybe this sleeping with one another was acceptable and forgivable. Maybe I should aspire to be in a higher class where immoral behaviour is normal. As long as he didn’t leave, as long as I could stay. Facing her with a smile was the best attack.

  ‘Morning, Celia. Are you packed and ready to go?’ She’ll see I’m the mistress, I told myself. She’s a nobody here. This is our home.

  The reality of our situation registered and her grin disappeared. She was only a distraction, nothing more. She pushed past into the bathroom.

  ‘I’m going back to bed for a while to wake Frankie.’ I giggled and turned away. ‘See you in an hour or so.’ Shutting our bedroom door on her, I crawled in beside him, careful not to touch him.

  They could make their own breakfast for a change.

  Chapter 21

  Tuesday, 18 August 1970

  The morning light filtered through the curtains as I woke to find myself alone again in our bed. It was only eight o’clock, but Frankie’s side of the bed was cold. Celia had gone home, though, so I could relax. Nausea stirred me. The day would be grey as the forecast was rain. The garden needed some to freshen the flowers and stop the grass browning.

  A car was approaching along the lane. The awful thought that one of them had returned crossed my mind. Getting out of bed, I held my stomach and crossed to the window. A taxi pulled up and waited with its engine idling. The front door opened, so I stood on tiptoes to peer down. The top of Frankie’s head bobbed into view. The taxi driver got out and opened the boot. Frankie walked to it and dropped in three suitcases before getting into the passenger seat. The taxi pulled away.

  As the car disappeared, I was afraid to move, afraid for time to carry on ticking in the relentless way it did. The stairs jolted through me, each step towards what I’d refuse to acknowledge.

  The early sun cast a glow through the clouds onto the trees opposite, bathing them in an ochre light. I watched from the front door as the sun’s beautiful rays tripped through the branches. Had he told me he was going somewhere? Had I forgotten, during these last few busy days? He must have left a note, a reminder. This side of the house was cold. I shivered as I closed the door and headed for the kitchen. Glancing around, a feeling of uncertainty that I was alone assailed me: a sense that Celia had returned to collect her missing things – things that included Frankie. The thought that he had gone after her lingered as I swung about peering into the shadows and opening doors. He couldn’t leave me, this house, our life, our future. He must be visiting his parents to tell them about me. He must be planning something: a surprise; a long overdue engagement ring.

  As I filled the kettle, I remembered the clothes he’d emptied from the wardrobe yesterday. He’d said they were old and needed to go in the bin. I’d persuaded him to give them to the charity shop and had packed them into his suitcases. What he called old and out of fashion would suit someone short of cash just fine. I’d laughed and said he’d have nothing left to wear. He had run his fingers through my hair and said that he didn’t need anything to wear when he was with me. Then he took me back to bed and made love to me so perfectly that we cried.

  There was an envelope on the kitchen table. Only a coward would leave a letter. Frankie was not a coward. Tearing it open with shaking hands I could barely read his writing. He said he was going back to London, and then to France with his friends. He couldn’t live with me anymore. He wanted his old life back.

  Well, that was fine, I told myself. He needed some time alone. He’d soon miss me and come home. He loved me, and he loved Oaktree House. The pair of us would draw him back. I’d keep the house nice and wait for him to come to his senses.

  The burnt note dropped into the bin.

  Perry arrived earlier to deadhead and weed, both of us thankful that he could sort the garden before it became unmanageable. The money Thora had left in the cash box had gone so I couldn’t pay him. He’d have to wait until Thora returned, and having to tell him that was embarrassing.

  My freshly washed hair smelled divine. Celia should have looked harder for her shampoo; I’d stored it with the bleach under the sink. There was a bottle of her perfume on my dressing table; she wouldn’t miss it. Her cashmere jumper had been hand-washed along with her pale mauve silk dress and silky blue negligee. She was careless with her things – but then, she could afford to be.

  His parents might know where he was but his address book wasn’t in the dresser drawer. Before I could think what to do there was a a loud knocking on the door. He was back! Running down the hallway, I threw open the front door. But it was Perry. He shuffled from one foot to the other as though he was about to burst out laughing.

  ‘Do you want lunch? I have plenty of food.’ I smiled and opened the door wider to allow him access.

  ‘No, thanks. Been home for lunch.’ He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked into the hallway. ‘Dad had a message from Thora.’

  My heart sank; she must be coming home. ‘What is it?’

  ‘She wants the house locked up. So you have to leave. She says Frankie has left.’

  ‘He’s gone home for a few days, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s not what Dad said. He said Frankie has left.’ A smile played around his lips.

  ‘What does it matter? I’m living here.’

  Perry drew in an exasperated breath. ‘But you shouldn’t be here. You must leave now that Frankie’s left you.’ There was a look of malicious triumph in his eyes.

  ‘Frankie has not left me. He’s gone to his parents’.’

  Perry held my gaze and hooked his thumbs into his pockets, rocking on his heels. ‘Frankie is going to France with those friends. Then he’s going back to university in September. In London. That’s what Thora told Dad.’

  ‘But that’s not …’ My grip tightened on the front door. Before I could protest, Perry cut in. ‘Thora knows more about what Frankie’s doing than you do. Pack your things. I’ll bring the car round at six and run you home.’ He walked away shouting, ‘Don’t be late.’

  Tears pricked my eyes as I slid to the floor and rocked myself on the hallway rug. Perry was lying. How dare he speak to me like that? Frankie had better come back and wipe that smirk off his face. I needed to find him quickly, so I rushed into the study and frantically scanned through Thora’s address book until I found Frederick and Catherine Dewberry’s number, and dialled it.

  ‘Hello, Blanchard Place.’ A young woman had answered.

  ‘Hello. I … need to speak to Frankie.’

  ‘Frankie? He’s not here, Miss. Who’s calling, Miss?’ She spoke slowly, enunciating each word.

  ‘It’s Carol. His girlfriend.’

  A muffled noise, and then, ‘Who? Not another one! Give me the phone. Hello. Who is this?’ The woman was older, her refined voice natural, but annoyed.

  ‘Hi, um, hello, I’m Carol. Frankie’s girlfriend.’

  A long sigh. ‘Frankie has lots of girlfriends. Who did you say?’

  ‘Carol. We’ve been living in Thora’s house since May. His Aunt Thora's house.’

  ‘So you have been with him. Ha! I didn’t think he would be living there on his own. Celia’s mother mentioned something about a girl. What do you want?’

  ‘He was on his way to visit you. Just wondered if he’s there yet as I need to speak to him.’ The lie burns my face, and a tremor runs through my hand. She’s rich and powerful.

  ‘Visit us? I’d be surprised if he did.’

  ‘Well, um … can you give me the telephone number and address of his digs? I’ve lost them and must contact him urgently.’

  ‘My dear, I cannot do that.’ A mocking laugh cackled in my ear.

  ‘But I’m his … fiancée. We’re engaged.’
/>
  ‘Engaged?’ Her voice had risen in pitch and panic. She was going to send someone here. The police, to arrest me. ‘I doubt you’re engaged to Frankie. What on earth has he been telling you, because – well, it’s not my place to say. I’m not getting involved. We’ve not long found out ourselves that, um, so there will be trouble. And I can do without it. I can’t help you.’

  ‘But I must speak to him.’

  ‘You’re not … you’re not pregnant, are you?’

  ‘No! I mean – I don’t know …’

  A continuous purring tone signalled the end of more than my call.

  Chapter 22

  Friday, 21 August 1970

  Living back home with Mum was horrible. She went out with Mr Philips most nights and slept over. So much for keeping yourself whole before marriage. Sarah was staying with her Gran in Ireland. I missed her. I missed Frankie.

  Matthew’s van pulled up outside. He carried Chrissie along the garden path; his strong arms held her close as he kissed her cheek and rubbed her nose with his, making her giggle. It was eight thirty. Matthew had dropped her with his mum every day since he split with his last girlfriend. I opened my front door.

  ‘Hi, Matthew.’

  He looked around. ‘Hi. Didn’t know you were back.’

  ‘Only temporarily. Hello, Chrissie. Haven’t you grown? Isn’t she just the sweetest darling?’

  ‘Yes. And she knows it.’

  ‘Shall I take her while you fetch her things?’

  ‘No, it’s okay. We’re fine.’

  ‘It’s no bother. I can … oh, that’s my phone. I’d better go.’ My heart sang as I rushed in. Please be Frankie ... After a delay, a voice said, ‘Carol?’

  ‘Frankie! Darling, where are you? I’ve been so worried.’ My breathing failed to match the gasps I drew.

  ‘I’m in France with the others … listen …’

  ‘What are you doing, Frankie, disappearing like that?’ I had a vision of Celia and gripped the handset.

  ‘Carol, listen … I don’t have much money.’ The line crackled. ‘Don’t phone Mother.’

  ‘Well, I don’t need to now, do I? Tell me where you are and the phone number. And when you’re coming home. I’ll meet you.’ I grabbed a pen, my hand sticky.

  ‘I’m not. I’m not coming back to Oaktree House.’

  ‘What d’you mean? Oaktree is your home. Why won’t you? What about Auntie Thora? She needs you. She’s dying. She needs us to take care of her.’

  ‘I’m going back to London. Listen, Carol –’

  ‘Okay. I’ll come with you. Then I won’t have to move to Mr Philips’s house. I wasn’t looking forward to that. But London, Frankie! Wow! Great!’

  ‘No, Carol. I don’t want you to come to London. Didn’t you read my letter? Please understand that it’s not working for me – oh, my money’s running out. Please don’t phone my mother.’

  ‘But Frankie …’ The line bleeped, and a continuous tone droned in my ear.

  He didn’t know what he was saying. He’d be back. Thora was dying. She needed both of us to take care of her. He’d be back when he came to his senses.

  But as I filled the kettle, the pretence evaporated. Everything he’d said to me was a lie – a line he’d spun to get me into bed. How dare he treat me like this? How dare he disregard my feelings and use me, and then cast me off like some outdated shirt. I smashed the kettle into the sink. I was pathetic: too poor, too mundane, too boring. He wanted to travel. He craved things I couldn’t give him. I wasn’t good enough. Smash, smash, smash. Blood dripped from my hand forming cloudy patterns in the dregs of water in the sink. They swirled and spun, a dizzy river winding in a maelstrom. As I stared at it, a vision of Glastonbury Tor appeared. We stood entwined, new, together. He’d fallen in love with me as we’d walked through its mystical healing atmosphere. Help would be in that place of spells and magic and charms – help from a higher source, from a fortune-teller, someone with magic. I had to go back to the beginning, make him mine again. A medium or a witch would help me charm Frankie. They must not fail.

  Thora’s car sat in her garage. Her house keys were in my bag. The signs were on my side. It was fate. The heart on his necklace gave me strength and the charms on his earrings cast an aura of magic to shoo away any bad omens. Frankie must return, no matter what I had to do to make it happen. Somehow, I would make my dreams come true.

  Chapter 23

  Monday, 24 August 1970

  My bed was the only safe place. I lay under a sheet, unable to rest without the tight comfort of my cotton tomb. The August sun sweated through and dehydrated me. I couldn’t leave, afraid that more misfortune would manifest should I venture out of my confinement. Psalm twenty-three rapped through my head, and each time I lost my place in its mesmerising chant I had to repeat those holy words or risk the Devil visiting me. This ritual would place a charm on my father’s house and protect it. The place where my dad died would not have another family living in it. Mum must not marry Mr Philips. Mr Philips must jilt her at the altar when my dad returned to take his rightful place, once again, as husband and father. Dad would ensure that I would not be made homeless or left at the mercy of a stranger who, at a whim, could cast me out. None of my brothers would let me live with them. I hated them all. My life had ended.

  Hate, hate, hate.

  The Lord is my Shepherd.

  The day before, a mystic called Ruby Silver had clinked and chimed around me as hundreds of fine silver bangles shimmied from her wrists to her elbows. Some were jewelled or fashioned like snakes and other animals. Chiffon cascaded from her head to the floor, and as she moved she glided through the smoky atmosphere of joss sticks and musk, impervious to the air that caught my throat in an acrid claw.

  She took my hand and sat me in her chamber of dreams and showed me how to take back control of my life. Putting a halt to my powerless state by the laying on of her hands, she spoke of the unknown authority that was trapped within me, waiting to set me free. I possessed power in my physical and intellectual being, but I needed to take control to overcome disaster. A serious assessment of my life and my place in the universe was required.

  A crystal ball sat in the middle of the table, sparkling with glorious beams of future joy. After clearing the mists within the precious orb, Ruby Silver told me that she saw my life stretching out to infinity. She said there were many obstacles to overcome to find my path. But when she told me that a man was not a necessity in life, she corrected herself on seeing my distress. The universe was listening. My heart’s desire was a breath away, just beyond my grasp. Whatever I wished for, I could attain. Frankie’s love. Oaktree House. Everything. The gifts he had bestowed upon me, the necklace and earrings, were love tokens that captured his desire and spirit. I was the holder of these talismans, and they had to remain on my person forever. Believe in my future, picture my dreams, and most of all, desire them above all else. The power to make things happen was with me. Marriage, children, even the world, were there to take.

  Her books of spells were too expensive, but she assured me that faith in her would be sufficient. She could see the truth; she had seen the future for thousands of people. My part was to believe in myself.

  This morning I awoke traumatised and bereft. My power had gone, my dreams were now nightmares, and my future was too big to grasp in my insignificant hands.

  The letterbox rattled, stirring me from my bed. A letter lay on the doormat. The stamp was foreign. It had to be from Frankie, writing to tell me that he was returning, as Ruby Silver predicted. Frantically I tore it open.

  Dear Carol

  Catherine (Frankie’s mother) informs me that you’re pregnant with Frankie’s child. I can’t believe this after the warning I gave you. I’m coming home to sort this out before you ruin your life. I urge you to abort it. I have arranged for an excellent gynaecologist to carry out the procedure: Celia’s father. You will be in safe hands. I’ll pay for your travel to London, and a private room, etc. He a
ssures me your fertility will not be affected, so you will have children when the time is right.

  Please believe me when I tell you Frankie does not love you. Frankie only loves Frankie. He has many ‘girlfriends’. I don’t doubt that you believe you’re in love with him, but you have no experience of men like him. Your family are loving and protecting, and are honourable people. Do not make the mistake of thinking Frankie is like your brothers, or your father – he most definitely is not. Frankie abandoned you because his parents threatened to disinherit him should he continue a relationship with a girl from ‘the working classes’.

  You must continue with your schooling. Erik Schmidt brought your work to me. He let slip that he was ‘nurturing your talent’. I’m sure you can guess how we know each other. Frankie told me that he’d warned you what Schmidt is, but thankfully you already knew before I needed to intervene. Anyway, I can see you have talent so please believe in yourself and go to university. You will make an excellent interior designer. I’m prepared to leave you enough money to cover your education. As you’re aware, I’m dying of cancer; I’ll alter my will for you. Time is of the essence. But this money will not be available if you keep the child, or if you continue your relationship with Frankie.

  Unfortunately, Frankie has gathered some information on Schmidt from my confidential files, and he’s blackmailing him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he tried to blackmail me, too (although he’ll have to hurry up!). Did you know that Frankie’s father and I used to work together at Maytree Hospital? That’s why I’m Frankie’s godmother, although he calls me Aunt.