The Lost Girl

by Carol Drinkwater

  Her mother signed her autograph with a flourish and handed Kurtiz the cheque.

  Twenty thousand pounds.

  Kurtiz stared at it, nonplussed. ‘Mum, I can’t take this. It’s far too generous. It’s … it’s yours.’ She pushed the slip of paper gently back across the table.

  ‘Kurtiz, I was there watching, a small child, while my mother – God rest her soul – struggled to bring me up alone. No father to bring home a wage. Nothing but a photo of a dead soldier, a war hero. Dead at twenty-two. She lived on that memory all her life, fed off it, sucked at it. And she died having had no life, no real love besides that of a ghost. I want you to take this, keep it for yourself. You never know what might happen.’

  ‘Oliver is not a ghost. I know it was tough for you and I’m sorry for you and so sorry about Nan – I’ll miss her horribly – but Lizzie has a father. We’re a family and a happy one. This is very generous but unnecessary.’

  ‘The film business is a fickle friend. Be a good girl and do as I tell you. We want the best for you, Kurtiz.’

  Back in London, seated at the wooden table in the kitchen, Kurtiz found the cheque secreted in one of the inside pockets of her shoulder bag. Her mother had folded it within a sheet of her eggshell-blue stationery. She unfolded the note, marvelling at her mother’s extravagantly scrawled handwriting.

  Dearest Kurtiz,

  Don’t be stubborn. I insist you take this. Think of yourself, please. I want that for you, and so does your father. Spend it and enjoy it. Come and see me again soon and bring Eliza. She is a delightful little girl. You are doing so well with her.

  Love Mum x

  It was a greater sum of money than Kurtiz had ever possessed. In fact, she had never even come close to such a figure. She found it a little terrifying and knew she should put it against their mortgage. After all, the house was in both their names and Oliver had paid more than the lion’s share of everything. Was it fair of her to refuse it when she and Oliver could make good use of it? She left the cheque lying on the table and, while Lizzie was at school, busied herself with mundane chores, wishing that she, like Oliver, was filming.

  Oliver was recording the narration for a documentary, a nature film for the BBC. Not really his cup of tea, but the money was good and it filled a slot between two TV jobs. He was working in studios on Old Compton Street. Afterwards, he and Kurtiz had planned to go to the theatre. They had been given two complimentary tickets to the Gielgud in Shaftesbury Avenue. One of his pals had just opened in Brief Encounter.

  On her way to meet him for a quick drink before curtain up, Kurtiz strolled by a camera shop in Wardour Street. She was early and paused, drawn to its window display of top-of-the-range still and movie cameras. Her mind was elsewhere, thinking about her mother and the loss of her nan, but before she knew it she was inside the shop. The interior smelt of linseed oil. She strolled the deep aisles, not really conscious of what she was looking for until she found herself standing before a presentation of digital camcorders.

  A young salesman was at her arm. ‘This is the XL1 Canon. Do you know its features?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘The broadcast quality is very fine. It was carried on the space shuttle as the NASA official digital camcorder,’ the salesman said. ‘Are you looking for professional purposes, or home videos? If professional, I can show you something very special. New to the market with an excellent depth of image.’

  ‘I’m just browsing.’

  ‘But you are interested in movie cameras?’

  Was she? And then she had a light-bulb moment. She had no real notion about working with cameras, but she loved cinema. She had always been drawn to images, to photography. With the gift from her parents she could afford any of these, and even if all she did was put together albums or short films of Lizzie growing up, how bad would that be? It would keep her occupied, give her an artistic challenge before she drove herself insane filling washing machines and emptying hoover bags. An album of photographs as a present for her grieving mother. Why not? She had been given the opportunity to make this happen. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’

  Later that evening, after Oliver had gone to bed a little the worse for too much wine over their late supper, she pulled the cheque out of its envelope. First thing the following morning, after she had dropped Lizzie off at school she deposited it at the bank.

  Kurtiz returned to the camera shop and purchased a top-of-the-range stills camera, a Canon Powershot G1; an extravagance that both thrilled and terrified her. It was a neat, potent possibility. She was not even sure that she would master its technology, was all fingers and thumbs, so taking advice from one of the salesmen, she enrolled in a camera-operating course in central London. When that was achieved three months later, with Oliver’s blessing and a howl of surprise, she applied for the director’s course at one of the London film and television schools. On the strength of her stills photography she was accepted. From the cash that remained, she kept back two thousand for herself and paid the rest against their mortgage.

  Did she intend to try to create a career out of this? In the interim, she was filling her time with building a library of stills. She enjoyed the stills work more than the moving pictures and thought she might get herself an apprenticeship with a portrait studio or fashion work. Nothing came of either. Her best achievement was the Lizzie Photo Album, a Christmas present for her mother, who was, not surprisingly, thrilled to bits and determined to see Kurtiz expand the opportunities further.

  Oliver’s television career was growing quiet. His face was over-exposed, claimed Sam, his agent, who, according to Oliver in one of his many rants, seemed more excited by younger clients.

  ‘You need a more up-to-date look,’ Sam advised him. ‘Let’s try you in another market. Younger character actors, rather than leading roles.’

  Financially things were becoming tight. Neither Oliver nor Kurtiz had a regular income. So, she offered to take the portrait shots of Oliver for casting sessions and Spotlight, the actors’ directory. The photographs well defined a ‘new look’. They were grittier, less airbrushed. Sam, delighted, called on Kurtiz to shoot several other clients, which made Oliver irrationally bad-tempered. Kurtiz just laughed at his foolish jealousy.

  On his many free days, instead of going to the gym he hung around in the pub on the corner of the street. Or he’d head off into town and stay out to the small hours before rolling home drunk. He became irascible, and on one occasion he missed a casting session because his agent couldn’t reach him. From her portraiture earnings Kurtiz bought him a Nokia 3310. The first mobile phone either of them had owned.

  Still the rows escalated and grew more fraught as their debts dug deeper.

  Once Kurtiz had seen Lizzie off to school, she spent her mornings firing off emails, then trudging the West End agencies depositing samples of her work, until she managed to secure herself an agent. From then on, opportunities began to open up for her.

  During the three months Kurtiz had been signed with her new agent, Oliver had still not landed the dreamed-of film role, not even a short stint in the theatre. Their mortgage payments were six months in arrears and the bank was less than reasonable. Sleepless nights and days of bickering and accusations had ensued. A few royalty cheques popped through the letterbox. Their arrival was a godsend. Still, it was on the strength of those envelopes that Oliver had justified his status as ‘an actor still capable of earning his own living’.

  ‘Why don’t you get a temporary job?’

  ‘I’m an actor.’

  ‘Yes, well, so was I till I gave it up.’

  ‘But I didn’t give it up, KZ, and that’s the difference.’

  Paris, 14 November 2015

  ‘I can’t get through. The line is constantly engaged.’ Kurtiz replaced the receiver on its cradle in Marguerite’s living room. She was rubbing at her damp hair with a borrowed towel, refreshed by the shower she had taken, grateful for the kindnesses this stranger was offering her. She stepped
towards the TV screen and turned the sound up.

  ‘Five times the usual rota of staff are working flat out. Everyone with medical training has been called in to assist. The hospitals are charged beyond capacity.’ Cut to a shot of ambulances drawing up outside a hospital. ‘Doctors are in short supply. All beds occupied. Every operating theatre is ablaze with light and emergency teams, fighting to save lives. The stock of blood in all hospitals is low. Blood is being flown in from other cities. Military reinforcements are arriving from various ports throughout France. And the wounded are still arriving. Bodies are still being recovered.’

  The screen showed queues of people in every direction. Bodies being transferred on trolleys rolled speedily through the sliding doors of A and E, bottles of emergency blood held aloft by medics running alongside wounded patients. Was Oliver in one of those operating theatres right now? Once she’d had some tea, recharged her phone, she’d get going, make her way – somehow – from one hospital to the next.

  ‘The Métro has been closed and will remain so throughout the day. All public events, sports meetings, school outings, demonstrations, have been cancelled. The country is on red alert,’ Marguerite called through from the kitchen.

  Kurtiz was on her haunches now in the hall, rummaging through her bag in search of her phone charger, tossing clothes onto a growing pile at her side. Once located, she pushed it into the wall with an adaptor from three-pin to two. The screen lit up briefly to display the zigzag icon that assured her it was charging. She dug down into her bag again in search of paracetamol. The flat gave off a keen smell of herbs, eucalyptus and mothballs, and it was exacerbating the dull ache in her head. She could hear the clink of spoons against china in the kitchen. Two things: she had to determine which hospital was treating Oliver – was his condition deteriorating? How long did she have? – and if there had been a response from Lizzie to her tweet. And – yes, okay, three things – the message from Alex. Was he in Paris?

  Marguerite called, ‘Once we have ascertained which hospital is caring for your husband, I’ll drive you there.’

  ‘Thank you, you’ve already been very generous. I’ll just grab all this lot and be on my way.’

  ‘To where?’

  Good question.

  ‘Kurtiz, there is no other method of transport. I’ve told you, the networks have been shut down. The earliest any will start up again will be tomorrow.’ Marguerite was now arranging the cups and teapot on a tray. ‘Do you take milk?’

  ‘Yes, I do, very English, I know.’ She smiled gratefully at the actress who, even at this hour and after a night of dozing in a chair, presented herself with barely a hair out of place and clothes uncrumpled. But how tiny she seemed in her slippered feet, so vulnerable without her jewellery and mink to bolster her. Kurtiz estimated that she must be well over eighty. On how many previous occasions would this plucky old bird have stayed up all night?

  ‘And what of your daughter? No news?’

  Kurtiz shook her head. The lump in her throat was tantamount to a wedged bullet. ‘I can’t even be sure she attended the concert. I’ll have to wait till Oliver regains consciousness to know for sure … Or if her body …’ The air drained out of her, deflating her.

  Marguerite frowned, puzzled. ‘I had understood they were attending the performance together?’

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  Marguerite waited but no further information was forthcoming. Her unexpected guest was a difficult nut. Emotionally bruised, was her assessment, just as she had once been. ‘Sit down. Try to relax. Let’s call the number you were given. They flashed it on the screen. I jotted it down somewhere …’

  ‘I tried it less than five minutes ago.’

  ‘Well, we’ll try it again.’ The old woman looked up from pouring the tea and smiled the smile that lit up her handsome lived-in face. ‘I’ll dial it.’ As she rose from the pot and cups on the round coffee-table, she paused. ‘These circumstances couldn’t be more ghastly, more horrifying, but I’m glad they have brought us together. I feel connected to you as though we’ve been friends for a long time.’

  Kurtiz bit her lip.

  ‘I’d like to help you. If you feel the need to unburden yourself …’

  Kurtiz folded the damp towel and shifted awkwardly in her chair.

  ‘Oh, you broke your watch?’

  ‘When I fell.’ She’d get it repaired. ‘It belonged to my grandmother.’ She thought of her dear old nan, who would have been about the same age as Marguerite, if she were alive. She still missed her. ‘You’re very kind. I really appreciate it. Thank you.’

  ‘I am exceedingly pleased to be able to offer you some assistance, and more than relieved that you are not out there on the streets, trying to unravel this mess on your own. There, now, shout me out the number as I dial it.’

  Which was what Kurtiz did. The line was still engaged. Eventually, after several attempts, Marguerite was requested by a recorded voice to press one for the option to hold or put the receiver down and try again later. ‘We’ll hold,’ she said, with a bullish air. ‘And we’ll keep on holding till they answer. Drink your tea. And then you can tell me all about your daughter.’ Kurtiz glanced down at her cup. ‘And your husband. What does he do?’

  ‘He’s an actor.’

  ‘No!’ The old woman clapped her hands with animated glee, almost letting the receiver fall. ‘Hello? Hello? Oh, yes, bonjour … Yes, indeed, thank you. We are trying to locate an Englishman who was wounded during the Bataclan raid yesterday evening … His name?’ She swung her body towards Kurtiz.

  ‘Oliver Ross.’

  ‘R-O-S-S. Yes, that’s right.’ A glance back to Kurtiz. ‘I don’t recognize his name. Should I have heard of him? Does he work in the English theatre, or – Yes, hello?’

  Kurtiz sipped her tea, relishing its burning sensation as it slipped down her throat, which was as dry as sandpaper. The bitter aftertaste of sickness was washed away by the over-sweet liquid. She watched the woman opposite her, studying her, while wondering how much of the truth of her own life she was willing or capable of disclosing. She had kept her remorse locked away for so long. Then a glance towards the hall reminded her: how long before her phone was sufficiently charged for her to be able to collect her messages? Might Lizzie have seen her tweet? If so, would she make contact?

  ‘They will call back as soon as they locate him. Now, please try to rest a little. Together, we’ll get through this God-awful night.’

  ‘You were telling me about your husband earlier. I’d like to hear some more.’

  Marguerite broke into a smile. ‘You mean Charlie? Dear Charlie.’

  Marguerite and Charlie, La Côte d’Azur, 1947

  Le Rêve, the villa belonging to Lady Celia Jeffries, was a secluded property set in its own spacious grounds on a promontory east of Cannes, hidden from the winding coastal road. To reach it, Marguerite and Charlie took the train to Antibes and then, an extravagance, a taxi-cab. It followed a labyrinthine route round a cap, which led eventually onto a stony track. As they rode into the grounds, the car was flanked by cypresses and palms, at the feet of which were clusters of flowering thread-leaved irises. Banks of purple-blue. Like cosmic-sized pupils. Each uplifting its gaze to a deep-blue heaven.

  ‘A thousand pairs of Marguerite’s eyes growing by the sea,’ remarked Charlie.

  Fashioned in the belle-époque style, the house faced directly out towards the Mediterranean and Italy; a south-easterly aspect. To Marguerite and Charlie’s unsophisticated perspective, it was a mansion of grandiose dimensions standing three storeys high. It was wide too, like a giant lump of white sugar, with dark green shutters flipped open at every upstairs window. They climbed curved stone steps and Charlie pulled on a heavy bell chain.

  A plump maid in uniform with a cap perched carelessly atop her hair opened the door and greeted them formally, disdainfully. Lady Jeffries was making her afternoon telephone calls and would not be available to meet them until ‘the cocktail hour’, they
were informed. Her orders were for the new staff to settle themselves in.

  Warily, they stepped inside. Everywhere smelt fresh, clean, of mint and lavender. The hallways and corridors were bathed in tiptoes of sunlight where it had crept in through cracks in the closed shutters. Displays of striking flowers flowed out of tall crystal vases. Marguerite was shown to her room, which was modest but boasted two tall windows that dropped to the floor. It faced out across a sweep of pine and palm canopies towards the emerald water. One pair of the French windows opened onto a tiny balcony. She stepped outside into a world of calm and stillness. Beneath her, buried from sight by fronds, someone was watering plants and whistling. She heard the soft barking of a dog and a man’s voice talking in caressing tones to the creature. A light breeze floated up from the blue-green-drenched sea. Lemon, olive and pine trees mingled with the scent of roses wafting through the midday air.

  ‘This is magical,’ she cooed, but no less than she had dreamed of. A perfumed land where film stars resided. She stretched out her arms, embracing her new existence. ‘And I will too.’

  Lady Jeffries was a socialist, she confided, over a glass of Campari and tonic later on, a great fan of Léon Blum – ‘A fine politician and recent but short-lived President of the Temporary Republic. A Jew of sound mind and courage who in 1936 passed a bill that gave paid holidays to the French working classes. Two weeks a year. I adhere to that policy and you will both be given two afternoons off every week plus every Sunday and one Saturday in three to do exactly as you please.’