Losing Nicola

by Susan Moody

  I push them aside. Not now, I think. Wait. Wait . . .

  Already I can see Aunt’s house – our house – deprived now of the Virginia creeper which once covered it with glossy triangular leaves that turned apple-red in autumn, though the house next door is still painted white with Wedgewood blue trim. The other houses along The Beach look exactly as they always did, almost unchanged since I was last here, though I can see doorbells now, neat piles of them beside the noble front doors, indicating multiple occupancies.

  There are estate agents’ boards here and there, clapped against the brick front-garden walls. And one of them . . . I stare, I for a moment grow still, while fate, destiny, chance, smiles . . . one of them is at Number Fifteen, where Mrs Sheffield once lived – and for all I know, lives still.

  ‘Up, up . . . and now down, down, down . . .’ The words are clear in my head. I smell his aniseed breath again, feel his warm hands on mine. Sasha Elias. It’s so many years since we met. What happened to him, I wonder? Where did he go? What is he doing now? Why didn’t he find me?

  I walk rapidly over the grass, slide between the gap in the municipal railings and cross the road. FLAT FOR SALE the board announces. The office of the selling agent is five hundred yards up the road and I almost run to it, push open the door, rush to the desk as though afraid someone will get there before I do, although there is no one else in the place.

  ‘You’re selling a flat along The Beach,’ I say. ‘Number Fifteen.’

  ‘Yes,’ says the greasy young man behind the desk. ‘First floor.’

  Destiny has not faltered. I had been certain it would have.

  ‘Spacious lounge with magnificent sea views,’ he recites, rising to find the details in his filing cabinets. ‘Two bedrooms, separate kitchen-cum-dining room, bathroom with separate WC, plus convenient bedroom three or study.’

  ‘I’d like to have a look at it.’

  He opens a ledger, runs a finger down the pages. ‘Our viewing agent’s booked up all day today. And tomorrow. We could squeeze you in on Friday.’

  ‘I need to see it now,’ I say.

  He shrugs. ‘Sorry. No can do.’

  ‘I’ve got to go back to London tonight,’ I lie. ‘I’m looking for exactly that kind of flat.’

  He shuts the book. ‘There’s no one else available to show it. Sorry . . .’

  ‘It’s a minute’s walk from here,’ I say. ‘Couldn’t you close the office for ten minutes and show me round yourself?’

  He starts to shake his head.

  I lean on the desk and push my face towards him. I use the aggressive firmness I’ve learned over the years in the States.

  ‘Look, I’m a cash buyer,’ I say, checking the points off on my fingers. ‘I’m familiar with the place – a friend of mine used to live there – so I already know what it’s like. My time is extremely limited. Are you going to show me this flat or am I going to write to your parent company and tell them you refused to do so, and missed a sale out of sheer inefficiency?’

  Because of some neediness in my expression, or perhaps simply fearing for his job, he finds a piece of paper and scribbles something on it. He stands up, takes a set of keys from the board behind him, and walks to the door. Turning the OPEN sign round so it reads CLOSED, he wedges his sheet of paper behind it. 2:23 pm, it says. Back in 20 minutes. ‘You’ll get me shot,’ he says.

  Two minutes later, we’re standing on Mrs Sheffield’s former doorstep and he’s wrestling with the key in the damp-swollen front door. The salt-tarnished bull’s-head knocker is still there. The letter-flap, also tarnished brass, has some leaflets for a local restaurant sticking out of it. The paint is faded and cracked by the sun.

  ‘Who owns the place these days?’ I ask.

  ‘Some old lady,’ he says carelessly. ‘She’s moving to Brighton, so she’s had the place converted into flats. Actually, I think she’s into property development. Lot of money to be made in that. Wish I could get started on that myself.’

  ‘Really?’ I try not to sound sceptical. ‘So the owner’s still in town, is she?’

  ‘Just about. She’s renting a place in the centre, at the moment, while she sorts herself out. These days nobody can afford the upkeep on big old places like these.’ He manages to get the door open and we step into the front hall.

  The paint is bright, the patterned tiles shining, there is a fine oak table in the hall and a couple of watercolours hang from the walls, but the smell is much the same. I breathe in the fusty odour of damp and stone and salt, unchanged since I stood there, that last summer, my leather music case in my hand. I follow the agent up the stairs and wait while he fumbles with the key to the first floor flat.

  ‘Are any of the other flats sold?’ I ask.

  ‘The one on the ground floor is. A couple from London. They use it as a weekend place, not a permanent residence.’ With a flourish, he stands aside and waves me in. ‘And there’s been quite a bit of interest in the second and third floors.’

  ‘But no sale?’

  ‘Not as such,’ he agrees reluctantly, as though he has in some way been found wanting.

  I walk in, and there it is, Sasha’s room, the same in almost every particular. The same view, the same smell – is that really a hint of aniseed? – the same copiously-carved marble fireplace, even the same velvet curtains, looped back with faded red ties.

  ‘How much is it?’ I don’t really care. I’ll pay whatever he asks.

  The price he names seems unexpectedly cheap. ‘I’ll take it,’ I say. I have no alimony, nor would have expected any, my former husband being in every respect the injured party. But I was able to earn handsomely in Michigan, and Allen, guilty in his own way, has given me an unasked-for settlement in lieu of my share of our house and furniture.

  ‘Don’t you want to see the rest of the place?’ He leads me towards the back of the flat. ‘Nice light kitchen,’ he says. ‘Big enough to double as a breakfast nook. Reasonable bathroom.’ He sees my expression. ‘Might want to upgrade one of these days,’ he says quickly. ‘And of course, a terrific master bedroom, plus one smaller one. Not forgetting the . . . uh . . . study.’

  ‘I’ll take it.’

  He looks at me doubtfully. ‘Um . . .’ he says. Is it drains or unlooked-for ingress of water that worries him? Is there a right of way through the flat of which he should warn me?

  ‘I’ll buy it,’ I repeat, more firmly.

  ‘Well,’ he says. ‘I’ll put your offer to the owner.’

  ‘It’s not an offer. It’s the asking price. I’m prepared to pay it.’

  ‘I . . . um . . . I have to pass it on to her. I can’t just accept it without consultation.’

  ‘It’s not Mrs Sheffield, is it?’ I ask.

  He looks panic-stricken, as though some inviolable rule has been broken. ‘We’re not supposed to . . . How did you know?’

  ‘I used to live down the road,’ I say. I have no doubt that my bid will be accepted. ‘Tell her I’m Fiona Beecham’s daughter.’

  ‘Fiona Beecham,’ he repeats, but I’ve wandered to the bow window and am looking out at the sea. There’s the flint-stone lifeboat house. There’s the sailing club. In the front garden to the right, there’s the Baldwins’ flagpole; in the one to the left, Major de Grey’s magnolia tree, just as they always were. For the first time in years, I am in a place where I feel a possible sense of belonging. I need this flat, I must have it, this is where I want to be, where I have to be if I am to regain possession of myself. To forget. To reunite myself with innocence.

  It takes two months for the sale to go through, despite the fact that I have money in the bank and am ready to hand it over to the vendor right then and there, a whole suitcase full of cash, should the need arrive. In the hope of hurrying things along, I travel down from London having made an appointment to see the manager of the Shale branch of my bank.

  I’m shown into one of those neutral cells that banks favour, furnished with a blond wood desk on four iron legs, two c
hairs and a cardboard rack stuffed with brochures advertising the financial services the bank offers. There is a window, but it’s set too high in the wall to see out of. When the manager appears, he is tall and overweight. His skin has an unhealthy sheen and his fair hair is receding at a rate, which, at his relatively young age, must surely worry him.

  He is, to my intense surprise, Julian.

  ‘Do you remember me?’ I say, as he sits down across the desk from me. ‘Alice Beecham?’ I hold out my hand.

  ‘But it says here . . .’ He looks down at my married name then smiles. ‘Good Lord, so it is! How extraordinary! How are you, Alice? What are you doing here?’

  I explain.

  ‘I can’t get over this!’ he exclaims several times. ‘I never expected to see any of you again, especially not after . . . not after . . .’ He stops and we stare bleakly at each other.

  ‘Did they ever find out who . . .?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Unsolved mysteries of our time.’ His face creases. ‘If I remember correctly, you and . . . erm . . .’

  ‘Orlando.’

  ‘Ah yes, of course, Orlando . . . you actually found her, didn’t you?’It’s obvious that he remembers perfectly, both who discovered her and what our names are, though I can’t see why he should pretend otherwise. I nod. ‘I’m amazed that you’re still living here.’

  ‘So am I.’ He leans towards me across the broad desk and to my surprise, his eyes are welling up. ‘Do you know, I think about her just about every day. Not just her, but the . . . what happened to her. I suppose that’s partly why I haven’t moved on. At least, I did move on, obviously, school and so on, and joining the bank, up in London. But when this position came up, I jumped at it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Good question. I don’t really know. Unless it was a way of getting back to . . . to a time when everything was so much simpler. Or seemed it. Do you remember old Strafford-Jones, the bank manager here when we were kids?’

  ‘Yes. His son, at least.’

  Julian shakes his head. ‘Never, even in my most downhearted moments, did I see myself in the same position as him. Yet here I am. It’s like being stuck in a time warp. As though she . . .’ He stares at me across the desk, ‘. . . she – or what happened to her – stunted me in some way.’ His expression is grim. He seems much older than his . . . I take a moment to calculate . . . his thirty-five years. ‘Emotionally, or something.’

  ‘Julian,’ I begin, ‘Do you . . .?’ I want to ask if he has any idea who might have killed Nicola but the question is too vast for this lifeless little room, with gulls flying across the viewless window and a dusty plastic rubber plant in the corner.

  ‘Is that what’s brought you back here?’ he asks. He seems uneasy. ‘Are you hoping to make sense of it all or . . .’ He laughs unconvincingly, ‘. . . or even find out whodunnit?’

  ‘I’m not a private detective.’

  ‘No, but someone who was there, who knew the people involved, might have a better chance of finding out what happened than the police, don’t you think?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘I mean, I’ve been interviewed at least four times over the years. I’m surprised you haven’t.’

  ‘I was once,’ I say. ‘Over the telephone. I suppose nobody could find out where I was living. But, moving to other matters, you look prosperous enough, Julian. Are you married?’

  ‘Yes. A couple of years ago. No children as yet.’ Again he leans forward. ‘You know who else is still here?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘David. Remember him? He’s with Makepeace & Thring, the solicitors in King Street. Married Mary Arbuthnot, would you believe?’ Again he laughs. ‘There’s a couple of others from the old days. Small world, isn’t it?’

  Small, I wonder, or simply stopped in its tracks by the events of twenty years ago?

  ‘Now . . .’ Julian spreads papers in front of him. ‘About the matter you came to discuss . . .’

  While I wait for my flat to go through, I have several further conversations with the agent, whose name, I unwillingly learn, is Gary. He rings me in London to tell me that there’s a bit of damp on the chimney-breast; Mrs Sheffield wants me to be aware of this, though I can tell from his voice that he thinks she’s mad.

  ‘Caveat emptor,’ I can hear him telling her, supposing he knows the phrase. ‘That’s her problem, not yours.’ And Mrs Sheffield, not just the product of a more honourable age but a former friend of my mother’s, insisting that I be told.

  Another time, he rings to say that there is an outhouse at the back of the property, assigned to Flat Two, and Mrs Sheffield is sorry but she hasn’t cleared it out yet. If I could deal with it, she’d be happy to take the cost off the purchase price. ‘For goodness sake,’ I say, ‘tell her not to worry. I’m buying the flat as seen. I can manage to clear an outhouse.’

  ‘More of a coal-hole,’ says Gary.

  ‘Whatever it is, I’ll handle it.’

  He telephones again. ‘The grand piano,’ he says. ‘The vendor wonders whether you want to keep it. Otherwise it’ll have to be taken to the auction rooms in Canterbury. Not that she’s likely to find a buyer – nobody has room for things that size any more.’

  ‘Does that include the piano stool?’

  He rustles through some papers. ‘As far as I can see, yes.’

  ‘How much does she want for them?’

  ‘Actually . . .’ He sounds disgusted. ‘If you want to keep them, they’re included in the price.’

  Finally the flat is mine. I’ve already been able to have it painted throughout with faint sea-greens and blues. The bathroom has been retiled and modernized with a high-speed shower as well as a new bathroom suite. The kitchen, too, has been refitted, more in keeping with my acquired American tastes. The faded red-velvet curtains have been changed for floating white voile, the floors sanded and waxed, the knobbly grey carpets replaced with good rugs.

  I have had business cards printed, a paper-boy delivers the daily newspaper, the milkman calls each morning. I am anchored down here.

  I travel light these days. Nearly all my possessions were disposed of when I left England to live in Paris and then moved on to Michigan. Leaving the States, I was disinclined to bring back anything that might remind me of my pointless marriage, so all I have are books, one or two treasured pictures, a few snapshot memories.

  Apart from them, I possess nothing beyond a few items which once belonged to Aunt (three pairs of heavy linen sheets from Harrods, still in their original wrapping; nine silver spoons; a sandalwood-lined cigar box full of beads; a green glass jar; the Canon’s woodcut-illustrated translations from the Hebrew of the Old Testament, a Wedgwood dinner service). There are also odd bits and pieces, things that Fiona has lent, given or dumped on me (‘Aunt’s books, darling, there are some rather fine first editions, the Canon was something of a bibliophile.’) as well as other books I’d left with Orlando before I went to France.

  I find myself hiring a car and trekking round the stores in the area to buy essential furniture, kitchen equipment, cleaning things. It amazes me how much has to be purchased in order to set up even the most basic household. But eventually I have the promise of sofas, chairs, a dining table, a chest-of-drawers. I even have a bed, the department store happy to sell me a slightly battered floor model, and, for a price, to deliver it immediately. The people in the flat below have lent me a card table until my new possessions arrive. I can use the music-stool as seating until then.

  Resting a hand on the polished top of the Steinway, I wonder what made me so eagerly agree to keep it. I play not very much, not very well. Yet sitting at the keyboard, playing songs and hymns to which I accompany myself, or running through the music of my youth, I recognize happiness creeping between the gauzy white drapes – or, if not happiness, then at least contentment – and my hands grow unaccustomedly nimble until notes pour effortlessly from my fingers. Chopin, Schumann, Schubert, Mozart; I am deep into nocturnes, fugues
, divertissements which I scarcely remember learning. I einem bechlein heller, I sing, looking out at the blazing sea.

  The silk oriental rug I bought in a fire sale in Montreal hangs on the wall. Mrs Sheffield’s handsome India-paper editions have long ago been removed from what has become my sitting room, but the shelves remain in place, solid mahogany still edged with remnants of scalloped gold-stamped leather. I have been collecting similar copies for years – Jane Austen, Dickens, Hardy – and now at last they stand on shelves worthy of their leather bindings, their gold-tooled covers and gilt-edged pages. There are many second-hand bookshops in the town and it will be a pleasure to browse at leisure, filling in the gaps in my library. And there are still Aunt’s ‘very interesting’ books to go through; I pick up a few and find either racy thrillers from a bygone era, or gloomy collections of the Canon’s sermons, neither of which will be taking pride of place on my shelves. I have spent several hours unpacking my own books, placing my dictionaries, my reference books, paperbacks and poetry, in an orderly fashion in the bookcases.

  I half-expected to be lonely but find quite the opposite: that I am full, sated with my new life. For the moment, at last, I need no other company than my own.

  My family rallies round to help me move in. Dougal, my eldest brother, now a GP in Shropshire, arrives in his sleek Volvo, his wife Krista sending flowers, a home-baked cake, bath-salts, but unable to come herself since she has flown to Vienna to visit her mother. Orlando is there, of course, as he always is, and always will be. Callum is with us, too, a rare treat since he lives now near Adelaide, and has acquired that lean outback appearance that so many Australians have, as though their eyes are fixed on distant horizons while they count innumerable sheep. Bella comes, driving down from London, leaving behind her husband and two young sons. Even my youngest brother, Bobby, who has grown rich on laundromats and coffee-bars, and lives with his fourth wife in permanent exile in the Channel Islands, sends down a couple of men in canvas aprons who have shifted my few possessions into the flat and departed before the rest of us have finished greeting each other.