by Susan Moody
‘He comes down to Shale sometimes, just stays at a hotel, walks for miles across the dunes, and now he’s thinking of buying a place down here for weekends, just like me!’
‘Perhaps the two of you could buy one together,’ suggests Orlando.
‘Share it,’ I say.
‘Hold your horses,’ Erin protests. ‘I only met the guy this evening, and you want us to shack up together?’
‘Carpe diem,’ I say. ‘No time like the present.’
‘Changing the hugely fascinating conversation for a moment,’ Orlando says, ‘Julian’s remembrance of things past is rather different from mine.’
‘What’s even funnier,’ I say, ‘is his total inability to mention either Nicola’s name or the fact that she was murdered.’
‘Julian,’ says Erin. ‘Is that the bank manager guy?’
‘That’s right.’
‘He was kinda good-looking back when we were kids, apart from the zits.’
‘But not any more.’
‘I always mistrust a man who loses his hair too early,’ says Erin.
‘Why?’
‘They’re usually hiding something.’
‘Displaying it, I’d have said,’
‘Of all the prejudiced remarks . . .’ I add.
‘Whereas your friend Sasha,’ says Erin, while Orlando groans, ‘he’s got a really full head of hair, despite being almost twelve years older than I am.’
‘You got that far, did you?’
Erin snorts. ‘Come on, guys. Asking someone’s age is hardly any distance at all.’
‘When are you seeing him again?’ asks Orlando innocently.
‘Tuesday, we’re going to— Just a minute, what makes you think we’re meeting up again?’
‘I don’t know. Do you, Alice? Could it be the pretty flush in her cheeks?’
‘Or the fact that she can’t stop talking about him?’
‘Or the extra spring in her step?’
‘Or the song in her heart?’
‘What song?’
‘Some day my prince will come,’ croons Orlando, in his beautiful voice.
‘What about your princess?’ she retorts.
He ignores her, and the three of us harmonize happily as we walk home beside the sea.
As soon as we’re inside the flat, Orlando sits down at the piano and begins to play Chopin nocturnes. Erin drags me into the kitchen.
‘Listen,’ she says.
‘I am.’
‘Darling, honeybun Alice baby cakes, please, pretty please—’
‘What do you want?’ I say suspiciously.
‘I suggested that Sasha might like to come to lunch tomorrow. He doesn’t have to get back to London until the evening.’
‘Suggested?’
‘Okay, invited. I knew you wouldn’t mind.’
‘I see.’
‘I’ll do the cooking, I swear.’
‘No thanks. I’d rather do it myself.’ I smile at her. ‘Good thing I’ve some stuff in the freezer.’
‘And there’s the tart I brought, and some cheese leftover . . . we’ll have a feast.’
Sasha arrives at twelve-thirty. His face lights up when he walks into the sitting room. ‘This is amazing!’ he says. ‘Fantastic!’ He looks at me, ‘I cannot believe that I am here again. And there is the same piano. May I?’
‘Oh please,’ begs Erin.
I serve dry sherry before we sit down. There is something very pleasant about the four of us sharing this meal, especially now that my heart is no longer abraded by Sasha Elias. I try not to think of the time I have wasted on yearning for him. Or of the new abrasions which might be forthcoming.
‘How did you come to England?’ Erin asks him. The sun shines through her thick hair and throws a dusky light on her beautiful American complexion. ‘If you don’t mind talking about it, that is.’
‘It’s a long time ago. And I have learned to live with what happened.’ He looks round at us. ‘I wish also that I could forget, but I cannot. I imagine these ugly images will remain with me for the rest of my life, however long I shall live.’
Orlando and I exchange glances.
‘My cousin Dieter was sent to England in the late Thirties, by his mother, my Aunt Lena. She was a historian in the university and knew what the consequences of Hitler’s rise would be. My father disagreed with her, but she told him he had his head in the sand, like an ostrich. She told him that an old Jew had been beaten to death right outside her house two days before and the local women had watched, had laughed, had held up their babies to see. “What kind of people are these?” she asked of my father, and he said, “They are our people, we are all Germans.”’
Erin gazes at him, her mouth partly open. ‘We knew so little of this, in California, where I grew up. What did your aunt say to that?’
‘She said, “I am a Jew before I am a German, and I know the hatred they have for us. So I am sending my Dieter away before it is too late.” My mother refused to send my sisters, but in the end she allowed me to join Dieter.’
‘How did you two cope? Two young refugees alone in a foreign country?’
‘There were organizations to help such as we were. As for the rest, I will tell you some day.’ Sasha glowed at Erin, and the mark in his eye shone like an emerald.
‘What happened to your aunt?’ Orlando asked.
‘She ended up in Dachau, and survived. But she will not talk of those days.’ Sasha picks up Erin’s left hand and turned it so we could see the thin tendons, the veins running up towards her elbow. ‘She has a tattoo right here,’ he says. ‘Her number, put there by the Germans.’
‘How perfectly horrible!’
‘Every time I think of that, and the other things: the camps, the cattle wagons, the inhumanity, I am filled with a . . . a murderous rage.’
‘I don’t blame you.’
‘But let us talk of other, better things.’ He smiles at Orlando. ‘Last time we met you were going to America with your Musick Consort. Did that go well?’
‘Very well. We’ve just finished our time out there.’
‘And they were even invited to perform at the White House,’ I say proudly.
‘This is excellent.’
Erin begins an animated conversation with Sasha about some musical function they had both attended, not knowing the other was there.
‘Last time we met . . .?’ I frown at Orlando. ‘I thought you said you’d never come across him in London.’
‘I lied.’
‘Why? You knew I wanted to find him.’
‘Exactly.’
‘But—’ I look at him narrowly.
‘Alice,’ Erin interrupts. ‘We must talk about your new translation business.’
‘Which one would that be?’
‘The one you’re going to start like next Monday. I’ve got all sorts of contacts through the Embassy.’
‘And I could find several, also,’ adds Sasha.
‘So go for it, girl.’
It is not until towards the middle of the afternoon that the talk turns inevitably to Nicola.
‘Such a troubled girl,’ Sasha says. ‘In the end, I told her mother I would not teach her any more.’
‘What did Louise say to that?’
‘I was surprised. She shrugged, shook her head, said she was sorry but she could understand.’
‘Nicola spread some pretty nasty rumours about you,’ I said.
‘And that is exactly why I terminated the lessons with her.’ His sombre expression lightened. ‘How is your mother, Alice?’
‘Fine. She and my father are still living at the Mill House, but talking about moving, because it’s too big.’
‘She was a magnificent woman,’ Sasha says. ‘When I lived here, in this house, Mrs Sheffield was always very considerate to me. But your mother . . . she made me feel as though I belonged. For a refugee, this is so important. She lent me German books, helped me with my English . . . so very kind.’
‘Uno
rthodox, but wonderful,’ I say.
‘And how is Mrs Carlton?’
‘She died,’ Orlando says.
‘We were all absolutely heartbroken.’ I shift my cutlery about. The loss of Ava is still painful.
‘I remember that your mother invited me to your house, and Mrs Carlton was wearing the most beautiful pair of shoes, peep-toe, Italian leather, pre-war shoes, I imagine.’
‘I remember those.’
‘And her toenails were painted the same red as the geraniums my mother used to grow.’ Sasha fiddles with his knife. ‘I was so lonely then. I used to walk past your garden wall in the evenings, watch the two of you playing the piano and singing together. So sweet. It reminded me of my two little sisters.’ He smiles round at us. ‘Let us change the subject. Maybe Orlando, you or I could play the piano and the rest can sing.’
‘Play Muss i’ denn,’ I say.
The years drop away. This room, this piano, this man, this song . . . in my end is my beginning.
I am emboldened to put my hand on Sasha’s shoulder. When he leaves I shall give him the diaries, and he will take them away, he will free me. Instead of resenting the years I wasted in longing for him, I shall regard them as strengthening, as instructional. Beside me, Orlando harmonizes with me, as he has always done, and I take his hand, feel his strong fingers curl round mine, remember our childhood, and the happy memories.
Before Nicola came.
NINE
Two days have passed and I’m on my own again. I’d planned to go for a long hike this morning, all the way to the cliff head at the end of my view, then up onto the top and along to where I could catch a bus back to Shale if I feel too exhausted to do the return walk. But clouds lower just above the horizon, turning the sea a thick grey. Bristles of fine rain slant fitfully across my windows. The weather seems to have broken.
I make an alternative plan. I drive into the heart of east Kent, heading for the little village of Madden, thirty-two miles away, where Valerie Johnson’s parents still live, as I have discovered from the phone book. I know I am obsessed, but increasingly I wonder if the full-stop I have reached in my life might not be transformed into a mere comma, a semicolon, if only I could rid myself of Nicola for once, if not for all.
I’m not quite sure what I’m doing here, or what I plan to do. I can hardly knock at the door and say I used to be a friend of Nicola’s, just as their daughter was. Had she lived, she would have been more or less the same age as I am. Play it by ear, I tell myself. If nothing else, maybe a ghost or two will be laid to rest.
The village of Madden is quiet. And small. It consists mainly of a high street lined with handsome red brick Queen Anne houses or Georgian cottages. There are two or three larger houses set further back, but not many. I spot a chemist, a newsagent, two pubs and a small corner shop. A mobile library van is parked across from a small recreation ground. A broad flat stream flows from the surrounding fields, runs beneath the main road and emerges into more fields. Its surface is littered with reeds and mallards; a third pub sits on its banks, with a terrace overhanging the water.
There are two churches, one brick and Catholic, the Church of St Michael and All His Angels, the other grey stone with a square Norman tower. The churchyard is extensive and well cared for. I park in a nearby side street and walk in through the wrought iron gates. It is ancient and peaceful; holly bushes, yew and a couple of cypress trees add a suitable melancholy. I walk up and down the sandy paths until I finally find the plot I’m looking for. On a rectangular piece of polished black granite, words are carved in square-cut gold letters.
Valerie Anne Johnson. 1939-1951
beloved daughter of Michael and Maureen,
At peace with God.
There are fresh flowers – small pink rosebuds – in a metal vase. The grass around the headstone is neatly mown.
A wooden bench faces the grave. Is it possible for inanimate objects to exude misery? This monument to a much-loved daughter seems to cry out with pain; I imagine that the Johnson parents, Michael and Maureen, have spent hours and hours of their lives here, suffering, weeping. I cannot bear it for very long.
As I am about to leave, someone comes walking towards me. A man in a navy-blue raincoat, his head bare. He wears a blue-and-white-striped shirt with a black tie, and cotton slacks, and carries flowers wrapped in white paper. As he comes nearer, I can see that his hair is thin and white, his eyes a watery blue. Once he must have been a big man, but age has diminished him.
‘That’s my daughter’s grave,’ he remarks matter-of-factly, which explains the fact that he seems vaguely familiar. I must have seen his photograph in Ava’s scrapbooks.
‘She was very young,’ I say.
‘Eleven, going on twelve,’ he says.
‘How tragic.’
‘She was murdered.’ A shadow crosses his over-rosy cheeks.
Unless I tell him why I’m here, I will have no option but to pretend I know nothing about what happened, then turn and walk away.
I draw in a deep breath. ‘Mr Johnson, you don’t know me at all.’
He nods.
‘But Nicola – your daughter’s best friend – was my best friend too. Until she was murdered, too.’
‘I heard about that. Funny how things work out.’ He bends, a little stiffly, and picks up the metal vase. ‘I’ll take these home to Mother,’ he says. He hands the roses in the vase to me, their stems dripping water, then walks towards a tap which rises from the grass about ten yards away. He refills it, puts the fresh rosebuds in and replaces it on the grave, then wraps the original bunch in the white paper. ‘She loved pink, did our Valerie,’ he says.
‘I did, too. I was wearing a pink dress the night before we found . . . before Nicola’s body was found.’
‘I come here every single day,’ he says. ‘Sometimes twice. Mother doesn’t get out like she used to, so if it’s a nice day, I get her into her wheelchair and bring her along.’ He gazes sadly at the grave. ‘It doesn’t do either of us much good, to keep on hashing it all over. I suppose we ought to let it go, after all this time, but it’s all we have left of her.’ He starts to shake. ‘Our little angel,’ he murmurs. ‘Our little girl.’
I put my hand on his arm. ‘Mr Johnson, I’m so terribly sorry for you. I can’t imagine the pain you’ve endured.’
‘Nobody can. Not unless they’ve lost a child too.’ He looks at me, and a tear runs down his cheek. He doesn’t brush it away. ‘We often sit here, Mother and I, talking to her. She had so many plans . . . we still like to discuss them, even though none of them will ever . . .’ His voice fades.
I think of the two dead girls, all the promises unfulfilled, all the hopes snuffed out with two senseless acts of brutality.
Mr Johnson suddenly turns on me. ‘Valerie can’t mean anything to you. You’re not a journalist, are you?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Then what are you doing here?’
‘To be honest, I’m not sure.’ I twist on the bench so that I’m facing him. ‘I was one of the two children who discovered Nicola Stone’s – Farnham’s – body.’
He looks astonished. ‘It was children who found her?’
‘Yes. We were both a bit younger than she was, and—’
‘That’s terrible,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘That shouldn’t have happened.’
‘We can’t possibly pretend to be grieving for her,’ I explain, ‘but I think it’s true to say that neither of us have ever really got over it. Especially me. Since the two deaths seem to be interconnected in some way, I thought that maybe if I came here, it would help me to come to terms with it, help me get on with my life – because, quite frankly, I’m kind of bogged down in the past. Does that sound crazy?’
‘Not in the least. Maureen – my wife – and I are too.’
‘But with much more reason.’
He nods. ‘Look, would you like to come back, have a cup of tea, see Maureen? She’d enjoy the company, I dare say. Like I s
aid, she doesn’t get out a lot any more.’
‘That would be very kind of you, Mr Johnson. I’d like that very much.’
The house is in a side street just off the High Street, a comfortable brick cottage with a narrow front garden separated from the pavement by a low picket fence. There’s a little iron-trellised porch with wisteria climbing over it, and diamond-paned windows. A thatched roof is kept in place by chicken-wire netting. The front door opens straight into a dark sitting room which contains a sofa, a big television screen and a high-backed chair. There are low bookcases on two walls, containing twelve matching volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica, the works of Jane Austen bound in limp blue leather, a lot of magazines, a piano tucked under some steep stairs leading to the upper part of the house.
‘I’ll just go and put the kettle on,’ Mr Johnson says. ‘Like a biscuit with your tea?’
‘That would be really lovely,’ I say, overenthusiastically.
He disappears and I look round some more, though there’s not a lot to see. On the piano is a framed photograph of Valerie, a plain child with chipmunk cheeks and a shy smile, an enlarged version of what must have been her last school photo. Draped over the frame is a thin gold chain. The original hearth is still in place, but a modern wood-burning stove has been fitted into the inglenook. There are some watercolours on the walls, simple but promising, which I guess were done by Valerie. There’s a portrait of Valerie painted in dreamy sort of pastels, wearing a soft white dress and the gold chain round her neck; she looks ethereal and unreal. I suspect that it was commissioned after she’d died.
‘Here we go.’ Mr Johnson reappears with a tray holding a teapot and three cups and saucers. There are biscuits on a matching plate.
‘That looks great,’ I say. ‘My favourite biscuits.’
‘Chocolate digestives. We always have them – they were Valerie’s favourite too.’
Suddenly we hear a voice from some back part of the house. ‘Valerie? Is that you, Valerie? Where’ve you been, you naughty girl? We’ve been so worried.’
‘It’s all right, Mother.’ Mr Johnson raises his voice. ‘We’ve got a visitor.’
There’s a pause. Then the voice says tiredly, ‘I don’t want a visitor, I want Valerie.’
