Losing Nicola

by Susan Moody

  I’m thinking back. I’m remembering noticing Nicola talking to some man, not Edwardes now, but someone else. The past is refashioning itself in my mind. It must have been Johnson, twenty years younger, his hair still dark back then. ‘Did you ask her where she got it?’

  ‘She said she’d got it from a good friend. It was the way she said it, that’s when I knew for certain that it must have been her all along, that evil little she-devil. It wasn’t her father who strangled Valerie, it was her. And what’s more, she knew I’d cottoned on to her and she didn’t give a damn . . . sorry, sorry, shouldn’t use language.’ Emotion chokes him and he presses thumb and forefinger to his forehead.

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I wanted to grab Valerie’s chain – I just knew it was Val’s – off her throat, but I didn’t. Too many people about, for one thing. So I just nodded, said it was nice, said I had to get back, even said, God help me, that Mother sent her love. And in the car on the way home, I decided that one way or another, I’d get it off her.’ He coughs. ‘For Valerie’s sake, you see. It seemed only fair.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  He sips at his coffee. ‘I overheard the young people – that’s you and your friends, and Nicola – talking about a party you were having a few nights later and since Mother was out playing cards that evening, I drove over with Minnie – my dog, that is. I’m not quite sure what I expected to do, really, but I was that upset and angry . . .’ His voice breaks.

  I get up and refill his cup with coffee. There is so little I can do to help him. The events of twenty years ago blister him now as much as they did back then.

  ‘I kept peering over the wall round your front garden,’ he says. ‘And then there was a point when that Nicola was alone, out on the lawn, and I decided that was the chance I needed. I called her name – softly, mind – and she looked up and saw me, grinned that triumphant way again. So I pushed at the gate, started to open it and come up the drive, when I saw an old lady up at the window, watching me. Didn’t want her calling the police or anything, so I walked round the corner. Still kept an eye on the house, though, and then later, I saw the girl set off towards the cliffs, so I followed.’

  ‘Did you know where she was going?’

  ‘I had a sort of idea, because I’d been up there before, seen her doing . . . well, disgusting things with some man or other. I wasn’t bothered about that, though. I just wanted to get Val’s chain back, she had no right to it, I couldn’t bear seeing it round her wicked neck. And then this young lad passed me, started walking along with her, she was teasing him, leading him on . . . you know . . . and then when they got up to the cliffs, she pushed him away. Told him to get lost.’

  I nod.

  ‘He lashed out at her, and she fell down. Swearing, he was, really upset, and who can blame him? I was standing behind some brambles, and when he’d run off, I stepped out and said “I’ll have that chain, thank you,” and reached out for it.’

  ‘Was she surprised to see you?’

  ‘If she was, she didn’t show it. And I said, “It was you, wasn’t it, it was you as killed her.” She laughed at me, said, just you try and prove it, and something – I know they all say this, but it’s true – something snapped and I . . . I hit her, smashed my fist into her face, and it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t nearly enough, and I looked around for a stick or something and there was a golf club lying on the grass – don’t know why – and I picked it up, started hitting her with it.’ He buries his head in his hands and again I touch his arm.

  ‘I just intended to hurt her,’ he says, his voice muffled, ‘but then all the rage and the sorrow, Mother’s broken heart, and mine, I don’t know, I just couldn’t stop. She always looked so innocent and all the time she had such a black heart. And there was our Valerie, so sweet, so good, our only one, gone forever.’ He begins to sob. ‘Oh God, I didn’t mean to, I really didn’t mean to kill her.’

  There’s nothing I can say. I stroke his hand, the lumpy veins, the liver spots, the arthritic knuckles. Compassion for his wasted life brings tears to my own eyes.

  He looks up at me. ‘I’d have gone to the police then and there, but I looked around and I realized that no one had seen what I did, and in any case, Maureen – Mother – needed me. So I . . . I picked her up and . . . I . . . uh . . . I threw her in among the brambles, then I got the golf club and drove back to Madden. Mother was still out, so I’d got time to change out of my . . . there was . . . blood, you see. I burned them on the bonfire, bit by bit. Mother never knew.’

  It occurs to me that when the news of Nicola’s murder filtered through, she might have had her suspicions, but I don’t say anything. ‘That’s good,’ I murmur.

  He pushes himself upright. ‘I’m going now, to give myself up. I just wanted to let the Farnhams know, first. I thought they were the only people who needed to hear this but I decided I’d best come and see you too, when they told me that you’d been having . . . difficulties.’ His voice skates over the word, embarrassed by the possibility of mental instability or psychological problems, both of them likely, in his vocabulary, to be euphemisms for madness.

  ‘What purpose will be served by you going to the police now?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s only right.’

  ‘Haven’t you suffered enough already?’

  He smiles faintly. ‘Justice has to be seen to be done, isn’t that what they say? I’ve got to take my punishment.’

  ‘I’d have thought that you’ve been punished enough.’ I can see that with this confession, his purpose has come to an end.

  ‘There’s the other thing.’ His hands twist together. ‘I should have said earlier . . . Mother died last week.’

  ‘Oh dear, I am sorry.’

  ‘It was for the best, really. She’s been ill a long time. But you can see there’s nothing to stop me from giving myself up now she’s gone.’

  ‘Think about it first.’

  ‘I’ve thought of little else for twenty years,’ he says. ‘And anyway, without Mother to care for, I haven’t got much else to live for.’

  We shake hands formally. At the door of my sitting room he stops and looks at the decorated table, and I imagine he’s remembering that pink rosebuds were Valerie’s favourites. From my window, I watch him climb into an old Hillman Minx, its chrome gleaming, its bodywork shining. The badges of various motoring organizations are fixed to its polished grille. I wonder how many times over the years he has cleaned the car, washed it down, chamois-leathered it, an ordinary man taking pleasure in doing the best job he can, as I imagine he has done with everything in his life. A good man, the salt of the earth, and as he drives away, I am weeping for his sad life, and all his empty years.

  He can have no idea of the burden he has lifted from my shoulders.

  And then, across the green, I see Orlando. He is looking up at my window, and I wave at him as he comes towards me. The sun glints on his silvered hair. Behind him lies the peacock-blue of the sea, above is the richness of the summer sky. The boats in the yacht club gleam as though freshly varnished; the chrysanthemums in the garden below my window are copper, apricot, flame, crimson, the magnolia leaves a brilliant jade green. Next door, in the Major’s flowerbeds, marguerites, like miniature suns, nod against the garden wall, egg-yolk yellow hearts, petals white as milk. As Orlando smiles up at me, my heart thrills and soars.

  ‘So terribly sad,’ I say, telling him about Mr Johnson. ‘What a heartbreaking life. I wouldn’t be in the least surprised to hear that he’d killed himself.’

  ‘For nothing now can ever come to any good,’ Orlando quotes sombrely.

  ‘That’s absolutely right.’

  He puts an arm around my shoulders. ‘What time’s everyone coming?’

  ‘Any time after four. But we’re not eating until six.’

  ‘Anything I can do to help?’

  ‘Not really. Just be.’

  And so he does, playing Chopin and Mozart on the piano, while I continue my p
reparations. Finally, I pour us both a glass of chilled white wine and we toast each other, smiling.

  He takes my hand. ‘Alice . . .’ he says earnestly. ‘Listen . . .’

  I take a shower, make up my face, slip over my head the dress I bought specially for today, last time I was in London. Around my neck are pearls; there are more of them in my ears.

  As I come out of my bedroom in a sheath of linen – not pink, but Old Rose – Orlando at the piano launches into Happy Birthday To You, decorating the tune with flourishes and variations that turn its banality into something magical. He is wearing a white shirt and a silk tie that exactly matches my dress. ‘How did I know you’d be wearing that colour?’ he asks.

  ‘Because we’re joined at the heart.’ I rest a hand on his shoulder as the doorbell rings and the guests begin to arrive.

  It is much later. We are flushed with wine and good food. I stand up and tap a glass. ‘Quiet, please. I’d like to say a few words.’ I look round at them all: my parents, my brother Dougal and his wife, dear Bella and her husband, Erin, Sasha Elias, Gordon Parker, Vi Sheffield, Julian and Monica. Even BertramYelland. ‘Most of you were at the last birthday party I had in Shale, just down the road from here, a long time ago. Some of those who were present then are no longer with us – Aunt, for instance, and our beloved Ava – some are unfortunately not able to come. But I want to thank those of you who made it and who remember what it was like back then.’

  ‘I’d rather not, if you don’t mind,’ trills Gordon Parker.

  I raise my glass to my parents. ‘Thank you both for everything. Particularly you, Fiona. Gifted, unorthodox, indomitable – you’ve always been an example to us all. As well as being completely . . . how shall I put this? . . . different from other mothers . . .’

  ‘God, how I envied you, having a mum like that,’ says Julian.

  ‘Like what?’ Fiona bridles a bit.

  ‘Never . . . um . . . fussing about things,’ Julian says.

  ‘Is that a compliment?’ says Fiona. She takes my father’s hand.

  ‘Most definitely,’ he says.

  ‘And I want to say thank you to my friends, both old and new.’ Again I look round the table, tipping my glass at them one by one. ‘Coming back to Shale has been . . . everything I wanted it to be – and much more. And finally, since it’s my birthday, I ask you to make a special toast to the man who all my life has been my dearest friend, who is everything to me and always has been – Orlando Grahame.’

  As I sit down, Orlando rises to his feet. ‘First, we should wish our charming hostess a happy birthday,’ he says, at which everyone breaks into uncoordinated song. I’ve forgotten that Julian is tone-deaf, and Yelland can’t sing a note.

  ‘Don’t call us,’ Orlando says wrily. ‘Secondly, may I echo Alice’s sentiments about the assembled company. And thirdly, and most importantly, I’d like to say that this afternoon, I finally asked Alice to marry me . . . and she said Yes.’

  There are whoops and cheers.

  ‘About bloody time,’ shouts Dougal.

  ‘What took you so long, slowcoach?’ calls Erin.

  ‘Don’t blame me . . . I’ve been waiting forever for her to stop mooning over some unattainable . . . uh . . . dream,’ Orlando avoids looking at Sasha Elias, who sits next to Erin, ‘and accept her fate, her destiny.’ He reaches into his pocket and brings out a small leather box. ‘No prizes for guessing what this is.’ He comes round the table and kisses me. ‘Darling Alice, I’m so happy today that it was almost worth the wait.’

  Fiona, never normally one for sentiment, nonetheless wipes away an unaccustomed tear. ‘Oh, if only Morag were here today,’ she exclaims. ‘She’d be absolutely delirious.’

  On my left, Sasha is looking bewildered. ‘But, I don’t understand . . . isn’t Orlando your brother?’

  ‘No relation at all.’

  ‘So Grahame isn’t just the name he uses for professional purposes on the television and so on?’

  ‘It’s his real name. He’s the son of my mother’s oldest friend, Morag, from her school days,’ I explain. ‘They’d always promised each other that if anything happened to either of them, they’d look after any children they had. So when Doctor and Mrs Grahame were killed during an air-raid in London, Fiona brought Orlando to live with us, even before I was born.’

  ‘We always used to plan that our children would get married.’ Fiona takes a swallow from her glass of wine. ‘I can’t believe it’s finally coming true.’ She pats at her hair, greyer now, but otherwise styled pretty much as it was the afternoon she walked me down to the cinema to see Mrs Miniver.

  ‘The mystery,’ says Vi Sheffield, ‘is why it’s taken them all this time to get it together. Even when they were children, you only had to look at them . . .’

  Bertram Yelland lumbers to his feet. ‘If I may be permitted,’ he says, ‘I’d like to record that those days living down the road at Glenfield House were among the happiest of my life. Post-war England was hardly the most comfortable place in the world, and Glenfield considerably less so . . .’

  ‘How very gracious,’ murmurs Orlando.

  ‘Nonetheless, I think we would all agree that life then was . . . was . . . well, I don’t know what it was really, but if it hadn’t been for Mrs Beecham’s encouragement, and Professor Beecham’s many kindnesses, I for one wouldn’t be where I am today.’ He raises his glass. ‘So thank you, and cheers!’

  ‘Was I kind?’ Beside me, my father seems bemused. ‘I can’t remember being kind to him. In fact, on the whole I thought the fellow was a bit of a pompous prick.’

  ‘Still is,’ says Orlando. ‘But a good painter.’

  When everyone has left, Orlando and I stroll arm-in-arm along the sea front as we have done so many times before. The sun is well below the horizon now, but the sky is still faintly light. The air smells of salt and wind, a faint scent of cut grass is carried on the breeze. Peace, at last, I think. Shanti, shanti, shanti. ‘Tomorrow, we’ll go and pick some blackberries, shall we?’ says Orlando.

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Ahead, I see the wraith of Nicola walking away towards the distant cliffs. She is powerless now; we’re free of her, or as free as we’ll ever be. She looks over her shoulder at us and I watch her begin to dissolve, her red hair, her white blouse, melting, evaporating, fading into the blue air, the rolling water, slipping away until finally she’s gone.