The Odd Flamingo

by Nina Bawden

  Her voice trailed into silence. She sat, smoothing the leather gloves on her hands and looked helpless and tired.

  I said, with a heavy heart, “You may have to go to the police isn’t there anyone—a relation perhaps—that she might have gone to see?”

  “I don’t think so. She hasn’t got anyone. She got the children their supper on Monday night and went out. She didn’t say where she was going. They weren’t bothered when she didn’t come back. They’re like that. Rose has a friend who lives in the same house but she didn’t know where she might be.”

  I said, “Mrs. Blacker, why should Rose run away?”

  She looked frightened and ashamed. “That’s why I came to see you, Mr. Hunt. Rose told me she’d seen you and that you knew about her.”

  I said, “She told you about the baby?”

  The flush spread upwards from her sallow throat. She said, looking away from me, “It was only natural, wasn’t it? I mean, you’d expect her to tell me. I suppose your Mr. Stone says it’s not his baby. She showed me the letters he’d written to her. Dreadful letters. How a man in his position could bring himself to write such letters I don’t know. Glorying in the wickedness of it all. He wouldn’t have written to her like that if there had been nothing between them, now would he? I suppose he thinks that it can be hushed up. I’m not going to allow that, Mr. Hunt. Rose may have been a bad, wicked girl, but she’s got her rights.”

  I said, “Mr. Stone doesn’t deny that he was in love with her. He does deny that it is his child.”

  She said, with a kind of lumbering sarcasm, “Oh, he does, does he? I suppose I might have expected that. He can’t prove it, though, can he?”

  I said flatly, “No, he can’t prove it.”

  She said weakly, “Then I hope you told him so.”

  I said, “When Rose told you about the baby, were you very angry with her? I mean might she have run away because she was unhappy?”

  She became, then, uneasy and momentarily silent as though the memory of what she had said to Rose was not a pleasant one.

  At last she said truculently, but with a note of pleading uncertainty, “You wouldn’t expect me to be pleased, would you? After all it is so ungrateful. When she’s had a good home and a decent Christian upbringing. I told her, and it was my duty to tell her, that she’d done something terribly wrong and that she’d be branded by it all the days of her life. No decent man will ever marry her now. I told her she’d behaved like a woman off the streets. She cried a good deal and said that it hadn’t seemed wrong at all. I was right to be angry with her, Mr. Hunt. It was my clear Christian duty and no one will ever say I don’t do my Christian duty.”

  Her face was scarlet with affronted righteousness. Then, quite suddenly, her expression changed. She said with terrifying uncertainty, “She’ll be all right, won’t she? She’s all I’ve got.”

  Her eyes swam with easy tears but the worry and the affection were genuine enough. The appalled anger I had felt the moment before departed and I was almost sorry for her.

  I said, “If she hasn’t come home by to-morrow, I think you should tell the police. They’re kind, you know, and discreet. You mustn’t worry about telling them.”

  She said, “I’ve never had anything to do with the police before.” She spoke as if they were some kind of malignant disease.

  I said, thinking of Rose, and knowing that I was involving myself finally, “I’ll see them for you if you like. If she isn’t home by to-morrow morning, let me know. I’ll want a list of the things she was wearing and all that sort of thing.”

  She nodded dumbly. There was a stricken look on her face.

  I showed her out and went back into the study and sat with my head in my hands. I thought of Mrs. Blacker and her narrow anger and the effect it might have had on an already frightened girl. Then I remembered Rose’s fear and the feeling I had had that it was not only because of the baby that she was afraid. She had been possessed with fear.

  I prayed, before I went to bed, that she would go home that night.

  But she did not go home. The next morning Mrs. Blacker left a letter at the office. It was waiting on my desk. It was marked “Personal” in large letters, heavily underlined.

  The Chief Constable was a golfing friend of mine. He was large and friendly and he greeted acquaintances as if they were his life-long friends.

  He took notes of Rose’s London address, her appearance and the clothes which, according to Mrs. Blacker, she was probably wearing. She had made out a list and enclosed it with her note.

  Hartley said, “Small, slender, dark hair, black eyes, eighteen years old. Dark blue linen suit, white cotton blouse. Grey high-heeled shoes, grey gloves, white plastic handbag. You know, old man, girls like this disappear by their hundreds. They’re always attractive or they sound attractive. Never a plain one, you’d think, till you saw ’em.”

  He sounded casual and un-caring and it annoyed me. I said, “This one was beautiful all right.” He looked at me and smiled his jolly smile.

  “Was she now? I hope I see her when she turns up.”

  “Do they usually turn up?”

  “Lor bless you, yes. They’ve usually legged it to the seaside with the boy friend. Can’t face the parents so they disappear for a week or so. Little blighters.”

  He doodled with clumsy fingers on the blotting pad in front of him. “There isn’t anything else? No mole on the left elbow, or anything like that? Was she pregnant?”

  I said, startled, “How did you know?” and cursed myself for a fool.

  Hartley chuckled. “I didn’t know. But that’s often one of the troubles. Too coy to tell Mother. Or they’ve told Mother and there’s been a royal row and they’ve hopped it. The family gets the wind up and comes to us. Afraid their erring daughter has thrown herself under a train. They rarely do, you know. Just go off for long enough to give Mum and Dad the fright of their lives. Then they’ll be sorry. Childish instinct in us all.”

  I said, “It wasn’t noticeable. Her being pregnant, I mean.”

  He tapped his teeth with his pen. “Then it doesn’t rule out the boy friend and Brighton. I say, old man, you’re taking this too seriously. How about some golf this afternoon?”

  I said that I had to work for my living and he laughed in his breezy way and suggested a drink. We went to the nearest pub and stayed there for nearly an hour; afterwards I went back to the office feeling sleepy and cross. I reminded myself that I always felt like that if I drank in the middle of the day. I snapped at my secretary and she looked hurt about it, but I wasn’t sorry. She was a superior young woman with a university degree which, so she appeared to think, relieved her of the obligation of being able to type.

  I went home and sprayed the roses until dinner was ready. My brain felt sluggish and tired and I ate in silence while my mother made bright attempts at conversation. I knew I had behaved badly when I looked up and saw her bright, withdrawn smile. I tried to make amends by offering to wash up; she refused, as she always did, and left me feeling a brute and a boor.

  When I got to the School Celia and Humphrey were in the drawing-room; the coffee tray was on a table between their chairs. The coffee cups were pretty, white with a green pattern; set out on the tray beside them were the liqueur glasses they had brought back from Venice. It was all very gracious and civilised; in the mood that had descended upon me it seemed a little self-satisfied and smug.

  They gave me coffee and brandy and talked about the weather. Celia said that the hot summer meant a cold winter and had my mother ordered all her summer coal?

  At last Humphrey said, “Will, did you see Rose?”

  I told them, in complete silence, that she was missing. That she had been missing since the ninth of August.

  Celia said, “That proves she was lying. She was afraid she’d be found out.” No one said anything and she went on, “You believe she was lying, don’t you?”

  Humphrey said quickly, “I shouldn’t ask him that. It’s not his job
to believe me. Only to get me out of a mess.” His voice was amused but his eyes were not.

  She stared at me with her blue, prominent eyes. “Will, do you think Humphrey is lying?”

  Humphrey said, “Stop it, Celia. I know what he feels. Part of him believes me—the human part—because we’re friends. The other part, the part that’s a lawyer—and he wouldn’t be any good to us at this moment if he wasn’t a good lawyer—can’t be sure that I’ve spoken the truth just yet. It’s as simple as that.”

  It wasn’t like that at all but I was grateful to him for trying to make it easier for me. He sounded bitter, though, and I knew I could not blame him. I would have given anything, just then, for a smooth tongue, but they were my friends and I could not pretend to them. I said, “She isn’t the sort of girl you usually find in a mess of this kind. Humphrey loves you, Celia. He would say anything to save you pain. I can’t altogether believe him when he says the child is not his. I’m sorry, I‘d better go.”

  I got up, realising with self-contempt that my legs were trembling.

  Celia was white round the mouth; anger made her look ugly and middle-aged.

  She said, “Will, you’re a fool. You’ve got tangled up in a lot of silly sentiment. Because she’s pretty and young you think of her as a victim.”

  I said, “I really am sorry, Celia,” knowing that I wasn’t sorry at all. “But I’m not being sentimental. I don’t necessarily believe the girl either.…” I stopped, knowing that I must sound absurd.

  She said with a wild giggle, “Mr. William Hunt. Calm and judicial. Sitting on the fence not believing anyone. Haven’t you any feelings at all?”

  She broke, inevitably, into tears and flung herself down by Humphrey’s chair, turning her face away from me. Humphrey put his arm round her shaking, thin shoulders and looked at me as if I were an enemy. “We’re all a bit tired,” he said. It might have been an apology; I think that perhaps it was intended to be. But his face was thin and hostile.

  I left the house and drove home. I put the car in the garage and went for a walk. When I came back to the quiet house I felt very much alone.

  I went to bed and thought about Rose. I tried to think about Humphrey, whom I dearly loved; but he was as distant as a stranger. I wondered if Hartley had been right about Rose. He was experienced in these things, and if he thought she would turn up then she would probably do so. I remembered her eyes (Hartley had not seen her eyes), black as pieces of coal and wide with fright.

  I was almost asleep when the telephone rang. There was no extension upstairs; the only instrument was in the drawing-room. I dragged myself from my bed and went downstairs. I fumbled for the light switch and missed it and went across the dark room to the desk.

  Hartley said, “Hunt, I’m sorry to bother you, old man. Were you in bed?”

  I said; “I was. It doesn’t matter.”

  He said, “I wouldn’t have’phoned, only it seems important. I wouldn’t have known about it myself until to-morrow, only the wife and I were at a bridge party and I remembered I’d left my tobacco pouch at the station. So we dropped in on the way home and there was this report. It isn’t complete, but it seems to fit the girl you told me about this morning. We can’t be sure, of course, till she’s identified, but there’s one rather nasty touch.”

  “Yes?” I said.

  “It’s awkward. Very. Could you come down to the station?”

  “Now?”

  “I’m afraid so.” He returned, momentarily and uneasily to his normal manner. “I know it’s a fearful bore, old chap.”

  I said rudely, “Nonsense. Of course I’ll come.” I caught my shin against the table leg as I made my way across the dark room to the door. The pain of it bothered me all the time I was dressing and prevented me thinking about anything else. By the time I reached the station I was feeling very little except a rather unpleasant kind of excitement. Hartley looked very funny behind his desk, wearing tails, and with the scent of a good cigar still about him.

  He said, “They’ve found a girl in the Grand Junction Canal. The part that’s just off Maida Vale; they call it Little Venice, God knows why. The canal is fenced off but the boys get over the fence, of course, and as yesterday was Sunday they were there in strength. They go to fish, though I don’t know what they expect to catch. Anyway, they found this girl, bobbing about under the bridge. She’d been there about six days, they think, but the medicos haven’t finished with her yet. It takes about a week for a body to surface in the summer—maybe a bit less in this atrocious hot weather. Jennings says that she was most likely knocked on the head and pushed in the drink to finish her off—though they’re not sure about that one yet. We’ll know to-morrow.”

  I wondered, distantly, if I were going to be sick. I said, and my voice sounded a long way away, “You remember you said that the description might fit anyone?”

  Hartley did not look at me. He said, “Not anyone. That was a bit of an exaggeration. This girl’s the right age, right colouring and everything. But that’s not the whole of it. They found her handbag. That wasn’t in the water. At least, it had been, but not for long because the things inside weren’t damaged much. It was hanging by its handle on a bit of an old tree that juts out from the bank—rather as if someone had seen it floating by, d’you see, and stuck it there. Like people stick gloves on a railing if they find’em in the street.”

  I said, as if it mattered, “But they don’t do that unless there’s only one glove. One glove’s no use to anyone. I should have thought anyone finding a handbag would take it to the police.”

  “Not the youngsters you get in that area, old man. Besides, there wasn’t any money inside it when our people found it. I expect one of the boys found the bag, swiped the loose change and slung it on a tree for the owner to find when she came along. Not a dishonest boy, entirely, just one who reckoned be ought to have a reward for rescuing property from the canal.”

  I said, “What else was in the bag?”

  “Cosmetics and an empty purse. Ration book with an emergency card for last week. Pair of spectacles—did she wear’em, by the way? Handkerchief and a fountain pen without any ink in it. Return ticket to Somerhurst …” His voice trailed into silence and there was an uneasy feeling in the air.

  The sense of unreality became acute. I said, “You’re quite sure the bag belongs? To the body, I mean.”

  Hartley shrugged his shoulders. “How can we be sure yet? But it seems likely. And if it doesn’t belong, what’s it doing there?” He sighed wearily and made small shuffling sounds with his feet. Then he said, “Now I think you’d better tell me a bit about her. Why did you come to me in the first place? It’s usually the relations who do that.”

  I saw, with a kind of remote surprise, that his manner had changed. He was the police officer now and not my friend. His little blue eyes were cold.

  I said carefully, “Her mother was upset. She asked me to come.”

  “But why?” he said.

  The palms of my hands were sticky and I rubbed them down my trouser legs. I said, “Mrs. Blacker used to be a client of mine.”

  “Used to be?” said Hartley. “You know, you’ll have to tell me all about it.”

  I fancied that his eyes looked a little less cold. Hartley said, “I’m not at all sure that I should tell you this. You are a friend of Humphrey Stone’s, aren’t you? You are his solicitor?”

  My head was swimming. I said, “Yes, I suppose I am.”

  “You don’t sound very sure?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Hartley relaxed a little, his untidy body sprawling in his chair. “It’s all damned awkward. I don’t like it. Stone’s an important man and all that. We don’t like making mistakes, you know, we like to be sure. There were some letters in the girl’s bag. They were signed with his name and his address was on one of them. Of course they may be forgeries. We’ll find that out in due course but it would simplify matters all round if Mr. Stone could be persuaded to tell us what he know
s.”

  I said stubbornly, “I can’t say anything until I’ve talked to my client.”

  “Which one? Mrs. Blacker or Mr. Stone? He’ll take your advice, won’t he?”

  I said, “Are you asking me to make a statement?”

  “Not officially. This is off the record. You should know that. I only want to know how much Stone comes into this.”

  I said, “All right. They’re his letters. I mean, he wrote them. The girl was trying to say he was the father of her child.”

  Hartley eased himself cautiously from his chair as though his rheumatism was troubling him and walked heavily about the room. He said, “Trying a spot of blackmail, eh? Easy to say that she was lying, now she’s dead.” He whirled round to face me like an active elephant. “What d’you think? Think she was lying?”

  “What I think isn’t evidence,” I said.

  His eyes were very bright. “Of course not,” he said. He sat down at his desk again and fiddled with, his pen. He said, “This is a beastly business. I hope to God your client knows where he was on the ninth of August.”

  I repeated his words stupidly. “The ninth of August?”

  I thought Hartley was looking at me curiously.

  He said, “That was the night she walked out of her father’s flat and didn’t go back. Your evidence. We haven’t checked up yet.”

  I said, hedging wildly, “But she may not have been killed that night.”

  “No,” said Hartley drily. “But it’s reasonable to suppose that she was. Anyway, you needn’t worry. Honest citizens don’t knock young women on the head even if they are accused of fathering their brats. I expect Stone was a long way from Little Venice that night.”